HERE I AM! . . .
Today, I am thirty years old.
Today, my life begins.
Today, I stop being a twenty-something idealist, trying to learn how to make her way through a less than ideal world.
Today, I start being a thirty-something idealist, making her way through a less than ideal world.
Today, I stop being that cute young thing with big dreams and lofty goals.
Today, I start being that serious beautiful woman who fulfills big dreams and achieves lofty goals.
Today, I stop being viewed as a child, treated like a novice, ignored by "the adults."
Today, I start being taken seriously, given professional credence, heard by my peers.
Today, I step out with confidence I didn't have even twenty-four hours ago.
Today, I commit myself with renewed vigor to my passions, the things that speak to my heart.
Today, I examine my friendships and relationships and resolve to be better, more loving, more careful, more caring, more attentive, more giving, more taking.
Today, I begin to demand respect and attention ... and start to behave in ways that merit both.
Today, I leave behind my childhood, my training, my apron strings.
Today, I head out into womanhood, competence, independence, a life of faith.
Today, my life begins.
Hooray for today!
Friday, October 28
UNCOMFORTABLE SILENCE? . . .
The girls came over last night for a potluck dinner -- omigosh, remind me to tell you about the skirt steak I ventured to make that turned out much better than expected and so now I feel confident about making beef-products for public consumption -- and I started to tell them a story. The story was a good story, a great story, a meaningful story ... but it wasn't mine. It didn't even belong to someone I know or talk to. The story belonged to someone I have never met in my life, someone whose real name I don't even know, someone whose face I can't conjure up in my memory bank of faces. The story belonged to another blogger ... and there I was, saying, "Yeah, this woman had to make this decision and blah blah blah blah, it was really hard for her."
And the girls nodded in complete understanding.
These are fascinating times we live in; I know this fully, and not a day goes by that I don't think this and recognize it and taste its meaning in my gut. As much as I long for a glimpse of "Little House on the Prairie" or "Pride and Prejudice" (because I look good in empire-waist dresses), I love that I'm alive now. But these times are also weird, very very weird.
I spend a portion of my day -- every day -- reading the words, the thoughts, the lives of people I don't know. I have them linked right here on my sideboard! Some of them have recognizable first names; others have aliases. Some of them are here on the East Coast (I think); others halfway around the world. Some of them live lives I can't relate to at all, except through the power of their writing; others I think I could really relate to ... if only I knew them.
And the best part: I discover that sometimes, they read me too.
Why is this a best part? I don't know. I'm not so egotistical that I need someone to hear my words all the time. I've said time and time again that I blog for no one, that this is merely an outlet for things I choose to share and that you might choose to enjoy or not, depending on your mood. But ... is it silly to say that I feel like these people are my friends? And I like having my friends around me.
The other night, I dreamt -- really, I did -- that all these Randy Randoms came over to my house for dinner. Interesting dream, for half the guests had no faces. But they had voices -- such interesting, rich, full voices. The dinner was bustling, the table buckling under the weight of the generosity of other people's kitchens. The conversation was awkward and high-schoolish at first: "Where did you grow up?" "How old is your child?" "So what exactly do you do?" But then it became hilarious, insightful, deep, fulfilling. We hugged each other goodnight at the end of the evening.
I woke up and thought, "my LORD, what would happen if this came true? If Les Bon Temps and Dooce and Sandra in Korea and Chanadaler Bong and The Unlimited Mood and MetroDad and Caffeine Guy came to my house and I made them this amazing cilantro skirt steak and we had to sit around and actually talk to each other?"
Imagine?!
***
UPDATE . . .
So now I know that I don't have to wear sneakers to brunch, and that Mabel is going to be wearing dress boots and she says I can wear dress boots too but then Sunny tells me that there might be a slim chance that I will injure myself if I do.
What the heck kind of brunch is this?!
***
ABOVE THE LAW . . .
Sometimes, I think I am. I don't pay parking meters. Sometimes I don't pay parking tickets. Okay, that's not true. I've only ever not paid three parking tickets and that's just because the FBI agent I was working with promised he would get the agency to pay them for me since I was technically "on the job" with him. I don't like to pay speeding tickets either, and I've only received one, and man, that was a blow to my pride.
Apparently, now, I also don't get my car inspected. It's not that I don't want to. It's just that I haven't had time to. When I'm free, the garage isn't. When the garage wants me to come in, I'm not around. What's a girl to do?
The thing about being above the law, though, is that one always lives in a state of ... fear? Adventure? Thrill? Nervousness? Even a quick drive to the local grocery store becomes a cat-and-mouse chase, inside my head anyway. Will they or won't they get me? Will they or won't they notice the date on my inspection sticker? "10-12-05." It screams like a beacon in the night.
After dropping Omma off in the city this morning, I turned the corner to get back onto the West Side Highway, and just as I made the turn, I remembered: at the end of every month, scads of patrol cars sit at this highway entrance and gaze upon the seatbelt and inspection status of every car that passes. And lo, whaddaya know. They were there again this morning. Two patrol cars, four officers, all armed with humongous Mag-Lites, even at 10:00 in the morning. I saw my traffic record flash before my eyes.
But the gods of New York Vehicle and Traffic Law were in cahoots with me this morning, for only one officer was active; the other three were leaning against their cars, Mag-Lites in one hand, cigarettes in the other. Man, that made me want a cigarette real bad. And so it was that I put on my innocent face, willed them not to glance at my inspection sticker, and humbly rolled by them at an appropriately slow pace.
I didn't breathe until I left the city limits.
I really, really need to get my car inspected. This life of crime just is not for me.
The girls came over last night for a potluck dinner -- omigosh, remind me to tell you about the skirt steak I ventured to make that turned out much better than expected and so now I feel confident about making beef-products for public consumption -- and I started to tell them a story. The story was a good story, a great story, a meaningful story ... but it wasn't mine. It didn't even belong to someone I know or talk to. The story belonged to someone I have never met in my life, someone whose real name I don't even know, someone whose face I can't conjure up in my memory bank of faces. The story belonged to another blogger ... and there I was, saying, "Yeah, this woman had to make this decision and blah blah blah blah, it was really hard for her."
And the girls nodded in complete understanding.
These are fascinating times we live in; I know this fully, and not a day goes by that I don't think this and recognize it and taste its meaning in my gut. As much as I long for a glimpse of "Little House on the Prairie" or "Pride and Prejudice" (because I look good in empire-waist dresses), I love that I'm alive now. But these times are also weird, very very weird.
