I've accidentally deleted a bunch of my journal postings ...
I hope He's listening to my heart tonight because I have no words. Just more wrinkles.
Nothing more to say.
As I lay me down to sleep
I pray thee, Lord, that as I weep
You cradle heart's last fading cry
and press the sleep to tear-stained eye.
Jan 10, 2009
When I was young, I knew everything.
Two out of three personal statements nearly done. Praise God. And I think, after hours: of sitting staring at a silent lake; of waiting over a blank page; of creasing frowns into my forehead while searching for the perfect words--I think I am beginning to understand what I am passionate about. With everything else, with every other influence, stripped away, I am left with only my own thoughts to get me through the day. I am driven by my own needs, and my own desires, and am free to daily turn them over to God that He may clearer direct my path.
So: I'm starting to discover--Me. No strings. Just me. And I like what I see.
In other news, I've acquired some company; my cousin--Heather--and her husband--Bobby--have joined me for the weekend and a fire crackles happily upstairs while my companions read by its glow.
And. I got to babysit a dog who thinks it's a child.
Strange little creature.
Hudson also believes himself to be a lapdog and attempted to prove it by crawling over my notebook--upon which I was furtively scribbling my grad-school work--and fit half his body atop my legs
Listening: Secondhand Serenade, "Almost Alive". Beautifully tragic and emo. Not a reflection of my mood but I so enjoy the lilting, mourning acoustics. It's the kind of music that makes you want to lie on your bed and stare at the ceiling with your hands behind your head, while heaving really, slow, sighs.
I just realized my cell phone hasn't been on in eleven days.
Beautiful
So: I'm starting to discover--Me. No strings. Just me. And I like what I see.
In other news, I've acquired some company; my cousin--Heather--and her husband--Bobby--have joined me for the weekend and a fire crackles happily upstairs while my companions read by its glow.
And. I got to babysit a dog who thinks it's a child.
Hudson also believes himself to be a lapdog and attempted to prove it by crawling over my notebook--upon which I was furtively scribbling my grad-school work--and fit half his body atop my legs
Needless to say, I didn't get any work done until I'd carousel-ed him around the couch about eighty times, chasing him in an "attempt" to steal his toy, and eventually caused him to collapse in exhaustion--over my lap. Using him as a table, I frantically scribbled out four pages of Personal-Statementing before he woke up again, ready to run in more circles.
Listening: Secondhand Serenade, "Almost Alive". Beautifully tragic and emo. Not a reflection of my mood but I so enjoy the lilting, mourning acoustics. It's the kind of music that makes you want to lie on your bed and stare at the ceiling with your hands behind your head, while heaving really, slow, sighs.
I just realized my cell phone hasn't been on in eleven days.
Beautiful
Jan 9, 2009
Leona Naess is my Happy Place
After a long trend of going to bed at 2am and waking up at 7:30, I slept in until 1pm today.
Mind you, I did wake at the usual 7:30. However, this morning the cave was so cold and the atmosphere outside the window was a hushed blue, tainting even the snow to an eerie aqua as if the sky was still sleeping in the snow. So I lay (laid?hmm) in bed, with the comforter pulled up to my chin, and whispered at Moo Cow (stuffed cow. don't ask): "Do you think they know we're awake?"
They being the two squirrels who were boldly crouching outside my window.
Moo Cow didn't respond, so I took it as a "no" and rolled over, back into sleep.
At ten a.m., my alarm went off again (I have two, as precautionary measures against this very occasion) and I pressed it off and looked again out the window.
Though the squirrels had abandoned their post, the sky was still sprawled over the snow. I decided, if the world doesn't have to wake up, then neither do I.
Two hours past my second awakening and I'm blinking groggy eyes to the Reader-World in order that I may make my confession: I have wasted half the day lolling in bed and I don't care.
In between my sporadic awakenings, I had the strangest dreams. Some were frightening and I can't remember them; some were just strange. Probably the product of last night's decision to watch television before sleeping (a rarity up here): A Baby Story, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, That 70s Show, Punk'd and Bridezilla crept their way into my dreams in a very strange combination of Will Smith-meets-Triplets-meets-Pranks-meets-me-alone-at-the-altar-because-I-made-my-bridesmaids-wear-Neon-Green.
Additionally, in the episode last night, Will decided to alope with his girlfriend and they went to Vegas for a wedding involving a boistrous 'soul-brother' and a chorus of women impersonating the Temptations.
So naturally, at my groom-less, weddingparty-less, nearly audience-less (Ashton Kutcher was in the front row waving like an idiot) wedding, the Temptations made an appearance and I was wearing an abnormally large black afro-wig with a strange little tweaked tiara resting on top of the horror.
And you wonder why I kept going back to sleep.
Mind you, I did wake at the usual 7:30. However, this morning the cave was so cold and the atmosphere outside the window was a hushed blue, tainting even the snow to an eerie aqua as if the sky was still sleeping in the snow. So I lay (laid?hmm) in bed, with the comforter pulled up to my chin, and whispered at Moo Cow (stuffed cow. don't ask): "Do you think they know we're awake?"
