Megatron = Tron in IMAX 3D

No, I haven't seen it, but you know that made you chuckle or groan or both. What I have seen is a greater visual periphery when my eyes widen at the quality of the Tron soundtrack. Srsly.

***

"Did you ever think you knew everything?
Did you ever think you had it all figured out?
Ooh, baby, baby, you know things can change
When someone loves you with no doubt"

-Sheryl Crow, "Summer Day"

***

Well I slid back down the hill, but honestly, I'm sick of climbing. I know that whatever's waiting at the top is good, so I'm choosing to chill in the shade. I'm in no rush.

It's amazing how much wisdom and awareness are connected to each other. I feel larger than life right now, and that's wholly because I know I've only been offered a crumb of the wisdom God has for me. It seems I'm accepting it in supersaturated doses right now, but I think I'll take a wee break from the search. Melodie told me God woke her up with a word specifically for me--that God sees me as righteous and faithful and knows what I need to do even though I don't. I'd like to be still and know for a little while... I've been running and hoping to know for so long. It's starting to make my heart skip beats again.

Ron said on Sunday that when David says in Psalms, "Bless the Lord, O my soul," he is not only praising God, but commanding his soul to do so because it isn't easy, but it's necessary. That's exactly how I feel.

***

You know how people say music changes their lives? And how about 87.2% of the time, you know it's a cliche? I won't go so far as to say that music has changed my life all on its own, but I'm starting to grow convinced of God's hand in what's playing on Pandora and the radio when I choose to listen to them. I swear, there are messages for me in there. Which is cool with me, because I pray for them :)

P.S. Tayler Moosa, if you're reading this, I'm completely game for one of those shake-your-head-at-me lunches. You got my numba.

***

I'm planning two tattoos. We may even stretch so far as to call them tattwos. BAHA

5 Day countdown to Holy Baby Immanuel Jesus Manger Day! weehaw

"This is all I'm capable of right now."

There is so much to learn from Pretty Woman.

****

But then she
Tried to kiss me
And I said Don't Bother
You know we don't really love one another
And there's no use
In burning out this flame
Oh but then things changed in a way I couldn't predict
She said I love you and it suddenly clicked
That she was only saying what she wanted me to hear
And I said
Please don't lie to me Mary
And I said
Please don't lie to me Mary

- "Mary," Noah and the Whale

***

In these bodies we will live
In these bodies we will die
where you invest your love
you invest your life.

- "Awake My Soul," Mumford & Sons

**

I'm working on a poem right now that I'm gonna memorize and then perform, slam-style!
I'm also in the mood to associate new favorite music with new favorite people, so if you know of someone who's in the market for a mix CD, drop their name like a buttered jar of pennies. [HAHA]

*

Three more days
Girl you know I will be right there by your side, baby
Three more days
Girl you know I will be right there by your side, baby

I know it's wrong to leave you so alone
I know it's wrong to be so far from home
I've just got to getcha this good job done
So I can bring it on home to you
So I can bring it on home to you

- "Three More Days," - Ray LaMontagne

musical chairs with your exit signs

this has so much of my heart in it, I watched it a few times to absorb it all. it's brilliant, so I hope you'll do the same.



this poem is subtitled (Hope is Not a Course of Action).
and don't you know, I wish I could argue.

but if taking action means leaving hope, then I'll make the trade.

God is good God is good God is good, darling.
God is good God is good God is good.

Sharp

hunker down, child
the earth at your heels
digs for answers, calling
your head to sky
tears to ground
head to sky
tearing the sky

wings stretch wider
than the smile God weeps for taking
heels push further
than the wounds I wish were faking
love goes deeper
than the leaps and bounds we're making

don't let the world bend your wings
don't let the fear play your strings
don't let the dark steal your dreams

you and I, girl, we hold the fire
don't-let-Satan-blow-it-out
don't-let-people-throw-you-down
don't-let-heartbreak-say-you're-found

the earth will bend
spring up around you
like pieces to mend
and I'll be there to see you again,
my lovely friend
to see you again, my friend.

Tükin It

If you had told me, after receiving my first ever blog comment here on April 5, 2007, that Stephen and his best friend would be walking with me to Central Park's Strawberry Fields in honor of the 30th anniversary of John Lennon's death on December 8, 2010, I would have... furrowed my brow and chuckled.

But I suppose stranger things have happened :)

***
ONE WEEK!

God Moving Over the Face of the Daughters

^*Waters, hehe. But my version of the title is still applicable, and when I think of it that way when I listen to it, it makes even more sense. Also, if you've ever heard it (Moby's the artist), you may recognize that the base chords are the same ones used in the resolution music in Inception. And yes, the chords make me teary-eyed in both venues.

By the way, I did mean "base" and not "bass." I'm still a homonym whiz--don't you fret!

***

Soooo I didn't make it over to the park this morning. My workload is quite ridonkulous; I feel the need to skip church, if that gives you any idea. I will still find time to write today, and I hope you're excited! Because your expectance is the only thing holding me accountable. That and I'm worried about how complacent I've been with not writing.