I spend a portion of my day -- every day -- reading the words, the thoughts, the lives of people I don't know. I have them linked right here on my sideboard! Some of them have recognizable first names; others have aliases. Some of them are here on the East Coast (I think); others halfway around the world. Some of them live lives I can't relate to at all, except through the power of their writing; others I think I could really relate to ... if only I knew them.
And the best part: I discover that sometimes, they read me too.
Why is this a best part? I don't know. I'm not so egotistical that I need someone to hear my words all the time. I've said time and time again that I blog for no one, that this is merely an outlet for things I choose to share and that you might choose to enjoy or not, depending on your mood. But ... is it silly to say that I feel like these people are my friends? And I like having my friends around me.
The other night, I dreamt -- really, I did -- that all these Randy Randoms came over to my house for dinner. Interesting dream, for half the guests had no faces. But they had voices -- such interesting, rich, full voices. The dinner was bustling, the table buckling under the weight of the generosity of other people's kitchens. The conversation was awkward and high-schoolish at first: "Where did you grow up?" "How old is your child?" "So what exactly do you do?" But then it became hilarious, insightful, deep, fulfilling. We hugged each other goodnight at the end of the evening.
I woke up and thought, "my LORD, what would happen if this came true? If Les Bon Temps and Dooce and Sandra in Korea and Chanadaler Bong and The Unlimited Mood and MetroDad and Caffeine Guy came to my house and I made them this amazing cilantro skirt steak and we had to sit around and actually talk to each other?"
Imagine?!
***
UPDATE . . .
So now I know that I don't have to wear sneakers to brunch, and that Mabel is going to be wearing dress boots and she says I can wear dress boots too but then Sunny tells me that there might be a slim chance that I will injure myself if I do.
What the heck kind of brunch is this?!
***
ABOVE THE LAW . . .
Sometimes, I think I am. I don't pay parking meters. Sometimes I don't pay parking tickets. Okay, that's not true. I've only ever not paid three parking tickets and that's just because the FBI agent I was working with promised he would get the agency to pay them for me since I was technically "on the job" with him. I don't like to pay speeding tickets either, and I've only received one, and man, that was a blow to my pride.
Apparently, now, I also don't get my car inspected. It's not that I don't want to. It's just that I haven't had time to. When I'm free, the garage isn't. When the garage wants me to come in, I'm not around. What's a girl to do?
The thing about being above the law, though, is that one always lives in a state of ... fear? Adventure? Thrill? Nervousness? Even a quick drive to the local grocery store becomes a cat-and-mouse chase, inside my head anyway. Will they or won't they get me? Will they or won't they notice the date on my inspection sticker? "10-12-05." It screams like a beacon in the night.
After dropping Omma off in the city this morning, I turned the corner to get back onto the West Side Highway, and just as I made the turn, I remembered: at the end of every month, scads of patrol cars sit at this highway entrance and gaze upon the seatbelt and inspection status of every car that passes. And lo, whaddaya know. They were there again this morning. Two patrol cars, four officers, all armed with humongous Mag-Lites, even at 10:00 in the morning. I saw my traffic record flash before my eyes.
But the gods of New York Vehicle and Traffic Law were in cahoots with me this morning, for only one officer was active; the other three were leaning against their cars, Mag-Lites in one hand, cigarettes in the other. Man, that made me want a cigarette real bad. And so it was that I put on my innocent face, willed them not to glance at my inspection sticker, and humbly rolled by them at an appropriately slow pace.
I didn't breathe until I left the city limits.
I really, really need to get my car inspected. This life of crime just is not for me.
Thursday, October 27
SO SUSPICIOUS . . .
What else is a girl to be when your friends say they're going to take you out to brunch for your birthday, make a point of making sure that you will be picked up instead of allowing you to drive yourself, command you to wear sneakers to brunch, then when you ask "and what if I don't wear sneakers?" reply, "well then ... you're on your own"?
So suspicious.
What else is a girl to be when your friends say they're going to take you out to brunch for your birthday, make a point of making sure that you will be picked up instead of allowing you to drive yourself, command you to wear sneakers to brunch, then when you ask "and what if I don't wear sneakers?" reply, "well then ... you're on your own"?
So suspicious.
I'M IN LOVE . . .
I never thought I would be this nerd. I never thought I would think, "Oh, something better is out ... should I buy it?" I never thought I would ogle something so horribly through a store window. I never thought I would then enter said store to obscenely fondle an inanimate object. I never thought.
But then. I never had seen the new video iPod before.
***
SLAM . . .
So.
Harriet Miers has to withdraw because she just failed to get important senatorial support for her SCOTUS nomination.
Ouch. That had to smart.
(My deep breath of relief just blew my walls down.)
I never thought I would be this nerd. I never thought I would think, "Oh, something better is out ... should I buy it?" I never thought I would ogle something so horribly through a store window. I never thought I would then enter said store to obscenely fondle an inanimate object. I never thought.
But then. I never had seen the new video iPod before.
***
SLAM . . .
So.
Harriet Miers has to withdraw because she just failed to get important senatorial support for her SCOTUS nomination.
Ouch. That had to smart.
(My deep breath of relief just blew my walls down.)
Sunday, October 23
WHAT'S YOUR DREAM? . . .
The Unlimited Mood dares to ask the question to beat all questions: what is your dream? Never mind all the ensuing questions: are you living it? Why not? What's preventing you? Oh, it makes my head spin ...
What is my dream? Being blissfully unemployed for the last six weeks, that's all I've been thinking about. Not that I've been some sort of robot for the last four years -- and so what if I've been? I've been the happiest robot lawyer ever to have existed in history! -- but when I was working and 'being a productive member of society', I didn't really take the time to stop and think about my dreams. The visions I had for myself when I was in high school, college, graduating college, entering law school. The things that stirred my soul, moved my heart, got my blood pressure rising and my skin flush. The ideals I held (and maybe still hold?) onto. The work that would mitigate any low salary or lack thereof. What are my dreams?
I equate my dreams with the things about which I am passionate. And maybe that's my problem: I'm passionate about too many things. Partly, this is due to my character and personality. I don't like to think I'm a bandwagonner, but I recognize that I spread myself thin emotionally. How can I not? How can I face the things that I must face in this world -- poverty, racism, sexism, classism, tragedy, injustice, atheism, ignorance, miseducation, unfairness, illness -- and not be passionate about eradicating, healing, changing, curing all of these things? And most of all, professing the faith I profess, how can I stand idly by and not be passionate about bringing Christ to this world in all His glory? That is what I was made for. So what are my dreams?
