Plato believed that we lived in a world of
images, three-dimensional shadows of the true one. What we see with our eyes is nothing more than a cheap imitation of its true state.
example, the chair we see before our eyes is nothing more than a shabby image of the true chair that exists. We carry on everyday with
flawed perceptions of the true ideal form.
Life After College:
Year 3 - In Transit
[Thursday, April 28, 2005]
I was cleaning my room tonight. Meels is flying in from San Diego to spend the weekend in Philadelphia. I'm crossing my fingers for good weather. Underneath the dozen things I half-unpacked when I moved home but never bothered to organize, I found a simple brown box. About shoe-box sized. It puzzled me, because I always label all my boxes. Based on how battered it was, my guess was that it moved with me from Philadelphia, to New York, to Boston, and now back to Philadelphia. Intrigued, I opened it.
It turned out to be full of things from my first boyfriend. At the top of the box was a large sign that said stridently, "DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 2002." Underneath it was a list of grievances. I laughed. Funny, I'm three years late. Inside the box were prom pictures, a dried up prom corsage, napkins and sugar packets from restaurants where we'd eaten together, a plastic fork we'd once shared, and a few bus ticket stubs from when I went to visit him. Outside of the prom material, I had the equivalent of a box of trash. Interestingly, even though the box itself was unlabeled, everything in it was labeled meticulously. Including the fork, which had "December 2, 1999. Battery Park" written on it in red Sharpie. A few scattered photos fell out also, which I studied with interest.
Odd. I used to think I was a strange teenager. Strange in thought and in appearance. Looking back, I think I actually looked okay. My ex got lucky. My hair was long back then, and as I peered at teenage Ink, I suddenly realized that I had really nice hair. Really nice hair. I'd never seen myself from back view before. It was very shiny and very thick. Too bad I used to shed like a German Shepherd. Nothing ruins the romanticism of having long flowing hair than a clogged shower drain.
I thought briefly about throwing the box away. After all, I no longer speak to my ex, though it had nothing to do with the list of grievances (new grievances have occurred). But then I decided that it had its place in my life. Back then, I made the box to help address the old grievances. Removed all memories I had of him, placed them into a figurative and literal shoebox, and tried to forget. Apparently, I did a very good job of that. To address the later grievances, I gave away Ferdinand the Bear, which I received from him on our first date. It was the first and last thing he ever gave me.
I donated it to the animal shelter.
I'd like to think I've learned from the experience. Reading the letters he wrote me, I realized that he really did like me, in his own strange sort of way. What I have learned since then is that sometimes - liking someone is not enough. Back then, I used to think that all guys were nice to girls. I thought "treating girls well" came standard on boys, like brakes on a car. All I had to do was look for a cute smart one. Now I know that its an extra - like a sunroof and a 5-disc changer. Except unlike the sunroof (and like the brakes), it's an extra that is the active ingredient of a successful relationship. I've learned a hard lesson from it.
Given the very un-ideal situation in which I'd have to choose between marrying a guy who I adore but doesn't treat me well, and settling for a guy who I'm 'eh' about but will be a good husband and father, I'm going hands-down for the latter.
Posted by ink |
[Wednesday, April 27, 2005]
What do I look like, a walking Maxim magazine?!
Welling. The guy I was sort of digging. The one who referred to me as the movie Cube, and to his new romantic interest as Sideways (see April 10, 2005). Today, we crossed the line. Or, perhaps more accurately, he shoved me across it when he sent me an email with the exchange he had with Sideways girl, and asking me for advice on how to appeal her seeming rejection. Under normal circumstances, I would've gritted my teeth and given him advice. But I am now a 24 year old woman who's been single for 5 years and I am tired of being the Advice Girl!
I told him frostily that I was out of the business of helping men. It was my New Year's Resolution. It gets me absolutely nowhere. Karma is obviously a lie. I should charge him a quarter for every piece of advice I dispense. Like Zaltar from the movie Big. He then talked about the daydreams he has about Sideways Girl. I put my head in my hands. Unbelievable.
I decided to give Pit in NY a call tonight. Even though I haven't spoken to him in weeks. There's something to be said for a guy who thinks you're cute, even though he's in NY and you're in Philadelphia, but is persistent enough to keep calling you even though you never call him.
As for Welling? If he can't appreciate my obvious and total coolness, then I don't have time for this. NEXT!
Posted by ink |
[Tuesday, April 26, 2005]
This blog provides official verification of your [GEEK] status.
