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….

*****Because I was never a boy....I was a girl.........................................................
There is something about songs that take you back to places.
I was standing next to the sink brushing my teeth listening to some oldies rock song, muttering words, that I don’t even know how I know, and thinking back to when I was about six or seven…
We used to have this summer home a couple hours away from our house, just past the city, nestled up in the woods, right on a huge river. Even though it was called a summer home, we didn’t stay their all summer, but rather, would go for the weekend when the weather was particularly nice or my parents were feeling more adventurous then usual. I remember thinking it was the greatest place, because I was allowed to walk all around alone. I would walk down what seemed to be thousands of old cement steps, across a rickety wooden bridge and to a small wooden building where you could buy food. I always thought this was the coolest thing, because I could charge it to my dad (he gave me permission,) which meant that I could sit on the big, round, wooden stools and pick out the five cent Now and Later’s and Jolly Ranchers, and put it all on my dad’s tab. The older kids would play pool and stick their extra coins in the jut box, and I would get especially excited when the song “Love Shack” came on…please, don’t ask me why, I have no idea. During the afternoons I would go down to the beach with my mom, we would take a huge umbrella and set it up on the sandy shore, then I was to wade in the muddy river, build things out of wet sand and rocks, and make friends with the other little kids on the beach. Sometimes at night we would go for walks, and the pine scent and cool breeze would wrap all around me as my dad pushed me on the swing. Or my dad would impress me with his rock skipping skills, as the sand polished stone would dance at least five times across the rivers face. On the weekends they would have night movies on a big screen, and I remember I would sit on the wood bench, wrapped in an old blanket and watch something like “The Mighty Ducks.” Or sometimes I would go off by myself and play in this mosey tree stump area. I would swing from the branches of vines that were implanted for aesthetic purposes, and end up making it about a centimeter off the ground, and not thinking much of my lack of coordination. Back at the cabin my dad would read me stories before I fell asleep, or we’d watch some cheesy cartoon, like “Rocky and Bowlwinkle.” I always wanted to play my dad’s guitar and make up ridiculous “fake rock songs” about things like bunny rabbits, and for some reason my parents never stopped me. When night came I would climb into the bed, which was always so comfortable, and smell the musty scent that the old place had and that my mom incessantly complained about, and fall into sleep.
I don’t know why that song made me think of this, but I like this memory. Sometimes I just want to be little again, it was so much simpler. When I was little I could say things that I wanted to say without worrying about what people thought, I was constantly cute, or at least unaware if I wasn’t, I felt so loved, and though it’s not that I have serious issues with these things now, I can’t deny that the thought of being little is appealing.
Life is good, it’s great, but sometimes it just gets tiring, and when I was at the cabin, settled in the woods, being tired never registered to me.
I get sick of trying…if someone is going to love me, they are going to have to love me as I am. Even if that means that I giggle at the most awkward times, if too much of my teeth show when I laugh, if I don’t have a perfect figure, if I talk too much when I get nervous, if I laugh really hard when I make a mistake, if I don’t know how to say things I want to say because I’m too afraid, if I do stupid girly things, and if I am completely 100% unexplainable—they are going to have to love me, or else I’m sorry, but I give up, because if they can’t learn to appreciate that, then they obviously forgot to look a little deeper and see that maybe I’m worth seeing. And if not, I’m fine with just me-God-my quirky roommate, and our grandma like sleeping habits.

"To flush or not to flush, apparently this is a cause for great diliberation among public bathroom goers"

