Upon the suggestion that our rendition of "Lovestoned" in a soft boot cast too racy, Chelle and I have disposed of our treasured music video.

LAME.

R.I.P.

In every hitchhiking experience there will, inevitably be, a kidnapper van, more specifically--white, windowless and commonly sighted near food services.

Ever since I’ve moved to Europe I’ve taken up motorcycle riding, whiskey drinking, the occasional cursing, leather—always black—and hitchhiking. Ok, so maybe just the last one, and maybe just once, I know, I’m a rebel.

It all began on a lovely Thursday afternoon. Doesn’t it always begin on lovely afternoons?

After a lengthy taxi ride down a never ending road, a last, we reached our destination: the White Cliffs of Dover. Serene, I thought, as the taxi drove away, is there a reason why no one was gallivanting as we were on this lovely Thursday afternoon? So what if dusk was setting in, so what if a rainstorm was in the makings, as far as I was concerned it was still Dover. I suppose this is the line where the American tourist defers from the European native.

The visit began as planned, running aimlessly along the rolling green hills, taking extremely staged photos and squinting my eyes with the hope of possibly deciphering France in the distance (fruition was not in works.)

Soon it was dark, and from classes like RADS and elements like “basic street smarts” I concluded that four girls should not be alone on the Cliffs of Dover in the dark. Sure I can strike a mean punch, but do I really want to dirty my fist? Don’t answer, just read on…

“I’m so thankful God blessed us with good weather,” almost sang Morgan.

Well, God, he liked Morgan’s praises of song, he liked them so much in fact that he decided to sing the whole group a song back of his own. First the song began in a light drizzle, which soon became a steady rain, yet quickly was a violent downpour, oh, but it gets better, about one minute later, it was haling. On the cliffs of Dover, in the black night, the ocean thrashing, the wind blowing, the hail cutting into my face, my mascara painting a clown out of my face, completely alone: romantic? Not, exactly.

After rather quickly discovering the cell phone did not work, we decided we had no choice but to walk, how far? We did not know. Would we live? Honestly, it depended on how strong our bodies were against the cold. I for one am the weakest link, so most likely would have died first, then Mindy perhaps, followed by Morgan, solely out of pity, and Charissa would have perished some hours later after wondering off on her own. Luckily this scenario did not unfold, as a woman stopped and we found out how to properly utilize our cell phone.

“The man said I’d be a good forty minutes,” Morgan informed the group.

I looked down at my blue fingers and wondered how long the blue would remain in my body after death.

“Give me the phone,” I said.

“Hello…umm, right…it’s just, if you don’t come get us soon, we’re not going to…”

“Melissa, do not tell the taxi man we’re going to die!” shouted Morgan’s voice solely into my right ear.

“It’s just we might not...”

“Melissa!”

I paused, “someone might not be alright.”

With that Freddy at the taxi company knew I meant business and was all on it (Freddy seemed reliable like that,) the only problem was, when I hung up I suddenly realized that dear Freddy wasn’t wholly aware of our location, actually, not even remotely aware.

What do we do, we can’t even explain this deserted road location to Freddy, what to do?

Out of the corner of my eye I watched, I watched as Mindy’s arm stretched boldly into the night air, I was convinced she was getting ready to give a war call, or possibly had I caught her mid-Macarena? But, no, her little thumb boldly popped out, and pretty soon the whole clan of us had our thumbs out. Low point—define a low point?

It’s hard being rejected in life, especially when you’re a hitchhiker; my feelings were seriously “toyed with” as each car passed on by, sure we were a tad wet, maybe not in the prime of our beauty—they should have picked us up anyway.

My personal favorite rejection was as follows: “honk, honk!” I cranked my neck to see an “adorable” white, windowless, “kidnapper van” pass us up. Now, I’m going to be honest, that rejection was more of a comfort then anything.

Do not fear my friends, eventually a beamer pulled to the curb and picked us up. And don’t worry; it was completely safe, only one of us got chopped up in little pieces. Ok, slightly distasteful, sorry…we all made it back safely—praise the Lord!

"She 's been sick for some time--thank you for asking. No one asks, about Sprinkles."--Angela, The Office

Invasion of the Irish

Now I don’t normally lye in bed at 12:15, blaring the sappy sounds of Ginny Owens, with a laptop on my lap and an earth green facemask caked on my face—but today this was the case. Let me qualify: I had been up since nine, but seeing that the air temperature in my room is akin to what I would only assume a poorly insulated igloo, I had not dared to abandon my sanctuary of blankets. Secondly, I had just received this new Ginny Owens song which resonated well with my life, so I thought why not blare this on repeat, sure it’s a little melancholy, but who’s going to judge? Thirdly, the laptop on bed was merely a stroke of convenience—the only way I could write my paper while in the sheer decadence of my sheets. Then lastly, yes, that early moss-like clay mask, that my friends, is my sad attempt at maintaining attractive pores—no other reason. So alone I sat, and alone I was. Was.

