I can't play Pooh to your Christopher Robin

I caught a movie on TV this weekend, Beautiful Girls, and just kind of got sucked in. That's always how it happens, isn't it? You have to be to work in two and a half hours and you get sucked into a movie that ends with just enough time for you to almost get ready, if you really hurry.

Well, in this movie, a guy goes back to his small hometown (which I really think was in Wisconsin, one of the guys had a Milwaukee jacket... go figure) Anyway, it's a look at growing up and all that entails-- leaving ghosts behind, forging into the future. One of the story lines involves a 29 yr old man and his 13 yr old neighbor who he considers "waiting for" because she's so amazing and can only get more amazing.

Then his friend makes him see that maybe this is just another sign of him not wanting to grow up. However, the girl picks up on it all, and asks him to wait for her anyway, just 5 years until she's 18. At this juncture, the man has to come to grips with what is real and what he would like to believe. He gives her this great analogy of Christopher Robin and Winnie the Pooh. Pooh was a product of Christopher's imagination and when he grew up, he didn't need him anymore; didn't need the 100 Acre Wood, at all.

A sentiment seems to be floating around about the 100 Acre Wood that is the Blog-o-sphere. Jason's moved on, Matt's done, Dave's mulling it over. I can't say I haven't pondered it myself, that I haven't felt the pages slipping by one after another; that I haven't feared the monster at the end of this book.

With every scrolling page I seem to follow the bouncing ball further toward the end of the 100 Acre Wood. I'm not ready to see the light yet, but I know it's coming and that day looms ahead with grief and joy. As I sit here, I wonder if I can enjoy life outside the Wood, and yet never leave its pages. I wonder if a caged bird really ever has a song.

Aragorn: What do you fear my lady?
Èowyn: A cage. To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them. And all chance of valor has gone beyond recall or desire.

I wonder what my true song will be and when that day will finally come.

Where Once Stood Servants of the King

Centuries of tales and mourning seeped from every nook and cranny as we stood amidst the ruins of Castle DunDrum. Built as a fortress and manor in 1111, now all that remains are a few walls and pillars, semblances of rooms and towers. What once may have been a dirt floor has been overgrown with a carpet of plush green grass. Weeds and wildflowers sprout from the crumbling tips of what may have presumably been a guard wall.

We climbed haphazardly, almost irreverently, along the remaining stones. Our companions were soon dwarfed in appearance from atop a curved staircase or two. Even from the court floor, however, the surrounding landscape and countryside could not be dwarfed. From across a crystalline bay, mountains loomed over us as silent guardians, fortifying yet foreboding.

While my friends and companions cheered in revelry at the marvelous site of it all, I couldn't help but meander off by myself in ponderous sadness. No where in the States will ever be this old, will ever hold this much history. There will never be a day when someone can stand on the ruins of my livelihood and romanticize at what it may have been like. You can see it already, consecrated battle grounds turned places of woredrobing worship; graveyards overrun by the green of 18 holes.

Perhaps this very ground once felt the foot falls of royalty and servants alike; troubadours and soldiers. Once a queen stood here, peering out over her realm, over her people for whom she wept and fought and loved. Perhaps the walls miss hearing the echo of voices, of royalty, of servants of the King. If nothing else, perhaps we were sent to minister to this place and be ministered by it. For on that day, at least, those walls once again echoed with voices of the Court. It reminded us of our purpose for there we stood, servants of The King.

Prepare Yourselves

I probably won't be around for a couple of weeks. Crazy. See you next month!

hugs, kisses and chocolate chip cookies.

The Issues At Hand

A) After moving all of my junk this weekend, I have decided that it will take at least a couple of years for me to forget the pain and agony of doing such enough to attempt to do so again. Thankfully I had some really great help! (amongst others)

B) Even his wife calls him MattGrace.

C) And The Most Urgent Issue At Hand
I leave in TWO DAYS for my mission trip to Northern Ireland! I have all of my packing yet to do, but I'm not that stressed. Well, except for one thing-- I want to limit the CDs I take to about 10 (10 CD works so that a 2 disc set still counts as 1). I want a mix of chill, rejuvenating and energizing. Help me please!

Here are my definites:

Over the Rhine- Ohio; no explanation needed

100 Portraits- Five Wise Virgins; this CD is all about love and mercy and being the bride of Christ- It's amazing

Kalgren-- the EP I have of them unless I get the full CD in the mail before I leave; Just because I don't think I could go that long without listening to my dear friend, Christopher. Oh, and they rock. Check 'em out-- seriously

Will Hoge- Blackbird on a Lonely Wire; This was originally on the "possibles" list, but then I realized that it's too energetic not to take

Here are the others from which to choose:

John Rutter- Requiem; this work is amazing, very relaxing and spiritually rejuvenating

Patty Griffin- Impossible Dream; I just got this and am still breaking it in

OR Patty Griffin- Flaming Red; This CD is so amazing and can be listened to for energy or relaxation

Fleming and John- The Way We Are; I'm still breaking this one in too, but Ugly Girl makes me laugh so stinking much

Fleming and John- Delusions of Grandeur; a charged work that can be used to provide much energy

East Mountain South- Self Titled; Spiritually revitalizing and very chill.

Matthew Ryan- Regret Over the Wires; Dark, brooding and thoughtful

MadHatters- No Jacket Required; These are my a cappella guys and it's just fun, but I don't know if I'd listen to it that much

Ryan Adams- Love is Hell 1&2; Now available on 1 CD, I actually have the 2 EPs. It's very chill and I listen to it to fall asleep a lot

I'm sure there are others and I'll be updating this list as they come to mind. Suggestions are definitely accepted, too.

Co-Worker Lurker

Yes, that's right. I have a co-worker lurker who has been reading my blog for sometime now. Yes, I know you're there. I've known of your lurking for some time now. I've been waiting for the right time and day to call you out, but that hasn't come, so I'm doing it now. Quit lurking and say something already. You might as well, since I already have you figured out. Besides, I must be saying something of interest for you to keep checking back multiple times a day. Unless you're just spying, in which case, that's not nice; it's weird.

love~

p.s.

I switched out one of the songs on purevolume. click the "songs" link on the sidebar.

much love.

Kingdom Flora

I have been blessed with my own office. Not a cubicle, not an entryway- an office, with a door and all my own space. The door is good because it keeps all the heat generated from my space heater in my own little space. The door also makes it easier for me to concentrate on work and allows me to play music without the fear of disturbing others. One thing my office does not have, however, is a window-- no, the one in my door leading to the hallway does not count, neither does any form of Microsoft.

Driving into work this morning, I fell in love with late spring. Sweet floral fragments wafted through my open car windows. Valiant knights of the Flora Court lined my blacktopped carpet, lifting or bowing their regal arms to herald my every rpm, their plumage ruffled and roused by last night's invigorating thunderstorm. Oh the storm! Streaks of brilliance lit the sky, bolting here and there in frenzied excitement, followed or preceded by bold claps of authoritative splendor interspersed with the gentle rhythm of the tumbling sky.

Last night I fell in love. This morning it happened all over again. My heart would burst with tears at the thought of it all: the pulse of the warm rain, the majesty of the Kingdom Flora, the sweeping kiss of the sun against my skin. And yet, I would cry no less to be torn from it, to sit in a cage free of bars, free of sunlight, free of any breeze of fresh air at all. Overhead the fluorescent lights mock me. The computer screen glows in mechanical triumph. My eyesight fades, my love grows dim. This is no world of life and growth. It is a chamber of cold, dank, out-dated technology.

I am blessed with my job and with my office, and yet, I have never felt more a dungeon prisoner than when I walked in this morning after my fatal tryst with the Kingdom Flora.

Long Time Coming or Better Late Than Never

I have had this dull throb of an ache in my head, on my shoulders, throughout my entire soul, really. I have it since about my junior year of college. Throughout the years, the pain has grown increasingly stronger, heavier, deeper. Over the years, sandbags of pressure have been added to this burden. Gradually the ride I had once mastered began to master me. No longer was I on the throne bellowing orders and being heralded for every raised pinky. No, now I was amid the throng of minions, bowing before an unrelenting beast of a god. Whips flaring at my heels, constantly reminded me of my two choices in this hell, just ahead the nine tails or underneath their fury. I have been pushing boulders uphill and lugging unnecessary weight for years.

Today, however, today I have reached the apex of my mountain and what a beautiful sight it is. For at the top of this mountain were a pair of scissors and piles of plastic roughly hewn. I have flung my excess burden on those piles, sacrificing them on the alter of financial responsibility and now begin my slow and arduous journey down a long, winding path down the other side. It may take years, but they will be spent dutifully striving toward that peaceful, debt-free paradise at the end of the trail.

It's the Female Hypochondriac's Dream Come True!

It Should Be Warm

This back and forth warm/cold weather is really doing a number on my health here. My boss said someone referred to what we're going through as a "blackberry winter." Since neither of us had ever heard of this before, I decided to google it. Here's a definition to my liking:

blackberry winter -- A period of cool weather in spring, usually May or June, when the blackberries are in blossom." For several days there is cold disagreeable, cloudy weather, and often a touch of frost.'" From "Whistling Dixie: A Dictionary of Southern Expressions" by Robert Hendrickson (Pocket Books, New York, 1993).

Yeah, it SNOWED a couple of weeks ago. SNOW. In TENNESSEE. IN MAY. We don't even get snow in the winter, much less the spring! Today the weather is supposed to jump back up to the seventies and then be in the eighties this weekend. I hope it stays there. Be warm or cold. This back and forth thing is not to my liking.