I got a 25% off coupon from Borders through email. Whoever's in charge of publicity does their job too well. I'm completely a victim of marketing strategy. Whenever I receive one of these coupons in the mail, I rush off to the bookstore to buy something. Today, my prize is Brian Greene's "The Fabric Of The Cosmos: Space, Time, and the Texture of Reality." I'm very excited. Physics is one of those things I always wished I understood a little better. A few weeks ago, I was reading Time Travel For Beginners, by a professor of a UK university:
"In one of the wildest developments in serious science for decades, researchers from California to Moscow have recently been investigating the possibility of time travel. They are not, as yet, building TARDIS lookalikes in their laboratories; but they have realised that according to the equations of Albert Einstein's general theory of relativity (the best theory of time and space we have), there is nothing in the laws of physics to prevent time travel. It may be extremely difficult to put into practice; but it is not impossible.
It sounds like science fiction, but it is taken so seriously by relativists that some of them have proposed that there must be a law of nature to prevent time travel and thereby prevent paradoxes arising, even though nobody has any idea how such a law would operate. The classic paradox, of course, occurs when a person travels back in time and does something to prevent their own birth -- killing their granny as a baby, in the more gruesome example, or simply making sure their parents never get together, as in Back to the Future. It goes against commonsense, say the sceptics, so there must be a law against it. This is more or less the same argument that was used to prove that space travel is impossible.
So what do Einstein's equations tell us, if pushed to the limit? As you might expect, the possibility of time travel involves those most extreme objects, black holes. And since Einstein's theory is a theory of space and time, it should be no surprise that black holes offer, in principle, a way to travel through space, as well as through time. A simple black hole won't do, though. If such a black hole formed out of a lump of non-rotating material, it would simply sit in space, swallowing up anything that came near it. At the heart of such a black hole there is a point known as a singularity, where space and time cease to exist, and matter is crushed to infinite density. Thirty years ago, Roger Penrose (now of Oxford University) proved that anything which falls into such a black hole must be drawn into the singularity by its gravitational pull, and also crushed out of existence.
But, also in the 1960s, the New Zealand mathematician Roy Kerr found that things are different if the black hole is rotating. A singularity still forms, but in the form of a ring, like the mint with a hole. In principle, it would be possible to dive into such a black hole and through the ring, to emerge in another place and another time. This "Kerr solution" was the first mathematical example of a time machine, but at the time nobody took it seriously. At the time, hardly anybody took the idea of black holes seriously, and interest in the Kerr solution only really developed in the 1970s, after astronmers discovered what seem to be real black holes, both in our own Milky Way Galaxy and in the hearts of other galaxies.
This led to a rash of popular publications claiming, to the annoyance of many relativists, that time travel might be possible. In the 1980s, though, Kip Thorne, of CalTech (one of the world's leading experts in the general theory of relativity), and his colleagues set out to prove once and for all that such nonsense wasn't really allowed by Einstein's equations. They studied the situation from all sides, but were forced to the unwelcome conclusion that there really was nothing in the equations to prevent time travel..." [more]
It made me wish I had paid more attention in Physics class back in college. It completely fascinated me. What led me to such a geeky website? An intriguing article about a random number generator and how the world may not be as random as we think. "Can This Black Box See Into The Future?" is not completely couched in scientific fact (in fact, I can see quite a few holes in it), but the concept and ideas it brings up are incredibly interesting.
I can't wait to dive into Fabric of the Cosmos tonight. I wish I was born in a later generation so I could see all the cool things of the future. Part of the reason why I like William Gibson has nothing to do with his plotlines, but more in the everyday details of how he describes life in the future. Yes, I would absolutely be a cyborg girl if I had the money and opportunity to implant computer chips into any part of my body - whether its to store my ID and credit card info under the skin of my hand so I never have to carry a wallet again (or lose a credit card again), or implanting a chip into my eyeball so the time/date/temperature are in the bottom corner of my field of vision (along with nightvision).
Sometimes I wonder how it's possible to like science fiction so much and have a subscription to Wired magazine (going on 4 years now), and simultaneously love Vera Wang, shopping, and stiletto heels.
Posted by ink |
[Monday, April 25, 2005]
In the car: "I don't care so much about the cost of any trips you take. I'm more concerned about your safety." I start to tell him that Costa Rica is safe, until I realize he's not referring to safety abroad. "You always hear about girls getting hit by cars, right after they get into medical school." He stares straight ahead while making a left turn. "Sometimes when things are going very well in your life, you have to watch out. The gods become angry when you're too happy. Be humble." He's taken to rushing the door when I'm about to go out, just to grab my arm and warn me, "Be careful."
