Breakin' in the Lanai

Lindsey and I used our lanai (aka screened-in porch) for more than drying laundry for the first time tonight. Granted, we sat on a beach towel, but hey--it's Florida. Beach towels are cool. The evening air was actually somewhat cool and pleasant. I keep hearing about the emergence of Fall in the North, and I've been jealous of the oncoming crispness--apple crisp, crisp air, leaves crisping under foot. Wow. I just used "crisp" as an adjective, noun, and a verb! Who knew the amazing potentials of the word? Yes, it is late for me; and yes, I have been grading sixth grade essays long enough to make my head spin.

It's been one of those productive Saturdays. I know that when I climb into bed in a few minutes and I think back over my day, I will be able to say that I actually accomplished something. We had a massive cleaning spree in good ole #809 this morning, and then we went to the pool. We are both proud of our tan lines. This Christmas my family will be taking the bi-annual family photo, and I'm envisioning myself as dark and slim (for me) next to my pale and pasty family. It probably won't happen that way, but a girl can dream. After the pool, we vegged for a bit before getting up the nerve to shell out $6.50 for a matinee at the local theater. Two BIG thumbs up for The Constant Gardener. At this moment, I would like to take a second to reaffirm my allegiance and undying affection for Ralph Fiennes. Maid in Manhattan was such a deviation for him. I still wonder what was going on in his brain. He is so above a J-Lo film. Maybe it's equivelent to my reading a Nicholas Sparks book at the end of the school year; he just wanted something light and uncomplicated after a season of heady literature.

Anyway, the rest of the evening (after the intense political/social thriller that was slightly akin to Hotel Rwanda) was spent grading papers. I had to force myself every twenty minutes or so to keep going. It was like slogging through New Orleans sludge. But I got a lot done, and I only have about 10 more essays to grade before I'm finished. I hate grading with a passion. I don't mind reading the essays, but filling out my rubric, assigning a grade, and commenting on each one (especially when I know that the comments carry as much weight as a feather with these kids)... it all gets very tedious.

In other news, I'm soon to become a card-carrying member of the PCA church. I've never been an official member anywhere before, so this is exciting. I love my church; Oliver is the best pastor I've ever had. So I look forward to committing myself to this community for however long I stay here. Plus I like their doctrine, their theology, their confession, their catechism. I understand it, and it resonates with me more than the "somewhere in the middle" beliefs I've had up to this point. So I guess Evangelical Presbyterian Church (PCA) is stuck with me. Bet they didn't see that coming.

I don't want to go to work tomorrow. When I'm not at work, I don't really want my job; but when I'm at work, I enjoy it. I'm not having good quiet times--fairly non-existant this week--and I think that's affecting my attitude.

Lindsey and I went to this mega-church this morning, and it was like a well-choreographed dance. The pastor danced around the scripture, the praise team danced around the stage. They all had matching outfits. Lindsey and I had a hard time keeping a straight face throughout the sermon. It really made me appreciate my church here, the meat of scripture, the sincere praise. Not that the Avalon-esque praise team wasn't sincere. I'm sure they were. But I couldn't be sincere while they were leading.

I just finished reading Post-Secret.com, which is why I'm writing in this choppy, stream-of-consciousness way. I'm imagining that every little line is my own Post-Secret postcard, even though nothing I'm saying is really a secret.

Latest crappy movie I've seen: Monster-in-Law
Latest good movie I've seen: Notorious (Alfred Hitchcock)

TGIF
This week has been one of those weeks that has flown by like those high speed trains in Asia. I have been giving tests in every single class this week, which means I have to make the tests, since the ones from previous years aren't exactly what Pat Kornelis would call "valid" anymore. I usually forgot about writing the tests until the night before, or in today's case, this morning. I feel like I'm completely sucking when it comes to teaching, because I'm doing all those things I swore I wouldn't do just to survive.

I have good moments, when I feel like things went well--like if I nailed the grammar lesson and students were really getting it and comprehending, but then there are those days when I just feel like they're staring at me with blank slates, and I'm not filling them, I'm not even scratching my nails on the chalkboards in their minds.

One thing with middle school is that they are constantly forgetting and constantly testing the limits of my patience. I try to be understanding, because I know they're not doing it on purpose, that it actually is a condition brought on by early adolescence, and they can't always help that they're fidgity and distracted. One of my colleagues, our curriculum director and childhood development coordinator, calls it "whifty syndrome." Things just whift right in and around and then out again, particularly with the boys. And I see it every day.

They can drive me nuts, and then they can absolutely make me fall in love with them. Just now, one of my students offered the remaineder of his sandwich to another student who had forgotten to bring a lunch. There is still such sweetness and innocence in some of the younger ones. Granted, they are usually fairly mischievous, but there's no malice or bitterness. No "too cool for school" until about 8th grade.

Well, chapel is about to start, and I need to finish eating my cardboard sandwich.

Praise the Lord the internet is now working.

I am amazed how long it's been since I've had the opportunity (the time, the internet) to blog. Goodness. The first month is over, and I'm almost half-way through the first quarter. As someone said, I'll never have to have my first day of my first quarter of my first year ever again. What a relief. I have been experiencing first hand all the aspects of survival mode. Julie, you mentioned that you feel like you're losing your motivation to be creative. I lost that after week one. It's discouraging, because as I plan each week, I think to myself, "This is not how I want to teach this--I want to do more, I want to put myself into these plans." But I have had to recognize that I can't. I can not physically do everything that I want to do as a teacher; I simply don't have enough hours in the day, enough energy. My colleague, Pam (who is also my wonderful prayer partner), reminds me that I have to get away from school. I have to take a break, or I'm just going to get burned out. I can't tell you how relieving it is to be told that it's okay in this first semester, or even this first year, to just survive.

I know this sounds discouraging, but in all honesty, I am loving what I'm doing. I really enjoy the opportunity to build relationships with my students, to teach them new things, to coach them as they write, read, play volleyball, sing, act. I like meeting the parents (although I don't enjoy talking to them if their child misbehaves or does poorly in my class). I know I want to do this. On my worst days, I think about an entire year of this job. But I've learned that I have to take it one day, and at the most one week, at a time. It's okay if I'm not perfect. I'm allowed to mess up and start over. The wonderful thing is that every day is a fresh chance to get things right.

In other news, Lindsey De Jong moved in with me this weekend. It's awesome so far. I didn't realize how alone I was until I suddenly had someone around. I also have a "hot" date this week, which should be interesting to say the least. I don't think it will go anywhere (he's about 3 inches shorter and 3 years younger than me--don't ask me how I got myself into this), but it should be fun.

Recommendations:
A Very Long Engagement (movie with Audrey Tautou from Amelie). It's kind of a dark mix of the semi-comedic and the tragic. It wasn't at all what I thought it would be. But I enjoyed it. (Warning: Contains some uncomfortable sexual scenes)

The Outsiders: I'm reading the book to my 7th grade class, and they're really into it. I also just read that Francis Coppola is re-releasing his 1983 film version (Matt Dillon, Tom Cruise, Emilio Estevez, Rob Lowe, Patrick Swayze) with some scenes added back in. I'm excited--I liked the original, but I think the new scenes will help better establish the Greaser gang. I think there's also some changes to the score, which will help a lot too.

Well, that's all for now. I'm sorry that I'm so bad at emailing. But hopefully I'll be getting internet in the apartment soon. Maybe I'll be better at keeping in touch then.

Recent

Regrets
--taking advantage of free Washington wine. Now I can't remember much of the wedding reception, except the parts I wouldn't mind forgetting.
--dancing so much with just one person. Always leaves the wrong impression.
--not being able to spend more time with my girlfriends. I miss them.
--trying to fly into Florida during a hurricane. I should have stayed in Bismarck another day.

High Points
--seeing college friends
--getting soaked by an out-of-the-blue thundershower
--sleeping after spending all day in an airport
--taking out a student who was trying to slap my butt
--browsing the teacher supply store

Interests
--A&E's Horatio Hornblower miniseries ( based on the CS Forrester books) +
--a certain person who shall remain nameless +
--pigtails +
--evening church ++
--digital photography ++

Reading
--The Iliad (Robert Fagle's edition is the best) +++
--Anne Lamott's new book: Part B--Some More Thoughts on Faith ++
--bills -
--middle school vocabulary curriculum -
--the faculty handbook +

Films
--The Machinist ++
--To Catch a Thief +
--Batman Begins +
--War of the Worlds +/-

Hot and Steamy in Florida

No, not me, just the weather. It' s been raining like crazy the past week and a half--thunder, lightning and buckets of water being dumped everywhere. Usually I get caught in the biggest downpour of the day when I'm in the process of driving somewhere. I grit my teeth, and try to focus on the tail lights of the car ahead of me. Otherwise I can't see anything. Despite the fact that my windshield wipers are going as fast as they can, my vision is blocked by rain falling in the biggest drops I've ever seen in my life. Welcome to the Sunshine State.

I finally got my library card, so I'm hanging out there while I wait for the Flea Bombs to disperse in my apartment. It turns out that the 25 mosquito bites on my feet and ankles are really flea bites. No wonder they've been itching like crazy for the past two weeks. Thank you, previous tenent and your dogs. I had to sleep on the floor several days while I waited for my new mattress and box springs to arrive, and that's when I realized that I had company. Fortunately it's not a massive infestation--the bombs should thoroughly eradicate them, but I feel pretty disgusted about the whole situation, like it somehow reflects on my own personal hygiene. In spite of the situation with the bugs, I find myself wanting a dog or something. My apartment complex allows pets, and it seems everyone has a dog, mostly chihuahuas for some absurd reason. If it were me, I'd get a terrier. I've always wanted a big dog, but I couldn't fit one in my apartment. Not once Lindsey gets here, especially. But I'm a little daunted by the cost: vet fees, flea prevention, food, licensing, apartment deposit. Maybe if I save up and Lindsey likes dogs. Who knows. It might just be that I'm lonely and want something else in the apartment that's alive (houseplants don't count).

