(un)vintage thrifting

I know what you must be thinking, it's 10:00 on Thursday, why aren't you studying French? Good question, and I have a great answer. The program that I use for my class keeps making my computer freeze. So, I tried for an hour and now I'm tired of force quitting Safari. The program is known to do that. So, I casually clicked over to some blogs that I read:

Here...

here....

here...

Hmmm, the majority of blogs are filled with pictures of pretty things, vintage clothing styles, dream houses, and cute kids that dress better than I ever did/have/will. Which brings me to wonder why. Why (insert about 105 questions that flood my head at once)?

To indulge a few, for just a moment: Why do I read these? Who are these people that are paid to go to dress parties at Anthropologie, and who wear clothes that would make a spectacle walking down the street anywhere but NYC or LA? Are these children always so cute, and what are they doing while fashionable Mommy blogs about their adorable outfits and perfectly mussed hair?

I don't intend this to be cynicism, but I'm more fascinated that technology has brought trend-setting home, rather than at the bustling headquarters for Elle magazine or on the runway of couture fashion shows.

These women are gifted, I'll admit, and I support the creative sparring that certain fashionable blogs elicit between one another, trends, and a normal, reading public, but if your life isn't captured by a Diana polaroid, or if you go "thrifting" because it's what you can afford and come home with Gap's past-season ankle length, boot cut jeans for $4.00 rather than a flowy, urban-hippy calico dress, reality for you does not align with the reality of these blogs. And then what?

I think "then what" is what has always happened: you take off a layer or two, add a few ruffles to your hemline, flip through your clothes from right to left, and then from left to right hoping that you might have overlooked a useful something, maybe sulk and peruse a few websites like Urban Outfitters, Anthropologie, or Mod Cloth, or for the fortunate few who are content to be passee, career, or stylishly unstylish, you click off and go on your merry way.

I appreciate the feminine hints and flourishes, the draw toward simple, natural, and retro/vintage, but I also realize that it is a trend that is duping a certain female readership, again (these blogs often receive over 1,000 comments per day from around the world).

The flaw is in our short-sightedness to think that what we see, and what we like is real and the best. When we see children in mesmerizingly-imaginative, drapey forts with twinkle lights and a tea party set, we like it! We compare, we covet, and mold that observed reality into our own. But the next blog depicts a child outdoors in a tree or hiking with the family along the Oregon coast, etc. etc. the same for decorating, dressing, playing, working, cooking. The image, the setting, the photoshopped vintage overlay and soft light make the florescent of our office, and the cave-like gloom of our old 90's lamps a pit of reality rather than an opportunity, a whim, and a fortunate setting.

I'm not certain if I have an agenda or not with this post. The blogs don't make me sad, or regretful. But, when I see them, and then I look at my friends, and I look back at them, and I look at my friends, I see striving, I see shopping, I see discontent, I see appropriation. As different as people try to be, they are conformists to non-conformity. It makes them uncomfortable, it makes them insecure, it makes them ashamed, and spend money, and hide. But, one thing that I would love from them, would be them, unstylish or stylish, exercised or not, happily creative or contentedly functional...I just want to know girls who don't mind themselves, and without the pallor of discontent, could come over and have tea, and we could marvel about these blogs, about what some gifted people can do, and then we can brainstorm our own ideas.

Okay, I wasn't intending to go this direction, but maybe I was, as I think about stepping onto a campus of clones and listening to the Freshmen in my class relay their discontents.

Why, I'd like to have a pink Vespa to ride with my vintage party dress too! Who wouldn't?

Image credit (per their request): Top: Roz of clothes, cameras, and coffee (a truly neat blog)

Bottom: source

The Grid

"I kept dreaming of a world I thought I would never see, and then one day... I got in." (insert loud crescendo)

Oy, what a grueling day. (Chuckle) who am I kidding, what a grueling process this thesis has been. I have proof that grueling is not an exaggeration because my body is actually breaking down. My arm is dead: each muscle, from my shoulder, down to my fingers in my right hand. And, at the end of the day my eyes are crossing and I feel dizzy, like motion sickness. The culprit: holding books and then typing, and scrolling through online articles for hours per day. Reading, writing, scanning articles in print and online text formats.

Enough complaining. The point is that the Tron soundtrack has helped immensely in many ways:

1. Dramatic, electronic music is appropriately themed for an emergent theory paper responding to technological innovation dealing with "electric" theory.

2. The speed, the highs, and the lows cue my mind when I have earbuds in, so I find myself racing through certain portions and pausing dramatically at others, and then I laugh when I catch myself doing it.

3. It keeps me from overhearing silly conversations around me at Laguna about the winter formal, online riddles, surfing reports, houses in France, outdoor markets in Spain, etc.

4. I feel somewhat like a rebel because, well, I like Daft Punk (and I did before the movie) instead of streamlined "good girl" or "indie hipster" music.

5. It transports me to an environment that is more conducive to writing

-Oh! Here's a good tangent. I wonder if some people more than others can ignore their environments. In talking with others I find that they have so much patience and flexibility with their environments for creativity, work, and productivity while I find myself retreating to the same imagined place: an isolated meadow, white sky, peaceful, with a blossoming tree, a soft, warm quilt, birds chirping, and a writing desk with a puffy, soft chair. I do the best with what I have since I don't think that place exists, at all, anywhere.

6. I heard the line above from the soundtrack this morning and it fueled my hope to think "and then one day..." I'll finish!!! -not yet, but I'm going downhill. Although, this is the most pathetic hill I've ever been down. The grade is almost zero. Bah. Soon!

