3wishes

if i had three wishes
i’d wish for a tree
a big one that reached ‘round the sky with its arms outstretched and open like
me. 

if i had two wishes
i’d wish for a spoon
so my soup would slide smoothly from my hand to my mouth like the stars to the
moon. 

if i had one wish as
i dangled from trees
and ate from the moon-spoon
and outstretched my arms like the stars ‘cross the world
i’d wish for a shoe
just one, ‘cause you see, the other one fell while i swung from my tree to reach
you.

3:14pm

Unlike the Fish, I am still the Eldest. I must've "woken up" four times this morning. Each time I fell back asleep or feigned sleep until I couldn't stand the sight of my bed.

11:30, I tidied my desk a little. Didn't dust, though. I'm procrastinating that.

Ate breakfast at lunch.

Facebooked a little.

Succumbed to a little depression.

Washed dishes.

Cleaned the living room and kitchen a little.

Now I am listening to my Perfect Playlist and steeling myself for laundry preparations (sorting the clothing).

I wrote a poem yesterday. Maybe I even wrote two. I don't know. The other one might've been in my head.

Listen to Alice, by Tom Waits, sometime.

It is a beautiful, dreamy song. The saxophone and Waits's gravelly voice lends the song an other-worldliness that's...rare.

It's dreamy weather we're on
You waved your crooked wand
Along an icy pond with a frozen moon
A murder of silhouette crows I saw
And the tears on my face
And the skates on the pond
They spell Alice

I disappear in your name
But you must wait for me
Somewhere across the sea
There's a wreck of a ship
Your hair is like meadow grass on the tide
And the raindrops on my window
And the ice in my drink
Baby all I can think of is Alice

Arithmetic arithmetock
Turn the hands back on the clock
How does the ocean rock the boat?
How did the razor find my throat?
The only strings that hold me here
Are tangled up around the pier

And so a secret kiss
Brings madness with the bliss
And I will think of this
When I'm dead in my grave
Set me adrift and I'm lost over there
And I must be insane
To go skating on your name
And by tracing it twice
I fell through the ice
Of Alice

And so a secret kiss
Brings madness with the bliss
And I will think of this
When I'm dead in my grave
Set me adrift and I'm lost over there
And I must be insane
To go skating on your name
And by tracing it twice
I fell through the ice
Of Alice
There's only Alice

Laugh

First things first. 

In response to the Fish's comment:

It IS a great TobyMac song!

And second things second. 

I am sitting in solitude, free from story pressures (finished 10 AM this morning. All I have to show for three days of sitting in front of the computer is 100 word shavings in the delete button and a couple ficlets) and free from...well, everything!

So I feel great.

And I have a new favourite haiku, written by the talented ~Danteholic:

If I had money, 

lots of it, I would buy me

some of your loving.

Oh, and Fish...I found a deviant today who I suspected for a moment was you..she wrote a few tankas. :P

Music is the nectar of the gods (as a quote I think I heard says). Especially classical music, though. Chopin, Bach... 

Victor from the Corpse Bride. 

D'you know, not everyone gets my sense of humour. 

Which makes sense.

I was thinking about the sense of humour and what it is exactly...and I have concluded that a sense of humour is not just what you laugh at or the jokes you crack. 

It's an outlook on life; a worldview, if you will. 

It's why you laugh. 

It's how you laugh.

And maybe that's why I like dry senses of humour. They make sense. 

None of this sarcasm for me, thanks. Not that I have anything against it or those who employ it. Not at all. 

All I need is here, right here at my fingertips. 

Music. Letters. My always-being-lost-and-found ring (that reflects me, now that I think about it. Always getting lost. Always being found). 

Did I omit anything?

I don't think so. 

Jesus made my fingertips. He's not under them (Silly!).

And my family and my friends won't fit underneath them. 

^.*

Bottoms Up

My Fine Arts story is due tomorrow. 

My brain will not surrender the best words in which to rewrite it. 

And I must rewrite it. 

8oo words over the limit is a Flashing Red Warning Sign shouting at me and my logy brain. 