Wow, what has this blog come to? I'm talking about the weather. Next up: How about those Cubbies? bah. Hopefully something creative will sprout up here sometime soon.

I Am I Don Quixote The Lord of La Mancha

So, I just picked up Patty Griffin's latest album Impossible Dream, the title of which kept taking me back to my first high school musical experience in the Man of La Mancha. I was, of course, a meager peasant in the chorus, but hey, my makeup for the show included making myself look really, really muddy and dirty.

Any way... one of the major theme songs of the Man of La Mancha goes To dream the impossible dream, to right the unrightable wrong, to bear the unbearable sorrow, to run where the brave dare not go...etc. We also sang this song for choir the next year. Every time I saw the title Impossible Dream, therefore, I thought of this song.

Come to find out... at the end of "Top of the World," an amazing song in itself, there's a small clip of this very song! I feel so cultured. heh. I can't wait to see Patty this weekend. It's going to be a great weekend of concerts.

Friday night: Switchfoot and Johnny Lang (and perhaps Wyclef Jean)
Saturday night: Shawn Colvin and Patty Griffin (and possibly Josh Rouse)
Sunday night: The Strokes

I'm not going to say I'm working for the weekend here... but come on, why not?

Scatter-brained

I could give you a recap of my weekend, but no one wants to hear that except Nate (hi Nate), who wants me to tell you I met a real jerk of a guy named Nate. Well, that's not going to happen. I met a ton of really cool people this weekend, girls and guys from the tumultuous world of UW A Cappella, and yes, Nate was one of them and no, he's not a jerk like he'd have you believe. ;-) The girls and guys were all awesome and the sound people did an outstanding job.

Speaking of jobs, I've started my second job working retail at The Loft (with a great boss who's married to a wonderful blogger) I had my first real shift last night and I'd have to say it was fun getting outfits put together for people. Someone even told me I was a great "up-seller" since I found her matching shoes and a darling purse to complete her ensemble. I don't even work on commission, I just really like to accessorize. My roommates used to laugh at me because even my pajamas are coordinated. I blame this all on my mother who never bought me "clothes." Nope, not her, from her I got "outfits." Outfits that were all interchangeable. I don't consider this a bad thing at all, but perhaps that's why I have so many shoes.. yes/no? Accessories make the outfit! Notice that they aren't "excessories."

Ok, enough of that.

My mom, aunt and nephew came to see me in Madison while I was there. We had breakfast and walked around looking for a sweatshirt for my mom. I could have used a sweatshirt, too, at the time-- brrrr. Turns out, my cousin and his wife were also in town that day, although we didn't know it. They participated in the annual 5-mile Crazy Legs run. Colin (yes, I have a nephew and a cousin named Colin) ran and Marci walked. Marci would have run, if she wasn't scheduled to give birth in 3 WEEKS!!!! Dang, that girl is crazy. I intend to be hand-fed in bed that close to giving birth, not doing some 5-mile walk. So, it's sad that we missed them. I could have seen her cute belly!!!

I also didn't see my best friend who lives in Madison. Or anyone not involved with a cappella, really. Sometimes you just have to do that or else you get worn too thin, you know?

K, I'm off to do stuff. How have y'all been? I've missed you.

Champaign

The city. As in, greetings from. That's right kids. I'm in Champaign, IL and let me tell you, IT'S FREAKING COLD!!!! Boo, I've become a true, spoiled southern chick-a-dee. It's about 30 degrees here this morning. Gah. At least it's supposed to get up to 63 today in Madison, WI-- our final destination.

Linds and I drove 5.5-6 hours last night and stopped to see a friend of ours who is an opera grad student at the University of Illinois (booooo. hisssss.-- that's the WI alum coming out there.) We had an easy drive, made good time and got to spend a while hanging with our friend before we all started falling asleep where we sat.

This is A Cappella Weekend! For a taste of the concerts we'll be participating in and viewing all weekend, see the girls group that I used to be in and the guys group.

Ok, time to clean up and get back on the road!

Much love.

An Invention

So, I've figured out how I'm going to become a bajillionaire. I've come up with an invention to completely revolutionize all motor vehicle systems. Using this invention will prevent more accidents and increase overall driving safety. It will be a sort of warning system to let other drivers know when you want to change lanes or turn one way or the other. There will be little blinking lights on the front and rear corners and a little lever easily accessible to the steering wheel of each car with which to control the little signals. Say a driver needs to be in the left lane, said driver will click the lever leftward and the little lights on the left side of the car will automatically start blinking, letting other drivers know, "hey, I'm moving over to the left lane." Or perhaps said driver wants to make a right-hand turn, he/she would simply click the lever over to the right instead.

If people used these little blinking lights, this "signaling system" if you would, road safety would increased as well brake lifespan! Oh to wonder in joy at the thought!

I'd Like to Report Some Missing People

I have a friend, actually I have several friends, who have become M.I.A. Sometimes it seems like I only actually have one friend left! It's really amazing when you go from hanging out with someone most of the time to never seeing them or talking to them and actually feeling like a pest when you try. It's like we broke up or something, but I've yet to receive closure.

I told a friend recently that I'm thinking of "consolidating" my friendships, meaning that I'm willing to let some friendships finally ebb into nothingness if need be. I don't want to do this. It just seems like some people have better things to do than call me back, or call at all. Perhaps they just have busier schedules than I do, yeah that's it, so they're just waiting to call me whenever they happen to have a spare moment.

The real deal though, is that I'm not the one doing the consolidating. I feel like they're whittling me out. So, I'm tired of fighting to save friendships that seemingly didn't mean as much to others as they did to me. It's not as cut-and-dry as I make it sound. These are friendships after all, not business deals. These are people who know about some of the worst hardships I've been through in the past few years. These are people with whom I've cried and laughed and fought and embraced.

The whole situation has really hurt me. I wake up in the morning with headaches and muscle tension from horrible, stressful dreams about fighting with them, being abandoned by them. I've been angered, saddened and left hollow by their absences. The worst part is it's not like it's several people from one group. They are a few different people in completely different areas of my life and they're all walking away. And I'm going to let them because it hurts too much to keep getting tossed in their wakes, it hurts to much to keep falling on my face while grasping for threads of reason. I can only take so much. I can only wonder so much if I'm that poor of a friend/person. I can only ask them and myself so many times if I've done something wrong. Sometimes the only thing left is to move on. Grasping at straws does no good when you're in the middle of the Pacific.

My Dawson

For those of you who weren't Creek* fans or didn't catch the finale, Joey ended up with Pacey. She and Dawson decided that they'll always be together in some cosmic way, just not in a romantic sense.

I have a "Dawson," a guy friend who is like my kindred spirit-- but not my soulmate. It's hard to tell the difference sometimes, although it's rather enormous. Yeah. So, now I'm thinking about findin' me a Pacey. ;-)

*Not to be confused with "Creeksters," the name for Nickel Creek fans. Which are way cooler than Dawson's Creek fans, by the way.

Promised Quotes
from Fat and Happy by Wendy Shanker as featured in Self Magazine

"I'm not a doctor. I'm not a therapist. I don't have a degree in health education. I'm just a professional ex-dieter with a chip on my shoulder and a mission on my mind. There are too many women just like me who know more information about fat grams than about foreign policy, who spend more time counting calories than communicating with friends. And that ain't right."

"Technically, because I am fat, I look fat in everything."

"The body image anxiety we put ourselves through is mostly wasted time, wasted energy and, finally, wasted life."

"Here's the challenge: Think about how much time you've spent pondering your extra poundage and punishing yourself for what you've put in your mouth. Now imagine not doing that. Imagine if we all did it. The fat girls and the skinny chicks. The movie stars and the PR agents, the soccer moms and the CEOs. Imagine all that free time not going toward ripping ourselves to shreds. All that money that we're not going to spend on fat-free, sugar-free, taste-free sorbet. [Personal interjection: I like sorbet~melissa] That's a lot of minutes and money from a lot of women with a lot of brainpower. Use that energy to admire achievements more than muscles, to weigh options, not bodies."

"So, basically The Man's trying to bring us down by making us focus on weight instead of taking over the world like we should."

"If I had a choice between regular heaven and pie heaven, I'd choose pie heaven. It might be a trick, but if it's not... mmmmm boy!"

~ok, ok. she didn't say the last two quotes. but it would have been awesome if she had.

ah well, go here, it's more entertaining than I am.

Love Songs

I just got Andy Davis' album "Thinks of Her" in the mail the other day. This aptly titled disc contains approximately 35 minutes of love-induced or lovelorn songs. Instead of having most of the songs be about relationships with a few obligatory songs not about relationships, this disc is intentionally devoted to songs about relationships-- about what Davis is thinking as he "Thinks of Her."

I'm not very good at writing love songs. There's "Fools." Well ok, that's about a couple who will never get together because they don't communicate. Then there's "Far Away Home." Oh, that's about a marriage gone sour and cold. "Pedestal" is about expecting too much of another person. And then there's "Should've Known Better"-- the title speaks for itself. See, I told you I wasn't very good at writing love songs. I don't think I've had the right muse as of yet.

There were two loves songs that I wrote last year. They were for my friends' wedding. Which was actually one year ago today! Yes, I've called to wish them a Happy Anniversary already. They were a good source of inspiration. The thing about Andy's love songs... they're about her. He's thinking about her, whomever "her" may be. I think about myself too much to write about him, whomever "he" will be.

Here are some examples of attempts from my documents:

"God I wish I knew what love was. I wish I could put it in a song. But the hollowness would hide all I had to offer, all that I could write. All my words are lost now. My pallet has run dry. Wish I could write a love song. Wish I had the chance to try.

