The Levity of Brevity
I recently wrote a post about crushes, highlighting that the majority of the charm of a crush lies in its inherent brevity. By the looks of this News in Brief snippet, I believe The Onion agrees.
CRUSH LASTS ENTIRE BUS RIDE
CINCINNATI-- Administrative assistant and bus rider Perry Stoddard, 25, developed a crush that lasted the duration of the Metro line bus trip from Seven Hills Road to downtown Monday. "Oh my God, she is stunning," Stoddard said, staring at the petite, bookish brunette sitting two seats ahead of him. "And she's reading The Idiot! I wonder if she has a boyfriend. My parents would love her." Saddened by the woman's exit from the bus two stops before his own, Stoddard resolved to get out on Court Street and find someone else.
ah the beauty of it all.
Thursday, September 23, 2004
I Fell In Love With A Drummer
hmm... actually, I did, but that's a story that may never actually materialize in this medium, sorry. Nope, probably not.
What I am talking about, however, is Wilco. Yes, friends, it was glorious-- and I think I love Wilco's drummer, Glenn Kotche. Most days, I'm lucky if I can keep a beat on my steering wheel without swerving into the other lane. Any man who can play the drums and the xylophone simultaneously has my vote for hottest man on earth. Seriously, kids. So. Hot.
The concert was pretty packed. A friend struggled from the front of the crowd to meet me at the entrance gate. Being of the shorter variety of homosapien, the further I got into the crowd, the less I could actually see. Therefore, after a dismal attempt to wend our way back through the masses toward the stage, my friend and I decided to hang around toward the middle-back and actually have a little breathing room above and around us, while still being able to hear the concert well. Unfortunately, no one informed the drunk girl in front of us about a little thing called "personal space." She would literally lean back onto us even though she and her friends hoarded a luxurious amount of air and ground for themselves. Eventually I just pushed her off. They left shortly after that.
Then there were the girls behind us that were yelling over the music to have a conversation (the girls/guys in front of us did this, too). What I wanted to do was suggest to them that they'd have to yell less if they moved further away from the music. What I did was cover my ear closest to them with my hand and try as hard as I could to focus on each individual instrument along with the entire entity of sound they produced. After that, they quieted down, either due to their own personal increased focus on the music or perhaps my little hint (which wasn't an attempt at hinting, really, but an attempt to let them continue talking without ruining my experience). The only other distraction were the jailbait, who somehow got into the 18+ concert, bopping around in front of us, but at least they were thoroughly engrossed with and enjoying the concert themselves.
Distractions aside, the performance, as expected, left me astonished and amazed. The music swelled and rippled through the graveled parking lot, up my roots and into my stems, imposing its varying tempos into my willingly pursuant pulse. It all too easily overthrew my natural rhythms, beckoning my heart and mind into an adulterous fling of melodic proportions. Mesmerized by the influx and interchange of instrumental tones and textures, my eyelids grew heavy, though my teeth sunk into my fleshy lips, the corners of my mouth released in upturned ecstasy and my heals sunk deep into the ground to counter my soaring soul. Mixed in with the deep, sensual waves of sound floated bright, crisp levity both in verse and discourse, a sort of respite from the riptide that constitutes a majority the band's very aura. After two encores the band finally fled the stage for good, leaving those of us behind to mourn uprooting from our spots no longer fearing floating away in a gust of elation due to the deflation created by the inevitable end of an inspirational evening.
hmm... actually, I did, but that's a story that may never actually materialize in this medium, sorry. Nope, probably not.
What I am talking about, however, is Wilco. Yes, friends, it was glorious-- and I think I love Wilco's drummer, Glenn Kotche. Most days, I'm lucky if I can keep a beat on my steering wheel without swerving into the other lane. Any man who can play the drums and the xylophone simultaneously has my vote for hottest man on earth. Seriously, kids. So. Hot.
The concert was pretty packed. A friend struggled from the front of the crowd to meet me at the entrance gate. Being of the shorter variety of homosapien, the further I got into the crowd, the less I could actually see. Therefore, after a dismal attempt to wend our way back through the masses toward the stage, my friend and I decided to hang around toward the middle-back and actually have a little breathing room above and around us, while still being able to hear the concert well. Unfortunately, no one informed the drunk girl in front of us about a little thing called "personal space." She would literally lean back onto us even though she and her friends hoarded a luxurious amount of air and ground for themselves. Eventually I just pushed her off. They left shortly after that.
Then there were the girls behind us that were yelling over the music to have a conversation (the girls/guys in front of us did this, too). What I wanted to do was suggest to them that they'd have to yell less if they moved further away from the music. What I did was cover my ear closest to them with my hand and try as hard as I could to focus on each individual instrument along with the entire entity of sound they produced. After that, they quieted down, either due to their own personal increased focus on the music or perhaps my little hint (which wasn't an attempt at hinting, really, but an attempt to let them continue talking without ruining my experience). The only other distraction were the jailbait, who somehow got into the 18+ concert, bopping around in front of us, but at least they were thoroughly engrossed with and enjoying the concert themselves.
Distractions aside, the performance, as expected, left me astonished and amazed. The music swelled and rippled through the graveled parking lot, up my roots and into my stems, imposing its varying tempos into my willingly pursuant pulse. It all too easily overthrew my natural rhythms, beckoning my heart and mind into an adulterous fling of melodic proportions. Mesmerized by the influx and interchange of instrumental tones and textures, my eyelids grew heavy, though my teeth sunk into my fleshy lips, the corners of my mouth released in upturned ecstasy and my heals sunk deep into the ground to counter my soaring soul. Mixed in with the deep, sensual waves of sound floated bright, crisp levity both in verse and discourse, a sort of respite from the riptide that constitutes a majority the band's very aura. After two encores the band finally fled the stage for good, leaving those of us behind to mourn uprooting from our spots no longer fearing floating away in a gust of elation due to the deflation created by the inevitable end of an inspirational evening.