In the garden, while weeding: "Dandelions have a pretty difficult life." He sighs and shakes his head. "When they're born, everyone already hates them. They have it even tougher than retarded people. At least retarded people have parents to love them." He looks at me seriously. "You should feel lucky. At least you have what retarded people have."
In the morning: "Dad. I think you've been putting on weight again. Your sweater's tight around the middle." "Yeah. Looks like it." Then he leans in to whisper to me conspiratorially, "I ate a quart of ice cream the other day." I can't believe it. He looks proud of himself. "Dad!" I say, shocked. "But you're lactose intolerant!" "I know," he says with a grimace on his face. "Don't tell Mom," he warns.
Over dinner: "I don't like old people. Even when I go into nursing homes, I don't like looking at them. It's very sad you know." He peers at me over his glasses. "No matter how beautiful you are when you're young, at the end of life, everyone turns into a dirty old man or woman, living in a house that smells like pee, without the ability to wipe your own poo. Life is ultimately fair, Ink." He shakes a finger chidingly at me.
My dad is a very serious engineer-type of person. The key to my dad is that he's never trying to be funny.
Posted by ink |
[Sunday, April 24, 2005]
As of today, I officially declare this show bunk!!! I kept watching for a few episodes in the hopes it would get better, but today's episode completely shot itself in the foot with its new ending. This is the worst medical show of all time. How can it be that all the interns are sleeping with their superior attendings?!!?!!
For those who haven't seen the show, Grey's Anatomy revolves around first year surgery interns. The main protagonist, Dr. Meredith Grey is an intern who's sleeping with an attending (Patrick Dempsey). Fine - I can buy that. But now the Asian female intern is also sleeping with the African American attending? Any bonus points you may have gotten with the "diversity" card are nullified by the complete cheesiness of the execution. First of all - you can't have more than one attending/intern coupling. It becomes redundant. Second of all - considering how bull-headed both the black attending and the Asian intern are, it would've done the show more good to play up the sexual tension between them without ever allowing the coupling. Haven't they learned anything from X-Files' Mulder and Scully?! Thirdly - they begin and consummate their relationship all within one episode. What's the big hurry here?! Even worse, they have sex IN THE CALL ROOM. Could this be any more cliche? The girl walks in, locks the door behind her, and opens up with "Thanks for the coffee" before they then proceed to tear each other's clothes off.
GOOD GOD WOMAN. You don't put out for a cup of coffee! He has to at least buy you dinner first! Sheesh.
Posted by ink |
The Dressing Room.
My mom is convinced that I'm going to meet my future Man at these weddings, so she's been bothering me all weekend to go look at dresses at this other store. She thinks we should go all out. I finally gave in and followed her to this store that was ludicrously expensive. $1000 dresses were in there, and nothing under $500. And this was no ordinary store with ordinary attendants who simply let you into the dressing room and find you smaller (or in my case, larger) sizes. This was a store from the movies, where the attendants pull other clothes off the rack for you that they think would suit your taste. And "ooh" and "aah" over you when you come out. These are women who work off of commission.
And my mother... My mother, she goes, "Can we find some control top hosiery for my daughter? You can see her tummy in all those dresses!!"
The assistant, "What do you mean? Your daughter does not need it. Trust me."
My mother. Ever insistent. So, on the control top hosiery went. Those things are tight.
There's an entire gaggle of assistants hanging around the dressing room while I try on countless amount of dresses, staring at me. These old women. And my mom, casually mentioning that I went to Ivy League for undergrad while I'm in the dressing room. And telling me "You look like a sausage in that" when I come out.
Horrification does not even begin to describe the experience.
She eventually settled on one dress that she loved. It was okay. It was a nice dress. But not $300 nice (at 40% off!). My Banana Republic dress was nice and silk, but casual enough that I could wear it on a summer day to a nice brunch. This dress? It was nothing BUT a cocktail formal dress. With frills on the bottom. And I'm not a huge frills sort of girl. I prefer understated, subdued, elegant, sophisticated affairs. But she was right. It was a cute, extraordinarily fashionable sort of dress. If I saw it in a magazine, I would like it. On the model. But not on me. And I can't justify spending this much money on a dress I can't use on a casual basis also. Or, perhaps more accurately, I can't justify spending this much of my mom's money, since she offered to buy it for me.
We left without the dress. But with the control-top hosiery, which true to her word - she bought for me.
In the car, I heard a variety of statements.
