The Clock is Ticking

Today feels like a fog.

I was called early this morning and told that my grandfather, Daddy's dad, died during the night.
I already know.

I woke around 12:15 this morning to a totally silent room, but felt like someone other than the WonderDog was there. When I was little, Grandpa would run his hand over my hair..starting at my widow's peak and all the way down (my then) long hair, about midback. I felt him do that this morning. Felt the familiar weight of his hand. Then I heard him say, what he'd always said when I'd leave his company back when he still recognized me, "I'm proud of you."

So, today, silence is bad. I've got media player running through the library I've ripped onto the computer. The lyrics are speaking to me, but not in the way the artists must've intended..

And time has been spread so thin and its just hours till the day begins. And the things that are keeping you here are not keeping me here and the things that are keeping you here will keep me away. (Dashboard Confessional, "Drowning")

Cause when I take a look around everybody seems so strong. I know they'll soon discover that I don't belong. (Casting Crowns, "Stained Glass Masquerade")

So, I stayed late at work to do some stuff. That turned into some random babysitting. No big deal, I get paid for it.

And, I'm playing on the computer. Google Blog Search. Looked for "caffeine" because I was dreaming about coffee at the time. Oddly enough, I apparently didn't read the news much today at work. Starbucks closed?? For hours? To train they're employees? Well.

Okay, so if you're like me and missed this until it was too late anyway, the story is that Starbucks stores--every Starbucks mind you--were closed for 3 hours this evening to spend time training their baristas. This is something I figured happened prior to them preparing my venti mocha lattes, but apparently that's not the case. At least, it appears to not be the case.

However, bravo to them. They've obviously noticed that they're falling behind somewhere along the way. I mean, people actually want to get coffee pushed by a donut shop (and these people aren't cops!) or from the local "Golden Arches."

Ooooo...have I mentioned I love going to McDonald's in the morning for coffee? I mean, now that they serve respectable coffee, it's nice to go anyway. BUT, the other morning, I discovered that when you order your large coffee and ask for 2 creams and 2 sugars, they'll put it in the cup and stir for you. Yum...drinking my coffee before leaving the parking lot? Wonderful...

Back to them other guys...

I kinda have a problem with Starbucks. I feel like there's some global take over thing in the works with them. Kind of like Wal-Mart. However, my bigger problem with them is that the closest one is 25 minutes away. I mean, it's good coffee, but I don't know that it's 25-mile coffee.

I've sat down to write here I can't tell you how many times in the last 3 weeks. I want to write. I want the catharsis..I want so badly to put words on paper. It's even worse knowing the words are there. They're in my head, in my heart.

They won't come out of my hands.

To be reasonable, I know I've been a little more A.D.D. lately. I open a post window, or a document, or a journal, and then the WonderDog squeaks at me. Or a bird flits past the window. Or my stomach grumbles. Most recently, the package of pre-fab chicken pot stickers in my fridge actually spoke my name. I heard them loud and clear. They said "Eat me..you know you want to. Eat me RIGHT NOW."

It turns out they were right. I just took them out of the pan.

However...I still don't find myself writing the things I want to write about. I'm writing about pot stickers, for cripes sake. I've figured it out, I think. I'm scared. And that's categorically ridiculous, for me.

I enjoy writing. I'm confident in my abilities. I firmly believe in an adage that R gave me years ago--when you have something to say, you don't have to get it right the first time, but you do have to start somewhere. I know I don't have to get it right here the first time, or the tenth time--that's what that beautiful "edit posts" link is about...I can edit it even after I've published it a dozen times.

I think I'm scared of what I'll discover. And that's wrong to me, too. I've been very good the last several years about being real with myself. Very good. (Again, thank you R.) However, I think I'm scared right now that I'll feel something. And I don't really want to this month. I've got too much going on. Is that strange?

Found a new thinking prompt. Apparently, I'm a little late in the game (this is week 262), but it's fun anyhow. It's all about free associations. Try it out *wink*

1. Score :: concert tickets (I just scored some free ones, teehee)


2. Luxurious :: socks


3. Party :: cocktail


4. Limited edition :: need more


5. Security :: measures


6. Betty :: Davis eyes


7. Under construction :: ugh..me


8. Pest :: my cereal (there were ants in my cereal box this morning)


9. director :: Oscar-status


10. Express :: cost (as in high cost of shipping)

For more thinking, try Unconscious Mutterings,

I recently read an article in the Houston Chronicle that talked about a project over at Smith magazine. Check out the "Six Word Memoirs" projects.

So..what's your life story? In six words..

I came. I saw. I loved.

I don't know, who am I?

Share it over at Smith..but share it here, too.

