So I've decided to economize: bring all things to one website.
This is the new me: anafterwave.weebly.com.
It is much easier to post comments on there! No need to subscribe or anything.
You can also find other links to websites I'm on. It's pretty sweet :)
Peace,
Amanda
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Pink and White
I remember a soft pink glow-
the overcompensation of a tomboy,
The proper white ceiling and trim and bookcase,
The checkerboard bedspread and hospital corners.
White and Pink
Not Barbie pink-
Pink like a bold floral arrangement
that's leaked, faded, dried-
on these walls.
Pink and White
The closet-white-
the cover-up of a sinful child
painting angelic flavor
and hiding under sheets.
I'm just going to leave this one as is.
Lo es que lo es!
Sorry I've been gone so long. Spring break was exhausting (if not encouraging and amazing). I have been feeling pretty drained, but I'm getting there.
In other news, I have an 8am class. Every morning, I wake up wondering why I thought I had gained super-wake-up powers this quarter.
Anyway. I'm going to study some Ephesians and sleep. Buenos noches!
Peace o pax,
Amanda
ps. Can you tell that I'm taking Spanish classes again?
the overcompensation of a tomboy,
The proper white ceiling and trim and bookcase,
The checkerboard bedspread and hospital corners.
White and Pink
Not Barbie pink-
Pink like a bold floral arrangement
that's leaked, faded, dried-
on these walls.
Pink and White
The closet-white-
the cover-up of a sinful child
painting angelic flavor
and hiding under sheets.
I'm just going to leave this one as is.
Lo es que lo es!
Sorry I've been gone so long. Spring break was exhausting (if not encouraging and amazing). I have been feeling pretty drained, but I'm getting there.
In other news, I have an 8am class. Every morning, I wake up wondering why I thought I had gained super-wake-up powers this quarter.
Anyway. I'm going to study some Ephesians and sleep. Buenos noches!
Peace o pax,
Amanda
ps. Can you tell that I'm taking Spanish classes again?
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Nibs
I'm a retractable pen that's been clicked in,
but got stuck-a nib that can only just see the paper,
I wonder if Jesus walked the entire 40 days
If he slept, how'd he sleep, was it sandy?
Forty, it rhymes with authority-
and thank God I survived the teen years,
to come out without anarchist beliefs.
My synapses snap to the beat of ADHD
It's another round of temptation vs. self-control
Pretending to be OCD to dictate all but myself
In psych they said “Don't think of a purple elephant!”
I thought of a polka-dotted platypus-
too bad that doesn't play out here
Satan tries his reverse psychology on me
And it works-of course-I'm the freak in the classroom
and the accidental caterer to sin.
Focus, focus (throws Jesus around in the head)
But I was never that good at catching
But then, that's grace-Jesus catches for me.
but got stuck-a nib that can only just see the paper,
I wonder if Jesus walked the entire 40 days
If he slept, how'd he sleep, was it sandy?
Forty, it rhymes with authority-
and thank God I survived the teen years,
to come out without anarchist beliefs.
My synapses snap to the beat of ADHD
It's another round of temptation vs. self-control
Pretending to be OCD to dictate all but myself
In psych they said “Don't think of a purple elephant!”
I thought of a polka-dotted platypus-
too bad that doesn't play out here
Satan tries his reverse psychology on me
And it works-of course-I'm the freak in the classroom
and the accidental caterer to sin.
Focus, focus (throws Jesus around in the head)
But I was never that good at catching
But then, that's grace-Jesus catches for me.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Two poems :0 fresh and unedited
God is Green
That pew felt right-
comfortable-
the harsh, upright wood resisted
my disjointed curved back-
but that's right.
-reminiscent of an ugly orange
that was splattered against other pews-
other lectures-
I remember little me-
the tiny cabin that's been so cleverly tucked
behind a playground-
the street that grew narrow, curved and died-
and the dirt and world that met its end-
Shel Silverstein understood this-
then there were the steps and the largest clovers
I've ever seen-as though they took a bread
and grew into a Wonderland
-people move seamlessly here,
as a royal fabric-deep byzantium-
and voices trickle in-
skipping, dancing, bouncing-
off walls, each other, seamlessly.