The whole process of moving has been radically different than I expected. I didn't exactly expect it to be easy, but I was hoping it might be more like moving back to college after the summer. It's not. But I think I'm finally beginning to feel settled. I've made sure that everyone knows my new address and phone number (athough I'm sure there are a few uninformed friends out there), I'm getting mail now, and I don't have to buy anything else for awhile. It seemed that during the first week or so, I was going to the store every day for something else that I had forgotten to get the last time I was there. I think the people at Target are beginning to know me on a first-name basis. Maybe they'll ask me to hang out with them the next time I'm there buying batteries or surge protectors. I might have a social life then.

I have yet to go to the beach. With the weather and everything, sitting outside isn't as appealing as it otherwise might be. I did get to the beach on Longboat Key when I visited my grandparents, but it smelled like dead fish and the sand burned my feet. The wind was blowing the recent Red Tide back to shore, and pufferfish and eels were washing up and being eaten by seagulls. I also promised my grandma back in Nebraska that I would only get knee-deep in the water. She's afraid I'll be eaten by a shark (a legitimate fear, lately). Next week I'm going to the ocean of grass in North Dakota for a friend's wedding. A lot of friends from college will be there, so I'm looking forward to that. I'm not looking forward to driving a '77 Buick back to Bismarck at 4 am, but I guess that's the price a person has to pay for partying in North Dakota.

That's all for now--it will be safe to enter my apartment in approximately forty minutes, so I'm going to go book-browsing. I just picked up the new one by Anne Lamott--Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith. I really liked Travelling Mercies so I'm hoping I'll like this one. Any other recommendations? Let me know.

Tomorrow

In less than 24 hours I will begin my long and hopefully enjoyable ride to Fort Myers, Florida. I've been thinking about this move for almost four months now, and it's hard to believe that the time to leave is actually here. I think the moment I realized that this is really happening was when my mom told me she wasn't signing my name on any cards or gifts or anything anymore. She told me, "You're an independent household now." That made me want to lock myself in my sister's room and never leave. But only for about three seconds. For the most part, I'm just ready to go. Hanging out at home has been a lot of fun--I got to see my sisters a lot (in a good way)--but I haven't had anything to do. Reading and watching TV can keep a person occupied for only so long. At least in Florida there will be things I have to get done. I have to set up the classroom, establish my management plan, read the books, study the curriculum, get acquainted with the school and its procedures, get settled into my apartment. So yeah, I'm ready to get there. I'm excited. But there's a part of me that's beginning to feel sad for all that I'm leaving behind and all that I'm taking on. But I think that's healthy.

Just a note...

My bread turned out marvelously. It reminds me of the bread that is served at Macaroni Grill with olive oil and pepper, except ten times better.

Foiled!

I had been building up the nerve to actually commit myself to the GRE, and when I tried to sign up today, there were no open times left for the next three weeks. I guess that means I'll have to keep studying and try to take the stupid test in Florida. I hadn't wanted to do that. I had hoped to take it before I left, but I procrastinated too long. Rats.

A part of me continually asks if I really want to take the GRE after all; do I really want a Masters Degree in something? I don't even know if I want to focus on English or Education, therefore, my subversive self says, I should just put it off a couple more years. To be honest, the only reason I am so hesitant is the math section. I took a couple practice tests the last few days, and although I did reasonably well (I could have done better) on other sections, I pretty much bombed the math part. I hate math. It is my arch nemesis.

Now all I can do is bake. My starter is ready to be turned into that lovely Rosemary Olive Oil Sourdough Bread, and today is a perfect day for baking--cool, cloudy, stormy. Drat, I say. I feel perfectly dejected about this turn of events. Maybe it's the Lord--maybe I'm not supposed to take the GRE right now. I don't believe in coincidences... Maybe I'm supposed to just bake and pack and clean my room today. Not fret over some stupid test that really has no say over how intelligent I am.

James Dean, a man who could really brood.

I just finished watching East of Eden, a fairly decent rendition of the classic work by Steinbeck. James Dean is Cal, the dark, tormented son of Adam Trask. I thought as a film it was definitely entertaining--of course, any time I see James Dean I'm entertained--but I was disappointed at how much of the story the movie left out. I think the entire movie was based on the last 3 chapters of the book, and it's a pretty thick book. Afterwards, my mom and sister Deborah and I had a long discussion about it. I once again confirmed my English-nerdiness by getting all excited about our discussion of Biblical allusions within the book. Oh well--I suppose it's good that an English-nerd becomes an English teacher. You gotta love what you do in order to do it well.

Lately I've been on a baking spree. I seem to go in these spurts, and I think that applies to pretty much everything in my life. I'll read like crazy for a few weeks and then have to take a break for awhile. I'll watch movies every night for a few weeks and then decide I never want to watch TV again. I'll date a guy and feel like I'm falling in love and then after a few weeks, I'll realize the whole relationship is pointless. Right now, I'm baking. I got a wonderful cookbook, The King Arthur Flour Baking Companion, for my birthday, and I've been making all different kinds of bread. The other day, I made some plain ol' white bread, and today I advanced to Brioche, a sweet yeast bread from France. I've also got sourdough starter fermenting up here by the computer where the temperature is nice and ripe (the kitchen is really too chilly for breadmaking--the bread won't rise very quickly unless I've got the oven on). I'm hoping to turn that into Rosemary Olive Oil Sourdough bread sometime next week. I also made chicken enchiladas and peach cobbler the other night. The only problem with baking and cooking is that a person has an end result to deal with. I really don't want to eat all the bread I'm baking. I enjoy the process more than the product, I think. So, feel free to stop by if you're in the neighborhood and pick up some bread. I'm giving it away for free.

I'm sure a lot of people have heard of this before, but I just stumbled on it. Wow. Talk about raw emotion. Check it out.

The Long Awaited Book List

This list is a compilation of all the books I read for personal pleasure over the past year. I left off the ones I didn't like, or found to be poorly written or just average (for example, a Nicholas Sparks spree that I went on right after school got out last year.) The books in bold are the ones I especially loved.

Bel Canto (Ann Patchett)
Cold Mountain (Charles Frazier)
The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold)
The Secret Life of Bees (Sue Kidd Monk)
Mariette in Ecstasy (Ron Hansen)
Girl Meets God (Lauren F. Winner)
Atticus (Ron Hansen)

The House Where the Hardest Things Happen (Kate Young Caley)
Beyond the Bedroom Wall (Larry Woiwode)
Silent Passengers (Larry Woiwode)
The Pact (Jodi Picoult)
The Undiscovered Country (Samantha Gillison)
Beloved (Toni Morrison)

East of Eden (John Steinbeck)
Brokenness (Nancy Leigh DeMoss)
Black, Red, White—a trilogy (Ted Dekker)
The Read-Aloud Handbook (Jim Trelease)
Drowning Ruth (Christina Schwarz)
Breathing Lessons (Anne Tyler)
The Bean Trees (Barbara Kingsolver)
Peace Like a River (Leif Enger)
Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy)
Saint Maybe (Anne Tyler)
Back When We Were Grownups (Anne Tyler)
The Amateur Marriage (Anne Tyler)
Object Lessons (Anna Quindlen)
Blessings (Anna Quindlen)
Ella Enchanted (Gail Carson Levine)
The Other Side of the River: The Story of Two Towns, A Death, and America’s Dilemma (Alex Kotlowitz)
The Chosen (Chaim Potok)
Gilead (Marilyn Robinson)
Blessed Child (Ted Dekker)

A Man Called Blessed (Ted Dekker)

I am the Cheese (Robert Cormier)
Heaven’s Wager (Ted Dekker)
When Heaven Weeps (Ted Dekker)
Prodigal Summer (Barbara Kingsolver)
Sex, Art, and American Culture (Camille Paglia)
The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)
The Magician’s Assistant (Ann Patchett)
Ladder of Years (Anne Tyler)

Sorry about the weird spacing. I don't know what's up with that. Looking back on all those books, it's hard to believe I've read that many in one year. And that's not counting all the books I had to read for class. So there you go, Julie and Lindsey, and anyone else who's interested. I'll keep posting recommendations as I keep reading.

So I'm a crappy blogger. What can I say--the absence of internet will do that to a person. Sorry Sam. Hope you're still watching--look! I'm finally posting!

New Scary things:

• -moving to Florida
• -Being a teacher. For real.
• -paying bills.
• -trusting the Lord for everything.
• -renting an apartment.
• -people telling me, "So, you're a real adult now."
• -living a life of comparative luxury. would I give it up if He asked?

Currently:

• -just finished reading Ladder of Years by Anne Tyler.
• -listening to Sevina Yannatou's Sumiglia. If you like ethnic music, this is an awesome album. Greek music with fantastic improv. Rather different, but cool.
• -trying to get up the gumption (as my grandma would say) to go for a walk.
• -making a list of all the things I still have to do before I move next month.
• -thinking about how awesome Barabara Kingsolver is. I just finished reading The Poisonwood Bible again. Prodigal Summer is a wow as well.
• -before Ladder of Years I read The Magician's Assistant by Anne Patchett (Bel Canto). Very good.

Wishlist:

• -a new digital camera
• -20 pounds shed like snakeskin
• -the urge to write poetry. i feel like my inner monologue is currently silent, which sucks.
• -a free ticket to Bismarck, North Dakota.
• -more discipline.