1. Father went to college yes
2. Father finished college well, sorta..associate's
3. Mother went to college yes
4. Mother finished college yes
5. Have any relative who is an attorney, physician, or professor yes..the Brother
6. Were the same or higher class than your high school teachers. yes, middle class
7. Had more than 50 books in your childhood home. yep..and check out cards
8. Had more than 500 books in your childhood home. no room
9. Were read children's books by a parent yep.
10. Had lessons of any kind before you turned 18 yep--piano, flute, dance
11. The people in the media who dress and talk like me are portrayed on the the news just before the hysterical mother
12. Had a credit card with your name on it before you turned 18 try 23
13. Your parents (or a trust) paid for the majority of your college costs first degree, yes. second no
14. Went to a private high school nope
15. Went to summer camp yep
16. Had a private tutor before you turned 18 nope
17. Family vacations involved staying at hotels yep
18. Your clothing was all bought new before you turned 18 nope, some were hand me downs from the neighbor
19. Your parents bought you a car that was not a hand-me-down from them yep
20. There was original art in your house when you were a child only what my brother and I did
21. You and your family lived in a single-family house yep
22. Your parent(s) owned their own house or apartment before you left home nope, just paid it off
23. You had your own room as a child yep
24. Participated in a SAT/ACT prep course no
25. Had your own TV in your room in high school yep, a black and white
26. Owned a mutual fund or IRA in high school or college thanks to my grandfather
27. Flew anywhere on a commercial airline before you turned 16 Orlando when I was 2
28. Went on a cruise with your family still waiting for this one, promises, promises
29. Went on more than one cruise with your family see above
30. Your parents took you to museums and art galleries as you grew up yep..education is important
31. You were unaware of how much heating bills were for your family probably..don't really remember

Had an interesting train of thought the other day....an old friend, K, started it.

I was telling him a little about some medical troubles I've been having. Nothing major. Just stuff to get over. He commented that I'm too bad to die young. Ok..it was worth a short giggle.

But I got to thinking about it...It's not that I'm bad. Well, not really. I guess it's more that I feel like maybe I haven't been very good at living. You'd think after 31 (eek) years I'd have a better handle on it.

I just don't know..I feel like I've not focused on things that are really important. I haven't honestly been thankful for every bit of the life I've been given. Most importantly, I'm not grateful.

More on this. Soon..not months from now. Promise.

Actually, no, it isn't different shit. I've been here before.

Starting over.

Frickin' sucks. But, I guess we all do stuff we don't want to, right?

Diverging from my usual course, I wound up sick after a holiday break. Usually, I manage to hold off illness until we have several days off from work. So, I'm almost always sick at Thanksgiving, Christmas, Spring Break, and just as we kick off the summer. Almost always.

Instead, I went to work Monday and came home early. I pretty much felt like death warmed over. Today is day two of sinus infection watch. Yeah for me.

Do you know (and I'm sure you do) there's NOTHING on TV during the day. I've watched CBS's Early Show. The highlight of that show was the street performances from the musical "How the Grinch Stole Christmas." Very cute. Wish it would come to Texas sometime soon. Now, I'm flipping between Food Network and the SciFi channel (Tales from the Darkside marathon).

Food Network is always almost always good stuff. Today, Sugarrush has a show about flower-inspired sweets. This one woman has some absolutely amazing sugar flowers--from beautiful tea roses to hydrangeas. Just incredible.

I clicked into SciFi Network towards the end of an episode. It was called "Love Hungry." This overweight woman is trying to lose weight, and winds up having her fruits and vegetables talk to her. They beg her not to eat them, even though she needs to eat. She breaks down, in a fit and grabs the banana, while the other fruits are calling her a murderer. She doesn't eat him, and winds up killing herself. Weird.

Anyway. I hope the food doesn't start talking to me.

Okay, I promise I'm not prejudiced (sp?) when it comes to what I'm about to write on (after a friend read the coming post, a disclaimer was suggested. Just in case.)

First, go here (the Poet Tree, on Ning) and read the "poet-tree-pedia" post at the top of the page.

UPDATE 10/15: I feel like I should explain that I PURPOSEFULLY took the line I've written about out of the context of the poem. The wording of the line alone is what got me. NOT how it works in the poem.

Rachel's post for the 'pedia hit me. I think the whole piece is beautiful. Certainly encouraging and creates a sense of confindence and power. One line (and the title) poke me between the eyes.

I'm a woman with color.

In particular, that prepositional phrase got me --"with color." In this day and age, we don't hear that phrase in particular. Usually, it's "of color." That always ...irks me.The people who tend to use it are, by and large, not caucasian. (This is where I might start offending some people.) I understand that the history of our, well, world has always created a sense of "us" and "them" with "them" being anyone who doesn't fit into the color scheme that is either predominant in the local society or happens to be the scheme in postions of authority. Generally, "us" tends to be made of caucasian skin. As a caucasian individual, I'm neither taking responsibility for that, nor am I apologizing. I didn't have anything to do with that particular turn of events nor do I advocate them.

