Flat Stanley's Last Day in Boston!

On Saturday, Stanley and I finally, finally, finally did something interesting. First of all, we got on the T to go to downtown Boston. Here's Stanley waiting impatiently at the T stop:


I'm not sure if it was because it was a holiday weekend, or because it was early-ish on Saturday morning, but the train was pretty darn empty. Stanley still seemed to be enjoying himself, though. (And I felt decidedly less embarrassed about taking pictures.)


We got off the Aquarium stop (which, unsurprisingly, comes out right by the New England Aquarium, which I have previously visited) and started a-wandering. We found this cool sculpture of frolicking dolphins, and Stanley wanted to climb aboard, so I obliged him.


You just can't get enough of cool frolicking dolphin sculptures.


Next, Stanley and I walked in back of a building (I think it might have been an apartment building? Or a hotel, maybe?) and found a lovely spot to sit and admire the harbor and also all the seagulls that flew up to us all of a sudden in apparent expectation of an outpouring of breadcrusts. (I almost got a picture of them, but they flew off again in disgust as soon as it became apparent that all I had to feed them was a flat boy made of paper and a shiny silver box that made irritating whirring noises.)

So, here's a shot of Stanley in front of Boston Harbor:


And another shot from the same location, facing a different direction:


And, just because I'm kind of silly, here's a video that pans around so you can get a sense of the view from there.



Ohyeah. And that wind? It made it all feel about 5 degrees or so. Wee bit chilly, I say.

Stanley and I got up then and kept meandering, where we found (if you can see it--it's a pretty bad picture) this building with an AH-mazing entrance: the Boston Harbor Hotel. (Which...Oh my. Hello, Fanciness.) Hm. Kind of funny, actually; as I was taking the picture, a couple of women were walking by, and I could see them making confused gestures from the corner of my eye. Suddenly, one of them laughed, and I heard her say something like, "Oh, it's Flat Stanley!" I turned and laughed and said, "Yeah." I've been amazed how many people know about Flat Stanley. He sure is one popular guy!


Here's a shot of some buildings downtown right by the Boston Harbor Hotel.


Stanley and I still weren't tired enough to stop exploring, and our noses hadn't yet become frostbitten, so we decided to keep going. We found this cool bridge:


(and here's a view to the side):


(and a look back from whence we came):


which led out to the Fan Pier. There's a long curving walkway that goes around this crazy-looking courthouse building. Along the way are plenty of benches and a good deal of thorny bushes that I'm pretty sure are roses (although I'll need to come back in the summer to make sure). All along are these gorgeous views of the harbor, like this one:


And this:


And here's another panorama video, in which Stanley becomes a serious camera-hog. (Yeesh, Stanley!)



We got really, really, really cold on the Fan Pier, so we walked a little bit further to the South Station T stop to get warm for a bit before heading out to see more stuff. Here's a picture of the South Station building (which is the station all south-bound commuter rail and Amtrak trains head out from):


We got off at Copley Square, which is one of my favorite places in Boston. First reason, it has the beautiful and impressive Trinity Church:


And the main, bigger, BIGGEST reason I love Copley Square, the Boston Public Library:


And here's Flat Stanley in the stacks:


As I was taking the above picture, a woman actually came up to me and talked about how her niece had sent her Flat Stanley to show around Boston, too! Crazy! She suggested that I check out an exhibit the library was doing of some bird's-eye-view drawings and photographs of Boston. So, I did. And Flat Stanley really enjoyed it! First, of course, we had to pass through the BPL's gorgeous courtyard:


Then, we found the exhibit. Here's Stanley hovering over an old view of Boston inlaid in the floor:


And here's Stanley with a more modern photograph of the city:


This picture shows how Boston has changed over time. As you can see, the land area just keeps growing and growing. Boston is like an enormous lichen! Or. Something. (You can tell by Stanley's expression that he thinks my jokes are lame.)


Then, because it was getting pretty close to my working time, we decided to head off to, well...work. On the way, we stopped and looked at the Museum of Fine Arts, just because it's a cool building and I wish we'd had time to visit it. But alas, 'twas not to be.


So that, my friends is the end of Stanley's adventures in Boston. (With me, at least. Apparently he's visited here before in other incarnations, and is, very likely, visiting it right now and will be visiting it again for a long, long time to come.)

I'll be sending Stanley back to my niece with an accounting of all our doings together.

Adieu, Stanley. It's been fun.

And really, we must do this again sometime.

Flat Stanley's Super Super Friday

Okay.

So, on Friday, I only took one picture with Flat Stanley, mostly because I spent the whole day being busy and rather bothered.

The day began in the early am hours with Stanley working furiously with me to finish up an assignment that was due at 8am Friday morning. Unfortunately, I had seriously misjudged how long the assignment would take me, so I stayed up most of the night working on it and well into the morning, snatching a couple of hours that I really should have skipped because I didn't actually finish the darn thing until about 12:30 Friday afternoon. So, blast. It was a little late.

At about 8 or 9am or so, realizing that my computer's tiff with the ISP at my apartment was not going to abate in time for me to complete the assignment, I decided to head off to the library on campus so I could use the wireless network there to finish everything up. Then, just as I was working on the reference list for the assignment (just finishing up, basically), the fire alarm in the library started blaring, and everyone had to be evacuated. Utterly fed up (and secretly convinced that the whole thing was due to some ignorant student opening up one of the emergency exit doors by mistake) I packed up my stuff and headed outside where I heard that there had been some sort of gas leak and they were evacuating the building as a precaution.

Whatever.

I had an assignment to finish!

Luckily, Flat Stanley was safely tucked inside my backpack (which I was not going to leave behind, lemme tell you) so he didn't get lost in the potentially blow-up-able building.

So, I went to another building on campus, where I reconnected to the wireless, finished the assignment and submitted it about a half hour before class started.

Yeesh.

Class was fine, but I felt slightly exhausted, and so didn't pay quite as much attention as I should have. And I neglected to take any pictures. (Sad.) However, the class took place in the same room as the first class of the week, so just check out the picture from that class again, and you should get an idea of where all this...Friday classness...happened.

Yep.

Uuuhmm...I'm pretty sure I went straight back to my apartment after that, because I was tired and hungry. Then, on the way back on the T, this elderly gentleman with some missing teeth leaned forward towards me and said, "You have such lovely green hair!" Wanting to be nice (and not weirded-out), I said, "Well, thank you!" and smiled. The elderly gentleman continued to exchange pleasantries such as kind of half acting a little crazy and then kind of half acknowledging that he was acting a little crazy and sharing a photocopy of a 'Dear Abby' column.

