Missing my Sistern

This is the first time I've ever come home without Terri.

I didn't realize that until last night when I started carrying my stuff inside. Terri's stuff wasn't with it. We weren't retreating to her room, putting off unloading until the next day. I didn't sleep in her room with her or make her cheese eggies this morning.

I went into her room last night and a wave of overwhelming sadness hit me. I felt so lost. I stood there for about 30 seconds, trying to get rid of the feeling, but I had to leave. Usually when I go to her room, I feel happy, feel a sense of her. But this time... I don't know. I think it must be because I haven't been writing and calling her enough.

That's going to be my new year's resolution: to contact people I love at least once a week.

This is actually the second time I've come home without Terri, but last time, at Thanksgiving, Ian was with me. It was much, much harder last night when I was alone.

The junk on the porch, the big, nearly empty house, the dying wasp on my bed... I felt awful. I called Ian later and cried while I told him about my frustrating doctor appointment and being home without Terri. That night, as I tried to fall asleep in my mom's room, I had a strange panic attack. Racing thoughts and awful feelings. Sadness, fear, dread, regret... I almost got up and called Ian, but I knew he had gone to sleep and was really tired... so I thought about calling Laura or Paige... but instead I just lay there and prayed, but that felt really weird because I haven't really prayed in months and I don't know what I believe now... not that I totally don't believe in a God, but praying Catholic prayers felt so weird, because I'm almost certain I don't believe in that God. So I counted in Spanish until I fell asleep instead.

I was so afraid... even of absurd things, like sleeping with my mouth open, which I'd gotten used to recently because I've been sick and there were no bugs in Colorado.

Today I'm much better. I got up, had breakfast, and did laundry. I started working on a late Christmas present for Manda. I found another wasp and took it outside. I was feeling better.

Now that it's night again, I'm starting to feel sad, but not as bad as last night.

I feel like my words are empty.

I miss blogging. I don't know why I didn't write this fall. Maybe because I was so happy, because I had so many conversations so often, because I was keeping up with homework, and writing so much for Caswell. I don't know. But I miss it so much.

Terri, I miss you so incredibly much. I'm calling you tomorrow morning. I love you so much.

Llama in the City Limits

Terri and I have started using the word "free" in place of "dead."

This is the happiest I've been since coming home.

We went on an evening bike ride and chased the sunset. It just rained, and everything is so, so green. There were beautiful mountains of clouds in the sky. We rode by trees with new baby leaves and fields that glistened in the golden light with dandelion fluff and spider's webs. Cows and horses and a brown llama. We were chased by a dachshund named Punkin, but were speedy enough to survive.

Glorious.

As Terri and I ate ice cream on the floor in her room, I told her I liked the name ojushte and she replied "You like everything." And I realized... I do like everything!

I often forget that.

The next morning, my feeling vividly alive faded, but that's okay. I have only to remind myself.

Thank you for reading my silly thoughts. I LOVE YOU!

My Mo(u)rning Mother

Sunday morning I woke to my mother's voice. My body felt heavy, and I mumbled at her statements of the time, but when she said "I need to talk to you," and handed me a cup of coffee, I dragged myself into a sitting position.

She sat on Terri's bed in her pajamas and glasses and untamed hair, beautiful and so real. She poured out her thoughts to me in a stream-of-consciousness fast-paced ramble. Everything she was saying felt so immediate and deeply important.

As she told me about an incident between Terri and my father, about his past grievances with his brother, his alliance with my grandmother, and his directionless escape on his motorcycle, I kept wanting to tell her things, to comfort her, but I couldn't keep up. I just listened, and wondered if this was partly why counselors keep notes. I think listening was most of what she needed, as she may not have had room for advice in the turmoil of her thoughts and feelings at the time. I'm glad that she came to me and that I was able to do that.

Sadly, there wasn't time to continue talking; we needed to get ready for Rosa's wedding. I had so much I wanted to tell her, but the conversation couldn't be recreated later. Immediately afterward, I was so motivated to try to remedy the tensions in the house. I wrote "No more of this waiting. No more of this moping." 

I wish I spoke more eloquently. My thoughts are so, so slow...

And now, I don't know how to end this. I suppose I'll end it abruptly, like our conversation.

Thank you for reading. <3

It's Hard to be a Human Being

From the very little experience I've had with death thus far, I've found I don't want to talk about it right away. Not just that I don't want to, but there is nothing to be said yet; death is instantaneous, but my thoughts and feelings are not.

I know I need to let everyone grieve as they must, but I seem to have less and less patience lately. Whatever it is within me, I don't want to talk about it and I don't want to hear about it.

I wouldn't say I'm sad. I think I've done my mourning. I'm happy that she's free--she was just in pain and unhappy before. Why should anyone wish to continue that?--yet I wouldn't quite say I'm happy. Not exactly. I do feel an immense relief. In fact, I didn't even realize how heavily that responsibility and presence weighed on me until it fell away. Thursday night I was hysterically depressed, walking barefoot down dark streets, not caring that it wasn't safe, feeling that the next month and a half was an impossible eternity. And now... now I feel like I can make it.

