"Poetry never saved anybody's life. But people die everyday from a lack of what can be found there."
This blog is a place to share creative thought and emphasis on occurrences around me.
There is a crazy man in Starbucks. He is here most days that I am here.
He sits at a table near the door, allowing him to make contact with most everyone who walks in. He wears a short sleeve, orange button down shirt, tucked into khaki pants, and black walking shoes. These are resting neatly on the tile next to his sock covered feet. He boldly lifts one foot up and rests it on his knee, his sock waving back and forth to the beat of the music. In his hands is a paper he isn't reading, which he gives a nice loud pop to about every 30 seconds or so. There is a crinkled brown bag sitting on his table. Most of the time, he is talking quietly to himself in a nonsensical way. Every now and then I meet eyes with him, he sits upright with his reading glasses pushed down, still talking to himself, staring at my corner.
He once asked me what an Ipad was, and I tried to explain it to him. I give something of a half smile, no...more of a slightly polite quarter smile. Enough to say "Yes, I see you over there."
He reaches in his crumpled brown bag and pulls out a large mason jar, half full with honey. He holds it up to the light with admiration, turns it a few times, and presses it to his cheek with a look of pure peace.
Have you ever heard of the Caramel Brule Latte, dear readers?
It's one of the holiday Starbucks drinks. Yes, I am actually blogging about a Starbucks coffee. You'd understand if you had it. Sitting in my festive paper cup is the perfect blend of stout espresso and holiday cheer. The mixture is spicy and smooth. Sitting atop it is a wealth of whipped cream, ( not the kind that tastes like the inside of a can, the kind that tastes like its made with butter.) And atop THAT dear reader, is sprinkled the crunchy bits of a creme brule's top. As the sauna that is my coffee cup slowly heats them, they become more chewy than crunchy.
I sit at a most interesting table. Against the wall is a long, plush bench, probably about twenty feet or so. Pushed in front of the bench are four perfectly spaced apart tables. On the other side of each table, a small wooden chair. I love this set up. Most people sit along the bench, as it is much more comfortable. This puts everyone in a closer proximity than usual. Instead of all being tucked away on our islands of orange chairs and cluttered wooden tables, we are all squished together. I can see the concentration on the face of the girl to my left as she flips through a thick algebra text book. I can feel the struggle of the med student to my right, doing research and jotting down notes, probably for some end of the semester paper that every professor loves to heap on you all at once. A small, crazy part of me misses it.
It's been a wonderful holiday season so far, last weekend at Destin was incredible. I know my blog has been "lean" as of late, (Gran's kind wording once; I liked it) so here is a quick overview of all the lovely things that have been happening
:Flew with Andrew for the first time
:Went for a run for the first time in a while, felt great (who wouldn't running through that Destin neighborhood?)
:Had an in depth life chat with Lyns at the table over a glass of wine after Thanksgiving dinner
:Experienced my first game of 9 holes (I only drove the cart)
:Watched Andy harass Mrs. Joan throughout her putting attempts. She makes him laugh harder than just about anything, it's a delight to watch
:Gushing about Dracula with mom, it was SUCH a good book
:Actually sticking to a work out schedule
:Finding out I can teach at private schools with my major
:Phone calls with my Pops
:The urge to create
:Cold weather, and the kind of fall leaves I've only seen on Google Images
:THE SAINTS FALCONS GAME TONIGHT! BRING IT BABY!!!!!!! I hope we crush them again!
Earlier I was on the phone with Valencia (dad's girlfriend) and said I hope that we stomped those dirty Falcons. I became quickly aware of a few scowls thrown in my direction throughout the Starbucks vicinity. No matter, I took my seat and straightened my saints shirt around my waste. WHO DAT!!
For some reason, I cannot get this movie out of my head as of late. I think it comes hand in hand with the urge to create something. This is one of my favorite scenes. Is it sad that Robin Williams in this movie might have been what made me want to teach? Enjoy.
I can't remember the last time I woke up feeling so refreshed.
I am sitting in a most beautiful house, the sun room to be exact. In this particular sun room, theres a plush blue couch, on which I am cross legged, a wonderful cream colored shag rug, and half of the walls are made of tall sliding glass doors. They look out over a choppy bay, speckled with old wooden peers, the closest of them extending from this house. The large, open house is completely silent, with the exception of Andrews breathing from the couch where he sleeps.
Today, I find myself in Destin, Fl. It's 7:45 a.m. and no one is awake yet.
Since we moved to Augusta, there was no chance of going home for Thanksgiving. After what was a whirlwind of trying to take off and switch shifts, flip shifts and grip shifts, I had a whole weekend off. Before I knew it, Andrew and I were boarding a plane in Atlanta at 10:30 pm. Now, here we are, celebrating Thanksgiving with his incredible family who have so sweetly invited me along.