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Friends Friends
Just thought I'd let you fine people know that we have a newbie in our midst. My darling friend, Andrea, (the hot blonde, well one of them, in the picture of my beautiful friends) has decided to enter the blogosphere. She's a freelance writer, a stunning fashionista and an all around wonder. Let us welcome her with warm and loving arms as she shares with us her Mercenary Madcap Life!
Just thought I'd let you fine people know that we have a newbie in our midst. My darling friend, Andrea, (the hot blonde, well one of them, in the picture of my beautiful friends) has decided to enter the blogosphere. She's a freelance writer, a stunning fashionista and an all around wonder. Let us welcome her with warm and loving arms as she shares with us her Mercenary Madcap Life!
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Walk Of Shame
In college I was introduced to a campus phenomenon entitled the "Walk of Shame." (for some reason, I hear the low, echo-y, booming voice of "Sunday, Sunday, Sunday" when I think "Walk of Shame" in my head) The "Walk of Shame" isn't just an action, it's a look. It's Saturday night's perfectly painted eyes smeared across Sunday morning's (or rather, afternoon's) swollen, hungover cheeks. It's black pants and lace tops amid pajama bottoms and sweatshirts, high heals dragging across unfamiliar sidewalks where many sneakered feet find well beaten paths. It's a hung head and shoulders slumped with a weight heavier than any backpack on campus, because, of course, it couldn't be a "Walk of Shame" if it wasn't also an attitude. Thankfully, I didn't have the kind of social life that ended in walks of shame; at least not of this sort. See, I've come to realize that even if they aren't from frat parties gone awry, my life has nevertheless seen many walks of shame.
In thinking about this walk of shame concept, I recalled a story from my college pastor's own education at a Christian university. His walk of shame included dress clothes and pajamas as well, but with pajamas in the minority. You see, at this particular Christian school, the Sunday morning cafeteria teemed with well-dressed Christians analyzing the morning service. Showing up in pajamas, a sure sign that you had slept through church, warranted many stares, whispers and quite possibly, an intervention from your concerned brothers and sisters. However, my pastor would simply try to get around this uncomfortable situation by sleeping through church and then simply getting dressed up for lunch!
Isn't that just like us, instead of fixing the "problem" we simply slap a coat of paint on it and call it a done deal. There have been many a morning (and afternoon and evening, as well) that I wish I could cover up my social iniquities by simply changing my clothes, washing my face or slapping on a new one. And there have been many an occasion when I've tried.
My walk of shame doesn't always have a stock shape, size or situation. My sense of shame mostly occurs from letting others down: not being the successful genius my parents hoped, not being the creative creature my heart cries out to be, not lifting a finger in the pursuit of godly life. Of course, all of these are overstatements. My parents are proud of me (um, I think), I do try to be creative and my God knows that I am a faltering child, yes, but one who is trying in earnest-- giving at 100% of the 60% I have to give. And, as I was reminded this past Sunday, even through all of this, my faux pas, my downfalls, my inconveniences and embarassments, God says He is not ashamed to call me His. And when I forget, He says it again.
"You come of the Lord Adam and the Lady Eve," said Aslan. "And that is both honor enough to erect the head of the poorest beggar, and shame enough to bow the shoulders of the greatest emperor on earth. Be content." ~Aslan, Prince Caspian, The Chronicles of Narnia, Book 4
In college I was introduced to a campus phenomenon entitled the "Walk of Shame." (for some reason, I hear the low, echo-y, booming voice of "Sunday, Sunday, Sunday" when I think "Walk of Shame" in my head) The "Walk of Shame" isn't just an action, it's a look. It's Saturday night's perfectly painted eyes smeared across Sunday morning's (or rather, afternoon's) swollen, hungover cheeks. It's black pants and lace tops amid pajama bottoms and sweatshirts, high heals dragging across unfamiliar sidewalks where many sneakered feet find well beaten paths. It's a hung head and shoulders slumped with a weight heavier than any backpack on campus, because, of course, it couldn't be a "Walk of Shame" if it wasn't also an attitude. Thankfully, I didn't have the kind of social life that ended in walks of shame; at least not of this sort. See, I've come to realize that even if they aren't from frat parties gone awry, my life has nevertheless seen many walks of shame.
In thinking about this walk of shame concept, I recalled a story from my college pastor's own education at a Christian university. His walk of shame included dress clothes and pajamas as well, but with pajamas in the minority. You see, at this particular Christian school, the Sunday morning cafeteria teemed with well-dressed Christians analyzing the morning service. Showing up in pajamas, a sure sign that you had slept through church, warranted many stares, whispers and quite possibly, an intervention from your concerned brothers and sisters. However, my pastor would simply try to get around this uncomfortable situation by sleeping through church and then simply getting dressed up for lunch!
Isn't that just like us, instead of fixing the "problem" we simply slap a coat of paint on it and call it a done deal. There have been many a morning (and afternoon and evening, as well) that I wish I could cover up my social iniquities by simply changing my clothes, washing my face or slapping on a new one. And there have been many an occasion when I've tried.
My walk of shame doesn't always have a stock shape, size or situation. My sense of shame mostly occurs from letting others down: not being the successful genius my parents hoped, not being the creative creature my heart cries out to be, not lifting a finger in the pursuit of godly life. Of course, all of these are overstatements. My parents are proud of me (um, I think), I do try to be creative and my God knows that I am a faltering child, yes, but one who is trying in earnest-- giving at 100% of the 60% I have to give. And, as I was reminded this past Sunday, even through all of this, my faux pas, my downfalls, my inconveniences and embarassments, God says He is not ashamed to call me His. And when I forget, He says it again.