Terri came home today with a pair of lovely dollar-something-jeans in need of a minor repair. There was a rip in the seam on the outside of the right leg at the hip, maybe an inch long. I was grumpy when she asked me to fix it, and I remained grumpy for several minutes, but once I started sewing, I felt much better.

I love doing slow, meticulous things. I love to untangle knots, dig holes, edit texts, hand-wash dishes... and I love sewing by hand. I love the sensation of calm focus and the simplicity of the task. The sweep of my hand as I pull the thread through feels like taking a deep breath.

This is my tribute to my grandmother.

But in a statement of freedom, I'm not sewing the way she would; I'm not measuring a thing and my stitches aren't straight. I want my things to look hand-sewn; why would I want to mimic a machine? I do thread the needle like she did, though.

When mom called and told me she'd died, I asked if she wanted me to come over, if she was alone. Dad was with her, so she left the decision up to me. I thought... and decided I shouldn't; better to remember her alive, and better to spare my chemically imbalanced brain a possibly highly distressing sight. But then she came over and I kept thinking about it... and a vague sense of duty and my writing curiosity took over.

The first thing to strike me was the smell--faint, but noticeable. It was strange... strange that my body responded so quickly, death. Then, walking through her familiar kitchen, to the side of her blue recliner, I saw her. She was so pale. From movies, books, and general knowledge, I expected that, but was still a little surprised. She was beautiful. Her forehead was smooth, all her muscles finally relaxed. But she did not look peacefully asleep. Kind of peaceful, but mostly just dead (reminding me of Johnny from The Outsiders), and still very beautiful.

I saw my father cry for the first time in my life. They were light tears, the tears of someone unused to the sensation, someone who can't quite stop them, but can't really keep them going. He monologued about grandma and came over to hug me. I very, very rarely hug him back, but this time I did. In that moment he was not my father. He was a very sad man who was crying and telling me he loved me. Not "Daddy loves you," but a tear-streaked, heart-felt "I love you, Tracey." He was not my father. He was a human being. And I told this man something I haven't said to him since I was very small. It took conscious effort, but after a pause, I said, "Love you, too." And in that moment, I really did.

Those sentiments faded the next day, as sentiments do, but that's okay. It happened once now, and I'll do my best to make it happen again someday. And if I never do, that's okay, too. I may never love my father, but I can love his humanity.

Please Pardon my Dark Thoughts

I tried to kill a cricket for my mom tonight, and I couldn't. I sat there with her shoe in my hand, staring at it, and thought about taking it outside, but outside a few thousand more were swarming and I would probably let in two as I took one out. I stared at it and felt hopeless and weak and guilty.

Now that I think about it, this whole situation feels kind of like that to me.

When my mom filled my prescription for seroquel today, it was $90 with insurance. I don't understand; I've never paid more than $30 for it. I felt so guilty upon hearing it that I wanted to shoot myself.

I don't think I should be staying on 50mg of zoloft for so long. I think I should probably be bumped up to 100 soon, but I don't see the new psychiatrist for another couple of weeks. Every morning when I drop two in my hand, I want to take the whole bottle.

I wish I could stop taking them. I've felt awful for the last few days anyway, and seroquel is so expensive. I feel selfish taking them--like my mood is so important... as if they're recreational... I feel weak; what do I have to deal with that's so hard and calls for all these pills? If I could, I would stop taking them immediately and forget about treating depression, anxiety, and psychosis. Let me be depressed, anxious, and psychotic. Give them the money back, and the worry back, make Dad calm and Mom laugh. I haven't killed myself yet.

In my little cloud of depression, it's completely logical to blame all the problems around me on myself and the medicine I take. But if I wasn't taking them, almost all of these problems would still be here and I would be barely functioning.

Dad yells at Mom and she's so sad and grandma's so crazy. Dad's better lately from sleeping more, but he's still rude to her...

I just wanted to tell someone. It isn't all bad, and the bad things aren't that bad. I had a good day last week. I know my feelings now are temporary.

But that's it exactly: Being home right now is like kneeling on the floor with a shoe in my hand, staring at a cricket I should kill for my mom, thinking of catching it, then remembering the legions outside.

I want to go to sleep for a long time and stay in bed all day. This is how the monsters sing to me--it feels comforting to do things that worsen my depression. The monsters sing while I get fat eating ice cream directly from the carton like my life depends on it.

BUT! Please pardon these dark thoughts. They'll brighten with the morning when I watch the sunrise with a black cat named Sylvester. I'll be sitting on the edge of the tornado shelter kicking my feet, watching color and light fill the sky. And that is where the hope is. I will spend some time here, trying to kill a cricket I can't rescue or escape, but This, too, Shall Pass.

I hope you have a glorious day and I love you with all my soul!

Pup

Beautiful black lab,
Running twenty miles per hour,
Resting under the truck,
Jumping at me and my sister,
The shapes the pavement cut,
Your eyes in the rain,
Your smile,
I wish you luck,
and hope you find your home.

Beautiful black lab,
I love you.
You will be remembered.

Disarming

I did not do anything to cause a stray dog to take up residence in our yard. I did nothing to keep him here. It is not my responsibility to get him to leave. I am not well-suited for the job.

