The End.

I want the end of the world to come.

I want it to ravage our cell towers, sever our power lines, and strip us of modernized transportation.

And if we can't weather the storm, I would be more than happy to meet my maker.

A Bookstore Cafe

My dream: A bookstore cafe with poetry and coffee in its very skeleton.

I envision a coffee fountain out front, in a beautiful little garden, a fountain in which we will throw our unused coffee at the end of the day. I see little kids throwing pennies into that fountain and pulling the hands of their mothers to come inside.

I see a poetry club, a creative writing class, a photography class complete with gallery space for those pictures needing a place to call home. 

I see special events: a coffeehouse all-nighter complete with live music and string lights, book scavenger hunts, poetry slams, children's storybook time, author signings, electration-station (technology hub) complete with leather chairs and footstools.

I can taste the peppermint mocha at Christmastime, the frozen honeydew smoothies in summer.

I want to help foster a love of books in the next generation.

Someone please help me!

Sebago Book Co. and Coffee Fountain

Above: Poster concept for my fake bookstore's first event. Hey, a girl can dream.

Your Tenacious Buns

Your Tenacious Buns

Sing to me, muse! you said to me last night

when we debated the origin of the cosmos

and I told you that indeed: love is so fragile;

that linguistics alone couldn’t stand you up,

you and your tenacious buns,

your pineapple breath on Saturday nights,

on nights when the sounds of your guitar

strings dance on my eardrums,

like an elephant on a tightrope in an arboretum.

You and your twin lungs, screaming out my name

under stars and on wooden chairs by candlelight.

Love, I said, makes life askew and also,

I said, makes everything more certain

but not certain at all.

Shall I go steal quarters from the fountain?

Shall I go steal quarters from the fountain?
I will sell my clothes,
I will walk five miles,
searching in cracks of concrete for coins
on the side of the road
to see you again.

Old Poetry

Yoe, Pennsylvania

When we were eighteen,

the abandoned cigar factory in the village of Yoe

proved worthy of a Wednesday night’s entertainment

so we drove three loud cars into the back parking lot

of a building that time had forgotten

as the market shifted

from smoking rooms to radio rooms

to TV rooms in what seemed

like a few months time.

We went in, through a broken glass door on the side

that had been hastily boarded up

and warned NO TRESPASSING and no one cared.

Inside, things creaked and wires hung from the ceiling

and the only light came from our flickering dim flashlights

and the full moon outside.

There were puddles of oil on the floor,

and shredded newspapers reading 1954.

While Deddick and Dengy and Dyl

started throwing around boxes

and climbing paper bale mountains,

I envisioned cops with tasers breaking down

the door with the smashed window

and hauling us off to jail.

While you could have persuaded me otherwise,

or told me to relax and quit being so paranoid,

you said we could go outside if it would ease my mind,

so we stood guard by the door

and for once we were alone

in the bright moonlight of Yoe.

You stood with your back against the weed woods

and I with my back against the cinderblock building.

I said are you scared? and you replied no

even though it was nearing Halloween.

You wanted to kiss me,

I could see it in your eyes.

But being eighteen was hard

and we stood there like eighth graders

at a junior high dance,

arms folded awkwardly, looking down,

and then into each other’s eyes,

talking about adventure,

and calculus,

and what it might feel like to be in each other’s arms.

Hail Mary

Byzantine

Gold and copper etchings

On a blistered wood panel

Hail Mary, full of grace

On Breaking Bones

On Breaking Bones

In the style of Jeffrey Harrison

The day Danielle drowned,

I whipped Bobby with my swim cap

on the bleachers before practice.

He whipped back at me, laughing,

and chasing me up and down the slippery pool deck.

3 o’ clock! Everyone line up.

55 high school swimmers hopped in the water

like any normal Tuesday, feet first! (as always)

and swam the normal 500 yard warm-up.

It was somewhere in the second set

that normal left the building.

