First, a song. http://oceaster.com/ (It plays automatically when you open the page)

I'm slightly obsessed with this song lately on an unconscious level. I think my overworked and deluded brain is unappreciative of such truth, while my spirit seems to resound with this message when it's being pumped at high volumes.
I'm continually amazed lately at the division between our flesh and our spirit, and further, that depending on spirit is a source of infinite potential. I never would have thought that four graduate classes, exhausted logic, and a numbed essence would be carried by spirit. Sometimes I think the fallacy is that the mind and body carry the spirit. You know, "don't stop believing," "never give up," "just push through," "keep running or praying." Um, yeah. Who has time to run or pray? -And please, don't fight me on the prayer statement-we don't always have time to pray and that doesn't mean that I'm not spending time with God (just preempting some ruffled feathers). Moving on, my time is accounted for every single second. It's like being a slave to something invisible -I don't know, maybe like drugs, it evokes this helpless feeling because something has your mind and your body bound. I'm keenly aware of time lately, in all of the little things, my mind is so engaged it just reels when there is silence and sleep and downtime. I'm addicted to distraction just for relief.

Patrick told me today that for him, relief comes in quiet, in focusing on trees or taking a bike ride to just look around. (Sigh) Shaking my head I fought laughter and patted him on the arm, "I hope that wasn't an attempt to give me advice..." Those blank moments are the spaces that I run away from and stuff with activity so that I don't have time to think about time that I don't have, time that is accounted for, time, time, time, homework, homework, homework. My mind and I are broken records, and for this reason I conclude that it is our human inevitability to drown in the chaos of our own insanity. Yes, I'd like an explanation of that sentence too because it sounds like an awfully different conclusion than "take time out of your busy schedule to rest and reflect on God" -which I've heard 1 million times. (yes, it's true.)

Inevitable-certain to happen (unavoidable)
Drown- deliberately kill, submerge or flood
Chaos- complete disorder and confusion
Insanity- extreme foolishness or irrationality; madness

Rewritten, the sentence above is such a fitting representation of my life at this moment (that's telling and shameful!)
It is my humanity that makes it certain to happen, unavoidable, that I will deliberately (catch that, purposefully) kill, submerge or flood myself in the complete disorder and confusion of my own extreme foolishness or irrationality. Way to go human nature!

It's unconfirmed but I'm supposing the opposite of this is spiritual rather than human. And, my next question is what does that look like? Does God swoop in and somehow rescue us with order from chaos (Book pun)? Should we choose to live as reclusive devotees to the bible-memorizing every word and avoiding all potential floods of disorder? I think I'm just creating more chaos with my foolish attempt to understand and "right" the human condition. I think this is more accurate (and it is something that I didn't come up with. I let words come to my mind and I wrote them down.)
Synchronic dialogue and ordered processes of discipline and mercy

Yuck. This sentence sounds awful -any type A's out there might think it sounds amazing.
Synchronic- concerned with something as it exists at one point in time
Dialogue- discussion directed toward exploration of a particular subject or resolution
Ordered- relation of things in relation to each other; a state in which everything is correct
Processes- controlled behavior resulting from training to obey a code of behavior; requires mental and physical training
Mercy- compassion or forgiveness shown toward someone within one's power to harm

(chills) If you read those you'll realize that they are like a step-by-step recipe for the spiritual opposite to the human condition above.
I sentence form it isn't as clear as the other one, so you should read the definitions in order, but I'll try to make it into a sentence.

You must concern yourself with something as it exists at one point in time, not the big picture, past or future, but presently look at the circumstance, engage in discussion (probably with God) directed toward exploring that particular subject or resolution, arrange the circumstances of your life considering how they may be interdependent in order to correct, or "right" the hierarchy or a more common word is priority, engage in a series of actions or steps necessary to achieve a particular end- that becomes apparent through discussion with God and aligning priorities, control your behavior, engage in training your mind and body to obey the code of behavior that God has necessitated, then have compassion and forgiveness toward yourself, who you actually have power to harm, and realize that mercy means not giving up, it also means that if God is merciful towards you, what is the chip on your shoulder-perspective.

Again, what may appear to be a type A solution is in actuality one of the greatest adventure challenges 1. to fight yourself; the human that you are 2. to see where this new order takes you-you have no idea who you will become and where you will end up. I can almost guarantee it will not be a cloister or in your living room sipping tea for "an afternoon with God" over crumpets and the daily word. Don't misunderstand, while this is good, "Never again will there be now..." and when the spirit carries the flesh there is no telling where it will take you, definitely somewhere beyond your human potential.

