Here's the deal:
1. Go into your archives.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Post the fifth sentence (or closest to it).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five other people to do the same thing. (concider yourself tagged)
Here it is: Within 10 minutes we are heading down the highway, windows down and I am feeling free. I had no idea where we were going, but it did not matter.
Beach day... I remember it well. And to think we were running away in the same car that Toque was driving in his tagged account. Too weird...
31 October 2005
26 October 2005
Funny what you will find by hitting the blogs of note button on the blogger home page...
------
Another for the List
I stood at her door, wearing saggy pajama bottoms and an oversized men’s t-shirt, barefoot on the cold linoleum, in the dark. Waiting. Got chocolate? I asked when the door finally cracked open. She grinned and lifted a pillowcase filled with Halloween loot.
We were college freshmen living on the same floor of an all girls dormitory. At first, I would pass her in the morning bathroom rush – we’d nod and smile with towel turbans on our heads and toothbrushes poking into our cheeks. For all of our passing and nodding and smiling - it took my insatiable need for a peanut butter cup at midnight to bring us together. We sat in her room for hours that night, until her roommate kicked us out in search of sleep. At which point, we slunk out to the hallway and sat on the hard floor with our backs pressed against the cool concrete walls.
We spent most of that year up late, talking. We talked on long walks or while stitching designs on thrift-store pants and eating microwaved potatoes dowsed in salt and vinegar. We talked about anything. Growing up. Families. Home. Why we were there. Where we wanted to wind up. Everything unfolded effortlessly between us over plates of potatoes. Later, in letters from home, she would refer to us as soul sisters.
She is the latest one that I’ve lost. We haven’t spoken or written in over a year, and I’m not even sure how to contact her. She has vanished.
And she’s just the latest in a growing list of people who have wandered deeply into my life, only to disappear. There's the boy who sat with me in our cafe, sipping coffee, reading scripts and planning how we'd spend our lives together, playing here and there - never settling down. There's the adolescent flirtation that grew to an intense friendship and then became my last kiss, just two weeks before meeting my husband. There are too many; the list is long. Sometimes I sense them slipping and I simply let them go. Perhaps that makes me to blame: I don’t fight for my friendships. I welcome them, I love them, I listen and share and I wait to be needed. But, I don't poke or prod them like a fire needing to be stoked. I let them evolve, as they inevitably will. And I cherish the ones that remain. (italics mine)
--------
I know this so well, but don't know if it is right or not. Love in all of it's forms must be freely given and recieved with no holds or expectations. At the same time there does seem somthing right about fighting for something beautiful and true and good. I am so often at a loss as what the best thing to do is...
------
Another for the List
I stood at her door, wearing saggy pajama bottoms and an oversized men’s t-shirt, barefoot on the cold linoleum, in the dark. Waiting. Got chocolate? I asked when the door finally cracked open. She grinned and lifted a pillowcase filled with Halloween loot.
We were college freshmen living on the same floor of an all girls dormitory. At first, I would pass her in the morning bathroom rush – we’d nod and smile with towel turbans on our heads and toothbrushes poking into our cheeks. For all of our passing and nodding and smiling - it took my insatiable need for a peanut butter cup at midnight to bring us together. We sat in her room for hours that night, until her roommate kicked us out in search of sleep. At which point, we slunk out to the hallway and sat on the hard floor with our backs pressed against the cool concrete walls.
We spent most of that year up late, talking. We talked on long walks or while stitching designs on thrift-store pants and eating microwaved potatoes dowsed in salt and vinegar. We talked about anything. Growing up. Families. Home. Why we were there. Where we wanted to wind up. Everything unfolded effortlessly between us over plates of potatoes. Later, in letters from home, she would refer to us as soul sisters.
She is the latest one that I’ve lost. We haven’t spoken or written in over a year, and I’m not even sure how to contact her. She has vanished.
And she’s just the latest in a growing list of people who have wandered deeply into my life, only to disappear. There's the boy who sat with me in our cafe, sipping coffee, reading scripts and planning how we'd spend our lives together, playing here and there - never settling down. There's the adolescent flirtation that grew to an intense friendship and then became my last kiss, just two weeks before meeting my husband. There are too many; the list is long. Sometimes I sense them slipping and I simply let them go. Perhaps that makes me to blame: I don’t fight for my friendships. I welcome them, I love them, I listen and share and I wait to be needed. But, I don't poke or prod them like a fire needing to be stoked. I let them evolve, as they inevitably will. And I cherish the ones that remain. (italics mine)
--------
I know this so well, but don't know if it is right or not. Love in all of it's forms must be freely given and recieved with no holds or expectations. At the same time there does seem somthing right about fighting for something beautiful and true and good. I am so often at a loss as what the best thing to do is...