Supporting Tidbits

Excerpt from the introduction of chapter 1 of my thesis: Twenty-first century social contexts, language codes, and theory hold digital technology as a central referent. The implication of this for the academy, and specifically for the discourse of composition and rhetoric, is that the theories and practices of print-based literacy are being altered and/or replaced by electric ideas, mediums, practices, theories, and contexts. This shift moves scholarship in many directions as theorists and practitioners attempt to invent and understand the emerging apparatus. In this thesis I will be looking specifically at realities and procedures that traditional literacy denied intelligibility; these are concepts of illogic, irrational, emergent meanings, metaphysical existence, chance occurrence, and the incomprehensible. My concern is to explicate and apply electric theory and practice to demonstrate that in the twenty-first century apparatus of electracy, these realities achieve intelligible existence.

This is important because allusions to these metaphysical realities in literary theory and literature suggest that metaphysical realities have always existed: female/cultural/ethnic identities, faith-based spiritual existence, dream states such as the subconscious or unconscious, and other physical, mental, transcendent realities that were not represented within literary discourse except through striving, allusion, or metaphor. If voices and realities exist, and have always existed, though not intelligibly, then a possibility exists for literary as well as composition theory to recover them from the past, and to inscribe them in future composition.

Daft Punk:

And, my happy place (set up for philosophy night -more on that another time):

"French" cooking with Noël

One benefit of being a graduate student is my schedule. I have to take French on T-TH at 12:00, so I have the morning available. But, lest I trick myself into thinking that available means five hours of free time, I've put myself on a schedule so that from 9-11 I study French. Today my French studies took a slight diversion; I decided to explore French cooking (not really, but it makes me feel better, and hey, the French are known for their culinary expertise! I've seen Sabrina with Audrey Hepburn and Julie and Julia).
I took advantage of the sunshine, birds chirping, and fresh lemons in my refrigerator and made lemon bars.

Courtesy of my iphone "monument"

My search for a recipe was extensive, but short. I have my sources, and my requirements: little butter, little sugar, fewer than 4 eggs, and a thin but flavorful lemon-y filling or custard (I don't know the proper word). Because these are the main ingredients in lemon bars I had to modify, but the base was a simple recipe:

Crust:
6 T. butter
1/4 C powdered sugar (I prefer that name to confectioner's sugar)
1 C flour
(my crust was dry so I added appx. 1/8 C warm water)

Press the shortbread crust into a round pie plate and bake at 350 for 10-12 minutes

Filling:
3 eggs
3/4 C sugar (it called for 1 cup, but I am not a fan of super sweet desserts -you could even cut back a little more)
1/4 C lemon juice (about 3 dry lemons. Dry lemons are grocery store lemons. Fresh from the tree lemons are more ripe and have a lot more juice)
1T. lemon zest
3T. flour
Whisk these until smooth, and pour over the hot crust. Bake for an additional 15 minutes.



**For a healthier, low-fat version you could add tofu, and wheat germ to the crust instead of butter and flour, and wheat grass juice with accai berry, garlic and parsley (for whatever they are good for). JUST KIDDING!!! Please don't.

Voila! That means (wait, let me look it up--seriously) "there are--." That seems incomplete. What if we went around declaring "There Are!"
Instead, I will leave you with: c'est finis! "It is finished." No, too much of a biblical allusion.
"Mange" Eat!
Oh, I give up! "Je donne --" well, that doesn't translate, so I really do give up.
Have a splendid day!

Cai

(I'm feeling especially bloggy today, probably because I am avoiding my thesis.)



My brother has a dog. I like my brother, and I don't like dogs. So, naturally I had to compromise --I had to like my brother a little less, and decide to like the dog a little bit. What does this look like? Michael received one less phone call per month, and I acknowledged the dog, but not so that he knew it --I wouldn't look him in the eye or let him lick, sniff, or come within a foot of me. It worked well in theory until he started to be a pretty cool dog and defy all of my expectations: smelly, shaggy, sniffy, licky, irresponsible with his "duty," and (that is too many -Y's) hyper.
In fact, he slept, never barked, and he ignored me, even when I wanted him to play! Needless to say, he was pretty awesome, and now I even like to pet his nose.
His full name is Caius Maximus (I am sure there is a manly/adventure story behind that), shortened to Cai because he's a hunting dog, and they have to be commanded by a single syllable name (apparently). He eats chew toys in 5 minutes flat, stalks birds, and is an incredible mountain climber. We went hiking a few weeks ago in the snow and Cai was dashing down cliffs and coming back up a few minutes later for over an hour.
My favorite part is that he doesn't do anything unless Michael has given him permission. When the door is open he stands there until Michael says, "Cai relax," he doesn't walk in front of you on his leash, he doesn't chew, jump, or bark, unless Michael says, "Go get it Cai!" And therefore, he is perfect.
I'll try not to think about what my marveling at this degree of control over another living being says about me, uh, yeah. And instead, I'll leave you with some pictures.







Now, I like Michael more, and I like Cai. What a compromise!

A photo/journal (hybrid) reflection

I was scanning through our pictures from the past several months and realized that the iphone camera is almost our only source of pictures from the past two years. Our pictures have dramatically changed from events like Christmas, birthdays, beach trips, etc. that led us to remember our camera for intentionally capturing memories to random snapshots of, well, things that resist categorization: single, isolated moments that will likely never reoccur. Ever.
Here's a random sample of what you might find on Patrick's camera roll:

Nonie's pie crust from a 1950's cookbook, stained, weathered, and apparently used year after year after year after...well, you get the point x about 60.
Patrick would take this picture because he loves to make things, and he's persuaded of value by external factors. The recipe is for a pie crust. Is the crust good? He would say yes, without ever trying it because of the condition and age of the book. An espresso shot that drips for longer than 30 seconds is bad (without being tasted); boots that look like Indiana Jones boots are good (without having been tried on); a green bean seed packet from Home Depot is generic compared to the Blue Lake Stringless Bean from Seed Savers Exchange: Outstanding, long bearing variety with long, green tender rounded pods produced throughout the summer. Sweet, delightful taste makes this a favorite for fresh eating, canning or freezing. Early and prolific. (because one comes from an exclusive seed specialist company and the other is at a chain store). It's these things that make life with Patrick very rich, and passionate, because he's always excited to produce something in its most perfect and ideal form (including the worm bin that he is currently constructing --nevermind, I don't want to talk about it).