Bang, bang, bang. I was convinced God himself was tearing down my door. Suddenly the key hole started clanking and a tan vested grandpa-esk, jolly Irish man walked into my room like it was no ones business, followed by what I can only assume was his wife and assistant who walked about six steps into my box, I mean room (it’s quite small,) plopped down a trendy lawn chair and took a seat.

“It’ll only be a minute, got to check your electric plugs,” almost sung the Irish fellow, not yet aware of the state of my face.

“I—ahh, I have a facemask on…” I like to state the obvious then let the other party interact as they will.

The corners of his aged lips fought with what I’m assuming was roughly sixty years of maturity to refrain from what could be considered impolite laughter at my state. It’s ok, just laugh, oh please, someone laugh…

“What’s wrong with your face?” He asked, almost concerned.

I pulled up my ironically matching green blanket covering my face, and sunk deeper into my sheets, loosing my treasured spot in Language and the News Media, feeling somewhat ill.

“It’s for my skin.”

“Anti-aging,” the wife chimes in, implying an evident ignorance to the fact that twenty-years-olds condone little time for anti-aging.

“It’s ok, we don’t care at all about your face, just checking your plugs,” chimes in the Irish fellow, with obvious sympathy in his voice.

Note to self: gee, I’m cool.

Something in the Air
...because London fall is THAT good....

Deep within the mornings shiver, a silence slow to speak,
My heart, it leaves, all the blither, to partake in a world inside me,
A messy bun, mud-caked running shoes, a silver key strapped to my lace, and as the dawn decides whether to paint autumn or winter, in the shadows of this morning I sneak,
Dust settles down, my feet almost soar past this ground; heaven above is all I see,

There’s something in the air today, a breeze that pleas to beckon us folk,
Something in the way the wind blows, in the temperature of these racing winds—and I can feel a change, no trite or subtle change, but a change for all that’s been broke,

Asphalts edgy, oh so edgy, so I ditch this trial for some unhampered soil,
Trust is sketchy, oh so sketchy, but today trusts seems worthwhile,
There’s a tear in my left eye, it’s been falling since I began, and as I watch the wind break it sings back to this toil,
A child-like heart, what can I say, I twirl under trees, I crunch on every leaf, I think I made them smile,

There’s something in the air today, a spice God set to evoke,
Something in the way this season remembers, in the way I no longer have to forget—and I can feel a change, no trite or subtle change, but a change for all that’s been broke,

And in these unseen moments, these blessing we often overlook, I am there,
I watched each leaf, of crimson and gold, I watched them spiral, this magic so often untold,
Those buses and trains, fancy cars and stuffy planes can keep on dreaming, but oh how they should care,
Because in these shadows—right past their clocks, the season is changing in an instant or two, autumn seduces her winter, yet they just keep on growing old,

There’s something in the air today, a blessing we often fail to invoke,
Something in the way life twists in an instant, in the moments we let pass us by—and I can feel a change, no trite or subtle change, but a change for all that’s been broke.

Packing, like modern art

To me, packing is a nuisance, that’s right, a royal pain. But, I will admit, it’s necessary.

I’m the type of packer who waits until the night before, stares at the closet for a concentrated forty minutes, then packs with the same determination as a fly escaping a swatter. My system, though deemed entirely too risky by my mother, as night before packing in her book is living on the wild side, is quite comfortable for me.

Actually, over the years my methods have become increasingly more…uh, lighthearted? Sure, we’ll call it that. I have taken to using trash bags, not the small ones, but a durable, sizable one. I simply toss all my “clutter” into the bags and drag them to my vehicle with a look of “will some strong guy come rescue my trembling feminine arms” written on my face. And though I end up completing the task entirely alone, packing up, especially for college, has become a form of modern art for me, in the sense that my clutter transporting has become a masterpiece.

But this semester I face a new issue: stuffing my “clutter” into two REI burnt orange duffels, each needing to weigh in at a meager (and I mean meager) 50 pounds—piety me. The straightener, the towel, the bedding, all too weighty to bring and will have to be purchased. As for the décor, that is far too frivolous for my expedition, and I suppose my beloved stuffed animals are luxury items I just won’t need. Friends, I’m down to the wire. At this moment I have about three piles of shirts and sweaters that could fill up one suitcase in its entirety—something has got to go. How many sweaters are too many sweaters? How much do I really love jewelry (a lot,) hmm, I’m going to have to downsize on the less important things first. One pair of Pj’s for four months? It could happen.