Julie, I'll try to get my booklist online soon. Maybe even later today.

I'm almost done. Two more days and then I'm finished. Finished with the cooperating teacher who won't cooperate. Finished with the cooperating teacher who cuts me off in the middle of a sentence to correct my French pronounciation. Finished with a cooperating teacher who doesn't let me enter grades in the gradebook because I messed up once. Finished with the cooperating teacher who won't let me use the classroom computer.

Don't get me wrong. She's a nice lady. She's not mean-spirited or out to get me. She just has a certain way of doing things, and when I don't do something exactly right, she figures it's just easier to do it herself. She cares about her students, and her students like her. I'm not sure if they like English, if they think reading and writing is worthwhile and enjoyable, but they like her. She prays for them and sends them little notes of encouragements when grandparents die or they have a rough day. She loves those kids. But she loves with a sharp wit and a keen, sarcastic sense of humor.

Maybe I want to be too effusive with my love. Perhaps my passion for jotting down poems and writing daydreamy paragraphs, silly grammar sentences, and crazy vocab demonstrations is too effervescent. Maybe I shouldn't be so friendly, quoting Napoleon Dynamite and demonstrating my cultural awareness. But this I know. I'm not like my cooperating teacher, and she definitely doesn't want to be like me. So I think it's a good thing that we both move on--I write my thank-you note, bake my goodbye chocolate chip cookies, and walk out the door, while she continues with her harsh love, her nit-picky banter, her moralistic short stories, and her grammar exercises. I'll see the kids I've grown to love in the halls, I'll bump into her now and then, but we won't be so close that we scrape up against each other like battered boats in a hurricane. We'll have that safe distance that allows us to speak kindly to each other, that enables us to say to others, "Oh, she's such a sweet woman--a good teacher in her own way." Maybe we'll even be able to mention the things we taught each other.

Begin the countdown...

I will be back at my wonderful alma mater in less than four weeks. I'm getting excited! It will be nice to see friends again, to be around people my own age, to get away from some of the requirements my cooperating teacher imposes... But, at the end of this session, I know I will miss the students. I was thinking about that last night and again this morning, about how I look forward to seeing them every day. I don't exactly jump at the opportunity to teach in the traditional, behavioristic manner of my cooperating teacher, but I love talking with the students, getting to know them. I think I've grown closer to them because I am reading their papers, taking their prayer requests, talking to them outside of class. I mentioned to my co-op. teacher yesterday that I can't imagine how close a teacher must get to her students after knowing them all through high school. No wonder people like my yearbook teacher and my spanish teacher cried at graduation each year. They loved us like we were their own kids. There's nothing like a class full of squirming, rascally, but endearing students to arouse the motherly instinct in a single (or married, perhaps) woman.

This semester is flying by. I can't believe I'm already almost done with this first session. I'll be teaching full time for another week and a half, and then I'll start backing out. I can't say I'll miss the material, but I'll miss teaching. I really do enjoy it.

The freshmen are mine! MWAAHAHAHAHA! Okay, so I'm not overly possessive about the three freshmen English classes I'm teaching, but it's nice to finally be (sort of) calling the shots when it comes to what I teach, how I teach it, and when I teach it. I have a lot of fun working with those kids, and if things continue to progress this way, I'm going to love working with the sophomores next week. I think that the relationships I'm building with these students is the best aspect of teaching that there is--they come in and they say hello to me, we talk about football, we talk about movies--and they don't hate me. They don't think I'm some sort of loser from another planet (although Iowa and Nebraska seem about as far away as Mars to some of them). Anyway, things are going well, even though I'm not particularly enjoying the foot of snow that 's growing slushy in the already-dirty streets. But it's better than ice or blizzards. I'm tempted to move to a southern and coastal state for my job next year. Well, my time's up. I gotta run. The joys of using the library's computers.

So I'm getting used to student teaching. I'm gradually working my way up to full time teaching. This week, my cooperating teacher is teaching one section of freshmen, then I'm teaching the next two. Next week, I'll teach all the freshmen and be responsible for lesson plans; meanwhile, Mrs. Stahly will teach one period of sophomore English, and I'll teach the second. The next week, I'll be responsible for all freshman English, all sophomore English, and some of composition. The week after that, I'll be teaching full time. It kind of makes me nervous, but I really just want to do it and get it over with. Time definitely goes by so much quicker when I'm not just observing. That gets so boring. I feel capable and prepared, just a little nervous. I taught two full periods today, and the students were very respectful and fairly obedient. I was nervous the first time, and I completely blanked on their names--not good when you're calling on them for twenty minutes. I also had to take prayer requests and pray for them. Don't ask me why, but that was stressful.

Other than that, life's all right. It's kind of dull. I'm not doing much because I don't have any work to bring home. So, I watched all 6 hours of Pride and Prejudice--one of my all-time favorite movies--spent every evening of the last week and a half watching all the Lord of the Rings Movies (yea for extended versions!), and who knows what thrilling things I'll do tonight. I think the hardest part of being up here is being alone. Sure I have my aunt and uncle, and I love their whole family. But I miss people my own age. I feel like I'm always desperate every time I to church, because I'm looking for someone I could be friends with. Saying it that way makes me feel pathetic. Oh well. This too shall pass.

In the meantime, I'm going to watch movies, read books, have awesome quiet times, and listen to a lot of music. One thing I'm really looking forward to, though, is getting a door on my room. Privacy would be a welcome thing. My closest room-neighbor is a twelve-year-old boy.

Good:

• student teaching
• high schoolers
• trees
• my cooperating teacher
• my aunt and uncle's house
• getting to know my cousins better
• karate in the kitchen
• no homework

Bad:

• no internet at home
• restricted internet at school
• naivete
• lack of people my age
• my grandma always wondering if I've met any eligible bachelors
• not meeting any eligible bachelors
• holy cow is a bad word
• rules again

It's officially been a month since my last post, which is awful of me, I know. But the last two weeks of school--heck, the whole semester--has been so busy I haven't even been keeping up with my journal writing, let alone my homework and blogging. Enough excuses. I don't think anyone but me reads this anyway, but that's all right. I'm home now, relaxing and sleeping in. I'm currently in the process of packing my things for that not-so-distant move to who-knows-where.

Over the past year or so, I've been gradually moving things home and storing them in my parents' basement. Now that I've moved everything home--I had Big Bertha packed from the rear-view mirror to the sliding door to the floor underneath the seats--I occupy the whole southeast corner of the basement, and my dad is ready for me to get rid of some of it. So I've been sifting and repacking and tossing and keeping loads of stuff. The whole process makes me realize just how much junk I've collected in the past five years since going off to college. It makes me feel rich and snobbish, at least compared to people in Mexico or the Sudan who probably don't even have enough things to fill just one of my book boxes. I feel guilty for complaining or wishing for more stuff, more things to pack and take with me, for wishing that I had more money. When I think about how I have been blessed--a college education, a loving family, more possessions than I could possibly need to survive, a car, a checking account--I feel the pinch of my worldliness even more.

So what do I do? The question has been running around my mind for the past few weeks. I could give everything away and live in a hut in Kathmandu (I don't even know where that is). I could live like I never thought about it, and keep on amassing wealth. Or I could remember that it isn't what I store up here that matters. I may be blessed, but it could all be gone in a second. I think the more important question is this: what do I do with the gifts I've been given? Do I hoard them in earthen vessels, or do I place my gifts in the hands of something/someone bigger and say, "Do with them as you wish--they're yours anyway." Something to think about this Christmas season (and year round).

I knew it was bad when it hurt to keep my eyes open in class. I've had late nights before, but very rarely in my college career has such a late night produced the burning feeling that persisted in my eyes all the way through my 8 and 9 o'clock classes. I'm feeling better now--I can look at things for more than two seconds without my vision blurring. But I'm slightly concerned that all these 4:30 am bedtimes, preceded by hours and hours of staring at a computer screen, may one day make me blind. On the news last night, I heard a report about computer usage being linked to glaucoma, a condition which can eventually cause blindness if not treated properly. That's where that thought came from.

The worst part of the whole thing is that I spent the last three weeks preparing for this day--preparing my full-scale unit plan, preparing my huge presentation on teen pregnancy--and now it's over. I feel like there should at least be some sort of celebration. Or that people should look at my fabulous tri-fold poster about teen pregnancy for another twenty-five minutes. One class period simply isn't enough time to appreciate all the work my partner and I put into that wonderfully creative and artistically designed monstrosity. And my unit plan--I work twelve hours (four and a half of those late last night or early this morning) creating calendars and appendices and daily objectives and then it's just tucked in some folder somewhere. It's probably sitting on my professor's desk right now. Alone. Neglected. It's so anticlimactic. I feel like I should take my giant poster home over Thanksgiving and ask my mom to put it on the refrigerator.

I suppose this desire for recognition is slightly selfish. Yes, I did do all that work, but that's my job right now. I'm a student. I'm supposed to devote my whole life to the pursuit of producing top-notch education-major projects. It's like the policman pointing out, "Um, hello there. I just gave someone a speeding ticket. When do I get my commendation? Oh, and does it come with a raise?" No--I should just tip my hat and say, "No trouble, ma'am. It's all in a day's work," and walk away as if I didn't do anything worth taking note of at all.

In other news, I'm leaving for Indianapolis tomorrow morning. National NCTE Convention, here I come! (NCTE=National Council of Teachers of English). And it's only 29 days until Christmas. Thanksgiving break is one week from today. I appreciate the here and now, but I'd rather the here and now was tomorrow.

