a heart made of dust

That was interesting. I daresay, unexpected. Even enjoyable.




a heart made of dust


Can you see me standing here
Beneath all these unshed tears
With my hopes and with my fears yeah
And a heart made of dust

Would you care if I go
If you did, would I ever know
Or has this all just been for show
Well we do what we do if we must

And I’ll keep on loving you
It’s just what I do
It’s just what I do

Driving his truck in the night
I smoke a pack, it just feels right
Stop signs just out of sight
Everyone else is asleep

I hear your voice on the stair
My bed is full of your hair
Put on your old shirt to wear
When I am asleep

And I’ll keep on loving you
It’s just what I do
It’s just what I do

Oh baby, you know
All I wanted you’ll never need
All my pictures you’ll never see
All this agony inside of me
And a heart made of dust
And a heart made of dust
And a heart made of dust

(c) 2006 liza swart

all that we let in

I went last night and saw "United 93" with Jeff. Not a lot I can say about that. I reflected as we left that when we went in, I thought I was ready. When the film ended, I can say that that wasn't true. But I don't think one can ever be ready. In fact, the film captures that wonderfully- everything feels like it is one step behind for the whole two hours. And were we ever.

With all I've been thinking about lately, and that added in the mix, the old head was spinning. Last week I bought the Indigo Girls' 2004 release, "All That We Let In." The title track played on my ride home last night from the theatre, and I let it resonate within me. Amazing how some of my most insightful, I would daresay worshipful experiences can come from moments emerging from reflection on Islamic militants, underscored by liberal lesbians. I say yes, not in the traditional sense of the word, but in the sense that Eugene Peterson uses it as an Amen in The Message. The divine is in all things.

"All That We Let In"
lyrics by Emily Saliers

Oooooooo
Oooooooo
Oooooooo
Dust in our eyes our own boots kicked up
Heartsick we nurse along the way we picked up
You may not see it when it's sticking to your skin
But we're better off for all that we let in

We've lost friends and loved ones much too young
So much promises and work left undone
When all that guards us is a single center line
And the brutal crossing over when it's time

Oooooooo
(Well I don't know where it all begins)
Oooooooo
(And I don't know where it all will end)
Oooooooo
(We're better off for all that we let in)

One day those toughies will be withered up and bent
The father son, the holy warriors, and the president
With glory days of put up dukes for all the world to see
Beaten into submission in the name of the free

We're in an evolution I have heard it said
Everyone's so busy now but do we move ahead
The planets hurting, atoms splitting
And a sweater for your love you sit there knitting

Oooooooo
(I don't know where it all begins)
Oooooooo
(And I don't know where it all will end)
Oooooooo
(We're better off for all that we let in)

See those crosses on the side of the road
Or tied with ribbons in the median
They make me grateful I can go this mile
Lay me down at night and wake me up again

Kat writes a poem and she sticks it on my truck
We don't believe in war and we don't believe in luck
The birds were calling to her, what were they saying
As the gate blew open the tops of the trees were swaying

I pass the cemetery, walk my dog down there
I read the names in stone and I say a silent prayer
When I get home you're cooking supper on the stove
And the greatest gift of life is to know love
Oooooooo
(I don't know where it all begins)
Oooooooo
(And I don't know where it all will end)
Oooooooo
(We're better off for all that we let in)



((and I hear there the echo of Linford's words in Karin's mouth))
Idea #21 (Not Too Late)
words and music: Detweiler
recording: OHIO

Till we lay these weapons at your feet, Lord
How long, how long
Till we call all hatred obsolete, Lord
How long, how long
Till we walk like lovers thru Bethlehem
How long, how long
Till the lion lies down with the lamb, Lord
How long, how long
Too late
(I know it's not too late)
To wrestle with this angel
Higher and higher
(Don't let go)
Higher and higher
Before we know
How does it end
How does it end
We're all riding on the last train
Trying to find our way home again
Till we wash the blood from the hands of our fathers
How long, how long
We're all sisters and brothers, sons and daughters
How long, how long
Our eyes all shine in different colors we cry, Lord
How long, how long
Our dreams our tears are all the same by and by, Lord
How long, how long
Too late
(I know it's not too late)
To climb up Jacob's ladder
Higher and higher
(Don't let go)
Higher and higher
Before we know
How does it end
How does it end
We're all riding on the last train
Trying to find our way home again

It's not too late

(yes...)

nothing should crunch when you eat chicken

I say to my father.

"Well, it did," he replies to me, in a voice slightly more tinted with southern Indiana drawl than usual.

We are eating hot wings together, and he is reading a book. Unusual, yes, for both of us; but it works today, this Friday, this good Friday. I don't go into work for a couple of hours yet, but we've already been over there. I took pops to go see my new job digs, and he liked it- enough to buy 50 bucks worth of crap- some book on finance and a season of the Waltons on DVD. My brother's gonna kill me. We were trying to wean dad off of so many boxed sets of TV series. Ah well. Bubz works hard, he should be able to come home and watch as much John Boy as he wants.

So it's bar food for lunch today; cheap bar food. My dad gets these 10 pound bags of chicken wings for like 2 cents or something ridiculous. And they taste like restaurants. Actual, small restaurants.


I played guitar last night for almost an hour, and my left fingertips prove tender even as I type these loving words lovingly. I realized, with a small amount of shock, that I think I'm pretty good. Even after all this time. And I think I could probably write some more damn good songs, without much incident, if I had a mind to. You put enough good stuff in, something good's gotta come out. Theoretically, at least. Oftentimes, practice disproves this theory.

Which brings me to my last point in the sermon, dear congregants. I have very little, you see- I am broke, and living with my parents, and have no magnum opus of any kind to show for all my long years of whatever I've been doing, and whatever potential I may or may not have had along the way. But I do use words, and hopefully use them in a way that they thank me for the experience when we're done. So don't steal my thunder, friends. If I have a certain way of saying things, or writing things, or expressing myself, let it remain the inimitable Liza. This is all I got. I'm not gonna be a superstar of any kind, but I can be me, which is fairly unlike other things. And not like police are going to come and czech you out to make sure you're obeying the law of the land, which is my land, which is your land, from California, to the western waters. Which is basically the same place. But respect me here, people. And I write this on purpose in this blog and not my Myspace one, because I know probably nobody will read it. Leave me my comforts. Leave me a moment to think that I might be good at wordsmithing.

Just leave me.

evaporated

(lyrics by Ben Folds. current emotional state by me.)

What I've kept with me
And what I've thrown away
And where the hell I've ended up
On this glary, random day
Were the things I really cared about
Just left along the way
For being too pent up and proud

Wake up way too late
Feeling hangover and old
And the sun was shining bright
And I walked barefootdown the road
Started thinking about my old man
It seems that all men
Women get into a car and go
Anywhere

Here I stand -
Sad & Free
I can't cry and
I can't see
What I've done
God... What have I done

So don't you know I'm numb, man
No I don't feel a thing at all
Cause it's all smiles and business these days
And I'm indifferent to the loss
I've faith that there's a soul
Whose leading me around
I wonder if she knows
Which way is down...

I Poured my heart out
I Poured my heart out
it evaporated...see?

Blind man on a canyon's edge of a
Panoramic scene
Or maybe I'm a kite
That's flying high and random
Dangling a string
Or slumped over in a vacant room
Head on a stranger's knee
I'm sure back home
They think I've lost my mind

unsent

I came up to HU yesterday, to visit some old friends. Twilight Zone. It's amazing how much this place feels totally separate to me, even though I've been in touch with more than a few friends since graduation. I guess it's because that I've been seeing them other places that coming back here feels so weird. I stayed with my friend Dana last night, sleeping on the floor (literally) of the floor (Meadows 2nd) that I used to live on my junior year. I was the RA here. I patrolled these halls at night, idly swinging my master keys on an HC (as it was back then) lanyard, breaking up makey-outey couples in darkened basement classrooms. Getting f-ing parking tickets for accidentally leaving the crappy neon parked out front overnight. Making shrimp dinners and dancing in the lounge, while we waited for birthdays.

Driving up here, I talked to a friend for a long time, and wondered why (again) it was never me. The unanswerable of unanswerables again, I know, but yet I can't stop wondering. And not just with him, but with the dinner company as well... I could really end up making a fool of myself if I'm not careful. But let me assure you all, I am beyond careful. You might even call me as silent as the grave.

One of the most beautiful, fantastic experiences of my life happened last night. I saw Brad Etter at Henrys (which should almost go without saying), and he was totally floored to see me (which should also almost go without saying). There was a hanging of the head, a dropping of the jaw, and an "oh my god" moment, and then hugging and his slow, soft voice delivering up to me the sword of truth. He told me that Over The Rhine is coming to Ft. Wayne on May 20th to play at C2G, the church that I went to there for my last six months in college. It's also a venue, which if that does not make sense, just think about why it should. And accept it gleefully. Of course, now my jaw is hanging open. This is my home turf, this will mean that I will have played the same venue as OTR. It's a really intimate setting, I know I'll be able to see them really well, and perhaps meet them again, with a real conversation or something since Brad is hosting. But then the most beautiful words come out of Brad's mouth that I've ever heard. Hey, you'd be perfect for this, he says. Why don't you drive up early that day, they will be getting here about 4 hours before the show, and kind of be their liason for the day?

Yes.