When he got off at my normal stop, I decided it would be prudent to just keep going on the train and get off at the next stop instead. He was nice, but I wasn't entirely sure whether the 'acting a little crazy' part was for real, and felt it would be wisest not to have him following me to my apartment. (So, so sad that the only compliments I get are from half-crazy old gentlemen. Ah, well. At least I get something.)

Anyway. So, I went one stop further and decided to walk back to my apartment rather than wait for a train going the other direction. It was a lovely, lovely late afternoon, with cool wet air, low and rushing clouds, and the waxing gibbous moon (my favorite phase) shining with strange clarity through the clouds, and so so white against the paling blue sky.

During the walk, I took my one picture of the day, when Stanley and I passed this awesome, awesome Victorian house with an awesome, awesome, old tree:


And that was it. That was the day. I think I went to bed at, like, 6pm. (Or maybe slightly later.) But, luckily, Stanley and I had one more day together...

Tooooooo Tiiiiiiired

I can't write a full post now. I'm just too tired.

Suffice it to say that Stanley and I had a full day of staying up mostly all night to finish an assignment that got turned in late (Gargh!), along with evacuating buildings and lots of walking and photographing Victorian buildings and encountering elderly gentlemen who complimented me on my lovely green hair.

Ah yes.

A day indeed.

More tomorrow.

Stanley does boring stuff.

Oh, you guys. I'm so sorry.

Today, you see, is Thursday, which (because of its class-less and job-less nature) is my free day, which means that it's the day I do errand-type stuff. So today, Stanley's adventures were...less exciting.

For instance: this morning, Stanley helped me to...DO LAUNDRY! Hooray! Laundry is just SO EXCITING!


Um. And while we did laundry, Stanley helped me to...


learn about metadata! Specifically about MARC records, (Lib Sci Term o' te Day) which is a way for libraries to share cataloging they've done with other libraries, so librarians don't have to keep cataloging the same items over and over and over again. MARC stands for 'MAchine Readable Cataloging,' and is a way for catalog records (basically all the information about a certain item, including author, title, etc.) to be sent from computer to computer without getting all garbled and confused.

Yeah.

So, basically I'm pretty much lost when it comes to all this technical stuff. But some of it's getting through. With Stanley's help, of course.

After doing laundry, then hauling the full bag all the way back up the [cursecursecurse] FOUR flights of stairs, I settled down to do some more reading and promptly fell asleep for several hours. 'Twas nice. (Poor Stanley stayed squashed between the pages of my textbook.)

Later, my roommate reserved a Zip Car so we could go grocery shopping at NIGHT without having to walk all the way to the store and back with our fingers falling off from those grocery bags that cut off your circulation and. You know. It being dark. And cold. And stuff.

Cars are nice.

Particularly this red one, which was a rather appropriate color for Valentine's Day. Stanley was gentlemanly enough to open my door for me. (Which was pretty tricky for a flat fellow, lemme tell you.)


At the grocery store, Stanley admired the lovely display of eggplants, artichokes, cauliflower, and whatnot. (Unfortunately, I didn't buy any of this stuff. However, I did pick up some nice asparagus that was lovely and thin and will taste smashing after being broiled in a little olive oil and salt and pepper...mmmm...)


Yeah. So... That's about it, folks. I'm sorry the day was so boring, but that's just what Thursdays are usually like: laundry, sleep and food (although the order can vary a bit). Tomorrow's my last class for the week, and I've got to work on an assignment due tomorrow morning so I must leave you now. But cross your fingers (seriously--do it now) so that Stanley and I can do something a little more interesting next time.

Stanley visits the public library.

Well, all. Today was very, very, very, very rainy and wet and kind of miserable when you walked around in it wearing canvas shoes that soaked through approximately twenty seconds after you stepped outside and kept squelching when you walked.

Luckily, Stanley got through it okay by remaining safely tucked into books or notebooks that were, in turn, safely tucked into my backpack, which I tried my best to cover up with my umbrella.

It would, in fact, have been a perfect day to stay inside. However, I found that I needed some serious bookage. Some serious Young Adult (YA) Literature bookage, to be specific. And as we all know, the best place to find YA Lit is...

That's right! Your local public library! (And as I plan to work in a public library after graduation, I am particularly fond of recommending visits to 'em.)


So, Stanley and I made our way past rivers and ponds (previously known as roads and crosswalks) and made it to the local public library, where we perused the shelves in the YA room and came away with such notable titles as Fever 1793 by Laurie Halse Anderson, A Great and Terrible Beauty by Libba Bray, Bronx Masquerade by Nikki Grimes, and Just Listen by Sarah Dessen.

Of course, before leaving, I had to show Stanley my favorite spot to stop and peruse a magazine (like The Writer or Astronomy):


Then, Stanley and I came back to my apartment, where I put my shoes on the radiator in an attempt (which turned out to be futile) to dry them off before I left for class. In the interim, Stanley helped me muddle through the intricacies of the articles we were assigned to read for today's lecture:


Later, during class this evening, Stanley was good enough to take notes while I dozed off. (However, for all of you who like that idea, I encourage you to resist the impulse to have Flat Stanley take notes for you. Flat people don't seem able to hold pens very well.)


Finally, Stanley and I went to work, where we were pretty bored for several hours. When the shift ended at 1am, we took a taxi home to my apartment. (I would have taken a picture of the taxi driver, but...I felt kind of shy.)

Tomorrow's my day off, so, although I have errands to run and lots of homework to do, I'll try to find something interesting for Stanley and me to do as well.

Stanley goes to library school.

Hello, all.

Today Stanley went to, you guessed it, even more libraries.

First off, we went to work again, where (after my shift was over), we went to find that book we looked up on the computer yesterday.

So, first, we went to the Juvenile section of the library, then we found which set of shelves had the call number we were looking for (remember, the call number started with 'J B':


Then, we found the book on the shelf itself:


Way to go, Stanley! (Note, if you will, the subtle expression of humble triumph Stanley is sporting in this photograph.)

Stanley also met a stone owl named Minerva. I have no idea why she is named Minerva, nor why a stone owl resides in this library. These mysteries aside, Stanley thought she was pretty darn cool.


Righto. Well, after that, Stanley and I meandered off to Simmons, where we went to the library over there ("Good grief," cried Stanley. "Not another one!") and I made copies of some journal articles I was supposed to read and...didn't quite get through...and where I also checked out a course reserve book to read about ways to help teenagers who use libraries.