My Grandmother’s Hands

Covering a laughing mouth,
Shaped nails painted pale pink,
Encircling shoulders in a
tight squeeze,
The feel of love in every gentle touch
of paper-thin skin,
Frailty that speaks of strength
not her own,
Fingers once long and even
now bent and rigid,
aged with life’s long labor,
Eager to hold the hands of
another, gone before
and waiting,
Folded in prayer,
a testimony to life’s faith.
For my grandmother’s hands,
Father God,
Receive praise.

Posted by Hello

After a little reworking, here is a "less raw" version of the poem I posted last week. I wanted to make it say exactly what I wanted it to, because the whole topic of abortion is one that evokes a strong emotional response in me. For a little background information, I wrote this initially as a response to the Beattitudes in Matthew 5. A class I'm taking on the medieval practice of lectio divina encourages us to journal prayer responses to the verses that we're studying/memorizing/contemplating. This isn't exactly a prayer, but it's what came out after thinking on that particular passage for awhile. I think it had been brewing in my mind for several weeks before I even wrote it, so I can't express how satisfying it was to have it finally on paper.


Three Prayers

Too quickly have I forgotten the
crush of little bones in my hand.
Tiny fingers reaching towards my light,
Grip my scissors,
Grip my knife.
It’s not that I like what I do.
But I am a mercy dispenser.
Mercy for one at the expense of the other.
Harden my eyes.
Harden my heart.
Oh my god.
Have mercy on me.

They are light fluttering wings that I want to
hold in my hand.
Too little, too much.
I’m sorry.
It’s better this way. For both of us.
Cold steel bed,
Cold robotic fingers,
Cold like ice around my heart.
It’s not that I like what I’ve done, both sides of it.
But I’ve been given a choice.
I choose mercy.
For both of us.

I watch with unopened eyes.
My translucent hidden skin,
My blue-veined body will
Grip the scissors.
Grip the knife.
I accept your apology.
Small bones uplifted, washed clean.
Pass over a black bag of skulls.
Father, forgive them.
I open my eyes.
Have mercy,
For they know not what they do.

Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Matthew 5:7

On a side note...

-Laundry fresh from the drier is one of the greatest things in the world on a cold night.

-Listening to your college choir sing and knowing you can never sing with them again will make you cry.

-Sometimes, pizza is the best thing for a broken heart.

-Making curriculum maps can be fun.

-Songs can be too truthful sometimes. Take "Warning Sign" by Coldplay for example.

-Taking Bowling as a fitness requirement can be good for your health. It can also boost your average score from 32 to 125.

-Sometimes a person just needs a double mocha with whipped cream.

-Research papers on grammar are not stimulating to write or read, unless you use vivid imagery like "toss it out the window" and "pound it into their little skulls."

-Developing callouses from guitar-playing can be cathartic.

I took this in June while exploring the back-roads around the Big Sioux River. Something about the blue roof caught my eye.
Posted by Hello

"Half of the time we're gone but we don't know where..."

Simon and Garfunkel were a wise couple of guys. Excuse me. Are a wise couple of guys.

"Let your honesty shine, shine, shine."
"Counting the cars on the New Jersey turnpike, they've all come to look for America."

Recommendation: See Zach Braff's latest endeavor. Garden State is one hip flick. Personally, I'd watch it again just to hear the sound track in THX or Dolby Digital or whatever it is.

"There's beauty in the breakdown, so let go."
"I can see California sun in your hair."
"Wasting my time in the waiting line..."

Definitely some good songs. Walking around campus with these songs playing on my mp3 player, I feel like I've been taken out of the awful rush. It's some sort of transcendence. Not really like what Walt Whitman would advocate, and not be confused with the transcendence of Christ or anything like that. Just floating above the noise. As though it's easier to draw in deeper breaths. Coldplay does the same thing. Particularly the live album.

It's the storm of the century. Well, maybe not quite, but it was raining so hard when I finished with class tonight that I had my roommate come pick me up. She's a saint. It's also storming on other fronts--I'm feeling sorry for my cousin who is in the path of Hurrican Ivan. I'm getting assailed by financial woes--hail on my parade--my car is in the shop and will be expensive to fix, if indeed I do get it fixed. What a conundrum. It's things like this that always start to stress me out, that right when all my bills are due, then I get hit up for more money. I suppose that's why we're supposed to save and not spend it all, but I'm supposed to be saving for a new-to-me car, not pouring money down the endless hole that is Big Bertha. That's when I'm reminded by that persistant, still, small, ever present voice that says, "Trust me. Aren't I big enough to handle this?"

But then I wonder, "Haven't I been a bad Christian lately? You probably won't take care of this out of spite." Naughty me. I imagine the Holy Spirit looking shocked, and then laughing that I would think Him/It? spiteful. Oh yes, I think. That's right. You love me. I forgot.

Inside,
I had been
broken
as with a
sledgehammer.
But
You found
a
piece
of me
that I had
missed
as I fit
myself
back
together,
putting it
just the
right
place,
making me
whole.

It seems like sometimes news organizations can get it just right, and then other times, they can completely foul out. Look at today's news. The coverage of September 11 commemorations is poignant. We should remember. We should think of those people every day, and remind ourselves that it could have just as easily be us. But then look at this mess with the George Bush memos. There's more doubt than belief, even though Dan Rather staunchly backs his story. Something like this pollutes the presidential race; Americans can't vote based on the truth about each candidate. Instead, they're voting based on the way news coverage sways their opinions. I would venture to say that most of the people who will be voting in November haven't even taken the time to understand either Bush or Kerry. They rely too much on what everyone else is saying. We can't trust the media anymore. But what else is there? We could toss out the media, but something else would fill the void. We live in biased times.

School's got me all worked up and panicky. Okay, I'm drifting out of the panicky stage, but I still may hyperventilate if I forget even one more thing for class. I was explaining my absent worksheet to my advanced grammer prof, telling her that when I get busy, I get panicky. And when I get panicky, I get forgetful. Fortunately, she admitted to suffering from the same syndrome and told me I could bring my grammar exercises to class on Friday. It's not that I didn't do them--I actually, in a masochistic sort of way, enjoy doing grammar exercises--I left them in another notebook, and as I raced off to class, I left the worksheet behind. I think part of the reason for all the fluster is that Clint is coming to visit this weekend, and I'm trying to get everything done before he gets here so that we can have some quality time. Quality time is something we are lacking, due to the distance and general hectic nature of both of our lives which prevents us from spending time together. In any case, I've been forgetting so much lately--my worksheet this afternoon, an appointment in the evening, 4x6 notecards for a class, a reading assignment. I'm exceptionally blessed because my profs love me in spite of my flaws and are willing to give me some leeway. This wouldn't happen just anywhere, I realize. Thank the Lord for Dordt College and its great sense of community. But I keep telling myself that I just need to get a grip, that I need to sit myself down and get organized. I've got a break now for a couple hours. I think I'm going to do just what I need to do--no dawdling, no TV watching. Just focus, get the job done, and be rewarded by going to bed on time tonight instead of 1:30 in the morning. And I have to remind myself to breathe. I forget to do that sometimes too.

I just finished watching Love Actually and, as far as love stories go, this one was pretty good. I was a little disappointed because out of the eight or so different threads, one was left totally unfinished and another didn't exactly seem to end on a totally "in love" note. But I liked the way they all strung together somehow, as well as having so many quality actors and actresses in one film: Emma Thompson, Liam Niesen, Colin Firth, Hugh Grant, Laura Linney, Roan Atkinson. The music wasn't bad either. But mostly, I liked it because it had shots of all my favorite places in London--the Thames River walk, the Millenium Bridge, Big Ben, Trafalger Square, St. Paul's. I felt like I was there again. Admittedly, there's some language and nudity (although that part is pretty strange), and sometimes I couldn't figure out how all the different people knew each other--somehow they all did. And the idea that love is all around us, particularly at the airport seemed a bit desperate...but I was entertained. And that's the point, right?

spotted: one interim campus pastor on a porch, looked embarrassed after setting off the fire alarm by burning a piece of bacon. as for the crispy pork, he ate it before coming and standing in the rain with the rest of us.

I am missing the newness of spring. These flowers were floating like rosey snow in May. Now the world is full of bolder colors.
Posted by Hello

I'm in my apartment RIGHT NOW-- and it's awesome. I'm in the process of trying to move in; it's amazing how much stuff a person needs once they're not living with five other people. I have so many books. Too many. Shelves and shelves. I hope my roommate doesn't need too much shelf-space...

Well, I must be off. I have to re-pot a couple plants.

I will be so glad when I have the internet at my apartment. That's all I have to say.

I slept in today until 11.  That's a new record for the summer.  It didn't help that I was up until 2:30 talking with Clint.  It reminds me of the line from Train's song "Drops of Jupiter"--"can you imagine...a five hour phone conversation"--  I don't think we've ever talked so long.  By about 2 it was getting silly.  One of those moments when everything is funny, even when there's nothing to say.  It's just that I never want him to hang up, as if once we're disconnected, I lose something.  I think I've been living too long alone.  I notice all the small things, the noises, the stillness.  Like the fly buzzing in the light, its last flutters.  The hum, the white noise of the office.  The sound of gnawing in my bedroom wall.  It makes me feel enclosed. 

bored at work.

it's that nebulous time of day-- lunchtime-- when no one is around to tell me what to do next. i'm waiting around for a professor to return from his lunch break and give me more work to do. in the mean time, i suppose i will just stare at the computer and try to think of imaginative ways to kill time. i've debated going home for lunch myself. could i count that as part of my work day? i normally have things that i can do on my own. however, i've recently reached that point where i'm done with my projects, and all that remains is whatever busy work they choose to give me. is it going to be like this for the rest of the summer? i may as well move home and babysit. i could at least see my boyfriend that way. i think my problem is that i'm too efficient. they give me work to do, but i get it done too quickly. sometimes, i try to take as long as i possibly can to finish whatever task is at hand. but it still only takes me a few minutes. maybe i type too fast. who knows.

weekend snapshots--

-me standing under a giant strawberry in the rain. it's raining so hard the streets are flooding.
-some guy's jaw dropping as he exclaims "d---! what's up!" upon seeing us five hot women drive past on our way through backbone state park.
-jasmine and me singing "the love of God" at her church in strawberry point.
-the two of us jamming out to Tonic on interstate 90 and speaking in spanish accents at the barn-shaped rest stop.

