Storms. What beauty they bring to the world. Literally, metaphorically, emotionally, mentally, physically...ad infinitum. There must be a reason that the crux of the chaos is called "the eye of the storm". We all know what greatness, truth, and vulnerability the eye symbolizes.
It was last night when I was thinking about storms. I was sitting up on my bed, back against the wall, toiling over a big decision that had to be made. I had been so saturated in the process for several hours that my brain literally hurt. I'm not the headache type, so this was odd and I knew that the best thing I could do was rest my mind for the remaining hours of the evening.
set my head back, slightly stretching the front of my neck, and invited the silence. If a thought drifted through, I would watch it go by and dissolve. I suppose you could call it a sort of meditation. [Funny, I initially wrote "medication"...Freudian Slip?]. Rain was falling furiously onto the cement below my window. And then I felt it...that pang for Spring; a pang I have been feeling a lot recently.
I realized what it is I appreciate most about Spring, perhaps my favorite season. Not just the rain, but the storms. People often complain about April and how 'miserable' it is, but I think just the opposite. When the wind is powerfully whipping around every building corner, rain coming at you horizontally, umbrellas flipping inside-out, ripples dancing in the continuously growing puddles...that's when you know everything is coming to life. Yes, yes, true. BUT, it is the post-storm atmosphere in which I relish. Everything is wet, the street is still silent, hesitant to bustle quite yet, people push their hoods back and look up. And then there's the smell and the fresh crispness to the air. Mud, bark, earth, cement...there are those few minutes, that gap in time, between vitality of the storm, it's halt, and the reigniting of human perambulation. It's those few moments when you feel like you must tread softly, hold your breath, honor the magic.
**************************************************
Speaking of magical things, streets, etc. Here is a little clip of me dancing in the streets of Paris ::sigh:: I believe a European trip is necessary sometime in the near(ish) future...
*************************************************
I want to share a Jack Gilbert poem. It was in The New Yorker today.
Waiting and Finding
While he was in kindergarten, everybody wanted to play
the tomtoms when it came time for that. You had to
run in order to get there first, and he would not.
So he always had a triangle. He does not remember
how they played the tomtoms, but he sees clearly
their Chinese look. Red with dragons front and back
and gold studs around that held the drumhead tight.
If you had a triangle, you didn’t really make music.
You mostly waited while the tambourines and tomtoms
went on a long time. Until there was a signal for all
triangle people to hit them the right way. Usually once.
Then it was tomtoms and waiting some more. But what
he remembers is the sound of the triangle. A perfect,
shimmering sound that has lasted all his long life.
Fading out and coming again after a while. Getting lost
and the waiting for it to come again. Waiting meaning
without things. Meaning love sometimes dying out,
sometimes being taken away. Meaning that often he lives
silent in the middle of the world’s music. Waiting
for the best to come again. Beginning to hear the silence
as he waits. Beginning to like the silence maybe too much.
*****************************************************************
I would normally say something about the poem, but I'll allow the silence...
*****************************************************************
I'm a lucky, lucky girl
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
If you want to know what Infinity feels like, just close your eyes...
No matter what my mood- anxious, sad, ecstatic, confused, worried, apathetic, angry, lonely, overwhelmed, etc.- Yann Tiersen's "Comptine d'un autre Ete" always feels like a long, smooth, clean sweep of air into my lungs. A certain warm calm washes over me, from head to toe. Listen (and while this video is, admittedly, kind of cool, I recommend drawing your lids and creating your own visions of the notes):
Yann Tiersen - Comtine D'un Autre Ete from Thunder Down Country on Vimeo.
*********************************************************************
Also, when it comes to matters of the heart--> if you don't know, the answer is probably "no".
Double also, I want to see this: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=100874724
*********************************************************************
Ja, es muss sein!
Yann Tiersen - Comtine D'un Autre Ete from Thunder Down Country on Vimeo.
*********************************************************************
Also, when it comes to matters of the heart--> if you don't know, the answer is probably "no".
Double also, I want to see this: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=100874724
*********************************************************************
Ja, es muss sein!
Friday, February 20, 2009
"Beauty by Mistake"-- the final phase in the history of beauty
I had one of those toss, turn, twist, open, close, on, off, hot, cold, noisy, silent nights last night. I don't think I actually fell asleep until 4:30AM. Usually I fall asleep fairly quickly and remain in my comfy cloud, cozy 'til the sun seeps through my shades.