In lane three, me and Z stopped for a drink

when we realized everyone else had stopped as well.

There were whispers. And shouts.

Lane one! Look in lane one!

Our coach was in the water, trousers blown up

like a parachute, dress shirt soaked

like a wet t-shirt contest in Rio.

He was holding a girl. Dragging her onto the deck.

It was Danielle. My childhood friend.

And she wasn’t breathing.

Coach didn’t hesitate with CPR.

They were soaking wet, he was drenched in sweat.

We all stared as he thrust his strength into her body.

Someone called the ambulance.

They didn’t come for another seven minutes.

Coach didn’t stop for even a second,

pouring sweat onto her bare skin.

He broke her ribs. We heard them crack.

He was crying.

He couldn’t save her.

All Women Are the Same

  
   You're damn right they are.

I Love Your Mind

I love you for your mind
for the way it works and sometimes doesn't,
how you survived two semesters of organic chemistry
and I have no idea about the things you know.
I love you for your mind
for the way you laugh at sometimes funny things
and sometimes not,
how you think you look good in 90's dress clothes
and I have no idea how you pull it off.
I love you for your mind
for the way you refuse to put on your hazard lights
in a torrential downpour on the highway,
how you hate centipedes to the point of girly screams
and I have no idea how we didn't crash that day.
I love you for your mind
for the way it loses track of time and place
when we're driving home from Illinois
and accidentally end up in Michigan.

5 Minutes in 312 Beaver Hill, or 12:28 a.m.

5 Minutes in 312 Beaver Hill, or 12:28 a.m.

Toilet seat!

Turn all the lights out,

my world is changing, I'm rearranging,

and he's trying to sound like a cat while he's peeing.

My world is changing, I'm rearranging,

pick me up love, everyday.

Takin' it up, you take me up-

Tina burrito.

My world is changing, I'm rearranging.

Check it out!

I did it for you- just for you.

Why, are you some kind of retard?

My mouth... I guess that's better than the alternative.

My world is changing.

My world is changing.

...

...

ermagherd.

Blue Jeans in the City

This is what Chicago looks like when you're driving really fast on the highway

and you're trying really hard to get to a concert on time after taking a wrong turn-

when you show up-on time-and things are looking really glamorous

and you're wearing blue jeans but you really don't care.

Help Along the Way or, That Time I Got Stopped By the Police When Walking Ten Miles

Some roads are long and winding. Some are short and hilly. Some lead to paradises on mountain tops and others lead to sewage treatment plants in rusted valleys. Every road in life, I've learned, will never fail you, and if you look hard enough, while traveling, you will always find solace along the way.

It was on this road, this long and winding road, not yet a week ago, that I got stopped by a police man who had a kind face and soft eyes. I was walking from State College to Bellefonte, a 10-mile trek that I endeavor to accomplish every-other-weekend or so. Ten miles there, ten miles back. I usually run, but on this particular occasion, my curiosity for picture-taking had gotten the best of me and I knew that my camera needed to travel along. I can't run with a five-pound, awkwardly weighted contraption slung over my shoulder, so my only choice was to walk. If you've ever run some place with a destination in mind, you know that getting there is a joyous reward. So as I plodded along slowly, all I could think about was running to get to my destination faster. And I was lonely--boy, was I ever lonely. Walking ten miles solo in the middle of nowhere takes a toll on the mind and I was praying that someone...anyone...would stop in their car and ask me if I needed anything. A weary traveler I was, indeed. I just wanted someone to halt their busy day to care about an out of place wanderer.

About six miles from State College, and four miles from Bellefonte, I was on the stretch of road that would make my mother shudder and turn away as each car zoomed by. This long, forgotten stretch of road is bordered by fields and the State Correctional Institute--the one that once housed the electric chair and now boasts a lethal-injection-wing. The shoulder of the road is a mere half-foot wide and tall weeds grow along the side so that if I had to jump off of the asphalt, I may get sucked right into the dry, brown thistle plants and never come back out.

