Forever in Neverland

Bullet Ballad

2012-01-29T17:40:00.000-08:00

There's a song my roommate plays on her iHome almost every evening while she reads her history book. It goes something like this 'I wanna see your bare feet on my dash, the night wind blowing your hair back, slide across that seat and sit real close, baby, let's go.'

It's one of those songs that makes you want to shoot yourself in the face and simultaneously run down a sunset beach in your bare feet with your white dress flowing out around you while the love of your life runs to meet you. It's a pretty apt song for my roommate to play. She seems to make me want to simultaneously shoot myself in the face and hug her because she's just so. so. Well, really the only way to describe her is to picture a big, fat, loud, motherly Italian cook with her arms open wide and flour dusted across her beaming face. But then take away the big, the fat, the motherly Italian cook part and you've got. My roommate. And who doesn't love a big, fat, loud, motherly Italian cook with her arms open wide and a smile for everyone?

College of the Ozarks is probably a lot like heaven will be like when we finally arrive. After all the searching, after all the waiting, after all the hoping... *now* I understand. It's just so stinkin' simple, once you're there. But looking at it from a distance, it sure is deceiving.

My third dorm room, my third roommate, my third 'first day' feelings. But the difference is that when I stepped onto CIU's campus, I felt like I wanted to puke from the sheer magnitude of what I was getting into. When I stepped onto Berea's campus, I felt like I had just been thrown into a vat of pure evil and told to swim. When I stepped on CofO's campus. I felt nothing. Because you don't feel a sense of revulsion or a tingle of thrill when you come home after a long journey. You simply sink onto the couch and let the absence of new and exciting feelings remind you that you're okay.

I haven't made a bunch of friends and found all the hot spots on campus to hang out. I haven't beasted all my exams and turned in all A papers. I've only been to the cafeteria three times in the past two weeks, and I can hardly make it down the hill after work every day. And when I do finally get off work, somehow find myself at the bottom of that hill and miraculously make it through my dorm room door, my roommate, talking a mile a minute, is always there to greet me.

And every time I'm tempted to curl up in a ball and sink through the minuscule amount of floor space we have, I remember what it feels like, talking to my Public Speaking professor with another MK, long after everyone has scuffled out of the room and into the cold, night air. I remember the look on my work supervisor's face as he introduced me to the man who asked me to speak at his staff meeting. I think about the phone in my back pocket, that buzzes every single day to remind me exactly how much I'm loved by the King and Savior of this huge, massive, glorious universe. And somehow, I feel a little bit better as I heave myself up onto my top bunk and curl up under the covers, allowing myself to be lulled to sleep by the sound of my roommate's music, whispering about bare feet on a dashboard.

When it comes down to it, you can either give in to the urge to shoot yourself in the face. Or you can run down the sunset beach and into the arms of a God who loves you more than your tiny, human, squiggly-grey-lined brain can comprehend. What'll it be, children? Will you be the bullet or take the bullet?

Fragmented Fiction

2011-11-30T06:43:00.000-08:00

Well. I did it. Again.

Isn't there supposed to be some sort of epic feeling that wells up inside of me and blacks out all of these other not-so-hot emotions?

I guess the tricky thing about NaNo is that it's supposed to push you to lengths you never thought you'd be able to reach. I think, my dears, it's time for me to move on to something a little less psychotic, and a little more challenging. Like selling Tupperware. Or learning a foreign language.

Or maybe the little place inside of me where sane emotions are kept has been sealed off for a little while because someone very... very near to my heart has forgotten who I am. Do you know the feeling? When you're walking along one day and you think everything's going okay. And then you blink, and it's all over.

The girl at the desk who signed my College Clearance Form had an engagement ring on her finger. It was beautiful. It made me feel like weeping, it was so beautiful. Is this what happens to us? We live our lives, almost floating through each day, and the years pass so silently we almost forget they're gone. And then we wake up, or we're dropped on our heads, and we realize everything we've missed.

I don't mean to sound like a suicidal 15 year old. It's just shocking, to wake up one morning and realize that where you stand in life is not the place you thought you would when you looked into your future as that depressed 15 year old. You saw grandeur and laughter and friends that had your back. College and maybe a cute guy who's obsessed with your eyes. Life.

But that's not really what it comes down to, is it? When you really get down to reality, when you stare in the mirror at the person you are, you realize tomorrow never really came. You're still stuck in today, waiting for whatever dreams you have to materialize before you. I guess that's what I learned this month, writing NaNo each day, reaching that 1667 words every night before I went to bed even if it killed me. I suppose it comes when you stop fixing your hair in the mirror and start looking at the person staring back at you. It changes things.

Funerals and weddings and doctor's appointments and immigration offices. Life is so beautiful and so gloriously hard. Did you notice that when you woke up this morning? Or were you too busy analyzing the bags under your weary eyes?

Wake up and notice that it's raining outside. Longfellow had it right, I think. But that doesn't mean you stop waiting for the sun to come out. Go play in a rain puddle, my loves. Go sledding in the snow. Walk through a mud field. Run while you can.

Run through life, people. Run until your heart breaks.

Oh, October.

2011-10-01T07:26:00.000-07:00

Have you ever woken up one morning and realized, suddenly, that your life is slipping away from you and what's lost is lost forever?

It's October 1st. October is that random month stuck in between the important ones like September and November. No one ever remembers it until it's upon them, and even then, it goes by so quickly it's hard to remember while it's here. Sometimes in October I get that funny feeling that life isn't what it seems, and somehow or another if I just paid a bit more attention, if I hung on just a little bit harder, October would tell me something about life and reality that I'd never quite grasped before.

But then it's gone and out of my head and I'm left feeling like I forgot something that can never be remembered. Oh, October. The dragon sleeping softly below the mountain peeks as the snow clouds gather and plot. One could go a lifetime never know, never understanding what it means to be in wait. To hunker down in the cold, cold stone and wait while the whole earth continues on without you.

But October understands. I woke the dragon and now there's no going back.

Berea Blues

2011-08-20T18:41:00.001-07:00

I couldn't help it. I had to. I went back and I read my post about my first day of college last year. And you know what? It helped. It helped the butterflies fluttering in my belly. It helped the pain throbbing in my temples. It helped the darkness seem a little less black. And pushed the threatening tears just a little further back. And it might even have helped with the aching that seems to have become a permanent part of my heart.

Sometimes when I write, it hurts. The pain just gushes out and splatters itself in perfect little blobs all over a page somewhere. Other times, it numbs my feelings. Still others, it helps me come to grips with what exactly is happening. And what *is* happening is really quite simple.

God is taking an awkward, lumpy rock and turning it into a beautiful, shimmering jewel.

I don't mean that in a bragging sort of way. I just mean it in the 'wow, God really is a big, awesome God.' way. Because that's what He's doing. Every day. Every time I want to cry and scream and yell at the world for not letting things go my way. Every time I say goodbye, every time I give something up. Every time I smile at someone I don't want to talk to in the least bit. Every time I hang up the phone, knowing that words can't express my feelings. Every time I remember something I wish I could forget... It's just God, shaving down another corner of this jagged lump of grimy stone.

And I hope that at the end of this semester, or at the end of the next four years, whatever happens, wherever I end up... I hope that I can read through my words and know that, even though I make mistakes, even though I do spend way too much time feeling sorry for myself, even though I do wish with everything inside of me that I was with my family and loved ones... I haven't missed the purple cow.

Maybe I should put up a sign on my wall. A big, white poster with a purple cow right.smack.inthemiddle. Don't miss the purple cow, honey. It'll save your life.

It'll save all of us, if we let it. Who would have thought another useless fact out of my little brother's mouth would stick with me like this. What purple cow, Micah. What in heaven's name are you talking about.

The purple cow, Boo. Everyone notices a purple cow.

A purple cow is taking the same-old-same-old and making it new. It's taking a Bible verse we've all heard a million times and actually listening just this once. It's taking phrases like 'oh my god' and turning them into prayers of grief, love, awe. It's walking ALL THE WAY ACROSS CAMPUS to get to a lounge that may or may not have transfer students in it. And remembering with ever crunch of your little bare feet on the pavement that you, yeah, you. You are loved by a great, big, crazy God.

Don't miss the purple cow, honey. It's sitting right there in front of you. Calling, begging, pleading. Just come home, my child. Just sit still. Just listen to my voice.

Just rest in my big, purple cow arms.

Broadway Bound

2011-06-11T20:40:00.000-07:00

You know that feeling you get on a long drive, when your eyes just won't stay open another minute, and as you keep telling yourself you're not tired enough to sleep, all of a sudden your mind is so full of thoughts you didn't think yourself capable of creating and then it's too late because you know you're asleep and nothing could change that.

Until something does, and you realize very abruptly that you *were* tired enough to sleep and you *did* want to. And then you arrive at your destination and you're expected to somehow entertain people with stories of afar before you're given any sustenance or even so much as a bathroom break. And then when 11 pm or midnight finally does come along, and just about everyone in their right mind (and out, obviously, because you're including the people around you) has decided it'd be okay for you to be allowed to see your place of rest for the night... you realize you're more awake now than you've ever been in your life and you couldn't *possibly* be expected to just go to sleep after a day like that.

This is why I love my life so very, very much. It's days like today that remind me exactly why I adore traveling, visiting, moving, sightseeing, trailblazing, and babysitting all in one breath so much. It's like a breeze down your back after you've been slaving over the weeds for the past two hours. Like the smell of fresh bread being baked in an oven, knowing that you'll be putting those smells into your mouth ever so soon to be turned into delectable textures that ooze down your throat with some homemade strawberry jam.

God took me through a year of Bible school. I graduated with a shocking GPA (nevermind what kind of shocking we mean here) and am currently enrolled at a wonderful(ly free) college in Kentucky for the fall. I'm so pleased to be able to look back on the past year and know that it was 0.00% me and every inch of the 100% God that has brought me to the green couch I am currently lounging on with three fans pointed directly at me.

In two weeks I'll once again be on a bus headed into Mexico, a direction both familiar and yet so radically different than I ever expected. I'm going home for the summer, packing my bags and heading back to where it all began. The combined sense of relief, awe, and ecstasy I feel is unexplainable. Let us just say that God is a *very* big God.

I did what the doctors said I could never do.

I spent an entire year somewhere without moving.

I have a permanent address.

I found an old friend and made a new one.

I am certified to be a missionary with any mission board across the world.

I am going to college.

I am going back to Mexico for a few months to be with my family.

My life is not and has never been my own. Some days I am more okay with this fact than others. Today is one of those days where everything just feels a lot better when I realize that it never was my decision to make, my responsibility to fix, my problem to undo. It's just me - another set of features in a sea of faces. This one just happens to be smiling a lot more lately than some.

My hope is that someday, somewhere, someone will look at my life and see what continues to take me so long to notice. That God chose me, formed me, loved me, saved me, and guided me every step of the way, from the nanosecond I was conceived to the very last breath I breathe. That for some reason, His reason, He picked me for all of this. And then He held my hand while He lead me through each and every obstacle.

And maybe somewhere in there, someone will notice that He can do it for them, too. 2 Corinthians 4.

Bellybutton Blessings

2011-04-23T17:47:00.000-07:00

I had two thoughts gently floating around my doped up head when they finally admitted me into surgery. The first, obviously, was that I could not even begin to conceive of what had lead me to this point in time. The second, even more obviously, was to wonder what an appendix looked like and what, in heaven's name, it ever did for me, anyway.

I never thought I would be that person. You know? Like in those movies where at the end, everything goes into slow motion as the car pulls up and a girl in a white dress comes running toward the door that's slowly beginning to open. And then the stutter, as the camera shows three different shots of three different people. The doors opening, the footsteps coming closer, and then the one foot coming out and stepping down on the blacktop. And somehow, in all the chaos, everything comes together and in a single moment the whole awful procedure, an entire movie's worth of emotions, comes to a peak as the music gets louder and the credits start to roll.

What they don't show in those movies is that after girls in white flowy dresses come to meet you, they help you into bed and sit around making you clutch your stomach in pain as you laugh hysterically at all the things you felt like crying about in the hospital the night before. What they don't show is that it's more than just a welling up of emotions as people show they care. It's the actual fact that so many people *do* care, and they're right there, waiting to remind you.

If there's one thing I'll take away from this whole (painful) ordeal, aside from a deformed belly button and bragging rights, it's that blessings really do come through raindrops, and sometimes those raindrops - lightning, thunder, hurricane - are just God reminding me of what I seem to keep forgetting. He didn't place me on this earth to see how many things He could take away from me and still get a smile out of it. I'm here to have a smile for everything, even when He takes some of those away.

And sometimes, like now, the things He takes away are pinky-long, inflamed, infected, and rotten appendixes that I don't really need anymore, anyway. And now my slightly-less-drugged thoughts linger on the nurses and doctors I've come into contact with over the past 30-something hours. And how almost every single one of them had something to say about my smile and my attitude through this whole ordeal. That's the kind of God I serve. The kind who changes a person so entirely that they can smile while they're waking up just out of surgery. The kind who transforms a life so completely that they can gently laugh along with the doctors while waiting patiently to be released from the tubes and straps holding them down.

I serve the kind of God who reminds me of the pain He dealt with a couple thousand years ago when a doubter just like my surgeon stuck a spear into His belly. Reminding me that this life is not what it's all about. But tomorrow? Tomorrow really is what it's all about. Because love is way too much to give us any less.

Happy Easter, everyone.

Run Recklessly

2011-03-21T09:57:00.000-07:00

There's something euphoric about finally completing a project. It's like watching the clouds clear up after a rain shower, or listening to a baby giggle. The snip, snip, snip of your last stitch and final knot. It's glorious.

