What I write when I don't feel like writing anything:

Over the past however-long-it's-been-since-I-posted-last, I've had numerous little blog topics swim up into my consciousness, bask in the light for a bit, and then plunge back down into the deep waters of Stuff I Have Forgotten.

So while I've had oodles of spare time (mostly spent reading books and eating and watching Simon Schama's A History of Britain) I haven't really written anything, mainly because those swimming and diving ideas tend to dissipate in my enthusiasm level even more quickly than they dissipate in my memory.

Maybe I'm just in the doldrums: the semester midpoint, when the fresh ardor for classes has worn off, and the manic frenzy of finals has not yet set in, when the sky is gray and the sidewalks are wet and the only thing you really feel like doing is curling up with a long succession of mugs of steaming hot chocolate and books as thick as your rapidly expanding midriff.

And so, in a brief bow to mediocrity, let me present to you a poem I wrote the other day. Or perhaps the other week:

He holds the book one-handed,
other hand fingering a cigarette
which,
smiling,
he brings to his lips
as he turns a page,
back curved in a graceful arch
under which the book rests
like a door.

(And also, just so you know, I have not drowned from (the storm formerly known as) Hurricane Noel's potent fury.)

Something to hold you until I write for real:

These are fabulous every year.

And I have to admit: the science fiction one is my favorite. Hahaha! Pickles...

I'll take the hairy one, thank you.

So, I just watched a 1983 version of The Pirates of Penzance and I realized something about myself: I've been in love with The Pirate King for years.

You know how some kids love certain movies to death? As in they love them so much that they watch them approximately 257 times per day (the rules of time and space do NOT apply when a kid is on a movie-watching kick), resulting in the death of any parents or guardians who are subjected to the noise of Barney singing that one song for the NOT KIDDING YOU TWENTY MILLIONTH TIME??!??!?!???

I have been that kid.

But instead of watching Barney (which was not around when I was a youngster) or Disney videos (well...maybe Sleeping Beauty), the videos I remember watching over and over (and also: over) were, I kid you not, Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home and The Pirates of Penzance.

I realize now that somewhere in my pre-preadolescent self, there were the seeds of something that would germinate into what I now reluctantly acknowledge as my adult...erm...inclinations, otherwise known as the fact that I kind of think hairy men are sexy.

There. I said it.

Which is why, watching The Pirates of Penzance at 3 o'clock in the morning, I felt all wrapped up in comfortable nostalgia and uncomfortable realizations that the reason I loved Pirates so much as a little girl was both that it has catchy music and a crazy zany plot, and also because it has some seriously beautiful men, one of whom has a seriously hairy chest and is the ONE example of a man with a mustache whom I have ever, ever found attractive.

Which makes me feel all weird about myself.

But there you go.

Momentary

I just had a momentary longing for you, you 'you's that are rather far awayish, I suppose.

And each of you is my favorite.

Just so you know.

Talk a lot, pick a little more

Okay. So, this time, not in keeping with my usual method of preparing talks, I pretty much wrote out everything I was going to say beforehand. While the actual talk I gave was different in some ways from what you'll read below, (mainly due to time constraints), this is pretty much the original talk I came up with. If you'd like, go ahead and read it. For me, I think it was an appropriate exercise in reminding myself of things I personally need to hear again & again.

Which perhaps is the real point of talks after all.

**********************************************************
I’m going to talk a little bit today about some of the things I feel deeply, not in a desire to expose my soul to you to some uncomfortable degree, but in the hope that some of the things I relate will speak to the deep inner part of your own souls. Because I think we all tend to feel the same sorts of things.

Personally, I tend to feel discouraged rather a lot. This discouragement doesn’t always come on Sunday, but sometimes it does. I don’t feel it continuously, but I feel it often, usually when I’ve failed to live up to my expectations in some way, or the expectations of other people. It’s when I’ve ignored someone who needed help, or withheld the truth about something, or felt angry at someone, or have done one of the myriad of things which causes us to feel guilty and cut off from God. And so I distance myself from Him.

I think that’s how it starts.

And then I get a wedding invitation in the mail, or hear from an ex-boyfriend, or see that my sister has blogged about her wonderfully adorable children, and I begin to feel that I’m going to be alone and unloved forever and ever. And I try not to wonder, but I really do in my heart of hearts, how God can possibly love me if He hasn’t gotten a spouse for me yet. (Don’t deny it; you do it too.)

And that’s how it escalates. (And that’s also how chocolate binges begin.)

And then, naturally, I feel guilty about having such thoughts, and I distance myself from God a little bit more, because I don’t think He’d want to hear from such a disobedient, faithless daughter.

And I feel alone and sad, cut off and distant, my soul grated down and raw, sensitive and stinging.

Some of you may be feeling this way right now. I know I have, often, sitting where you’re sitting now, trying for all the world to appear normal and happy, but feeling this internal, unshakable darkness inside.

I wish I could reach in and pluck out of my insides this knowledge and feeling of the love God has for you, for each of us, and give it to you, whole and untranslated. I wish I could give it to myself a week from now, or in a month or 100 days, when I’ll need it again. And then again. And then again.

We so often forget the love God has for us, the infinite value He places on us. But God is merciful and will remind us again and again, each time we need it, if we can just get ourselves to the point where we can feel it, just hear the message that He’s trying to give us.

My mother loves to find pennies on the sidewalk. It’s not that she has a thing for copper; it’s not even that she loves to add to her change jar. She loves finding pennies because, to her, finding a penny on the ground is a little indicator that God loves her and wants to remind her of that. I love that. I know another woman from my home ward who loves finding feathers for the same reason. She says that she always seems to find a feather on the ground when she’s feeling particularly lonely or discouraged.

Pennies and feathers are certainly not the only way we can feel God’s love for us, but they show that Heavenly Father seeks to bless our lives often in small ways that we simply don’t see. Like the fact that you just barely caught the T that one time you were running late, or when the shape of that cloud caught your eye and you wondered at the great gift of being able to see beauty in the natural world, or you found that perfect red leaf on the ground, or your best friend emailed you to tell you how much she loves you, or when Elder Holland addressed in his talk something you’d been worrying about for some time.

Sometimes the reassurance of God’s love for us comes through the scriptures. The scriptures are littered with references of His love for all mankind.
-3 Nephi 17. Read it. And then reread it. And read it again.
-1 John 4. Let’s look specifically at verse 16: “And we have known and believed the love that God hath to us. God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him.”
And sometimes His love is manifest to us in quiet, intensely personal moments of prayer, when we kneel before him with our broken souls open and vulnerable and aching and raw, and He pours into our wounded souls the conviction that He cares for us, that we are infinitely valuable to Him.

Why is it so important for us to feel God’s love for us? Why does it heal us when we finally feel it? I think, for myself, I tend to place too much value on the way other people see me. I worry that I’m too awkward or too ugly for anyone to love. And so, when my sense of awkwardness or unattractiveness feels confirmed by interactions I have with others, I then feel I don’t have value at all.

But when I feel, really feel Heavenly Father’s love for me, carried with it is also the conviction that if in all the world only God valued me, what value that would be! And is!

But does Heavenly Father want us to feel His love simply to make us feel better? In part, yes! He is our Father, which means that He. Is. Your. Father. You are His immediate descendant; He is not your grandfather, or your great-grandfather, or your uncle. He is your Father. And He loves you and wants you to be happy because you. Are. His. Child.

But I think the Love of God does serve another purpose: it motivates us, both to be better people and also to love others and seek to serve them.
-1 John 4:11 – “Beloved, if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another.”
-Mosiah 4:21 – “And now, if God, who has created you, on whom you are dependent for your lives and for all that ye have and are, doth grant unto you whatsoever ye ask that is right, in faith, believing that ye shall receive, O then, how ye ought to impart of the substance that ye have one to another.”

And I would even go on to say, “And if that God, who has shown you his great mercy, doth fill your soul with his love, to such an extent that you cannot feel the greatness and power of it, O then, how ye ought to love one another.”

Brothers and sisters, I guarantee that the same method that can fill our hearts with the love God has for us can also fill us with the love He has for others, that earnest prayer and longing will enable the Spirit to flow charity and compassion into your souls, as great and overwhelming as the flow of Heavenly Father’s love for you.

We are all equal in the sight of God.
-2 Nephi 26:33 – “For none of these iniquities [murder, stealing, whoredoms, etc.] come of the Lord; for he doeth that which is good among the children of men; and he doeth nothing save it be plain unto the children of men; and he inviteth them all to come unto him and partake of his goodness; and he denieth none that come unto him, black and white, bond and free, male and female; and he remembereth the heathen; and all are alike unto God, both Jew and Gentile.”

It is my belief that as we come to feel the great love our Father in Heaven has for us, we will begin to see both ourselves and others as He sees us: as precious beings, each individual of infinite and eternal value.

I know I have only felt a small part of the infinite value and love God holds for me. And yet that small part overwhelms me.

