A Day Late, A Buck Short

I spent yesterday not dealing. I didn't want to see it, hear it. Didn't want to care what it meant to other people. Didn't even want to reflect on what it meant to me. Was angry at its ubiquitousness. Told my brother as much, without even thinking. He said he didn't want to watch football with friends because of all the associated 9/11 hooplah, because he wanted to deal with that privately. I answered quickly, "I don't want to deal with that at all." So I didn't. And yet it became impossible to avoid, somehow.

Today I started thinking about a photograph. I tore through some memory boxes looking for it. My college had a newspaper called "The Justice." I think 2, maybe 3 days after September 11th, 2001 it put out a special issue. There was a picture of me on the cover of that issue. Nobody who isn't me would know it was me because it doesn't show my face. But I know it's me because it's me. I'm sitting on a stone bench by the pond between the three chapels. I am wearing a long khaki cargo skirt, a blue baby tee, and though the photographer is fairly far away, you can just see the edge of my purple flowered underpants poking up out of the back of the skirt. If you're looking closely. I am leaning forward with my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands, and I am crying. The photographer is probably 30 yards behind me. I didn't know she was there until I saw my picture in the paper days later. I saved this issue for years. It is somewhere in my house, but in the boxes and boxes of memorabilia I have whose filing and labeling system has broken down in the 20 years or so of collecting, it is hard to locate at a moment's notice. I've decided that it's enough to know I have it.

To "The Justice" the picture represents just one more anonymous person grieving. To me, it represented the beginning of finding my voice. A truer, more thoughtful inner voice.

It cost me my first college friend. About a week after it happened, I hung up a copy of this poem by Ani DiFranco in my dorm room. Was it insensitive, considering that my roommate Mary's brother had been killed when the first plane hit the North Tower? Hell yes. Do I feel a bit of regret for that now? Definitely. But I couldn't even think about whether it was sensitive or not back then. All I could think was that I needed to express something huge, but couldn't. And here was somebody else expressing a lot of what I felt. That because I couldn't say it adequately in my own words yet, I had to have my voice represented by proxy.

Mary didn't speak to me for weeks after I posted it because I refused to take it down. And even after the ice thawed a little bit, we were never really close again. A story for another time, a differing proclivity for drugs drove the final wedge between us.

A purpose of liberal education not yet fully understood was doing it's job. Influenced by the events of the world and my own convictions, I was learning how to think. How to express what I thought. All the while growing. Formative.

March 20, 2003 - reacting to a global tragedy

December 2003 - reacting to a personal tragedy (I'm only noticing now, years later, that the only thing I could think to draw on that random night of artistic collaboration in mod 32 was woman born from tears)

April 2004 - Traveling 600 miles in a bus full of strangers to further exercise my voice

I would do more to connect the dots for you but these days my voice is better expressed in images than words. And primarily, images are what have dominated my consciousness for the last twelve hours or so. Particularly the significance of images, both generally and to me personally. Some day, when I'm long gone and my progeny (or if I don't manage to have any of my own, perhaps my nieces or nephews) are talking about the life I've had, photos will be their anchor. They probably won't talk about the six years I spent making project plans or writing marketing materials or running accounts payable for a small office. I hope. I hope they'll talk about how the day King George II declared war on Iraq I was one of the first people on a bus to Boston to shout my displeasure from the rooftops. And they'll see the photograph to prove it. My daughter will pass on my hard-learned lessons about the value of sex and relationships to her own daughter, and maybe (for at least one more person) stop the cycle of violence and abuse that is far more common than is ever discussed. She'll show her the drawing from the mod, or the portrait series of date rape victims that in the future I hope to shoot, or the picture of my sculptures from 2003. Images will connect to history, to lessons, to connection and shared wisdom. Insight into a consciousness that hopefully will not be a waste after it's gone if it can somehow provide a way to show what it has learned. Another reason to keep pouring as much energy as I can muster into my time behind the lens. To never give up that passion, whatever the day job might be.