Then, at last, Stanley came with me to the building where most of the library school classes are held. Here's a picture of the outside (with the library school banner neatly displayed). (Also, just FYI, today was wretched cold, so those fingers holding Stanley up are freezing OFF.)


And here's a picture of Stanley inside the classroom:


(Don't worry about the lack of students; I just got there a little early, which is why the room's so empty-looking. But the two students you see in the background? Typically intelligent. Like pretty much every single library student. We're also a humble bunch.)

That's mostly it. Stanley and I went grocery shopping after class, and I bought bread, milk, eggs, cereal and bananas, and also rubbing alcohol because I tripped coming up the stairs at a T station yesterday, scraped my knee up and made it bleed through my jeans. I figured rubbing alcohol was a pretty good idea.

And now we're back at my apartment! So, I will bid you all adieu until tomorrow, when I will recount more adventures with the indefatigable Stanley.

Stanley volunteers.

Hi, all!

I'm afraid I didn't get pictures of everything I wanted to today, so the visual aspect of this post will be a bit limited. I will, however, give you a little run-down of our activities this fine Monday. (Actually, it was freezing cold, but I won't go into that, as it's unfortunately quite irrelevant.)

This morning, I took Stanley to work with me again, where he got introduced to some of my coworkers (who had apparently met other incarnations of Flat Stanley hanging out in such places as Fenway Park). Stanley and I looked up a call number of a book, just so he could practice his library skills. (If you will, please note the title of the book he searched for. Stanley is perhaps just the teensiest bit self-obsessed.)


So, like all good library catalog users, Stanley found the book he was looking for on the OPAC or Online Public Access Catalog (Feb 11th's Library Science Term of the Day) and then wrote down the call number, or the special number a book has that helps you to find it on the shelves. The J on the call number below means that it's located in the Juvenile section, or the part of the library that has kids' books. The B815 refers to the author of the book, Jeff Brown (the B for his last name and the 815 is to keep all the books by 'B' authors in alphabetical order when you put them on the shelf) and the 'f' is for the title of the book: Flat Stanley.


We were going to go and look for the book itself, but unfortunately I had to do some real work, so I didn't end up having time. Bother.

Right after work, I went up into Cambridge again. But this time, instead of going to church (and walking near Harvard) we got out at the Porter Square stop (see the sign below)...


...from which I walked to yet another library where I volunteer once a week. This library's at an elementary school, so Stanley and I saw a lot of kids today. In fact, I helped check some books out to them. But mostly I helped the librarian (who's a friend of mine) check books in and shelve them. (Which kind of makes your hands gross and dirty, (books are dusty) but it's still pretty satisfying.)

Um. Aaaaand... I forgot to take pictures at the school. Sorry!

But, to make up for it, I made a video of Stanley going back down the escalator at Porter Square so we could catch a train going back home. The ceiling over the escalator (which is just enormously long, by the way) is made up of these huge triangles that kind of hang down over you. As you go up the escalator, you see white silhouettes of birds on a light blue background. As you go down the escalator, you see old-fashioned trains (appropriately enough). What's cool is that as you go down (or up) the pictures look like they're moving a little. Watch the video--it's short, but it's kind of fun:



Alright! And that's it for today. Tomorrow, Stanley and I will be going to work again, so maybe we can actually find a copy of that book. We'll also be going to library school. HOLY EXCITING! (Well, maybe just for librarians-in-training...but still. It'll be mildly entertaining for the rest of you, I'm sure. Maybe.)

Stanley goes to church!

It's true, gentle readers: our intrepid explorer was kind enough to attend church with me, and later we saw a few sights while walking around Cambridge this afternoon.

It was, in fact, pretty good times.


Above is Stanley in front of the church building, which is this nice oldish brick building with kind of fun white columns out front.

After church, we walked over to the house where the famous poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow lived. In fact, Longfellow wasn't the only famous person to live in this house: George Washington did too!




(By the way, I'm so sorry that the backgrounds on the pictures are blurry. I told Stanley to stand back a bit, but he just wouldn't let go of my fingers. Silly paper boy.)


Later, as we walked some more around Cambridge, we walked past this old cemetery. There are plenty of old graveyards in and around Boston; one of the fun things to do here is to see who is buried in them and imagine what sort of lives they lived. Earlier in the year, I even saw a gravestone for a man who had been a librarian!


Then, just across the street from the graveyard, is Harvard University.


You can't see much of it here, but a lot of the buildings are red brick. (In fact, there are a lot of brick buildings around Boston...)

Then, we decided it was time to head for home, so we got on the subway to come back to my apartment. See that circle with the black capital T? That means that this is an entrance to the subway! Here in Boston, we call the subway "The T," which is short for MBTA (Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority). There are several different lines on the T (each has a different color assigned to it, like red, orange, blue, green and silver) and each goes through different places. The red line (the one you see in these pictures) goes through Cambridge, then down into Boston, then to other places south of Boston.


And here's a (blurry) picture of Stanley on the subway with me. It was only a little crowded this afternoon. Sometimes, if a lot of people need to ride the subway trains, the whole middle part is filled up with people standing, crammed in next to each other so close that you feel a little like one little baby carrot in a whole bag full of 'em.


Well. That's about it for Flat Stanley's adventures today. We'll both talk to you again tomorrow (or so I anticipate).

******************
Edit: Sorry! I posted this last night and then realized this morning that I had left an entire paragraph (the one about the T) uncompleted. It's all written up now, though. So. Go read it and stuff.

Oh, heavens.

You know, if I had an extra $4,400 and also a passport, I would SO be doing this during the coming summer. It would be my dream trip.

AlasAlasAlasAlassess.

*****
Edit at 4:08am: Why. Why, oh why am I not asleep?

I must still be thinking about Oxford.

Well, welcome to Boston, Stanley!

This afternoon, to my great delight, I received a letter from my niece who lives in the far-off western part of the states. Imagine my surprise when, upon opening the envelope, I discovered not only the expected letter (written very neatly indeed on that beige lined paper you get in elementary school) but a stowaway as well:


That's right, gentle readers. Flat Stanley has come to Boston.

Since he'll be staying with me for a week and will pretty much go everywhere I go, (except the bathroom, of course--that would be gross, people), I thought I'd document our good times together on the blog, partly as a reminder of what to write my neice about when I send Stanley back home, and partly as a way to share what I do every day (and to amaze you with the boring-osity of it all).