Gypsy Den

Do you know that, that ____ (there isn’t an apt word)____ when you meet someone and you just can’t shut up about how amazing they are?
I met someone a few years ago on a dark night in the back of a Chinese restaurant in the dingy back streets of Hollywood. Most stories that begin this way have a very, very bad ending. I thought this one would too and scowled at Megan, my peppy redheaded friend that takes me on crazy adventures whether I like them or not. She locked her car and we headed in, got our hands stamped, and sat in the dimly lit room staring at the few others whose faces were illuminated by paper lanterns. A few minutes later an acoustic, wild picking and a soul-filled voice re-directed the ending of my story so that I enthusiastically met Trevor Davis with that rare indefinable “it” that made me voracious with nothing but support for his character, musical talent, faith, and authentic approachable charisma of a favorite stuffed animal.
I have a short attention span for music and an even shorter attention span for a specific artist (ipod ADD, scan on the radio, etc.). Megan remained a faithful fan, but not the “from afar creepy stalker”. She has the personality that penetrates every inner circle and has been friends with Trevor and his band for several years. This summer she met Trevor’s fiancé Heidi and attended their wedding. Friday night Heidi texted Megan and the three of us headed to the dark interiors of a gypsy artist’s den. The back corner booth is where I met Heidi, Fiona, a guy with a diamond nose ring, and Trevor (again).
While listening to soulful acoustic, sipping a smooth cappuccino, and trying my first crème Brule I enjoyed some of the most authentic friends –and we had just met! It was by far the most enjoyable, eclectic, creative evening I think I have ever spent --quite possibly as good as a meal in China shared between a French, Canadian, Australian, and American.
Do yourself a favor and meet Trevor. He really does extend himself through melody, tempo, and the far, unknown reaches of pitch. Admittedly he writes songs that he cannot play or sing just to challenge himself. Heidi is there too, although her voice is not audible. It is the spirit of their unity that makes his extension of himself so genuine. She seemed to be his little muse looking adorable, blonde, and ever so much like Gwyneth Paltrow in her role as Emma (my favorite movie).
They have that “it” and I cannot help but extend my support for them and Trevor’s music. Enjoy!
http://www.myspace.com/trevordavis

This is Megan (left) and another friend Emily (right):


Doesn't she look like a trouble maker?

Danger!

Don't mix bleach and ammonia

I casually mentioned to my mom that I was mopping my floor this morning with bleach and ammonia water and she freaked out. This was 3 hours after I was finished, so I was obviously fine, at work, and I hadn't passed out.
I did some research and discovered that this is such a deadly combination that it was used as a weapon in WW2.
The chlorine gas is trying to get an extra molecule and it literally will rip it from your body. The gas tears into your nasal passages, trachea, and lungs by causing massive cellular damage.
I also solved a mystery this morning.
I am a clean freak. I got to China and was absolutely disgusted by the mold and grime so I made what I thought was a super chemical, bleach and ammonia mixed. I cleaned for like two days straight with such concentrated amounts of this mix that I would become light headed and have to lay down or go outside. This was one of the first spells of thinking that I was going to die. I remember not being able to breathe at all, laying on my bed, and feeling like my lungs, throat, and sinuses were on fire and racing. They felt like they were throbbing and at a pace slightly different than my heart beat, so it seemed like my heart was dropping. The rest of the time I continued to use this chemical and fought pneumonia twice, and it took really, until a few months ago before I felt better, but still not even as strong as I was before. Here's proof:

I looked back at something I had written and it said, "How can I explain the weakness, my cough, inability to breathe, throwing up, etc. to a Chinese doctor?" These are all symptoms of inhaling chlorine gas.
Anyway, the moral of the story is that I now know not to do this anymore. I praise God that I have been fine while doing something so dangerous.
Praise God! and don't mix bleach with ammonia.

Hey!
It' seems like it's been such a long time since I've been able to write. My life has certainly been full lately not only with school (though if you were around you would probably think so), but also developing really good friendships, and being part of a church plant that hasn't quite launched yet; it's been a process of faith and seeking truth, challenging the weaknesses in me of discipline and focus, restraint, and developing new passions, ideas, and understandings of God. There is no way to document the journey, though at times I wish I could just so that I could look back, but maybe as I learn these new things will become a part of me, and independently they are meant just as contributions to the greater story of my Life.

I have to get some more reading done by this afternoon, so I'll try to write later this weekend. Before I am finished though I thought I'd give Patrick a little credit for his creativity.

I have about 300 pages of theory to read per day. Books filled with sentences like, "The being that is properly whatever is able to not-be; it is capable of its own impotence," (Giorgio Agamben). This is me at my desk:




Then one day (yesterday) Patrick decided to get me a gift. He came home with a gadget that has kept me eagerly reading and underlining for the past day. Meet my new pen (it lights up!):




Way to go Patrick!

Happiness

I'm glad for a holiday that requires Pink cupcakes





p.s. Thanks for all of your encouragement. God is definitely close to my heart these days.

Happy Valentine's Day!