So many ... I dream about taking my law degree and running with the wind with it, pouring justice in heaps wherever I go. Becoming a top-notch federal prosecutor, never losing a trial but only getting guilty verdicts in cases where the defendants really are guilty. Making the streets of New York City safe for all New Yorkers. Ushering in a new era of freedom and security for my fellow citizens, and teaching rising prosecutors how to be fair, just, polite, compassionate, hopeful, professional, caring. Shunning awards and plaques, working only for the public good. Or maybe going completely non-profit and going back to my roots: galvanizing the Korean-American community into action, for goodness' sake! Let us here on the East Coast not be limited to partying and event-planning. Let us be heard in our votes, in our contributions to the economic and political landscape, in our joining with other ethnic-American groups to further the interests of our community instead of just ourselves, in encouraging subsequent generations to put down roots and follow their dreams.
I dream about joining InterVarsity staff on the campus of Columbia University. Living and breathing and walking and learning among some of the brightest young people in the world. Soaking in the lifeblood of a vibrant urban campus teeming with hearts open to academic learning and spiritual growth. Answering seeking questions, leading students to Christ, putting in them a passion not only to become fantastic members of society, but also compassionate members of the universal church. Praying God's power and peace over a campus that cries out for Him, all day and all night. Cooking for students who don't have time or money to feed themselves; going on retreat to wide country locales, only to come back to the comforting hum of Manhattan; sitting in a local cafe preparing my talk for the week's meeting and thinking, "I love it here. I love these students. I love this campus. I love this city. And all my love pales in comparison to the love that He has for all of these things, all of these people," and being completely overwhelmed by this thought. Taking all that potential -- so much potential and they don't even know it, it breaks my heart! -- and channeling it towards good.
I dream about going back to school, to medical school (oh, I can hear my parents' protests already!) and emerging a pediatric oncologist. Working alongside Cheech, the pediatric surgeon, brother and sister tandemly striving day in and day out to save the lives of the most precious and helpless. Perhaps going full-time in a small town, a local clinic, someplace where folks don't always have the resources to afford people like Cheech and myself, but we'd get some fat government grant, no? Traveling the world for months out of every year to under-developed countries, because we know children's suffering is not limited to the United States. Maybe dragging some New Hopers with me, because every place needs even a temporary infusion of teachers, developers, lawyers, doctors, engineers, artists who love God and love His Creation.
I dream about writing a book, two books, lots of books. Nothing spectacular. In fact, I suppose this is a selfish dream, for it helps no one, contributes nothing to society. But I dream it anyway. Telling stories of my incredible parents, my delectable childhood, my bizarre upbringing, my crazy family. Relating anecdotes of my hilarious, intelligent, passionate, lovable friends. Giving the inside scoop of a judge's chambers ... or maybe just the coworker who made the judge's chambers even worth writing about. Drawing for you a picture of a perfectly rainy day, a radiantly sunny day, or just the day that made all other days pale in comparison. A love story, a tragedy, a travelogue, a diary of interesting meals I cooked, or the time I ate nothing but bagels and baby carrots for a couple of months during college.
I dream about getting married and having babies and being ... well, being everything. As passionate as I am about working and doing all the things I dream of above, I am equally as passionate about devoting myself to caring for my husband and raising my children and caring for my home and my church and my family and friends. If this means I don't work outside the home, then so be it. It's a gorgeous day out and I want to pack up my family and take them to the park? We're there! Someone at church is sick and needs me to come over and make dinner for her family? I'm there! My husband needs me to help him in his work and it would make his life easier if I did so? I'm all over it! There's a volunteer opportunity to spend a couple of hours a week at the local hospital reading to sick children? Sign me up! My parents have retired and want me to spend a day golfing and hanging with them? I'm so ready! My husband has a month off and wants to take the kids to travel the world? Who am I to say no?
These are big dreams ... and it's all the follow-up questions that prevent me from living them. How do I condense my life to live as a Christian campus staff worker, or to go back to school, or to take a job that would downgrade my former salary by almost 50%? How can I be sure that at the impending age of thirty, I'll have the stamina to do any of this (much less have the stable of babies I'm hoping for)? How long must I keep applying and applying and applying for that amazing job that I keep getting turned away from? How do I trust God that if I lift my foot and lean forward and let the momentum carry me, that He will catch me and place me exactly where I'm supposed to be?
There are those who will say, "just do it." Oh believe me, I want to. I sooooo want to. So ... maybe I will.
The Unlimited Mood dares to ask the question to beat all questions: what is your dream? Never mind all the ensuing questions: are you living it? Why not? What's preventing you? Oh, it makes my head spin ...
What is my dream? Being blissfully unemployed for the last six weeks, that's all I've been thinking about. Not that I've been some sort of robot for the last four years -- and so what if I've been? I've been the happiest robot lawyer ever to have existed in history! -- but when I was working and 'being a productive member of society', I didn't really take the time to stop and think about my dreams. The visions I had for myself when I was in high school, college, graduating college, entering law school. The things that stirred my soul, moved my heart, got my blood pressure rising and my skin flush. The ideals I held (and maybe still hold?) onto. The work that would mitigate any low salary or lack thereof. What are my dreams?
I equate my dreams with the things about which I am passionate. And maybe that's my problem: I'm passionate about too many things. Partly, this is due to my character and personality. I don't like to think I'm a bandwagonner, but I recognize that I spread myself thin emotionally. How can I not? How can I face the things that I must face in this world -- poverty, racism, sexism, classism, tragedy, injustice, atheism, ignorance, miseducation, unfairness, illness -- and not be passionate about eradicating, healing, changing, curing all of these things? And most of all, professing the faith I profess, how can I stand idly by and not be passionate about bringing Christ to this world in all His glory? That is what I was made for. So what are my dreams?
So many ... I dream about taking my law degree and running with the wind with it, pouring justice in heaps wherever I go. Becoming a top-notch federal prosecutor, never losing a trial but only getting guilty verdicts in cases where the defendants really are guilty. Making the streets of New York City safe for all New Yorkers. Ushering in a new era of freedom and security for my fellow citizens, and teaching rising prosecutors how to be fair, just, polite, compassionate, hopeful, professional, caring. Shunning awards and plaques, working only for the public good. Or maybe going completely non-profit and going back to my roots: galvanizing the Korean-American community into action, for goodness' sake! Let us here on the East Coast not be limited to partying and event-planning. Let us be heard in our votes, in our contributions to the economic and political landscape, in our joining with other ethnic-American groups to further the interests of our community instead of just ourselves, in encouraging subsequent generations to put down roots and follow their dreams.