There aren’t many things in this world that I don’t like. I mean, I figure God puts things on this earth for a reason, and even if something seems bad, it most likely could always be worse. But I must admit there are a few things I find beyond the realms of deal able, and though it may be petty I am about to own up to it anyway.
I don’t like public restrooms.
Where should I begin. Firstly, they smell, and seeing that it’s a public restroom one can’t walk in hold your nose and go, “Eww, man, who did that!” So, you have to walk bravely through, pretend the smell isn’t killing you with ever breath you take, and do anything not to make the slightest face to possibly offend one of the leaving patrons who could very well have been a cause to the scent.
Then finding a stall, I mean if there is a line, you kind of don’t have a choice, you have to take the first one available, or Nancy, Freda, and Pacco will all glare at you if you hold up the line because your too choosey for the stall, and when someone stays in a stall too long, then finally comes out the rest of the line has that silent, “Haha, I’m glad it’s not me who has to go in there” smirk.
Now if there is no line you can choose your restroom, but that usually ends up like shopping at a garage sale for something like socks—they will all inevitably have some sort of issue, so you have to tuff it up, find the best one and march in, but sometimes the experiences in finding the most suitable stall can be detrimental to say the least. Now when I was potty trained my mother taught me to flush, but I don’t think this is common among Americans, because I cannot express to you how many times I have seen things left in toilets that just shouldn’t have been.
Or you have the “wet floor syndrome,” when for some unknown reason the floors are covered in water, or some type of liquid, and toilet paper particles are mixed in making a white slur, this being most common at truck stop or beach restrooms.
Then there are the minor details, like a stall that has no toilet paper, and you are left calling out “Hey, Mary pass the toilet paper down here,” or no seat coverings, or the “unfriendly neighbor,” a.k.a. a loud stranger next to you…and the list just continues, such as if the door doesn’t have a lock, then the whole time you are trying to hold it, and it’s swaying back and forth, as you experience at least five close calls. And of coarse the dreaded button, that shiny metal circle that is infected with who knows what diseases and germs, located midway up the wall, that either has to be, heaven forbid touched, or karate kicked in such a fashion that it would most likely end with half of you in the toilet and your head severally damaged in some close to fatal way.
I would get into portapottes, but the fact that I have already spent over 500 words ranting on this less then unimportant subject already makes this piece pitiful, and well pointless, so I will stop there, leaving the rest up to you.

~Sometimes it all feels like too much. When I say too much you must know what I’m saying. It’s just something bad happens, and as time passes, something, yes something, heals the pain. For a Christian it’s God, for an atheist perhaps a dose of existentialism, and for someone who surfs the plains on a less deep level it is the sweet satisfaction that comes from what they do have, because what lies beyond that is none of their concern at that time, and if in fact it is God they do believe we encounter when one exceeds this life, then they do not associate him with the negative happenstance, but rather, the reality of the blessings that were fulfilled, and an icon of the future. Regardless, we all deal. Though what happens is that one moment you are fine, but then seconds later you remember how when your grandma was alive she would bake you cookies that smelt like the bakery you just by chance found yourself in that random day, or, late at night you may stare out the window off into the starry abyss and be strongly reminded of the passions you’ve now dismissed, the dreams that have vanished. And with one word his eyes or her smile may flash into your mind, and your heart aches with the bitter pain of what was and what no longer is. It is moments such as these that I do not shake off the pain, but rather embrace it. One might find this contrary to the existence of a happy life, but I find it necessary. You have two choices, to face the pain, yet truly feel. Or to dismiss the pain, but live on the outside. I neglect the latter, for fear of never truly living, and loosing the passion in not ever really letting go of something that matters to you. Or perhaps, for faith, a faith that requires no fear in emotion, a faith that requires the most painful honesty with oneself.~

* If I lay here, if i just lay here...would you lie with me, and just forget the world?*

Leaving is the worst. To look into someone’s eyes and have to say goodbye is just plain horrible. When I leave I like to do it “Band-Aid style”—quick and efficient. You can’t fully plain your leave, but rather, you have to jump into you car and hit the road. At first, you bit your lip, because you so desperately want to cry, but soon your music is turned up as loud as it can go, and you try to forget the life you just left, and remember the one you’re returning to.
I love home, I love almost everything about it, but when I stay here to long I get restless; that’s why it’s good for me to move. I love the summertime, when the sun is hot and bright, and my skin gets tan. I love the lake, and how it feels with the wind whipping at your face when you’re on a boat or a jet ski. I love to run on the soft dirt of the track, as the sprinkler splashes my face and the summer evening sets in. There is nothing like the promise of a sunshine summer morning, and the magic in a warm summer evening. I love friends, and family, and to just be, in all life’s happenings.
I don’t like goodbyes. I don’t like leaving home, but it’s good for me, and in a few days my priorities will be miles and miles away. Besides, it’s not goodbye, it’s just see you soon.

