"Shoot me if I ever wear flannel" -Marie, 2003

"Kerouacaphoria  [kayr' -oo-ak-for'-ee-uh] n.  an active creative mental state that mimics the speedy exhilarated sensation one experiences after driving non-stop across the country, mind and body racing to process the new sensations and new experiences one has encountered. Kerouacaphoria is also characterized by the ability to find transcendence in a cup of coffee, the exhilarating soul-deepening experience of having an intense discourse in a confined space- a conversation that could not happen outside of this vehicle. Also, Kerouackia n. the way in which a person's interior life is shaped by the actual contours of the landscape they grew up in, and the way in which a person's emotional and psychological state can be altered by travel."

On the drive South, there is a section of I-5 that splits due to a tiny wetland area. It is my favorite stretch of road. Today, as I drove alongside the marsh, Vetiver's "Roll On Babe," was playing and it was one of those moments when music becomes a soundtrack for life. 

The trees were naked, I was wearing flannel, driving in a hybrid with a dog by my side. I had consumed an enormous amount of coffee which gave my otherwise pasty complexion a subtle glow...a glow that is a notch or two above a corpse. As I surveyed the details of my circumstance I realized, accepted, and embraced the fact that I am 100% Pacific Northwestern. There is no turning back. 

I tapped my ruby slippers and hummed, "there's no place like home." It was a lovely moment.

Dotted Lines. Sequential Blurs.

Mini-road-trip soundtrack:

1. Patsy Cline

2. Vetiver (Thing of the Past; To Find Me Gone)

3. Ryan Adams (Easy Tiger; Love is Hell, Pt. 1)

4. The American Analog Set (Know By Heart)

5. Architecture in Helsinki (In Case We Die)

6. Belle & Sebastian (If You're Feeling Sinister) 

7. Fleet Foxes

With special appearances by: 

MGMT; Jenny Lewis; Chairlift; Radiohead; CSS; The Arcade Fire; The Band; Cold War Kids; Elton John; Rilo Kiley; Joshua James; Leona Naess; and Of Montreal.

Tis the Season...Should Always be the Season

I spent the afternoon in submission to Capitalistic Christmas.

Living on top of the hill has never proved so convenient. Since I can not drive (or don't know how to drive) down the hill, I have been confined to an icy-slope, laden with sledding fiends since Wednesday. Don't get me wrong, it brings me pleasure to hear the lively shouts of adults in the late hours. When else would it be appropriate for "football and tits" men to belt out in soprano-like fashion, "Whoooo-hooo!" at the top of their lungs? 

This afternoon I set out, with low expectations, to shop for the most important people in my life. Was it possible to purchase for such a diverse group within a five-block radius? Luckily, I was able to find what I needed...even if it meant improvisation. When I stopped at the fabric store,  I inquired whether or not I would be able to write a check for fifty cents. All I wanted were the googly-eyes.  The woman at the counter said, "Look, do you live on the hill?"

"I do."

"Next time you're around, drop off the fifty cents you owe."

"Oh....uh, really? Are you sure?"

"Yeah...yeah..."

Then the woman at the check stand next to me pulled out two quarters from her pocket. "Here, I got it," she smiled.

I was stunned. The woman at the counter then encouraged me to pay it forward.

I beamed all the way home...

Ice-cube digits

My fingers are frozen. Consider it a miracle that I am able to type this. 

As I was walking Maya this morning, I thought, "I am so glad that I moved here!" Being a pure-breed Californian, snow is a novelty to me. I am in love with everyday magic and there is no denying that snow possesses its own magic.

Tonight, my car was covered with an untouched layer of powder. Something had to be done! My ungloved hand set to work. As I etched inspiration into the layer of chilly dust a guy walking on the other side of the road called, "Yet another opportunity for art!" What isn't?!? Opportunities are everywhere! Yet another, indeed! "Love all..." is temporarily inscribed upon my hood. 

I am in love with everything and nothing! Life! That I might live more!

Condensed Thoughts

I was thinking back on the past six months a moment ago. 

"You made it out alive, oh what a relief."

I was thinking back on the past few years this morning. 

"You made it out alive, oh what a relief."

I am happy. Finally.

Where is Bill Cosby when you need him?

A few weeks ago, A- wondered at the fact that I spend so much of my time with children. 

"I just don't get how you do it without getting bored."

Tonight, the girls and I made boats out of tin-foil so that our Playmobil people could take a sail around the "Great Lake" otherwise known as the bathtub. N- decided that her stuffed cat (which is about five times the size of Playmobil people) would sail in the boat too. N- narrated her character's conversation as follows: 

"Mama, when did we get 'Blue Ball'?"

"Oh, we got Blue Ball two years ago, daahling."

"I'm so glad we have Blue Ball, Mama."

"I know daahling."

N- then looked at me and said, "His name is Blue Ball because he has one blue eye-ball."

Sweet, innocent N- went even further and changed the name to "Big Blue Bulge." It was perfect.

"What's funny, Marie?" asked G-.

"Oh, I am just really, really happy inside," I said. 

How could I be bored when things like this happen?

"I've got a foggy notion, baby."

I just came back from a late night walk in the fog. It moved in this afternoon, so thick that one could only see a single block at a time. It was eerie, haunting and gorgeous. I could not see people, but only their colorless outlines and it seemed like we were all villains. We were all hiding something, doing something, thinking something hideous. 

I narrated each character's malicious deed. That woman is poisoning the weak man whom she is helping from the car. That man is leaving his mistress' house. Those men are discussing the disposal of a body. The woman with the slumped shoulders killed her neighbor's cat and ate it for dinner. The girl in heels, walking the miniature Australian Shepherd is procrastinating. She should be working on a triptych, but is lingering in the fog instead. OH THE SHAME!

There is something about walking in the fog that I find enchanting. Walking through thickness is apropos, for me. Never-mind the silly, and slightly deranged game I was playing. We are all innocent until proven guilty anyway. What I want to share is how magical the fog made everything. The sky was black, and the street lights shot out infinite beams through bare, winter trees- ebony branches turned passage-ways. The twirling, intangible mass engulfed me and became my elusive companion. Tranquility dominated an otherwise bustling cityscape. Gosh, it was beautiful! These are the times during which I sense God. When moments and space seem to align and strike something unnameable inside of me. 

"But now I think I'm able to carry on"

I have been trying to post this for a few days and am crossing my fingers that I will have internet service long enough for it to load. Technically, it is dated November, 28: 

Have I become the weird cousin from the city? The one with wacky ideas, tattoos and piercings -- the one who has fallen off the deep end? Maybe I always have been, but in denial for years.  I have never really known how to relate to my cousins, but for some reason this year it was exceedingly difficult. Our meetings are always brief games of catch-up and entire years distilled into a matter of two minutes: sloshy memories; occasional utterances I do not really mean; things I did not intend to say; awkward laughter. I find it all odd.

I knew that the holidays were going to be tough, but when I stepped into the Motel 6, I was overwhelmed with gloom. Let me just say that it was clean, thank god, but still I wondered how many dried up liquids filled the fibers of the comforter and how many rendezvous were had in my room. 

It was quiet. I'm used to quiet, but was not sure if quiet on Thanksgiving night in a motel was something I was prepared for. I didn't want to lay in bed and feel sorry for myself and since I was not planning on staying the night I had nothing to read. There was nothing to plug my music into. Trashy television it was. I scooped a sloppy mess of Pedigree from the gas station into a Tupperware dish. Dogs deserve junk food occasionally too. I unscrewed the cap from a bottle of fine wine from previously mentioned gas station. People deserve wine often, especially on nights like these. 

