Amy Amy Amy Amy
For my second entry in almost two years. There's nothing that I can write that will make it seem like any of this is worth the wait, so I might suggest just pretending as if I've been consistently Livejournaling this whole time.
I did, however, update my userpic.
Tonight I am, once again, asking myself who I am. Because this question has never been clear to me. It seems as though I am a million things and one very specific thing all at the same time. (Ah, life.)
It has been, by the way, a little secret of mine that I ask myself this question on a regular basis. There is a part of me that feels a bit ashamed at being 24 years old and STILL not quite having a handle on Amy yet. She's a complicated beast, and BOY do I hate saying that one out loud. Yes, yes, roll the eyes. Another one has claimed complication. Go figure. Well hey, this is Livejournal, afterall. This is the meeting center of us folks who feel we're too complicated for this world. We come here to celebrate, to sort, and to share this one fact about ourselves. So here goes.
Of all the things I could very easily ramble on and on about in excruciating/philosophical detail, I'm going to start with a Christmas gift I received from Papa Walls this year: a baseball bat.
I would have been less surprised if those tall, skinny boxes underneath the tree turned out to be bbguns. The old man has been rediscovering his sense of humor the past few years since falling off the wagon, and I'm sure he would be beautifully amused at the reference to that movie TBS marathons for 24 hours on Christmas Day. Christmas Day at the Walls household, by the way, you can be assured there are at least three rooms at any given moment that you can see woman-leg-lamps shining from the TV screen.
Ken Griffey Jr. 600th Homerun Edition Baseball Bat. A collectors item. For people who collect such things. And for artsy fartsy indie chicks in Los Angeles, apparently.
Before I go on with this story, let me back-track just a tiny bit. In early-mid December, I had a surge of inspiration to re-discover Vedic astrology. It's a terribly difficult science to get a handle on, but you might say, I'm not one to give up easily. I may throw down the pen, but I pick it back up eventually, ya know? So anyway, I found some new books with sample software and let the exploration begin. After doing the reading I found necessary to understand the software, I began to tackle my own chart. As it turns out, I'm a Libra. Oops. I went all of these years thinking that I was a Sagittarius. My point is that... who I know to be me can be false at any given moment. (And apparently, this is a shadow side to being a Libra. So this is all very fitting.)
Back to the bat.
I didn't question it too much at the time. My father and I had one of those American father-daughter stories where we bonded over going to baseball games, talking about baseball, sharing our baseball cards with each other, swearing at the TV when your team fucks up. Oh wait, that's an American father-SON relationship and he had that with my older brother. BUT, he (and my brother) did used to play baseball with me in the yard and taught me how to play and let me watch the Reds games with them. We would take family trips to go see the Reds, and some stories emerged from these times (i.e. getting socked in the face by Papa Walls when he got excited about a foul ball that seemed to be coming our way). There have been off-and-on moments between Baseball and I.
Like all things in my life, there is a real love-hate relationship going on here.
I shipped the bat to myself and it arrived in Los Angeles but a few days ago. Since it's been here, in my apartment, I've been faced with a real dilemma: What the crap do I do with this bat? And the answer behind that question lies within the answer of another question: Who.Am.I?
As I reminisced the "on" moments I've had with Baseball, I couldn't help but to reminisce the "on" moments that I've had with everything, including: theater, music, art, spirituality, athleticism, comedy, writing, film, design, cooking, math, dance, literature, nature, physics, gadgets, politics, psychology, nutrition.......... and...the...list goes... onnnnn.
I had one of those o-m-g moments by this point. This is why I don't know who I am. I am whoever I say I am in any given moment. If I decide to zoom into something, I can master it. I can master it because I develop a relationship with it. I developed a relationship with the Piano, and we learned how to play each other. But in order to make room for the next relationship, I had to let the piano go. Just like I had let Baseball go years before. But, like the Piano, I pick Baseball back up everyone in a while. And then let it go.
The same goes for people, I think. But don't tell any of my close friends that, please.
Is Baseball part of who I am? So much so that I would display a Ken Griffey Jr. 600th Homerun Edition Baseball Bat? Sometimes I would say that Henry David Thoreau is a huge part of who I am, but maybe not because I don't live in a cabin. And I do have a yoga mat in one of my rooms, but sometimes it gets put away. The room did, afterall, go from being a music room to a spirituality room. The arts and crafts table still exists... in my bedroom... with a million of unfinished projects and mail I haven't sorted yet. Even the desk that I am typing on write now... you know, the desk intended for my writing space?... is so cluttered that I can barely fit my laptop on here.
This whole things has really made me wonder.
Am I, possibly: Amy, thee who has love/hate relationships with everyone and everything?
As I ask myself this, a smile comes upon my face. I think about Senior year of high school. In our theater group, an annual "Senior Skit" is performed. This is a short skit written and performed by all of the underclassmen, and the premise is essentially a glorified mock session of the graduating students in theater. Sydney Morton wrote and performed the role of Amy Walls. When all of the other "seniors" in the skit were standing around talking, the character of Amy would join in, stand quietly and watch. She watched everyone put in their two cents, and at just the right time she said something funny and honest and insightful. The group would get a laugh, and "Amy," as if dissatisfied by the reaction, would walk away as soon as her moment was over.
A few minutes later, she would come back.
And the character's cycle went on for the duration of the skit.
This was the role of Amy Walls.
And I have to admit, Sydney and those underclassmen were way ahead of me in understanding this.
