Loners

Thank God for friends who support no matter how many years of being friendship-weather beaten they get.

Thank God for people who want to stick with you after weeks of emotional storms.

And I'm watching people fall into the floor around me as I sit and write in this library.

Perhaps my society has chosen to feed the human need to be liked, rather than the human need to be loved. Maybe they don't know the difference.

300 people like the careful things I say on the internet.

3 people love me, despite them.

And I'm listening to the universal bubble of conversation that shelters my thoughts. Like cold water over so many river rocks.

To know so many minds behind so many lies would be a wonder.

A scattered effigy

It's only poetry.

. . . annnnddd goodnight.

From the Beginning

Love.

God is love.

Perfect love, real love.

Love is too much to understand.

It's blood.

It's reckless sacrifice.

Love is throwing yourself into the unknown,

hoping it doesn't swallow you

but counting the risk of such a thing minute.

So often love is painful.

So why are we driven to it?

In such a confused state as the one of being man,

the race is driven to destroy.

Intentions may be Heavenly,

but our actions of Hell.

A mode of being that retreats into itself,

that escapes away from itself,

that obsesses with darkness,

or turns to any hope of happiness.

At war with the mind itself,

at war with the entirety of nature.

Apathy, rage, passion,

peace, bliss, ambition

knowledge, wealth,

survival.

Consumed.

Mysterious,

to find love in the midst of it all.

Love that shines in sacrifice,

complete surrender of oneself for the sake of another.

Love that heals,

comforts,

protects,

drives us.

A fire inside that becomes everything,

That defines reality.

An evidence of the divine in the shadow of corruption.

God is love.

This is what was given.

Grace in love. Forgiveness,

Over and over.

A heart to stay in time with His,

Wisdom.

Goodness.

Truth.

Peace.

Hope.

Light.

Power.

A plan.

And I am overwhelmed with You

REVAMP!

Once upon a time, there were two young girls who lived in the basement of a magical house in the heart of their country. These two girls were very happy in their lives; frolicking about on sunny days, staying home with coffee when it was rainy. They went to classes and church and social events, they stayed up in the wee hours of the morning discussing all the matters of life. One day, however, a cloud moved into their country. It came with no warning, no shifting winds, no hint of dismay. No, it was all at once that the plague arrived.

At midnight one of our heroines, Amy, sat in blissful peace by her window, simply chatting with her friends. Suddenly, she heard the screeching of many many birds. What's this? She thought, curious to know the cause of such a sound. Amy ran upstairs, threw open the front door and stepped out. Behold! The sky was black and buzzing with thousands of crows. They squealed and shrieked and beat their winds loud enough to deafen a person. They perched themselves on every branch of every tree surrounding the girls magical house. Upon Amy's exclamation of surprise, Katie came darting up the stairs. She shrieked, and wisely pulled Amy inside and locked the door. The girls exchanged a look of worry, but continued hopefully on with their night.

Days passed, the crows only grew louder. Every night they'd return to watch the magical house. The ground was white, the carriages covered so that one could not see outside of them. The subtly threatening smell of rot began to seep into the ground all around them. Night after night, and still the birds never stopped. They sat and watched and screamed and flew and excreted down upon our once-happy heroines home.

Amy and Katie now sit locked away, hearts heavy and minds hurting.

What could this possibly be? And who can possibly save them?

Find out next week on another episode of "Your Face is Like That!"

Cold, Lost, Scared, but not Alone

Finals week. Cliche of the century.

Wow, that's rather epic. The whole century has nothing on finals week. . . therefor I too must write about it.

Finals week is something akin (I would imagine) to crawling inside a very small, tightly packed igloo. Not the big awesome kind real Eskimos make, with chimney's and firepits. . .no. The kind you make as a kid that's just a bunch of ice packed together, threatening to fall on you and retaining no warmth whatsoever. Upon crawling into this igloo, you realize you have no room to move, turn around, or even sleep. Also, you've left all your victuals about a mile back, you've forgotten your own name, you don't remember ever having friends, and (just before depression and madness sets in) a heavy iron gate falls and closes behind you, locking you there for a full five days. Have fun kids.

You think that's all, you think it's the pit, the bottom of the bottom. . . but no. It's then that the igloo expands, just big enough to allow a huge black dragon to appear. One who demands knowledge out of you, demands to know random bits of information that have never proven useful before and will never prove useful ever again. What's this?! You beat your fists into the ground. This simply isn't right! No ones ever taught you anything about the significance of the cranial capacity of homo erectus versus homo sapien, or the occipital bun of ancient beings! No one said what in the world Ologesailie is! How can the dragon demand this of you? But demand it he does, with thick stench rolling up his throat, over his hot tongue, between his slime-dripping teeth and straight into your panicked face. What to do, what to do?!