Anyway, as awful and annoying as it was, there was one cool thing. Or, observation. I noticed that every 20 minutes or so, I would begin to slip into a dream state, or the Alpha State. What was interesting is this (and I have been aware of this for years, this is just the first time I am processing/analyzing it):
My consciousnesses (let's say two: conscious and subconscious) slipped into a very unique state as I stepped back as a quiet, detached voyeur. The only way I can think to describe the parts of my consciousness is as a venn diagram. [see above]
It's like I was watching myself slip into a dream. Both consciousnesses were functioning autonomously, in a way, yet were acutely aware of the beginnings of their interaction. Still not making sense? Basically, I would be lying on my back, or side, or stomach, or upside down, or on the floor, eyes closed....thinking. Thinking normal thoughts: I hope I remembered to set my alarm. I wonder what that humming noise is. I should get some real window shades one of these days. And so on...
THEN, this is when the venn diagram (ish) thing comes into play. I am guessing R.E.M. kicked in and suddenly these sentences in my mind began to morph. Things like this would effortlessly float through my mind. I would take subtle notice of them, but they, like the other sentences, seemed normal. Phrases like this (and these are a few thing I actually remember from last night): Make sure the elephants have their rollerblades. The yellow chick fuzz is covering the pebble-filled beach. Fairies go to the grocery store to get cartons of milk.
Messed up, right? You can imagine how my dreams are one they're in full swing. Anyway, after several of these utterly nonsensical group of words (accompanied by lovely images that I truly wish I could show you), my consciousness (lurking in the back, aware of how odd these sentences are, but allowing them to flow) would take over the subconscious, my eyes would roll back into "seeing position", lids would open and I would be left staring at the ceiling thinking: "What? Elephants and rollerblades? Mice swimming through peanut butter rivers?" [I think the last one was triggered by the fact that I had peanut butter M&Ms before bed and as I laid down I recalled the fact that people are supposed to avoid peanut butter products like that due to the recent outbreak of Salmonella Typhimurium...oops]
What's my point? That was it. I don't really have one...but it is pretty amazing to catch yourself in the ellipse in the middle of that venn diagram, where you can somewhat consciously watch your crazy subconscious mind. Am I alone here?
Anyone, anyone?
::cricket......cricket::
***********************************************************************
I had a very interesting encounter today with a very important woman, but will describe that another time.
Did you know that Yorkie dogs were bred specifically to kill rats? I guess I am behind the times on this. According to the beautiful Abigail Miller, everybody knows that. It is common knowledge. Well, well, maybe I'm just not so common! Humph!
Then Abs asked me to tell her a story, and I did. I thought it was pretty great. Then it ended. "That story sucked," Abigail whined, "there was no conflict." Apparently finding a fire-breathing dragon in one's fridge isn't conflictual enough for her. Not only that! Later in my magnificently-woven tale, the protagonist, Plain Jane, happens to meet up with the dragon again and is scorched by flames and has to walk back to her apartment with nothing but the black, burnt shreds of her clothes covering her body. Oh, but, you know...no conflict. GEEZ, Abs!
***********************************************************************
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Memories, like mohair sweaters/ Stretched and pilled faux distressed letters
It seems as though this is Video Day...
You may or may not know of my love for Andrew Bird. From Chicago, this insanely talented musician is classically trained, but has turned convention on it's head. He strums the violin as if it were a guitar and then transitions into the most beautiful tones, he whips his guitar around from back to front and plucks and bangs. He is a self-proclaimed "professional whistler" and his clear whistle is an instrument itself. AND, I haven't even touched on the subject of how sweet his voice is and how incredibly masterful, eloquent, and thought-provoking his lyrics are. I was introduced to his music while in France and then last fall he performed in Burlington. I don't think I took one breath during the entire show.
Yes, yes, I know it seems like I am speaking waaay too highly of this man, but just trust me on this one. He's truly a master of his craft...and what's even more appealing is how passionate he is. :::sigh::: It may be safe to say that I have a not-so-secret crush on this wonder of a man. That's not the point though, his music is a light that should enter your life, if it has not yet done so. The following are a few clips...enjoy
Andrew Bird - From the Basement from QandnotU on Vimeo.