I probably would have sat here all morning, watching pelicans dive in and out of the bay for breakfast, had Mr. Paul not just gotten up. He opened his door across the house from me, took one look over to the awake kid, and let out a "...wow!" His surprise was followed by an inquiry as to whether or not I wanted coffee (silly question.) And so I am off to enjoy a mocha with Mr. Paul. I love these days.
I once read an article on the top five causes of divorce, determined by the polling of split couples. While it is interesting to see scientific evidence, it was mostly predictable.
1. Money
2. Bringing up the past
3. Not reinforcing good qualities, and so on, and so forth...
While it may not be quite as scientific, I enjoyed the advice of one man, a bit comical, sad, and very informative. While his "If I could's" may seem naively hopeful, I find that nativity a bit refreshing.
So here it is, because "meat in a can is never awesome."
“WHO DAT!” A deep soulful voice booms at me across the
parking lot.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, “ I reply.
I am not a fair-weather fan. My reply is not unenthused. You
see, a month ago my mother came to visit me in Augusta. It was also the first
weekend of NFL football. She arrived in town, and after lots of shenanigans we
ended up back at my apartment complex. We pulled little Will Shat into a spot
right in front of my apartment, and right across from the main office. As we
began unloading mom’s luggage from the trunk, she notices a truck parked
directly behind us. It has an Atlanta Falcons plate on the front, and the owner
sits in the drivers seat with a hat to match.
Suddenly my mother begins to scream. “WHO DAT! HEY, WHO
DAT!!!!” wildly motioning to the Louisiana license plate on my car and
screaming “DIRTY BIRDS!” her little finger pointed at him with a smile on her
face. He, in turn, laughed and nods his head playful, understanding the
divisional rivalry.
Little did mom know that that was my apartment maintenance
man. I see him just about everywhere I go at my complex, and for the first four
games in a row he let me have it. “Who Dat!!” he would scream when a loss was
still fresh in my mind, his Falcons hat ever glued to his head. “Who Dat
baby!!!” One day I even yelled back that my mother was the original instigator,
not me. It did nothing.
Today as I was walking back from the main office he was
passing in a golf cart. “How you doin?” He asked me cheerfully. He is always
cheerful.
“I’m good now!” I smiled, gloating in our Colston centered
win on Sunday.
“You good now?” he asked happily confused. “Oh! Oh she good
now! Hey even a blind dog finds a bone every once in a while.” He zoomed past
me on his cart before I could reply. I guess this will last all season.
After the debate last night, Andrew and I were chatting about politics, and he brought up one man I had never heard of (awful as that it.) His name was Gary Johnson...I suppose *is* Gary Johnson, you don't die when you loose the nominee...anyway, he made a comment during a debate that I thought I'd share as it tickled me. After all the comments last night about building bridges and roads, I thought I'd share
Today, dear friends, I lived the dream.
It started very lazily, with me not getting up til 10, making oatmeal and coffee, and google chatting with Andrew. It was B-E-A-U-TIFUL outside; sunny and breezy, ultimate skirt weather. I sadly put on my stuffy business suit and headed in for work. Even from my car (who still remains nameless) to the door, I was thinking how nice today was and how I didn't want to stand in a building until 9 at night. I walked into work, gave May-May a hug. (She is my absolute favorite. Someday I may even write a whole post about her.) Both of my managers looked at me and said "Go home."
"What?"
"Go home, we've been trying to call you. We signed you up for training on Thursday (my off day) so you have to go home, or you'll be over hours."
I.LIVED.THE.DREAM. I walked into work and they said I could go right on back home and put on a skirt.
Now I'm sitting at Starbucks, eating a melted Rice Krispy treat like a five year old and loving life. Not to mention, I will now get to see the presidential debate!!! I completely missed the last one, and am hoping this one is a doozy as well.
I hope your day was filled with skirt weather.
Good afternoon good evening and good night.
Because
good things come in small packets of tea...and soggy tissues.
I
have a cold. Or something of the sort. It’s got me stumped, because my head is
stuffed to the max, but my body doesn’t hurt and there is only a slight bit of
fuzzy-headedness involved. I don’t feel awful, but cannot seem to make myself
move any faster than the tortoise.(Not the one that won the race, the 98-year-old one with bad arthritis
and bursitis and any other itis you might like.)
Thank
goodness I was off today, when what I’m hoping is the brunt of it hit. In all
honesty, I know where it started. Thursday Andrew told me he was stuffed up and
sniffling. What ensued was a three-day road trip. 9 pm-9 am to Baton Rouge,
followed by a Friday of driving through the hell that is Baton Rouge traffic,
followed by a Saturday of 11 am-11 pm of driving back. Sunday morning, BOOM,
sickness has hit.
However,
today was wonderful. I spent the day catching up with Kelsea; how work is going,
how Sam, her boyfriend, wants to buy a house from 1909, how she’s cheating on
Roxanne (her car) with a Ford rental.
After
that, I read Aunt Lisa’s blog for about an hour. Aunt Lisa, if you’re reading
this, DON’T stop writing!!! I enjoyed every second of it, and so many lines and
phrases shook me to the bone.
