Hot-damn I'm done. My mind has been able to morph back to a semi-functioning state six hours post-GRE. I feel pretty good about my score. I scored above 1000 and I feel like my essays were fine. Obviously, my score wasn't one that will get me automatic admission to my dream school; however, I feel like I did as well as I was going to.
What to do with myself now? Oh school, yeah. I've got a lot to do before I leave for Oregon in less than two weeks. I'm going to have to finish two essays before I leave because the deadlines are either while I'm gone or right when I get back.
I can't focus on anything. But I need to start putting together my materials for applications. I'm getting really excited :))
Friday, September 18, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
A Hard Day
I feel loved and lost all at the same time today.
Irene's funeral was today. Small, intimate, sorrowful, but grateful all describe the day. I've never been more excited to see my sisters and yet so sad that it had to be because of death. My mom wrote a really beautiful tribute to Irene which I thought I brought home but managed to leave in the car.
I missed all four of my classes today, first day and all. No part of me minds though. I have one more weekend to study for the GRE before I take it on Friday. After the GRE I'll figure out if I'll apply to graduate programs or not. I'm sure I will, but depending on well I do I may only apply to three: University of Oregon, Loyola, and University of Chicago.
Back to my original statement: I know and definitely felt today how much love there is in my family. One really beautiful moment was when my older sister was saying her goodbye's to Irene before the casket was closed and she was upset, just like the rest of us. Her amazing husband, Nate, was perfect. He was her support, he held her while she cried. We were all there for each other today. But for the first time in a while I really missed Matt.
Matt went with me to learn how to make crullers, he met and really liked Irene. What's not to like about Irene...she was a perfect example of that Polish stubbornness while full of compassion. And even though I do miss Matt, as my best friend and boyfriend, I knew that what I really missed at that moment was a solid companion to cry on. Not to say that my family wasn't there for me, but it was difficult.
All to say, Irene lived her life that way. Her life was full of purpose, working as VP at the Oak Park Bank and Trust, then taking care of Grandma and Grandpa Nevlida as they got older. But she never married and was always a strong woman nonetheless. I know it was incredibly difficult for her once Grandpa passed away, but she pushed another nearly-four years.
I guess I'm trying to say that I understand some of the loneliness Irene endured. She was an impeccable woman. I can only aspire.
Whatchya know-she was buried in this shirt today
Irene's funeral was today. Small, intimate, sorrowful, but grateful all describe the day. I've never been more excited to see my sisters and yet so sad that it had to be because of death. My mom wrote a really beautiful tribute to Irene which I thought I brought home but managed to leave in the car.
I missed all four of my classes today, first day and all. No part of me minds though. I have one more weekend to study for the GRE before I take it on Friday. After the GRE I'll figure out if I'll apply to graduate programs or not. I'm sure I will, but depending on well I do I may only apply to three: University of Oregon, Loyola, and University of Chicago.
Back to my original statement: I know and definitely felt today how much love there is in my family. One really beautiful moment was when my older sister was saying her goodbye's to Irene before the casket was closed and she was upset, just like the rest of us. Her amazing husband, Nate, was perfect. He was her support, he held her while she cried. We were all there for each other today. But for the first time in a while I really missed Matt.
Matt went with me to learn how to make crullers, he met and really liked Irene. What's not to like about Irene...she was a perfect example of that Polish stubbornness while full of compassion. And even though I do miss Matt, as my best friend and boyfriend, I knew that what I really missed at that moment was a solid companion to cry on. Not to say that my family wasn't there for me, but it was difficult.
All to say, Irene lived her life that way. Her life was full of purpose, working as VP at the Oak Park Bank and Trust, then taking care of Grandma and Grandpa Nevlida as they got older. But she never married and was always a strong woman nonetheless. I know it was incredibly difficult for her once Grandpa passed away, but she pushed another nearly-four years.
I guess I'm trying to say that I understand some of the loneliness Irene endured. She was an impeccable woman. I can only aspire.
Whatchya know-she was buried in this shirt today
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Aunt Irene's Cruellers
No more struggling with a machine to force air down the throat. No more crappy meals and having to eat ice chips. No more visiting Oak Park.
This morning my great, great Aunt Irene passed away. And all I want to do is make crullers or chrusciki. On my spring break I met my parents in Stickney so that Irene could teach me how to make crullers. I like mine a little over-fried so that they're crispy but they're also good if you fry them the normal amount of time so that they're puffy.
She would have turned 87 this October. Last summer I went out to visit her and got all the information that she had to offer about my dad's side of the family.
Irene Kwietnieski, who would later change her last name to Keith when she started working for the Federal Reserve Bank, was born in Flint, MI, moved to Detroit, and ended up at 35th and Halstead when she was 5 years old. This address was the location of the first bakery that our family owned.