Lay down and cry. That's about all you got now.

See you on the other side beauties,

Yours Truly

L'essence . . .

Doesn't that look pretty? And isn't that such a fancy French word?

It means gasoline.

You, my dearest reader ( I am convinced there will be at least one of you) are now involved in a very common, but fascinating incident. The 'Procrastination of Super Important Things' incident. I have a huge test tomorrow, and I'm only hurting myself by not shoving my nose in-between the glossy, smelly, marked up textbook pages. . . but making a grilled Apple-Brie sandwich seemed so much more beneficial at the time.

Sleep sounds pretty nice too.

But passing that exam? Priceless.

What's the point here? There is none.

Someday I'll write an anthropological-esque entry on what I've observed during the day, focusing on the behavioral habits and adaptations of traditional middle-class college students in middle America and it's effects on the psyche of the subject and the culture of the surrounding area.

Until then. . .

Amy

Knit Your Ribs

Yet again, ballet class teaches me more about living than anything else in my limited world.

In our first cold, fall morning ballet class of the season (just a note, ones body behaves like an entirely different animal when it's cold) our ballet instructor was seething frustration. Her tone was sharp and short, her instructions concise and clear. She did not repeat, she did not take questions, she did not look you in the eye. She commanded, you danced. Which was perfectly fine by me, as I prefer to move through a silent class anyways. Only half an hour into the class, she stops the music and begins correcting people, the same old corrections over and over again; "Jane, plie."

"Amy, knit your ribs."

"Marielle, you're back. Come forward."

"Anna, heels down heels down heels down!"

She finally stopped and looked us, "I know you've had eighteen-plus years of the wrong training. I know you danced for people who didn't care and let you get away with things like this, I'm trying to fix you. If we don't get this fixed, you'll get injured. I'm not yelling at you, I'm helping you because I actually give a care."

Well. . . in so many words.

As I stood facing the mirror, trying over and over again to bring my ribs together, it struck me. . . that's life. We have to forget our past, our years of 'the wrong training'. You simply can't hold onto things for too long or you'll get hurt. Okay, so you made a mistake. You messed up big time, but you can't let it define you. You can't let it worm it's way into your psyche, tint the mirror you see yourself in, become central to your definition. I can't keep thinking of myself as 'the dancer who's always leaning backwards'. Even when you recognize that it's a problem, if it becomes part of your definition you'll never fix the problem. You'll just focus on it, make it bigger.

In life, you have to forget where you came from, clear things out, start again. Start again, how beautiful is that? Okay, so the past is haunting you. It's dug it's way into who you are and now you feel like it's all you'll ever be. But listen, you simply will get hurt if you stay that way. Listen to the corrections you're given, be brave enough to face up to a critical eye, and have the courage to move on. God is going to ask you to face up to the sickly patterns in your life, He is going to ask it of you over and over again. He'll go deeper and demand more than you think is reasonable or necessary, God will push you past limits you only thought you had. But don't give up, listen. He isn't picking on you, He isn't hating you or condemning you for your wrongs; He is fixing you because He loves more than anyone. God loves you too much to let you keep dancing that way, He knows it'll get you injured and out of the game.

So chin up friends, this is something you absolutely can do.

Love!

Amy

(PS, knit your ribs child.)

Existentialism

I'm blogging just because I want to. Because I feel like it. In reality, I don't have much to say.

I guess I could comment on the severely blustery day, which I enjoy so much (there is something about strong wind resistance that makes me smile).

I could note that the bird I'm sitting next to is just staring me down and screeching, and has been for the past hour. I hardly hear him anymore.

Perhaps you'd rather read about how there are two-three men in my apartment, tearing down a wall in my bathroom. A wall they discovered wasn't mounted to anything, and was held in place by a single screw at the top of the wall. Against code? I think so.

Another possibility would be my telling you that I had 4 shots of espresso earlier, so I'm extra chatty and feel a little bit in love with everyone I see (a common side-effect, not dangerous, but if feelings continue longer than 24hours, contact a Dr)

Maybe you'd rather read all of the interesting information I learned today about baboon lifestyles and development? They aren't as violent as you'd think.

As fascinated as I'm sure you are with all of this information, I think I'll settle on simply sharing this photo with you. Enjoy.

Yours Truly