I pray that I, that each of us, will feel His love more fully, both for ourselves and for all those around us; as we do, we will find ourselves becoming more and more as our Father would have us be: like Himself.

Deary Dirigible

I highly recommend doing a Google search on dirigibles.

If you'd like, you can try out my own image search.

And why, you may ask, am I writing about dirigibles?

Why, simply because they are perhaps one of the mostest awesomest things ever.

So, what odd things do you like to search on Google?

Aha! Poetry!

It's been awhile since I've written any, but I just wrote two today. The first one's no good, but I kind of like this one:

Post-it notes from the desk of God
Yellow brown leaves drop
all zigzag in the
yellow green light,
falling like Post-it
notes from the desk
of God.

If you read the lines
right you’ll find His
scrawled handwriting
(like a doctor’s,
barely decipherable).

On this, “Dinner with the
Matsons on Thursday,”
or another: “Prompt Pope
about reforms,” and half-
hidden between the
roots of a tree:
“DRY CLEANING!!!”

But that one that
just
missed
your
head
reads
“Remind her that I’m
thinking of her
and sending
her
leaves.”

(My apologies to those who've already read my post on that one writing blog.)

Anyway, I hope your autumnal days were all glorious!

Singing for the Queen, Reading Letters, and Other Forms of Polished Society

Today was good for several reasons.

Firstly, I did not sing for the Queen of England, but I got to listen to the group that does. Sing for the Queen, I mean. (And is that "The Queen" or "the queen" or "the Queen?") The Choir of St. George's Chapel (at Windsor Castle) performed in Boston's Trinity Church at Copley Square this afternoon.

And also, yesterday, I stood right next to a group of boys from the choir while riding the T into the Fenway. (I had noticed their fabulous British accents, up to and including one chaperone's frequent use of the term 'pencil case,' which unfortunately just doesn't get used too much in the U.S., and had wondered if they were from the choir. It was confirmed when I saw a particular red-headed boy I had noticed singing with the choir this afternoon. Awesome, non?)

The music was sublime. If you like religious music performed by all-male choirs (in surprisingly appealing ankle-length scarlet robes) accompanied by a magnificent organ, you are probably sitting at the computer envying me right now. (Unless, of course, you're my fabulous roommate who happened to invite me to come to this particular concert with her. Er, 'you,' I mean. Or...somethingorother. In which case you don't envy me, because you were there yourself. Yep.)

The other thing that made today particularly enjoyable was that I got a letter from my little sister after getting home from this fabulous concert. She had--get this--written it on parchment paper with a quill and sealed it with sealing wax. How. Blasted. Cool. Is. That.

And I realized what a surprisingly civilized and elegant thing it is to read a letter that has been sealed with sealing wax that was sent through the mail to you from your sister. I felt as if I'd stepped into an Austen novel and was Lizzie, reading about the tribulations of my poor mama. (Except that the letter was about my sister's experiences at college, not my mama's tribulations. But anyway.)

So. Life is good.

And I'll try to take some pictures of the leaves soon; things are surprisingly still quite green here, which is why I haven't snapped any photos yet. But as the weather stays cold, more trees are starting to go up in flame-like displays, so I'll get those images to you yet.

Salutations!
-Lizardbreath McGee

When librarians get embarrassed:

When we find ourselves mouthing the 'ABCs' song under our breath, trying to remember whether K comes before or after L.

For some reason, I can never remember that one.

At least I've got the numbers straight.

Um. Erm.

I found out last night that I'll be giving a talk on Sunday.

So.

Am I the only person who gets a talk assignment, all excited about the topic, and then I start to write it and I realize I'm not sure at all which direction I want to go with it?

And also I'm not sure

GROSS! A huge fly just went by my head!

How on EARTH did a huge fly get in here?

Eh.

And also I'm easily distracted?

Um. So, seriously--any thoughts on how you normally approach talk creation?

Grad school equations

3 Hours of Sleep + Paper Due at 2:30 + No Groceries = Peanut Butter Sandwiches for Breakfast.

As balm to the raw soul

This morning, as part of the conclusion of a weekend-long regional LDS single adult conference, Elder Holland came and spoke to a large gathering of people (mainly those afore-mentioned single adults) on MIT campus.

Because this basically replaced our church services for this morning, and also because--gracious--it's Elder Holland, I went this morning and listened to speakers from all three young single adult wards in the Boston area, along with our area seventy and another speaker & his wife whose connection to the conference I unfortunately missed. Maybe he was from CES?

The last two speakers were Sister and then Elder Holland. I must confess: during the majority of the morning I sat, mostly doodling a little bit, writing an occasional sentence in my notebook as thoughts (rarely) struck me.

The truth was, I was hurting this morning. I felt sad and raw, almost on the verge of tears. I wasn't sure why, which was perhaps one of the most frustrating aspects of the feeling, although I suspect it had something to do with this, although not specifically; it was more a sensation of general aloneness, of being cut off from people, of feeling strongly dissatisfied with myself.

In short, I was unhappy, unsettled, raw.

Elder Holland's words were balm to my soul.

He spoke about what 13 Nephi 7 tells us of the way mercy operates, that it stands between us and justice the way Christ's compassion stood between his blessing of the Nephite saints and the duties He had to fulfill elsewhere. Elder Holland taught that mercy and compassion (particularly as personified by deity) respond to tears, respond to longing, even when there are other important things to do.

There's something about feeling this great Godly yearning of love for us that always moves me to tears, at least when I really feel it. And I really felt it this morning. I felt what Christ meant when He said, "Behold, my bowels are filled with compassion towards you." And I felt it for me.

At the end of my notes, I reflected a little on this morning's experience: "You come wounded, hurting and aching, raw, and find cool balm, soothing, sweet peaceful, restful. That is the great message here, that where there is pain, God provides relief and easing and comfort."

I'm continually frustrated with myself because of my inability to remember this truth. But the thing is, we will always experience pain in this life, for multitudinous reasons. And each time we do, each time, particularly as we turn to Him, God reaches out in yearning towards us, His bowels filled with mercy, to apply the soothing balm of his love to our raw and wounded souls.

Because I'm all about appearances.

So. You maybe just got to this page and noticed that--hey--your (it's true!) favorite blog has up and got a makeover! And actually you just barely noticed while you were reading that last sentence that--hey--your (don't even deny it) favorite blog now looks even more fantastically schnazzy than ever. And wait; what's that? While pondering on the ephemerality of electronic forms of communication and how the changing of one's blog template reflects and relates to the internal changes that take place daily in our own lives you realized that--hey--your (not even kidding) favorite blog has become this wonderful place where you just want to comment and comment and also never leave.

Because it just looks so good.

And is also your favorite.

I embrace my identity

Today, I purchased a Simmons hoodie.

This is me wearing that hoodie:


Nice, eh?

And this is me wearing the hoodie while reflecting on my own image (mirrorly):


And also, I PhotoShopped this image so that 'Simmons' would read left to right.

And also, I did not do my hair today. Nor really have I done it for the past couple of weeks. Nor am I likely to do it anytime in the near future.

But I likes my new sweatshirt.

Which is really great, 'cause it's gettin' COOOOLD in Boston!

Slightly dampened spirits

You know those oldish cartoons (Disney? Had Goofy?) where drivers would run through puddles on the side of the road, drenching harmless pedestrians nearby?

Well, tonight, walking back to the T stop after my triumphant finishing of the technology requirement and celebratory YouTube watching, I was that pedestrian, and a bus was that Goofy. Or. You know. Whoever.

In short, I got soaked, and soaked darn good.

And then my umbrella turned inside out.

I think the universe was just trying to balance things a little.

Yay! I don't stink as a graduate student!

Remember last week? The week I thought was terrible and awful and really high-stress, and that the products thereof were mostly mangled masses of text-flesh that I managed to cobble together between midnight and 4am?

Well, I got them all back, and got As (or an A equivalent) for each of them.

Hah! Triumph, I tell you! Sagacity! Pamplemousse! (And other words generally expressive (not really) of joy!)

And now I just have to get cracking on making a (really simple) website for the GSLIS technology requirement due tomorrow, writing another paper due Tuesday and starting to think about & working on a presentation I'll be giving in two weeks and another paper due in about two weeks as well.

There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the grad student. Or something.

Why love is like chocolate cake:

Cake is spongy. And is also covered in buttercream frosting.

So is love.

Cake is great for special occasions, like birthdays or retirements.

So is love.

Cake is a delicious combination of eggs, flour, sugar, shortening, baking powder and sometimes vanilla.

So is love.

Also, I want some.

Blinking at the surprising sunlight

This past week has been, to put it mildly, a little intense. Basically, I had a paper due in every class, and my thinking that I had been managing my time pretty well was pretty much confirmed as the worst of self-delusions.