Click, click, click, land on Paris Hilton's best friend show. After twenty minutes (twenty minutes I am ashamed to have spent in such a manner), I rejoined reality. "My god, what am I doing?" I quickly changed the channel as if someone were spying on and judging me and was blessed to find Joel McHale beaming out at me through mega-pixels...or are they just pixels? Anyway, I have missed Joel. He looked like an angel-in-the-box. An angel of wit, intelligence and slight sex-appeal. He sang me to sleep.

Next morning, having bypassed the shower for lack of soap, I returned to my cousin's house. My second cousin tried to get me to play Barbies with her, for the second time. The day before we had begun to play. Animating plastic and playing pretend was one of the last things I wanted to be doing on vacation. It is my job. Please don't make me do this! A few minutes in, I stopped, set naked, heavy on the makeup Barbie down and said, "I can't do this." 

"Yes you can, just, here, use these clothes." 

"No, C-, I really can't do this right now. I don't want to play Barbies."

"Wanna play with Bratz?"

"We just talked about how you and I don't like Bratz, though." 

"I know, but how about Candyland?"

"Alright, let's play Candyland." 

She won.

I missed the people no longer in my life more than anything. I know that Christmas will be the same, even though there are plenty of fun options for me. Losing people is much more difficult than losing a game of Candyland. 

Take a breath, accept where I am and know that the holidays next year will not be like this. Fair doses of "Curb Your Enthusiasm," bubble baths, new mixes, and holiday parties ought to carry me through. God too, right? 

I have been listening to Cold War Kids version of "A Change Is Gonna Come" and belting it out, and oh yes I am hitting those notes. 

Reader: I will shoot for a sun-shiney blog come the new year, but no promises, alright?

Up Your's Murphy

Stubbing a toe on a pumpkin is never a good way to start the day. When I placed the squat squash at the entrance to my bathroom I warned myself, "Don't forget about that tomorrow morning."

My alarm went off at seven. I moseyed down the hall in the dark when Pumpkin (P.) got the best of me and my toe. Shards and blood issued forth along with curses to both P. and the early hour. That stupid pumpkin still hasn't been carved, a month and a half overdue. It spent some time next to my bookshelf, a few weeks in my bathtub (no better place for a pumpkin, really), and moved into the hall, "Incident Eve."  Now it is back in the bathroom. I can't be bothered to carve it right now, and who says you can only carve a pumpkin on Halloween? Thanksgiving is fast approaching and considering my bustling schedule it looks like it is going to be a Christmas pumpkin. Valentine's pumpkin? Easter?

I considered this stubbing-of-the-toe situation a minor frustration among many. It is almost humorous at this point. Murphy's Law may have tried to wear me down, but I have something for him. 

Murphy's Law goes something like this: "if it can go wrong, it will."  Life deals the shit all at once, it seems. I testify. 

In a matter of four months I have been catapulted into a fury of pain, confusion, decisions, duress, stress, etc. in every arena of my life. There were nights I would pray for sleep because I could not quiet my thoughts and anxiety about everything. Why was everything going wrong?

Then, the other day I was thinking about Murphy, my life and all the things that have seemingly unravelled. I wondered about the word "wrong." If it can go...wrong? What if what we think of as 'wrong' is actually 'right' according to a higher purpose? Sure, one can consider this idea as being able to perceive the good in a situation, but I tend to think that it goes deeper. Maybe these 'wrong' situations are actually good ones. Where does is say that what is right is inherently good? Or happy? Or easy? Maybe what I considered to be 'right' was in truth 'bad'? Where does the human race get off in deciding what morality or truth is? Definitions are human deductions anyway. How are we to know what 'good' is? I guess we will continue to argue about the definition of 'good' until death, or until it is revealed.

Nothing in my life is easy right now, but I am able to sense the good. I am worn thin, but something of light carries me through. 

A few months ago I was asking God, "Why is this happening to me?" 

Now I know. Because it must and because it is good. 

With each blow I have become more aware of my strength. I'm not sure if I would have coined myself a strong person pre-war, but even if I had I would not have known what it meant. Post-war, I am aware of what my strength is. My strength can suffer, deplete, drain itself in tears. My strength knows pain. It knows exhaustion and helplessness. My strength can also take in air, life, hope and move forward. My strength sheds scales and fills new skin. It can get dressed, make its bed and turn on the coffee pot. It has spent hours alone in emergency rooms, classrooms, playrooms, lonely apartments and continues to thrive. My strength anticipates an excruciating season of twinkling lights and holly, but perceives greatness beyond the sadness and could-have-beens.

"Does the body rule the mind, or does the mind rule the body?"

Lesson of the day: never be the last person to meet with a professor. It was 9:30 p.m. and she was tired, wanted to go home and irked when she saw that I was using my sketch-book instead of the only template given to me for my rough. I was drawing several ideas in my sketchbook because I like having all of my papers bound together, in sequence. I find it helpful in the design process. It's how I was originally taught to work and I just assumed that such a practice was acceptable. Sketches=ideas, right?. Also, I did not want layers of erased marks on the paper I would eventually turn in. 

"Why aren't you using the template?" she raised her eyebrows over her thick red glasses. 

"I didn't want to commit at this point since I'm not sure what I want to do."

"Well, it's not committing if you use tissue. And I gave you like thirteen templates." (She had not)

"I don't know, what's wrong with using a sketch-book? I was putting down several ideas in..."

"Hey, Marie, don't get defensive, alright?! I've been here all night. Relax!"

I am used to sugary, sweet professors. Even the art teachers at SPU were not this temperamental. At least she didn't say this to me about my design idea: "Oh, gosh it's just like frilly flowery hearts over and over. Oh it just makes me so sick!" "Come ON! This is third grade, is it not?" She laid those ones on other students. 

After asking me a personal question, thereby making me cry she accessed the mother-compartment in her heart and turned into the gentle instructor I am so used to. I hate crying. I hate crying in-front of teachers even more. I hate the fact that she perceived something in me that I try so hard to cover up. 

I can not keep my heart off of my sleeve. My face talks when I do not want it to. Hiding is not a skill that I have perfected.  This is confusing for me because my friend, Z- mentioned the fact that he has, in the past, wished that I would open up more. This comment led me to believe that I conceal much of who I am, and therefore must be good at it. Before he said that, I thought I was an open person, but from what he said, and from what my friend S- has said I am not an open person. Well, then what about tonight? A virtual stranger saw through me. X-ray vision? Maybe I give off the physical signs of certain feelings, but do not verbalize them for most. Yes, that must be it.

It is baffling when we realize that we are not at all who we think we are.

Too Much Information.

I deep into "Stiff" and now, every time I blow my nose I think about the fact that my brain will inevitably seep from my nasal passage soon after I am dead.

I feel like a death-vehicle. One person told me not to read it, but I decided to anyway. He had not read it so why would I listen to him? Nevermore, nevermore.

While I was reading about plane-crash victims a few days ago I realized that I have to make a decision. Since dying in a plane crash is my greatest fear, it seems that I have two options:

1. Never again board a plane sober. This will enhance my unawareness in the case of sudden cabin depressurization; the plane being severed into several pieces in which case I will be hurled from my seat (despite my belt); and falling, falling, falling which is exactly what I do not want to experience.