Andrew Bird - Nervous Tick Motion from Brandon on Vimeo.
Andrew Bird Live at the Orpheum from Hans Sicker on Vimeo.
And just to get it out of my system (I hereby promise not to go on another Andrew Bird rant, at least not on this blog), here are some more goodies:
Official Website--
http://www.andrewbird.net/
NPR: All Things Considered, 2/13/09 interview--
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=100239360
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
...and maybe we're all an extension of another's grand gesture
Yesterday, again! I was walking along St. Marks ...cold winds, colorful sounds, random smells, and then there it was! I literally stepped on it. I was astounded and said aloud, "WHAT?!". Remember that "become your dream" with the little goldfish next to it written on the mattress? SAME thing on the sidewalk. Someone had written it with chalk. I looked all around me, searching for clues, thinking this must be some new phrase/theme/logo for something. But no, everything around it was in no way linked to this message. Still, I am blown away. This is not just a little sign from the universe, it is the universe shoving this command into my face: JULIA-- BECOME YOUR DREAM! Ok, ok, I will, I will! I want nothing more than to become my dream. And I feel it, I do...I know exactly what it will feel like when my dream and I can no longer be distinguished from one another.
*********************************************************************
Perhaps I should get a little pet goldfish? I'm not so much a fish person though. Been there, tried that. Hate changing the water bowl. Last year, Katherine and I had two fish. We named them "Infinity" and "Beyond". Within three days, Beyond went, well, beyond. We had a nice little ceremony for him in our little backyard. We buried him in the hard November ground, made a nice little tombstone (K: do you remember what the stone said?) and each said a few words to our beloved.
Infinity was suddenly not as cool, with his co-bowl dweller in the ground. We loved him all the same, but soon became accustomed to neglecting to wash his bowl. It began to REEK. I kid you not, for about a week we thought that our apartment had sewage problems...infinity's bowl had a home on our kitchen table, a few feet from the bathroom. One day I came home from class to find a kitchen table top, smooth, bare. Katherine came out of her room and declared that she had figured out the smell. It was Infinity's water! Instead of cleaning it, she had moved it to the basement. This is one of the many reasons I love this girl. I would have done the same exact thing. For the next week or so, one of us would trek to the basement, hold our breath, and light some incense before dashing upstairs to suck in some fresh air. Soon even the incense wouldn't suffice. You may be thinking, "umm...why didn't you just buck up and clean the water?". A good point, and I understand your position. But I think that since we had already gone through so much to avoid the act of cleaning the bowl, cleaning it was 100% out of the picture. It became more of a question of morals/principles, rather than practicality...regardless of how weird/skewed those morals/principles were. Trust me, it made sense at the time.
Eventually our dear friend and goldfish lover, Magdalena, claimed she wanted to adopt Infinity. Katherine and I both let out a weak and unconvincing, "aww, give up Infinity?". 2 minutes later: boom, Infinity was in good hands and our apartment smelled of flowers once again.
About a month and a half later Infinity died. The cause? Grief, I think. He never was the same without Beyond.
So no, I don't think the Universe is telling me to get a goldfish...but I do like the idea of it.
And then there's the time Katherine found a dead bird in our backyard and placed in on our steps...and there it rested for a week or so. Then that, too, we laid to rest. But that's another tale for another day.
*********************************************************************
I want to be an old woman in Europe. Meaning, when I become old (70+), I refuse to turn into an American zombie. I want to create, create, create, forever. Everyday of my life I will create, in some way. And I will know that I have lived the way I want to live when my corporeal self dies and I continue to create...for years and years.
*********************************************************************
It's amazing what an effect you can have on somebody's life without even knowing it
*******************************************************************
If you were to name the four strongest human emotions/states of being (genres, whatever), what would you say? I am having difficulty thinking of a fourth. Here's my tentative list:
1. Happiness, ecstasy, bliss, joy
2. Sorrow, grief, depression, loneliness
3. Rage, anger, destructive, furious
4. _________________________________
Here are a few thoughts, but I just...hm...well, here they are:
-utter compassion/empathy
-pity
-apathy
...?
**********************************************************************
In case you haven't noticed, I'm a big fan of the ellipses. I stick them in everywhere. I think they stand in for what I'm feeling...or when I just feel and have no words. I've always known myself to be a particularly sentient being and, well, sometimes...ellipses.
