31.5.09
28.5.09
and...action!
I think every facet of life matters, a lot like a good movie; every part is there for a reason.
But, depending on the plot, i usually like to be an integral part of said movie...the main character or hero, if you will. Also, when i say usually i mean just what i wrote...usually.
I sometimes want to be the damsel in distress, but, that's an obvious factor given my oh-so-prevelant girlish notions.
However, i got to thinkin and, as sparatic as my thoughts are from day to day, my mind and heart were fixed on one sentence that i could not break away from...
I don't want to be the main character anymore.
I soley want to be an instrument used for something that is bigger than me.
But, depending on the plot, i usually like to be an integral part of said movie...the main character or hero, if you will. Also, when i say usually i mean just what i wrote...usually.
I sometimes want to be the damsel in distress, but, that's an obvious factor given my oh-so-prevelant girlish notions.
However, i got to thinkin and, as sparatic as my thoughts are from day to day, my mind and heart were fixed on one sentence that i could not break away from...
I don't want to be the main character anymore.
I soley want to be an instrument used for something that is bigger than me.
27.5.09
ADDENDUM
i feel like i need to address the elephant in the room. but not because he's big, rather because it's nice to address any guest even if you feel like they are causing a stink.
in my previous post i said something to the effect of,
"what if i become distracted during a bingo game? and when they call A27, i miss the prize?"
well, actually that was verbatim, not just something to the effect of.
my one loyal subscriber both with a gracious and mocking tone pointed out that B-I-N-G-O has no A of which could be called.
she then gave me a nice Bible story about how God loves all of the letters the same, even if they weren't invited in the game.
thanks, reader.
so it is, that now i feel i should publish an addendum for my foolish error on the last publication.
i didn't mean to say i was playing BINGO, I meant to say i was playing BANGO.
it's a more postmodern version of BINGO, for the emergents and the existentialists. (i'm throwing out every big word i know here)
in BANGO it's not only normative, it's practically a sure bet that "A" will be called.
still, i apologize if i left you, the reader, confused by my last post. you're welcome to my next game night of course. BANGO and YAHTZOO and MINIPOLY are always a hit with the young crowd.
in my previous post i said something to the effect of,
"what if i become distracted during a bingo game? and when they call A27, i miss the prize?"
well, actually that was verbatim, not just something to the effect of.
my one loyal subscriber both with a gracious and mocking tone pointed out that B-I-N-G-O has no A of which could be called.
she then gave me a nice Bible story about how God loves all of the letters the same, even if they weren't invited in the game.
thanks, reader.
so it is, that now i feel i should publish an addendum for my foolish error on the last publication.
i didn't mean to say i was playing BINGO, I meant to say i was playing BANGO.
it's a more postmodern version of BINGO, for the emergents and the existentialists. (i'm throwing out every big word i know here)
in BANGO it's not only normative, it's practically a sure bet that "A" will be called.
still, i apologize if i left you, the reader, confused by my last post. you're welcome to my next game night of course. BANGO and YAHTZOO and MINIPOLY are always a hit with the young crowd.
26.5.09
grown up's never get scared.
what if there are glass ceilings in each of life's proverbial rooms? and when i try to climb up, i get no where? and the smell of windex becomes unbearable?
what if i become distracted during a bingo game? and when they call A27, i miss the prize?
what if i spill strawberry jelly on the pages of the calendar? making june and july stick to the back of august, so that summer disappears?
what if there are monsters all around? and in the night i mistake a human for one, and act cruelly?
what if they think i'm a monster?
what if the honey bees really go extinct? and in their rush to leave, they forget to pollenate my favorite fruits?
what if my crayon box gets passed down to my children? and when they open it up, they find some shades of eggplant, bluegrey, and olive green rather than razzmatazz, electric lime, and hot magenta?
what if they discontinue hammocks for two? and we spend the rest of our lives swinging alone, scheduling our leisure separately?
and further, what if i can't see the prophets? what if clorox bleach changes its scent? what if analogy and metaphor make off? what if i'm still scared in the darkness? what if i never love like that? what if i mess up everything?
night lights are for children.
what if i become distracted during a bingo game? and when they call A27, i miss the prize?
what if i spill strawberry jelly on the pages of the calendar? making june and july stick to the back of august, so that summer disappears?
what if there are monsters all around? and in the night i mistake a human for one, and act cruelly?
what if they think i'm a monster?
what if the honey bees really go extinct? and in their rush to leave, they forget to pollenate my favorite fruits?
what if my crayon box gets passed down to my children? and when they open it up, they find some shades of eggplant, bluegrey, and olive green rather than razzmatazz, electric lime, and hot magenta?
what if they discontinue hammocks for two? and we spend the rest of our lives swinging alone, scheduling our leisure separately?
and further, what if i can't see the prophets? what if clorox bleach changes its scent? what if analogy and metaphor make off? what if i'm still scared in the darkness? what if i never love like that? what if i mess up everything?
night lights are for children.