And I gasp, and splutter, and gasp, and grasp the flyer tightly in my small, sturdy fist. Brad and I talk some more, about my scarf that is still hanging on his banister, and Sunny is expecting again in July, and C2G is exploding. My answers are non-commital, and though I try to hear what he is saying, there really is very little comprehension. I am the king of the world.

Everyone at my home table was ecstatic. They're all going to come to the show, and were happy for me, clapping me on the shoulder like I'd just fathered some big, beautiful 40 year old couple with musical chops like Ella Fitzgerald on a good day. It was so good to laugh with them. And rejoice, and be glad.

Not everyone does. For reasons I probably don't get, and don't want to anymore. One time, just once, I want someone to take my side against "the boy" of the picture. But faithfulness is not for the receiver, it is for the giver. And I must say, I am glad to have shaped my character here. Doing this, over and over; like I'm crazy or something. Ha. Maybe that's been the problem all along. I keep expecting a different result, I keep expecting understanding, or patience, or some emotional output for me that is more than a halfhearted attempt at giving me what has to be given because it's what I want. It's so easy to love people, to give to them, to support them, to rejoice with them, to cry with them, to give them a shoulder to cry on when you can't anymore. This is what makes me happy. But I can't go on forever, though I'd like to. On second thought, maybe that latter statement isn't even true anymore. I'm just tired.

I went running this morning on campus, along perimeter road. Talk about flashback city- where things really all started. I listened to Ben Folds, and decided to cut the run a little short when I got over to the far side of the lake, behind the MCA. I walked over to the trees with the bark curling off, and reached in for some. I didn't make it at first, there were cobwebs stretched across the branches, and I laughed for a moment, remembering years ago when somebody else was wandering depressed around campus, digging boxes out of dumpsters. I pulled the fragile bark off, realizing that one man's trash is another man's treasure.

I went over to sit on a patch of grass, narrow between the MCA wall and the small bunch of trees at the waterline of the lake, where the first sleepover happened. Brick came over the headphones to me. I told myself that it was ok to sit there and cry a minute, after I looked around to make sure nobody was near. After all, it wouldn't be the first time I'd cried by the lake. I was alone. And so Ben sang to me, and I didn't cry at all, just sat there looking dully at the water, and at the leaves of grass all around me. A small spider crawled out from between the folds of bark I had cradled in my hand, and I threw them to the ground, at the same time laughing. I waited until it crawled off, and picked them up again, at the same time I picked myself up. Brick ended, and Song for the Dumped started up as I began walking back to Meadows. I lipsynched along, and smiled, and laughed when I realized I'd already gotten my black t-shirt back.

I ran in it this morning.

dayton, oh!

Last Saturday night, my friend Jeff and I went and saw Over The Rhine perform at the Canal Street Tavern in Dayton, Ohio.

I have done this several times before, though with different groups of people, and even once by myself. I will always go back to Canal Street to see them; there is something womblike and inviting about that place that makes the OTR experience that much more alive and meaningful. And I certainly felt both that night.

Jeff and I discovered when we were more than halfway there, filling up his empty tank, that he had left his wallet at home. So, plastic magic left my pocket and stayed out the remainder of the night. Heh. Thank goodness for Wells Fargo overdraft protection. :( But anyway, it's just money, and not all that important. I'll be walking on it someday. We had some McDonalds, and continued on our way to Dayton, trekking east across the same 70 that I have been easting on now for months.

After our arrival, which I daresay was at just the right moment to put us about halfway back in the standing line that would form around us, we used the bathroom many times in the bar next door to the CST. If I was them, I would hate hundreds of people tramping in to use the facilities, gliding past my handful of customers. But I felt no hate, and peed thrice, and I was glad for them. It was the sort of place with western memorabilia nailed to the walls, and Johnny Cash playing on the jukebox. I wonder why it is in Dayton.

And then the show. We picked up our tickets from will call, and 32 year old Jeff had to wear a bracelet because he looks like he's 18 and didn't have a scrap of ID on him, what with the missing wallet and all. And we sat next to DQ, this kid that I had started calling "disqualified" out on the sidewalk because his collar on his polo shirt was flipped up, which is like an instant disqualification. Or maybe a false start. So anyway Jeff and I were sitting next to him in the very front, I mean like our feet were resting on the stage and everything, along with DQ's friends Dave and some girl I can't remember, Dana maybe. And I found out that DQ was named Nick, and they're all from Indy, and they were actually really incredible people, and maybe someday we'll all be real friends and I can tell him about DQ and we can have a good laugh about it.

So this woman, Amy Rigby, opened for the loveliest of all lovelies. She was an olda girl, and funny, and had good lyrics and a kind of wild nervous intensity coupled with bad jokes that made her immensely likeable. She sang songs about sex and being too poor to buy anything but goodwill or bargain-rack clothing, and also about how she hates men in sandals. And Karin and Linford sat over in the back corner, like they do, and I could see them laughing. Amy played for a goodly amount of time, and then there was a short break, where I used the bathroom some more and then the sounds of gloriousness were made available to me.

All I have to say is, damn. These people don't fool around, and they don't look like they plan to anytime soon. Devon Ashley, their collaborative percussionist for several years now, was along for the evening, and the three of them were on. I mean, ON. They started out with Long Lost Brother, the opening track on the 2nd disc of Ohio (or the 11th track of the release, if you prefer). And let me tell you, folks, if there was any doubt, Karin Berquist knows how to sing. And thankfully, I know how to listen.

There is something rare in their music which makes me sad and happy and clear and alive and dying and mourning and rejoicing all at once. I make more sense to myself when they are the accompaniment. Their sound tangles together in a pleasant way in my mind, and I am content. That lanquid voice scratches my itch, that smooth rhythm and punchy piano that can fade off into a dream holds me still. I know God in this sound. Karin holds her shaker aloft in front of the microphone, dark, purple, and plum shaped- it becomes the forbidden fruit for us all.

And we take, and eat, and know that it is good. And joy rains down on us; the clock strikes midnight and that beautiful, achingly slow voice sounds out over the silence of hundreds of happy heads, "Happy Easter, y'all." I would stand a thousand hours for this. I would overdraft a thousand bank accounts for this. I would hold my breath a thousand minutes for this. And here I am, staring down the barrel of this loving gun, warm in my hands, and I know happiness.

This sound just gets better with time. There were new songs, and I liked them just as much as old ones long loved; unreal. They write good songs, and no other kind, except maybe for great.

We rode home in blissfull, saturated silence, exhausted in every way from auditorally to emotionally, having both cried during the performance. You can't help it. And there was steak and shake, and flatulence, and small contented bouts of laughter, and sleeping - at least on my end. And we knew happiness.

nightrunning

tonight I saw the holy ghost, shimmering on fog-filled wings.

tonight I slipped out into the dark, and beheld the full moon in all its round, round glory, and I thought of Maundy, and betrayal and weeping and healing and making peace. and what an olive grove smells like, and how songs sound soft and pure in the close night air.

there was a moment, when I was moving, new shoes on older feet and sweet Indiana breaths seeping into my lungs, that I knew the balance. the knife-edge-thin balance of all things, between triviality and gravity, and that I stand in both. what I don't know is what happens when I step off of the curb.

one of my managers at work has some sheep. his wife called him today to tell him that the neighbors' rottweilers had gotten out, and killed four, including the five day old lamb that they were bottle raising. living things are so fragile. lambs are so easy to kill, quiet and soft and white.

Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world.

O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing.

Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.

Look, he is coming with the clouds, and every eye will see him, even those who pierced him; and all the peoples of the earth will mourn because of him.

For the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd; he will lead them to springs of living water. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.

The Spirit and the bride say, "Come!"

Wait

Wait
lyrics by Sarah McLachlan

Under a blackened sky
far beyond the glaring streetlights
sleeping on empty dreams
the vultures lie in wait.

You lay down beside me then
you were with me every waking hour
so close I could feel your breath.

When all we wanted was the dream
to have and to hold
that precious little thing
like every generation yields
the new born hope unjaded by the years.

Pressed up against the glass
I found myself wanting sympathy
but to be consumed again
oh I know would be the death of me

and there is a love that's inherently given
a kind of blindness offered to decieve
and in that light of forbidden joy
oh I know I won't recieve it.

When all we wanted was the dream
to have and to hold
that precious little thing
like every generation yields
the newborn hope unjaded by their years.

You know if I leave you now
it doesn't mean I love you any less
its just the state I'm in
I can't be good to anyone else like this.

When all we wanted was the dream
to have and to hold
that precious little thing
like every generation yields
the newborn hope unjaded by their years...

well.

I am sitting on my parents' couch, listening to my mother tell about how she pulled a catheter out of her abdomen wound yesterday, as she shows the scar to everyone present. She apparently almost fainted at the time.

Last Thursday, on the way to the hospital, my dad was driving and I was lying in the backseat, burrowed deep into my hoodie. We pulled up to a stopsign, and he complained about how you couldn't see it until you came right up to it. He said it made him lose his mind.

I know how he feels.

unnnnnnnnnhhhhhhh

I'm totally autistic. It's a fact. except for the part where I'm supposed to be a whiz at math. Maybe that just means I'm creepy, and not autistic at all- there's no genius to explain my need for repetition. need for repetition. need for repetition.

I'm ruined for making breakfasts. rooo-inned. They always come out looking like a prep cook did them- two dippy eggs, just right where there's no slime on them, two slices of toste sliced down the middle and arranged in triangles on the far side of the plate. And a beautiful, bountiful, belligerent cup of OJ, freshly squeezed to accompany on the pianoforte. It is a masterpiece of culinary delight.