********************************************************************
That's all for tonight. Thanks for stopping by
********************************************************************
Tyger, tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
*********************************************************************
Perhaps I should get a little pet goldfish? I'm not so much a fish person though. Been there, tried that. Hate changing the water bowl. Last year, Katherine and I had two fish. We named them "Infinity" and "Beyond". Within three days, Beyond went, well, beyond. We had a nice little ceremony for him in our little backyard. We buried him in the hard November ground, made a nice little tombstone (K: do you remember what the stone said?) and each said a few words to our beloved.
Infinity was suddenly not as cool, with his co-bowl dweller in the ground. We loved him all the same, but soon became accustomed to neglecting to wash his bowl. It began to REEK. I kid you not, for about a week we thought that our apartment had sewage problems...infinity's bowl had a home on our kitchen table, a few feet from the bathroom. One day I came home from class to find a kitchen table top, smooth, bare. Katherine came out of her room and declared that she had figured out the smell. It was Infinity's water! Instead of cleaning it, she had moved it to the basement. This is one of the many reasons I love this girl. I would have done the same exact thing. For the next week or so, one of us would trek to the basement, hold our breath, and light some incense before dashing upstairs to suck in some fresh air. Soon even the incense wouldn't suffice. You may be thinking, "umm...why didn't you just buck up and clean the water?". A good point, and I understand your position. But I think that since we had already gone through so much to avoid the act of cleaning the bowl, cleaning it was 100% out of the picture. It became more of a question of morals/principles, rather than practicality...regardless of how weird/skewed those morals/principles were. Trust me, it made sense at the time.
Eventually our dear friend and goldfish lover, Magdalena, claimed she wanted to adopt Infinity. Katherine and I both let out a weak and unconvincing, "aww, give up Infinity?". 2 minutes later: boom, Infinity was in good hands and our apartment smelled of flowers once again.
About a month and a half later Infinity died. The cause? Grief, I think. He never was the same without Beyond.
So no, I don't think the Universe is telling me to get a goldfish...but I do like the idea of it.
And then there's the time Katherine found a dead bird in our backyard and placed in on our steps...and there it rested for a week or so. Then that, too, we laid to rest. But that's another tale for another day.
*********************************************************************
I want to be an old woman in Europe. Meaning, when I become old (70+), I refuse to turn into an American zombie. I want to create, create, create, forever. Everyday of my life I will create, in some way. And I will know that I have lived the way I want to live when my corporeal self dies and I continue to create...for years and years.
*********************************************************************
It's amazing what an effect you can have on somebody's life without even knowing it
*******************************************************************
If you were to name the four strongest human emotions/states of being (genres, whatever), what would you say? I am having difficulty thinking of a fourth. Here's my tentative list:
1. Happiness, ecstasy, bliss, joy
2. Sorrow, grief, depression, loneliness
3. Rage, anger, destructive, furious
4. _________________________________
Here are a few thoughts, but I just...hm...well, here they are:
-utter compassion/empathy
-pity
-apathy
...?
**********************************************************************
In case you haven't noticed, I'm a big fan of the ellipses. I stick them in everywhere. I think they stand in for what I'm feeling...or when I just feel and have no words. I've always known myself to be a particularly sentient being and, well, sometimes...ellipses.
********************************************************************
That's all for tonight. Thanks for stopping by
********************************************************************
Tyger, tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
These Things I Keep
I'm stringing together a necklace
of all my favorite words,
amber, fire, churn, and press,
hush, sweep, your caress.
Skin, skin,
rouse,
begin.
When it's final, complete,
the waltz of the letters
will rest
upon my chest, whispering as feathers,
breath, sweeping and swooping,
dipping and daring.
Skin, skin,
rouse,
begin.
Adorning, always, the jewels
bound--association,
fragrant memory. Tools
of my mind, reconstructing
the stories that lull
me into a deep slumber, night
after night.
Skin, skin,
rouse,
begin.
Buds, distant, deep, and wise.
These and more
behind my eyes.
Heart, tickle, hip, and skies,
around my neck,
in far off cries.
Skin, skin,
rouse,
begin.
of all my favorite words,
amber, fire, churn, and press,
hush, sweep, your caress.
Skin, skin,
rouse,
begin.
When it's final, complete,
the waltz of the letters
will rest
upon my chest, whispering as feathers,
breath, sweeping and swooping,
dipping and daring.