18.5.09
girl sits on globe. till globe starts to spin.
falling off the map may include:
slight bruising
lost phone
broken laptop
severed relationships with all social networks
and a longing for friends too far, far away.
yes, so far that's been accurate.
slight bruising
lost phone
broken laptop
severed relationships with all social networks
and a longing for friends too far, far away.
yes, so far that's been accurate.
17.5.09
life of al
written words are meant to reflect thought, right?
well, yes. but only if one can complete their thoughts. lead the reader somewhere. include an intro, three main points, and a real satisfying conclusion.
cause some english teacher, at the dawn of time, decided that written words ought to belong to a cohesive theme called a paragraph. (i forgive him on the principal that no good decisions are made at dawn when the mind is still fuzzy and the coffee is not yet poured)
i expect if you climbed a few stairs into the recesses of my mind you'd find an eclectic and insecure group of nerve firings that don't belong to any logical paragraph. if it's easier for you, think of it in these terms. the recesses of elementary school are full of socially awkward children being rejected by the cool kidz (for instance, if you are really "in," you know to use z in the place of s).
that's what my thoughts are these days. misfitting. unorganized. rejected.
here is to today without paragraphs.
let's begin, shall we dears?
can't close the window in my room, my arm isn't strong enough. but the fresh air and i are getting on fine, and i would have it no other way.
just like the character in life of pi, i want to shorten my name. but life of al doesn't have the same ring. also sounds like a book about a man who owns a gas station/bbq-restaurant.
found out the "this american life" is based out of chicago. just one more reason to set up shop in lincoln park.
i wonder how regina spektor can write one of the most powerful God songs, "laughing with," while i stumble about creating diddies about boats and boys. two things which sail in and out of ports with frequency.
i feel like bantering with someone these days. without twitter.
a good friend said that me moving out is the "end of an era." good era's shouldn't end. unless followed up with very good era's. hello, very good. is that you at my door, door, door?
repeating words doesn't make a sentence charming.
i once had a fine pen pal named ruben in elementary school. but letters don't give bear hugs and play with your hair when you're tuckered out. he was the best writer-friend, but i was tuckered out.
been wondering about pentecost this year. there are a lot of us in the upper room in need of breath and Spirit. also hipsters don't wear deodorant, so the upper room has taken on a peculiar scent.
attempting yoga(ish)
if you add the word "ish" to any word, your sentence becomes confusing, a thing of mystery.
this week, guacemole is my middle name. and i only make friends with chips.
well, yes. but only if one can complete their thoughts. lead the reader somewhere. include an intro, three main points, and a real satisfying conclusion.
cause some english teacher, at the dawn of time, decided that written words ought to belong to a cohesive theme called a paragraph. (i forgive him on the principal that no good decisions are made at dawn when the mind is still fuzzy and the coffee is not yet poured)
i expect if you climbed a few stairs into the recesses of my mind you'd find an eclectic and insecure group of nerve firings that don't belong to any logical paragraph. if it's easier for you, think of it in these terms. the recesses of elementary school are full of socially awkward children being rejected by the cool kidz (for instance, if you are really "in," you know to use z in the place of s).
that's what my thoughts are these days. misfitting. unorganized. rejected.
here is to today without paragraphs.
let's begin, shall we dears?
can't close the window in my room, my arm isn't strong enough. but the fresh air and i are getting on fine, and i would have it no other way.
just like the character in life of pi, i want to shorten my name. but life of al doesn't have the same ring. also sounds like a book about a man who owns a gas station/bbq-restaurant.
found out the "this american life" is based out of chicago. just one more reason to set up shop in lincoln park.
i wonder how regina spektor can write one of the most powerful God songs, "laughing with," while i stumble about creating diddies about boats and boys. two things which sail in and out of ports with frequency.
i feel like bantering with someone these days. without twitter.
a good friend said that me moving out is the "end of an era." good era's shouldn't end. unless followed up with very good era's. hello, very good. is that you at my door, door, door?
repeating words doesn't make a sentence charming.
i once had a fine pen pal named ruben in elementary school. but letters don't give bear hugs and play with your hair when you're tuckered out. he was the best writer-friend, but i was tuckered out.
been wondering about pentecost this year. there are a lot of us in the upper room in need of breath and Spirit. also hipsters don't wear deodorant, so the upper room has taken on a peculiar scent.
attempting yoga(ish)
if you add the word "ish" to any word, your sentence becomes confusing, a thing of mystery.
this week, guacemole is my middle name. and i only make friends with chips.