So many of us are already proving we are unable to learn from the past. Let that not be my legacy.

A Fact I Should Have Learned Long Ago

Sometimes, it feels fucking amazing just to say "No."

Other Thursday Thoughts, In Rough Order

I'm sure this isn't all of them, but it's as many as I could recall at this late hour.

10amish: In case I forget to mention it later, I think it's adorable that you still call me every time there's a bad storm or a natural disaster. That you remember how much these things scare me, that you subsequently think to call and check in, and then actually follow through and do it. It's amazing. It makes ME feel really good and also speaks to what an awesome person YOU are. Way to go, you. :)

3pmish: I've had a lot of family around lately. This has led to a lot of rehashing and discussing the past. Learning each other's perspectives on events we for so long have only seen through our own eyes. Managed to verbalize something I've known about myself for a really long time, but never summarized quite so succinctly until describing to my sister during her visit. My parents fought kind of a lot when I was in middle school and early high school. Or at least, it felt like a lot to me. A lot of times this fighting was about the younger of my two older brothers. He was going through a tough time and they were right there with him. And had their own issues compounding any problem that came along. I remembering hearing the fights they had with my brother, the fights they had with each other, remember the fights my brother and I had. I remember thinking, "I don't ever want them to fight like this about me. If I can be a perfect kid, maybe they'll stop fighting all together." And I think this hypothesis dominated a LOT of the decision making I made in the latter half of high school. Hell, even much of the decision making I've done since then. Be the perfect kid and your parents won't fight. Be the perfect kid and things will fall into place. Live for everyone's expectations and you'll find satisfaction therein. And it did provide a kind of satisfaction (and definitely did lead to some really positive decisions, but plenty of negative ones too), but I don't think it provided overall happiness. I've started to come out of it some. Being in Durham has helped. Being isolated means making more decisions for myself, rather than for anybody else. Awareness.

6pmish: I am going to rock it at bowling tonight. I have been kicking ass lately, so I'm gonna keep kicking ass.

7ish: (After X / X / 9 - / X / X / 9 -) YEAH! I am kicking ass. I hope I can keep this up, it's looking like a record breaking game for me...

745ish: Well, balls. A 118. I choked. Hardcore. That sucks.

945ish: I really want to call. Really badly. I am about to be in the car for 35 minutes so it's a perfect time to call. It's sad not to talk to you, so I want to talk to you. AND YET. Talking to you will make me aware of how much I miss you. Too, it will be sad to talk to you and have it not be the same. I don't know if I'm ready for that sad. The first sad is easier. But boy do I want to call. Give it time, I tell myself.

10pmish: I'm going to start working on a mix. It'll be called "A decade of friendship" or something similar. I already know what songs will open it and close it, plus three in the middle. It will be cathartic. I'll have to narrow down the long list of good songs about regret, in reference to that night. How it could have been so different, how I still think of it sometimes. But maybe it's better that it wasn't. Oh shit, it's being cathartic right now. It's catharsising the fuck out of me just thinking about it. Oh crap. Here come those tears that have been waiting to pour for two weeks. I was wondering when I'd finally cry and boy can I cry. But it's good. The crying is a good sign. A sign of healing in progress I think. I hope. Mix tape. Yes, it will have to happen.

Bah.

Just came home from a long trip and there was so much here, piled up, waiting for me. Particularly mail. One piece of mail made me a little sad. Later, I started to sort out my dirty laundry from the trip. In one of my pants pockets was a movie ticket. It too, made me a little sad. I put them together in a place where I wouldn't have to see them for awhile but wouldn't ever lose them either. It's kind of a metaphor. I'm trying hard to believe that it is better to have loved and lost than never loved at all. Fate is a cruel mistress though.