What is this? I found it, and was perplexed. The case says whisky. Hmm, well, as I said, It's all in the packaging. If it comes with an official leather case, then whatever is inside must be magical.


Nonie and Papa's chicken coop. Also a project, also an ideal, but I'm glad that he has a photo journal of sorts, to mark his dreams and aspirations for the future. I think this goes in the "farm" category rather than the "living on a boat," "owning a ranch for professors to retreat," "coffee shop," etc.

Mead. Brewing is a trend of sorts for young hipster people. If you aren't familiar with this category, good for you. You're probably better off. If you'd like to be, click here, and here (if you are visually inclined).

Patrick and Michael were inspired less by the trend, and more by an affinity for medievalism, for knights at round tables, and the magical, spiritual Merlin, Robin Hood, King Arthur, and grails of truth and justice --all which were accompanied by mead. I think many imaginative young men (the very best kind) like to roll-play, somewhat. It adds to their Great Adventures. Yes, the capitalization is correct, because I think they view their lives as the fulfillment of the title "(Insert name's) Great Adventure" --of course there are subtitles, but the story arch is more generic and the subplots are themed according to current fascination or occupation.



Noël's camera roll:
There are really two categories: function, and piles of stone (monuments)
Monuments are images that kindle a moment, not a single memory, like "I always want to remember the sweater that I received for my 23rd birthday from great-grandma ethel," but instead enduring moments, like "there are times amidst the hectic craze and frantic deadlines, where peace, creativity, and joy prevailed." These generate hope, and mark moments of peace, which are really important for me to have for back-reference, and with a mind that tends to remember the (what's a less revealing way to say negative), I find this important.

Mousey, Christmas Latte. The mouse is named Huxley. I have a book about him too. Both were just-because gifts from someone who knows me well. My mom knows that little things help me retreat from life to my softer, less driven towards perfection and constant responsibility-self. I wanted to remember her thoughtfulness, and a quiet morning.
Our Christmas tree. Not just a childhood memory, but it evokes the Christmas story re-enactment, and that the love of a small blue blanket can transform an entire outcome.




And, function.
I broke the handle off of the portafilter (it was already cracked); the metal stub was too hot to touch, the handle was necessary to apply the right amount of pressure to engage the groove of the machine, and I wasn't in the mood to go to Starbucks when I had a perfectly functioning machine at home. I wanted to show Patrick, and I think I even suggested that we didn't spend the money to get a new one, when my glove and pliers contraption worked just fine. We did order a new one, that very day.


"Hi Patrick, I'm in my classroom, and I need the projector to work right now. How?"
" What cords do I have? Um, I have two cords with pokey ends. The ends of the blue cord that I got from the technology help desk are the same. The white cord that came with my computer has a bigger end and a smaller end, but I don't know how to make them go into my computer."
"Hang on, I'll send a picture."
"Oh, I'm missing a link."

Pico de gallo

Did you know that a direct Spanish to English translation of pico de gallo is actually "tip of rooster?"
Living in a portion of the state that is particularly branded by Spanish words I often engage realities that I rarely recognize. Examples? I work in Lagoon beach (Laguna Beach), and drive frequently on a street called the peace (la paz); I live near the city of angels (Los Angeles), and my favorite restaurant is in a town named "without mercy" (San Clemente). The restaurant is called Pedro's Tacos --which I'm pretty sure just means tacos made by a guy named Pedro.
Hmmm, spiritual metaphors abound in those translations. I'm trying to analyze them quickly, and the process brings to mind El Camino Real, the road that connected the California missions along the coast. I think that a majority of the names that exist were determined during the period from 1683 to 1834 when Spanish missionaries and priests collated the American Indians into Christian community.

Perhaps they wandered this road in desolation, and as they walked through San Clemente there was a population of mountain lions, or maybe the terrain was rocky and hostile so they began to call it the place without mercy. I frequently name things --"yellow sweatshirt," "Pink Blanket," my right wrist is "Percy," my left wrist is "Percy's cousin" ... maybe they did this. This has always been done. The place that the Romans crucified Jesus (and others) was named Golgatha --the place of the skull.

(insert transition if you'd like. My mind doesn't have neat, organized transitions --just huge, random leaps)

Humans have a tendency to name things, to assign them with some kind of definition or meaning because it helps orient us on the one hand, but it's also a systemization that brings power and enables economy. Systemization creates a sense of those who know and those who don't. Language is used to norm, label, and assign truth.

When we created truth, yes, I meant to type created, it enabled economic, social, and political "knowns" that could be easily accessed, learned, observed, communicated, etc. to help humans understand the order of our world. The creation of truth was so effective at enabling elitism and organizing and maintaining power that truth became associated with a type of supernatural or divine order that operated at a meta level in the consciousness of all human beings.

Science aided the establishment of truth even more directly because men could take pieces of an emperically "known" world and study them to find pattern, fact, meaning, and "truth" about life and existence. Language and rhetoric aligned with this scientific process of truth formation and denied the existence of things that could not be known or proven through scientifically arranged deductive logic. God cannot be proven through deductive logic, so God was not true.

The church at this moment split from the world at the level of academic pursuit, knowledge, language, politics, economy, etc. The relationship between the world and the church slowly dissipated from that time into an "us" against "them" battle. The mentality of division between the church and the systems of the world only pertained to one matter: proving the existence of God. In all other areas, the church seemed completely oblivious to the way that it aligned with the world at the level of truth formation.