"You come of the Lord Adam and the Lady Eve," said Aslan. "And that is both honor enough to erect the head of the poorest beggar, and shame enough to bow the shoulders of the greatest emperor on earth. Be content." ~Aslan, Prince Caspian, The Chronicles of Narnia, Book 4
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Postulations
Is that a word?
Have you ever wondered what God was thinking when he decided to take the human body's largest organ, wrap it around the outside of everything and then make it part of the excretory system?
Has the department of transportation ever thought about putting some sort of gritty texturizer in the paint they use to make white lines? Haven't they ever thought it somewhat dangerous that the so called borders of the streets are the slickest parts in the rain?
Is it possible that maybe my decreased field of vision is not so much due to heavy eyelids but rather heavy eyelashes? Shouldn't I have more questions to justify making this a list, let alone an entire post?
Do I really have to go to my meeting?
Unfortunately I know the answer to that last one.
Toodles.
Is that a word?
Unfortunately I know the answer to that last one.
Toodles.
Monday, September 13, 2004
Basically so Paolo will Quit Whining
I usually attempt to abstain from "here's how my day-to-day life is going" posts simply because I feel that they are my fall back for when I've run out of ideas to expound upon, stories to tell or just need to rant, rave or whine myself. But, since I guess some people actually like hearing the update on life-in-general every once in a while, here goes.
Let's see, where to start... Well, for the past 5 months I have been trying to hold down two jobs in order to whip my finances into shape. Initially the plan proved prosperous. However, since my energy level, sanity and pocket book have now started to suffer at the hands of said second job, I have sadly-yet-thankfully turned in my two weeks notice and will return shortly to a life of singular employment. I will miss the cool people I worked with and I will, of course, miss the discount, but being out of the store will severely deplete my desire to obtain everything (and therefore deplete my wallet) in the first place.
Another step in mollycoddling my health and sanity has emerged in the form of a holistic doctor who has taken me off of sugar (processed, I can still have honey and fruit-- except cantaloupe), yeast, mushrooms and dairy in order to flush excess yeast from my system which can cause many of the illnesses I have been fighting over the past few years. Once we've determined what has and has not been caused due to too much yeast, we can decide how to properly treat everything that remains.
For those of you who don't know, I have had some extensive therapy in learning to avoid concentrating on what I "can" and "can't" eat, so this "diet" or "regimen" could prove rather tricky for my thought patterns. I'm also afraid of any weight-loss effects that this regimen may have, because any drastic weight fluctuation in my body tends to mess with the aforementioned thought patterns, etc. Plus, it sucks that I can't just pick up any food and eat it after I've spent so long learning that I can! I'm looking forward to the health benefits this could have, but I'm also looking forward to being done with this part of the treatment. Plus, I'm never very good at not wanting something people tell me I can't have-- I'm rather obstinate that way.
The last step in this healing process is being able to focus on exercise again. I'm going to be going to hot yoga regularly in order to help aid my body in its cleansing process, as well as tone my body inside and out. I'll get to go to the YMCA more now, too. I'm not completely out of sorts physically, but it really is amazing how much better one feels when one can work out on a regular basis.
Finally, school's started up again and with my work load cutting down, I'll hopefully get to focus more on my youth group girls. I miss them a lot. It's been hard not being able to hang out with them.
In other words, with my second job gone, I'll have a few extra hours a week that have already been filled and then some-- but I'm looking forward to it. Plus, now I don't have to worry about working the day after Thanksgiving and can actually have entire weekends free to get away or laze around at my will, not to mention being able to read, write and relax more in general. Let's just pray this all works out for the greater good.
I usually attempt to abstain from "here's how my day-to-day life is going" posts simply because I feel that they are my fall back for when I've run out of ideas to expound upon, stories to tell or just need to rant, rave or whine myself. But, since I guess some people actually like hearing the update on life-in-general every once in a while, here goes.
Let's see, where to start... Well, for the past 5 months I have been trying to hold down two jobs in order to whip my finances into shape. Initially the plan proved prosperous. However, since my energy level, sanity and pocket book have now started to suffer at the hands of said second job, I have sadly-yet-thankfully turned in my two weeks notice and will return shortly to a life of singular employment. I will miss the cool people I worked with and I will, of course, miss the discount, but being out of the store will severely deplete my desire to obtain everything (and therefore deplete my wallet) in the first place.
Another step in mollycoddling my health and sanity has emerged in the form of a holistic doctor who has taken me off of sugar (processed, I can still have honey and fruit-- except cantaloupe), yeast, mushrooms and dairy in order to flush excess yeast from my system which can cause many of the illnesses I have been fighting over the past few years. Once we've determined what has and has not been caused due to too much yeast, we can decide how to properly treat everything that remains.
For those of you who don't know, I have had some extensive therapy in learning to avoid concentrating on what I "can" and "can't" eat, so this "diet" or "regimen" could prove rather tricky for my thought patterns. I'm also afraid of any weight-loss effects that this regimen may have, because any drastic weight fluctuation in my body tends to mess with the aforementioned thought patterns, etc. Plus, it sucks that I can't just pick up any food and eat it after I've spent so long learning that I can! I'm looking forward to the health benefits this could have, but I'm also looking forward to being done with this part of the treatment. Plus, I'm never very good at not wanting something people tell me I can't have-- I'm rather obstinate that way.
The last step in this healing process is being able to focus on exercise again. I'm going to be going to hot yoga regularly in order to help aid my body in its cleansing process, as well as tone my body inside and out. I'll get to go to the YMCA more now, too. I'm not completely out of sorts physically, but it really is amazing how much better one feels when one can work out on a regular basis.
Finally, school's started up again and with my work load cutting down, I'll hopefully get to focus more on my youth group girls. I miss them a lot. It's been hard not being able to hang out with them.