A letter to my sister about life

Hi.
Yesterday after class I went to my car and sobbed. Not cried, but like gut wrenching sobs. I have not done this since about 5th grade, and my eyes this morning confirm that I was actually really upset.
I'm not really sure how to explain what triggered it... it could be lack of sleep, stress, the fact that I've been reading 200 pages at least every day, etc. etc. but I think if I were to try I could pin point it to two things:
1. My spirit grieving for truth and anguishing over the world
2. Bitter disappointment
It was the feeling that you would just get on a bike and pedal as fast as you can for hours until you feel like your muscles just give out and then you fall over and just cry and pound on the pavement.

I told you my fortune on Monday with the classes. Well, I spent hours reading Tuesday and Wednesday. I made notes, I used my mind to its fullest capacity, I pictured myself like Augustine or Kierkegaard or Joyce, a scholar of truth and humanity searching texts and articles to find meaning for this world and to apply to the broader world of rhetoric. I posted on a discussion forum, and waited...

1:55 I entered my class and took out my notebook where I had recorded my response to "The Oprahfication of Literature" (about Oprah's book club and how it's changing the meaning of literacy). My other assigned reading was about how education has become a part of our consumer culture where students come to be fed and entertained and don't want to confront truth about existence and humanity, and therefore do not engage with the books or readings on a deeper level to extract principals of truth.
I sat down. Two girls cussed up a storm about the F*ing university, about having to pay for an F*ing education, about not being able to qualify for financial aid because she isn't working, but when would she have freaking time to work while going to school, S**!
Her friend told her to sue the university, the faculty, and the financial aid office. To which she replied, "Yeah! I'll sue those *** for all their worth."
I turned to the guy next to me slouched in his chair deep in the world of earbuds and his ipod. On my other side a girl hurriedly skimmed the readings, which she shrugged and said she didn't have time for.
Okay, so I'm the goody two shoes.
My professor walked in, slammed her books down and said that they were going to get paid in IOU's because the school was building a rec center, and that they would be raising our fees again, and that they couldn't get us another classroom because they only cared about money and appearances and blamed the Dean, and the President for being consumeristic and not caring about education. I'll call this the rally, the murmur of promise, the revolution of the people who think that they have been cheated because life is hard, that serpentine idea that winds its way into the innocent. Infecting them to action, of which they have no thought to consequence or reason, simply glittering eyes at the promises. I heard the word sue.
Class began and one after another we shared what we had taken from the reading. The ONLY thing I heard, the ONLY thing, no exaggeration was-I like Oprah vs. Oprah is stupid-and, I hated the book about the professor that wanted his students to think. He seemed so hard and no fun at all. Class is supposed to be fun, and he's the professor.-
When it was my turn I pointed out how literature has changed historically: It originated as strictly a form of education, to a leisure activity for the elite and educated, to now a sort of enlightened self-help that both Oprah and the professor said should transform the reader by enlightening him about himself. I was not being negative. I said that if we're studying methods and theories of reading (the course title) I appreciated learning about the way that literacy has changed. I then commented that Oprah seemed only to choose literature that would evoke a cultural/emotional response, with elements that touched on the sensitive more meaningful areas of life so that readers did experience the modern "Ah-ha" moment as they read.
My teacher blasted me. The students blasted me. She said I was being too hyfaluting and asked me to bring it down to earth. The other students talked about not being changed by literature unless it made them cry or have an emotional response (like the books Oprah chose). I asked about G.K Chesterton or Camus, Brave new World...could these not change us even though they don't make us cry? They argued for Twilight. I was too idealistic. They said true experience with life changing literature was like watching a movie or tv, moving, alive. My only advocate was a 45 year old man. He too was shut down by my teacher as reading too much into her meaning of life changing.
I shut up.
My feminist teacher with a hard life and an ex-husband that would only sit on the couch, drink beer, and cheat on her (according to her) only flicked her eyes past me and continued to affirm the other students who talked about The Notebook, and Jane Austen.
(sigh) And can I get some violins please? I read Proust, Faust, Kierkegaard, Chesterton, etc. in my spare time because I need to in order to engage my mind. It's just the way I am. I always have been that way. I appreciate that not everyone is that way, but I also know that I'm not alone. I'm sure there are thousands of other people out there even more engaged in those types of books than I am. But I guess I was hoping that in a master's program I would find them. Unfortunately, Stephanie Meyer rules, Chesterton drools-as far as literature scholars are concerned.