I thought I knew what love was once. Thought I could explain. Now I can't remember that far back. Don't know what to say.

And my mother's always wondering where her girls went wrong. I told her that it just takes time. What if she's the one that's right.

What if I was never meant to have you? Whomever you might be. What if everyone is meant to fall in love? Everyone but me.

And yet, I'm young. I've got a life to live, free from strings and obligations, free from jealousy and questions, free from love in all progressions..."



Old Red Shirt

You wear me like your old red shirt, Brand new in seventh grade
Fit you like a tent back then, fits like a glove today

Chorus:
You wear me like your old red shirt
You wear me like your old red shirt
Darling, you wear me like your old red shirt
A second skin of faded comfort

You wear me like your old red shirt, Its ringer collar frayed
Peeled off the label years ago, Said you like it better plain

Chorus
Bridge:
There are patches growing threadbare
And the seams are showing through
What others call beyond repair
Fits perfectly to you

Chorus Modified:
You wear me like your old red shirt
You wear me like your old red shirt
Darling, you wear me like your old red shirt
A second skin...

End
You wear me like your old red shirt, Broken in through time
You wear me like your old red shirt
And I wear you like mine

Worth the Weight

Well, since tomorrow's Easter, I suppose I can spill the beans (I mean confessions, not jelly bellys)-- the following is my essay on What I Gave Up For Lent. (um, or something)

The other day I picked up a couple of magazines at the grocery store. Last month I picked up a couple for my plane ride up north and one had some good looking previews for this month, so I wanted to make sure I got that one in particular. Unfortunately, since I don't buy magazines all that frequently, I couldn't remember the name of said interesting magazine, so I picked two that sounded familiar.

One of them was Self Magazine, a magazine for which I actually used to have a subscription. This is basically a beauty magazine about health and fitness. A couple years ago I ended my subscription, figuring that, in truth, the magazine wasn't a healthy beauty magazine alternative, but actually made me even more obsessed and concerned with exercise and my body's shape.

When I got home and realized what mag I had picked up, I was a bit unfurled. This is a magazine I'm supposed to stay away from, dangit! However, I opened it up to give it a skim and found the very first article to be about being happy fat, by a self-proclaimed fat woman (5'7", 220lbs). This article had some great quotes that I will post later since I forgot to bring the magazine and (sadly) couldn't find the article on their site. It is a very positive article about loving yourself for you and making changes for yourself and no one else and all sorts of stuff like that-- regardless who you are or what your shape.

Now, I know I'm not fat. I also know that I used to be 20-25 lbs heavier than I am now. Well, actually, I don't know that for sure because, you see, I gave up weighing myself for Lent. A seemingly odd, yet unbelievably difficult thing to do-- especially for someone who has been fighting eating disorders for a number of years. I can't tell you how many times I've been tempted to step on a scale in the past 39 days. I never realized how much well, weight I give to my poundage. It's a sort of comfort, knowing that even though I had a piece of cake (or three) I still weigh the same amount and I didn't blow up like a balloon. There are certain times when the scale really is a comfort because, even though I feel fat, it tells me nothing's changed and it's all in my head.

It's been hard not having that comfort, that crutch, but it's been good. To be honest, I'm dying to know what I weigh, though I'm sure it hasn't changed much-- and I've even had a couple of doctor's appointments in which they've had to take my weight, so It's not even like I've gone the full 40 days without a weight check at all.

Just know you don't realize how much you use your elbow until you hurt it, I never knew how much I relied on that scale for comfort (and I don't even own one!) until I couldn't run to it. There have been days that have been extremely difficult without this crutch, but I think I'm learning to flex muscles I would have never realized I had unless I'd set it down. Now I just have to strengthen those muscles so that I can run to the One True Comfort. The greatest thing is, that even if I'm so weak that I can't hobble, much less run to Him, He'll come and sweep me up right where I've fallen. For that, I give great thanks and tears of mercy-filled joy.

SAMPLE ME!

So, you want to hear some music do you? Ok, then. Go here. There are three songs. "Fools" is the song Kristi's been wanting to hear for forever. "Patricia Lee" is the song I wrote the day after my aunt passed away from breast cancer.

So, there you have it, at long last, some MP3s.

Things, ok SONGS, That Make Me Happy As Of Late

I Met a Girl~ Wheat

Return to Me~ Matthew Ryan

Do You Realize~ Flaming Lips

Fell In Love With a Boy~ Joss Stone

Burning Photographs~ Ryan Adams

Silence is Easy~ Starsailor

Five Minutes, Superhero, Like a Drug~ pretty much anything by Garrison Starr

She Will Be Loved~ Maroon 5

I'm Shakin'~ Rooney

Friday I'm In Love~ The Cure (this is just an all around "make me feel good" staple)

Ugly Girl~ Fleming and John

Will Hoge

Basically a whole bunch of songs that I can blast in the car with the windows rolled down to let in the warming breezes. I love warmer weather.

There's a definite difference between summer music and winter music. Winter music is more intimate, moodier, closer: the kind of music you curl up in a chair with while sipping hot cocoa. Summer music is fun and blaring; the kind you can roll with, dance to and just all-around radiate fun. "You Got It Bad" by Usher reminds me of warm weather. "Something's Missing" and "Man on the Side" from John Mayer's live double disc remind me of cold, rainy nights. Tracy Chapman's whole "Let it Rain" album reminds me of some dark winter freezes, physically and emotionally. I love driving to "Romeo on the Radio" from The Normals, perfect warm weather driving song. Wilco's "Heavy Metal Drummer" is a total summer song, as well.**

It's so amazing how different songs and different types of music emerge in different seasons of the year, and of life in general. In this season, I just want to bop my head and shake a tail feather. I'm ready for flipflops, tank tops and dancin' tunes.

**As a disclaimer, these songs remind me of these things, a lot of the time, because that's when I first heard them or heard them most.

Forgive Me Reader For I Have Scened

Sorry for the pun (ok, not really-- I'm really that cheesy) but I just couldn't help it since I'm citing the second article from The Scene in two consecutive posts. I really do have my own thoughts. Really. Anyway, this "gladiator" article reminded me of a friend and I thought I'd share his crazy antics with you.

My friend Matt (one of my friends named Matt, there are about a gajillion) is an Ultimate Fighter. As in, he goes into a ring no-holds-barred and either beats the crud out of someone or vice versa. Let me put things in perspective for you: Matt's not a big guy. He's probably around 5'9", maybe 155lbs and quite aesthetically pleasing, not to mention hilarious. He dressed really nice and majored in business at Madison. I think he's one of those dumb smart boys. We even had one class together my senior year and we would sit next to each other, when he showed up.

One day he came in to class in his J Crew button down, sweater, jeans and arm sling. Ok, no, J Crew does not make an arm sling... of which I am aware. Yeah, he broke his collar bone, or rather, the guy he was fighting broke his collar bone. However, I think he actually won the match, fighting in a higher weight class than he should have. I thought about going to one of his matches, but after I saw the videos of previous matches, I knew I could be no where near that arena. Though I admit I would have cheered mighty heartily for him if I had.

Deep Fried Onion

In honor of April Fool's Day, one of Nashville's local (and my favorite) publications, The Nashville Scene, decided to post a few cover stories Onion style. I was literally laughing out loud reading this to myself over coffee the other day. Ah, southern humor.

WANTED: ONE (1) COPING MECHANISM

This weekend a friend and I went to the Southern Women's Show. No, not something any boy would be caught dead at, lest he be forced to carry purses and roll his eyes for hours on end. Actually, there was a time or two in there when I wondered if I was even girlie enough to be in that place. It was a lot of hand lotions, beaded jewelry and pink. Including pink ribbons, the official symbol of breast cancer awareness. Despite the free samples and gallons of hand lotion samples, I left the building sobbing.

Over a year ago my aunt fell to the disease of breast cancer and I suppose I have yet to really cope with her passing. I mean, I know plenty of people who have survived the disease, especially in my own family, so I often underestimate the seriousness of the disease. Seeing the loads of women at the couple of breast cancer awareness booths touting the vast improvements in research and treatment did not bring me warm fuzzies. It made me angry. One woman rattled off a statistic about the improvement in mortality rates from 95% mortality to 95% survival. Don't get me wrong, that's amazing. Being an at-risk candidate myself, I bank on improving research, technologies and preventative healthcare.

However, the way the women all smiled and radiated angered me so much because 95% is great, but it isn't 100%. There are a lot of survivors, and there are some who haven't. I wanted the ladies to acknowledge those who scrapped tooth and nail and still didn't make it. Instead they stood there in their black and pink looking more like Victoria's Secret sales associates than healthcare activists. I felt bad because my friend's mom has recently gone through chemo and survived and was all gung-ho about the cancer awareness tables. The ladies were so happy that her mom was a survivor, I didn't have the heart to tell them my aunt wasn't and bring down all their joy. So, I just wandered off infuriated and distraught.

It's not their fault that I was mad. It's just that my aunt did all that stuff: the walks for research, the campaigning, the crusading. She was beautiful, outrageous, impetuous, immature and amazing. They didn't have a somber funeral when she finally went to her eternal rest, they threw a party. That's what she would have wanted. Maybe that's why I haven't coped with things. She wouldn't want me to be sad or angry. She'd want me to celebrate life for what it is, even in the crappy times. She'd want me to pick up the flag where she set it down and with my face forward, thumb the world and keep on moving. She'd want me to be thankful for those who have survived (I am) and help those who need it (I will try). In the very least she'd expect me to toast her with some Dewer's. What a broad.

"Of course it's my color, I bought it." ~my aunt in response to questions about her hair color.