They being the two squirrels who were boldly crouching outside my window.
Moo Cow didn't respond, so I took it as a "no" and rolled over, back into sleep.
At ten a.m., my alarm went off again (I have two, as precautionary measures against this very occasion) and I pressed it off and looked again out the window.
Though the squirrels had abandoned their post, the sky was still sprawled over the snow. I decided, if the world doesn't have to wake up, then neither do I.
Two hours past my second awakening and I'm blinking groggy eyes to the Reader-World in order that I may make my confession: I have wasted half the day lolling in bed and I don't care.
In between my sporadic awakenings, I had the strangest dreams. Some were frightening and I can't remember them; some were just strange. Probably the product of last night's decision to watch television before sleeping (a rarity up here): A Baby Story, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, That 70s Show, Punk'd and Bridezilla crept their way into my dreams in a very strange combination of Will Smith-meets-Triplets-meets-Pranks-meets-me-alone-at-the-altar-because-I-made-my-bridesmaids-wear-Neon-Green.
Additionally, in the episode last night, Will decided to alope with his girlfriend and they went to Vegas for a wedding involving a boistrous 'soul-brother' and a chorus of women impersonating the Temptations.
So naturally, at my groom-less, weddingparty-less, nearly audience-less (Ashton Kutcher was in the front row waving like an idiot) wedding, the Temptations made an appearance and I was wearing an abnormally large black afro-wig with a strange little tweaked tiara resting on top of the horror.
And you wonder why I kept going back to sleep.
Hello, Anonymous
I would like to give you all a warm hug. Ahem
I wonder
if we foster the fundamentals of plagiarism in children
when we encourage them to do puzzles.
Today, I finished a puzzle and declared (loudly, and to ... nobody): "Look at what I made!!!"
And then I thought. I didn't make this. Well, I put it together. But someone else made it. That's someone else's painting. Someone else intricately cut all those pieces so that the poor unsuspecting puzzlefiend--me--would sit for hours under the dim overhead lighting and press the little things together just to hear them
SNAP.
I didn't make that. I just poured the little glories out of a (rather charming) wicker basket and matched the colors together.
After the feeling of defeat had fully filled my deflated ego, I descended into the basement to make... a completely brilliant beret. Out of yarn. Crocheting.
I'd take a picture and post it but I am too embarrassed.
I am also. Very Proud
I wonder
if we foster the fundamentals of plagiarism in children
when we encourage them to do puzzles.
Today, I finished a puzzle and declared (loudly, and to ... nobody): "Look at what I made!!!"
And then I thought. I didn't make this. Well, I put it together. But someone else made it. That's someone else's painting. Someone else intricately cut all those pieces so that the poor unsuspecting puzzlefiend--me--would sit for hours under the dim overhead lighting and press the little things together just to hear them
SNAP.
I didn't make that. I just poured the little glories out of a (rather charming) wicker basket and matched the colors together.
After the feeling of defeat had fully filled my deflated ego, I descended into the basement to make... a completely brilliant beret. Out of yarn. Crocheting.
I'd take a picture and post it but I am too embarrassed.
I am also. Very Proud
.
Jan 8, 2009
Vul-Ner-A-Ble? ...
... Im-Possi-Ble...
Today I sat beside a lake.
I did not bring a phone--they don't work here. I didn't bring
a map. I wasn't going anywhere.
I did not bring a camera, to capture
another mountain
behind a lens.
I did not bring a pen: there were not sufficient words to write
the breeze that froze in the air, suspended
over my skin like the lips
of a lover;
like the hand of a Friend.
Today I sat beside a lake.
I did not bring a phone--they don't work here. I didn't bring
a map. I wasn't going anywhere.
I did not bring a camera, to capture
another mountain
behind a lens.
I did not bring a pen: there were not sufficient words to write
the breeze that froze in the air, suspended
over my skin like the lips
of a lover;
like the hand of a Friend.
Jan 7, 2009
This is not my Night ...
I met the Devil today.
Only he didn't have a tail and horns; he was round and ugly and full of boiling oil.
Pick me up, he hissed, You're going to get grease allll over the counter.
And I thought, oh good idea 'little, innocent, unassuming mocha-can': didn't want to make a mess!
So I lifted my right hand and wrapped my thumb and first two fingers around its rim, raising the can from the counter and thinking, "Something feels very wrong."
Hisssssss said the Devil and flaming fire scorched its heat across my skin, burning my poor sensitive fingers and requiring me to type this journal entry with one hand.
On top of the Devil, I burned my bacon beyond recognition, much less capability of consumption.
On top of the Devil and royally failing at food, I bawled like a baby for a half hour--no, not exaggerating--while I ran my burns under ice-cold-water. Once I'd recovered my dignity, I had to clear my fogged glasses, so I took them off and set them down to wipe my eyes.