I sit down and eat them to the sounds of the same song I just played 12 times in a row, dirty, dirty, you're such a dirty girl. And also the sounds I hear are the smack, smack, smack of birds trying to fly in the window on the front of our house. They do it every day. They do it all day. Sometimes there will be a real loud one, and we'll look out the window and see a bird laying on the ground, dazed. There will be a wet spot on the window. If I were a bird, I would not be so foolish. I would eat a little and then go away.

dun, dun dun dun DUNNNNNNNNNNNN

I ruined some of my dad's pants tonight, and my mom slapped me.
A high five.
She hated those pants.

A few nights ago, when we were chillaxin in our disco lounge, which is cleverly disguised as our kitchen, she went to the living room #2 and retrieved an old heart shaped box. and then played some nirvana. while that was happening, the box got opened, to reveal a note, which read,

"Will you marry me? (Earl Swart)"

and the other side had two stick-figure, featureless heads inside a box. that was my parents, together for ever- or at least a pictoral representation of the same.

They've been together for 25.5 years, if you count marriage time, and 26.5, if you count actual time. Apparently marriage time is fake. And they're still crazy after all these years, eating chips and arguing about wool pants, occasionally taking cruises, drinking coffee like it's going out of style, and concealing junk food from each other.

I sit in the middle and in the background simultaneously, recording everything with muted keyboard strokes and surreptitious glances and sneaky chip stealing fingers.

occurrences

mom and I talked again today about homosexuality. I doubt we'll ever agree. Though we may not think alike, can we not love alike? Certainly, Mr. Wesley.

I think I should be depressed, and if I were allowing myself to wallow in depressing thoughts, I very well might end up that way. But dammit, I just can't stay down. I start smiling like a goon for no reason at all. I dance across the kitchen floor, swaying my hips to Joss Stone and licking the cookie batter from the spoon. Some things in my life will have changed very little from age three to age seventy three, I think. And I really believe I'm all right with that. I look at who I am, at where I'm headed, and even though things seem mighty convoluted, I believe the kind older black lady at H&R block, who manages to tell me with a straight face that I am going somewhere, despite the fact that she is looking at real numbers of my financial worth. $12048 gross, $4978 taxable income, 2005.

I believe her.

I start working tomorrow, working like Cerberus himself was pawing at my heels. Things come together, and things fall apart, Mr. Achebe. And I keep having story ideas, writing when it makes no sense to be doing so, finding myself in a big, white box headed to Chicago where worlds collide and chicken chokes and Mr. Stevens warbles on softly in the background about bone cancer. It gets hot in small cars when many people are inside. And there is love, and seminary posters featuring exploitation of 3rd world countries, and no my uncle didn't answer the phone, even on the fifth try. And there will be some that I will continue to love, beyond all reason, measure or hope, and never, ever tell them about it. Why? It doesn't matter, the dark keeps being dark and cold is cold is cold.

Jeff and I will mountain bike this Saturday. And go see OTR in April. Once again, I will sit in the hushed stillness of a packed canal street tavern, listening to heaven drop on my fertile ears. And I will rejoice, and be glad in it.

just to say, say, say what you mean

This Is Just to Say
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

----------
Variations on a Theme by William Carlos Williams
by Kenneth Koch

1I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer.
I am sorry, but it was morning, and I had nothing to do
and its wooden beams were so inviting.

2We laughed at the hollyhocks together
and then I sprayed them with lye.
Forgive me. I simply do not know what I am doing.

3I gave away the money that you had been saving to live on for the next ten years.
The man who asked for it was shabby
and the firm March wind on the porch was so juicy and cold.

4Last evening we went dancing and I broke your leg.
Forgive me. I was clumsy and
I wanted you here in the wards, where I am the doctor!

----------
More Variants on Williams
by me

#1
This morning
I smashed
your favorite
cukoo clock

the one you
were planning to
give Dan when
you died.

Forgive me.
I simply enjoy
killing
wooden birds.

#2
Today you came
in
from New York
to visit me

And I left you
alone
at a Christian
College.

Forgive me.
I've always enjoyed
watching
Buddhists die slowly.

#3
Today I erased
all the files
from your
hard drive

Which you were
intending
to use for your
thesis.

Forgive me.
I needed a
new,
gray coffeetable.

beware the ides of march

beware greeks bearing gifts.

in honor of all the haiku writing lately, here are some in honor of emily, and war, and what is it good for, and bikes.

signing off at night
worlds apart, keystrokes away-
love you... don't get shot

you send photographs
images stuffed down phone lines
...the war seems far off

when you return home
what will have changed in our lives?
you get your bike back.

lil bubz wit sum fresh cuts

happiness = catching my little bro, sprawled on the floor playing xbox 360, singing "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, there's no other way" along with Natasha Bedingfield. In her octave, with a cracking voice.

He then reveals to me that if he ever releases a hip-hop song, it's going to be called "Hot Dawg Sauce."

duo

thump thump thump slide

kick out
arms spread
fly through air thick

with taco seasonings
ground beef in the microwave

coast and turn

double axel
triple salchow
dismount


socks on linoleum



------------------------------



You told me you liked my poem.
The one about socks, and running,
Sliding across the kitchen floor.

I thought about that for a while.
Thought about you and I,
Running the long lazy days away together,
Down to that greasy diner and back
To your house-

Marching to those crazy latin standards
Going down and dirty
In summer heat, winter chill
Cold hands and chapped lips
Buzzing against frigid mouthpieces.

I remembered standing on risers with you.
Walking across stage floors
And through stage doors
And beside you for all the accolades
And honors we received together.

Together.

And you like my poem, my crazy poem
About running, and socks
And linoleum,

And you don’t do any of it anymore.
You don’t feel that floor with your weak, flopping feet
Impotent at the end of stick legs,
Encased in a shroud of steel,
Pulled along by canes,
Or resting benignly on metal flappers
Like the figurehead of your solitary
Ship on wheels.


but


You still understand.
You still know that elusive feeling,
That lovely freedom of sliding along in the kitchen on socks.

I remind you,
And still we remain
Together-

On socks,
On wheels,
On wings.

Brian, shit, and Mars

WOOT! Brian sends shit to mars, and it gets there.

My dear friend, Brian Simms, from Denver, helped write the software on this project. After launch, he has been working in ops (he is an employee of Lockheed Martin, in Littleton, CO) to make sure everything is smooth as a baby canteloupe. And it was. Congrats, friend!



NASA Spacecraft Enters Orbit Around Mars

By ALICIA CHANG, AP Science Writer 5 minutes ago
PASADENA, Calif. - A
NASA spacecraft successfully slipped into orbit around Mars Friday, joining a trio of orbiters already circling the Red Planet.
Scientists cheered after the Mars Reconnaissance Orbiter emerged from the planet's shadow and signaled to NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory that the maneuver was a success.
"Oh I am very relieved," project manager Jim Graf said minutes later. "It was picture perfect."
The two-ton spacecraft is the most sophisticated ever to arrive at Mars and is expected to gather more data on the Red Planet than all previous Martian missions combined.
It will explore Mars in low orbit for four years and is expected to churn out the most detailed information ever about the planet and its climate and landscape.
In the fall, the orbiter will begin exploring the Martian atmosphere, scan the surface for evidence of ancient water and scout for future landing sites to send robotic and possibly human explorers.
The $720 million mission is managed by JPL in Pasadena.
After a seven-month, 310 million-mile journey, the orbiter arrived at Mars Friday for the risky orbit insertion phase. Project managers had been nervous because of Mars' reputation of swallowing scientific probes.
But the Reconnaissance Orbiter performed the move without problem.
As it neared the planet, it fired its main propulsion engines for 27 minutes to slow itself down so that the planet's gravity could pull it into orbit. At one point during the burn, the spacecraft disappeared behind Mars — as engineers had planned — and was temporarily out of radio contact with controllers.
Mission control was visibly tense as it awaited word from the orbiter, which reappeared and signaled that it had entered into an elliptical orbit around Mars that will swing it as close as 250 miles above the surface.
The spacecraft will spend seven months dipping into the upper atmosphere to shrink the orbit.
The successful mission was welcome news for NASA, which has a mixed record of putting spacecraft into orbit around Mars.
In the last 15 years, NASA lost two orbiters back-to-back — the Mars Observer in 1993 and the Mars Climate Orbiter in 1999 — during the orbit insertion phase.
The Reconnaissance Orbiter is the fourth eye on the Martian sky, joining NASA's Mars Global Surveyor and Mars Odyssey and the European Space Agency's Mars Express, which have been mapping the planet the past few years. On the surface, the NASA rovers Spirit and Opportunity, continue their robotic geology missions.
The newest orbiter is loaded with the most advanced science instruments ever sent to another planet including a telescopic camera to photograph the surface in unprecedented detail and radar to probe underground for ice and possible evidence of liquid water.
The spacecraft won't beam back images or data until November. Like previous space probes before it, it will seek for evidence of ancient water and other signs that the planet could have been hospitable to life.
It will also scan for potential spots to land the next generation of robotic rovers and determine whether human outposts can survive on the dusty planet.
Present-day Mars is dry and cold with large caps of frozen water at its poles, but scientists believe the planet once was warmer and wetter eons ago — conditions that might have been suitable for life.
During the mission's second phase, the orbiter will transmit data between Earth and Mars. It is expected to serve as a communication relay for the Phoenix Mars Scout, which will explore the icy north pole in 2008 and the Mars Science Laboratory, an advanced rover scheduled to launch in 2009.
The Reconnaissance Orbiter's primary mission will end in 2010.

come celebrate her!