I'll return to this in a moment. The world became enamored with the success of truth, okay, the wealthy and privileged in society became enamored with the success of truth because it allowed them to justify their slight of everyone else who wasn't "upstanding, self-sustaining, male, rich, white, educated, etc."

This seeped not slowly, but simultaneously into the church with religious practices, doctrine, morality, dress, behavior, ... .

(another non-transition)

Where was God? He was in pictures, in songs, on people's lips, a justification for people's practices, a justification for people's bias and judgment of others. He was in heaven waiting to welcome all who believed in him --regardless of their life on earth as long as they were baptized in His name. He was risen to extend grace. He was the "reason for the season." And, he was defined, understood, figured out, taken to our weekly gatherings, and prayed at about our problems, concerns, etc. Truth made God known.

What is the problem? When God said that he was called "I AM," when God hid Moses in a rock so that Moses would not die in the midst of God's glory, when God appeared in a burning bush, and when He made a whale swallow Jonah, when he kept Daniel alive in the midst of the Lion's Den... when he lives in a form and presence and being that is completely incomprehensible and unknown to man it is pretty clear that defining truths, even those "about" God are logical fallacies because his actions, his being, his will is not a convention of human political, economic, social governance, but it is crafted of spirit and the wisdom and the knowledge and the holy unknown of God.

Some Christians today have begun to say that they have faith in God, but that he is not "true." He is not X,Y, or Z that the church says he is. The Holy Spirit comes alive in their hearts to reveal God as a moving, living, active, and incomprehensible diety and they study him to see his action, they pursue him to learn his power and revealation, they desire to know him, not for understanding about him, or his relationship to us, but for His sake. Period.

When God is true, they would say, he is an idol. God condemns those who reduce him to a known form. He banished the Israelites from the promised land for this error.

What do you think? Does truth make God an idol?

A letter to you (all of you)

Hi Paul,

I’m sitting in my house feeling quite alone, somewhat uneasy, and very uncertain so my heart is skipping beats. I don’t have a particular cause for my uneasiness except that I keep thinking…about you, about money, about school, about the future, about friends, about many, many, many things. I know that God is telling me to be calm. I know that he is telling me that in this moment of fear, and questioning, and discomfort I am not trusting Him as I should; I have not surrendered all to Him; I have stubbornly kept a very tight grasp on peace of mind, security for this moment and for the future, on my plans, on my goals, my dreams, expectations for myself and others…I am very stubborn after all, and I want to tell God that I trust him with completely everything, but instead of releasing myself to God’s freedom I am keeping myself in bondage to myself.
I often look back at my time in China, through life growing up, at the encounters that I have had with friends, family, co-workers, etc. and I become extremely sick at heart for what God has required of my flesh in this life. I am not the type of person that one would think of as strong. I’m meek, shy, afraid, sickly, impish, frail, timid, insecure, doubtful, anxious, and I have a weak wit. Some of this is characteristic of my personality that is non-confrontational and somewhat prone to being a hermit. But the rest of it is just the glorious, physical, tangible definition of everything that is me. I am characterized by weaknesses. Don’t feel too bad for me because to compensate, God gave me a huge spirit. From the time that my body would fail me in friendships, in athletics, in standing up to Juliet, in going to youth groups, etc. I had to boost myself along in spirit –which basically means that left alone I would be dead or in a mental hospital at this point. Truly. I am a testament to the fact that the Spirit of the Living God indwells human beings supernaturally.
This is why. Every single time that I have had a friend, when I go out to have coffee, when I try to go to the doctor by myself, when I stand in front of a classroom to teach, when I smile and say hi to someone at church, my entire being is affronted, disrespected, accused, attacked, and shrunken –down to the most painful and critical fraction of my identity. This is not an exaggeration. For whatever reason, my flesh has the spiritual gift of being a target. You can ask Mommy in a few weeks if you doubt this –I have outrageous stories. I really should be either terrified sick of contact with human beings, or I should be on America’s Most Wanted list of people to watch out for –if all of the attacks would fuse into a thirst for revenge… I’ve responded many ways, however, sometimes with tears, sometimes with burning angry letters that I later tear up and throw away, I’ve ran away, quit, left, felt fear, allowed pride to manifest as stubbornness, etc. but the first time that I remember turning all of this to God was in 7th grade when I had just been laughed at by seven girls for something about my appearance and character. The sting prompted tears, but I fought them, and walking away, down the hallway, I put my hand at my side, cupped, as if I were holding someone’s hand, and I prayed that Jesus would be my friend, if my only friend, I believed that He was enough. That has been my posture since that time, and as I grow he requires more of me than just faith in Him, but also action to accompany it…to turn back to the girls mocking and persecuting me or the teacher, employer, family member, and graciously give them my respect, my Christian love, and my faithfulness as a friend, an employee, a sister, a daughter, a student, a teacher, etc.
See, life for me, interaction with the world is a complete, overt attack of my identity, value system, and character. I leave the house prepared for disrespect and discourtesy –even if it’s just to meet a friend for coffee or pick up my sister from the airport because the weaknesses in my flesh draw the power of the strong. It never usually fails to happen to me, even when I feel like I’ve done everything to be prepared it stings, it cuts straight to my heart and threatens me with being invaluable, and worthless. Every day by people who I love or respect this is who I am told that I am. And when my flesh would love the satisfaction of some type of revenge or retort or self-defense, or pride, or to flee I have to believe that God is who he says he is, that He has defined value in me, and then I have to put to death anything in my flesh that inhibits me from humility, love, promoting peace, and displaying the Character if Christ. This doesn’t mean that I don’t get to proclaim truth, which often slices through another person’s lies, but I don’t receive any satisfaction from this action in the flesh.
My life looks like this: prepare every morning and all day long with the truth, listen to God and train my ear to hear him amidst the noise, and the lies, and the temptations, and above my flesh. Then, I leave, meet with people who fling their criticism and judgment upon me, I let it burn my value and identity, I further persecute myself to deny the tendencies of my flesh, and I allow God’s spirit to empower me with peace, grace, love, and to renew me. It doesn’t take the pain away very often, or the doubts, the fear, etc. but I know that Christ has the victory because I stand against my flesh to more than conquer.
Why have I told you the pathetic story of my life? Hmm. I don’t really know, except that it is what I think about when you come to mind. I feel like I hurt with you because I too have made the sacrifice to be nothing in my flesh, and have entrusted God’s Spirit to control my life, and that choice requires more than we, in our flesh, and of ourselves have to give Him. He requires us to jump off of the cliff and perform the impossible truth like turning the other cheek, and MORE than conquer trials in our life, to oppose evil, and fight with jawbones.
You have to see the parallel of what you are going through and what God requires of those who are surrendered in the Spirit. God takes everything from you Paul, he takes you identity, he takes your courage, he takes you fortitude, your strength, every good attribute is nothing, is powerless without the Holy Spirit.
The difference between us is that I don’t really think that you are weak of flesh at all. I think your flesh and your spirit are equally strong. You have A LOT of strength of character, a lot of physical strength and endurance, a large support group of friends and family who really like you; you are not a weakling like I am. But, that just means that the surrender of your flesh, the steps to break you down and take your identity will be much more difficult for you. Do you really, truly, count your life as nothing? Are you willing to give God things like your health, your future marriage, your family, your life? Or, are those things still in your little fist, that you have justified by saying “God would want me to preserve those things…?”
I HATE hearing about what you are going through because I see who you are and I know what God requires of me, and it makes me to wince at how you must be feeling about all of it. But, you have to know that thinking about you right now is, I think, my greatest source of joy and has been for a few weeks. Paul, I cannot even fathom what you are going to look like and who you will be because I see who you are and I know that God has given you incredible leadership, masculinity, fierce faith and drive to uphold honor and truth…you are a warrior, a more than conqueror, a man that would hold a jawbone and win many, many battles for God’s kingdom.
Every single day we cease to be fully who we were the day before. Whether you were at home this summer, and at boot camp you would be a different combination of experience, character, and spirit. Don’t be afraid to loose your identity because you would anyway. You can’t go back to being who you were yesterday –it’s not possible, and even though parents, and your own memories will threaten to remind you that you aren’t young anymore, a civilian, my awesome younger brother in the same clothes every day, eating Apple O’s --you have not lost those things, but neither do they define you solely. You are that and so much more, you are that with discipline, humility, courage, strength, brotherhood, leadership, pain, fear, fight, determination, victory, and most of all, you are refined into the likeness of Christ more today than yesterday. Do not fear this transformation –it is good, and right, and part of God’s plan. You faithfully heard God tell you to go, and you followed. He will not forsake you. You were made for this. I can’t tell you how I know, but I do, and I see you as God does, as a beloved son, so so near his heart, and he delights in you, and will never forsake you.
I can’t tell you how often I pray for you, and how much I love you.
I’m fighting and cheering for you.