Especially when you become aware of how many better, more exciting projects you can start now that you're done with the last one. It does something to the mind, this new found sense of freedom. Sometimes it even tricks us into thinking we want to start the last one all over again from the beginning.

This is a feeling I have begun to apply to my schoolwork. We start a section in a class, we learn all there is to learn (or so they say), we study, we take a test, we (hopefully) pass. Then we groan and complain as we once again delve into the next section of teaching. Sometimes it feels like my brain can't fit one more fact or list before it'll explode into pitiful little bits of brain mush. It's like saying your 180 gig iPod is full. Yeah right.

There are a few people in this world that assume my need to do something with my hands during lectures is simply a sophisticated way of zoning out without actually taking a nap in class. I listen better when I'm concentrating on something tangible. There's got to be some kind of statistic out there that proves that they are wrong and I am right.

Either way, sewing in class is my new hobby. My grades keep me accountable, so slacking off isn't an issue. But I've gotten a lot done over the past few weeks during class. A bunch of blocks, a bag, a throw blanket, part of a t-shirt quilt. I finished the t-shirt quilt over break, made a pillow case, and started my next quilt - a real one. I was told by a trustworthy source that people who make things with their hands have a lower susceptibility to depression than those who don't. Which is cool.

But I think mostly why I enjoy making things is because I'm the one doing it. It's the work and time I put into it that causes the little squares to grow and create a bigger picture - a piece of physical evidence that not only I can see. Maybe it's because my life is so *not* in my hands that I relish the opportunity to have something that is.

Life has always been likened to a clock. Ticking away; always forward, never going back. The pendulum swinging back and forth, back and forth. Never stopping, never slowing down no matter what we do to convince ourselves otherwise. But my life is like a clock because I get hypnotized by the monotonous swaying of the little golden bulb - everything shifting from one side of existence to the other without so much as a by-your-leave. Maybe I'm watching it come toward the middle, sliding back out of whatever extreme I found myself in over break. Maybe I should be readying myself for the other side of existence.

Maybe, in the end, it doesn't really matter how fast or how slow the clock is ticking, the pendulum swinging. Because when you get right down to it, it's the memories of yesterday and the hopes for tomorrow that are going to hold you up when right now is falling apart. And that might be why God gave us our past, even the muddy puddles we found ourselves in, as well as the future, with whatever soggy messes we'll discover. Because He knows how it's going to end - and He's okay with it. And if God's okay with all of this, I can be too.

Muddy puddles, soggy messes, and all my twisted, foggy plans for the future. If God's not worried about whatever roller coaster I just got myself into, why should I be? College or no college. Health or no health. Friends or no friends. As long as that clock is still ticking, as long as there's still air to breathe, I plan on doing just that.

Enjoy your life, my dears. The wonder, excitement, and adventure placed before you isn't nearly as daunting as the trauma you make for yourselves every day as you fight it. Let go, look up, and live a little.

Orbit of Omniscience

2011-01-19T09:41:00.000-08:00

2010 is gone now. It didn't go out with a bang, or a whistle, or a blast of color. It slipped silently away, the last few hours of an entire years worth of memories, tears, laughter, and pain. The year twenty-ten ended with me laying on my oldest brother's kitchen floor in the middle of New York, sobbing my heart out to an empty and devastatingly silent ceiling.

It didn't revolutionize my life, this completely involuntary display of anguish and despair. I didn't get any grand epiphanies or a flourish of visions for the future. I simply laid there, for almost 2 hours, expressing my pain to a living, breathing God. And then I dried my tears, got up, and proceeded to find a book to occupy myself with until my brother returned.

Pointless (and slightly dramatic) way to end a year? No. It was in the desperation of those sobs, in the heart-wrenching cries for help, that I discovered the most important aspect of existence anyone can ever uncover.

It was when I admitted to myself that I had no earthly reason to continue living that I was able to most firmly grasp the only reason I ever will. When I am left so completely alone, when no human being could possible reach through the fog of my existence and lend me a helping hand, when every ounce of purpose I ever clung to has been completely erased... I can still get up off the floor, dry my tears, and continue on. Because my life does not revolve around earthly reasons.

I force myself out of bed each morning because I have a real reason to go on living. A reason that surpasses pain, human reasoning, and gut-wrenching loneliness. I welcomed in a new year with the affirmation that I did pass the test. That it's not how hard you fall, or how long you spend on your brother's kitchen floor. It's getting back up again when logic runs out.

Because I don't serve a God of reason and logic. And when He asked me if I'd give Him everything, He didn't mean almost everything. But mostly, it's because when I said yes, I didn't mean maybe. And when He said He'd never leave me or forsake me, He didn't mean maybe, either.

He meant never.

Character Conquest

2010-12-01T09:10:00.001-08:00

Nye. I did it. AGAIN.

I love how each December 1st I promise myself I'll never do it ever ever ever again and it's not long before I'm counting down the months to when I can once again pour my brains out onto a blank Word document. Woe is me.

This year was a bit different, though. Because of the encouragement (they would have held me at gun point if I hadn't finally agreed) of several people who I respect (am significantly terrified of their wrath), I decided not only to do NaNo this year, but to write it about my life. So I did. And I arrived at 50,000 words and about age 10 last night, a couple hours before the universal deadline came upon me.

It was hard work. A lot of unexpected tears were cried, a lot of memories I had locked away - both bad and surprisingly good. It's amazing what a mind can do when it has a bit too much information to work with. =O But anyway. God really taught me a lot over the past month. Things about myself, my family, and most importantly, Himself. My perspective on who I am and the stuff He's brought me through has twitched slightly to a more uplifting light. And I'm grateful to all those who walked beside me and held my hand as I trudged down memory lane these past 30 days.

As much as I'd like to deny it, I've also learned something about my personality and how I let my life be run by my own goals and my own definition of what I am or am not capable of. Most of the time, I'm right - but apparently I've been looking at it all wrong. Maybe the 'Achiever' part of me (I love that class, don't you?) really does have something to do with how hard I am on myself. And it just might be possible that God made me for other reasons than to beat up on who I am and never be at all satisfied with anything I could ever do.

Except, of course, completing NaNoWriMo for the third year in a row. This, my friends, is a tradition I plan to continue for as long as I am capable. And trust me, I'm finally convinced that I am (at least this time) capable of finishing what I started. And maybe (I said maybe) not just during ridiculous, month-long deadlines that force me into finishing. Maybe just because I'm me and that is enough.

I serve a patient and loving God who has yet to fail me. I was reminded of that as I wrote through late nights and even later nights when I should have been studying for Old Testament exams the next morning. My life really is one big book with the word 'mine' stamped on the front. And my hope is that each time I, or anyone else, see that book, I'm reminded of just how great He is and how perfect His timing is. And maybe when I'm old and crabby, I'll have an even thicker book sitting on the shelf.

But for right now, it's enough that I can set my past not only behind me, but before me. Taking from it every God-given lesson I can and running with it. Pressing on toward the finish line and into the arms of the One who will never stop waiting for me. And if I have a few heart attacks on the way, oh well. I guess that happens when you're in a marathon.

As you go into the next few months of festivities, remember that for me, would you? Remember why you wake up each morning and put on your running shoes. For the past, for the future. For every new day we have the privilege to wake up to. It's as though God has handed us the paintbrush and told us paint Him a picture. What colors are going on your canvas today?

Merry Christmas, everyone.

NaNo 'Nihilation

2010-10-15T08:10:00.000-07:00

Well, it's nearing that time of year again. And here I am, as always, debating as to whether or not I will join in the fun.

I think we all know what my final decision will be, so I think I'll just move a long now. =]

FALL BREAK. Right, so, it's October, the leaves are turning, the weather's getting cooler and the midterms are piling up. What is there *not* to be excited about?! My roommate (bless her heart. Gotta make you wonder if there really are past lives we get punished for in this one...) is a doll, but she lives nearby. It's not rare for her to go home over the weekends. At this time, I suddenly realize how much homework I have to do. And then do it.

It's really quite liberating to get so much done in so little time. Of course, I couldn't do that all the time. I don't think my mind works that way. But it's okay. I don't need to be responsible on a regular basis. Just so I do it often enough to not end up wearin' the red shirt. (Social status. Academic probation. Whatever you want to call it.)

There is a theatre production going to be put on in December. Wild horses couldn't keep me from being a part of it (I'm thinking, the cleaning lady?), but the prep time runs all the way through November. Oh, did I mention I'm going home for Thanksgiving? Like, home home. Hoooome.

Yup, so I've decided to start storing sleeping points for when November gets here and I start running out. It works like that, right? Oh well. I've discovered something, while being here in this hot, dull, expensive state. Deadlines really work. I didn't know that, growing up. Deadlines were these things that bounced around in the confines of a week or two. Deadline was almost synonymous to motivation, and motivation was purely of my own making. But I've learned something that's actually quite exciting for a little homeschooler like me. If I have to write a paper that's due at the next class period, haven't printed my assignment for the current one, and have yet to find where I stuck the study guide I was supposed to have finished ... that's not important - it happens. Life stalls, time pauses and I get things done.

This is still a mystery to me. I spend probably 45% of my time out of class doing class related things, but somehow frequently end up needing to do one last thing before I can run to class, slide into my seat and pull out my binder 30 seconds before the professor shows up. The other 55% is usually divided between work, filling in for others at work, listening to the talking girls who are sitting on my silk-covered bed, and sleeping.

My life has turned into something I never thought it would be, and I have yet to decide if I'm not entirely satisfied with what it is. I'm learning new things every day, both from the people around me and the God who so majestically keeps me in the palm of His gentle hand. I am being challenged, and given the opportunity to challenge others. My heart is being molded into something slightly better than what it is, while my mind is being shaped into something broader then I thought it needed to be. I might complain a good deal, but in all honesty, I'm happy exactly where I am - vanilla wafers in the ice cream and all.

It is a gorgeous morning outside. The birds are singing, the leaves are slowly drifting down to the drying grass below. My entire hall is deserted and I don't work until this afternoon. Can you imagine a better moment in time? A better memory to look back on and say 'right there. Right there I was the happiest I ever was in my entire life.' And then wake up again tomorrow and be able to say the exact same thing.

Have a wonderful Fall Break, everyone.

When We Worship...

2010-09-19T10:47:00.000-07:00

Today is the 19th of September. It's been exactly one month since I left yet another part of my life behind and stepped into this newest development. A lot can happen in a month - sometimes so much happens in a month that it's not even possible to sum up. This month hasn't been one of those. There has been one thing that has happened this month, and it can easily be put into a few sentences. Actually, one.

Jesus loves me.

No, I'm serious. I come to Bible school to learn about philosophy, how to argue theology and open dusty textbooks and what do I find? God strips me of everything I thought I knew and brings me back to the basics.

Beyond everything, my life is about my relationship with my creator. Why is it so hard for me to remember that? Why does He have to keep reminding me that it's not about what I can or cannot bring to the table? Was the heart analogy not obvious enough? Do we need another one?

Last night, I had a conversation with someone I once thought of as a child. Within an hour, I came to understand that the human being before me had transformed from the caterpillar it was when we first met, to the cacoon it hid in for far too long, to the beautiful butterfly I have the privilege to watch spread its brilliant, turquoise wings and attempt to fly.

This is the God I believe in. An artist, painting tragedy and love into each life as we struggle to find our colors on the fabulous canvas of life. A conductor, slowly drawing each new note from a thousand different instruments as a melody unfolds. An author, able to put together a novel of infinite detail, unmatched mystery and inconceivable romance.

God is ever so slowly, ever so steadily showing me what it means to be loved. What perfection is and how it fits into a corrupt and wicked world. He's teaching me what it means to be taught and helping me learn what it means to learn. He is removing Himself from the position of teacher - a position He's always held in my life - and forcing me to accept correction from the people He puts in my life. Which, if you did not know, is a hundred times more difficult to accept.

I breathe and I learn something new. I listen and I hear something I've never heard before. I watch and I see things I'd never noticed before. I love and I find that I have never loved before. I am taught who God is and I realize I will never know enough. Clocking in, studying for a test, how to pronounce 'YHWH', finding cookies in my ice cream, doing French manicures the Mexican way and shocking an entire hall of girls because I know the lyrics to a country love song.

This is life. This is the life I cry, laugh, praise and pout my way through. This is the greatest gift God gave me - the ability to live without the imminent death that would inevitably come. We talk about Jesus, God's gift to man. But do we remember that He died so we could live? Live each day, being happy just because we can. Why does everything have to be so deep and mysterious?

Today I'm happy because God chose me to be one of one thousand students enrolled in this particular school. I'm happy because He chose me to be one out of three hundred people to hear one particular pastor speak on one particular topic. I'm happy because it was me out of a couple dozen people that got strawberries for lunch. I'm happy because I can be. Because I want to be. Because He allowed me to be.

Plus, it's Pirates Day. Which is enough in itself.

Hermeneutics

2010-08-24T19:16:00.000-07:00

I remember several years ago, how excited I would be on the first day of school. I had all of my books stacked neatly on my desk's shelves, everything organized and spotless. My pencils all in a row, being held back by my squat little eraser. Nothing the big kids could say would dampen my soaring spirits and optimistic outlook on the year ahead.

Until the end of the day, when I realized how monotonous it'd be if I did that same day over and over until the end of the year - or even more depressing, until the end of the books, which seemed to get fatter each year.

Last year, I didn't have a first day of school. It was an odd feeling. It was the first time since before I can remember. But I learned more in that year than I ever did pretending to be looking at my Saxon mathbook. And now here I am, at another first. College.

To say I was nervous when I grabbed my keys and headed for HIS 1012 wouldn't really cover it. My stomach felt a lot like it does just before a really long bus trip. It's like my body goes into overdrive the second it realizes I'm in something for the long haul. But it didn't last long. I entered a classroom brimming with excited freshman and I knew I'd be okay. If not because I'd do well in the class, then most certainly because I wouldn't be alone if I didn't.