If we are created in the image of a Creator,
Then I at least find myself in the element when creating
-and ants crawl over me as my body stills
like one stream of color in a plaid storybook-
other ants have tracked my pensivity...
and verde! Verily, veriteserum-
green is life and life is unable to lie-
verde, truth, God
Words
They were the red pencil sketch on my calf-
the leaking ink-the Hancock on the signature line
the individual pixels-
the primary colors-secondary-tertiary-
the fairy in a bottle-the antidote in a syringe-
(or a poison)-a leaf: grow-burst-fade-fall-decay
a lightning bug: sparking-moving-shadowing-ghost
a lum: find it-absorb it-catch 'em all-sideline some
It's faith that they mean what they mean-
that they cannot be stripped of their identity-
that it's more than a formulated glob of lines, sound-waves-
that we don't make it what it is, they what they are-
It's faith that we can let go and not know.
That pew felt right-
comfortable-
the harsh, upright wood resisted
my disjointed curved back-
but that's right.
-reminiscent of an ugly orange
that was splattered against other pews-
other lectures-
I remember little me-
the tiny cabin that's been so cleverly tucked
behind a playground-
the street that grew narrow, curved and died-
and the dirt and world that met its end-
Shel Silverstein understood this-
then there were the steps and the largest clovers
I've ever seen-as though they took a bread
and grew into a Wonderland
-people move seamlessly here,
as a royal fabric-deep byzantium-
and voices trickle in-
skipping, dancing, bouncing-
off walls, each other, seamlessly.
If we are created in the image of a Creator,
Then I at least find myself in the element when creating
-and ants crawl over me as my body stills
like one stream of color in a plaid storybook-
other ants have tracked my pensivity...
and verde! Verily, veriteserum-
green is life and life is unable to lie-
verde, truth, God
Words
They were the red pencil sketch on my calf-
the leaking ink-the Hancock on the signature line
the individual pixels-
the primary colors-secondary-tertiary-
the fairy in a bottle-the antidote in a syringe-
(or a poison)-a leaf: grow-burst-fade-fall-decay
a lightning bug: sparking-moving-shadowing-ghost
a lum: find it-absorb it-catch 'em all-sideline some
It's faith that they mean what they mean-
that they cannot be stripped of their identity-
that it's more than a formulated glob of lines, sound-waves-
that we don't make it what it is, they what they are-
It's faith that we can let go and not know.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Look what I found:
once upon a time
i told the world to make up its mind
i was confused by its lies
i was tired of having to hide
i hid the blade under my bed
i hid the food in the garbage
i hid the matches in my drawer
i hid my Bible out of my sight
i hid my family behind my bedroom door
then i locked everything
i was set for an ending
didn’t expect a beginning
I was going through my writing to find the good stuff to take to this Californian writing conference. Then I stumbled upon this!
Can't for the life of me tell you when I wrote it. But it is just fascinating to see where I've come from that point.
This had to be written sometime my senior year... when all of that was still poignantly fresh.
Anyways. It's funny how many beginnings we get in life. I think I'm in one right now.
:)
Peace up and out,
Amanda MfreakingE
i told the world to make up its mind
i was confused by its lies
i was tired of having to hide
i hid the blade under my bed
i hid the food in the garbage
i hid the matches in my drawer
i hid my Bible out of my sight
i hid my family behind my bedroom door
then i locked everything
i was set for an ending
didn’t expect a beginning
I was going through my writing to find the good stuff to take to this Californian writing conference. Then I stumbled upon this!
Can't for the life of me tell you when I wrote it. But it is just fascinating to see where I've come from that point.
This had to be written sometime my senior year... when all of that was still poignantly fresh.
Anyways. It's funny how many beginnings we get in life. I think I'm in one right now.
:)
Peace up and out,
Amanda MfreakingE
Monday, March 22, 2010
Cigarette Field: A rant
Cigarettes litter these streets like grass and trash,
Dutch Pall Mall and Marlboro Lights.
Tobacco that fills the manufactured air-
wafting through my window.
Second-hand smoke-
as if I had a choice not to be addicted-
Walls that smell like shit-
and why not? We're all
human.
Born out of filth, into filth.
Pick up once in a while,
Or I'll Febreze you-douse the world in
perfume.
Is that a bin?
Oh, no, that's just my doorway.
Please. Leave your addiction.
Smoking like there's no personal control-
Forced, like a whale that spouts smoke.
(and to think-
this city could have been beautiful.)
Dutch Pall Mall and Marlboro Lights.
Tobacco that fills the manufactured air-
wafting through my window.
Second-hand smoke-
as if I had a choice not to be addicted-
Walls that smell like shit-
and why not? We're all
human.
Born out of filth, into filth.
Pick up once in a while,
Or I'll Febreze you-douse the world in
perfume.
Is that a bin?