LIKE POISON TO MY EARS--

Alright, so get this: It’s Thursday night, and I’m about ready to go for my nightly (well kind of, sometimes, nightly run) when I hear it—“Are you ready to rock boys,” then bang, ba, ba, bang, and a raspy voice of what I could only safely predict came from a sixty-five year old chain smoker starts busting out the infamous classic rock jam, “Johnny Be Good.” It’s like death to my ears, rising up over the mountain…the shear tone, the very essence, ugh, the sound! Where is it coming from?
We have a very “trendy” restaurant in town. Now when I say trendy, I am referring to the mid-forties and early fifty-year-old’s dating hotspot. It is a rather quant restaurant on the corner of my ridiculously small town, and the middle aged folk flock like cattle herding toward their lunch. The women put on their racy tops, that probably should have been traded in for something a bit more modest for a mom, and the men put on their coolest belt buckles to try and hide their rapidly increasing stomachs, and they all march down to this semi-classy joint to drink way too much, eat way to little in relationship to the inflated price, and look as smashing as they can possibly pull off--and tonight happened to be band night.
Seeing that I live on a hill about 3 minutes from this night club for the middle-age, the summer winds grace me with the opportunity to hear the glorious ballads, sung by who knows who. After hearing the fragmented “Johnny Be Good” and a very sad rendition of “La Bamba” I became thoroughly convinced that the band was not even required to audition prior to playing there, and they quite possibly were doing this horrendous act of singing entirely for free; because I have no idea who would fund such a noise, but could rather see the tables turned, and the band paying the restaurant to become exposed. And let me inform you—they were exposed, to almost an extent of exploitation as that noise found its way unexplainably loud infesting my home and the residences of surrounding neighbors. There was nowhere to hide, just THAT sound, and the faint remembrance of the crickets that, in truth, should be all I was hearing on this breezy summer evening.
In closing, let me put it this way, if I was paying the electric bill, the windows would be shut an extra two hours, the air would be on, and the sound of Leroy McGee, or whoever the heck is singing his lungs out down there, would drown away. And if anyone complained to me about the effects of using the air-conditioning for so long during an energy crisis, I would simply play them a sample of that noise, and let me tell you, they would understand.

Fairly odd Family: A Melissa version of Chelle's family blog...
Mom:
-Mops our floors at lest twice a day.
-Has conversations with the cat.
-Frequently comes into my bedroom at 6:30a.m to wake me up to see if her outfit looks ok.
-Rarely ever reads the back of movies when she rents them, therefore has a history of bringing home “interesting” movie choices.
-Always refers to a food item as “nice” if she wants you to eat it, i.e., I made a “nice” soup.
-Never runs out of questions, even if you ask her to.
-Bribes you to massage her feet.
-Always buys sale items from the Gap on the internet.
-Infomercials were made for people like her.
-Always sleeps with a pillow for her knees.
-Is known to add an “S” to ever store name, i.e., “Abercrombies, Victoria’s Secrets.”
-Fears: Family being unhappy, people who chew ice, and dirt.
-Dream day: Being at home with her family, with a refrigerator full of groceries and a spotless house (including clean pets.)
Dad:
-Refuses to invest in doctor prescribed glasses, so wears awkward spectacles when he reads that look like their from the 1940’s.
-Is constantly building and inventing things.
-Is known to do yard work at 2:30p.m in 100 degree weather.
-Favorite gifts: Anything regarding tools or Biola paraphernalia that also has the word dad somewhere on it.
-Idea of dress shoes=black tennis shoes.
-Whenever I dress up always goes … “fancy.”
-When he gets full shakes his head back and forth, yet keeps eating.
-If he could, would put Tabasco on everything.
-Always gives very detailed instructions.
-Finds immense joy in milkshakes.
-Fears: Me parking in his spot and if his family stopped liking the Giants.
-Dream day: Something involving golf or pool and the family.
Me:
-Would rather pass out because of pain then take medicine.
-Never can finish a meal without spilling at least some of it on my shirt.
-Love pj’s to such an extent, that if I have nowhere to go I will take a shower, then put on clean pj’s.
-Finds entertainment in movies to an abnormal level.
-Could amuse myself for months and never get bored.
-When I sleep in, eats lunch about an hour after breakfast.
-Has to force self to be awake beyond 12p.m. (if I can make it even there.)
-Always subconsciously hums the same tune when I’m nervous.
-Can tan two shades in about 15 min.
-Frequently call my mom Carmelita, Carmen, Carms, ect.
-Am also known to call animals by different names then their own just to see their reactions.
-Always working on projects, i.e., scrap booking, finishing a book, writing, collaging, yes, once even paint by numbers.
-Fears: Not having a project to work on, having to take cough syrup.
-Dream Day: Dressing up, going to Italy, and dancing in the rain with Mr. Darcy….