I dream about joining InterVarsity staff on the campus of Columbia University. Living and breathing and walking and learning among some of the brightest young people in the world. Soaking in the lifeblood of a vibrant urban campus teeming with hearts open to academic learning and spiritual growth. Answering seeking questions, leading students to Christ, putting in them a passion not only to become fantastic members of society, but also compassionate members of the universal church. Praying God's power and peace over a campus that cries out for Him, all day and all night. Cooking for students who don't have time or money to feed themselves; going on retreat to wide country locales, only to come back to the comforting hum of Manhattan; sitting in a local cafe preparing my talk for the week's meeting and thinking, "I love it here. I love these students. I love this campus. I love this city. And all my love pales in comparison to the love that He has for all of these things, all of these people," and being completely overwhelmed by this thought. Taking all that potential -- so much potential and they don't even know it, it breaks my heart! -- and channeling it towards good.
I dream about going back to school, to medical school (oh, I can hear my parents' protests already!) and emerging a pediatric oncologist. Working alongside Cheech, the pediatric surgeon, brother and sister tandemly striving day in and day out to save the lives of the most precious and helpless. Perhaps going full-time in a small town, a local clinic, someplace where folks don't always have the resources to afford people like Cheech and myself, but we'd get some fat government grant, no? Traveling the world for months out of every year to under-developed countries, because we know children's suffering is not limited to the United States. Maybe dragging some New Hopers with me, because every place needs even a temporary infusion of teachers, developers, lawyers, doctors, engineers, artists who love God and love His Creation.
I dream about writing a book, two books, lots of books. Nothing spectacular. In fact, I suppose this is a selfish dream, for it helps no one, contributes nothing to society. But I dream it anyway. Telling stories of my incredible parents, my delectable childhood, my bizarre upbringing, my crazy family. Relating anecdotes of my hilarious, intelligent, passionate, lovable friends. Giving the inside scoop of a judge's chambers ... or maybe just the coworker who made the judge's chambers even worth writing about. Drawing for you a picture of a perfectly rainy day, a radiantly sunny day, or just the day that made all other days pale in comparison. A love story, a tragedy, a travelogue, a diary of interesting meals I cooked, or the time I ate nothing but bagels and baby carrots for a couple of months during college.
I dream about getting married and having babies and being ... well, being everything. As passionate as I am about working and doing all the things I dream of above, I am equally as passionate about devoting myself to caring for my husband and raising my children and caring for my home and my church and my family and friends. If this means I don't work outside the home, then so be it. It's a gorgeous day out and I want to pack up my family and take them to the park? We're there! Someone at church is sick and needs me to come over and make dinner for her family? I'm there! My husband needs me to help him in his work and it would make his life easier if I did so? I'm all over it! There's a volunteer opportunity to spend a couple of hours a week at the local hospital reading to sick children? Sign me up! My parents have retired and want me to spend a day golfing and hanging with them? I'm so ready! My husband has a month off and wants to take the kids to travel the world? Who am I to say no?
These are big dreams ... and it's all the follow-up questions that prevent me from living them. How do I condense my life to live as a Christian campus staff worker, or to go back to school, or to take a job that would downgrade my former salary by almost 50%? How can I be sure that at the impending age of thirty, I'll have the stamina to do any of this (much less have the stable of babies I'm hoping for)? How long must I keep applying and applying and applying for that amazing job that I keep getting turned away from? How do I trust God that if I lift my foot and lean forward and let the momentum carry me, that He will catch me and place me exactly where I'm supposed to be?
There are those who will say, "just do it." Oh believe me, I want to. I sooooo want to. So ... maybe I will.
Thursday, October 20
SCRATCHING THE ITCH . . .
Sometimes, even if I'm preoccupied, busy, not having the time to really do so, I just want to sit down and type something. Anything. I want to pour out my soul. Or simply be hilariously witty. Or write a story. A true story, maybe. Perhaps even an uber-long email. I just want to type and type and type. When I was working, this was easy: I could buckle down and bust out a habeas (after hours of mulling and mulling and Yahoo! Games, naturally). This would satisfy the restless itchiness in my fingertips, the craving for the push and pull of the keyboard, the clackety-clack-clack-clack of the words forming themselves before my very eyes. A miraculous thing, really.
So thank you, MetroDad, for soothing my itchy fingers, even temporarily.
7 Things I Want To Do Before I Die
1. Write and publish a non-fiction book.
2. Get a Ph.D. ... in something interesting and not necessarily useful for anything.
3. Marry a man I love passionately and fully and who loves me passionately and fully, and have lots and lots of babies with him.
4. Save New York City.
5. Travel to and absorb London, Alaska, the Berkshires, Tokyo, Umbria and Tuscany, Barcelona, the Galapagos Islands, Patagonia, the entire Maine coastline, New Zealand, St. Petersburg, Israel, Banff, Route 66, Czechoslovakia, the British countryside, Provence, Sicily ... the list is endless.
6. See and know the rest of my family in North Korea.
7. Build and live in an eco-house, and raise my family to be responsible citizens, able to care well for Creation.
7 Things I Cannot Do ... Yet
1. Play sports that require use or manipulation of a ball. Okay, I'm not horrible at golf, but I still whacked Cheezer in the arm with a misdirected 7-iron shot. (N.B.: HE WAS STANDING IN THE WAY!)
2. Understand the miserly selfishness, bitterness and small-heartedness of some.
3. Have complete compassion and patience for those for whom it is difficult to have complete compassion and patience.
4. Simple math.
5. Leave New York.
6. Give up on the hope that He is calling me to marry someone whom I will love passionately and fully, who will love me passionately and fully, and with whom I will have lots and lots of babies.
7. Give up on the hope that those I love will come back to New York and live right near me so I can see them and be with them all the time.
7 Things That Attract Me To The Opposite Sex
1. Unshakeable faith.
2. Deep-seated kindness and compassion.
3. Well-rounded edjumacation, manifested in the ability to talk about anything and everything, and the desire to learn more, always.
4. A nice set of shoulders, a phenomenal back, gentle hands, eyes that crinkle just so upon laughter, and that special warmth that fills a room.