Luckily, Stanley arrived at my apartment today just before I had to go to work, so work was, in fact, the first place he and I went. We took the subway there, where Stanley helped me check out some books to patrons using our Integrated Library System (that's your 'Library Science Term of the Day,' btw):


(Note, if you will, the holy light emanating from said ILS.)

Then Stanley thought it would be funny to jump out of the stacks at me:


(Yah. Hilarious, Stanley.)

Fortunately, Stanley also helped me find a discarded book that's over 100 years old (!), so I couldn't stay mad at him for too long.


We decided to bring it back to my apartment and give it a nice home. (Mostly so I can sniff right in the creases and get that 'old book' feeling and swoon. Also, I love that title page. Seriously. I would marry it. If it proposed.)

Well, that's it for Stanley's Adventures in Boston today. We'll see what our flat friend gets up to tomorrow...

Blech.

Hair is a lot like spaghetti when it's covered in tomato sauce.

I think I'll wear a ponytail while eating from now on.

This is it.

This is why I am in library school:

A little artificial intelligence never hurt anyone.

Okay. We SO live in the future. Here's proof.

My very own (highly unconscious) writing guidelines:

Firstly, I must confess two things, neither of which will be delinated as writing guidelines per se, but may be interpreted as such by those who wish to amuse themselves by supposing that a thing done is a thing intended to be done by the doer of it, neglecting to realize that such a thing as intent rarely exists in this writer's bosom.

And also I have been reading too much Jane Austen.

But in any case, my explanations and apologies are these: first, that I do not always consider myself a writer of the highest caliber and thus felt some considerable surprise (though pleasurable) at being recommended by Lindsay as one who writes well. My gratitude thus being mingled with some degree of distress, I have, second, procrastinated the production of my response to no small degree. I must, therefore, have some sincere cause of mortification if any person seeking authorly wisdom has thus fled to my blog in glad expectation, thereafter being sadly repulsed by perusal of such uninteresting topics as jackhammers in the early hours of the morning.

However, meaning to rectify my faults and demonstrate a willingness to oblige all who might wish to know them, I therefore will now outline the rules by which I write:

First: The key, I think, is to write. This is perhaps my greatest fault as a writer, in that I am too often not a writer. Or rather, that I think of myself as one who enjoys writing and who would write if only she could find the time, and am then forced to acknowledge my own negligence when I realize that as soon as I get a little time I spend it on reading, or on viewing the amusing capers of caption-strewn cats. Indeed, one cannot be considered a writer unless she writes, therefore all other recommendations and guidelines must be encompassed in this very simple one: If you want to be a writer, then write. Nothing else will do. Nothing.

Second: Be real. And for this I have to drop the wicked awful Jane Austen impression. (My most sincere and humble apologies to Miss Jane for tainting her most exquisite style with my sad imitation.) When I write a blog post, or am working on a work of fiction, I want the emotion to be as near reality as possible. Readers know when things are insincere. You yourself know when a character is being unrealistic or when his or her emotions are out of alignment with the events going on. They seem ridiculous, right? So keep it real. Don't force emotion on your characters. First, feel what they're feeling, and then write what you feel from the heart. Deal with pain and deal with happiness. In short, deal with all the wonderful, convoluted, tortuous maze of the human heart. Your readers will connect to what you write; they've got a heart themselves, you know.

Third: In keeping with my first principle, I've got to say that while writing is absolutely critical to being a writer, reading is nearly as much so. Don't neglect your writing to read, but be sure to take time to read anyway. Reading helps you to get a sense of the writing styles you enjoy, and it helps you to understand how a story flows and can be put together. More importantly, read critically. Read as a writer, not just a reader. Read and ask yourself why the author included that detail, why she made that plot decision, why he had a character say that instead of something else. And then maybe you'll start to ask yourself, "Okay. How would I have written this?"

So.

There are my rules, as little as I stick by them.

And, as much as I hate to break the chain, I really, really, really can't pick my favorite blogging authors simply because I have too many of them. In short, if you're on that list on my sidebar, you're a favorite. And some of you not on the sidebar are favorites too. So don't fret. (Good grief, people.) So...

No. I just can't. I just, just just can't.

But those of you who, secretly, are acknowledging that in your very darkest, most supressed, heart of hearts, you know that I would have picked your blog as one of the top three, well.

Yeah. You're pretty much right.

Now.

GET WRITING!

What I cannot understand:

I can understand a city's need to jackhammer certain areas. I'm sure, walking around on the sidewalks as I commonly do, that if there were no jackhammering of said sidewalks and other places, that things would be in serious disrepair very shortly indeed.

I can even understand a city's need to do said jackhammering at a time when foot and vehicular traffic is minimal, such as weekends and at off hours.

But jackhammering at 3:30 in the morning almost directly outside my window for long enough that I, even I, deep sleeper that I am, am roused enough to not be able to get back to sleep for the life of me?

That.

That I cannot understand.

Or, at least, I absolutely refuse to.

What's lacking in my writing:

OH my goodness.

So, I found out today that someone has searched my blog for the term 'nephew.' (Have I ever mentioned how much I love reviewing my sitemeter stats? (Which, incidentally, has led to the discovery that most people who come across my blog randomly find it by searching for pictures of Olympus Mons and gallbladders. Which. Okay. I feel a little weird about. But whatever.))

Anyway.

But the 'nephew' search made me think of all the things you might find or not find by searching my blog for certain terms.

Terms like 'cow.' Which shows that I write "Holy Cow" a heck of a lot.

Or 'monkey.'

Or 'poop.'

But it made me realize that there are some glaring omissions in my use of words.

I, for instance, have never written about gnomes. Or grease. Or gravity.

Er.

Maybe I have a thing against words starting with 'g.'

In any case, at least it's given me some topics to ponder, perchance to write. Perchance.

I wonder what would come up if I searched for 'perchance.'

Let's see, shall we?

Almost a blog post

Is there a book out there that's just about people who were almost President of the United States?

Because those would be some interesting stories, I think.

Really, people.

Get to it.

Why I read:

There's this moment I get, when I've just finished an excellent book, that I get caught up in the last sentence or word of the story and, involuntarily, give the smallest of sobs, or maybe more a sigh with some unshed tears in it.

It's beautiful.

It's a moment of realization that there are things great and good and human to be told that are told, and told beautifully, that there is a connection between us all, and things like love and hope and compassion somehow still have the power to move in us and with us and through us, making us all more like each other, and more like God, more like the way God really is.

I can't describe it, of course, (and when I try, it only sounds cheesy and not really moving at all), but I think it's that moment, that moment of universal connection to the human experience, that makes up part of who I am, that makes me a person who loves books.