I Love Me Some Hot Yoga

But not this much.

The State of the Non-Union

One of my roommates moved out yesterday. She and her fiance just closed on their house and she's moving in before the wedding. I had to face the fact that not only was I losing a roommate, I was losing a coffee grinder and free Starbucks beans every week. It was a sad day.

Even sadder because I was sick. Yet again. Stupid illnesses. I swear I work in a dorm-type atmosphere where diseases just continually people hop. With that and the sporadic weather, my immune system hardly gets any time to recoup.

Neither does my desk or apartment. You can tell how I feel by the condition of my surrounding areas. My desk is in a current state of chaos and my bedroom... oh man, my bedroom. I've thought about not cleaning up but just starting to pack instead. I mean, I'm moving in a couple months, makes sense, right? Looking around the apartment makes me dread the whole moving process. I think we'll need to rent a U-Haul. Except we won't because we're far too cheap/poor for anything like that, especially since it looks like we'll have to move into the new place before the old lease is up. Double payments, woo hoo. (Did I mention the root canal bill from hell? oh yeah, and my brakes are starting to grind, so I'm going to have to have that looked at asap. great)

The new place is great, though. It's a duplex, 3BR 2BA, large kitchen with dishwasher and adjoining dining room, fireplace, front and back yard with lawn maintenance provided and a washer and dryer. The rent is slightly higher than I'm paying now, but the location is amazing. A wonderfully quiet neighborhood, completely safe and yet still not far from anything. Now we just need to find a third roommate. bah.

I've applied for a second job and will hopefully get to go in for a second interview soon, since my (hopefully) manager-to-be and I have been playing phone tag to do just that.

So, now all I have to do is work on raising the money to go to Ireland (the week before moving), get my car fixed before driving up to Wisconsin in a few weeks and nail down my entire-employment situation. Oh yeah, and then there's that "have enough money to duplicate THE CD" issue. dangit. someday my pretties, someday.

EGO BOOST LEADS TO ADOPTION

I'm not sure how he got it, but Dave has been referring to me as "Lady M." Seems rather sophisticated and diva-ish, like a (rather flattering ) mix of Lady Day and the Divine Miss M, herself, who, by the way said one of my favorite movie quotes of all time: "But enough about me, let's talk about you... what do YOU think of me?" in the super sappy Beaches.

Since this (*possibly* undeserved) nickname celebrates my inner-Diva so well, I think I shall adopt it. Hence forth you shall receive all writings from "Lady M."

Thank you, thank you. Now where has that towel boy run off to? Good help is so hard to find these days! Dang, my fellow TUIB divas would be so proud. Raquel, this is for you.

Of Pain

Pain levels involving the root canal process on a scale of 1-10, 1 being "Pain? What pain?" and 10 being "I think my tooth's water just broke."

Eating on tooth that needs root canal: 8

Worrying about said root canal: 7

Going through said root canal: 5 (because the numb face and the process of getting that way kind of stink, but I did almost fall asleep in the chair-- nope, no sleeping gas, I'm just that tired)

Getting bill for said root canal: 8,000,000

Next project: resuscitate my wallet from its heart attack.

Erin Go Braugh! um, again.

What's that you say? St. Patrick's Day has come and gone? Well, I know that, silly. This time my greeting comes rather as a form of announcement than as salutation. What announcement have I, you ask? Well, I am going to Ireland. I'm going for a week at the end of May with a group from my church. This means I will have to raise the funds to support my time there with a youth ministry in Northern Ireland-- a British claimed area on Irish soil filled with turmoil between the two people groups. Yes, family, don't freak out, I'll be ok.

On St. Patty's Day I recounted that it has been ten years since the last time I was blessed enough to go to Ireland. I took that trip for granted, but may my eyes be gouged should I do the same this time around. As in the last trip, I will also have a short amount of time in London (1 day) and hope to see the things that I missed out on the first go round as well as a quick snap shot of that city life. *note to self-- bring empty suitcase to London in order to fill with stuff to bring back* :-)

To be honest, I look to this trip with excitement and trepidation. You see, this promises to be a challenging trip, exposing many of my faults, my caveats and all sorts of idols in my life that I am trying to avoid acknowledging. Everyone I've talked to who has gone to help this ministry in the past has nothing but great things to say about how it changed their lives. This scares me because I don't know if I'm ready to be thrown into refining fires. At the same time, however, I'm not sure which scares me most: the thought of being tested and changed, or the thought of nothing spectacular happening at all. I suppose this means I desire that challenge and change, after all.

Painting Everything in Black and Blue

I'm a strange kid. I get the weirdest bruises. Today I have one on the top of my hand. Not the top of the hand that I completely schwacked directly into someone's sideview mirror. Oh, no, that hand remained unmarred. The other hand. The one I don't remember doing anything to, ever.

Last week I was trying on skirts for the next day and turned around to find an amazingly large bruise on the back of my leg above my knee. Ok, longer skirt it is. It was quite purple. And blue. And did I mention it was large? How did it get there? How am I supposed to know?

And the bruise I got on my thigh above my left knee. Don't really recall how that got there either.

The funny thing is that I can run into something and expect a bruise, but never get one. Then one day I'll look down at the inside of my forearm (how the heck do you get a bruise on the inside of your forearm??? happens to me all the time) and there's a little brownish/purple dot to call my own.

I think they're on a delayed reaction. So, if I get a bruise right away, then I know it must be really bad. Otherwise, they don't appear for days (a week?) later and by then I've forgotten the cause.

Case in point: My cousin and I are the same age. For our high school graduation presents, we got to go out to visit my aunt in California. The week before, at the end of my cousin's graduation, I tried to descend the bleachers instead of the nice, tractioned stairs and ended up, well, *ahem* losing my footing, if you will. Slippery little things they were. There I was trying to be all cool in my long (thankfully), flowing dress and heals, and I slipped on one of the risers half way up and rolled sideways down the rest, stopping only at the one right before the gym floor-- where an elderly gentleman so graciously helped me to my feet while the hot upperclassmen gawked laughed above me. (note: this also qualifies as one of my most embarrassing moments)

The point of the story is this: my shins didn't bruise. They hurt like heck, though not as much as my fragile 18-year-old ego, but they didn't bruise. Or rather, they didn't bruise until a week later when, after hours of rollerblading on the Long Beach Boardwalk, I traded my blades back for my flip flops, only to find that the pressure from the blade-boot had brought out the bruises in a wonderfully ribbed gym-sock-pattern all across my shins. (note: this may have qualified for its own embarrassing moment, however, it is clearly acknowledgeable as an extension of the first)

I mean, seriously. What's with the bruises? I think my roommates are coming in and beating me up in my sleep-- well, if I was able to fall asleep properly, that is. No wonder I have nightmares!

Losing Silence, Losing Steam

In this world, I have favorites. It's true. I try to be unbiased, but hey, I'm human. My favorite food genre is Tex/Mex. My favorite movies are White Christmas and Tommy Boy (both for sentimental reasons, oddly enough). My favorite treat would have to be frosted sugar cookies, followed closely by anisette toast. I don't particularly have a favorite color-- they all look good on me. Oh, and my favorite personal attribute is my humility. heh.

The oddest of my favorites, however, would have to be doors. I have favorite doors in the world. I may, however, have to knock that down to just one favorite door for now seeing as how my 2nd and 3rd favorite doors have ceased providing the service for which they were so adored! There are two doors between my living room and my bedroom. These, until recently, have been two of my very favorite doors in the world. I could close them and seal myself into complete oblivion of apartment goings on and/or catterwalling.

Alas, the seal has broken, my domain has become, well, noisy. Noisi-er, I should say. Now, not only can I hear my neighbor's phone across the hall, the dog running about upstairs and anyone *ahem* "using the facilities" adjacent to my room or running water of any sort in the bathrooms above or below, now I can all of a sudden hear every little peep from my living room-- to which I had before been blessed to witness sheer silence.

I think the apartment is revolting. Perhaps it is waiting for May 31st with as much anticipation as I am. For then, we shall be free of each other-- forever! (insert maniacal laugh)

I just want peace and quiet. Oh-- and a little machine to follow me everywhere and soothe me with the sounds of tranquil ocean breezes.

So, I haven't written much it seems. I'm feeling a bit slow of late. A bit lethargic. A bit dreamy, yet not whimsical-dreamy, more why-am-I-awake-dreamy. However, I appear to be most stressed out while sleeping. Go figure.

I've begun looking into homeopathic wellness options, in an effort to spunk up my over-all lack-lusterness. Vitamins here, vitamins there. Homeopathic remedies are nice because they're more friendly to my messed up internal system. We'll see how they work. AND-- if they don't, the place I bought them from will give me a refund. Let's see Walgreens do that.

Any way. I would love to type more, but I think I might have to just curl up in a cocoon for a little while. Then perhaps I shall emerge a vibrant monarch ready for spring.

peace.

The South Is Seriously Oppressing Me!

Ok, perhaps it's just the two stores I tried in my semi-ghetto neighborhood, but I could not find any fun St. Patrick's Day paraphenalia! I find this a serious enough atrocity to blame the *entire* South. Yep. And I bet none of those meat-n-three places will see the necessity for corned beef and hash, either. Stinkin' ghetto south. It's about more than green beer people!!!!! It's about blinking "Kiss Me I'm Irish" buttons* and green bowler hats, too! Not to mention pots of little gold-foiled chocolate coins at the end of shimmering rainbows! And shamrock or better yet, four leaf clover, stickers to brand one's cheek and shout to the world, "YES!! I'm IRISH! I love potatoes and little green men! I may call myself or my friends/relatives 'Micks,' but if you do it, BEWARE my flailing fists!" If it weren't so cold there, I'd go to Boston. Or South Bend, Indiana-- but it's cold there, too. As a matter of fact, it's gotten colder here, too! It's all a conspiracy!!!!!