I didn't leave the classroom for the next three hours, though I did change seats once. I met three professors, two teacher's assistance and learned the definition of a syllabus. I laughed along with one hundred and thirty four people, teared up during my second class and came to the conclusion that there weren't very many places I would have rather been at that moment.

Sometimes, I feel like I did back on the first day of ninth grade. All of a sudden, I was finding out new things like 'oh, did you know colleges see every grade you make from now on?' and 'you have to pass that Chemistry or you'll have to take two sciences next year.' But there's something new added to this equation that I didn't have before.

We were asked to write a ten minute summary of why we were at this particular school during orientation. I only had one answer and it's the same one that got me off of my bed yesterday afternoon and into the kitchen to learn how to use a microwave to cook stove top mac and cheese. God. He put me here and I didn't even notice Him doing it. It all sort of just happened and I found myself questioning it yesterday. But during class, something clicked. Some piece that hadn't fallen into place yet settled inside of me as I cried my heart out yesterday to the only one who could hear me.

I have hobbies. I like to read, I love writing and playing any kind of musical instrument (no matter how badly) makes me the happiest girl in the world. I've never been one of those people who enjoyed doing dishes or mopping floors because it made someone else happy. I'd do it, sure, but it wouldn't fulfill some deep seated need inside of me. But when God asks something of me and then gives me the opportunity to answer Him... I tend to cry a lot. Don't worry, they're healthy tears. It's a link between me and the living God and I can't help but be overwhelmed that He's allowing me to be apart of this.

And yeah, sometimes I lay on a bed and feel completely and utterly at a loss as to what, who and why I am. But that's when He comes and picks us up, dusts us off and pulls us back into His arms where we belong. It's when we're most vulnerable that God can finally get through to us.

So here I am. Learning to look at yet another year of school, not as a chore to be finished as soon as possible, not as an obstacle to be completed before real life can start. But as an opportunity to experience each new day as my last. To live as though I were dying.

To die so that I might live.

If I Insist

2010-07-22T07:13:00.000-07:00

Have you ever played that game 'I have never...' where no one can actually keep straight when they're to stand up or stay seated? Where all of a sudden you second guess yourself about little things like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and if you wear shoes on your feet.

I just finished my last week as the official 'kitchen helper' on DCM summer campgrounds. First, after three days of training, came Junior Teens, followed closely by Junior Girls. Then Senior Boys, Senior Girls and finally, when I thought I had nothing left, Junior Boys in all their sweet-little-adorable-dirty-faced glory. I will never be able to look at a red bell pepper again without the muscles in my right hand aching; nor remember the look on that small, round face as the little bit of pepper was spat out in utter disgust and the sound of the laughter that followed.

I'm sitting here eating spaghetti bolognese with lamb mince, listening to a flatmate's music playing behind me, compulsively running my fingers through my hair and waiting for my brain to subconsciously come up with a clever way to make the Greyhound website accept my debit card and send me on my way to school.

I'm about 99.99% sure that the fact that I'm sitting in a small, overheated room overlooking the beautiful and twisted city streets I've been wandering through for the past (almost) two months hasn't fully (if at all) sunk in. My mind is continually running a few days ahead of myself, trying to keep up with the mess of a schedule I so easily fell into step with.

A couple hours ago, I did something I've never done before. I walked through doors I'd never dreamed of crossing and came back through the other side alive. Each moment I spend in this land of chaotic, peaceful bliss is another moment of becoming something I have no control over. The question I put to myself is not whether I will be pleased with the outcome, but rather what I will do with whatever the outcome turns out to be.

In a little less than two weeks, I will once again be on a small piece of aluminium, travelling much too high, much too quickly over the unbroken expanse of ocean water bellow. My sister always used to tell me how she left a small part of her behind, whenever she left a good town or a much-loved country. I will be leaving a part of me here in the cobbled streets and mucky liffey with the rain falling in a continual pattern that sounds more like a lullaby with each passing day. But I'll be taking something with me in exhange. A little piece of a lifetime that will fit into the gradually growing picture of the existence I was born into.

Today last year, I was watching my life fall to bits in front of me. What was really happening was something a lot more along the lines of da Vinci getting his paints ready for The Last Supper. I know this person - you know the type, the kind the says exactly what you don't want to hear, exactly when you don't want to hear it - and I can only guess at the amusement it causes up in the heavens when I try to run away from the open arms that are waiting for me.

I have never... travelled on a real live train, been kissed by a boy, broken a bone or choked on a cherry pit. But I have flown over the sea to another continent, held in my arms a sobbing child with a breaking heart, watched the budding blossom of a beautiful romance and lost everything to gain everything I'll ever need.

Morning Mementos

2010-06-22T02:30:00.000-07:00

There's something about finally going to a place you've heard so much about. Meeting someone you've always wanted to meet. A few responses would be disappointment, incredulity, disgust, awe, bewilderment, fascination, etc. Something so exciting about something, whatever it is, that's new.

I didn't actually know as much about this place before I arrived as I thought I did. It's beautiful. The liffey smells bad when the sun's beating down on it. The weather is perfect - but not rainy enough. The people are friendly - and completely unhelpful when it comes to anything besides pointers on slagging.

There is a world out there; a world glowing with its own radiance. It's spinning on a gravitational pull, much like the one we all feel inside of us. A silent tug, nudging us from our sleep as we daydream through another glorious day.

Seriously, have you even gone outside today? And if you have, was it just to get into a car to take you to some other building? And if for some reason you really have gone outside for more than just a short trot across the lawn, what did you see?

Or maybe I'm the only one who wakes up one morning and suddenly realizes how much of my life I waste on secondary, vaporizing things. Asking myself questions like, 'What did I do yesterday that will matter exactly one year from now? One month? Tomorrow?'

The answers leave me disgusted with myself. They motivate me to get up and greet the day. To enjoy a stroll through the city on a beautiful, sunny morning instead of just getting to where I'm going. A voice in the back of my mind that is always whispering to me, telling me how short my life really is. A wrong step in front of a bus; a quick swallow of the wrong pill; a little slip of a too-sharp knife; a gas explosion in a trailer kitchen.

Depressing? Maybe. Gets the point across, though, doesn't it? I have no idea what the next few days will hold. I came here expecting to be surprised, but the real surprise was not the location, the people, my tasks. The beauty in all of this is not that I'm somewhere new. It's that I am the same here as I was 4000 miles away. It's being reminded yet again that God isn't done here.

And He won't ever be done. Because the very day He finishes with me is the day I will cease to exist. So instead of waiting around for Him to do what He's gotta do, why not make the most of what He's teaching?

Don't pine away the hours waiting for that one big highlight of your day. Instead, look for the other things around you. Maybe you could be someone else's day's highlight. Or maybe there will be no highlight at all. What are we, children that need to be entertained?

Today, be it rainy, chilly, sunny, windy - today is a gorgeous day. It's another shot at yesterday, but even better because it's today. So make sure as you go out there and start your day, you treat it not like yesterday, not like tomorrow. But your single last chance to compensate for every lost moment you've ever given up. And yeah, maybe you're waking up to the same ceiling you've woken up to for longer than you want to think about.

But I bet that ceiling could teach you a few things about the height, depth and vastness of a small, gentle pull starting at the core of the earth and spreading into the inmost parts of every human being on this planet.

Stop looking at gravity as something that's holding you down. Eagles soar in spite of it; what are you doing?

Asignado

2010-06-03T11:28:00.000-07:00

Growing up, there was always one sound that held precedent above all else. My dad's whistle. He has several of them. One means, 'come here right now.' Another is, 'stop doing whatever it is you're doing right now.' Another one, 'I heard you, but it'll be a minute.' Yet another, 'yes, finally, you got it right.' That one is usually proceeded by clapping. If you ever hear this, whatever you do, do not blush. It only fuels the fire.

To this day, I turn my head when I hear something similar to any of those sounds. But there's something distinct and incomparable about the piercing whistle that comes from my father's lips. When I was 7, he told us that he'd give 5 dollars to every kid who learned how to whistle like he does. The eldest of us children is still the only one who ever received those 5 dollars. The rest of us are still hoping.

When my dad calls, dropping everything and running in whatever direction the sound is coming from has always been our initial reaction. We have a few stories about lives being saved because of the almost animal-like instincts we take on when our father whistles.

My point is, when my father asks, his children act. Which is why it wasn't even an hour after I hung up the phone that I had my bus ticket purchased and my backpack filled with granola bars. Less than 24 hours later, I was on my way to Mexico, documents in hand.

It took over 15 hours to settle everything. Which isn't all that much, when you're talking Mexican immigration. But the lady behind the counter took the only proof I had that I was allowed to be in the country. She gave me a piece of paper with numbers on it. It wasn't even *stamped*.

The next day, the border patrol man acted like I made the whole 'permanent residency' thing up. I showed him. Scans of my documents, that is. I don't even remember what language we were speaking. I couldn't find my glasses until halfway through, so I don't know what he looked like, either. Just that he was big. And waiting impatiently for me to stop fumbling with the zipper on my bag and show him proof that I was allowed to be setting foot in his country.

This morning, my grandfather teared up when I told him all that had happened over the past few days. How my father had called and asked me if I could make it down to Central Mexico by the next day. How he returned from his board meeting several hours after I arrived on site. How we waiting 5 hours to even get to the counter at INM. How we got the lady dad said would probably be one of the only ones who'd let my paperwork go through. How, even with a mistake in my name, I got a green light, penning in the corrections right there at the counter. How my energy level stayed so perfectly balanced until the very last minute. I told him how I got back on the exact same bus I had traveled down in. How there wasn't 5 minutes during the whole 5 day trip that I had any time to waste. And how I walked in the door last night, just in time for a few hours of sleep and some packing before my next bus leaves. I told him how it really didn't seem possible that the timing could have worked out so well with so little planning. How it's pretty cool I get to go on to Ireland this summer, despite a hiccup in my legal paperwork.

He told me that God sure must have His hand on me pretty tightly, because everything just sort of settles into place after I come through like a hurricane. I love my grandfather. I love him even more when he's right.

Enigmatic Expendability

2010-05-22T07:22:00.001-07:00

Saturday mornings have something magical about them. Especially when it's still early and the fog hasn't lifted off the lake, blocking all but the few heavenly rays of the sun peeking through.

We never slept in on Saturdays, when I was a kid. Through the different stages, countries and houses we lived in, a couple things were always a given. And sleeping in was never one of those things that was given to us. My dad was a farmer's kid; he doesn't know *how* to sleep in.

And so now his children, all grown up and living on their own... still wake up early on Saturday mornings. It gives you a good feeling. Like when you wake up and after all that waiting, the day you've been counting down toward for as long as anyone could possibly stand it has finally arrived. Eating a good breakfast, taking a nice long shower, getting things around the house done... it makes you feel alive when you've only been dragging your lifeless body through the rest of the week.

Saturdays are always productive days, in my family. If I ever get the pleasure of tortur-- I mean raising my own kids, they will definitely wake up early on the weekends. I won't let them miss the magic of listening to the silence as the world sleeps on in peace.

I'm between chaos, right now. I just returned from a very long and educative adventure taking me through several states and some life changing (and possibly a few breath taking) moments. In two weeks I will begin another one. But this one will take me through a few countries, as well. I have a piece of paper that says I will soon be setting foot on a slab of land that is not at all terrainally (or is that terrestrially?) connected to anything I've ever touched. Just another thing on that ever changing list of mine that I can tick off.

Oh, and I could possibly be excited about what'll happen at (and around, of course) that graduation thing, too. But I think what most thrills me is that when I return? I haven't the faintest idea which direction I'll be heading in. I could go to one side of the country, or the other. And I won't know until after I leave. Oh well. I guess I'll just have to take a few extra sweaters.

I was reading Nate Saint's story to my 7 year old cousin, last night. That story has been told to me since before I was old enough to know what a pilot was. But it still has the power to bring me to my knees when I think about the sacrifice and the complete faith those men had in God.

It's with mixed emotions that I will be travelling overseas, this summer. I feel so inadequate with my feeble attempts to do something worthwhile. But then God does the impossible and when my father looks at me and tells me that he has never seen anything like it before (and not to expect any reruns), I'm reminded that... really? My feeble attempts at productivity aren't the point. There is nothing I could do that would make up for my ineptitude.

But I'm expendable. It's not the results that matter, it's the attempt. Either I can live every moment working toward purpose or I can sit around waiting for purpose to find me. I don't know about you, but there seems to be quite a lot of purpose in living each day with purpose. My expandability is an asset, not a restriction.

What is it for you?

Licentiousness

2010-05-12T11:38:00.000-07:00

li·cen·tious
adj.
1. Lacking moral discipline or ignoring legal restraint.
2. Having no regard for accepted rules or standards.

Perspective. I've already ranted about this. Patience, timing, flexibility, change... they're all such disastrous words.

Have you ever noticed how blunt and unhappy the word 'excited' sounds? It's just so... I don't know. But it certainly is undeserving of its definition. Despite this tragedy, I'm pretty sure 'excited' sums up my emotions quite well right now.

My older brother, Mr. I'm-good-at-everything-*and*-good-looking-to-boot, spent a few hours with me, today. I don't usually enjoy conversations with my brother until after they're finished and I see the wisdom in his eloquent words. Today was different.

Actually, today was exactly the same as any other day, which is pretty stupendous, seeing as how yesterday I ate more gluten in the span of a few hours than the sum of my entire life's splurges put together. But if you think that'd be enough to knock some sense into me, you obviously either don't know me or... yeah, that's about it.