impossible possibilities

Hours are intimidating because they hold so much potential.


I seem to always feel a reverent fear when I wake up in the mornings and tip toe through the silent house with the realization that I have an empty day. I go first to the living room and peer out of my floor length window while the wood floor creaks and white light settles coolly around me, then I move into the kitchen and see last night's clean dishes on the drying rack, fresh counters, and hear the refrigerator click on. If my stomach doesn't growl on cue I move back to my bedroom and stand at the threshold wishing that I could climb back in bed and pass a few more of the daunting hours, but for some reason I was made to pop up, wide awake with the sun, and to go back to bed would make me feel like I was sick with the flue. So, I linger in the hallway briefly, looking around, racking my brain, trying to shove all that my melancholy personality has plans to do with the day into an orderly schedule, and attempt to ward off the phlegmatic that begs me to laze my way through a morning because I really don't have any "pressing" plans for another month or so when school begins again. I listen to one, and the other, I linger, question, and then agree to appease both by beginning with breakfast and a book --productive and relaxing.


I wish that I had a real job like Patrick. I would even file papers for eight hours much more happily than I would sit staring a whole unscheduled day honestly in the face. WHY?! Something about this fact seems backwards or upside down.
I listened to a friend last week who was frustrated about being 22 and not yet working in her field or at least progressing toward her dream job, and I watch Patrick struggle daily with having a real job as a human resources manager and feeling restless to actually teach medieval English studies that he's going to school for; I meet with the twenty-something adult leaders and pastors in our church and community who graduated and casually pick up jobs here and there as they search for their true calling, the niche to fill the restlessness inside of them, to find God's will for them that is obviously not in an office.
I'm not really going to respond to this by advocating that we suck it up like our parents and grandparents and just go to work to pay the bills, buy a house, and have a family --aka the dreaded "daily grind" to our generation. To advocate this would be to oppose and turn a blind eye to all that I have been studying about a culture that has pushed modernism aside and said I want to make my own truth and reality based on my identity, culture, values, religion, etc. But what I do find frustrating is that in our pursuit of individual relevance we are being "played" by society to conformity --conformity to non-conformity, to individualism, to "self."
I have fancy words to support my point, words like heuretics, and geschlecht, and chora. The problem with fancy words is that they are irrelevant to those who aren't familiar with the philosophies that inform and give them meaning. Instead, the practical reality that they represent is a culture composed of infinite realities and possibilities because the theme of all of these words and philosophies is INVENTION. We invent, create, compose, imagine, facilitate scenarios, realities, and truths based on ourselves --who we are, what we prefer, where we grew up, what we look like, how we associate with others, what we believe, etc.
If you don't believe me ask yourself why it is that you go to the church that you attend rather than the one down the street, or why it is that you haven't just married a girl who is convenient, sweet and a Christian, or how come you are waiting to have children, and why you don't commit to friendships that may take up potential time for something better to come along, etc. etc.
My next surprise is that I don't think that this is a bad thing --entirely. It threatens modern truths for sure: It threatens theology, religion, morality, etc. because it rebells against a universal truth that what is right for one is right for all, that hard work produces a reward, that every person should settle into a job, buy a house, and have children. These things are not possible standards for the individual who invents his reality around himself.