When Irene was five years, she moved to Chicago because both of her parents had died. She went to go live with my great-grandmother, Estelle Nevlida (though at the time she was not yet married to Gustav Nevlida) who worked all day at the bakery, from open at 4am until they closed. Irene couldn't remember what time they closed but she said it was late.
The second bakery was at 18th and Wood. Estelle worked for her Aunt Rose who owned all the bakeries with her husband Hipolite (which was the closest Irene could get to remembering how to spell his name). The second bakery was the fortunate site where Gus Nevlida stopped in for a danish in the morning before he headed off to work. The story goes that he ordered his sweet roll and came back everyday for one until he asked Estelle to marry him.
The third bakery, Irene said, was at Wallace and something. She couldn't remember. I got the impression that this bakery was not open long before Uncle Hipolite's gambling problem caused him to lose all the family's money and subsequently shut down all the bakeries.
By this time Estelle and Gus were married (1932 was their wedding year) and from their first day, in their first apartment, Irene lived with them. They lived at 17th and Wood, then 18th and Wolcott, then Pulaski and Cortland (not very far from where I live right now!), and finally in July of 1959 the three moved to their home on Clinton in Stickney.
It's been 50 years that Irene's been in the house on Clinton Ave. In that time Irene worked, and put herself through business classes, and eventually landed the Vice President position at the Oak Park Bank and Trust.
She was always such a giving person. Nothing could stop her from making sure we left her house with our wallets and pockets full of treats. One of my favorite memories is how we always end our phone conversations. I'd say bye and I love you and she'd emphasized both words: "Love You," like she wanted you to make sure she loved you a little bit more.
Thankfully, she's not suffering anymore. But she will be dearly missed. Her crullers look like this, but better:
This morning my great, great Aunt Irene passed away. And all I want to do is make crullers or chrusciki. On my spring break I met my parents in Stickney so that Irene could teach me how to make crullers. I like mine a little over-fried so that they're crispy but they're also good if you fry them the normal amount of time so that they're puffy.
She would have turned 87 this October. Last summer I went out to visit her and got all the information that she had to offer about my dad's side of the family.
Irene Kwietnieski, who would later change her last name to Keith when she started working for the Federal Reserve Bank, was born in Flint, MI, moved to Detroit, and ended up at 35th and Halstead when she was 5 years old. This address was the location of the first bakery that our family owned.
When Irene was five years, she moved to Chicago because both of her parents had died. She went to go live with my great-grandmother, Estelle Nevlida (though at the time she was not yet married to Gustav Nevlida) who worked all day at the bakery, from open at 4am until they closed. Irene couldn't remember what time they closed but she said it was late.
The second bakery was at 18th and Wood. Estelle worked for her Aunt Rose who owned all the bakeries with her husband Hipolite (which was the closest Irene could get to remembering how to spell his name). The second bakery was the fortunate site where Gus Nevlida stopped in for a danish in the morning before he headed off to work. The story goes that he ordered his sweet roll and came back everyday for one until he asked Estelle to marry him.
The third bakery, Irene said, was at Wallace and something. She couldn't remember. I got the impression that this bakery was not open long before Uncle Hipolite's gambling problem caused him to lose all the family's money and subsequently shut down all the bakeries.
By this time Estelle and Gus were married (1932 was their wedding year) and from their first day, in their first apartment, Irene lived with them. They lived at 17th and Wood, then 18th and Wolcott, then Pulaski and Cortland (not very far from where I live right now!), and finally in July of 1959 the three moved to their home on Clinton in Stickney.
It's been 50 years that Irene's been in the house on Clinton Ave. In that time Irene worked, and put herself through business classes, and eventually landed the Vice President position at the Oak Park Bank and Trust.
She was always such a giving person. Nothing could stop her from making sure we left her house with our wallets and pockets full of treats. One of my favorite memories is how we always end our phone conversations. I'd say bye and I love you and she'd emphasized both words: "Love You," like she wanted you to make sure she loved you a little bit more.
Thankfully, she's not suffering anymore. But she will be dearly missed. Her crullers look like this, but better:
Thursday, September 3, 2009
...poetically, man dwells...
Three hours of the remaining, precious time left in my summer vacation (which in all honesty does not qualify as a typical, college summer considering I work to support myself and don't have the luxury of relaxing with a ten hour per week b.s. job at the pool and taking the rent's car out to hang with my old high school friends). . . .That sounds a lot more acrid than I intend....[return to initial sentence] I spent studying for the GRE, which is now two weeks and one day away from rearing it's hideous and destructive head. Though I fully understand the importance of preparing myself for the destruction to come, I'm over the whole process. Which will eventually end in my not even going to Grad school, to continue to teach myself through various readings and projects of the intricacies of Heidegger's philosophy on language and how his perspective pervades everyday aspects of our lives...like pregnant silences and allusional goodbyes.