Later,
back in my little apartment, I forced down a Vitamin C packet Andrew insisted I
eat like candy. Then my eyes landed on it. A little cream colored box sitting
on top of my fridge, antique black font on the front. Andrew’s Vanilla Caramel
tea, I hadn’t noticed it. You see, he is in the process of moving into a house
with a friend, and with all of his belongings in storage, I scored on all the
perishables. So here I am, drinking my first cup of team I’ve ever made for
myself. But that’s not the reason I love this tea, with its lovely box and
lovely font. I love this tea because the last time I took real note of it was
in Maryland. It was my first visit to see Andy. I remember standing in the
drafty little room, thinking it looked nothing like I had pictured if for the
last four months. Against the wall right by the door was a mini fridge, its
only contents were frozen Nutty Bars. But on top of the fridge sat the tea.
“What a funny guy,” I remember thinking, absolutely unable to ever pin him to
any kind of category (except devastatingly handsome…there, that should ring in
the embarrassment ;)
What
is it that we find about tea bags so beautiful? We paint them for pete’s sake.
The little dangling tab, the motion of the repeated douse. I don’t know why but
I love it.
Thoughts
as of late:
.Why doesn’t “its” possessive have its own apostrophe? It makes no sense
to me. The thought brings me back to Maddie’s conclusion about “amen’t.”
.I have a new car. She was
the reason for the crash course trip to the BR. I love her dearly. However,
today I got word that after his long drive from Augusta to BR, William Shatner
died on the interstate, completely shut down. I have a feeling it’s the result
of broken heartedness, like those dogs in Where
the Red Fern Grows.
.I have no more toilet paper or paper towels, a relentless stuffy nose,
and a now very inconvenient urge to tinkle.
.I am in love with East of
Eden. Listen to this:
Lee smiled.
“My Father said she was a strong woman, and I believe a strong woman may be
stronger than a man, particularly if she has love in her heart. I guess a
loving woman is almost indestructible.”
Adam made a
wry grimace.
Lee said,
“You’ll see one day, you’ll see.”
-Lee, on his
mother.
The next excerpt is from a discussion on God’s
punishing Cain. Lee notices that there are two version of the story, the King
James version and the American Standard version. King James quotes that God
tells Cain “thou shalt rule over sin,” while American Standard tells Cain “Do
thou rule over sin.” Lee traces back to the original Hebrew word which
translates, thou mayest.
“And I feel
that I am a man. And I feel that a man is a very important thing-maybe more
important that a star. This is not theology. I have no bent towards god. But I
have a new love for that glittering instrument, the human soul. It is a lovely
and unique thing in the universe. It is always attacked and never
destroyed-because ‘Thou mayest.’ "
"The blank white page. El Diablo Blanco. El Pollo Loco. Whatever you choose to call it, staring into the abyss in search of an idea can be terrifying. But ask yourself this; was Picasso intimidated by the blank canvas? Was Mozart intimidated by the blank sheet music? Was Edison intimidated by the blank lightbulb? If you’re still blocked up, ask yourself more questions, like; Why did I quit my job at TJ Maxx to write full-time? Can/should I eat this entire box of Apple Jacks? Is The Price is Right on at 10 or 11?" -Timothy McSweeney
I completely forgot what today was when I woke up this morning. I stumbled into the main office to get on the computer and there was president Obama, a sea of red white and blue behind him, speaking on tragedy. A comment about living room heroes levelled me; I set my coffee down and took a seat in front of the TV. It's hard to know how to react to today. There is such deep sadness combined with such deep pride, and before 9/11, my generation never really knew what that felt like. "But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed."
To end on a lighter note for you today, I had my first college dream, post college. I dreamed that Dr. Giles, (the most brilliant, challenging professor I ever had) was teaching a history class instead of English. When we all got our first tests back, everyone had an A, but I had an F-! On the back was "TRY HARDER" in big red letters. I then preceded to dream that later, when I feel asleep on my test and the True/False section tattooed my skin, there were so many x's in a row that it looked like I had stitches. My dream ended with me penciling on my eyebrows much too thickly while driving a Jeep through the woods...I just don't know.
Right now I am sitting in the apartment lobby, mooching off the internet. A girl across from me makes phone calls for her company about giving discounts on some alligators that were used in a Dallas performance, and "You've Got Mail" is on the TV. I could watch this movie every single day, unashamedly. Tom Hanks' delivery in this movie is perfect. The whole thing makes me crave fall air, black tights, and, of course, to be somewhere like New York during it all.
Life has been so so good lately, and full. Every weekend seems to rush by. Last weekend Andrew and I went to what might be my favorite place in Augusta, Le Maison. Squished in between a couple of crumbling houses, the Civil War era house stands two stories tall, pink with green shutters, and porch wrapped. Getting a late start, we were the only ones in the grand house. We were shown to the bar since dining was closed, and sat at a small table in the middle of velvet red couches and heavy curtains, where a Zelda, the owner, served us. We ate salmon, ostrich, chili powder chocolate, and drank what might be my favorite red wine of all time (which I can't remember the name of.)