The upside however, well one, the one that I'm thinking about right now, is that it creates infinite space for a God who we already believe is infinite. No longer can we reach him inside of our square religion, theology, and doctrine --exclusively, but we allow him to speak to us through the Holy Sprit --a repressed member of the trinity who was slightly irrelevant to the modern frame that did not need counsel and guidance because we had rules and restrictions.
Instead, the Holy Spirit is free to lead us to do things that were previously unthinkable --like perhaps to begin a community garden in the inner city of Long Beach like my friends Jon and Lydia. Jon had other goals, a college degree, he and his wife want a family, yet they serve the city of Long Beach with the support of our church through a community garden in a poor area. They have faith that God will provide assistance, education (he isn't a farmer or a gardener), money for them to start a family (they aren't supported like missionaries and have side jobs), safety due to where they live and work, etc. This new way of thinking allows us to achieve impossible possibilities.

There is a fine line --I will be the first to scoff (confession: judgmentally) at my generation that has a need to please every desire, to relieve every discomfort, we lack devotion, commitment, fortitude, etc. but, we have an infinite possibility potential that moves us unlike any previous generation. The weaknesses are actually assets as well because they require us to learn fortitude, discipline, discernment, and character rather than depending lazily on the 8-5 clock that modernism provided.
I know that you might have goosebumps at this point --after reading my hippy-like comments, or maybe you feel justified in your aimless 22-30 year old life. Just take a breath. No one is pushing you, not even God. Those hours, whether they whizz by and seem too short, or drag aimlessly and leave you feeling depressed have no power over you. They do not enslave you or send you into an abyss of purposelessness. Instead, they represent a potential for impossible possibilities that God is just waiting to put on your heart. He's waiting to change the world through us, to restore his people to himself, to heal, to love, to renew them to himself --and I stand afraid, timid, shy of this, while others feel bound, constricted, and choked out of this by work. Either way, both images are unsettling to consider --based on what I know of God, and how he is generally surrounded by holiness, peace, joy, and a lot of hard, refining work that gives each day infinite purpose.

According to my earnest expectation and my hope, that in nothing I shall be ashamed, but that with all boldness, as always, so now also Christ shall be magnified in my body, whether it be by life, or by death -Philippians 1:20

The bible is very clear that nice, pretty, clean cut, and easy are not necessarily characteristic of living as a Christian in the world. "In nothing I shall be ashamed" --at work, with friends, can you insert truth into conversations without being ashamed? "Christ shall be magnified in my body" --not me, not my slim hips or my muscles, or my freshly highlighted hair, but how is Christ reflected in my body --and not even those simplistic terms, but the body as a whole, the mind, the heart, in life and in death --boldness to the point of death for the cause of Christ?! This is serious and cannot be ignored or appeased by being friendly, or smiling, or sharing a dollar at lunch as modern Christianity would advocate. NO! God empowers us to do impossible things as we better listen with boldness.

I'm done preaching, and I'm not sorry because I'm tired of getting beat up alone and only getting pathetic sympathy from Christians. Show me your battle scars too!!!!

Marine

Monday, June 28
I just said goodbye to Paul. I had no idea what this would be like. I know that I love him, a lot. He’s one of my favorite people in the whole world; he’s my youngest brother, and one of the most courageous and devout men of God that I know.
I was going to write to him; I was going to talk to him; I thought we would have a heartfelt moment in which I could tell him everything that I felt about him, and encourage him, but as I walked out of my room several hours before the planned encounter he walked past carefully and said, “Um, I have to go now, and I don’t know when I’m going to be back.” I kept walking, awkwardly, and I heard him say goodbye to Juliet –he would see her on the East Coast in a few days –for the next several years they would be closer than any of the rest of us. When he walked in he opened his arms like he usually does. My brothers like to hug me –usually antaginizingly because they know that I hate hugs. His over 6’ frame and open arms usually receive an awkward, side-hug and I pull away, but I actually hugged him, I walked up and hugged him back, tightly, before I turned around and started to shake silently, crying, and afraid to say goodbye. I heard him laugh nervously so I turned around, attempting to stop, and said, “Sorry. It’s going to be okay,” and I turned back toward him, and again moved to hug him, this time lingering and crying at the same time. Far above my head I heard him sniffing too, and then he was also shaking while I mumbled, “I’m so proud of you Paul, I’m going to pray for you. I love what you shared last night; you’re one of the strongest men of God that I know. I looked up at him and he was openly crying. “I love you.” He looked earnestly and repeated that to me. And that was it, we both kind of dried up, and smiled, then he left.
I’m not sure why it hit me like it did, when it did, but I think that on the eve of his leaving I finally discovered, fully, who Paul is when he threw his bible that had the words "jaw bone" written along the spine on the grass in front of a mass of routy junior high schoolers and said, “Your eyes, and your attention were all diverted from me, to the bible just then. That is who I am.” He picked up the bible and held it up high declaring that “I have nothing to say, I have no worth, no value, no significance apart from God in me. Everything that you need to know about me, everything that I am, everything that is important to me is represented in here.” He flipped the pages and re-read, “I count my life as nothing," and he admitted that his life was now one with Christ, was at the mercy of God’s spirit to bring him through trials, and persecution, which he would stand and fight in the example of Paul who counted himself and his life as nothing apart from Christ. He told the boys that as a man of God he is a warrior for Christ, and as such he has said yes to the calling of the Holy Spirit and will embark on a journey with his life that will lead him to places that require faith.
I am so proud of him, so wrought with fear because when a man gives God everything God takes him at his word and changes his life, but I’m equally overwhelmed with awe and amazement anticipating with earnestness who he will be. I look at him and I don’t see just Paul, but I see the warrior identity and all of God’s frightening glory that emits from one so submitted to our King. He isn’t a biological little brother any more, but a man of God, so fully. He is my brother, he is God’s son, and he will honor his Father with every ounce of life in him. This I know, and I believe with fear, and trembling, and an indescribable love.