In short, I have spent the past week working desperately to finish one assignment (usually tinkering with it up to 10 minutes before class), turning it in, then working like mad to finish the next paper, which was generally due within the next two days.

So now, suddenly left with nothing looming over me (at least nothing looming closely in a breathing-down-my-neck, whispering-menacing-things-in-my-ear type of way; I still have plenty of things skulking across the street Giving Me The Eye), I'm amazed at the half-unbelieving sense of newfound freedom I seem to feel.

I think I may celebrate my return to the land of the living by finishing my delicious spaghetti. And then becoming unconscious. For a very long time. Cheers!

And also, this is awesome:

Hahaha! Ah, that crazy folk-parody duo, Flight of the Conchords.

I shoulda believed Murphy all along.

It would have been a firm belief in Murphy's Law that could have warned me that a few minutes after we were supposed to have closed the library (at 1:00am) the computer lab printer would have a major meltdown and would therefore make me late enough (as I scurried to print the student's document elsewhere and leave a note for the supervisor to look into the problem in the morning) to just barely miss my cab, which pulled away from the curb and left about 20 seconds before I was able to get outside, leaving me stranded, waiting for another cab for a good 15 minutes more, standing alone on a well-lit but emptyish street, fearing for my life every time a jogger came by.

If only I had listened to Murphy; I could have planned for such an event. Alas that I did not. For it is late. And I am more awearied than I would otherwise have been.

In Other News:

For those of you who know Becca, you may want to go see her announcement. (Hope it's okay that I posted the link, Becca! And congrats again!)

On Giving Up (Or: My Own Take on Mini-epiphany #2)

My thoughts on this keep changing so rapidly that writing this down will serve rather to bookmark where I am right now than provide a glimpse into some unalterable state of mind I may posess.

As of this moment, I have moved (again) beyond the giving-up state. I spent this entire last week (and perhaps some few days before it) 'knowing' in my core that I would never marry and that it was just time to accept it. I even convinced myself that I was content, even happy, because I didn't have to worry about all these troublesome feelings of attraction to men anymore; I could just set them aside because they were things I would never be able to act on. I could interact with men on a completely platonic level, not bothering them with my feelings of attraction, not being bothered by their lack thereof.

Then, sitting next to a young man at church, (no, not this one; someone else), I kept having these niggling sensations of just this...awareness of his maleness...and I realized that I couldn't maintain this self-imposed indifference. I could keep it up for maybe a week (and had) but eventually my cycling hormones would come round again and break down all the barriers I'd built with my determination never to have these feelings ever ever again.

Sitting here in my room tonight, reading over a thought-provoking post (and accompanying comments) on Blog Segullah wherein the author describes living a celibate life as a faithful, fully acknowledged homosexual LDS man, I (after reading one particular comment) came rather face-to-face again with my own set of what attracts me.

And far from making me despair again, this acknowledgement of my own sexual desires freed me to admit to myself just how much I really did want to have a marriage relationship. If I may be frank, (and please forgive me if I cause offense, but I really hope that I can speak as an adult, here), I admitted to myself just how much I want to have the joys of a physical, conjugal relationship with a man. I want to experience the joys and frustrations of tying myself emotionally to one single human being, of trying to make our two lives fit together, of raising a family together. And as part of that, (a big part of it), I want the supernal joy of a sexual relationship with a husband.

Please understand; I know that this is not all there is to marriage. (Good grief--if it were, we wouldn't have time for doing anything else!) I know that marriages are more complicated and difficult than this, that the uniting of two different individuals in every possible way takes time, effort, and continual sacrifice as well as continuous patience.

But I also know (or rather, strongly suspect, since my actual experience is necessarily limited) that marriage can be fulfilling and almost indescribably joyous. That's why I (and almost every other single adult I know) longs for it, prays for it, gives up hope of it and picks up that same dropped and tattered hope almost hopelessly because one can't simply seem to toss it away after all.

I don't know if sheer wanting-him-ness will eventually help me to find the marriage partner who has, thus far, proven remarkably (almost intractably) elusive, but I do know that I can no longer (at least right now) deny that I do want him, and that I must thus (because I believe in a God who knows our deepest wants and needs and tries to grant them, if possible) still hope for him.

Because a life by myself, while satisfying in some ways, ultimately feels as if it would be really quite grey and sloggish.

And my bed here is beginning to seem rather large and cold, with just me alone.

Heavenly

There have been a few times in my life when I feel that some great or significant human experience has happened without me, or that my comprehension of these events came delayed, at some significant interval after the events themselves.

This happened with September 11th, 2001, when I was on my mission. I was tracting that morning, and I still remember knocking on people's doors, hearing varied reports from them and wondering what exactly was going on. I didn't have access to television or the radio; I just had scattered conversations with people about it, or saw photographs of buildings with smoke pouring out of them. But I didn't catch the full scope of the thing until long after I came home, when I watched the footage from the collapsing towers on the one-year anniversary in 2002. I finally understood why it had shocked and stirred the nation, what it felt like to watch as the towers collapsed, realizing just how many people were still inside, and to share a strange empathy with those who had chosen to jump from the towers before they fell, certain of their own inevitable deaths.

I know I didn't really have time to do it, but tonight I went and saw In the Shadow of the Moon anyway. And I suddenly understood what it would have been like to be alive in 1969, when the world focused on a group of three men who made the journey to the moon--the moon--and came back. I am awed. And there's something wonderfully transcendent in this realization that we as human beings have lifted ourselves off of this planet, our home, and have traversed, for just a few days, on the finely powdered surface of another world.

I wept; I couldn't help it. This thing was bigger than something I could hold in myself. And I feel a sense of wonder at this thing that we, as human beings, accomplished.

I hope that there are things as great that we still have yet to do.

I know you don't need another thing to suck time away, BUT:

You seriously have got to see this:

http://play.blogger.com/

If you read up on your Blogger Buzz, you fellow bloggers you, you may have already found out about this. But for those of you who haven't, or who aren't really bloggers, or who are bloggers but just aren't Blogger bloggers, I have provided the above link.

What I find really intriguing about this concept is that it provides a snapshot (literally) into the lives of numerous people. There's something appealing about the anonymity of it all, and although you could turn on the "show info" feature, (which gives you the user profile of the person who uploaded the pic as well as a snippet of the accompanying blog post), I almost prefer to watch the faces and scenes go by and wonder, who is that bald man with a goatee and why is he standing in a kitchen with a tub of salad? Who is that couple in their 50s wearing straw hats and sunscreen and smiling at the camera as though they're having the time of their lives? Why did someone take a picture of that shoe?

It just serves as a reminder that every day we connect tangentally with hundreds and potentially even thousands of individuals, each of whose lives are so absorbing and so intricate that it takes an entire person to live them. Seeing just tiny glimpses of these people (and the things they consider important enough to blog about) is suddenly making me fall in love with humanity all over again.

(And I really, really hope that you don't find any pictures of nekked people on there because I would just feel terribly guilty about it.)

Edit: I just saw the photo from this post being uploaded and--ohmygoodness. If I had had milk in my mouth it surely would have spewed out of my nose.

Well, this would have been mini-epiphany #2...

One thing I love about blogging is how people can sometimes totally scoop you.

Because this is me too!

Yes. I, too, have recently just given up. Period.

And while being scooped makes me feel angsty in some ways, it also makes me feel befriended in a friendless world.

Or at least not the only single who's given up in a married world.

Something like that.

I keep not talking like I think as is.

When I talking at yous sometimes I have not explaining what I thinkings pretty good.

So then when readings you're doing becomes a thinks that I'm thinkings things that thinkings not really, try is remembering my ownings of stupidity.

Because explainings and talkings doing well are something I know not of.

Understand?

I have this sneaking suspicion...

I knew it.

I knew it.

Because you wouldn't all be misleading me all this time, hinting at it and then having it not be the case, would you?

No, not you.

Because you're great; that's why I like you.

And you like me.

In fact, I'm totally your favorite.

I know you've tried to hide it, just so other people around wouldn't feel too bad. I see you being nice to them and all, laughing at their jokes, telling them a story, patting them on the arm.

But we know, you and I; we know that it's me you like the most. I can tell by the way you turn and crinkle your eyes at me in just that way. Ha! That's our own little secret look, like a handshake, but much easier to do across a roomful of people. Much better for you to nod your head and wink, then turn back to the person talking to you, all the time knowing that I'm your favorite person of all.

The rest of the world doesn't have to be in on it; let that tall guy think he's your favorite; we won't disillusion him just yet--let him be happy for a little while first; maybe he'll even buy you chocolates. And the girl in the plaid skirt? Yeah. I know she was your confidante before we met, but she's only getting side details now; I'm getting the real stuff--the dish on your life.

It's true; I'm pretty much everybody's favorite. Yep, that's me. I look around and everybody's smiling just at me because I'm so pretty and so fun to be around. Guys may go off and talk to those perky blond girls, but really they're just looking for advice on how to approach me, practicing their man-skills on lesser objects. And those same perky blond girls? Yeah. I'm totally their favorite too. Because I'm clever and funny and so, so nice.