It was in this valley--between thistle giants and roguely passing tractor trailers-- that I saw the squad-car approach. My head my spinning from the hot sun. Was someone coming to rescue me from my mind and my solitude? As I continued walking, he exited the car and paced toward me from the opposite direction, young, kind. His face looked concerned. I glanced down and pulled my shirt up to cover what cleavage may have been showing. He put his hands on his hips. When we were face to face he looked at me closely.

"Hey, are you okay?" he said, gazing intently at my eyes for drug-use, tears, or some other apparent malady. 

"I'm...I'm okay.." I manage to stutter out a few phrases, my brain-washed-fear of The Law now clearly evident.

"Okay, because I saw you walking in town a few miles back and now you're all the way out here and someone radioed in to say there was a girl bawling her eyes out back there and she was movin' pretty quick..if someone's hurting you back in town, you can tell me and I can help you out. If you're trying to escape..."

I explained to him that I was sweating pretty hard and wiping it out of my eyes, which would have caused a passerby to assume the crying. I remembered my backpack, and how at first glance, I could pass for a runaway. I told him I was simply trying to get to Bellefonte to take some pictures and visit the farmer's market...that I wasn't being abused and I wasn't a hoodlum running far away. 

He looked skeptical, probably because of the uncertainty in my (annoyingly) wavering voice that I couldn't avoid (was I really talking to this policeman who didn't want to put a mark on my permanent record?)Though hesitant, he said okay, he believed me, and wished me luck on the remainder of my journey.

"Oh, and please be safe." 

I kept walking and smiled to myself. I wasn't alone. The policeman was this road's promise. 

When I got to Bellefonte, some sweet strangers took the time to talk to me, the weary traveler...a bison-meat-seller at the farmer's market, a woman who approached me as I sat on the steps of the courthouse, an old man who gazed with me at the fire remains of a newly burned-down hotel, and a woman with a puppy in an antique store housed in Bellefonte's old theatre.

On my way back to school, a middle-aged black man dressed in a suit in a really nice car pulled to the side and said he saw me on his way to work a few hours ago, and now here I was. Hi, I'm Scott. Did I need bus money? No. Was I hurt? No. Am I really doing this just for fun? Yes, I really am. I thanked the friendly man and continued on my way, smiling to myself yet again because my faith in humanity that day had been restored. 

To the kind policeman, to the strangers, and to Scott, thank you for being my help along the way.

To those of you who didn't stop to chat, to care, to ask, to give hope...may you be moved by the promise of the path that you're on.


 

the art of loneliness

   we all get a little bit 

    lonely sometimes

Emerald Water With Cars Underneath

If you've ever jumped off of a 40-foot-cliff into a deep, deep quarry, then you may know how hard it is to want to keep your feet on the ground thereafter. 

You may know that after you make the commitment to jump, time freezes and skips ahead at the same time. For the moment that you're falling, you can neither think, nor feel, nor remember. And when you hit the water with a minor sting or maybe more, your next thought is wanting to do it all over again because you've already forgotten what it feels like to fly.

Learn Me

Pick up your head when you walk in the streets

even when the rain is pouring down hard,

look around you and take your time.

Take a minute and try to learn me.

Take your eyes off the screen, 

blow up my mind with words,

sounds, decibels, vowels.

Ask me where I'm headed

and tell me where you came from.

Take a minute.

Try to learn me and you will learn you. 

Fear Is My Church

I'm singing a song that I've grown to love over the past few months and I come across the bridge and start belting at the top of my lungs what I think the lyrics are: Fear is my church.

Powerful, powerful lyrics I think to myself, and how intuitive of the artist to write such a convicting line; they fit into the song and they really, truly make me think about what has been ruling my life lately. Unfortunately, when I look up the lyrics to this song, Fear is my church is not actually the correct phrase (it's the city is my church), but a line I've crafted in my mind. But that womp womp womp moment doesn't matter. My mind has been sparked with my truth.