Oh, I never told you how I recognized my complacency. I was sitting in church during worship and heard clear as day, "Why aren't you writing?" It wasn't audible... I haven't had that privilege yet, but it did hit me like a sack of flour. Why aren't I writing? Why aren't I exercising the one God-given skill I phrase as "God-given" because of the dire purpose and calling it has cemented in me? So yeah. One of those "Good question, God"s. Go figure?

***

Reading The God I Don't Understand: Reflections on Tough Questions of Faith by Christopher J. H. Wright for a book review for Old Testament Literature. It ties right into the Problem of Evil lecture Professor Rabinowitz (messianic Jews for the win) gave on Tuesday. I'm really enjoying it.

***

I don't care if you have as much protein as an egg, GoLean Kashi cereal. You still taste like tree bark.

Happy Sunday, lovely people! And hey, lest you forget: God is good God is good God is good.

Just warn me when forever starts to end

Hey, this posting-every-day thing is growing on me. Like a period on the end of a web-surfing sentence as I head off to bed. You know I found a relatable image to share:

Eh, that's a text. Whatevs. Also, I'm only about 12% heart at this point. I read this post today about a friend of a friend who can't help but dream, can't help but imagine what could be out of what seems as though it shouldn't have been. He can't help but extend an inkling into forever. All my coping mechanism inklings are extending into forever, which will lead to coping forever. No, not coping. After a certain point, the coping will be over. A new forever is running in my direction.

I'm going to go write in Central Park on Sunday! Expect pictures and an actual piece! Hold me to it!

Student blip: got an A- on a project that's worth 20% of my grade in a class I have a C in :) that's a happy feeling.

Now here's a picture:

Cheers, all.

Veddy Interesting

***

I've been watching some Woody Allen movies. I wrote a review of Manhattan; I really enjoyed it. I'd always heard of Woody Allen but never actually watched his works. It only took watching one more (Hannah and Her Sisters) to realize how transparent Allen is. He's a talented movie machine, but he's transparent. His movies center, from what I can tell, around justifying man's inability to defy his own whims. Allen's personal life seems to be whim-coated... I've never heard of another man who married the adopted daughter of his girlfriend of twelve years. Says his 23-year-old son, Ronan Farrow: "He's my father married to my sister. That makes me his son and his brother-in-law. That is such a moral transgression. I cannot see him. I cannot have a relationship with my father and be morally consistent...."

“The heart wants what it wants. There’s no logic to those things. You meet someone and you fall in love and that’s that," said Allen. Allen's movies' relationships are plagued with extramarital affairs and disconcerting age differences. He portrays people as having no control over who they love. That's preposterous.

Years ago I heard someone say "love is a choice." Oh! It was an older couple on Oprah. She asked them how they'd stayed in love for so long, and they said that every night, they'd write each other a letter about what about their spouse they were thankful for that day. Both said the letters were easier to write some days than others, which makes total sense. But no matter what, days full of tension and conflict ended in letters of genuine gratitude.

This reminds me of Ephesians 4:26: "Do not let the sun go down on your anger." An Anonymous offered "Happiness is a choice." Emotions are controllable. Okay, perhaps not controllable, but it's choice that transforms anger into contentment and distaste into love. It's the choices people are unwilling to make that limit our emotions. Heck, there are hundreds of choices I am unwilling to make. There are people who will always provoke that facial expression many of you know and love... and I don't care to change my opinion of many of them.

I've spoken with many friends about their discouragement concerning "not being able to help who they love." I don't know how to convince them that what they're experiencing is a lack of will. In the same way that loving a spouse and expressing that love for them is a choice the opposite spouse makes, an unfaithful spouse chooses to refrain from using self control and discernment.

This is a difficult claim to make because so many people marry people they shouldn't have married in the first place. All I'm saying is that marriages that work forever work forever because both people chose to love. I understand "marriage takes work" is not a new idea. Controlling love isn't even a new idea. But not many people have it.

Ideal love doesn't feel like a choice. Ideal love requires no self control. Ideal love is temporary. But the permanent stuff--yep, I'm going there--is worth working for.

***

"One last chance

to say goodbye,

no I-love-yous hanging

on our lips

like bad weeks of the year."

Up and Up

first of all: HAHAH^

second of all: lots of uncertainty in my head

third of all: today has been a good day.

that's gonna happen more often.

D: God is good God is good God is good!

Curses and Blessings

I could not possibly say all I've been thinking right now. My mind is a whirlpool. Cess pool, maybe.

Here's a snippet: I see what God's doing by removing control from me. He's making me squirm and retraining where I turn. I've prayed more and trusted more and gleaned more wisdom in the past week than in the rest of my life combined. Now the name of the game is to fend off spiritual warfare and resentment when I ask God for peace and don't find any. I always used to find it there.

I know he knows what's best for me, and I trust that that will be revealed to me in my lifetime.

I wish I could peek into what's best for me and rest assured that it's the same thing I yearn for.

I wish I could control what I yearn for. I can't control it, but I do think it's changing.

If you're reading this--hello.

If you're not--well that's exactly the thing I'm supposed to get used to now, huh.

God is good God is good God is good. Say it with me: God is good God is good God is good...

Essay 8

[Dad suggested I post some essays I've written for class, and I think it's a good idea. The only writing I do is for class, but I plan on changing that. I wrote this on October 22nd.]