They all love me.

And you know you do too. Really. Go ahead and deny it, but we both know it's true.

'Cause I'm your favorite too.

A conversation with myself

(From last night, after feeling frustrated by my thinking abilities (or lack thereof) during class:)

I feel like kicking a puppy.

No, no. I feel like leaning down and petting a puppy. (Aw. Puppies!)

I really feel like kicking a rock. Yeah. Preferably while wearing thick boots so I don't hurt my toes.

Inexplicable? Or is it?

I slept for around four hours yesterday afternoon. Also, I slept for about seven hours last night.

So tell me: why am I getting all drowsy while reading an assigned article for my class?

Two Realizations

First, I have realized today more than ever that by choosing the library profession I have chosen a profession that is (for the most part) very liberal indeed. Very. And I have yet to decide how I feel about that, although I actually do like the feeling of stretching my previous conceptions about what the world is like and how it operates. I just am not quite sure how to strike the balance between previously held systems of thought and new perceptions or thoughts that I'm being introduced to. (And no, I'm not about to go off and join a gay and lesbian student coalition, but I'm learning to recognize more the right that others have to belong to such organizations. (And that totally just made me sound like a stuck-up prick.))

Second, my class today caused me to realize (or rather re-realize, because I've realized this before; I'd just forgotten about it) that higher education (at least the bits I've been exposed to) does not consist of attending lectures and gathering information about a particular subject, or at least that's not it's real purpose. You go to college or grad school to learn how to think.

I have to say: I love that. What I hate is that I personally haven't quite learned how to think, as evidenced by my class this evening. (Won't go into details. They're pretty nebulous anyway.) But I'm hopeful that I'll improve. Which is, I guess, what this is all about anyway.

I love untold stories

Except, now that I think about it, I love it when untold stories are told, which is a bit of a paradox.

Anyway.

My love for untold stories is perhaps one reason why I love the Regina Spektor song, "Samson." Or perhaps it's simply because her voice soars effortlessly while singing it.

Whatever it is, I have to share it with you. And, be forewarned, I know there's a part that talks about Things a Maiden's Ears Should Not Hear, (albeit non-explicitly) so if you're squeamish about that sort of thing, then don't partake. Or at least, don't listen past the first verse or so.

But if you're so inclined, here it is:

Mini-Epiphany #1

To make this all easier on everybody (including myself) I've decided to numerate my mini-epiphanies and concentrate on each individually so I can fully explore the topic at hand.

Also, in honor of International Talk Like a Pirate Day, I may interject the occasional "Arrr" or "Avast" into my discussions, ye landlubbers.

The first mini-epiphany I'd like to mention is my recent realization that I actually want to pursue a career. (Arrr.)

I'm not sure why it took me so long to figure out; I mean, there I was, gearing up to attend a highly specific professional program (i.e. library school, ye scurvy dogs!), getting all ready to go into debt for thousands of dollars to attend said school, and I was still thinking only in terms of, "This is my plan B. If plan A (i.e. marriage and little babies (i.e. bein' a wench and poppin' out mite tykes)) comes along, I'll drop it like the bung from me barrel o' grog."

Except that I realized recently that I don't just want to go to school to become a librarian, suddenly get married and then settle down to raise children and never make use of the schooling I've gotten while waiting around for Plan A to take place. Arr.

I actually want to be a librarian; I want to work with children and help them find not only books that can meet their needs for school, but books that will help them to love reading and develop an enthusiasm for learning about the world around them. I want to work in a library, be surrounded by books, interact with others of my profession who are as enthusiastic about both books and the importance of encouraging others to read them as I am.

And also, I want to make a nice, tidy salary (i.e. garner a lot o' booty, arr).

Fortunately, I am not yet married. I am not yet even dating anyone. So I haven't yet had to work out for myself (or work out with me spouse, arrr) what exactly I'm going to do if Plan A ever wanders in and says, "Oh, sorry. Were you expecting me earlier? Just had to pop out for a spot of something, you know. Whot, whot?" (Because, of course, Plan A would be a Brit (aka Crumpet-eating Poodle Dog if you're a Pirate Queen, arr!).) And Plan B is currently going, well, according to plan.

But the conundrum exists. And currently, I don't know how to solve it. So, if you have any thoughts, feel free to pipe in. (And feel free to flex your piratical lexicon as well, if ye be so inclined.)

Arrrrrrrrr!

So, my lack of posting does not necessarily indicate a desire not to blog.

In fact, I would like to post to my blog LOTS.

Because I, in fact, have had plentiful mini-epiphanies (and one very big epiphany) over the past few days.

But I find that I have suddenly become a genuinely very busy girl, and so find myself unable to take the time to explore topics here the way I'd really like to.

So. Erm. Feel free to talk amongst yourselves. And, you know, get yourself a donut or something.

Because it may be awhile.

(But, I promise, I'll post something thought-provoking as soon as I can.)

I. Need. To. Go. To. Bed.

But first I thought I'd tell you all I was alive. Because I am. Alive, I mean.

And also really tired.

And also amazed at how my day just kind of got started nice and early(ish) at 7:45am and then kept on a rollin' until 3am on Sunday morning.

And I have to get up early again for church. And I.

I kind of don't know how I'm going to do it, but somehow...somehow I will manage.

Erm.

I'll try to post again tomorrow.

Give kisses to Aunt Hilde for me.

When in dreamland...

The first thing you should do when you realize you're dreaming is smile (subconsciously, of course). Because things are about to get really interesting.

It's what happened to me a couple of nights ago when I went to bed around 3am after having taken a 3-hour nap in the late afternoon. (Really, not a good idea for sleeping patterns. Although I don't regret what it did to my dreaming patterns.)

One of my favorite things to do in dreamland is flying. So, given the opportunity (and the right dream setting) I fly as much as I possibly can. But this time, it was actually flying, or rather a sense of floating or weightlessness, that actually tipped me off to the fact that I was, in fact, not awake. Because you can't actually fly (or float) in real life. Duh.

Okay, I thought to myself, let's have some fun with this. So, I proceeded to do my darndest to try to influence the reality of my dream. Oddly enough, I was only partially successful. I wanted to fly (or float) and so I did, but I was only able to fly (or float) around some really dull stairwell type things (although being able to fly around in them was much better than, say, walking around on them).

Second, I really, really wanted to dream that I was being kissed. Really, really well. By someone really, really hot. Unfortunately, I just couldn't seem to conjure anyone up. I just kind of floated around these stairwells and accidentally set fire to the stove of a boss I had a few years ago. (Sorry, Marsha! That part, I assure you, was not intentional.)

So, I learned a valuable lesson during this dream session: even when you should be able to manipulate your reality into anything you can dream up (ha! 'dream up?' get it? aha...oh, nevermind) that doesn't necessarily mean that you actually can. Because I couldn't. I mean, I could a little, but not entirely.

So what does this mean for waking life? Maybe that dreaming, while beguiling, isn't really the place to find full satisfaction (i.e. kisses from hot boys)? Or perhaps that manipulating reality is something best left to non-mortal and not-unconscious folks? Or that flying/floating is really the best way to travel around boring stairwells?

Whatever it is, it was an entertaining night. And it makes me wish, oh so fervently, that I could know I was dreaming every night.

Because maybe my kissingly-hot boy conjuring would improve with practice.

Two things:

First, a conversation I had with myself this morning:

Setting: I was washing dishes at our kitchen sink, my hair still wet from showering, and the hot water I was using was starting to steam things up a little.

First part of brain: What the--I'm sweating!
Second part of brain: Yep.
First part: Gross!
Second part: Yep.
First part: Oh. Well...yeah. I guess that's all I have to say about that.
Second part: *smiles*

Frankly, it's always a little disturbing when one has a conversation with oneself. Also, it's really great when one part of your brain says something, and another part responds with, "Oh, I totally agree!" And then you realize that you've just agreed with yourself.

(I'll tell ya--it makes you feel a leeeetle bit crazy.)


Second thing:

My hand kept going numb while I was washing said dishes. I'm not sure if it was reacting to the heat of the water (what? weird.) or to the presence of fish scales in the stuff I was washing (ew! fish scales!) or if just decided that being numb was a good state? Because...because...... Er...

Because, apparently, it has a mind of its own? ('Cause there seem to be plenty of minds to be had within this one frame of mine. And I guess I'll be lucky if they all agree all the time.)


And now you will make comments saying that you can no longer be friends with me because I have numb hands and a tendency to agree with myself. Well. Fine. But before you go, just ask yourself if you've ever done the same thing; you may be surprised by what you'll tell yourself.

Oh. Sad.

I just found out that Madeleine L'Engle, one of my favorite authors, died on Thursday.

I'm so sad.