This is no thaw! This is spring!

Okay. So it's not really spring.

But. Yeah. 60 degree weather?

No coat?

All freaking day?

And also, tonight, even with my window wide open and the curtain tied up, I'm still rolling up the pant-legs on my pajamas and contemplating going to bed dressed only in me skivvies.

With the air conditioning running.

Is it just me, or is Aslan on the move?

Haaaaahhhhngry

Have you ever noticed how good food sounds?

It sounds really, really good.

Also, the eating of stuff.

Also, the consuming of edibles.

All. Goodness. And deliciousness.

Home again, home again?

After a long night of cramped uncomfortability, I got into Boston at about 5:30am Eastern Time this morning.

And, just briefly, while I'm on the subject, let me say again just how surreal flying is: it's pretty darn surreal, people. I mean, there you are, in this long metal tube full of people sitting uncomfortably close to each other, and you're also (get this) flying through the air.

Yeah. Crazy.

You can see the world right there out the window--it exists--but it's impossibly far away. You spend hours in this encased little universe that's completely separate from everything and everyone not inside the airplane. You are more detatched and more alone in a plane full of people than you are, I believe, at most other times in life.

And also, your legs start to feel kind of funny after awhile.

But I still love takeoffs. And also landings (as long as they're relatively turbulence-free). And also seeing the lights of cities like Chicago and Detroit spread out miles below me like some kind of enormous, glowing lichen. (Cathy, I mentally waved at you as I passed over. Hope you were mentally waving back! At 3 o'clock in the morning!)

Anyway...

I got back to Boston and took the T back to my building, where I lugged my 50lb suitcase back up the three flights of stairs to my apartment. And then I slept until about 2:30 in the afternoon. And went grocery shopping. And to the library. And decided to blog about all the mundanities of my existence.

But mainly I've been thinking about what it is to come home, and whether I just came away from home or whether I just came to home, or whether it's a little bit of both and neither, really. All at the same time.

It never does feel different.

It's 2008.

And, like every year, we get together as a family and drink sparkling cider and watch about the last 60 seconds or so of the countdown to the new year and then we all shout, "Happy New Year!" and then my parents go to bed while the rest of us play video games for another few hours. (And blog.)

And I don't know why, but every time that final countdown rolls around and we spring over into the new year, I always expect to feel just a little bit different, and always inevitably feel pretty much the same as I felt at 11:55. Or 8:42. It's like waking up on your birthday morning, knowing you've just put a +1 onto your age, and finding yourself astonished to still be indisputably you, only older by the night of sleep you just had.

I wonder why I keep thinking I should feel different, why I keep expecting these tiny moments to seem significant. My experience over the past (nearly) thirty years has made me realize time and again that moments, while you're in them, rarely feel significant at all. It's usually only in looking forward to moments or looking back on them that things seem to gain weight.

I'm not sure why that is. Is it wishful thinking that makes us think moments ahead will feel important? Is it hindsight that allows us to perceive our pasts as significant? And why do we not feel it at all in the present?

I don't know any of it. And my Boston clock says it's 4:41am, and my Utah clock says it's 2:41am, and my biological clock simply says it's DARN late/early/aTimeIShouldBeInBed, so I probably won't meander any longer tonight. Er, this morning.

But...well... Happy New Year anyway.

And happy 400th post, while I'm at it.

Sometimes I just wish I were a boy.

The other morning, my brother woke me up and showed off the beard he's been growing over Christmas break. And I became pretty jealous.

I mean, women can't grow beards. (Well, some can, but...not me. Seriously. NOT ME.)

And I just laid there in bed half-awake and thought about how nice it would have been to be a boy. I would have been able to grow beards, sport hairy legs without shame and pee in the woods with ease. (That last one has made me envious so, SO many times.)

Other advantages?

Well, let's talk about dating. Ratios? TOTALLY in guys' favor. Also, there's something about the female role in dating that's just so darn passive. Makes me crazy, really.

Also.

No. Periods.

Reason enough, eh?

Yeah. I thought so.

Which shows just how crude we really are:

Our family got the electronic pocket 20Q (twenty questions) game for Christmas. Last night, as we played the card game Phase 10 together, (also a Christmas gift to the family), my mom got the 20Q game out and started playing with it while waiting for her turn in the card game.

She tried several things (some of which it got, some it didn't) and then my brother suggested that we try to see if it would guess 'poop.'

That's right: poop.

Within a few questions we were all giggling like a bunch of third graders as the 20Q game asked seemingly innocuous questions such as:

Is it warm?
Do you hold it when you use it?
Is it colorful?
Does it get wet?

Seriously. We had trouble breathing. (In fact, I have rarely seen my mom & dad laugh so hard.) And when it finally got to the last question, the table nearly exploded in the uproar:

"Is it a poop (feces)?"

So, yeah. We freely embraced potty humor last night. Which, now that I come to think about it, is actually pretty cool.

(It's good to be with the family again.)

Happy Happy Christmas Morning!

This morning the four unmarried children in my family sat around the Christmas tree with our parents and opened gifts. It was lovely. Small, and intimate and lovely.

But for all of you who weren't here with us, I just wanted to send out a general: Merry Christmas!

Because I'm thinking of you too.

Have a wonderful Christmas day.

And I inspire people so rarely

Remember that 'yon candied maid' phrase? The one that popped randomly into my head a week or so ago?

Well, my friend Pat has done some awesome things with it. Well done, Pat. Well done.

And also, I'm still thinking of a way to make up for those two nights of no sleep, Pat.

Hmmmm...

(Oh, and also--I made it to Utah safe and sound, despite the fear of sudden death by turbulence on the way into the SLC airport. Pretty fun stuff, lemme tell ya.)

Oh. Well, goodbye, again.

I'm flying out tomorrow, you know. Probably leaving tonight on the T with my luggage, coat slung over one arm and an umbrella held over it all.

I'll be at the airport for a long time. Without internet access, is what I'm trying to say.

So I won't be able to blog or email you.

I'll just be...

Cut off.

But you'll be alright. Separation is most painful right at the beginning. And by the time you start to feel the pain of my being gone, I'll be right back in the seat of my computer chair, ready to tell you about my trip.

And about how good it is to be home.

Now, don't be sad; this is really pretty good!

I dreamed last night that I got married. I went through the whole process: putting on a white dress, dealing with an evil relative who was secretly plotting to break up the wedding (I think she was a wicked step-aunt; I don't think she was more closely related than that), repeatedly falling into the embrace of my intended...