Essay 8

“You’ll really like this,” Gina said. “You talk the same way she does.” She passed Joan Didion’s essay “Goodbye to All That” over the top bunk where I sat with my laptop and lunch.

I was staring out the window, thinking. I could see 33rd Street from where I sat—the legendary Macy’s sign, a street sign boasting “Broadway,” and hundreds of tiny New Yorkers masterfully responding to the glowing white stick men beckoning them forward. I thought of the relative ease with which I’d adapted to the crossroads of the world. I thought of what I’d rather see through my bedroom window. I thought of the boy I would not marry in the spring.

I fell asleep in my first class and barely spoke in the second. People asked me what was wrong, and I did not know. I wondered what it would be like if people expected me not to talk. I considered bailing on my dinner date with Gina; I doubted a trip to Brooklyn would foster peace of mind.

Later that night, we emerged from the Bedford Street subway station, turning our heads from side to side—deciding which corner to turn mirrored a Choose Your Own Adventure, and we relished in it. My eyes widened at the sight of a record store called Earwax Vinyl, and I nearly caused a bicycle crash in my haste to explore it. I’d only made it halfway across the street when the lights went out. The deadbolt turned. The sign changed its mind and told me, “Sorry, We’re Closed.”

“Ooh, major buzzkill!” Gina exclaimed. “It’s just your luck.” I kept my pained agreement to myself.

Gina was on the prowl for genuine red velvet cake, and I figured a bakery selling such was bound to sell something with chocolate and peanut butter. We leapt at the word Café and wandered blissfully into those with curb appeal. We walked into one but were underwhelmed and continued on. Brooklyn is, after all, the New York movies rave about. We knew not to settle.

I felt an immediate connection to Verb Café. Any café named after a part of speech earns a tiny section of my heart. They didn’t have red velvet cake, so we split a piece of chocolate-peanut butter cake. In true wannabe-connoisseur fashion, I took note of their espresso bar. No one understood my delight as I ran my fingers across a gold-plated La Marzocco logo. La Marzocco espresso bars are coffee culture celebrities, but when the cappuccino I ordered disappointed me, my daylong muse on success took a hit like a record takes a scratch. My hope to master this city and culture and career faded gently as the song would, skipping beats in an endearing way. I dread that the endearing will, as a lost lover’s pet name does, eventually grow intolerable.

I wrestled with identity that night. I wondered to what extent I knew Didion’s despair. I wondered if someone will someday remove me from this city—remove me from this Promised Land to all those who wanderlust. I used to know what comes next, but that path was drawn in sand.

Let's play a game

called How Many Ways Can "I and Love and You" Change to Fit the Seasons of My Life?

so far, three. more to come.

like when I actually live in Brooklyn :)

don't lose yourself/buh duh buh bum

Guess what? I'm on a Facebook hiatus! It feels really good. Partly because it makes me feel a bit anxious, and that dependence is exactly what I want to get rid of. I also don't need to tell people so much about myself in this season of my life. I don't like people having more access to me than they offer to themselves.

And, in hindsight, a word to the wise: do yourself a favor and set aside some of your favorite music in a category exempt from dedication. I wish more of my favorite songs could maintain their favoriteness, but I already shot that hope in the foot. Oh well.

RE: "Sure, we can grow used to being alone. But we're not supposed to." Not supposed to, no--but when prompted, beginning the process is pretty refreshing. And if you begin to lose yourself, God knows where you are. AND, as a special little parallel, if you give Him access to your information, He'll give you access to His. Isn't that spectacular?

Cheers!

P.S. Guess what else is spectacular? http://stephenbaker.wordpress.com/'s author (Stephen Baker...) is coming to visit me! With his esteemed friend/partner in crime/brother Peyton! See, December is a great month for more reasons than Christmas. :]

Happy Halloween, Weenies

"True love is like ghosts, which everyone talks about

but few have seen."

- Francois de La Rochefoucauld

***

Brother and me, Halloween circa 1996

Sister, me, and brother, Halloween 1997

three words that became easy to say

Window Seat

I have never been quite this aware of humanity's supernatural desire for connection and companionship. Even the way I'm telling you this is evidence of it. Yaaay irony!

Sure, we can grow used to being alone. But we're not supposed to.

***

I sleep above 33rd and Broadway, napping while commuters trade their walking flats for working heels and tourists buy tickets to the top of The World's Most Famous Office Building.

[can you believe it actually says that in the lobby?]

***

No worries, mate

[I feel like this sometimes. But that's okay. I don't think people should avoid sadness so much.]

We're Gon' Teach Them to Fly

Happy October 15th, bug.