So, I'm just going to make a list of all the happy things I have to say. Because it'd probably take a few decades if I did it any other way.

First off, I spent several days (or maybe it was a few more) having more fun than is healthy for any human in my condition. After which I didn't crash (unless tripping on the grass and sprawling on my face counts) or have any fits of unlucidness.

During this time I got a pretty fantastic email, announcing my acceptance into school number 2. The day after, I got confirmation about spending the second half of my summer overseas.

A few days after that, and with the help and encouragement of some pretty cool people, I got my support letter stamped and mailed. Sometime during this processes I woke up one morning and realized I was old. It was a good morning, though.

Then, I hung out with my family and laughed at my brothers wearing square hats and weird black dresses. Also, helping my sister-in-law cut off her husband's hair in the bathtub. That was quite a bit of fun, I must admit.

Then, after much patience (cough) on my side, my father made his decision about the first half of my summer. After which, one of my amazing aunts is making it possible for my plane ticket to be purchased in advanced.

Sometimes, things happen that I do not appreciate. Other time, other things happen that I do. And sometimes in between, there are things I can say nothing about, for they leave me speechless.

My memory plays tricks on me. I fall asleep and dream, wake up and I'm still dreaming. I hear things in the darkness but the light blinds me before I can answer. Feel fingertips brushing at my hair and awake to a silence so thick it chokes me back down into a bottomless, endless slumber. I hear the screams of the tortured, the gnashing of teeth down in hell. My sheet, they lay about me soaked and twisted in sweat -blood. I will not surrender. I will never surrender to this madness. But the insanity... oh, the insanity, it has already taken me alive.

Empeño en Exito

2010-04-15T15:03:00.000-07:00

I have exciting news. I've told everyone within shouting distance - and a bit further. But no one is excited *enough* (or just too busy to bother), so I will continue to talk about it until I find someone as excited about this as I am.

If I were to trace things back to when I first dreamed of this day, my mind would probably explode. I don't even remember how long ago it was when the idea first entered our mind that we could achieve this goal. I'd say, three or so years. Two years ago it became something worth looking into. A year ago it became something to work toward. A few months ago it became a huge disappointment in my life (had lots of fun failing, though, didn't we?).

Yesterday, it became a reality. Words can't really describe what I'm feeling. There is a literal lump of joy sitting in my chest, right now. It's about ready to burst out of me. I have prayed, cried, pleaded, begged, complained and ranted about this for a very long time. I've told people about how close this day has been so many times, they stopped believing me a couple decades ago.

But it happened. If one were to look at my life from a distance, maybe on a time line... it'd look a lot like a heart beat on a hospital monitor, I think. At any given point, I either have nothing or everything, and most of the time I can't keep straight which times are which. Right now I have everything I could ever want, and a whole lot more besides (except for maybe a luscious hamburger with dripping cheese and lots and lots of grease and mustard with loads of pickles and a toasted whole wheat bun surrounding the whole thing. *dies*).

But anyway. My point is that a month ago, I couldn't think of a single thing I could want besides what I had. Two weeks ago, after being handed two of my most frequently mutated dreams, I thought that was it. Nothing in all creation could be given to me that I did not already have. Last week, I found out I was wrong. And then again today, at the peak of wonder, my heart souring with love toward the world...

I get an email from my mother. An email written from a lounge chair on top of a hill on some random mountain in the middle of central Mexico. There is finally internet access at Los Domos.

Of course, my first reaction wasn't to read the email - who does that? I ran out to the living room and told my grandfather the exciting news. He didn't hear me the first time because I said it too loudly (I thought he was deaf...), but even after repeating it, he didn't look all that elated (he's old, what can I say.) So I told two of the guys from the RIT group. They were mediocrely excited, though one of them wasn't really even around. I told another two girls and they were happy, but only because I was happy. Unacceptable. So I called up my last option, and guess what? Busy.

WHAT IS THIS WORLD COMING TO.

I wrote with a Frenzier again today. I got six pages in, but I'm still behind a day. I put one of the brats in the hospital, so we'll see if they start getting more interesting now. It's a lot easier to crank out the pages when there's actually something to write about. But I still have no idea how in the world I could possibly write 2000 words a day in November and now barely be able to write 500.

But when my mother randomly calls me just because she can (*muted squeal*), I shall be all prepared to tell her how far I am in my script. So 50 pages shall be reached as soon as possible. And then I will focus on that essay I'm supposed to write for admission to CIU. Really. I will. Posthaste. Sometime between Saturday afternoon and Monday night. Except Sunday is obviously a day of rest, so I needn't do it then. *sage nod*

Today is Thursday. There are three sections of 24 hour time before my life is complete.

Also, I love shrimp.

April's Absurdity

2010-04-11T12:18:00.000-07:00

There's something about the passing of time that fascinates me. It's so final. And unknown. And somehow just there all the while not being anything at all. Maybe it's because I'm so young I don't fully grasp the concept of it. Though, I'd like to meet anyone who thought they did.

Have you ever spread your skirt and twirled and twirled until you felt like dying, just to see the material billowing out around you? I love going to church and seeing the little girls twirling. Brings back all kinds of memories. That's another thing about time that I find amazing. Somehow, things are always exaggerated with the passage of time. Nightmares are scarier, the ice cream creamier. The Worst Day of Your Life a simply horrific occasion.

Things get twisted, molded and smoothed as time goes on. Like the memories that come with little girls twirling after church. Latching on to my father's Bible case and smiling up at old men who I didn't know and who didn't know me. It could go either way, really, depending on my mood. What I'm choosing to remember. I remember hating church as much as any little girl could hate church, with the too-small-stockings that rode up and didn't right where they should and shouldn't have and the rumbling belly the whole world was probably listening to. I remember waiting hours to use the bathroom because I couldn't interrupt the adults talking long enough to ask where it was. I remember my sister, always perfect, always right and always, always when needed giving me that look, telling me to sit still or else.

But I also remember tag in the foyer with the other kids as service let out. Watching the mothers take the babies from the nursery (no matter how many church we visited, I never got tired of that). The old women asking me my name and telling me I had eyes that sparkled like the sea. I remember sunny days and dashing through puddles. I remember the sheer joy of ripping off those stockings and feeling the air through my wriggling toes.

I have visited more churches than I could ever count, or wish to. At least a new one every week the first 15 years of my life, if not two or three to a Sunday. I have entered under every reason you could think of, and a few I try not to. I have been given standing ovations and asked a bit too politely to leave. I have entered alone and with a long line of family in front and behind me.

But never before in all my life have I not been able to get out of the membership question. 'What church do you go to?' is a simple enough question to avoid, explain out of the way, jump through. Somehow, right when I needed it, I was given a church with an assistant pastor who actually knew me by name. He met me at my grandmother's funeral, several months ago. And I was able to ask him with only a little bit of stumbling around if he'd fill out a church reference for me. He said yes. He even wished me good luck with my application.

After all the twists and underhanded things my life has brought me, you'd think I'd be a bit brighter than this. But if someone were to have told me back in highschool that I'd one day be applying for a school other than College of the Ozarks, I would have smiled my very best 'that's very nice' smile and patted them on the head. I guess rejection messes with the mind, because here I am. Applying for a year of Bible school. (Me. A year of Bible school.)

I leave for a land far, far away next week. The 19th will be the beginning of many wonderful adventures for this summer. And because I seem to be incapable of staying in one place longer than a few weeks (not that I'm complaining, or anything), I have my work cut out for me. Before today, next week, I have to finish applying for CIU, orchestrating reference forms and all that as soon as possible. I also have to begin my application for a summer internship with DCM in Dublin, Ireland. And write a support letter which then must be signed, folded, stuffed, addressed and sent to just about everyone I know. Soon. Because I have until the beginning of June to raise a couple thousand dollars. I have to somehow keep writing three pages a day for Script Frenzy (whichshalldieagruesomedeath) while being distracted by the two imps I'll be staying with until the end of the month. AND apply for an internship with CI (after fixing my father's computer, which is located several thousand miles away). And I need to let my sister know I'm not ignoring her because I'm busy mourning my lack of a life.

I will probably say this about most things in my life, the more wrinkles I get. But CofO's application process now seems a lot like make believe. It was very different from CIU's, which is probably different from a bunch of other schools. I love having my eyes opened to new things. And Bible school is no exception. I have to write a 600 (min) word essay about Christianity and how it affects me. It's all I need to then be able to send the application Monday morning. But I only know one person who's better at procrastinating than I am, so don't think I've actually done it yet.

I love how I talk more about my life than about writing. There's not much to say this time, though. My plot stinks, my characters need a psychiatrist and I need to take this experience for what it's worth instead of wishing I were writing a novel, instead. I've walked to the B&N a couple miles away twice now, joining another Frenzier and writing for a couple hours. We're meeting up again on Thursday morning. M&M's, the smell of coffee and another person pounding away at their keyboard makes an incredible writing environment. I'll have to do write-ins during NaNo (wah;drgleirwhat?!@I'mnotdoingNaNo.) Anyway.

That is all.

Prisms

2010-03-29T09:43:00.000-07:00

The other day, I was sitting quite contentedly on a slab of carpeted cement, swinging my legs to my little brother's a cappella music, and listening to my mother talk. As I sat there, generally about as pleased with life as you can get, I picked up a pamphlet someone had given us and started flipping through it (yes, I was still paying attention to my mother. :noway:). In this pamphlet, there was an article-thing about God. God and His sense of humor.

They were trying to disprove that God has a sense of humor. I'm sorry, chillens. But He obviously does. It's like He's sitting up there, watching us little ants scurrying around in a tizzy and just chuckling quietly to Himself because we're just.so.dense. But He knows we'll get it right, someday, so it's okay if He's amused. I am too, sometimes.

The last post I made was on a Wednesday. Wednesday the seventeenth of March, twenty-ten. In another country, in another time zone, in another world, you could almost say, far away and far from my mind, something was happening. A piece of paper printed, signed, folded and stuffed. An envelope sealed, stamped and set inside a postbox.

What I find funny, and not funny in the ha-ha-ha-Micah-told-a-bad-joke funny, is perspective. Perspective and perception. The world is only what we think it is because we think it is. If we knew what was really going on at any given point in our lives, our brains would probably go into overdrive and explode right there and then (which for some people really wouldn't be that much different from what's already happening, but anyway).

I have brothers. I have a couple sisters, too, but mostly I have brothers. They've taught me a few things, growing up. Things like how to bite your lip when something hurts and not let the squeak come out. How tattling is completely unacceptable, no matter how furious you are. How to squish a spider between two fingers without getting goo all over your hands. How to pretend like you know what's going on, even when you haven't the faintest idea. How to tell a lie and how to get out of a scrape with the police. They taught me how to tie a bowline and showed me the best way to skin a rabbit. They introduced me to testosterone and helped me realize that the female version of that was probably just a rip-off anyway, and not to use it as an excuse for anything. How to play the recorder and where middle C is on a keyboard. How to be a man and how to dress like a girl. My brothers, they taught me a great deal.

But first and foremost, my brothers taught me about God. How He works and how to accept it just like that, no questions asked unless it's 'okay, what next?' And so when my brother smiled guiltily and nodded towards his backpack, I knew what I'd find. An already-opened letter from College of the Ozarks, informing me that, although I had met their academic standards, they were unable admit me into their school.

My first reaction was to bite that lip, keep that squeal in. Everyone was looking at me and I could feel my face getting warm. My mother flew off the handle, poor soul, and my father refused point blank to accept what I was reading to him. I looked around and saw their eyes looking at me, and I couldn't help but wonder who was more upset by this news. My family who loves me beyond words or me, who just got rejected from the only school I will ever apply for?

And then I saw the date. March 17, 2010. And I knew like I've always wanted to know, with as much certainty as can fit into one little body. That rejection letter (nowait,it'snotrejection,you'reonthewaitinglistwithacoupleotherthousandkids) was supposed to be sitting in my trembling hands. Its arrival had been decreed before the very dawn of time. I know how lame that sounds. I've gone over this so many times since that night. I have no clue what will happen next, if I'll get to do what I said I'd do if I didn't get in, if I'll continue to get better or slide back into how it was a few months ago, if I'll go back to Mexico and while away my summer, helping with the ministry, if maybe I'll get in to school after all.

I hate plans. Plans disgust me. I think people should just do whatever they want and still be able to accomplish the necessary along with the rest. Scheduled lives make me sad. But I live in a world where planning has become somewhat necessary to continue from day to day. Where people insist on knowing what tomorrow brings, plus next week and the next five years, too. People ask questions, simple and innocent questions, but they're the wrong ones. We ask, 'what are you going to do after school?' or 'what college are you going to?' or 'what are your plans for this summer?' All very normal-every-day questions.

I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. I'm sure I'll find out when I need to. But until then, I'm just going to do what I can now. And that is enough for me. Because tomorrow's tomorrow, anyway, and it doesn't really matter if I know what'll happen or not because I'm still in today. And I don't know about you, but that's about as much as I can handle for one day.

Perspective. My mother's perspective is that her prayers were answered with a resounding 'no.' My father's perspective is that it wasn't a no, simply another obstacle to jump over before August. My brothers, my sisters. They're all taking it differently. But mostly I get apologies and 'I know how much you wanted to go.' No, actually. I've said since the very beginning that if I get in, I get in. And if I don't, there's something else I'm to do with my time.

My wonderful father, he says that's how you're supposed to react. That it's very mature of me to try not to get my hopes up, to guard myself like that. I say if you can't get excited about something, despite sure disappointment, you shouldn't even bother aiming for it. I say August is a long way away, anyway. I say April's almost here and that means only two things.

One, writing. 5 pages every day for 20 days. With as much fake-hair-pulling-sleep-deprivated-groan-inducing-nonsense as ever. And two? The best is yet to come.