So, father, I won't do anything about it. You never commanded me to do something about it. You suggested "the next time you or Terri go running, see if you can get him to follow you and leave him somewhere." If it is truly a suggestion, I have the option to offer further thoughts on the matter and say no if I choose.

I simply said I thought the dog would follow us back. You yelled at me. That is not constructive, not motivating, and it is rude. You did it because you are under a mountain of stress and have been for years, probably more years than I have been alive. You did it because the dog is yet another straw on your back, a devastating problem when you're carrying sprawling fields of straw on your back, and you have no patience left to give to this new problem. You simply want it taken care of. You have not truly considered how exactly I am to "leave" the dog somewhere, you just want me to do it. To you, my comment seems rude and unhelpful. And so, in your pain and the overwhelming weight you carry, you yell at me.

I was hurt at first, as I always am. But I choose now not to take offense. For the last few days, I have submitted to tears and lamenting the injustices I see. I choose a different way.

I do not expect you to change because you have tunnel vision and tunnel thinking. You're so hunched over from the weight you bear on your back that you only see half of things. You have so much pain, and no way to cope with it. Your shouting is your tears.

I, however, am slowly standing up and walking through my anger to enlightenment. As I open my eyes and examine the situation from all angles, I begin to see ways of healing. Because I am the one who is in a position to step back from the situation, empathize, and understand, I am the one who must enact the change.

Perhaps I am wrong and his "suggestion" was a command. The thing is... "The next time you do this, see if you can do this." If it is a command, it is a command to try. "See if you can." It is not of the format "The next time you do this, do this." I consider the situation, and see a potential problem that may prevent me from doing the desired action. I voice it. That is not disobedience, and it is not rude.

So. I feel no guilt about the matter.

I did nothing wrong, but I could have handled it better. In the state he is in, he does not want to discuss the problem. He does not want to deal with the problem at all. Therefore, a better answer would have been "Okay. I'll tell Terri and we'll try." If we tried and failed, we obeyed and did nothing wrong. If we didn't have occasion to try, we still did nothing wrong. And in the mean time, he would feel better because someone else would be dealing with/helping with the problem.

And if it was a command?

I am 19 years old. I am legally an adult. Please trust me that I do not subscribe to the saying "I'm 18, I do what I want!" However, I do believe as a legal adult, as someone who has begun college (which is essentially another independent life), I have the right to think and act for myself. I do not believe I am obligated to blindly obey my father simply because he is my father. I am his child, but I am now his adult child. I am not an extension of his body or of his will. I am a separate being.

I will not be shackled by blood. I will not be shackled by money. I am his child, but I am not his employee or his slave. He and my mother are paying for most of my education, but they are not buying my soul.

I am not his to command.

I must take commands from the government and from teachers because I choose to be a member of their institutions with the understanding that I must obey their laws.

No one chooses her father. Fathers choose to have children (or to risk having children). In making that choice, a parent is obligated to care for the life he created and to support it until it can support itself. Or if not, then to give the child to a person or institution that will. In supporting the child, he fulfills a responsibility. His governing of the child's behavior and actions as it grows is a service in caring for the child, in assuring it's safety and well-being to the best of his ability. He does not, however, gain the power to command the child for life. When the child reaches maturity, his governing is finished. The bond as a family remains (depending on how it was cultivated), but the control does not.

I am not an object or a slave. I am an adult child, a human being with free will (to my philosophical understanding, that is). So, if he does command me, I am not obligated to obey.

In my efforts to heal these relationships, I probably will obey him except in cases of extreme disagreement on my part. It's just liberating to know, or to have decided, that I believe I choose to obey, not that I must obey.

Father, I have taken one of your weapons. One day we will both drop them all, stand unarmed, and unclench our fists. Then we will talk.

Seeking God

As we walk this universe we send out our consciousness like roots reaching for water. Existence is a vast liquid, far more than one alone could drink. Collectively, all the creatures and existers of existence sate some thirst and breathe out a new, unseen color of existence with every exhale. A breath to be breathed again.

A Breath to be Breathed Again

We watch, we listen, feel, smell, taste. 

We think, we speak, read, write, paint.

We drink, we breathe, we wait,

We exhale.

We are

the curious,

the reaching human race.

So much water to drink.

My beautiful sister and I celebrated Easter by lying in the sun, listening for God and singing. We lay in a place floating. We lay in warmth and the flow of the wind. With gravity satisfied, we felt the patient motion of the earth. I saw the sky through my closed eyes. We reached for the sun, eyes closed, and found it in our outstretched palms. Our hands glowed with light and we opened our eyes to drink the gradient of the sky where it met the day. The sky was the blue that hums God's name and connects people in different countries, across time and space. We sang together, our souls opening in our voices like flower petals.

When we rose up, we woke in a different place. The world was crisp and clear, all the colors alive. We took three cleansing breaths and glided into Child's Pose.

I am another exister seeking God. I am searching with all my senses, all my reason, and all the swirl of my emotions. I am singing.

Singing the Mingulay Boat Song

It's a glimpse caught late at night in the reminiscent angle of an adjacent hallway. A glimpse, the lightest touch... that stabs a thin fissure in the dam I built so carefully to let the waters come flooding out.