Oh, no, that's just my doorway.
Please. Leave your addiction.
Smoking like there's no personal control-
Forced, like a whale that spouts smoke.
(and to think-
this city could have been beautiful.)
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Hollywood makes me evaluate my life
Once, there was a writer. She did typical writer things: pondered, daydreamed, felt, gave, took, drained, hurt, loved, and was always stuck being 100%.
She was a writer. But she loved music.
If she were a pot of boiling water and noodles, then music would be the burner. If she were a dog, then music would be the car ride. If she were a parking meter, then music would be the coin. If she were a narcissist, then music would be the mirror.
The point is this: she lived in music, for music. But she was a writer.
She could only do one half of the music: the lyrics.
And she could write and write, forever.
And try to write melodies, and try to harmonize.
But couldn't escape that she was only really good at lyrics.
But, oh, how in love she was with the melody.
So far gone.
She romanticized it; crushed on it; daydreamed about it.
If melody was a black hole, then she was lost inside, furiously writing.
She was intimidated, transported back into childhood.
She was an awkward kid again; insecure; the naked dream.
So she kept quiet, and held back: awkward.
Every once in a while, she would meet other lyrics; writers.
And she would crush, because that's familiar.
They got her; knew her; understood her.
Somehow, she'd let herself fall for those other lyrics.
They'd talk over each other, overlap, and mean nothing.
And she'd remember how she dreampt of the melody, how she actually needed the melody.
She'd think of treble clef signs and stretch her fingers.
The lyrics would part ways, to achieve meaning-
Realizing that they need melody to be complete.
And really, the melody needs them, too.
The melody needed her.
She was a writer. But she loved music.
If she were a pot of boiling water and noodles, then music would be the burner. If she were a dog, then music would be the car ride. If she were a parking meter, then music would be the coin. If she were a narcissist, then music would be the mirror.
The point is this: she lived in music, for music. But she was a writer.
She could only do one half of the music: the lyrics.
And she could write and write, forever.
And try to write melodies, and try to harmonize.
But couldn't escape that she was only really good at lyrics.
But, oh, how in love she was with the melody.
So far gone.
She romanticized it; crushed on it; daydreamed about it.
If melody was a black hole, then she was lost inside, furiously writing.
She was intimidated, transported back into childhood.
She was an awkward kid again; insecure; the naked dream.
So she kept quiet, and held back: awkward.
Every once in a while, she would meet other lyrics; writers.
And she would crush, because that's familiar.
They got her; knew her; understood her.
Somehow, she'd let herself fall for those other lyrics.
They'd talk over each other, overlap, and mean nothing.
And she'd remember how she dreampt of the melody, how she actually needed the melody.
She'd think of treble clef signs and stretch her fingers.
The lyrics would part ways, to achieve meaning-
Realizing that they need melody to be complete.
And really, the melody needs them, too.
The melody needed her.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Staring Contest with my Coffee
Little flecks pop up and under-
Like sloppy penguins.
My brain is leaking out, mingling with
the warm depths
and the rim that's been dyed musty
brown.
Sucks my face in and my brown eyes
match it's cream-
oh, escape.
Plopping neurons in like the floater grounds-
wonder:
what's wrong with my machine (it's obnoxiously orange)
I don't think these mugs are ever clean-
faint, caffeinated smell-
permeating the plastic-glass-porcelain-
substance.
My olfaction is calm-
in familiar proximity to my insanity-
Plain, plain, plain-
almost meaty, like life-
Vitamin D milk, sucrose-
that's first, like a stratum of rock-the flood-dissolving the world
(or maybe just sugar)
and then comes the black, melted shingles-
and morphs: light, medium, perfection.
I wait, I sip, I burn.
but, my tongue will regenerate-
the taste buds will be replaced-
It's all good.
Like sloppy penguins.
My brain is leaking out, mingling with
the warm depths
and the rim that's been dyed musty
brown.
Sucks my face in and my brown eyes
match it's cream-
oh, escape.
Plopping neurons in like the floater grounds-
wonder:
what's wrong with my machine (it's obnoxiously orange)
I don't think these mugs are ever clean-
faint, caffeinated smell-
permeating the plastic-glass-porcelain-
substance.
My olfaction is calm-
in familiar proximity to my insanity-
Plain, plain, plain-
almost meaty, like life-
Vitamin D milk, sucrose-
that's first, like a stratum of rock-the flood-dissolving the world
(or maybe just sugar)
and then comes the black, melted shingles-
and morphs: light, medium, perfection.