5. A heart's vision for something bigger than just what he can see, arms that reach out for the divine.
6. Intelligent and non-biting wit that nevertheless delivers the best-timed zingers and draws out gut-busting laughter.
7. Immovable love for his family and friends, shown by the extension of endless grace from the perspective of humility.
7 Things That I Say Most Often
1. I could really use a cigarette right about now.
2. Word. (Said with the most anti-ghetto inflection possible.)
3. Nuh-UH.
4. What the ...
5. Dude.
6. I'll send you an email.
7. Whatchyou doing?
Bonus: Whoa.
7 Celebrity Crushes
1. Jimmy Fallon
2. Tino Martinez
3. Jason Mraz's voice
4. Orlando Bloom, but only as Legolas, from "Lord of the Rings"
5. Conan O'Brien
6. John Cusack
7. Vince Vaughn
Bonus: Julia Roberts; Josh Holloway
Sometimes, even if I'm preoccupied, busy, not having the time to really do so, I just want to sit down and type something. Anything. I want to pour out my soul. Or simply be hilariously witty. Or write a story. A true story, maybe. Perhaps even an uber-long email. I just want to type and type and type. When I was working, this was easy: I could buckle down and bust out a habeas (after hours of mulling and mulling and Yahoo! Games, naturally). This would satisfy the restless itchiness in my fingertips, the craving for the push and pull of the keyboard, the clackety-clack-clack-clack of the words forming themselves before my very eyes. A miraculous thing, really.
So thank you, MetroDad, for soothing my itchy fingers, even temporarily.
7 Things I Want To Do Before I Die
1. Write and publish a non-fiction book.
2. Get a Ph.D. ... in something interesting and not necessarily useful for anything.
3. Marry a man I love passionately and fully and who loves me passionately and fully, and have lots and lots of babies with him.
4. Save New York City.
5. Travel to and absorb London, Alaska, the Berkshires, Tokyo, Umbria and Tuscany, Barcelona, the Galapagos Islands, Patagonia, the entire Maine coastline, New Zealand, St. Petersburg, Israel, Banff, Route 66, Czechoslovakia, the British countryside, Provence, Sicily ... the list is endless.
6. See and know the rest of my family in North Korea.
7. Build and live in an eco-house, and raise my family to be responsible citizens, able to care well for Creation.
7 Things I Cannot Do ... Yet
1. Play sports that require use or manipulation of a ball. Okay, I'm not horrible at golf, but I still whacked Cheezer in the arm with a misdirected 7-iron shot. (N.B.: HE WAS STANDING IN THE WAY!)
2. Understand the miserly selfishness, bitterness and small-heartedness of some.
3. Have complete compassion and patience for those for whom it is difficult to have complete compassion and patience.
4. Simple math.
5. Leave New York.
6. Give up on the hope that He is calling me to marry someone whom I will love passionately and fully, who will love me passionately and fully, and with whom I will have lots and lots of babies.
7. Give up on the hope that those I love will come back to New York and live right near me so I can see them and be with them all the time.
7 Things That Attract Me To The Opposite Sex
1. Unshakeable faith.
2. Deep-seated kindness and compassion.
3. Well-rounded edjumacation, manifested in the ability to talk about anything and everything, and the desire to learn more, always.
4. A nice set of shoulders, a phenomenal back, gentle hands, eyes that crinkle just so upon laughter, and that special warmth that fills a room.
5. A heart's vision for something bigger than just what he can see, arms that reach out for the divine.
6. Intelligent and non-biting wit that nevertheless delivers the best-timed zingers and draws out gut-busting laughter.
7. Immovable love for his family and friends, shown by the extension of endless grace from the perspective of humility.
7 Things That I Say Most Often
1. I could really use a cigarette right about now.
2. Word. (Said with the most anti-ghetto inflection possible.)
3. Nuh-UH.
4. What the ...
5. Dude.
6. I'll send you an email.
7. Whatchyou doing?
Bonus: Whoa.
7 Celebrity Crushes
1. Jimmy Fallon
2. Tino Martinez
3. Jason Mraz's voice
4. Orlando Bloom, but only as Legolas, from "Lord of the Rings"
5. Conan O'Brien
6. John Cusack
7. Vince Vaughn
Bonus: Julia Roberts; Josh Holloway
FULLNESS . . .
How do you describe the things that make your heart full?
A sensitive ear that picks up on sounds you make only in your soul ...
A well-placed touch, a hug, a kiss, a glance that rests with a blissfully heavy weightiness ...
Unbridled, unabashed, unashamed affection ...
Freedom to sing, to reach out, to show your inner self ...
Abandonment to the Spirit, the inner cry of need that recognizes that it will be sated soon ...
A fantasy heard and understood, admired and shared, supported and caused to thrive ...
Coming full circle and realizing that the circle has no end ...
The happiness and satisfaction of others ...
How do you describe the things that make your heart full?
A sensitive ear that picks up on sounds you make only in your soul ...
A well-placed touch, a hug, a kiss, a glance that rests with a blissfully heavy weightiness ...
Unbridled, unabashed, unashamed affection ...
Freedom to sing, to reach out, to show your inner self ...
Abandonment to the Spirit, the inner cry of need that recognizes that it will be sated soon ...
A fantasy heard and understood, admired and shared, supported and caused to thrive ...
Coming full circle and realizing that the circle has no end ...
The happiness and satisfaction of others ...
Friday, October 14
FALLING UPON HIM . . .
Life is really, really good right now.
Not that it's easy. Oh no, life ain't easy. And not that it's totally happy. Oh no, life ain't totally happy. But life is good.
Do you know what I mean? I mean that all this rain, all this rain that the rest of you might be cursing to high heaven, makes me turn my eyes to the Lord. This rain that falls from heaven and gives nourishment to trees, bushes, plants, grass -- it makes things grow that animals will need to eat in order to survive through the winter. It lays the foundation for life so that flowers can bloom in the spring. It cleans away the dirt and dust and carves the path for a new autumn, a new winter. It falls from heaven, from the very eyes of God, who once gazed upon the earth He created, and over and over, stated and decreed and bade that it was good.
I am made to turn my eyes to the Lord because I need Him. I need Him to tell me what to do. I need Him to settle my heart and to guard it. I need HIm to make me obedient, not for the sake of doing what I know what is right, but for the sake of doing with joy. I need Him to lead me and guide me and place my feet firmly one after the other on the path upon which He has already laid the narrow but firm bricks. I need Him to listen to me and to receive my laughter and my cries and my questions and my praises. I need Him to speak back to me wisdom and strength and hope. I need Him to pour love and grace through me and out of me to others around me. I need Him to teach me to love sufficiently and wholly and generously and without fear. I need Him to reassure me and to give me inhuman confidence. I need Him to keep me humble so that the praise is never on me, but the glory is always for Him. I need Him so much these days, and that is why life is good. It is so good to need Him.