However, I think that those using the phrase "of color" are denying something incredibly important. I, too, am of color. Sure it's "white" (maybe more than some), but it's still a color. And, honestly, a color doesn't make one person anymore special or important than another person. Let me make this clear--I've never believed color has anything to do with a person deserving respect. I've ALWAYS believed the person inside has EVERYTHING to do with this. I never see color when considering the character of a person--I see his behavior, his personality, the mind stuff, not the skin stuff.

And that's how it should be. I care more about the person you are than the person you look like. Does everyone? Of course not. That's why we still have race problems in a place that proclaimed itself to be a 'melting pot.'

As an aside, my first year working in a high school setting, I sent some girls to the office for rather obviously disrepectful behavior--not just disrepectful to me, but also to others in the room. The principal asked me to join them in his office, where the girls proceeded to accuse me of being "racial" because they all happened to be black. I told them that me being racial was just about as silly a notion as I could think of--they could have been "white, brown, black, or purple with pink polka dots" and I still would've written them up for being disrespectful. I believe the term I used, trying to diffuse the situation a bit, was that I'm an "equal opportunity hater, I hate on everyone equally." Seems to me that if you believe that your race is a factor in everything that ever happens in your life, than maybe you're the racist. (I didn't say that last part, but I sure thought it.)

So..what I'm finally getting around to, is that Rachel's phrase "I'm a woman with color" is telling when you consider it separately from her whole piece. All of us, all women (and heck, all men if you edit the line a bit *grin*), are individuals with color. Just as the colors of our physical appearances mark us as unique, our color within does the same thing. It's up to us to decide which one we think is most important to celebrate and share with the world.

Bustling about
One foot in front of the other, in front of the other,
infrontoftheother, infrontoftheother.

The world spinning me into madness,
being pulled in a dozen directions would be easier
than what I'm doing all day long.

In a blink, open the door,
step into the simple life with you.
Where breathing is enough.

Using one word, describe the following things. Note: I can't follow directions.

Yourself: easy (as in "like Sunday morning" not "that woman on the corner.")
Your partner: amazing
Your hair: brunette
Your Mother: well-intentioned
Your Father: wonderful-wonderful (family thing)
Your Favourite Item: bed
Your dream last night: incredibly realistic
Your Favourite Drink: wine
Your Dream Home: secluded...but not remote
The Room You Are In: cluttered
Your fear: alone
Where you Want to be in Ten Years?: home
Who you hung out with last night: WonderDog
What You're Not: overly extroverted
Your Best Friend: the amazing one
One of Your Wish List Items: books
Your Gender: female
The Last Thing You Did: drank a beer
What You Are Wearing: comfy clothes
Your favourite weather: Texas fall--in December
Your Favourite Book?: just one??
Last thing you ate?: um....
Your Life: crazy
Your mood: calm
The last person you talked to on the phone: Madre
Who are you thinking about right now?: The Man (the amazing one *grin*)

***Note: this one is cross-posted. Hey, some of you don't read both blogs.

I've been thinking a lot lately about language. Mine, in particular. To be more specific, my use of "foul" language.

See, The Man and I have decided to make a conscious effort to clean up our language. We both cuss too much. He was in a conversation with a coworker a few days ago who commented on the incredibly foul language of another colleague (let's just, it would make a sailor blush). She pointed out that he does cuss, not as often the others they work with, and he almost always checks her (the colleague he was talking to) reaction. She doesn't like the language at all. It pushed him to do something about his own habit.

I've spent a good few months feeling guilty lately when I cuss around him. A random "damn" or "hell" has never bothered me, but I know I've gotten comfortable and that's not all I'm saying anymore.

I will admit that sometimes, there just aren't other words--either for emphasis or intensity. I mean, come on, when I fell a few weeks ago and nearly broke my tailbone, saying "shoot" just didn't do the pain justice. And I've always thought you should say what you mean (and mean what you say, of course.) I've even been known to use the "f" word for shock value, or to make sure I'm getting the attention I'm needing from the person I'm talking to.

A friend of mine said that swearing wasn't banned in his household. However there was a rule about the use of certain 4-letter words. You couldn't use them just 'cuz. You had to be creative in your use. In my house, creative use or not, you got punished. But we're all different.

I know I need to curb my mouth. Does that mean language will disappear from my writing? Not all. Some words just can't be replaced, specifically because of the implications to writing.

I mean, really--would "fudge" really replace "fuck?" I think not.

I've been thinking a lot lately about language. Mine, in particular. To be more specific, my use of "foul" language.

