Monday, June 29, 2009

'Chelle on the beach

(Pre-script: This post comes alive if you listen to the song, " Bring Me To Life," #37 on the playlist, OR "How to Save a Life," #35 on the list, while reading it, so go down to the playlist, click on that song or that song, then come back and resume reading. Come on just try it, I dare ya. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

I am a recovered sea shell collector. I used to collect those sharp, fragile pretty things that something once lived inside, simply because they had the name "shell," and I had the name, "'chelle." I used to joke that when I died, I would take something with me, I would take a shell, the "'chelle" in my name. This is a 7 year old's joke, and it is hilarious to 7 year olds. Never mind that the word "shell" is completely different than the word"'chelle," definition wise.:

Shell: "A hard, often fragile thing that is pretty, but hollow and echoey inside, where something once lived. Some are broken, chipped, and sharp. Some are whole, but still dead. Can be found on the beach."

-This definition describes many people, also, and I hope that this was not my subconscious aspiration as a 7 year old girl who ventured out on this shell collecting quest.

'Chelle: "A beautifully spelled french word that means...blah blah blah, something, something French, girl. I think she is an alive girl, a wholly whole girl, with a lot going on inside, who is still able to listen to the hollow echo of the ocean, but is also able to speak in her own voice. This 'chelle is also capable of being found on a beach, but is not solely defined by it."

- I hope that my 7 year old self was aspiring to become THAT 'chelle. I think she was. She just had yet to learn French. What, she was only 7. "Don't judge me, don't you judge me"*

(It should be noted that all definitions written herein have been garnered from the vast voluminous encyclopedias of my mind, and are entirely theoretical in nature.)

What I did with the seashells I collected was to put them on in a shoebox that I kept under my bed. Periodically, I would take the box out and count the shells. I had over 700 at one time, but my counting was also not that great, because I counted the broken pieced shells as well. I was an equal shell-ortunist, like "bring me your broken, chipped, and faded," a sort of Statue of Liberty, if the Statue of Liberty could morph into a 7 year old beach comber...and let's not forget, the Statue of Liberty originated in France.

(It should be noted that while I did not originate in France, my name did. So as you can see, the connections are everywhere.)

Eventually I stopped collecting shells, broken and otherwise. A girl reaches a point where she wants to do more with her life than just keep empty dead things in a box under her bed. At least, that is the goal.
But now that I said that, I realize that many people always only keep empty dead things in the boxes under their beds, and never ever get up and go on with their lives.


*Classic Kelly Ripa quote; I like to dust it off and use it for my own purposes from time to time.

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