In other words, with my second job gone, I'll have a few extra hours a week that have already been filled and then some-- but I'm looking forward to it. Plus, now I don't have to worry about working the day after Thanksgiving and can actually have entire weekends free to get away or laze around at my will, not to mention being able to read, write and relax more in general. Let's just pray this all works out for the greater good.
Friday, September 10, 2004
It's Just a Little Crush Not Like I Faint Every Time We Touch
It's just some little thing, not like everything I do depends on you*
And so it begins, my aforementioned long post in the works. I'm going to investigate a topic I don't think I usually deal with here on P.R.E.-- relationships-- like, the guy/girl kind-- more specifically, my own and in plain, black and white terms. Hmm, I wonder if I can actually write an entire serious post without metaphors or allusions... probably not. We'll see.
Consider this Part I.
Today's vocabulary (sponsored by dictionary.com):
Crush n:
A usually temporary infatuation.
One who is the object of such an infatuation.
Infatuation n:
A foolish, unreasoning, or extravagant passion or attraction.
An object of extravagant, short-lived passion.
Attraction n:
The power or act of alluring, drawing to, inviting.
Admiration n:
Wonder mingled with approbation or delight.
An emotion excited by a person or thing possessed of wonderful or high excellence.
Crush v:
To squeeze, so as to destroy the natural shape or integrity of the parts
Humiliate or depress completely
Make ineffective
The noun "crush" and I have long been near and dear bedfellows. Over the years, I have fallen into many a silly schoolgirl crush. I find crushes fun because you never know when they'll hit, or why. I have crushed on boys because of their musical talents, their beliefs, their writings, their wit, their humor, their compassion, their overall style and let's face it, just because they're cute. However, I've noticed the sources of my crushes delve much deeper than I at first believed. Don't get me wrong, an amazing smile and sparkling eyes can still bring home the jitters, but I've realized that there's more to it than that.
You see I've found that what intrigues me more than those pearly whites and glimmering blues is what makes them surface in the first place. In other words, I become attracted to a boy, not necessarily with the defined "extravagant passion" but because he is extravagantly impassioned. The true foundation for my crush is not the characteristics displayed but the ideology behind them. Something in their writing, wit or style exudes a quality that, whether I understand it or not, I respect. Take "A" for example: a political science major I liked a bit my freshman year of college. Whereas I could have cared less about politics at that time, I sat and listen to him talk at length about governing issues simply because I was so entranced by his fervor for the political sphere. However, no matter how zealous he was about politics, without having more in common, the frequency and quality of our conversations ebbed away, along with the passion-induced sparkle and gleam that allured me in the first place.
Hence, we get to the "temporary" aspect of a crush, because for something to truly be a crush, it must be temporary.
You see, crushes tend to occur on people whom we know very little-- which is the basis for my theory on "New Girl/New Boy Syndrome" in which the new kid on the block gets more attention than others because she/he is fresh, uncharted territory and imaginably (though on the average, improbably) one's perfect match. Since you hardly know this person, he/she has yet to fall short of your figmented mate. Until you truly get to know him/her, the new kid gives flesh to your ideal.
Since crushes are then, by definition, temporary they're only "good" until the new car smell wears off, after that, it must ebb into either admiration or the abyss. Maybe that's why I like crushes; they allow you to investigate, to dip a toe in the water. In the long run, little crushes (n) act as buffers from big crushes (v). But that's another post for another day.
*Titling format inspired by Dave.
It's just some little thing, not like everything I do depends on you*
And so it begins, my aforementioned long post in the works. I'm going to investigate a topic I don't think I usually deal with here on P.R.E.-- relationships-- like, the guy/girl kind-- more specifically, my own and in plain, black and white terms. Hmm, I wonder if I can actually write an entire serious post without metaphors or allusions... probably not. We'll see.
Consider this Part I.
Today's vocabulary (sponsored by dictionary.com):
Crush n:
Infatuation n:
Attraction n:
Admiration n:
Crush v:
The noun "crush" and I have long been near and dear bedfellows. Over the years, I have fallen into many a silly schoolgirl crush. I find crushes fun because you never know when they'll hit, or why. I have crushed on boys because of their musical talents, their beliefs, their writings, their wit, their humor, their compassion, their overall style and let's face it, just because they're cute. However, I've noticed the sources of my crushes delve much deeper than I at first believed. Don't get me wrong, an amazing smile and sparkling eyes can still bring home the jitters, but I've realized that there's more to it than that.
You see I've found that what intrigues me more than those pearly whites and glimmering blues is what makes them surface in the first place. In other words, I become attracted to a boy, not necessarily with the defined "extravagant passion" but because he is extravagantly impassioned. The true foundation for my crush is not the characteristics displayed but the ideology behind them. Something in their writing, wit or style exudes a quality that, whether I understand it or not, I respect. Take "A" for example: a political science major I liked a bit my freshman year of college. Whereas I could have cared less about politics at that time, I sat and listen to him talk at length about governing issues simply because I was so entranced by his fervor for the political sphere. However, no matter how zealous he was about politics, without having more in common, the frequency and quality of our conversations ebbed away, along with the passion-induced sparkle and gleam that allured me in the first place.
Hence, we get to the "temporary" aspect of a crush, because for something to truly be a crush, it must be temporary.
You see, crushes tend to occur on people whom we know very little-- which is the basis for my theory on "New Girl/New Boy Syndrome" in which the new kid on the block gets more attention than others because she/he is fresh, uncharted territory and imaginably (though on the average, improbably) one's perfect match. Since you hardly know this person, he/she has yet to fall short of your figmented mate. Until you truly get to know him/her, the new kid gives flesh to your ideal.
Since crushes are then, by definition, temporary they're only "good" until the new car smell wears off, after that, it must ebb into either admiration or the abyss. Maybe that's why I like crushes; they allow you to investigate, to dip a toe in the water. In the long run, little crushes (n) act as buffers from big crushes (v). But that's another post for another day.