Eysenck's Test Results

Extraversion (76%) high which suggests you are overly talkative, outgoing, sociable and interacting at the expense too often of developing your own individual interests and internally based identity. Neuroticism (42%) moderately low which suggests you are relaxed, calm, secure, and optimistic. Psychoticism (33%) moderately low which suggests you are, at times, overly kind natured, trusting, and helpful at the expense of your own individual development (martyr complex).

Take Eysenck Personality Test (similar to EPQ-R)
personality tests by similarminds.com

one old friend, one new

My dear friend Evelyn, whom I participated in Huntington College Theatre with, recently sent me these pictures of herself and her daughter. Since I know some folks who check this blog out fairly often know Ev, I thought I'd post them. The tyke is named Morgan.

hubris

after the elvis special on public television is over, dad pops in an Andy Griffith Show dvd.

"Dad, are you putting that in to honor Don Knotts?" I ask over the top of my laptop a.k.a. crappy lappy, knowing the famed actor and comedian died recently.

"Nope," he replies. "I'm putting it in to honor me."

open your eyes, boy- I think we are saved

I'm playing handbells with Westside Church of the Nazarene as a favor to my aunt, who informally directs the group. They are one ringer short (sounds like a punchline) for an upcoming performance, so I'm stepping up to the plate, temporarily only. It's been pretty fun, I'm on the bass clef just like I was in college, so it's at least familiar. There's only a few times that I am unable to keep up, so I just abbreviate my part- it really is amazing how the mind can have such amazing physical memory response. And sometimes, it's amazing how it has no physical memory response.

*clunk* go the bells. *grimace* go the other ringers.

So tonight, we had a Mr. Everling, who apparently is the formal director and just shows up to final rehearsals and performances, come in and *clap clap clap* "watch the tempo, remember this section is piano" *gesture at certain bells at certain times and wave a baton* "remember the retard." So that was interesting. And then, halfway through the rehearsal, a homeless man came in the sanctuary. I went from drop dead witty to dumbstruck in seconds; I hate it when I do that. Like, oh crap, head can't do anything but sit here on top of this big clumsy body and hang open. He was muttering, then we got out of him that he was broke and needed a couple of dollars, or some work or some help. My aunt was the only one who actually spoke to him, until the Mr. Everling collected his wits and told the man to come back in the morning when the office was open. I wished to heaven that I had a couple of bucks in my pockets to give the man. But I didn't. I don't even have two dimes to rub together right now. But this guy, he is a guy, just like any other guy. Jesus died for this man, the Spirit groans, and the Father made him with just as much care as he made the Pope. He came to a church for help, and was ultimately turned away, and as he left, whispering began immediately, that he might grab one of the ladies' purses, sitting in the pews, on his way out. I bet none of them have ever had a purse stolen. I've had my bike cut from it's chain and robbed of me when I was already over the line of destitute, and still I wanted to give this man something, anything. Anything but the impression that we wanted nothing to do with him, and he was nothing more than a distraction, an unpleasant distraction amidst our handbell practice. Jesus doesn't give a flying crap about our handbells, our "Now hear the word of the Lord, Dry Bones!" for the old people after their potluck, where there will be plenty to eat. And Mr. Everling pantomimes kicking the guy in the butt to get him out the door after he's gone, and everyone laughs nervously, glad that reality check didn't last longer than 30 seconds.

All I could play were wrong notes for the rest of the night.

W-2s

I've decided I like calling Adam's Mountain Cafe looking for errant W-2s a lot more than calling Starbucks.

Just guess which establishment was answered by a man named Frog, who after a surprised beat of silence, exploded with, "Well how the hell are ya!?!?!"

many pictures of me

so, if any are interested in a slideshow of basically my entire life, check out my myspace.

http://www.myspace.com/lizatraveler

And there is nice music, and an obligatory bathtub shot thrown in for good measure.

Enjoy yourselves.

things haven't changed all that much

Your #1 Match: ENFP

The Inspirer You love being around people, and you are deeply committed to your friends.You are also unconventional, irreverant, and unimpressed by authority and rules.Incredibly perceptive, you can usually sense if someone has hidden motives.You use lots of colorful language and expressions. You're qutie the storyteller! You would make an excellent entrepreneur, politician, or journalist.

Your #2 Match: INFP

The Idealist You are creative with a great imagination, living in your own inner world.Open minded and accepting, you strive for harmony in your important relationships.It takes a long time for people to get to know you. You are hesitant to let people get close.But once you care for someone, you do everything you can to help them grow and develop. You would make an excellent writer, psychologist, or artist.

Your #3 Match: ENFJ

The Giver You strive to maintain harmony in relationships, and usually succeed.Articulate and enthusiastic, you are good at making personal connections.Sometimes you idealize relationships too much - and end up being let down.You find the most energy and comfort in social situations ... where you shine. You would make a good writer, human resources director, or psychologist.

Your #4 Match: ENTP

The Visionary You are charming, outgoing, friendly. You make a good first impression.You possess good negotiating skills and can convince anyone of anything.Happy to be the center of attention, you love to tell stories and show off.You're very clever, but not disciplined enough to do well in structured environments. You would make a great entrpreneur, marketing executive, or actor.

Your #5 Match: ESFP

The Performer You are a natural performer and happiest when you're entertaining others.A great friend, you are generous, fun-loving and optimistic.You love to laugh - and you like almost all people equally.You accept life as it is, and you do your best to make each day fantastic. You would make a good actor, designer, or counselor.

What's Your Personality Type?

bikes and spears! bikes and spears!

Hopefully someone like Jonny or Paco will read this and find my title for this post funny. The amazing thing is that it is relevant.

I've been swimming lately; today back in the pool around lunchtime and up over 1k yards- about 5 times that much, and I'll be back in shape. Heh. Fortunately I have a few months. There was a moment today though, around 8oo or so, where I hit my stride. Chop, chop, chop, breath, hips twisting along behind me, knees moving and feet pushing against the lovely cool water. It felt good for a few moments. I even did a little sprinting, but caught a bad turn on my last 50 and just about bottomed out. I'd forgotten how much those take the wind out of your sails. Oh well. I remember now.

So afterwards, I came back and said hello to my grandmother before heading home with my chlorinated suit. She mentioned that she wanted to go see "The End Of The Spear," a story about Jim Elliot and his buddies, and wouldn't mind going tonight. Ok, sounds fine, and we ended up going, after I once again forayed into the kitchen and emerged semi victorious with a beef/broccoli concoction. Eunice and I caught the 7pm show at the new megaplex theatre about 10 minutes from here. Now, don't get me wrong, I won't be nominating the production for any Oscars or even Golden Globes anytime soon (since I'm doing the nominating this year), but nonetheless, it was good, and rather impressive for a Christian project. Whether it was intentional or not, most of the Americans came off rather like idiots, which I found pleasing in some odd way. The main actor was just a little hammy from time to time, and all of the indigenous actors were (duh) the best of the entire cast, and the really standout portions of the film were when there wasn't any whitey around.

What I guess I'm saying is, if you have the eight bucks, go see it. There are some really nice moments, and a lot of mediocre ones. Heartstrings get pulled, so don't say I didn't warn you. Just don't have high expectations, and you'll be pleasantly pleased. With pleasing.

And then when I got home, there was an eggplant colored Specialized Stumpjumper in my garage. Jeff must have come while Eunice and I were at the film. Smashing, I must say- perhaps I'll do a little bit of smashing myself tomorrow, when I break my face on Gamble's Run over at Washington Twp. Park.

Hope you are all well, my little ducklings.

events of a lifetime

my dad and I were talking yesterday, you know, just idle chit chat, and he asked me what the most defining moment or couple of moments were in my lifetime.

1. Sept. 11th, 2001
2. The Asian Tsunami, Dec. 2004


other things that are interesting:
after you move away, people write things that you believe completely, and say things like they mean them. funny how perspective works.

ps- I have a job, and a transmission for my truck. things are looking up.

Gimme some of that tea...

Apparently, these people have nothing on the mate kids. I wanna go to church here.

I'm sure I could connect with God if I was high, too.

Court Allows Church's Use of Hallucinogenic Tea

down by the winding wabash river

On the drive out yesterday, sitting sideways on the bench of my uncle David's extended cab F-150, I noticed we passed over the Wabash in the dusk. It made me think of Huntington, and what they might possibly be doing with their "College Song," where we talk about HC, and hail to thee, our dear old college, and say college a lot. Huntington is no longer a college. For reasons that seem fairly arbitrary and perhaps somewhat vain, they have turned into a university. I wonder if one night on the stroke of midnight they will turn into a pumpkin.

So I'm home, safe and sound, ish. I am fine, but it looks like the Troops is really out. So, I'm going to borrow my mom's totally rad Buick Century to drive over to Plainfield, and hopefully get a job at the Barnes & Noble there. And then back by the Chiropractor's office. I need to work about 80 hours a week, I think. Otherwise, school this fall is starting to look pretty dicey. And I'm gonna get some great legs under me soon- Emily is loaning me her bike until she gets home in a few months from the war, and I'm hoping to do a lot of my commuting on that. I just wish my parents didn't live 20 miles from the city, and that it wasn't February. Oh well.