Stupid logy brain. 

I have the plotline in my head.

Maybe that's the problem. 

Maybe I should have just started writing and not bothered with plotlines or summaries. 

Oh yes. The beginning picture is very clear. The beginning paragraph, on the other hand, is hazy. 

Why can't Life always be fresh-fruited and bunny-hopped? 

With thought bubble-pictures appearing above people's heads. 

And neon cars buzzing through the air. 

And utterly silent places. 

I. Need. Something. Other. Than. What. I. Have. 

Which is something that I don't know and can't comprehend.

Reminds me of a line from one of my favourite books.

"He was crying into his beer last night."

"I didn't know Ethan drank."

"His root beer."

I need a drink. 

:P

Man-Sweaters

In a past post, Does It Hurt?, I mentioned my beloved man-sweater. 

Three days after that post, I see the new youth pastor wearing the exact same one. I think it was the same size, too. 

So I was laughing (silently) throughout the entire night. 

But it's all good.

I'm glad that no one reads these posts except for the Fish. 

END OF SHORT POST

The Long and Winding Road

I'm gonna be a mother who's in the mix...

Someday, I think that God will bless me with children. Adopted or otherwise. And I will be there. My own mother is an amazing example. She wanted to be a nurse, you know. But she gave that up so we could have a mom, a real mom. And I'm so grateful she did. There's a balance when a family obeys the Word of God, you know. 

And I'm gonna be a life-mate who stays legit...

Always and forever. No cheating. No divorce. A friend asked me, "What if he divorces you?" Hello! God is in control. And He has the whole world in His hands. I and my future husband are there, too, and the Lord said to me that He has plans to prosper me, not to harm me, plans that give me hope, and a future. So there. And I intend to follow those plans to the T. 

And I pray that I'm an artist who rises above the road that is wide and filled with self-love...

This is tough. I was thinking about this today, and I realized that God has ways of keeping us humble. I think (and am still thinking on this) that God allows temptation. He never condones and He never tempts, but I think that sin and temptation are just pointers back to His loving arms. 

That road filled with self-love is one that everyone comes to. Everyone has at least one talent. That wide road is one that shouts, "Look at what YOU have done! Look at the praise you are showered with! Look! Look!" And we look. And we wander. And we fall. 

And God, our amazing, gracious God, carries us and heals our self-inflicted wounds with His love. 

Weak and wounded sinner,

Lost and left to die,

Raise your head, for Love is passing by!

Come to Jesus,

Come to Jesus,

Come to Jesus, and live!

Now your burden's lifted,

And carried far away,

The precious blood has washed away your stains, so

Sing to Jesus,

Sing to Jesus,

Sing to Jesus, and live!

And like a newborn baby,

Don't be afraid to crawl,

And remember when we walk, sometimes we fall, so

Fall on Jesus,

Fall on Jesus,

Fall on Jesus, and live!

Sometimes the ways is lonely,

And steep and filled with pain,

So if your sky is dark, and pours the rain,

Cry to Jesus,

Cry to Jesus,

Cry to Jesus, and live!

O, and when the love spills over,

And music fills the night,

And when you can't contain your joy inside, then

Dance for Jesus,

Dance for Jesus,

Dance for Jesus, and live!

And with your final heartbeat,

Kiss the world goodbye,

Then go in peace, and laugh on Glory's side, and

Fly to Jesus,

Fly to Jesus,

Fly to Jesus, and live. 

--Untitled Hymn, Chris Rice

Lose my Soul

There are twenty (give or take a few) lines in one of my favourite songs. 

There will be twenty paragraphs in this blog post. 

Give or take a few. 

 

Father God, I am clay in Your hands...

Changeable, moody, colourful clay. Not consistent at all. And yet...You still mold me. Gradually, sometimes painfully, but You're always molding. It's an incomparable feeling, Your kind of grace and persistence. But I am seeing those changes. Yes. They are microscopic and patient, but they are there. And they're continually appearing. 

Help me to stay that way through all life's demands...