*Titling format inspired by Dave.
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
Happy Anniversary
wow, so, um, happy September everyone. Didn't realize it'd been so long since I'd written. I have a long post in the works. So long, I think I'm going to have to break it down into a few segments. I can't really throw that all at you at once.
Today has been not a very good day thus far thanks to one particularly stupid company claiming that I owe them money that I don't. I don't say that I hate much. I hate them.
For nearly the past week I've been dealing with some not-so-pretty side effects of quitting a Rx cold turkey. It's not something I'd recommend, but given the circumstances, it was the best decision I could make for myself at the time. Besides, no matter how much they're messing with me, I still claim the side effects of withdrawal aren't as bad as the side effects of consumption.
Despite all of these negative things that seem to be looming around me right now, I actually had a really great weekend. A friend blessed me in an enormous way. So much so that I haven't found the words just yet to thank my friend. I have not simply been blessed with this friend's gift, but even more so with this friendship and that blessing has rendered me speechless in its wake.
Oh, what about the anniversary mentioned in the title? Yep, today's my anniversary. Three years ago on this very day I made my big move to Nashville. Just me, a loaded car and Long Line of Leavers on repeat. I almost feel like I should order some La Paz in commemoration of my first meal in music city-- but it just wouldn't be the same without Kat. (I'm ok with you all being completely lost in that last sentence)
wow, so, um, happy September everyone. Didn't realize it'd been so long since I'd written. I have a long post in the works. So long, I think I'm going to have to break it down into a few segments. I can't really throw that all at you at once.
Today has been not a very good day thus far thanks to one particularly stupid company claiming that I owe them money that I don't. I don't say that I hate much. I hate them.
For nearly the past week I've been dealing with some not-so-pretty side effects of quitting a Rx cold turkey. It's not something I'd recommend, but given the circumstances, it was the best decision I could make for myself at the time. Besides, no matter how much they're messing with me, I still claim the side effects of withdrawal aren't as bad as the side effects of consumption.
Despite all of these negative things that seem to be looming around me right now, I actually had a really great weekend. A friend blessed me in an enormous way. So much so that I haven't found the words just yet to thank my friend. I have not simply been blessed with this friend's gift, but even more so with this friendship and that blessing has rendered me speechless in its wake.
Oh, what about the anniversary mentioned in the title? Yep, today's my anniversary. Three years ago on this very day I made my big move to Nashville. Just me, a loaded car and Long Line of Leavers on repeat. I almost feel like I should order some La Paz in commemoration of my first meal in music city-- but it just wouldn't be the same without Kat. (I'm ok with you all being completely lost in that last sentence)
Friday, August 27, 2004
You came to me
first draft
i sped to this place as so often i have
supposedly seeking your face
straining my ears for a still small voice
i missed you screaming my name
Among the lifeless bound to remain
my flesh succombed to its fate
hardly warm and losing steam
callousness seeped easily in
i could not move
i could not be
until
you came
to me
there i lay
alone in my fears
yet never alone may i be
when i'd tried till forgetting
just why i began
that's where
you came
to me
you've found my open hiding place
you've seen the mess i've undertaken
things aren't always lovely
they're hardly what they seem
yet, even here
you came
to me
until you came to me
i could not move
i could not be
until
you came
to me
first draft
i sped to this place as so often i have
supposedly seeking your face
straining my ears for a still small voice
i missed you screaming my name
Among the lifeless bound to remain
my flesh succombed to its fate
hardly warm and losing steam
callousness seeped easily in
i could not move
i could not be
until
you came
to me
there i lay
alone in my fears
yet never alone may i be
when i'd tried till forgetting
just why i began
that's where
you came
to me
you've found my open hiding place
you've seen the mess i've undertaken
things aren't always lovely
they're hardly what they seem
yet, even here
you came
to me
until you came to me
i could not move
i could not be
until
you came
to me
To Know is to Be Known
It's peculiar. No matter how many times I've flown in and out of Midway Airport in the past three years, I still feel like I'm in a weird new place every time I'm there. I know Nashville's airport well enough by now, and thanks to numerous trips or necessary bus stop layovers, I'm well acquainted with General Mitchell in Milwaukee and the great big hub that is O'Hare. I actually have rather distinct memories of breakfast at one particular O'Hare McDonalds. It's like it calls to me: Eat a breakfast sandwich, you know you want one, add on some hashbrowns! Yes, being in airports means McDonalds breakfasts, Chili's dinner, Cinnabon desserts and a Starbucks latte (soy of course) to wash it all down. Basically, being in the airport means sucking it up and kissing the ring of the don that is corporate America.
Last night I actually got a little handle on Midway, though. Well, I remembered where the doors were to get out-- hey, it's an important thing to remember, right? Otherwise I'd still be there! Any way, I found the doors and as they automatically opened in front of me I could feel the wet blanket that is Midwest August air envelope my lungs and smother my flesh in a mere instant. Perhaps I've been in the South too long. I'd forgotten how incredibly humid it is up here in late summer. Instead of being simply next to Lake Michigan, one feels more like they're slowing walking at the bottom of it. All. The. Time.
Moving on. One of my very bestest friends in the world picked me up and we stayed up talking for an hour or two (drive included). She had to work this morning, so she slept on the futon and I had the bed. It was weird to not share the same room with her-- seeing as how we shared a dorm room one year and have fallen asleep talking even on a single bed before. But she didn't want to wake me (she's a dear), so she slept on the futon. It poured last night, alleviating some of the humidity-- but there are more storms to come. I suppose I've pulled this routine a number of times now. Coming in Thursday night and having LJ's place all to myself while she's at work on Friday before coming home and hanging out. It doesn't seem unnatural to be alone in her place-- and this is the third place of hers in which I've pulled this trick.