Anyway, I rushed to class number 2.
Intercepted in the hallway by Josh. He asks me to be his model. Excuse me?! For what? A demonstration in the classroom. Argh! You over-eager nerd, who talks to much and doesn't understand boundaries, why me! I know it's going to make me look like a fool. I've heard what people say about you. I do NOT want to be a part of that. I also do not want people to see Josh interacting with me in the way that he does when it is clear my HUSBAND is in the program as well. No. Everyone else from class looks up as if I'm the meanest person in the world. What would I have to do? (sigh) Stand there? That's harmless. I think.
Once in class (I was ready for this class, we had been assigned 200 pages of pure philosophy about the influence of media on us as humans...my kind of book) we began with a youtube video about Avitars --Computer generated versions of us who exist in an Avitar world. Everyone shared about their Avitars, their virtual homes, bodies, accents, hair, identities, that their Avitars had fallen in love with other Avitars, that online dating and sex through these virtual identities was more real that real life -so real that we should call the virtual world real, and life fake. They said that the entire world was going to go virtual because we're being desensitized to imaginative non-reality and making the non-reality reality as we watch more tv, rely more on technology and the internet, and while the economy is crashing you may not get work as an interior designer in the real world, but you could be an interior designer for Avitar homes and spaces. Some people said that they feel even more authentic and connected to the world virtually than realistically. They have purchased memories of virtual experiences so that every time you experience something you can re-live it because you can pay to store the action as a memory. You can create your own reality. You are the God of your own existence.
I tried to humor them, while not freaking out.
They sounded like Aliens talking. It was creepy. I mean, whatever. I don't believe that Avatar is taking over the world, but I felt like I was in a room of test robots for some crazy virtual project, like they had been brainwashed and were trying to poison me with their message of freak-o delusions.
I tried to ask questions related to the book, like about the philosophy of break points. When will that become so real that that previous existence becomes obsolete...they said that there won't be a break point, in that everyone will have to participate in the virtual world, but if you don't you'll be like the opposite of a revolutionary, like an anti technology extremist outcast.
Hmmm.
Then Josh pulled me up to the stage for his example. He repeated three times in three different 'come hither' tones, "Will you go out with me?"
I was so annoyed I just sat back down without even acknowledging him. Humiliating. Then he explained how body language and tone were the medium, and were actually more convincing than the message (will you go out with me). I checked out.
Well, we had to get into groups to discuss technology as an extension of ourselves and Josh walked up, placed his hand on my knee-I shoved it off and was like "DON'T DO THAT." He knows I'm married, what kind of idiot does that?!
That aside...the conversation spiraled weirder and weirder until I felt like I was suffocating and the world was virtually, no pun intended, going to Hell or on Soma.
I conclude my sad tale as I walk to the bookstore and then my car disheartened. 90% of people are on their cell phones, there are tvs in the line at the bookstore, which everyone is staring at like zombies. And all I heard as I passed conversations were angry people, hissing about something or other.
I think that was the point when I felt the lump.
My ideal of school was shattered. People are just simply unaware of the obvious, blatant ways that they perpetuate a failing society that departs from God and makes it easier for them to put themselves in his position over their lives. Even the "smart" people aren't willing to change, because they don't see the harm in it. Carrying those thoughts makes you feel pretty small, alone, and hopeless.
I just wonder as a Christian what I am supposed to do, who I am supposed to be. On one hand this is all the study of theory, I can put aside my ideas/ideals to listen and understand and explore others for the sake of learning, but sometimes I just can't wrench them away. They are too firm. I also wonder if the light even shines, if I even make a difference for God. And then part of me doesn't want to be the contentious deviant always causing disunity in a classroom, especially as I represent God.
I'm still sad that my classes won't be what I wanted, and sad that the people are slightly whacko.

Just drivin' along part 1 (leaving the house)

Welcome to your tour of Noël's morning drive to work. I wish you could all accompany me in person (no, really!) but try to imagine yourself here.
I have several reasons for writing this post:
1. I hear several empathetic condolences from friends and family about my 1 hour drive to work. Trust me, when you're done reading you will wish you could drive my commute just for fun (and people do!).
2. Because there are days when I just can't stand it! I think it's a waste of time, torturous, and so incredibly boring (I need to remind myself that it's the moments and the little things).
3. To remember
4. I'm obsessive about writing; I love the task, challenge, and assignment of making an hour in the car entertaining, enjoyable, and vivid to the senses as you read.