It's tough, You know. Staying pliant. The world around me is constantly hardening my perspective and desensitizing my heart, but... You still knead and stretch. El-Gibhor. The Mighty God. No matter how strong and persuasive this world is, You are stronger still. It's grateful, I am. 

'Cause they chip and they pull and they nag at me...

I'm really, really glad that You have a quiet, still voice. It does get hard to hear, but I think that's what makes it so special--it's completely unique. Everything else is loud and full of pandemonium and nagging. But You say, "Be still. Know that I AM God."

And everything that I make up my mind to be...

Pfft. I don't make anything up. It's all there, hidden deep inside, knitted in by You. I just uncover it over time. These talents and areas I excell in, the goals I make for myself and strive toward, the thoughts I think and the things I do, You knew them all before Time. And You wrote them all. The Author and Finisher of my faith. You don't approve of everything I do. In fact, I think that most of the things I do are offensive to You. But there's that Amazing Grace again. And again. And again, again. 

I was lost when You found me here
You pulled me close and held me near
And I'm a fool but still You love
I'll be your fool for the king of love

He gave me wings so I could fly
And gave me a song to color the sky
And all I have is all from You
And all I want is all of You

It's grace, grace
I'm nothing without You
Grace, Your grace
Shines on me

And there've been days when I've walked away
Too much to carry
Nothing left to say
Forgive me, Lord, when I'm weak and lost.
You traded heaven for a wooden cross

And all these years You've carried me
You've been my eyes when I could not see
And beauty grows in the driving rain,
Your oil of gladness in the times of pain

It's grace, Your grace
I'm nothing without You
Grace, Your grace
Shines on me

--Grace, Michael W. Smith

Oh, Grace

Jesus. <3

He's awesome, you know. 

I think that relevant lyrics are a fitting fortieth post. 

All I can say is, that grace is my favourite aspect of God's character. I love all of Him, of course, but there's something about grace that is...amazing! 

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me!

I once was lost, but now am found;

Was blind, but now I see.

In evil long I took delight,

Unawed by shame or fear,

Till a new object met my sight

And stopped my wild career.

I saw One hanging on a tree

In agonies and blood

Who fixed his languid eyes on me

As near His cross I stood.

Sure, ne'er until my latest breath

Can I forget that look--

It seemed to change me with His death,

Though not a word He spoke.

My conscience felt and owned that guilt,

And plunged me in despair;

I saw my sins His blood had shed,

And helped to nail Him there.

Alas, I knew not what I did,

But all my tears were vain;

Where could my trembling soul be hid,

For I the Lord had slain.

A second look He gave that said,

"I freely all forgive!"

This blood is for my ransom paid,

"I died that thou mayest live."

Twas Grace that caused my heart to fear,

And Grace my fears relieved!

How precious did that Grace appear

The hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils, and snares

I have already come;

'Tis Grace hath bro't me safe thus far,

And Grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promised good to me,

His word my hope secures!

He will my shield and portion be

As long as life endures.

Yes! when this flesh and heart shall fail,

And mortal life shall cease,

I shall possess within the veil

A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,

The sun forbear to shine,

But God who calls me here below,

Will be forever mine.

When we've been there ten thousand years,

Bright shining as the sun,

We've no less days to sing God's praise

Than when we first begun. 

--John Newton

What once was hurt 
What once was friction 
What left a mark 
No longer stings... 
Because Grace makes beauty 
Out of ugly things 

Grace finds beauty in everything

--U2

Oh Joy

Hey! I have more posts for February than there are days!

*imitates the Fish*

I Got Soul

Ok. I promise a short post. 

Getting ready to leave, waiting for Mama to get off the phone so I can phone Papa..

Gave in to the craving to listen to "Juicy" one more time before I leave. <3

That's a new favourite emoticon. 

Wearing a favourite t-shirt, for confidence and good luck. :)

Kaija's borrowing my hat tomorrow for when she plays the drums. For good luck, you understand. :P

In closing (told you this'd be short), I'd like to add this quote and this excerpt from some favourite lyrics:

"I was reading the dictionary. I thought it was one big poem about everything." --Steven Wright

And the lyrics:

Conscience bleeding in a song
Guilty as the day is long
Goodbye

I changed my mind. I will add a tiny bit more lyrics.

