CREATIVE CONTENT TO BRIGHTEN YOUR MONDAY! photo by noah buchanan
VOL. XII ISSUE. 9 MARCH 30, 2020 I like many others, found myself
I got caught in idealizing the future,
devastated when my high school
and I forgot that I could still enjoy
jeans stopped fitting. I projected into
my body in the present. Taunting
the future, tr ying to reimagine my
myself with unrealistic fantasies was
current body to what it was before. I
counterintuitive and more damaging
squeezed into the same pair of jeans
to my body than an extra size up.
because I was always hoping that in a
This is not my temporar y body. My
few weeks, a month, and even a year
present body is not my temporar y
later, I would continue to look better
body. In each present moment, I am
and better. I do not feel attractive
more myself than I have ever been.
piece of clothing hiding in the back
now, but I will always look good later.
I do not have to wait for months of
of our closet taunts us all with visions
I had visions of what I wanted to be,
progress to feel attractive. I can
of surreal fashion and fitness: a pair
and it never looked anything like my
choose to tell myself this truth right
of pants with a goal waistline that
present body.
now. Once I remind myself I am
REVISED VISIONS OF SELF LOVE
second year carlie gambino
Ever yone is guilty. That secret
realistically would need rib removal
beautiful right now, I’ll remember to
to wear, a cutof f shir t that displays
sink into the present. I will truthfully
impossibly sculpted abs, or that shir t that you swear you’ll wear when you feel comfor table in your own style. I just donated my last pair of jeans that fit in high school. I was
“I GOT CAUGHT IN IDEALIZING THE FUTURE, AND I FORGOT THAT I COULD STILL ENJOY MY BODY IN THE PRESENT”
so concerned with staying the same that I didn’t stop to consider that this college change was healthy and normal. I always skipped over the par t where I was unhappy with that size in high school, but somehow in college it was my goal size. Somehow now that I was eating three square meals a day, I was supposed to maintain old sizing from my unhealthy deficit of calories and surplus of exercise days from the past.
THE BELL VOL. XII, ISSUE 9
remember the past, which will help me be realistic about the future. I wear clothes that fit me now because there is no time to waste by worr ying about what I will wear later. I listen to what my body tells
I was always going to have a smaller waistline later. I was going to have more defined muscles later. I was going to wear it later when I finally looked good, but there is no later because later becomes the present. My present body always falls shor t no matter how similarly I look like my previous visions of my future self. I lost all of my nows and while splintering into my pasts and futures.
me ever yday and I cater to its needs. I have no more energy for unhealthy comparisons of what was or what could be. I am what I am. I am and always will strive to be happy with my present me.
IMAGINED PASTS third year julia mun When I have a moment to breathe Alone on the bus, looking out the window Walking to class, eyes glued to the ground My mind clouds together
In cycles of shame, anger, disquiet, fear
A war internal, driven to violence. I reach for anything that will cushion the fall, the blow Hot air balloons in the sky, aflame Azure birds dar ting the sky, inundated. I think even more The T V in the background and my family’s laughter The city echoing with my own. When did I become so nostalgic? So at a loss for lives gone by? I’ve become suspended, as a passive watcher Light streaking your face (My face?) Like Rivers on the map of your skin (My skin?) How can I navigate my life, my future, if I am always going backwards? How long can I mask my discontent with these imagined pasts? The hot air balloons were always far ther than you thought The blue jay you loved was cold on the driveway There wasn’t always laughter accompanying the T V Other sounds in the city drowned yours So I speak to the self I am now My mind is a flood and I clench my jaw to keep it all in I keep detailed maps to control my landscape But rivers, too, change courses The ear th shif ts without me conscious of ever y movement The person I am now will not be the person I will be I am unknowable But the uncer tain future is still wor th seeing There is a hope, a spark in these cold waters Vulnerability is not meant to kill me It’s an opening to let it all out.
photo by noah buchanan
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I AM BORED: A FEW LINES OF PROSE second year jake head
BOREDOM IS NOT AN EMOTION BUT RATHER A STATE THAT BRINGS ME DANGEROUSLY CLOSE TO EMOTIONS I DO NOT ENJOY FEELING. Boredom is not an emotion but rather a state that brings me dangerously close to emotions I do not enjoy feeling. These being the ones that make me look too closely at myself, the ones that come to me in this state, void of passion or distraction. A state without strength to fend of f the incoming nihilist infestation--that being the one only defended by a thin layer of remaining adolescence. What are we supposed to do when we feel like shit in a town with nothing but fluorescent lights and piss soaked barstools? Let’s smoke on the porch, you say. We can get Taco Bell. Okay. Let’s have sex, maybe just lay down together — sounds nice. We could drink ourselves into inexistence, even better. What else can we do when boredom (anguish) crawls too close And passions are blanched white, Consciousness wished away. I don’t really know to be honest with you, but the ar t museum down the street is free. Let’s see what they did.