I surprised Clint this weekend and showed up at church right before the service started. He looked at me like he didn't really believe I was there but would play along anyway. Then, as I grinned and wrapped my arms around him, he laughed and called me a punk. He still looked stunned after I had taken my seat in the pew. I felt satisfied and happy--more so than I thought I would. He told me later that he was glad he saw me before preaching. "Otherwise," he said, "there would have been a lot more awkward pauses, and everyone would have wondered why I wasn't making any sense." It's nice to know I have that effect on him.

in third person

"They're beautiful, by the way," he said as he grabbed his bag from the back seat of her van. "Your eyes. I thought about them the whole way home from church." Her breath caught in her throat as she felt something flutter under her ribs.
"Thanks," she said softly, and he smiled as he walked away.

in third person

she hung up the phone, her boss's voice still gravel in her ear.
--you plug away on it, then.
the rain was falling steadily, reminding her of heart beats and drum rhythms. her stomach growled, and she eyed the peach. i would need a napkin, she thought, remembering the feeling of the juice dribbling down her chin. staring at the computer, she wondered what to say. writer's block. those words made her think of her sister, of her sister's gift. how can we both be writers, she thought, when we're both so different. the answer, she supposed, lay in the words they wrote, the unique voice they each heard in their head as fingers clicked across keyboards. simple. visual. electric. that was the word her professor had used to describe her sister. that was her, all right, she thought wryly.
--can i be electric too?

Taking a brief pause from work, I am dreaming about tomorrow, when I get to go home for the weekend-- an extended weekend really. I can picture myself driving down the highway, music turned up and the windows rolled down. I get a small thrill just thinking about it. I met a husband and wife in my small group Biblestudy last night who were from Lincoln. It was great to play Dutch bingo with them (even if we're not Dutch) and see all the people we had in common. I don't get to do that very often. Mostly I watch other people connect the dots, laughing outloud because Carol is Bob's second cousin, and graduated with Helen's sister, who is married to Kevin's son. Most of our time with host families on choir tour is spent trying to see if somehow we're all related. Well, now I get to go home and pow-wow with my people for once. The distinction between outsider and insider is very interesting, I think.

Yesterday evening, I was remembering last summer, and the slow, relaxed pace of the days and nights. It was blissful, and I got a bit nostalgic. I miss being in my territory, nannying from 6am to 3 in the afternoon, and taking the rest of the afternoon to read in a coffeeshop or lay on a blanket in the grassy park near my grandma's house. Coming home and watching Wheel of Fortune with her, making a noodle casserole and eating defrosted Christmas cookies for dessert. My parents were only five minutes away, not three and a half hours. My sisters and I could go to movies together; my best friend was just down the road. My memories seem closer now than the people who mean the most to me. I wish it could have worked out to live in Lincoln again. My ideal summer. Although the ideal probably wouldn't have matched the actual experience. The hard bitter truth of life.

Sometimes I think that some of my best moments with God come when I'm not saying anything. I had that this morning as I sat on my bed in my pajamas, listening to Steven Curtis Chapman's "Be Still and Know". I sat and just thought about the immensity of God, and tried to open my heart to hearing him. I felt as if a big blanket of peace surrounded me, and I was able to simply worship him. It was magnificent.

And then I went outside into the cold, and all the golden warmth of my experience was shivered away by the wind. My fingers trembled, and as soon as I got inside again, I dreaded going out into the world again.

Isn't that the way it works though? We have an inspiring moment and we feel amazed and lit up from the inside. But then an encounter with the darkness around us, and suddenly we're afraid. Where has the shining light gone? Where is the warmth that filled us before? I don't think it's gone anywhere. I think that we need to carry it bravely and refuse to let the chilling wind extinguish it. Sometimes during the winter, I would leave a door open in the house on accident, and my mom would ask me if I was trying to heat up the whole outside. Yeah, Mom, I think I am.

My brain is dead. I just finished writing a two hour American Literature exam. I have never taken such a hard test. It's not that the information was difficult; I didn't even study that much. Probably only a couple hours, and that was in front of the TV, during commercials. The simple process of recalling all of the information was not difficult in the least. Rather, writing two full length essays and six shorter essays drained my mind of all useful processing and synthesizing skills. I'm devoid of the ability to write essays on William Faulkner or Tennessee Williams. There is relief on the horizon, though. Now that I've written this test (all six pages front and back) I'm done with American lit. until I have to teach it myself one day. Don't get me wrong- I actually loved all of the pieces we read in that class. We read My Antonia, The Sound and the Fury, A Streetcar Named Desire, Kate Chopin, e.e. cummings, Robert Frost, Sarah Orne Jewett--- some of my favorite authors. But my professor is tough. She expects a lot, which is also good. It is also exhausting. I think I'm going to pack for a little while and maybe take a nap. I still have two more tests to prepare for. And then I will say goodbye to studying for a short while. An abbreviated rest.

Birthday

My birthday was last Saturday, and I have to say, it was one of the best birthdays I've ever had. My mom came up to school and we spent the whole day in Sioux Falls shopping and hanging out. Since we rarely get to do this, it was such a treat. My roommates gave me a beautiful card, hand-crafted by Amanda-- who makes amazing cards, by the way. And on Sunday, we had lunch with Sarah's parents. They had a cake with both of our names on it (Sarah's birthday is today) and when Sarah opened her presents, they gave me one too! It's one of the sexiest picture frames ever- partly because there's a picture of Sarah and me in it. It was a wonderful day. Twenty-two is a great age.

"We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time."

-T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"



I feel as though this has been sort of my mantra this year. A lot of exploring... subject matter, self, relationships, God. I'm starting to recognize this yearning inside myself to go back, all the way to the beginning. We've been talking a lot this year, my roommates and I, about the Big Change that's happening in about two and a half weeks. Because even if we're not all graduating, everything is changing. Nothing will be the same afterwards. And while that's wonderful and completely fine, it stirs something within us. A little melancholy, a little wish that we could keep going on in our relatively comfortable ways. And yet, there's still that strong urge to push forward. We have to keep on going, because if we tread water here, we will surely drown.

tired My vision is starting to blur... I think my contact is drying out. Yeah, I only wear one contact. And after studying for my big Curriculum and Instruction test tomorrow, I think I deserve a good night of solid sleep. I'm dreaming of crawling under my blankets, pulling them up to my nose, and curling into myself. Hopefully I can have a nice dream of spring or something equally lovely. I took a study break earlier tonight and finished watching the last hour of An Affair To Remember. A completely sentimental film, but something about it just makes me fall in love with it every time. Deborah Kerr is enchanting, and who can beat Carey Grant? (Except maybe Gregory Peck... Maybe that's why I can never be satisfied by any of the guys I date. They're too modern.) (Warning: Complete Subject Change) I just want to be done with all the stress and agony of school work. I'm feeling oppressed. How many papers can one student be expected to write in a semester?? ARGH! *sigh* Okay. Well, I can barely see; I'm going to go remove my contact and makeup and brush my teeth and put on my pj's and head to bed. Goodnight budding world.

Easter
I wish that I'd thought about Him more today. I have been so busy this weekend just preparing for Easter that I've forgotten why we're having all these special services and chapels. Tonight we're having an Easter GIFT (Growing In Faith Together-- an on campus worship service), and I want to make sure that my mind is meditating on the sacrifice of Christ. I've been on the worship team for awhile now, and so often I allow myself to get frustrated with the leadership or the timing or the extra rehearsal time. I lose sight of the fact that we are leading people to worship God. What a rare and amazing privilege. And so often I think of it as an inconvenience. I know I did this week. I was so angry that they would schedule an Easter GIFT and keep me from going home. It's bad enough that we have classes on Good Friday, but to force me to stay on campus and have rehearsals when I would rather be thinking about Jesus' death and resurrection? (Yeah, how likely is that?) How inconsiderate. Actually, my anger was inconsiderate. I have been blessed with the opportunity to come together with the body of Christ to worship Him and bask in the beauty of His presence. And all I can do is moan and complain. I feel a close kinship with the children of Israel. Hopefully, a forty-year sojourn in the desert is not in my future.

It is snowing today. Snowing in April. It made me remember my fourth birthday, when we were living in Rapid City, South Dakota. My birthday is April 24th, and for my party we had ice cream, and swam in the little blue plastic pool we kept on the deck. It was over 80 degrees. The next day, I went sledding. Four feet of snow had piled up during the night in the last blizzard of the year. The flakes today were perfect; I could see the intricate points like lace against my black coat. And yet, a quote from T.S. Eliot ran through my mind:

"April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire"

in third person

She thought of him as she tried to go to sleep, remembering the time in high school when he had tried to scare her by telling her that a homeless man lived in the woods behind his house and would rattle the handle of the basement door at night. She remembered that he was tall and brash. Remembered celebrating New Year's with him, huddled under a blanket by a meager bonfire with cigars. She laughed to herself in her bed, her covers drawn up to her nose. It had been years since they'd talked. Why was she thinking of him now? There was a tightness in her chest as she suddenly longed for the safe relationships of the past.