A thick fog has completely enshrouded the campus. It lies all around, as far as
the senses reach - surrounding trees and enclosing buildings, softening all
their edges and corners until they only remain dark nearly indiscernible hulks
in the dim lamplight. The dampness is tangible, but not weighty or sticky. I
love it. I can not remember if it was like this last year, somehow I think it
was not. I prefer to think such weather is unique and strange and new. There is
something about a fog that makes it, and the area it is spread over, seem at
once strange and foreign and yet similar to every other fog in any other land.
Perhaps that is why I love it so much, it is so much easier to imagine I am
somewhere and somewhen else.
I rediscovered my fountain pen recently. My palms and finger tips at the moment
are splotched and smeared with ink. Apparently it is the good sort of ink that
does not run off one's page if it happens to get wet because it does not want
to wash off at all. I don't mind though - it is a reminder to use the pen more
often. I am sure that it only bled all over me in punishment for its long
period of neglect. In hopes of preventing such desperate acts on its part,
again I bought fresh cartridges of ink this evening, a lovely green colored
ink. It has been quite a long while since I wrote in green ink...
20 October 2005
I just did one of the scariest things I have ever had to do. I bought plane tickets for my holiday travel plans. Now all of the talk and promises are real and waiting for me to pick it up from the printer bay and hold it in my hands and show it to people and... It's odd I feel stuck and commited and bound in. It will pass I know, as soon as I tell Lady Gatekeeper that I have my tickets and the Sprit and JM that we are good to go. But while the rather large implecations are settling in... I just need to breath and not ever check on said flights again for fear that I will find something cheaper.
In other news, I remembered that I do have quasi-internet access down the hall, so I can actually post whenever the muse so dains to visit me. Since the realization she has not graced me with her presence but when she does...
In other news, I remembered that I do have quasi-internet access down the hall, so I can actually post whenever the muse so dains to visit me. Since the realization she has not graced me with her presence but when she does...
My inner child is ten years old!
The adult world is pretty irrelevant to me. Whether
I'm off on my bicycle (or pony) exploring, lost
in a good book, or giggling with my best
friend, I live in a world apart, one full of
adventure and wonder and other stuff adults
don't understand.
How Old is Your Inner Child?
brought to you by Quizilla
17 October 2005
12 October 2005
Don't You Fall
Don't you fall in love with me
Don't show me your affection
I can't give you what you want from me
I don't want the attention
I gave away my heart before
And it only caused me sorrow
How could I think of loving someone
Today or tomorrow
(Chorus)
I've been so long confused
Was I loved or was I used?
Now the sun goes up and down
And the weather rains and shines
I lost my heart somewhere
Oh I need to take more time
Don't you fall in love with me
Don't show me your affection
I can't give you what you want from me
I don't want the attention
No I can't give you what you want from me,
I don't want the attention
"Don't You Fall"
The Be Good Tanyas
Perhaps I should have taken this as a theme song months ago...
So much can change in three months.
The semester is half over; there are times I feel as though I've been here as long as some of the tutors think I have been.
The tips of my fingers are finally starting to show the effects of my guitar playing.
And now for homework... it almost feels like old times.
Don't you fall in love with me
Don't show me your affection
I can't give you what you want from me
I don't want the attention
I gave away my heart before
And it only caused me sorrow
How could I think of loving someone
Today or tomorrow
(Chorus)
I've been so long confused
Was I loved or was I used?
Now the sun goes up and down
And the weather rains and shines
I lost my heart somewhere
Oh I need to take more time
Don't you fall in love with me
Don't show me your affection
I can't give you what you want from me
I don't want the attention
No I can't give you what you want from me,
I don't want the attention
"Don't You Fall"
The Be Good Tanyas
Perhaps I should have taken this as a theme song months ago...
So much can change in three months.
The semester is half over; there are times I feel as though I've been here as long as some of the tutors think I have been.
The tips of my fingers are finally starting to show the effects of my guitar playing.
And now for homework... it almost feels like old times.
10 October 2005
mostly written Friday 7 Oct
The day has managed to slip by in a wonderful semi-daze of warmed over exhilaration brought home from the concert last night. I sat in the back seat of the Sprit's chariot this morning breathing deep of the sea tang in the still cool morning air caught up in my own reflections of the day before...
It was so hot driving out, over 100*, and the four of us packed into my little car. The excitement was tangible, running like threads between us caught in grins and glances, reflected in the music we listened to on the way down. The traffic meant nothing, we were on our way.