I love how much we know each other. Just as one can assume my refridgerator will echo from the click of the light turning on when you open the door, I know that LJ will always have food-- more than likely of the organic variety. It's also a given that when LJ comes to visit me, we will make at least one trip to the grocery store to pick up supplies to make meals for the weekend. No matter where we are, we usually have pancakes at least once, with peanut butter and syrup (you can try to fight it, I did for years, but it's actually really, really good). AND I know that somewhere LJ has a stashed soda reserve, too-- which is perfect since I've cut back on my coffee intake but am still a fiend for caffeine. What I didn't expect was Diet Pepsi Twist-- usually she's more of a Diet Coke or Diet Cherry Coke girl.
This is a perfect example of why I love my beautiful friends, even though LJ isn't in the picture below. We know each other and understand each other-- and yet offer each other twists in our daily routines. We can be open with our weaknesses as well as our triumphs. In short, my friends aren't just beautiful on the outside. As a matter of fact, it's what's inside that makes me treasure them most. To quote an amazing movie that I recommend everyone rush out to see:
You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in isn't really your home anymore? That idea of home is gone. Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people who miss the same imaginary place. ~ Andrew Largeman in Garden State
My friends are my family. We all miss the same places and have the same experiences. The imaginary places that we miss, however, are in the company of each other. In having shared experiences, we've not only shared our lives, we've shared our souls-- that's what makes us friends. That's what makes us family. That's what makes it beautiful.
It's peculiar. No matter how many times I've flown in and out of Midway Airport in the past three years, I still feel like I'm in a weird new place every time I'm there. I know Nashville's airport well enough by now, and thanks to numerous trips or necessary bus stop layovers, I'm well acquainted with General Mitchell in Milwaukee and the great big hub that is O'Hare. I actually have rather distinct memories of breakfast at one particular O'Hare McDonalds. It's like it calls to me: Eat a breakfast sandwich, you know you want one, add on some hashbrowns! Yes, being in airports means McDonalds breakfasts, Chili's dinner, Cinnabon desserts and a Starbucks latte (soy of course) to wash it all down. Basically, being in the airport means sucking it up and kissing the ring of the don that is corporate America.
Last night I actually got a little handle on Midway, though. Well, I remembered where the doors were to get out-- hey, it's an important thing to remember, right? Otherwise I'd still be there! Any way, I found the doors and as they automatically opened in front of me I could feel the wet blanket that is Midwest August air envelope my lungs and smother my flesh in a mere instant. Perhaps I've been in the South too long. I'd forgotten how incredibly humid it is up here in late summer. Instead of being simply next to Lake Michigan, one feels more like they're slowing walking at the bottom of it. All. The. Time.
Moving on. One of my very bestest friends in the world picked me up and we stayed up talking for an hour or two (drive included). She had to work this morning, so she slept on the futon and I had the bed. It was weird to not share the same room with her-- seeing as how we shared a dorm room one year and have fallen asleep talking even on a single bed before. But she didn't want to wake me (she's a dear), so she slept on the futon. It poured last night, alleviating some of the humidity-- but there are more storms to come. I suppose I've pulled this routine a number of times now. Coming in Thursday night and having LJ's place all to myself while she's at work on Friday before coming home and hanging out. It doesn't seem unnatural to be alone in her place-- and this is the third place of hers in which I've pulled this trick.
I love how much we know each other. Just as one can assume my refridgerator will echo from the click of the light turning on when you open the door, I know that LJ will always have food-- more than likely of the organic variety. It's also a given that when LJ comes to visit me, we will make at least one trip to the grocery store to pick up supplies to make meals for the weekend. No matter where we are, we usually have pancakes at least once, with peanut butter and syrup (you can try to fight it, I did for years, but it's actually really, really good). AND I know that somewhere LJ has a stashed soda reserve, too-- which is perfect since I've cut back on my coffee intake but am still a fiend for caffeine. What I didn't expect was Diet Pepsi Twist-- usually she's more of a Diet Coke or Diet Cherry Coke girl.
This is a perfect example of why I love my beautiful friends, even though LJ isn't in the picture below. We know each other and understand each other-- and yet offer each other twists in our daily routines. We can be open with our weaknesses as well as our triumphs. In short, my friends aren't just beautiful on the outside. As a matter of fact, it's what's inside that makes me treasure them most. To quote an amazing movie that I recommend everyone rush out to see:
You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in isn't really your home anymore? That idea of home is gone. Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people who miss the same imaginary place. ~ Andrew Largeman in Garden State
My friends are my family. We all miss the same places and have the same experiences. The imaginary places that we miss, however, are in the company of each other. In having shared experiences, we've not only shared our lives, we've shared our souls-- that's what makes us friends. That's what makes us family. That's what makes it beautiful.
Sunday, August 22, 2004
No Noun Required
Some days, I am in love.
Not with hes or shes,
Nor any distinct or unremarkable, tangible dream.
Love need not abide
in the sight of a person,
Nor the smell of a place.
It need not even dwell
in the feel of an item running
through lotioned fingers
or beneath calloused heels.
No, love need not
be defined in nouns
scattered throughout one's visual plane.
It just exists;
without rhyme or reason
without subject or destination.
Both without and within
when it comes to my soul.
Love needs not my recognition
nor my peace of mind
for its existence.
But today, thankfully
I can see Love abiding in me
And He has shown me abiding in Him.
Some days, I am in love.
Not with hes or shes,
Nor any distinct or unremarkable, tangible dream.
Love need not abide
in the sight of a person,
Nor the smell of a place.
It need not even dwell
in the feel of an item running
through lotioned fingers
or beneath calloused heels.
No, love need not
be defined in nouns
scattered throughout one's visual plane.
It just exists;
without rhyme or reason
without subject or destination.
Both without and within
when it comes to my soul.
Love needs not my recognition
nor my peace of mind
for its existence.
But today, thankfully
I can see Love abiding in me
And He has shown me abiding in Him.