Skin, skin,
rouse,
begin.
Adorning, always, the jewels
bound--association,
fragrant memory. Tools
of my mind, reconstructing
the stories that lull
me into a deep slumber, night
after night.
Skin, skin,
rouse,
begin.
Buds, distant, deep, and wise.
These and more
behind my eyes.
Heart, tickle, hip, and skies,
around my neck,
in far off cries.
Skin, skin,
rouse,
begin.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Plop!
Excerpts of the ceaseless one-sided conversation within my mind will splatter onto the intangible cyber pages of this blog. So here we go...
First, you should know that at any given time I have at least five unrelated thoughts, impressions, theories, or questions whizzing through my head.
Sometimes they may be worth mentioning: What's the deal with Hyper Postmodernism? Who will publish my words when they're ready? Where in this wild world will I be in ten, twenty, fifty years?! Really, what happened to Amelia Earhart? Amelia, I like that name. Maybe stick it in my back pocket for potential daughter's name.
...and sometimes not: Why is the mullet still in existence? Why was it ever? Why are these people in front of me walking so slowly? I wonder if pesto would be good on a burger...of course it would. Do ants have ears? How many times have my apartment walls been re-painted?
My point is, much like my stream of thought, this blog will probably be non-linear, confusing and seemingly random.
* * * * * * *
I like that there are seven asterisks there. Nine is good too. And three, three is my favorite. Which is why I like nine: three times three.
"Asterisk" is a weird word. I had to look it up: Asterisk: ( * )The root of the word, "Aster", is a conjugation of the greek word "Astro-", a prefix meaning "star" (as in "heavenly body"). Therefore, the asterisk is drawn like a twinkling star, in a raised position to symbolize the fact that it is above everything else.
Not too helpful. I knew "aster" meant star, but why the "risk"? The risky star.
In general, I'm apprehensive about firsts. As in, this is my first blog entry so I feel like it should be significant, eloquent, meaningful. It is and will probably continue to be none of those things. I have put off essays, stories and poems due to a fear of the first word or line. I always feel a little strange on the first of the month, thinking it is a new beginning of sorts and should therefore be a near-perfect day. I find myself walking around holding my breath and an alarmingly superficial sense of optimism. I can delve into that some other day though.
BUT, as with all of my writing, my fingers will move with the speed of my silent words and my eyes will not return to the top. Editing doesn't currently exist in my world and "polished" is a term I avoid. All I strive for is sudden rawness, which is what comes when I turn off the super-ego (thanks, Freud).
I want my writing (my real writing: poems, essays, plays....not this blog) to be an unexpected burst or gash; sunlight in your eyes when you weren't expecting it, a twig breaking skin as you're treking through a dark forest, or unexplained goosebumps.
OK, I think I am done for now.
Oh, one more thing: I have noticed that many of my experiences lately have been marked by smell or sound. This is a shift that has taken place within me. I wonder what it means, if anything. Usually upon remembering things I will recreate them, visually, behind closed eyes. Lately this has been different. I will recall only scents (sweetness in the air, gravel in the park), only voices, machines, birds, wind, or feet shuffling along the ground. If an image comes to mind, it'll be only a detail, rather than a full picture. The man's bitten fingernails on the subway, the crack in the woman's lip on the plane, the child's wild, sweaty curls in the park...
I was walking to the subway today and there was an old, tattered mattress sleeping on the edge of the sidewalk. Somebody had written on it with a thick, black Sharpie: "Become your dreams". Beside the letters, they drew a little goldfish. And I don't know why, but it definitely felt like a natural image to accompany the phrase. It didn't even phase me until I was on the subway a few hours later. Why a goldfish and why, like the person who had written on the mattress, did it seem perfectly right to me? I looked up "goldfish symbolism" when I got home (also FYI: complete nerd) and discovered that they typically represent gold, wealth, abundance and harmony. I wonder if the mattress graffiti artist was aware of this. Maybe his/her subconscious knew they were writing of dreams and that they wanted all of those things and therefore shot a goldfish to their hand and through the marker. Hmm...
Ok, this post is going to awkwardly end now...but the first will be done and the rest will be more natural, as the pressure will be off.