Received via text from my mom on Thursday, July 1
She told me that he said "Nothing could have prepared me for today."




Friday morning July 2

Hey Paul, nothing could have prepared me either for how much I would think of you and pray for you --it's nearly constant. When I heard that you were unnerved, glassy-eyed, and had lost your head for a while I could only praise God that he is faithful, and that he will raise you up. Mommy told me that the officer called you guys "warriors," "national treasures," "defenders of the truth," and I couldn't help but see the correlation between these titles and those that God gives to us. In this time that you are being broken down --you know that that is the place God also desires to take us so that he can build us back up into warriors, the treasures of His kingdom, and defenders of the truth. God is fulfilling his purpose for you in multiple ways through this training. I love you brother! May the spirit of God be upon you --he will infuse your heart and mind and character with himself.

P.s. You get the better end of this deal. You're probably celebrating 4th of July by jumping out of an airplane or creating more of a spark than any fireworks that I will see, and I have to stay here and be invaded by family --you aren't even here to help me plan tricks. What am I going to do?!!!

Cookies for breakfast are amazing. No matter how hard I try, when there are fresh cookies on the counter I can never --will never, reach for the wheat bran cereal or a pan to make a poached egg, or oatmeal. So, I eat my cookie and have so much energy I just want to do everything all at once. Sometimes after oatmeal, the blob in my stomach just makes me more sleepy --or so I like to think.
This was a cookie morning.

I rarely spend an afternoon inside, and air conditioned. The feeling is always clinical with chilled air blowing from a vent, making the subtle, and muffled churning noise as the unit clicks on and off. It reminds me of summer at my grandparents' houses. Both sets of grandparents have distinct summer cooling rituals, both very different.
Grandma and Grandpa had a swimming pool in their backyard that I could reach from a heavy sliding glass door off of their living room. The patio door was blocked off in the summer with heavy, brocade "drapes" that slid on rolling tracks, and shielded the living area from the afternoon sun.
Coming in from the pool, from the wildly bright outdoors, from splashing, screaming, shouting Marco Polo, and practicing my dives I would dry off, wrap up in my damp towel, and tip toe as fast as I could across the burning pool-decking to stop at the cement step up to the sliding glass door. It would take a thrusting momentum for the heavy door to budge, but when I threw my weight into it, the door gritted open easily on the track, and I stepped in trying ever so quickly to close the door behind me and evade the inevitable call, "You kids close that door!" The task was slightly easier to say than do because once I had the door open I stepped into the drapes that were drawn the entire length of both sliding doors, so I had to sandwich myself in between them and the sun-warmed glass door to push on the door closed and then wrangle myself out through the weighty fabric into the living room. When I stepped into the room it was dark, sometimes so dark that I couldn't see straight and I would slide under the smooth wooden coffee table and lay where it was quiet, and cool, listening to the whirr that calmed me of my summer-y energy.


Nonie and Papa's house was very different. They didn't have a pool, but the outdoor activity consisted instead of picking fruit, taking walks with sticks, climbing trees, pulling weed flowers, jumping on an exercise trampoline or various other outdoor tasks. When the afternoon cool set in they would lower bamboo shades on all of their windows to block the sun. This cast a brownish tinge on the vintage decor: old sepia portraits of stern-looking relatives from the Azors or Italy, yellowed lace tablecloths, home-made dried flower wreaths, a chair from the 1950's, and the classic Cuisinart and tin measuring set that Nonie used to bake breads or can the season's produce. We would come into the house and feel the humid cool from the swamp cooler as we played round after round of Canasta in hushed tones while snacking on ripe, cold fruit, Papa would unbutton his shirt and recline with a stack of old newspapers or reader's digest magazines, sorting, clipping, and every so often remarking about some misfortune to Nonie. Sometimes he shuffled to his "studio" to sift through paintings, books, older than old, dried up art supplies, and he would venture outside every 30 minutes or so with his wide-brimmed hat to move a hose. The tone was equally relaxing and soft, but with a tinge of brown and a hint of dampness.



Long Beach doesn't get very hot in the summer, and my house doesn't have an air conditioner or a swamp cooler, but I wonder what sort of summer cool my home emits. Is it equally as relaxing, perhaps a unique quiet, is it hospitable, a reprieve, a place to recharge from the energy of the sun?
I would say that summer is here. If you need a beach day, please come by and share your favorite summer memories.

I was thinking today about soundtracks.

