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(04/23/13 9:05pm)
Two Saturdays ago, as my roommate and I lay on the roof of my house on Gordon Avenue planning out our afternoon activities, my roommate asked to see my phone. Stretching out our limbs so that the slanted sun would catch and hold to our skin, I laughed at a picture my mother had just texted me. It was a picture of an essay I’d written for class in fifth grade. I was mainly focused on the line that I had written as a shy 10-year-old girl about the farm of golden retrievers that I wanted to own when I “grew up.”
(04/10/13 1:43am)
A few weeks ago, as spring break came to a close and I prepared to leave my Key West haven, I couldn’t find my sister.
(03/26/13 5:35pm)
Right now I’m writing on my bed, unable to release myself from the comfortable grip of lounging around horizontally. From here I can see the gray sky that inevitably means it’s 40 degrees or colder outside, and I can see the patches of snow on my roof that will leave slush and grime for days.
(03/06/13 12:40am)
It’s the beginning of March and in a few days I will be boarding a plane headed to Key West, Fl. It’s my first “college spring break;” the first time my final destination has been somewhere other than home in Gloucester. I almost avoided the plans. I almost stayed in Charlottesville to “work on my thesis” while my sister and my roommates Emma and Georgia flew down to 80-degree weather. But they convinced me back in January I would do more moping than working if I stayed behind, and so here I am — buying bathing suits and looking up good brunch places.
(02/20/13 1:53am)
This weekend my neighbor uploaded a picture to Facebook of the one-year-old golden retriever staying at her house. Within five minutes my sister and I were knocking at her door, falling inside the house and onto the kitchen floor, burying our faces in the wriggling puppy’s golden fur.
(02/06/13 3:16am)
I’m making a calendar today. A calendar of events, in which I map out my remaining months, weeks, days and hours — time I will spend at the coffee shop or the library or the small wicker desk pushed up against the wall in my oblong bedroom.
(01/23/13 3:54am)
Standing in the middle of my living room on a Saturday morning, I realized that I had just lost something very important.
(12/05/12 3:40am)
“Alright Mary Scott, but what’s your favorite?” “Peach! I think I’ll have to say peach.” “Then peach it is!” My young and bubbly bartender-in-training opened up her notebook and carefully wrote down, in delicate and curving handwriting, a few peachy drink recipes — recipes she would refer to later that evening when she took up her new post behind the bar. “Well, your shift is over, how about you try one and tell me how it is?” Sipping the pink concoction, I nodded my approval: “It’s great Casey, really, really good.” She smiled, “I’m glad.”
(11/07/12 7:19am)
I’m apt to loathe politics. It all seems to be happening so far away — in some other time, on some other planet. Mary Scott cannot relate, at least not the Mary Scott I think I am; the sensitive, yet critical, empathetic yet astute artist-in-training. Politics seems phony, frankly, and the investigative reporter in me is dying to bust open the next Watergate scandal. I don’t believe in all the president’s men, but I do believe in the likes of Woodward and Bernstein. I can’t help but be highly suspicious of any human being who wants to represent the ideals of an entire nation. I’d rather side with those who can see through the facade of fairness, right down into the depths of the avaricious human soul.
(10/24/12 4:25am)
There is a certain way we choose to deal with memories. Sometimes we cherish them, sometimes we compartmentalize them, and sometimes, when the memories are especially fragile, we must watch them from afar.
(10/10/12 4:53am)
“What is taking so long??” My mother says to me, not-so-under her breath, looking viciously at the men standing idly behind the beer counter. “Oh my gosh, just wait a SECOND, “ I hiss viciously. How could she be so rude in public, I wonder. There must be a reason we are not being served at top-speed; there are other people at this beer festival, maybe we aren’t first in line.
(09/26/12 5:02am)
“Whelp, just another case of the Mondays,” my sister calls to me, coughing and hacking, plagued by some yet to be diagnosed case of hypochondria. I’m attempting to shake off her Monday disease by chugging a medium coffee from McDonald’s — two creams, two sugars, but soy latte it is not. So instead of fighting the impossible, I’ll cure all of our “case of the Mondays” blues with a story.
Although my story is certainly not solely mine to tell, I will relay it, best I can. Because although it is brief, I find it lovely all the same.
(09/12/12 5:08am)
I have a nickname from childhood, coined and used solely by my immediate family. I’ve probably mentioned it before: Maisie. It’s derived from Dr. Seuss’ “Horton Hears a Who.” Maisie, the lazy bird.
(08/29/12 4:35am)
When I was 14-years-old I decided to put “flying in large treacherous metal machines at 30,000 feet” at the top of my “greatest fears” list. I hated flying. I hated airports. I hated the dread that would slowly build up as I waited for the inevitable “we will now begin boarding.”
(03/28/12 3:43pm)
I've always been wary of
(03/14/12 2:58pm)
This is how I was going to begin the blog I never wrote: "And in short, I was afraid."
(02/23/12 5:35am)
Have you ever felt like you were a witness to your own life? Lately I've been experiencing just that sensation, and it's nothing short of completely disorienting. I feel like I'm floating above the Mary Scott who walks and talks and goes about her business.
(02/09/12 12:26am)
As Valentine's Day rapidly
(01/25/12 9:50am)
I've recently become entranced by the disappearing act: the move from everything to nothing with a stifling sadness in between. Yes, this newfound interest was generated by my beginning-of-the-semester, overly eager intellectual self which likes to translate everything from her classes into big-picture, life-changing revelations. I have a new pair of personality prescription glasses which allow me to see and to feel like someone who uses lectures as lifeblood and PowerPoints as scripture. In my history of photography class, I can already imagine studying the real-as-life visage of an old man next to an old dog leaning against a decrepit wall in the country. I can close my eyes and trace the timeline from the daguerreotype to the disposable to photofiddle.com. I see before me a whole semester of trying to recapture the elusive past, or as my professor would say, the elusive image.
(11/30/11 8:25am)
Thirteen years ago today my grandfather, Goggy, died of colon cancer. I was nearly 7 and I may have cried, but I did not yet miss the grandfather with the fuzzy beard or gentle voice. I did not recognize the absence in place of the presence. My little brother, 3 at the time, certainly did not understand the sense of loss. And yet he tried to call Goggy on the phone when he got to Kentucky and couldn't find him. He knew that someone was missing.