I've been back here at Penn State for merely 5 days and my school-time fears have already crept back into my life after the carefree, comfort of summer. The stress of my routine brings me constantly back on my guard; some devil inside of me constantly asking this condemning question: are you doing enough to get to where society says you should be?

In this question, my fears of failure, bad grades, shyness, self-consciousness, and introvertedness flood my mind. I start looking for a job. I don't get the job. I freak out, I wonder if this will affect my ability to get a "good" job after I graduate. I need money. I need experience. I need conversational business skills. I apply for 50 billion research assistantships. I get one, I have an interview for another. I don't feel too relieved. I have 21 credits. I fear that with such a course-load, I won't have time to socialize. If I don't have time to socialize, how will I dare become a normal person, able to win over my boss in the future. I'm 21 years old. I don't really want to go to the bar. I worry that if I'm not going to the bar, I will miss out on those bar-side conversations that will help me get an 'in' with the perfect crowd, the students who find time to manage school, work, and their winsome personalities. I wonder what my purpose is in this life, but I know that it's not this.

This fear is my church. I've been catering to it in my daily routine, it's been consuming my thoughts. I've been going to it in my free time, been worshiping there.

And I've never felt more convicted in my life. Never felt the need for Jesus more. My fears have been creeping into every aspect of my life and I know, deep down, that I have no need for fear. My church has been fear, but it needs to be trust. Trust in the Lord, trust in my friends, my family, myself. Instead of asking myself daily if I'm doing enough to get to where society says I should be, where man says I should be, I should be asking myself this question: am I doing enough to honor God and become the woman that he wants me to be? 

With this, I will be free from fear.


Psalm 42:

As the deer pants for streams of water,
    so my soul pants for you, my God.
² My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.
    When can I go and meet with God?
³ My tears have been my food
    day and night,
while people say to me all day long,
    “Where is your God?”
⁴ These things I remember
    as I pour out my soul:
how I used to go to the house of God
    under the protection of the Mighty One
with shouts of joy and praise
    among the festive throng.

⁵ Why, my soul, are you downcast?
    Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
    for I will yet praise him,
    my Savior and my God.

⁶ My soul is downcast within me;
    therefore I will remember you
from the land of the Jordan,
    the heights of Hermon —from Mount Mizar.
⁷ Deep calls to deep
    in the roar of your waterfalls;
all your waves and breakers
    have swept over me.

⁸ By day the Lord directs his love,
    at night his song is with me—
    a prayer to the God of my life.

⁹ I say to God my Rock,
    “Why have you forgotten me?
Why must I go about mourning,
    oppressed by the enemy?”
¹⁰ My bones suffer mortal agony
    as my foes taunt me,
saying to me all day long,
    “Where is your God?”

¹¹ Why, my soul, are you downcast?
    Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
    for I will yet praise him,
    my Savior and my God.

Holding Words In Your Hands

 
'The good parts of a book may be only something a writer is lucky enough to overhear or it may be the wreck of his whole damn life and one is as good as the other'. -Ernest Hemingway

It's summertime in Pennsylvania again, meaning the corn plants have started to shoot up and the smell of hot hay is never too far from my nostrils. Summer also means time to sit and think and observe the world that I have always known. I've been thinking of time a lot lately, the passage of it and the whole of it. From the way that it seems to pass too quickly, so quickly that I can't seem to remember what I did just a few days ago, to the way that it must have seemed so much slower so many years ago, when the residents of this land only had the corn plants to watch grow and the hay to perfect itself in order to be cut down. I wonder why I am stuck in this fast paced time where the corn plants are barely something to take notice of, where one may trample the plants without thinking of the consequences, or never smell the burn of scorched hay because their air conditioning keeps them inside the car, the home. These thoughts always bring me back to a place where I can find an appreciation for what has been and still is yet isn't seen any longer. 

My library, my precious books. 