Pocapacapetl Pesadillas

2010-03-17T15:45:00.001-07:00

Today is a very interesting day. It's Saint Patrick's Day (I dare any of you to tell me why today is a holiday and who Patrick was before he became a little man in a funny green suit), it's an old friend's birthday (sometimes old is just too old to mention), and it's Wednesday.

I like Wednesdays. Ever since I was little and some random person showed us kids Winnie the Pooh while we were on deputation, visiting stuffy churches. And I mean, really, it's like February. What kind of person decided to spell Wednesday with two d's? That's what I thought. I remember trying to figure out how to spell that word, back before Spelling Power lit up my world with its gloriously orange cover. I probably had the very angels in heaven weeping over my lost soul, that day.

But anyway. Aside from it being Saint Patrick's Day, a couple people's birthday and Wednesday, today is also the day I smashed my father's very oldest computer into submission. I feel very proud of myself, of course. But things like randomly broken mp3 players fixing themselves halfway for absolutely no reason, unscrewing phones older than the earth itself, finding dusty cords, listening to music I haven't heard in a couple years and eating banana pudding pie (yay gluten/sugar) have just made this the most fantastic day since yesterday.

I'm so out of it. My life is floating before me completely untethered and I'm having a blast. And somehow, at the end of it all, I sleep at night. (I've run out of almost all of my drugs, except the nasty shake and some substitutes my mother gave me.) You have no idea how much I love that sleeping bag. Even though it, combined with my braids and my laptop, send blue sparks of electricity coursing through my hands every day. Great stuff, lemme tell ya. My braids being the best part, of course.

So, all that to say, I love my crazy family, I'm really bad at sticking to my plans, no matter how loosely they're formed ANDDDD. I'm doing Script Frenzy in April.

If it kills me.

And I get to see my brother and his girlfriend in a couple days. Eeeeep. I'm busing back to Texas with them, at the end of the month. At least, that's how it stands right now. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? =O

Anyway. I'm trying to decide on a plot (oh my word. Why do I do this to myself?) and it's not really working. I have... three I could choose from. Well. Two and a half. Well. One and a few ideas. Actually... yeah, I'm just reaching for straws, at this point. I'll get it, though. If I have to start without one. And I really hope I don't have to head for Missouri before the end of the month. But we won't go into that, now. It's much too complicated for anyone less clever than my father to figure out. He seems to think it'll work, though, so we'll go with that. =D

Also, did you know that Mexico's time doesn't spring forward until the fourth of April? This is the third time (I think) that I've bused through a time change. It leaves you with this really weird feeling that things are not as they seem. The next time I go somewhere, I should take a train. Trains are cool.

So are a couple other things. Like the weird hard cap on the ends of my fingertips that I can't stop rubbing. And volcanoes. And chocolate chip pancakes with marshmallow fluff and maple syrup. And invisible things. And certain people. But mostly just trains.

Causticly Created

2010-03-03T17:49:00.000-08:00

caus·tic /ˈkɔstɪk/
–adjective
1. capable of burning, corroding, or destroying living tissue.
2. severely critical or sarcastic: a caustic remark.

So, I was thinking earlier. And I'm pretty sure it was some deep thought. But I don't remember what it is, anymore.

Beyond that, there is something in particular I'd like to point out. People, people everywhere, people in general, people who are different, people who try to act like their peers, people who care and people who don't, people, we tend to forget something. And that is the small matter of how little other people notice the things we think are such a big deal.

Really. Artists see the smudge in the right hand corner, and no matter how much we care, all we really see is this picture they've presented us with. We'll never see it in as much detail as they do; we didn't make it. We didn't put anything into it. We are simply viewing it through our own little filter.

Singers hear the catch in their voice two verses in, the listener hears a catchy tune, listens to it a few times and, like with any other song they've ever heard, moves on. The listener likes the song, or doesn't, and chances are they'll probably not come right out with either opinion, because honestly, to them it's just a song. Even if it's a really, really good song.

There is no way around it. No one will ever be completely and totally satisfied with something of their own creation. They might accept it, they might be proud of it. But chances are, they will always be aware of the fact that, in their opinion, it could be better. Or just simply different. Or maybe they think it shouldn't exist at all.

And no matter how much someone loves the creator, they will never be able to fully comprehend the care and devotion that the creator put into their creation. For them, it will simply be something. Something amazing, something cute, something funny, something done well. Maybe even something tragically terrible (but shh, mustn't say so). But it's just a something. And they'll forget about it long before the creator does.

Because that's how we work. Everyone's thinking about their own things. Everyone's worrying about what others are thinking about themselves. Honestly, if you walk outside with your hair all messy, no one's going to care but you (and maybe your mother, if she's in a bad mood). And even if someone does point at you and laugh, I bet a whole lot that they'll forget they did that long before you get over it. Is that worth the ten minutes it took to fix it in a 'presentable' fashion?

So if you like painting, paint. And if you sing off-tune, sing all the louder. And if you enjoy writing, write, no matter what useless garbage is coming from your fingertips. Because it came from you. At some point, somewhere along the line, whatever you make, it was because that's how you felt, or that's what you saw, or you found something to aim for. And if you have someone to show, great. And if you don't, you know what? It really doesn't matter. Because that person probably didn't care half as much about being shown as you cared about showing them. So show your best friend or show your pillow and make yourself happy.

Be creative. Do things that make you smile. Stop worrying about what everyone else thinks about you and concentrate on what you think. It's a whole lot more important than most of the other things you spend your time daydreaming about. Spend some time getting to know the person everyone else only glances at. Because at the end of the day, you're only stuck with yourself. Everyone else is home with the exact same problem.

Hating what you create is a lot like hating who you are. If you don't like it, change it. And if you can't change it, learn to appreciate the unbearable. The only person who is actually forced to put up with you is you. And if you don't like who that is, how can you expect the people around you to want to put up with it?

Let go, be who you want to be, decide to be happy and live life for the right reasons. And whatever deep thought I had earlier is just going to have to wait for another time because I've definitely ranted enough for one millennium.

February Fashion

2010-01-30T16:11:00.000-08:00

Monday is February 1st. I've always thought of February as a romantic month. Maybe due to Valentine's Day being smack in the middle of it, maybe because my mother has always turned another year older on that very first day of the month, or maybe I somehow find the spelling of this particular one quite fascinating. Whatever the cause, February is just that sort of month. This being the case, I have decided to make *this* particular February a rather unique one.

This is all probably more because I'm trying to avoid being bored out of my mind for the next 27 days, but then again, what is life but one hurtle after another, sculpted into perfection so that something, rather than nothing, can be made of it? Precisely.

Before next month is up, I will be on a bus, excitedly making my way towards Mexico (yes. again.) to be involved in one of the most stupendous groups we've ever had visit. I expect our productivity level to stay above average, despite all the fun I shall be having bugging two members of the group in particular. 27 (I guess it's really only 26, actually) days is a really long time to be looking forward to much goings on, when you're currently placed in a very quiet house with an elderly personage (though, quite deaf) and asked to rest. Thus, February: Old Fashion Month was born.

I think it's important to note that I am, indeed, living in the house of a deceased woman who, despite adjusting to the United States very well after several years, never was really able to forget what it was like back home. Home for her being palm trees, ocean water for as far as the eye can see, crocodiles in the swimming hole, snakes in the outhouse rafters and typewriters for translation work. I envy her children, my mother included, their upbringing. But since I was not bestowed the gift of such a childhood, I will now take the opportunity to find things around this silent, dusty house and create for myself an illusion of something (whatever it is) that feeds my desperate need for an outlet for my creativity (or lack thereof), energy and 24 hours of unscheduled time.

However ungrateful I sound, ignore that. I had the option to return to Mexico today, and I turned it down. My place is here, doing my best to bring some comfort to my grieving grandfather as he learns to cope with the absence of a dearly beloved wife. Having said that, I shall now proceed to bore you with all the exciting tidbits I have gathered since deciding what February shall behold.

First of all, a typewriter. Every word that thinks it has a right to come out of me within the next several weeks shall come out on my great aunt's non-electric typewriter. It's gorgeous and I have to smile every time I come into my room and see it, sitting in all it's white, shiny glory on the desk my grandfather helped me move into the corner by the window.

My grandfather also offered me the use of my grandmother's old sewing machine. Now, I'm not sure, seeing as how I've not laid eyes on it yet, whether he meant 'old' as in... ancient. Or old as in, she doesn't use it any more. >.> But, anyway. That's unimportant. I shall create an article of clothing (preferably wearable) on this old sewing machine even if it kills me.

I, being the ridiculously whimsical girl that I am, decided several days ago that I want donuts. Donuts aren't all that hard to make, so long as you've got lots of flour and sugar and either a working oven or a huge vat of oil. I, being on a gluten- *and* sugar-free diet, have neither of the first two things and only one of the second two things. So, with my trusty oven, I will create donuts that are not only gluten- and sugar-free, but also somewhat edible. And I will continue to try until I either succeed, or run out of rice flour.

Letters have always held a certain appeal for me. Getting mail is probably one of the most exciting things that ever happen to me. So I have decided that I will refuse to write emails (or at least mostly. I'll probably have to communicate with my father some, due to his insistence on putting off my FAFSA until the last possible moment). And if I can't find anyone to send letters to, I will simply write them anyway and not send them. Of course, these letters must and will be written under candle light.

I've never given anyone a Valentine. When we were younger, my sister tried coaxing me into helping her cut out little red and pink hearts to paste onto white construction paper and give, gooey and sticky, to my mother. I can't remember ever relenting to doing this, and if I did, it was probably because my sister is really good at manipulation (and if that doesn't work, bribes). This year, though, I shall fabricate an extraordinary Valentine. And if I find anyone worthy of it, I might even give it away. (Maybe even to a boy. =O )

When was the last time you jump roped? Jumping rope used to be one of my very favorite things to do as a kid. I'd go outside, dragging two or more of my many siblings with me, hand one side of the rope to one child and the other to another and jump until my legs gave out (or, more likely, another sibling insisted on getting a turn). I haven't jumped rope in years. Mainly because of my health, but also because I got too tall for any of the jump ropes we'd been given and after my older siblings went off to college, it was harder to convince the younger ones to hold the ends for me. I'll probably give myself a heart attack trying, but an attempt at jump roping shall be had.

Of course, my music selection will be limited to the ancient CD's I found in my grandmother's media collection, plus a few classical ones I've gathered over the years and my own bangings on Grandfather's out-of-tune piano. I suppose my dream of using a record playing will have to remain just that - a dream. My usage of the computer will be limited as well, obviously, though I'm not sure how much. Having a shiny black laptop sitting next to an old typewriter really takes away from the romanticity of it all. Is that even a word? Anyway. You get the point.

I am of the opinion that everyone should join me, but maybe they'd miss technology too much. S'a pity, really. Our great grandparents seemed to do perfectly fine without most of the things we deem necessary today. Not that I don't think the sippy cup is a marvelous invention, but somehow, I'm not quite sure how, but somehow they made due, quenching the thirst of their babes without it.

Happy February 2010, mi chiquillos.

Home

2010-01-19T20:33:00.000-08:00

The phone call we've all been waiting for came several hours ago.

Aunt Nancy came in to tell us while my mother and I were trying to quiet Zach, hysterical over a crazy-bad diaper rash.

It seems somehow fit that she would go while he was crying. To remind us yet again that life on earth is fragile - and painful. But despite everything, even at the end, it's all worth it.

Say hi to everyone for us, Grandma. We'll miss you.

candles and posterboard
tacked up on a wall
covered in pictures
and glittering light

a basket to take her
straight up to heaven
and flowers to show us
that life still goes on

nightfall and moonlight
and background piano
played by silent angels
without a tear to shed

everywhere you look we see
footprints of where she used to be
reminding us of things she said
and how she just *can't* be dead

Asked, Answered

2010-01-13T13:42:00.000-08:00

The phone spluttered as I stood there, my eyes glued to the answering machine. A few feet away, the baby was making grunting noises as he pulled Goofy around on a string.

Goofy was Mickey's friend.

More crinkling came from the small white box hanging on the kitchen wall beside the back door. It was speaking again.

'Bad news,' it said, the voice coming through sounding eerie and distant. A voice I remembered, heard somewhere before. It continued. 'Grandma's not doing well...' trailing off, leaving so much up to the imagination. Too much. The child forgotten now, concentrating.

'Couple of days, maybe.' The voice was getting further and further away. I knew that voice. From where?

'Didn't even walk today...' Sounding so weary. Tired as death. No, not death. Couldn't be. '...she's giving up...'

That voice. The baby had stopped dragging the toy, leaving it at my feet. I tore my eyes from the machine and looked down at the piece of plastic, picked it up. What happened to Mickey?

The voice was saying more, but I wasn't listening, Goofy cold in my hands. Cold like death. Looking up, I remembered the voice.

The answering machine beeped as I bolted awake.

Wasted Windows

2010-01-05T10:52:00.000-08:00

Today is the 5th day of the 1st month of the year 2010. I woke up earlier than I had expected this morning, due to my sister having taken most of the covers and her soft, desperate gasping which was disturbing my slumber. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was my grandfather's bookcase, which surprised me just a little. But then the events of the day before came flooding back into my memory and I was reminded of exactly why I had woken up in a fold-out-bed-couch-thing beside my little sister in a seldom-used office in the middle of a suburb, nestled quietly (which is an elderly person's way of saying 'very dull and boring') in the middle of Texas.

There are three of us left, now, out of 6. It's a pitiful number, a disturbing number, and one that is soon to shrink to one less. Nonetheless, the three of us who remain played a game called Triology today, a game of sitting and waiting while the counter sifts away three minutes worth of sand (the measurement of something tangible in intangible measurements left us breathless). And then, while my sister brushed her much too thick and much too long hair, my brother and I sat cross legged in front of my grandfather's washing machine, watching the clothes spin round and round.

