brought to you by the pronoun "she"

A New Kind

2011-02-10T18:28:00.004-05:00

We are a new kind of woman.
No, we are the women of all women.
Beatniks incarnate.
We are waiting for America to change,
we are still walking.
Give us a book, we’ll read it like a man,
Our opinions speak for themselves.
We don’t rhyme often,
but when we do, take notice.
Because we drink whiskey shots off table tops.
We make your mothers blush.
We’re loud
and we scream:
"Viva La Revolución, baby!" and dance
with one fist in the air.
Because we know that change doesn’t begin with a legislation,
but in us.
Reconstruction isn’t in bombs, but in love.
Not in the straight-backed pews, but on the streets.
We are the breath, the heartbeat of the world.

People are awesome!

2010-12-25T21:57:00.001-05:00

You are the root of the root.

2010-08-22T18:11:00.003-04:00

Litany
Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass

and the burning wheel of the sun.

You are the white apron of the baker

and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,

the plums on the counter,

or the house of cards.

And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.

There is just no way you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,

maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,

but you are not even close

to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show

that you are neither the boots in the corner

nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,

speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,

that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,

the evening paper blowing down an alley,

and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees

and the blind woman's tea cup.

But don't worry, I am not the bread and the knife.

You are still the bread and the knife.

You will always be the bread and the knife,

not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow-- the wine.

While You Were Sleeping

2010-08-20T21:20:00.003-04:00

Variations on the Word Sleep
By Margaret Atwood

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.

If you're too afraid of the tears, then just run and hide.

2010-08-08T03:31:00.006-04:00

Tonight I saw my father cry. There are no words but to say that it scared the shit out of me, to see the man who is king of my world, the man who carried me outside to see the moon when I was too tiny to know that there was a sky above shed tears of distress. Because suddenly, that man who was giant and untouchable became the old man sitting on the edge of my parents bed with his head on my mother's breast sobbing out of desperation and confusion.
Each tear shed was an anvil tied around the string of my heart. I've only known my father to cry twice in my life. Once when my brother Timmy died... but that was simply a story told to me by our family pastor; simply hearsay, but it haunted my pastor too, to see my stoic father in agony over Timmy's death. The pastor said that was something he would never forget--indeed it is. The second time was when I was about nineteen: I was coming out of a severally rebellious stage, which had driven a wedge between my father and myself. One fateful night, he simply gathered me in his arms and told me he loved me. It was as if a scene from some Hallmark movie had lifted its skit and crossed the TV's threshold into our living room, because he held me a sobbed.
Now I'm not against tears, a few tears now and then is a healthy thing. Tears of pain, tears of joy are one thing-- but tears of desperation, tears of fear are something completely different. I've never known my father not to have things together, not to have an answer.
That is what scares the shit out of me.
In retrospect, I realized that there was only one person I wanted to talk to, one person I wanted to share this with, my fears and anxieties... that person I've placed as far from my life as can be. That person is a non-existent blip on my radar screen. I don't want to be the person without anyone to share a life with.
I was not meant to be alone.

2010-08-03T20:10:00.002-04:00

Once upon a time I became a wolf and you a dragon.
There is no denying a transcendence,
when there is nothing of who you are, of who you aren't left.
When words become weapons and thoughts like bombs, bandages are
in short supply and there's not enough liquor left to
numb your heart. As you pace the floor and I cry on
the bed in that little apartment there was nowhere
we could hide from each other.
So you with that fire in your belly and
me with all my rage at the moon tore down the glass walls
of that room with flames and wails until
all that was left was fog and silence.

2010-08-01T10:13:00.002-04:00

More and more here lately, I am finding that the harder you hold on to something the quicker it slides out of reach. I have to ask myself, is it because it is truly that hard to hold on to--is it really that slippery--or is it that there is no value to holding on to it. I'm not going to pretend that I know the answer to it, or that I have it all figured out, because i don't and i probably never will.

2010-01-31T09:02:00.002-05:00

This reminds me of me... at my place, books take precedent; if there is not room for anything else, there will be room for the books.

Ukraine has talent: Sand Animation

2009-12-06T01:45:00.001-05:00

This is amazing. Kseniya Simonova is from the Ukraine, and she uses sand to tell the story of the occupation of Ukraine from 1938-1945 by Nazi forces.

walking.the.dog

2009-11-05T17:39:00.000-05:00

Walking.the.dog

Somewhere in the distance, beyond
strips of pine and stretches of road,
the train whistle of my childhood
rings out.
Like a lonesome lullaby it carries me
back to my mother's room and the moonlight
filtering onto my covers, casting its
sickly, blue light, comforting me
from the sounds of the coyote chanting
to the iron beast on the tracks.
The coyotes have long since moves on,
but the train still blow her unanswered
calls over the river and into the night.

what I want.

2009-10-13T23:51:00.001-04:00

untitled, or 109

2009-10-01T17:01:00.004-04:00

Remember that time we rode the bus hand, in hand, in hand,
it was the last time we would ever see one another in the same way.
We rode that bus from house to house waiting for the one with enough room
for life and school and space; yet, we found no such place to call our own.
We journeyed across thresholds, our minds on the precipice of wonder,
knowing fully that with each door opened, our thoughts would never been the same.
Your hands were larger than mine, sweatier too. But your eyes held
the same flashing wonder that I knew mine projected. It was the roaming
in your heart I did not see, the wonderlust that burned and smoldered in the dark depths,
sending synapses through your brain.

Love is all I am

2009-09-22T19:06:00.001-04:00

shit-howdy sunshine, sit yourself down.

2009-09-16T20:22:00.004-04:00

Isn't it funny that I don't feel comfortable
being almost nearly naked in my own house?
It's not that I don't feel comfortable in my own skin.
It's just that the windows are open.

It's not the fact the neighbors can see,
if they want to look, let them.
Nor is it the sound of the cars in the road outside,
those sounds that I used to run from when I was little.
It's just that the windows are open.

The windows are open and they're letting in the wind,
but I don't mind the wind either. The light's coming
in over the window sills, warming the floor boards,
but the windows are open.
And I can't breathe.

2009-09-10T23:12:00.001-04:00

Never be the same again

2009-09-09T17:50:00.001-04:00

Ah..

2009-09-08T20:49:00.001-04:00

There are no words.

On my list:

2009-09-05T01:16:00.001-04:00

Reminds me of this:

When the call comes, be calm.
Say to your wife, “My brother is dying. I have to fly to California.”
Try not to be shocked that he already looks like a cadaver.
Say to the young man sitting by your brother’s side, “I’m his brother,”
Try not to be shocked when the young man says,
“I’m his lover. Thanks for coming.”

Listen to the doctor with a steel face on.
Sign the necessary forms.
Tell the doctor you will take care of everything.
Wonder why doctors are so remote.

Watch the lover’s eyes as they stare into your brother’s eyes as they stare into space.
Wonder what they see there.
Remember the time he was jealous and opened your eyebrow with a sharp stick.
Forgive him out loud even if he can’t understand you.
Realize the scar will be all that’s left of him.

Over coffee in the hospital cafeteria say to the lover, “You’re an extremely good-looking young man.”
Hear him say,
“I never thought I was good looking enough to deserve your brother.”
Watch the tears well up in his eyes. Say,
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what it means to be the lover of another man.”
Hear him say,
“It’s just like a wife, only the commitment is deeper because the odds against you are so much greater.”
Say nothing, but take his hand like a brother’s.

Drive to Mexico for unproven drugs that might help him live longer.
Explain what they are to the border guard.
Fill with rage when he informs you,
“You can’t bring those across.”
Begin to grow loud.
Feel the lover’s hand on your arm, restraining you. See in the guard’s eye how much a man can hate another man.
Say to the lover, “How can you stand it?”
Hear him say, “You get used to it.”
Think of one of your children getting used to another man’s hatred.

Call your wife on the telephone. Tell her,
“He hasn’t much time.
I’ll be home soon.” Before you hang up say,
“How could anyone’s commitment be deeper than a husband and wife?” hear her say,
“Please, I don’t want to know all the details.”

When he slips into an irrevocable coma, hold his lover in your arms while he sobs, no longer strong. Wonder how much longer you will be able to be strong.
Feel how it feels to hold a man in your arms whose arms are used to holding men.
Offer God anything to bring your brother back.
Know you have nothing God could possibly want.
Curse God, but do not abandon Him.

Stare at the face of the funeral director when he tells you he will not embalm the body for fear of contamination. Let him see in your eyes how much a man can hate another man.
Stand beside a casket covered in flowers, white flowers.
Say, “Thank you for coming” to each of several hundred men who file past in tears, some of them holding hands.
Know that your brother’s life was not what you imagined.
Overhear two mourners say, “I wonder who’ll be next.”

Arrange to take an early flight home.
His lover will drive you to the airport.
When your flight is announced say, awkwardly, “If I can do anything, please let me know.”
Do not flinch when he says,
“Forgive yourself for not wanting to know him after he told you. He did.”
Stop and let it soak in. Say,
“He forgave me, or he knew himself?”
“Both”, the lover will say, not knowing what else to do. Hold him like a brother while he kisses you on the cheek. Think that you haven’t been kissed by a man since your father died. Think,

“This is no moment not to be strong.” Fly first class and drink scotch. Stroke your split eyebrow with a finger and think of your brother alive.
Smile at the memory and think how your children will feel in your arms, warm and friendly and without challenge.

so good.

like a child...

2009-09-03T19:08:00.001-04:00

the world is full

2009-08-30T13:32:00.005-04:00

free coldplay

wouldn't you rather hear I love you?

2009-08-30T11:53:00.000-04:00

post-it love

2009-08-28T17:56:00.000-04:00

red would mean you love me, blue would mean you care.

2009-08-25T20:29:00.003-04:00

Holi: Festival of Color

boats and birds

2009-08-23T01:34:00.000-04:00

let's pack up everything in our lives we hold dear.

2009-08-22T22:37:00.004-04:00

Sunday is about to come and go.

Thanks Joel For The Planet Pluto.

The movie I recently added to my to see list, so sweet .

A book I found while we were waiting on a friend at a coffee shop.

...if you scratch my back, my back will be scratched.

2009-06-04T08:49:00.002-04:00

On my drive to work this morning, which seems to be getting longer everyday, I had the radio on, because the CD player in the Subaru only works everyother day. I was listening to a local mix station that promises the best mix of "the 80s 90s and today," when a news blurb came on about how in New York, the empty condos are being occupied by homeless people. The whole jist of the story was that the renters in the apartments next to the condos were outraged because the "homeless people were living better than they were." The condos they are living in have marble floors and open spacious bathrooms (i.e. they are what we call in this neck of the woods "uptown" appartments). Anyway, it seems that the New York City officials are spending thousands of dollars to match up homeless people and place them in the abandoned buildings to live, that way everyone benefits--the homeless people are off the street and the condos are being lived in. I think it sounds like a good plan, I am just shocked (which I shouldn't be) that people are so upset about the homeless people getting off the streets.

2009-06-03T09:37:00.002-04:00

Aside from the fact I am incredibly lame, because I've not blogged since I've been home, I have a lot of excuses. Not that excuses sum up to much. I've been really busy, so busy in fact that I am still living out of boxes in my bedroom and in other areas of the house. My room is too tiny to hold all of the things that I've carried, and my shelves are too full of books to allow me any kind of storage space, so boxes it is. Boxes of clothes, shoes, more books. Boxes of hangers, which is silly because I don't have a closet. But really since I don't go anywhere but the office and home, I could do away with all the other clothes, condemn them to storage for the rest of the summer, save a pair or two of shorts for the weekend and my pajamas.

There's been too many things happen this summer for me to write about in between customers and for your time's sake, I will give you a run-down of my summer to date (don't worry, I will go into detail soon)

SUMMER THUS FAR:

started working the Monday I got home
realized I was a power-point nerd, (churnning out 3 power points over 48 slides long in 3 days).
attended my first high school reunion
test drove a car and decided against it
got my first real job offer
have dish network at home

Okay so it's not that great, but it is something more than it was last year. For that I am greatful.

Hope you all are having a great summer.

I love it when...

2009-05-08T12:59:00.003-04:00

people leave their finals and they have to squint to read their phones in the sunlight.

Summer here we come!

if i could say anything

2009-04-29T22:25:00.000-04:00

i want to live in there

2009-04-28T12:07:00.001-04:00

(By Amazon Treehouses, via Krisatomic)

she said:

2009-04-28T00:34:00.004-04:00

i want to stay but i can't stay awake

i want to stay but i can't stay awake

--ammi

(deviantart.com Just_sleep__by_darkpantomime)

for a friday afternoon.