I wait, I sip, I burn.
but, my tongue will regenerate-
the taste buds will be replaced-
It's all good.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
I was walking home from small group an hour ago. I was in a spring peace mode, breathing in the sensation of the night air against my skin: smiling, relaxed. There was an old man standing outside Chipotle, waving at everyone. Just waving, smiling. He kept waving at me, sweetly excited, with this quirky hat on his white head. "You look relaxed!" So, I stopped and talked to him. Just for a minute or two. He said he had jokes in some newspapers and told me one.. It went to the effect of this:
"What did the grass say to the football team?" "If you cut us we'll root for you!"
I really don't remember it. That was just the gist.
And then he started waving again, so I laughed and said thank-you.
It was so simplistic and sweet. I walked away with a glorious smile on my face, thinking about him. But then I started wondering how many people had ignored him, or walked away without treating him like a human being, or even treated him like he wasn't worth anything. Then it was one of those awkward smiling, but I'm kind of crying at the same time things.
Just wanted to write about it.
Peace,
Amanda
"What did the grass say to the football team?" "If you cut us we'll root for you!"
I really don't remember it. That was just the gist.
And then he started waving again, so I laughed and said thank-you.
It was so simplistic and sweet. I walked away with a glorious smile on my face, thinking about him. But then I started wondering how many people had ignored him, or walked away without treating him like a human being, or even treated him like he wasn't worth anything. Then it was one of those awkward smiling, but I'm kind of crying at the same time things.
Just wanted to write about it.
Peace,
Amanda
Monday, March 8, 2010
Catching On
Some folks have to tell jokes
just to be a little bit funny
Some folks have to tell jokes
just to get a half-forced laugh
but you and I are inanely, hilarious
you and I are plainly, mysterious
With a little bit of wit, and a dash of stupidity
Just a little bit smitten, with a dash of ingenuity
Some peeps have to be creeps
just to be a little bit familiar
Some peeps have to be creeps
just to get a half-drunk friend
but you and I are inanely, hilarious
you and I are plainly, mysterious
With a little bit of wit, and a dash of stupidity
Just a little bit smitten, with a dash of ingenuity
I know we are best as friends
You say you're here til the end
They say we are just a trend
You and I hate cultural conformity
You and I are naturally abnormally
They say we are just a phase
When fall comes around, will you still be in style?
When spring gets here, will I still be worth your while?
Just the lyrics to a song I wrote. Yeah, it's pretty silly. No, it's not about anyone I've met yet.
Peace,
Amanda
Okay, I just wrote this too. Yes, this is cheesy. And yes, it is about someone.
I'd kinda like to think
that it was me you were looking at
Maybe it's naive
to think that you've fallen for me
Is it narcissistic
to hope that you think about me?
Maybe it's naive
to believe in organic chemistry
Love could be like monopoly
(I definitely am in jail a lot)
You're Boardwalk, but I've passed through to go
200 dollars richer, but my heart's a little poorer
Love could be like Hungry Hippos
{My heart's definitely growling)
The big addicts, snatching up the unexpected
Hungry for anything, but spitting most back out
Love could be like solitaire
(I'm definitely flyin' solo)
Strategically placing self in the right spot
Hoping the next card brings possibility
Maybe love isn't a game
Maybe cliche's should be done with
Maybe love is an abstraction
But, if so, sign me up, Malevich.
Okay, enough with the cheese already.
Goodnight.
just to be a little bit funny
Some folks have to tell jokes
just to get a half-forced laugh
but you and I are inanely, hilarious
you and I are plainly, mysterious
With a little bit of wit, and a dash of stupidity
Just a little bit smitten, with a dash of ingenuity
Some peeps have to be creeps
just to be a little bit familiar
Some peeps have to be creeps
just to get a half-drunk friend
but you and I are inanely, hilarious
you and I are plainly, mysterious
With a little bit of wit, and a dash of stupidity
Just a little bit smitten, with a dash of ingenuity
I know we are best as friends
You say you're here til the end
They say we are just a trend
You and I hate cultural conformity
You and I are naturally abnormally
They say we are just a phase
When fall comes around, will you still be in style?
When spring gets here, will I still be worth your while?
Just the lyrics to a song I wrote. Yeah, it's pretty silly. No, it's not about anyone I've met yet.
Peace,
Amanda
Okay, I just wrote this too. Yes, this is cheesy. And yes, it is about someone.
I'd kinda like to think
that it was me you were looking at
Maybe it's naive
to think that you've fallen for me
Is it narcissistic
to hope that you think about me?