This past weekend I had a girls night with Nicole, AJ's girlfriend, and Kate. We stayed up till 4 am talking about jobs, college life and pets. The next morning they surprised me with coffee and refreshing conversation at work. That night when i was finally off the three of us found ourselves snugged into a wooded corner of Bees Knees, a great restaurant beneath Nicole's apartment. With 5 dollar espresso martinis in hand, we surpassed chatting and got down to serious life stuff, only to be met by the guys a few hours later. Those are by far my favorite sort of nights.
Now, I am in the middle of job hunting and sorting my schedule. This weekend the Hinnenkamp folks are coming in! Next weekend Mom is coming in, woot!! the NEXT weekend Nicole, AJ, Andy and I are off to Destin. And, if I'm lucky enough, a trip to see baby Ambrose may be included in early October. This would mean meeting Hannah in some city and ditching one of our cars (most assuredly mine, since it doesn't have a fully working transmission and all.) We would then drive through the night and make it to Shreveport sometime in the morning, only to drive back Sunday. While this may sound like hell on wheels, it couldn't sound more like heaven. I'll keep my fingers crossed.
And now, my favorite "You've Got Mail" quote,
"You are a lone reed, standing tall, waving boldly in the corrupt sands of commerce."
Now check out what I can't stop listening to. Too CLose, by Alex Clare.
Dusk is by far my favorite part of the day, even the word itself is magical. Dusk spent in the outdoors does to the body what the first day of fall does; the rejuvenating crispness of it all makes one excitable and perhaps, with the right occasion, a little delirious.
Today has been the most wonderful gift of laziness. After a two hour work meeting on how to clock in and out on the new system, I made my way downtown to AJ and Nicole's place. Their apartment is a historical building off 10th street that is a bundle of dark old wood and exposed, worn brick. I spent the afternoon there listening to music and drawing while lounging around with Nicole and Walter, her Yorkie that is impossible not to love. (Walter fact: he likes to stand in front of the fan and let his long hair blow around his face like a supermodel.)
And now, I find myself sitting outside a Starbucks with Andy, each of us on our computers, him working and me diddling. Florence is playing over the speakers, my feet are propped up and there's a light breeze. Dusk wraps up the day with a giant orange and pink bow.
When I asked for a rice crispy treat at Starbucks, and she brought it to me with an accompanying fork, I'll admit I was a little disappointed.
I have discovered lately that some of the hardest people for me to be Christian people are not those I envy, disagree with, or judge; but those who make me nervous. Working on that now.
Yesterday I met an old Hispanic lady named Elba, named after the island that Napoleon was exiled to (the first time, until he escaped. YAR!). She taught me about Russian girls who specialize in identity theft and I sold her a LeVian ring.
The Starbucks baristas are collectively saying everything in the most obnoxious Wiscannsan accent they can, and it's making me happy :)
Spell check refuses to recognize Starbucks as a real word, which I like.
The rest, life here lately:
A while back I was sitting in my apartment and desperately in need of some groceries. I hopped in Will Shat and began following my GPS. As it led me out the back way, which I had never taken, things began to change. As I hit Dean's Bridge Rd, every building began to get a bit more crumbly, and the number of bars on the windows grew and grew. Not to mention that it was the middle of the day on a Wednesday and no one seemed to be at work. That Walmart trip was horrifying. Between the "Can I holla atchoo guh?" and the man who kept kissing at his children whenever yelling wouldn't work, I was ready to get the heck out of there.
With a little help from Andrew, I've discovered that my apartment complex sits right in front of what is one of the worst gang spots in Augusta. Awesome. Don't get me wrong, scrappy as I am, my doors don't lock right and there sure is a lot of foot traffic going in and out of my complex. Thus, a move is probably in order. Downtown has beautiful old apartments with more square footage and less rent per month. However, it is most likely dangerous as well.
There seems to be a gap in Augusta. When I shared this with an apartment complex employee, she confirmed. It seems you have two options in Augusta, you can either pay 650 and below for rent, but it will never be in a relatively safe place. Or you can pay 800 and above to live in an extremely nice gated community. It seems there is no middle ground. If this is the case, give me the old-timey flat over a downtown cafe.
Today, we are leaving for Charlotte, NC. I've never been but everyone keeps saying how beautiful it is. We are going with our new friends, Daniel (who, when speaking to little boys, refers to them as sir), AJ (who high fives the homeless), and Nicole (who wears rain boots to the dance club when it storms). I'm officially excited. My super nice manager, Ryan, worked with me until we found a way to get my Saturday shift picked up. And, best of all, I have a weekend off for the first time since I've started! I can't wait to sleep in on Saturday, get to spend a day with Andrew plus friends, and even go to church on Sunday, where I plan to hunt down a women's bible study. (To join them, if that was violently misleading.)