Current reads: "The Unbearable Lightness of Being", Milan Kundera and "The Archaeology of Knowledge and the Discourse on Language", Michel Foucault
As the days dance by, there are a few things I definitely want to ponder via blog--
Airports
Sidewalk rage
Old Age
Birthday Gifts
Magic/the extraordinary
Signs
Street Meat
FedEx inefficiency
The art of the perfect cappuccino
Thanks for bearing with the first...
First, you should know that at any given time I have at least five unrelated thoughts, impressions, theories, or questions whizzing through my head.
Sometimes they may be worth mentioning: What's the deal with Hyper Postmodernism? Who will publish my words when they're ready? Where in this wild world will I be in ten, twenty, fifty years?! Really, what happened to Amelia Earhart? Amelia, I like that name. Maybe stick it in my back pocket for potential daughter's name.
...and sometimes not: Why is the mullet still in existence? Why was it ever? Why are these people in front of me walking so slowly? I wonder if pesto would be good on a burger...of course it would. Do ants have ears? How many times have my apartment walls been re-painted?
My point is, much like my stream of thought, this blog will probably be non-linear, confusing and seemingly random.
* * * * * * *
I like that there are seven asterisks there. Nine is good too. And three, three is my favorite. Which is why I like nine: three times three.
"Asterisk" is a weird word. I had to look it up: Asterisk: ( * )The root of the word, "Aster", is a conjugation of the greek word "Astro-", a prefix meaning "star" (as in "heavenly body"). Therefore, the asterisk is drawn like a twinkling star, in a raised position to symbolize the fact that it is above everything else.
Not too helpful. I knew "aster" meant star, but why the "risk"? The risky star.
In general, I'm apprehensive about firsts. As in, this is my first blog entry so I feel like it should be significant, eloquent, meaningful. It is and will probably continue to be none of those things. I have put off essays, stories and poems due to a fear of the first word or line. I always feel a little strange on the first of the month, thinking it is a new beginning of sorts and should therefore be a near-perfect day. I find myself walking around holding my breath and an alarmingly superficial sense of optimism. I can delve into that some other day though.
BUT, as with all of my writing, my fingers will move with the speed of my silent words and my eyes will not return to the top. Editing doesn't currently exist in my world and "polished" is a term I avoid. All I strive for is sudden rawness, which is what comes when I turn off the super-ego (thanks, Freud).
I want my writing (my real writing: poems, essays, plays....not this blog) to be an unexpected burst or gash; sunlight in your eyes when you weren't expecting it, a twig breaking skin as you're treking through a dark forest, or unexplained goosebumps.
OK, I think I am done for now.
Oh, one more thing: I have noticed that many of my experiences lately have been marked by smell or sound. This is a shift that has taken place within me. I wonder what it means, if anything. Usually upon remembering things I will recreate them, visually, behind closed eyes. Lately this has been different. I will recall only scents (sweetness in the air, gravel in the park), only voices, machines, birds, wind, or feet shuffling along the ground. If an image comes to mind, it'll be only a detail, rather than a full picture. The man's bitten fingernails on the subway, the crack in the woman's lip on the plane, the child's wild, sweaty curls in the park...
I was walking to the subway today and there was an old, tattered mattress sleeping on the edge of the sidewalk. Somebody had written on it with a thick, black Sharpie: "Become your dreams". Beside the letters, they drew a little goldfish. And I don't know why, but it definitely felt like a natural image to accompany the phrase. It didn't even phase me until I was on the subway a few hours later. Why a goldfish and why, like the person who had written on the mattress, did it seem perfectly right to me? I looked up "goldfish symbolism" when I got home (also FYI: complete nerd) and discovered that they typically represent gold, wealth, abundance and harmony. I wonder if the mattress graffiti artist was aware of this. Maybe his/her subconscious knew they were writing of dreams and that they wanted all of those things and therefore shot a goldfish to their hand and through the marker. Hmm...
Ok, this post is going to awkwardly end now...but the first will be done and the rest will be more natural, as the pressure will be off.
Current reads: "The Unbearable Lightness of Being", Milan Kundera and "The Archaeology of Knowledge and the Discourse on Language", Michel Foucault
As the days dance by, there are a few things I definitely want to ponder via blog--
Airports
Sidewalk rage
Old Age
Birthday Gifts
Magic/the extraordinary
Signs
Street Meat
FedEx inefficiency
The art of the perfect cappuccino
Thanks for bearing with the first...
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