"I wrote a lot of trash last year. I'm still trying to learn how to write."
-KLS, 8/28/06
Only today did I really realize how strong my hands are. Riddled with veins, my fingers sit on the end of my short palms like thick stumps, waiting to kill something barehanded, or at best pull back a bowstring or weild a machete. In truth, they are covered in oil, stroking soft skin, carefully holding sheaves of words bound on paper, or restraining the vibration of a thin string. Who knew so much force was necessary for such delicate tasks.
I'm so tired. Exhausted, really- working as much as I have has crept up on me gradually, until it seems that no matter how much I sleep, it's never enough. Most of the problem is that I can't sleep, or when I do I wake up all the time... much to my amazement the last couple of days, I woke up alone after a sleepover, and had no idea when the other person left. It's like magic.
Chris said it best today at work when he said he feels like a lot is going on inside, and that he just needs some sort of epiphany to work it all out. I like that word. I like thinking about words, and what they really mean, and then applying it to every context in which they are used- Chris needed a little visit to a baby saviour in his head to make everything make sense.
I guess I do, too.
8.28.2006
8.23.2006
8.18.2006
pay no attention to the man behind the iron curtain
hello friends, Romans, thespians. how are you all?
peachy. thanks for asking.
Work has been paying off. I mean, I'm still working like a horse, and not in fact a llonkey, but the cashola came in today from massage city, and let's just say I may not have been the mayor, but I was at least his deputy. Or her deputy.
yikes, the one thing I am the mayor of tonight is run-on sentences! Somebody needs to whack me in the face with the grammar hammer.
Speaking of, I've been writing quite a bit of music lately. Gasp! it's true. And I think it is more beautiful and better structurally than anything I've yet done. Which is saying a lot, since lugen-flugen himself once wanted to cover my work. And I'm only one degree away from playing a show with both OTR and Dashboard. People! I've practically arrived. How can you stand me?
So Chris and my bro and Ben are all kind of bandying about the bush, saying let's gig together! yeah! but I will confess, I must confess, I must hasten to add that I am hesitant. So many times before (ok well two but it feels more like 4823) I've gotten burned by this "let's get together, yeah yeah yeah" scenario. We're talking singed eyebrows, superficial facial swelling kind of burned. but the crappy thing about me is that I can't stand losing you, music. I try to act disinterested at the prospect of making some sounds with three intelligent, talented, balanced men, one of whom is my bro, the other two have been pros at this previously. The fourth word of that last sentence was key, friends. because it's a friggen act. yikes! I just can't get away from the fact that I love making music. anytime, anywhere, with quite a few people. Chris has already committed to buying a kit. seriously! I don't even know how I feel about that, like maybe I'm supposed to sing a few bars of Ben Folds to him, wander away, and call the whole thing off. But then he lays down, with little human beatbox sounds and flailing of invisible drumsticks, the most excellent little finesse parts. uh. hit that hi-hat on the four of that count. uh. shuffle, one ee and UH TWO ee and uh. hot. get that stick up on top of that ride, yes, downbeats, thump thump thump underneath. and I'm all grind and strum and torque across from him, moving sideways next to my box in the parkinglot, letting my vocal cords shimmy around in my neck. and then comes the POP and I hear it all in my head, ben floating on top of everything with that sick beautiful reverby electric sound, Dan sliding perfectly into the pocket on my jazz bass. this could work, people. this could work- and they all love my music. even Dan grudgingly admits to it, only after defending himself by saying he's my brother, and he's never bought any of my recordings. true on both counts.
so those are the things I'm up to. and I'm running again.
peachy. thanks for asking.
Work has been paying off. I mean, I'm still working like a horse, and not in fact a llonkey, but the cashola came in today from massage city, and let's just say I may not have been the mayor, but I was at least his deputy. Or her deputy.
yikes, the one thing I am the mayor of tonight is run-on sentences! Somebody needs to whack me in the face with the grammar hammer.
Speaking of, I've been writing quite a bit of music lately. Gasp! it's true. And I think it is more beautiful and better structurally than anything I've yet done. Which is saying a lot, since lugen-flugen himself once wanted to cover my work. And I'm only one degree away from playing a show with both OTR and Dashboard. People! I've practically arrived. How can you stand me?