Life is really, really good right now.
Not that it's easy. Oh no, life ain't easy. And not that it's totally happy. Oh no, life ain't totally happy. But life is good.
Do you know what I mean? I mean that all this rain, all this rain that the rest of you might be cursing to high heaven, makes me turn my eyes to the Lord. This rain that falls from heaven and gives nourishment to trees, bushes, plants, grass -- it makes things grow that animals will need to eat in order to survive through the winter. It lays the foundation for life so that flowers can bloom in the spring. It cleans away the dirt and dust and carves the path for a new autumn, a new winter. It falls from heaven, from the very eyes of God, who once gazed upon the earth He created, and over and over, stated and decreed and bade that it was good.
I am made to turn my eyes to the Lord because I need Him. I need Him to tell me what to do. I need Him to settle my heart and to guard it. I need HIm to make me obedient, not for the sake of doing what I know what is right, but for the sake of doing with joy. I need Him to lead me and guide me and place my feet firmly one after the other on the path upon which He has already laid the narrow but firm bricks. I need Him to listen to me and to receive my laughter and my cries and my questions and my praises. I need Him to speak back to me wisdom and strength and hope. I need Him to pour love and grace through me and out of me to others around me. I need Him to teach me to love sufficiently and wholly and generously and without fear. I need Him to reassure me and to give me inhuman confidence. I need Him to keep me humble so that the praise is never on me, but the glory is always for Him. I need Him so much these days, and that is why life is good. It is so good to need Him.
Monday, October 10
What an emotional year it has been ... for me, I mean, as a Yankee fan. But my philosophy has always been "never give up, Rose, never give up." And so it is that I have come through the season with my boys, and now it hits me that one of my boys might not be back next year.
Buh-nee. That's what my Konglish-speaking family calls him, all four of us. Appa, Omma, Cheech and I, sitting in the basement with bottles of Heineken and bags of dried squid snacks (this is the Korean-American way, folks), cheering on our team, the boys that have been "our team" since before Cheech and I even existed as twinkles in our parents' eyes. "Buh-nee-yah! Jal-haessuh! Buh-nee-yah!" Bernie, well done, Bernie!
The dude IS the Yankees. Perhaps even more than -- gulp -- Jeter, or Mariano, or Tino. I sort of feel like I grew up with Buh-nee, like he's my older brother. Don't go, dude. Stay. Bring your sore back and your busted knees and your quiet voice and your enigmatic smile back to the team, and just STAY.
Buh-nee-yah!
photo by Chang W. Lee / The New York Times
Buh-nee. That's what my Konglish-speaking family calls him, all four of us. Appa, Omma, Cheech and I, sitting in the basement with bottles of Heineken and bags of dried squid snacks (this is the Korean-American way, folks), cheering on our team, the boys that have been "our team" since before Cheech and I even existed as twinkles in our parents' eyes. "Buh-nee-yah! Jal-haessuh! Buh-nee-yah!" Bernie, well done, Bernie!
The dude IS the Yankees. Perhaps even more than -- gulp -- Jeter, or Mariano, or Tino. I sort of feel like I grew up with Buh-nee, like he's my older brother. Don't go, dude. Stay. Bring your sore back and your busted knees and your quiet voice and your enigmatic smile back to the team, and just STAY.
Buh-nee-yah!
photo by Chang W. Lee / The New York Times
Sunday, October 9
THE ONLY TIME I EVER LOVED THE MALL . . .
So, yesterday was rainy and grey and cool and gloomy, but in a happy sort of way. Mabel, her hubs and I were at a loss for a way with which to occupy ourselves, so naturally, we headed to the mall. I needed some retail therapy, y'all.
Not three minutes into our shopping expedition, Mabel and I are standing in Sephora, when a man bumps my ankles with the baby stroller he's pushing. He gestures frantically to his wife, who is checking out lipstick next to Mabel, and loudly whispers, "Hey! Hey! Mariano Rivera is here! Mariano Rivera just walked by! You know, the Yankees closer! Mariano Rivera!" I sort of stared at him, thinking, "dude, your stroller just hit my ankle, and all you can think about is Mariano Rivera?" And my next thought, "MARIANO RIVERA?!" I flipped my head to look at Mabel, who had heard it all and was already giving me an understanding look. "Mabel, I gotta --" "Go," she said, with complete grace and patience. What's a girl to do when faced with the choice of makeup or Mariano? My choice was clear.
I high-tailed it out of Sephora and followed Stroller Man and his very-pregnant-and-waddling wife as they skipped down the crowded mall-way. It seemed all of a sudden to me that every single person in the mall was a man, and every single man was wearing a Yankees cap or a jersey or a t-shirt. Where was mine?! Lesson learned: wear my Yankees paraphernelia everywhere I go, or at least have it stashed in my bag so I can whip it on when necessary. The thing about Stroller Man, though, is that even with his humongously awkward wife at his side, the dude could RUN. I had him until he was about halfway down the corridor, then I totally lost him. And at the same time, I realized that I was half-walking, half-running after him in a not-completely-unsuspicious manner. If I were in a movie, I'd be the dudes looking for Tom Cruise in "The Minority Report." Sketchy.
So I turned back to Sephora and Mabel, whom I had so indelicately ditched. We buzzed a bit about whether or not it was true, that Mariano really was in the building, and headed out to meet her hubs. Our fortuitous path took us past the Gucci store. And LO! HE WAS THERE. I could recognize the back of his head, with its strange and uneven balding pattern, from a mile away and with a blindfold on! Now, I have never stepped foot in the Gucci store. I can't afford to breathe the air in there, and besides, even if I had the money to spend, Gucci just ain't my style. But with Mariano standing in there, it suddenly became my style. I told Mabel to get her camera out of her bag, and we strolled in, looking as spastic and out-of-place as could be. Funny moment: about 89% of the people in Gucci were also there to ogle Mariano. Mabel and I must have passed about five people whispering, "that's him, that's him!" Sad. I'm glad Mabel and I weren't whispering like that; that would've been pathetic.