I spent the morning wandering in and out of the thrift stores of this seaside town. The wind was deciding whether or not to pull up the blanket of fog or to pretend it was still summer. We were ruling them out as a possible source of wedding related dresses. In the midst of laughing and joking about married life as only three unmarried girls can, something else remained stilled...
Driving around Hollywood gazing at the glitter and glam of the lights, mixed about and juxtaposed with the low and dirty I was struck by the irony of going to see Gillian in the midst of all this. Her honesty and clear disdain for materialism is such a contrast to everything this facade covers.
Classes were hazy this afternoon. I was thinking too much of everything else going on this week-end and next and the one after that... I was glad to get into my still messy car and head back to the mist shrouded town, driving and not thinking. Getting out of the car across the street from Val's apartment I inhaled deeply of the salt laced air, feeling it filter down deep. The little one was alternately happily distracted and dismayed at the absence of his parents. Holding him in my arms, with his fussing rising to increasing decibel levels I glanced out the window and saw the fog.
Finding the theater proved to be something of a task. It is small and unpretentious when seen from the outside. We managed to arrive just before the already high parking fee was increased by half. This town is unbelievable. Will call provided a few tense moments, enough for me to begin envisioning the four of us sitting on the street curb, robbed of the ticket cost...Then the tickets were in my hands, really and truly there, and we were through the big black doors.
Out the door and down the stairs, into the cool breath of the wind and the softness of the fog. The little one's cries subsided almost immediately. We walked and walked, wandering up and down the small streets of suburbia. Modest houses with well kept yards held in by white picket fences passed by in a general perception of motion forward. I kept waiting to feel the familiarity of sleeping weight in my arms but he was not interested in slumber so we kept walking, up and down the sidewalks. There were birds in the trees, chirping to one another about the chill fog and the early dimness. It was odd to hear so many birds that far away from the country.
The sound of the people once inside was like the rush of wind in a tunnel or the sea from far off or the roucus chatter of birds roosting at sunset. The walls, carpeting, ceilings of the foyer were all black, the lighting yellowed or black giving the large space a surreal feeling. I was vaguely surprised not to feel cramped and smothered by the dark décor, but either the high ceilings or the excitement and anticipation made up for it. The boys decided to stake out a claim up front by the stage, the right “elbow” as the Sprit called it. The floor was gradually filling up with all manner of people, aging hippies, well to do yuppies, college age kids like us looking about as poor. Women in skirts and dresses, some in jeans looking all too “put together” to be the random favorite pair out of the closet, the rest dressed comfortably. Men in dress pants and designer shirts, jeans and t-shirts, most somewhere in the betwixt and between.
The afternoon was wearing away toward evening and he was no closer to sleep than when we first walked out the door. Indeed I had tried going back to the apartment, but as soon as we walked in the door the wailing began again. The coolness of the day had been sharpened by the setting of the sun, and I was loath to go back out unless he were warmer. So adding a layer, we headed back out into the fog.
Without warning the house mix of canned music was cut, and Gillian and David were walking up the stairs behind us, striding on the the stage. They seemed to be sharing some inside joke, just between the two of them. They said nothing as they walked up to the microphones, made last second tuning checks, then began. And the world fell apart. Song after song poured over, the words familiar, worn into my mind by hours of listening and wishing to hear it for real. And there we were, and there they were.
Coming home from work traffic was light within the neighborhood, but I could hear that the number of cars of the freeway running just beyond the trees had increased from when we first began walking. The light was beginning to fade and I began to watch for Val's return.
Perhaps at first glance they are not much. She is tall and thin, light golden hair and grey eyes, and ivory skin. And then look closer, the eyes are intense, the mouth easily finding pleasure in a smile, and her hands, my oh my, her hands are beautiful. Long fingers curved around the neck of a guitar or banjo, catching lost strands of hair and leading them back into place, white like marble or ivory. I could have watched her hands all night. He is taller, with a warm shy smile and a manner that seems to want to be any where but in the center of attention. And then he starts to play and you can almost see the world fall away from him. Each note seemed a real tangible being to be found and thrown into existence.
With her appearance the little one was all smiles for me. His world had returned to its right order. Watching him nurse I reminded myself in passing that I was really and very very honestly not ready to be married. Val invited me to stay and having no other plans I did. We fell to talking, all through the rummaging through of cabinets to find recipe books and the deciding of what to make. I asked what I could do to help with the making and was informed of my “guest status”. Laughing I returned to the vast couch flipping through the ancient GE cookery book that came with the equally ancient range and oven. Our conversation meandered from business to music and she put on one of her favorites.