See, The Man and I have decided to make a conscious effort to clean up our language. We both cuss too much. He was in a conversation with a coworker a few days ago who commented on the incredibly foul language of another colleague (let's just, it would make a sailor blush). She pointed out that he does cuss, not as often the others they work with, and he almost always checks her (the colleague he was talking to) reaction. She doesn't like the language at all. It pushed him to do something about his own habit.

I've spent a good few months feeling guilty lately when I cuss around him. A random "damn" or "hell" has never bothered me, but I know I've gotten comfortable and that's not all I'm saying anymore.

I will admit that sometimes, there just aren't other words--either for emphasis or intensity. I mean, come on, when I fell a few weeks ago and nearly broke my tailbone, saying "shoot" just didn't do the pain justice. And I've always thought you should say what you mean (and mean what you say, of course.) I've even been known to use the "f" word for shock value, or to make sure I'm getting the attention I'm needing from the person I'm talking to.

A friend of mine said that swearing wasn't banned in his household. However there was a rule about the use of certain 4-letter words. You couldn't use them just 'cuz. You had to be creative in your use. In my house, creative use or not, you got punished. But we're all different.

I know I need to curb my mouth. Does that mean language will disappear from my writing? Not all. Some words just can't be replaced, specifically because of the implications to writing.

I mean, really--would "fudge" really replace "fuck?" I think not.

Oh, this is great. Being an English major, I'm always a little itchy about grammar and punctuation. I'll grant I'm not perfection in human form when it comes to this, but some things are just freakin' obvious.

Like quotation marks.

The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks.

It's time to bare all. I'm going to finally admit a silly, almost embarassing crush I've had forever. Ever since I first saw the reruns of the tv show, so many years ago. It burns me now that I can't find those reruns anymore.

I've always had a thing for the young David Cassidy. Why, oh why wasn't he born 15 years later? It wouldn't have been a celebrity crush I had to hide from everyone.




Shhh..don't tell The Man. ;)

I'm up at 6:30 on a Sunday morning. Do you realize there's very little on at this time of day on Sunday?

I did find one thing that interested me. A&E Biography is airing it's biography on David Cassidy. Of course I'm watching...I've always had a crush on the YOUNG David Cassidy. You know, The Partridge Family era. It's really kind of sad that he was such a cliche'--sex, drugs, and, well..not really rock and roll, but music.

He looked so old after the Partridge Family ended. His age lines were just horribly obvious. And the hair. I don't think I'd ever realized a man could use his hair as an acting prop. He really did though..you know, when it was long.

He's pretty neat, still though. Definitely remade himself, on his terms, not the studio's.

The random prompt generator over at Poetry Thursday when I visited this morning said "combustible." Instantly, I'm getting images and pricks on my arms (that synaesthesia thing again). Obviously, the initial images run to flames and danger.

But, then...the leftovers of last night's dream win out. It wasn't remotely hot and steamy, or even PG-13. It was decidedly PG, bordering on G. But it struck, mid-dream, and lasting into the morning, a mild "combustion" feeling inside.

So, though there is not poetry here, today. There may well be some later.

I did find something interesting this morning, to share...

PoetryKits

Interesting stuff there. Enjoy.

Check out Poetry Thursday for some other poetic offerings.

Check out the prompt over at Sunday Scribblings for this week. You'll find other thoughts about this topic as well.

We're supposed to discuss amazing phenomena that caught or does catch us. Gosh..there's just so many. I could go into those things that astonish and perplex me (like how people could actually feel sorry for Paris Hilton. But, I digress.). Instead, I would rather think about the phenomenon that gets me in the heart, every time.

I'm a high school librarian, by trade. I've always believed that my career is not a job, it's a calling. I was designed for this role, among others. While some may think that the most important part of my job is teaching and curriculum-based, I would disagree.

I'm a connection for the students that I work with. I'm someone who isn't harping them on to get school work done, or do their chores, or by golly pull your pants up. I just talk to them. I tell my colleagues that I have 1800 kids...and I care about all of them equally and to the best of my ability. Even when their behavior is unlovable.

I used to think, when I taught elementary school, that most amazing thing I got to see on a day to day basis was the "lightbulb" go on over a student's head. You know, when, after struggling and struggling, they suddenly GOT IT, whatever it was.

Now, it's when I look up to see who's standing at my office door and hear "Miss, can talk to you about something?" It means I got through to one of 'em. One of those 1800 kids has realized that someone gives a damn and isn't going to tell them what to do, but is going to listen and help them make choices. That's the phenomenon that makes what I do every day worth it. Why I go back.

I'm a librarian, which, by definition almost always means "book-pusher." That's the last part of my job. The first is loving those kids.

We both fall into this trap.

um...ok...

Something (unexpected...unpleasant...)
happens
and rather than deal with it head-on

um...ok...

And then one of us prattles on explaining,
while the other sits in silence.

um...ok...

(For other offerings, check out this weeks posts at Poetry Thursday.)