I was sitting on a lawn chair in my driveway getting whittling lessons from my brother when I noticed a familiar car driving down the street. It was white, mostly. And smallish--I never did catch the make and model. And a large woman with curly hair and a giant smile was driving it.
I couldn't believe it, but apparently Candy and her 2 sons (and presumably her husband and brother-in-law) had moved from Virginia to a house right down the street from me! I met this family while working for ASP this summer--I never expected to see them again so soon!
So naturally, ran out to the road to say hello.
Except then she yelled at me for spying on her--how did I know that she'd moved in down the block from me if I wasn't spying? "It's not nice to watch people like that!"
I was mortified--I hadn't been spying, somehow I just knew! I ran into the house crying my eyes out about how all I wanted was to say hello and give her a hug and learn more sign language. "I just... Candy... Tommy..." I choked.
My mother promptly handed me a chocolate bar and went to go find my brother Tommy to see what he'd done to make me cry.
...And then I woke up.
I don't dream very often. Based on the above, that's probably a good thing.
30 August 2007
29 August 2007
Mah Na Mah Na
I always found myself wondering: how does she do it? How? Is it really possible for one person to overflow with that much happiness, that much love?
Evidently it is possible, because there she stood before me, ordering me into the kitchen to get myself a plate of food. She is infectious--it is not possible to frown when seated in her living room.
She doesn't understand sadness. When she cannot bake from the recipe her cousin gave her because she is still angry at her for dying, I think she must feel sadness, but feeling is not the same as understanding, certainly not the same as accepting. Emotions can be felt reluctantly, as perhaps should be sadness.
What she does understand is love--joyful love. That is one emotion that should never take company with reluctance. I saw her cook and hug and smile and laugh and worry over her family like each member was the most beautiful thing on earth.
And she was so busily happy.
I still do not understand the how, although I wish I could duplicate it. But the why... Why not? Why not smile?
* * *
Rereading my words, I feel cheesy. But I also feel they are true.
Evidently it is possible, because there she stood before me, ordering me into the kitchen to get myself a plate of food. She is infectious--it is not possible to frown when seated in her living room.
She doesn't understand sadness. When she cannot bake from the recipe her cousin gave her because she is still angry at her for dying, I think she must feel sadness, but feeling is not the same as understanding, certainly not the same as accepting. Emotions can be felt reluctantly, as perhaps should be sadness.
What she does understand is love--joyful love. That is one emotion that should never take company with reluctance. I saw her cook and hug and smile and laugh and worry over her family like each member was the most beautiful thing on earth.
And she was so busily happy.
I still do not understand the how, although I wish I could duplicate it. But the why... Why not? Why not smile?
* * *
Rereading my words, I feel cheesy. But I also feel they are true.
Finally.
Evidently I don't know how to set the alarm on my phone properly, because it didn't go off at 8:00 as planned. I slept until almost 11--by the time I got my butt out the door to run, it was really hot and humid.
But in my bedroom I still managed to cover up all of my floors and furniture, mask all the trim and the ceiling fan, and spackle all the nail holes.
It's too late to paint the ceiling, says my dad, because it's getting dark. Bah.
But finally. I've actually done something useful with myself--not as much as I had hoped, but it's something.
But in my bedroom I still managed to cover up all of my floors and furniture, mask all the trim and the ceiling fan, and spackle all the nail holes.
It's too late to paint the ceiling, says my dad, because it's getting dark. Bah.
But finally. I've actually done something useful with myself--not as much as I had hoped, but it's something.
18 August 2007
Life Inside
Excerpt from my journal, 10 June 2007, 12:18 am
Volunteers are coming tomorrow (today actually). I'm really, really nervous, I'd say. But excited. And encouraged.
We watched The Guardian tonight, and while it was too intense to be relaxing, it was really good and made me think.
I want a job like that. Not an actual cost guard job, but something just as powerful. Something so a part of me that I am defined by it and by me it is defined. I do not want to be ashamed if someone were to address me as "the one who works for this" or "does this." It will be mine and it will be me and I will be it. Of course, I don't know what this job is yet. And I do want a life outside my job. But I want there to be life inside my job, too. So much life that it hurts to retire. Then I will know I have earned old age.
*** *** ***
The reason I am resorting to excerpts is that I want to tell y'all my thoughts from my summer away from blogging, and because not much worth noting really happened today.
Also, Christine said "Um, I love this song. Listen to it, 'tis worth it." She was right. Aerosmith's "What It Takes" is proof that even rock stars can be a little emo.