It's a Question of Leading by Example

Not as the only factor, but as one factor of influence. You grow up with a Dad who picks one career, decides he's going to be the best at it he can possibly be, and spends your entire life climbing the corporate ladder - it's gonna have a big impact. On what you imagine for yourself, what you feel people expect you to deliver, what's responsible. You don't see what other ways there are to live life. But there have to be other ways.

It has to be true that every day people quit jobs that make them unhappy, even if they don't have another plan in place. People throw caution to the wind and jump off the train. They are smart, confident, and unfraid and realize that if they work hard and are passionate, things will work out. They'll find something - be it work, volunteering, subsisting, or the joy of living just to have experiences. Tell me it's true, internet.

Tell me there are people who never settle in one place for too long. Who have six careers if they feel like it. Who pursue their creative interests as far as they go and even if they never make any money doing it they feel satisfied because they're living straight from their soul. Tell me.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tock.

Where Have You Gone, Joe Philosophy?

Somewhere along the way this week, I lost my ability to be philosophical.
 
Well, I shouldn't say I lost it.  I should say it went into hiding.  I peered inside myself and it was gone.  Briefly, it's absence made me feel a bit crazy.  Shortly though, I realized I'd just have to tease it out.  I played its favorite movies, thinking maybe it was hiding behind my eyes.  Perhaps the chance to laugh at its favorite comedy or cry with its favorite tear jerker would make it want to come back to the surface.  But there was no stirring, no sign.  I listened to its favorite music, thinking maybe it hid in my ears.  Could these tunes of mirth or significance rouse it to action? It seemed not, as still silence greeted me in return.  I even tried to dance it out, thinking perhaps to hide properly it had spread itself so thin over bones and muscle that it could only be spurred to action through movement, through physical release.  Still it was nowhere to be found.
 
At wits end, I talked to people about the loss of my philosophical friend.  "If I can't be philosophical, how will I balance out my emotions?"  My best friend in NC, my sister, my best friend from Deis, each had a similar message.  "You rely on us."  "We'll be philosophical for you."  "We'll be the voice of reason."  It was then that I remembered.  Reason can't be lured with imitation of life, bottling and selling of emotion, plated echoes of reality.  It is lured by reason.  Just as we are comforted by other people, so our inner sense of rationality, of reason, is comforted by the echo of the reason in other people.  My ability to philosophical popped back up when it saw it had others of its kind to talk to, to hang out with, to have solidarity with.
 
Which is all a long winded way of saying, whatever you're feeling - talk it out.  Through discourse, through debate, through camaraderie and cohesion - there is where you will find your comfort.  There is your solace.  There is your purpose.  Put away your movies, music, television.  In others, our energy and wholeness is restored. 
 
Funny paradox that the presence of our six billion should be both a terrible strain on our planet and simultaneously a consolation to us as individuals.
 
"Without deep reflection one knows from daily life that one exists for other people." - Albert Einstein
"If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other." - Mother Teresa

Living More Alive

I'm still feeling it, every day a little more. Lately, I am feeling so much about so many different things. Some days, I think my heart will explode right out of my chest. I feel it straining the bounds of its container right now. I didn't remember what it felt like to live this way, it's been so long.

He knows me. How does he know me so well? His intuition is right on. I am a restless soul. I do take things personally. Insights. Turning my eyes inward, I do know a few things.

I need to get rid of some stuff.

I need to help people.

I need to love myself a little better.

I need to make some changes.

I am like one of those flowers that closes its petals at night. I wake up every day and have to remember to bloom all over again.

I was floating down the river, resigned to float forever. Now I'm entering the rapids. I am paddling paddling and the water feels alright.

She's Nearly Crawling On Her Knees

Don't you want to know how the joke ends?

Oh, like that one's not in the rotation.

Thou fond mad man, hear me but speak a word -

"What, rouse thee, man! thy Juliet is alive,
For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead;
There art thou happy: Tybalt would kill thee,
But thou slew'st Tybalt; there are thou happy too:
The law that threaten'd death becomes thy friend
And turns it to exile; there art thou happy:
A pack of blessings lights up upon thy back"

Chag Sameach. I Am Praying...