Friday, August 20, 2004
Well, He Knows Me
My computer desk sits in a corner of my office facing the wall. To my right and along the same wall, stands my door, usually slightly ajar in order to keep the heat in my office. In the center of the office, perpendicular to my computer desk is my "real" desk which usually receives little attention except from the piles and stacks of papers strewn across its surface. On the other side of that, basically the opposite corner from my computer desk, is my plant. Technically, it's my bosses plant which he received as a gift when he began working here nearly three years ago. I, however, seeing the poor treatment it received in his office, stole it and adopted it as my own.
I used to have an amazing system for watering my plant. Once a week Robert would come in to read to me. (Robert is in his fifties and just began to read a few years ago) Robert and I would sit in the chairs along the wall in front of my "real" desk and he would read a passage from the Bible that he had been working on, adding my help when needed. Being on that side of my hefty "real" desk called my attention to my plant, so when Robert left, I would water it. However, Robert's visits have become more sporadic and, therefore, my plant has suffered due to my Pavlovian watering-reminder trick.
Of late, I have been making a concerted effort to remember my poor plant. It is starting to flourish again, perhaps it'll even flower again soon; it used to have flowers all the time. I finally got around to a superficial pruning today. There were a lot of dead leaves and the further I pruned, the more I realized how it could benefit from a real repotting and removal of dead shoots attached to live ones-- how it could grow even more if I just gave it some more space and took off even more of that extra baggage.
I'm as sure that I've used the following illustration before as I am that I will use it again, so let me bring it to the table. In C.S. Lewis' Voyage of the Dawn Treader, Chronicles of Narnia, Book 5, Eustace Scrubb becomes a dragon and tries and tries to peel away at his own scales to reveal the boy he knows lays hidden inside. Eustace was trying to prune himself. However, it wasn't until he let Aslan tear deep into his scaly hide-- piercingly rending his pride and vanity, that he could finally find the boy he was meant to be; a boy different from the one he himself had remembered or imagined.
You probably know where I'm going with this. Often times I feel like I'm offering up my life for God to prune, but only to the point at which I'm comfortable. Perhaps this isn't actually allowing God to prune me after all, much less give me a good repotting-- rearranging my own idea of who I am and who I was meant to be. I think God wants to prune and repot me, to give me an overhaul. I hope I am brave enough to let Him tear into my pride and see myself as He sees me, as I was truly meant to be and then continue to be that person.
"But who is Aslan? Do you know him?" [Eustace]
"Well--he knows me," said Edmund. ~ The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, The Chronicles of Narnia, Book 5
My computer desk sits in a corner of my office facing the wall. To my right and along the same wall, stands my door, usually slightly ajar in order to keep the heat in my office. In the center of the office, perpendicular to my computer desk is my "real" desk which usually receives little attention except from the piles and stacks of papers strewn across its surface. On the other side of that, basically the opposite corner from my computer desk, is my plant. Technically, it's my bosses plant which he received as a gift when he began working here nearly three years ago. I, however, seeing the poor treatment it received in his office, stole it and adopted it as my own.
I used to have an amazing system for watering my plant. Once a week Robert would come in to read to me. (Robert is in his fifties and just began to read a few years ago) Robert and I would sit in the chairs along the wall in front of my "real" desk and he would read a passage from the Bible that he had been working on, adding my help when needed. Being on that side of my hefty "real" desk called my attention to my plant, so when Robert left, I would water it. However, Robert's visits have become more sporadic and, therefore, my plant has suffered due to my Pavlovian watering-reminder trick.
Of late, I have been making a concerted effort to remember my poor plant. It is starting to flourish again, perhaps it'll even flower again soon; it used to have flowers all the time. I finally got around to a superficial pruning today. There were a lot of dead leaves and the further I pruned, the more I realized how it could benefit from a real repotting and removal of dead shoots attached to live ones-- how it could grow even more if I just gave it some more space and took off even more of that extra baggage.
I'm as sure that I've used the following illustration before as I am that I will use it again, so let me bring it to the table. In C.S. Lewis' Voyage of the Dawn Treader, Chronicles of Narnia, Book 5, Eustace Scrubb becomes a dragon and tries and tries to peel away at his own scales to reveal the boy he knows lays hidden inside. Eustace was trying to prune himself. However, it wasn't until he let Aslan tear deep into his scaly hide-- piercingly rending his pride and vanity, that he could finally find the boy he was meant to be; a boy different from the one he himself had remembered or imagined.
You probably know where I'm going with this. Often times I feel like I'm offering up my life for God to prune, but only to the point at which I'm comfortable. Perhaps this isn't actually allowing God to prune me after all, much less give me a good repotting-- rearranging my own idea of who I am and who I was meant to be. I think God wants to prune and repot me, to give me an overhaul. I hope I am brave enough to let Him tear into my pride and see myself as He sees me, as I was truly meant to be and then continue to be that person.
"But who is Aslan? Do you know him?" [Eustace]
"Well--he knows me," said Edmund. ~ The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, The Chronicles of Narnia, Book 5
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
An Attempt at Redeeming One Lost Post
Here goes:
There's a poem that has been eating at me lately. A whole work, really, that I long to hold in my hands and pour over time and again. It signifies a life, or rather many lives, that I have been fortunate enough to never know. And yet, I feel like there are still many lessons to learn from these lives, these tales, these heroes and heroines in their own right, in their own world, even if not in their own sight.
I don't remember if it was assigned to me in high school or junior high, but I do know it has stayed with me ever since. Though I could not fathom the significance then, these poems were embossed on my heart, on my very soul. I was privileged enough to hear the poet, herself, read them out loud. I can still hear her strong, sober voice telling tales of children who do not always come home to milk and cookies. She didn't just tell us of their tales, she wrote each one from their own innocent, yet jaded, young-but-learned perspective. Gwendolyn Brooks wrote Children Coming Home in the 1990s. It is raw, emotional and heartbreaking. It currently only exists as a section in her compilation, In Montgomery and Other Poems, which I have on hold at the library and can't wait to get in my hands; to caress the spine as though it were the hardened face of each abused or ignored child in hopes of comforting just one for at least one moment.