As she played, her red stitched cowboy boots kept time with the music in a almost dance-like manner. Watching I found myself close to laughing in pleasure at it. On the intros and bridges of the songs she would bend low over her guitar focused entirely on her creations, a look on her face I have seen and felt – one of a lover beholding her beloved.
Requests were called out and acknowledged in one way or another, sometimes played, others not. They played through two sets, songs I knew, songs that were new to me. The time passed far too quickly.
The night wore on. We sat on the couch, supper finished and the dishes done, glasses of red wine in our hands talking about love and life. This lead again to music and she began playing the “do you know this band” game with me. So much music. The Pouges came out, along with the Moldy Peaches. She was thrilled to have someone who knew something but not enough to make them a “musical snob.” I laughed.
And all too suddenly they were saying thank yous and good nights. Calls of encore followed them off stage and twice brought them back on. And they were gone, the last notes of the last song still settling in, the reverberations of the applause and calls and whistles echoing. The house music came back on and I wondered how I was to describe the evening in words. Sitting on the couch with my computer on my lap nothing seemed adequate then...and three days later nothing seems any better. So the words go down, sticking to the page through force of habit and desire to capture the memories in a set stillness. And perhaps that is enough...
The day has managed to slip by in a wonderful semi-daze of warmed over exhilaration brought home from the concert last night. I sat in the back seat of the Sprit's chariot this morning breathing deep of the sea tang in the still cool morning air caught up in my own reflections of the day before...
It was so hot driving out, over 100*, and the four of us packed into my little car. The excitement was tangible, running like threads between us caught in grins and glances, reflected in the music we listened to on the way down. The traffic meant nothing, we were on our way.
I spent the morning wandering in and out of the thrift stores of this seaside town. The wind was deciding whether or not to pull up the blanket of fog or to pretend it was still summer. We were ruling them out as a possible source of wedding related dresses. In the midst of laughing and joking about married life as only three unmarried girls can, something else remained stilled...
Driving around Hollywood gazing at the glitter and glam of the lights, mixed about and juxtaposed with the low and dirty I was struck by the irony of going to see Gillian in the midst of all this. Her honesty and clear disdain for materialism is such a contrast to everything this facade covers.
Classes were hazy this afternoon. I was thinking too much of everything else going on this week-end and next and the one after that... I was glad to get into my still messy car and head back to the mist shrouded town, driving and not thinking. Getting out of the car across the street from Val's apartment I inhaled deeply of the salt laced air, feeling it filter down deep. The little one was alternately happily distracted and dismayed at the absence of his parents. Holding him in my arms, with his fussing rising to increasing decibel levels I glanced out the window and saw the fog.
Finding the theater proved to be something of a task. It is small and unpretentious when seen from the outside. We managed to arrive just before the already high parking fee was increased by half. This town is unbelievable. Will call provided a few tense moments, enough for me to begin envisioning the four of us sitting on the street curb, robbed of the ticket cost...Then the tickets were in my hands, really and truly there, and we were through the big black doors.
Out the door and down the stairs, into the cool breath of the wind and the softness of the fog. The little one's cries subsided almost immediately. We walked and walked, wandering up and down the small streets of suburbia. Modest houses with well kept yards held in by white picket fences passed by in a general perception of motion forward. I kept waiting to feel the familiarity of sleeping weight in my arms but he was not interested in slumber so we kept walking, up and down the sidewalks. There were birds in the trees, chirping to one another about the chill fog and the early dimness. It was odd to hear so many birds that far away from the country.
The sound of the people once inside was like the rush of wind in a tunnel or the sea from far off or the roucus chatter of birds roosting at sunset. The walls, carpeting, ceilings of the foyer were all black, the lighting yellowed or black giving the large space a surreal feeling. I was vaguely surprised not to feel cramped and smothered by the dark décor, but either the high ceilings or the excitement and anticipation made up for it. The boys decided to stake out a claim up front by the stage, the right “elbow” as the Sprit called it. The floor was gradually filling up with all manner of people, aging hippies, well to do yuppies, college age kids like us looking about as poor. Women in skirts and dresses, some in jeans looking all too “put together” to be the random favorite pair out of the closet, the rest dressed comfortably. Men in dress pants and designer shirts, jeans and t-shirts, most somewhere in the betwixt and between.
The afternoon was wearing away toward evening and he was no closer to sleep than when we first walked out the door. Indeed I had tried going back to the apartment, but as soon as we walked in the door the wailing began again. The coolness of the day had been sharpened by the setting of the sun, and I was loath to go back out unless he were warmer. So adding a layer, we headed back out into the fog.