2009-04-24T15:40:00.002-04:00

I was at a little local coffee shop, ending my friday off with a great friend (Katie) and iced vanilla coffee; chillin' for about an hour after our classes were over for the day, kicking into weekend mode, talking about next semester and how great it will be to have Lauri back in Lakeland. The little Coffee Shop on Kentucky, Mitchell's they always have the friendliest baristas, great art, and the best music. The last time I was there, they were playing Sufjan, but today they were playing music to dance around the table to, and it was a great combination: Death Cab, and Postal Service. I know you are thinking, yeah, same guy. But it's more than that, for some reason I'd never thought to put the two together. And it's really a lovely pairing.

So go and listen to a couple of songs, close your eyes, and begin your weekend nicely.

(my favorites, just to perk your appetite)

___________________________________________________________

because the world is round

2009-04-22T23:04:00.002-04:00

I've often wondered what the world would look like if all of its inhabitants took a moment to go out of their way to do something nice for someone other than themselves. Not on their birthday or a day when it is expected, but on a day that is in all definitions a normal day. It doesn't have to be anything huge, but just a hug, or buy them a cup of coffee, or sit down and talk with them. Pay someone a compliment. And put them above self for a moment. Perhaps it would be a thing that stuck, became a habit. Maybe it would spread, maybe people would smile more. Maybe they would dance at the red lights instead of blowing their horns in impatience. What if the compliments had some affect on patience and understanding, maybe there would be less murders and more babies born. They would make stabbing a friend in the back more difficult. And if we listened a little more and talked a little less we would have more friends. If for a moment of every day we told someone we loved them and why, we would help people feel better about themselves, give them something to hold on to, to reach for. If we spent our times building and mending the bridges that the harsh words and actions break down with kindness, then all would have a place of safety when the rains come. Because at the end of the day it's not about how good we were to ourselves, how much further we got ourselves in life. Those things are trivial, because they can be taken easier than they were achieved, but the thing that does matter, the thing that stick, is how much we care for others. Whether we go that extra step with a person in need. If we put that extra effort into being Christ to others, if we see them as Christ sees them, as someone in need of compassion, and see ourselves as Christ sees us, someone in need of everlasting grace, we acknowledge our commonality. We recognize, we are one. One hurting nation. One hurting world. One body desperately seeking for hope.

take in the pain of the world.

2009-04-22T13:12:00.001-04:00

we walk on stardust

2009-04-21T22:52:00.003-04:00

"The time has come," the Walrus said,/ "To talk of many things:/ Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--/ Of cabbages--and kings--/ And why the sea is boiling hot--/ And whether pigs have wings."

The Walrus and The Carpenter--Lewis Carroll

The magazine rack held out of date magazines screaming to be bought, as Dinah walked out of the bright April day through the automatic doors, her skin slightly flushed from the heat of the sun. She combed her fingers through her copper-toned hair that was tangled from driving with the windows down; school was just letting out and the high schoolers were filing into the library for the after school program, better known as supervised unsupervision. She walked over the to wall of books and gingerly scanned the authors and neatly labeled sections as she listened to the conversation of the gray haired ladies to her right, who were pouring through pop-Psychology books from the 1970's and grab bags of 6 romance books for a dollar.
Libraries were like sanctuaries, in them Dinah found God and creativity and solace. The quiet reverence engulfed her like an ocean, the current of words swirling around her and tickling her ears and her eyes; pulling her deeper into the smells of the packed shelves and the creases of thoughts. Removing books from the shelf and taking deep breaths of the pages, the aromas of the decades old glue and binding, dust and ink, wafted with each turn of the page and felt like home. Dinah smiled as she felt herself relax.
All good things, like all bad things, pass away in time; Toby a bleach-blonde man-boy of about 25 entered the foyer and brought with him the stench of the ash tray between the columns of the porch, with a confident stride he made his way over to the shelves on the wall and tucked his still smoking, but recently extinguished cigarette behind his ear. His pungent odor quickly drove away the pleasant smell of aged books and turned Dinah's stomach. The women on her right quickly cast their disapproving looks to the boy who, after some scrutiny, had a slight Asian build and wore a messy fu-manchu made mostly of stubble.
Dinah rolled her eyes and pondered if the boy-man--boy had a clue that he was so intrusive. She wondered about stereotypes while watching him reach around her for a newly bound copy of a biography of Warren Buffet. She shook off the urge to stare at him further when he pulled the chunky book for the shelf, carried it to the sci-fi section, scooted the books out of the way, shoved the book in between two star-trek paperbacks, and stepped back to admire his handy work, then quickly scanned the shelves as though he was looking for something else that had been misplaced.
Dinah retrieved a few misfit books from the shelves, opened them at a near-half-point and read a few sentences and paragraphs, careful to replace the book back in the exact slot it once occupied. She had since childhood, prided herself of her spy like qualities of rummaging and replacing things with such precision as to leave no trace whatsoever. Choosing random titles Dinah and Toby quickly worked their way to the end of the wall, to the coveted shelf bearing two almost synonymous labels: literature and religion.
Dinah scanned the books, faith for the unbelievers; 360 Tao; A History of Zen; The Be ((Happy)) Attitudes. Halfway between the two sections, a book caught her eye. She reached for the pale book and met a hand. Their paths had collided, or so they thought. The boy flashed the smile showing his slightly tobacco stained teeth and continued to reach for the copy of the Medieval Women's Literature and laughed. "Sorry were you reaching for this?" he asked with a slight twinkle in his eye as he handed her the oddly shaped glossy white book. "No," she replied, handing the book back to him, "I was reaching for The Prophet." She reached over her head to pull down the book with the yellowing jacket, Toby raised his eyebrows and smiled; "interesting," he said out loud, shrugged, reshelved the Women's Literature volume, and disappeared around the corner whistling a happy tune.

see the dawn break gold

2009-04-20T00:31:00.002-04:00

it was time for a blog makeover, i'm still not sure about it. they are not my favorite colors... but it is a good change.

this weekend was mini-vacation. last monday was my nephew's eighth birthday (HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CALEB!), so this weekend, i ventured over to the tampa area to see him and my sister and niece. it was a welcomed get-away. i've not been over to see them in a few months, and it's always a pleasure to relax and be with family.

while i was there, i was thinking about how much my sister's children had grown. there are so many markers that i place around them being born. the last time i saw my brother was the day that my niece was born (almost 14 years ago); it's also been 14 years since our church revamped the sanctuary. when my nephew was born, i was just beginning to drive, and i drove down with my mom; that was the first time that my mother and i went anywhere without my father and wouldn't be repeated again until an eventful trip in my junior year of college. Caleb's birth was also the first time i drove in a huge city on my own, and had to find my way across town on sheer memory (yikes).

my nephew is a loving boy and a joy to be around; full of curiosity and corny jokes. and my niece is coming to that grand age, where the whole world is out to get her. i remember that age, when you're mad, for what seems like no reason, your mom cramps your style, and you have a double dose of temper coming at you from both sides. it's funny how things change. but sometimes i feel like time is zooming past me, and i remain unaffected by its progression.

looking at my life now, and back to 14 years ago, when i was making silly seal faces in polaroids with my sister is unimaginable, when looking at far we've both come since then, and how much farther we've to go in the next 14 years. and then i realize that feeling as if the whole world is out to get you seems pathetic when you lay it beside the pain you feel when your best friend leaves you holding the bag on your friendship, or when you start going to the funerals of your friends parents. the memory of your first independent drive is nothing compared to your first kiss, and not enough to make you happy during your first breakup. and to think that there are still experiences yet to make, still life left to live, dreams to achieve, tears to cry; the next one a little more exciting or difficult than the one before.

how wonderful life is.

oh, i just can't wait.

2009-04-16T18:34:00.003-04:00

it's going to be so great!

regina spektor--better

2009-04-15T13:18:00.003-04:00

all about the rain

2009-04-14T11:39:00.003-04:00

THE

RAIN

CAME

d
o
w
n

IN

SHEETS

random thought: this is what is feels like to be a shark.

today, there was massive rain. when i left the dorm it was gross and hot and just beginning to drizzle, and it continued to rain all day. and looking for a parking spot on campus is bad enough, but looking for one in the rain is worse. when you spot someone walking out to the parking lot, you know you have it made, so you slowly drive around in circles, or creep behind the person until they get to their car. so as i'm driving around the building, waiting for this girl to get to her car, the rain is pouring down, and i think this is what it feels like to be a shark, lurking, waiting for your next meal.

every time it rains, i remember a run in i had with dr. rutland. it was after chapel in the pouring rain, i pulled out my umbrella, and he put his hand out and he said... "sweetie, take a lesson from me, put the umbrella away. walk in the rain, and a guy will come along with an umbrella and snag you up..." well, one day, i decided to put his words of wisdom to practice, in hopes that humanity would be redeemed. so i trudged to class umbrella-less and frozen in the rain. half way there, i was reminded of another sage: "always go with your first instinct."

the once was a girl with pale skin.

2009-04-08T13:15:00.004-04:00

in a couple of hours, i'm heading home... i can't tell who is more excited for me to be driving up, me or my parents. it's nice to be wanted. (: this is the first Easter i've been able to go home, usually something happens, and it almost happened this time too. at home, they have had a lot of rain, and the two rivers we live between are flooding (they always flood in april), but it's especially bad because of a dam in Georgia that has conveniently sprung a leak. i was woke up on monday morning by my mother, she told me they might had a evacuate (that's not great news first thing in the morning). so far, it's not been as bad as the estimates have said it would be, but the rivers are supposed to crest tomorrow, so we will see. i may have wished i brought a boat.

yesterday was my birthday, thank you to all who made my birthday wonderful. i got great cards, and as a special surprise, i was treated to dinner at Gosh! sushi, it was my first time eating sushi. tempura Japenese bagel roll, yum. it was a new experience, and a good one, but i don't know that i will be eating sushi anytime soon. then it was off to coldstone (again, yummm.), but that was a mistake, ice cream on top of sushi is not a good idea (don't try it at home).

(i'm on a playlist kick, still)
a play list for the road:

i wanna love you__the maine
hands in the sky (big shot)__straylight run
bright sunny south__allison krauss
vampires in blue dresses__margot & the nuclear so and sos
sexual healing__marvin gaye & shaggy
the first cut is the deepest__sheryl crow
all the go in betweens__silversun pickups
existentialism on prom night__straylight run
can't believe it (remix)__t-pain & justin timberlake
back in your head__tegan and sara
subterranean homesick blues__bob dylan
black crows__honeyhoney
speeding cars__imogen heap
your big hands__jolie holland
fake plastic trees__radiohead

adieu!

celebrity playlist

2009-04-06T02:31:00.006-04:00

itunes presents: celebrity playlists at the itunes store (check it out)

demetri martin:

the king of carrot flowers pt. 1//neutral milk hotel*
rainbow sign//fruit bats
is she fiona//the gerbils
title and registration//death cab for cutie*
waste of paint//bright eyes*
shape of my heart//noah and the whale*
little fury// the breeders
made from tiny boxes//flotation toy warning
luck number nine//the moldy peaches*
put a penny in the slot//fionn regan
lost cause//beck
you broke my heart//lavender diamond
a hit//smog
a.m. 1800//grandaddy

evangeline lily:

a necessary end\\saltillo
nantes\\beirut*
gogol\\gonzales
mother's journey\\yann tiersen
sweet dream\\greg laswell
switching off\\elbow*
the professor (live)\\damien rice*
roads\\portishead
eye of the tiger\\arnaud aquegaray (etc.)
these white lights will bend to make blue\\azure ray
la jeune fille aux cheveux blancs\\camile
america is not the world\\morrissey*
icyibo\\dorothee munyaneza

Jason Bateman:

the killer is me--alice in chains
sure shot--beastie boys
the rollercoaster ride--belle and sebastian
manhattan--dinah washington*
NYC--interpol
hallelujah--jeff buckley
darlene--led zeppelin
pochahontas--neil young
gigantic--pixies
rhinocerous--smashing pumpkins
hell is chrome--wilco*

jim halpert:

chicago__sufjan stevens*
sing__travis
rich girl__gwen stefani & eve
a quick one, while he's away__the who
rebellion (lies)__arcade fire
ghost__neutral milk hotel*
california stars__billy bragg & wilco
gone for good__the shins
let the cool goddess rust away__clap your hands a say yeah
when i laugh__the glands

for the young, old souls

2009-04-06T02:05:00.004-04:00

when i was a little girl, my father and i loved to watch dean martin and jerry lewis movies. and for some reason, this song was embedded in my brain (i only watched it one time). from time to time, i find myself singing it, and wishing that i knew all the words to it. tonight, i found it, and oh how much joy it brought me.

reading update:
i'm over half way through the reader, and i'm finding it a great stuggle to finish, it's a fast read, but it's not keeping my attention, i feel like i can predict what is going to happen. it's a disappointment, because i was expecting it to be moving, and it's not. i've been contemplating moving to another book (but that feels too much like giving up).

i'm looking forward to this week:

getting the oracle together completely will be fantastic and on wednesday, after all my classes are over, i'm going home for Easter; "come hell or high water."

plans for the break:

relearn converting grams into moles into atoms & formula weight
read: a farewell to arms, the english teacher's companion
write: paper on the english teacher's companion
test a student for assessment of learners
write a student profile for assessment of learners
make pillows
spend time with my folks
make myself a birthday cake

so cute.