I wanna stand up, I wanna let go
You know, you know - no you don't, you don't
I wanna shine on in the hearts of men
I want a meaning from the back of my broken hand

Another head aches, another heart breaks
I am so much older than I can take
And my affection, well it comes and goes
I need direction to perfection, no no no no

Allright. I'm done now. Until tomorrow, imaginary audience!

*waves*

*audience does the wave*

A Short Post about the Previous Long Ones

Well. Three--four--posts in one night. I am making up for the two days that I say I won't be writing but I will and it'll find it's way into here eventually. 

I love my blog. 

Now I have to think of a name for it.

Yes. I name the things I love. 

A stranger habit could be found.

<3

[Edit: I am stupid. I already named my blog. -.-

Ahem. 

Now I have to re-think the name. /Stupidity]

:thursday:

:thursday:

i.. i try to write like they write, but nothing half as good spills out. it’s a mess. spilled milk is all it is. just spilled milk. white and flowing and formless. flat.

my thoughts may be original but no one understands them. I don’t half understand them myself. maybe someday someone will.

someday someone. a someday someone. A wise one.

:friday:

why don’t they stop talking? it’s all useless, anyway. “talk about something that matters,” i want to say. but i don’t. never do.

and they all love me. and i can’t stand them all sometimes. someday someone will come and he’ll understand and i won’t have to explain. just look at him and he’ll know and wink and they will stare in ignorance.

i see it all. i like it all. only him, that is. he is all.

:saturday:

night is here and I welcome it, both arms flung back. pain often brings pleasure, they tell me. reminds me of a beatles song. i wonder if i’ll still believe it when they’re all dead.

of course they’ll die. everyone does. i will, too. and on my gravestone they’ll write when i came and when i left and something about me. and then someday, someone will stand over me and plant a flower in my head.

i’ll smile, i think. i won’t reach out, though. too much dirt between us for that.

:sunday:

there’s no rest. too many people needing wanting to do too many things. “go here,” they say. “come with us,” throwing a football into my chest.

i oomph but no one notices. she’s russian, they say. she’s used to it.

i smile but my chest cries. it’s not used to it.

:monday:

mondays remind me of my sister. she loved garfield and mondays always bear lasagna and blankets. they mix together sometimes, and then sleep doesn’t flow as well.

the dreams transform. the pillow isn’t soft anymore. and those shadows that they say are abranchadollastuffedanimal aren’t.

:tuesday:

maybe this should be my sunday. my day of rest. it really is. even the name, i mean. it’s not mean at all. very kind.

kind of like that pillow. it is soft again after everything reverts to gold. i can almost imagine that it is that someday someone who’ll plant flowers in my head.

i dig a hole later and tell mama i can dig better than the worms.

:wednesday:

i used to avoid poems that didn’t rhyme. my eyes refused to read them. then Mrs. Thomson showed me archy and mehitabel and now my eyes are fine.

i can even pound out some of my own, sometimes.

because that’s all i can do. pound them, i mean. it takes everything from you, those poems. everything.

:thursday:

one week in two microsoft word pages. how many pages would it take to write my life? there should be fresh fruit and book covers in the margins. and roller blades.

maybe someday someone will write a story about me in capital letters and correct punctuation and sentence structure. maybe my children will read it and call it a classic but forget that it was about me.

but the wise someone won’t. he wrote it, after all. 

Vagabond's House

Vagabond's House

--Don Blanding

When I have a house . . . as I sometimes may . . .
I'll suit my fancy in every way.
I'll fill it with things that have caught my eye
In drifting from Iceland to Molokai.
It won't be correct or in period style,
But . . . oh, I've thought for a long, long while
Of all the corners and all the nooks,
Of all the bookshelves and all the books,
The great big table, the deep soft chairs, 
And the Chinese rug at the foot of the stairs
(It's an old, old rug from far Chow Wan
That a Chinese princess once walked on).