*As a disclaimer, I actually had the opportunity to buy a Kiss Me I'm Irish button at a going out of business sale a few months ago and refrained for fear people might actually take it seriously. I only throw elbows when necessary so I'd rather not extend an invitation that would lead to such violence.

Blarney

I can't believe it, but a decade ago (A FREAKING DECADE!!!!) today I was in Dublin, Ireland marching in THE St. Patrick's Day Parade. For Cheerleading. Yep. Of course, they made us chant "U.S.A." while we walked-- stupid arrogant Americans, but it was neat all the same. I particularly loved it when the Irish kids started chanting "I-re-land" on the sidelines. What I would have given to join in. = ) As much as they jeered at our chant, however, they didn't seem to mind our short pleated cheerleading skirts...

Ah, Ireland. I hope to return someday. Especially since then I was 15 and didn't realize the significance of, well, anything. We stayed in a castle and ate a LOT of potato leek soup (which I now happen to enjoy). I think it's also the only place where the same guys hit on my mom AND me in the same go. Not, however, the only place I've seen drunken teenagers falling along the side of the road. hmm. Ah, the carefree...

May the road rise up to meet you and the wind always be at your back.
CHEERS!

A) Will's Going Down

B) For the record, it's actually rather nice here in Chicago. Of course, I am indoors and there is sunlight streaming through the windows. My friend did, however, tell me I looked ridiculous all bundled up after picking me up from the airport-- um, come on-- it was 17-freaking-degrees!

C) SJD-- I would love to see you this weekend and am going to try to go to Blackhawk Sunday a.m. Call Yooms to get my #. I tried to email you-- didn't work. Silly other-people's-computers.

D) Ok, this is muy importante. Joss Stone, The Soul Sessions put out by S-Curve Records. She's a (surprisingly white) throw-back to Aretha's soulful tunes of the seventies with a wonderful timeless feel. She even has an Aretha cover, All The King's Horses. She's got more funk than Nora Jones with just as much soul. It's a good mix of get-your-groove-going-funk and chill-yo-self-into-a-puddle-of-vibrato-driven-gelatinous-cool-ballads (ala the Romeo and Juliet Soundtrack's Kissing You). This girl proves that soul isn't bound by race-- because, seriously, what is "race" anyway. Or something. yeah.

Brrrrrr

Yeah, that's the noise I'll be making A LOT this weekend up in Chicago and around my alma mater the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Yep, might just look like this. Though I would prefer it to look like any of these.

Laughing not allowed.

Besides, I'll be with some of the most awesome people ever-- well, aside from all of you, of course. Have a great weekend!

Do you ever feel yourself slipping away? Just kind of rolling away from your true self, your own sense of self like the tide ebbing into the sea? It comes back again, always comes back. It's a cycle, you see. A cycle of comings and goings. A cycle of highs and lows; of ins and outs. Even though I feel somewhat on my way out right now, I know that I'll come back in to flood the banks once more to stir the pebbled beach, to massage and wear at every single grain, until each granule weathers to a smooth, crystalline bead and the shore awaits my coming. I will set upon it with grandeur and with grace, with presence and with ease. Eventually it will form to me and resist its shifting ways. The wind will no long control its to and fro, for that will be my kingdom. That will be my haven, beaten and caressed into peacefully concaved submission, clinging to my shape, moving at my will. Yes, sometimes I feel I am this tide, this ebb and flow of power and glory.

And yet, sometimes, I am the shore.

Absent

I will be absent today as the entire day will be spent checking Dooce's comments. I'm thinking y'all might just be doing the same thing.

Born Deaf

That's right. I was born deaf: 80% in one ear and 50% in the other. I never knew this until after Christmas when my mom and I were driving down to TN from WI. I had tubes in my ears when I was younger, but I always thought it was due to an imbalance problem (which I also had) and had no idea it was to rectify my hearing inability! My mom said she didn't figure it out until I was around three years old. I was in the bathtub and my mom would talk to me. If I was looking at her, I'd respond, but if I was looking away or she covered her mouth with her hand, I had no idea what was going on. Apparently I had gotten pretty good at reading lips (a talent I would pay for now).

Thinking of my life and my love of music, it's somewhat baffling to think of what my life would have been without being able to hear. It's like that "would you rather" game. Would you rather be born deaf or blind? Well, apparently my body would have rather been born deaf-- although it is definitely allowing my eyesight to degenerate over time.

Since I've gained knowledge of this news, I have been taking into account various situations in which I can use it to my advantage. What was that you said? I'm sorry, I was born deaf, have a hard time hearing sometimes... In truth, I do have a hard time hearing sometimes. Rather than asking people to repeat themselves over and over, I generally try to just go with the flow and guess what they said. Note: this hardly ever actually works. That's right. I pretty much end up sucking it up and admitting that I couldn't hear them because I've made a fool out of myself. Ah well. To each his own. To me-- the mule award of the day. What? I'm sorry, I can't hear too well-- born deaf, you know.

Legally Binding?

Growing up I would make contracts with my dad. I would write them out with conditions and rewards and we would both sign them. For example, we signed contracts stipulating payment methods for grades on report cards: $1 for every A, $.50 for every B, nothing for Cs, -$.50 for every D and -$1 for every F. Granted, the last three grades were never actually applicable, but I had to make it seem fair and insinuate incentive. Going into Junior High (grades 7-9) my dad and I signed a contract that if I got straight A report cards throughout all three years he would get me a car (and people wondered why anything less than an A test grade freaked me out). I got my car. I think we also made contracts about chores and vacations. I even made a contract with my aunt stating something about the two of us going abroad after I turned 18 or something. That, sadly, will forever be a contract unmet.

I returned from lunch today to find this voice mail from my mom:

"Hi honey, I just wanted to call and tell you know what a little twit you are. I was just going through my junk drawer and looking at some of your old school records in it and in there I found all the little contracts you made with your dad for grades and one of them said If I *father's name* am mean to my daughter, Melissa *last name*, I owe her an extra dollar. *laughing* And you both signed it. I love you, I'll talk to you later, buh bye."

Hey-- my momma didn't raise no fool. Maybe I was supposed to be a contractual lawyer, eh?

Are We Surprised?


Lord of the Rings!


What movie Do you Belong in?(many different outcomes!)
brought to you by Quizilla

D Day

Off to get my root canal. ok, so I'm actually not that worried, I just hate it when they stick the needle into my gums. *shudder* Not to mention the fact that I'll have a pretty numb mouth for a few hours afterward. woo hoo.

When it's over, however I will be able to chew on both sides of my mouth, at last!

2000 zero, zero party over, oops out of time

Would someone like to bank roll my way to a Prince concert? I'll let you come with-- you know, if you get our tickets. *batting eyelashes*

Rainy Day Monday

Not getting me down. For some reason I don't mind the rain today. It actually makes me smile and feel all warm and giddy inside like being in love--or maybe like being befuddled by someone new. Sometimes it's nice to lose the horizon-- let the pavement and sky bleed into one. I think today's rain is just different. It's March rain.

Unlike January or February rain which plink into icy pools, March rain starts to feed the earth in preparation for Spring. Yesterday's temps reached sixty-something. The sun shone radiantly and my step instructor bored me so I hit the road for a walk/run. (aside: my knees hate me, a lot)

I saw robins. Growing up I learned that robin-red-breasts were a sure sign of Spring. However, here in Nashville I've been seeing droves of robins since January. I guess this is where they hang until Spring in Wisconsin--which can be as late as the end of April or middle of May (it can even plunge to 40s or 50s in June evenings). Not here though. Here it's practically Spring in February. My face even got a sunburn on New Year's Eve. Yesterday, however, yesterday I saw a true sign of the nearing springtime. You see, the trees are different. Not incredibly noticeable. Not pains-takingly obvious. It's a subtle difference, one you have to get up close to note. On branch ends and interspersed along the shafts, in the shade of bark, velvety soft buds have begun their worldly emergence.

You can't have grass and flowers and healthy, blossoming spring plant life without rain. Today's rain should give them some needed nourishment. That makes me happy. And giddy. And somewhat amorous, even amidst the grey.

News

This just in (ok, it was in yesterday, but I didn't really feel like posting it right then):

Dear Ms. Reinke:

This communication is in response to your application for admission to graduate study in the Comparative Literature program at Vanderbilt University. Based on the recommendation of its faculty, we regret to inform you that Vanderbilt is unable to offer you admission to this program. If you have applied to more than one Vanderbilt program, you will receive a separate communication regarding your application to each program.


We experienced a significant increase in the number of graduate applications this year; thus, we are faced with the unpleasant task of turning down a number of well-qualified applicants.


We wish you well in your endeavors. Again, thank you for your interest in Vanderbilt University.

Ok, before you rush to the comments to console me--don't worry about it. It's a good thing. I don't think the program and I were meant for each other anyway and was probably going to turn down an offer, if extended. Not that it doesn't smart to have someone send you this kind of letter (especially when you've written them yourself and you *totally* know the thought process behind writing them) but perhaps my ego needed a little deflation. So, no "I'm sorry"s, k? If you do, I'll ban your IP :-)

In Other News

I have decided from now on when people ask me what I do for a living I'm simply going to reply: "I collate." That's it. Nothing else. That's really all they need to know, anyway. That's the gist.

