I kind of hate this,

Firstly because, every time I sit down with the intention to write something my mind goes blank and I sit there staring at these tan bars with an empty white text box.

Secondly, who reads this.

Thirdly, why do I feel it necessary to write anything at all for someone else to read.

Fourthly, why do I think that I can somehow write something that is interesting enough for anyone to read.

Fifthly, I'm sick of reading things and feeling like an idiot.

there's more, but I'll stop there.

Irony has me completely at her whim right now; utterly, utterly laughing.

Has anyone else felt like everything worth while has been scheduled to take place on THE EXACT SAME DAY????
why.

In other news.
My dear friend Nate is getting married in barely over 30 days. I miss him so, and feel like a long lost sister who never gets to talk to her brother.

I am: utterly utterly utterly excited about living in the community this summer. hoping that this job will work out. scared of burn out and of laziness, and yet quite overtaken by negligence and procrastination, and general lack of motivation and a foggy head. A little sad, a little looking at the light up there ahead somewhere I think.

April 25: The Rescue.
Boston.
3pm.

you can look this up further: http://therescue.invisiblechildren.com/

also, I have been wearing the same shirt everyday. Supposedly two, but only one for many days because I lost one for a long period of time which ended today when I discovered it in the laundry. So, two shirts.

One depicting an AK-47 strapped to my chest like many child soldiers in Uganda.

The other colorfully depicting my love for the LRA, which is 90% composed of abducted children forced to kill.

love these children, my friends. Love them in prayer, love them by coming to the rescue event this Saturday.

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

God, I need prayer. this world need radical things, God. a radical Jesus.

my latest yummy.

It’s never been that quiet, I’ve found.

It’s never that quiet that I think-

that specific quietness that I want so very much I could scream

if I could find it afterwards.

But even this morning, lying on the rug-

I heard my own ears. The buffeting sharpness

that is the constant ring inside my canals;

the tiny hairs in there being tussled by air flow.

Even then, it remains the same as it’s always been:

almost there.

And, it really isn’t comforting. I’d rather

hear the peepers, or the tree frogs latching on the porch door

with a slap; or the high winds

over me being whipped around.

just the echo of the last sound I heard- that rumble that

my drum

can’t get rid of.

Daniel broke the king's decree,
Peter stepped from the ship to the sea
there was hope for Job like a cut down tree,
I hope that there's such hope for me.

dust be on my mind's conceptions
and anything I thought I knew
each word of my lips' description,
and on all that I compare to You

[the preference of the sun was
to the south side of the farm
I planted to the north in a terra-cotta pot
blind as I'd become, I used to wonder where you are-
these days I can't find where you're not!]

mine's been a yard carefully surface tended
foxes burrowed underground
my gardening so highly self-recommended,
what could I have done but let you down?

the sun and the moon,
I want to see both worlds as One!

mine's been a vivid story, dimly remembered
and by the hundredth time it's told, halfway true
of bad behavior well engendered
what good is each good thing we think we do?

[find a friend and stay close and with a melting heart
tell them whatever you're most ashamed of-
our parents have made so many mistakes,
but may we forgive them and forgive ourselves]

the sun and the moon are my Father's eyes

Our greatest problem is not how to continue but how to return. "How can I repay unto the Lord his bountiful dealings with me?" (Psalm 116:12). When life is an answer, death is a home-coming.

The deepest wisdom a man can attain is to know that his destiny is to aid, to serve. ...

This is the meaning of death: the ultimate self-dedication to the divine. Death so understood will not be distorted by the craving for immortality, for this act of giving away is the reciprocity on man's part for God's gift of life.
For the pious man it is a privilege to die.

- Abraham J Heschel

I doubt I will ever reach a point in my life where I can deem any of my words--spoken or written--to be as pungent and straightforward with authority as these.

What does it take?
I am no theologian. I am no philosopher. I am not seventy, or eighty.

I'm twenty. Hopelessly, twenty. As if it is somehow my fault for being younger than I feel, or older than perhaps I look. Some people probably think they are somehow better than me because they are older. I'm not "allowed to drink" and all that frivolity.


Well whooppie.


I do not understand this.