Without warning the house mix of canned music was cut, and Gillian and David were walking up the stairs behind us, striding on the the stage. They seemed to be sharing some inside joke, just between the two of them. They said nothing as they walked up to the microphones, made last second tuning checks, then began. And the world fell apart. Song after song poured over, the words familiar, worn into my mind by hours of listening and wishing to hear it for real. And there we were, and there they were.
Coming home from work traffic was light within the neighborhood, but I could hear that the number of cars of the freeway running just beyond the trees had increased from when we first began walking. The light was beginning to fade and I began to watch for Val's return.
Perhaps at first glance they are not much. She is tall and thin, light golden hair and grey eyes, and ivory skin. And then look closer, the eyes are intense, the mouth easily finding pleasure in a smile, and her hands, my oh my, her hands are beautiful. Long fingers curved around the neck of a guitar or banjo, catching lost strands of hair and leading them back into place, white like marble or ivory. I could have watched her hands all night. He is taller, with a warm shy smile and a manner that seems to want to be any where but in the center of attention. And then he starts to play and you can almost see the world fall away from him. Each note seemed a real tangible being to be found and thrown into existence.
With her appearance the little one was all smiles for me. His world had returned to its right order. Watching him nurse I reminded myself in passing that I was really and very very honestly not ready to be married. Val invited me to stay and having no other plans I did. We fell to talking, all through the rummaging through of cabinets to find recipe books and the deciding of what to make. I asked what I could do to help with the making and was informed of my “guest status”. Laughing I returned to the vast couch flipping through the ancient GE cookery book that came with the equally ancient range and oven. Our conversation meandered from business to music and she put on one of her favorites.
As she played, her red stitched cowboy boots kept time with the music in a almost dance-like manner. Watching I found myself close to laughing in pleasure at it. On the intros and bridges of the songs she would bend low over her guitar focused entirely on her creations, a look on her face I have seen and felt – one of a lover beholding her beloved.
Requests were called out and acknowledged in one way or another, sometimes played, others not. They played through two sets, songs I knew, songs that were new to me. The time passed far too quickly.
The night wore on. We sat on the couch, supper finished and the dishes done, glasses of red wine in our hands talking about love and life. This lead again to music and she began playing the “do you know this band” game with me. So much music. The Pouges came out, along with the Moldy Peaches. She was thrilled to have someone who knew something but not enough to make them a “musical snob.” I laughed.
And all too suddenly they were saying thank yous and good nights. Calls of encore followed them off stage and twice brought them back on. And they were gone, the last notes of the last song still settling in, the reverberations of the applause and calls and whistles echoing. The house music came back on and I wondered how I was to describe the evening in words. Sitting on the couch with my computer on my lap nothing seemed adequate then...and three days later nothing seems any better. So the words go down, sticking to the page through force of habit and desire to capture the memories in a set stillness. And perhaps that is enough...
06 October 2005
Love me or leave me and let me be lonelyYou won’t believe me but I love you only
I’d rather be lonley than happy with somebody else
You might find the night time the right time for kissing
Night time is my time for just reminiscing
Regretting instead of forgetting with somebody else
There’ll be no one unless that someone is you
I intended to be independently blue
I want you love, don’t wanna borrow
Have it today to give back tomorrow
Your love is my love
There’s no love for nobody else
Say, love me or leave me and let me be lonely
You won’t believe me but I love you only
I’d rather be lonley than happy with somebody else
You might find the night time the right time for kissing
Night time is my time for just reminiscing
Regretting instead of forgetting with somebody else
There’ll be no one unless that someone is you
I intended to be independently blue
Say I want your love, don’t wanna borrow
Have it today to give back tomorrow
Your love is my love
My love is your love
There’s no love for nobody else
Love me or Leave me
~Nina Simone
It was hot, really hot yesterday morning. The Santa Anna winds were blowing, tossing the shed leave of the sycamore and poplar trees all over. And somehow the Sprit had cajoled me into studying on the patio rather than disappearing into the cool interior of the dorm (I will admit in a spirit of fairness it did not take much). My immediate choice of music was Gillian Welch (I am working on that concert account don't worry. I can say in brief the concert was incredible.) But the Sprit had something else in mind. As the first notes of this album flew out of the CD player I concluded she was right. This was the perfect music for the moment, just as hot as the day capturing just what I was feeling. The Sprit spread herself out in the sun, basking in a most unhuman-like fashion, ostensibly studying. Every few moments though, she would seem to fill up on sunlight and have to turn over and stretch. Then with a bit of a sheepish grin she would turn back over than return to her books (or rather her manual). It was all too much to let pass without some attempt to "capture" it. And voila, I have arrested the Sprit - after a fashion...
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