It makes me wonder which of the authors producing books right now (or who are just getting started with vainly submitting their first novels to publishing houses or agents) will come along to move into the shoes of the greats like the also recently departed Lloyd Alexander.

But whoever they are, they won't quite fill those shoes the same way.

At least we've still got the books to comfort us.

My senses are overwhelmed.

My friend Christian just sent me a link to a site that may make you sit down on the floor and weep from The Sheer Beauty of it All.

I've already been to two of the libraries they show: the Boston Public Library (the one with all the cool green desk lamps and that amazing arched roof) and the Library of Congress Main Reading Room (a circular room a little over midway down the page).

I think the best thing ever would be to take a trip just to visit all the beautiful libraries in the world, particularly those located in Great Britain, particularly those in Ancient and Awesome University Cities.

Maybe once I've finished my Master's program and have started working a Real Job I'll be able to save enough (even with the ginormous monthly payment on my student loans) to afford such a trip.

However, in the meantime, I've got a lot of gorgeous libraries around to visit. And swoon in.

Speaking of, I've now taken a tour of the library at Simmons, where they have oodles of comfy chairs and, get this, an ENTIRE section of books in the 'Biblio Mystery' category, in which libraries (or librarians) are involved somehow with the crime or the solving thereof. So. So. So. Cool. I cannot even tell you how cool that is. (I want to read a book where the librarian done it. (Er. Because I think that would be empowering?))

And also, I've now attended my first class, which, oddly enough, seemed a lot like an undergraduate class, except that the people were a little older. And much smarter than I am. And also they used a lot of acronyms I don't know. YET.

I have to confess: I've always rather admired people who've gone on to do graduate studies, as if pursuing a course of education after they've gotten their four-year degree made them smarter than average, or at least more determined. I never thought that being a graduate student would feel so much like being me; so much like not knowing much at all; so much like wondering if there's been some mistake, that surely they couldn't have meant to admit me.

I wonder if I'll feel like this all my life; if there will ever be a point in my accumulation of experience when I'll look inside myself and say, "Ah. Now I am wise; now I can see why I looked up to people in my position before," or if I'll always feel a little like a beggar who's somehow been mistaken for a lady, hustled into the castle, washed up, dressed in silks and thrust into the court without any idea of what to say or how to behave. Always a little like an interloper. I rather suspect that it's the latter, that the real reason why we look up to people who are older than we are is that we see that they have more experience than we do, but we can't see the large amount of anxiety and self-doubt they've still got stored up from their younger years.

I never thought that being a graduate student would feel so unlearned. I never thought that being twenty-nine would feel so young.

And I suspect it will be the same when I'm thirty as well as when I'm seventy-one. But that's okay. From what I can tell, all other thirty and seventy-one-year-olds have already felt the same way before me.

Subterfuge

I hope you all know that the reason I haven't posted on my blog lately is that I'm deliberately attempting to increase the hits to my site by raising suspense.

(And this is what you are saying to yourself: "Will she have posted yet? Surely by now there should be something! What, what? Not yet?! I must check back in one hour!")

Oooooh, I'm wicked!

Huh. Wait. Maybe I'm actually sick.

For the past week or so, the number of sneezes I have made (performed? done?) during any given hour has increased by some 500%. (And also, 90% of statistics are made up on the spot.)

I have believed all this time that said sneezes (and itchy eyes, and stuffed nose that is somehow also runny) are simply due to seasonal allergies.

However, today I wonder.

I also have developed a sore throat and the allergy pills I've been consuming in great quantities don't seem to be making much of a dent in my general minor suffering.

So maybe I have a cold?

Or maybe I have a cold on top of seasonal allergies, which will be, methinks, an interesting combo, since I can't really tell the difference where one ends and the other begins (assuming, of course, that they're both there (i.e. in my body) at the same time).

Where was I? I feel foggy.

Ohyes.

I'm sick? Maybe? Which isn't good, because it means that I'll be feeling less than perky and sociable for Advising Day tomorrow, during which I get to meet all other incoming students to my school of choice as well as my faculty advisor and perhaps other important library persons whom I currently do not know about simply because I have not yet met them. Or heard of them.

But I'm sure they're important anyway.

In any case, I'm really hoping that this sore throat and ookie nose (and possibly swollen lymph node?) are merely the results of my body bravely defending itself against that maurauder: pollen.

'Cause otherwise, I'll make not only myself miserable tomorrow (small miseries, of course, but miseries nonetheless) but I risk making other people miserable as well. You know. After I sneeze uncontrollably for five minutes straight in their general direction.

Nobody likes that.

Even from librarians-in-training.

My apologies:

Guys, I'm sorry.

I know you're coming here, rightfully expectant of finding little jewels of wisdom and/or insight imbedded within the nonsense that pours forth from my keyboard...

But I just don't have anything to write about.

I'm kind of excited about school starting up next week. And I'm nervous too. And also the regular schedule for my job picks up next week as well, so I'll be moving from The Lazy Life to The Crazy Busy Life very soon. Thank goodness.

And also I got an idea for a story this morning.

And also it's kind of cool to have all four roommates at home in the mornings because we're all in our pajamas and are a little punch drunk from sleep that time of day.

Mehmehmeh...

Nope. Nothing coherent or noteworthy, really. Just a bundle of semi-somethings.

But know at least that I'm thinking of you. And that I have a sizeable guilt trip from not posting.

Just so's you know.

So...what to do with the rest of my life?

Sometimes, I wish we could just pick a single spot we love and then stick with it.

Heck--I'd even take the ability to pick a particular kind of spot, say suburbia or The Big City or the plains states or coastal dwellings.

But instead, we have to move around a lot, liking bits and pieces of the places we live, longing for bits and pieces of the places where we used to live, never quite entirely content.

At times, I find myself feeling that there could be nothing better in the world than to live by myself in Boston for the rest of my days, perched in some apartment or other, dashing in to collect the mail from the boxes in the entrance, hastening up the stairs and collapsing in front of the TV with a microwave meal heating up while I indolently flip channels.

At other times, I think there could be nothing better than to buy a small house in Utah County somewhere near where my parents live and use my time off during weekends and holidays to drive so far up into the canyons that the sound of coin-leafed aspens murmuring to themselves almost makes me forget civilization even exists.

I find myself thoroughly enjoying myself here and wondering what life would (or will) be like once my program's finished and I'm left to my own devices as a young professional. I can feel the appeal of this place: the sometimes frenetic vitality that surges through the city, imbuing all its inhabitants with a sense of friendly urgency.

But I miss the quiet nights looking up at the milky way as it swings over mountain peaks and valleys; I long for the sight of the horizon, the rising and falling of the land.

Why is there always something in us that keeps itself aloof from full happiness, as though our full measure of contentedness is something we simply can't attain here? I wonder if it's simply that there are so many places on Earth to love, but they're always off; they never quite mirror the home we knew before; they're always just imperfect copies of a perfect standard.

And we, after all, are imperfect folks who try to love these imperfect copies.

All in all, I think it's a pretty fair accomplishment to love any corner of this world as it is. And I have to confess: I'm learning to love it here.

Puntificating

I feel both flattered and strangely debased.

Read here.

I hope all of you are taking full advantage of the best of the 'Beth' puns you can imagine. (Haha! Or, "The Beth of the Beth puns!" Wait. No. That doesn't even make sense.)

Badgering the witness

Isn't it true that I'm only really interested in myself?

Isn't it true that my head is currently presiding over a body whose stomach is roiling with anxiety about things which are too numerous and nebulous to list?

Isn't it true that I hate to socialize in the same way that a brilliant chess player hates football? Or a really burly football player hates playing chess? Or...a really inept analogy-maker hates making analogies?

Isn't it true that I just watched Mystery on PBS and thus am trying to ask a bunch of questions to which I already know the answer sort of kind of maybe?

YOU decide.

Space is cool.

In other news, I like my current desktop wallpaper. It's an artist's rendition of a very-asphyxiated-bird's-eye-view of the tallest mountain in the Solar System:


Cool, eh? Nothing like having a little Mars on your desktop. (If you like this, you should check out more at space.com. It's pretty cool. Yeppers.)

And what a difference a year makes.

I've thought a bit about what I wanted to write about in commemoration of my 29th birthday.

But, I don't know... How do you summarize the experience of 29 years into a succinct, relatively readable online mashing of thoughts?

I guess the truth is that I don't remember much about what I've learned over the past 29 years. I don't remember much about what I've learned during the last 5.

I think that what you learn in life begins to diffuse down into your soul, so that the lessons there aren't something you can easily separate out into their own separate entities; they've meshed and mingled together, forming new insights, new layers of meaning, making up who we've become.

I'm an accumulation of experiences from the time I was a slightly annoyed, reddish-haired, 5lb 12oz baby (many thanks to Mom for particulars) to now, where I sit with toes tucked into the creases at the back of my knees, hair unbrushed, glasses slightly smudged, eyes dark with too much reading in too little light, fingers poised over my keyboard, wondering what to type next.