That with enough people reminding me I will continue to remember. I am grateful to have friends and family who care. Miss ya, jerkface.

"Love sings a song as she sails through the sky.
The water looks bluer through her pretty eyes.
And everyone knows it whenever she flies,
and also when she comes down."
       - The Avett Brothers

The Archeology of Flash Drives

I am looking for a something very specific. It is a stencil of a camera, created by me several years ago. I cannot find it, but I am finding far more interesting things in the process. Some long buried, under layers of earth and more fossils. Tripping down memory lane, dirt under my fingernails. Come look at some of my broken pieces of pottery.


5/7/05 - random word document
The curb swoops sickeningly close to the window edge in my view. Water slips through the tire treads with a soft swishing. My roommate turns up the Nirvana issuing faintly from the radio and bobs her head in time to the beat. I want to say something patronizing about how passé Nirvana is, but I keep my lips pursed together and press my aching forehead to the cool window. The curb curls out of view again, and I close my eyes.


7/23/05 - random word document
I want to write poetry again, but I don’t know where to start. Recognizing as is necessary that all I wrote previously was crap, I am unsure of the next steps. The art of putting emotion into words is one of the most difficult to pursue. In my opinion, the greatest virtue of good poetry is that it finds a happy medium between superficial and inaccessible. I don’t want it spelled out for me, but I don’t want a bunch of undetectable abstract metaphor either. Should I read others until I find a style I want to emulate? Should I just go for it without studying, and edit/change subsequently? I’ll have to figure that out soon. Maybe it should be the latter. Because I haven’t had the urge to write poetry in a long time, and I don’t want to lose it while I waste time studying the classics.
this never happened...guess I failed to strike while the iron was hot...


8/26/04 - saved as "IMPORTANT QUOTE - PASSION"
"Passion. It lies in all of us - sleeping, waiting. And though unwanted, unbidden - it will stir, open its jaws, and howl. It speaks to us, guides us; passion rules us all. And we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments: the joy of love, the clarity of hatred, and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we’d know some kind of peace. But we would be hollow - empty rooms, shuttered and dank. Without passion we’d be truly dead." - Angelus , btvs S2


9/9/2003 - birthday rhyme from zeshan
my best friend's birthday's today, so i hope all
thas bad stays away today, evils' held at bay,
and i'm sad to say she's so far away, but i'm hopin
she's glad today, knowin thought of her face never
fades, helpin me clear up life when i can't see
black and white from the shades of grey, so though
this happy birthday's belated, i hope your day's
been elevated to a status of elated, you've been
graded a plus, cause your friendship i'd never trade
and i just wanted to say you bring sunshine to
september like it was may


1/29/03 - pirate joke
Me: What do you call it when a pirate buys US dollars cheaply on the London Exchange and sells them at a premium on the Tokyo Exchange?
You: I don't know.
Me: Arrr-bitrage!


no date, one of paul's away messages from AIM:
I never thought i'd see her again. she wandered up, drunk, obviously a little sick, and in desparate need of sensory stimuli. i screamed, loud like a child, right at her eyes, until she ran towards me, tripping or hopping over some debris on the asphalt, falling into my arms and knocking me to the ground. I skinned my heel as i fell, i lost my breath as she landed on me, and i dont remember ever getting it back. I woke up miserable, seeing first her crumbled posture, her crumbled face, held up on her bent wrists like a pale ugly moon, a perversion of her beauty into this dull mess. I could feel the black tar in her belly, the sinking depression, like she was super magnetized, being pulled straight down by the planets cruel latent field. I didnt laugh at her, but she acted like i had. I closed my eyes.


able to finally put a date on it. from a 2600 word email dated january 26, 2002:
"and then there's you....but i guess thats another talk for another time."

a creative endeavor, titled "the girls on the boys" where I combined two lyrics each from my favorite chick singers to tell a story:
China decorates our table; funny how the cracks don’t seem to show. Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup. I am writing graffiti on your body, I am drawing the story of how hard we try. I remember the days when I was so eager to satisfy you. “You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you.” It’s funny how we feel so much but cannot say a word; we are screaming inside but can’t be heard. And it goes round in circles one night is perfect the next is brutal. The tide rushes by where we stand and the earth underneath turns to sand.