Realizing that the inside of Gucci probably wasn't the most appropriate place to start snapping photographs, Mabel and I left the store and loitered on the bench right outside. Mariano came out with his family, and dang, that's when the wind left my sails. It suddenly occurred to me that the dude had a day off for once, what with the rain-out and all, and there he was with his children and extended family, trying to chill out at the mall, do some shopping, hang with the kids, be normal. What kind of jerk would I be if I disturbed their day, just to say hi to a complete stranger (though of course, I feel I really know him in my heart of hearts, you know), just to get a stupid photograph inside a stupid mall, just to be able to say to people "I met Mariano Rivera"? Is that really such a big deal? I supposed not ... besides, we made eye contact as he walked away, and that was good enough for me. Mabel will attest, I needed two minutes to catch my breath.
Later though ... I was in a changing room inside Ann Taylor when Mabel called me. I picked up to reassure her that I was still in the store; we had gotten separated and I didn't want her to think I ditched her again. But no. Sweet Mabel, always looking out for me and my interests. She was just calling to say that Mariano had just stepped into Ann Taylor, and I best get my butt out there to ogle him some more. Ahhh, friendship.
So, yesterday was rainy and grey and cool and gloomy, but in a happy sort of way. Mabel, her hubs and I were at a loss for a way with which to occupy ourselves, so naturally, we headed to the mall. I needed some retail therapy, y'all.
Not three minutes into our shopping expedition, Mabel and I are standing in Sephora, when a man bumps my ankles with the baby stroller he's pushing. He gestures frantically to his wife, who is checking out lipstick next to Mabel, and loudly whispers, "Hey! Hey! Mariano Rivera is here! Mariano Rivera just walked by! You know, the Yankees closer! Mariano Rivera!" I sort of stared at him, thinking, "dude, your stroller just hit my ankle, and all you can think about is Mariano Rivera?" And my next thought, "MARIANO RIVERA?!" I flipped my head to look at Mabel, who had heard it all and was already giving me an understanding look. "Mabel, I gotta --" "Go," she said, with complete grace and patience. What's a girl to do when faced with the choice of makeup or Mariano? My choice was clear.
I high-tailed it out of Sephora and followed Stroller Man and his very-pregnant-and-waddling wife as they skipped down the crowded mall-way. It seemed all of a sudden to me that every single person in the mall was a man, and every single man was wearing a Yankees cap or a jersey or a t-shirt. Where was mine?! Lesson learned: wear my Yankees paraphernelia everywhere I go, or at least have it stashed in my bag so I can whip it on when necessary. The thing about Stroller Man, though, is that even with his humongously awkward wife at his side, the dude could RUN. I had him until he was about halfway down the corridor, then I totally lost him. And at the same time, I realized that I was half-walking, half-running after him in a not-completely-unsuspicious manner. If I were in a movie, I'd be the dudes looking for Tom Cruise in "The Minority Report." Sketchy.
So I turned back to Sephora and Mabel, whom I had so indelicately ditched. We buzzed a bit about whether or not it was true, that Mariano really was in the building, and headed out to meet her hubs. Our fortuitous path took us past the Gucci store. And LO! HE WAS THERE. I could recognize the back of his head, with its strange and uneven balding pattern, from a mile away and with a blindfold on! Now, I have never stepped foot in the Gucci store. I can't afford to breathe the air in there, and besides, even if I had the money to spend, Gucci just ain't my style. But with Mariano standing in there, it suddenly became my style. I told Mabel to get her camera out of her bag, and we strolled in, looking as spastic and out-of-place as could be. Funny moment: about 89% of the people in Gucci were also there to ogle Mariano. Mabel and I must have passed about five people whispering, "that's him, that's him!" Sad. I'm glad Mabel and I weren't whispering like that; that would've been pathetic.
Realizing that the inside of Gucci probably wasn't the most appropriate place to start snapping photographs, Mabel and I left the store and loitered on the bench right outside. Mariano came out with his family, and dang, that's when the wind left my sails. It suddenly occurred to me that the dude had a day off for once, what with the rain-out and all, and there he was with his children and extended family, trying to chill out at the mall, do some shopping, hang with the kids, be normal. What kind of jerk would I be if I disturbed their day, just to say hi to a complete stranger (though of course, I feel I really know him in my heart of hearts, you know), just to get a stupid photograph inside a stupid mall, just to be able to say to people "I met Mariano Rivera"? Is that really such a big deal? I supposed not ... besides, we made eye contact as he walked away, and that was good enough for me. Mabel will attest, I needed two minutes to catch my breath.
Later though ... I was in a changing room inside Ann Taylor when Mabel called me. I picked up to reassure her that I was still in the store; we had gotten separated and I didn't want her to think I ditched her again. But no. Sweet Mabel, always looking out for me and my interests. She was just calling to say that Mariano had just stepped into Ann Taylor, and I best get my butt out there to ogle him some more. Ahhh, friendship.
Saturday, October 8
AWAKE AND BORED . . .
A dangerous combination, always ...
1. How long have you had your blog?
Since February 2003. A neophyte, really.
2. What do you consider to be the main purpose of your blog?
To speak without being interrupted. I am surrounded by smart, vivacious, interesting, witty, clever, quick, passionate, strong people. I love listening to them and speaking with them, but once in a while, I love the uninterrupted brain-spew.
3. If you could change something about your personal blogging style, what would it be?
I'd love to be consistent. Consistently witty, consistently informed, consistently intelligent and intelligible, consistently interesting. Not for you, but for myself. Isn't that terribly selfish of me?
4. What are your criteria for adding someone to your friends list?
If I read you every day (or hope there is something to read every day), then I want everyone I know to read you every day too. Also, I'm extremely voyeuristic in a very non-criminal way, so if your life is riveting, then I'm all over it. Creepy.
5. Name one thing that you've never before written about in your blog.
Well, c'mon now. A girl's gotta have some secrets ...
A dangerous combination, always ...
1. How long have you had your blog?
Since February 2003. A neophyte, really.
2. What do you consider to be the main purpose of your blog?
To speak without being interrupted. I am surrounded by smart, vivacious, interesting, witty, clever, quick, passionate, strong people. I love listening to them and speaking with them, but once in a while, I love the uninterrupted brain-spew.
3. If you could change something about your personal blogging style, what would it be?
I'd love to be consistent. Consistently witty, consistently informed, consistently intelligent and intelligible, consistently interesting. Not for you, but for myself. Isn't that terribly selfish of me?
4. What are your criteria for adding someone to your friends list?
If I read you every day (or hope there is something to read every day), then I want everyone I know to read you every day too. Also, I'm extremely voyeuristic in a very non-criminal way, so if your life is riveting, then I'm all over it. Creepy.
5. Name one thing that you've never before written about in your blog.
Well, c'mon now. A girl's gotta have some secrets ...