And what does that make me?

What person am I now because of what I've experienced, what I've done?

I'm not sure. I'm asking myself those things even as I type them here.

I wonder, often, if I'm the kind of person God wants me to be right now, if His forming of me has taken hold, if His moulding hasn't melted by my indignant straining against Him. I can feel that in some ways, I'm very much the person I need to be right now. And in other ways I fall far short of the mark. If sculptures could shift their shoulders to throw off the Master's blow, would they? Just to prove they were the ones forming themselves?

I don't even know what I'm saying.

I sat down to type a bit about the changes that I've had in my life this past year, changes which have not been insignificant, mind you. I've moved to Boston from Utah (a loooong ways, lemme tell you), I've lost oh-so-close-and-yet-not-close-enough to 100lbs, I've had crushes and new friendships and I've stared at the ceiling and the mountains and the stars, wondering how I can possibly fit, how I can possibly matter, and then realized half-wonderingly that I do after all.

I don't know.

That this year has been eventful, I am sure. That I've learned things, I'm certain. That I'm still as much of a pretentious fool as ever, I am convinced. But what it all means? Ah. Now that is the thing that leaves me flummoxed.

I think that, in the end, when our separate experiences distill themselves before God when we account for our life, that we'll see how each bit of our life here shaped us into the being we have become. As a being-in-process, I don't know how I'll end up. But I have faith in the hand that holds the chisel. And I'll try not to wiggle too much while He's working.

The For Real Deal

Okay, folks.

I just want to get this right out of the way:

It's my birthday today! For real this time!

So, for all of you who have already wished me a happy birthday on my pre-birthday-celebration post, thank you.

For all of those who have not done so, you have until the end of today.

That is all.

(Ohyeah. And extra points if you know what the title of this post is from.)

Oh, don't stop talking on my account.

So...this confession may make me seem a little bit more like a scary-stalker-like person than I actually am, but...

I really like eavesdropping.

I've realized this before (and usually blushed after said realization, most becomingly) but I was reminded of this little taste of mine today while riding the shuttle bus up to work.

During the ride, I noticed two twenty-something women talking to each other on the bench opposite the aisle to where I sat, purse in lap, hands clasped securely over said purse, eyes staring politely (i.e. vacantly) ahead, ears (obviously) wandering freely. As we passed one of the many schools in the area, one of the women commented to the other that she was thinking about a grad program there, but it was kind of expensive. They talked about other programs and I discovered that they were interested in pursuing vocations as early childhood educators, that they were both either married or in semi-permanent relationships with men, that they were both pretty well informed about the costs of private schools and that one at least was pro-private school and decidedly against living in the city.

(I know I gleaned other bits of information from the conversation, but that's all I can remember at the moment.)

I realized a couple of things from this encounter: firstly, that it's easy to pass along information to those around you even when you're not engaged in direct conversation with them. And that it's definitely best to be cautious. (You never know when a stalker-like blogger like me is sitting supposedly innocuously in a seat next to yours, mentally taking note of your semi-private conversation.)

Secondly, that it is (as I mentioned before) fun to eavesdrop. And a little wistful. I will (most likely) never see these two young women again. And yet, during a span of about 25 minutes I was able to learn things about them enough to tell that I'd probably enjoy getting to know them, that I'd probably have things in common with them, that we could (in short) become friends if the circumstances were right.

And that's probably the oddest thing of all. Most of the encounters we have with people during the course of a day are brief one-time deals: you see someone, you may say a word or two (or not) and then the moment is over. For good. And yet the possibility always exists that with each person you encounter you could build a potentially lifelong relationship. That man in a business suit jogging past you could have been your best friend; the elderly woman with a poodle might have given you art lessons; the smoking man in a ballcap sitting on the curb could have been the first man ever to tell you you're beautiful. And yet they're not.

I feel amazed at all the relationships we do develop with people, and sometimes at how chancy and random the circumstances that create those relationships seem to be. And yet, for my part, the people I've had in my life seem to have been just the people I needed at just the time I needed them. And that, more than anything, seems to indicate to me that the people we know when we know them are not accidental. Not in the least.

And that when eavesdropping on conversations really does (as unlikely as it may seem) lead to friendship, there's a reason for that too.

And libraries just got a whole lot steamier:

Ohoho! (LAST post today, folks, I promise.)

I just stumbled upon this poster while browsing the Library of Congress online gift shop for things I would like to buy if only I had the money.

And, oh my, how I wish this were hanging on my wall at this very moment.

Can't quite seem to stop talking today...

Just finished Nicholas Nickleby at last. It took me so long to get through it, but believe me: I love those books which, when you finally finish the last setence, leave you with a sense of having encountered something moving and wonderful, something that alters you permanently.

I loved this novel. Hurrah for the classics!

Move along, lil' Bostonian

While walking back from the grocery store this afternoon, I saw a feller (yes, you read correctly: feller) on the other side of the street wearing a large (and I mean large) cowboy hat, tight jeans and those little zip-up fleeced jackets cowpokes wear when they're out for days on the range.

It took me a second (after smiling at the familiarity of the scene) to realize that I'm not in Utah anymore. I'm in Boston. Huh.

And seeing a cowboy out here is a rare sight indeed.

Made me wonder how long he'll be wearing that outfit of his before he gives it up for polos from Abercrombie & Fitch. (Which. Oh, my. Erm. Don't bring up their main page unless you like seeing exquisitely sculpted male torsos.)

That feeling that you feel when you feel that... Wait, what?

I'm in one of those indefinable moods again, those moods that seem to be made up mostly of sitting by myself all day in my room, reading or checking the internet, listening to the sounds of traffic and the occasional siren outside my window, glad of the cool breeze, sad that there's a heat wave coming, full of the remnants of my breakfast and lunch, tired from having done mainly nothing all day.

It's in such moods as this that I especially begin to feel a need to be connected to people, and I find that I turn to this source as the means for such connection. Because it's here that I can say things that I feel, things I know you'll read and feel yourselves, so that somehow, for a moment or two, I'll be on your minds, and you on mine, and none of us will be quite alone.

And that, my dears, is more than comforting. Thanks for being there.

In which my concept of self is put sorely to the test

I've realized something about myself, and it's a something I don't like very much.

I don't really write much.

And that stinks.

I mean, I write on my blog, I guess, and I sometimes write in my journal. I write emails, I write little notes in little little notebooks, I write grad school application essays...

But I don't write stories. I don't. And that's...

That's just not acceptable, people. And it doesn't jive with what I imagine myself to be.

I once told a good friend of mine that I felt that writing was my real calling in life, that I had stories I wanted to tell.

But since then, I've spent much more time reading than writing, or watching movies or checking blogs or filing my fingernails or eating sandwiches or doing pretty much anything but writing.

So my question to myself is this: "Self, are you ever going to get down to it? Are you ever going to seriously sit down and make yourself write every blasted day so that you will eventually become an Author? (With a capital 'A?') Will you finish those novels you have lurking in the dusty corners of your computer's hard drive? Will you?"

And my answer to myself is still pending. I just don't know if I have the perseverance.

(But I hope I do.)

And one really teeny headache later...

Today I trained at my new job.

Now, job training is something that is peculiar to itself; I don't think there are many other instances when you're inundated with quite as much information in as short a span a time.

Fortunately, the people I'll be working with are patient and friendly and repeatedly assured me that I won't be required to have everything down pat right away.

Thank goodness.

However, despite feeling overwhelmed and a little short-circuited, I'm also feeling excited (really excited) about getting started in this job. Just being able to work in a library again is giving me a huge sense of coming-home-ed-ness, returning to what I really want to do with my life. And I'm sure starting classes in a couple of weeks will be just as overwhelming/enjoyable.

Joyeux anniversaire, un peu tôt.

(Translation: Happy Birthday, a little early.)

Happy Birthday to ME! Early!

Today was a wonderful, marvelous, very good day. I went down to see my Uncle & Aunt down a ways southwest of Boston. I spent most of the time sitting in the kitchen, talking with my aunt and two girl cousins and enjoying the antics of the toddler daughters of said cousins. But I also spent some time outside, enjoying my Aunt & Uncle's beautiful yard, which you can see here:


And here:


(By the way, can I just confess that I find it amazing and wonderful that here in the east the un-landscaped bits of your yard turn into FOREST? How cool is that? You have to WEED freaking TREES. Haha! So cool!)


And also, I found a pansy growing in a crack between some stone steps. Yeah. So. Here's a picture of it.

Aaaaaand, speaking of flowers, here's my happy early birthday present:


But the best (early) birthday present of all? Knowing you all are here, reading my blog, being my friends. Awwwww.

No, not really. Really it was the Black Forest Chocolate Cake with Fresh Raspberries. (It was so good, I HAD to capitalize it.) And I have one piece left over. And to save my pancreas, I'm not going to eat it tonight. No, no. That pleasure will wait until after church tomorrow. Oh, the joy of anticipation!