My house will stand on the side of a hill
By a slow, broad river, deep and still,
With a tall lone pine on guard nearby
Where the birds can sing and the storm winds cry.
A flagstone walk, with lazy curves,
Will lead to the door where a Pan's head serves
As a knocker there, like a vibrant drum,
To let me know that a friend has come,
And the door will squeak as I swing it wide
To welcome you to the cheer inside.

For I’ll have good friends who can sit and chat
Or simply sit, when it comes to that,
By the fireplace where the fir logs blaze
And the smoke rolls up in a weaving haze.
I’ll want a woodbox, scarred and rough
For leaves and bark and odorous stuff,
Like resinous knots and cones and gums,
To toss on the flames when winter comes.
And I hope a cricket will stay around,
For I love it’s creaky lonesome sound.

There’ll be driftwood powder to burn on logs
And a shaggy rug for a couple of dogs,
Boreas, winner of prize and cup,
And Mickey, a lovable gutter-pup.
Thoroughbreds, both of them, right from the start,
One by breeding, the other by heart.
There are times when only a dog will do
For a friend . . . when you’re beaten, sick and blue
And the world’s all wrong, for he won’t care
If you break and cry, or grouch and swear,
For he’ll let you know as he licks your hands
That he’s downright sorry . . . and understands.

I’ll have on a bench a box inlaid
With dragon-plaques of milk white jade
To hold my own particular brand
Of cigarettes brought from the Pharaohs land,
With a cloisonne bowl on a lizards skin
To flick my cigarette ashes in.
And a squat blue jar for a certain blend
Of pipe tobacco, I’ll have to send
To a quaint old chap I chanced to meet
In his fusty shop on a London street.

A long low shelf of teak will hold
My best-loved books in leather and gold,
While magazines lie on a bowlegged stand,
In a polyglot mixture close at hand.
I’ll have on a table a rich brocade
That I think the pixies must have made,
For the dull gold thread on blues and grays
Weaves a pattern of Puck . . . the Magic Maze.
On the mantelpiece I’ll have a place
For a little mud god with a painted face
That was given to me . . . oh, long ago,
By a Philippine maid in Olangapo.

Then just in range of a lazy reach . . .
A bulging bowl of Indian beech
Will brim with things that are good to munch,
Hickory nuts to crack and crunch;
Big fat raisins and sun-dried dates,
And curious fruits from the Malay Straits;
Maple sugar and cookies brown
With good hard cider to wash them down;
Wine-sap apples, pick of the crop,
And ears of corn to shell and pop
With plenty of butter and lots of salt . . .
If you don’t get filled it’s not my fault.

And there where the shadows fall I’ve planned
To have a magnificent concert-grand
With polished wood and ivory keys,
For wild discordant rhapsodies,
For wailing minor Hindu songs,
For Chinese chants and clanging gongs,
For flippant jazz, and for lullabies,
And moody things that I’ll improvise
To play the long gray dusk away
And bid goodbye to another day.

Pictures . . . I think I’ll have but three:
One, in oil, of a windswept sea
With the flying scud and the waves whipped white . . . 
(I know the chap who can paint it right)
In lapis blue and deep jade green . . . 
A great big smashing fine marine
That’ll make you feel the spray in your face.
I’ll hang it over my fireplace.

The second picture . . . a freakish thing . . .
Is gaudy and bright as a macaw’s wing,
An impressionist smear called “Sin”,
A nude on a striped zebra skin
By a Danish girl I knew in France.
My respectable friends will look askance
At the purple eyes and the scarlet hair,
At the pallid face and the evil stare
Of the sinister, beautiful vampire face.
I shouldn’t have it about the place,
But I like . . . while I loathe . . . the beastly thing,
And that’s the way that one feels about sin.

The picture I love the best of all
Will hang alone on my study wall
Where the sunset’s glow and the moon’s cold gleam
Will fall on the face, and make it seem
That the eyes in the picture are meeting mine,
That the lips are curved in the fine sweet line
Of that wistful, tender, provocative smile
That has stirred my heart for a wondrous while.
It’s a sketch of the girl who loved too well
To tie me down to that bit of Hell
That a drifter knows when he know’s he’s held
By the soft, strong chains that passions weld.