Fight it.

If I could always be singing the Mingulay Boat Song, I would not fear the water.

When we stood in that scattered circle singing, swaying, I looked around and felt overwhelmed by how beautiful everyone is. I wished I could tell them, show them, how unbelievably beautiful they are. I tried to pour all of the water in my soul into my voice. I swear I felt it--a rain tapping in rhythm all around me, a wash of warmth, a feeling that I was clean. That I was whole. That I was home.

Let her go, boys

So difficult... but how whole I feel as I let go.

Una Cuchara Bellisima

Remember to Wake

Ho-hum, 

the time has come,

to bed you go,

away!

dreams will seep

into your sleep

to bed you go,

away!

to far away lands

only you understand,

to bed you go,

to bed you go,

but only the night to stay!

Weird. I've never written a children's poem before.

What's this?

The whole wild world

in a silver spoon?

a speck of sun

an edge of earth

and a mottled drop of moon?

Weird, weird. But good. Maybe this means I really will be able to write a good children's story by May? (hopefully before so that my sister has time to illustrate it?)

I've had some kind of day.

You know what? That first poem is iambic. Holy cow. I just wrote in meter. 

This morning I woke up all depressed. Angst was stamped on my forehead.

Then I got angry. Angry at the whole world. Strange.

Then I ate three oranges.

I spilled my heart to two glorious friends and lay in bed for hours.

Then I realized how hilarious everything is.

The guy next to me in martial arts today asked if I was a ballerina.

My legs hurt fit to rain. That's good, though. That means I did well today.

I've decided I'm going to the rec to practice kicks every day. I intend to pwn Keegan. I bet I lose the will power to do that in two days. We'll see, shall we?

So then Laura gave me a STONE--amazing?? Yes! I love stones so much. This one fits comfortably in my palm, is black with a grey spiral in the middle.

And then I got a package from Jacob. I sprinted to get it, smiling. A random guy saw me and jumped, cocked his head at me... and smiled back. I said "Hello!" as if he was my best friend and bolted through the door.

When I got the package I smelled the box. I love paper and cardboard. And later I would learn this box was handled by mailpeople all the way from Greece.

In the box, several amazing articles... including... a SPOON!

A spoon which happens to be the perfect size for a certain perfect stone...

A spoon full of universe.

I was talking to Jacob about Universe Soup. We decided it isn't good to eat. I think one shouldn't exceed a spoonful in a day... it's a lot to take in.

"Everything is only as it is"

When you pass under a tree, look up as you walk. There's nothing like it.

I'll Give You the Stamp

“What are you so constantly writing on over there?” my Dad asked. I decided to be honest.

    “Just a… story I’m working on.”

    “Is it for school, or just for fun?”

    “Just because I felt compelled to write it,” I said, not wanting to say “The magician in my head wants me to” Can you imagine what he would say to that? Neither can I.

“Okay. You feel compelled to write it. Why don’t you feel compelled to publish it?”

“Well…” I laughed. “You don’t just publish things…”

He told me I’d never get published if I don’t send stuff in.

“I’ve read your stuff, and I liked it. I enjoyed reading it, and other people would, too. And. Just the fact that you finish writing them is something. That’s the hard part.” He paused. “So send ‘em in, okay?” He said, nudging one finger on my chin. “Heck, I’ll give you the stamp. Or you could send ‘em by email,” I smiled broadly. “Then all you need’s this finger.”

    There it is again… my dad telling me I can write. Telling me I could get published and make money. Does this mean… that my whole family supports me?

    My grandma just made a face at Dad behind his back and smiled at me.

    So I sat, typing the latest scene about the magician. Dad sat at my feet, leaning against my leg. I let him. I would normally flinch away. He startled me by tickling my toes, and I laughed. He played with my toes like I was five and still thought toes were the most amazing things in the world…

    Toes are pretty amazing, actually.

Earlier today, he told me I could always come home. He said "If we're livin' in a cardboard box under a bridge, I'll go get another box"

I hugged my father back for the first time today in I don't know how long. At least... 5 years. Twice, I hugged him. Only twice, and not the way I would hug a friend or my mother, but I did it. It was difficult... but I'm glad... it's a start.

    I want to let him back into my life. I’m not giving up on him. Our world views will probably always differ, but maybe someday I’ll like the word father.

You know, I wrote that... and then later, I remembered why I disliked him so much. Having to crack his neck and walk on his back... hearing him belittle my mother... rant about the Democrats...

Yeah. It's going to be a while.

But I'm still not giving up.

This is to You (Yes, You)

"Under the Lamppost"

I love you
Like I love falling asleep
Like breathing, slow and deep.
I love you like I love silver spoons,
Like the feeling of soon,
and my favorite tune.
I love you like I love the sunrise
And a thousand dandelions scattered all across the sky.
I love you like I love balconies
And staircases
Puzzled and laughing faces.
I love you like midnight calls,
Roofs,
And curving walls.
I love you like I love strawberries
Like I believe in ghosts and faeries
Like golden dust
And that sensation when I first slip into a swimming pool.
I love you like I love to swing
And like I love to sing.
I love you like laundry
Warm and dry
Folding you in my arms
And breathing your scent.
I love you like I love books
And all your mystery
All the words you give to me
I love you like I love ants
Ants, I could watch for hours.
I love you like I love clouds
And rain
Sunflowers,
And windowpanes.
I love you like I love sidewalks
And drawings in colored chalk.
I love you like I love the glow of afternoon
And like that rare white ring around the moon.
I love you like sand
Flowing through my fingers
To be picked up again.
I love you like mismatched socks
like I love pebbles, stones, and rocks
I love you like a thousand falling water drops.
I love you like I love to wake
With every breath I take,
I love you for love’s sake,
I love you like the shadows of flying birds
And I love you with all my words.