Someone, please, bring me a garbage bag, I want to do some modern art packing, this suitcase stuff is just not doing it for my creativity, or spatial issues for that matter. Six days until I leave and counting…wish the packing good luck, or rather, the packer.

Vienna waits for me:)

Slow down you crazy child
You're so ambitious for a juvenile
But then if you're so smart tell me why
Are you still so afraid?
Where's the fire, what's the hurry about?
You better cool it off before you burn it out
You got so much to do and only
So many hours in a day

But you know that when the truth is told
That you can get what you want
Or you can just get old
You're gonna kick off before you even get halfway through
When will you realize...Vienna waits for you

Slow down you're doing fine
You can't be everything you want to be
Before your time
Although it's so romantic on the borderline tonight (tonight)
Too bad but it's the life you lead
You're so ahead of yourself
That you forgot what you need
Though you can see when you're wrong
You know you can't always see when you're right(you're right)

You got your passion you got your pride
But don't you know that only fools are satisfied?
Dream on but don't imagine they'll all come true
When will you realize
Vienna waits for you

Slow down you crazy child
Take the phone off the hook and disappear for a while
It's alright you can afford to lose a day or two
When will you realize...
Vienna waits for you.

And you know that when the truth is told
That you can get what you want
Or you can just get old
You're gonna kick off before you even get halfway through

Why don't you realize...Vienna waits for you
When will you realize...Vienna waits for you

A Bullet Through Beauty

I like beautiful things. I don’t know whether this is a curse or a blessing, but regardless, it stands true.

Yesterday I was driving on a particularly scenic road and began reflecting on the concept that God does not make mistakes, and since we were made in his image, since the earth was created by his works, it infers that beauty is pleasing to God. Though when does this desire for beauty go too far?

In 1 Peter the concept of outward beauty having no measure to inward beauty is expressed so beautifully. And though I’ll be the first to admit I have a passion for jewelry and am divinely pleased when my outfit matches just right, I do recognize that in comparison to inward beauty this holds nothing. I do not say this because I know it’s right to say such things, I say this because I know it’s true; inward beauty is sincerely breathtaking, and upon each witnessing of such a fleet I confirm this even deeper.

I have met so many truly beautiful people, and I don’t mean broad white smiles or flawless skin, I mean…when it boils down to it, a truly humble person (though no one is perfectly humble.) To me, humility, among other godly attributes, is to be prized, and must be ever important to God.

Though I have stated all this, I fall back to the beginning once more: I like beautiful things, i.e., I want with every piece of my heart to be beautiful both inwardly and outwardly, and I find myself desiring this to such a level that I wonder what in my nature triggers this.

Maybe this is just a “Captivating” rooted idea, maybe my desire to be lovely is something that I feel entitled to, but rather should not dwell upon. Though, I will admit that most women, if not all, want to feel lovely on some substantial level. Just as men want to feel like warriors, or something like that (perhaps I’m falling into a “Wild at Heart” Pit.) Regardless, I think it’s so sad how some people can hit you where it hurts the most, and be fine with that. And I think when it comes to many women, a blow to our beauty seems to be fairly, if not entirely, brutal.

It is true that we should not dwell on our outward beauty, but at the same time, I feel that it displeases God equally to critically abash others outward beauty, particularly those of the female sort. I will attest to the truth that it is not easy being a girl, especially in such a materialistic culture, though surprisingly, I have found some of the harshest critics, not to bash Biola (because I love Biola,) right in the home turf. I suppose what it is that I’m trying to say, is that it isn’t easy to maintain nice hair, a flawless face and a stylish outfit (though to many this is not even outwardly enough,) and honestly, I don’t think that is a real measure of beauty. But regardless, many comments detour otherwise, suggesting that many people (male, and females are guilty of this as well,) think they deserve a level of attractiveness, and will dish out cutting comments in an attempt to secure this.

In conclusion, beauty is important, and I know it’s important to God as well, though his idea of beauty is rapidly different then ours. My prayer is that we learn to build each other up, rather then down, and that we are mindful of the way we evaluate others, as words have the power to really affect people, and beauty should be something treasured, not picked apart.

MY GRANDPA ROCKS!

God is good.

Sometimes I forget to just stop and think this. In my life God has been good, and what better way to attest to others his wonder, his glory and the very truth of Christianity, then by sharing how God is good in our lives. Sure, there are rough points, but I believe it's in the rough points that we see the depth of his love. Then in the high points, in those beautiful high points, we cannot forget him.