2009-04-04T23:10:00.001-04:00

i know i'm really excited about it.

2009-04-03T15:17:00.000-04:00

the fortune cookie said: the best cure for worry is work not whiskey

2009-04-03T00:38:00.009-04:00

//

the world is still spinning, madly on. you know there are those times when you feel as though the world is going to come crashing down around you, or as if you were blindfolded, stuck in a paper bag and told to find your way out (i mean that seems easy enough, but you cannot help but feel like the top of the bag has been folded, and it's all a trick). well, that's how the past few weeks have been for me. there's been this constant sense that i have forgotten something terrible important, and no matter how hard i try to remember it just feels like it's gone forever (please, for the love of Bob, someone discover how to make a rememberall an actuality).

things i forgot this week: assessment of learners test, the Oracle reading, turn in the library books, meetings with English department secretary, classes, quizzes, calculators, periodic tables, sleep.

in other news, this week is almost over, tomorrow is thankfully hear, and in a few hours it will all be over. i received an email from Lauri yesterday, saying that she would love to come to the good ol' land of lakes, which makes me very happy, and i really hope that she can manage that. it would be wonderful to see her again. i'm not sure what we would do, but it would be great, because it would be with her.

tomorrow i have a presentation for physical science, not only do i not understand a smidgen of what is going on in that class, but we have to do a presentation. don't worry, teaching an English lesson to a class full of children is different from being graded by a teacher on how much and how well one can explain static electricity. my group was scheduled to present last friday, but things happened so we were delayed until today (which is really bad for a worry woart like myself). i really have to sic myself up for presentations (give me a poem to read to the class and i'm fine). but today i got a fortune cookie and it read (as the title of this blog suggests) the best cure for worry is work not whiskey, and i think it worked (working that is). because i've been so worried that i wouldn't understand what i was talking about, but the more i read the more i understood.
so for all you people like me, work and be worry free.

yesterday i picked up some books from the library. i have this compulsion, i don't get just one book from the library, i get several--i think it's so if i'm bored with one of them, i don't have to walk back to the library for another one.

this time i got six: the reader, how i became stupid, a farewell to arms, the winged seed, big fish, reading like a writer

♥

You were an island and I passed you by.

2009-04-03T00:36:00.001-04:00

2009-04-01T11:05:00.001-04:00

Coming in October!

2009-03-29T16:11:00.004-04:00

Top 4 Books (with quotes)

2009-03-28T15:51:00.003-04:00

I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera. It's terrible. ~J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye, Chapter 3

“Our laughter kept the feathers in the air. I thought about birds. Could they fly if there wasn’t someone, somewhere, laughing?” [78]

“I like to see people reunited, maybe that’s a silly thing, but what can I say, I like to see people run into each other, I like the kissing and the crying, I like the impatience, the stories that the mouth can’t tell fast enough, the ears that aren’t big enough, the eyes that can’t take in all of the change, I like the hugging, the bringing together, the end of missing someone…” [109]

and there are pictures:

It was as if we were broken, I thought, as if we were never supposed to feel these sticky emotions. It was as if we were cracked, couldn’t love right, couldn’t feel good things for very long without screwing it all up. We were like gasoline engines running on diesel… From a very early age our souls are taught there is a comfort and a discomfort in the world, a good and bad if you will, a lovely and a frightening. - Blue Like Jazz, 14

"He repeated until his dying day that there was no one with more common sense, no stonecutter more obstinate, no manager more lucid or dangerous, than a poet."
- Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Love in the Time of Cholera

distraction

2009-03-25T01:06:00.004-04:00

me:
haha, joy and i found a receipt on the ground, and we thought of you.
him:
Because of a receipt?

me:
whoever it was bought chips ahoy and a pint of milk from the cafe.

him:
Haha
Nice
I don't think that was mine though
When did you find it?

me:
tonight at 9:15
it was in allyson's garden

him:
Allyson's Garden?
What the hell were you guys doing in there?

me:
haha we were walking by it, and we saw something white blow in the air, so we picked it through the fence.

him:
Niiiice

me:
actually we were having a tea party with the gnomes.)

him:
Nice again
Are they hiding gnomes?
Only come out at certain times, because I've never seen them

me:
you have to know the special gnomes dance.
joy learned it when she traveled through umpa-lumpa.

him:
Interesting

me:
it involves running in a counter-clockwise circle, hopping from one foot to another while chanting the gnome creed backwards 9 times.

him:
The gnome creed?

me:
it's in gnomish...
goo, googley, googley, ichabod coo. shnappfiddle dapdiddle, hinkel doo.

him:
Wow
Where'd you learn that?

me:
when i was a little girl, i was stolen by a lawn gnome and taken into the woods for three hours.
he took me to the gnome colony down by the river and fed me sweet grass.
and he told me about how gnomes were really tree fairies who stood too close to the tree sap. When the tree leaked the sap, they were covered and became frozen.
when the humans found them, they thought it would be cute to paint them and set them around their yards as decorations.

him:
This is impressive
Well done
You should write it in volumes

me:
haha
that would be interesting.
i could call it lord of the lawns

you are my center when I spin away

2009-03-23T16:43:00.004-04:00

the world is a great place!

2009-03-20T23:48:00.000-04:00

2009-03-17T14:04:00.006-04:00

"(HE) ART"
spray on wood and metal

photo of brooklyn graffiti artist R.E.M.E.D. (he's also on flickr: remed art )

an assignment:

2009-03-16T01:47:00.008-04:00

find something to be glad about:

the word glad,

blue-skies-with-white-fluffy-clouds,

great/music/you/can/dance/to,

plunging your hands in cold water.

//

you're remarkable for so many reasons.

2009-02-25T17:53:00.005-05:00

movie recommendation: the fall

it's really superb, lots of color. a story of pain, love, longing, and triumph.

day 1 on lent:

i deliberated greatly as to what i should give up (or as a friend of my eloquantly put it: trade) my cussing, since it is (apparently) so opposite my character, and take on a longer devotional time/ prayer journal (intraspective time).

initial thoughts:
it's more difficult then i expected it to be.

devotional: meditation--joyce huggett;
scripture: Psalms 103 (bless the Lord, oh my soul.)

psalm 103 made me think about something i was mulling over last night. we sang a song with lines like: "i want to be like my father," and "i desire to be like you," and "i'll risk it all if you make me like you," and "make me just like you," and I couldn't help but wonder if the loads of people surrounding me who were swaying; their mouths moving to the music, their eyes closed in reverance, and their hands lifted in surrender, if they (if i ) really understood the magnitude of what they/we were saying. in theory that is a wonderful idea, if we all acted and spoke with compassion and love the way God does, the world would be such a nice place to live. the thing is... it's not, we're not. a verse (8) in chapter 103 says: "the Lord shows mercy and is kind. He does not become angry quickly, anmd he has great love." those two things are so converse to humanity, to the majority of modern day christians (to myself) that if we spent all of our time simply attempting to accomplish one of them, it would take a life time to master. i kept asking myself: "is that what we really want?" or are we simply trying to be "cute," because it makes us feel like we are better believers.

the stain of love.

2009-02-25T02:07:00.002-05:00

quick thought: what if instead of praying that God judge those who do us wrong, follow Christ's example and say, give it all to me, so they may know your mercy.

love endures

the script had called for rain, but it was clear so we faked it.

2009-02-24T23:13:00.005-05:00

chapel 2: that's right, tonight i attended my second chapel of the semester. i have many excuses as to why i've not gone to many, but they are all lame and most of them involve the word sleep or late or sick. but i'm slowly working up to the total i need, which is thankfully greatly reduced due to observations.

the chapel was off campus at mitchell's coffee house, which is usually a welcoming environment, but for someone who doesn't like to go to church by themselves, it's torture. but that was one of my resolutions: go to places you wouldn't normally go to alone, alone (which translates as just about everywhere). so i went, and i will probably never go back again. i usually like the alternative style chapels over the service in bush, but ugh, i felt out of my league. so i spent an hour not hearing a soft spoken woman that was being overpowered by the ice blender (impossible) "preach" a self-help sermon with lost words.

things that made my day great,

an exchange from a class today:

teacher: what makes your generation "special", a "joshua generation", the generation that will change the world?
student: because we have a black president.
teacher: obamarama.

2 conversations (over the phone) with people i love who live far away.

a text message sent on a friends phone:

text: hey! i miss you! chuck
re: i miss you too. i guess that makes me the piemaker.

free pancakes!

something that pained me:

what if "history makers", the church, your generation, decided to change their world at home (divorce in their own homes, bashing from their own mouths) before trying to "set the world straight"?

the good stuff:

2009-02-24T13:33:00.001-05:00

downloaded a great gadget: the blogger gadget.

just thought I would try it out and post a nice picture.

dreams are for dreaming.

2009-02-24T01:26:00.006-05:00

listening to : stay or leave\\dave matthews; first day of my life\\ brighteyes; slow dancing in a burning room\\ john mayer; blackbird\\ the beatles; fix you\\coldplay; cats in the cradle\\harry chapin.

reading: the metaphysical club:a story of ideas in America\\ louise menand; inside out\\kirby, liner

:night 3: finer things:
movie: doubt
amazing.
it was so moving (meryl streep is wonderful),
viola davis is great, i would like to see her have a lead role (she was good in nights of rodanthe, one of my favorite characters in the film);
philip. seymour. hoffman (need i say more).

book/play recommendations:
whit\\margaret edson
the tipping point: how little things can make a big difference\\malcom gladwell

i think it is my favorite amy adams movie, i could really relate to sister james; she is innocent, she doesn't want to think others are capable of the evils that others are quick to shove on them. when those evils do come up, she is quick to dismiss them, and yet easily swayed by others.

favorite quote:
whatever i have done, i have left in the healing hands of my confessor

on st. valentine's day, when i went to the farmer's market, i passed by this booth of self proclaimed "concious" clothing. i spoke with the woman how created the glorious hemp braids strewn with hand-blown glass beads, and skirts made from pillow cases, and crafty crocheted bags; she told me how she was competeing with gap, so she likes to help out the "underdog," and buy and created things from recycled objects (as she pointed to the nifty bottle cap earrings), and then she gave me her card. now i lost that card; i just dropped in it the bottom of my bag when she handed it to me. but i cleaned out my bag the other night, only to find it again. it has a great picture trees outside a car window with the side mirror reflecting the trees that were just passed, and a little bit of information about her "company," but what caught my attention was the back of the card; a quote reading: "somebody has to do something, and it is just incredibly pathetic that it has to be us." i couldn't help but laugh and think "who else would it be?" i immediately put it up on my board--where things that have made my day (a valentine's day card from my mom and dad, ticket stubs from films i watched with people i love, & notes from joy), or stressed me out (the list of poetry readings from last week, & the 2 papers due the end of next week), or perplexed/stretched me (that card, & a lectio divina reading from matthew).
i've heard a lot about it lately: "god's coming back soon, so screw the trees"; the mentality of irresponsibility. and every time, i fight the urge to say: this is our home, we should take care of it; that's our responsibility; if nothing else, we owe it to our planet, to ourselves.

Hug: noun; an emotional heimlick.