Mumford & Me

*first, a shout out to my dear Molly, whose name I drop as often as I hear Mumford & Sons raved about. :)

"But you and I now, we can be alright
Just hold on to what we know is true
You and I now, ‘though it’s cold inside
Can feel the tide turning

He can't tell what it’s about
So he runs up to the nearest girl
And he comments on her glorious curls
Says darling come with me
I'll show you a whole new world"

***

"And my head told my heart
'Let love grow'
But my heart told my head
'This time no'
This time no"

That last chunk is quoted pretty often because it's pretty relatable. The whole head v. heart battle is universal. The sensation I've been....sensing, however, is that my heart is willing, and my head is not. I don't know how I went from knowing I find myself in love so knowing I don't need love to find myself, but it's a very strong distinction that I can't fight. I've chalked it up to "being in a new phase of my life," but the strings attached to that are invisible. I never expected this phase to be so...solitary. I was happy when I was in love, ecstatic and sure and glowy and effervescent and confident and optimistic. I am still some of those things. Even the "in love" is on the table. But the table has wobbly legs. Didn't I take the right preventative measures? Isn't my heart supposed to be stronger than my head?

I take solace in the fact that God is stronger than my head and my heart. And my overanalyzing and my doubt and my worry and my fear and my solitude.

Solitude.

***

"The question I would have liked to ask people is 'Are you in love? What are you reading?'"

Cheers, darlings. And feel free to answer those questions.

Thrive

"You're going to have to walk on water."

This is a picture of my heart. Well, of me. But if you were to ask me how I'm doing here, here in this city where the people are nowhere near as mean as you all said they would be, where it takes me three minutes to walk to work, where I hear "Welcome to the Empire State Building!" on a daily basis, where I can get a McDonald's ice cream cone at 1:30am for $1.08, I would show you this picture.

My interpretation of this phase of my life has transitioned. I thought of it as the part of my life where I get a degree so I can join society as an educated person. I thought of my choice to go to King's as a nice way to get into the greatest city in the world, and to keep God in the forefront while I'm at it. I don't feel that way anymore. I know now that God brought me here to become who I should be.

Interjection: I was never on board with the whole "get ready, college will change you" thing. I've always been fairly self-assured....eh, who am I kidding. Extremely self-assured, and I didn't like people thinking that I would mature into a whole new person. I didn't realize the level of maturity they meant. Honestly, the level I'm experiencing is probably not what "they" mean until "they're" about 35. But hey.

So anyway, God brought me here to become who I should be, and I can't explain how I know that (to the certain someone I know and love who will ask me to explain it when I come home for, oh, 4 hours or so), but it's true. I now see that I was brought here to deepen Our relationship (if He's part of the pronoun, I figure I should capitalize it, no? heh). I'm surrounded by people who foster and encourage love, mercy, justice, and accountability. I get to hang out with these people, hang out with the God of the universe, and get a degree while I'm at it. In New York City.

On a heavier note, I do not care to entertain the fact that I'm on a peak of life, or that that peak can become a valley in one moment. But since I do entertain the fact, my head gets full. Or, as Foer would say, my boots get heavy. And then you know what's nice at the end of the day? Asking God to wear them for me.

So. Whether you actually made it this far into the post or you skipped ahead to the part where you expect an almighty conclusion, thank you for reading. The almighty conclusion happened a bit earlier, by the way.

(HA! I slay me.)

P.S. Tomorrow, I put on my dancing boots! Huzzah!

"Don't screw with poetry."

^My writing teacher said that. Ha!

Thoughts I've had today:

I wish I had a tea kettle, a bagel slicer, a pizza slicer, and a 2 tbsp scoop.

Kitchen scissors cut pizza?! Say whaaaa

How did I make it this far without a single silly band? (trademark symbol ftw)

I'd like to go to Israel.

I don't need to put sugar in my coffee anymore! But I still like it sometimes.

Coffee is delish.

College still feels like a summer camp.

I have no idea what's going on in the world outside of New York City, which is sad and somewhat ironic.

I'd really like to make room for a time in my life without a job, significant other, or classes. I have no idea where that would fit, and I'm not even sure I would like it as much I imagine I would.

I am very sleepy.

Getting outside of Midtown gives me hope for life in the city after graduation. I'm not even sure I'd still want to be here, but it's nice to know that there are areas where, if it made sense to be here, I'd enjoy myself.

Trusting God is really really really refreshing.

Peace.

(Connection Crisis)

"The man who is contented to be only himself, and therefore less a self, is in prison. My own eyes are not enough for me, I will see through those of others. Reality, even seen through the eyes of many, is not enough. I will see what others have invented. Even the eyes of all humanity are not enough. I regret that the brutes cannot write books. Very gladly would I learn what face things present to a mouse or a bee; more gladly still would I perceive the olfactory worls charged with all the information and emotion it carries for a dog.

Literary experience heals the wound, without undermining the privilege, of individuality. There are mass emotions which heal the wound; but they destroy the privilege. In them our separate selves are pooled and we sing back into sub-individuality. But in reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself. Like the night sky in the Greek poem, I see with a myriad eyes, but it is still I who see. Here, as in worship, in love, in moral action, and in knowing, I transcend myself; and am never more myself than when I do."

- C.S. Lewis, an excerpt from "An Experiment in Criticism"

Silence and Sirens: A Slant Rhyme

Poetry is sensory. I pull phrases together from what I feel, what I imagine those around me feel. I pull phrases from what I wish I knew how to feel. Curiously enough, sensory overload represses the phrases and pulls me only to feel.