You know. All the stuff you deal with as you go about your wedding day.

And let me tell you: it was really, really, really nice. Even dealing with the wicked step-aunt (or whatever she was) and her carefully coordinated bathroom fixtures that somehow tied into her evil plot.

And when I woke up, I felt like I'd been given a little gift of night-time happiness. And instead of making me feel sad, it made me realize in what small ways the Lord can extend His tender mercies: in the falling of a leaf, in an email from a friend, in dreams of wicked step-aunts and glorious and beautiful and joyful marriages.

And here's what I woke up with: I had switched to 'third-person viewing' of my dream, and my intended (now husband?) was really enjoying some food. Here is, word for word, what my dream produced:

"To his surprise, he found himself thinking of something other than his love for her for the first time in days. And then, suddenly, was swept up into such a wave of love that he could see how his enjoyment of food, how all the other pleasures of life, were just a small part of the great love he had for her."

Nice, huh? Although, considering it came to me when I was half-dreaming, it could just be a garbled mess. I'll have to come back to it when I'm more awake to be able to tell.

In the meantime, have a happy Monday!

(I know I will, remembering my intended's lovely, lovely embrace.)

The Day There Was No Church

It was because of the blizzard. A Nor'easter, some called it. And calls went out to all the little church members in their homes to let them know that church just wasn't happening.

And the church members felt sad and/or secretly relieved as they gazed out on the poor visibility, the snow-packed roads and the occasionally body-knocking-over wind gusts and wondered how they would now spend their days.

Perhaps they would read spiritual messages to each other. Perhaps they would catch up on their scripture study. Some might even brave the storm to visit nearby members and console one another about their churchlessness.

And others... Others would blog.

Done! DoneDoneDoneDoneDone!

I'm DONE!

With writing that last paper, that is. I still have to get up in...approximately two hours to get to campus, print it out, then attend class. And then work.

And then a movie!

'CAUSE I'M DONE!

Oddity

Sometimes these odd phrases just kind of pop into my head while I'm doing something else, like plucking my eyebrows or something.

Like today: I was thinking about something else, and in came the phrase, "yon candied maid."

"Yon candied maid?" What the heck is that, anyway?

I'm thinking a mix of gingerbread houses and shepherdesses.

Or something.

A brief breather:

Uh. I realize I haven't posted much this past week.

And it is because, you see, this is the last week of classes. And, due to my illness and subsequent obsessive watching of The Office, I...er...yeah.

I'm totally behind.

But I'm still in there. I'm still getting stuff done (by the skin of my little librarian teeth) and I'm still alive.

Just to let you know.

And yeah.

I really, really gotta go. (Work on homework, that is. Not. The other thing. You know.)

Something new to love

A few weeks ago, I saw the Sony Bravia ball commercial for the first time. And I realized just today that I really, really love the music they use. It makes the tone of the commercial something beautiful and wondrous, turning bouncy balls into a glorious, almost gentle colorful snow. And also, it's shot amazingly, amazingly well.

But back to the music--I kind of love it. And I listened to it tonight. And for some reason, it made me get this sad, wistful feeling that I sometimes get when I listen to sad, wistful music.

Lovely, lovely stuff, anyway.

Anyway.

Anyway.

I'm not really sad, per se, just...the music sometimes makes me that way. And that's fine, I think.

See it here, if you like:

If you don't like gross things then DON'T READ THIS POST!

Okay. Consider yourself warned.

I want to talk about how blasted amazing and rather awe-inspiring our bodies are, specifically the ability our bodies have to produce mucus.

Yes, mucus.

They sure can crank the stuff out!

I mean, you can blow your nose (emptying it, or so you would suppose) and within (I am not making this up) 60 seconds you can have a good ol' schnoz-full to blow into your already sodden and leaking tissue. (I TOLD you not to read this if you don't like gross things. You only have yourself to blame, you know.)

But I didn't really appreciate until this evening how blasted cool mucus can be. Did you know that mucus lubricates your digestive tract? And that it is antiseptic? And contains immunogoblins? (You can learn all this and more by reading Wikipedia's mucus entry.)

Makes you feel all respectful and stuff, doesn't it?

Yep. Mucus works hard. And our bodies work hard making it.

So really, the fact that I took a good chunk of yet another day off to finish up the second season of The Office doesn't mean I was being lazy, right? I was just giving my body a chance to rest up and keep churning out copious amounts of lovely, viscous, germ-trapping goo.

Go me.

So, while we're on the subject of controversial topics...

Today in library school we talked a lot about intellectual freedom.

Which, basically says that censorship is never a good thing. And also that, as librarians, we should not restrict anyone's access to any information, whatever we happen to feel about that information personally.

I find this topic very interesting, and the discussion in class was wonderfully enlightening and very stimulating.

However.

That is not the topic I'm going to address in this blog post. (Although, I suppose you could argue I've already addressed it.)

The topic I'd like to discuss is much more controversial and much deeper and much more important and stuff. It is this:

Why do I feel I am a woman who can not pull off pink? Or even that I am a woman who does not want to be able to pull off pink? Who would, if she could, pull off pretty much any other color including dark browns and olive greens and rusty reds along with pale blues and teals and bright dandelion yellows, but who is unfortunately unable to do so due to her being an 'autumn' and thus not really looking all that hot in blue-toned stuff. Apparently. (As if she looks hot in 'autumnal' colors, but whatever.)

But seriously--what do I have against pink? I mean, pink is fine.

I sometimes think of it as a bit frou-frou, a little too much a blond feminine cutesy sort of girly girly thing, but then, I'm a female. I'm a girl. Why should I object to girls being, well, especially girlish?

I guess I've never really been into the whole girly thing, even when I was a kid. You see, as children, my siblings and I loved play-acting, and because we had no brothers (then) the four oldest siblings (all girls) would play together and I would usually play the boys. Because they got to do the cool things like rescue people and swing swords and go dashing over hillocks and stuff. (Lucky boys. With their lucky hillocks.)

I rather scorned the girl toys. While I still played with dolls, I preferred the toy monsters our next-door neighbor (a boy) got to play with, or the He-Man action figure said neighbor also posessed, or the cool transformer toys and...the toy my cousin had: some big machine type thing made up of little cat machine type things that all fit together...something. Anyway--that was cool too.

And not pink.

Or. Well, I think maybe one of the cat machine things was pink because it was operated by a female character, but STILL. That's my POINT. Right?

Or maybe it's not. Because if this female character was hooking up in her little pink machine with all the other machines to form one big machine (part of which, necessarily, was pink) then that shows that pink, and thus a pink-loving female, has power, even if it's a power that's part of a larger male-dominated entity.