More to come, but for now I have to call my power company and do other grown-upy things. I really just want to sit in the plush orange chair and read East of Eden. Can't win em all I suppose.
In anticipation of my day off, I began picturing myself lying out by the pool, East of Eden in my hands and a beer by my side. Alas. I woke up to a sky that looked like it was about to burst at the seams with rain. Drat. The next ten minutes were spent between a rock and a hard place, desperately wanting coffee and knowing my only coffee cup was out in the car. "just do it!" I told myself, which was followed not by the sound of a pit pat, but a downpour.
I adjusted my perception of the day from sunny sunbathing to something more cozy involving some sort of hot drink. "I'll make eggs," I thought. Ten minutes later I am yanking the oven away from the wall with all my might (which isn't much might, mind you) to retrieve the egg yolk that was collecting into a pool on the tile. Honestly, only I could line the mixing bowl right on the line between counter and stove, crack the egg with too much might (ironic eh?) and have it slide, not into the bowl, but down its side, vamoosing right into the crack.
However, I must say that with a little help from Booker T and thr M G's "green onions," (the song from the sandlot bike stad off scene) I am in a fantastic mood. I anticipate a day of something rewarding, like sitting in a Starbucks with coffee someone else made, attempting to draw but mostly people watching. Or reading East of Eden in a more local coffee shop I am determined to find. And Daylight Donuts doesnt count, google maps. cup was out in the car. "just do it!" I told myself, which was followed not by the sound of a pit pat, but a downpour.
I adjusted my perception of the day from sunny sunbathing to something more cozy involving some sort of hot drink. "I'll make eggs," I thought. Ten minutes later I am yanking the oven away from the wall with all my might (which isn't much might, mind you) to retrieve the egg yolk that was collecting into a pool on the tile. Honestly, only I could line the mixing bowl right on the line between counter and stove, crack the egg with too much might (ironic eh?) and have it slide, not into the bowl, but down its side, vamoosing right into the crack.
However, I must say that with a little help from Booker T and thr M G's "green onions," (the song from the sandlot bike stad off scene) I am in a fantastic mood. I anticipate a day of something rewarding, like sitting in a Starbucks with coffee someone else made, attempting to draw but mostly people watching. Or reading East of Eden in a more local coffee shop I am determined to find. And Daylight Donuts doesnt count, google maps.
I'm not happy with my blog right now. Apparently, it hasn't found the fact that all the people I have been following have been updating their blogs important enough to mention over the past month. I have a lot of catching up to do. Furthermore, it has taken to decorating itself. I don't know why it though it was ok the put the first paragraph of my last post in an illegible robin egg blue. At least it knows which colors are trendy and which are not.
On the other hand, it's been a wonderful day. I have rediscovered vanilla wafers, applied for a new job, realized I am not alone in the void, and enjoyed fresh lavender scented towels.
Revelation for the day:
Now is the time to travel. I am not letting myself forget this. With very little to save up for and school, children, or real job, the time is now.
Meanwhile it sounds like there is a pigeon in the air conditioner closet. I'll have to get back to you.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
I like my apartment. It is teeny tiny and super old, but I like it. Today at the bank, the lady behind the desk asked me my address. When I told her Champions Pines, a smile took to her face. "that was my first apartment. It was only 500 square feet," exactly the one I've got now, "but it was mine." And I have to say, I know her exact feeling. This place is so small, but it's MINE. What a cool feeling. There are little things to get used to.
Shut the fridge twice. It sneaks back open the first time.
There is absolutely no way to make the balcony lock other than the metal stick that wedges between it and the wall.
If you want to be able to access book case, close closet door.
Air conditioner makes the sliding door blinds do a constant tap tap tap. No one is trying to kill you.
Oven top spits out about twice the heat you select, and no one likes burnt spaghettios.
Remember that just because you can afford beer doesn't mean you can forget I buy water...
But all the small things that I have to deal with are exactly that. Things for me, and me alone, to handle, because it's mine. So as I sit in my kitchen/living room, listening to the prince of Egypt soundtrack and cooking beef stew till Andrew comes over for dinner, life is good. Very very good.
And speaking of, go watch batman. It wa awesome, so just do it. Ok? Ok.
Seeing as this has consumed the last three weeks of my life, I guess it's about time I blogged about it. This show is brilliant; dark, heart wrenching, envelope pushing, but brilliant. The actors are spectacular. Front and center stage is Bryan Cranston, who you might recognize as Hal, the dad from Malcom in the Middle. I used to watch this show a good bit when it first came out, and I forgot just how funny Cranston was. Meet Hal, the slightly neurotic father of three boys.
Today, meet Walter White, quiet chemistry teacher turned slightly neurotic in what might be one of the greatest series to date.
Season 5 came out yesterday and I've only got one episode left on season four before I tune in. If you can handle a wee bit of law breaking and need a great show, here it is.
Ps. If you ever get bored, just look up clips of Hal. He just can't not be funny.