I'm not sure why I thought that a divine calling required a skill. Or why I thought senses to be overrated; I wished they would fall away, pave the way--get out the way!--of the truth. I expected the truth to end profoundly, to comfort me, to push me, to call me to thrive. I expected a truth to list the steps to discovering truth. And no, I didn't/still don't care that truth is objective, subjective, vague, and up to interpretation. Its ability to be interpreted is only your interpretation of it.

Sorry. I sound like a philosopher.

What I'm getting at is a discovery. I discovered, while pushing to listen past the sirens for something profound, something supernatural to guide my feet, that the sirens are profound. My ability to pull them apart from each other, to try and transform them, X-men style, into the sound of falling rain, is a calling in itself. I am called as a follower of Jesus Christ, submerged in the center of the world, to sense.

Because, friends, those who say (while I see what they're getting at) "love is senseless..." are choosing to take love's kaleidoscope and peer through a single facet. I'm striving to go beyond the direct, past the peripheral. The warrior I am for Christ sees supernaturally, and I realize now that while writing about what I see naturally--and sometimes supernaturally--brings what I see as my God-given influence to those around me, I can't prioritize it over simply soaking in what God puts in front of me. Poetry is sensory, love is sensory, God is love. Love is good. God is good!

We good?

Hibye

3 days left. That's not a ton of days.

I'm excited to write posts featuring pictures of New York City that didn't involve Google Image searches.

I'm moving into the middle one. :)

Good Riddance

Okay here's the deal. It's not that I was ever in denial about how fast time goes by. I just didn't like to hear people who felt they knew better tell me that that is the case.

Now it's all I can do to stop myself from shouting to children waiting at bus stops: YOU DON'T CARE NOW, BUT YOU'LL NEVER GET THIS TIME BACK! DON'T WASTE IT!

This is how I feel: :(( :O :D :/ :* :?@#$^!($@)#%$($%(@ughhhhh

I don't know what time I wasted, but it had to have been somewhere. I rely on time's consistency, but good riddance, folks. Why do last weeks in town fly as swiftly as lunch breaks?

And you know, I don't expect this to be the most intense transition I will make. It's the first wave of depressedexcitement, and I'm holding on for dear life. Dear, dear life.

W 34th St, New York, NY, 10001

Hi there! Sorry I've been MIA. I work a lot and I sleep a lot and I think a lot about how I have to pack no more than one fits in one third of a 500 square foot apartment. I leave for New York City two weeks from yesterday, but hey. Blogs are interstates of their own. Information interstates. Oooooh.

For the readers who don't know, I'm going to The King's College in Manhattan. Wikipedia it; the article's nice :)

I promise I will semi-regularly enter my thoughts in this forum. I might even start a new one about Starbucks work experiences. What do you think?

Peace,

lucy

Supraconscious

summer means love and falling in love while being in love, love, and wondering which way the love falls. lower case letters and mix CDs, Julie's 80s Mix in the drive thru trash, a stack of cassettes tattooed on a hip. the empire state building, ESB to you, drawn smaller than life up the bones where you breathe. JET, LCD, ESB, ATL, NYC, life is so acronymical. sound out each letter, baby Lucy, C-A-T. don't say the whole word, blue collar worker, you'll run out of time. syllables correlate with inefficiency, Mr., you'd best spit it out. they'll know what you mean.

what do you mean? to whom do you trust your future? your safety, your security blanket, your excursion into post-curfew hours, your Excursion in the fast lane. Life in the Fast Lane? move over, Sparky. my radar detector detects no such thing. no lights, no sirens. no brakes, no fakes. the only siren I know boasts a cup of Anniversary Blend, spins around a lightning rod, spins around my 401K. and 401 K to go before you sleep. and 401 K to go before you sleep.

take a deep breath in, out. in, out. see? piece of cake. it heals in time. the number one rule?

exactly! I see you've been paying attention.

Edges

Earlier than the sun she wakes to his elbow between her ribs. His edges sleepwalk like her mind--panic attacks manifest only in recurring nightmares. Dry eyes scan the ceiling, forbidding a glance at the bedside table. She overrides their conviction and observes a clock's top right corner enclosed by two black arrows. She appreciates his shape rising and falling next to her but no longer craves it. If only, she muses, everything were as concrete as time.

Inclement

single-passenger umbrellas fill the streets as rain does,
grates absorbing the storm and filth,
sleeves absorbing the weight.
it's not moisture they fight, but gravity
willing the clouds instead to swell
gray, full, stoic
as though with the silent
pride and thick
ambition
city dreams require.
'Be nice to everyone, for each fights a battle'
or something like that.
cabs carry two
one driving, one paying
yet tonight
as one
we battle the rain.

Hush

All along the western front, the ringtones and blingtones screamed from the spires. "I can see you and be you," they cried. "Be me?" I inquired. "What am I to be while you are me? If my eyes are to be free, should they see you being me? Am I to bleed into the sea so the you that's me can be?"

They shrugged.

***

Tears are tributaries. Cheeks the basins, sorrow the sea. Droughts are signs of good times, then, but what are the fish to breathe?

***

I love you, Great Grandma Bebe. I will miss your soft words and humor, you calling me precious, you smiling as we walked in the door. Please forgive me for not being there once you didn't know whether to smile. Internet spans the nations, right? And the heavens, I believe. You will see this somehow, or feel it straight from me, as I will feel you for the rest of my life.