They tell tales of seas and pastures and mountains. They hold records of births and deaths and marriages and friendships made and broken by a fireplace telling stories. My library is my peaceful thread to the past that grounds me in this wavering, tiresome future. They aren't just old books. They're books with smells unique in their pages, with newspaper clippings that previous owners have left behind. They contain notes and letters and signatures and addresses, quotes and poems and schoolwork and love songs.


To hold words in your hands, old words, is a blessing so quickly disappearing. The gold foil lettering, the crackly leather bindings, the inkblots in the ex libris notes. These blessings are too sacred to discard. 


Friends, learn from the words of our past counterparts. Let them fill your soul because they are wise and we are moving too quickly. Find solace in a book that has been passed around from mothers to daughters to neighbors to doctors to pastors to cousins to lovers. Your Kindle will light up the room only until the battery is gone. And then what will we find to hold in our hands to comfort us in times of need?

Top Outerwear Picks of the Season

The "I'm-So-Hipster-That-I'm-Not-Hipster" Jacket

The Sorority Must-Have

The Avid Sportsman Windbreaker

The Mid

In the bright light of the Indiana plains

my sister said that it’s just as she imagined:

flat, with those tall, brown Indiana plants,

perpetually tall and brown in the dead of winter,

or mid-summer, or in an unseasonably warm March.

We flew across the flat highway, passing thousands

or millions of Indiana plants trapped

in their lonely, tall brownness along I-80.

I thought of you at the end of our journey,

waiting at the end of our straight and narrow path,

waiting in Chicago, where the Indiana plants

are replaced with industrial-looking things and

rich Midwesterners thinking they’re as chic

as the east coast or the west when in fact

they’re just caught in the middle of the long road;

pioneers who settled before they reached

the final destination.

And you- waiting for us in the middle,

where we’ve flown to and driven to from

our home on the east coast, you wait

for me with open arms and show me that

being in the  middle isn’t so very bad.

Glissade

The first bit of my first draft of a short story:

It was not yet dusk but the light from the sun ran down the city blocks, away from the Great lake, as though it was looking for somewhere happier to dwell. At seven o’clock, I fled my dormant Uptown penthouse for the riveting South Side, grabbing a gray suit jacket off of the hook in the hallway to combat the Chicago wind; autumn had set in prematurely this year. It was Friday night and I had no curfew.

My old weekend standby was Millie Ette ’s jazz room, The Zanzibar, on the corner of State and Ohio. Tonight promised to be particularly crowded with locals and tourists alike, as King Oliver was purportedly making his way in at ten o’clock. I walked a few blocks obliviously before noticing the unusual stillness of air. No wind was whipping and summer kept its grasp on the porch railings longer than I could remember from previous years. As I looked around the city, sparkles of golden light pranced around from street corner to store front. Young women flouncing excitedly held hands, crossing streets in groups of four or five and made their way to clubs with newfound freedom and mirth. Several families with drooping children lingered on the sidewalks, the oldest sibling sometimes held the leash of a household dog.  The school week had tired the children whom had been eager to learn Pythagoras’ theorem and the capital of Poland. They were nearing home and would be promptly put to bed, tucked in as their parents went off to sip red wine at the coffee table.

Everywhere businessmen stumbled back home from the bar to change clothes and eat dinner with waiting wives greeting them with rouge lipstick and a roast turkey. They too would soon be headed off to The Zanzibar in hopes of locking eyes with the wild jazz King.

            I approached South Side through a portal seemingly comprised of silvery cloth, vast pearls, and rubies and emeralds. My mother would have fainted at the sight of beautiful, daring women spanning the streets who were far from modest and had men around them smirking. Outside of the Zanzibar, waiting in line, I am pushed off of the concrete sidewalk curb by a dark, bulky man with an entourage and an Italian leather briefcase.

“This here the club,” the bulky man pointing, said in a heavy accent to the dark man behind him, “tell the…Ms. Eberly that she gotta act good tonight, or else Sacristi’s gonna be real mad.”