So friends, I am a hoosier again. Oh, the joy.

tripping

Well, I'm on my way to Indianapolis, friends. I currently find myself in Overland Park, Kansas, which is really just a western suburb of Kansas City, over the border from Missouri. My mom has a cousin that lives here, and I'm staying with her and her family, in a visit that was just intended to be overnight last night.

However, the Troops started having some trouble about 30 miles or so west of Topeka. She wasn't able to shift very easily, and suddenly the "check trans" light came on. I nursed the old girl here just after midnight, determined not to get stuck in Dark, Kansas with nothing to help me out. So sleeping in this morning and going out to try again proved to be fruitless, now the Troops either doesn't go into gear at all, or it doesn't go out of first. Which means if the tranny is gone, so is the Troops.

I was going to wait until the morning (it being a Sunday today so nobody is mechanicing) to check it out at some sort of shop and make sure that was the dilly-o, but my mom called about an hour ago and apparently she and my uncle David are making the 7 hour drive out this afternoon/evening with his pickup and car-hauling trailer to give me a tow. Seriously, people, I felt like the world was lifted up off my shoulders. So, we'll get it there, and be able to deal with it later. My folks have a spare car I can use for a while if the old girl is really down for the count, and it's a 1974 volkswagen beetle, so not everything is bad news. And I am in a warm place, with food and family, and the promise of an actually kind of fun day tomorrow when I can hang out with my mom and uncle and road trip.

So that's the story, my little glories. Hope all is well with you.

valemtimes

my sophomore year in college, Jess Abbott (now Landrigan) and I made Valentines day cards together. They weren't addressed to anybody, and they were retarded. I mean, really really dumb- made with magic marker on white paper, about taking rides on combines and crap. We did a lot of stuff that now doesn't make any sense to me. but at the time, I remember laughing so hard that I felt like my ribs were going to crack and my bowels were going to slide to the floor in her Hardy basement dorm room.

Now Jess is married. And tonight Brian brought me home flowers, and told me he wanted me to be his Valentine.

No boy has ever brought me flowers before, or asked me for anything that even had to do with Valentines. Now all I need is a ride on that combine, and a magic marker, and Hardy Hall.

Coldplay is still humming in the background, and more things are the same than not.

Tension Is A Passing Note

lyrics by sixpence none the richer

do I murder
when I forget you from afar
too drunk on the poison of endless roads
and the countless smokey bars

but tension is to be loved
when it is like a passing note
to a beautiful, beautiful chord

do I murder us
putting pavement in my veins
shooting in special heroin
for the seeking and displaced

but tension is to be loved
when it is like a passing note
to a beautiful, beautiful chord

but tension is to be loved
when it is like a passing note
to a beautiful, beautiful

tension is to be loved
when it is like a passing note
to a beautiful, beautiful chord

how long till my soul gets it right?

While I've been sick, I've been looking around online. I've gotten excited about things that were a part of my past, that have kind of been chucked by the wayside. Things like music. Well, certain types of music.

Like a capella college groups. That sing Coldplay or Indigo Girls covers. And DCI competitions that will be held in Indianapolis this summer.

On a slightly different note, why is it that less than a half an hour after I make a rare statement concerning my own virtue, I get pulled up short on the same issue? I jump in the first available opportunity, and prove myself not a paragon of anything less than low-browed, hateful, ignorant remarks. All because I feel like I'm infringed upon, so certainly that gives me the right to cheapen the dignity of another.

how long?

in sickness and mormons

So it's (hopefully) my last week in the Rockies. I don't say that because I am glad; more just because I'm ready to be done with this schooling of mine. I'm tying up loose ends here, and one of the last things I have to do is finish my internship at Pike's Peak Hospice.

I have a cold.

Funny thing about hospices, hospeece, is that they don't let you in when you have some sickness or disease going on in your body. So, I'm not going right now, which sort of puts me even further behind. Farther behind. Does anyone know which one it is? So, I'm just sitting around Brian's, sniffle snuffle-ing, coughing a little and couching a lot. Sometimes I have a peanut, sometimes I have a hummus. That part is nice. And cable. And speedy speederoo internet.

Then yesterday, when I was going out to the store to get some pita bread, there were mormons across the street and two doors down. Mormons! I rubbed my hands together with glee, and actually cackled when I came back from the store and saw them still there. I love mormons! I couldn't wait for them to ring my bell, ring my bell so that I could go out and talk to them whilst eating hummus and wearing my stocking hat with the little blue ducks on it. Mormons, why did you forsake me? I waited for you, hour after hour, until it was dusk, and I was sure you were miles away on your bicycles. And all I did was couch, and cough.

burrito dreams

So I totally had this weird dream last night, and I only remembered it this morning when I was talking to McDavid and I went downstairs and saw the huge wooden bowl in the kitchen.

In it, my family lived in an old victorian type house, on the corner of some street, maybe in Capitol Hill in Denver, or on Jefferson St. downtown in Old Ft. Wayne, or maybe Broadripple or something. And it was big and nice inside, slightly reminiscent of my apt. in Manitou. And it was dark outside, and I knew it was Halloween, and we were having a Halloween party. My family was inside cooking up junk in the big kitchen. Charlie Sheen was sitting at a card table in the hallway, eating a little. I was outside for a while then, and as I came back towards my house, Michael Jackson was out there, on the front lawn, kind of walking around distractedly and talking on a cell phone. Then he hung up and told the person I was there, and I understood this, this was normal, because we were friends. And I took him inside, and introduced him to my aunt, but he already knew my brother, because he waved over my aunt's head and said, "Hey, Dan." And Dan smiled back, and slid sideways between a couple of people back into the living room.

I was excited to introduce Michael to Charlie Sheen, so I grabbed his hand and went into the hallway, but the card table was empty.

And somewhere in there, there was a wooden bowl, that I found on the counter this morning.

satellites and hurricanes

sometimes there are moments in my life when I look around and realize how lucky I am.

when holding a hand in the dark is simply holding a hand in the dark.

and the stars, are the stars, are the stars.

and I am underneath them in the night, scooting along by mountains and over wheels, hearing the sounds that fill my head and my chest and my shoes.

and colorado, I hope you are always here, waiting for me with soft, velvety, black arms, like a midnight mother in the warm soft bed of my six year old youth.

I'll be here for you.

sounds, sounds, sounds

ugh. I wish my butt was a little bigger/fatter. There's almost nothing to it, and it goes to sleep constantly. Then I have to shift around all over the place all the time, and I look like I have restless leg syndrome, or maybe tourette's.

I no longer live in Denver proper, friends. I'm in Littleton, home of the Columbine shootings, living in my friend Brian's house and cooking dinner for him, and also cleaning his bathroom. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever own my own house and have guest bedrooms and guest bathrooms and guests. I don't think so.

And I have been listening to nice, nice sounds, sounds like Sixpence None The Richer, and Jimmy Eat World, and choral music that I don't know much about, and some indie acoustic folks from down under. I want you all to know that I take extreme pleasure from the palindrome area in the last sentence. And other things that are nice are my friend Brian. I wish he loved Jesus. Or had any desire to know about anything spiritual. But he doesn't, and that is the end of that, and we will be friends anyway. And right now even he just said, in an endearing tone of voice, "I'm so glad you came to stay with me. I'm sorry you have to go so soon." Which is really two weeks, and plennnnnnty of time, and then I will be a hoosier again, but to him it is too short. And good grief, that is nice to hear. I don't even hear that from people who love Jesus. Maybe it's nice because he isn't obligated. Sometimes I think about the witch from Into The Woods singing, "You're not good, you're not bad, you're just nice."

And I really hope she isn't singing about me. I know a lot of people that she is singing about. And I don't want to be a nice person- or perhaps merely a nice person. I would rather have nice be an accessory, like a purse or a slap bracelet. Like that pink, sparkly one Tai Mauney gave me in college, when she told me I was a real woman.

Tai, I still have that. It was one of the best gifts I ever got.

one hour of wonder

Hello.

Goaded into this by my buddy, here is my long awaited rant on church. heh.

So we went to church Sunday at Pathways, yip yip. Jodi gave the message- that kid rocks my socks. Sometimes she has a way with words that cuts me like the dudes don't. Maybe it's just because I feel like I get her on a fundamental level. Minus the salutory fist punching and that pink slip shirt she wears under EVERYTHING.

And it was about bodies, and grace, and forward vision and a transcendary understanding of ourselves as beings, not narcissistic and not gnostic. (say those last 5 words 10 times fast). Woohoo, it was a glorious cornucopia of insightful head buffet. And then I hear folding. A soft, skkkkkrrrt from my right, and I look over and Jodie Sanders look alike, who beebopped into our row 10 minutes after the service had started, is folding crap, looked like maybe children's church papers or something. A huge stack, over and over, softly skkkkkrrrrting next to me. Well, Jodie Sanders look alike, let me tell you something. This is not your prep hour. This has nothing to do with you, or your agenda, and Jesus loves the little children, but this is not the time. Or the place. Put it effing away. UGH! I start to worry about myself some times- like, why do I want to punch people in the middle of a service?

But one look around, Jodie Sanders look alike, proves that you are not alone in your irreverence, inappropriateness, and downright rude attitude in this service. In the freakin' SECOND row, in the MIDDLE (of a several hundred congregant service), is a dude with a New Belgium brew company ballcap on, with Fat Tire displayed proudly on the front, over the sweat-stained bill. Now, New Belgium, don't get me wrong. You make a fine, fine beer there- Fat Tire on tap is my new fave. However, don't wear your beer hat to church. Duh. AND there is dude #2 with a Guinness pullover windbreaker two rows in front of me- I get to see his bearwear as he returns from communion. No.