* * *

I just finished watching House of Sand and Fog. It's one of those incredibly beautiful but heartbreakingly hopeless films. It really has no hope what-so-ever at the conclusion. I felt like I wanted to cry or sleep for a long time. I think it really depressed one of my friends who was watching it. I feel slightly guilty for suggesting it... all that I knew about it was that it was nominated for three academy awards. It wasn't even that it was "bad", just that the characters all had lives that, by the end, were completely devoid of any meaning. The ultimate post-modern tragedy, complete with the death of innocence and the survivor who is nothing more than a battered husk of a person. The survival of the anti-hero.

In other news, it's four weeks from today that I will walk across the stage and receive a fake diploma. I will look like I'm graduating from college, but I will really just be pretending. I don't mind pretending though, because at least I get to go through this experience with my classmates. It seems strange that I will have to stay here and keep working at my majors for another year while most of my friends move out into the "real" world. Out of the pan and into the fire. I think of the summer and grin. My friends think of the summer and shudder.

Today I scored the highest I have ever scored in bowling. I got a 133 in my third game, after starting off the evening with a 68. Thank you Bowling HPER, my most favorite physical fitness class ever.

thomas alexander

Last week, Thomas Alexander played here. If you haven't heard of him, don't worry. You will. He is an amazing pianist; I was blown away by his performance. One of the most interesting things about him is that for the second half of his program, he takes requests, and then proceeds to improvise a piece in contemporary and classical style around whatever song an audience member suggests. That night, people requested "Eleanor Rigby", "The Entertainer", Britney Spears, "Amazing Grace", "Claire de Lune", and "Yesterday". He played the last four as one piece. It was incredible. As I sat there, these were some of the thoughts that ran through my head.

His hands were like leaping frogs; they were dancing out of his body like dancers on tip-toe.

The notes cascaded in shimmering waterfalls as love for the music radiated from his absurdly young face.

His fingers were wild creatures with a life of their own, and I had to tell myself to stop thinking dirty thoughts.

He would pause and you'd find yourself breathing again.

in third person

She held the two sticks of butter in her hands. She could feel that they had softened, and was suddenly seized by an irrepressible urge to squeeze them.

in third person

"Are you holding me because I'm cold, or do you have ulterior motives?" she asked, her arms wrapped teasingly around his neck. He grinned, but his eyes grew serious.

You're a really fun girl, and we have a good time together, but I don't really think that we would ever work out in the long term." She was startled. It had been a question asked in jest, and although she didn't really want him, it stung that he had thought about it and decided he didn't want her either. Her smile stayed on her face, but she sat very still in his arms.

"We're very different, aren't we."

"Too different," he said quietly. She looked away. "Don't get me wrong," he continued, the twinkle returning to his eyes, "I would love making out with you."

ramblings
I turned in my first ever unit plan today. For once I feel like maybe being a teacher could be the right path after all. The unit plan is for my Curriculum and Instruction class, one of several where I'm the oldest student. The rest of the students are sophomores and a couple juniors. It's kind of odd, because in that class, I feel slightly ahead of the rest of the students. Which is a nice feeling, because when I come home at night to my roommates (2 of which are in their last semesters of the education program and know everything a student can know about teaching), I feel inadequate and behind. For example, last night, as I was preparing the final pieces of my unit plan, I wanted Sarah and Kara to look over some of it and let me know if I was doing it right. And neither of them had time, neither of them were interested, and they just smiled patronizingly when I finally finished and was rejoicing. Kind of blew the wind out of my sails. I had worked over ten hours on that project, and I wanted someone to rejoice and be glad with me. It felt like such an accomplishment. And suddenly it was nothing, reduced to just another assignment. I felt like it was one of those "I just kicked this in the butt" moments, and they just looked at me like I had no right to be excited about a job well done. Maybe I came off a little prideful or something. Either way, I turned it in today, and felt like I had given my professor some of my best work. And it was satisfying, despite the frustration of feeling defeated in my room.

Isn't a room supposed to be a safe place? The place you feel comfortable and yourself? Aren't your roommates supposed to be your best friends? College is the place where you make life-long friendships, have the best time of your life, and feel the freest. You can sail around in sweatsuits and never do your hair and still be taken seriously. And even though I've felt this way about a lot of my college experiences, there are still so many days when I wonder if I'm just the person that people put up with. I feel as if I am an annoyance to my friends sometimes, and that there isn't one person I know who seeks me out and loves to be with me. Over spring break, our choir toured the Northwest states. It was so much fun, but half the time, I felt that Kara only enjoyed being with me when I made a fool out of myself. Is that an issue with my self-perspective or is it really happening? I never know. Does everyone have these days? Do even the most beautiful and outgoing people wonder if everyone else is just "putting up with them"? I hope so. It would make me feel better.

You're The Inspiration It has been almost a full year since I last wrote here. A lot has happened-- I got back to the U.S. after my semester in England, had a wonderful summer, and came back to Sioux Center, Iowa. I won't bore you with all the details, though. (Who is "you" anyway? No one really reads this but me.) I'm coming close to the end of my fourth year at Dordt College, and while all my friends and roommates are preparing to graduate, I'm looking forward to a whole 'nother semester of classes in the fall, followed by a semester of student teaching. Just a word of advice-- don't change your major a month before Christmas your senior year. It throws a wrench in everything. Anyway, I got inspired to start writing again when I saw that Becca had been writing in her blog; I also just miss writing-- writing descriptively, writing casually, writing artistically-- I'm so overwhelmed with education classes that I barely have time to study what I love. (That would be literature) I feel like I'm losing touch with myself and with my voice. I was reading some other blogs this past week, and I felt so inadequate. I'm not thinking gradiose thoughts or spilling forth fresh images. My life is barren. I'm beginning to realize that maybe this barrenness is the source of my frustration lately. I feel burned out and ugly, like everything I say is base and uncomplicated. I don't have anything worthwhile to contribute to the world's discussion. To me, that is incredibly sad. See, even now I can't think of a better word than "sad" to describe how I feel about that. Pathetic. My sister is much more creative than I am. I wish I had that piece of her in me too.

Visiting Dignitaries My sister Becca is here till Sunday morning, and I have to say I am fairly exhausted. Who knew that going downtown could be so tiring? Plus it's been so incredibly hot here. I'm going to struggle with going back to Nebraska and 90+ temperatures and 80% humidity if I think this is bad. I guess it doesn't help that I got baked by the sun the other day and now I feel like a lobster. In any case, it's been interesting having Becca around. She is sleeping on the floor; we've somehow managed to squeeze a mattress into the remaining space in my already tiny room. Which means that it's pretty cramped in here. And my room feels really messy, which makes me feel a little stressed out... but it's not. It's just full. Beth and I have been playing guide to Becca's tourist, which has been fun, but a little difficult after awhile. I keep forgetting that this is her first time to this city, and these things I've been staring at all semester are new and exciting to her. I loved the look on her face when she came around the corner and saw Big Ben for the first time. Her jaw just dropped. It reminded me of the way I felt the first time I looked down past Trafalger Square and saw the gold gleaming off the towers of Westminster. All the postcards were true. And it filled me with such a sense of awe. But now that I've been here for five months and I've been downtown countless times, I tend to think "Oh, it's just Big Ben again." Don't get me wrong, I still can't believe I'm here, that I've been here for so long. I guess it's just all part of the process of feeling at home in a place.

Fifteen Days It seems crazy that I'll be leaving England for who knows how long in only two weeks from tomorrow. I finally start to feel at home in this country, and then I have to get ready to leave it. I started sorting through papers today. They had grown from little stacks into mountains on my desk. I look around my room, and I wonder how I'm ever going to fit all of this into three suitcases. I was dreading living in a room by myself after two and a half years with roommates, but now I'm dreading going back to school in the fall and not having my own space. Fortunately, there will be that in-between time, the transition period where I readjust to my own culture. The image of my grandma's house sparks another set of thoughts. Questions about fitting in, about whether or not I will be different or the same, if I want to be the same. So much of this semester has altered the way I think about life, the way I see myself, the way I see others, the way I see my country, the way I see my family. How can I have these experiences and not be different? There have been people in my life this semester that have become a part of me, and inevitably, I'm not the same person as I was before I met them. They've influenced me, whether for good or for bad, and either way, even if it's a minute shift, there's a difference. The interesting thing will be to see how much others see it in me, if at all. I've warned my little sisters to keep an eye out for changes and to let me know. I'm sure my mom will notice if there's anything out of the ordinary. I'm trying to pin down the change here, and I think I probably won't be able to figure anything out until I get back to the States. I will still be learning from this experience years from now.

More Questions Yesterday in our Lit class, our professor got off on a huge tangent about existentialism and how certain aspects of existentialism can be present in Christianity. This sparked a huge debate about the nature of knowing if God exists compared with not knowing and still decided to "take the leap" through faith. Several people were adamant that, through the Holy Spirit, a person can clearly know and believe, whereas several other people were very firmly stating that there was no way anyone could ever tangibly know about God's existence, and it's in this not knowing that makes our decision to trust God so purely one of faith. For all we know, we could be leaping off and no one will catch us, but we believe through faith that God will "catch us" so to speak. I'm not sure where I stand on this. I understand the premise put forth by those who don't think you can ever truly know, but at the same time, isn't it admitting that God might not exist? And in that, is one denying the existence of God, which clearly goes against any sort of Christian belief? People were quoting Dostoyevsky and Kirkingaarde, and it was getting beyond my understanding. But I did understand some of Chip's points, that everyone goes through a "crisis of belief," and comes to a point when they can't rationally explain God or his existence, and yet have to choose to continue believing. I've experienced moments like that. But at the same time, to me, this seems to go against the traditional Calvinist idea of Irresistable Grace- the idea that God calls us and we cannot resist Him. Maybe I think that I'm continuing to choose God despite the fact that I can never really know He's there, but really it's God not letting me go. I never took a leap; instead God reached over and grabbed me. I don't know.