So Chris and my bro and Ben are all kind of bandying about the bush, saying let's gig together! yeah! but I will confess, I must confess, I must hasten to add that I am hesitant. So many times before (ok well two but it feels more like 4823) I've gotten burned by this "let's get together, yeah yeah yeah" scenario. We're talking singed eyebrows, superficial facial swelling kind of burned. but the crappy thing about me is that I can't stand losing you, music. I try to act disinterested at the prospect of making some sounds with three intelligent, talented, balanced men, one of whom is my bro, the other two have been pros at this previously. The fourth word of that last sentence was key, friends. because it's a friggen act. yikes! I just can't get away from the fact that I love making music. anytime, anywhere, with quite a few people. Chris has already committed to buying a kit. seriously! I don't even know how I feel about that, like maybe I'm supposed to sing a few bars of Ben Folds to him, wander away, and call the whole thing off. But then he lays down, with little human beatbox sounds and flailing of invisible drumsticks, the most excellent little finesse parts. uh. hit that hi-hat on the four of that count. uh. shuffle, one ee and UH TWO ee and uh. hot. get that stick up on top of that ride, yes, downbeats, thump thump thump underneath. and I'm all grind and strum and torque across from him, moving sideways next to my box in the parkinglot, letting my vocal cords shimmy around in my neck. and then comes the POP and I hear it all in my head, ben floating on top of everything with that sick beautiful reverby electric sound, Dan sliding perfectly into the pocket on my jazz bass. this could work, people. this could work- and they all love my music. even Dan grudgingly admits to it, only after defending himself by saying he's my brother, and he's never bought any of my recordings. true on both counts.
so those are the things I'm up to. and I'm running again.
8.11.2006
death be not proud
The following is actually from my mentor, John Hay, Jr.'s blog, bikehiker.
On an evening when I have been confronted with my own inner push against the pull, I have found it illuminating. Never can I be the tsubo, the stillness, the absence, the jar, the feminine.... there is always this friction within me that my heart doles out, seemingly of its own accord. This upward thrust of my spirit, when I try to meditate on my bed throughout the watches of the night. In just four hours now I'll need to be up, getting ready for another day in which to sling books, grimacing as my upper ribs audibly snap in and out with each monstrous pile moved. In the midst of my instability, stability exists. In the midst of my chaos, peace resides. Though I cannot grasp it, though I cannot understand it, it is still immovable, invisible, immortal- God, only wise.
This is the solid rock on which I stand. I am the sand, and I am sinking- even as Peter sank. Jesus knew he would, but bade him come out anyway. This is the most miraculous part of the story.
What do I look for tonight? The ears to hear, and the presence of mind to put my leg over the side of the boat, even though it may lead to my ruin. For my saviour calls to me.
(what follows is all John Hay, Jr.'s words; may the peace I felt upon reading them be also with you.)
FROM RESENTMENT TO GRATITUDE
On an evening when I have been confronted with my own inner push against the pull, I have found it illuminating. Never can I be the tsubo, the stillness, the absence, the jar, the feminine.... there is always this friction within me that my heart doles out, seemingly of its own accord. This upward thrust of my spirit, when I try to meditate on my bed throughout the watches of the night. In just four hours now I'll need to be up, getting ready for another day in which to sling books, grimacing as my upper ribs audibly snap in and out with each monstrous pile moved. In the midst of my instability, stability exists. In the midst of my chaos, peace resides. Though I cannot grasp it, though I cannot understand it, it is still immovable, invisible, immortal- God, only wise.
This is the solid rock on which I stand. I am the sand, and I am sinking- even as Peter sank. Jesus knew he would, but bade him come out anyway. This is the most miraculous part of the story.
What do I look for tonight? The ears to hear, and the presence of mind to put my leg over the side of the boat, even though it may lead to my ruin. For my saviour calls to me.
(what follows is all John Hay, Jr.'s words; may the peace I felt upon reading them be also with you.)
FROM RESENTMENT TO GRATITUDE
ANONYMOUS E-MAILS & POSTS. For nearly two years, I have occasionally received quite hateful e-mail and blog posts from an anonymous source (yes, they continue unabated). The writer reads my bikehiker blog and is familiar with West Morris Street church. The writer sorely twists my words and intended meanings and pens caustic, intimidating little diatribes. I have not quite figured out who it is. But this person’s identity does not matter to me so much as the level of resentment and anger he or she expresses. If I could, I would drain away their resentment and anger, for I am afraid it will ultimately consume them.