And don't let me get started with Starbucks cups, or cell phones. Throw it away, and turn it off. Or you will be thrown away and turned off. That's even biblical.

So, I'm not this hateful pantalones all the time. But in this ridiculous individualistic new world we live in, give me one hour, one hour people, where I don't have to hear your samba ring, view your advertisement for huge corporations that are harming people, or get distracted because you think it's time for busywork.


Let us be still.

the separation and the cosmic breath

So I actually wrote this I think last week- just some thoughts I'm running over in my head these days.

Before there was sin, there was darkness, and there was light. There was a division- that third part of the two, that knife-edge thinness of time that was the moment of change itself, distinct from either half yet defining them. There was out, and in, inspiration and exhalation, and waters separating the land and air separating the waters. There was distinction, there was “other,” there were parts, that made a whole, that was perfect. And the Divine Creator proclaimed it good. There was yin and yang, by the Creator’s hand- male and female, and it was very good. There were days, separated by different types of light and darkness- but light and darkness were in them both. The darkness was not evil, and was not feared. It was a part of the good, just as the light was. It sprang forth from the essence of God.

In each thing there are two. In the human body, two of everything- like a perfect mirror, folding in on itself at midline to spring out again on the other side. Even when it seems there is one, there are two; the mouth leads to the anus, the umbilicus corresponds with an older woman who has borne and her mother before her, and the genitalia with another set, on another body. In this moment, when the latter fuse, the two become one, and are in their own way, mirrors of each other all over again, providing the coupling which reinforces the endless doubling in all creation. And from such a union new life is made.

In all this there is a balance, as well as a repetition that becomes to each their own circadian rhythm. There are things that are the same, always the same, and instead of boredom, joy or laughter or comfort is inspired. It is enjoyable to listen to a favorite song multiple times, and not boring because one has heard it before. The fact that one has heard it before makes it all the more enjoyable. The words, the melody are known by the listener, and it is this sharing of the moment of the song, already known, that is most satisfying. The same can be held true with an often-read book, or frequently watched film; it is pleasant because of the very fact that the observer knows what is going to happen next.

There are areas in which this is much more simply defined, in the basic life rhythms of the human body, or any living body for that matter. There is a moment where the heart beats. Then, a moment of unbeating, and then a beat again. If there is a stress, there must be an unstress, a pause, a caesura, a holding in before the expelling. That is what separates the push- the pull. However, in these instances, the unbeat, the unstress is rarely if ever considered. The pulse is what is wanted, not the unpulse. But without the pull, the push would be indistinguishable from itself. If everything were one push all the time, it would in effect be nothing, because there would be nothing to identify that anything was pushing at all.

So there is the step, and the non-step. All of this can be broken down, into the five parts: heel strike, toe strike, heel lift, toe lift, and once again heel strike, completing a cycle. Coming back to the beginning again, to repeat, repeat, repeat. The cycle itself would not be possible without the necessity of repetition, and everything presents itself as a cycle. There is birthing, living, giving birth, dying, to become food for worms, which nourish soil, which feeds the animal, which is slaughtered by the human for consumption. There is a pushing up from the ground, to return to it, to provide for the next group, who will be incapable of doing anything beyond the last. Immortality is found by being part of the cycle.

jr high daze

So, I think I officially have more zits now that when I was in junior high. And I'm still not going out with anybody. The plusses- I can drive. And live on my own. And buy whatever I want.

SO, I think I'll take it, but pimples = no fun at all.

In the last couple of weeks, being unemployed, I have turned into a myspace nerd. I know! But it's true. For those of you unfamiliar with this phenomenon, you basically go create yourself online in a profile, and can tell as little or as much about yourself as you want. Good things about this are that I have met up with a lot of buddies from college, and even high school. It has been a good, fun, cheap way to pass the time. Just like me.

eight millimeter tapes and borrowed machines

well, Fuller, looks like you'll have to be satisfied with my production notebook. I sorted through all my little Hi-8 tapes this morning, looking for the one with "The Lesson" on it to transfer to big tape, to send off to Fuller in my portfolio of creativeness.

I didn't find it.

What I did find, were a lot of memories- happy and sad now dredged up by looking through tape after tape after tape. Adam Bouse, you were there. And Sarah Stanek, and Evie, and Phil- dear Phil, and Charlie of course. I looked thinner. I gave Mike Burnett a Herb Alpert record, and the choir was singing, and Liz Makula fell out of a trash can, and I laughed, like I always do. Marcus and Nicole got married, and my beach was eternal in its sunset with its squeaking sand. Ashley, you dove in for my papers as they skittered across your pond. I spent an endless summer across the midwest, playing bass and loving people and laughing with Kati Hultman. Erin and Maria were so small, and playing with plastic cups at the Olive Garden. We were a whole family. My parents still owned a bakery, and my hair was shorter, and I made a layup. We all danced, and danced.

And danced.

Let me never forget this, how blessed I am. How much love I've had in this life. Even on cold days like today, sitting in my pajamas on the floor of my apartment and letting reality settle around me like a fog, let these simple bits of film and machine remind me of where I've been. Who I am.

Where I'm going.

goodbye party

5 emerson st. ladies
+ brian
+ me
+ a banjo
+ eggplant curry
+ 1 large glass of reisling
+ digital cameras
+ raspberry beer
+ chocolate tofu mousse pie w/ kiwi garnish
+ greco roman wrestling
+ farmer dances performed at dangerously fast speeds
+ 1 aged Ibanez guitar
+ overheating bodies
+ leftover chicken
+ made for TV lesbian movie type 2 DVD
+ clan of the cave bear card game
+ music stands
+ tripping over stephanie's huge shoes
+ new scarves
+ butter
+ inside jokes
+ nipple biting
+ capo
+ sufjan stevens
+ mix tape
+ wireless router
+ buffaloes offstage

=

one of the best nights ever, 1/22/06, on emerson st. in denver.

Hey Ya

Hello, friends.

So this morning (afternoon, actually, as I didn't get up until 12.30, thank you McDavid), I spilled some water into my crappy lappy. I was in the bathtub, blah blah, details aren't important but water went inside and I wasn't too bummed, thought maybe it'd wash out some of the chai I spilled in a couple of months ago. But then it just started inputting m's and p's until I had to log off of everything I was doing, because I couldn't get it to stop. Seriously it would be like mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
and there would be nothing I could do about it. And backspace and spacebar failed. So, then I was like, whatevs, because this thing is a piece anyway, and Beth just told me I could have her old Gateway, which though it is a dinosaur, everything on it works fine. Including the CD rom drive.

So, the joy is I left it alone for a few hours while I went around and mailed things all over the place, and now all the keys work. But it sounded like a fire alarm when I started it up, and now the sound isn't working. Which is almost more imperative to me than letters, maybe it's a tie. I love sounds.

And then I get on myspace and find this:

And apparently my friend Jason Sutton, 2 years my senior at RVHS in southern Michigan, has auditioned to be on American Idol.
You can go here to find more pictures of him, just scroll ahead a couple after that one; I think there's three total of him auditioning. And there's actually a video with him in it here. Sutton and I did choir and drama together in high school. Think Chris Farley.

So, here's heading into another exciting weekend. It's funny, when you're unemployed, they don't seem that different than the rest of the time.

moments between darkness

Hello friends. Today's saint, according to the Catholic Saints Calendar, is Saint Charles of Sezze. I don't know any more about him than that, and he lived in the 1600s and wanted to go to India. Just like me.

So being unemployed has it's perks, you know. You don't have to go to work, for one. You can pretty much do whatever you want, so long as it's cheap. And you have plenty of time to think, deep thoughts, shallow thoughts, weird thoughts, long thoughts. You can think in the can. You can think like a man. You can think while you eat. You think thinking's pretty neat.

Ahem.

So with all this free time, I've realized that already in my short life I am weary. I am weary of brokenness, I am weary of divorce and relationships that fizzle out. Sometimes, no measure of effort, even in one of the great relationships of your life, is enough. You realize it is time to move on, but you don't even want to move on to anything else, because after a while enough is enough and the energy it takes to put into people just doesn't seem to be worth it when the end result is always the same.

Not to be overly depressing, or anything. And honestly, I'm not. I feel pretty good right now, when I feel at all. Mostly I just rebuild my myspace profile over and over again, and make friends with lots of fake people. Just like me.

Magical Massage Moments

"Whoa! Look at those traps. Where the hell is my T-bar?"
-Kim, WPM class of '05, CIMT

So, I realized I've been massaging all year- I mean for real, that is why I'm in Colorado, right? *sure.*
But anyway, so I've been massaging, and not really ever said anything about it.

I really love massage. Like that's up for debate, but I mean I really do. I love having a hurting person come to me, get on my table, and get up and feel better. Or a person who is tense fall asleep. And when, for a few moments, it's just them and I, there is a beautiful interchange of spirits, of people, and it is healing and whole and holy. I feel priveleged every time somebody makes themself vulnerable and allows me to lay hands on them. In a way, this is what I feel like it is. I feel very centered when I massage, and oftentimes as I use my whole body in movements, rocking back and forth, pivoting, I feel like I am dancing. And it isn't as shallow as fun, and enjoyable doesn't do it justice either.

That being said, sometimes I almost fall asleep while I massage. Talk about weird.