It was best for her and for me, I know,
That she measured my love and bade me go _
For we both have our great illusion yet
Unsoiled, unspoiled by vain regret.
I won’t deny that it makes me sad
To know that I’ve missed what I might have had.
It’s a clean sweet memory, quite apart,
And I’ve been faithful . . . in my heart.

All these things I will have about,
Not a one could I do without;
Cedar and sandalwood chips to burn
In the tarnished bowl of a copper urn;
A paperweight of meteorite
That seared and scorched the sky one night,
A moro kris . . . my paper knife . . .
Once slit the throat of a Rajah’s wife.
The beams of my house will be fragrant wood
That once in a teeming jungle stood
As a proud tall tree where the leopards crouched
And the parrots screamed and the black men crouched.

The roof must have a rakish dip
To shadowy eaves where the rain can drip
In a damp persistent tuneful way;
It’s a cheerful sound on a gloomy day.
And I want a shingle loose somewhere
To wail like a banshee in despair
When the wind is high and the storm-gods race _
And I am snug by my fireplace.

I hope a couple of birds will nest
Around the house. I’ll do my best
To make them happy, so every year
They’ll raise their brood of fledglings here.

When I have my house I’ll suit myself
And have what I call my “Condiment Shelf”,
Filled with all manner of herbs and spice,
Curry and chutney for meats and rice,
Pots and bottles of extracts rare . . . 
Onions and garlic will both be there . . .
And soya and saffron and savoury goo
And stuff that I’ll buy from an old Hindu;
Ginger with syrup in quaint stone jars;
Almonds and figs in tinselled bars;
Astrakhan caviare, highly prized,
And citron and orange peel crystallised;
Anchovy paste and poha jam;
Basil and chili and marjoram;
And flavours that come from Samarkand;
And, hung with a string from a handy hook,
Will be a dog-eared, well-thumbed book
That is pasted full of recipes
>From France and Spain and the Caribbees;
Roots and leaves and herbs to use
For curious soups and odd ragouts.

I’ll have a cook that I’ll name “Oh Joy”,
A sleek, fat, yellow-faced China boy
Who can roast a pig or mix a drink,
(You can’t improve on a slant-eyed Chink).
On the gray-stone hearth there’ll be a mat
For a scrappy, swaggering yellow cat
With a war-scarred face from a hundred fights
With neighbours’ cats on moonlight nights.
A wise old Tom who can hold his own
And make my dogs let him alone.

I’ll have a window-seat broad and deep
Where I can sprawl to read or sleep,
With windows placed so I can turn
And watch the sunsets blaze and burn
Beyond high peaks that scar the sky
Like bare white wolf-fangs that defy
The very gods. I’ll have a nook
For a savage idol that I took
>From a ruined temple in Peru,
A demon-chaser named Mang-Chu
To guard my house by night and day
And keep all evil things away.

Pewter and bronze and hammered brass;
Old carved wood and gleaming glass;
Candles and polychrome candlesticks,
And peasant lamps with floating wicks;
Dragons in silk on a Mandarin suit
In a chest that is filled with vagabond-loot.
All of the beautiful, useless things
That a vagabond’s aimless drifting brings.

Then, when my house is all complete
I’ll stretch me out on the window seat
With a favourite book and a cigarette,
And a long cool drink that Oh Joy will get;
And I’ll look about at my bachelor-nest
While the sun goes zooming down the west,
And the hot gold light will fall on my face
And make me think of some heathen place
That I’ve failed to see . . . that I’ve missed some way . . . 
A place that I’d planned to find some day,
And I’ll feel the lure of it driving me.
Oh damn! I know what the end will be _

I’ll go. And my house will fall away
While the mice by night and the moths by day
Will nibble the covers off all my books,
And the spiders weave in the shadowed nooks.
And my dogs . . . I’ll see that they have a home
While I follow the sun, while I drift and roam
To the ends of the earth like a chip on the stream,
Like a straw on the wind, like a vagrant dream;
And the thought will strike with a swift sharp pain
That I probably never will build again
This house that I’ll have in some far day _
Well . . . it’s just a dream house, anyway.