“Give me one reason to stay here, and I’ll turn right back around.”

“Everything is everything, what is meant to be will be.”

You say love is a hell you cannot bear, and I say gimme mine back and then go there for all I care.

First my left foot then my right behind the other, pantyhose running in the cold. I crossed the last line, from where I can return, when every step I took in faith betrayed me. I don’t think of you no more, except for every day or two; I don’t think of you no more, except for in between the sun and moon. When I said I’ll take you, I meant as is.

It Probably Wasn't That

But she can wait.

Mantra for a New Season

Risk-taking is a continuum that ranges from smart idea to terrible idea, with many f-stops in between. However, there are two conditions that help greatly in pushing it towards brilliance. First, is knowing all the possible outcomes and understanding what's at stake both for good and ill. Secondly, is knowing what emotions are likely to be byproducts of said outcomes and processing them to their logical conclusions. Given full understanding of both of these factors allows for a comfortable weighing - an answer to the question - can you handle any of these outcomes? Or really, all of them? Because you don't know which one you're going to get, so the answer can't be "I can handle all but this one, but there's no way that's what's going to happen" - because you just DON'T KNOW. Trying to keep this in mind at present. Risk taking is an emerging theme at the moment.

Unrelatedly, I've upped my geek factor by a new exponent as of this evening. I just concluded a 12 week bowling league I was in with some friends from work. At the end of the league all the participants got a 'parting gift.' Sidenote: I am joining another league in May (woot!) because of how much fun I had with the first league. Sidenote 2: This will be important! Because the 'parting gift' was our very own ball!!! In our desired weight and drilled to our specifications! AWESOMESAUCE! Here are two (extremely dorky) pics of me with my new ball!





final sidenote: I am HELLA tired right now, so I'm sorry if any of this is incoherent. respect!

just kidding, this is really the last thought - this is my 18th post in 2011. this means that by april of 2011, I have already written one more post than I did ALL OF LAST YEAR. goodness, I'm not sure why the sudden outpouring, but I am happy about it.

ok, that's all folks!

I Know I'm Not Through With it Yet

I am irritated, though mostly at myself.  And I ought not be. I managed to have a nearly perfect Saturday today.

Leisurely and delicious breakfast; finally getting a chance to peek at the rabbit who so often comes out to eat clovers after I've left for work.

Hot, relaxing shower. Hair came out great, picked out a cute outfit.

Off to the 'Friends of the Durham County Library' book sale. A used book sale - one of my favorite things. Overhearing a few funny remarks, like 'ribs' replacing 'cheese' in the expression "Want some cheese with that whine?" How Southern. A pithy but enjoyable convo with a fellow sci-fi nerd about what really belongs in said section. Leaving the friends with a GIANT stack of awesome books that only cost $27:



Afterward, a quick walk around the downtown loop. Stopping at my favorite local lunch joint - Toast. Hip, but not so hip I feel out of place. Common man hip. Full of bright colors and bright conversations.



Fresh, local and seasonal ingredients turned into mouth-watering paninis. I choose the 'local farm egg, tallegio and chives' with a side salad of mixed spring greens and shaved parmesan. It is amazingly simple, yet as warm and fulfilling as it looks:



Coming home, reuniting with the bro. Watching the first few innings of the Saturday Fox baseball game (free on basic digital antenna airwaves - we don't have cable at our house). Yankees/Red Sox - a treat to secretly root against both of them. Half watching the game. Using my favorite pen to record inside each of my new books the date and location where they were acquired. Delighted to find that a few previous owners had done the same, now joining and sharing our history by adding a name. Hoping the next owner will appreciate it as much as we do.

