It's after 1am on a Saturday night and I've been itching to get home for
hours to write this down. You know how sometimes when you're reading
something and it's so good that you have to stop, look around the room,
shake your head a few times, take a deep breath, and reread it? Almost
as if you're in disbelief that someone hit the nail so on the head or
verbalized some construct that you could only grasp the edges of? That
feeling of "ah-ha" now that that has been put into words, it is
concrete, tangible, and real? where before it was foggy and you couldn't
truly experience it.
Haven't you all been propositioned with the question of if we cannot
verbalize feelings or thoughts, do they really exist? Then the feeling
of once you figure out how to say it, you feel it so much more clearly.
Interesting? To think that we are perhaps limited to feel only what we
can understand/vocalize/verbalize? It reminds me of the book, "The
Giver", where feelings and experiences were previously existing but
people went on without ever feeling certain ways because they lacked
introduction to them. Once informed, the experiences could occur.
To be honest, I read only the Giver once, and that was my
interpretation. I also might have been in 5th grade. I've never wanted
to reread it I fear I'll loose that interpretation. I've also realized
there a deep political agenda that I completely missed. Shot right over
my head. Who knows how realistic my interpretations were.
Here is it:
"Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing or that, but simply growth" - William Yeats
There. That was my "stop what I'm doing, run, pull out my laptop, and write it down lest I forget" moment.
I'm reading the "The Happiness Project", by Gretchen Rubin. It is a
laugh out loud, "Don't look at meeee because I'm in public and giggling
over book" read. It is affecting, impactful, and thought-provoking. But
do not worry- Not histrionic. You wouldn't catch me reading something
like that.
Monday, December 7, 2015
May 2014- (Living in Texas)
I’m sitting on the floor in the Houston airport
enduring a lay over. Yes, since I last wrote, I moved to Texas. Texas, by the
way, and specifically, Austin, is splendid.
It is perfect for right now and I imagine for another year or so. Off to
where next? I do not know. But I do like thinking about it.
I spent the flight from Austin to Houston thinking
of how much I love airports. Thinking, I love the way they smell; the air is
always cold, the faint whiff of sunscreen that hangs around regardless of
season or city, the freshly baked glutens that I cannot have but yet I crave,
the men in business suits whom I’ve always had desires to ask to see what’s in
their briefcases, the magazines and books that
convince me they are more relevant and riveting than the book in my bag, and my
favorite, the newspaper stands.
The men in suits. Conveying a sense of urgency and utmost importance but
with such calm demeanor. As if, they could be called to action at any moment
but possess such confidence in their competence, that such concern is none of
theirs.
To have taken such a strong liking to an idea, a
concept, a person, or place, there surely must be a more deeply rooted innate
desire that has been satisfied to an extent.. After much mulling, I think I
have finally placed my finger on it.
It is the
sense of purpose that airports portray. It is that one place where everyone is
in motion, everyone knows the next step, the next few hours of their day. So
much is already decided. But yet, we all still expect the unexpected. No one
seems stuck, everyone is moving forward. Everyone is fulfilling something.
Purpose and fulfillment are two are my “things”. Things I will always be bound
to and drawn to understanding.
Sam & Suzy
- Sam: So, what do you want to be when you grow up?
- Suzy: I don't know...I want go on adventures I think--not get stuck in one place. How about you?
- Sam: Go on adventures too, not get stuck too.
- -Moonrise Kingdom
conroy
“What's
important is that a story changes every time you say it out loud. When
you put it on paper, it can never change. But the more times you tell
it, the more changes will occur. A story is a living thing; it moves and
shifts”
― Pat Conroy, South of Broad
― Pat Conroy, South of Broad
“The world of literature has everything in it, and it refuses to leave
anything out. I have read like a man on fire my whole life because the
genius of English teachers touched me with the dazzling beauty of language.
Because of them I rode with Don Quixote and danced with Anna Karenina at a
ball in St. Petersburg and lassoed a steer in "Lonesome Dove" and had
nightmares about slavery in "Beloved" and walked the streets of Dublin in
"Ulysses" and made up a hundred stories in the Arabian nights and saw my
mother killed by a baseball in "A Prayer for Owen Meany." I've been in ten
thousand cities and have introduced myself to a hundred thousand strangers
in my exuberant reading career, all because I listened to my fabulous
English teachers and soaked up every single thing those magnificent men and
women had to give. I cherish and praise them and thank them for finding me
when I was a boy and presenting me with the precious gift of the English
language. ” - Pat Conrey
stains (abby)
my sweet old lady, german shepherd, abby is almost 11 and plagued now
with hip dysplasia. I describe watching her bolt out and run searching
for me when she hears the car engine humming along towards home as one
of the moments in life where the heart swells. That swelling fills with
you awareness of its endless capacity to grow and for a few moments,
enables you to forget how difficult it is to love. It feels like someone
poured a pitcher of goopy, semifluid paint into a small bowl with a
border of cut out holes around the top and the amorphous liquid rushes
out and clings to the surrounding structures-- leaving them touched with
a lightness and hope.