Anyway, the profession is a joy to me. I only hope I don't burn out on it, like I seem to do with everything in my life. I probably will. But I wouldn't trade this year, with it's wild roller coaster ride, for anything in the world. Learning to be a healer has been one of the great experiences of my life, and I hope it is reflected in all that I do.

Until next time....

a man with a vision, a man with a dream

Martin Luther King's Acceptance Speech, on the occasion of the award of the Nobel Peace Peace Prize in Oslo, December 10, 1964

Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness, Mr. President, Excellencies, Ladies and Gentlemen:I accept the Nobel Prize for Peace at a moment when 22 million Negroes of the United States of America are engaged in a creative battle to end the long night of racial injustice. I accept this award on behalf of a civil rights movement which is moving with determination and a majestic scorn for risk and danger to establish a reign of freedom and a rule of justice. I am mindful that only yesterday in Birmingham, Alabama, our children, crying out for brotherhood, were answered with fire hoses, snarling dogs and even death. I am mindful that only yesterday in Philadelphia, Mississippi, young people seeking to secure the right to vote were brutalized and murdered. And only yesterday more than 40 houses of worship in the State of Mississippi alone were bombed or burned because they offered a sanctuary to those who would not accept segregation. I am mindful that debilitating and grinding poverty afflicts my people and chains them to the lowest rung of the economic ladder.

Therefore, I must ask why this prize is awarded to a movement which is beleagured and committed to unrelenting struggle; to a movement which has not won the very peace and brotherhood which is the essense of the Nobel Prize.

After contemplation, I conclude that this award which I receive on behalf of that movement is a profound recognition that nonviolence is the answer to the crucial political and moral question of our time - - the need for man to overcome oppression and violence without resorting to violence and oppression. Civilization and violence are antithetical concepts. Negroes of the United States, following the people of India, have demonstrated that nonviolence is not sterile passivity, but a powerful moral force which makes for social transformation. Sooner or later all the people of the world will have to discover a way to live together in peace, and thereby transform this pending cosmic elegy into a creative psalm of brotherhood, If this is to be achieved, man must evolve for all human conflict a method which rejects revenge, aggression and retaliation. The foundation of such a method is love.

The tortuous road which has led from Montgomery, Alabama, to Oslo bears witness to this truth. This is a road over which millions of Negroes are travelling to find a new sense of dignity. This same road has opened for all Americans a new era of progress and hope. It has led to a new Civil Rights Bill, and it will, I am convinced, be widened and lengthened into a super highway of justice as Negro and white men in increasing numbers create alliances to overcome their common problems.

I accept this award today with an abiding faith in America and an audacious faith in the future of mankind. I refuse to accept despair as the final response to the ambiguities of history. I refuse to accept the idea that the "isness" of man's present nature makes him morally incapable of reaching up for the eternal "oughtness" that forever confronts him. I refuse to accept the idea that man is mere flotsom and jetsom in the river of life unable to influence the unfolding events which surround him. I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality.

I refuse to accept the cynical notion that nation after nation must spiral down a militaristic stairway into the hell of thermonuclear destruction. I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. This is why right temporarily defeated is stronger than evil triumphant. I believe that even amid today's motor bursts and whining bullets, there is still hope for a brighter tomorrow. I believe that wounded justice, lying prostrate on the blood-flowing streets of our nations, can be lifted from this dust of shame to reign supreme among the children of men. I have the audacity to believe that peoples everywhere can have three meals a day for their bodies, education and culture for their minds, and dignity, equality and freedom for their spirits. I believe that what self-centered men have torn down men other-centered can build up. I still believe that one day mankind will bow before the altars of God and be crowned triumphant over war and bloodshed, and nonviolent redemptive good will proclaimed the rule of the land. "And the lion and the lamb shall lie down together and every man shall sit under his own vine and fig tree and none shall be afraid." I still believe that We Shall overcome!

This faith can give us courage to face the uncertainties of the future. It will give our tired feet new strength as we continue our forward stride toward the city of freedom. When our days become dreary with low-hovering clouds and our nights become darker than a thousand midnights, we will know that we are living in the creative turmoil of a genuine civilization struggling to be born.

Today I come to Oslo as a trustee, inspired and with renewed dedication to humanity. I accept this prize on behalf of all men who love peace and brotherhood. I say I come as a trustee, for in the depths of my hear! I am aware that this prize is much more than an honor to me personally.
Every time I take a flight, I am always mindful of the many people who make a successful journey possible - the known pilots and the unknown ground crew.

So you honor the dedicated pilots of our struggle who have sat at the controls as the freedom movement soared into orbit. You honor, once again, Chief Lutuli of South Africa, whose struggles with and for his people, are still met with the most brutal expression of man's inhumanity to man. You honor the ground crew without whose labor and sacrifices the jet flights to freedom could never have left the earth. Most of these people will never make the headline and their names will not appear in Who's Who. Yet when years have rolled past and when the blazing light of truth is focused on this marvelous age in which we live - men and women will know and children will be taught that we have a finer land, a better people, a more noble civilization - because these humble children of God were willing to suffer for righteousness sake.

I think Alfred Nobel would know what I mean when I say that I accept this award in the spirit of a curator of some precious heirloom which he holds in trust for its true owners - all those to whom beauty is truth and truth beauty - and in whose eyes the beauty of genuine brotherhood and peace is more precious than diamonds or silver or gold.

curtain climbers, dying cats, bits of grace

Good grief, Egypt. Die already. My building manager's cat sits out on the landing just outside by door and moans. It's totally not a meow- she has throat/face cancer that render her unable to make normal sounds. So she always sounds like she's dying, and she probably is. I just wish she'd get it over with.

So I went to church this morning, saw more midwesterners, and heard about friendship. Thanks to all of you who have given me wounds that I can trust, and not multiplied kisses of falsehood. May I be able to repay your graciousness.

After church I went downtown, to pick up my last check from B&N and deposit it with the Wells Fargo Wagon, comin' down the street. I rode down the 16th St. Mall on the freebus to Blake, where the ATM is, and on the way back my bus got real interesting. First off, there was this kid, kinda hippie-esque with one of those knit caps with a little bill on it, sitting in the back holding a Fender acoustic guitar (moment of silence in sympathy for bad guitars). Then this kind of crazy homeless dude got on, who was loud, but ended up being totally harmless and kind of funny. At one point he talked about his nieces and nephews, who are apparently small, and grab on his legs, and he calls them curtain climbers. Well, he sat down between me and hippie Fender boy, and asked the kid to play something- which turned out to be the Beatles' "Blackbird," and the kid actually wasn't bad. Then the homeless guy asked to see his guitar, and sure enough, the kid smiled and handed it over. The homeless guy strummed a couple of times, not making any chords, and then pronounced it a good guitar, and handed it back to the kid, who laughed. Not a "I'm laughing at you" laugh, but a honest-to-goodness good natured laugh. And then we all went our separate ways, getting off at Welton, Glenarm, Tremont.

After I picked up my check, I went back into B&N, for now irrelevant reasons. On the way out, Tony, a cop who guards there on his day off, walked me out of the store. He was sad to hear I wasn't working there anymore, and I told him I was probably going to be working for them in Indianapolis, and he told me it was God working in my life. Boy, did I smile then. We stood there on the street corner- the same one my bike was stolen from 2.5 weeks ago- and talked for close to a half an hour. We talked about God, and direction, and our lives and families, and our culture, and where this is all headed. It was a beautiful piece of Sunday, a beautiful piece of life.

I know I will miss this city, but I know that in every city, there are bits of Grace. I just hope I always have the eyes to see, the ears to hear, the mind to accept and the heart to understand.

eat my face, HTML

to quote Paco Michelson, booyah #*&$^%$&*(!!!

After an hour and a half, I have created a "links" area on the left hand side of this blog, in the "sidebar" area if you prefer to use internet slang. I do. It looks a bit squished together. I don't know why, nor do I care at this point. I can create. I can mutilate. I am happy.

In other news, I went to a wedding today for Shemuel and Livi. It was amazing. I had much maté and much dancing and much sweating. It was a play. I helped dish up desserts, which resembled debris. I bought a skirt just for the occasion. I clapped. I whooped. I drew close for the minhah. My heart felt wonderful inside my chest.

welcome to wireless city. I am your mayor.

My house just had a wireless baby. My mouse just had a wireless lady.
My louse just went all wireless shady.

Seriously, Buddy called and there is wireless oozing out of our walls. Can you be alliterative with "O"? And when you eat different types of fowl, can you pluralize? When there are many chickens alive, running around, bawking, they are chickens. But once you kill them and are eating them, with your 20 member family so there is lots, is it chicken? Or chickens? Do they teach this subtlety in TOEFL? The same could be true with duck/s, geese/oose, pheasant/s, turkey/s, guinea hen/s, capon/s. Does anybody know for real?

Tonight the Emerson ladies and I (with the exception of Buddy) went to Govinda's, which is the Hare Krishnas' restaurant. Sudarshan (sp?) was there, and there was really good food, totally vegetarian of course. And we talked about Katie's stepmom, and Apple laptops, and little cream of wheat squares. Is it ok to slap forearms on the way in with Sudarshan as he calls out "Krishna"? I'm not sure. But I did, and he smiled at me, and I felt good.