Hey Kids

I haven't written in ages. Maybe that's why my back hurts.

Recent thoughts for those who wonder why I never post them:
1) I hope I pass my driver's license test next Thursday
2) My siblings and I are growing up to be really cool people
3) I love that feeling when you first meet a friend and have a gut feeling that you'll be each other's support system for a long time coming. I love the ambiguity and anticipation in that feeling even more than I love the security in knowing that they feel the same about you. Must be the dose of gambler's adrenaline in my veins.
4) Poker is fun
5) I'm going to be on my complete own in the capital of the world, and I'm not nervous about it. Though I can't tell if understanding that you think I would be means I actually am....
6) I have a sinking feeling that I'll never get around to seeing very much of the world. Seriously, it gnaws at me.
7) I need to stop priding myself on being a ray of reality in people's lives and start focusing on becoming a ray of sunshine.

Sunshine is real, after all.

Pop Tart

I've been having thoughts lately. The kind I would write down if I were sitting down to my typewriter as I had them. But I never was. And I pretended that introspection's majesty lies in its internalization. I changed my mind. A thought's majesty lies in the possibility that it could affect another's thoughts. Interactions, relationships, discussions, opinions, arguments, agreements, realizations, after all, make the world go round. More so than, in my opinion, fat bottoms ever did. But hey.

Also, I dance wildly in computer chairs. In the wee hours of the morning. To Lady Gaga. Adios, Indie. Helloooo pop, love, and happiness.

Happy summer, loves.

Roomy Nations

I think this next chapter of my life is going to be a picture book.
the words will be in the back of the book on a page called Acknowledgments. and Index.


also, damn you, insecurities. that is all.

A is for Alive

I hope you can imagine the places where, if I were to read my writing, my eyebrows would raise, my eyes would tear, my jaw would set, my lips would smile, my fists would clench, my chin would lift, my head would hang, my eyes would widen.

I hope you can imagine what my words, were they to live, would look like.

All I ever wanted to be was a starving artist.

I wish I had recorded Barbara Donnelly Lane's presentation to our class today. She's a freelance/children's author who spoke to my Literary Magazine class about why she writes, the persistence a writer's life requires, and the importance of knowing why such persistence is worth it.

Though she described in detail the hardships writers face, she fueled my yearning to share my words with other people. As she described the discouragement attached to multiple publishing rejections, I couldn't help but know that I will stomach whatever it takes. She said, "You have to want to write badly enough that the process seems worth it. You have to have an outer shell that rejection bounces off of because if you don't, you'll stop trying. I used to save all of my rejection letters. Don't do that. Burn them.

"You have to know why you want to write, and you have to practice your craft. I have no respect for writers who don't practice their craft. And I have no respect for writers who can't tell me what they read last. Writers need to read.

"You need to know how you're going to eat. Writing for self-publication alone will not put food on the table. Think about your education and get a degree that sets you apart."

She shared this quote with us as one that stood out to her as irrevocably true for writers:

"Nothing in the world can take the place of Persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent." - Calvin Coolidge

I want to clarify that I do not ever plan to answer the question "What do you do?" with "I'm a writer." I envision "writer" as a title saved for other people to use about the writers they respect. The title is overused. Too many use the title as their key to a literary pedestal. To cultural importance. To unmistakable talent.

In my opinion, which I will too gladly share with you for the rest of my life, no one should label themselves as having any of those.

Class of 2010, prepare yourselves. The next twenty-five years may fly by as swiftly as the past twelve did. And when you ask me at our 25th High School Reunion, "What are you doing these days?" you'll wonder if I ever removed the "rising" from "rising college freshman." I will answer, "I want to be a writer."

Rewound Up

"The conclusion I've made is that you don't talk about things that eat you alive. Some people cannot comprehend and are not willing to in any way. It's hard when you put something aside and keep busy every second so you don't have to think about things, so your mind will slow down. But some nights one thing sets you off and there it is, everything. But they don't understand how you can wake up and literally have no idea what was devastated." --http://suzywire.tumblr.com/page/2

Missing

How could divine inspiration leave me so empty?

You knowing my heart means You know how much it yearns for answers. And how many beats it's been skipping lately.

Everything is shaking.

Red Light, Green Light

I feel sometimes as though if no one hands me a pen, if no ink falls from the sky with which to empty the spirit worth of words that throbs from within my mind, I would explode. I would scream. That the tears--a spirit's translation--would turn to fire before leaving my eyes. It would radiate from my pores, steam masking the vibrations my wailing created. And this is how I knew what my life would mean.