2. Step on board completely sober, be seated next to emergency exit, study the evacuation information, remain calm and prepare myself for the worst. Most crashes occur during take-off or landing (we all know that) and therefore most deaths are not caused by a crash into the ground, but rather by fire and smoke in the cabin. People panic, trample, lose awareness and those next to the emergency exits are unable to open them. I could be the one who is prepared and conscious enough to open the door for the terrified stampede! At this point, tragedy turns to delight as we all cry, "Wheeee," down the inflatable slide. "What fun," we agree once on the tarmac. Years later, we will reminisce about that one time we almost died, but were saved in orderly fashion by the oh-so-savvy Marie and the billowy chute.

How am I to know which option to choose? If deny the Vicodin because I anticipate a take-off crash but am actually subjected to a high-altitude crash over the Pacific, what good was my decision? If I pop a few pills before take-off because I am expecting an engine failure to occur an hour into the flight, how am I going to be be able to pry open the emergency exit door when the plane crashes thirty seconds after take-off?

I wish I had never watched "Final Destination." My friend Elena and I saw it about four times in the theatre, and the plane crash scene has scarred me forever. I am not sure if this book is furthering my anxiety, or easing me into acceptance. 

Note: avoiding air-travel altogether is not an option. Staying grounded is not, has never been, nor will ever be one of my strengths. Inky wings belong on my back.

Adverb: The Tearfully Lonely Reject

A professor once informed my class that adverbs are never to be used. Adverbs are (acutely) despicable. She (doggedly) considered them to be (utterly) superfluous. If I were to (strategically) use adverbs in a paper, she would consider my use of them to be a lame attempt at creating interesting sentences.

What has an adverb ever done to you, I wonder? Adverb, (sex being male in my opinion), has only done his best to emphasize, highlight, strengthen. He may be likened to an herb, or the cool breeze on the hill where you enjoy your wine and cheese. Let him befriend you. He is a charming companion and his bag is full of endless tricks (one that exceeds the magic of Mary Poppins' carpetbag). Just don't abuse him. He needs to take occasional breaks. We all need some space.

Dr. W-, I don't know what kind of grammatical trauma you have been through, but I think it is time you give Adverb a second chance.

'I'm not the same girl who wears pig-tails, and says 'I love you."'

Thank goodness dogs do not have the capacity to cognitively exaggerate. 

(Woe to my children, with their bruised shins and subterranean splinters!) 

As far as I am concerned, actions are instinctual when it comes to this particular species (canine). And so, when I scratch Maya's abdomen, I am assured that she is indeed experiencing near-euphoia (how would a dog know how to manufacture such pleasure?) At least I am able to trust my dog. 

That is something, right?

"Why is it white girls don't ever have any ideas?"

Let's just keep entertaining separate Sundays.

Me on my knees, tilling soil. 

You, 

root fingers reach up. 

I keep plucking.

Nothing but weeds.

On the Road Again, Rebuilding my Home.

This building, in a matter of two weeks has tattooed many-a-memory onto my spongy cortex. 

Contraband shopping carts layered in the stairwell; angry Eastern-Europeans; my 3 A.M. smoking neighbor who donates his backwash vapors to my bedroom; exploding plumbing pipes; gulping frogs; pumpkin walls.

Anecdote #1:

I was balancing about five bags on my shrunken shoulders (compliments of stress) and an overweight box on my lovely woman-hip (still intact). When the elevator stopped at the first floor, there he stood: one piercing in the left lobe which adequately screamed "I am not gay! Left lobe! Left lobe!"; oversized cobalt team-T; and bald with a two-day stubble. 

"Going up?" He avoided my eyes and addressed the unoccupied space in the elevator. I assumed that since I was the only one in there, he must have been talking to me.

"No. I am going to the bottom."

"Uuugh." He turned away as the door slid closed and muttered to himself, "Slacker...! Total Slacker.'

Anecdote #2:

I was laden with more bags and a gnome-stool. Two strangers were in the elevator with me. As the elevator descended, one asked, "Are you an artist? Have we met?"

I have never declared myself an artist, but at 2 P.M. on November 5th, 2008 I said, "Yes," without thinking.

"I paint, but am specifically studying Interior Design, right now. How could you tell?" 

I ran my eyes over the labels on the bags and boxes hanging from my body.  Toilet paper and dryer sheets were stuffed into a particular black bag. "Utrecht" was my Judas. 

"No, we haven't met. I just moved in, but I'm moving out this weekend, which is wild, but if I ever see you again, my name is Marie," I said while struggling out of the elevator.

"My name is John. You are a very beautiful woman. I hope to see you again."

I often feel violated by such comments, but his was not a come-on. It was a platonic statement. I want to see him again. I imagine that his apartment is layered with seven years of smudgy vellum, bristol, whispers of gouache, and mountains of acrylic. 

Queen Anne is my home.  Good-bye temporary Northgate. 

Leaving at 8 A.M., Returning at 9 P.M.

I was lucky enough to wear a muumuu today. It was vintage which automatically counteracted its inherent horridness, but not really. In addition, coiled atop my head was a fake lei which was pinned to my hair with a large plastic clothes-pin. I was a vision. N-, the famous painter, looked lovely in her colonial gown, and G-, the famous pianist, beamed in her white wedding dress. I was a famous fisherwoman. As I mentioned in a few posts back, ego must be banished when I am at work.

My favorite part of the game was when N- informed us, in character, "Oh, you two will actually have to leave early today because I have to paint a map and bring it to Africa." 

Other highlights of my day: 

1. Walked into the men's bathroom. "Why is there such a big gap between these stalls?... Why isn't there a door? Where is the toilet seat?...Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, etc." Running.

2. Barista at school gave me a discount, looked at my "torso" and said, "That is very sexy. That is art. Rock on sista." "What? Oh, wow...uh...thanks."

3. Another blushing chat with he who shall not be named. 

Deconstruction, Reconstruction

Are we really to love who we are? What about self-exploration and renovation? I have been learning endless things about myself lately and was wondering tonight if I should venture to love who I am, nuts and all, or try to change the quirks and flaws. 

I am a tempest of emotion, more so than ever. For a long time I have stuffed my feelings and only recently have I allowed them to blow and push me around. There is no need to contain them any longer, but sometimes I wonder if I am crazy and if there is any person in the world who would actually want to come home to me, this strange mess.

My therapist told me, "Maybe that is just who you are. Creative types feel many things at the same time. Someone will come into your life who will be able to love that too."

Is that so, or am I truly mad? 

Change has been the theme for the past few months, but am I willing to change who I am? I suppose that I can love myself and seek to better who I am at the same time, but how do we find the balance? When is it going too far? Is it possible to allow the process to spin out of control? How can we tell if it does? 

I suppose that in order to advance towards change, one must have an idea about who he/she wants to be, but that seems contrived. I like the idea of becoming rather than forcing change. Granted, there are situations, such as breaking additions and habits which call for immediate overhauls, but I am talking about character, about growing. 

The evolution of the individual is a beautiful thing. Just look at Prince.

Well, I feel just like a child

A grown man called me stupid last night. All I could do was laugh.

He was sitting in the lobby and Maya ran up to him and jumped up to the arm of his chair. He coiled back, glared at me with a lazy eye and dealt his low blow. Usually I have more control of the pooch, but I was struggling with her, a handle-less grocery bag, my purse, and a locked door. 

Stupid? 

Stupid.

Really?

At least he gave me a laugh.