I am Strong

When we spar in tae kwon do, somehow I always end up going last. Almost like Master Kim doesn't want me to spar. I don't know why he doesn't just pair me with the 130 lb guy instead of these bigger guys, telling them "light contact." Today, he almost had two people who'd already gone go again.
"Sir?" I said, raising my hand. "I haven't gone yet."

"I know," he said, looking around the room.

"I'll fight you on my knees," the guy next to me said.

Oh, that's funny. Yeah. That's really funny. I know I'm small, okay?

So the guy who gives me a ride seriously fought me on his knees. Could you insult me more, please? And you know what's worse? He still had the advantage. I still didn't do that well.

And somehow, I was still nice to him.

I wished I was black belt Brittany. Not for the belt, but for the strength of will. She would have rolled her eyes and said "Get off your knees and fight like a man--unless you're scared."

I said calmly, mid-spar, "You know, this would be a lot easier if you stood up."

He finally did. And of course, I still didn't do that well. I got a few kicks... but he was just faster and stronger. At least he didn't let me win.

I thanked him sincerely afterward, but I felt so defeated... that crushed my spirit.

I couldn't believe Master Kim allowed that.

After class, my whole body shaking, I wished I was fast and strong. My kicks are good. My stretches have only gotten better--I'm nearly doing the splits all the way to the ground. I keep my kicks high and strong throughout workouts. But I'm small.

Small.

I feel small.

I miss my aikido instructor. He never babied me. He would have said "You're a woman. You can take it." and he was right.

I am a woman, and I am strong, and I can take it.

I say that, but I don't feel it. I feel weak and small and tired. I feel defeated and I just want to die. To be honest. And I was so nice to him. What a jerk.

I wish I could tell them how far I've come.

But what to do?

Keep going to class. Keep learning. Keep fighting. Keep my feet from touching the floor.

Maybe I can't beat them in a fight. Maybe I'll never be able to. Maybe I wouldn't actually be able to defend myself if I needed to. But I must try. I must fight. Because I am a woman. Women are strong.

And you are strong, too. Remember it.

I Want to Trade Techniques with You

I just wrote a paper in 45 minutes.

Wow.

Things are looking up. I believe I made a good B or A on my logic test, and I'm sure I made an A on my poetry midterm. I've got two papers ready to turn in for fiction...

Things are looking up.

In tae kwon do today, when we all paired up, Master Kim went down the line to check and make sure we were matched well. When he came to me and Brittany, he said "You are very good together."

I think that's true, but I think it would be true of anyone she worked with; she's an amazing teacher and student. During hapkido/self-defense, we trade techniques, and it's so much fun.

It's a handshake, good aikido.

I really need to see The Karate Kid, the old ones and the new one. I think I'll absolutely love it. Aikido applies to everything.

I'm feeling pulled toward God. I feel it when Terri and I "listen to the lights dance." (< those are her beautiful words.) I've felt distanced from God and pushed away (by what, I don't know. Many things). I think I need to reach Him with music. I need to sing. I need to learn a song on Ukuhaley and bring her to church, sing for the Jesus who spoke to me.

Kamsamida, everyone. I couldn't do this without all of you.

A Poet is a Dangerous Creature

Look out, now, I'm learning how the poets do!

Calloo, callay!!

I'm in the State right now. That feeling... but loosely. Like some gauzy garment gradually growing...

I just realized, what I want to say constitutes a spoiler. As maddening as it is, I have to keep it to myself. I'll tell you the other things.

Somewhere near the middle-ish end of the movie, the film burned. We all thought it was part of the movie at first, until we saw it more clearly, the sepia fading to black at the edges, to a black screen. Crackling.

So I took the interim to attempt to describe this feeling. This is what I wrote: "That familiar uneasiness... feeling... outside myself."

The world is vast and clear to me. I see everything. If I could focus, I would tell you the most amazing things. I would find words to describe colors you've never seen--and I haven't either.

Ambient. Yes. I feel ambient.

"I feel like there's this whole world of possibilities and I can't stop them." -Nichole. Huh. You feel like me.

"It's four in the morning. Thoughts don't exist." -Jacob

Imagine it! The world without a thought!! Or is that how everything is? What is a thought?

Nichole was ultra hyper afterward. She danced and sang in the backseat. I, between her and Grace, was swept up in the wave of hysteria. We did more ridiculous dance moves than I knew existed.

I saw our window full of Christmas lights from the outside for the first time. It's so beautiful, more beautiful than I can tell you. It's hope and love and so many good things. Why don't I sit out and look at it?