Unleashing "the beast" (my car)--
Living nine hours away has its perks. Momentarily I cannot think of many, but I suppose the main perk is worth thousands—you get to be somewhere new, entirely new, and you are embarked with a new kind of independence, but when it comes to driving by yourself for nine hours in order to get home one begins to wish that home was a bit closer.
Summer school=being at school for six extra weeks. Now as daunting as it sounds, it wasn’t all that bad considering I got two classes out of the way and I was able to go on a lot of trips during the weekends to visit friends and family that live around the area. But after being in school for a total of ten and a half months I cannot fully explain to you the utter excitement that encompassed me when I was at last able to go home.
I left a day early, in hopes of surprising my mom. I literally shoved everything into my car, that is, after stuffing it all in garbage bags, and dragging it down the stairs and along the black pavement. It was nearly a hundred degrees, and I kept stuffing things into the backseat of my car. I can’t even fathom exactly how ridiculous I looked rolling down the freeway with big fluffy orange and yellow pillows peeking out the windows, and a stripped comforter as my passenger in the front seat.
After nearly two hours of labor, I left:
2:03p.m: Left campus listening to the new Red Hot Chili Peppers CD—all was good.
2:13p.m: Merge onto the 5 North.
2:17p.m: .0002 miles further down the 5, there was, er, traffic.
3:41p.m: Start over the grapevine listening to “I Heard it Through the Grapevine,” singing to myself like a crazy person.
4:02p.m: Stopping to get gas, and Starbucks, the Starbucks was a, um, mistake.
4:33p.m: Realizing my decaffeinated coffee was in fact caffeinated, and if you know me this is not good…..dancing to a strange oldies song.
4:44: Call someone and leave a 4 min message.
4:48: Call someone else
4:49: Call someone else
4:51: Is anyone home because the 5 is really boring.
5:33: Ok, I have to use the restroom, too much coffee.
5:44: Where is a bathroom?? Do people on the 5 not use bathrooms??? Can I use the outhouse for road workers on the side of the freeway.
5:59: I see an exit!
6:01: I missed the exit.
6:03: In chronic pain, has anyone ever died from having to pee so bad.
6:15: Can I just use the road? Do people on the 5 not pee?
6:17: I see an exit, I cut off two cars, nearly get killed, and take it. Sign says penitentiary 4 miles, food 9. Ok, not working.
6:19: Back on the 5, I can read my obituary now. “New meaning is brought to the saying when you gotta go, you gotta go, when a 19 year old girl literally has a fatal bladder accident.” (ok, so corny.)
6:21: I see a rest stop. Have I ever expressed how much I now love rest stops? At last the bathroom.
6:26: Back on the 5.
6:40: Undergo early signs or road rage. Why do people who are so freaken slow drive in the fast lane…I cannot handle this.
7:05: Stop for food and get hit on by locals.
8:00: Contemplate the many wonders of life…..needless to say, get know where.
8:33: Get gas at the sketchiest gas place I’ve ever seen. Lock doors twice.
9:03: Call Mom, and tell her I’m in Sacramento, and two hours from home, (this was the highlight of the trip.)
10:00: Suffer from the later stages of road rage, as trucks form in what I like to call a road barricade, taking both lanes at snail like paces, as if they are heading a parade.
10:33: Thirsty, but refuse to stop in fear of experience “can’t find a bathroom” happening again.
10:35: OFF the 5!
11:00: Road work in the middle of a county road, a sign says 30 min waits. My patience is diminishing—fast.
11:05: Open windows to try to wake up.
11:10: Road work let’s up quicker then it said, I speed home.
11:30: HomeJ
Nine hours in the car is very amusing, can’t you tell?