"It's Involuntary"

This is what my Playmobil woman, Maggie, did tonight: 

Following a long yoga class, she headed home after rejecting a date with Eric, a man in her class who wore his grandfather's hat (frankly, she was not ready to be dating). When she got home she took a long, quiet bath and thought about her class, her small home, and her life. She liked being alone, or accepted it, and didn't mind curling up on her couch with a cup (of something), her pet and a book. 

"she was consumed by 3 simple things:

drink, despair, loneliness; and 2 more:

youth and beauty." -Bukowski.

G-, N-, and I --as spying giants-- hunched over her with bare knees digging into the carpet. There she was, stiff and vacant and we decided that we envied Maggie. I imagined her to be reading Chagall's "My Life." G-probably thought that she was reading "The Bad Beginning." N- just appreciated the fact that Maggie's cat was not trying to bite her, as Hyacinth (N-'s cat) does.

When Eric came to her door to ask once again for a date, she gave another kind decline. G- decided that he ought to bring her flowers because that would be romantic. Yes, I agreed it would.

 

"It would, wouldn't it?" I smiled and G- said, "you never know Marie, that might happen to you one day." 

"Well, let's hope so. Not yet."

As for now, I have all of the above-- void the cat.

http://www.lyricsmania.com/lyrics/m_ward_lyrics_10764/transfiguration_of_vincent_lyrics_34063/involuntary_lyrics_369220.html

Keep In Mind

"If you die, your loan obligation will be cancelled." -Loan Counseling, stage 5 of 6.

Blunt. I like that.

Did He Really Just Say That?

My "Drawing and Perspective" instructor is, how shall I say it? Pervy. 

Tonight, he was chatting with a girl in the front row while she was working on her exercise, "You are quite a beautiful girl. It's a curse I guess. Well, I admire you for that. I am not..." T-, the guy next to me, and I shared expressions of disbelief and started cracking up. What in the world?

During every class, "spanking" comes up. Once, when a student asked if we needed to rotate our pencils while drawing lines, he said, "No, don't do that...but that does sound kind of erotic." Last week we were drawing a room, and were allowed to add anything we wanted. I created something akin to a jail cell. Not sure why. My teacher decided to include a hot-tub, which excited many students, but went further and excited himself when he decided that it would be "kind of erotic to have a mirror over the hot-tub."

He was walking around later during that class session overlooking our grids. My grid dominated the paper. T- drew a grid much smaller. 

Instructor: "You need to make your grid bigger. Keep making those lines." 

T: "Yeah, I was just looking at her grid and noticed..."

Instructor:  "Well, I can see why you would have been distracted." He then looked at me, then back at T-. 

It has come to a point where it is so inappropriate that it is humorous. Maybe it is a bad thing that I have become somewhat immune to it and choose to laugh rather than be offended. At least this, as well as my other classes, is one of the most fun ways I spend my time.

As I was driving home tonight, I was comparing my experience at SPU to the Art Institute. Being in class this time around is much more fun. I love the freedom we have as students, the creative energy around me, the relaxed environment, the project-based work and the fact that talking and listening to music are not taboo in the classroom. It feels like we are hanging out and learning more about something we already love. No matter how tired I am throughout the day, my energy is revived when I enter the classroom. Going to school: a decision which I have not second guessed! I need this right now, pervy teachers and all.

Adventures in the Land of Pretend

Sometimes I forget that children, human and animal alike, learn through play. When I am at work, I play and it is a job. I jump down several rungs on my educational and maturity level, shed any sort of ego and play make-believe. I accept the fact that N-'s Playmobil horses can talk and fly and that sometimes so can her people.  There is no need for reason...most of the time.

My "people" (Playmobil people) were having a Halloween party in the park (which is located in the center of the cul-de-sac). G- decided that in order to enter the park, one must donate a plant of some sort for the landscaping. 

Today, G- was adamant that N- had to bring her plant or she would not be able to attend the party. G- and I had already made our plants yesterday so our admission was granted. While my people were setting up for the party, N-'s little boy brought over the plant and I reminded her, "Nora, don't forget to bring a dish of something to share. It's a potluck." 

At that she wrinkled her forehead and pounded her fists into her lap. "Why do I have to bring a plant and a dish? It's not fair!" Keep in mind that this is a game we are playing with inanimate plastic people. At these moments I have to hide the fact that I find the situation ridiculous and hilarious. Shrouding laughter has become one of my fortes. I mean, she was pissed that her pretend people would have to bring a tiny plate with imaginary food on it over to the park. 

For the girls, this stuff is its own reality. For me, it's a game. I can not completely comprehend what the big deal is in these situations (which arise often) because I do not attach emotion to them, but with the girls it is different. Even though they know that these people do not exist, they are able to contrive complex stories for each thereby giving life to each piece of plastic. It reminds me of how an author develops a connection with his or her character(s). J.K. Rowling outed Dumbledore after she ended the series. I should be embarrassed for referencing Harry Potter. 

Lessons of the day: 1.  The concept of fair is oftentimes obsolete.

                       2.  Attending a potluck comes with obligations. 

Madly In Love With either the Mad Hatter or the March Hare.

Tim Burton is a perfectionist. It is evident in the artistry of his films. There is an overflow of magic: unnumbered, precisely planned and angled shots-- some subtle, others blaring. It is a symphony! Oh, the colors! He is a magician! It is art! 

During his day to day, I imagine that he is either uncommonly tranquil or a whirlpool of creative chaos.

Every time I watch one of your films, I uncover something secret. I like you, sir. 

Samsung, Burton and I will be going to bed together tonight.

The sun was too bright today. It hurt my eyes, hurt my heart.

"You're beautiful, but you should smile more." 

He was a stranger at the gas station. 

Why do people say things like that to people whom they do not know? He had no idea what I was feeling and what I am going through. 

A few years ago I was driving back home from a visit with my dying grandmother. Coincidentally I was at a gas station. As I waited for my friend to come out of the bathroom a guy walked by, looked at me and said, "Oh, come on. It can't be that bad. Smile!"

Three areas of my life have drastically changed in the past couple months: relationships, home, work. On Saturday I thought that I saw the light. "Here comes the sun, and I say it's alright. Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces." Not so. Another problem--this one: enormous--more anxiety.

Frankly, sometimes it is that bad.

Fortune's Deal

They ended their show with a cover of "Love Hurts." I had to leave. I am so tired of hurting. 

Love hurts, love scars

Love wounds, and mars any heart

Not tough or stong enough

To take a lot of pain, take a lot of pain...

I'm young , I know, but even so

I know a thing or two, and I learned from you

I really learned a lot, really learned a lot...

Some fools think of happiness

Blissfulness, togetherness

Some fools fool themselves I guess

Theyre not foolin me

"Rise up With Fists" is one of my favorite songs and I usually feel empowered when I listen to it, but when she played it, it only highlighted my overwhelming weakness. Some days I feel strong, happy, content, successful. Others, I feel tired, defeated, lonely and hopeless. Is this life--this constant pendulum that swings from one extreme to the other? Fortune spun the wheel and I am out of luck. Happiness turned sadness. She will spin again, and I can only hope for joy.

I usually enjoy myself at concerts, but tonight was awful. Maybe it was because I was behind a tall dude who kept shifting his weight and thereby his head. Maybe it was because I have to work on a project. Maybe it is because I would be going home alone. Maybe it was because I had not spoken with a human being today. I don't even know why I am writing this. I am the only one who reads this blog.