We laughed in the stairwell. Blatant, maniacal laughter, echoing and reaching above the trees.

They Call Them Movies

I'm remembering far away days,

the way the thousand images play,

Not one alike and all the same,

The key to a thousand far away days.

What should I do? Is this psychosis? Is it just me? Is it everyone? It's so interesting. I kept searching for my magician... I'm always searching for him now. That absence, that loss... I miss him so much. This is interesting. Is it bad? Is it harmful? Yes... I know it is... and I miss him all the same.

How strange it is to be anything at all.

Crowds

I went to my first college basketball game tonight. A friend wanted to go and had no one to go with, so I went, and I actually liked it. I don't want to repeat it, but I was happy to be there.

It was a women's game, so it wasn't packed the way a men's game might be, my friend told me. Tickets were a dollar if you paid. Tech vs. Baylor, and Baylor was winning by a good 20 points by the 2nd period.

It was funny. I kept accidentally clapping for the wrong team. I just find it exciting when someone scores.

Something unexpected happened--there was a fight on the court. My friend says that's really rare in basketball. A Tech girl fouled a Baylor girl, and the Baylor girl swung around punched her in the face.

Of course, the crowd went into an absolute frenzy.

I wish the magician had come with me. He didn't say a thing. At that moment, I felt... an absence.

I wonder... if he would have said anything anyway... He's been meaning to tell me something about crowds for a long time. Why not then, when the room was a cacophony of shouting, angry red faces, people booing and threatening as if the punch had landed on their own noses? Why not then?

I'm not sure what to think. It's good, but it's bad.

I miss him.

I have so much more to say, but I think I can sleep now. Goodnight.

Sing me Sane

I just want to sleep...

I want to lie in the grass on a sunny day and watch the clouds sail by. I want a gospel choir to stand in a circle around me and sing me sane. I want to go to the Porch of Love. I want to be immersed in music.

God is in the rain.

I'm sitting at a round table with Confusion, his wife Hesitation, and their daughter Doubt. Actually, just about everyone is here. There is no order. There is no quiet, except the painful kind. I'm slumping in my chair, resisting the urge to cover my ears.

Melancholy ramblings. It really is a beautiful world. I believe that.

Faith... to believe without evidence...

Let us Lay in the Sun, Snailin', Shades of Grey

All three titles felt completely right, so I decided to use them all.

I was going to take a shower before church, but I decided writing these thoughts and finally starting to craft my next notebooklet was more important than my physical appearance.

This is a thank you to my sister, the beautiful artist who glows in the sun.

What I Love:

-my sister

-found objects

-snailin'

-tree shadows

-Grant

-pigeons

-being alive

-everything, everyone, and everywhere

I wish I could remember everything I wanted to tell you. I've been writing this in my head for long minutes, and now as I sit here I feel that I've already told you--and now, what is there to say?

You modens. I know you do.

What I mostly want you to know is that I love you, passionately and completely. I love you so much. I want you to know I believe it's worth it to see your story through. I believe life is a tragedy, a farce, a sitcom, a sketch, a broken watch on the side of the road, and a thousand things we have yet to think of.

I believe in living.

I believe in you.

Come,

Let us lay in the sun,

and count every beautiful thing we can see.

How to Survive an Active Mind

-Tend your id carefully and respectfully

-Whether you believe in God or not, remember you're not God.

-Never let your feet fall

-When your feet fall, pick them up

-When you can do nothing else, breathe

I admit it. I'm falling into old habits. I'm falling in a downward trend.

Failure is embarrassing, especially if you've ever succeeded before. To survive failure, one tends to instinctively do one of two things: employ apathy or hide.
-Apathy, to boldly declare a failure "Yes. I did this," the apathy is a shield of steel, to become unfeeling, to render an emotional attack useless. The magician does this--he smiles and says "Fire at will."
-To hide, to fully feel the pain of the failure and conceal it within oneself. The flimsy shield of shame--if no one else knows, it didn't happen. Yet to harbor this secret within means that its occurrence is undeniable--it lives inside you like an illegitimate infant tended carefully under baggy clothes.

I don't believe either of those things create healthy outcomes. The apathy creates a false sense of invulnerability. Shields eventually submit to entropy, especially when the material is the fickle trappings of the human mind, and eventually a strike will land on a weak point. The shield will crack. Hiding the pain or failure allows it to grow within and become larger than the reality of its happening. It becomes a parasite, draining... until the effects are crippling or the monster breaks free.

I apologize for leaning on the darker side of language. The point is, I'm searching for another way.

I admit it. I feel it, and I do not hide it. It is outside of me, visible as only the caliber that it is, and I feel it only as such.

Now. To defend.

I missed my first two classes today. Jacob called me before each of them (thank you). I felt the terrible weight of my body as I shifted, looked at the name flashing on the phone, and thought... Id moaned from every pore, Ego took sleepy, stumbling steps, and Superego muttered timidly, settling to glare in the corner of my mind. I closed the phone, then closed my eyes.

When he called again at one, Superego's voice was stronger. Id took his place, glaring, as I crawled out of bed and stumbled into the hall.