Is my purpose in mid-revival? I feel like my soul is growling. The halls they press and might as well be prisons, the weight of leaving too much grapefruit juice in the fridge, the guilt of allowing the melon to overripen, and I cannot speak of it. Polypragmus and his heartbreak and my broken cuticles and forgetting deodorant, what kind of person am I? I'm a monkey and I'm furious, and I bleed blue and see stars. And no one can tell me when to stop, and if they did I would shriek, I would press my lips together and blink too quickly and ignore too many people. I fill notebooks with scribble but I know it, and I want to dance but cannot move. I feel shaky, I cannot hide, I thought to myself, "You could not be so good to me." My red pen died today and I tried to remember its length of service, then I threw it to the ground and retrieved this blue one. Blue like sky and the water and some birds and grande hot lid labels, which I tell apart from the tall lids because grande is blue and the sky is blue and the sky is grande. And as my right thumb cramps and my writing callous grows, I can feel my lungs breathing and my heart slowing and my mouth corners upturning. My English teacher told me he was sure I could relate to Virginia Woolf, who drowned herself because she had too much to say and no way to say it. She felt trapped in her own mind. And I looked past the suicide and immediately thought, "thank you for knowing that I've never related to anything more in my entire life."

You're the one that I want---ooh, ooh, ooh

and I really feel like it's going to work.

I prefer the days when I want to say, "screw you, realists!" to the days when I am the realist.

there are signs everywhere. The one at the top of my list is that though we're both going places, neither of us is going anywhere.

and for now, I will steep in that optimistic certainty.

screw you, realists!

:)

Beat

the groovers and the shakers
drive dusty convertibles,
miss exit after exit.
they travel instead,
godspeeding through the night,
mocking motel vacancies
mocking the resting
grooving and shaking all the while.

the groovers and the shakers belong
near an eight track library
near a smoky bar’s DJ
near their partners’ twisting hips.
the groovers and the shakers move
behind the wheels of their dusty convertibles,
steering with knees,
clapping with hands.

music the magic
heartline the highway
arteries amplify blood-steeped basslines.
the sun reclaims the moon’s former reign
and turns the volume down.
the groovers and the shakers wait, bated,
til dusk permits.

and when the reds oranges pinks purples blues
relinquish their Kodak moments to the stars,
relinquish their light to the black,
the groovers and the shakers open their eyes,
unpack tambourines,
don headbands,
and lace boots,
grooving and shaking all the while.

Kryptonites

Writer's block just made my list of most crippling sensations.

The other two are heartbreak and distance from God.

I suppose I am thankful that I only have three. Pray that I reach out to somebody on the days I encounter all three.

Icarus

"you put the verb in reverberate,"
she said.
"you bounce within me like a jarred firefly,
trapped but still lit.
blinking and communicating."

"I want to fly,"
he said.
"I want to smell the sun
and drink the sky.
drown in the wind
and whisper to the stars."

"you're quite the Icarus,"
she said.
"promise me, love, that you will cool before you burn.
hit the water before you swallow the sun.
I promise you, love, to dodge the dripping wax and cloaking feathers.
to catch you."

"don't you see?"
he said.
"you need only be caught.
for you are my sun
my sky
my wind
and my star.
my feathers will cloak you alone.

it is then you will know I am home.

it is then I will know I am home."

From "Wit"

V: I can recall the time... the very hour... of the very day... when I knew words would be my life's work.

***

flashback: Vivian Bearing [V], age 5, reading to her father [F] as he reads the newspaper.

V: I like that one best.

F: Read another.

V: I think I'll read..."The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies." It has little bunnies on the front. "The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies." By Beatrix Potter.

'It is said that the effect...

of eating too much lettuce...

is...'

What is this word?

F: Sound it out.

V: So-por-i-fic. What does that mean?

F: Soporific? Causing sleep.

V: Causing sleep.

F: Makes you sleepy.

V: 'So-por-i-fic' means 'makes you sleepy.'

F: That's right. Now, use it in a sentence. What has a soporific effect on you?

V: What has a soporific effect on me?

F: What makes you sleepy?

V: Nothing.

F: [chuckles] That's right.

V: What about you?

F: What has a soporific effect on me? Let me think. Boring conversation, I suppose, after dinner.

V: Me too. Boring conversation.

F: Good, excellent. Carry on.

V: 'It is said that the effect

of eating too much lettuce...

is soporific.'

The bunnies in the picture are sleeping! They're sleeping like you said, because of sop-or-i-fic!

***

V: The illustration bore out the meaning of the word... just as he had explained it.

At the time it seemed like magic.

"Maybe"

how unsure it is,
the period of time
it will take
to make sure
you are sure.



slowly pulling away from what makes me the happiest is starting to [that's a lie. it never didn't] feel like the kind of torture that relies on the relationship between pain and insanity.



...once your shirt starts smelling like me, I'll give it back. I'll have no use for it anymore.

Fun House

Across the room I saw the woman’s face,
her smiling kind and smooth complexion fair.
The matted frame, a throne for searching eyes;
for even from the wall her spirit poured
so effervescent that I wondered where
the smile and life behind the glass has led.

Her folded hands and hair as black as lead
that framed within a frame her striking face
resembled someone’s face I’d seen, but where?
Like walking through a fun house at the fair,
familiar feature twisted pore by pore,
distorted mem’ries loosely veiled my eyes.

I tried to see the world through frozen eyes—
the ones to which my wand’ring eyes had led—
and saw her travels; maps she’d often pore
deciding on adventures left to face.
The hackneyed saying “Life is never fair”
did not apply; she could go anywhere.