10.5.09
sweet.bean.
if you have attention defic…(ooops, already moved on) or you don’t care for long bouts of foolishness. this isn’t your post.
I imagine boys are a little like jelly bellys, if that’s your sort of thing. lots of pretty colors and good flavors to fill up a jar that might otherwise be used for something less wonderful, say rice. and although rice can fill your belly quite full, it has never achieved the gustatory swoons of a sweet bean.
now every girl has a certain right of passage to this jelly belly jar, so long as she has a) discovered its location and b) eaten all her vegetables from supper.
on a separate note. a few psychology hoity-toities once wrote down an interesting theory which claimed that someone’s personality can be pinpointed based on the way they describe their perfect room. let’s pretend my perfect room is a library with two bay windows and a pair of old leather chairs for me and my imagined jelly bean (give or take a cherry end table to place our spectacles.)
if the theory stands, my room reflects an old-soul dreamer--a bit dreary, but overall comfortable and inquisitive.
well, what a silly girl I’ve turned out to be! after all, did no one tell me? one can have either dreams or dessert…but never both together. cause such a magical jar would never be put in the library where books and songs and idealism would have the opportunity to suck those jelly flavors dry.
no … the jelly bean jar sits in the same place it has always sat. above the Kenmore refrigerator. perfectly out of the line of sight. unless, that is, you are a domestic sort of girl and your perfect room is the kitchen. if that’s the case, at a very young age you probably discovered the jar when your mom asked you to fetch the mixing bowl … and i imagine you’ve been snacking from it ever since. developing a keen sense for which were your favorites. hmmmm, you think. cappuccino? or grape crush? or maybe lemon drop if you like em’ sour.
now it is, that after several delightful years of taste testing, you’ve made your decision and you will betroth one certain jelly bean until death do you part.
all the while, i’m feeling a bit claustrophobic in my library. my fictional stories haven’t quite panned out. and i get the feeling that the characters on my page are laughing at my inexperience in life and love. what’s worse, i’m too tired to read anything but picture books as of late.
*gasp* what is this i hear? the jelly bean jar is nearly empty?
i venture out of the library and find truth in this sickly rumor. where once hundreds of flavors occupied the treasured jar, now only two remain—wild blackberry and tutti fruitti. naturally wild blackberries are far too carnal for my taste. mostly fraternity guys who wish to remain bachelors for apparent reasons. sigh. and i’m guessing you’ve already figured that tutti fruitties never care much for girls unless to be friends with them. or to get manicures together.
my only hope is that God in Heaven made some girls clumsy. and when, out of greed, they reached in the jar to take handfuls of beans, a few of the jellies slipped out and onto the floor. I’m hoping that just one of those forgotten and disregarded treasures would turn out to be orange sherbert—which happens to be my favorite flavor of all.
yes please. i would like to order one orange sherbert jelly belly with a side of humor and a tweed coat.
I think he probably fell under the fridge and is now covered with dust and grime and a little bit of all the moldy food that has spilled throughout the years and that in the mean time i should give other flavors a shot because i’m entirely too picky.
dreams and dessert.
I imagine boys are a little like jelly bellys, if that’s your sort of thing. lots of pretty colors and good flavors to fill up a jar that might otherwise be used for something less wonderful, say rice. and although rice can fill your belly quite full, it has never achieved the gustatory swoons of a sweet bean.
now every girl has a certain right of passage to this jelly belly jar, so long as she has a) discovered its location and b) eaten all her vegetables from supper.
on a separate note. a few psychology hoity-toities once wrote down an interesting theory which claimed that someone’s personality can be pinpointed based on the way they describe their perfect room. let’s pretend my perfect room is a library with two bay windows and a pair of old leather chairs for me and my imagined jelly bean (give or take a cherry end table to place our spectacles.)
if the theory stands, my room reflects an old-soul dreamer--a bit dreary, but overall comfortable and inquisitive.
well, what a silly girl I’ve turned out to be! after all, did no one tell me? one can have either dreams or dessert…but never both together. cause such a magical jar would never be put in the library where books and songs and idealism would have the opportunity to suck those jelly flavors dry.