"8:30am," I groan. Not again! There is never enough time. I steal a glance at a grimy skillet with baked on egg. The warm pilot flames on my ancient stove send bountiful wafts of charred egg and gooey, overcooked spray pam to hover over the stove. Patrick's soggy, crusted bowl of morning oatmeal now 3 hours cold is still on the table with a runaway clump and it's skid mark down the side of the bowl and splooched onto my table. I make a face. Ick!
A glance over my shoulder into the bathroom confirms that the curling iron is still too hot to put into the cabinet, shaving cream globs have evaporated teal scum onto the side of the sink, and dirty underwear are piled in the corner on top of my sweatshirt, sweatpants, and a wet molding towel. I roll my eyes and step over two pairs of yesterday's shoes, my bookbag, and our makeshift brown grocery bag trash can that I just noticed sprung a leak from hot, fresh coffee grounds. Great! "I gotta go." Shaking my head and calling myself every word for failure I flick the light off, grab my pink coffee cup, computer bag, coat, keys, and scarf balancing these as I head for the door now 5 minutes late. Huff. And the stubborn 1920's door won't lock. I jiggle, jab, twist, pull, lift, and shimmy the key in the lock. 5 minutes later it works. 10 minutes too late I've left my front steps.
I like walking to my car because I always feel professional. My heels click twice with each pace, muffled by a hazey, white morning dew that clings to everything. My computer bag zippers clink merrily, the only sound besides my steady clip-clipping, and if I chance to see one of my many neighbors I greet this equally professional individual with a happy smile, and an occasional goodmorning, but that is on the very rare occasion that we (two Californians) chance to look at each other, and if, we dare to maintain eye contact for longer than a millisecond, which invites an exchange of words. We think we do a pretty good job in Long Beach of being neighborly, so I greet them verbally about once a month.
After I cordially acknowledge the neighbors it's time to juggle the contents wrapped around me, strapped around me, held in my hand, and sliding from beneath my arm while not spilling, dropping, spewing, or dampening a thing. Oh, and hope that you parked on Belmont rather than 2nd st. or you will be doing all of this with a 2 second time limit before the next car zips past you, and your open door, and your circus act of professional items with a jeering honk. Yes, hope that you're parked on Belmont st. The car door finally opened (always a miracle or magic act) you can place nicely, or throw things onto the passenger seat depending on the time frame (if you left late or you have less than a second before a car is due in the space where you are standing). In some instances you will even toss yourself in and slam the door just barely in time, then take a moment to compose yourself and remove the bottom flaps of your trench coat from underneath you so that you can move again. Don't try to straighten and drive. You will swerve into too many lanes and still have found that your arms are bound to some ranges of motion. A sleeve is tucked somewhere and your skirt is mysteriously in your wasteband.
Straightened.
Now, should I reverse of move forward? Can I make it if I just go for it? Are there any cars coming? The rear view mirror shows a car parallel parked on my bumper, but the side mirror makes it look like I've got a few feet. When I turn around it confounds me even more because all I can see is a windshield. Who knows how far away it is from the front of their car for goodness sake?! I'm brave. I go forward, the slightest little inch. A car is coming 20 ft. back. I wait. I don't want to hit a car that's going 25 and wouldn't be able to see me in time to slow down. Another car, on the other side of the road. But, what if I pull out and can't swing my wheel back sharp enough. I could collide head on. Better wait. Finally (now 8:45) it's clear. I can't see a single car either in front of or behind me. This is my break. I go. A few inches at fist, a foot, oh! 2 ft. and I'm out, cruising 25 mph past Belmont Heights mansions, California classics. Palm trees rise from manicured grass every 5 feet creating a frame, and they complement the 1920's architecture, 30 year old Camillea bushes, and wild green Parakeets that squack and chitter over a fine breakfast of palm seeds and beads of morning dew. I've gone 10 feet, and it's been 30 seconds.
Do you think you can stick with me for an hour?

I know I posted this picture already...is that against blogging rules? But I thought it was appropriate. It isn't me driving, but funny if it had been. This is looking out of my front window onto Belmont (the good street). The bird can be seen between the palm trees. And the sky is brown because it was the first day the fires were really bad.

I’ll have to post this later tonight, but I’m enjoying a moderate workload today. Only 4 students have come in so far, and I’ve had time to create at least 3 new pages in my book.
The students are working on an essay prompt for the book Julius Cesar about vices and virtues. I realize how ethical English classes can be, and I love discussing the implication of poor ethics with teenagers.
I’m shocked how few of them consider vices and virtues to be applicable, modern terms. They think that humans do not have implicitly negative or positive intentions, but that it comes down to each isolated choice whether or not we will make an ethically correct decision…and there are many, many acceptable justifications for poor ethical choices.
It seems that in modern times the “right” and “wrong” list was as long as Santa’s naughty and nice list. However, I’m observing that it is taboo in our postmodern 2000’s to label something right or wrong. There is always a qualification, an exception, and each assertion demands a clear explanation.
Perhaps we as a society have over-corrected our prejudice and discrimination so that it is now judgmental, intolerant, and discriminatory to label something as “wrong” that might possibly interfere with a person’s right to think or choose for themselves.
As a Christian it is so important to seek God’s truth and declare it in opposition to society’s tolerance, because I know that our God is loving, but he is intolerant of sin. In a way, the trend of tolerance is going to make him seem like the enemy because he established the ethical guidelines that require Christians to be discriminatory.
I will admit that I am having to fight not to fall into this social pressure. On my ballot when I had to vote FOR proposition 22 I had to pause, read, and re-read, then pray because the socially sensitive part of me didn’t want to hurt the individuals that this law would pain or break apart. I wanted to believe in their good intentions and provide them with acceptance and a way to be happy. I was even wondering what Jesus would do…I mean, he hung out with the prostitutes and tax collectors, but he never condoned their actions, and I think that he challenged them to turn from their sin. In the specific instance of gay/lesbian individuals however, I have met some of the kindest, most encouraging individuals and I want to justify their lifestyle with the idea that all men sin, this just happens to be their area, their vice. And sometimes I don’t want to think that they have to change their preference of homosexual attraction because they’re perfectly happy and usually it is a result of a very painful, confusing childhood, and I’m happy that they’re so happy now (even though it seems extremely different, and confused to me). This is an area of submission to the truth. I stand against gay/lesbian orientation simply because “the bible tells me so.” God has set a definitive ruling against this, and so I resist the postmodern justification, questioning, and reasoning, and just believe that truth comes from God and from the bible, and this is true.
It may be easy once reading my example of homosexuality, which is not the focus of this post, to miss what I’m really thinking…that now, more than ever is a time for Christians to know the truth of God and hold it close to our hearts because God doesn’t appear to like compromising his goodness and holiness. But I struggle in a postmodern world not to see God’s laws as contradictory to his love.
What truth do you need to submit to or stand for? Do you agree that God calls us to discriminate? Is it not ironic that God’s truth seems (in the world’s eyes) to oppose love and acceptance in some cases?