Upon her sleeve a wounded heart she’d wear
for broken love had hurt, not changed her eyes.
But oceans span more distance than seems fair;
regret remains an anchor dense as lead.
Perhaps a journey far from Mister’s face
would teach her life and lessons far from poor.

In Rome, the holy water bathed her pores
And in Madrid she’d ask them “Dónde?”—“Where?”
In Giza, sand she blames for Sphinx’s face
And Paris begs she question Lisa’s eyes.
In Delhi, Ghandi, wise and peaceful, led,
revealing that the love she seeks is fair.

These visions of a woman young and fair
resounded, clean and pure like showers pour.
My mind—a pack in which confusion led—
resolved to scrutinize the woman’s ware.
The glasses, red and thin around her eyes
perplexed me—frames the same sit on my face.

As wrinkled soul and face compared our eyes,
a triumph led to cognizance unfair:
I realize now her every pore I wear.

***

A sestina is a poetry form that requires six sestets in iambic pentameter. The last word of each line in the first sestet determines the words that will end the lines, in a specific and different order, in the following sestets. Sestinas conclude with a tercet that includes two ending words per line.

They are very difficult to write successfully; this is the result of many hours. Let me know what you think! :)

Migration

"I am not at peace, I tell her. I want to fail. I am hungry
for what I am becoming. What will you do? she asks. I will continue north, carrying the past in my arms, flying into winter."

— Jack Gilbert

Dark, The Absence of Color

dark, the absence of color
black and swirl and abyss
one step above an Escher print,
depending on the viewer’s eye.
the weight of the bleak bends no minds;
thoughts remain satisfactory victims.
whizzing by
breaking windows and sound barriers
an unidentified flying
foreign
object
splatting and sprinkling and smiling
the opposite wall with a thick liquid.
upon closer examination,
(the only kind they are willing to offer)
here we have it, they say.
in reality, two ells from a literally,
a wounded, paint-spilled
spiritless shell of a balloon
whose dying words still ooze from resilient lips:
“through the prism.”
yellow, yellow, yellow…
echoes echoes echoes.
no sooner can the grief swell up within them
(losing such a frightening, mysterious creature causes frightening, mysterious grief)
than does the creature’s army ambush,
through rafters and expectations,
slats and stock and straw.
pigment slips down faces of a shelter’s cube.
the color is relentless.
as dodging truth to protect ignorance often does,
retaining a grasp on the abyss proves futile.
playing hide and seek in the Great Plains.
taping orange leaves to their branches.
pressing eyes closed to hold on to the dark
for no other reason than to secure the familiar
surely paints eyelids.
and as the sun rises
(for how long had it slept?)
and breaks through the broken window yet again
a refracted rainbow brightens the barn
doors and floors and boars.
wilted soldiers,
victorious in their vibrancy,
drape the ground.
color
Color!
drapes the very air.
abyss stems now not from depths of darkness
but depths of novelty.
and through the prism in the pane,
what’s left of rainbow
drifts slowly to the sky.

New York, I love you--but you're bringing me down...ba dum ba dum, ba dum ba dum

Though I am no Englishman, I will soon be a legal alien in New York.

Don't think of it as me leaving you. I chose NYC over Bremen, Germany, so there's something to be thankful for, eh?

Think of it as the greatest city in the world becoming more accessible; starting August sometime-or-other, there will be a person there--living day in and out, opening a Starbucks, grocery shopping, laundromatting, running in the rain, riding the metro--who loves and misses you.

I wish I had someone in New York who loves me. I guess I'll have to take who I find and make it happen!


"Distance is to love what wind is to fire; it kills what's fickle, but strengthens what's real."

[image courtesy of Le Love]
[title lyric courtesy of LCD Soundsystem]

"Write because expression is everything."

Love
is a combination of
finding the person who fits your definition
of love
and finding the person whose definition
you
would love
to fit.

***

"She can be really sweet, but when she decides to be mean, she's...really cutting. She knows how to take you down a notch, you know? And I think [her daughters] have learned a little bit from her."

***

well, yeah.

***

perfect college = the one that tells you not to "beat yourself up about all that Physics stuff." :]

Sponge

I easily absorb others' heartbreak.

Those who can't absorb it break my heart.

Two To Tango

life calls for a dancing partner.

dance to the dishwasher

rinsingrinsingrinsing

tango to the tea kettle’s whistle

boogie to the morning birds.

it’s time for your hands to meet new hips.

smile grudgingly

and secretly glow

when the someone whose chest fits your head

moves those defiant fingers

your worn and calloused, masterpiece-penning fingers

from your hips

to theirs.

wrestle with your furrowing eyebrows until

they pull up and out

up on your eyes

all the better to see you with, my dear.

if the beauty is too much,

close them.

music doesn’t stop.

water will churn, boil, and bathe the birds,

those impossibly incandescent lovebirds,

until your feet stand still.

Hey.

So I keep bouncing from blog to blog wondering why authors haven't posted in months.

Apparently I don't hold my own to the same judgment. Ha.

***

I read a PostSecret the other day that chilled me: "I lost my ability to write beautifully when I lost my faith."

All you need to know is that I'm slowly regaining my faith, and that I'll be back soon.

Peace, all.