As week three of being on my own in adult land ensues, I responsibly checked the little sticker on my dusty windshield to see when I needed my next oil change. Icaramba, I was 300 miles late. So, seeing as I have no Dad or Pops to run my rickety car to, I began googling the best place to get an oil change. And what do I find out? Most cars don't actually need one until about 5,000 miles. And if you look in any car manual made after 1980, it will tell you just that, clear as day in big black print. I'm definitely going to dig up Will Shat'"s manual and thumb through to double check. However, this 5,000 mile marker kept popping up all over google, so I thought I'd share.
Sitting in my car, waiting for work to start. Exhausted, close dont fit, no make up on. However, there was a cup of Starbucks in my hand, which quickly became a cup of Starbucks all over my face. Reading animal farm, I absentmindedly set the cup down on the dash. Not quite far enough, however. As it began sliding to the doom that was my floorboards, I reached out and snatched it from the air! Only to send the momentum of the fall into the coffee cup, which sloshed liquid out of the drinking hole, into my eyes, hair, jacket, and dress pants. It's going to be a fun day.
I'm sitting on my bed in Augusta, Georgia. I guess with all the craziness that's been going on all I've had time to do is post nifty pictures with one liners beneath them.
But the big picture is that I have FINALLY made the move to Georgia. After two months and sixty online applications, two trips from here to B.R. in hopes of finding a job, lots of cardboard boxes and one barely capable car, I have made it. Here, to this town, full of hills and buildings that peep through thickets of trees instead of endless streams of power lines.
So far it has been the simple things that I have loved the most. Going to Andrew's softball game after work, watching Breaking Bad with him, taking my lunch breaks at the Barnes and Noble across from work, trying (and failing miserably) to cook a roast. Learning to throw darts, putting a few holes in Andres wall, walking around downtown, talking to locals about the cool holes in the wall to try out. Going to Lauren and Chases wedding, the look on her face when she stood up out of the car and waved her bouquet as they pulled away. Andrew's friend, Evan, buying The Most Interesting Man in the World's doppelganger a Dos Equis accompanied with a high five at a bar downtown. A much needed catch up with Kelsea. And Batman comes out in a week. There are many things to be thankful for.
Oh, and this video. One of Garrett's high school buddies got married this weekend, and here's a little something they prepared for the bride. The groom is the one with the shades, Garrett is the one in the back with the green hat :D
Yesterday, an umpire wouldn't let Andrew play baseball because his jersey wasn't the right shade of green. You know, men aren't all that different from women.
Oh my goodness gracious, I don't even know where to start. I guess it's best to start with the big things and work our way smaller
Before the finals were the papers. Lots of boring ones on the poetry of seventeenth century frat boys and the statistical findings on verbal fillers and social media. Multiple Nos' and a roommate who would leave surprise Reese's Cups on my computer got me through it.
Then came the finals. These would have been a lot easier had work and the bull's playoffs not been strung throughout the week.
But I survived!!!! And today as my official first day of summer, and all I did was layout by a pool and finish the Hunger Games (GAG.)
Yesterday was Mother's Day, and sadly enough I was not with my mother, or any of my second mothers who have taken me in, yanked splinters out of my heels or slipped me sticks of bubble gum on the way to school. However, Kelsea brought me out to the great town of Bastrop to be adopted for the day by her huge and wonderful family.
The past few days have held:
Sitting in a church pew next to 88 year old Aunt Mabel while she told me about Boston Terrier who once gave her mouth to mouth
Going to Papaw Buddy and Mamaw Shirleys house, where he loaded my plate with smoked sausage and she played hymns on the piano.
Playing with the worlds cutest three year old who hugged me goodbye with her legs instead of her arms
The thought that I have identified myself as a student for the past 19 years, but not ever again
homemade peach cobbler
A visit to Marshall Tx to see SARAH where all we did was talk for two days straight.
finally getting to read books I want (even if they end terribly, and I should have listened to all the "don't read the last two Hunger Games books" warnings.")
Making art
A lot of prayer
Improv girls night with Jerry McGuire and Nestle turtle cookies
An effort to quit popping my knuckles
The days to follow:
A going away party tomorrow night
My birthday! For which mom is coming into town!!!!!
My family here on Friday for a huge dinner which I am so so so excited about
Graduation. Gulp. That one still hasn't hit me
Moving out, saying bye to Kelsea. Now that one REALLY hasn't hit me
So for the rest of the night, it's me and an art pad. Goodnight, dear reader
Getting the itch for another show; to feel the floor rattle with bass, to get on top of you extremely tall boyfriends shoulder's to see the stage, and to go completely insaaaane!!!
The story of Chronos, with illusions to Dali's actual work and on a grand scheme, as well as illusions to some of the first surrealist films ever made.
I know I've posted this video before (admittedly, more than once I think.) But I could listen to this everyday. One, because he is so incredibly RIGHT. And two, because I can always use the reminder, and I'm sure you can too.