Mmmmm. I'm sipping a cappuccino and I've discovered that I love/hate that bitter richness in the back of your throat after you've taken a sip of espresso.
Good morning, it's Monday.
On Mondays I try to organize everything for the week. I clean my house top to bottom so that it is spotless and fresh, I try to plan meals for the week and make a grocery list, I do laundry, bake bread (haha), and spend a lot of time reprimanding myself (for not writing my book). The last point is the one that perplexes me as I'm sitting here with my coffee, at 8:19am. The day is so new, and I know that my potential for progress on my book is almost 100% greater than my actual progress will be and that stirs so much anxiety in my that I feel frozen.
Allow me to explain.
I grew up wanting to be a writer, I believe from the time I was old enough to say "I want to be ____ when I grow up." Of course I tried to write my life story, a fictional account of best friends, the tragedy of a girl who moved from place to place...all before I was 9. And shortly after my 11th birthday gave up this dream, scoffing at my inability to realize that hardly anyone is a published writer.
In high school I regained my enthusiasm for writing as a coping mechanism that came out in the form of letters to God, commentary on the social pressures that young women face, and I would go only so far as to say, "someone SHOULD write a book about these things," but at 14 I had acquired too much insecurity to think I could or would ever be that someone. I continued to look for books at the Christian bookstore to help me through difficult times, confusing circumstances, and provide pure romantic ideals. However, I always left the teen section with a sigh and meandered over to theology where I would pick up a new Tozer devotional, or the accounts of a martyred missionary, the love lorn sacrifices of Elizabeth Elliot, and others. These became my Christian mentors, and let me tell you they did nothing but point to God and consequently I spent evenings after work, before my 4 hours worth of AP homework, reading about the faith of such strong men and women, then journaling letters and prayers to God that were relevant to me and my life as a teenager. In those moments I did not realize that I was collecting notes and commentary for a calling that was stirred 3 years later.
At 19 I was nearly finished with college, home for the summer, and a part of the junior high school youth group at my parent's church. Let's settle one thing (and I will explain my strong conviction)...I HATE youth groups! I found youth groups to be the most effective breeding ground for closed-minded, routine, exclusive, and spiritually dead teens. God is a correct answer to a study question, he's something that we sing about in dimly lit, emotional worship times, he's the reason that we close out the people who raise questions against him, and he is the reason that we completely tackle those who do not believe with a message of salvation and hope. I was asked to resign from the leadership team in high school because I asked if we could discontinue all of the hype and spend time focusing on God, his power, majesty, might, and our submission to Him. They said I was disrupting the unity of the vision for our group. So...at 19 I went along with what they wanted. I followed the questions outlined for our group study times, I ignored the girls lolluping about on the floor, I ignored them doodling hearts and initials in the margins, and I ignored their sighs and whines and whispers about completely unrelated topics. I ignored it until my spirit rebelled and that evening I turned the lights off and told the girls to listen. I told them that during the week they would need to focus on God being there with them, inside of them, loving them, encouraging them, empowering them, asking things of them, and the next week...
I cannot believe how alive these girls were, spilling with stories of a personal, powerful, relevant, holy, God. I think I knew then that I needed to write.
I saw that I would create a young woman whose life would progress ordinarily, and that she would be a model of a young woman, who is attentive to God, who struggles and backslides, and surrenders, and lives whole heartedly to honor God. She would be the girls who read about her, she would be their best friend, she would be their spiritual mentor and the girl that they want to reach out to. I named her Savannah. She's 14 years old, petite, with thick hair the color of pale sunshine, light blue eyes, a sprinkle of freckles, and excessive amounts of joy and introspection that create a most unique dry humor that sends the people around her into bouts of laughter or she perplexes them to fascination. Her father's business and both parent's international background have made her a muli-lingual, international boarding school girl who begins the book as the new kid in Newport Mesa California. It's her first experience with public school, youth group, and...sumer camp. With an accent that turns heads, a sweetness that earns best friends, a sarcasm that keeps the boys guessing, and a mind and heart that seek God fervently, she's one of the most special people you could ever hope to meet. The problem is...I'm currently the only one who knows her, and Patrick, and my mom. I've kept them on the edge of their seats, but as for the rest of the girls out there...she's unknown.
NOW, why does this bother me? Because I KNOW that I need to write this story. I know that it is what I am called to do for the time being. I know that God has gifted me, inspired me, equipped me, and told me to write this book, and the problem is that I don't want to be a published writer. I love to write my stories, but I don't want to HAVE to write them. I want to laugh, create, discover, and do all of this for a hobby, but I have this nagging guilt that that isn't enough. BUT then my head thinks it's extremely proud to think that I could write a book and impose myself on others, and then my spirit counters that it isn't myself, but God who is reflected and inspiring these stories. I tell myself to sit and write but a thousand darts fly at me telling me it isn't good, or it's a waste of time, or it's pride, or ... I've heard it all.
So, it's Monday. I'm blessed to have a part time job. I'm blessed with 2 days a week at home (dare I say to write?). But I cannot bring myself to sit down and write. I try, but I cannot shut off the opposing thoughts inside of me. So, should I really not be doing this, or should I be trying even harder. I cannot discern what it true.
I'll try again today, but I feel defeated before I have even given it a chance.
Anyway, I didn't have a desk for writing. I of course had seen my dream desk at Pottery Barn and told myself that if I could have that desk then surely I would write. Um, this isn't funny.
I saw the exact $3,000 desk and $200 chair on craigslist for $150.00 total. Here it is.