2009-02-15T12:31:00.006-05:00

v-day itenerary:

>farmer's market (orchids, honey, fresh fruit, and wonderful puzzle boxes)
>the patchwork pig (fabric store)
>mitchell's (for iced coffee)
>brooke pottery (just for fun)
>lloyd's of london (antiques and collectibles)
>sub's and such (yummy, lunch)
>reading in front of the library on blankets with friends.
>movies (27 Dresses & Little Mermaid)

:::fun with friends!

they will make your name sing, or the world smells of chocolate. or the sky is calling. or tomorrow will not be so bad. or (sigh, a ring by spring)

2009-02-13T13:09:00.011-05:00

listening: bobby dupea//jack's mannequin//nada surf//blue october//margot & the nuclear so & sos
reading: teaching to transgress//bell hooks

note worthy:

i got my ring (pop) by spring.
i picked up 1 of 2 reference letters
(working on resume' for the last one)
i was wished "happy valentines day" by a class of 6th grade ESOL students (so sweet).
I got to give my valentine a present. (:

////////////////////////
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

the hardest thing for me to do is to get up in early in the morning (any time before 11 is early these days). i have a hard time sleeping, i guess because i'm sick, so i wake up often during the night (even if i take meds.), so that shoots my sleep all the bits. i'm sad, because i really like to sleep; if you had asked me last week what i liked to do, i would have told you sleep. but now it's not the case, because sleep doesn't like me, so it's futile to like sleep.

this morning was the second morning in a row that i had to get up before 8 (torture, pure torture) to go to a school. Yesterday, it was for a school observation assingment, but today it was to pick up a reference from a teacher that i worked with a couple of semesters ago and LHS. being in his class taught me a great deal about ESOL and the struggles that teachers face with those students, but how rewarding it can be when your students succeed at the things you are teaching them. he has since left LHS and moved to SHMS where he teaches middle grades ESOL, i walked into his 6th grade class and he let me talk with the children and let them ask me questions: where do you go to school, what grades do you want to teach, what subject, do you want to teach ESOL (my favorite question) how long have you been in school, do you speak more than one language, do you want to learn languages (another favorite), have you been out of America (since the whole class came from other countries: mexico, peurto rico, columbia, brazil, spain, portugal, texas) , where's the first place you want to go when you leave america (italy). They were really sweet, and full of questions, the q&a went on forever! but that was good, b/c they were interested and talking (in english).

tonite: it's movie in the park ("cinderella man") and flight of the conchords.

tomorrow: farmers market and reading on blankets.

for the cynic/for the loved

2009-02-13T01:07:00.008-05:00

_________________________________________________________________
one of my newest obsessions is making playlists.
so tonight, i decided to make a couple in honor of valentines day (since i promised myself i wouldn't write a pathetic blog about love).

for the cynics:

breaking my heart//aqualung
the boy who blocked his own shot//brand new
therapy//t-pain
how to say goodbye//paul tiernan
congratulations//blue october
lover i don't have to love//bright eyes
you could be happy//snow patrol
nicest things//kate nash
you don't know me at all//ben folds
grace is gone//dave matthews band
i go all to pieces//ray lamontagne
uninvited//alanis morissette
just another suck one the vine//tom waits
we are nowhere and it's now//bright eyes
sing for absolution//muse
glorious ballad of the ignored//pas/cal
why does my heart feel so bad//moby
//

for the loved:

i want to hold your hand//the beatles
before cologne//ben folds
first day of my life//bright eyes
marching bands of manhattan//death cab of cutie
i get a kick out of you//frank sinatra
oh, it is love//hellogoodbye
we were made for each other/you can breathe now//jack's mannequin
all i want is you//barry polisar
brown, brown, brown//paul baribeau
piazza, new york catcher//belle and sebastian
birds//kate nash
i melt with you//modern english
take me there//rascal flatts
i will be your lover too//bobby dupea
watermelon sugar//the robot ate me
wedding dress//sam amidon
madly//tristan prettyman

\\

all smiles tell one thing: happiness

2009-02-12T21:52:00.004-05:00

there's always the debate: who would play you, if your life was a movie. finally, i think i have found an answer.
thank you, katie for pointing it out to me.

♥

flops are good.

2009-02-10T00:39:00.002-05:00

The English department recently took a trip to Rollins College in Orlando to see the poet, painter, playwrite, writer Derek Walcott. He read several chapters from the book he published in 1990 Omeros, one of my favorite quotes from the section he read being: "Why did I never miss you until you returned."

But I think the most influential tidbit that I left the reading with was that we (as artists, as people,) have to take risks; we have be put ourselves out there and if we fail then we can say to ourselves "hey, so what you failed, you tried." One of the works that he was the most proud of was a flop, he made it to the "big time" with a paul simon score, but the show didn't do well; it was a "flop," but he could be proud of himself, because he gave it a try. In his opinion, "there are not only a sequence to flops, be a reason," he concluded with this: "the artist is the ulitmate judge of a work."

What I'm saying is: we should do everything with all our might, because in the end, we have to live with the things we've accomplished, or didn't try for.

Pillow Fight!

2009-01-29T17:54:00.002-05:00

Pillow fight in front of Toronto City Hall.

I was browsing a site that won the Photoblog of the year: http://mute.rigent.com/index.php
and I found these sets of pictures. I thought it was great!

2009-01-23T16:10:00.000-05:00

random...

2009-01-21T16:32:00.006-05:00

1. i like to sign my name in lower case letters: charlotte hale.
2. i've had the same quote at the bottom of my email for 2 years: Romans 12:9-13.
3. i don't like to eat soup when i'm alone.
4. i'm terrified about letting people down.
5. i want to move to Oregon
6. i'd never finished a sewing project until 3 weeks ago.
7. when i leave/return to school, i bring only a tenth of my library with me
8. at the moment, my refrigerator is stocked with water, cream cheese, and apple jelly.
9. i like the Bobby Dupea's music
10. when i do laundry at school, i have to have two dryers that are together.
11. i don't like sharp objects.
12. squirrels scare me.
13. i don't mix my food.
14. there's always music playing in my room.
15. when i make to do lists, i put things on there that i've already done, so i can cross them off.
16. i like to drive with barefeet.
17. i have a book of quotes and pictures and drawings that i carry around with me and draw in class.
18. i like old things.
19. i have every paper that i've ever written in folders at home.
20. i'm allergic to cumquats.
21. i don't want to teach.
22. i don't sit in the back of education classes, because i don't want the teacher to call me out.
23. i hate math.
24. when i pull all-nighters, i like to listen to ghetto music.
25. i watch lost, but i really don't like it.
26. i miss pushing daisies.
27. i've never been farther north than south carolina.
28. i can count the number of times i've been to the beach on one hand.
29. i've never seen the pacific ocean.
30, i've never been farther south than st. pete
31. last year was the first time i saw snow white.
32. i've never met anyone with my first name.

2008 (long overdue)

2009-01-12T13:44:00.003-05:00

Hello all, it's been a while since I posted. Seeing as how I've not kicked off the new year correctly, allow me to rehash 2008.

Highlights of 2008!

I. Old friends

Lauri
Ammi
Katie
Steve
Rebekah
Elizabeth
Pete
Joel
Erica
John
Meghan

II. New Friends

Joy
Justin
Jeffery
Rebekah
Joel
Jessie
Brittany

III. Adolescent Lit

Our corner (Ammi, Katie, Steve, George, & Meghan)

IV. Sundays

All Saint's 8:50
Covenant 10:30
Outback
Movie/Nap
Nap/Movie

VI. Moe's

Making mad dashes for lunch between classes (American Lit & Advanced Expos).

VII. American Lit

Meghan, Ammi, & Professor Kirk.

VIII. My Advanced Expos. Group

Erica, "Weetsy Bat" Jen, & Elizabeth: bunches of laughs.

IX. Finally watching the Godfather

XI. Nashville

My first official vacation, taking off from work and driving to Nashville (even though I got sick) to see Erica and John.

Discovering the great McKays used books in Nashville, thanks John.

Turkish food!

The tiny Greek Orthodox store, where John, Erica, & I looked at iconoclasts.

High Church at St. David's (John & Erica's church) in Nashville.

Seeing the Ringo Star exhibit in Nashville at the state museum.

XII. Finishing Harry Potter

Rowling, you're wonderful, thank you for expanding my library and making me hunger for fantasy.

XIII. Movies

the great ones:
Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
310 to Yuma
Juno
No Country for Old Men
High Fidelity
Breakfast Club
Charley Bartlett

the terrible ones:
27 dresses
Made of Honor
Indiana Jones & the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

the intoxicating ones:
Wanted
Twilight

XIV. Books

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
Blue Like Jazz
Three by Annie Dillard
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
Nine Stories
Catcher in the Rye
Ender's Games
Stardust
Walden
Twilight
New Moon
Eclipse
Breaking Dawn
Blithedale Romance

XV. "Studying" at Mitchell's & Starbucks

XVI. St. Pete trip

Dali Museum & Haslam's books

XVII. The Oracle

XVIII. Bookstore hunting in Winter Haven

XIX. Rooming with Katie

XX. Chinese with Lauri

This is it

2008-12-12T08:18:00.002-05:00

Oregon!

no need to say goodbye.

2008-12-12T02:24:00.005-05:00

Goodbyes are hard to say, especially among friends. Since we are all good friends, we will always be with each other, so it'll always be see you later, dear one.

shrapnel

2008-12-10T09:36:00.001-05:00

You say that like it's a bad thing.

2008-12-03T02:02:00.003-05:00

Today I attended what has the potential to be my last chapel. Thanks be to God. It was a good chapel to end the year on. As much as I dread going into a packed service. Today was the annual children's chapel, where for an hour we can forget about out troubles, our finals approaching, the eminent, bittersweet goodbyes that will be said in the next few days, and be a kid. We sang song from vacation Bible school and bedtime. You know those songs that make you think of sunscreen, chlorine, new best friends and kool aid. There we were sophisticated, college educated adults shouting and waving our hands like a bunch of 6 year olds. As soon as the first verse was sang ("I am a C, I am a C-H, I am a C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N"), there wasn't a frown in the whole place. Something about those songs that does refresh our soul. Whether it was jumping up and down to "Praise ye the Lord" or waving our finger to "This little light of mine," there a release of emotion, an all to temporary forfeiting of our problems. As soon as we were out the door, we became adults again--with all of our problems, our burdens that we drag along with us, our to dos and not to dos. But it was a nice finale for this semester.

"Just between you and me, I still remember which stars are ours."

2008-12-01T03:39:00.002-05:00

While I was at home over Thanksgiving Break, my mother and I watched Evening. It's a beautiful movie about a woman who is on her deathbed, and she is remembering her first biggest "mistake" in a series of fitful, feverish dreams. It's a story of unrequited love, found love, and family bonding. But while I was watching it one plot struck me as poignant. The plot about Buddy the jilted lover/friend. When he and Ann first met in college, he insisted on claiming things for her. Her bird was a swift, her tree was a sycamore, he gave her a star, her stone was the onyx, her flower was the lilac. It wasn't so much that these things represented her in anyway, but Buddy wanted her to remember him when she saw those things, it was "as if he thought one day he might disappear," she comments to friend.

After the movie was over, I went outside to enjoy the country stars. The night sky is different out there than it is in the city. I miss it so much when I'm at school. Back home, you can sit outside and feel like you are looking into the bottomless pit of space, unlike when you are in the city where the lights and the city vapors overpower the cosmic vibrations.

So I laid in the soft grass in our backyard and took in the smell of my home--the pine trees and nature. I closed my eyes for a moment and dreamed that I could stay there forever. When I opened them, I saw a shooting star. Shooting stars always delight me, because they make me feel as though I might have been the only person who saw the bean of light shoot across the sky, they make me want to tell the sky, "I saw you." As though maybe it was playing a game or how fast are my stars? Do they move so fast that the human eye cannot see?, or perhaps it's not that at all. Maybe it's the sky way of seeing if it still mattered, what if the sky wanted to fall at that moment, but sent a shooting star just before it did to see if anyone gasped. What if no one did? Would it fall? Probably not, this is all just child-like bantering.

Being outside reminded me of a time I had gone to a concert (this was when I was 17, many years ago, I'm not that into concerts), and the music was far too loud so I went outside to clear my head. There I was looking up at the stars when this boy came out of no where and began talking to me. He made small talk "what's your name? Mine is _____. " (the usual). Then he offered me a pinch from his funnel cake (it was a pastry), I took a small piece to be nice, and hoped he would go away. But he stayed, and we stood there in silence, just staring up at the stars. He was raised in the country, and I felt that he understood what it meant to star gaze. Then it happened, a single star shot across the sky. And he grabbed my hand, "whenever you see a shooting star, you must find a person near you and grab their hand and make a wish." We stood there hand in hand for what seemed like hours, like the world stood still and we just stared at one another and the stars in our eyes. "Don't you love tonight?" He said with a smile, "Good music, good food, good sky, and a pretty girl; life doesn't get any better." We stood there for the rest of the set and watched the sky. I think we both wanted to know what the other wished for. Sometimes, I wonder if he still remembers me, or what he wished for, or what it felt like to be there in that moment and do something impulsive like grab a strangers hand. I remember him, and I know that I wished for another star, and I remember what it felt like to hold hands with a stranger; it felt like home, if only for a moment.

They all deserve their happy endings.