Maybe it's naive
to believe in organic chemistry
Love could be like monopoly
(I definitely am in jail a lot)
You're Boardwalk, but I've passed through to go
200 dollars richer, but my heart's a little poorer
Love could be like Hungry Hippos
{My heart's definitely growling)
The big addicts, snatching up the unexpected
Hungry for anything, but spitting most back out
Love could be like solitaire
(I'm definitely flyin' solo)
Strategically placing self in the right spot
Hoping the next card brings possibility
Maybe love isn't a game
Maybe cliche's should be done with
Maybe love is an abstraction
But, if so, sign me up, Malevich.
Okay, enough with the cheese already.
Goodnight.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
40 days fast from boys
My weak heart floats
pushing against the taut cartilage
I swore I'd pray-
dreaming, not life-
I'm free. I'm chained.
That imagined pulse haunts me
as the thought of God, the image of empty
painted onto eyelids. I blink
my mind-a thought gets him in.
I say "Get out"-It's stuck-
the soapy, helium-filled bubbles-
stuck, filling up my trachea-
so, dislodging my heart.
Not sure how many people I've told about this, but basically I've been fasting from romance for Lent. I am one of those unfortunates who is so caught up in the idea of romance and love, that I dedicate way too much time thinking about it. So, I thought that for Lent I would give all of that up-thinking about romance, about falling in love, about some random guy. It's been difficult as anything, but worth it. It's caused me to think of God a lot in every day moments. (which was the plan-replace every romantic thought with thoughts of the Greatest Romance)
So, yeah. This just captures the struggle. It was a poetry assignment for 101-Modeled after "Facing It," by Yusef Komunyakaa. It was an extremely difficult thing to do... I literally had to place my words into the original.
So, that is all.
Peace up, out, within,
Amanda
pushing against the taut cartilage
I swore I'd pray-
dreaming, not life-
I'm free. I'm chained.
That imagined pulse haunts me
as the thought of God, the image of empty
painted onto eyelids. I blink
my mind-a thought gets him in.
I say "Get out"-It's stuck-
the soapy, helium-filled bubbles-
stuck, filling up my trachea-
so, dislodging my heart.
Not sure how many people I've told about this, but basically I've been fasting from romance for Lent. I am one of those unfortunates who is so caught up in the idea of romance and love, that I dedicate way too much time thinking about it. So, I thought that for Lent I would give all of that up-thinking about romance, about falling in love, about some random guy. It's been difficult as anything, but worth it. It's caused me to think of God a lot in every day moments. (which was the plan-replace every romantic thought with thoughts of the Greatest Romance)
So, yeah. This just captures the struggle. It was a poetry assignment for 101-Modeled after "Facing It," by Yusef Komunyakaa. It was an extremely difficult thing to do... I literally had to place my words into the original.
So, that is all.
Peace up, out, within,
Amanda
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
I feel like a piece of surrealist art
Oh, I went to a poetry reading today.
It was pretty decent, but one poem really felt outlines to me.
It was about a man who murdered another man, and then ate him.
Here's the clincher:
The man wanted to be murdered, cut up, and eaten.
There aren't many non-expletives to describe how that makes me feel.
It's called "Letter after Dismemberment" by Allison Stine. Essentially she used quotes like this to describe the man's desire: "dream in pixels," "place me in an ice cube tray," "the man through the window, sliced by panes." (Those are not all exact, I can't find the poem online to quote)
The surrealist movement been on my mind lately, because we are also doing surrealist poetry right now in poetry101. Not gonna lie, I get a lot of negative, creepy vibes from the surrealist methods. The only time I've ever studied it, previous to the past couple days, was for English102. I did a paper on the Black Dahlia. Somebody out there proposed a theory and wrote a book describing said theory. The theory is that the Black Dahlia was killed in an attempt to bring surrealist art to life.
Disturbing.
(Creeps just thinking about this)
The book describes how aspects of Dahlia's dismemberment are similar to different surrealist art work. Everything from the way her arm was positioned, to the separation of her abdomen, to the missing triangle of flesh in her breast... All tie into different art pieces.
I'm not saying that I buy into this theory of her death.
It was just hella convincing.
And creepy.
So, now, whenever I think of surrealism, I think of poor Elizabeth Short (Dahlia). Thankfully, earlier today I started to see the beautiful side to this artform-that is the dreamlike, metaphorical essence. Maybe surrealism is just the artist wanting to depict the metaphor for each body part or object in life.