Yep.

So, the reason why I'm even writing about this is that I have a pink coat. It was left by the gal who lived in my room before I moved in. And it's a very nice coat. It's warm, and it fits pretty much perfectly (which--hey--a FREE coat that fits PERFECTLY is not anything to shake a stick-sword at) and it's pretty much winter here in Boston now, with its icy sidewalks and its skin-slicing winds. Aaaaand...

The coat is pink. It is pink. It is pink it is pink and...wearing it...I just feel like a pink girl. And I've never really been a pink girl. So...

I just need to wrap my mind around it. And appreciate the pinkness. And find joy and power in being pink-coat-wearing-girl.

That's nothing to be ashamed of.

Right?

P.S. I also read banned books. And they rock.

"Oh. Hello," she croaked.

So, I've been sick all day.

In fact, I've been sick for the past several days, two of which I have kind of semi-officially 'taken off,' as in I haven't done much of anything much on these two days, which two days included yesterday and today.

So, I feel kind of ugh, and a little egh, not to mention a titch of blaaaargh.

And also, I can sing really, really low right now.

However, maybe it's just kind of good to sit all day on the couch wrapped up in your favorite throw blanket and catch up on classics like The Philadelphia Story and the first twelve episodes of The Office, which, Hi, how did I go so long without ever watching ever? And also, it is so, so painful to watch that show. And it is so, so hilarious a pain.

Um.

Other than that, I feel heartily ashamed of myself and vow to do better tomorrow.

Uuuuuhhhnnnless I feel sick again. Still. Er. You know.

Okay. I'm fine.

Sorry, all.

I just sometimes have these times when I just get really fed up with me. And then I kind of have to get it out and kind of kick myself in the shins so I will maybe get the picture next time and not be dumb.

Of course, it doesn't ever work that way, but eh.

Um.

So, sorry for being down.

I'm not really a failure.

And also, I'm training to be a librarian! And that's hecka cool! And also I'm reading crazy interesting novels, like The Left Hand of Darkness. And...

Let'sthinkhere...

Uhhhhsss...ez...

Sugar-free ice cream is tasty?

And nice and soothing on a sore-ish throat. (Although I've moved to cough drops instead; less fat, that.)

We're cool. We're cool.

Now if I can just keep from making any more mistakes...

I Fail.

At life, at human relationships, at whathaveyou.

Yep. Yep, I do.

And I'm all frustrated with myself because I Fail.

So, okay. Let me list some of my more recent foibles for you.

Yeah. So, opinions? I should just not have them. And, I think perhaps, one reason why I am so wishy washy with said opinions is that when I finally do have an opinion on something, a good and solid and glorious opinion, which I am so happy to have because normally I am an opinionless blob of nothingness and slobber, I get so excited about this opinion that I go blazing off about it and just kind of blare said opinion to anyone willing to stand still and not hit me over the head with a stick to put me out of my misery long enough to let me get it out.

However. Problematically. Other people have different opinions. In fact, they may have opinions that they cherish muchly and deeply and fully and when I go blaring out my own spectacularly loud opinions I think I sometimes and maybe frequently cause pain.

And that is probably the thing I hate doing most of all.

I think sometimes that if I could agree with everyone I would because then everyone would be happy and no one would be uncomfortable or hurt and there would be flowers and sunshine and chocolate pudding for all.

So, for example, if I read a book recently that I happened to find...not quite my cup of tea...but it came highly recommended from someone and I happened to tell someone else loudly that I had a low opinion of the book, completely forgetting or not even thinking about the presence of the recommender-person nearby, I would feel pretty darn crappy.

Sort of, in fact, like I Fail. Miserably and fully and.

Just.

I hate hurting people.

Stupid. Bad.

BADbadbad. Dumb.

Also, I stink at writing papers.

The End.

I've been thinking.

I've been thinking a lot.

Seriously.

About a whole lot of things.

Things like what it means to be open-minded and whether that's a good thing and trying to discover what other people around me value and what they see as right and wrong and whether their rights and wrongs are things that I should incorporate into my own moral code and I've been shifting and stretching and wondering and trying to find out what's really, really real and True.

TRUTH.

That kind of thing.

And I've been wanting to take all of these things that I've been learning and add them to all of the things that I've always believed and thought so that I have some kind of master list of Truth, something that somehow incorporates both the restored gospel and temple ordinances and also things like seeing each person I encounter as a whole individual and not see them as 'other' if they happen to believe different things than I believe, or do things that I would consider wrong. I guess, I don't even want to see people as 'wrongdoers' or 'non-Mormons.' I don't want to walk around seeing the rest of the world's population as befuddled and ignorant and sinful. I just want to see people, you know? People like me. People who are trying to do things as well as they can and get through this life with as few mistakes as possible and who are working out their own rights and wrongs and making choices and really trying to be good people.

And I also want to see things in a clearly moral sense, to see that things like abortion and sexual immorality are absolutely not good. And yet still be able to look at a person who has had an abortion or who is living with a boyfriend and not just see them as 'the person who has had an abortion and is living with a boyfriend.'

And I'm having a hard time, you know? I'm having a hard time making it all balance and all fit and all come out so that I can see things really clearly.

I guess maybe I just want the best of both worlds: both the comfort (and, dare I say it, the half-suppressed sense of moral superiority) of having a clearly black & white morality, and also the comradeship and acceptance of a shades-of-grey morality.

How do you try to reconcile these things? I'm really curious, because I'm really trying to work this out right now.

I would write more, but I don't have time.

"If men could only know each other, they would neither idolize nor hate." - Elbert Hubbard

Ponder. Discuss.

Generating somethingorothers

So, I'm sitting here in my room and I want to write something for my blog because I haven't been exactly garrulous lately and it's been mainly due to vague feelings of almost-apathy hanging around like some sort of malignant-ish miasma and also not really having much to report, seeing as how I've been spending the majority of my days not working on the major projects that are due at the end of the semester and seriously catching up on my reading and

And.

Stuff.

Also, I buy this whole wheat bread that's really delicious and also it's interesting because it has these kind of broken up grains sprinkled all over the tops of the slices and so after I get finished eating my sandwiches or toast or whatever-something-that-involves-bread the plate has all these white bits of grain all over and if I moisten my finger (by plopping it in my mouth) and then use it to pick up all those bits of grain and them eat them they have a (not surprisingly) grain-type flavor but the texture's kind of interesting and also I think I'm weird.