Warning: the lyrical content of this video is explicit.
BUT. You have to see what they have done. Mute it and watch the video. That man in the white pants is Tupac, a rapper who died a few years ago. Welcome to a hologram at its best.
Today I sat in my night class on 17th century British Poetry. There was nothing pretty about it. The Bulls were playing the Heat and I was missing it. My brain was fried after turning in a paper for the very same class. There was crawfish waiting at my house. I sat there, lamenting the death of my blacked out computer (I sware I wasn't watching the game on mute.)
Then, during break, a woman starting telling a fellow mother the woah's of her daughter's being able to read, and having to read absolutely every word she saw out loud. She bemoaned the laughters allergy to milk and milk substitute. She laughed over how if her new baby didn't cry at night, she'd get up anyway to make sure the little girl was still breathing.
This happens all the time in class. The nontraditional students talk amongst one another, each trying to best the other's story about what their angelic offspring has done. Most of these stories I tune out, because I really don't care if your 6'2, 200 lb eighth grader won his District football game.
And then I saw him. A quiet man somewhere in his early thirties, two rows over. He sat in his desk, body slightly turned in their direction, with a faint smile on his face and his head barely nodding in consent with the woman's stories.
This man, usually so stoic and so subdued, could not resist the expression the thought of his children brought him. And there it was, something beautiful, right there in night class. The strong, quiet love of a father.
It's been a long time since I've written anything on here, with school and job hunting and apartment hunting, things have been pretty hectic. But, as I am sitting in a massive library in Maryland, across from Andrew as the barrels through engineering homework (intrepid soul) I figured this was the best way to kill the time.
This break has been so incredible! The first half was spent boiling crawfish and screaming my head off at third grade soft ball games. Eating sushi with Mom and Garrett, and buying bargain brand names.
One really spectacular thing I did on my break was watch The Illusionist. Not the Edward Norton film that I have yet to see, but the *almost silent* British-French film. I'm so envious of the animation in this movie. They created such an atmosphere with ink and water color, from dingy Scottish bars to night shift blue collar jobs to swanky department stores. However, I can't stand the feeling of being so inspired and yet unable to do anything with the pen in my hand. Those days are the most frustrating, but if you're persistent, the most rewarding as well.
The artwork: (Click to enlarge)
Now, I'm in Maryland, and have been since Wednesday. As I wake up to leave tomorrow, you know, around 4:50 a.m, and I'll take so much happiness with me.
Things from this week:
Maryland campus is beautiful
So is spring in the North (P.S, the North is not as evil as all those rowdy southerners tell you, I promise ;)
A new closeness with people
This quote that I now love. "Give a damn. Many damns. More damns than anyone."
I love this song, The Civil Wars are one of my favorite bands, with a harmony sweeter than Simon and Garfunkel. ( I know, that's SAYING something.) The most incredible thing about their music is that you don't realize it's being done live (like this one) until an audience starts screaming at the end of most of their songs. This one is so beautiful not only because of their voices, but also because it is one of my favorite carols. I listen to it all year round.
I'm back at the Starbucks that I practically lived at a few months ago, in the ancient days before we had wireless. It's been raining all day long, mostly a steady drizzle. Something about this kind of rain, that sends slow and steady drips off the big green umbrellas outside, reminds me of the rain in the Nursery rhyme stories we'd watch at Gran's. There was one that started with a woman and two children inside because of the rain. Then she'd tell them some story, I think it was Peter Rabbit? until it stopped. After, they would walk down the soggy street as the credits rolled. I still get the feeling after a rain that I did when I watched that video. It's almost a sad feeling. Everything is covered in sun and yet still soaking wet and muddy and unreachable.
I've been procrastinating my History of the English Language homework because it is beastly hard. Then I heard the girl next to me say she was studying law. Boy do I feel lazy. I must quit procrastinating and get with it!
...It really is hard though... :/
Avoir dear reader, I'm off to conquer Old English!
I'm really sick of something. The Kia commercial released during the Superbowl gets under my skin more and more every single time it comes on. If you haven't seen it, let me recap the edited version they are now playing on TV. The camera is set, close up, on a man sleeping in his bed. Over his shoulder you just barely make out his wife's shoulder under the covers. That's all you see of her. Suddenly, the Sandman sneaks out of their closest and, when going to sprinkle a little dream dust on the man, accidentally trips and spills the whole bag on him. Funny right?
Then we enter the man's dream, which consists of the Kia sports car being advertised...oh, and Adriana Lima. Of course she's in some spandex suit that looks like little more than a strap that's been sparingly wound around her body and stilettos (Because that's what a real woman wears, right?) waving a race flag in slow mow as he speeds past her in his Kia. I get it; a man's super charged dream includes a fast car and a super model. Why not? Adriana Lima is a beautiful girl. While it's objectifying, it's what you'd expect. Here's my question.