TWO WORDS FOR HEALING MINISTRY. "Healing ministry can be expressed in two words: gratitude and compassion." Healing happens often by leading people to gratitude, for the world is full of resentment. What is resentment? Cold anger. 'I'm angry at him. I'm angry at this. This is not the way I want it.' Gradually, there are more and more things I am negative about, and soon I become a resentful person."
RESPONDING TO LOSS. "Resentment makes you cling to your failures or disappointments and complain about the losses in your life. Our life is full of losses— losses of dreams and losses of friends and losses of family and losses of hopes. There is always the lurking danger we will respond to these incredible pains in resentment. Resentment gives us a hardened heart."
PAINS LEADING TO JOY. "Jesus calls us to gratitude. He calls to us, 'You foolish people. Didn't you know that the Son of Man--that you, that we--have to suffer and thus enter into the glory? Didn't you know that these pains were labor pains that lead you to the joy? Didn't you know that all we are experiencing as losses are gains in God's eyes? Those who lose their lives will gain it. And if the grain doesn't die, it stays a small grain; but if it dies, then it will be fruitful.'"
CAN WE BE GRATEFUL? "Can you be grateful for everything that has happened in your life—not just the good things but for all that brought you to today? It was the pain of a Son that created a family of people known as Christians. That's the mystery of God."
LETTING RESENTMENT GO. "Our ministry is to help people to gradually let go of the resentment, to discover that right in the middle of pain there is a blessing. Right in the middle of your tears—that's where the dance starts and joy is first felt. "
NOT SEPARATED. "In this crazy world, there's an enormous distinction between good times and bad, between sorrow and joy. But in the eyes of God, they're never separated. Where there is pain, there is healing. Where there is mourning, there is dancing. Where there is poverty, there is the kingdom."
JESUS’ PRESENCE IN OUR WEAKNESS. "Jesus says, 'Cry over your pains, and you will discover that I'm right there in your tears, and you will be grateful for my presence in your weakness.' Ministry means to help people become grateful for life even with pain. That gratitude can send into the world precisely to the places where people are in pain. The minister, the disciple of Jesus, goes where there is pain not because he is a masochist or she is a sadist, but because God is hidden in the pain."
8.09.2006
do you carry every sadness with you?
Hem asks me this question, as I sit and yawn at my screen.
Quite possibly.
Tonight at work a man had a seizure, over in the cookbooks section of the store. Mary came running towards me, a worried look on her face, and forced calm cloaking her every move. Call 911. Call mall security. Get Val. I run around the corner, why am I always running around corners to find somebody unconscious and needing help? Why does panic always choke my long neck with her white, slender hand?
No matter how many times I go through this, it's still the same. I grudgingly admit to Val that I know CPR, before I go out front to wait for the ambulance. All the while I mutter under my breath, damn, damn, damn. Keep breathing, you idiot. Keep freaking breathing. Those glassy, unresponsive eyes scare the lightheartedness right out of me, the banter I was sharing with pals over in the cafe moments ago is lost utterly. I'm still not ready. I'm still not. Will there be a time? Will there be a time that I can react calmly when someone collapses in front of me, puke near their head and moans issuing from behind clenched teeth? Will I ever pull off the act of hero?
I don't know. For all the talk of eternal now, and blustering I may do about things unseen, it comes down to this; you really shouldn't trust me farther than you can throw me. And I'm a big girl these days.
Quite possibly.
Tonight at work a man had a seizure, over in the cookbooks section of the store. Mary came running towards me, a worried look on her face, and forced calm cloaking her every move. Call 911. Call mall security. Get Val. I run around the corner, why am I always running around corners to find somebody unconscious and needing help? Why does panic always choke my long neck with her white, slender hand?
No matter how many times I go through this, it's still the same. I grudgingly admit to Val that I know CPR, before I go out front to wait for the ambulance. All the while I mutter under my breath, damn, damn, damn. Keep breathing, you idiot. Keep freaking breathing. Those glassy, unresponsive eyes scare the lightheartedness right out of me, the banter I was sharing with pals over in the cafe moments ago is lost utterly. I'm still not ready. I'm still not. Will there be a time? Will there be a time that I can react calmly when someone collapses in front of me, puke near their head and moans issuing from behind clenched teeth? Will I ever pull off the act of hero?
I don't know. For all the talk of eternal now, and blustering I may do about things unseen, it comes down to this; you really shouldn't trust me farther than you can throw me. And I'm a big girl these days.
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