no … the jelly bean jar sits in the same place it has always sat. above the Kenmore refrigerator. perfectly out of the line of sight. unless, that is, you are a domestic sort of girl and your perfect room is the kitchen. if that’s the case, at a very young age you probably discovered the jar when your mom asked you to fetch the mixing bowl … and i imagine you’ve been snacking from it ever since. developing a keen sense for which were your favorites. hmmmm, you think. cappuccino? or grape crush? or maybe lemon drop if you like em’ sour.
now it is, that after several delightful years of taste testing, you’ve made your decision and you will betroth one certain jelly bean until death do you part.
all the while, i’m feeling a bit claustrophobic in my library. my fictional stories haven’t quite panned out. and i get the feeling that the characters on my page are laughing at my inexperience in life and love. what’s worse, i’m too tired to read anything but picture books as of late.
*gasp* what is this i hear? the jelly bean jar is nearly empty?
i venture out of the library and find truth in this sickly rumor. where once hundreds of flavors occupied the treasured jar, now only two remain—wild blackberry and tutti fruitti. naturally wild blackberries are far too carnal for my taste. mostly fraternity guys who wish to remain bachelors for apparent reasons. sigh. and i’m guessing you’ve already figured that tutti fruitties never care much for girls unless to be friends with them. or to get manicures together.
my only hope is that God in Heaven made some girls clumsy. and when, out of greed, they reached in the jar to take handfuls of beans, a few of the jellies slipped out and onto the floor. I’m hoping that just one of those forgotten and disregarded treasures would turn out to be orange sherbert—which happens to be my favorite flavor of all.
yes please. i would like to order one orange sherbert jelly belly with a side of humor and a tweed coat.
I think he probably fell under the fridge and is now covered with dust and grime and a little bit of all the moldy food that has spilled throughout the years and that in the mean time i should give other flavors a shot because i’m entirely too picky.
dreams and dessert.
5.5.09
the enemy
there's this ball that is always floating about our lives and conversations.
you've never seen it?
that's probably why you let it drop.
but i don't mean that in a cruel way. i just mean you don't notice long silences, or feel the need to make small talk with strangers, or collect awkward exchanges as a hobby.
truth is, i think you're the lucky one.
because i do see the proverbial ball. AND to make matters worse, i'm a clutz. which means anytime i try to keep the ball from dropping, it just hits me in the face.
boom. conversation fail.
last week, for instance. i asked someone from work how she was.
"fine," she said.
"good," i replied in passing. "fine is gooo000ood."
but this week i'm having second thoughts about that declaration. seems there's been a turn in tides and the tables have changed. or do tides turn and ... well, whoever cares. the point is the same:
fine isn't good.
like when you get real dressed up for your darling, and you ask him what he thinks of the packaged deal. maybe fine isn't beautiful.
or when you get your first report card in big kid school, and you "accidentally" lose it on the way home. cause fine was two marks short of smart.
or when you feel your barely cutting this whole saint thing, and you picture what the good Lord will say when he meets ya. fine seems like the worst news.
dear status quo,
dear middle of the line,
dear humdrum,
dear commonplace,
dear a dime a dozen,
dear expendable,
dear run of the mill,
dear five out of ten,
dear par for the course,
dear fine,
you're not good. and whoever said you were?
you've never seen it?
that's probably why you let it drop.
but i don't mean that in a cruel way. i just mean you don't notice long silences, or feel the need to make small talk with strangers, or collect awkward exchanges as a hobby.
truth is, i think you're the lucky one.
because i do see the proverbial ball. AND to make matters worse, i'm a clutz. which means anytime i try to keep the ball from dropping, it just hits me in the face.
boom. conversation fail.
last week, for instance. i asked someone from work how she was.
"fine," she said.
"good," i replied in passing. "fine is gooo000ood."
but this week i'm having second thoughts about that declaration. seems there's been a turn in tides and the tables have changed. or do tides turn and ... well, whoever cares. the point is the same:
fine isn't good.
like when you get real dressed up for your darling, and you ask him what he thinks of the packaged deal. maybe fine isn't beautiful.
or when you get your first report card in big kid school, and you "accidentally" lose it on the way home. cause fine was two marks short of smart.
or when you feel your barely cutting this whole saint thing, and you picture what the good Lord will say when he meets ya. fine seems like the worst news.
dear status quo,
dear middle of the line,
dear humdrum,
dear commonplace,
dear a dime a dozen,
dear expendable,
dear run of the mill,
dear five out of ten,
dear par for the course,
dear fine,
you're not good. and whoever said you were?
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