Little discoveries

Today I realized that licking batter from electric beaters (after unplugging, necessarily) is still as sublime an experience as it was when I was 7.

And about 30 seconds ago I realized that eating the cooked results of said batter (sugar-free, whole wheat cookies with REAL chocolate chips) is pretty darn sublime too.

Edit: And also, there's nothing quite like burning one's tongue in the pursuit of deliciousness.

You really ought to give singlehood a try.

It's really not so bad.

No, really.

Once you get past the point where you want someone to hold hands with, someone who thinks you're beautiful (even when you're not wearing makeup), someone who somehow shares all your hopes and aspirations and is so like you and yet so marvelously different, and once you decide that being an aunt is so much easier than being a mom so why not just stick with it, you're pretty much set.

Because really, there are all these things about being single that are great! For instance, you don't have to work on a difficult and perplexing marital relationship. You don't have to try to form a family unit with someone who has differing (and sometimes opposing) views of what it means to be the heads of a family and raise children. You don't have to put up with someone else stealing the covers or wanting to turn the air conditioner in the bedroom up or down. You don't have to try to sleep next to someone who snores. Or grinds his teeth. Or has chilly feet.

And all the heaps and scads of money you're making right now? Yeah. It's all yours! You don't have to spend it on diapers and formula and multiple car payments (well...not usually). And, if you're pretty careful, you may manage to save just enough to travel a bit to those places you've always wanted to visit. Like England. Or South Dakota.

So really, in the face of all these great things about being single, wouldn't it be the most intelligent thing to just kind of let go of any desire to get out of the singlehood state? To interact with young men in a friendly but unconcerned fashion? Because you don't really care whether they'll like you or not, since you're perfectly happy with staying single for the rest of your life?

I keep wondering when exactly it's going to sink in, when I'll finally say to myself, "Okay, I guess it's never going to happen for me," so I can finally get rid of this 20% hopeful 80% despairing feeling every time I meet and/or interact with young men? Will it be after I turn 30 (in a week and one year)? 35? 40? 50? How long will I wait before I give up all my internal hope of marriage?

I search all these blogs of single women, looking for some sort of answer about how to be content right now, even when I'm alone, but I haven't found it yet.

Maybe there isn't really an answer for it. Maybe it's one of those things in life that you just have to bear, the way some people have highly allergic reactions to nuts, or children with congenital health problems, or really bad relationships with family members. It's just something that will always give you a small ache, no matter what else you may do with your life. And that's okay. Everyone has small aches they live with, and as mentioned previously, there are a lot of really great aspects to being single: even just the ability to retreat into my room and shut the door so that I can have complete peaceful solitude, something that would be impossible if I had children.

I just wish I could feel more actual contentment with this state, wouldn't feel lonely or long for someone to rub my shoulders after a difficult day or someone to kiss me in the early hours of the morning when the as-yet unseen sun is just starting to lighten the sky, wouldn't long for children who are my own, my very own, for the incomparable joy of being a mother. But I do have these feelings. And while part of me wishes I could just turn them off, another part tells me that doing so would somehow lessen me.

So with that, I will take the sorrow and loneliness that are part of being single in a married culture and I will continue to hope for a chance to marry if possible. And in the midst of the sorrow and loneliness I will enjoy the freedom to go where I please when I please, to spend all day reading if I like and to make a peanut butter sandwich without a husband carelessly asking me to make him one too.

Ahahahaha!

Okay. I just had to share with you my favorite line so far from Walking with Prehistoric Beasts (which I checked out from the library yesterday):

Imagine this sentence uttered dramatically low and slowly in a British accent: "This is a world...where birds eat horses."

Wow. Awesome.

Diddly doggerel doo

I love the way I sometimes just sit and write stuff as if the things I have to say are rather remarkable bits of something. When really, they're just kind of. You know. Ramblings.

But I still like sharing them:

I sit here and look up: just past the horizon made by the roof of the building towering above me, a cloud, its languid white arms reaching and reforming, moves overhead in piercing contrast to the overarching blue. To my right a lawn stretches, grass cropped low enough to look like carpeting, edges merging together in the distance as though the whole world is conspiring to give me an art lesson in perspective. The breeze intermittently brushes over my shoulders, lingering briefly to finger the very ends of my hair; I feel as though all nature is in love with me, so how could I not reciprocate?

I find myself feeling, out here in the open, on this perfect day, a kind of peace I experience only rarely. I can’t even describe it. It’s something like longing for home and something like having just finished a delicious peanut butter sandwich. It’s satiation and desire all rolled together, liberally mixed with quiet joy.

I love this world so much sometimes, this semi-temporary home for our mortal selves to grow up in. And even in this little pocket of city, both the cars going past and the bird flying overhead are part of some great whole I can only sense a part of.

But I’m grateful for the sensing. Grateful to be, myself, a part of the whole after all.

In other news, I've neglected to share the following with you:


This was from when my roommate (and a bunch of her work friends) and I went to go see A Midsummer Night's Dream for free at Boston Common. The gazebo you see ahead is not, in fact, the stage. Which...I mean, I thought it was at first, so don't feel bad or anything. Yeah. The stage is actually off the picture to the right. So. Cool. Shakespeare for free. Not a bad thing.


The above was taken just before another rommate and I went to the New England Aquarium. We both thought the sight of fog obscuring the skyscrapers (not to mention that cool building with the turret) was pretty dang awesome.

And here I am at the aquarium itself feeling uneasy about being approached by a friendly little penguin. Statue. A penguin statue. Not a real one. Alas. Because a real one made of gold would have been infinitely awesome.


And speaking of gold penguins, here's a completely unrelated picture of the subway. (I thought that archway was kind of cool.)


Here's a view from the back of the New England Aquarium (I love the grove of masts here):


And finally, here's a shot of the Fenway area. In the area to the right, past the road and where you can see lots of trees, there's a narrow park that runs alongside a stream. I love that there's this touch of green right in the middle of all these colleges. They call it (and connected parks) The Emerald Necklace. And it really is that lovely.


So, until next time. As it were. You know. And all that. You guys are cool.

The end.

Jubilations

I got the job!

I just thought you all ought to know.

(OhBlastedHUZZAH!)

And also?

Definitely feeling even more attracted to this guy. Oh. My goodness.

Seriously. Shoot.

No... No, wait. I've gotten it wrong.

It wasn't them. It was me.

I never opened up.

So you see, it wasn't that they weren't interested; it was that I was unwilling or unable to communicate my deepest self to them.

I hate realizing that I've been wrong. But somehow it's liberating too.

More about me (but then, what isn't?)

I miss people today.

I just thought I'd give you all a head's up, in case I suddenly decide to call you out of the blue and ask, "How's that family history coming?" or "Did you ever take those pictures of pinecones like you wanted?" or "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Or maybe I won't.

Maybe I'll just continue to lie here on my bed, curled into a comma, book propped up just beyond my throw pillow while my eyes move to and fro, scanning the text.

And missing you all the while.

Addendum

I feel really guilty. Really. I feel that I have been hopelessly and insufferably rude in recent posts.

So, I'm sorry.

I do feel terrible.

But I won't delete the posts. Because I also need them to be here.

Sorry again.

(And also, Superman Returns is pretty much my new favorite movie. I saw it for the first time today and. Wow.)

(And also, I saw a guy solve a Rubik's Cube on the T the other night. I was impressed.)

(And also, I am sad that President Faust passed away. And also glad for him. And also feeling that feeling both at the same time is both kind of difficult and kind of right.)

A little about me:

In the past 24 hours, I've learned two significant things about myself: I use this blog as an emotional outlet and I tend to fall for the wrong sort of person.

These realizations came about because of visiting teaching, or rather because of the way a visiting teaching appointment turned into a sitting-around-singing, personality-test-taking visit. (It was good times, my friends. Good times.)

The gal we (my roommate and I) were visiting just adores the Myers-Briggs personality test and asked if either of us had taken it. I had recently taken the test myself, so my roommate answered a questionnaire online (based on said test) and we pored over her score and personality profile.

Then, oddly enough, the focus turned to me. I explained that I'd recently been classified as an ISFJ personality type so my companion and our visiting teachee read over the profile and would occasionally burst out with exclamations such as, "That's so you!"

One part of the conversation struck me particularly: in reading over the profile, our visiting teachee asked, "Do you use anything as an emotional outlet?" and my roommate explained about this blog. I'd never really thought of my blog as an emotional outlet, but I could suddenly see it as such. My blog is a way for me to express emotions that I would otherwise normally keep hidden. In fact, when events of emotional import happen to me, I find that I usually want to post about it. I've wondered since then why that is.

I wonder if it's partly that you, my blog readers, are mostly people to whom I'd feel okay about opening up emotionally. I know most of you pretty well, and even those of you I've never met are somehow so similar that I could see myself confiding in you without much concern.