So here's just a little snippet of some stuff I'm working on:
It's an art form,
can't you see that?
It's a metaphor.
Obviously.
(Or not)
Apparently its definition is
only divided by a cord-
jumping from dictionary to thesaurus:
perception to reality-
So easily unplugged, removed
trashed.
Rude.
Maybe if your office was cleaner
and the cords tucked away-
you wouldn't be tripping.
(And also, get off the drugs)
I feel sick from your sadistic
disruption and interpretation of body
God wonders where
He failed your eyes
God wonders that
He wasn't the ultimate professional-
artist.
God wonders at you.
So do I.
So yeah... A lot different from my style. Or maybe that's just how I write when I feel angry
Then here's another snippet... This was an exercise in class
Jesus doesn't blink-
neither do you.
But the sun winks at us all
and though, it's heat
intermingles with glass
and warps the city's structures
(as if buildings could dance, ha)
the infant tree,
in your lap, gently shaken
by the train's repetition,
sucks up the sun's staccato iris
Clorophyll B, reproduction-
Gleeful xylem
Last bit:
So...
We need to talk.
Apparently, my neurons have been
(incognito)-
out of touch
But I get to see them in dreams,
We don't talk-
they're just playing a guessing game.
You seem to be the antagonist-
the big evil presence-
So, tell me, Godzilla
who are you?
Or what, and why?
I know my scent is everywhere
I know it's attracted to your nose hair
(Do dinosaurs have nose hair?)
Either way, your septum always knows
(And that wasn't a pun)
Do you ever get me in the end?
Or what happens-
Strange childhood coverup-
what's going on with me?
out of the loop with my issues-
Let's have the DTR-
define our relationship.
Maybe for once I'll run after you
Soo. Yeah, my voice feels a little different.. but eh, I'm diggin this experience.
Peace, lovelies.
It was pretty decent, but one poem really felt outlines to me.
It was about a man who murdered another man, and then ate him.
Here's the clincher:
The man wanted to be murdered, cut up, and eaten.
There aren't many non-expletives to describe how that makes me feel.
It's called "Letter after Dismemberment" by Allison Stine. Essentially she used quotes like this to describe the man's desire: "dream in pixels," "place me in an ice cube tray," "the man through the window, sliced by panes." (Those are not all exact, I can't find the poem online to quote)
The surrealist movement been on my mind lately, because we are also doing surrealist poetry right now in poetry101. Not gonna lie, I get a lot of negative, creepy vibes from the surrealist methods. The only time I've ever studied it, previous to the past couple days, was for English102. I did a paper on the Black Dahlia. Somebody out there proposed a theory and wrote a book describing said theory. The theory is that the Black Dahlia was killed in an attempt to bring surrealist art to life.
Disturbing.
(Creeps just thinking about this)
The book describes how aspects of Dahlia's dismemberment are similar to different surrealist art work. Everything from the way her arm was positioned, to the separation of her abdomen, to the missing triangle of flesh in her breast... All tie into different art pieces.
I'm not saying that I buy into this theory of her death.
It was just hella convincing.
And creepy.
So, now, whenever I think of surrealism, I think of poor Elizabeth Short (Dahlia). Thankfully, earlier today I started to see the beautiful side to this artform-that is the dreamlike, metaphorical essence. Maybe surrealism is just the artist wanting to depict the metaphor for each body part or object in life.
So here's just a little snippet of some stuff I'm working on:
It's an art form,
can't you see that?
It's a metaphor.
Obviously.
(Or not)
Apparently its definition is
only divided by a cord-
jumping from dictionary to thesaurus:
perception to reality-
So easily unplugged, removed
trashed.
Rude.
Maybe if your office was cleaner
and the cords tucked away-
you wouldn't be tripping.
(And also, get off the drugs)
I feel sick from your sadistic
disruption and interpretation of body
God wonders where
He failed your eyes
God wonders that
He wasn't the ultimate professional-
artist.
God wonders at you.
So do I.
So yeah... A lot different from my style. Or maybe that's just how I write when I feel angry
Then here's another snippet... This was an exercise in class
Jesus doesn't blink-
neither do you.
But the sun winks at us all
and though, it's heat
intermingles with glass
and warps the city's structures
(as if buildings could dance, ha)
the infant tree,
in your lap, gently shaken
by the train's repetition,
sucks up the sun's staccato iris
Clorophyll B, reproduction-
Gleeful xylem
Last bit:
So...
We need to talk.
Apparently, my neurons have been
(incognito)-
out of touch
But I get to see them in dreams,
We don't talk-
they're just playing a guessing game.