Right now I don't feel like complaining, I don't feel like worrying, I just want to bask in how good God really is.

Yes, the phrase may be ambiguous, but ambiguous be it. In its defense, the phrase "I love you" can be quite ambiguous, though its implications stand tall. Therefore, "God is good" may be frequently used in Christian circles, and in reality be a fairly board thing to say, though, in my opinion it's the broad effect of the phrase that gives it that infinite mystery, that undefinable wonder. So, in all its infinite treasure--God is good!

Johnny Cash "Walks the Line," I draw the line...

I absolutely detest loosing friends, I feel it’s not necessary, as friendship, in its essence is free, and to loose it, well, makes me ill.

The problem is there are some friends who take, take, take, and at times friendship requires giving. Some friends hurt you and they simply do not care, and since most would attest such characteristics add up to not really being a friend, it is advisable to let the fake friend go before they suck every piece of dignity from you. That’s the part I’d rather not partake it.

Though how long can a person allow themselves to be dragged along until they are forced to let go? A relationship takes two sides, and if one person has nothing to add, I suppose the friendship just withers.

Then, of course, there’s the spiritual concern. Love your neighbor, forgive others…the list of philanthropy continues. Though were these words meant in a way that requires the emptying of oneself for the sake of loving another who doesn’t care for us? In some senses yes, as Jesus did this with us, but in a Christian friendship I do believe there’s a line, and somewhere between the absence of dignity and the minor effects of self destruction the line becomes quite evident.

It’s just; I used to believe there was good in everyone, that a cold individual was a cover-up and that everyone surely felt. I’m not so sure anymore. I do however stand behind the idea of some sense of good in each individual, as being made in the image of God requires this, but the cold part, that’s the part that is becoming disappointingly true. Cold has no place in my logic, seeing that the idea of hurting others makes me distraught to such an extent that I often find myself replaying innocent conversations in my head in an attempt to qualify that I have a character that is sensitive and mindful. And though I fail at times, it is in my failure that I learn and grow, but the cold hearted seem to rest in a stagnate pool of self absorption and oblivion, rarely recognizing the pain they have caused others.

Upon establishing this, I further to say that people of that nature have no place in a friendship, as that kind of take only leaves a person worse off then the beginning of the friendship, and edification runs dry. Regardless, I continue to avidly detest the sole idea of the loss of friendship, but I suppose sometimes it’s the only way, and if it really is the only way (unless one’s inflicted with superpowers and can see another way) it must be God’s way.

Despite it all, I am so sorry. Hey, at least in Heaven we won’t loose friends.

~The storyteller extraordinar: my Grandpa

My grandpa is the single best storyteller I have ever met. I could sit on my grandparents canvas couch for endless hours and listen to his stories. He’ll talk about anything from how things used to be, to the way things should be, to the funky birds in Africa—it really doesn’t matter, because, to me, it’s all interesting.

When I was a kid he always had the best games to play. I remember I would crawl into my grandma and his bed on mornings after I had slept over, eager to snuggle between two of my favorite people. He would be watching some morning talk show, and I would lie quietly relishing every moment. As soon as a commercial would hit the screen, I would climb onto his knees, then when I least expected it, he would drop his knees, and I would squeal with sheer delight.

In the evenings he would watch his programs on TV, and when he looked good and snoozing I would waltz over (in my grandma’s floor length princess-worthy nighty,) crotch on the carpet and tie his work boots together. Then, I would sneakily steal his hanky out of his pocket and resume hiding it in the unsought corners of the house.

But the tables spun both ways, as my grandpa had tricks of his own. He would take my beloved Elmo stuffed animal (actually my Elmo that I claimed was spelt Almo) and would strap him to the fan with duck tape, then when I least suspected the kidnapping, he would crank the ceiling fan to full speed and tell me to look up: there barred to the cheap wooden slabs would be my little treasure spinning as violently as a Ritalin desperate kid in the Disneyland Teacups.

Every summer we’d go on a vacation, usually to the ocean, but sometimes to the Black Rock Dessert or some place way in what my grandparents called, the “boonies.” My grandpa would go out during the hot summer days and collect magnificent rocks then come back in the evenings and tell my grandma and I all sorts of stories.

Those were the days.

My grandma is…well, amazing, but I’ll save that for another post.

Part II: The Anti-Darcy (written by the request of Michelle)

The Anti-Darcy: the Victorian Literature version of the Anti-Christ, if you will—nothing short of a cad.

The Anti-Darcy can be found in the most unexpected of places, usually with some formal viscid to throw his suitors for a loop. Selfish, narcissistic, leaking with pride, his only amiable quality is reputation, which he compulsively seeks to repair, restore and relinquish, as his true identity must never be revealed.