Home. Family.

These boxes are full of more than glass, paper, and plastic things. I feel like I packed up a dream inside of these boxes.  When I unpack, one by one, the only thing that will be removed are things; the dream has been lost in transit. It drifted through the cardboard, out the window and into the wind. It wouldn't have been lost had I taped the boxes up tighter. The open spaces were intentional because I knew that I had to let it fly away. As much as it hurts to see it go, a secret future welcomes me. 

I can not handle one more change. Please tell me that I will find rest in this space.

One of the greatest changes in my life, and one which has sustained me in this challenging season, has been the addition of faithful, diverse, clever and fun friends. I could not have made it through this move without them. I felt like my provision of bagels was not thanks enough. Then, I realized that these seven people were helping because they simply wanted to, not because they were seeking wages. When I backed up into a truck, creating a lovely little dent in the side door, they were quick to calm me. When Maya dashed out of the car and began sprinting around the bustling street in-front of my apartment, they helped me capture her. In each instance I felt myself losing composure, but my friends-my friends-were my support.

Today had the potential to be a tremendously sad day of defeat, but with my new friends--whom I have quickly fallen in love with--it felt like a celebration. 

I have been blessed. 

For many months I have been crying out for the provision of deep camaraderie. Granted! The seeds have been planted and I can perceive the buds, the oaks. I know that I would not have survived neither today nor the past few months without them.

 

Bombs for Jesus.

He wrote "Watch 'Zeitgeist'" on the white board and strutted back to his seat.

"What is that?" someone asked

"It's a video on-line about everything."

"You mean like about the government and how they lie and stuff?"

"Yeah, it's just a really truthful, fair movie. If any of you are Christians you should watch it since all Christians want to blow the whole world up."

I turned around and smiled. "That's so true!" I cried. He laughed, and then realized that I wasn't serious and didn't say anything else for the remainder of the class. It was a pretty bitchy move on my part and I regret my snide remark. I opt to blame it on P.M.S.

"The more we get together, the happier we'll be."-The great philosopher, Raffi

I went back to work today after having two and half weeks off. Thank god. It was the perfect Autumn day to wake up early (or earlier than ten) and get ready to go to a place where I was expected to be. I like waking up early, but in order to do so I require incentive. 

The girls and I spent time playing with the dog in the backyard during the first part our day. The ground was covered with orange leaves and fallen apples. Autumn air is my favorite to take in. It was enchanting, in a way, to be spending time with the girls after being apart for so long and the lovely weather made the scene all but perfect. We had all missed each other. I was showered with admiration: "I like your new nose ring better than your old one. I like your skirt. I like your tights. I like your boots. I like your coat. I like your sweater. Your eyes are pretty." Now, at what other type of job would such comments be appropriate? Not many. In the afternoon as we left ballet, G- ran up to me, gave me a huge hug and said, "Marie, I love you love you love you!" It always moves me when either of the girls express such feelings for me because they are not the type of children who give it freely. I know they mean it when they say it.

As G- and I played Battleship at Veritas, where she had hot cocoa with "the best whipped cream in the world" and I indulged in "the best white mocha in the world," she mentioned that before I went home she needed to give me a copy of the "Yucky Chart."

Most people have a certain word or words that they can not stand to hear or speak. For me, words such as "puss" and "nugget" come to mind. G- and N- have (on their own accord) endeavored to compile a list and assign numbers to each word they consider to be repulsive. According to G-, it is my duty to learn the number system so that I will know what they are talking about when they refer to say "number five." Now you might immediately conclude that number one and two are, well you know. You are wrong. It is the revised and expanded edition, and in order to encourage my audience to embellish upon its current knowledge I shall share the list.

"Yucky Chart"

(officially engraved upon bright red construction paper)

1. Blood

2. Lice

3. Snakes

4. Pepe

5. Poopy

6. Dogy Warts

7. Cat skabs

8. Volmet

9. Sliva

I have been informed that if I "think of anything else to add to the list, write it down." Oh, the list is endless and full of so many inappropriate things. Let us keep it to nine, girls.  I love you love you love you too!

...a habit, like smokin' or takin' drugs.

I forgot how long lettering takes and so I spent an unanticipated five hours this afternoon hunched over my drawing board with crazy hair and pajamas. Come five o'clock, I jumped from my cozy chrome chair, straightened out my cramped back and dashed to the bathroom to slap on some beauty in a bag. I had fifteen minutes to get ready for the day, or night rather and somehow managed to pull it off, though my tights were not completely hiked up when I arrived to class (early might I add). 

The following four hours were spent hunched over the same graphite dusted drawing board. It was not a good way to begin class. I had just been doing homework for a class I was now sitting in. I did not have time to center myself before and it was as if my afternoon session never ended. Note to self (for the thousandth and sixty-seventh time): don't procrastinate. 

At this point in my life I am not sure that this is a lesson which will ever sink in. I have endured many panic attacks, and spent too many sleepless nights working on projects. The thing is, I always manage to pull it off. It is as if I subconsciously allot just enough time to push out a paper or painting or floor-plan. I drove past a sign yesterday which said something like: "A good scare is the best way to learn a lesson." So why won't I learn? 

No, actually I have learned, but this is a matter of will and of having a life filled with so many things I want to be doing at the same time. I can not say that I am irresponsible because I always turn my work in and do well. I am not lazy. I'm...just...not crazy about homework. Even if it is the kind of homework I consider to be fun. Fish is fish, homework is homework.

I spent the night next to a window, watching the sun sink down into the sound while I drafted doors: swinging doors, pocket doors, double-hinged doors, sliding doors, red doors, blue doors, me doors, you doors! As always, I enjoyed class and vowed to never again wait until the last minute to work on a project.

HA!

A Miniature Cohort

The human tendency to categorize is not one that deserves much positive recognition. For the most part it has caused trouble, but there are also instances when it can proliferate the human species: "Hi little girl, do ya want some candy?" There are reasons, good and bad, people tend to categorize. Here is a brief categorization of a few of my closest peers whom I have yet to get to know well. There will be room for revision within the next year. A rough draft describing the four of us:

The gorgeous, always slightly annoyed one.
The confident, way too talkative one whom you can never really trust.
The youngest, overworked complainer.
The sarcastic, depressed, but not too depressed to dress up one.

We are the loveable, traveling quadrant.

Making choices.

Sore calves, sore knees, sore me. My feet are throbbing. Blisters line the outside of each foot. Tired soles hum with dull pain and my toes have not regained their natural fan-like distribution. It was a good night.

I never went to prom. My decision not to go has never been one which I have regretted. Pro-Choice Prom was my first and it was perfect (and much cheaper than actual prom). Who says you can not attend prom at 23? Perhaps it was because everyone there was old enough to shed insecurities and dance their pants off to the flawless 80s/90s cover band. It seems like many people my age just do not care as much about what others think of them as they did in high-school. Or, perhaps it was because everyone there was old enough to consume the provided alcohol.

Whatever the reason, it was a great time. I loved "Dancing with Myself" and with my friends. I loved the fact that my hair was wet with the evidence that I had been moving in heels for two hours. There were moments throughout the night during which I would have to regain myself and fight to continue having fun. Watching couples still hurts. I won.

As I stood by the snack table, a guy walked up and asked, 

"So, any suggestions?"

 

The table consisted of chips, pretzels and cupcakes.

 "Oh, I don't know. I haven't eaten any of it. Um, you might want to go for the fake bagels. Don't eat these. I hear that they make for bad breath." 