Mirror, Mirror in the Sand

While walking along the shore, I happened upon a sand castle. It seemed to have been made with loving care. Intricate designs had been scalloped into its surface. Only the best sand had been used to make this castle. Little windows were carved in a couple of centimeters so that one might pretend to see inside. I planted myself a few feet away from the sandy manor, rolled onto my tail bone, wrapped my arms around my drawn-in legs, rested my chin on my knees and imagined sweeping ceilings lined with crown molding, marble pillars and intimate trinkets lining handmade shelves and cases. I dreamt of enormous ballrooms with brilliant chandeliers and private quarters with crackling fireplaces and cozy down comforters. Perhaps an octagonally-shaped library -- and one of those attached rolling ladders, the kind that every kid wants to play on and seldom can without getting in trouble, on each wall book-lined from floor-to-vaulted-ceiling. Except, perhaps, for the two walls made of three-quarters window kissing a cushioned cubby seat where one could curl up with whichever fruit of literature was picked from the surrounding grove of paper, glue and weathered bindings.

I couldn't image anyone leaving this beautiful place empty, alone, deserted. I wanted to crawl inside and find my own candle-lit nook or cranny where I could fall asleep with shadows dancing along the walls to the surrounding ocean's symphony. I got lost in that sand castle- roaming its endless halls and its varying floors, exploring its secret passages. I'd lost complete track of time and space, drifting into my own figmented Elysian Fields, not even noticing the tide rolling over my ankles, splashing my hips. Not until, that is, it broke violently through my castle walls, threw down its turrets and revealed the muddy muck inside. Startled, I shot up, my sopping clothes clinging uncomfortably, coolly now, to my clammy flesh. The tide had changed with the setting sun and with it, tumbled my fantasia. Distraught by my washed-up dream, I trudged on home.

The next day, however, I returned to that place. Instead of finding the expected ruins of my dreams, I found a child rebuilding that castle. I realized that it was not as murky as I thought, that although it was not made of marble and sonnets, it was constructed from countless, unique granules like any other sand sculpture. Yet, even knowing it was the same as others made it special, made it different. Knowing the simplicity of the design and the complexity of the grains clinging almost inexplicably together to create a shape of beauty. A shape which inspires fantasy and yet cries out for reality, for truth. A fortress, vulnerable to the phases of the moon, a hearty wind or the malice of the world-- yet rebuilt with love and care after every fall.

I think I treat people too much like fantasy sand castles-- I build them up in my mind from a safe distance and too often count them revoltingly lost with the cascading tide of revelation. Not often enough do I return for the chance to embrace the wonder and complexity in the simple truth of reality.

Random Thoughts on Some Music

Maybe it's his dragging rock-n-roll style, but every time I listen to Pete Yorn's Come Back Home I swear I can hear him lisping

Aside from Disney, only Peter Gabriel could write a song about kissing frogs

I miss The Normals, period.

Ok, I lied, I have to say more about The Normals. I've been listening to a couple of their discs (again) recently. They are just so freaking talented both musically and lyrically. No, seriously. So to catch newer glimpses of them, check out Andrew Osenga's latest work Souvenirs and Postcards. I promise he didn't pay me (or even ask) for this advertisement, I've just been lately reacquainted with how great this music is.

Last night I lay relaxing in a lavender bubble bath while Shawn Colvin's Few Small Repairs drifted in from my bedroom and thought how wonderful it is that she can have such diversity in her musical style. I want to be brooding like "Sunny Came Home" or "Trouble" and then go into a song like "Never Saw Blue" or "Witchita Skyline" with their whimsically enchanting melodies and metaphors.

Then I wondered if I should put in Travis to listen to while falling asleep. But I decided to stick with Shawn.

I'm pretty bummed I missed the Buddy and Julie Miller show this past weekend with Matthew Ryan opening, but I'll get over it-- eventually

If you want to get a lot of hits to your blog, quote some Melissa Etheridge lyrics and be sure to give her credit-- it helps if you mispell her last name. oops-- at least I'm not the only one

If you made it this far, goodness, you need something else to do- I'm even bored with this post.

Bethany's Silent

We were neighbors before we were toddlers, where you found one you'd find the other. She and I have shared since we were one
From sandbox to bathtub to strawberry ice cream cones.
Everyday we laughed when we played, till that day everything changed
Suddenly Bethany's silent, and nobody's tellin' me why

They say Bethany can't come out today, she's got to stay inside.
I'm not allowed to go in and play, she'll not seek no, she's tryin' to hide.
Used to see a shadow in her bedroom window, lookin' like it wanted out
Suddenly Bethany's silent, and I don't see anyone now

Bethany's been out of school for weeks, they say I'm better off not askin' why
Her momma and daddy are lookin' beat, when they finally make it outside
I've brought them their mail and all her schoolwork and a strawberry ice cream cone,
But suddenly Bethany's silent, her parents just send me on home.

We were neighbors before we were toddlers, where you found one you'd find the other. She and I have shared since we were one.
From sandbox to bathtub to strawberry ice cream cones.
Everyday we laughed and we played, till that day everything changed
Now suddenly Bethany's silent and nobody's tellin' me why.

In One Ear

There's a bench. It's sort of out of the way, and yet in the middle of everything. It's stone. It's been engraved. Well, not the bench, the stone wall behind it, commemorating the bench. I've spent hours at that bench. I couldn't tell you what the engraving says. Might be a famous quote. Yeah, I think that's it. Probably a quote about education or love or life lessons in general. I suppose I didn't pay enough attention because I didn't care what the bench meant to other people, just what it meant to me and what I always hoped it would be.

There's a tree. In the early spring it flowers so beautifully. There's a marker next to the tree. Marble or stone, engraved in remembrance of a life lost to a drunk driving collision on that spot. I don't remember the name, I just remember that it's a few blocks short of a quarter into my run and I'm almost done when I pass it on the way back. Well, I revere it more than that, but sometimes I just forget.

Yeah, that's it. Sometimes I just forget. It's not that I'm insensitive, selfish and vain-- that I'm so wrapped up in marveling at my own majesty in my own little universe, I just happen to forget to pay attention to other people; forget other people exist. Forget other people wake up and fall asleep. Forget other people do things differently than I do. Forget that my way may not always be the correct way. Forget other people are suffered to inhale the toxic exhaust that is my aura. Forget that I'm not running this universe.

The worst, though, the worst is that I forget I can change. I forget that I can be forgiven for being such an ass.

It's alright, It only hurts when I breathe

I used to think I was a good liar. Then I thought I was a horrible liar. Today I have realized that I am the biggest liar I know well, aside from satan. My adeptness at deception is such that my own lies betrayed me! Perhaps we all do this to some degree-- fool ourselves into believing things are different from what they are. Deception, denial, call it what you want. Me, I've been calling it home.

I suppose I somewhat subscribe to the thought that if you ignore something it will go away. Not so much. Perhaps I have been protecting myself for my own good leading to my ultimate demise! Dramatic? Yes, but it's ok, I'm allowed, it is Friday the 13th after all. Instead of making a mountain out of a molehill (see above for example) I have been making a molehill out of a mountain. It's like the Melissa Ethridge lyrics above-- It's alright, it only hurts when I breathe-- which, by the way, happens to be every single second of every single day. Don't worry, I'm not hurt and things will be fine, I just have to face up to things that I've been avoiding before I run myself into the ground and take more responsibility for my life because they won't go away by ignoring them, they'll only get worse.

(and yes, I might still be talking about that root canal--but hey, after 4 months, I'm kind of getting used to eating on just one side of my mouth)

Brush Up Your Bikram
(ten points to the person who gets that reference)

How did working out become synonymous with tension and lounging around with relaxation? Why is it that we can only seem to have either/or, but not both? Over the past year, friends have touted the many benefits of a certain yoga class. So for the past month or so, I've started going a couple times a week to Bikram (or Hot) Yoga classes. Room temperature rises to a sweltering 105 degrees, only falling to a cool 97 if something's broken. The heat warms your muscles, providing a deeper stretch and greater protection from injury. It also can cause fainting, sickness or heat stroke if you're not smart, careful and paying attention to your body's needs.

I enjoy the class. It kicks my butt and will in time hopefully help regulate my sleeping, breathing, eating/digesting and other health concerns. The thing that gets me about this class is how much it centers on relaxation. I'm telling you, when I'm holding some sort of contorted position for a minute that seems like thirty, dripping wet and gasping for air, relaxation is not the first thing that comes to mind. The different teachers have different assets to lend to each class. Saturday, the owner taught and focused on getting back to basics of endurance and form perfection. Last night, our instructor zeroed in on relaxation and breathing, reminding us when it gets hard to concentrate less on the strenuous pose and more on our deep air circulation.

Then she would say the strangest thing, "Relax your face," only to have myself refresh my look into the mirror and see not my foot extended here or there, but my brow scrunched and furrowed, the corners of my mouth taut or pursed. So, I relaxed my face and my lungs loosed, freeing my breath, freeing all my muscles really. Balance came easier, the pose more relaxed and yet deeper, more effective. See, that's just it: you have to relax to get the full benefits from yoga. Contracted muscles won't stretch, they'll tear. Moving concentration from the acting muscles to the breath frees the muscles to ease into a deeper stretch. The pose may be the desired end, but sometimes working directly on the desired end only makes it worse-- you need to find the core.

I've been hearing this a lot lately: that I have to seek the root of the problem in order to solve it. Superficial wounds may heal, but if the deeper lacerations aren't attended to properly they won't mend correctly, causing future difficulties. Those wounds might be physical, more often they're not. Sometimes we don't even know they're there until they've mended improperly-- like finishing a jigsaw puzzle by trimming a piece with a pocket knife. So I wonder- what have I passed over? What's under the surface? What am I trying to whittle down to make the big picture work my way? What about you?