Audiences on Egg Chairs

I hate arriving late. Late to the scene, to the party, to the re-watch, to the sale, to the information...

Everywhere.

Church, practice, a visit, an appointment. 

I cringe whenever the word LATE comes up in conversation. 

Why? 

I don't know. 

Lies. I do know, a little.

But if there is anything I hate, it is late. 

If there's anything I love, it is fresh fruit and good entertainment set to good music. 

If there's anything I dislike, it is guys in skinny jeans and pants that are thisclose to falling off. 

If there's anything I couldn't live without, it is pencils. I think they signify hope. 

If there's anything that I wish had never existed, it is arguments. Why can't we all get along? -.-

If there's any song that is the definition to my life, it is All These Things That I've Done by the Killers. 

If there's any song I'd like to live for a day, it's Colors by Kira Willey. 

If there is any animal that I'd like to own, it's an arctic fox. Or Siberian tiger. 

If there is anything I'd give anything for, it's to have this on my epitaph:

        [insert Chop's real name here]

                       1923-2003

And some pithy quote about me following. 

I don't know. I'll have to think about what exactly I want on my epitaph. And no, it's not depressing. I think it's great mental exercise. Life is short, anyway. 

Maybe I'll just have them put all my nicknames down. 

Let's-See. Porkchop. Bum. Hedgehog. BBG.

I don't know. 

I don't know many things. Reminds me of that one Proverbs passage according to Eugene Peterson:

There are three things that amaze me,

no, four things I'll never understand--

      how an eagle flies so high in the sky, 

      how a snake glides over a rock,

      how a ship navigates the ocean,

      and why adolescents act the way they do.

Speaking of adolescents. There's really not much to say about them.

Yes. This is another long and random post.

As far as not understanding goes, I think that no one really does. There's probably a song somewhere about that. Nothing under the sun is new, anyway. 

Nothing at all. 

Isn't it strange? I started out this post feeling like so:

*The favorite redhead makes another appearance!*

And now feel like this:

o______o

So. It's almost funny, except that no one's laughing. 'Specially since Victor's Piano Solo from the Corpse Bride crackles with moodiness. 

I liked the menu today. For breakfast, I breathed some Honey Bunches of Oats (the cereal of champions). Lunch was a canned fruit cocktail I thought up while digging through boxes of canned goods looking for corn. Dinner is barley in chicken stock. I am studiously avoiding the chicken, as I sneaked on earlier and will feel guilt if I eat another piece. 

Anyway. It was filling and healthful and everything food should be. 

Which reminds me.

If you are what you eat, then eat rich food!

*cracks up and falls apart*

I wrote a new Impossible List yesterday. Or the day before. I disremember. 

An Impossible List is a list (dur) of what I look for in a future mate.

Why not call it a Husband List, or a Spouse List, or even the Swan List?

Simple. 

Because it really is Impossible. It's impossible that I'm even thinking that there might be a man like this out there. Oh yeah! It's crazy. I think I'm crazy for dreaming it up. But who knows? There may just be that ONE out there that's a combination of Easy, red-headed Eskimo-ness (a word that bears a completely obscure personal meaning), and gingered leather. 

*nods*

Fish. 

I see you out there.

Shaking your head. 

I also dreamed up that happy-go-lucky Italian chef who sings Glen Miller songs (such as Moonlight Serenade. Or In the Mood. :D) and gives you X number of children. 

So...

Oh. I didn't dream him up. He's out there. 

My Impossible List depends on it. 

Oh, Glenn Miller. I've never actually heard his songs, but I've read his lyrics, and I love them. The man was a genius. 

Ha! Which reminds me of a Band of Brothers quote. I beluver that most excellent of all HBO mini-series. Of any mini-series. 

Anyway. On to the quote!

Winter and Nixon are talking about Sobel, the fanatically tough CO of Easy.