B-E-A-U-TIFUL!
What is beauty? Maybe things would be clearer if we really understood this.
When I was little I would try to look beautiful by dressing in my mom’s heals and work clothes. I would put on thick layers of bright lipstick, and totter around gazing at my six-year-old reflection having no doubt in my mind that this dress-up beauty I possessed was clearly princess quality. Those were the days.
Kindness is beautiful, love is beautiful, the list could go on and on, but when asked to define beauty, really define it, it becomes difficult.
In my art class we were asked this very question, “what is beauty.” I thought really hard about everything that I found beautiful, so maybe I could encompass the very word in a few nicely placed adjectives. Jesus is beautiful. Though we have no exact picture of how he appeared on the outside, on the inside we know he is truly beautiful, and that he encapsulates the very word.
But what about outer beauty? Have you ever seen someone and just gawked because you couldn’t figure out what makes them look to wonderful? Or looked at a sunset and felt like the moment could last forever because what you see is so breathtaking. We have all felt this, but what makes this?
When truly surveying it, it becomes clear that beauty is something that intrigues us, and for whatever reason this may be, we stand amazed. The pieces may not fit perfectly together, the description may seem less then par to someone else, but to us, it’s striking, and it is in this intrigue that we are captivated.
So maybe it’s looks that appeal to us, or a personality that touches our heart, even an astonishing act of kindness, but regardless, once it is infested in our heads, that beauty can not be forgotten.

Dorms. They’re a big thing on campus. So when dorm selection week rolls around, let me tell you: it’s intense. I’m talking about backstabbing, cutthroat, run for the lottery number, knock out your fellow classmate intense. There is paranoid banter running down the lines of people as people clench their dorm slip, with sweaty palms, bulging veins, wondering if they are going to get a courtside view, how close to the bathroom they will be, and if the cool RA that they really only know because they looked them up on Facebook is going to be on their floor.
Perhaps when saying all this I am speaking for the masses, but regardless, relationships between friends are affected by this, your morning view is affected by this, and the lovely shower you hopefully choose to grace daily will be affected by this. So when I chose Horton I was careful to choose wisely; naturally when I found out a couple weeks later that the dorm should be finished, the word “should” resonated nicely.
It has come to my attention that the completion of Horton fifth is still up in the air (no pun intended). This doesn’t really bother me, seeing that I am on the second floor and will not be suffering from the drafty weather conditions Horton fourth will encounter with the absence of a roof. But the advantages for Horton fourth are numerous, to say the least. With a lack of a roof, the floor will be able to enjoy a panoramic sky view, the fresh Los Angeles air, early fall rains, and who knows? Someone’s prince might scale the roof-less walls of Horton during non-open hours and create a scandal worthy of the Chimes’ front page.
The repercussions other floors will feel will be more subtle, but entertaining nonetheless. On move-in day, residents of floors one, two, three, and four may be greeted with several uninvited guests from fifth floor who are residing temporary until the completion of fifth. Imagine Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’s house if you will. If mom, dad, Charlie, and both sets of grandparents can fit into one room, think of what the expansive, spacious dorms rooms could do! Twin means two, right? So the whole twin bed situation shouldn’t be a problem.
And floor activities -- those should be fun. Of course it would be difficult to know who is on your floor if the floor doesn’t actually exist, but that can easily be fixed. I suggest the school provide tee shirts that say, “I live on fifth, sleep on fourth.” Or to avoid confusion entirely, one should go to the neighborhood Big 5 and purchase a plethora of tents, lanterns, and sleeping bags, and simply convert Horton fifth into a small, quant camping area adjacent to the power plant and parking lot.
In reality, I have confidence that Horton fifth will be completed by the fall. And besides, with a brand new five-story dorm, at least the ambiguous phrase, “should be completed” gives the materialistic, paranoid masses fodder to complain about.