photo by lauren friedlander
THE BELL VOL. XII, ISSUE 9
GROWING UP, SLOWLY hird year nicolas horne “Meth up the ass” — a phrase I used in a class discussion this week with one of my professors. That’s college. Seventh grade me would have never dreamt of saying the phrase and eleventh grade me would have been suspended for days if I brought it up in class. The moment I said that phrase, I had a mini epiphany, realizing just how much I’ve grown up and how dif ferent life is from even just a few shor t years ago. I’m sorr y Mom, but “meth up the ass” was exactly what I needed. When you live your same life ever y day, it’s hard to appreciate and notice changes. I mean, yes, most of us noticed when we moved to Athens, and appreciated it because Go Dawgs, but more minute and subtle changes are hard to grasp when your days blend together. I like to go on adventures and tr y new activities. I have joined organizations and star ted and finished projects over the last year. Maybe my life doesn’t always look the same and maybe I am not always doing the same things, but my internal changes aren’t as apparent. These kinds of dif ferences are harder to ar ticulate. I guess that in itself could be the problem. These changes and ideas are dif ficult to ar ticulate, but it is vital that we understand them. They are the whispers of who we are. The most impor tant information is classified, encr ypted, complex...whispered. It asks that we pay attention to it and care to understand it. Declassifying these changes and decr ypting our own subtle changes are paramount to understanding ourselves and where we are headed. Ask yourself what is changing, why it’s changing, and how you feel about that change. These ideas ask us to care, but they do not demand it. Years can pass without us realizing how dif ferent we have become until the entire picture all of a sudden shocks you like some meth up the ass.
photo by chaney wynne
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A SHORT ESSAY ON HEADGEAR fourth year jacob porter I like to think that when we wake up and the day ahead looks dark, the brim of a hat we have outgrown has simply slipped over our eyes. I say this to mean that we put on different hats ever y day. Ever y second of ever y day, really. “Jacob!” you exclaim, flabbergasted, “What kind of cliche, pretentious bullshit metaphor are you employing today?” Hey. Shhhh. Just wait. Let’s examine your day real quick. You’ve got class. And it’s math, too. Left brain shit. So you put on the left brain hat. You have time to put on the socialization hat. And lucky for you, you get to eat with your friend’s friend with problematic views — the “don’t talk about politics” hat finally gets its chance to shine today. Little brother needs help with his homework - time to step into the big sibling hat.
IT’S NOT A SUBTLE METAPHOR. WE WEAR A LOT OF HATS IN LIFE. AND SOMETIMES, THE AMOUNT OF HATS WE WEAR CAN FEEL OVERWHELMING. And finally — it’s 2 AM. The girl you like? She’s not texting you back. The sad boy hours hat? It’s in the corner over there. Go get it. Gonna be a long night. Might have to go ahead and put on the Tinder hat. It’s not a subtle metaphor. We wear a lot of hats in life. And sometimes, the amount of hats we wear can feel over whelming. But what feels worse than that is feeling like we don’t fit a par ticular hat that we’ve been wearing for a really long time. It’s a jarring feeling when suddenly the math you have to do ever y morning in class star ts to get more complicated, and your grades star t to slip. Or when conversation becomes stilted with someone although it used to flow with them easier than anything in the world. Then there’s the somewhat empty pride that comes when your brother stops needing your help, or the disappointment
that comes when the girl you like does text you back, but you realize you guys have way less in common than you thought. These things don’t happen instantaneously. The realization that things are different than before is slow and often sad. It’s easy to feel like we’re per forming poorly in the roles that we have to play in life, that these are hats we don’t fit anymore. And sometimes, that’s true, and okay. We can’t wear the same hats and play the same roles forever. But we can always look back on the ones we did wear and appreciate those times. Maybe that’s all we really can do when things change. When the day looks dark ahead, it’s easy to imagine that the brim of a hat we’ve come to love has finally become too big for us, in a world where it feels like we’re constantly shrinking — a dark, upside-down horizon, if you will. But over that horizon are new responsibilities, new roles, new hats. It just might take a while to break them in. But there’s a hat for that journey, too.
photo by noah buchanan
THE BELL VOL. XII, ISSUE 9
I’M FINALLY READY TO TALK ABOUT MY BODY
photo by noah buchanan
third year claire torak I’m just going to say it: I’m not a size four anymore, and I haven’t been for a while. And, while I’m being honest, I absolutely hate that that’s true. As of late, my body is my biggest enemy. All of the pants I no longer fit in stare at me like unfulfilled prophecies. I still keep my favorite pair of jeans in the back of my closet, praying that soft, blue fabric will once again hang per fectly from my hips. I’m constantly looking at old photos of myself, longing for the days when I wasn’t so aware of the space I occupied, and how I looked doing it. I get angr y at myself when I remember a time when my thighs didn’t stick together due to heat, or when I was wearing baggy clothing because it was comfor table, not because I wanted to hide underneath them. It’s a funny thing to compare myself to myself. I’m envious of a life I am no longer living, a person I no longer am. I know that I’m chasing after my own ghost, but I still want nothing more than to be that version of myself again. Because of this yearning, I put so much pressure on myself that it’s only made me more adverse to making a change. I am so afraid of living up to my own standards that I don’t even tr y.