Do not be afraid, Anti-Darcy’s are scarce; having such superhuman qualities like coldness at any cost, that no proper human could or would attain this. And though I advise the reader not to fear the Anti-Darcy, I will advise to be leery of the being because no bite can delve deeper.

Deceitful, single-minded and thoughtless, a step beyond aloof—character and respect hold no place in this form.

The only downfall is unlike Darcy, the Anti-Darcy is not fictional—not fictional at all…

D-A-R-C...Y? Because we want him.

What is it with the female obsession with Mr. Darcy? No one has actually seen Mr. Darcy, no one has actually spoken with Mr. Darcy, let’s face it, Mr. Darcy is fictional. But that does not stop the female force—no, on the contrary, it really only gives it room to grow, to idealize, to imagine, and pretty soon no man, in the romantic sense, can esteem to remotely comparable to the Mr. Darcy. Let’s face it, we are born with a male archetype, and just like the idea of good and evil being planted in us from day one, so is our idea of the male hero entirely compatible with Darcy.

What strikes me about Darcy is the fact that he is the trust of heroes, in really, a real life setting. It is not as though he scaled castles walls or floured the stormy sea to rescue his love and pursue world peace, but rather, he began as a rather stogy character stuck on himself, on his life, on his opinions—or so it seemed. But that all quickly changed as the story began to unfold.

First off, Mr. Darcy liked a girl not for her position in society, her looks, or even her charm, but really on the basis of disposition alone. He recognized that Elizabeth was different, that he could never tire of her, that her intellect was rapid and her thought original, it was her mind that caught him—now that is admirable.

Secondly, he was courageous. He chose to tell her all that he felt for her, risking a chance of rejection and a lower view in society. A true gentleman he proved to be, who was honest with both himself and others.

But then, the grand finale of it all, the “kicker,” if you will; Darcy overcame his most violent battle for the cause of love, he overcame pride. And with what courage he overcame it with. When Darcy found why Elizabeth was frustrated with him, instead of whining and complaining that it wasn’t his fault he proved it with nobility and fixed anything that he may have done with such a dignity he could not help but steal any girls heart. Darcy, an ordinarily prideful man, put aside his pride for the love of another, hence, demonstrating the power of love, and how great love makes a person better.

So, perhaps Darcy is fictional, but regardless, what women could resist. After all, how can you resist the perfect fictional man?

CCR--that change music

Every time I have a big change in my life I listen to Credence Clearwater Rival (CCR.) I must get to the bottom of this:

Growing up my dad was extremely picky about musical choice, everything I listened to was deemed “noise,” but his classic rock, now that was music. My mom would have no part in this, as the second my father walked into her life she terminated the fire-engine red corvette, blaring speedboat that required earplugs upon each lake destined adventure and confined the rock music to the basement (ohh, women…)

My dad, though a trooper, was determine to culture me in the world of rock n’ roll on his own time. Since Zeppelin, can hardly be considered nursery rhyme music, my dad fought for a selection of ballads a bit less temperamental—Credence.

Though my ears had become accustomed to the Best of Credence Clearwater growing up, it wasn’t until High School I actually became aware that they could possibly be that one band that I listen to when nothing else feels settled.

In part, their music has won me on the very basis of pure nostalgia, in part because my dad thought it was cool, but soon I developed some reasons of my own. You see, they have the kind of lyrics and tone that doesn’t fed depression, but doesn’t fuel happiness either. The only band I can listen to when in sheer glee, or when I’m (in the words of Anne of Green Gables,) the depths of despair. Something about the music is comforting regardless of my current emotion.

Something about CCR takes me to that “so be it” mindset, and whatever is, seems perfectly fine to be as is. And the cool thing about it, is though the songs all have different memories that flood when I hear them, even if it was not a particularly great memory, it is the only music that the bad memory connotations don’t affect me.

It brings me back to my dad, a beach trip with a friend, graduating from high school, a family camping trip, my high school guy friends using it to run out to at a basketball game or playing pool in our basement, a certain someone from high school, a certain someone from college, moving to college, crying, feeling really happy, a birthday and now heading off to London…

As cheesy as it sounds, and as cheesy as other people think it may be, I can’t help it, it just fits, it’s my change music, except the cool part is, the music never changes.

More poetry...