Cracking one of the new books for a few hours. "Because It Is Bitter, and Because It Is My Heart," by Joyce Carol Oates. Trying to give her another chance, as she's a favorite author of both my sister and my oldest brother. Enjoying the change of style from my most recent read. Raining but not threateningly. Just lightly enough to create a pleasant din to accentuate the softness of an afternoon spent in a book.



Indian take out for dinner while watching "That 70s Show" on Netflix with the bro. How to spend the rest of an otherwise perfect day? Ruining it, briefly, but trying now to recover it. Write. Get it out. I'll leave you with some Elliott Smith.

Awareness is Not Enough

"My calendar lies crumbled laid to waste.
It's been scrawled on, thumbed through and changed.
Will this be the measure of my days?
Dinners and appointments and deadlines I can't make.
And when I start to see I start to see it making sense for me.
That's just hope springing eternally."

- Indigo Girls

march 28th

Yesterday, I almost spent the whole day alone.  In my pajamas.

Breakfast, reading, old episodes of that 70s show, nap, reading, more TV. It was about halfway through the UNC basketball game that I realized no one was coming home and if I wanted any kind of human connection that day I was going to have to go out and find it.  And while I found the notion of leaving the couch, hell even leaving my pajamas, to be mentally exhausting and intimidating, I found the vision of another night spent alone even more frightening.   In the end, I was glad I went out.  It took real effort and started off slowly, but brought acute awareness of the blessing of having someplace to escape to when confronted by those feelings.  A group of friends, gathered to watch the game, called out warm greetings to my second-half presence (most of them, anyway).

After a bit of post-basketball hangout and a quick game of Infinite City, I headed back home, happy to be in bed with teeth brushed, face washed and newly laundered PJs by 10:00.  What to do with the bounty of alone time before my usual bedtime of 10:30?   No longer feeling it oppressive, but instead filled with opportunity to read, edit photos, surf the web - whatever.   But another possibility occurred to me.  I longed to pick up the phone, to have yet one more connection before day's end.  To further reinforce feelings of excitement and anticipation.  To substitute for having someone there to snuggle with at night (easily one of the things us single people miss most) with a sort of mental snuggle.  A flooding of blood, emotion, and warmth to last me through the night. Get the synapses crackling, the laugh lines crinkling, the heart beating just a little bit quicker.  But I hesitated.

Perennially, I find myself an excitable person.  By ideas, by connections, by competition.  I live life with a lot of passion.   I allow myself to experience uninhibited emotions - of joy, sadness - even anger gets its turn from time to time.  People have reacted to this quality in a lot of different ways over my 27 years, and not all of them positive.  Increasingly, as people my age "mature" and start to follow some societally dictated imperative to place value on steadiness and routine, more and more of them seem unnerved by and wary of the fervor I display. It's a longer post for a longer session of introspection, but I believe it explains my hesitation.  A few negative reactions to my energy level have made me gunshy of displaying too much excitement, at times.

So I didn't call.  I went to bed early, warming myself instead with dreams of roads less traveled, and awoke to the irony of my hesitation.  And I just thought you should know, even though it's a little too late to be helpful, last night there was a little bit of thumping in my soul.

thought provoking

via the younger of my brothers.  a thought provoking article about the US military's use of social networking sites and multiple identities to spread propoganda.  check the link.

also, unrelatedly: butterflies.

It's Pouring

I once had this faucet that leaked, in my spare bathroom.  At times it would trickle, eking out small, gurgling streams between steady drips.  Metallic-edged pings and plops would sound throughout my apartment.  Some days I wouldn't hear it all, until while immersed in some book or other quiet occupation a sudden "plip!" would rouse me from my reverie.  I knew I should get it fixed, but I lacked motivation.  In a way, the sounds were comforting and familiar.