Friday, October 7
STILL HAVEN'T FOUND WHAT I'M LOOKING FOR . . .
I don't even know what the hell it is I'm looking for!
Watching the whole first season of "Lost" over again is not good for my mental health, but like most things that are bad for me, I just can't get enough. And so it was that I had lunch with Hooch this afternoon and all we talked about was the second season of the show, and I swear by all that is right and true and just in the world of television viewing, J.J. Abrams, if you tie the show into the last season of "Alias," I am going to have serious anger-management issues with you, and there is going to be serious letter-writing happening.
***
BUILD ME . . .
Sometimes, with some things, on some issues, someone has to tell me over and over and over again to believe them. And it still takes me a long time. And then they usually give up and move on because the wall is too insurmountable. But some keep at it, until I am blissfully worn down, and I have no choice to believe and accept and be loved. And I imagine that if this person were sitting next to me right now, as s/he has been this entire time actually and in the most wonderfully unexpected forms, s/he would say to me ...
I think it's getting to the point
where I can be myself again;
I think it's getting to the point
where we have almost made amends;
I think it's the getting to the point
that is the hardest part.
And if you call, I will answer;
and if you fall, I'll pick you up;
and if you court this disaster
I'll point you home.
You think I only think about you
when we're both in the same room;
You think I'm only here to witness
the remains of love exhumed;
You think we're here to play
a game of who loves more than whom.
And if you call, I will answer;
and if you fall, I'll pick you up;
and if you court this disaster
I'll point you home.
You think it's only fair to do what's
best for you and you alone;
You think it's only fair to do the same
to me when you're not home;
I think it's time to make this something that is
more than only fair.
So if you call, I will answer;
and if you fall, I'll pick you up;
and if you court this disaster
I'll point you home.
But I'm warning you, don't ever do
those crazy, messed up things that you do
If you ever do, I promise you
I'll be the first to crucify you
Now it's time to prove that you've come back
To rebuild.
"Call and Answer,"
Barenaked Ladies
I don't even know what the hell it is I'm looking for!
Watching the whole first season of "Lost" over again is not good for my mental health, but like most things that are bad for me, I just can't get enough. And so it was that I had lunch with Hooch this afternoon and all we talked about was the second season of the show, and I swear by all that is right and true and just in the world of television viewing, J.J. Abrams, if you tie the show into the last season of "Alias," I am going to have serious anger-management issues with you, and there is going to be serious letter-writing happening.
***
BUILD ME . . .
Sometimes, with some things, on some issues, someone has to tell me over and over and over again to believe them. And it still takes me a long time. And then they usually give up and move on because the wall is too insurmountable. But some keep at it, until I am blissfully worn down, and I have no choice to believe and accept and be loved. And I imagine that if this person were sitting next to me right now, as s/he has been this entire time actually and in the most wonderfully unexpected forms, s/he would say to me ...
where I can be myself again;
I think it's getting to the point
where we have almost made amends;
I think it's the getting to the point
that is the hardest part.
And if you call, I will answer;
and if you fall, I'll pick you up;
and if you court this disaster
I'll point you home.
You think I only think about you
when we're both in the same room;
You think I'm only here to witness
the remains of love exhumed;
You think we're here to play
a game of who loves more than whom.
And if you call, I will answer;
and if you fall, I'll pick you up;
and if you court this disaster
I'll point you home.
You think it's only fair to do what's
best for you and you alone;
You think it's only fair to do the same
to me when you're not home;
I think it's time to make this something that is
more than only fair.
So if you call, I will answer;
and if you fall, I'll pick you up;
and if you court this disaster
I'll point you home.
But I'm warning you, don't ever do
those crazy, messed up things that you do
If you ever do, I promise you
I'll be the first to crucify you
Now it's time to prove that you've come back
To rebuild.
Barenaked Ladies
Sunday, October 2
It be done. American League East champions.
WORD.
***
20/20 . . .
I know it can't be helped. We are neither mind-readers nor ever fully able to be equipped to handle everything that comes our way. But it still baffles me to read headlines like "Security tightened after Bali suicide bombings", because ... well, because it has already happened.
Not that attacks can't happen again. Not that terrorists abide by some unspoken schedule: "suicide bombing attacks must occur at least three days apart." Not that lax security is ever a good or acceptable thing. But still ... the very base and emotional part of my humanity cries out, "IF ONLY THIS COULD HAVE BEEN PREVENTED!!!!"
***
MEMORY . . .
It makes me so sad that the mind's memory is so fragile. Things that occurred mere days ago, such wonderful, blissful, happy, humorous, intimate, growing, important things ... sights I saw mere days ago, such tender, special, meaningful, handsome sights ... words exchanged mere days ago, such significant, witty, deep, heartfelt, weighty words ... how can these things already be fading away from me? Is there no place that I can write these things down, etch them into tempered, unbreakable glass, inscribe them into quickly-drying cement, so that they will never be lost? Is there no way that I can take the film from my mind's camera and develop it into a 8.5" x 11" matte print to frame and gaze upon for all of my days?
***
LA-LA LAND . . .
Another beautiful dream, played out exactly the way I would have wanted it to in waking life. 'Twill never happen, but ... dare to dream.
WORD.
***
20/20 . . .
I know it can't be helped. We are neither mind-readers nor ever fully able to be equipped to handle everything that comes our way. But it still baffles me to read headlines like "Security tightened after Bali suicide bombings", because ... well, because it has already happened.
Not that attacks can't happen again. Not that terrorists abide by some unspoken schedule: "suicide bombing attacks must occur at least three days apart." Not that lax security is ever a good or acceptable thing. But still ... the very base and emotional part of my humanity cries out, "IF ONLY THIS COULD HAVE BEEN PREVENTED!!!!"
***
MEMORY . . .
It makes me so sad that the mind's memory is so fragile. Things that occurred mere days ago, such wonderful, blissful, happy, humorous, intimate, growing, important things ... sights I saw mere days ago, such tender, special, meaningful, handsome sights ... words exchanged mere days ago, such significant, witty, deep, heartfelt, weighty words ... how can these things already be fading away from me? Is there no place that I can write these things down, etch them into tempered, unbreakable glass, inscribe them into quickly-drying cement, so that they will never be lost? Is there no way that I can take the film from my mind's camera and develop it into a 8.5" x 11" matte print to frame and gaze upon for all of my days?
***
LA-LA LAND . . .
Another beautiful dream, played out exactly the way I would have wanted it to in waking life. 'Twill never happen, but ... dare to dream.