2008-11-21T00:04:00.002-05:00

The Epilogues

...& the wicked stepsisters learned their lesson, never to be jealous of Cinderella; soon they both had meaningful careers as milkmaids until they found good, hardworking farm boys who gave them lovely homes & smothered them with kisses everyday, for the rest of their lives

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the dwarfs, although they were sad and lonely over the loss of their dear friend, they rejoiced over her coming by every Thursday to call all the animals in, leaving fresh cut flowers & a fresh lemony smell, after kissing them on the tops of the heads before they went off to work.

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For the weary hearts:

2008-11-20T01:03:00.005-05:00

Sufjan Stevens; Put the Lights on the Tree.

What if we took as much time celebrating the good times as we do mulling over & rehashing the bad?

all I can do is

2008-11-19T19:07:00.003-05:00

Laugh!

2008-11-18T01:33:00.002-05:00

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
The longings of women:
butterflies flapping
against ceilings painted
blue like sky.
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endings

2008-11-17T18:42:00.001-05:00

Nothing good can last.

Wanted:

2008-11-16T02:33:00.012-05:00

Someone to fight over The Arts section with,

just to read the book reviews to each other.

...misplaced affinities

2008-11-15T02:11:00.004-05:00

I
knew
I
was
wrong,
when
I
would
have
thought
of
him
first.

1976a

2008-11-13T00:17:00.002-05:00

In my writing class this semester, we were given an assignment to write a short-story. After a lot of fuss I wrote this. It wasn't my original story, it began as a side project during the summer and sat on my computer gathering electronic dust as a three page piece of garbage. Since then, it has grown into a 10 page monstrosity, though I'm not sure that it's any better (perhaps it needs to be burned rather than posted for humanity to see). But I give you "1976".

Irvin Sloane set down his mug, the bottom of which left a circular coffee stain on the police reports carelessly strewn on his desk. Seven months sabbatical leave wasn't enough, but was too long; the usual pace of the patrol room was pure ecstasy, although hardly the type of toil he was accustomed to. The detective stared through the blue haze of his computer screen, and remembered, almost nineteen months earlier, when he had a beat; a patrol car; a gun; and a partner. Nineteen months ago was before—before the tragic year of 1976, before the most heinous crimes small town of Cedar Hill had ever seen, before Irvin's gun, his badge, and identity were confiscated and placed in the top drawer of Chief of Police, Gene Emerson’s desk. He hadn’t been whole since that day.

Irvin had relived that day so many times, the time on the clock, the sounds of the booking officers; the sinking feeling his stomach had when they brought the scoundrel in. Everything, even the feeling of the cold steel in his hands, the click of the levers, and the powerful whirl of the chamber locking the bullet in place. “You--son-of-a-bitch,” he muttered as he thought of the smug grin on the murderer's face. A phone call shook him out of his day terror, but it would return.

Lane County was a small county, and Cedar Hill was merely a blur out a car window, where the population maxed out at 10,000 when you counted the people in the graveyard. Irvin grew up on the back roads of Cedar Hill, driving his four-by-four, fixing fences that needed mending, and dating the farm girls. He had been the Quarterback in high school, taking his team to two division victories, and riding the cheers of football scholarships all the way through college for a criminal justice degree. But after tearing his ACL in the final game of his senior year, he gave up hopes for a solid career in professional football, and traded his helmet and pads in for a gold star and a Glock.

It was a hot night in July; when Irvin knocked on the front door of the country home, the pounding everyone dreads echoed through the sleepy house; the heavyhearted knock of an unlucky newbie who must inform the next-of-kin.

At 24, Irvin was the newest, and youngest, detective to be added to the Lane County Police force. He had been the first to discover Alice Grey's wide-eyed body bound, bludgeoned. The police siren had scared the attacker, because she was still breathing when Irvin happened upon her. He rushed over to her, and took her in his arms; as she hemorrhaged into his jacket, she drew her last breath, “tell my parents it doesn't hurt,” where her last rasped words.

Irvine was adamant he was an expert at breaking bad news, so his superiors were not reluctant to let him deliver the news to the Grey residence. His Sergeant, Lloyd Allen, hesitantly drove him back to the precinct where Irvin changed his blood soaked clothes, he washed his face roughly, as though the soap and the rough scrubbing would somehow wash the scene out of his mind. But the tighter he shut his eyes, the more vivid the scene became, the stronger the blood smelled, he steadied himself with the sink.

Allen drove him to the house, and instructed Irvin on the best manner in which to present the tragic news, "keep a stony; yet, sympathetic expression, don't look down, don't cry, and whatever you do, don't go in their house, you'll never come out." Allen made Irvin repeat his speech three times before he could open the door, and wished him good luck giving him a sympathetic pat on the back.

Alice had been the picture perfect girl every little girl dreamed of becoming, with long brown hair, flawless, light skin, and a beaming smile. She was Homecoming Queen and Valedictorian for the class of 1969 and head cheerleader in her junior and senior years. And like all good high school romances, she and Irvin were an item during their moments of fame. She wore his Letterman jacket, and he kept a note tucked away in his wallet of “I love you” written in her hand writing, they were a perfect pair.

Irvin was alone, standing on the front porch of the Grey's white country home with black shutters, the home where Alice grew up. Somewhere in the distance, an old farm dog barked, and in the whistling of the wind through the trees he could hear the familiar sound of the porch swing creaking. He opened the screen door and knocked three times one the Oak front door, the distinct thump of Manny Grey marching down the stairs clamored from somewhere in the house. Irvin swallowed hard; if Irvin knew him half as well as he thought he did, Manny would have his rifle in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

Half naked, Manny approached the door in his usual manner, cocked gun, loud and cussing, "What the Hell! What in God's name do you want Vin? It's the middle of the damn night! Why the hell, can't this wait ‘til mornin'!?" Irvin had known Alice since they were small, she was a year younger then him, but always in the same grade. It had been seven years since he had taken Alice to the senior prom, tried to feel her up, and left with a boner and a fat lip; he wished that he had not signed up for this job, but he couldn't leave now.

"S-sir--Mr. Grey, Sir--," his voice wavered, after taking a deep breath he was able to carry on, "Mr. Grey, this can’t wait till morning,--It's Alice, sir. She was attacked this evening. There's no easy way for me to say this-- er-- she's dead." At this Mr. Grey lowered his gun, nodded his head in an understanding fashion, hugged Irvin and closed the door without so much as a word.

Irvin stood on the porch for a while, repeating his last words to himself, as though trying to make himself believe it. "She's dead...,” he muttered to himself, "and that yellow-bellied coward did it to her."

When Irvin had arrived at the scene, he saw Alice's attacker running up the alleyway. He had a distinct walk and was easily recognizable as the county reject. He came from the peaks above Cedar Hill; his father was an abusive drunk and his mother was the town whore, Jack Avery was the lowest of the low, everyone knew when he came to town there was going to be trouble. Although Jack was 2 years older than Irvin, he had been in the same grade and always labeled as the "bad egg," he was expelled every year. When he was in first grade it had been for cussing out the teacher, punching his classmates, and setting fire to the coatroom, but as he got older the offenses became more deliberate and more harmful: punching the principal, stabbing another student with a pencil, smuggling beer into the school and getting drunk behind the bleachers. The town's folk were always saying, "If Avery amounted to anything it would be a killer."

Irvin didn't go back to the station after leaving the Grey's farm, instead Allen drove him back to his squad car; Irvin took his scheduled break and drove around to clear his head. With the windows down to cure his nausea, he relived the day, when he finally turned off the engine of his standard issue Fastback police cruiser, he was at his and Alice's favorite rendezvous--the old towering oak tree at lover's lane. It was where he first got up the gumption to kiss her. They were tucked in the branches on a hot summer day, spying on Irvin’s older brother and his girlfriend skinny-dipping in the pond near the foot of the tree.

He remembered the smell of Alice’s white cotton dress was like a sunny day, how the taste of fresh strawberries hung on her lips and her Oak tree brown eyes warmed his stomach. That was how he wanted to remember Alice, not as he had seen he tonight, a bloody mess in the alley, Alice had always been the type of girl who befriended everyone, who never had any enemies, her popularity never went to her head. He took the tattered note out of his wallet “I love you.” he read. Irvin remained there until his dispatcher’s voice came over the radio, telling him he was needed at the station.

Lloyd Allen met him at the door of the station, “we have a witness,” he said “thought you would want to be here when we question ‘im.” Irvin nodded, and followed the Sergeant to the witness examination room. “Mr. Abbot, please tell us everything you know.” James Abbot was a man in his mid-50s with failing eyesight and a history of exaggerating, he was taking out the trash when he heard Alice scream for Help, but he was used to the neighborhood kids horsing around in his alley at night, so he didn’t think anything of it when he heard her cry for help.

“She only cried ‘HELP!’ for a minute before the boy with ‘er told ‘er to be quiet. I didn’t think anything of it, until I saw you folks down in the alley tonight, so I came down ‘ere to tell you all I know.” Mr. Abbot shook his head helplessly, regretting that he had not stopped for a moment to speak with Alice; normally he would have, but he’d just opened a can of Tuna and the cat was in the house.

“Is there anything else you can remember, Mr. Abbot? A vehicle? A voice?”

Mr. Abbot thought for a moment, “There was something, the man, the one who told her to be quiet, was tall and wearing dress shoes. He was a clean-cut, clean-shaven man, and he called her ‘Al,’ like he knowed her.”

“Did he look like this man?” the Sergeant set a photo in front of Mr. Abbot. A black and white photo taken of Jack Avery’s ruddy face and beady black eyes stared up off the semi-glossy surface. His broken nose sat crooked on his the tip pointing more to the right than it should have from one too many hits from his old man.

“No, that’s Jack Avery, I know who that is, I’ve never seen the man who yelled at Alice before.” Mr. Abbot stared at the picture for a moment and began, “He was a skinny man, without a beard. With dark hair, he had a “city” look about him—like he didn’t belong in that alley, as though he might’ve gotten dirty if he stayed there too long.”

When the sun came up, Irvin went to his apartment for some much needed rest, though he questioned how much rest he was really going to get. He had just told a family that he cared about that their only daughter was dead. He remembered the eerie way Mr. Gray had shut the door in his face without a comment, the way Alice had gasped her final breath in as though that would make it last longer. He thought how odd if felt to hold her lifeless body close to his.

As Irvin got ready for his night shift and wading through the thoughts about Alice and her murder, he heard a call over the scanner, “ALL UNITS TO THE SCENE, WHITE FEMALE, MID-TWENTIES, BROWN HAIR, BROWN EYES, HAS BEEN ABDUCTED. SHE HAS BEEN MISSING SINCE 6:30 THIS MORNING, SHE HAS BEEN REPORTEDLY SPOTTED AT THE CORNER OF 5^TH AND MAIN. SUSPECT IN ARMED AND DANGEROUS, PROCEED WITH CAUTION, CORNER OF 5^TH AND MAIN, PROCEED WITH CAUTION.”

Irvin ran out of his apartment, he was five blocks from 5^th and Main, he decided the skip the car, it would be easier to go on foot. His years of running in high school and college were paying off. When he arrived at the street corner, Sergeant Allen and the Chief Emerson were there. “Any sign of her?” Irvin asked, and prayed that they had found her. The girl’s description was exactly what Alice had looked like; he couldn’t bear the thought of having to tell another parent that their daughter was dead.

“No, no sign. We cannot be certain she was ever here, we can only go off the lead from an anonymous caller.” explained the Chief. They all understood how critical this was, if they didn’t find a lead on her soon, it would be nearly impossible to in the morning.

The girl’s name was Evelyn Cob, she’d recently moved west to Cedar Hill from Maine, bringing nothing of her past with her. She was an artist who was in search of a new life and a new muse, and thought that she found it in the hills above the little town. But now things were going wrong, not at all, as they seemed this morning when she left for her daily run past the small crisp houses with manicured lawns and up the curvy mountain road, things then had made sense.

The cars were dispatched to their usual rounds, in search of a clue and the person who called the tip in. When Irvin reported to the station, he was met by the Chief and a young man. The Young man’s name was Benjamin “Ben” Heller. Ben was in his late twenties. He had recently transferred to the Lane County police force, from a squad in New York, with 6 years of experience, he would serve as Irvine’s partner during the investigation of Alice’s murder. Their first mission as partners was to travel out to the Grey house to question Mr. and Mrs. Grey about Alice.

“Mr. Grey, we need know everything, if we are going to find the man who murdered Alice.” Ben began the questioning right off the cuff, as Mrs. Grey sobbed in the background while she poured the three men dark coffee. “Did Alice have friends?”