One of the poems that has stuck with me most superficially seems to have nothing to do with me at all. Delving deeper, however, I realize that it has everything to do with me. It can teach me pride and respect and love. It can teach me mercy and grace and patience. It can teach me how to live. See what it might teach you.
I AM A BLACK
According to my Teachers
I am now an African-American.
They call me out of my name.
BLACK is an open umbrella.
I am Black and A Black forever.
I am one of the Blacks.
We are Here, we are There.
We occur in Brazil, in Nigeria, Ghana,
in Botswana, Tanzania, in Kenya,
in Russia, Australia, in Haiti, Soweto, in
Grenada, in Cuba, in Panama, Libya, in
England and Italy, France.
We are graces in any places.
I am Black and A Black forever.
I am other than Hyphenation.
I say, proudly, MY PEOPLE!
I say, proudly, OUR PEOPLE!
Our People do not disdain to eat yams or
melons or grits or to put peanut butter in stew.
I am Kojo. In West Africa Kojo
means "Unconquerable." My parents
named me the seventh day from my birth
in Black spirit, Black faith, Black communion.
And I Capitalize my name.
Do not call me out of my name.
Reprinted from In Montgomery and Other Poems, published by Third World Press (2003).
Here goes:
There's a poem that has been eating at me lately. A whole work, really, that I long to hold in my hands and pour over time and again. It signifies a life, or rather many lives, that I have been fortunate enough to never know. And yet, I feel like there are still many lessons to learn from these lives, these tales, these heroes and heroines in their own right, in their own world, even if not in their own sight.
I don't remember if it was assigned to me in high school or junior high, but I do know it has stayed with me ever since. Though I could not fathom the significance then, these poems were embossed on my heart, on my very soul. I was privileged enough to hear the poet, herself, read them out loud. I can still hear her strong, sober voice telling tales of children who do not always come home to milk and cookies. She didn't just tell us of their tales, she wrote each one from their own innocent, yet jaded, young-but-learned perspective. Gwendolyn Brooks wrote Children Coming Home in the 1990s. It is raw, emotional and heartbreaking. It currently only exists as a section in her compilation, In Montgomery and Other Poems, which I have on hold at the library and can't wait to get in my hands; to caress the spine as though it were the hardened face of each abused or ignored child in hopes of comforting just one for at least one moment.
One of the poems that has stuck with me most superficially seems to have nothing to do with me at all. Delving deeper, however, I realize that it has everything to do with me. It can teach me pride and respect and love. It can teach me mercy and grace and patience. It can teach me how to live. See what it might teach you.
I AM A BLACK
According to my Teachers
I am now an African-American.
They call me out of my name.
BLACK is an open umbrella.
I am Black and A Black forever.
I am one of the Blacks.
We are Here, we are There.
We occur in Brazil, in Nigeria, Ghana,
in Botswana, Tanzania, in Kenya,
in Russia, Australia, in Haiti, Soweto, in
Grenada, in Cuba, in Panama, Libya, in
England and Italy, France.
We are graces in any places.
I am Black and A Black forever.
I am other than Hyphenation.
I say, proudly, MY PEOPLE!
I say, proudly, OUR PEOPLE!
Our People do not disdain to eat yams or
melons or grits or to put peanut butter in stew.
I am Kojo. In West Africa Kojo
means "Unconquerable." My parents
named me the seventh day from my birth
in Black spirit, Black faith, Black communion.
And I Capitalize my name.
Do not call me out of my name.
Reprinted from In Montgomery and Other Poems, published by Third World Press (2003).
Thursday, August 05, 2004
In case you were wondering
I've written two wonderful posts this week: long, extravagant-- mesmorizing really (and humble, I'm sure), only to have them lost with a flick of the wrist. Therefore, you get this for your post instead. sorry. I'll try harder next time. Or maybe I won't. I'll leave you with this thought:
I'm confused. Oh, wait, maybe I'm not.
peace.
I've written two wonderful posts this week: long, extravagant-- mesmorizing really (and humble, I'm sure), only to have them lost with a flick of the wrist. Therefore, you get this for your post instead. sorry. I'll try harder next time. Or maybe I won't. I'll leave you with this thought:
I'm confused. Oh, wait, maybe I'm not.
peace.
Monday, August 02, 2004
Sounds Like Someone Has a Case of the Mondays
My roommies and I have started having weekly Bible/book Study on Monday mornings in order to get the week started off right. However, seven o'clock came way too early this morning. When my alarm went off at 6:30, I thought I had just lain down my head. That was a sad, sad thought. But, now I'm awake and at work. I'm still sleepy, but whatcha gonna do, right? Anyway, to top it all off, the air's busted again-- has been since Friday or Saturday, so it's a little warm here in the office-- however, I'm the only person who's actually happy about this-- I'm tired of being frozen out! Well, I'll also be happy if it doesn't last too long or get too hot. Ah yes, conditional love... gotta love it.
My roommies and I have started having weekly Bible/book Study on Monday mornings in order to get the week started off right. However, seven o'clock came way too early this morning. When my alarm went off at 6:30, I thought I had just lain down my head. That was a sad, sad thought. But, now I'm awake and at work. I'm still sleepy, but whatcha gonna do, right? Anyway, to top it all off, the air's busted again-- has been since Friday or Saturday, so it's a little warm here in the office-- however, I'm the only person who's actually happy about this-- I'm tired of being frozen out! Well, I'll also be happy if it doesn't last too long or get too hot. Ah yes, conditional love... gotta love it.
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