Birds are the Descendants of Dinosaurs

Leaving small hometowns and suburban universes to attend an institution of higher education can change many college kids, from their inner beings to the clothes they wear.

Being from a tiny place with a population of 800, I can say that I was never the same after I drove out of the city limits for the University of Texas.

Sophomore year, sitting in my geology class at 9 a.m., an old and wormy professor opened my mind to understand the origin of life. When I learned that the earth is 4.5 billion years old, I finally began to understand.

Luckily, I have parents who paid for this education. Not that they necessarily wanted me to learn about evolution and non-biblical explanations of life, but I did. And they paid for it. They paid a lot for it.

Now that the complete collection of Charles Darwin’s papers have been released on Cambridge University’s Web site, this literal wealth of knowledge is available for those who have anything but wealth. For those who attended poor, conservative or clueless high schools. For those who never went to college and took that geology class with me. Now they will be able to afford an open mind. Check it out.

**THIS JUST IN**

For all of those who have ever scoffed at my excitement over this fact. It’s bad ass, and I didn’t just learn about it on Jurassic Park. I took an entire class on the evolution of dinosaurs to birds. One word: fascinating.
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/25/science/25dino.html?_r=1&hp&oref=slogin

Second Guessing

Monday night, I sit and I stare. I stare at the wall, I stare into the air, I stare at people who don’t know why I am blankly searching their eyes for some kind of answer.

As I stare, I think about my pending life — the one that awaits me after May 16. And when I say that I think about that, I mean that I really think about nothing…Nothing but a fuzzy and speeding vision of something I can never have the ability to know.

The only action I can possibly decide upon taking at that small moment, is that I want a drink. Several. Many. Lots.

I walk into Central Market, wary of what I might find. All the fancy and foreign wines are not familiar and I long for some Little Penguin or even a trophy jug of Carlo. Perhaps like my life, a prestigious and famous wine is not important to me. I just want to have some fun and not have to worry about the price tag.

I drive to the 7-11 on 26th Street. When I walk through the double doors, I obsess about if it would have the what I want. At the back of the store, I pass over the soft drinks and vitamin waters, and I find the Fuzzy Navel wine coolers. Delicious, I thought, but instead, I walk up to the front of the store and pick up a small four pack of Merlot.

Somehow, while sitting on the balcony porch of my small one-one, I find the closest thing to life that I’ve felt in awhile. Drinking the dark red liquid that stains the area right around my lips, I waste time with each glass. I am not being productive, I am not doing anything meaningful, I am not being successful. I am simply being. Simply living. And I feel okay.

Just Do It

I can hear the clock on my wall ticking. I am scared, nervous and unsure of what direction to take.

What weighs my mind is not the biggest of things. None-the-less, it has managed to frustrate me for several weeks now. An assignment: Write a 10-page narrative nonfiction piece. Great, I say, I’ll choose something important. Something that matters. Gentrification races into my mind first, beating every other possibility.

Writing my outline, I feel this is going to be a good story. It’s happening in East Austin, no doubt. I am even concurrently writing a research paper about the effects that gentrification has on the Black community. So I know the “phenomenon” is indeed hurting people.

I’ve tapped into the East Austin community three times now. The first two times, I walked around the streets, looking for people to speak with. While I did enjoy myself, I did not secure any sources. The third time, I visited one of the last remaining blues juke joints in the city. I spoke with the owner, T.C. Perkins. Are you going to have to move? I ask him regarding the rumors that his landlord might sell the property. He doesn’t know yet. Hopefully not. Is this a story?

So here I sit. I am nervous and the clock still ticks. Would a story on T.C.’s be possible? Should I go with my original plan to write a story about a long time East Side resident? How do I decide? And when, because time keeps passing by.

Youth Joy

While sitting with their parents, licking spoons full of cold gelato, two young girls catch a glimpse of the dogs on the wooden deck outside the yuppie coffeeshop.

The sisters trot outside, their pink, red and frilly dresses bouncing with their steps. Once near the two dogs, they slow down and hesitate. One girl holds out her hand and waits for the dog to come to her. Just as the young girls are unsure of who these animals are and how they are going to treat them, so too are the dogs nervous of what is going to happen.

After several seconds pass and it becomes obvious that the little pups aren’t going to attack, the girls place their hands on their freshly shaven hair. Their blond hair falls in their faces that light up with joy.

The smaller dog with black ears runs behind his owner, who sits down in a black wrought iron chair. The more brave of the two sisters follows it, with every intent to become friends.

Their mother walks outside to monitor the girls’ curiosity as their father sits inside. He continues to eat his gelato.

“If I was a dog, I’d run too,” he says.

After not too long though, one of his daughters drags him out to the deck to see what will always be more fascinating to her than it ever will to him.