What kind of actor was Ms. Eberly and why did her good standing with Sacristi depend on her job performance? I finally had come to the entrance of the club: a thick, solid cherry wood door.

“’Evening, Mr. Thompson. I apologize for the wait tonight, as you know, the jazz king is coming here! Please follow me to your suite, right this way.” The bowtied doorman extended his arm toward me.

Inside, a few sultry horns were playing low notes on a corner stage and gorgeous women were dancing below it. Four of them in black tasseled fringe dresses moved their strong, rounded hips to the smoky sounds. Flanking them was a fifth, a lone dancer in the front, perhaps the most sensuous woman I had encountered. Golden wavy locks flowed beyond her graceful shoulder blades, flaunted by the emerald green bodice of her flowing gown. 

United We Stand

The nation is in a state of reverence and remembrance as we commemorate the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks. As I reflect on the things that are going on around me, I see the spirit of American in everyone. At one of the largest party schools in the country and amongst a generation sadly known for their selfishness and "me" attitude, I see a body of young citizens who care more about their world than some might think. Walking past a huge on-campus fraternity house, the one where raging parties are thrown and beer is consumed by the gallon, I stop to see a huge, white banner across the front facade. United We Stand. A small tribute, surely, yet it says something quite profound. Pray for peace and comfort for all those affected and let us remember those who lost their lives that day. God Bless America.

le Drug Rug

This is a drug rug. ^

The Effects Of A Drug Rug
(a psychological interrogation of the mind, by B. N. Truscott)

      It starts with a notion: I think I'll try on one of those popular(ish), hippie subculture hoodies that we see on Mexicans and pot heads. As I ponder the reactions I'll get from family and (not quite) highschool-caliber-stereotypes from my college friends, I further question the underlying effects of wearing the so-called drug rug. Will I be judged? Will my alliances change? Will professors think lowly of me simply for my outfit, a drastic change from my bland, simple, and classically modest wardrobe?

      Just what DOES happen to the psyche when you slip one on? Here are a few real life answers from friends that were asked this very question.

-If they wear it in the rain, they'll become a wet dog
-They scream to the world 'I'm a stoner'
-Itchiness depends on rug quality
-Instantaneous idealism in the category of physical and emotional relaxation 
-What's a drug rug? (4 different people)
-It makes you feel like a hippie
-They're fucking weird to wear that ugly thing
-They think that it's okay to smoke pot
-Interesting question.. 
-I will wear mine tomorrow and share my findings with you :)
-They get stereotyped
-You look like a druggie
-No effects, people just wear them because they are comfortable
-I might be smart, but I'm not street smart...what's a drug rug?
-It will make you feel tainted and separated from society emotionally because of the negative stigma placed on them. It would probably have adverse effects on your self-esteem and happiness as well. Also, the colors and patterns on some of the ones that I googled seemed like they would make you feel tripped out by just looking at them.



Various participants didn't know what I was talking about when I asked the question, so I had to describe what a drug rug was...after my clarification, one friend asserted her understanding: Oh! So a drugged hemp poncho thing?...yes, exactly. But apparently this person wasn't completely sure she knew what a drug rug really was....her answer to my question was this: Well, drug residue could be left on seats, exposing others to this drug. It could be given to animals. The persons kidneys/liver could fail due to constant exposure to this drug, which would not allow either organ to have enough time to process the drug. God bless her. To her response, I gave back a quick thank you and she replied: Anytime! Or if someone took it off because they were hot, they could leave it somewhere by accident. Or die of heatstroke because they were too hot and couldn't take it off.

An old friend of mine asks if I'm talking about a person who always wears one, or someone who slips one on randomly. We're going to go with randomly. What happens when someone who has never worn one in their life slips on a baja hoodie?