“She had friends, but not any that would do this to her, everyone loved Alice. Vin, you know how much people loved my little Allie.” the tall man broke down in a fit of wrenching sobs. “She was our only baby. We loved her so much, what are we going to do without her?”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Grey,” Irvin empathized, moving over to the couch and placing his hand on the big man’s shaking shoulder. “I know she was a wonderful woman, but someone didn’t feel the same way about Alice as everyone else did, and we have reason to believe she knew her killer.”

“KNEW HER KILLER?!” Mrs. Grey cried out, “Good Heavens.” she fell silent

“Mrs. Grey, did Alice have a boyfriend? Or anyone she was seeing recently?” Ben countered her. Mrs. Grey shook her head and turned white.

The questioning with the Grey’s had gone worse than expected. Irvin decided to make a trip up to the peaks to see Jack Avery. It was time he was brought in for questioning. He and Ben drove to the little cabin where Jack’s family lived. They were greeted by gunshots. After a couple of shots, they coaxed Mr. Avery to put the gun down. Jack came out the meet the officers. “What can I do fer ya?” he said with a mouth full of tobacco; “I asked what you were here fer.”

“We need to ask you some questions about last night, Jack.” Irvin took a step toward him. “I saw you leaving the body in the alley, what were you doing there?”

“I heard her scream, and when I snuck by the alley, I saw her on the ground, and remembered her from school. Then I saw the man stab her 3 times. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.” He pounded his fist into his hand. He began to shake, “I tried to help her, but there was blood everywhere. I tried to stop it, but the more I pushed, the more came out the other holes.”

“Why did you run when you saw me?” Irvin had a sharp tone in his voice.

“I know how you feel. I know how the town feels ‘bout me. I ain’t stupid, I know ya’ll think I’m a killa’ you think that’s all I’m about. Killin’, murderin’, but it ain’t. ‘Specially not Alice, she was one of the few people who were nice to me in school.

“Did you get a good look at the man who stabbed Alice, Jack? Try to remember. Anything.” Irvin needed something he could go off on.

“He had a tattoo of a green dragon on the inside of his left arm of an eagle on his forearm. I remember it, because it was odd to see a city man with a huge tattoo on his arm,” Jack was proud of himself for remembering, all the details.

With Jack’s answers, Irvin and Ben were back to square one, again. They went back to the station; Irvin had a message from Mrs. Grey on his voicemail. She sounded urgent; he returned her call at once. “Mrs. Grey, I just got you message,” he had an air of sympathy in his cool voice.

“Thank you for calling me back so soon, Irvin.” the tears caught in her throat, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything when you were here earlier.”

“You have something to tell me?”

“I was preoccupied when you were here, I couldn’t think about anything but my baby laying there, dying. “

“She didn’t die alone, Mrs. Grey.”

“Can you tell me about her?”

He closed his eyes, and shuttered. “I was there. She was alive when I found her, she was breathing,” he didn’t know how much further to go. But he needed to tell her, he needed to get it off his chest. “She was gasping for breath. I walked to her and took her up in my arms. She wasn’t alone, I was there. She told me to tell you that it didn’t hurt.” He knew that was a lie, he saw it in her eyes, but that is what she told him, so he had to tell her parents what she wanted them to know.

“Thank you, Vin.” She was relieved that her baby wasn’t alone, that had kept her awake all night. “She had a boyfriend. She met him in college; Grant Harris, that’s his name.” There was emptiness in her voice. As though she wasn’t telling him everything. “I haven’t been able to get in touch with him. He’s not answering when I call.”

“Mrs. Grey is there something else?”

“No, thank you for calling me, Irvin. Goodbye.” She hung up the phone.

1976b

2008-11-13T00:11:00.002-05:00

It happened so suddenly, she was running down the path, breathing in the cool fall air, as the sun was beginning to dry the dew off the grass. By the time Evelyn heard to rev of the engine, it was too late; the truck had was beside her and there was a hand on her shoulder. She tried to fight the hand off, but it was too strong; she was quickly overpowered in no time. The man in the truck jumped out, tied her hands behind her back, and put a bag over her eyes. He picked her up and roughly placed her in the passenger seat.

It had been 3 days since Evelyn had disappeared, when they received a phone call. Irvin and Ben were no closer to finding her abductor then they were to solving Alice’s murder. “Is this Detective Sloane?” the voice was gruff and graveled on the other end, “I need to speak with Detective Sloane, NOW.” the voice continued before Irvin could answer.

“Yes, this is Detective Sloane,” when he answered his voice cracked slightly. “What can I do for you?”

There was a sinister quality in the voice on the other end of the phone, “I have some information about Evey; I know where she is.”

Irvin put the call on speakerphone as he motioned for Ben to come to his desk. “Go ahead, please, tell us what you know.”

There other end of the line was silent; “I’ll call you back.” The line went dead.

The phone rang almost immediately, “Hello?!” Irvin shouted.

“She’s at the end of Mountain Road,” the man at other end chuckled to himself. “You’d better hurry.” The line disconnected.

Irvin and Ben raced to their car, as they made their way up to the end of Mountain Road they radioed for EMS vehicles and back up. At the top of the mountain where the road ended, they saw a mound. Without cutting the car off, they jumped out and run to the body lying on the ground. She wasn’t moving, there was a lot of blood pooling on the pavement. He felt for her pulse, there wasn’t one; she was dead.

Irvin removed the bag and looked into her face; it was uncanny how much she resembled Alice. As the coroner came to collect the body, Irvin stood and walked away from the scene. wringing his hands, shaking his head. He began to sob, “I’m sorry, Allie. I’m so sorry.”

Ben realized that Irvin had mistaken Evelyn for Alice, “Vin, who are you talking to?”

Irvin looked at Evelyn’s body, he was ashamed, “I—I’m sorry. I haven’t been able to get the picture of Alice Grey out of my head.”

“Understandable, but you called her Allie. You knew her, didn’t you, Vin?” Ben knew the answer before he asked.

“—Yes.”

Neither man said anything while they processed the scene.

The town was awake. They had heard about the girl’s disappearance and that she had been found. Irvin and Ben returned to the station with what little evidence they had, and began writing their reports.

The Chief called Irvin into his office. “Son, I’ve noticed you look at bit piqued here lately, wanna talk about it?”

“Oh, you know, this is my first murder to work, and I’ve been a little nervous.”

“I’ve heard that you knew Alice.”

Irvin hesitated, “---Yes, sir. I knew her, we went to school together, I was a family friend.”

“I’m sorry son; I know this is hard for you. I’m going to have to ask you to step off the case. You’re too close to his to remain objective.”

“No. I need to find this man.”

“Then help us, take another route, so someone else can take this case.”

“Let me work on Evelyn’s case, then.”

“Can’t let you do that. Haven’t you realized they are the same cases? The women are similar, and the wounds are the same.” With that Irvin switched shifts with Detective Alex Henry, who became the lead detective on the case.

Irvin remembered his conversation with Mrs. Grey. He was troubled by her silence at the end, he felt as though there was something left unsaid. He needed to talk with her again. The next afternoon, before work, he drove out to the Grey’s farm. “Mrs. Grey, can I talk to you?”

“Sure, Vin.” She left her apron on the table and stepped outside with him. They had walked well away from the house before they began to speak.

“I’ve been thinking about our phone call. I think there is something you are not telling me, Mrs. Grey.”

“—There is.”

“I really need to know, Mrs. Grey, it might help the investigation.”

“It’s about Allie and Grant. Before Allie moved back home, she moved out of Grant’s apartment and broke off their 5 year relationship. Grant had been a wonderful young man when Allie first began seeing him. He had a great job that paid well, so he could take Allie out for large expensive dinners, and buy her nice gifts. After the third year, he bought her an apartment with a great view of Downtown Chicago, and soon after that they moved in together.”

“Sounds like a great guy. Why did she end the relationship?”

“Like I said he HAD been a wonderful man. Once Allie moved in with him, he slowly morphed into a terror.” She shook her head as she remembered the first family holiday after Alice and Grant began cohabitating. They had come home, and he hated the farm so much that he and Alice left abruptly one night to go into the city for a hotel. “Soon he limited when Alice could leave the apartment, and when she would violate the curfews, he would beat her; when she left, he threatened to kill her.”

“Have you heard from Grant?”

“No.”

“Do you have a picture or a description of Grant?” Mrs. Grey handed him the last picture Alice had sent home of her and Grant and headed back into the house.

Grant Harris was from out of town, he lived near the University Alice had received her Bachelor’s of Arts in Psychology from. He was a clean-cut man. He had been the class president at his college preparatory school. He was the kind of man that caught all the attention, a people pleaser. When he graduated from Harvard, he had immediately taken over his father’s architect firm, and was quickly climbing his way to the top of the lists of the Nation’s top designers. He was originally from a small town in the south, but he had outgrown the plowed fields and small town news. He distanced himself far from that in his swanky office with the leather couches. He was known to mistreat those who didn’t do as he said.

Five hours later, thanks to a mysterious tip off, a tall, slender man in his early thirties was brought into the precinct. He was dressed in business attire with a smug grin of his face. “You don’t have any charges you pigs; let me go.”

“Sir, we have witnesses putting you at the scene, and we have reason to believe that you threatened Alice’s life.”

“Why would I do that? I loved Alice.”

The Detectives laid photos of Alice in front of Grant “These were taken at the scene.” Grant began to cry.

“I didn’t do anything to her, I LOVED ALICE,” he sobbed through his tears, “I LOVED HER.”

“Sir, we need for you to tell us where you were doing on the night Alice died.”

“My company was hosting a dinner, I gave a speech at the dinner; people saw me, they can tell you I was there.” His alibi was confirmed, he had given the welcome speech at his company’s dinner. Grant was free to go.

The alibi and Grant’s attitude made Irvin suspicious, so he made another trip out to the Grey’s farm to speak with Alice’s mother again, “Did Alice say anything to you the night she died, Mrs. Grey?”

“Only that she was going out, she went out often,” he voice quivered a little. “She came back for you, you know, Vin.”

“What? For me?”

“She told me so, while we were having a cup of coffee the other morning on the back deck, looking at the mist on the hills, when she turned and asked me if you were still around. She missed you, and the longer she was with Grant the more sure she was that she’d let something go that was the best thing ever happened to her. She missed you, Vin.”

Vin scratched his receding hairline. “It’s been 7 years. 7 years, I missed her too.”

“She was always talking about you, ever since you two broke up your first semester of college, she loved you.”

Vin needed air. He excused himself.

Evelyn’s reports came back, she and Alice had the same murderer. Although they have been murdered in different places, they had the same traces and wounds on their bodies. However, the killer had not been as through with the clean up of Evelyn as he had been with Alice. By a thorough examination of the body, the detectives found a few fingerprints, which they were able to piece together. They matched the prints taken from Grant when he was brought in for questioning. Alibi or not, the detectives had substantial evidence, they could question Grant again and this time they could include questions about Evelyn.

Once again, Grant was brought in for questioning. “Who is this, Mr. Harris?”

“I don’t know.”

“Mr. Harris, we found your finger prints on Ms. Cob’s person, how did they get there?” Grant didn’t respond to the question.

“Mr. Harris, have you ever seen this woman before?” Detective Henry tossed the photos of a bloody woman onto the table in front of Grant.
“No.”

“Then tell us how your finger prints ended up on Ms. Cob’s face.” There was still no response from Grant.

“We’ve also tied Alice’s murder to Evelyn’s, they were killed with the same weapon.” As he placed Alice’s photos on the table, Grant began to shake.

“She was leaving me. She wasn’t going to come back. She was going to leave my home, my life—and—and come back here to this—to him. And I wasn’t going to let her.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Harris?”

“I wasn’t going to let her leave me, not like that. I didn’t want to be alone. I deserved her, I worked hard to get where I am, and no one walks out on me, NO ONE.” He pounded the table with his fists.

“What did you do?”

“She left two weeks ago; I didn’t know where she went. One night I came home and her bags were by the door. She thought about just walking out, without saying anything, but she knew I would find her and make her pay. So, she waited until I came home. “I’m leaving.” She says.” His voice became thin and tight. “No one’s ever said that to me. Then she left her key on the table and walked out the door.”

“Did you make her pay?”

“I gave her what she deserved for walking out on me.”

“What did you do?”

“I found her here, in town. She was waiting for him, I suppose. I followed her, and told her to get in the truck, she did. Then I drove her to the back alley. That was when that old man came. I thought I was going to have to hurt him too, but she was a good girl. When you told her to shut up, she shut up good. Never heard another peep out of her once I told her to be quiet.” He got up from the chair. He wasn’t crying anymore, his voice wasn’t cracking, he was solid.