For those of you who grew up in the States, this might sound just a little bit odd. But where we come from, washing machines are a legend. We speak of them in hushed tones and marvel over the wealth of those who have the privilege to own one and (*gasp*) maybe even a dryer. So there we sat, my brother and I, conversing about the psychological impact of movies we'd never even seen, and staring into the big black hole made by the washing machine, going round and round and round.

As we sat there, my brother listening to the sound of my voice as it mesmerized him with a fantastic story about black holes and humanity's souls, I thought of all the things the last three children of this particular family had gone through - together. And then I thought of all the things each one of us would have to go through separately. And then I thought of my application to College of the Ozarks, sitting on some desk somewhere, waiting to be gone over by some bored secretary in an office with white walls and pictures of basketball teams lining the halls.

2010 has come, and with it the knowledge that growing up is not only a frame of mind, a trip out of the city, state or country to live in a small room with a stranger and attend classes about things you'll never remember every day. It involves leaving a family you've always known would be there, handing over the keys to the next eldest, hoping and praying that the weight you felt on your shoulders won't pass to them as you wave goodbye, knowing that every squable, every tear, every lonely day is no longer in your hands, the stark reality that you are no longer able to be the bossy big kid who forces everyone to clean up the house so mother doesn't faint when she comes down, nor the comforter who is always there to lend a shoulder when she does.

It's almost worse than being the child receiving the keys, this. I remember my older sister crying as she left, I remember wondering why when all she had talked about for months was this day. I remember her hug, how she wiped her tears out of her blue eyes and looked me in the face, suddenly serious and angry. I remember how she said she was sorry, over and over while I stood there wondering what she was apologizing for, if she had wanted to leave so badly.

I understand now. I would give anything to go back to that day now, to tell her what she couldn't make herself believe. That that just like this, is growing up. It's what hurts so badly, the pulling, the tearing, the second thoughts. The little voice in the back of your mind that argues with you, telling you it's all your fault. Telling you what a horrid, horrid person you are for leaving them all alone. And then, almost chuckling, it mocks you. Mocks your weakness, your delusion, your insanity. For thinking that you could stop any of this. For trying to hinder your siblings from experiencing life the way you did, what you tried to protect them from all these years.

All the while telling you what you cannot, will not comprehend. Sometimes letting go is the only way to show just how much you love. I'm sorry, Micah.

Melancholy Monotony

2009-12-29T10:35:00.000-08:00

There's something about children, the way their innocence hovers over them like a tangible thing. People see them, remember what it was like, and they place a hand over their mouths (trying to touch something that no longer is, left defiled) as they sigh.

That same thing, whatever it is, that makes an adult look at a child with longing in their eyes, the same look is directed at the two people who are locked in a bond of love. The same sigh, the same wistful look, the same hand over the mouth as they remember, or don't, how it was for them.

The movies, art, music, it's all the same. Giving us a glance into something we once had, or always wanted but never quite reached. A sense of freedom, or maybe the knowledge that someone is thinking about you. The feeling one gets when the world is turning and they're a part of it. The thoughts that flood into our consciousness, fill us to overflowing, cover us completely. They make us pause, stop and think as we cover our mouths and sigh.

Knowing that for us, it will never be. A melancholy happiness that leaves us with an empty mug on a rainy day.

Corruption Craves Company

2009-12-16T08:36:00.000-08:00

'And where does College of the Ozarks rank in priority out of the schools you wish to attend?'

Well, let's see. There *was* that one on Mars I had my heart set on, but it doesn't look like they're accepting applications for this year. Oh well. I guess I'll just have to settle for CofO.

It's interesting, when you look back on something that's been looming ahead of you for so long. You see it in a different light and find so many reasons for why you should have done such and such another way. But looking back on it isn't nearly as hard as looking at it when it's standing right in front of you. And, sometimes, it's necessary to dread something so you find out what it's like to conquer.

The disappointing part is when you find out it wasn't really any big deal, and anyone could have done it. Probably without stressing out about it so much, too. There's no satisfaction in a job well done when you had your heart set on utter failure (or success, for that matter). When you psych yourself up for something and it turns out to be no more than a casual event, you can't help but feel slightly cheated.

I spent weeks in denial about my college interview, set for December 15th. Three or four days before the actual event, it hit me that I'd actually be *talking* to someone, and I freaked out. I'm pretty sure anyone who talked to me between the 10th and the 15th spent the entire time wishing they were doing *anything* else but that. The more I let myself think about it, the more of an issue it became. Every thing I said, everything I did, and mostly, everything I wrote sounded like ETS, which is pretty bad, coming from me. Right before I completely flew off the handle, I got a talking-to that seemed to help quite a bit. When the morning of the 15th came, I was cool, calm and collected. And only shaking the tiniest bit.

The interview was a complete failure. Not because I didn't answer the questions in a satisfactory manner (I think I did pretty well, all things considered), not because my voice shook the whole time (I only slipped up once, and covered it by coughing. :noway: ), not because little miss I've-interviewed-all-your-other-siblings-too wasn't the perfect picture of relaxation and confidence so as to draw me out of my shell (not that she did...). No, it failed because it was nothing (and.I.mean.nothing.) like what I had been dreading. All the five minute nightmares I had between 7 and 9 am the morning of the interview were nothing more than a waste of time (not to mention all the brain cells I must have killed during the process). The phone call went well (after I convinced them that yes, I was actually scheduled for December 15th), and in fifteen minutes (on the dot), she was thanking me for my time and reminding me that February 15th was my best bet.

Thank you, Sarah. You're a lovely interviewer. But I think I have post-epic-disappointment-syndrome. It entails sudden and passionate bursts of anger toward loved ones, not necessarily kept to myself, and then a long stretch of absolute bliss as the world revolves around me in a timely fashion and I am once again perfectly happy with everyone, which *is* mostly kept to myself. It started last night and threw that theory all mothers have about how sleep cures everything out the window. I don't think I've ever had a conversation where I bounced back and forth between anger and amusement so entirely, and so quickly. But I'm guessing the amusement was because of the skill of the personage I was speaking with, not me and the anger was due entirely to this wonderful excuse I've come up with, not me.

Either way, I woke up with a 'people are stupid' mentality this morning, worrying my mother to death as I laid on her bed and hid under her covers for a solid hour. After I got tired of sulking and feeling horrible about existence, I decided to do what I always do when I get in a bad mood.

Yep. I'm a one track trick pony. My notebook suffers for it, but at least it relieves the rest of the world from dealing with my traumatic moods. I need to take some crash course lessons from Steve on just how to do it most effectively, obviously.

Anyway. Christmas is coming, so make sure you *don't* take lessons from me, and actually get your loved ones gifts. And make sure you're extra, extra appreciative so they can blush and act all tough-as-nails while you tell them just how much you love them and how sweet they were to think of you, and how well they must know you to think of such a great gift.

Death's Demise

2009-11-30T14:01:00.000-08:00

So the celebratory champagne toasting thing kind of turned into a glass of cold milk with a few very loud sighs of relief. Well, I kind of skipped over the glass part and just went with the jug, but we'll ignore that for now.

I just crossed the 50,000 word count line and I could not be happier. Sure, the plot has holes in it (actually, I don't think I ever even got around to finding one of those, come to think of it), the writing looks like a three year old's temper tantrum about the popping bubbles and the characters resemble pieces of charred animal carcasses more than actual people. But THAT'S NOT THE POINT. I just wrote a 50,000 word novel and that is that.

I am surprisingly low on sleep, but I can't really say it was NaNoWriMo's fault. Probably more just a childish infatuation that I would otherwise reject but now tend to just accept as... well, anyway. Suffice it to say that it's not really NaNoWriMo's fault I stayed up until 5 and 6 am a couple more times than I would ordinarily have done. But it most certainly was that little voice in my ear who forced me to continue writing with little quips about giving up and 'might as well not even try, then.' I mean, really, could you get any more loyal and sympathetic than that?

So, I'm done. I don't have to think about words every waking our of my life, don't have to do the math in my head every five minutes, wondering if those 63 more words managed to somehow miraculously make me reach my word goal for the day, don't have to listen to my family tell me about how they're worried about me and how I really should get out more, obsessing wasn't going to get those words out any faster. And, honestly, do you *have* to sit there and write all day? No, but it sure did make my month a lot more exciting than any one else's I know about.

Of course, I can say things like that, now. I'm done, you see. Just a little while ago, I was complaining about how much I hate November and want it to be over with right.now. But logic and common sense prevailed again (that's getting kind of old, actually. :noway: ), and I finished that last 1,000 words in less than an hour.

Three things I learned from NaNoWriMo this year:

1) I type really fast. 0_o This does not, however, mean that what I type *in any way* makes sense, should be read, or has any right to actually *be* typed.

2) I type even *faster* the less sleep I get. It's actually a pretty cool phenomenon, if you think about it. My fingers kind of just go off and do their own thing, reporting back once 1667 words have been reached. Coffee helps, as much as this shames me to admit.

3) Lastly, I found out what it *really* means to be accountable to someone. There's this kid I know who is like, insanely obnoxious (honestly, you just have no idea. 0_o ). They are also my hero, and shall remain thus until the end of time. Or at least until they agree to let me burn every word I just spent a month of my life writing. I'll even hand over the manuscript with the matches. =O

So let this be a lesson to all of you. NaNoWriMo is only fun once December arrives, but by that time, who cares? You're too busy getting ready for next year, anyway.

Half Hearted Heartbreak

2009-11-15T13:12:00.000-08:00

There is nothing like the satisfaction that comes from having people around you who tell you what is what. Whether it be through telling me how I asked for it, now I'm gonna cope with it, making sure I don't get to bed on time, or keeping me, no matter how much I whine, from eating the chocolate I so desperately crave.

It's because of these certain souls that I am currently halfway through NaNoWriMo (we shall ignore the number of times I have threatened to give up and been shoved back out to the playing field by heartless imbeciles who seem to enjoy torturing me). It's also because of this that I am currently very much WITHOUT chocolate. :x But we shall gracefully ignore that, supposing as we must that it is for the greater good (of humanity, or my mother's chocolate stash, I'm not quite sure).

I'm not entirely pleased with where my ~25 k are leading me, but I don't suppose it matters all that much. I'm writing, sometimes enjoying it (though, not as much as one would think necessary for how many hours a day I spend pounding my head against the forth wall), and besides, the company is superb (despite the numerous mentions of food I cannot consume).

Today I listened to one of the most fantastic sermons I believe John Piper has ever preached. It basically touched on every single issue I'm currently dealing with, lumping it all into one big 'PLEASE LISTEN TO THIS.' Also, the analogies he used were simply fascinating. And, the best part is that there's a Part 2. Which I am greatly looking forward to.

Also, there are very few synonyms for 'friendship.' And none of them do a very good job of explaining to me what, exactly, it is. Neither, might I add, does anything taken out of my past experience seem to shed light on a 'balanced' definition of 'friendship.' I'm pretty sure half the world does it wrong, but I'm not sure which extreme most of it ends up on. But I refuse to accept that it just happens, and that is that. :noway: Not that I'm complaining, or anything. *coughs*

There is also the problem of my dreams. I have always known that my dreams get muddled when I don't write. But what I did not know is that they get horrifically clear, long and rememberable when I write too much. Thus leading to things like coffee, roses, green couches and great conversational starters.

For all of which, I might add, I will be eternally grateful. *curtsies with much flourish*

Someday, though. I will figure out how to say what must be said. And when that time comes, better get yer earplugs out, mates. There just might be rainbows and pink ponies on the other side. \:D/

Faerieland

2009-10-28T17:07:00.000-07:00

It seems as though we've come full circle. The past year of my existence has been both the longest and the shortest time of my life. Through it I've learned many things, mostly the hard way. I've laughed, cried, screamed, drugged and surrendered my way through 12 incredible months, and I can hardly wait to find out what the next few hold.

As far as I know, November will be filled with much hair-rippage, as I once again try my hand at NaNoWriMo. But this time, my father is 100 + 2% behind me, and I won't be able to chicken out and give up on any level. I find myself not really looking forward to it, which is odd. But I'm sure come Sunday, I'll be in my own little heaven. Either that, or on a bus headed into Mexico. I don't even know how many times I've been back and forth between Morelia and Garland, lately. The bus drivers are even starting to recognize me. =\

I sent College of the Ozarks my application, yesterday, along with an official letter from Camps International, explaining why I don't have as much monies as they think I do. College educations are hard to come by, in my particular line of existence. Thankfully, I have a lot more than just an incredible family to back me. And with that, who can go wrong? (Well... cough.)

Over the course of this year, I have seen many people come and go. I've all but forgotten about some of them, but others I thank God for every day. The road I travelled to bring me here wasn't always the most exciting, or easy. But I learned so many things, from every single situation, and looking at how I was then, who I am now, and what I will someday become is an awesome, breath-taking thing. There are those who look at me, shake their heads, mutter something about how young I am, and move on. Others see my youth *and* my potential, and help to point me in the right direction, whether through constructive criticism, some drastic butt-whipping, or purely unsympathetic logic (and no, I do not forgive you, by the way). In every stage throughout my life, God has always placed certain people in front of me (I can't seem to avoid them, no matter how hard I try, either) who have stuck by me, walking beside me as we strive to reach a higher goal.

The people in my life at this point aren't exactly the ones I would have expected. But every time I question, I'm reminded that I serve a God who goes beyond logic. And besides that, I know some pretty fantastic people. NaNoWriMo is all about quantity, not quality. But friendship, it's just the opposite. Quality, not quantity, is what He's given me.