Dreams are so good, so-so good, and when my head hits the pillow they capture me. Alarm is bad, so-so bad, and when the alarm blares the half-static, half-music noise from its frail speakers I am always so confused what exactly is going on, and from this my reaction is horribly delayed.
8 a.m. off campus aerobics…seemed like a good idea last December, looked cool putting its call number into my WebReg, and has been deal able all semester, that is until about two weeks before finals when the 7a.m. alarm is no other word but evil.
I get up, barely make it down the wooden steps of my bed, hardly avoid the wooden rack my laundry is drying on, and somehow manage to make it to the dingy carpet--barely alive, but breathing. I put on the work out clothes I laid out the night before (I know I’m a dork,) throw my hair into a ponytail, wash my face, eat some cereal, and leave, all the while contemplating the idea of skipping aerobics and not getting out of bed, as I have still not fully realized that I am out of bed.
The air is foggy with a slight chill, but the density of smog is far too heavy for it to be in any way refreshing. I stretch out my legs, careful not to further the injury of my swollen foot, and take off. But this morning, this morning felt different.
I began to think. Alright, think….different? No, I always think, it may very well be the ban of my existence, “the life of the over thinker,” but it was what I was thinking about this morning. I started to think about the end of the year, and began to really examine how God was working in my life.
As the weed whacker made its menacing threat in my direction, and small pieces of grass became stuck in the moisture of my eyes, I thought about what had changed in me. This year had been good, great actually, and God has blessed me in so many ways. I have made two best friends that I could compare to no one, have done well in my classes, not gotten homesick, joined a ministry that I am going to be director of next year, written for the Chimes, done Eaglevision, befriended professors, got the job as the Chimes next year’s Opinions Editor, and meet a handful of people that have touched me so many ways. Most importantly this year has brought me closer to God. But what the funny thing was, when I thought about growing closer to God, I began to seriously think, maybe it’s not just those things that have brought me to God.
Looking back on this year what God has blessed me with is pain. There has been an emptiness, a loneliness, an uncertainty within me, and in these times and in this emotion I have felt God. When I could not stand, God just held me, and though these words to some may sound corny, to me they are true. I came into college with expectations, with dreams, with ideas, and though many things are happening, they are happening God’s way, not mine. I do not know what tomorrow will bring, but God does, and it is through the pain and confusion of this year that I have realized the ultimate control God does have. You cannot make someone love you, you cannot make yourself successful, happiness is not your gift to yourself, but in all these things it’s God who works in you; if it is God’s will and you are ready he will unfold your life to you, and if you make his desires your desires, he will give you the desires of your heart.
So maybe I don’t know what the next chapter of my life will look like, or what big change in me God will create next, but in a way that is unexplainable God has worked in me this year, and that to me is an accomplishment in itself.
As the sketchy cars and unattractive headlights hit me in the eyes my run came to a close and I found myself standing in front of aerobics. I leaned on the rubber poll I always leaned on and took in a deep breath, filling my lungs, resting my exercised shocked body. This had been a long run, and thinking about an ending to my freshmen year makes me sad, seeing that I am the kind of person who hates to watch doors close and can’t look back when I say goodbye. But thinking about God… thinking about the changes in me, made me excited. Maybe next year will be painful, maybe my whole life will hurt, but God will drawl me to him through this pain, and it is when I am close to God that I can truly experience what love is.

Joy

Joy. Joy is the feeling you have when filled with God’s love. I remember I heard this at a chapel once and for some reason it has stuck with me. Happiness. Happiness, is the emotion that fills you when worldly things touch you—but joy, joy is overwhelming, beautiful, and truly a God thing.
I am sitting here right now, in a scrambled dorm room, looking at a cloudy bright sky, with about a million things to do, but truly all I can do is sit here and feel this joy from God. I don’t understand it, but that—that is the beauty of it.
There is nothing that special about today; I didn’t get a well deserved A on a paper, I didn’t have any mail from anyone special, I didn’t get to sleep in, I didn’t go buy a new outfit, I didn’t make someone laugh so hard they could hardly breathe, I didn’t get to lay on a warm sandy beach and hear the waves, hug a good friend, make a noticeable difference in someone’s life, no exciting love story, no good news from a friend or family member, and no surprises. But God, God has blessed me with joy, he is all I need, he has filled me with his overwhelming love, and though 75% of the time I tend to focus on what I want from God…..no, I do not feel this. I say God, you—you are enough.
“As I wait you make me strong, as I long, drawl me to your arms, as I stand and sing your praise—you come, you come and fill this place.”