16 August 2007
With Love From the Momster
I know I already updated with a poem today, but maybe my faithful readers (heh) would like something happier than sexual abuse to ponder. I've been thinking about strength.
I once wrote in my LiveJournal about how the woman in charge of Habitat for Humanity in Tupelo, Mississippi commented on my apparent toughness: "You're tough, you know. I don't have to worry about you." She said this as I was climbing onto the back of a rather ornery horse that I, as the one in the group with the most experience, had volunteered to ride. And this was at the end of a week of working with power tools, so there was her basis for judgment. But that didn't make me feel strong. Not emotionally, anyway.
My mother, however, happened to read this LiveJournal post. Her response, I think, is worth highlighting:
After reading that, I made a mental note to avoid letting the stress and frustration my job might bring make me stop caring less about it. I felt like I was succeeding for the most part, until the last week, week eight, when I knew I was ready to go home. I still cared about the people and finishing the projects, I more felt tired of the complaints of volunteers and the more menial tasks that needed to be done (i.e. paperwork!)
But now that I'm thinking more about it, I do feel jaded, which frustrates me like any weakness would. I'm not reacting to things the way that I have normally reacted in the past. I haven't really cried in months, and I probably should have on numerous occasions. I do not feel strong, in any sense of the word. But I do still care, about people and crappy situations and everything I've always cared about, even if I haven't shown it--or am I just telling myself that?
No. I care. A lot. A family member emailed me today just to say "hi" and "I love you". It made my day.
I just need some time, is all.
I once wrote in my LiveJournal about how the woman in charge of Habitat for Humanity in Tupelo, Mississippi commented on my apparent toughness: "You're tough, you know. I don't have to worry about you." She said this as I was climbing onto the back of a rather ornery horse that I, as the one in the group with the most experience, had volunteered to ride. And this was at the end of a week of working with power tools, so there was her basis for judgment. But that didn't make me feel strong. Not emotionally, anyway.
My mother, however, happened to read this LiveJournal post. Her response, I think, is worth highlighting:
The question isn't whether or not you are tough. Anyone can be tough. After all "toughness" isn't necessarily a desirable trait--no one wants tough steak, tough luck, tough homework assignments...you get my point.
The real question should be how do you conquer the challenges of life and yet remain soft? Not spineless. But soft. Softness allows you to bend instead of breaking, to be open and approachable and touchable. Softness allows you to feel, which might sometimes lead to pain, but is still far better than a life without feeling.
So wield those power tools, shoot your guns, climb a ladder (or a tree or a mountain), and ride ornery horses (remember the ornery ones need you the most), but through it all, remain soft. Ever-soft.
That's my advice on life this week!
Love you!
The Momster
After reading that, I made a mental note to avoid letting the stress and frustration my job might bring make me stop caring less about it. I felt like I was succeeding for the most part, until the last week, week eight, when I knew I was ready to go home. I still cared about the people and finishing the projects, I more felt tired of the complaints of volunteers and the more menial tasks that needed to be done (i.e. paperwork!)
But now that I'm thinking more about it, I do feel jaded, which frustrates me like any weakness would. I'm not reacting to things the way that I have normally reacted in the past. I haven't really cried in months, and I probably should have on numerous occasions. I do not feel strong, in any sense of the word. But I do still care, about people and crappy situations and everything I've always cared about, even if I haven't shown it--or am I just telling myself that?
No. I care. A lot. A family member emailed me today just to say "hi" and "I love you". It made my day.
I just need some time, is all.
Mysteries
The following is not a happy poem. It was not happy to write, it is probably not happy to read. And I'm not sure it's finished just yet. But the negative aspects of things need to come out, somehow.
I'm thinking about my summer--there an entire spectrum of thoughts to sort through where that is concerned. Thing difficult to communicate perhaps belong only to poetry.
*** *** ***
Mysteries
A lake is an ocean
in a child's wide eyes. It collides
with the horizon and sends up golden sparks,
pink lemonade gushing and overflowing, pop!
Then color rushes into black waves
but still the child is mesmerized,
fishing for how and where, and why?
Something about particles
and selective scattering,
and it's just the tilt of the earth
that makes little lakes look big.
So why's it still before a storm
And how do animals stay warm
alone outside on winter nights?
And polar bears-do they ever bite?
Why do people go to church?
What does daddy do at work?
What makes people sad?
And why did grandpa look so mad
when I told the visitor about all the places
he'd kissed me hugged down on the mattress?