~Put it on the Tab~

My hearts in my throat, I taste blood when I breathe, I had no idea this would be killing me,
From this posture I’m gleaming, so ready and deceiving, an air of confidence unfit to measure,
Here’s to wit—just one last time, here’s to charm—you can put it on my dime; a glass raised to the stars, I’ll exit with the charge, here’s to every seamless thing you wanted me to be,
I knew this would end, but to pretend, a performance for you to treasure,

I dare not explain myself, but as certain as misery, I strive to explain you,
Something must compensate this sorrow; some part of this pay had to be a mistake,
Over and over it presses in my head, over and over everything that wasn’t said, this recipe for askew,
No book, no stare, no voice, no prayer, could fasten all that’s designated opaque,

Though before I bow out, a dance so shrewd and discrete, I feel I need to give one more toast to the freedom love promised to be,
Liberty to choose, life to loose, a looseness to let go when the curtain falls in blither,
How wrong had I been, a puzzle to discover, this independence gave me little to see,
Unearthed by emotion, struck by this fight, choice transformed into restriction, a folly untaught of pleasure,

Hand me the sentiment, I’ll take the bill, let me in peace, while I piece together this view,
Fingertips clench heartstrings, misted eyes can hide, you leave me with nothing short of fake,
One last smile, one final gaze, and as your silhouette lingers, the beauty hurts as unsullied as new,
Composure leaves the best of us, though it won’t desert me tonight, I pick up my dignity, I fumble for my pride, closures overrated because compassions overdue—there’s nothing left to take.

A bit of poetry never hurt anybody, right?--

~Every Love Story Has a Way Out~

Half of nobody; have to be half of somebody, so I wait,
Missing pieces they bind us, broken we scramble for hope,
Empty to be filled, something has to fill us, what a state,
Time, like a rope, it twists and turns everything we ever spoke,

Your eyes have grown dull, your smile like steal, like a statue of cryptic emotion—I swear I’m too late,
So pretty in lavender, so pretty in spring, too afraid to notice, so all you do is joke,
I waited and waited, as dreamers often do, but as feet shifted against gritty asphalt I knew it was me I should hate,
Words dissolve into laughter, pain shrinks back every tear, smiling like a portrait, chiming in on cue, and with every elapsed word, I broke,

Scenes from foolish movies, fragments of fanciful plays, paperback stories of fruition, songs that foretold: promised us a further fate,
If only, we could spill out every shoddy word, befuddled becoming the new poised, candor replacing wit, subtleties in smoke,
To be truthful, flesh and bones did promise us human, sentences and words, promised us a right, but no precedence could assure how this would rate,

You deem yourself strong, but strength can be so weak; you think this is the right thing, but you forgot to remember that even a hero is bound to need, and as words squelch a silence that is screaming to speak, eyes can’t deny eyes, and even you start to choke,
If I could sing a thousand emotions, palm every forgotten tear, fill every empty promise, paint over the scratches in every broken dream and undo every single fear—nothing could sate,
We are what we are, it is what it is; but if you would have let me, I would have tired, for what it’s worth—I would have—but all that’s left is splintered hope,
Half of nobody; have to be half of somebody, so I wait.

~Color fails the Colorless~

Words they restrain us, as the proscribed is all that’s needed to say,
Heartbeats they deceive us, as nothing within something can reveal its state,
Moments, like music, drive us by their highs and lows, a game unfit to play,
Empty eyes deceive me, but in the end, a hallowed core will never sate,

Hold it all together; you can’t just slip away,
Hold it all together; everything won’t stay the same,
To tame the current to turn, to teach the sun to be dark, to stop the world because you want it to, a silly notion to embark,

Off the trail, only to be on the trail, out of the way, only to be in the way,
A viscid of beauty, this mask etching with holes, crying for any cover to conceal the hearts fate,
Time it tortures, as day after day, this struggle cannot find its pay,
Like a web of dreams muddled in pain, a web of truth, founded too late,

Hold it all together; you can’t just slip away,
Hold it all together; everything won’t stay the same,
To tame the current to turn, to teach the sun to be dark, to stop the world because you want it to, a silly notion to embark,

As the blind sees no form, the lost no religion, so to the unfeeling love will never sway,
Though faith cannot cease, as it’s convinced this may one day rate,
Nothing, so sorry to be nothing, something, so hopeful to be something, but to be uncertain, this I cannot pray.
These eyes of insuperable measure, this voice of weakened tone—a paradox that leaves me with nothing left to say.

~Excerpt from "Night"~

As the brightened moon makes shadows mold from its light, does this ever wake you, panicked in a fright,
You move from side to side, afraid you just might fear, and in those scarce moments do you wish someone was near,
A hand reaches for water, eyes blinded by the clock, you think “should I go to the bathroom” or should I just lay in mind games and slowly should I rock,
You give into this annoying task, your bony feet slap onto the floor, and behind the creaking bathroom door, the moon sees your face no more,
Alas, this late night furry ends, alas your fidgets are calm, and as you pull the sheets over your head you are too tired to care what’s going wrong,
But the thoughts they torment, so you moan and pray that someday these thoughts might be okay,
And madness turns to exhaustion, exhaustion succumbs to sleep, and in this night your restless dreams will make efforts in your next days work very hard to think...