I do feel: helplessly uninspired and bored out of my head with restlessness of here.


ah, I'm frustrated tonight.

shane claiborne, and all the southern mother teresas

Park Street at 7pm yesterday: a gathering of nose-ringed-dred-locked-salvo-clothed-college kids, I'm-a-young-mother-but-that-doesn't-stop-me-from-being-here women, later-middle-aged-button-up-just-came-from-the-business-meeting gentlemen, we've-been-recycling-and-eating-organic-since-you-folks-were-born couples, I've-worn-this-shirt-all-week guys, and I-go-to-gordon folks.

Especially the latter.

Well, I specify (or unspecify) the stereotype for a sort of reason. We were all there, we all laughed at the same jokes, sang the same songs (and did a little howdy-ho knee slapping in our heads), we were challenged with the same challenges.

The Simple Way

Awesome weekend spent in Boston.
In other news, I am taking next semester off. I said it.

I got a lovely yellow candle today, lemongrass and orange. It smells sweet like lemon-lime soda. It smells SO GOOD. I didn't even have to burn it, it smelled up my whole room. That's when you know you're in the presence of a good candle.

The snow can go away now.

New Year, New Home, New Major, New Classes, New Day.

Year: This year I hope to read more. It snowed last night and today I am snuggled and reading Six Names of Beauty by Sartwell. Luscious stuff.

Home: The home is lovely, warm, clean, full of fabric and candles, and lacking visitation hours. We cook with gas here, which makes everything taste better. I love the girls, and I foresee wonderful times ahead. Jasper the kitty (not really a kitty anymore) is living with us too; giving us a nice dose of male presence all day long (except when he is hiding in the closet). He has recently discovered the shower head and its many dripping wonders.
Last night was a grand housewarming get together. I am so blessed to be surrounded by such excellence.

Major: Yes, again. I'm now Philosophy and Theatre.

Classes: Exciting. Aesthetics, Playwriting, Hebrew II, Justice.

Day: Snow dusting every branch, no matter how seemingly insignificant. Just like people. I need to remember that. I'm not trying to be corny here, much as its not working.
Shlomy is right: let us be fully present every day. I know I will be failing at that a lot. I apologize sincerely to you if you have felt slighted by me in any way, and I am sorry for my selfishness.

In other news, Jasper woke me up this morning purring loudly in my face (very adorable!) because, I assumed, he was hungry. So, I got up and fed him and he was ravenously pushing me out of the way to get to the bowl- he even was licking the knife I used to cut his gelatinous food mass (always delicious) into his bowl. This was about 9am. So, 9:30 Rachel wakes up and says that she had already fed him at 7. Very sneaky. Very sneaky indeed. Now he is lounging under my side table- his new favorite spot when he can't get into the closet.

Thoughts on an Orange.

I

What is it, exactly, that’s like

popping in your mouth a section of orange

and crudely crunching on a seed,

knowing it’s broken into so many pieces-

there’s no way to get them all out.

II

I wonder if performing abdominal surgery

is very much like using the end of my pencil

to tear the papery flesh membrane of

the thinner part of an orange wedge—

still attached to the remaining

half-or-so of round crystalline fruit—

to victoriously poke out a seed.

III

What makes a good orange?

malleable

meaty and crisp

vibrant and cool,

cleansing

clear; not dusty

a few seeds.

In this place, in a colorful armchair hugging my knees, carefully sitting crosslegged.
Perfectly put, with a sweatered, pacing man waiting for a webpage to load or for a phone call.
Many composition notebooks. A muscled leather coat that's been touched by many hands and years secured over the shoulders of the tall chair. He's standing now. Tapping a boot-toe on the ground. Over and over. Backing up, going forward; bending at the knee. Leaning over, pulling on the leather. Tapping heels on the ground, stretching calves.
Ever the pull of the computer screen,
pulling his eyes.

Then, he is gone.


I can't find a good enough video of this song, but go listen to it.
The Commander Thinks Aloud by The Long Winters

Panera coffee is awful.

Ah the rainy Saturday. Lying on a big smooshy bed in my pjs, I'm not going out today.
I finally have a space heater, so I can feel my hands and face.
I'm telling you, musings with turkish coffee and the best sugar cookies no kidding (that is the actual recipe name) are racking up to be quite the frequent pastime these past weeks.

But, I do miss the outward sprawl.

and these people.





once I find my camera, more pictures.