“Then I hit her. She would never leave me again, no. I hit her until I was tired of hitting her, at some point she passed out, she was lying on the ground. So, I went to my truck and found my knife, and I fixed her. I fixed her—if I couldn’t have her, no one was going to.” He brought his hand down on the table 3 times. “She was not good to me then, so I left her and went back to the hotel.”

“Mr. Harris, you left her there to die.”

“Didn’t matter, she was leaving me anyway.”

“What about Evelyn Cob? Why did you killed her?”

“I saw her running the Mountain Road. She looked like Alice; when I saw her, I was so mad, that she was still alive. He couldn’t have her! NOT MY ALICE. So, I took her where she would be safe, she kept trying to leave me, I wasn’t going to let her leave me again. So this time I made it so she would never leave me—Never.” The Detectives took down his story and lead Grant in hand cuffs to booking.

Irvin was sitting at his desk working on a report for the traffic stops he had made the night before, when they brought Grant through the patrol room, with that smug look on his face. Grant looked at Irvin and chuckled. “You aren’t ever going to have her. She’s mine. And she was good.” Irvin watched as Detective Henry walked Grant to the front of the desk and sat him down so they could fill out the paper work for him to be placed in the holding cell for the night.

Irvin’s blood was pulsing, his heart was pounding; he stood up and walked the Detective Henry’s desk. “This him? You got him this time?” Henry nodded. “Good.”

“She came back here for you, you’re a kid. I’m glad I killed her so she wouldn’t have to look at your sorry ass.”

Before Irvin knew what had happened, Grant had stood up from the chair and threw his arms over Irvin’s head, and pulled the handcuffs tight against his throat. “You’re going to join her soon enough though. Come any closer and I’ll break his neck.”

Irvin felt Grant’s grip on his head tighten and knew that he was going to die soon, if someone didn’t do something. So, Irvin grabbed his gun from his holster and pulled the trigger. The gunshot was louder than he ever remembered it being when he shot at the targets in his firearms classes, and the kick was worse than it ever had been. Grant started to twist Irvin’s neck, as Irvin shot again. Grant lost his hold and sank to the floor, pulling Irvin down with him. The two men laid there, as Irvin struggled to get free of Grant’s arms and the other Detectives rushed over to help Irvin.

Irvin jumped out of his chair again as phone rang. There was still a mark Grant’s handcuffs had dug into his neck, “He-llo?” His voice held the marks of the pressure of the handcuffs still left on his throat.

“Irvin, I need to see you in my office.” Chief Emerson’s voice rang out from the receiver. Irvin walked into his office.

“Have a seat. It’s time I gave you these back.” he said pushing Irvin’s gun and badge across the desk.

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’m glad you’re back.” Irvin was glad he was back, too.

It's peace for your weary heart.

2008-11-05T10:29:00.010-05:00

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it,
Mount of Thy redeeming love.

Here I raise my Ebenezer;
Here by Thy great help I’ve come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,
Safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger,
Interposed His precious blood.

O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above.

O that day when freed from sinning,
I shall see Thy lovely face;
Clothed then in blood washed linen
How I’ll sing Thy sovereign grace;
Come, my Lord, no longer tarry,
Take my ransomed soul away;
Send thine angels now to carry
Me to realms of endless day.

||I'm waiting for something||

2008-11-05T00:02:00.002-05:00

I always feel like I am waiting for something, waiting for the trip home, waiting to come back to school, waiting for the next deadline, waiting until I have all my chapel credits, waiting for the man I will love to walk through the door, waiting... Not to be confused with Ferlinghetti or anything. It seems that his waiting was much more poetic than my everyday existence, maybe it was because he was allowed to embrace the tortured artist within.

I read Jack Kerouac for class today; I'd read some of his beat poetry, thanks in part to John who had a great little pocket beat poetry book, but I never checked out his work from the library for fear of what others would think of me... Oh, just some girl being inspired by drunk, lunatic, sex-crazed hobos who paved the way for the hippie movement. Never mind the spiritual aspect of their writing, and their desire to have a meaningful/loving community with humankind. Never mind the love, and the fact good writing often flows from people who endeavor to be creative to go out on a limb and write or paint or mold something that wouldn't be created naturally.

As I was reading Kerouac's The Vanishing American Hobo I made an exciting parallel. Kerouac begins naming off all of the historical figures he maintains were hobos: Benjamin Franklin, Whitman, Johnny Appleseed, W.C. Fields, Teddy Roosevelt Beethoven, Einstein, Jesus, Buddah. A hobo is something that "has to hide, the cops are looking for him." No one want a hobo, they are painted to be scary, something to be shunned or excluded from normal society. Anyway, as I was reading, something clicked. The Parallel. Aside form Kerouac being a physical hobo, he was a spiritual hobo; his loyalty was somewhere between Catholicism and Buddhism, like most of the beats. They flowed with the tides of the time. They never had a solid spiritual foundation; except their writing. Their writing was their Saviour, but it was something that left the unfulfilled, because it was also their outlet.

In my opinion one thing that makes an artist an artist is their ability to feel. I'm not saying that I am an artist, but I feel. I feel things deeply. Occasionally, I have to force myself not to feel as strongly as I do about things, so I will not trouble myself to the point of agony. But as writers go, something that makes their writing good is their ability to come out of their suffering, to rise about what they are feeling, and put it all down. Unfortunately, they often drowned their suffering in their guts with hard liquor.

Hello, Dali!

2008-11-01T22:35:00.004-04:00

Favourite Salvador Dali

Three Young Surrealist Women Holding in Their Arms the Skins of the Orchestra.

2008-10-31T12:25:00.003-04:00

"Wrestle with God"--Wild Sweet Orange

I decided that if I'm going to write blogs and expect people to read them, I would actually have to read theirs. You know, I have been so busy that I have forgotten about posting. I wish I were one of those people like Amy who was utterly obsessed with posting everyday. I thought that I could pull it off... You know, having one of those uber trendy (yes, I used the word uber) blogs where I would post my deeply intellectual contemplations about the day and everyone would be moved to the point of epiphanies, but lets face it this is yet another one of those pithy blogs where you might say an occasional "yeah." or "right on," as if anyone still says things like that.
Today is Halloween, what am I? A struggling artist; in other words, I'm myself (I know real original, considering I'm wearing my own clothes, and I look like I do everyday). Other ideas for a Halloween Costume:
1. Juno (it's cute and I thought original--I know "there's nothing new under the sun, and if it was that way hundreds of years ago, it in most certainly that way now, but I still like to dream)
2. Bellatrix LeStrange (I figure that while everyone else would go as a witch, I would be specific. But I feared for my hair and the fact people wouldn't understand who I was, I put that on the back burner, until I have a better costume.)
3. Ana Pascal (but I'm not eclectic enough to be her.)
4. McGonagall (but I didn't have the clothes)
5. Chuck (I didn't have the clothes)
So as you can see, I had many choices some better than others (my personal favorite was Bellatrix), but I managed to talk myself out of trying for them all, and now. So today, I am myself... and I am all the better for it.

--grace.

"if it ain't love... it ain't love."

2008-10-31T01:44:00.002-04:00

Lee Pace the piemaker from ABC's Pushing Daisies (it's an obsession).
--Wednesdays at 8 EST

MMM... The cold weather is wonderful. I'm so thankful this week was sweater week. It was so nice. Bundling up with coffee in hand, and the great hat that my darling roommate made me... It's great!

It's odd isn't it, how some days seem to fly by and others creep like a year did when you were little and all you wanted to do was celebrate when Jesus was born, mostly because that was the day that you got all the presents. I was glad that my long days sped by quickly, so I didn't have to endure the mindless 2 hour classes.

But today my Contemporary Literature class today struck a nerve. We were reading Allen Ginsberg's America and we were discussing how he is chastising America for it's superficialness, and its war and its attitudes. Now I personally like Ginsberg, I think his voice serves a purpose. People get hung up on the fact he is gay... for some reason, I guess because it is outwardly evident, they read his biography and see "his lover," and put him in the pile labeled "unfit" or "trashy". As though his homosexuality made what he had to say, his views of the world unfit for their "Christian" ears.

It rattles my nerves when Christians completely back their ears to everything that is in the slightest bit off the cuff. How can we love those who are in the world and expect them to have anything to do with us, when we will not listen to the things they have to say? Where is the love in neglecting them?

Also, there was something mentioned about how he was somehow anti-American, because of his attitude about America. But the thing is you can chastise something and still love it... That is what the Beat poets served as, every era has a media outlet of satire, and for the 50s it was poetry. That is what an artist does, she/he finds a way to leave the world they are in and rise above to, to look at it objectively, seeing where the kinks and the problem areas are. That is what sets apart a good writer from a regular Joe. Besides, he was talking to himself too.

Reading for tomorrow:"The Longings of Women"
Marge Piercy

2008-10-27T20:57:00.002-04:00

The book I carry with me:

I have realized that I have a problem. I'm not scared anymore, at least not about school/grades. When I first started college, I was pumped Yeah, 4.0! I must have it but now I have decided that the GPA is just another attempt to categorize us; are you an "A" student? Or a "B" student? It's not like your future employer is going to ask you for your GPA. They care only that you did the time, and that you are not the proud owner of a $75,000 + piece of paper, which says I did the time and I'll be paying for it from now until the end of the age and beyond.
Now mind you, I have done fairly well in my studies, considering the number of classes I've taken, but now that I have taken a semester to study English classes, I find that I a jaded with the whole system... School itself. I would like to think that if I attended a different school that I would feel differently about my education, but that is just me haphazardly wishing that my life would be different.

2008-10-24T16:02:00.001-04:00

Song of the moment: Soul Meets Body; Death Cab for Cutie

The Hug Poem- Bradley Hathaway

2008-10-20T18:00:00.002-04:00

Waiting on enlightenment to happen

2008-10-20T14:18:00.002-04:00

Yet another day is drawing to a close, another day at the end of classes that is, not the end of work. I guess the adage, a student's work is never done would apply in this instance. I'm at the point where I'm living one assignment to the next. Somewhere in the oblivion of things, teachers have miraculously forgotten what it is like to have more than one class. There's always that teacher who decides that their homework is more important, I don't know what to say about that.

Today we had a writing exercise in class, and I thought my hand was going to fall off, really, it was kind of pathetic. I was almost mad at myself, at how much I've allowed my hands to deteriorate, it's one thing to hit letters on a keyboard, but it is something entirely different to hold a pen and move it in purposeful patterns to form letters.

Now I'm waiting for that spark to happen, for my enlightenment to come and light up the nooks of my clouded brain that house the information needed to write my paper for tonight. Somehow though I know that the only way for enlightenment to happen, I need only to sit and write and it will come to me... eventually--because it takes work to progress work.

I just came back from a weekend at home. I finally told my parents that I am planning on moving to Oregon when I finish school, and that I have already started looking at Grad schools there. I've come to the conclusion that there are things I want to do, and if I have the means to do them, I will. I don't want to look back on my life and wish I had done the things that I wanted to do, I didn't visit the places I wanted to visit.
Over the summer I concocted a list of some of the places I wanted to visit. It started getting too long, so I decided to list the places I didn't want to go, there weren't many.

Today, I mentally began writing a list of the things I would like to do.
1.Graduate with Bachelors of Science
2.Move to Oregon
3.Get M.F.A. in Creative Writing
4.Travel to Europe and Asia
5.Fall in love
6.Go to Canada
7.Go to Disney for the first time
8.Write a book, and get it published
9.Marry the man I fall in love with
10.Take a pottery class with my mom
11.Try my hand at decorating cakes

Cut What is Bad, and Reveal What is Good

2008-10-12T23:06:00.004-04:00

I was talking today with Ammi, about how terrible things, things that heart are so widely known. We were discussing how some times our lives can be so unbelievably tragic and devastatingly awkward. "Those times are like realizing your car is stalled train track and there's an amtrack coming..." I summed up to her "CRASHES, [loud explosions]. Then afterwards, people leave crosses and flowers."
"Jeeezzz," she was thinking out loud, "I hate tragic things, they're so much more dramatic when they are publicized, than they would be otherwise."
My conclusion: "Life would be better if we publicized the good things and hushed the bad."

What if for example we focused on this:

What about little microphones? What if everyone swallowed them, and they played the sounds of our hearts through little speakers, which could be in the pouches of our overalls? When you skateboarded down the street at night you could hear everyone's heartbeat, and they could hear yours, sort of like sonar. One weird thing is, I wonder if everyone's hearts would start to beat at the same time, like how women who live together have their menstrual periods at the same time, which I know about, but don't really want to know about. That would be so weird, except that the place in the hospital where babies are born would sound like a crystal chandelier in a houseboat, because the babies wouldn't have had time to match up their heartbeats yet. And at the finish line of the New York City Marathon it would sound like war.