Prayer: powerful? Useless? Undecided? Yeah….

Every night I lie in bed, shut my eyes and pray. The thing I like about prayer is that nobody has to know what you are praying about, nobody has to know if you are praying for them, it can be completely intimate, just between you and God.

Though I pray diligently each night, and often whisper small prayers throughout my day, to be completely honest, prayer can be frustrating. Sometimes I’ll pray about things for months on end, for years even, and nothing seems to change. At times I feel as though I could yell at the top of my lungs, a chorus of praise and desires flooding the ears of Heaven, and yet, still nothing. That’s why I started keeping a prayer journal.

I think about what it is that I’m praying for, and I write it down on the ivory pages of my journal. I only use the journal a few times a month, as my prayers don’t often change, but many of times the way I pray for something does change, and I will then write down the new way it’s being prayed for, and wait in exuberant expectation (literally) to see how God will work through my prayers.

Lately though…lately I’ve felt discouraged, as though my prayers would do far better shouted into a cave, then voiced up to God. Though this afternoon when I was checking my voicemail, I had received a message from one of my professors, who had been thinking about me and praying for me and she was just calling to tell me that.

I wish I could better explain the feeling that consumed me when I heard those words. She had been praying for me—what better thing could you ask of a person. And this was no person who I talked to on a regular basis, no person who necessarily knew to be praying for me, but she had been. God knew that I’d needed those prayers, and he instilled it into another’s heart to pray for me.

Suddenly I didn’t feel that my prayers were as empty as I’d deemed, suddenly, I began to realize that maybe all the people I’d been praying for needed those prayers, as I’d been needing the prayer, and just because I hadn’t seen direct results of my prayer, in no way meant they were useless.

In Isaiah 40 it asks who can be the consoler of the Lord—obviously no one. It paints that indelible theme that God knows more then we can ever know, and does things that are beyond us ever single second of our lives. Just because we become tired, just because we repeat the same things and just because things don’t always end the way we want them to, doesn’t mean we should cease prayer.

Prayer: powerful! There is not space enough to support why I believe this. And what a joy I find prayer to be, as I lie there each night, talking with God, and not only do I get to talk, but he really listens. Now that is cool.

Fairytale-Shamarytale...if only I could let it go at that!

Sometimes I wish life was a fairytale; that endings were happy, love reciprocated, beauty authentic and dreams went straight to gold. I know it may sound ungrateful, but at times, I wish it just the same.

I will close my eyes and make up stories in my head; the hero will always save the day, and as ridiculous as it may be, my knight and shining armor never fails to whisk me away.

Maybe in real life fairytales look a little different. Maybe in real life a fairytale is having both a mom and a dad who love you, a roof over your head and siblings who make everyone proud, not to mention “you” being the stellar scholar or athlete that never ceases to shine. Though in my opinion, this sounds like a very dull fairytale, despite what goodness it may appear to entail…

I’ve been reading Paradise Lost, thumbing through the dense poetry leaves my mind a whirl, but the concept sticks none the less. The world is fallen, whether we want it to be or not, and God will make something of this fallen place—I have confidence.

Sometimes though, as selfish as it sounds, I wish that people would say how they really felt, and I wish that the truth wouldn’t hurt as badly as it has in the past. I wish people would fight a little more for what they wanted and talk about it a little less. And I wish, that once in awhile, people would chase after you admitting they were wrong—I’d like it if someone surprised me.

Will I ever be Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty or Belle? I’m guessing no. But sometimes I sure wish…

I suspect I read books because when I’m in that book, I’m somewhere else, when I’m in that book I can feel the characters and be the characters, and for a few select hours I can be divinely beautiful or astonishingly clever, in the turn of a page my ideas can be challenged, and the providence of a seemingly important life is put to the test.

Jane Eyre was a revolutionary for her time, as no women (I have read of) matched her honesty-infested charm, Joe March, a free spirit that loved so hard and so deeply you cannot help but fall in love with her, Jane Bennet was so sweet and so demur, one wants to jump right into the book and force her to show all that she felt, and how can one not fall in love with Cosette? Or feel an odd sense of pain when the Phantom cries about his inability to be loved by another. Literature: so tragic, so beautiful, and so seemingly real. But is it?