Some lakes shrink as they grow
and yet remains in memory
an ocean impassively wide--
no fisherman can ever touch the sunset.
I'm thinking about my summer--there an entire spectrum of thoughts to sort through where that is concerned. Thing difficult to communicate perhaps belong only to poetry.
*** *** ***
Mysteries
A lake is an ocean
in a child's wide eyes. It collides
with the horizon and sends up golden sparks,
pink lemonade gushing and overflowing, pop!
Then color rushes into black waves
but still the child is mesmerized,
fishing for how and where, and why?
Something about particles
and selective scattering,
and it's just the tilt of the earth
that makes little lakes look big.
So why's it still before a storm
And how do animals stay warm
alone outside on winter nights?
And polar bears-do they ever bite?
Why do people go to church?
What does daddy do at work?
What makes people sad?
And why did grandpa look so mad
when I told the visitor about all the places
he'd kissed me hugged down on the mattress?
Some lakes shrink as they grow
and yet remains in memory
an ocean impassively wide--
no fisherman can ever touch the sunset.
14 August 2007
Poetry, Even If Nobody Ever Notices
Nailed
in the style of Kenneth Koch, revised
I would like to take this moment to stop and thank the six-penny nail
and the broken birdhouse that I fixed last Saturday, because I’ve always wanted
to smash my thumb with a hammer. Really, who wouldn’t want this purple finger
crushed by the labor of putting the roof back over the heads of several little birds?
I certainly must thank that nail for being so small
that I might miss it and hit my hand instead.
A nail really isn’t much of anything stocked in the hardware store,
aisle three, in a grimy cardboard box surrounded by other dusty little boxes
full of bolts and nuts and screws of various sizes.
The aisle is long and straight and disappears in the distance,
and so does a nail if you are a curious little flea seated at the head,
enjoying a blend of sweet lumber and glue and fertilizer wafting in
from aisles four through ten. The nail is too metallic to smell any different
than it tastes, like sharp cheddar cheese sliced ready to eat.
A paper towel keeps the flies and dust away from the food at the Fourth of July party
while the cousins chase each other through the dirt with water guns and noise makers.
Little Michael will inevitably get water squirted in his eye. It will sting and he will cry,
but only for a few minutes once he discovers the brownies just set out in the kitchen.
Licking frosting off of fingertips is a most satisfying rebellion,
one which is intensified if the frosting is stolen from the corner of an uncut cake laden with entire gardens of buttercream flowers.
Unfortunately for sneaky finger-lickers, the sort of nails made of keratin protein that grow on their tips make tiny receptacles storing fluff and dirt.
Small children are especially guilty of collecting black gunk
while spending hot summer days building castles and pies out of mud.
They squelch and mush and mold entire cities that dry in the sun and crumble by evening,
and then their mothers yell at them to wash up for dinner.
“Thomas Emil, did you use soap?! I don’t smell any!”
and little Tommy scampers away to try again.
Washing is especially important in the fall. School starts
and boys like Tommy must be relatively presentable,
or at least as presentable as Mrs. Smith’s son, who is always clean and well-prepared with Lunchables and every-color gel pens.
Good students must learn how to add and sit with proper posture and they should never be dusty,
even though they are very much the same as gadgets in a hardware store,
and accomplished politicians, when they can be found, are just like skyscrapers built by a thousand hammers.
Even Abe Lincoln once sat in school picking his nose with dirty fingernails.
Meanwhile, the wallflowers are like finishing nails, small and discrete—
you’re not supposed to see them at all. They are like winter
when for several months the earth dresses in chastity—
brush your hand around your doorframe and you’ll feel nothing
but maybe a little grit if you haven’t dusted.
People can be nailed, too, but that’s of a far different sort, kind of like a person being hammered
is not at all the same as the door frame built with finishing nails.
Someday, when spring comes, all the little boys and girls will hatch out of school.
The foreman will say “Spike it!” and they might be carpenters built like skyscrapers with steel bone and cement muscle.
Or they might save the world, or invent ice cream that doesn’t melt and dry like mud pies.
They can be professors or actors
or poets if they’re lucky.
And they can fall in love.
People are like nails keeping families stuck together,
keeping sanity relatively flush with reality.
I hope, then, that my love—your love—
is like one of those nails so strong it’s frightening,
the kind that is always without fail
well-stocked on the bottom shelf at the hardware store—
brush it off and reveal cold silver, glistening galvanized steel,
sold individually, 10,000-pennies at least!
Nobody knows what it’s for exactly,
but they sell it, so it must be good for something.