I wonder too if it's that a blog is a way of expressing one's emotions in a slightly detached way. I tell you about all these feelings and frustrations that I have, but I do it in such a way that I'm able to sit down and think about the manner I want to express things before I actually interact with any of you. I've always found it easier to express my emotions in writing; it just seems safer somehow. And I have doubts that the habit is entirely healthy.

Anyway.

Naturally, being girls, we then decided to explore which personalities would be the best matches for each of us. To my surprise, I would apparently be best paired with either ESTP or ESFP, both extroverted personality types. Now, personally, I have a tendency to fall for introverted men; the high social energy levels of extroverted individuals have always left me feeling baffled and (frankly) inadequate. To be honest, I've always discounted such people in the past, mainly because I felt they could not possibly find me interesting. I always liked getting to know the quieter individuals, believing that they would at least understand me and not automatically assume I was boring if I didn't speak up much.

I was actually rather resistant to the idea of either one of these personality types until the visiting teachee told me that I needed someone who would be vitally interested in me; that he would find me fascinating enough to try to draw me out.

And I realized in this flash of insight with myself that I really did have that need, and that it was something that was lacking in all of the previous relationships I'd had with guys. Not that the guys I've known (or even dated) have been boorish; I don't want to give that impression. But I never felt that sense of real, genuine interest in me. I've never felt that they've tried to really delve down into the deepest inmost parts of me. Or rather, I guess I may have felt that intellectually, but never emotionally.

I'm such a private person, really. I don't feel comfortable talking about myself and if I feel the slightest decline of interest in what I'm saying I will immediately stop talking about me and try to focus the conversation on the other person. I'm always in terror that the person I'm with will become bored. And I'm always convinced that I am boring.

So. Long story short: I think that the only way I will ever fully open up to someone is if I have someone who is open and warm with me and who persistently finds me fascinating. And who persistently tries to draw me out. And is good at it.

Unfortunately, I kind of can't help thinking that I'm kind of unlikely to find that.

'Cheetos' is the code word.

So.

I totally got chatted up by a guy at institute tonight.

The only problem is that I think he needs to be on some kind of medication. And isn't.

And I feel a strange mixture of guilt and relief at telling you about this. Because I feel terrible talking about him like this. But I also want to share with you this experience of almost being asked out by a guy who really. Really. Is out there. And how I tried to get away after about a fifteen-minute conversation by indicating that I needed to talk to my roommate. But it didn't work. Because he just kept on going.

And then how this tall, dark-haired guy with an awesome accent asked me to open the gym door for him so he could roll a round table into the little storage closet. And how this new nice (and not-crazy) guy started asking me questions about myself. And how I wanted to talk to him more. Because he seemed awesome. And nice. And good-looking. And not crazy. But how my encounter with not-all-there boy had kind of made me want to retreat very quickly into the kitchen and away from any possibility of encountering said not-all-there boy so I kind of had to cut the conversation with nice non-crazy boy short.

Which just makes me grit my teeth.

So. While discussing above experience with my roommate, we realized that we had no plan in place to help one another out of situations like this. My roommate, in her wisdom, decided on A Plan.

And The Plan is that 'Cheetos' is the code word for: 'Get me out of here now because there is no way I can gracefully extricate myself from this situation and I need to be extricated so desperately that my toes are about to curl into my ankles.'

So now we know. And will be prepared.

And let me tell you: I think being prepared is more than half the battle.

And not choking seems pretty good to me

Well, folks.

The interview went pretty well.

And by "pretty well," I mean that I managed not to make a babbling idiot of myself. I asked intelligent questions (or so I believed at the time) about the library and the position and answered the more difficult questions without getting horribly tongue-tied (although I did notice that my answers tended to be unfortunately rather vague).

And, thank goodness, the interviewer was possibly the most friendly and personable person I've interviewed with. Ever.

Which also means that I'm not sure if the interview went really well or if it just went well. Because she could have just been friendly and nice yet at the same time thinking: This gal is pretty much lame-o. Or, she might have been friendly and nice and thinking: This gal is pretty friendly and nice herself. I think we'll hire her.

Time will tell.

I'll find out for sure which it was at the end of this week or possibly early next week. And I'll let you know as soon as I can.

Because I'm pretty sure you're all rooting for me.

So thanks.

TONS.

Gotta stay calm.

I'm feeling a rising sense of panic.

But I'm trying to exorcise it.

I'll be fine. I just gotta remember to stay calm. And remember that I can do this. Really. No joke. I. Am. Capable.

(Wish me luck too though, just in case.)

My bit of Austen

I also just found out which Austen heroine I would be:

Take the Quiz here!

Here's the description: You are Elinor Dashwood of Sense & Sensibility! You are practical, circumspect, and discreet. Though you are tremendously sensible and allow your head to rule, you have a deep, emotional side that few people often see. (How accurate do you think that is?)

(Many thanks to Heidi for including this on her blog!)

Hey! That's my school!

I was just at the Simmons main page meandering around, trying to find information about my course schedule. And as I brought up the main page, I suddenly realized: holy heck. I am going to that school in less than a month.

I was swept with a feeling of utter and complete awesomeness.

I can't believe how lucky I am.

The joy of (finally) being able to be nervous about something

I just got a call this morning for someone in a library very close to my school. She wanted to schedule me for an interview this Wednesday!

Huzzah!

And hooray!

And galdaleelooooooks!

I'm so happy, because this means I can bring to bear all my powerful charms such as speaking distinctly and smiling warmly and shaking hands firmly.

Which, really, is a huge step up from just being a piece of paper listing work accomplishments.

Wish me luck! (And pray hard.)

Instead of what I should be doing

Right now, I should be reading Numbers 3. I should be reading it because I am currently trying to work my way through the Old Testament. Straight through.

I have never accomplished this before.

And guess where I've always gotten stuck! Oh. You're so good. Yeah.

Numbers.

So. Instead of reading Numbers 3 (which I will do before going to bed, thankyouverymuch) I am currently communicating with all y'all.

Cause I know you just love that.

And I'm trying to think of more interesting things to write about. But seeing as how it is now past 11 o'clock at night and seeing as how I've been up since about 7:15 and seeing as how it was fast Sunday and seeing as how I wanted a nap and didn't take one because I was too busy filling up my empty stomach after church, I think I may sleep soon.

So you'll have to wait for revelatory writings till the morrow.

Adieu. And good night.

Y'know. All that jazz.

What the...

I love that those who create those internet banner ads feel that a trio of dancing aliens is the best way to let you know that housing payments have fallen.

I am left utterly bemused.

Apocalyptics anyone?

Oh, and also? It's just nice to know that T-Rex totally agrees with me: post-apocalypticism is cool.

Outstretching

I must confess: I've been having a bit of a hard time.

I feel really bad admitting that, as though in confessing my problems I'm causing nothing but distress to pretty much everybody, including myself.

I hadn't even been thinking clearly about the reasons why I've been feeling a bit low until I talked to my mom this afternoon. Somehow, the conversation with her was a bit of a catalyst, pointing me to what I needed to realize about myself.

I'm unhappy. I'm disappointed in myself. I feel like I've come out here expecting things to just kind of fall into my lap, unwilling to get off my bed and do the things that really need doing.

And it's not even that I haven't been trying; it's just that I haven't been trying in the right ways, I guess, or trying as hard as I should have. Because, surely, if I had been working hard enough things would have worked out by now? Maybe?

I'm anxious. I need work. I need to feel that I'm doing all I can to support myself out here. And I need to be able to not worry about money so much all the time.

But suddenly, typing this, it occurs to me that there's something to learn from this too. Maybe there's a purpose in waiting.

I don't think I'll ever know really what it's like to live in poverty. And I'm so grateful for that. But...

But isn't it important now and then to catch a glimpse of how people who are in devastating financial trouble live? To sense a little bit the kind of anxiety they experience all the time? Doesn't this just increase our compassion for them?

It makes me want to make a difference for them. And maybe, once I've figured out a way to get through the next couple of years out here and I've gotten my degree, maybe I can start with the kids in difficult circumstances, be one of the people who try to help them love learning through the books they read. Because I think that knowledge may be the only way to lift people out of circumstances like that.

Just the way serving others is the only way to lift you out of anxiety for yourself.

Personal Daemons

As mentioned before, I've been getting into Philip Pullman's The Golden Compass in preparation for the movie coming out this December. So, as part of said getting-into-it-edness, I've decided to create my own personal daemon, with the help of the movie's website.

Let me introduce you:



(On my first try, I got a spider. So I'm much happier about having on osprey, lemme tell you.)

If you'd like, go ahead & create your own daemon. It's rather revealing. And oh, so much fun.

Revelation

It's all suddenly become clear to me:

Well.

Actually, no.

No, it hasn't.

But I've always wanted to say it had, so.

There ya go.