It's true, it really is...
Cooler Near the Lake

In Wisconsin I guess I took for granted all of the accessible lakes. I grew up approximately 22 blocks from Lake Michigan, though I'm often heard bashing our bay's high pollution level being situated right between Milwaukee and Chicago. Seriously, hazing for summer lifeguards involves swimming from a boat to shore and then they are never actually on duty because the pollution levels are too high. They just put up these "No Lifeguard on Duty: High Pollution Swim at Your Own Risk" signs and deal with dumb parents who say asinine things like, "Oh, no, I wouldn't go in there, but it's ok for my kids to swim, right?"

Then there were other lakes. Community lakes rimmed with large cabins, houses and rickety old docks, with anchored rafts floating 15-20 feet away. Public lakes with grassy lawns edging sandy beaches. My sister got her license just before I turned 9. That next summer she would pick me up from intramural drama classes (yes, during the summer I know, I'm a dork) and have to "watch me" for the rest of the day. On days when all the stars aligned (my sister didn't have to go to work, we had enough money to get in, or it was free), we would head straight from class to Silver Lake. Her best friend(M) and my best friend(L) were sisters, so the four of us would cram the car with beach blankets, towels, tanning oils, books, boombox and all the tapes we wanted. Ok, all the tapes *they* wanted, usually a wide variety from Metallica's Master of Puppets to NWA to Andrew Dice Clay. Needless to say, not the most wholesome listening choices for a 9 year old girl.

We would spread out a couple large blankets and my sister and M would strip to their teeny bikini's, oil up and shake their 80's bangs to Sir Mix A Lot's "Buttermilk Biscuits" while scoping out the prospects. Meanwhile, L and I would swim past the buoys, do water tricks until we were blue in the face (and sand-covered and pruned-up everywhere else), beg for ice cream money and then sit back to soak up some rays and marvel at the majesty that were teenagers.

We idolized our sisters, both of whom did some modeling for local places and we were their "mini-me"s. In a way, I think our sisters used us almost as men use babies and puppies. We would call over boys our sisters thought were cute so they didn't have to do it themselves. We tricked people into believing that M and I were sisters and my sister and L were sisters, that is, until they saw the real siblings next to each other and realized the younger could have been the elder's twin, just delayed by 7 years. L and I would inevitably get into some petty fight and our sisters would threaten to beat the living crap out of us or strand us on some roadside between the lake and our homes. We would settle down, only to get upset once again when we had to leave because we knew that once we got in that car, things just wouldn't be the same.

Then we grew up. Life kind of got in the way. Although we still talked and hung out some, L and I sort of drifted apart through junior high and high school. My sister and M stuck it out much longer, but eventually found different people to hang out with on an everyday basis. Every time I go home I think about L and her family, just a quarter of a mile away from my mom's house. On a clear winter day, I could almost see their place through the abandoned field behind my house. I think the last time the four of us were out together was at some bar on my sister's 30th birthday and I left early to chill with my current best friend. Yeah, we still get together from time to time, we still fight and we still make up but it'll never like the times we had at Silver Lake.

The Amazing Race

So, if I use the promotional fares to fly Nashville to Chicago-Midway on March 5-15 and promotional fares from Milwaukee to Denver March 6-11, I can combine two trips into one, actually see my family while I'm in the "north," spend more time with my cousin, have some crazy time with my friends from Madison, have some down time at my mom's, only take one more day vacation AND save at least $150. Yep, there's a fine line between crazy and ingenious.

I understand hate. I have at one time held hate against someone and have been the object of someone else's hate. Hate spins from fear-- fear of the unknown, the known, the supposed. I almost understand love. I love and am loved by my family and friends in ways I get and ways I could never fathom. Love comes from protection, understanding, vulnerability. Vulnerability--not something at which I excel. It's not something I even pretend to embody although it sneaks up on me every so often. I am open. I am opinionated. These qualities do not vulnerability make.

What I don't understand is hurt. Hurt comes when you least expect it. I'm not talking about emotionally-trying, tear-jerking chick flick scenarios or stepping barefoot on a 200 year-old, petrified, rusty nail. I'm talking about making eye contact across the room with someone you used to know. There, even spanned over a hundred faces, something hits you like a blow to the solarplexis; one that catches you off guard and robs you not only of your breath, but for a split second knocks all ability of sense or reason from your very bones so that you can never truly explain the feeling that happens next. Maybe that feeling is vulnerability. Maybe that's why I don't understand hurt, but I'm pretty sure I will whenever I buckle down and finally get that root canal.

M.I.A.

Sorry, I haven't really been jonesin' to write lately. (ha. that just made me think of all my friends with the last name "Jones.") Anywhoo... Sure I've been a little under the weather, but almost everyone I know has, too, which probably doesn't help anyone get better. Nah, it's more like I'm just chillin' and absorbing the world around me. Opening my eyes to detail and compassion I've been deflecting for quite sometime.

Which brings me back to this acronym: M.I.A. Missing In Action. Once a term feared by nearly 50% of the US population, now bandied about with jocular ease. My cousin recently married into the army. Since then, I've become more aware of our "forgotten troops" and the devastation of war--and the seriousness of it all. Last night "Pearl Harbor" aired on one of the 5 channels picked up by the rabbit ears atop my big, expensive television. It started an hour before the Grammys and, never having seen it, I kind of got sucked in and ended up flipping back and forth during commercials.

Cheesy love triangle plot aside, that movie seemed to break my heart, because it shook me awake to the ruthlessness of war. So many people effected. So much unnecessary hurt and pain. So many innocent lives not lost, but taken. And not just on "our side." It made me think of Theoden King's stance in Two Towers and how all he wanted was to protect his people. How he wanted to shelter and shield his realm from the coming onslaught. How destructive hatred rushed to his front door, whether he understood it or not. I don't understand it. Makes me kind of walk around as if someone switched my soles with lead plates.

WANTED: DREAM INTERPRETER
(Amazing Technicolor Coat Optional)

So, I have been having the worst dreams lately-- full of people yelling at me and hating me and then me getting upset and crying or yelling back. Apparently these dreams make me toss and turn more, too. In the middle of the night I'll wake up from one of these dreams to find myself sideways across my bed, head off of the pillow, at least one arm dangling over the side. And yet, as upset as I get in the dreams, they are just as upsetting when I wake up. The thing is: they're so freaking real. They have real people from different times in my life all together in one obscure place. The other night I dreamt that the boy I liked in second grade was picking on me all night at a cheerleading competition. Except, it was now. We were both grown up, I had graduated from college and we were at a pep rally or competition of some sorts for our city's high schools. I was dressed in a cheerleading uniform, but not the high school one, the junior high one-- surprisingly it fit. (I suppose there are some things that aren't too bad about these dreams.) It seems a few of the dreams have involved people from my old cheerleading squads--darn those cheerleaders.

And my dreams will be shaped by odd factual things like this one: oh, I can't go to a new church because Lindsay needs me to help with children's ministry at 10am (which was completely factual-- she had just told me that night). So then I show up where we meet for church and Lindsay's outside with a gigantic vulture picking stuff from her hair. Then the vulture covers her and surrounding people with excrement and flies away. I go inside to clean up and it's a dorm now and I can't find a free bathroom. Once I finally do, I emerge clean to find my childhood best friend, Beth, looking out the window of the lobby. I say something like: what the heck are enormous vultures doing in downtown Nashville anyway? To which she responds: It's because of all the humus. The end.

And there are always levels, stairs and elevators going up and down, up and down. Never on the right level, always running into obstacles. So I wake up totally stressed out.

Can anyone help put a stop to this madness????

Miss February

Hey friends. Shane asked me to be guest writer for today's story from yesterday's two'fer tuesday picture vote, so you can find me here!

I think Mindy Smith has been reading my mind, or perhaps my blog. I swear when I wrapped up this post I had only heard tell of Mindy Smith but never really heard her music, especially not the song Hurricane from her debut album released just one week ago. weird.

chorus
I need a hurricane to empty out this place
Seems it's the only way
To salvage any sense I have left
To move on

Little Dirty Confession

No--not like that. Shame on you. What I mean is this: I hate bathing. No, not the actual act of cleansing or being clean; I hate the thought of being vulnerable to cold, unforgiving tile floors and spastic, inconsiderate water temperatures.

In high school I would wake up insanely early just to take inexorably long showers. Our wonderfully large shower had enough space for me to sit down in the corner, legs fully extended or knees drawn to my chest while hot water rolled down the marble-esque walls and through my clumped bed-headed tresses, dripping from my sleep-swollen eyelashes like spring-ravaged icicles, making merciful saline-free trails down my pillow-creased cheeks and pooling near my knees or feet before finally slipping home through a drain of chrome.

There I would sit for nearly half an hour, if not more, sometimes drifting back into slumber despite the risk of drowning in my own personal little sponge bath-waterfall of sorts. The rhythm of the beading water lulled me into subconscious dreams of tepid summer rains steaming on contact with cracked, sun-scorched blacktop. Had it been late college I may have dreamt of racing that summer rain; rolling thunder stirring in me an almost Pavlovian desire to lace up my sneaks and log in some serious miles--especially at night in Madison with my roommate KD, pushing each other every step up Bascom Hill before spontaneously tacking on another mile or two.