I’M ENVIOUS OF A LIFE I AM NO LONGER LIVING, A PERSON I NO LONGER AM. In being my own worst critic, I’ve forgotten to forgive myself. I’ve forgotten to be proud of all of the other things I managed to achieve, regardless of my waistline. I’ve forgotten to let myself just be, for better or for worse. (I’ll let you in on a secret: it’s mostly for the better.) Although, recently I’ve realized that growing out of my body helped me grow into myself. In my newfound readiness to speak up about my unhealthy body image, I’ve opened the door for more softness and grace towards the things I used to beat myself up for.
I’m someone that, in the last year, managed to get on the Dean’s List after almost losing my scholarship the semester before. I’m someone who star ted therapy after years of resistance. I’m someone who’s finally star ting to communicate in situations that would have made me shut down a year ago. I’m someone who has a job that I love and friends that I adore. I’m someone who’s proud of my progress (and I should be). Ever y day, I’m learning how to be kinder to myself. It’s really fucking hard. Working on the way I see myself is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do, because it’s one of the most necessar y. I still have bad days, but I’m finally taking the steps to understand that the person I am becoming is so much more beautiful than my flesh could ever be.
I know now that I am not just my body.
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I’M THINKING ABOUT IT third year evan lasseter
But the more I meditated, the more I addressed the tough shit I was going through, the more clear the answer became. Meditations turned from “please heal me” to “please provide for them.” And, I continuously pounded
When something hur ts, it seems almost instinctual to seep into that pain. Whatever negative emotion rests on the sur face becomes what we abide in. Then, it turns into what we project back into the world. Perhaps there is some truth to the old cliche that we become the ver y thing we hate the most. Look no fur ther than the walls of yourself to see how the pain inflicted on you by a person, by the world, or by life is just eating you alive. Something out of our control or something not our fault, yet we bear the despair. The suf fering imposes on us, rots our core,
away at directing genuine love and prosperity toward the source of my pain. Now, when I look back, I see how far I’ve come. I see my growth. Most impor tantly I feel that weight lif ted from my being. So, be encouraged. Be prompted to go deeper with yourself, and give your spirit permission to love more. Love when it doesn’t make sense to and love when you feel like you shouldn’t. You owe it to yourself, and you deser ve to heal.
and then star ts manifesting from the inside out. photo by noah buchanan But, no matter what pain we feel, no matter what source it comes from, this process is unsustainable. We aren’t meant to continuously harbor our own pain and suf fering. Forgiveness is more for our own healing than some platitude projected onto the source of our pain for its own benefit. Why in the world would forgiveness be for anything or anyone but yourself? Yet, forgiveness is so damn hard. Our pain hur ts so damn much. How do we deal with it? How do we flip the script on our own negative circumstances? To me, the answer is counterintuitive but deeply healing. The key to forgiveness is to lean into the ver y thing that hur t you and love it more. Turn your resentment into a genuine hope for prosperity for what or who hur t you. Turn ever y piece of abundant life you wish for yourself, or for those you love, and dedicate that same dream for the origin of your pain. The notion is easy to reject. Someone or something may not deser ve our love. It may feel like we have poured ever y ounce of our being out in the world. It may feel like ever y ounce of love we possibly had to give has been drained. Yet, that is just the point. By loving more deeply, more genuinely, we begin to fill ourselves back up. We restore ourselves in the process of loving others. The past year has put me face-to-face with the most grueling process of forgiveness I have ever encountered. It took time. It took resting in my suf fering. There were a lot of tears and tough words. Looking back, I can see a lot of good friends and deepened relationships.
THE BELL VOL. XII, ISSUE 9
SOUNDS OF THE SEASONS
HAVE YOU NOTICED?
third year caela gray When the moon descends her celestial throne and blond shadows unhurriedly trace I hear your sounds in muted funeral tones Melodies played over piano keys.
Calligraphy around the room. Squinting open curtains, You begrudgingly mumble Hello to the world.
In a sunken deser t of organic peace --Suspended chorus in waiting.
When lassitude leaves sullen imprints,
I hear your sounds in dripping popsicle sticks Staining the fingers of giggling girls and boys. In rain-rusted windchimes on porches and Sizzling pavements.
Blatantly cratering a stranger’s soul, You glance away and wonder about dinner. When ambition strips away pleasure, play, kindness, And a golden future fades to silhouettes,
I hear your sounds in a jar of rattling buttons
Your victor y lies closer to vainglor y than triumph.
Nudged while putting away heavy, wool coats.
But,
In a harmonic dissonance tender with Hope and industriousness.
If when morning comes, you remember the mar vel of
I hear your sounds speak like guitar strings A rhythm of disintegration, lovely and scratchy. In a sorrowful, deep sigh Bronzed before a glorious final battle.
sun rays kissing skin, If when an aching spirit catches your eye, you hold their gaze with a compassionate nod, If when good intentions give way to ephemeral whims, you return to humble roots,
These precious rhapsodies Replay for a reason.
You might discover that
Linger in their notes,
To live openly under a heavy world
Sof tly hum to each song.
Is a wor thy purpose and Miracles are not so hard to find af ter all.
photo by avni ajuha
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