Future Voters

On the 4th I overheard my 2 oldest kids discussing the election as they set up matchbox race tracks. The conversation went along these lines:

"So, Lauren, who do you think should be president?" from Justin (8).

"What are their names again?" from Lauren (6).

"Obama and John McCain. Now, John Mcain is very old. He will die very soon after becoming president."

"How old is the other one...Beramo?"

"Obama. He is young, so he will live for a long time."

"Well, that seems better to me."

"Yes, I agree."

And with that, it was back to racing cars.

No Hobo Allowed

So apparently dressing as a Hobo is not the best costume for the area I live in. First of all, why couldn't they just leave my leaf alone!! I had one bobby-pinned in my hair as an added effect and I cannot recount the number of people who looked at me- too big of trench coat, shoes with a hole in them, cut off gloves, and dirt smeared on my face (okay, it was makeup), and would say- "um, hold still, you have a leaf in your hair." Really? I had no idea.

I did slightly pity the one lady who said to me in a kind voice- "oh you look so cold." I wanted to say- "hello- it's halloween!" But I gamely pointed to my knapsack on a stick behind me with a smile. She blushed and mumbled something about seeing my gloves and looked away- and an absurd idea popped into my head: does this woman really believe that I am a homeless individual rigning her up at the register?! Surely not. So, I clear my throat and say "I'm a hobo, for halloween." The light of comprehension dawned. "ohhh, a hobo." Sigh.

A regular asked- "So what are you dressed as? A customer?"

Them

She walks into the place with her dead eyes- no one is reflected there- the iris swallows whoever looks too long. The air is thick with words unspoken, deafening thoughts beating inside our skulls. Careful, quiet them. She might hear.

She walks into the place with light hiding in the corners of her smile. The air rustles. Her feet move forward but she goes nowhere. She opens her mouth but nothing comes out. Mirage. She smiles again. Illusion. Don’t play with hope.

Bleh

It's one of those days...I wish I could run and keep running until I leave myself behind. Or maybe someone could hand me the clock of my life and I could wind it backwards, or, perhaps better yet, ahead several years. Life changes us, others around us affect us and shape us with or with out knowing it, but when it comes to self-change- it's near impossible. People have done it though. Peel myself up off the floor, one foot in front of the other. It is in our nature to continue, to keep moving on. I wonder why we are such driven beings.

Grumblings about authors

I am sliding into my 'meaning of life' mode, but to distract me, I've been reading some 'fluff'. Yeah, you know, mindless entertainment to keep one from anything productive. The problem with fluff often is that one has to suspend their sense of reality beyond the vanishing point. One would think with my fantasy leanings this would mean anything is up for grabs. Um, no. I just wonder why authors repeatedly think it is good characterization to tell me that a character is brave or modest or evil and yet the said character never does anything brave, modest or evil. Do we ever believe someone who we just witnessed flirting outrageously when they say- "I'm usually modest, I don't know what overcame me, I don't know why he is flirting back with me- oh my gosh!" I suppose they didn't intend on a character driven story, the plot is suppose to carry me beyond that, but then please don't stick me in the mind of the dullest character you can come up with to watch the events of the story unfold. I know you told me he/she/it was intriguing but since they haven't thought, said or did anything as of yet compelling while the interesting characters are off the page doing something...well, interesting... I think I'll just put the book back on the shelf, thanks. Isn't one of the rules of writing "show don't tell"? (Of course, for those who take it literally, that leaves us with a large percentage of the short stories in literary genre in which I get to read minute but beautiful details about the dresser and the dust motes floating in the air...and, oh wait, turn the page there's got to be more, um hmm, nope, the end. At this point I don't know what to say, I turn back a page, forward, but it is really over. I'm not sure what happened, what the point was. Oops, I was expecting a point? My bad.)