Also, I like learning about libraries?

And also, I think I'm even stranger after midnight than usual.

The Pearls are more abundant than we know.

I just found one buried in Deuteronomy, of all places:

For the Lord thy God hath blessed thee in all the works of thy hand: he knoweth thy walking through this great wilderness: these forty years the Lord thy God hath been with thee; thou hast lacked nothing.
-Deuteronomy 2:7

I always find it extraordinary the way something will suddenly strike you in an "I really needed to hear that"-edness.

And that somehow, although the children of Israel lacked permanent homes and a relatively dust-free life, yet still, they lacked nothing.

And I think that although I lack things, that really, I lack nothing too.

Expletivatively

I've started using a new expletive.

And it's not what you're thinking.

Um. At least.

I don't really know what you're thinking I'm using, but it's probably not what you are thinking, because what I have been using is kind of unusual.

Unless you're Charlie Brown maybe?

But even good ol' Chuck didn't quite use it the way I do.

I mean, I'll say, "Good Grief!" as part of my lexicon, but I've also (for no good reason that I'm aware of) started saying things like, "Oh, my Grief!" and just plain ol' "Grief!" when I desire to throw something into a sentence that really gets that old expletive feeling out there, or when I desire to express my frustration with, say, the recalcitrance of certain objects like, say, wireless cards in computers that, while you yell at them, just kind of sit there with bland expressions on their anthropomorphic faces, then glance briefly down at the floor, then look up at your face and say, "So sorry; I was listening to something on my iPod. Were you saying something?"

Great Screaming Grief!

But, then, it's really just a tag-word of sorts, the kind I've used before. And I'm sure it'll drop out of fashion eventually. But, in the meantime, I may manage to eke out a couple of odd glances from coworkers, and glean a bit of weirded-out irritation from my roommates.

More because I can't help myself than anything else

Um.

So, I just finished Dragonhaven, which is Robin McKinley's most recently published book. (And yes, it was really good. And also, just different than stuff I've read by her before. And also (again) really good.)

And so in a fit of slavering fandom, I went to her official website where I found a link to her blog. Her BLOG. That she had written in TODAY. And suddenly it was like I realized that I had a roomful of chocolate that A: Would not make me sick to my stomach, B: Would not make me fat and C: Would also possibly improve my mind.

And I just kind of don't want to do anything else for a few hours than sit and read up on her life in rural England and think about how much I admire her work and also that I am Unworthy.

This is what slavering fandom will do to you.

And it will also make you wish you really could sit down for hours perusing your favorite author's blog and just leave those dishes and that institute class and that working till 1am to rot in some little garbage heap in the back of something. Or maybe not to rot, but at least to sit quietly and patiently for you until you're really quite ready for them.

Alas that they do not.

From the trenches

I am in class right now. And I am surreptitiously blogging.

This is not perhaps as daring as it might sound; the professor is currently not in the room, and there are multiple conversations going on around me, so the level of guilt I feel at the moment is nice & low.

Of course, the prof could walk in at any time, which makes the anxiety level highish...

AND, here she is. So, I must be off to learn stuff and otherwise do all this wonderful library science stuff and goo.

Wish me luck!

Because I am lazy...

And because I don't have anything to write about at the moment, (and am also avoiding reading an article about how to map the use of space in public libraries), I think you should read (if you're interested in reading anything I've written in the last 24 hours) about a dream I had last night which I described in (sort of) detail on my dream blog.

It was kind of freaky. And weird. But cool?

If dreams about dying are cool!

Got your attention? Now go read it!

And suddenly I feel smarter.

And also, I just took a test of my blog's reading level:



Yeah. I'm just that super-cool/intelligewonderful.

Here's what you're not seeing right now:

Soooo...

I have pictures.

I actually have several.

I have pictures of the fall and pictures of me and pictures of the star fruit I bought at the grocery store because, by gum, I'd always been curious about them and it was just about TIME I did something random and outside of routine and the fruit itself tasted kind of citrusy and not quite what I was expecting but it was pretty good anyway.

I have pictures of all of that.

But, alas, my camera is at home and my self (and my self's computer) are at school and therefore I cannot, just simply cannot post aforementioned pictures for your viewing pleasure.

But really, really, isn't that what your imagination's for?

Starting to get the message...

Hmmm...

So, I get these random quotes from Quoteland.com that come directly to my email inbox. That is the background for this.

This is the quote I got yesterday evening:

You must realize that it is the ordinary way of God's dealings with us that our ideas do not work out speedily and efficiently as we would like them to. The reason for this is not only the loving wisdom of God, but also the fact that our acts have to fit into a great complex pattern that we cannot possibly understand. I have learned over the years that Providence is always a whole lot wiser than any of us, and that there are always not only good reasons, but the very best reasons for the delays and blocks that often seem to us so frustrating and absurd.

--Thomas Merton, "The Hidden Ground of Love: The Letters of Thomas Merton on Religious Experience and Social Concerns"

Um. I think there's some sort of message I'm supposed to get here. And I'm so glad.

Um, I'm kind of not doing okay.

Except, I am. I mean, I'm fine; I'm not rushing to jump off one of the bridges over the Charles River and I'm not spending all my time in my darkened bedroom listening to crooners on CD. I'm busy; I'm spending lots of time reading articles and writing papers and putting off writing papers while I read novels. I talk to my roommates and smile and do dishes and avoid doing laundry.

In short, I am leading a pretty normal life. But

But.

But.

Underneath it all, my heart hurts.

And it has been hurting for a long, long, long time. And I don't know how to heal it.

And I keep patching things over, and it keeps being okay, and then with startling rapidity it's not again, and then with startling rapidity it is.

But I'm getting the impression that what I'm doing are just quick fixes, that there's this underlying wound that just isn't getting taken care of. It's not festering; it's not infected. But it's tender when I push on it, and it hasn't ever really stopped bleeding.

And really, honestly, I can't think of any solution for it. It's insoluble. It just is. It just.

It's just there. And it's just permanent. And I sometimes feel so bleak and so wounded and so un-okay. And it breaks my equilibrium.

But don't be afraid for me; I also realize that, like many other people, I just have this small (and sometimes not small) nagging hurt that maybe won't ever go away. And it's possible to be happy in spite of that.

I'm so sorry to write all this to you, especially if it makes you unhappy. It's nothing to do with any of you, so never fear. It's just something that I wanted to work out through writing. And somehow, the need to share the insides of me, to say, "Understand me!" to someone helps ease the hurt just a little.

You're my asprin.

So thanks.