Myspace, scantily clad to say the least...

Everyone has it. Well almost everyone that is. Myspace, the latest opinions rage that flares its way onto the morning news, casually is crossed on day-time talk shows, and has been the punch line to at least one joke on late-night TV. So then if it’s so good, what is it?
It is a networking of individuals who set up profiles and from there can interact with friends, groups, blogs….the whole shpeal. What makes it so opinionated? What makes it so opinionated is that a 40-year-old man in Malaysia can be checking out a 16-year-old girl in Tennessee, and after reading her profile alone, most generally have enough information to buy a plane ticket (money permitting) and meet her personally—just, without her knowing any of this is going on. Myspace is a stalkers paradise, a creepsters battlefield, the beginning of identity theft, and a not so intimate version of online dating (seeing as one party is generally unaware that they are being pursued.)
Now, do not misunderstand me, Myspace has its perks. You can write your friends goofy comments, aptly amuse yourself with various webpage fonts and backgrounds, post fun pictures for all your friends to see, and read about that cute guy in your math classes favorite movies (ok, quite possible on the lower part of the perk list,) but regardless in its essence, it is harmless. In its essence.
Maybe I should further this by saying, I have a Myspace. It’s blue and has falling hearts coming down the webpage to Death Cab for Cuties “Soul Meets Body.” I have about six photos, and some hundred and something friends. Mainly I keep it for the occasional comment, and so I can snoop around on other people’s when I am bored.
But recently, in one of my bored, snooping adventures I came to a conclusion—there is a serious problem with the photos girls are displaying. Approximately 15-22 year old girls are posting half to basically nude pictures of themselves that they took after epic amounts of prep time and with the adjustments of Photoshop. Myspace is littered with aspiring porn stars, who in all innocence, just post the picture of them in the fish net tights and lace bra to show their crush how hot they are. What teens fail to realize, is that Joe Brown from Malaysia is able to see how hot you look as well.
Myspace. Scary? More like frightening. Fun? At times. Innocent? Maybe in its essence. But in truth, it is sad. It is sad that 16-year-old girls can post nearly pornographic photos of themselves, and it’s sad there is no one to tell them otherwise.

Turbo 2500, I mean, our blender...

Ever since I was young my dad has fixed everything for me—well everything that can be fixed with a hammer, duct tape, or a screw driver. I live in a home that has never had to see a leaky faucet or a squeaky door, because with my dad in the house those things don’t exist.
The down side to living with such a handy man is that even when there is nothing to be handy with he seeks to build, fix, restore, and…err…invent things.
It was Easter Sunday and I was seated on the blue cushions on our squashy couch. We were just relaxing before heading over to my grandparent’s house for Easter dinner, and my mom and I were half chatting, half watching the TV when all of this sudden I hear this violent blare; one that closely resembled the sound a dying lawnmower would make—when amplified. Before even having to ask I knew it was my dad who was producing this menacing noise.
Turns out my dad was in the process of finalizing his newly created invention. Roughly one hundred dollars, and eight weeks later, my dad had created it—a blender that does not require electricity. The “little turbo” is solely powered by a lawn mower engine, which would explain the noise.
The question that was pressing me was why would one need a blender that doesn’t require electricity? I mean unless one is planning to bust this piece out during their morning commute or in the middle of the movie theatre (well, I suppose the sound would create problems,) but regardless, why?
According to my father the device is needed for blending drinks and such on camping trips and related endeavors. I think he is referring to the one camping trip we take every year in a cabin, a cabin that has full electricity that is. When refuting this to my father he answered with a concerned look on his face, “what if the power goes out and I want a milkshake?”
Needless to say, currently stationed in our garage, next to the treadmill and the Dodge 2500, is the blender. And to make matters more humorous, my equal of a handy man grandfather has spent the bulk of the past two days building the blender a carrying case.
So to say the men in my family are handy men, to say they are “Mr. Fix Its,” and the expression, “dad can fix it,” are all understatements. But hey, that’s the men of my family, and to be honest, in this I find comfort, character, and even a sense of pride---and yes, I would not want these men any other way, even if it does mean that we are the only family on the block with a lawnmower engine powering our blender.