I have an iphone, but I rarely use the ipod feature. I don't have a reason why; I just don't listen to music very often.
This morning I stepped out of my car 3 miles from the dance department where I have my ballet class. Yes, this three mile trek uphill both ways is a part of my routine twice a week at 8:00am. I usually entertain myself with people walking dogs, avoiding cracks in the sidewalk (I was impressionable in elementary school -still protecting my mother's back), trying to avoid flying golf balls from the amateur golf course that I pass (you'd be surprised how often they DO fly by me), I try to think about homework, or pray, etc. Today I used my ipod. Novel idea. I usually avoid the ipod because as I walk across campus I think I'm more in the minority without white wires coming from my ears, but today I joined them with the Pandora station Sean Hayes (thanks Megan!).
I really wanted to laugh out loud while I engaged "Métro, boulot, dodo" (The French equivalent for the expression of a daily routine). I felt like I was in my own little montage. The 50-something ladies with their walking suits and speed walk became humorous cliches, and the poodle that kept dashing from his owner to sniff this and that, bouncing among the greenery sniffing out a squirrel became endearing (I also couldn't hear him yapping today). I smiled. At the bottom of the hill I didn't sigh, but smiled and looked beyond the endless ascent of concrete to the blue sky, and I saw birds, puffy clouds, and sun. Smile. The people passing by became figures in my narrative. I should wave or smile, like I knew them, make eye contact, and intentionally say good morning. I ran down the amphitheater steps taking in the picturesque landscape of my university. What a monument in my life to be savored and appreciated --I go to this distinguished academy. Deep breath. Smile. And, passing the soccer fields I watched the boys team play, then noticed sprinklers in the adjacent field. The alignment of the water from multiple sprinkler heads created a misting rainbow that glinted off of the sun. Of course. And the Eucalyptus trees that create a canopy over the walking path were sprinkling hot pink flowery seed pods all over. Through the air, and across the ground. I arrived at ballet aware of my life in an objective manner, as if it were set to music and experienced in a cinematic montage. It really isn't so bad.
When I walked out of ballet the sky was grey and the wind had whipped my sunny morning away. Sad. I listened to Fernando Ortega piano and worshiped God while observing the grayness of the sky and the power of the wind.
While I trudged back down the path some hours later I tried to get Pandora to work, but the internet connection was poor. I heard the cars, I felt the aches in my feet, and the gnawing hunger in my stomach. I wanted the music to return. Something to drown out just the peripheral blunt edges of the setting, but it didn't work. So I avoided the cracks in the sidewalk for the remaining mile.

I was very distempered all day because I would have liked to have a holiday, but I didn't. So, in honor of my bad mood I've decided to write a blog post about things that I would like to be doing OTHER than homework.

1. I wish that I were wearing this dress.
**never finished

I am excessively happy today.
I'm not sure why, but I woke up happy, and then I didn't take a shower, and I wore the same shirt and same pants that I wore yesterday with a different sweater (note: I don't stink and only wore the clothes for a few hours yesterday). Something about not having to deal with a blast of cold water, and then forcing myself to turn off the warm water, and choosing a new outfit, ironing it, drying my hair, etc. allowed me instead to listen to the birds outside and smile in the mirror as I formed my day old hair into a curly pony tail. It was wonderful!
I'm also wearing my coconut lotion that reminds me of summer and beaches and sunshine.

When I think of bakery ladies at a donut or pastry shop I think of someone who is excessively happy to be delivering sweets to her customers. She smiles brightly and offers the greeting "Good morning, may I help you..." and before you leave "Have a very good day!!" (beaming smile). I think they must know that they are sending their customers off to a new day and they can spread a little bit of sunshine with their attitude.
I kind of felt like a donut lady this morning only my "goods" were essays and resumes rather than sugary delights. Somewhat different, but the kids who came in were "those" kids. The "cool" kids. Regular English, too cool for school, too beautiful for their own good, but I thought even they need some joy in their lives and I think they were laughing and smiling, all of them, on their way out. Who knew essay writing could be so fun? (raising my hand)

I think it's God. He hasn't blessed me overtly or answered a prayer, he's just there and my spirit knows it. I've been purposefully remembering him...JOY!!! OK, sorry to interrupt this post, but I knew I would get my answer. JOY JOY JOY. Twilight lacks JOY and hope and peace, those emotions that beam outward and transform the heart and the world for the better. Sure it's an enticing plot with adventure, and quirky intimate love, but it doesn't change your life! Hmmm. God doesn't appease, he simply imparts his character which is the source of more than emotional highs but an eternal fulfillment. Sweet! There is my answer.

Anyway, that was a random discovery that came mid-thought.

Summer is underway, work is over in two weeks!

I'm going to teach college next semester!!!!
Course: Composition 100
Instructor: Mrs. Noël Vincent

I'm so excited! I just found out.

(Yawn)
I wish I could do something more productive than yawn lately. Like write research papers

I haven't been blogging lately because I have to keep a technical blog for my class on the topic of digital literacy/media. It's really fun, but hard to write personal "just for fun" posts anymore. I'm currently researching the future of digital publishing, looking at formats, etc. I thought I'd share a few of the links that I found interesting.

http://www.futureofthebook.org/mckenziewark/
http://www.futureofthebook.org/HASTAC/learningreport/about/
http://www.futureofthebook.org/mitchellstephens/holyofholies/
http://www.futureofthebook.org/mitchellstephens/
http://futureofthebook.org.uk/blake/book.html

In my research I came across this, and I hesitated to post in because I really, really don't like bad language. I feel like it's just not necessary when there are plenty of other acceptable verbs and adjectives that could be used. I don't have a justification for why I'm posting it anyway, I just am. It's a review of Twilight using pictures to analyze the plot, pointing out --from a Mormon's perspective, all of the symbolism. It's a really good example of electracy. If you are interested in electracy, watch the video below. It isn't boring! But it is close to 10 minutes.
http://stoney321.livejournal.com/317176.html

Patrick has obviously never heard a newborn baby cry. He keeps referring to it as the "alien baby" upstairs. Unfortunately we hear this alien quite often.
Also, does it mean that you have a long vacuum cord, or a small house if you can vacuum the entire space from one centrally located plug?
p.s. Don't do a google image search for alien baby. Weird, weird things come up.

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.