Then, one day, it started to flow.  The stream became a flood.  Water surged from the faucet as forceful as a mighty river.  It cascaded over the edge of the sink, covering the floor, suddenly over my toes and rising.  The walls melted away, becoming water, and a chaos of swirling deluge rushed at me, the noise deafening.  My waist was under, then my chest and as the water passed over my eyes I sunk further into the alluvium gathering around my knees. "I will drown," I thought calmly, the futility of my situation bringing serenity.

I blinked.

The water had disappeared, my clothes were dry, and the only sound was a quick "plip-plop" followed by silence.  I went to my closet and dug out a wrench.  Returning, I twisted that faucet with all the strength in my body.  As though my very life force were flowing down through my arms, hands and fingers.  Left to right, reposition.  Left to right, reposition.  Left to right, reposition.  "Be quiet!" I screamed.  "Stop your incessant dripping!"  I pulled and turned until my hands felt raw and I collapsed, enervated.

For days I walked on eggshells, shoulders hunched with tension, hoping to hear nothing.  Days passed, then weeks.  I started to relax.  Weeks turned to months, and before I knew it years had passed.  I heard no more drips, but I never dared to use that faucet.

Recently a friend came to visit.  After a few minutes spent catching up, he asked me for a drink of water.  Heading into the kitchen, I grabbed a glass and turned the cold handle on my faucet.  Nothing came out.  "How odd," I thought.  Turning the handle back, I tried the hot tap.  Still no juice.  I laughed, nervously, at the irony.  I headed for the master bath, a quick, "Just one minute" uttered apologetically to my friend as I passed through the living room.  In the bathroom, I tried the cold first again.  Silence.  "COME ON!" I thought as I turned both the hot and cold knobs as far as they would go, annoyed.  I gave the tub knobs a try and was similarly disappointed.

My frustration turned to fear as I realized I had only one option left to me.  I headed to the spare bath with trepidation.  Almost comically, I pushed the door open so meekly one would have thought a horror movie villain lurked behind.  But there was nothing comical about the dread I felt as I approached that sink, seeing my wan face in the mirror beaded with perspiration.  Should I dare to turn the tap on?  What if, like the others, this tap brought no water?  Or perhaps more terrifyingly, what if the flood returned?  I stood immobile, unable to decide.

Harumph

Such is the way of the world
You can never know
Just where to put all your faith
And how will it grow

Gonna rise up
Burning back holes in dark memories
Gonna rise up
Turning mistakes into gold

Such is the passage of time
Too fast to fold
And suddenly swallowed by signs
Low and behold

Gonna rise up
Find my direction magnetically
Gonna rise up
Throw down my ace in the hole

Patience is a Virtue (I Lack)

Ever get that feeling, in your gut, where you think you've found the perfect moment for something?  A kind of euphoria takes over, and as Warren Ellis said, "You could shag a million nuns and destroy their faith in Christ, from your chair."  But then - tragedy - for whatever reason, you suddenly have an inability to execute.  You listened to someone who told you to wait, or circumstances changed suddenly, or it snowed.  Whatever.  Then, you start to think the perfect moment has passed you by.  And you start frantically analyzing all other moments, wondering if you've completely missed your shot or if another moment as perfect will come along, and then the worrying and the obsessing all coalesce into omfgmusttakeactionnowbecauseimissedit.  And then, you realize that instead of being patient and waiting for the right moment, actually you've acted in what could quite possibly be the worst moment.  That's me.  Most of the time.  ((Sigh.))

As much as life has been a joy lately, it has also been a challenge.  I forget sometimes, because I was lucky enough to come to NC with a ready made social circle, that I am still building a life here.  And that if I intend to stay, the blocks I lay need to be solid (and made of a substance fine enough not to embarrass me in front of the neighbors).  Every behavior counts.  Every day I should ask myself - "Who do you want to be today?" - and the answer should always be "The best possible person I can be."  Aspiration is all well and good but without execution is worthless.

Tiredness has captured me and into her prison of sleep I shall go.