We are encompassed in the four-fold. We are mortals, dwelling on earth, only knowing one measurement-the heavens. But in this ever-present dilemma we find ourselves entirely capable of (as Altussier would later argue) being aware of the systems that shape us, that we subscribe to, and using that as a powerful tool to combat our incapabilities. So for Heidegger, we must take our constant and everyday struggle with language as an accepted struggle and use that knowledge to further our creative endeavors.
I've never been musically inclined. I have a rather deep voice and haven't been able to control it. Also, I had too many people in my younger life who let me know I was tone deaf. I have no idea, which probably supports the latter accusation. However, I've always embodied a passion for music, mostly live performances because they're such beautiful representations of individual's creative and poetic endeavors. Starting with my obsession with Dylan's character in his lyrics and voice and continuing into my love of caring for those surrounded by me, whom will sit on the stoop next to me and improvise randomly, I've developed as a critical thinker in my acknowledgement of the poetics that Heidegger wrote about in one of my favorite essay's of his "...Poetically, Man Dwells..."
Like Oedipus, when he discovered his murderous encounter with his unknown father and his ensuing marriage to his mother found himself no longer the master of rhetoric he once knew; but instead, mumbled unrecognizable words to those in his presence, we too owe ourselves to language. Instead of pompously demanding control over language, we must know it is our responsibility to hearken after language, to take the time and care to listen to what language has to say to us.
In the same way that we are responsible to listen to this more powerful entity that is commonly known as language, we must also care for and listen to those around us. I think it is exactly because of this last concept that I am so taken by Heidegger's philosophy. I have and must always live my live caring for those I love. Considering I wear my heart on my sleeve, I have to be selective.
Christine and I went to the bottle on Monday night to visit Bruce and hang out for a bit. We began talking about life perspectives and I realized that because of the way I choose to live my life I am hurt more often. But I'm alright acknowledging the fact that I'm willing to be vulnerable in order to let my closest friends know that I'll be there, regardless.
Why I'm writing, I can't tell you. Last night I realized Rainbow was dangerous, until I understood, just now, how four-man street beer is worse. Regardless, I'm perfectly content being involved with Martin Heidegger and knowing I have some of the greatest friends in Chicago. Much love to the Ciarleglio family, the Jupiter Outpost co-workers, and the Ottoman Imperials.
We are encompassed in the four-fold. We are mortals, dwelling on earth, only knowing one measurement-the heavens. But in this ever-present dilemma we find ourselves entirely capable of (as Altussier would later argue) being aware of the systems that shape us, that we subscribe to, and using that as a powerful tool to combat our incapabilities. So for Heidegger, we must take our constant and everyday struggle with language as an accepted struggle and use that knowledge to further our creative endeavors.
I've never been musically inclined. I have a rather deep voice and haven't been able to control it. Also, I had too many people in my younger life who let me know I was tone deaf. I have no idea, which probably supports the latter accusation. However, I've always embodied a passion for music, mostly live performances because they're such beautiful representations of individual's creative and poetic endeavors. Starting with my obsession with Dylan's character in his lyrics and voice and continuing into my love of caring for those surrounded by me, whom will sit on the stoop next to me and improvise randomly, I've developed as a critical thinker in my acknowledgement of the poetics that Heidegger wrote about in one of my favorite essay's of his "...Poetically, Man Dwells..."
Like Oedipus, when he discovered his murderous encounter with his unknown father and his ensuing marriage to his mother found himself no longer the master of rhetoric he once knew; but instead, mumbled unrecognizable words to those in his presence, we too owe ourselves to language. Instead of pompously demanding control over language, we must know it is our responsibility to hearken after language, to take the time and care to listen to what language has to say to us.
In the same way that we are responsible to listen to this more powerful entity that is commonly known as language, we must also care for and listen to those around us. I think it is exactly because of this last concept that I am so taken by Heidegger's philosophy. I have and must always live my live caring for those I love. Considering I wear my heart on my sleeve, I have to be selective.
Christine and I went to the bottle on Monday night to visit Bruce and hang out for a bit. We began talking about life perspectives and I realized that because of the way I choose to live my life I am hurt more often. But I'm alright acknowledging the fact that I'm willing to be vulnerable in order to let my closest friends know that I'll be there, regardless.
Why I'm writing, I can't tell you. Last night I realized Rainbow was dangerous, until I understood, just now, how four-man street beer is worse. Regardless, I'm perfectly content being involved with Martin Heidegger and knowing I have some of the greatest friends in Chicago. Much love to the Ciarleglio family, the Jupiter Outpost co-workers, and the Ottoman Imperials.
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