I suppose it’s real enough for one to relate, real enough to inspire. But I cannot help but ask, if my life was a book, wouldn’t someone surprise me? It certainly wouldn’t have ended like that.

And though I fear that whoever may be reading this is drowning in the vagueness of all that I share, for something so trivial and public, this is all the thoughts I can express.

Though, I end with this: do not waste your life in fear. Because I think most of us want a little fairytale, and as I do recall, the coward rarely saves the day.

The Ant Charmer: a lemon scented death

--Why make poison in pleasing fragrances, it only gives animals poor scent associations

~ I carry a can of Raid strapped to my waist, because that’s what you do when you live in a jungle of ants. It works quite grandly, I simply bust out the ironically lemon scented poison from the side of my hip, and point the can face to face with the little insects.

Killing ants is not always easy, but someone has to do it. I am not going to lie, there have been times (more then one) that the spray has found its way in my eye, nose and yes, even mouth. Not to mention on my legs and feet, though this holds little weight in the situation because when you have Gerty, Pete, Simon and everyone they’ve ever known crawling up your leg at lightening quick speeds the last thing you focus on is where the poison is going. The only skill is simply to make sure the poison is aimed in such a fashion that their glorious ebony structures stiffen, thus falling on a pile of lifeless ant corpses awaiting the broom or dreaded vacuum to whisk them away to their burial of nothing more then common dust.

Now, if you have not quickly noted, I will be hasty to inform you: reader, I do not care for ants. Do not misunderstand me, it is not that I seek in my daily activities to kill the miniature beasts, but if they get in my way it is only natural that I un-strap the can of Raid and complete my duty. As an apartment renter, a cleanly individual and a female (which I feel gives me some stance in the realm of not liking insects) I find it my duty to extinguish the ghastly creatures, or else they’ll keep breading and eating, and quite possibly explode from a people food overdose, and what a way to go? Gluttony is in no way noble, and is certainly not as glorious as Raid.

What I fail to understand are there methods; for creatures so small they are smart you see. Once my turbo finger violently strikes the Raid nozzle they vanish, and yes, some to their grave, but many back into the cracks and corners of the dingy old wall and carpet. And you see, though I am fully aware that their brains are relative to their actual size, I would still assume that they are small enough to not understand their war against us. One would assume?

Furthermore, what if the ants are out to get us? I wouldn’t put it past the buggers to have a divine conspiracy waiting to be unleashed, screaming to be told. I think those massive ant attacks are a foreshadowing of what’s to come. When you look down on your bedroom floor and see what closely resembles dancing coffee, then look again and see a mutiny of ants, this my friends is the beginning, pretty soon their strategies will work and our chemicals will fail. Pretty soon strapping Raid to my side will only be effective on the decoy ants. That’s it: I’m balming this place, because if Raid won’t work, maybe a thick cloud of poison will. Or better yet, I’ll suck it up and fight them, mono y mono—there has to be a way….yeah, moving (don’t worry, I’m out in three weeks.) Until then I have my lemon scented Raid, maybe I should try the Rainforest Breeze scent next time? ~

Van Gogh hasn't got anything on my tree...

There’s this tree that sits outside my window, it’s really quite extraordinary, with vibrant lilac flowers blossoming from its ivory and tan bark, its long branches swooping delicately in such a fashion that it appears as though it’s reaching up to the pale blue heavens. At night it’s a bit magical, as its figure reminds me of the uncertainty so indelibly marked in Van Gogh’s Starry Night, its form nothing short of alluring, and a tad spooky, belonging to the night world I have never really known. Oh, but by day it delights me, as I have never beheld such a glorious tree, and though its night form unnerves me, I am intrigued by it nonetheless.

I’d study it as I’d fall asleep, peaking out from the pillows and blinds, the figures indifference to my existence amusing me, the figures sway like a spell-induced lure.

If someone would have told me their were other trees I would have simply gawked straight into their face in a look of frustration and absurdity, as no tree could ever or would ever compare to this one. But I suppose naivety only runs so deep, I suppose the imagination only goes so far, I suppose truth has to blindside us every once in awhile: my tree wasn’t anything special, in fact, it was on the contrary, for it was like a million others that I’d failed to see this Spring.

Upon my discovery of my somewhat cliqued tree, I suddenly saw these trees everywhere, the purple blossoms dancing in the wind, the delicate ivory resting its back upon the faintly clouded sky. When I managed to move, to search a little, to step a bit further, the trees were plentiful, its originality became scarce.

Though there is nothing to fear I suppose, because someday I’ll find a truly unique tree, something unlike all the rest, someday I’ll find the truest beauty. But I’ll never forget that first purple tree, so intriguing, so alluring—simply beautiful.

There is this red tree….