Imagine my terror when I went to feel for where I thought I had set them and couldn't find the dumb glasses. So I'm stuck there, blind in the kitchen--and you really need to understand how BLIND I am: without glasses/contacts, I can't tell where one thing changes to another. Colors blend together, everything looks like one-big-one-thing.
Of course, when I picked up the first circular thing my fingers could find, imagine the scream that tore through the house when it ended up being the Devil again, sinking his teeth once more into my already weeping skin.
Needless to say, I eventually found my glasses. In the meantime, the egg I'd left cooking on the skillet had adopted a costume similar to my scorched bacon.
No longer hungry, I slumped down here to cry alone in the basement of a house surrounded by snow. So emo.
Only he didn't have a tail and horns; he was round and ugly and full of boiling oil.
And I thought, oh good idea 'little, innocent, unassuming mocha-can': didn't want to make a mess!
So I lifted my right hand and wrapped my thumb and first two fingers around its rim, raising the can from the counter and thinking, "Something feels very wrong."
Hisssssss said the Devil and flaming fire scorched its heat across my skin, burning my poor sensitive fingers and requiring me to type this journal entry with one hand.
On top of the Devil and royally failing at food, I bawled like a baby for a half hour--no, not exaggerating--while I ran my burns under ice-cold-water. Once I'd recovered my dignity, I had to clear my fogged glasses, so I took them off and set them down to wipe my eyes.
Imagine my terror when I went to feel for where I thought I had set them and couldn't find the dumb glasses. So I'm stuck there, blind in the kitchen--and you really need to understand how BLIND I am: without glasses/contacts, I can't tell where one thing changes to another. Colors blend together, everything looks like one-big-one-thing.
Of course, when I picked up the first circular thing my fingers could find, imagine the scream that tore through the house when it ended up being the Devil again, sinking his teeth once more into my already weeping skin.
Needless to say, I eventually found my glasses. In the meantime, the egg I'd left cooking on the skillet had adopted a costume similar to my scorched bacon.
No longer hungry, I slumped down here to cry alone in the basement of a house surrounded by snow. So emo.
Prepare Yourselves
Ladies and Gentlemen, Friends, Family, Enemies and Loves:
I. Have. Begun. My. Personal. Statements.
And they are rocking my world.
I decided to first work on Seattle Pacific's, since it's a Christian University and they don't want to know why I want to go there; they want to know what's gotten me here, as it relates to my personal journey.
So I've got a paragraph down. *ahem*
By my junior year of college, if asked about my spiritual life I would have presented my dissertation beginning with a pretentious snort and ending with: "God's a malicious deity who got bored and created these humans who could choose to either worship him for eternity, or spend it burning with all the other individualists." No, I didn't grow up in a pagan household, nor did I go to a school-for-heathens--in fact, Westmont College prides itself in the presence of God on its campus. We all attended chapel three times a week, took the compulsory religious courses, and demonstrated our 'Christian fidelity' through enrollment in as many "Ministry Clubs" as possible.
ba ha. Anyway, a little later, after salvaging my dignity and explaining that this is a story of grace, I explain my initial motivation for picking up the pen:
Though I didn't have the nerve to doubt this obscure Listener/Diety/Other, I decided we--the Christian community--had gone severely wrong somewhere in our summation of Him. I didn't know how to pray anymore, so I began to write.
Even if I decide the page-and-a-half I have is not worthy of submission and do away with it, it's been an interesting experience, trying to trace my reasons for turning my back on, and then running full force towards, that Other against whom I held so many grudges, only to fall faceforward at His feet--not finding Him grinning "maliciously" as I had anticipated,
but gazing down in a sigh, from a face streaked with Tears.
I. Have. Begun. My. Personal. Statements.
And they are rocking my world.
I decided to first work on Seattle Pacific's, since it's a Christian University and they don't want to know why I want to go there; they want to know what's gotten me here, as it relates to my personal journey.
So I've got a paragraph down. *ahem*
By my junior year of college, if asked about my spiritual life I would have presented my dissertation beginning with a pretentious snort and ending with: "God's a malicious deity who got bored and created these humans who could choose to either worship him for eternity, or spend it burning with all the other individualists." No, I didn't grow up in a pagan household, nor did I go to a school-for-heathens--in fact, Westmont College prides itself in the presence of God on its campus. We all attended chapel three times a week, took the compulsory religious courses, and demonstrated our 'Christian fidelity' through enrollment in as many "Ministry Clubs" as possible.
ba ha. Anyway, a little later, after salvaging my dignity and explaining that this is a story of grace, I explain my initial motivation for picking up the pen:
Though I didn't have the nerve to doubt this obscure Listener/Diety/Other, I decided we--the Christian community--had gone severely wrong somewhere in our summation of Him. I didn't know how to pray anymore, so I began to write.
Even if I decide the page-and-a-half I have is not worthy of submission and do away with it, it's been an interesting experience, trying to trace my reasons for turning my back on, and then running full force towards, that Other against whom I held so many grudges, only to fall faceforward at His feet--not finding Him grinning "maliciously" as I had anticipated,
but gazing down in a sigh, from a face streaked with Tears.
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