He reached into his pocket and proudly presented me with a can of Starbucks mints: "Don't worry. I came prepared." 

"Ah." 

Thank god he didn't pull out a condom from the table at the door. 

With a raised his eyebrow he boasted, "You know, they're discontinuing these so I went to Starbucks and bought about ten tins!" He guffawed at himself for being so silly to do such an outrageous thing. 

"Oh, like the Forever stamps," I replied. 

"What?" 

"Oh, well the Forever stamps last forever. Gotta load up before they're all gone." 

He thought that was hil-A-rious. Or maybe he was just hoping that he might be able to use the condom he did not pull from his pocket during the first part of our lame conversation. Apparently he came alone. I noticed him looming and from time to time he would playfully kick a balloon into our small dancing group. He hovered about all the women in the room; his balloons were being passed around. Starbucks mints. Oh, I'm not worried.

This prom was neither awkward nor embarrassing. It was as fun as a prom ought to be. Thank you Planned Parenthood for a fabulous Saturday night. Regretfully, I will not be in need any of the provided condoms tonight.

Mirror Image

Dear Mr. Lower Queen Anne bar-hopper,

I saw you a month ago at infamous Ozzie's. You sang your heart out to Muse's "Starlight." I noticed your deep-set drunk eyes on me. I thought about how you would be going home with a blurry stranger whom you may or not wake up with in the morning. A world with which I can not identify.

I have not been to a bar since then, well, not until tonight.

I saw you at infamous Chopstix. Since karaoke was not an option, you had to listen to the pianists sing their hearts out. Even you have to admit that they rocked "Friends in Low Places" and "Fat Bottomed Girls." I thought, "Wow, he must hit hetero-alley every single night! Is he incapable of not making an appearance?"

Then it occurred to me: what if you too have not been to a bar since Ozzie's? Maybe you saw me tonight and had the same thought. Who am I to think I am above you? Although...I'm at home now, with no one but my dog and cheap (but not so cheap) cable and you were still at the bar when I left.

...maybe you have a dog too.

We all have our stories, our reasons for doing what we do. Why do I internally criticize people? It is not as if my life is any more important that his or hers. I waste time on trivial activities. I am never bored, but it does not mean that everything I do is significant. I spend time doing meaningful as well as meaningless things.

Life is a combination of trivial and profound.

Sometimes we need to check out whether that means reading a book, praying, going on a walk, watching crap T.V., or having fun at a tacky bar. We need different things at different times. It is all of value when we are honoring what we need and where we are in the moment. The tacky bar did not help me. Who knows what is most helpful? I certainly do not. So deep-set eyed dude can have his fun. If I see him again, I will think nothing of it. Unless he has herpes lips; that is a different story.

There is no such thing as a stupid question (?)

The best quote of the night:

"I don't know what some of these words mean. How am I supposed to present on them if I don't know what they mean?"

Read. The. Book.

It's. Called. Learning.

Sad and lonely, and I wonder...

The mindless trilling of my bird's song.
The tic-tock breathing of a sleeping puppy; twitching legs, vibrating eyelids.
The clicking sound of soil breathing in liquid strength.
Every so often, the jingling keys of a stranger living above me; his laugh, her laugh, their love.
A siren gone to save.
Alien laughs floating through my window.
Snapping heels of singletons skipping past my den.

Sounds beyond myself.
Private worlds continue despite my sorrow.
I like to listen in...

What would you think of me if I told you I haven't slept in weeks?

The Cold War Kids concert: how could it be anything less than awesome?

Ask me how it was. Come on, ask me. Ask me, ask me, ask me! Okay, I'll tell you. It was awesome. I love going to concerts by myself because I can dance as much as I want. I can be in my own world; just me and the music.

Sean Hayes opened. His lyrics reminded me of Bob Dylan so I automatically fell in love, except for with his love song which made me want to vomit. Some ass yelled out, "We don't want to hear you," between his songs. "What's that?" asked Hayes. The guy repeated himself. "Then go the fuck outside!" Hayes yelled back. I hate people like that. Even if he didn't like Hayes' music, I don't understand why he would feel like he had the right to bash him while he was performing. Jerk.

Gosh, I don't feel like going into details. I will make a list and call it good.

Pros:
1. Awesome show. They seemed sober which was a nice change. It's not that drugs bother me, but once I went to a show and the guy was so stoned that the energy of his performance was virtually nonexistent.

2. The guy next to me smelled amazing. It was a clean mix of tobacco and sweat. I made sure to stay close.

3. Dancing.

4. Feeling free and happy, finally. (Will it last?)

Cons:
1. The typical flighty chick who texts and talks during the whole show. She got excited a few times when they played some of their popular old stuff, but during the bulk of the show she kept looking to the back of the room at who knows what. Her friends kept coming and going and pushing their way past. Seriously, aren't you here to hear the freaking music? I am overreacting, but show some respect.

2. Blisters all over my feet. War wounds really. Maybe this one should go under pros.

As I walked into the parking garage at 11:30, I interrupted a make-out session. I thought about asking if I could join, but decided against it. Instead I joked, "Whoa, ha, don't mind me." They laughed and we talked about the show in the elevator. So I guess I did talk to someone, Mom.

Since it's 2:00, I guess I ought to put some pants on. Must keep on keepin' on, pursuin' that dawg-on American Dream. Or maybe I'll just read some Bukowski. Good enough. I'm going to a girls and chocolate night. I think a chick flick is to follow. Shall I bring my noose? I am expecting to be overwhelmed with estrogen. Who knows if it will be fun, but at least I can walk home as soon as the girlyness begins to suffocate me. I will probably end up having fun though; I usually do.

I have been wondering lately about why I blog. I mean, no one reads it, but I have begun to enjoy it for that very reason. I no longer strive for poeticism with each post. I don't care. For some reason, it is fun to write for no one but myself. Plus I love the rhythmic sound of my fingers dancing over the keyboard.

Also, I feel like the details of my life are only for those close to me. Not the internet.

Eventually, but not today

Mamma said, lift your head from the sieve of your hands.
Mamma said eventually this hurting will end.
But the shockwaves on my bones will linger,
Like the ghost of you here in my bed.

When I was lost you thought me a beautiful find.
Sometimes I think of you sleeping, so sleep for a while.
I find myself asking who'd do this to love,
And the white-shouldered mountains they pointed above.

Lord you just dropped me here by the side of this road.
Out here's too cold and I don't want to walk it alone.
I've got a bottle of your blood inside me,
And on old beggar's prayer on the tip of my tongue.

Mamma said, lift your head from the sieve of your hands.
Mamma said that eventually this hurting will end...

-Emiliana Torrini

The "You will be Okay" Mantra

It felt like I was selling my soul to the Devil. "Okay, well I guess I'll do it," I said through clenched jaw. My head was spinning, I could not think clearly. My thoughts were temporal and constantly being overlapped by others. When she left her office for a moment, I could not sit any longer. I paced, panicked, walked in circles, panicked, tugged at my hair, panicked, and took pre-planned, conscious deep breaths.

I went in knowing that there was a good chance that I would be submitting an application, but when I wrote that check it felt like I was agreeing to have my feet set in concrete. It was real and it was happing too fast; I could not find my center. I think I have been thinking about going to art school for so long, I never came to a place where I was prepared to go. I wanted to go and I knew I would eventually, but it never seemed like it was real. No matter how soon I "planned" on going, it always felt like the present was never ending and the future would never come. But here it is, I am going to art school to do the only thing that excites me--the only thing that keeps me up at night (other than anxiety). I think I am realizing that this marks a different stage in my life and and I am not only going to school, but also taking a step towards a purpose and passion--the very thing that has scared me for so long. It feels serious.