You seem to be the antagonist-
the big evil presence-
So, tell me, Godzilla
who are you?
Or what, and why?
I know my scent is everywhere
I know it's attracted to your nose hair
(Do dinosaurs have nose hair?)
Either way, your septum always knows
(And that wasn't a pun)
Do you ever get me in the end?
Or what happens-
Strange childhood coverup-
what's going on with me?
out of the loop with my issues-
Let's have the DTR-
define our relationship.
Maybe for once I'll run after you
Soo. Yeah, my voice feels a little different.. but eh, I'm diggin this experience.
Peace, lovelies.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Apparently, Glue
So, I've been freaking out. I have no idea where my song book is. I am nothing without this book. I am desperate to find it again. There is stuff in there that is private and sacred...
The most important thing is this song. Mikey, Matt and I wrote it for our parents on their 22nd anniversary. I thought it died with the book.. but I was smart and had backed it up on the computer :) Go me
Apparently, Glue
You pulsed through this heart of stone
You are the marrow to my bones
You blanketed this heart uncovered
You are the chocolate to my peanut butter
Refrain
Together we answered words unspent
Together, we are the perfect complement
You gave me the breath for words unsung
You are the air to my lungs
You were there to carry me
You are the moon to my sea
Refrain
Chorus
I didn't sign up for this
Thought we said for better
Thought we said in health
Not everybody knows
What it is to be stuck at go
I didn't sign up for this
But if we're both here
Then, I guess, we'll stick
You completed the love story I sought
You are the imagination to my thoughts
You danced with me, held me tight
You are the rock to my might
Refrain
You are the melody that gave me a start
You are the beat to my heart
You are the lens that clears the hazy
You are the truth in my crazy
Refrain
Chorus
But I guess, we'll stick
Yes, I'd like to stick
So, let's just stick.
It's very much a "Anyone Else but You" song. Totally the same vibe and everything. It's a duet and it is a little bit cheesy. Or a lot. Thing is, we asked them both to define their relationship in unique terms to them... This is what we got
Love you mom and dad :) Props for stickin!
The most important thing is this song. Mikey, Matt and I wrote it for our parents on their 22nd anniversary. I thought it died with the book.. but I was smart and had backed it up on the computer :) Go me
Apparently, Glue
You pulsed through this heart of stone
You are the marrow to my bones
You blanketed this heart uncovered
You are the chocolate to my peanut butter
Refrain
Together we answered words unspent
Together, we are the perfect complement
You gave me the breath for words unsung
You are the air to my lungs
You were there to carry me
You are the moon to my sea
Refrain
Chorus
I didn't sign up for this
Thought we said for better
Thought we said in health
Not everybody knows
What it is to be stuck at go
I didn't sign up for this
But if we're both here
Then, I guess, we'll stick
You completed the love story I sought
You are the imagination to my thoughts
You danced with me, held me tight
You are the rock to my might
Refrain
You are the melody that gave me a start
You are the beat to my heart
You are the lens that clears the hazy
You are the truth in my crazy
Refrain
Chorus
But I guess, we'll stick
Yes, I'd like to stick
So, let's just stick.
It's very much a "Anyone Else but You" song. Totally the same vibe and everything. It's a duet and it is a little bit cheesy. Or a lot. Thing is, we asked them both to define their relationship in unique terms to them... This is what we got
Love you mom and dad :) Props for stickin!
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Metronome
The wind is swimming around me
lapping up against my cheekbones
splashing into my hair
I sense it settling as a presence around my neck-
did it realize I was under-dressed
and decide to improvise a scarf?
These days are taffy
I can feel them being stretched, prodded-
these bricks would tell me to be still
Time's slow gait is palpable and sweet
impermeable to distraction-
the cinereous city ground asks me to slow down
the delicate dancing sound of
some abused shard, skipping across the pavement
accentuates my thought patterns
I'm not walking-
not drumming-
I'm dancing to the world's metronome
Friday, January 29, 2010
The child united
Like marshmallows disintegrating in chocolate
The snow can drip from my hair, but I am safe
Locked in this blanket; my mind tucked in a book
Peace is water, and I would know
Suspension in the cool body of molecules
Catching me, flowing around me, I am safe
Floating in a pool of ethereal; my mind muted by pressure
Peace is stillness, and I would know,
I used to be one with the entire world
and I knew the secrets, I listened
To the wind, the trees, that creek in my yard
Peace is the dance, and I would know
My spirit and I waltzed our way to Europe
And at a hidden wishing well, I spilled
My silent prayer to ripple the water
Peace feels smoky, and I would know,
Like the Orient and Tolkien dancing in dad's pipe
The distant thunder in his voice, and I am safe
Locked in his arms; my mind tucked asleep
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
God is: a storyteller
I wrote this entire blog last night. But it died. Burned. Lost in the intergalactic web.