"Honey, sometimes you only get one chance to catch a guy's eye. That dress is very eye-catching." "You know, your dad and I met at a party because I caught his eye." "I should've known this would happen. You've always been the sort of daughter who doesn't care much for her mother's feelings."
She's mad at me now. Which on one hand I find ludicrous, and on the other hand - I'm thinking that I may be stupid for not allowing her to purchase the dress for me.
I tried to explain to her that it wasn't that I disliked the dress. I liked it. I just disliked the pricetag. I told her if she wants to spend $300 on me, then she should spend it on something I like a lot, and something I'll use often. Like say... a snowboard!
Ooo... wrong thing to say.
Posted by ink |
[Saturday, April 23, 2005]
I'm attending 3 weddings in May. Three!!! This is the beginning of the end. Still, I took it as an opportunity to go dress shopping and make a waxing appointment. Found a too beautiful (and too expensive) strapless cream silk dress with a floral pattern from Banana Republic. My mom loved it as well. All I'm missing now are shoes and a shrug.
Yesterday evening, my mother said she wanted to go to Victoria's Secret and get some new bras for me. Then she casually tossed in, "We can pick up some control-top hosiery for that little belly of yours too. It shows in your new dress." I was horrified. Not because my belly was a particular shocker. In fact, I'm well aware of it. It's the standard little joey that I develop every year and usually lose by summer. I like to tell people I become a marsupial in the wintertime. And I had every intention of picking some hosiery up if I didn't lose it by the wedding day. Regardless, control top hosiery is near the top of the list of things you buy in secret for yourself. It's not something you want given to you.
My mother tried to make me feel better cheerily adding, "It's okay honey. We all go through it. Happens to the best of us! You hit a certain age and that's just it." I stared at her. "Don't worry, I'll pay for it," she said as she patted my hand comfortingly.
Posted by ink |
[Friday, April 22, 2005]
Tony Steinberg: Brave Seventh Grade Viking Warrior by Taylor Mali www.taylormali.com
Have you ever seen a Viking ship made out of popsicle sticks And balsa wood? With tiny coils of brown thread for ropes, Sixteen oars made out of chopsticks, and a red and yellow sail made from a baby's footie pajamas?
He died with his sword in his hand and so went straight to heaven.
The Vikings sometimes buried their bravest warriors in ships. Or set them adrift and on fire, a floating island of flames. The soul of the brave warrior rising slowly with the smoke. To understand life in Scandinavia in the Middle Ages, You must understand the Viking ship.
So here is the assignment: The class must build me a miniature Viking ship. You have a month. And you must all work together. Like warriors.
These projects are what I'm known for as a teacher. Like the Egyptian Pyramid Project. Have you ever seen a family of four standing around a card table after dinner, each one holding one triangular side of a miniature pyramid until the glue dried? I haven't either, but Mrs. Steinberg said it took 90 minutes, and even with the little brother on one side saying, This is dumb! This is a stupid pyramid, Tony! You're going to fail this project. If I get Mr. Mali next year, my pyramid is going to be much better than this! And Tony on the other side saying, Shut up! Shut up! You little %#@! No, no, no, no, no, no, no! Keep holding your side or I swear I'll kill you after the glue dries! It was the best family time they'd spent together since Christmas.
He died with his sword in his hand and so went straight to heaven, which the Vikings called Valhalla.
Mr. Mali, if that's true, that you would go straight to Valhalla if you died with your sword in your hand, then if you were an old Viking and you were about to die of old age, could you could keep your sword right by your bed so if you felt like you were going to die you could reach out and grab it?
I don't know if their gods would fall for that, but it sounds like a good idea to me.
Tony was out for a month before we heard what was wrong. And the 12 boys left whispered the name of the disease as if you could catch it from saying it too loud.
We'd been warned. The Middle School Head had come to class And said Tony was coming to school on Friday. But he's had a rough time. The medication he's taking has made all his hair fall out, and he's a little shy about it. So don't stare, don't point, don't laugh.
I always said I liked teaching in a private school Because I could talk about God And not be breaking the law. And for an Episcopalian kid who only went to church On Christmas and Easter, I sure talked about God a lot. In history of course, that's easy, Even the Egyptian Pyramid Project is essentially a spiritual exercise. But how can you study geometry and not believe in a God?
A God of perfect points and planes, Surrounded by angels and angles of all different degrees. Such a God wouldn't give cancer to seventh grade boy. Wouldn't make his hair fall out from the chemo. Totally bald in a jacket and tie on Friday morning. And I don't mean Tony. Not one single boy in my class had hair; the other 12 had shaved their heads in solidarity. Have you ever seen 13 bald-headed seventh grade boys, all pointing at each other, all staring, all laughing?