As I drove away, I had a panic attack and almost died on the freeway. I was crying, and having a hard time breathing. It felt like nothing around me was real. There is no other way to say this: I am scared. What if I am wasting my finances? What if I am a poor designer? What if I can not handle a full-time job and school at the same time? What am I going to do with Maya? What if my new and thrilling social life takes a dive? What if I go to school, but can not find a job when I graduate? What if, what if, what if...? Just shut up already, voice!

I can not grant this voice victory any longer. For ten years it has persuaded me that design was not for me for a variety of reasons. It is the bad angel on my shoulder and I have grown tired of it. I know I am talented, and I believe that we have passions for a reason. I know my passion. This is why I wrote the check, and this is why in two weeks I will be sitting in a classroom again.

I am ready to finally do this, despite my trepidation and anxiety. Before work I took a walk along the water, with the one who loves me more than anyone. She loves me so much that when I go to the bathroom, she needs to come too. As I strolled I found my center. I was alone, something I have grown accustomed to, and slowly my breathing steadied and I found calm. "He can see it through the blur of water, see it shaking, coming his way like a ray of light," Cloudstreet.

Sing me a song, music man!

What a great day!

Music!! Last week I went to Easy Street, practically wetting my pants due to the anticipation of the new "Cold War Kids" record. Last week was not the release date. Went home dejected. I ventured back to the store today, keeping expectations as low as possible only to find that today was the actual release date. Allowed myself to wet my pants. Thank you Venus! It's a cryptic and dark record. Perfect. If any one of the guys asked me into bed, I would have not a single hesitation. Before I found CWK's new album I discovered that Jenny Lewis had put out a new one too! Hurray Capitalism! I purchased both and they have become my new lovers.

High time for more friends...however abstract they may be.

Oh, I have also reclaimed the value of bleach (even if it is environmentally destructive), am prepared for a kick-ass party, and am on the path to scholastic success. All the boxes on my to-do list have been crossed and exceeded.

Mom, since you are the only reading my blog, you must be so proud!

maggie and milly and molly and may
e.e. cummings

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles, and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles; and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea


During the climax of each painful season in my life I am drawn to the coast. It may have to do with the fact that I grew up near the ocean and consider it as a sort of security blanket, or it may be about something more significant. I opt for the latter. The sounds engulf me, the smell of the sea comforts, the wind embraces. How am I alone? I experience a cleansing whenever I am at the beach. I find myself taking deeper breaths, walking slower and feeling more alive. The waves roll in and cover me; as they roll away I imagine them carrying away all that I am letting go of. I am constantly taking in new things and giving away old things; life is flux. Tomorrow, I will go to the coast and let go.

I opt for an escapist imagination to rebuild me.

Pretend that it didn't happen=healing?

Think, think, think=healing?

Fill in the gaps=healing?

Anger=healing?

Time=healing?

That I Could Be Happy

Not so well rested: Woke up after being chased by a knife wielding man whom I killed by smashing him between the front bumper and the back of another car; Lord of the Flies boys in black V-necks were trying to kill me too (had to kill one of them as well); a hot party guy tried to drug me via damp cloth; and polar bears and everyone around me were involved a carnivalesque orgy.

Pain in the Ass: Dre destroyed my gluteus and thighs. 

Success: Two vintage dresses that I ordered online came today. They are a little big, but perfect. 

Middle of the road: I headed off to the dog park only to find that the Huskies were having a game which lead to the blocking off of an entire road. I am not talking about a minor street. This was a serious, main road which leads to many important places. Therefore, the dog park was out. One would think that this city would have a better way of organizing traffic. Lately, I have been feeling more adventurous so I decided to drive to a different dog park which I have been wanting to visit for a while. The weather was gorgeous, my tank was full, no one was expecting me anywhere and so without any idea of where it was going, I took off. I ended up losing my way and had no idea where I was, but it was perfect. I happened upon a windy tree-lined road. The leaves were at the first stage of turning, my music was loud, the windows were down and I felt at peace. It was all sighs and smiles. Sometimes ending up nowhere is right were I want to be.

Disappointment: Game night. Why so serious? Aren't games supposed to be fun? 

Good night moon.

Milton Bradley and The Game of Life

"The goals we pursue are always veiled. A girl who longs for marriage longs for something she knows nothing about. The boy who hankers for fame has no idea what fame is. The thing that gives our every move its meaning is always totally unknown to us" --The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera

This very fact is one of the most exciting and terrifying aspects of life. I love that I have no idea what my life is going to look like in a year, ten years and so forth. Retrospect is one of my favorite places to dwell. It's funny to imagine how I would (or would not) get along with high-school Me. Sometimes as I am walking Maya around Queen Anne I recall the first time my mom and I drove through the neighborhood when I was previewing SPU. I whisper to my ghost from 2000 posing at the top of the hill for a cheesy picture, "In five years, you will live here, in this apartment all by yourself and you will love it. There will be a time of loneliness, but you will be strong. You will have a crazy dog and, well, believe it or not you will drink lots of wine. It's going to be great." It's better to be able to look back and see how certain events led to an outcome rather than knowing the future. Knowing the future would paralyze many people in terror and it would take away from the complexity and surprise of life. I have always loved surprises and expect nothing less from God. If only all surprises were easy to bear.

At church, Richard was talking about how we can plan as much as we like, but in the end God might have something completely different for us. Here I am, planning to graduate from the Art Institute which will propel me into a successful career (what an alien word!). That is the plan and I can see it happening, but I might be completely off. There is a remote possibility that I will end up being an accomplished magician. I think that what matters at this point is that I just start out in a direction. For a while I have been having fun in my post-graduate, homework free life with no real ambition. It's only satisfying for so long. If I start moving, there is no doubt that something will happen! Something new and exciting--something nonexistent in my periphery. 

My goals are mere vapors; they may or may not take form. I am pursuing something unknown and it does not bother me one bit. Keep me guessing, God! I think I can handle it. I am scared, but I'll hold on.

Casie, meet Casie.

I am stuck with myself for the rest of my life.

My face will change as will I, but my core will always be the same. I am not sure how I feel about this.

One one hand, it is exciting because I will be able to witness the changes in myself firsthand. I have a specific retrospective vantage point. On the other hand, there is no escaping this cage. I can redefine myself as many times as I like, but I always come back to ME.

I knew it.

Getting older sucks. I wonder... if I am a partner/team with someone, will it will be bearable?. I think that is (as I consider it to be) the case. For now, I am stuck with the cool reality of collected parking tickets and monthly rent. Entire afternoons spent at the Seattle Municipal Court make me want to impale myself and drop-kick all of the nonchalant service workers staring callously at the engorging line behind their counter. I am 100% unsympathetic to their 2:30 lunch breaks. If they were to spend such an hour running around, trying to figure out where to fix a problem, they would feel the same. Maybe they do. 

Why, then, must they look at me like I am just another idiotic Seattleite? Screw you, City of Seattle. Do you know how much transparent money I have surrendered to you? Your parking cops can suck my ass.

I am me... paying my own living fee for my dog, my habits, needs and me. I wake up and drag through a pre-planned day. It keeps me in track. To stray would to be to destroy.