This is only the latest in a string of questions I've been asking myself this semester. The early ones dealt with notions of right and wrong. So much in life is not clearly dictated as purely good or purely bad. And when I came to London, I was confronted with more freedom in the way I lived my life, and I didn't know if exercising that freedom and doing certain things was going against what glorified God. Looking back, that should have been the guiding question, but instead I focused more on the need to find validation or condemnation in scripture. I also wondered what a Christian life was supposed to look like. A lot of my friends here are Christians, but they don't necessarily live what I've always understood to be "good" Christian lives. Did that negate their claims to faith? Or were they "exercising their freedom?" What right do I have to try to determine their position with God? And how much of my Christianity is determined by what I've always grown up believing? Just because the people in my little circle of life live one way doesn't necessarily mean it's the right way. Do I believe things simply because I've been trained by my fundamentalist Christian sub-culture to believe them? Am I simply conforming to "social norms?"

This leads back to the discussion in class yesterday. We have been reading The French Lieutenant's Woman by John Fowles (a very good book, by the way); Fowles is an existentialist. In the book, he directs his characters to stop acting in bad faith; that is, making decisions in life influenced by others or social norms, and then blaming your decision on them: you couldn't help it because that's what your friends or your family or your culture expect from you. Rather, one has to come to the realization that they are responsible for the decisions they make, and that they determine their own existence based on the decisions they make. This led to the discussion on having to choose Christ and believe that he is the only way to salvation. There are things in this world that aid in our understanding of this: the Bible, the Holy Spirit (?- I'm trying to work this out, so I could be misstating this here), other Christians, Nature. But none of these will ever lead us to full, inflexible, provable knowledge that God exists. I think this is what some of the people in my class would say. And I'm still trying to figure out if I agree with them or not. I'll probably spend my summer reading The Brothers Karamazov and some philosophy books, which is huge for me, because I've always hated philosophy. I am encouraged by the fact that at least I'm asking questions. There are so many people who just blindly accept what other people tell them, and they never truly look at what they believe, understand the ramifications and implications, and still believe. I don't want to be the kind of person who just follows blindly. I want to understand what I claim to believe, and if I find problems with what I've thought, work to find out what is right. And I think I also have to acknowledge that it will never be possible to fully understand or believe completely rightly. I'm broken, I'm sinful, and I can never attain that perfect ideology or philosophy or theology because it doesn't exist in this world. But I can continue to "work out" my salvation in "fear and trembling." That's really all I can do.

Creativity. I was looking at another blog just now, one by Alex Beauchamp, a freelance writer from Seattle. And I was amazed at how I resonated with some of what she said about being a writer and having a desire for creativity, particularly in this article: Baby Steps. I feel sometimes like I have such a strong desire to write, to express myself in a creative and artful way. But I've never been successful; I've never been particularly artistic. I've always done well with music and writing, but the other side, the photography, the painting- I've never stood out as incredibly gifted. Yet I have a desire to incorporate these things in my life. Sometimes, I like to envision a life lived in bold colors, with freedom and satisfaction in knowing that I'm doing what I want to do. I'm still young-- I have time to work out this vision into reality. But I want to succeed. I don't want to just live it for awhile and have it flop. I want it to be the satisfying existence that it seems to be for others. And the risk that's involved always frightens me just a little, just enough to prevent me from ever taking that first step. Of course, I'm still in the process of getting to the point of adulthood; I have yet to graduate from college. But there's a life I want to be living that I'm not. And I don't want to merely look at other people's lives and copy them. I want it to be my own thing. But what that is exactly, I'm not sure of yet.

Simple Minds A friend and I were debating about peanut butter today. Should chunky peanut butter be less expensive than smooth? I mean, they don't have to do as much smoothing, therefore the work that goes into producing chunky peanut butter is less, and should be reflected in the price. But then we wondered if perhaps the peanut butter producers make smooth peanut butter and then add chunks afterwards, which would then reverse the previous idea, and would require smooth peanut butter to be cheaper. Unfortunately, we didn't really come to any serious conclusions about the price of peanut butter in today's market. In other news, I still have a cold. My nose has been stuffed up since the first week of February. I don't think that the people I've gotten to know this semester know me without a cold. So, when I think I sound stuffy and plugged up, it's normal to them. I don't like that. I don't want people to think that I'm congested perpetually (although this has been the case lately). I can sound normal! I'm desparately hoping that it's just some weird allergy, and that when I get back home, my nose will clear, and I can speak and sing unhindered.

Is it right to start the countdown? It's already almost the middle of May. I don't know how this happens, how time slips through my fingers like sand. It's just the way it is, the way it always will be. I can't believe that I'm heading home in four weeks. Four weeks from today, I will be landing in Omaha, Nebraska and rushing into the arms of my expectant family. I'm already dividing up the remaining time; compartmentalizing it makes it seem even shorter. Two weeks left of class, only three actual periods of Oak Hill courses. A week with Becca, showing her London, hopefully making her love it as much as I do. Finals week, but only two tests. Free time till Monday, the nineth. I can already see the days starting to pick up speed. It was already a week ago that I was looking forward to yesterday. We keep reminding ourselves to live for this moment. To not sacrifice today for the sake of tomorrow. And yet, I can't help but look forward. It's part of who I am as a human being, looking forward to what is not yet, and at the same time, trying to balance it with what I'm doing now. It's the eternal dance, one that I'm constantly trying to learn. I feel like I'll never quite get the steps right.

To call it just another night out wouldn’t be enough. Nor would it be enough to simply call it memorable. Although it may have started that way. Another excursion, another ride on the tube. Another five quid snatched from my hand into a methodical machine that clinked out fifty pence and a travel card. I knew though, that somehow, today was different. There was a shimmer, a dewy glow to everything. On the way to the tube station, the clouds were racing each other across the sky, the slower ones darkening as lighter ones, sun washed and feathery, slipped past. It had just rained. It must have rained in drops of color, because everything looked brighter, more alive. I thought of C.S. Lewis and The Last Battle; was I getting a glimpse past the shadowlands? The air was rich with moisture, and freshness wafted from every living thing I passed. It made me feel more alive just to be walking beside budding trees, to watch the sun sparkling off glistening blades of grass, to see the shy purple of the magnolia.

I was headed downtown to listen to a concert. I’ve been to several concerts since I first stepped foot in this glamour town, this city of light and darkness. Each performance had exceeded my expectations, and I hoped that tonight would do the same. The sun had not yet set when I slithered my travel card into the gate, snatched it back and headed towards the escalator. Nor had it sunk beneath the horizon by the time I emerged from Embankment Station and gazed out past the street and stone-faced people to the Thames and the Royal Festival Hall beyond it.

This is my favorite part of London: the stretch of wide sidewalk that spoons with the south side of the Thames. The sphinxes are there, guarding Cleopatra’s Needle with bronze paws and smirking lips. At night, the Hungerford Bridge is lit up like an expensive cocktail, and from either direction, I can see panoramic views of the city. Along the sidewalk, wrought-iron fish with gaping mouths are intertwined with coiled lamp posts. Between every lamp post for a mile in either direction swing white light bulbs, casting dancing shadows on the trees that hold hands overhead. I can amble along this path in the day, curiously watching the people that hurry past; I can stroll it by night, wide-eyed and stirred by the dizzying array of colors displayed through the miracle of electricity.

Today I couldn’t take the time I would have liked to enjoy the beautiful sky; the concert started in an hour, and I wanted to grab a steaming cup of coffee before settling into seat number R44. I make it to my seat with time to spare, and I was even able to watch the sky darken and weep over the city before taking the lift to the fifth floor and R44. The players began to file in as I mused over the difference between “philharmonic” and “symphony.” I now know that Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary considers them to be synonyms, but at that moment, I was wondering if maybe Phil’s Harmonica made for one too many players in the traditional symphony, and as essential as the harmonica was to the piece, they solved the problem by changing the ensemble’s name.

The first piece was quintessentially modern, written by Julian Anderson and entitled “The Crazed Moon.” I kept imagining a yellow, grinning face above restless waters of a nameless sea, waxing and waning at its own will, holding its breath and turning a violent shade of red, then blue before finally setting. The music was hard to listen to; modern music usually is. I remember a piece about the bombing of Hiroshima that included the sounds of airplanes flying overhead followed by the feeling of the explosion—skin melting, glass shattering, buildings crumpling—and culminating in an eerie silence. It was one of the most painful pieces I’ve ever heard.

The second piece was much more traditional, a piano concerto by Mendelssohn. A small asian man, wearing a blue silk shirt with what appeared to be intricate polka dots (I was sitting close to the back of the auditorium) and black pants walked modestly onto the stage and gently sat on the piano bench. For the next thirty minutes, I was mesmerized by the hands, one moment dancing, another moment plucking, another moment caressing the crisp ivory keys. His fingers moved like spiders, spinning harmony and melody into a complex web of song. He could make the piano croon, he could make her whisper, he could make her shout. At one point, the music was so gentle and tender, I felt like I was intruding on an intimate moment between two lovers. I could barely breathe as I watched the music flow out of him like a silver thread. For an instant, I could see that the music wasn’t something he created, but something that originated far beyond himself. He was merely the vessel that was pouring out notes like an offering. He held the entire audience spellbound with his magic, and when he concluded, there was uproarious applause and calls for an encore. After coming out and bowing three separate times, he finally reappeared with an older man carrying an odd instrument. He introduced him as his father and the instrument as a Chinese violin. It only had two strings, and when the old man pulled the bow across them, it sang an eerie chant, exotic and dark. During the intermission, my mind played through the various similes and metaphors I could use to describe his playing, but nothing seemed adequate. I kept wishing for a simple pen and notepad to scribble my thoughts in. They were flying faster than I could keep track of.