I've felt good all day.

ain't it the truth

So, the news is that it isn't my bike. Now I can say that I've been to Ft. Collins, though. And the drive back, I took 287, and it was amazingly lovely, mid afternoon mountainous sun day. With wild looking mustangs roaming around in seemingly untended feilds, and suddenly I had this epiphany moment and I was a first nations people. I mean, person. And it was nice, I just wish my troops ran on air. Support my troops!

So, I'm determined to continue to be optimistic. I'm so poor and unemployed right now, it's ridiculous. But it doesn't cost me a dime to let people into congested traffic as I merge onto 36. Or smile at people. Or give peace signs randomly, because we should all give peace a chance. And then life gives me presents, like spanish ladies walking down the street, perfectly enunciating their story about their novio into their cell phones. And I get to eavesdrop, in an educational, affectionate sort of way.

And then I realize my brother is so fabulous I almost can't stand it.

Only a few more weeks in Colorado. I miss it already, but I'm going to eat it up like I mean it. I just won't miss the cops.

bike city, pancakes, the lack of a king

Dudes!

Woah!

So, I've been a total reject and have been scouring ebay for my bike in the last couple of weeks. And friends, I do believe I have found it. Some pawn shop in Ft. Collins has a bike that appears to be mine up on the auction block, and I have to say, fantastic. I have every intention of driving up there tomorrow, provided they email me back with their location, and sticking it to the man. I have to say, I'm glad about that.

Other good things include McDavid, Jocelyn and a stack of Adam's pancakes, warming me up and slowing me down. The new Rosie Thomas CD is great.

I'm thinking about selling my car. No, I'm pretty sure that if somebody offered me 4k right now for it, I'd totally take it, and run. Goodbye.

And, let's all be friends, adult friends. Not adult like we're in pornos, that wouldn't be friends at all, just creepy. Creapy. But friends who are just normal, and don't act like they're in junior high.

Other fun things include farting loudly in the coffeeshop when you think it's going to be quiet. I'm sure nobody even noticed. Eeeeyah.

I'm once again unemployed, and a little bit disjointed. But my hands don't shake like this all the time. And people want me to massage them. And if I try really hard, maybe I won't be mediocre forever.

2000 Miles

So that last post was written on the road. I made it home in one piece, and even enjoyed the rest of the drive. Not too bad. I could probably be a truck driver, even.

I got home at 330 on Wednesday, and bathed and clothed myself, and then I rode my bike to work because I didn't have the cash to take the bus. It was gorgeous out, and I couldn't help smiling on the way to work, happy to be out and that I didn't even need a jacket. Wonderful, unpredictable Denver weather.

So then I got off work at 1030 and went back out to the street to get my bike, which I had carefully locked up and taken the seat inside. And it was gone. Nothing remained but the little velcro tie that wound my masterlock up and stowed it away in the pouch under my bike seat, which I clutched to my breast as I sat down on the dirty street corner and just cried. I know it could have been worse, I know I could have gotten mugged, or raped, or killed, but I loved that bike. And I won't be able to afford to replace it for a long time.

So! If any of you silent readers are in the Denver area, or happen to check out ebay a lot or anything/anywhere else anyone would pawn a bike, here is the description, and I'd love the help looking.

4-5 year old Trek 4300, in near perfect condition. Cobalt blue/silver/red, shimano components, missing a seat. 19.5" frame. Lamp on the handlebars, no water bottle. It has a sticker on the body, just under where the water bottle would be, from a bike shop in Mishawaka, Indiana, where it was purchased by the original owner I bought it off of two years ago.

So, thanks for your help, everybody. Hope everyone has a good new year.

Singing Songs About Myself

I find that I stay awake much better on the road if I work on stories. So, I flesh out characters, think up surprising plot twists, and arrange marriages and murders in my head. Not only is it incredibly satisfying to get all this pseudo-work done, it also makes the miles melt in nothing flat.

So we had Swart Christmas today, and Jericho came over for it. Tami and my mom guffawed again about big ass ham, a joke that never gets old; a dog the size of a horse came and galloped around and around on my grandparents wood floors. Money was literally thrown at me, and I ate some of the best cheesecake of my life. My aunt and uncle invited me up to live with them in Grand Haven this year, which honestly is incredibly tempting. My four hours in the mitten was incredibly involved.

And the best part of my whole day is right now. I am sitting in a Steak and Shake off of I-80, just over the Iowa state line. And I am eating a frisco melt, and having a vanilla malt, and I am dangerous. I forgot how great this tasted. Steak and Shake is my husband. And new rule for life- don’t stop at the gas station and ask the little attendant from India where the Steak and Shake is. They’re vegetarian, they never eat here, and they probably give you wrong directions on purpose.

VIVA FRISCO!

1001 Nights

Idea #21 (Not Too Late)
words and music: Detweiler
recording: OHIO

Till we lay these weapons at your feet, Lord
How long, how long
Till we call all hatred obsolete, Lord
How long, how long

Till we walk like lovers thru Bethlehem
How long, how long
Till the lion lies down with the lamb, Lord
How long, how long

Too late
I know it's not too late
To wrestle with this angel
Higher and higher
Don't let go
Higher and higher
Before we know
How does it end
How does it end
We're all riding on the last train
Trying to find our way home again

Till we wash the blood from the hands of our fathers
How long
We're all sisters and brothers, sons and daughters
How long, how long
Our eyes all shine in different colors we cry, Lord
How long
Our dreams our tears are all the same by and by, Lord
How long, how long

Too late
I know it's not too late
To climb up Jacob's ladder
Higher and higher
Don't let go
Higher and higher
Before we know
How does it end
How does it end
We're all riding on the last train
Trying to find our way home again

It's not too late
****

Christmastime is here, happiness and cheer...
And I find myself in the midwest again, with more than my mindset. The last few days have been spent in balmy Indianapolis, and good grief it is different from Denver. I arrived on the 22nd, after 15.25 hours in the troops (support!), via I-70. And let me say, it was a short day, solstice buddies. The longest night of the year, even.

Tomorrow I will go to the mitten, as McDavid refers to it now. Dan and I bought cheap gifts today, and I gave a massage to Eunice. I've been playing video games, and laughing with my bro, and eating a lot. And attending extended family Christmas parties, where I get pelted in the neck by John Hay Jr.'s wrapping paper attacks. There are lots of children, and fudge, and divinity, and loud people yelling and being way too close to each other. My family doesn't know how to interact in any other way. And there are entirely too many of us. And oddly enough, there was no caroling this year.

I had this whole thing planned up about Gene Autry and Elvis and how ridiculous some things are, but what it comes down to is that I just want Christ to come. In the same way that he came in a manger, almost 2010 years ago now. I want him to come in this moment, then again tomorrow and finally at the end of all things, the beginning of all things. Perhaps, like the greek epics, even en media res. The creation, the advent, the consummation and the eschaton thundering together in mighty chorus, telling the old old story. Telling my story, where trees grow on both sides of the river, and hold forbidden fruit. The story that starts in a garden and ends in a city. And I am there, and God is there, and he is the only light. The light of the world.

Young Astronauts

So, if you'll remember a while back in my post about Xena and Gabrielle, which can be found here, I was talking about planets and names and such. I made a vague threat about what might happen if the next object was named Buffy, in an allusion to the TV show Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Well, it has happened, my friends. Don't believe? CHECK IT OUT.

http://www.usatoday.com/tech/science/space/2005-12-19-strange-solar-system_x.htm

And, for the piece of resistance, the inconclusive evidence to end all inconclusive evidence, the man behind the mayhem, Caltech's Dr. Mike Brown, is a Creationist. Hats off to you, sir! Hoist that Bible and pop in the 10th Anniversary Collector's Edition DVD set of Xena: Warrior Princess. I'm right behind you with the chips and my plastic chakram.

let me share you with myself

I just discovered, via my other blog that I share with a lot of friends (Midwest Mindset) that two dear friends of mine from college are now engaged. If you are interested in the Fox-Coon adventure, you can check it out here, complete with a photojournal of the event.

In other news, my friend McDavid kills me. Really. To see the greatest picture of all time, go here.

And finally, for a bit of my own sharing...

I applied to graduate school this week. How do I feel? Excited, well, excited and scared, to quote little red. But most of all happy. I have to believe I am capable of more than low end jobs for major corporations. Not that I am complaining currently, I in fact really enjoy B&N so far. I love being downtown, and watching people on the bus, and working with the people I work with. Micheal and I are planning a wedding (for tax purposes only) and I make sculptures with the dried milk on the steam wands in the morning and I like looking at Julia's ears after she comes in from the cold with all of her 28 piercings hanging from them. I'm happy. But I believe that there is more than this.

Also, as many of you frequently ask about this arena of my life (no, I don't have a boyfriend, not that arena) I played the guitar last night. And I liked it.

friends near and far

As I move about in life, I make friends, and then they move about. I've been corresponding lately with my very dear friend Emily, whom I had the pleasure of getting to know while I lived in Indy. She is part of a unit that has been mobilized in Iraq; as a member of the National Guard, her job is to send up little weather balloons that tell ballistics people how far to aim their weapons. I am grateful for the time in which I live- even though this war wouldn't be possible in this capacity 200 years ago, I also wouldn't be able to keep in touch on a daily basis like I can now, either.

More than ever, I am convinced of the journey, and not the destination. Though we should try to learn from mistakes, I'm quickly seeing that regrets are pretty much useless. That I may be appreciative of whatever time I have left is all I desire, and that I shall keep my wick trimmed and my lamp full of oil is all that I hope for myself. This is but a blink of an eye, and in an instant we shall all be changed.