Superego nodded with a smug smile listening to Jacob tell me why I should go to class. Id cried. Ego just sighed and took a step toward Id, feeling the weight of tired logic. Superego won.

Finally, I slowly dressed and gathered my uniform. I called Brittany, who was extremely kind and understanding of my lateness. I went to Tae Kwon Do.

And what do you know, I feel better.

Black belt Brittany is so incredibly kind. She's a strong spirit, skilled, and ready to fight or help anyone at any moment.

I shy away from Tae Kwon Do--it's fierce, it's fast, it's strength, it's force. It's the part of my mind I've repressed since I was five. I prefer Aikido--loose and open, defend, use your opponent's strength. But Tae Kwon Do is equally empowering and equally useful. Listening to Brittany talk about her training, her instructor, and her black belt test, I felt the same love for it that I feel for Aikido.

There's a separate space in my mind I slip into in a martial arts class. I stumbled into it today. I rushed into my uniform, made a clumsy mess of my belt, and staggered into the first stretch. Yes, everyone, here I am, ignorant white belt. I feel emotions in martial arts classes that I rarely feel anywhere else--I feel embarrassed for my mistakes and I feel a need to impress my instructor. Strange.

Once I reach that martial arts mindset, I stop feeling those things. Mistake, watch, learn. The embarrassment is gone. The need to impress is gone. My mind is my body and my body is my mind.

I sparred for the first time today--light contact kicks because we don't have equipment yet. Last time we did that with wrestling, but this... was more frightening. Here I am, dancing with a black belt... It was amazing. It makes so much more sense in practice. Kicks that seemed overly complicated were obviously useful.

He switched us around, and I wrestled with a girl who knows Jui Jitsu. Once, I actually pinned her, and a second later, she flipped me. She taught me a really awesome move to use when pinned on your back.

We did leg raises... so many... and our partners pushed us in any direction. Keep your feet up. Surprisingly, as out of shape as I am, I never let my feet touch the floor. Beautiful Jitsu (I forgot to ask her name) smiled down at me and occasionally told me to keep going. When I stood for her, I did the same.

On the ride back, I talked to Brittany about Tae Kwon Do and Aikido. The other girl with us, whose name I've forgotten, said she would be terrified to spar in the center in front of everyone (he had some of the more experienced people do that). We talked about fear... how it's all a mental block. It's all about crossing those mental blocks.

I've written about Aikido before... how terrifying it was the first time I fell. It's counter-intuitive. Falling is supposed to be bad. To willingly dive forward... difficult. But when you do it, it's easy. The fear comes back when you roll over a bag--but the motion is the same. Then, again, when you roll over a person--until you realize it's the same.

In real life, it isn't so much about one's actual skill. It's about the mental state. The person who attacks me on the street is unlikely to be a black belt, someone who is already well aware of his skill. The person who attacks me on the street is most likely to be someone looking for a victim, someone who wants an easy opponent.

All I have to do is show him he picked the wrong one. All I have to do is believe I am worth defending. Everything else follows.

When Brittany was sparring with someone in the center, the other girl apologized--something I often do. She said "No. Don't say sorry--you're not sorry."

Tae Kwon Do doesn't raise under confident martyrs. Martyrdom is choice, not submission. A gift, not a sacrifice. Martial arts teach no apologies--you are attacked, you are right to defend.

This is difficult for me. There is something to be considered, understood, and decided.

Normally, my mind is heavy. My body is a vehicle, and my mind is a vast foreign world to be constantly navigated, facing hostility and kindness in turns. It is the constant fight and discussion of Id, Ego, and Superego.

Kamsamida, Tae Kwon Do. Thank you.

I've struggled for years to define sanity, and I think in some ways, sanity is balance. For now, I am enjoying the glorious sensation of balance.

And so I am learning how to survive my active mind... tend my id... respect my body... sleep, eat. Release the idea that I am responsible for the world, as I am not. The cliché of not giving up... with the added realization that it's okay when I do. If nothing else, breathe. Because it's simply going to be okay.

Again, kamsamida.

Another New Struggle

Descending the dark stairs within the English building, I had a moment of deep melancholy. I wished the staircase would go on forever, and I could watch each foot fall after the other, feeling the pang of the muscles in my legs straining and stretching forward. Always going down, down, down, speaking to no one, only listening to their innocent conversations, calling a blessing after every sneeze, hearing their shoes stamp in time and watching my feet fall. No destination. No time. No change.

That was on Thursday after Intro to Fiction. We were discussing "My Life with the Wave" by Octavio Paz, and talk quickly turned to modern relationships (which was in fact relevant). Somehow I felt disgusted by it and wasn't entirely sure why.

I'm watching myself get carried away with my feminist thoughts. It's always about balance... Anger is not balanced.

I had a lot of anger that day. Not really strong anger, just something a little beyond annoyance... confrontation. I felt confrontational. I wanted to fight the world. That only lasts a minute or two, of course, and then that tiredness I'm so accustomed to sets in and I just feel like lying down and dying instead.

Does something about humanity ever bother you so much that you don't want to be human anymore?

I felt like that then. I was angry at men and angry at women. I was angry at relationships. I was angry about the way the world works. I was angry at my mind.

Can anger be healthy? Is it unhealthy to never feel anger? Thoughts?