I had been looking forward to the third piece all evening. Symphony no. 2 by Sergei Rachmaninov, one of my favorite composers. I have been raised on classical music like it was milk. One of the CD’s I remember the most was a collection of Rachmaninov’s works, and I knew that after hearing the opening bars, I would be transported home; I would probably be setting the table, and my mom would be in the kitchen, pulling loaves of bread out of the oven. I knew all this, and still I was unprepared when I heard the first few lines of music, swelling and washing over the crowd like waves lapping a white sand beach. My heart expanded in my chest, and I seriously wondered whether I would be able to survive all five movements of the symphony. I closed my eyes and hummed along with the melody in my head, feeling the rise and pull of the phrases. I could feel the longing stirring inside of me when the music ached. I felt the leap of authority when the music sounded its battle cry. I could feel the tears springing to my eyes when the music mourned. The best thing about Rachmaninov’s music is the drama, the passion and the power combined with bitter sadness, arching, sweeping lines of melody and dense, rich chords that resonate in every fiber of your body. I felt all this and more, and when the music finally stopped, I couldn’t stop the applause that shook my arms and threatened to pull them from their sockets. I could feel the joy bursting through my skin. I had been rocked by the song exuding from the bodies of the musicians; it had rocked them too. I watched them drag tired bodies from black, plastic chairs, and recalled the way the concertmaster had rippled like a salmon in his seat, remembered the way the music flew out of him like lightening. I was tired too, although it was with a light heart that I took the lift down to the ground floor and walked out into the windy night.

It had started out as just another day; going to class as usual, signing the sheet to say yes, I had received my five quid, taking my tea with two sugars and milk. How could I have known that the day would end indescribable? Even what I’ve set down here on these pages doesn’t do it justice. But I can say with certainty that it was more than just another night out.

Snowing in April? No, the sky is a glorious shade of blue. Only a few clouds are being herded by the wind. And yet, through my curtains, I see white flakes dancing and swirling, playing on the fingertips of angels. There is an apple orchard over the garden wall, beyond the library. The petals are floating on the breeze, making me think of manna descending from heaven. I can smell the sweet blossoms through my open window. The sound of leaves unfolding in the warm sunlight is like a sleeping child's easy breathing. Spring is the rebirth and awakening of the virile, dreaming earth.

What I Miss
I'm back in London, and after getting all rested up, I'm able to look back on my two-and-a-half week trip around Great Britain and Ireland with satisfaction. Some of the high points: playing with swords (aka sticks) on Hadrian's Wall, the full Northumberland breakfast at the Once Brewed (I highly recommend this hostel- what wonderful people!), the little chocolate shop off of the city walls in York, the Shambles, Beauty and the Beast in Edinburgh, the three-day Haggis tour of the Highlands, cruising Loch Ness in search of Nessie, the Isle of Skye and Macurdie's Exhibition, Hamish the Hairy Coo, walking around Derwentwater near Keswick, watching F-15 dodge the hills of the Lake District, baguettes at the Oasis cafe, playing "Guess Who" at the hostel in Keswick using questions like "Does your person look like a Russian insurrectionist," Kevin and juice at the Embassie in Liverpool, watching Man. U play Arsenal in a Temple Bar pub in Dublin, going to the Guinness brewery, seeing the Book of Kells, finding Reeses Pieces and Hershey's chocolate after a four-month withdrawal, sitting on the window sill and writing at Barnacle's in Dublin, the best banana split I've ever had in my life, the little man who wriggled under a flaming limbo stick, finally making it back to London after 13 hours of travelling and waiting. There is so much more I could mention, but I doubt you would be interested. I have never been so happy to pull into Southgate as I was at 1:45 am Saturday night/Sunday morning. I had been comforting myself all day (through all our travel incidences that made a 7 hour journey 13 hours) with the idea of sleeping in my own bed and sleeping as late as I wanted, and I finally got to my room, opened the door, and found a strange girl at my desk! It turned out she was visiting my friend at the college and was using my room to sleep in, so I ended up having to sleep on a cot in my friend Ryan's room. I was slightly disappointed (okay, so I got a little teary eyed, but I was also extremely tired) at not sleeping in my own bed, but it still was the best night's sleep I'd had in almost three weeks. I woke up the next morning feeling like I could handle living in London for another five weeks, compared to the feeling of utter homesickness I'd had the night before. I still am missing home, some things in particular, like Oreos, Ranch dressing, Peanut Butter M&M's, Reeses Peanut Butter cups, real Coke, Bugles and Doritos (the American versions), my minivan, my stereo, the freedom to travel wherever I want whenever I want (realistically speaking, of course), church (especially on Easter), dollars, family, my bed, my grandma. I leave again on Wednesday for Sweden to see my sister; I'm getting so excited! I can barely believe it's been almost a year since we've seen each other. Thanks to modern technology, we're able to communicate almost daily. It's strange to think that even fifteen years ago, that wouldn't have been possible in the same way it is now. Crazy.

Land of the Mad, Passionate Scots
I have become jaded. Travelling Great Britain is not all it was cracked up to be. I'm not done yet; Ireland is my next stop. But I'm tired. I'm tired of cities. I'm tired of shops sucking the money right out of your pockets. I'm tired of trains full of crazy people and open (but reserved) seats. I'm tired of rock-hard beds and sleep sacks. I'm tired of hostels from hell. Every major city is beginning to look the same, and every hill, highland and mountain is beginning to slope into one big mass of heather and rock. Don't get me wrong, I am trying to soak this all up and savor every amazing moment, but another part of me just wants to go home. And I don't be back to London. I mean back to good old, down home, red-white-and-blue, corn-fed, football-crazed Nebraska. This semester keeps dragging out, and although I am making enough memories to last a lifetime, I'm feeling the urge to pack up my suitcases and jump on the next flight to Omaha. At the same time, though, I really don't want to go home. There are things going on that make me want to be anywhere but there. And although I'm exhausted from bus and train hopping, I have loved everything I've seen. The three-day Haggis tour through the Highlands was incredible. I took a cruise on Loch Ness and went monster hunting. I drank crystal clear water on the Isle of Skye. I walked in Glen Coe, and saw the battlefields of Bannockburn and Culloden- places that are etched in my mind as vital, heart-breaking and unforgettable moments in the history of my family. So, it's not all creaky beds and bumpy bus rides. However, I understand the phrase "there's no place like home" more than ever now that I've gotten as far away from home as I can.

Set to Jet... Well, I'm off for Easter break. That's one nice thing about European education; you get almost a full month of break for Easter. And it happens to be in my favorite month, April! I'm travelling with a small group of friends, and we're hitting up all the great places in Great Britain and Ireland without rushing around too much. I'm really looking forward to the week in Scotland. I have spent a good part of the last two years dreaming about coming to the land of my ancestors, and now I'm doing it. I think, other than studying here in London for the semester, this is one the first BIG dreams I've had that I've actually fulfilled. I hope that I'm not building it up too much in my mind; that usually leads to disappointment. But I have seen so many beautiful pictures of the Highlands; I feel like there's no way I can be disappointed, because I'm simply going to be there, and that's enough.

How do you spell Crocket? I learned how to play crocket this afternoon. It's an interesting mix of bowling, croquet, and baseball. I think we lost, though. Something like 145-120. It's a really fun game, but it took me awhile to catch on. I kept thinking I was playing baseball, and somehow, that's just not the trick to scoring. I have yet to figure out what is. Until that glorious day, I will continue to stand still when I should be running, and run when I should be standing still.

My room is a mess. You would think that it wouldn't be terribly difficult to keep an 8x12 space tidy. But it is. My bed isn't made, there are clothes all over my floor, the desk is a jungle of papers and bracelets and a can of Pringles and computer equipment and tubes of Softlips and pens and books; My sink is overflowing with bottles and makeup compacts. A picture is falling off my wall. Somehow, I always feel that my mental state is vicariously connected and represented by the state of my room. My life is in disarray!

I would just like to give props to some of my favorite movies: Amelie (the kiss at the end is so achingly sweet), Life is Beautiful (I would love to have someone open their arms to me and say "Bonjourno, principessa!"), Schindler's List (the melody line written by John Williams moves me to tears every time I hear it), Dude, Where's My Car? (totally quotable, albeit really stupid... "and 'den? and 'den? and'denand'denand'denand'denand'den"), Dumb and Dumber (another good one for quotes...), Lord of the Rings (both, so far- they are so exhilirating; and Viggo Mortenson is so hot right now), Fight Club (such an incredible ending...wow), The Others (literally spell-binding), Breakfast At Tiffany's (a little quirky, which is why I like it so much), Braveheart (I am Scottish, through and through, so of course this one gets me), The Sting (the original Ocean's Eleven, and much more subtle), The English Patient (although I didn't like some parts, overall, the film is beautiful; I love Ralph Fiennes), American Beauty (talk about making you think...). There are hundreds more that I like; I can usually enjoy any movie, although it takes a little more for me to really love it. There's nothing like kicking back and watching one of your favorite movies (provided of course, that you have a big glass of coke and a tub of heavily buttered popcorn on hand).