Thank you for reading.
Have a lovely day.
Love/Hate,
Amy Lynn Walls
I did, however, update my userpic.
Tonight I am, once again, asking myself who I am. Because this question has never been clear to me. It seems as though I am a million things and one very specific thing all at the same time. (Ah, life.)
It has been, by the way, a little secret of mine that I ask myself this question on a regular basis. There is a part of me that feels a bit ashamed at being 24 years old and STILL not quite having a handle on Amy yet. She's a complicated beast, and BOY do I hate saying that one out loud. Yes, yes, roll the eyes. Another one has claimed complication. Go figure. Well hey, this is Livejournal, afterall. This is the meeting center of us folks who feel we're too complicated for this world. We come here to celebrate, to sort, and to share this one fact about ourselves. So here goes.
Of all the things I could very easily ramble on and on about in excruciating/philosophical detail, I'm going to start with a Christmas gift I received from Papa Walls this year: a baseball bat.
I would have been less surprised if those tall, skinny boxes underneath the tree turned out to be bbguns. The old man has been rediscovering his sense of humor the past few years since falling off the wagon, and I'm sure he would be beautifully amused at the reference to that movie TBS marathons for 24 hours on Christmas Day. Christmas Day at the Walls household, by the way, you can be assured there are at least three rooms at any given moment that you can see woman-leg-lamps shining from the TV screen.
Ken Griffey Jr. 600th Homerun Edition Baseball Bat. A collectors item. For people who collect such things. And for artsy fartsy indie chicks in Los Angeles, apparently.
Before I go on with this story, let me back-track just a tiny bit. In early-mid December, I had a surge of inspiration to re-discover Vedic astrology. It's a terribly difficult science to get a handle on, but you might say, I'm not one to give up easily. I may throw down the pen, but I pick it back up eventually, ya know? So anyway, I found some new books with sample software and let the exploration begin. After doing the reading I found necessary to understand the software, I began to tackle my own chart. As it turns out, I'm a Libra. Oops. I went all of these years thinking that I was a Sagittarius. My point is that... who I know to be me can be false at any given moment. (And apparently, this is a shadow side to being a Libra. So this is all very fitting.)
Back to the bat.
I didn't question it too much at the time. My father and I had one of those American father-daughter stories where we bonded over going to baseball games, talking about baseball, sharing our baseball cards with each other, swearing at the TV when your team fucks up. Oh wait, that's an American father-SON relationship and he had that with my older brother. BUT, he (and my brother) did used to play baseball with me in the yard and taught me how to play and let me watch the Reds games with them. We would take family trips to go see the Reds, and some stories emerged from these times (i.e. getting socked in the face by Papa Walls when he got excited about a foul ball that seemed to be coming our way). There have been off-and-on moments between Baseball and I.
Like all things in my life, there is a real love-hate relationship going on here.
I shipped the bat to myself and it arrived in Los Angeles but a few days ago. Since it's been here, in my apartment, I've been faced with a real dilemma: What the crap do I do with this bat? And the answer behind that question lies within the answer of another question: Who.Am.I?
As I reminisced the "on" moments I've had with Baseball, I couldn't help but to reminisce the "on" moments that I've had with everything, including: theater, music, art, spirituality, athleticism, comedy, writing, film, design, cooking, math, dance, literature, nature, physics, gadgets, politics, psychology, nutrition.......... and...the...list goes... onnnnn.
I had one of those o-m-g moments by this point. This is why I don't know who I am. I am whoever I say I am in any given moment. If I decide to zoom into something, I can master it. I can master it because I develop a relationship with it. I developed a relationship with the Piano, and we learned how to play each other. But in order to make room for the next relationship, I had to let the piano go. Just like I had let Baseball go years before. But, like the Piano, I pick Baseball back up everyone in a while. And then let it go.
The same goes for people, I think. But don't tell any of my close friends that, please.
Is Baseball part of who I am? So much so that I would display a Ken Griffey Jr. 600th Homerun Edition Baseball Bat? Sometimes I would say that Henry David Thoreau is a huge part of who I am, but maybe not because I don't live in a cabin. And I do have a yoga mat in one of my rooms, but sometimes it gets put away. The room did, afterall, go from being a music room to a spirituality room. The arts and crafts table still exists... in my bedroom... with a million of unfinished projects and mail I haven't sorted yet. Even the desk that I am typing on write now... you know, the desk intended for my writing space?... is so cluttered that I can barely fit my laptop on here.
This whole things has really made me wonder.
Am I, possibly: Amy, thee who has love/hate relationships with everyone and everything?
As I ask myself this, a smile comes upon my face. I think about Senior year of high school. In our theater group, an annual "Senior Skit" is performed. This is a short skit written and performed by all of the underclassmen, and the premise is essentially a glorified mock session of the graduating students in theater. Sydney Morton wrote and performed the role of Amy Walls. When all of the other "seniors" in the skit were standing around talking, the character of Amy would join in, stand quietly and watch. She watched everyone put in their two cents, and at just the right time she said something funny and honest and insightful. The group would get a laugh, and "Amy," as if dissatisfied by the reaction, would walk away as soon as her moment was over.
A few minutes later, she would come back.
And the character's cycle went on for the duration of the skit.
This was the role of Amy Walls.
And I have to admit, Sydney and those underclassmen were way ahead of me in understanding this.
Thank you for reading.
Have a lovely day.
Love/Hate,
Amy Lynn Walls