It's a beautiful sight. And almost as striking as 12 boys six weeks later, now with crew cuts on a Saturday morning, outside the synagogue with heads bowed, holding hands and standing in a circle around the smoldering remains of a miniature Viking ship, the soul of the brave warrior rising slowly with the smoke. --------------------------------------
Thanks to anachronic for directing me to the site.
Posted by ink |
[Thursday, April 21, 2005]
Friends are a funny thing. They're a self-feeding cycle, like a perpetual motion machine that regenerates itself once set in motion. Blogging, in its cyber form, is a lot like a friend. The best of listeners in fact, since you can imagine that it laughs at all your jokes, and is enraged when you are. Ordered Chaos and Nine were my companions in my corporate years, and Eidolon and Ink were by my side for most of last year. I've lost touch with Eidolon lately though - and like friends who haven't talked in a while, when you do get back in touch, you don't know what to really say anymore. All the details of your life that you used to share in such glee and pore over with such joy suddenly seem trivial and not worthy of mentioning.
"It's been so long!! So, what's been going on?" "....Nothing much really."
Just like how daily phone calls with Riven used to be rife with little anecdotes and snippets of our day, our now bi-weekly and sometimes monthly phone calls have become shorter and shorter. It's almost like you pre-determine what's "important" enough for this monthly phone call to mention. And not much ever makes the cut.
So, Eidolon and I have grown a bit apart. Sometimes I think of things I want to tell her, but then it seems so trivial and silly. Why would she want to hear that I like driving across bridges because it makes me feel like I'm driving into the sky? So what if I'm still agonizing over Jefferson vs. BU and the daily back and forth I go through. The virgin in the underpass that I chuckled over - everyone probably saw the ludicrousness (is that a word?) in a bunch of people laying a shrine by a salt melt - no need to point it out. In a nutshell, who cares?
I did idly wonder why popes always choose the same names. Are they all saints' names? Is John Paul II only "II" because only one former pope was creative enough to string together two biblical names? And why did no one ever choose Ezekiel? Why do they assume new names anyways when they enter the papacy? Is it like an AOL screen name where you get to assume a new identity, but have to put random numbers after it because someone else already has it? "Benedict16". But really, what's the point of asking questions no one has the answer to?
I wonder if this is how non-bloggers feel. They always seem to look at us with such fascination. Us, who put our lives on the web. Us, who allow others to look in, with a filter sometimes, and other times with special lenses as we modify our lives to fit the HTML tags and what we perceive to be the truth. I never understood how they could not feel an inclination to write, to express themselves, to share something of themselves in a world where you have no assurance of ever making a difference.
But maybe, this is how they feel. When things happen in their lives, they brush by them, and it becomes a minor footnote, unworthy of mention anywhere except in passing. On one hand, I feel like I've become much more pragmatic and down to earth. Less of a drama queen. Not everything has to be blown up under a magnifying class or analyzed to its minutiae. Not everything has to have some deeper meaning somewhere. Sometimes, things just are. But on the other hand, I wonder if I'm starting to care less, starting to go with the flow more, starting to become less expressive. After all, writing used to be something I needed to do every once in a while. It made me feel better. Like a pressure valve. Maybe there's no more passion bottled up. That's frightening. Have I simply stopped caring, stopped seeing the funny side of things, stopped noticing? Has the world become nothing but a blurred sliding landscape? Am I normal now, just like everyone else? Even worse, have I become boring?
Writing has become a chore these days. It's difficult and awkward, and sounds forced to my own ears, like those "Haven't seen you in so long!" conversations you have. But perhaps, like old friends, those daily awkward conversations need to happen so you can get back to where you used to be.
This is going to be painful.
Posted by ink |
[Tuesday, April 12, 2005]
And the crowd stirred.
A revolution is brewing in Philadelphia. When Y100 first went off the air, I was devastated. But almost a full 2 months later, it's still going strong, under a new name of Y100Rocks (since Y100 is now called "The Beat" and plays rap and R&B). They're no longer on the radiowaves but have hunkered down and are broadcasting via the web instead, with the tagline of "You Have No Alternative." Yes, Philadelphia is now the largest city without an alternative station. Rolling Stone had an article that mentioned Y100's demise, tying it to the decline of rock around the country.