I feel that this response merits a highlight: Wow, you go out and party once and all of a sudden you're wearing a drug rug...well be prepared for judgement from the rest of the respectable population who probably will think you have an obsession for Bob Marley and smokin' the reefer., and this has already changed your language because you used the word 'homies' in a text.

Another reply worth noting: Psych-wise, they probs think that they are a druggie and/or social outcast. Physically they may feel they are high which may cause addiction to the drug rug as a symbol of that comfort zone that they are in while high. May release more dopamine into brain, which causes more dopamine receptors per neuron = more addiction.  

I believe it's safe to say (after reading these responses), if I choose to wear a drug rug, I will surely have to pay for it. I may be called a pot head, or a druggie, and least reputation tainting of them all, a hippie.

But alas, I'll simply be a girl, in a starchy cotton thread hoodie, wishing to express her love of culture and class.

Old Soul

You read the past in some old faces. -William Makepeace Thackeray

 Old things rock. I've always been an old soul, reading books about the pioneers and Native Americans and Englishmen from the eighteenth century when I was just a little girl. I'd get lost in my books about history, soaking up as much knowledge of the past as my mind could handle. When I was six, I asked my Grandma K. to teach me to sew. We made handmade doll clothes and pillows in an age where little girls were playing with plastic Bratz dolls and Spice Girls karaoke. I love my old books, a collection I started in high school. They symbolize so much more than age and cracked leather bindings and yellowed pages. They are the end of an era that no longer exists.

 

Some of my favorite old things, all original photography, except the picture of myself and the 70's picture of my beautiful grandparents, Florence and Raymond Kriner.

Phi Gamma Delta

Violent flashes of color
        greet the visitor as she stands in the staircase of a castle in the midst of the modern world.
The floor is shiny and wet though she knows not why, for it may be water or beer or perspirant, or some ungodly combination of the three.
              Above, the ground shakes as fifty-five pairs of feet (some bare, some shoed) dance in the cult of collegiate drunkeness. Someone offers up a smoke and you deny politely.
    'So where are you from; what's your major, isn't this music the best'
                 ('I know of ten thousand places that I'd rather be than right here; but I'll never let you know that')
'From York, possibly pre-med, or maybe sociology, and yes, it's really the bomb'
              'I'll be here all night. Hit me up. You want a beer? We'll shotgun all night long'
   From Saudi Arabia to Germany and Pennsylvania to California; drinking, sweating, talking, humming, moving, stumbling, falling.
                          'Teach me how to dance Saudi Arabian.'
'They do it like this is Bahrain. No dancing really around my place. No drinking. No girls. No gambling'
                     He moves his hands and feet with the beat of the green laser strobe light. And I may never find my way home in the dark.
                                   But I eventually do, with my shoes in my hand.

             What is this strange ritual thing that we do?

The New Organon

'Nature to the commanded must be obeyed.' -Francis Bacon (1620)

Lately my thoughts have been focused on technology through time and it's path. Well, that and how I need to go to the gym, stop drinking Starbucks, and figure out a way to get a 4.0 GPA this semester. There are three recognized paths that technology can take: 1) From the beginning of the world, technology was at it's height because everything was natural and the way God intended it to be. Since then, it's only gotten "worse" and has gone downhill, and it continues to do so with each passing year. 2) In the beginning was darkness and since the beginning, technology has only gone up, up, up; it increases and becomes better with every passing year. And 3) When God created the world, technology started to increase and help the lives of the people who lived in the world. When God returns, time will stop and thus technology will cease, therefore showing a stop/start/stop pattern.

What do you believe?

Underwater Wine

The Sequoia Review:

Today the New York Times told me about some cutting edge underwater vineyard deal in Italy. Dude, they take the vine, bottle it, and put it in a cage under the sea for twelve or thirteen months. When it's ready, it comes up like Bronzi di Riace, glass covered in sea life. The bottle goes for at least 70 euros. I'd pay it. It's not on the market yet in the US, but for all of you 21ers out there, do me a favor and partake in this fab delicacy. I'll have to wait another ten months.