That shower was, and still is, a wonderful retreat where I could be alone and content and subdued. Now, however, it takes a long run or some other sort of sweat-inducing activity for me to set one toe in the frigid, icecap-runoff-spewing, wannabe-porcelain contraption that is my current bathtub/shower from which I scramble to leave before all semblance of hot water. (did I mention it works better without a shower head? So it's like playing with the garden hose every... well, whenever I scrape up the courage to bathe) Luckily for me, decreased bathing is surprisingly healthy for your hair and skin. Luckily for those around me, my love of work outs tends somewhat stabilize my sporadic bathing frequency. The next place I live in, I should make sure there's a steaming-hot-shower-guarantee clause in the agreement.



**Just for the record, my dream house will have bathrooms like Ashley's parents, with heated tile floors and amazingly large, you-can-actually-submerge-your-entire-body-at-once bathtubs with separate showers in order to remedy the horror that is the ice-box-bathing-experience.

Melissa means "Honey Bee"

Ok, so I admit it, you scared the hell out of me and I wasn't ready. What I was ready to do was to find anything and everything wrong with you in order to get out. In the end, all I could come up with was that you just didn't seem to see anything wrong with me. You called when you said you would. You sent me thoughtful packages with inside jokes and hidden memories. You bought a plane ticket to come see me. Your brother asked why I couldn't fly down to see you and meet him, meet the whole family. Your mom sent me a gift in one of your thoughtful packages-- a pewter frame and a nice, little note (I didn't have the heart to tell you the glass had shattered en route). We had only been dating a week and then two and then three and then I started to break out in hives.

I liked you a lot and I admired you more. I knew you were a mature man of God. I knew you were going to be an amazing husband and a loving father-- just not to me and not to my kids, even if I would have wanted that-- which I could have, maybe, in time but not right then, not at that time in my life--maybe not even yet. It's so hard to explain how I know these things, I just do. Kind of how you know the feeling of wet or how the smell of something tastes; you don't know how, you just know. I suppose it could be like how you know when you're in love-- though I might not be the right person to judge that. But I can judge when I'm not, and when I won't be. I just know (the hives might help).

I got a message that you called back the next day. Terrified, I picked up the phone to return the call, bracing myself for the verbal shredding of the century, waiting to hear how much your mom hated me now. But you thanked me. You thanked me for being honest. You didn't second guess me and go through a thousand "why"s. You thanked me for knowing and for following what I knew. I guess deep down you knew, too. That call confirmed my decision. That call saved our friendship-- because we were friends first and are friends still. And I can't express how much that means to me.

You got engaged and married the next year and I am still as sure as ever when I won't fall in love- and sometimes I still break out in hives. Unfortunately, I am still a day late and a dollar short delivering the news to the other "you"s. Not because I am unsure of him, but because I'm still trying to talk myself out of what I just know. I want to give him a chance. I want to believe I'm wrong. I want to be wrong, just once. But I've learned I have to trust in what I know and trust that I'll know when I could fall in love. So I'm waiting. Waiting to just know like I know the smell of a fresh cantaloupe or old cedar-- the way I know my mother's cough or my father's laugh-- the way I know my favorite song from just one chord--the way I know when I'm not in love- and won't be, regardless of the hives.

A Picture in Less than a Thousand Words, though it deserves more

I ran across a picture today. It's a picture of a guy and a gal-- no longer boy and girl, not yet man and woman. I'd like to tell you a story about these two people-- some of it may be true, some it may just flow from my imagination-- I suppose I'll be the only one to really know.

***

Some people you meet in life will never leave you, whether you want them to or not. Some relationships form without the knowledge of either party involved. Some ties made can never be broken, no matter how hard you try. She knows this. She's tried. You can see it in the sadness trapped behind her smile, in the lilt of her eyelashes and the glaze across her entire expression. She's been here before, where he says what she knows deep down and yet cannot seem to accept. She's tried this before and she's tried to walk away.

The last time wasn't so much a walk as a peel across the state line. She sat in the driveway, car running idle for ten minutes that seemed like twenty with every tick and tock. Almost eerily, Jeff Buckley wailed Last Goodbye over the stereo. Slowly, she opened the door and the car lurched backward, threatening to roll down the steep gravel incline. Hastily she threw the parking break into gear, fearful it might impede her getaway. She'd taken her time, though, and written it just right so all she had to do was drop off the note and head out of town.

The termite-tattered stairs groaned even under her fragile frame. Her hand lingered near the doorbell for the last time. A roommate swung the door to on his way out for the day, warm spring air rushing into the dusty foyer. He stopped to look at her, ask her if she needed help, if perhaps she was lost. He didn't know her. Didn't recognize her. Maybe he'd seen her once, or twice. Maybe in pictures, but she hasn't been around for a couple of years and he was never asked to pay much attention. He didn't know the history and impact of message in her grip. She extended the envelope from her pale fingers, the guy's full name hastily scrawled across the front. The roommate took it and set it with the other mail. He'd get it later today.

Or did he? Seven months later, there they are in the exact position she prayed to avoid that spring morning: standing face to face, every inch scaled to a mile. His shoulders sagging slightly under the weight of his certainty in her hope dismayed. In her eyes one more bauble to the ocean between them. Resonating in their bones, Jeff Buckley's Last Goodbye one last time. That is, until the next time.

ever wonder what it's like to feel drunk for several days in a row? take my sinus medication... oy- such a fog.

Red Light, Green Light

So, here's the deal-- when did it become inherent to look into the cars next to you at a stop light? Everyone does it and I'm not really sure why. If you've ever noticed someone looking at you at a stop light, then you do it too. Because how would you know that they're looking at you if you weren't looking at them? It's not like there was a special section in this in driver's ed, it just happens. Once, at that time relatively new to the driving world, I stopped at a light and found some gross guy next to me staring at me and I said "ewww" only to remember that it was summer and our windows were open. But, seriously, I wouldn't have even known he was looking if I wasn't looking to see who was over there. For the most part it's a subconscious action, however, every once in a while, you'll catch someone's eye and realize that your little world inside your car isn't as safe and secluded as you think it is once you close the door.

People wave you to pass them, they thank you for letting them in, you can see them nod-- you can watch them apply lipstick or mascara through your rearview mirror. It makes me think that if we changed our perspectives just a little bit, red cars and black trucks would be replaced with roads of mobile picture boxes into other people's lives. Kind of a scary thought.

What?

You mean I'm supposed to write new stuff on here? Sheesh-- you people are never satisfied. Ok, fine. Stay tuned for the weekend edition.

Decaying Dreams

What's the deal with girls and old, dried out flowers anyway? Ok, ok, I know what you're saying, "Why ask me? You're a girl." Right. Not only am I a girl, I'm a girl who currently has old, dried out bouquets from recent weddings hanging in her hallway, who has innocently slept with rose petals under her pillow in hopes of dreaming of true love, who has kept everything from school yard game dandelions to my first dozen roses from a boy to a pansy plucked from the landscaping of Michael Jordan's front gate on an excursion to help my friend forget, if only for a moment, that his father alit from a bridge into a cloud of his own delusions of failure less than 24 hours earlier. My mom calls me a pack rat--I like to think of myself as sentimental. To me, these dainties represent more than my inability to use a trash receptacle.

They hang daintily from hooks and rods, they lay cradled in bowls and buggies; they appear pressed in the folds of encyclopedias, nestled between Egypt and Ethiopia. In a world of failing minds and decaying dreams they don't merely represent memories-- they are memories: tangible yet untouchable, poignant yet impassive, delicate and yet, enduring.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY EMILY!!!!!!

(please be my friend again)

Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star

Daddy did a star come to you?
the one that I told all about you last night
as we sailed through the sky?
Daddy did it beg you come home
cause when you're always on the road momma cries
late at night?
We all know that you're just trying
To give us a better life
But we'd rather be poor as church mice
If it meant havin' you more than part-time.

Daddy did your ears ring last night
when I plinked my very last dime in that well?
Could you tell?
Daddy I'd give all my money
To hear you follow honey with good night
And not good bye.
We all know that you're just trying
To give us a better life
But we'd rather be poor as church mice
If it meant havin' you more than part-time.

'Cause what's the good in a better life
If you never really feel quite whole?
What's the use in the finer things
If a house is never really made your home?
Cause a house is not a home
when it's got a great big lonely hole
Daddy, we'd rather be poor as church mice
If it meant havin' a daddy full-time.

I Try Harder (Second Best) part 2

Last night at youth group, a 15-year-old girl summed up what haunts my every hour, enervates me to a point of artistic paralysis and yet whets my anthropologic appetite all in one simple sentence: "Every thought I've ever had and everything I've ever done was someone else's idea." The simple thought that who I am is an accumulation of every person and idea since the beginning of time. The knowledge that ideas, just as matter, cannot be created nor destroyed both dehydrates and quenches my creative juices.

This thought nearly crushes my will to write. Anything I could write about has already been said. Every idea has already been expounded upon. All attempts to express my ideas or myself result in merely rearranging the dictionary. Why, then, should I even endeavor to produce anything at all when authors from the beginning of time have only been writing from the knowledge left to him or her by their predecessor?

And yet, if we follow the trickle down effect throughout time, we find gullies and culverts along the way. We find deltas, brimming with fertile silt from converging concepts, running over one another, mingling notions, birthing hybrids, stronger and steadier still. We find separate constellations and solar systems of thought, stemming from a wayside brook. We find new inventions, new ways of saying things, new translations and configurations to match our ever-transforming society, our respective cultures- new every day thanks to the constant battle between conformity and deconstruction.

So, why should I bother writing? Because maybe, just maybe, there is one person out there who teeters on the brink of understanding. Maybe, just maybe, stepping into my random rivulet will wash away the remaining groundwork, allowing them the freedom to topple with reckless abandon into discernment otherwise unattainable. Maybe, just maybe, that person is you. More than likely, that person is me.