(Foer, Johathan. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.)

Let's focus on the good, and leave the bad to the world at large.

That is not to say that we should completely disregard hurt. No, we need to be aware of hurt, we need to experience hurt. We need to know what it is to be without, to be unrejoicing--that's what keeps us tenderhearted.

The Parent Syndrome

2008-10-12T18:24:00.005-04:00

This weekend was good, which makes it worth the long week--there wasn't much to be done in the later part of the week, except dread the following week and count the days until the long weekend, but having nothing to do made the week creep by. Sure I could have worked on my papers, read some of my books, redecorated my room, all the things that you do when you are bored, so I could have done (& just what I did do incidentally) nothing. "I'm letting the words marinate in my brain." I convinced myself, dwelling on them in their unconscious form, waiting for that "AH-HA!" moment where I will sit down and churn out the paper. That moment never quite came. So now, as the busy week is approaching, I am frantically pushing words out the ends of my fingers trying to make sense of the world inside my head.

But, this weekend, as I made less and less sense of the world that only I can see, I did manage to find time to venture out into the "normal" world. The picture to the right displays some of my humble findings, all of which I paid less than 5 dollars for, while my friends and I rummaged through bins at Goodwill and towers of books at the Winter Haven Library.
The Rundown:
*The Pelican Guide to English Literature: free
*Perks of Being a Wallflower; Chbosky: $1.00
*Splintering; Eireann Corrigan: $.50
*The Natural; Bernard Malamud :$1.00
*Best American Nonrequired Reading 2005:$.75
*American Literature 1914-Present: Free

Also while we were walking around Winter Haven, we found an antique store, chock-full of great trinkets and baubbles. I had forgotten how much fun it was to go antiquing. Of course, once you've seen one (or 200 in Lauri's case), you've seen them all, but it was a delightful way to spend a Saturday with friends.

When we returned back to campus, we put our treasures up, changed our shoes and hopped back in the car for a quick drive to the lake where there was a Hispanic festival. We didn't stay for long, because it was rather dark, but I was there long enough to see one of my students from an ESOL field study class get arrested. That was heart breaking, to know his story and see how hard his teacher fought for him, to try to help him rise above his role models at home, and then to see him being lead away with his hand behind his back. Something I was told in an education classes was, "You cannot save them all, Charlotte" but I still want to, I don't want to see their mug shot in the paper or read their obituary.

Which brings me to the point of this blog, I have dealt with many different types of parents: the parents who dictate everything in their children's lives, the parents who have nothing to do with their children, the parents who live vicariously through their children, the parents who honestly try to encourage and help their children think through their decisions and support their conclusions. I am thankful that my parents are the last example, through the years, we have had our ups and downs, but lately, we have become friends who give each other honest whole-hearted counsel. They have always been behind my dreams, and have done everything in their power to push and equip me to reach them. It wasn't until this semester that I was glad my parents are the way they are.

C

2008-10-08T00:08:00.002-04:00

Sufjan Stevens: For the Widows in Paradise; For the Fatherless in Ypsilanti

As I come to the end of a rather perfect day, I am sorting it all out. From the homework--the lists of papers, the thoughts of the test: Richard III and Merchant of Venice (character roles and law versus spirit), the meetings scheduled, the chapel service; I'm trying to hash out everything and find the meaning of the day, the thoughts that should be dwelt upon.

Thoughts:

1. Worship for me is a time to seek intimacy with God, and at the moment, I find I can draw closer to God in a quite, no frills environment. I have no problem with people who worship differently, as long as they are worshiping God and not merely making a spectacle of themselves.

2. God doesn't have to be written in my writing for God to be there. If I write my heart, and if God is active in my life, then God will be in my writing regardless. There will be Hope and Love and Mercy and Grace and Righteousness without my trying to work those blessings into words.

3. Mercy and Compassion should be shown always, because they are the keys to our salvation.

4. "The evil that men do lives after them, but the good is oft interred with their bones." Julius Caesar

5. "Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking for the cup of bitterness and hatred. " I Have a Dream

6. It's the little things that make life special.

Grace to you all,

C.

Hindering the feelings of emotion

2008-10-05T23:56:00.003-04:00

"You've become a monster to keep THE MONSTER from breaking you."

There are things in this world, that cause my heart to break: hunger, loneliness, shallowness, greed, despair, hate, etc. Sometimes I think it should be considered perjury to give recognition to such things. They hurt others so much. They hurt their host so much. Rendering them incapable of feeling, robbing them of what it is to be human. Stealing their joy. Thieving their peace and contentment. Swelling their bellies with despicable lies, empty falsehoods. Leaving the husks of dissatisfaction, self-loathing, irrepressible longing. NOTHING.

Ordinary Dialogue

2008-10-04T21:44:00.004-04:00

From Chapter One: Death Will Bring Us Back to God.

Then the August of the year I turned twelve, I did. My grandmother went home. 60 years spanned between us, I was born on her wedding anniversary, on Easter Sunday. She called me her Easter present from God. Everyday after school I would go to her house, eat a pudding or drink an Ensure with her, and we would talk. She would tell me about how she had helped Billy Graham plant a church. When she told about her brother Baldus and the car made that only had a frame, which they would ride from their front door all the way to the bottom of Eagle Mountain, I laughed and wished that I had been there. I was haunted when she told me how her youngest brother Glen had lost his life while strapped to the Gunner’s chair onboard the U.S.S. Arizona during Pearl Harbor. I thought how lonely to sink to the bottom of the ocean--no wonder that the man who was feeding Glen’s gun bullets had shot himself later for leaving his friend there to die alone, helpless.

My grandmother was a smoker; she smoked almost everyday of her life from the time she was seven, when she took her first draw in the coat closet of her little country school. I remember the day she died; my dad came to get me. I knew she was sick, she had been on oxygen for almost six months. Her lungs were charred by the years taking in smoke and had been filling with mucus for a while.

When she found out she was dying, she stopped smoking, as she had tried to do when I was five and seven and nine and ten and eleven. All those times, She got better. But this time, as with the times before, something made her mad, my mom, my papa, me, or she thought about my sister or her sister or one of her sons… something, anything. And she sent my grandfather to the store for her “cigs”. “I could quit, if you all would leave me alone,” she said as she lit the first cigarette from the new pack and took a deep draw.

She was mean, extremely hardheaded, and opinionated; in many ways I’m like her. The last time I saw her: if only I knew that would have been the last time, I would not have said the things I did. When she called me a “bitch,” I would have just smiled and said, “I know Nan”, but since I didn’t know and hardheads beget hardheads who rear even more stubborn hardheads. I lashed out, and told her I hated her and that maybe life would be better if she kept her mouth shut--at least then she would have more air, and I ran out of her house, leaving only the slam of her metal front door behind.

That night, I lay in bed and I cried. I wished she would die so we wouldn’t have to put up with her. It was that next morning, my mom drove me to school and went home--Nan wasn’t feeling well, by 10:30 my dad came into my little classroom and told me to get my stuff, I needed to go home. “I don’t want to go home. Why do I have to go home? Are you mad with me?” There in front of my classmates, he told me: “Nan died, Sugar, let’s go home.” Everyone said how sorry they were, I wanted to tell them “it wasn’t your fault she smoked”. I gathered my stuff and followed dad to the truck, got in and said “I knew she was going to die, I could feel it.”

I didn’t cry. I didn’t do anything as my dad drove the 18 miles back home; there was nothing I could do.

Almost immediately people began bringing food, until there we ran out of refrigerator space and we moved stuff to the counters, and stacked food on top of food. People we knew, people she knew, they came to pay their “respects”. At her graveside, is where my habit of tapping my big toe began. I didn’t cry.

It wasn’t that I became hardhearted; I just had too much emotion. I could not let it out, so I stood there.

THE INSURMOUNTABLE

2008-10-04T21:09:00.002-04:00

Sometimes I get the feeling

I will never write again,

as if one day my hands will fall off the ends

of my arms.

My aching fingers will cease to grip my pens.

Alas, what will I do?

When my joints are swollen shut,

and my hands cry out in pain.

When the knuckle popping doesn’t help,

and they lose the will to open.

What will I do then?

When I was young I had a bird,

a little gray lovely on

who could chirp & sing but

couldn’t fly.

Poor little one, with wings kept tidy.

Until the day the door opened wide, he

flew and flapped and gathered speed,

until he reached the air,

and up and up and up

he went, until

he remembered how.

Good night dear void.

2008-10-04T21:05:00.001-04:00

Just a devoid thought to send out into the cosmos.
I am an opinionated, passionate, girl who shares her opinions more readily and more openly than most, and quite often without regard of who is at hand to hear, which I suppose is rather imprudent of me. I have often wondered, if I were in a Jane Austen novel would I be written off as the young woman forced to become an old maid, be shipped off to live with some rich, widowed, aunt in London where I would have all hope of romance thwarted by my lack of marriage-ability, seeing as how I was aged so that the men in my own district would not marry me, or rather would I be portrayed as the second Bennett girl who, though love was always right in front of her choose to be as prejudice and prideful as the suave Mr. Darcy.---Oh, how foolish of me to be going on about my life as though it were a Jane Austen masterpiece. For of course its not! There seems to never truly be a Mr. Darcy, whose complex three-dimensional character is completely wonderful on a one-dimensional paper, and this is not Austen's age.
Nowadays, women are, I daresay, expected to be opinionated. However, I find that my independence might be more intimidating than revered. My singularity more feared than adored. As if my being capable and happy with my own personhood fends people off, sending them running for the hills. Should I be withdrawn and sullen? No, I don’t think those to be amiable qualities. No man wants forlorn brown eyes to dote upon--sullenness has never set well with my personality anyway. Perhaps something is to be said for propriety and restraint of the tongue. An opinionated woman is, I suppose, not always the best to have around, and a high strung woman is hard to decipher, unless one is of the same inclination.

2008-08-25T20:25:00.003-04:00

Today was a low point. I have been struggling with feelings of abandonment, for no particular reason. And I have been rather sad lately. I came to the realization the last Tuesday that if I thought about happy things then I would be nicer, and if I tried to be happier then I would actually be HAPPY. Novel idea, huh?
I was discussing things with a friend today, and we realized that we were too stressed out for it being so early in the school year, and if we didn't curve some of our habits, as soon, we were going to be "dead" (not physically, but mentally) by the end of the semester. Which is not a good thing for either of us to be, since I have another semester and she is leaving for Grad school in December.
Anyway, this seems to happen to me at the end of every summer. It's like a form of the summer blues. Something about coming out of the fog summer left and beginning the grind of the semester that NEVER sets well with me. I'm in a funk.
In order to curb this "funk", my friend I was discussing my issues with and I decided that we were going to try to be better at this... and in our conclusion, we made a list of the necessary approaches we feel needed to be taken:
1. Stop being around people who steal your truth and drain your peace.
It's not worth being around people who stress you out to be around.
2. Stop cussing.
In the past semester I have developed a terrible habit of cussing, it began for no particular reason, except for humors sake, but eventually it turned into something that I do when I rage; Which is unbecoming to say the least. Plus it is not edifying, and it makes me appear ignorant like the hordes of other people who say vomitous things.
3. Find a good Bible study.
Part of our requirement at SEU is that we attend chapel. This semester they are offering an intensive more intimate Bible study as an alternative to the service at in the larger chapel. Tomorrow will be my first day attending that, I cannot lie, I am excited about it.
So here's to endeavoring to make what should already be a fixture in my life actually a part of it.

Peace.

2008-08-23T23:04:00.002-04:00

Over the summer, I happened upon a huge collection of National Geographic magazines in the bin labeled FREE at the public Library--it was the most complete set I had seen in a long time. Being that my mother was scheduled to teach History classes this year, I loaded them all into my trunk one day after work and took them all home. I sorted the our and sat before a sea of magazines that spanned almost 2 decades. I wondered at all of the stories that had been written, and how much there was to learn from those volumes.
I leafed through the set a magazine at a time, reading random passages and found one about Caribou. How the mothers leave the herd in the mountains to have their young in the low lands, so they can see predators coming. Then the calf, just minutes after birth can stand, then in a week they can keep up with their mother, and after three weeks, they can outrun a grizzly bear. After that three week mark, the rest of the herd comes from the highlands; they instinctively know to do this. Then the whole herd travels inland to prepare for the harsh Alaskan winter. I couldn't help but wonder why we can't be more like animals in the aspect that they thrive off their God-given nature and instincts, it really is amazing.