Surprisingly, the web version of Y100 is a thousand times better than the radio version, since they're no longer dictated by corporate suits. I've been listening to it everyday at work (and even donated through PayPal). I kept expecting it to go under at any point, since the DJ's do eventually need real jobs and real paychecks, but it continued on. They still have contests to win concert tickets (except you email in instead of calling in), and even have interviews with bands. Bands just visit the Bunker, where the shows are webcast instead of a radio station. The station is on an automatic playlist, with live-DJ's during scheduled times. It's the old Y100 DJ's who are now jobless.
To my surprise today, I found out that they're also still throwing their yearly FEZtival concert!!! It's a full-day affair with multiple bands coming, including Garbage, Interpol, The Bravery, and more. Not only that, but tickets are cheaper than ever since they're no longer owned by a corporation! They're also inviting local bands to send in demo's for the chance to share the stage on FEZtival day. It's the first time an internet radio station is putting on a show like this. I wonder where they're getting the funding to invite the bands, and I wonder how they're going to promote it without the far-reaching-hand of radio airwaves. Tickets are being sold at Ticketmaster and proceeds are being donated to charity.
Y100Rocks.com's website has graphic files for working stiffs like myself to print out on company Avery Labels. Do-it-yourself bumper stickers. This girl did something creative with it. They also have do-it-yourself T-shirts, for the kids who don't have credit cards to purchase the merchandise with. Perhaps the fight ain't over yet.
I'm willing to bet that its underground nature has won Y100Rocks even more loyal fans. Kids (especially teenagers) tend to be counter-culture these days, and what better way to stick it to the man than to give Radio One a virtual middle finger by supporting the station so it remains a viable presence in the city.
Welling and I have known each other since college, when our main topic of conversation would be which class we were each respectively failing. Failing engineering classes was relatively common where we went to school. He was always simply Welling, who dated one of my friends up until a few years ago. That is, until last week when he came into Philadelphia from the west coast to visit our old alma mater and talk to some administration. He had gotten his hair cut and a new wardrobe. And he was suddenly... very charming. I was sort of digging him a little bit. A little bit, but enough to feel awkward and not be able to speak much.
Then, last week, I found out that he met and has a new crush on another classmate of ours who is absolutely and utterly perfect. Beautiful, tall, and so nice even I have trouble hating her (and I usually have no problems hating even the Christian people). In an effort to make myself feel better, I used an analogy. Perfect Girl is a blockbuster movie, whereas I tend to be more of an indie flick (good analogy because I happen to think indie movies are super cool). His reaction?
"Nah. I'd say Perfect Girl is an indie flick. She's like Sideways. An indie flick that everyone loves. You... You're more like Cube."
...I'm a movie that I've never even heard of. Welling claimed it was a good movie and told me to rent it. But it gets worse. I asked my best friend about Cube and whether he'd ever seen it before.
"Yeah. It's a B-grade indie flick that's super nerdy."
But, Kenmore admitted that he liked it also. I was thinking that it could be worse. I could be a B-grade horror flick. But then my college roommate H blew me out of the water when I visited her in Boston this weekend and suggested that we rent Cube to watch.
"Oh gross. You like that movie? I hated it. It's this awful slasher flick."
Posted by ink |
[Saturday, April 02, 2005]
The Old Man is Snoring.
It's really coming down hard over here. Pouring buckets. I like it when it rains hard. Or doesn't rain at all. Not such a fan of the grey drizzly days or the on-again-off-again rains. Largely because I don't like doing things halfway. So when it rains, it should really rain right.
Rainy days are less lonely for some reason. Perhaps because they're meant to be spent alone. Sitting in bed under the covers, writing. Or perhaps reading. You can pop in your favorite DVD and eat banana bread. All in the company of the Earth's life blood rushing in torrents around your little house as She feeds Her children. I like it when it rains hard enough that you can hear it on the roof while you're in your bedroom. I think all the Earth's little magic men come out and dance. I like mud. Not so much when I'm wearing shoes, but overmuchly so when I'm barefoot. I even like worms and how they all come out onto the sidewalk after a downpour, creating an obstacle course to navigate. After all, you wouldn't want to kill them. I like how the ground smells earthy after the rain.
Sometimes I like the suburbs. Rain in cities is just disgusting.
big change, the choices we make
in life, gut instincts, on-the-whim
hairpin turns, the search for truth, the desire to be happy, the journey to finding out what
makes us happy.
being young and clueless, hoping
that we're not blindly leading ourselves to our own demise with every
tentative step we take, the pitfalls of dating, the trials
and travails of being a young woman in the post-feminist era.