Transition: Friday:

So one of my suitemate's friends has a birthday soon. Said suitemate and another friend are planning a stripper party for her. Hilarious? A little? To me, yes. I was invited, too, but quickly declined.

I love my suitemate. Sometimes I want to write poems about her. I love how loud she is, how confrontational, how dramatic.

She liberates me. When she sings off-key, loudly, rebelliously, I am singing. When she yells, I am yelling. When she wails, laments, curses her life over a relatively small misfortune (or a large one), she does what I deny myself.

I love her.

Yet the nature of her personality means that I shrink from her. She is authority and I am passivity. Not that we don't get along, not that she gives orders and I follow them... Neither of us is unkind to the other. But the thing is, me taking any kind of stand against her, should the need arise, is highly unlikely.

So. She and the friend were talking about the stripper party and Nichole said "I wonder if they let strippers in dorms..."

I was lying on the couch reading. I kept my place with one finger and closed the book. I don't care if they think strippers and drinking are fun, but I don't want to be around it. When they have parties in the common room, I tell them all goodnight and close my door. They're loud, but it doesn't really bother me. But strippers? If they're loud just watching a movie... how can I ignore that?

"Nichole! No."

She laughed. "Why?"

"In the dorm? Why is that a good idea?" I laughed, too. I didn't want to be a jerk, so I tried to make it comical. "If you want to get strangers to take their clothes off for you, awesome, but don't do it here."

"Yeah... other people live here," said the friend.

Nichole laughed and said okay. I opened my book again and went back to reading.

I can't really believe I did that. For a normal person, that isn't a big deal, but it's completely out of character for me. To directly, blatantly, tell a person no? Normally, I would have said nothing and just planned on trying to spend that night at the commune, and if I couldn't, I just would have dealt with it.

I'm not sure if it's a good thing. Maybe it was unreasonable of me.


I've been writing that off and on since Thursday. I didn't want to end on that other sentence... so... instead I'll tell you that today I experienced my first Rain at J&B.

My thoughts are scattered and I'm far from a resolution... but it's okay.

Right as rain indeed.

Sunday Number One

So two days ago I had my first Sunday of God, letters, and books. It went pretty well.

I could only get two sentences out on Sunday when I attempted to write a letter to my mom. Today I tried again and easily filled the fronts and backs of two small pages (I'm writing on Caswell paper). It's about a page and a half in Word.

After folding it, addressing the envelope, and stamping it I'm feeling accomplished. I also left this note on the back of the envelope:

To the mail workers: Thank you so much for sending/carrying/sorting this! I hope you're having a great day!

I hope that isn't offensive. I just wanted to say thank you to them. Mail people are so amazing.

All that's left is to drop it in the bin in the basement of the SUB.

I love you and I wish you a glorious day!

Hello There 2010

Do you ever have so much to say that you can't think of any words at all?

Lynnemazing once said "You can pack a lot in two weeks," and she is absolutely right. In fact... if you think about it... if we truly experienced all the things that happened around us in a single day...

I can't imagine it. Even in our own narrow view as tiny individuals, there is so much all around us. In only a second, more than we can understand... even the bits we catch are more than we can understand.

Maybe not, though. What do I know about a human brain?

So I played my song for my mom a few hours ago. I took out the line "Try the medicine" because I haven't told her about that yet, but she didn't even really notice. She didn't catch all the words and said she was very tired, which works in my favor. I'm going to send her the lyrics and explain someday in a letter. She did say she liked it, though.

I told her I intended to write her and my father letters and she said she really liked that idea. She said she would make time to write back.

That's that, then. Nothing is stopping me but myself. Nothin' to it but to do it.

I have a New Year's Resolutions to make.

For You, 2010

-Sunday is for God, letters, and books

"For God" doesn't necessarily mean a Catholic church, though. I think for quite a while, until I learn more, I'm going to keep going to St. E's, but I'm hoping to do other things, too. Like lie in Urbanovsky Park and look up at the sky, spend time with God outside. I was also thinking I want to go to Sighing Leaves and play Him some tunes.

The letters... I have so many people to write letters to. I've got to get in the habit of it to make sure I'll be all set to write Sistern letters in Africa. And of course my parent project...

And books. Books! I haven't been reading much, and it's killing me.

I hope I can do that at least most Sundays.

You know what I discovered this last week? Being happy is really freaking nice. This last semester had a lot of highs and lows and not many mediums. Several times this past week I've had some amazing mediums... not medium happy, medium like... like... balanced. Like peaceful happy. Like... Like content happy. I don't know. But it was absolutely amazing.

Last night I dreamed there was a staircase inside my kitchen cabinet.

I love painting murals with my sister. We had three more potential job offers today. What a thing it would be to paint this town, and what a story it would be to travel the country painting walls.

My grandmother said, upon seeing a picture of the nearly finished mural, "We need to go down there and make a Bing-Bing-boom!", a celebration.

I don't know what I'm saying really. I'm just tired and want to save a few thoughts.

Here's a final one. You have some interesting encounters with the Townies when you spend your days painting walls in Cooper, Texas. One man had this to say about a spot on our mural:

"Blame it on the woolybooger."