Reckless & Abandon

My sister's name is Reckless. And my cousin is Abandon. That's how they were packaged from birth, came into this world just four days apart, on two sunny days in May.

Tomorrow marks the day that they embark on their journey into the real world as they begin college at the same small Christian school in a little Pennsylvania town.

I want to dedicate this post to their childhood, to our childhood, spent together during summers on a crystal lake in Maine and on carousels at Knoebels, in transmission-blown minivans and 25-year-old station wagons, on boats and trains and planes and above and below waterfalls; I give this post to those good times. We've climbed mountains, raked millions of leaves and shoveled tons of dirt; we sang to the old and sick and laughed with a traveling, snorting acting troupe. We've walked on bridges and through tunnels, eaten thousands of ice cream cones together, and applied countless squirts of sunblock. We've giggled through twenty minute long prayers in church and got lost in the wilderness. We swam through snapping turtle cove, and have gazed at trees one hundred and thirty-seven times our height. To Jess and Shannan, our Reckless and Abandon, you made childhood one heck of a ride. Thanks for the joy and the tears and for your freckles and beautiful eyes. You are a pair that have made our family complete.

A fitting quote that I read today above the sink in a dingy college apartment at around midnight tonight states simply this: Once you get to where you're going, don't forget where you've come from. Girls, remember this as you venture out into this next state of your life. Remember who loves you more than life. We're all here for you, we're praying, and we know that you are going to brighten up the lives of those around you. Keep shining and growing and let others see your passion for Jesus.

Live life with reckless abandon.

My Reckless.

My Abandon.

Men and Football

There is some innate knowledge inborn in males regarding the American sport of football. Of this truth I am certain. You can spend countless hours with a particular man and won't recall him learning of the latest sports scores or who-got-traded-to-what-team while in your presence but all of a sudden you're at the mall and he runs into his buddy and suddenly he's a sports commentator (he knows his stuff too!). When, you think to yourself, did he learn all of these facts? Where were you when he was catching up on the fact that so-and-so graduated from Oregon and is now playing for the Eagles or the Steelers (or..well, what's the difference between the two?). You could have sworn that you spent every waking moment with him but he still somehow knew the Jet's stats from this season and the past five.

We women may never understand the capability of the male mind when he is in sports mode. His attention to detail and his concise diction have us astounded and wondering why he isn't this knowledgeable when is comes to cleaning the house.

On The Edge

If you ask a middle aged man what his definition of "living on the edge" is, he might tell you that it's "wearing white after labor day". He might also tell you that it means driving 20 miles outside of town, or it's an eighty-year-old-woman wearing booty shorts. Either way, today I realized that everyone has a different level of 'comfort zone' and while hiking Mt. Everest may be an impossible, dangerous feat for somebody, it's a regular old journey for another.

Photos below from a romantic evening on my back porch. To create a romantic getaway in 5 minutes, simply find all of the candles in your house, place them within a five foot radius, and light them. Add a guitar or other soft music, some sweet dessert, and the man of your dreams :)

A Poem For My Dear Cousin Matt

Eau de Toilette
My father nicknamed you “imp” for a reason.
You may be able to bench press me,
I may be more dramatic and prissy at times (it’s called PMS),
My bicep width may be the understudy of your fattest finger,
You may know that Louis the 9th was sainted in 1297, but
I haven’t even finished seventh grade.
My birth order is no reason to pinch me purple,
You know that cousins are supposed to be congenial.
I’m always accused of your shenanigans—
the hidden wallet, the “lost” necklace…
My sister even knows that you’re to blame.
You think Grandpa doesn’t notice you kicking me
under the table at dinnertime prayers when
I’m the one getting in trouble for the stifled giggles.
But he does. And your mother knows who
started the cousin fight last weekend at the lake.
I think that it’s about time to turn things around.
That toothbrush you just used—
it was rinsed in the toilet.