I said that I would need a place that is bright and comfortable to write, here's my livingroom:




I'm out of excuses.
Happy Monday.

Edit to my post below

Video

I think this blog post will confirm how human I am...

We just had an earthquake hit with a 5.8 magnitude. That's large, potentially damaging, but still on the moderate side of the Richter scale.
I have experienced earthquakes before, but this one was strange and possibly because I was in the loft of my apartment which is already on the upper level.
I was at my computer and I suddenly had my computer screen almost topple over and the whole apartment was creaking and I saw the walls shaking, and my body was shaking, and my plates were rattling, something fell from the counter downstairs, etc. Usually the earthquakes last for a few seconds, but this gave me time to think.
What am I supposed to do in an earthquake?
I remembered earthquake drills in school so I quickly put myself into "quick earthquake action mode" and flattened myself to climb down the stairs holding onto the rails very carefully, and I found a doorway that I stood in.
When it passed moments later I was shaking, while also wondering to myself "did that just happen, and if so, what just happened?"
Unlike a tsunami or a volcano eruption or a tornado, with earthquakes there is very little prediction capability. Even though a fault seems to be active it is difficult to predict whether it will just settle down, or continue to shift, or the magnitude that it will move. So, when out of the blue everything starts to rattle and shake, you kind of wonder "what just happened?"
So my cellphone wouldn't work because--my theory is that everyone else wondered 'what just happened' too, and decided to call someone else. Therefore, At&T was completely tied up.
And here's where the human part comes in (well I guess it all has been). I was really shaky and kind of freaked out, and I couldn't dial out to anyone, and it just feels good to tell someone, but because I couldn't, writing is the next best thing... So whoever reads this is my human listener since I can't be comforted by telling anyone directly :)

Thanks

I got a new imac yesterday.
My parents gave it to me as a graduation gift (I didn't get it two years ago because we were leaving for China).
I am so thankful for their generosity. It is something I will never expect or take for granted. I really can't stop thinking about how nice they are (not just because they give me things) but because it is an investment in my dream to write and therefore an extension of their love and support.
And, onto the computer (which came with an ipod touch and a printer) it's amazing!!!
I spent all day writing without hurting my back, burning my legs (from the heat of my old laptop), or straining my eyes.
It has the basic features of a Mac that I love, and has an amazing version of imovie. I used to make movies in high school, and even included one for a History Day project. It will be fun to have a computer with the capacity to make movies again.
I was supposed to be writing today, but during one point I got bored and wanted to experiment with my applications.
Here is a very basic sample of all that this computer can offer. With just a little imagination, and too much free time, you too can do this...

OK - - -> CA

Kristin came to visit and we had so much fun!

We walked up very steep hills, made granola bars twice, went to the beach almost every single day, went looking at surf shops, ate at In-N-Out, went boogie boarding, used up two bottles of spf 50 sun screen, drank a lot of coffee, played Nertz, challenged our muscles, talked about good things, watched a movie, played Smashball, and sang loudly. 10 days wasn't long enough :(

Kristin bought me these flowers, and they even came wrapped in brown paper. I loved them!!!