Stress Release Tip

Take a copy of Fox in Socks by good ole Dr. Suess and read it aloud as fast as you can. If you don't laugh at least those around you will. You know the saying- laughter is the best...yada yada

Someone Else's Words

Sea Longing- by Teasdale

A thousand miles beyond this sun-steeped wall
Somewhere the waves creep cool along the sand,
The ebbing tide forsakes the listless land
With the old murmur, long and musical;
The windy waves mount up and curve and fall,
And round the rocks the foam blows up like snow,--
Tho' I am inland far, I hear and know,
For I was born the sea's eternal thrall.
I would that I were there and over me
The cold insistence of the tide would roll,
Quenching this burning thing men call the soul,--
Then with the ebbing I should drift and be
Less than the smallest shell along the shoal,
Less than the sea-gulls calling to the sea.

History

History is interesting. I have found, though, that History as a subject- not so much. One time I borrowed a highly recommended book on ancient history all eagerness to refresh my stagnating mind. Not even 2 pages into the book I decided the present was a much better time to focus on. It had brought back memories of torturous minutes reading through my history book- minutes, yes, but they felt like hours, memorizing all those dates (of which I can recall only a handful), and trying to decipher one gray character from the next in a monotone text. It isn’t that dates are bad, but what about the wonder, the lessons, all the intriguing people and events that affected our way of life and thought today? History touches every other subject- it can work like a bridge between all of them: discoveries in math, the sciences, arts, politics…and yet it often gets allotted it’s own stark corner. The subject gets treated with bland detachment maybe because it is dissected from it’s relevancy. I don’t get it, and what’s more- I highly suspect it doesn’t work. I knew of an American adult whom had graduated with at least her bachelor’s who could not remember what the 4th of July was meant to celebrate. And, how many times have those visiting from other countries proven they know more about our history than we do? Okay, I could go on about this for hours and upbraid the entire education system, but I won’t. There are great books out there and there are great teacher’s, there are people who love and appreciate history…I just wish we had more of them.

I remember, I remember

I miss simplicity. I remember when my greatest worry was if I would really get a spanking for walking passed the deep ditches near our drive even though Mom couldn’t know. She did. I did. There was almost relief even in the pain because it showed that the world made sense, it did what was expected- it followed the rules. Granted, not all people had childhoods like mine, but there was a comforting predictability midst all the changes of growing up. I remember when the world was black and white, and not a myriad of grays; when saying ‘I love you’ didn’t have to be explained or doubted (and never forgotten), just accepted; when I knew my purpose: I was going to be an astronaut, a writer, a lawyer, a missionary to the deep jungles of Africa where I would be martyred at a young age (so I wouldn’t have to live beyond 45- which was old), and…okay, it changed, but in each time I knew what I was going to do or be, I knew my purpose with out doubt in that moment. Like a broken record, like a dog chasing its tail… purpose and me. Round and round we go, over and over again. Then I grew up. Grew up? I’m still doubtful about that, but…wait, see there? I’m doubtful. Aha! Anyway, being classified an adult has shown me how little I know, how little is certain, how few rules are followed, and that the universe does not make sense and can never ever remotely fit in a nutshell. In some ways it is a relief. I lived in a narrow world that was only partially real and as a result judged others by that narrow standard. But there was always hope and trust. Maybe I exchanged too much when I left childhood behind. Perhaps I was meant to hold on to those beautiful things and only set aside the naivety and pre-conceived ideas but instead I let the whole thing go. The good news: it isn’t over yet.

Blank Pages

Beginnings are terrible things. For me, at any rate. All of this pressure to say something amazing when all I desire is some place I don't have to pretend but just say what is on my mind- whether to vent or breathe, to think or feel, be creative or bland...just to write, maybe debate with myself. But a beginning?

I'm sighing (I'm a great sigher). I am someone who loves a blank page. Take a new notebook and run your fingers over the surface of an empty page- envision, dream, plan- it has endless potential. But as soon as pen touches surface it becomes settled and limited- its purpose is realized. That is how I feel about this blog. It could be witty, it could be serious, it could be anything, but I have started now and there is no turning back. I have my reassurances, though. Afterall, this is random bits and pieces of me, and I am not an end of a story nor a beginning, I am changeable- and somewhere in the middle. heh. So here I go.