All this to say... if there's one thing I've learned about writing through all of this, it's this: you can't avoid real life, if you want your words to sound like more than robotic garbage. Right here, right now, with the pain, laughter, tender moments, melodramatic tears and awkward conversations, is worth a lot more than the mind-blowing, dramatic heroes of otherworldly adventures.

And that, my childs, is what it's all about, anyway.

Silenced Souls

2009-10-15T20:32:00.000-07:00

Undisclosed Person: Ask me a question!
Me: Why are roses always darker when they're dried?
Undisclosed Person: What does your heart tell you?
Me: Because they have been darkened with the blood of their souls.

I'm such a hopeless romantic. *tragic sigh*

... but honestly? Is that not the most amazing thing ever? I shall have sweet dreams, tonight.

In between trying to figure out if I will brave the enigmatic clutches of NaNoWriMo this year. It refuses to leave me to rest and haunts my every waking hour. So many voices, clamoring for attention. So many thoughts, demanding to be spilled out. So many dreams, drifting through shadows.

But I refuse to be moved. :noway:

Betrayed

2009-09-29T07:16:00.000-07:00

A stage. Dark red curtains, swaying gently as they obstruct the view. Music is building; softly at first, and then louder, more intense. The lights are dimmed, and the crowd seems to be quivering in anticipation.

Then, a single spot light. Applause erupts, echoing back and forth, seeming to shake the very walls.

But the stage remains empty, and a chilling silence slowly envelopes the room. The music stops abruptly and the main lights come on. People cover their eyes, blinking and murmuring in confusion.

-what's happening?-
-where are the actors?-
-is something wrong?-

A loud crash resounds from backstage. In another moment, a man steps out from between the majestic folds of the velvet curtain. No anger is written on his face. Instead, the crowd senses a deep sadness emanating from the man's countenance.

He raises a hand to silence the crowd, turning to pace back and forth upon the raised platform. He says nothing, at first and the people rustle tensely.

He speaks at last. Quietly; his voice subdued but pained.

-I have done what I can-

As one body, the crowd leaps to their feet, hurling insults and bitter cries at the man on the stage. A wiry child darts up on the stage and plants a solid kick on the man's shin. Several others follow her example, scrambling towards the steps to inflict their own punishments.

He doesn't move, nor make a single sound as the abuse proceeds, unhindered. The people who had waited breathlessly for him to bring them a classical masterpiece just ten minutes ago, now brought their anger and resentment upon him.

Unnoticed, men and women in extravagant costumes, make up adorning their faces, step out from behind the curtain and join the rest of the theater-goers in bringing this man to his knees.

As his legs give way beneath him, he raises his tear-streaked face and looks into the eyes of the woman directly in front of him. Her lip curls up in a sneer, and she shakes her head in disgust.

-you've failed, old man-

His head falls forward and blackness enshrouds the theatre. A single voice is heard though the darkened silence.

-a play is only as good as its director-

We don't know what's going on behind the curtain until it's too late. Have a care as to who is directing your play.

Tested Turbulence

2009-08-18T08:11:00.001-07:00

Okay, honestly, this could possibly be the most depressing snapshot of my life, if someone were to take a picture. Not because something is happening, or because I'm clinically depressed, or even slightly more sad than usual. But just because the sun's not really shinning in through the closed windows, the house is pitifully empty, and the music I just *happened* to put on isn't exactly what one would call 'up beat.' That, and my mug of chai tea is rather lonely looking.

And what's this, you ask? Well, see. This is what happens when I have lots and lots of fun and adventure, and then all of a sudden I have nothing to do with my life. Hm. Nothing to do with my life. That could be taken two ways, I suppose. Maybe it shouldn't be, but we'll leave it, anyway.

Maybe it's that I'm currently in Texas; the one state in the entire United States of America that I'd really rather not be in. Maybe it's that my grandmother's laying in her bed, too weak to get up, with her blood pressure off the charts. Maybe it's the knowledge that my grandfather's in his workshop, building an airplane that could take him far, far away forever. Or... maybe it's that I have a doctor's appointment in a couple hours, and I'm scared out of my wits.

Yeah, it's probably that last one. It's not that I'm worried about what little miss I-charge-way-too-much-per-hour is going to say. I know what she'll say. She has two options. She can tell me what everyone else I've bothered to ask has said. Or she can hand me a bunch of pills, and tell me I'll be fine if I take them. Because she's definitely not going to do what she's supposed to do, right? I mean, what kind of doctor actually *helps* people? *chuckles amusedly*

Exactly. So, here I am, in a dark room, listening to sad music, with my almost-empty-and-slightly-cold cup of tea. Scared to death, because at about 1:45 I'll actually have to look someone in the eye and speak to them. Out loud. With words. In a language they can hopefully understand. But my outlook on life is actually pretty good, all things considered. Besides the mass of hair that keeps falling in my eyes. (I really need to get that thing fixed.) I'll be picking my brother up from the airport in a few days, when he flies in from Alaska. (If I can't go, at least I can talk to someone who did get to, I figure.) With that, my trusty books and notebook in my trusty (and hot-chocolate-powder-covered) backpack, and a bus ticket to the country down below, I'm pretty sure I'll survive. Vibrantly.

Unless, that is, the bus driver drives us off a cliff. =O That'd be exciting. I'll make sure to let you know, if he does.

One more thing. (Yeah, yeah.) A few days ago/in a few days, school starts. For lots of people, lots of places. Not for me, apparently. This is the first August in quite a long time that I haven't been demanding that my mother hurry along those shipments of books, so I can get started just as soon as possible on the many subjects I was possitive I could master. Starting school is one of the most enjoyable things in the entire year.

No, see. *Not* starting school is a whole lot more fun. I don't *have* to get up every morning and stare at a math book for hours, until the light decides whether or not it wants to dawn. It's unnecessary that I write a book report for every lovely book I read each day. I no longer worry about the questions my father will fling at me when I go to the breakfast table, about what year Hitler did such and such after which person told him this or that, or what the name of the fourteenth president's secretary's daughter's cousin was and what he had to do in the grand scheme of things. If I remember something, amazing. And if I forget it... well, I'll look it up later. That's what Google's for, right? Last year, it was 'oh my word. This is my last first day of highschool!!!111 whadduhmygonnadooosobsobsob.' Now, it's...

... stay tuned to find out.

Dormant Dreams

2009-06-07T16:12:00.001-07:00

Fair Havens, Canada.

It's poetic. It's cold. And it's exhausting. I only wish I had more time to sit and watch the sunrise, you know? My notebook lays neglected on my dresser, as it has been for the past month and a half. There are so many stories, poems and rhymes that have been jingling around in my head. But writing them down seems to be a completely new and different thing, now. Everything I put on paper seems somehow filtered, as though I went through and carefully weeded all the emotion out of it. It pretty much stinks.

Besides that? Everything. Picture this. A foggy, cold morning. A distant, chilling breeze traveling across the ocean towards a dark, silent port. Huddled between the shell of a broken boat and an abandoned netting shed sits a small child, bare toes peeking out from under ragged pants, several sizes too large. The only sounds are the gentle lapping of the tide; an occasional call from a lonely osprey. The small seaport town rests in deceivingly peaceful silence, oblivious to the delicate, rhythmic beating of a single heart, knowing only the robotic pulsing of life itself. Bitter cold, sweetly tender, dangerously naive. A secluded people, blind to the world. Blind to itself.

Er. Yeah. Your guess is as good as mine. This is a picture that comes into my head about four to five times each day. I have no idea what to do with it. Besides ignore it. But that doesn't work very well, actually.

And naps? Are evil. Honestly, there's not much worse than waking up on a couch in a very awkward leaning over/sitting position with a bunch of loud girls around you. And the CN tower, which is 1,465 feet into the air, was at one point the tallest building on the planet. And I went up it. To the very last 1,465th foot of it. And stood on the glass that looks right straight down into the city. Which was a terrifying experience that made me feel quite proud of myself.

Seeing a portion of my family (who is (are?) currently extended through four countries, right now) in three weeks. I'm taking them a pack of cards. =O Exciting, I know. I'm such an amazing sister. *sage nod*

Valentine Vindictiveness

2009-02-14T05:21:00.000-08:00

So. First things first. No one should ever wander around an empty and dark house on a Saturday at 6:30 a.m. I think it's bad for the complexion, or something. Definitely bad for little toes that get stubbed. And, you know, that whole lonely feeling you would obviously get. So yeah. Just take my advice and don't do it. *nods sagely*

Secondly, I love my brother. He's always right! It's annoying. He raves about this *children's* book, saying that I *must* read it OR DIE. :x Ahem. I mean, there's nothing wrong with children's books. I love E. Nesbit as much as the next person, but c'mon. This is my brotherrr we're talking about. He reads... wow, I don't even know what he reads. Suffice it to say that it's *not* children's books. He reads things that would completely go over my head. Not that that's anything too shocking, but anyway. So, he raves about this book, or rather, trilogy, saying that I should really read it. And then he *sends it to me for Christmas*. Yes. You may all looked shocked. So, then I read it, thinking the whole time, "And... how is this different from any other good children's book?" OF COURSE HE HAD TO PROVE ME WRONG. He always does. *sigh* I guess I'm just a very bad judge of charac-- er, books.

Also, as I was ignoring my own advice and wandering around this very empty house at an hour that is just too pathetic to discuss, I got to thinking about this realllyyy weird dream I had last night. Or, this morning, rather, since I wandered around the house until midnight, last night. ( =O Maybe it's all mental and I'm sleeping snuggly in a sleeping bag right now. Yes, that's it.) So anyway, this dream. It was sort of a combination of basically every person I've ever met. And some of the faces/names (since if you pop up in one of my (way too commonly weird) dreams, you probably won't look anything like yourself. (I have this chronic illness where my mind refuses to obey itself. And now I feel like reading that book by Rosemary Sutcliff. And I probably just butchered her name. ANYWAY.) *coughs* So, this dream was like one huge get-together. And it was really odd, because everyone knew each other. Which, knowing some of my friends, would be rather scary outside of a dream. (And Levi was talking way too much. Srsly.) Ahem. The sad part, was that there was no purpose to the dream, whatsoever. It seemed like there was one while I dreamed, but when I woke up, I was sorely disappointed. People just talked. And then I woke up. But! (I do have a point to all this, just in case you haven't fallen asleep already.) I was thinking, wouldn't it be cool if you could turn a dream into a book? Capture that frustratingly-blind-and-very-unchannaled-roller-coaster-of-unstoppable-adventures-that-feel-ever-so-real-if-not-completely-pointless-AFTER-you-wake-up-but-that's-okay-because-you're-awake-and-who-needs-dreams-anyway. Right? ... Yeah, if anyone follows that, let me know. I think I've lost myself. But anyway. I think it'd be cool. *nods stubbornly*

*yawns* I think I'll stop before I start raving about something even less pointless. ... more pointless. Anyway. Yeah. =O (And if anyone would like to kick my internet connection, please feel free. No objections here.)

OH. And Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! I hope you all have fun watching people parade around in pink and red. (Oh, but I do so hope that they don't parade around in both colors together. That's just terrifying.) Yes. I should definitely write up something making fun of today. *looks innocently shocked* Not that there's anything wrong with today. =O (Except, you know... the abundance of chocolate, pink and hearts. Along with everyones' fake smiles and crushing hugs. And the "I love you!"s that start sounding more like "Ugh, I don't think I should have had that last chocolate heart"s as the day progresses.) Not that I'll have to deal with any of that this year, being home alone. But as I said, Happy Valentine's Day! =D

Ironic Irony

2009-01-06T08:22:00.000-08:00

*makes noises*

Well. The new year's here. Who's excited? ...Yeah, me neither. 8's a better number than 9. Or something.

"Potential is a word that critics use to say, 'Nice try, but not good enough.'" But when my dad says it, what he means is, "Stop reading and go do something useful with your life." My aunt sent down a whole bunch of books this Christmas. And then my brother sent down some, too. I have over 300 books. I counted. And then lost track... But still. I've probably only read about 250 of them. But never fear. I shall conquer. Or something.

The laptop doesn't really like being turned on at the land, so to write, I have to use my notebook. And my hand complains a lot when I do that. On New Year's Eve we were talking about how cool it would be to die the day before the new year. So then I turned on the laptop and wrote a short story about it. It wasn't all that sad, but it was kind of sad. It was ironic, really. It made me happy. Hm. No wonder mother calls me morbid...

I've been *shudders* keeping a journal, as of late. I've discovered that I talk way too much. It's terrible. But it helps with being deprived of the time, energy and the means to write a different kind of gibberish. So yeah.

And, as impossible as this is, and ridiculous as it sounds... I miss Corn Flakes. Not Kellogg's Corn Flakes. Those aren't so nice. But Nestle Corn Flakes are amazing. *sighs wistfully and waddles off to tick another thing off her father's very long to-do list*

Rawr. I'm a Rambling Rodent.

2008-12-07T11:57:00.001-08:00

Lookie dar, partner. I just freed myself from a ginormous annoyance. Buh-bye, SAT test. Joo haz failed. I win.

Anyway. *coughs* Mildred's story will probably be abandoned for something a bit less tranquil until further notice. I'm in the mood to write something... else. I think I'll either work on And They Called Her Hobbit or Meston's Quaternion. Which I promised to finish so long ago it's not even funny. >.> But anyway.

My dreams have gotted fuzzy again, which means my brain is getting bogged down. The only way to fix this is either rant at someone for a few solid hours, or write. So, to spare some poor soul somewhere, I'm going to write. And yes. This decision has made me very happy.