eventually, the fluid dissolves and what just transpired is forgotten but I'd like to think that some of that colorant stains.
eventually, the fluid dissolves and what just transpired is forgotten but I'd like to think that some of that colorant stains.
to reach
"Always
in the dream, it seemed as if there were a destination: a something--he
could not grasp what-that lay beyond the place where the thickness of
snow brought the sled to a stop. He was left, upon awakening, with the
feeling that he wanted, even somehow needed, to reach the something that
waited in the distance. The feeling that it was good. That it was
welcoming. That it was significant. But he did not know how to get
there."
- Lois Lowry, The Giver
- Lois Lowry, The Giver
construct
― Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five
fairy's wing
“But
his heart was in a constant, turbulent riot. The most grotesque and
fantastic conceits haunted him in his bed at night. A universe of
ineffable gaudiness spun itself out in his brain while the clock ticked
on the washstand and the moon soaked with wet light his tangled clothes
upon the floor. Each night he added to the pattern of his fancies until
drowsiness closed down upon some vivid scene with an oblivious embrace.
For awhile these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination; they
were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the
rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy's wing.”
-Fitzgerald, TGG
-Fitzgerald, TGG
to convey
“He
smiled understandingly-much more than understandingly. It was one of
those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you
may come across four or five times in life. It faced--or seemed to
face--the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on
you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just
as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would
like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the
impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.”
F.S. Fitzgerald, TGG
F.S. Fitzgerald, TGG
autumnal
"No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnal face.”
- John Donne
the world
“The world was in her heart already, like the small spot of decay in a fruit.”
― Graham Greene, The Power and the Glory
― Graham Greene, The Power and the Glory
Glittering
“Her
eyes were glittering like the eyes of a child when you give a nice
surprise, and she laughed with a sudden throaty, tingling way. It is the
way a woman laughs for happiness. They never laugh that way just when
they are being polite or at a joke. A woman only laughs that way a few
times in her life. A woman only laughs that way when something has
touched her way down in the very quick of her being and the happiness
just wells out as natural as breath and the first jonquils and mountain
brooks. When a woman laughs that way it always does something to you. It
does not matter what kind of a face she has got either. You hear that
laugh and feel that you have grasped a clean and beautiful truth. You
feel that way because that laugh is a revelation. It is a great
impersonal sincerity. It is a spray of dewy blossom from the great
central stalk of All Being, and the woman’s name and address hasn’t got a
damn thing to do with it. Therefore, the laugh cannot be faked. If a
woman could learn to fake it she would make Nell Gwyn and Pompadour look
like a couple of Campfire Girls wearing bifocals and ground-gripper
shoes with bands on their teeth. She could get all society by the ears.
For all any man really wants is to hear a woman laugh like that.”
― Robert Penn Warren, All The King's Men
― Robert Penn Warren, All The King's Men
one point on the map
“There
is nothing more alone than being in a car at night in the rain. I was
in the car. And I was glad of it. Between one point on the map and
another point on the map, there was the being alone in the car in the
rain. They say you are not you except in terms of relation to other
people. If there weren't any other people there wouldn't be any you
because what you do which is what you are, only has meaning in relation
to other people. That is a very comforting thought when you are in the
car in the rain at night alone, for then you aren't you, and not being
you or anything, you can really lie back and get some rest. It is a
vacation from being you. There is only the flow of the motor under you
foot spinning that frail thread of sound out of its metal guy like a
spider, that filament, that nexus, which isn't really there, between the
you which you have just left in one place and the you which you will be
where you get to the other place.”
― Robert Penn Warren June 2012
Living by yourself is interesting to say the least. There's always
this slight fear of slipping into an actuality composed purely of my own
thoughts. I sit down to do something or think about something and I
just get swept away. An hour will pass and I'll realize that I've just
been lost in my own head with nothing to interrupt, divert or distract.
I curled up in an euphoric pile of a fresh, hot whites straight out of the dryer and watched "Like Crazy" late this evening. I had been wanting to see it for quite some time but typically steer away from any love story that looks like it has the potential and capacity to be heart wrenching. I figured it'd be another low-budget indy film where the characters bond over their love for the same music, books, oddities, and quirks. That, I can handle quite well. It's hardly believable anyways, but endearing in the relatable way that I have experienced fleeting adoration for boys who share my peculiar way of seeing things or perhaps just happen to also have an affinity for burritos, archie comic books, science fiction, and comparative literature.
I hated every moment of the entire movie. It was gripping, compulsive, enthralling, and engrossing. The film itself was tedious and more like snap shots of their relationship but I don't think anyone can sit through it without it resonating with their own harsh, revolting, and sometimes jarring humanity. We, as people, just suck learning to love selflessly. Perhaps I hated "Like Crazy" so much because it just served as an hour and half long reminder of how I've failed to put others first.