Cpt. Nixon: Sobel's a genius. I had a headmaster in prep school who was just like him. I know the type. 
Richard Winters: Lew, Michaelangelo's a genius. Beethoven's a genius. 
Cpt. Nixon: You know a man in this company who wouldn't double-time Currahee with a full pack, just to piss in that man's morning coffee?

Currahee was the intense mountain the Easy men had to run every day. Get this: they actually ran 38 mile runs, full pack, in the dark, when every other company lounged about the camp or took the dames to the movies. :P

They actually have gatherings that run up Currahee now. A worthy goal, I say, but I think I'll walk. Photography, you know. 

If my dream of following Easy's steps is ever realized, that is. 

Hey. Is there any improvement in my writing? I've been practicing. 

On notebooks and such. Also, I have been studying others's writings. Style and whatnot. Been reading tutorials, too. 

Finding what works and what doesn't. Music helps. Only French, or a language I don't understand, though. German. 

Otherwise I pay attention to their words and can't get any of my own out. 

The TV turned off works, too. 

No noise other than the soft music works. 

Clean, fresh hands work. 

Clean workspace helps. Many times over, it helps.

Based on what works and what doesn't, I've also drawn up an idea of a future workspace. 

Picture this:

Clear computer desk, with a bright red chair front and center. Laptop on one side, serious computer on the other. White walls. Many abstract pictures that have no particular form or point. Patterns. A chaise lounge (like the one pictured below) or one of those eggs that hang from the ceiling. An enormous window framed by breezy curtains, coloured by the sunset. 

With the red interior and the hanging, together. The desk'll face the window, with about two feet of space between. 

Oh. And everything--everything--will be soundproofed. Serene. 

Life, besides being an amazing show with amazing camera angles and colours and actors and plot and whatnot, is a great source of great music. 

Like Juicy by Better Than Ezra. Not exactly from Life, but from a video set to Life scenes and that song. What can I say? It was love at first soundbyte. 

*smirk*

Tell me that wasn't good.

(There's that imaginary audience again. You guys live for random appearances, don't you?)

Good grief, I've written a lot. 

Oh yes. Have you looked up that one song from Wednesday yet, Fish? If not, I found it. And it's amazing. I've mentioned it, but I'll put up a thread.

Follow for the song.

Fine Arts...I'll be gone for almost two days. So, no ridiculously long and pointless posts. That's all right, though. I probably won't have much to say when I get back, anyway.

It's usually like that. 

I think all day and a half, and by the time my fingers reach the keyboard, all the thoughts have stored themselves in that mental attic where all thoughts eventually end up. Go read Sherlock Holmes. I've modified his theory. 

Good grief. I forgot about Mr. Holmes. He was the before-Band of Brothers obsession. It's all good, though. 

I love my obsessions. They lend me all sorts of useless information that I pop into conversations. 

And they're all like, "Where the heck do you know this from?"

And I smirk. Inwardly, at least.

Shall I continue? I believe I shall.

Oh, fart on it. In my deviousness, I've forgotten what I wanted to say. 

All right. I'll spare you added length and let you continue. 

In case I haven't said this before, I love you, imaginary audience. I'll have to name you guys someday. 

The one in the front row there, with those cerulean eyes and sun-soaked hair, his name is Denver. He looks like a Denver. The one two rows back, three over from the left, with the ginger--they call him Richard. His friend, with the expressive eyebrows, shouts, "Lewis!" at me. The one called Frank turns around and grins, flashing teeth so white they blind Kenyon lounging behind William. Ed and Eugene laugh at the look on his face. Joe smirks at Will and resumes polishing his brass knuckles. Ian looks at Frank. His teeth lose a little shine. 

There's more, of course. That was only the men. A few women are sprinkled throughout. Amanda, close to Denver. Ethel sandwiched between Richard and Lewis. Grace smiling quietly, Lewis's arm around her. Fran laughs at William as well, her teeth wide and white. Renee leans on Eugene, content. 

Yeah... 

I love my audience.

Fish. We really. REALLY. need to watch that most excellent and beluvered mini-series together. 

Alright. I'm done.