My siblings (or two of them, anyway) are coming next week. Hopefully by then, we'll have settled into our new home. Did I just say "new?" What I meant to say, is that hopefully by the time they get here, our life will be a little less of a mess and a little bit more settled at the land. Yep. And I still need to go Christmas shopping. Hah.

Once again my parents are asking me what I want for Christmas. And once again, I haven't the faintest inkling. I never do. I have everything that I want. Actually, I want my CD's back, but they can't really help there. So, I've decided to start a Send Cherith Somewhere Interesting fund. The next time someone asks me what I want, I'll tell them to give me the money they'd have otherwise spent on something for me. And that way, come summer, maybe I'll be closer to being able go to India. *beams*

So, I was reading this thing that my brother's college publishes yearly. It's basically a compilation of the English majors stuff. And I found this:

He walked in the door
His nose bleeding red
With a tear in his eye
And a gun to his head

"I don't want to live"
He said with a sigh
Then walked out the door
Without saying goodbye

The gun blast that followed
Brought me to my knees
For the vision I saw
Was a vision of me

My skull is now shattered
Yet I can't feel the pain
My loss has been numbed
By the lead in my brain

Life drains so quickly
And he can't bring it back
All the love he desired
Is the love that we lack

He knew of a death
Someone died for his sake
Too bad all the love
We reflected was fake

Against the red tide
I try to return
The trickle has lessened
But I've started to burn

When did the calling,
The cries disappear?
We're sure that we heard them
But turned a deaf ear

I reach now to catch
The last drop of blood
But all feeling is lost
In the fiery flood

Scary, this life
Defends none but her own
If we show them no love
They will all die alone
~Anonymous

*blinks* Gets to me every time.

And that's it. So. Have a peachy holiday, everyone and don't forget to spread a little of God's love around.

Until the new year.

Winter Wishes

2008-12-03T15:21:00.000-08:00

Don't you sometimes wish your mind's eye had a camera installed? Then maybe I could get these incredibly amazing pieces of air out of my head. It's annoying how hard it is to get things on paper. *sulks*

My test is this weekend, and then I can start writing again. I itch to write, but I don't really feel like it. I KNOW. It doesn't make sense. I think my mind is trying to convince my fingers that I'm no good at writing and need to give up. But I can't. I love writing. Who cares if I'm not good at it, and if I'm the only one who can understand what I write? *smirks*

I love winter time. I wish it snowed around here. I'm sitting on our very flat roof, borrowing a neighbor's internet connection and happily freezing to death. (Don't let my parents know; they're obsessed about keeping me warm. >.>) My siblings were messing around with the idea of Christmas decorations, but I explained to them ever so gently that no Christmas decorations are to go up until I get back on Saturday. Okay, maybe not so gently. I stated it, and they stared at me with frightened expressions for a moment. My eyes scare them. They say I look like Galadrial when I'm angry. Of course, I wasn't angry, but I think it had the same effect on them then if had been. Haha. Anyway. =P Yay for the cold (though, not so much the colds it brings with it...)

Winter is here
hello, goodbye
I see a tear drop
I see a frown

Christmas is coming
hello, goodbye
where are the snowflakes?
where is the cheer?

Autumn is gone
Spring is coming
I see a glimmer
of hope in your eye
~Anonymous, or something.

I don't have *any* Christmas presents for *anyone*. So if Christmas wants to wait until I get around to doing something about that, that'd be great. *smiles pleasantly* And Kait, even though you don't read this, and I haven't talked to you in months... Candy canes and puppy dogs, dear. Candy canes and puppy dogs.

And... Irish Cream has nothing whatsoever to do with ice cream. *beams*

No NaNo

2008-11-12T16:34:00.000-08:00

The nano attempt has been abandoned. Before you judge me... :x

Dad said I should stop because I have so many other things on my plate right now. I agree with him, and have decided to postpone nano until... maybe the end of the month. At which time I will write as fast as I can and try to reach 50 k. I'll try. It's the best I can do, at this point.

This also kind of means that I won't be writing much this month. I'll miss it. =( But, if giving up writing for a month or two means that I get accepted into the college I want, then I won't mind. Much. =P

I'm taking a notebook with me this weekend (as usual) and I'm sure I'll have lots of free time to write. Especially on the looooong bus ride. And sitting through all those mostly-boring-but-halfway-interesting conference sessions in Spanish. No, I'm not insane. I like going to this conference. :noway:

And that's pretty much it. I also found out last week that I like pens a lot more than I thought I did. They're... different then pencils, but in a good way. So, yeah. Now I carry both pens and pencils with me wherever I go. My bag is getting more stuffed every day. :anxious:

Good luck to everyone who's been able to set aside enough time and continue with nano. I know you guys can do it! =D

Congested Conclusion

2008-11-08T09:50:00.001-08:00

Well. What a week. Lemme tell ya. Or, actually, don't. It's slightly boring.

So, I was pretty far along into my Nano... when I decided, "You know what? This is the lamest thing I've ever laid eyes on. Let's change it!" And so I did. Well, not really changed it. I didn't edit. Not one iota. I just started from where I was and wrote differently. It's working out a lot better. I'm having more fun and, hopefully, it'll end up better in the end (I mean, where else would it end up? 0_0). Sorry, the flying pigs are staying in. *grins impishly*

Let's see. Aside from that, I haven't writted much this week. I had this fabulous poem writted on the Ubuntu equivalent of notepad, but the computer decided to crash. And so I lost it. But oh well. It probably wasn't as good as I remember it, so I'll just be happy with that little memory. =P Except... I really would have enjoyed keeping it... Being about hearts and all. It was pretty cool. *nods*

Anyway. My aunt has scanned in and sent me my college application forms. Which, is completely psyching me out. My SAT test/Day of Doom is just around the corner and I am the furthest thing from ready. Mentally or emotionally. I might just crumble. So if I disappear suddenly off the face of the earth on December 6th, you'll know why. Remember to put flowers by my grave, k? Denki.

Uhm, what else? Ah, yes. I need to write at least 4000 words this weekend. I need to catch up. Desperately. Especially since all this stuff keeps happening, and dad's coming home early to pound some sense into my poor, confused brain. So, yeah. I need to write. But, we knew that already, right? Yeah.

My little brother, who isn't so little anymore, had his 14th birthday on the 5th. I gave have him -gasp- books. Yeah, yeah. He liked 'em. *sniffs primly*

Sooo. The 57 on Heinz ketchup bottles represents the number of varieties of pickles the company once had. How weird is that? I never knew Heinz did the whole pickling business. Shows what I know.

So, last night... I stayed up... uhm... too late. Talking to a very interesting person. And because of this very interesting person, I had this very interesting dream. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately), I don't remember any of it. Dad woke me up with a "Wouncey Bounceeeyyy," and I never got the chance to remember it. Tragic, I know. But then I got to sleep for another hour, so I guess I don't mind. Hah.

Stressed is desserts spelled backwards. So, the next time you think you would like to get stressed, or you're stressing out about something, eat cake. Jesse'll be proud.

Scary Steps

2008-11-02T17:38:00.000-08:00

Ohboy, ohboy, ohboy. I just sent Just Walk Away to my brother. And I will take this moment to announce that I have *the* best support system. Evar. Okay. Now that we've got that out of the way. WHAT AM I DOING?! *headdesk*

Sooo. Yeah. Anyway. Nano topic, you ask? Flying pigs. I said, flying pigs. Yes. Pigs that fly. No. I don't know. Yes. Kinda. Okay. Yeah. Actually. It's about a flying pig named Mildred. Or, it's supposed to be. It's actually about a family of 11 kids. Who are way too quiet. And so cute. >.<

All righty. I've officially lost it. Don't worry. We're good. =D I just need some candy. And another zero tacked on to the end of my word count.

NaNo 'Nmities

2008-11-01T07:56:00.000-07:00

Ah! Run for the hills! NaNo is officially upon us. Actually, it was officially upon us before I went to bed this morning, but shh.

I stayed up past midnight last night, talking with fellow Nanoers. Hah, laughing is not very good when you're trying to write a funeral scene. Trust me. BUT! I have finished Just Walk Away. All 82,000 words. I am thrilled. Yes, probably mostly because it's the first non-short story that I've ever finished but hey, we've all gotta start somewhere, right? I spent the last few minutes before midnight trying to come up with a plot for this month, but I only got as far as... not very far.

It bothered me most of the night, and woke me up long before I would have wished. I mean, c'mon. Dad's not home and it's a beautiful Saturday morning. Why did I wake up at 7? But oh well. I went and woke the kiddies up, wishing them a happy Nano, and giving them their notebooks for their journeys. They were so excited. It was cute.

Now all that's left is to... write for a solid month. I can't believe I'm really putting myself through this again. After only giving myself an hour and fifteen minutes, I dove right back into the hair-pulling madness. No wonder people don't think I'm very bright.

So, yes. To answer your question, I should be writing. But I'm not. Because I'm trying to think of a reason and/or purpose for a little boy going into a coma (comma?)/drug induced sleep and dreaming about shadows. And what in the world does a heart have to do with the mind? Except in the more "spiritual/feeling" sense, it doesn't really. But, I mean, feelings dictate to lots of people, myself included. So why not to a poor, innocent, heart-battered kid? Good question. I'm still working on this.

And what about these blasted shadows? What are they, and what do they want? Are they good? Or are they as bad as they sound? Are they people? Or some kind of animal/beast thing? Are they the shadows of other kids currently in comas (commas?/drug induced sleep? Does this child meet the kid who will give him his new heart in the end? Do I cut the little kid stuff and get some people with sense in there? WHAT TO DO.

Okay, I'm done. *goes to stare at a blank document for a few more hours*

Halloween Horrors

2008-10-30T14:39:00.000-07:00

Hello, again.

Today is the second to last day before NaNoWriMo starts and I'm still searching for the perfect plot. Naomi thinks I should keep looking, but I'm leaning towards just giving up. (What? It's what I do best!)

I'm at 70k-ish on Just Walk Away. I know it doesn't amount to much, but I'm pretty happy with it. Whether or not I'll actually show it to a single living being on the face of this planet is still questionable, but we shall see. If I have a redeemable end, I would be happy to share my miserable story with others. But, goodness gracious, the ending is so sad. >.< I'm too morbid for my own good. But sad stories are my obsession. The kind you finish reading and kind of just stare into spare for a few minutes afterwards. They make you think, they make you grateful, and most of all, they are worth reading.

But. If I can get my ending... ended by tomorrow night, I most certainly will force myself to do NaNo. What's to stop me? I mean, yeah. My SAT and college application, but hey. It can't be that hard, right? ... I said 'right?' >.>

Anyway. So, I'm still working on that. And I just wanted to say that... Paperthin Hymn is an incredible song. And even though the video on youtube is... weird... it's still amazing. So. Go listen to it. Good children.

Happy Halloween!

NaNo Novelties

2008-10-20T16:29:00.000-07:00

It's NaNoWriMo time, people!

For those of you who don't know, National Novel Writing Month starts November 1st and ends on the 30th. The goal is to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. If you think that sounds insane, well- everyone else agrees.

As a practice run, I decided to start a story called Just Walk Away. The story grew... and grew... and grew. And then it kept growing. I'm thinking a 60-80k story is entailing. I've written 40k, and I'm quite thrilled with where it's leading me. I enjoy every moment of sitting down and writing and I don't think I've ever been more joyous about actually forcing myself to finish a story. I have a habit of starting them and never given the poor dears an ending.

I've thought a lot about what I want to write about this November... but I can't seem to put my finger on just the right plot. I've done a lot of brainstorming, but nothing sparks my interest the way I want it to.

So far, I've thrown away a plot about a Wizzard School called Princess Academy, a Sci-Fi story about a science experiment gone awry, one about a guardian fairy (which I actually gave to one of my siblings to use and she took it and ran with it), another one entitled Secondhand Heart (don't you just love the sound of that? But I'm afraid I can't do it justice), a funky little story about angels and their mishaps (which I decided not to use because I was worried that it would either get way too serious, way too fast, or that it would blow up in my face and I'd have no Nano), and last but not least, a story about the end of the world and how it was saved (which I also pawned off to a sibling). As you can see, I've had no lack of plots; just plots that I like/enjoy enough to write about for a solid month.

Recently (actually, about an hour ago), I thought about maybe a plot that ran along the lines of "because it's everything now, or nothing forever." Which, yes, does sound a bit depressing, but I think that if I actually developed it right, it could be amazing. Therein lies the problem, of course. I have no experience with turning a sentence into a masterpiece story that you're dying to read. Not that it needs to be all that, but you get the point...

I also had several other sentences I was looking at.
-"I broke your heart because I had to; I'm taking your soul because I need to." ('soul' could be replaced with 'mind.' But either way, it's creepy in a wonderful sort of way.)
-"I left for a reason, and I've returned for/with a purpose." (that one's a bit cliché, but then again, they all are.)
-"Because if you don't want saving, there's naught I can do."
-"But there's a whole lot more than here and now." (death, maybe? I know, I know; morbid.)
-"Open your eyes so you can see, I broke your heart to set you free." (awwwh. Isn't that sweet? It would be so deliciously sad...)
-"Take my hand, we'll fly away." (again, cliché. But what isn't after however many thousand years?)
-"I'm right here beside you; forever together." ('forever together' being one of the sweetest titles ever. Too bad I can't do it justice, either.)

And that's pretty much it. Not very original or anything. And then, even if I did pick one, how would I develop it into a plot that would really work with it? Ah- the dilemmas of a wannabe writer.

If any of you have any ideas what-so-ever, I'm all ears. Also, suggestions about music scores for listening to during November would be most welcome.

Happy plotting to all of those who are joining in during November!

Scribbles of a Lonely Soul

2008-10-20T10:56:00.000-07:00

I write, therefore I am; I think, therefore I am dangerous.