I was in such a melancholic state that I didn't know what else to do aside from go to the 24-hour grocery store. I love grocery stores in the same way that I love libraries. They are so full of potential, and so undeveloped. They house the components of any great meal. Just, all spread out, raw, uncooked, packaged up, and stacked.
I just wandered around until I snapped out of it, checked out, and returned to my car to listen to Call Me, Maybe and return home. Grocery store trips are always hilarious in their own way. A guy told me that I must have gotten a lot of sun recently to have such dark freckles on my shoulders and back. How does one even go about responding to a statement like that? I said, yes, that I had forgotten to put on sunscreen over the weekend. Then I just awkwardly shuffled away. Engaging in midnight conversations with strangers complimenting your freckles sounds like a very bad plan to me. No more off the shoulders tops to be worn to kroger. Lesson learned.
I curled up in an euphoric pile of a fresh, hot whites straight out of the dryer and watched "Like Crazy" late this evening. I had been wanting to see it for quite some time but typically steer away from any love story that looks like it has the potential and capacity to be heart wrenching. I figured it'd be another low-budget indy film where the characters bond over their love for the same music, books, oddities, and quirks. That, I can handle quite well. It's hardly believable anyways, but endearing in the relatable way that I have experienced fleeting adoration for boys who share my peculiar way of seeing things or perhaps just happen to also have an affinity for burritos, archie comic books, science fiction, and comparative literature.
I hated every moment of the entire movie. It was gripping, compulsive, enthralling, and engrossing. The film itself was tedious and more like snap shots of their relationship but I don't think anyone can sit through it without it resonating with their own harsh, revolting, and sometimes jarring humanity. We, as people, just suck learning to love selflessly. Perhaps I hated "Like Crazy" so much because it just served as an hour and half long reminder of how I've failed to put others first.
I was in such a melancholic state that I didn't know what else to do aside from go to the 24-hour grocery store. I love grocery stores in the same way that I love libraries. They are so full of potential, and so undeveloped. They house the components of any great meal. Just, all spread out, raw, uncooked, packaged up, and stacked.
I just wandered around until I snapped out of it, checked out, and returned to my car to listen to Call Me, Maybe and return home. Grocery store trips are always hilarious in their own way. A guy told me that I must have gotten a lot of sun recently to have such dark freckles on my shoulders and back. How does one even go about responding to a statement like that? I said, yes, that I had forgotten to put on sunscreen over the weekend. Then I just awkwardly shuffled away. Engaging in midnight conversations with strangers complimenting your freckles sounds like a very bad plan to me. No more off the shoulders tops to be worn to kroger. Lesson learned.
February 19th 2012
Tonight, I crawled up into my bed and scrolled through my twitter feed
until I stumbled upon a tweet that spoke straight to my heart. I
reread it a few times before searching for page to write it down upon.
I clicked straight through to rest of this individual's tweets and just
sat dumbfounded at the wrenching of my heart. The scripture, the
quotes of Christ's love for humanity, the truth, the mercy, the joy, and
the compassion just broke into my little hardened heart.
For so long I wanted to be strong, to be tough, to be unbreakable. I grew tired of being criticized for being too directionless, not ambitious enough, and without the same mind set. The part of me, so eager to please, wanted to grow into a lady who never wavered under the judgement of others. With this intention, I ceased to remember what it felt like to know that "[His] grace is sufficient for [me], for [His] power is made perfect in weakness".
In my search for a scrap of paper I found a journal that was given to me by one of my neighbor's after my dad's funeral. I tucked his funeral bulletin in the journal and stuck it deep inside my closet and never wanted to open it or look at it again. Having completely forgotten this, I stretched up onto my tip-toes and jumped to grab the still vacant journal. Iinside the journal, I found a book mark tucked
Inside addressed to me, " And they remembered that God was their rock. And the Most High God their redeemer" - Psalm 78:35
For so long I wanted to be strong, to be tough, to be unbreakable. I grew tired of being criticized for being too directionless, not ambitious enough, and without the same mind set. The part of me, so eager to please, wanted to grow into a lady who never wavered under the judgement of others. With this intention, I ceased to remember what it felt like to know that "[His] grace is sufficient for [me], for [His] power is made perfect in weakness".
In my search for a scrap of paper I found a journal that was given to me by one of my neighbor's after my dad's funeral. I tucked his funeral bulletin in the journal and stuck it deep inside my closet and never wanted to open it or look at it again. Having completely forgotten this, I stretched up onto my tip-toes and jumped to grab the still vacant journal. Iinside the journal, I found a book mark tucked
Inside addressed to me, " And they remembered that God was their rock. And the Most High God their redeemer" - Psalm 78:35
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