PLEASE COME BACK

Coldplay Viva la Vida is an excellent CD!
I don't usually like music. Yes, I would much rather sit or drive in silence than with music (usually), but this CD has been playing constantly since Tuesday when I bought it.
I'm not sure what makes it so noteworthy, except that it's different, much different than anything that has come out recently. Every song is unique blending rhythms and vocals, music, guitar and drum solos, and a world theme that incorporates regional sounds.
Anyway, just wanted to let you guys know in case you hadn't heard anything about this CD yet.

Here is the music video for a song called Violet Hill. I think it's the only music video that they have for this CD so far.

I don't write very often on this blog. Not like I used to. I wonder why...oh, that's why (sheepish grin). There was a little more incentive to blog when a certain person was a few thousand miles away and not living with me day in and day out.

Another reason is that I've been writing about someone else on a daily basis. I'm creating another person, well several people actually, and I write about them almost every day. Some people would say I'm writing a book, and I guess they might be correct, but I prefer to think that I am completing a prerequisite for my grad school application--a complete fiction manuscript. I spend several hours daily thinking and writing in another world, transitioning between Seattle, France, and various other locations. I've taken a break though for about a week because I'm stumped with Savannah (my title character). I have a tendency to want to make her flawless and I don't like her anymore, she too cute, too friendly, a perfect blend of tomboy phlegmatic and charismatic sanguine, she's athletic, witty, and a sucker for practical jokes. I've been trying for a week to break her down and flaw her, but everything is just too cliche, too realistic, too normal. She needs to give a reader something to strive for, a desire to emulate, an endearing flaw that makes you inclined to root her on and then in spite of yourself you realize that you have grown with her, that she's no longer to be pitied, but she's someone to look up to. I'm rolling my eyes at myself now because I realize that in the past few months I have become a writer and I probably care way too much, but then at the same time not enough. I'm determined though that I will figure her out this week. Maybe I'll go to the mall and eavesdrop on people I walk by. That's sure to give me some good ideas.

When I'm not writing I'm reading. I read almost as obsessively as I write. It's not that I love books or reading, but these books, their authors are my mentors and my teachers. Someone gawked that I was trying to write without formal training, but I just scrunched my nose at them because who better to learn from than those who are the best, who have lasted for decades and centuries and been newly released or come highly recommended. Reading is like studying and learning and being tutored very, very, attentively.

I still eat and sleep and cook meals and do laundry. In fact, I compulsively clean my house because there is nothing like scrubbing toilets and the strong scent of bleach that brings me back to reality. Sometimes I feel crazy because I've spent hours somewhere else, but all along I've been sitting in my house and suddenly I'll surface and I'll feel so stifled and overwhelmed and consumed in my mind that I just scrub and sniff and fold and stir my way back into reality.
And...the best part of my day is limited (to my intense dismay) to a few measly hours every evening that I get to spend with Patrick. He is still my favorite thing and person and friend and I just don't get to spend enough time with him. It's really quite irritating. Here you think "I'll get married to this person and we'll be together all the time" and then you never get to see them! Wouldn't it be smarter if you like someone this much to become co-workers (because no one will hire a husband and wife team!) Anyway, we do our Patrick and Noël things, which is mostly just talking while we walk or play tennis or play video games or read. I think if people could be a fly on the wall at our house they would be so bored. We talk about a lot of boring things and I'm so happy he enjoys it as much as I do!

So, this is why I don't blog often-- I'm either lost in my own head, reading about someone else's make-believe existence, or spending time with Patrick (and other visitors, and our one set of friends Jon and Erin).

I like pictures, so I'll end with this one. I was sewing something last week and I lost my rabbit, seriously had no idea where it went, but after a few hours I found it here:

Arbie

Meet Arabella, "Arbie." We've been meaning for MONTHS to find a second car and eliminate the 6+ hours per week that I spend driving Patrick to and from work in order to get to my job by 7:30am!
I've considered so many different cars. A Toyota, of course. I'm pretty sure I might now be excommunicated from my family now that I drive a (gasp) Volkswagen! Something with air bags, a roof, fewer than 100,000 miles, and with great gas mileage. But, after a long search I realized that I love old, classic, and vintage so much more than newer practical, safe/boring cars. I prefer to sweat a little, and smell the warm pleather seats, hear the roar of a healthy old engine, and coax my little cars through several more thousand miles--I'm referring to my Mustang and now my VW Cabriolet.
I found this car on Craigslist yesterday morning and decided it was "the one."







1992
$2,300.00
125,000 mi.
6 sp. manual
power windows
New breaks, catalytic converter, shocks, and a new cover still in the box
30 MPG in the city









Nothing but Blue Sky!