Why does he have to be married?? Why do they have to put that little tiny hump of a figure behind him indicating a wife? Let single men dream about Adriana Lima all they want to. But why did this company have to make his mind unfaithful? Is it because he's more of a rebel? Is it because the average man is married, and not to Adriana Lima?
We know the drill with advertising, especially directed toward men. Drink this beer and the super model that's just daydreaming at the bar will suddenly want you. Order a glass of Jose Cuervo and the bartender will run her fingers through your hair. And as awful as those commercials are, the men in them never have wedding rings on their hands as they slink an arm around the super model. Corporate Marketing. you've reached a new low.
So I plan to update about my trip to Maryland, but first, let's talk about History of Love. I finished it sitting in an airport terminal, a CNN memorial going on for a war journalist killed in Syria going on above my head. SO. MUCH. EMOTION. I don't really know what words to use on the finishing of that book. Overwhelming, the act of swelling, a desire to love immediately, longing, the power of loneliness, the power of writing, the power of love on the human condition. It is by far the most beautiful book I've ever read. Nicole Krauss is officially one of my literary heroes with one simple work. To write something a fourth of it's equivalent someday would be success. It makes me wonder, how many Leo Gursky's are there in the world? And if so, did I pass the chance to love them?
When I think of Jesus alone in the garden, in agony the night before the crucifixion, it breaks my heart. I can't imagine the anguish in that moment; it's more than I can wrap my head around. And to think, so many people suffer such agony, some daily. Alone in apartments, on benches, beneath covers. It's common, so many people diagnosed with depression. We are shown on television and in theaters scenes of great human suffering, it's what makes a story interesting. Man in pain is something we've become used to in a foreign sense. We see Prozac commercials, watch Matt Damon sob like a baby, etc. At the same time, honest suffering or grieving isn't really allowed among one another. It's reserved for empty apartments, deserted benches, and under covers. It is something that makes us uncomfortable because to witness grieving requires true compassion, selflessness, and closeness. To witness grieving is to be vulnerable oneself. But then you think, if man can suffer agony as Jesus did that night in the garden, and man is made in the image of God, shouldn't that break our hearts? The urge to have consoled Jesus in his torment should be the same for our fellow man. And maybe I'm just rambling, and maybe it's just late and I need sleep, but I hope that the next time I pass Leo Gursky on the street, I am radiant with love.
It has been such a great day already. I got out of class at 10 am and was done with school for the day, so I trucked William Shatner down to Antique Alley to do some rummaging. After two hours of walking across creaky old floors and smelling of dead people's stuff, I found it. Seeing as this mystery object is surprise for a reader, it won't be revealed :) Next on the list was mom's birthday present. "You know anything you buy she'll tell you is too expensive, right?" said the tiny old man from behind both counter and spectacles. "Probably, but she's out of town," I said. He took the last bite of his kidney pie, "well then let's find you something," he said, thrusting himself off his chair with that slow momentum only old people are capable of. Ten minutes later he was checking me out, scanning a middle finger with a missing tip over his books. "Twenty even," he said. A steal.
Below is a picture I found in an old box full of black and white smiling faces, little babies hanging onto the corners of rocking chairs, and war heroes. For some reason I found it incredible and couldn't leave it behind, plus it was ten cents.
It reminded about "A Million Miles in a Thousand Years," which in all honesty, I should credit as one of my favorite books more often. One of my favorite chapters out of the book is when the author, Donald Miller, attends his middle aged uncle's funeral. He explains that when people say someone died too young, it means you were doing great things with your life. He then says:
"What I love about the true gospel of Jesus, though, is that it offers hope. Paul has hope our souls will be made complete. It will happen in heaven, where there will be a wedding and a feast. I wonder if that’s why so many happy stories end in weddings and feasts. Paul says Jesus is the hope that will not disappoint. I find that comforting. That helps me get through the day, to be honest. It even makes me content somehow. Maybe that’s what Paul meant when he said he’d learned the secret of contentment."
Reflecting on his uncle, he sees him, “sitting at a table and there was a celebration. There was dancing and bottles of wine, and there was music. I could see him at a wedding, and I realized that’s what I should have told Carol, that her dad was at a wedding”
I think that's why I like this picture so much. When you look past marble and inscription, something about it is a celebration.
After struggling between a 2 ounce, 4 dollar power bar and a $5 large pizza, I finally caved and went the healthy (and always pricier) route and went with the power bar. When I opened it and found a strange fuzzy, white mystery substance growing on it, I showed my boss. "This one's expired," he said, taking it. The result of my disciplined decision? Bossman gave me and my coworker all the power bars in the store. May I note that most of them were not expired, but he was sick of their not selling. Now I've got boxes waiting to come home with me. Do you know what this means? No grocery shopping, and saving money in the long run. Isn't that ironic? As Tyler and I dumped all the boxes out onto the counter to divvy out who wanted what, I felt like the annoying kid from Kazaam, (not Shaq, the other annoying kid) in the scene where Shaquille the Genie makes candy, and if I recall correctly, the occasional hamburger, rain down from the sky.