I wish there were someone/something to deliver much needed to vivacity. Should I look for an agent?

"These Boots Were Made for Walking" in Autumn, Winter, Spring AND Summer.

"Windows are less important than the dignity of a building's facade." -The Fountainhead

It is interesting how this quote not only comments on a particular way of architectural thinking, but also on humanity. If only we renovated ourselves to add more windows! What would that look like? For me that is a scary thought. Sometimes I say too much. This idea that our exterior is more important than our interiors is false, but so easy to believe. Our culture is so clever when it comes to convincing us that this is the case. I am crazy about clothes and fashion so I am able to say this not as a fashion boycotter, but as an near-neutral party. How many times am I going to hear that last season's this or that is "OUT"? Screw you whomever you are. I'll wear my boots in the summer if I feel like it. 

How rare to come across a mainstream magazine page that advertises that "this season, charity and community are in." You know, if that did exist it would be pretty appalling too. It would only cheapen the ideals. These things do not even need to be advertised. They ought to be things that I aspire to out of my own will. Why then do I feel the need to perfect my facade when I spend so little time on my interior? Where are my windows? What am I letting in and what am I letting out? I heard such questions in youth group and now that I am older the answers are more elusive.

A facade suggests obstruction in contrast to a window. It conceals that which is within. Windows hide nothing. Maybe I have fewer windows than I thought. Maybe what I considered to be windows were just posters and faded graffiti cluttering my esoteric facade.

Premature signs of aging

I worry at how easy it is to go through an entire day without any sort of consciousness. Many things have been accomplished, bills paid, calls made, but where are my thoughts? Where did my imagination go? I'm twenty-two and sometimes it feels like I am forty-two. It has been like this off and on ever since high-school. 

Learn to act your age, Casie.

Of the Soil

Entice me with ephemeral Spring

and deep, expansive seas.

Beckon with your sacred wind

that spins among the leaves.

Wash over me, enrapture me

and make me feel small. 

I am all but endowed to you

lovely, lively sprawl!

Rivers mimic fleshy veins

buried beneath my soil

of skin and bone and flowing life.

For this simple frame you toil

day and night; you never rest.

I bow and I conceive

that you do not depend on me,

but me you choose feed.

Doggy Mama

I need friends. It is official. More friends to be exact. I was hoping to make friends at the dog park, but have come to the realization that people go to the dog park and talk about their dogs, just as mothers go to the park and talk about their kids. There is nothing wrong with this of course, but I wonder, am I the only one going in hopes of meeting a friend?

I met someone for the second time at the park and again we talked about, well our dogs. To be quite honest, I am tired of talking about my dog. I love her, but sometimes I feel like a wind-up monkey with a cymbal. Always the same questions, always the same answers. Someone once suggested that I wear a shirt with all of Maya's information on it so that I might walk the streets without being stopped every two minutes. It would read as follows: "Miniature Australian Shepherd/ Girl/ Four Months/ Due to be 25 lb./ Maya."

I started reading a book recently that remind me: relationships must begin with some chat before people develop a solid rapport. This made me realize that I am being too impatient, and expecting too much. And so, I suppose I must bear down, continuing talking about my sweet, pink nosed, "look at those eyes," puppy and hope that I will find a connection amid the woodchips, feces, and mud.

Governor, tell me, "what does it mean?"

What if "love" as it is considered by many people does not exist? I tend to think that it does not. 

When I was in high school I embraced the idea that love equals firey passion and persistent happiness. He would a-d-o-r-e me, faults included. We would be hot for each other all the time. We would not be able to keep our hands off of each other. Most of all, I would feel the love at all times-- even during arguments. 

I studied Chaucer a few years ago while on a romantic and utterly perfect study abroad quarter. Love was the first subject which our group tread upon. We were reading "Troilus and Creseyde." The group discussed the fact that marriage used to follow convenience, typically financial. Though I had known that people married for different reasons in the past, what a shock it was when I internalized that fact that "love" has drastically transformed throughout history. Curious how a single word can acquire different definitions throughout its existence.

In marriages of convenience it is important to know that the two strangers could fall in love after marrying one another. It really is not all that inconceivable. Two people who fall in love before getting married are not guaranteed that they will love each other forever after pronouncing their vows. These are simply two different ways of going about the whole thing. Sure, mistresses were had, affairs were abundant, but I hesitate to call such sexual excursions advances towards "true love." They were cultural and until quite recently they still were, even if they were hush-hush. This isn't to say that all people had partners outside of marriage. However, monogamy as an ethical trend is rather recent.

Now that I am in love, my idea of what it is has changed and is in fact less certain that it was when I was single. The more you know, the less you know. Love has less to do with feelings than I had thought. Feelings are simply unreliable, especially if one does not know him or herself well (count me in). We are all, regardless of age, in a constant state of self-discovery and therefore our feelings constantly fluctuate. Love is outside of that. It also has little to do with happiness. There have been times in my relationship when I have felt happy with the "us," but not with life in general. The point is love does not make me happy, but I am happy with it. It is not something we ought to look for in order to make us happy. It can certainly be a factor, but it is not the only source. Nonsense to the song "Love (Can Make You Happy)." If I still bought into that I would never be happy in my life. My boyfriend brings me happiness, but I do not require that he make a happy person-- there is not a person on the world who could do that.

Though I am not certain about what love is-- if it is any single thing-- ,but I have a few ideas. It is an acceptance of a person whom you choose to endure with. It dismisses fleeting feelings-- though it still feels-- and the impossible expectation that it is the eternal source of happiness. 

The only thing that I am sure of is that whatever love is, it endures. This leads me back to the text I absorbed myself in in high-school. "Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance," (1 Corinthians 13.7).

I choose to love.

Swaying daisies sing a lazy song beneath the sun.

As I was listening to "The Fountainhead" on my familiar drive from Vancouver to Seattle, I was struck by the irony of a building. The thought came to me when Roark was contemplating the variety of natural resources surrounding him: "He looked at the granite. To be cut, he thought, and made into walls. He looked at a tree. To be split and made into rafters. He looked at a streak of rust on the stone and thought of iron ore under the ground. To be melted and to emerge as girders against the sky." 

From the earth resources are taken to prevent us from being affected by elements that allow those very resources to thrive. We use wood to build a house to shield us from the wind, the rain, the sun. How easy it is to dismiss that fact that the same wood came from a seed which was carried by the wind and then nourished by the rain. It grew as the sun performed its duty and beat down on it.

Perhaps we can pay tribute to such elements even if we seek to avoid them more often than not. For example, the child pays tribute to the wind when she flies her kite on the beach. She takes delight in something that would annoy her if there were no escape from it. The young travelers pay homage to the rain as they laugh when caught in a storm on the streets of a foreign city. Maybe when we take delight in such things, even if for a few moments, we are participating in nature's song. 

It is not a "giving back" that I am thinking of, and I am not trying to point out the fact that we take from nature. I am thinking of more of a metaphysical bind and utter dependence we have with it.

I live in an apartment in the city and I can not say that I feel close to nature. I hear sirens roar by more often that I hear a bird's song. But look! My book shelf--wood; my coffee table--wood; my plant stand--steel, glass, and well, a plant. No, just because these came from nature does it mean that I am "surrounded by nature" in the typical sense of the phrase. I am, however, surrounded by the inescapable truth that I rely upon it and not it on me. Mankind is not as powerful as he sometimes thinks.