And love is something, like doorframes and birds
and children are some things
worth smashing your thumbs for,
even if nobody ever notices.
in the style of Kenneth Koch, revised
I would like to take this moment to stop and thank the six-penny nail
and the broken birdhouse that I fixed last Saturday, because I’ve always wanted
to smash my thumb with a hammer. Really, who wouldn’t want this purple finger
crushed by the labor of putting the roof back over the heads of several little birds?
I certainly must thank that nail for being so small
that I might miss it and hit my hand instead.
A nail really isn’t much of anything stocked in the hardware store,
aisle three, in a grimy cardboard box surrounded by other dusty little boxes
full of bolts and nuts and screws of various sizes.
The aisle is long and straight and disappears in the distance,
and so does a nail if you are a curious little flea seated at the head,
enjoying a blend of sweet lumber and glue and fertilizer wafting in
from aisles four through ten. The nail is too metallic to smell any different
than it tastes, like sharp cheddar cheese sliced ready to eat.
A paper towel keeps the flies and dust away from the food at the Fourth of July party
while the cousins chase each other through the dirt with water guns and noise makers.
Little Michael will inevitably get water squirted in his eye. It will sting and he will cry,
but only for a few minutes once he discovers the brownies just set out in the kitchen.
Licking frosting off of fingertips is a most satisfying rebellion,
one which is intensified if the frosting is stolen from the corner of an uncut cake laden with entire gardens of buttercream flowers.
Unfortunately for sneaky finger-lickers, the sort of nails made of keratin protein that grow on their tips make tiny receptacles storing fluff and dirt.
Small children are especially guilty of collecting black gunk
while spending hot summer days building castles and pies out of mud.
They squelch and mush and mold entire cities that dry in the sun and crumble by evening,
and then their mothers yell at them to wash up for dinner.
“Thomas Emil, did you use soap?! I don’t smell any!”
and little Tommy scampers away to try again.
Washing is especially important in the fall. School starts
and boys like Tommy must be relatively presentable,
or at least as presentable as Mrs. Smith’s son, who is always clean and well-prepared with Lunchables and every-color gel pens.
Good students must learn how to add and sit with proper posture and they should never be dusty,
even though they are very much the same as gadgets in a hardware store,
and accomplished politicians, when they can be found, are just like skyscrapers built by a thousand hammers.
Even Abe Lincoln once sat in school picking his nose with dirty fingernails.
Meanwhile, the wallflowers are like finishing nails, small and discrete—
you’re not supposed to see them at all. They are like winter
when for several months the earth dresses in chastity—
brush your hand around your doorframe and you’ll feel nothing
but maybe a little grit if you haven’t dusted.
People can be nailed, too, but that’s of a far different sort, kind of like a person being hammered
is not at all the same as the door frame built with finishing nails.
Someday, when spring comes, all the little boys and girls will hatch out of school.
The foreman will say “Spike it!” and they might be carpenters built like skyscrapers with steel bone and cement muscle.
Or they might save the world, or invent ice cream that doesn’t melt and dry like mud pies.
They can be professors or actors
or poets if they’re lucky.
And they can fall in love.
People are like nails keeping families stuck together,
keeping sanity relatively flush with reality.
I hope, then, that my love—your love—
is like one of those nails so strong it’s frightening,
the kind that is always without fail
well-stocked on the bottom shelf at the hardware store—
brush it off and reveal cold silver, glistening galvanized steel,
sold individually, 10,000-pennies at least!
Nobody knows what it’s for exactly,
but they sell it, so it must be good for something.
And love is something, like doorframes and birds
and children are some things
worth smashing your thumbs for,
even if nobody ever notices.
Let It Be
And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree,
there will be an answer--let it be.
For though they may be parted there is still a chance that they will see,
there will be an answer--let it be.
I'm back! Actually, I've been back since Saturday afternoon but have been too lazy to update. Or maybe I was subconsciously avoiding it, since I'm not quite sure what to say. Apologies.
I don't really want to unpack, repack, move rooms, repack again for school... I'm glad to be able to say in one place for a little while, and I'm excited to get to organize a new bedroom once Tommy and I trade, but I have no motivation to start. I should, though. Soon as I'm done writing this.
Hanging out at Lauren's on Sunday was a lot of fun--there were so many of you I didn't get to see all summer, so it was nice to catch up a little.
I have so many stories about this summer, I don't know where to start. I'm put on the spot and speechless when people ask for them, which makes very little sense to me. They'll come out sooner or later. For now, know that I missed you, but I also had a really great experience.
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