SIGH.
So here goes... take two.
The storyteller image of God goes way back to my childhood. See, as a child, I was really strange and abnormally pensive. I would spend a lot of time meditating and just sitting outside listening. Seriously, an extraordinary amount of time. I would ponder about eternity, try to grasp the complexity of God's lack of a beginning. I would debate in my head whether we have free will or if God is omnipotent and omniscient. Seriously. That is what I thought about as a kid. That's weird. When I was three, I came home from VBS, infuriated, saying, "Mommy, bad men at church killed Jesus." Days later, I came home in tears, "Mommy... I killed Jesus." That was the moment I entered into a strange relationship with God. It has blossomed into something glorious.
Just to further define the picture of my odd thoughts growing up:
"It was to be one of those bedtime for which my four-year-old daughter, Amanda, was famous. This time I was stumped. "Does God love Barbie?" she asked, with an earnestness that made me wish for her sake that He did. Not wanting to burst her bubble and not wanting to lie, I punted. "What do you think, sweetie?" She reasoned that He probably didn't, since dolls didn't have spirits. We were both satisfied."-Julie Evans (my mama)
I just feel like such a bizarre person when I think back on this stuff. Point of this all is that I used to get extremely bogged down on God-thought. I would become frustrated, and stumped, and so had to create an image in my head to solve it all (or at least distract me).
I decided that God was an old, mysterious man. He'd have a white beard, and would have the aura of the bookstore owner in The NeverEnding Story (BEST MOVIE EVER). I would picture God sitting in the middle of a murky nothingness, holding a gargantuan novel in one hand, and a pen in the other. I have always been a writer, and when you are lost in writing, time doesn't really pass. It either stops or you have left it. You are in this other dimension (the creative dimension?) and time does not exist. That helped me solve what life would be like without time. Then I would just think about all of the things God would write. Each molecule would at least have its own page. I would have an entire saga. God wrote down every minute detail that would happen in life. Thus, I reasoned he was omniscient and omnipotent. However, any writer knows that the character does not always do what you planned them to do. You say, "I want you to swing in, save the princess, marry her, and live happily ever after." But somewhere along the way Satan messes with it and instead your character develops a fear of rope and thus cannot swing, does not save the princess, and dies a bachelor. Free will. That explanation is good enough for me.
God is a storyteller. He's the man in Arabian Nights who is the master storyteller. He is the man who can captivate an audience in the first sentence. He's the man who is so good at writing, that we forget we are living out his story.
SIGH.
So here goes... take two.
The storyteller image of God goes way back to my childhood. See, as a child, I was really strange and abnormally pensive. I would spend a lot of time meditating and just sitting outside listening. Seriously, an extraordinary amount of time. I would ponder about eternity, try to grasp the complexity of God's lack of a beginning. I would debate in my head whether we have free will or if God is omnipotent and omniscient. Seriously. That is what I thought about as a kid. That's weird. When I was three, I came home from VBS, infuriated, saying, "Mommy, bad men at church killed Jesus." Days later, I came home in tears, "Mommy... I killed Jesus." That was the moment I entered into a strange relationship with God. It has blossomed into something glorious.
Just to further define the picture of my odd thoughts growing up:
"It was to be one of those bedtime for which my four-year-old daughter, Amanda, was famous. This time I was stumped. "Does God love Barbie?" she asked, with an earnestness that made me wish for her sake that He did. Not wanting to burst her bubble and not wanting to lie, I punted. "What do you think, sweetie?" She reasoned that He probably didn't, since dolls didn't have spirits. We were both satisfied."-Julie Evans (my mama)
I just feel like such a bizarre person when I think back on this stuff. Point of this all is that I used to get extremely bogged down on God-thought. I would become frustrated, and stumped, and so had to create an image in my head to solve it all (or at least distract me).
I decided that God was an old, mysterious man. He'd have a white beard, and would have the aura of the bookstore owner in The NeverEnding Story (BEST MOVIE EVER). I would picture God sitting in the middle of a murky nothingness, holding a gargantuan novel in one hand, and a pen in the other. I have always been a writer, and when you are lost in writing, time doesn't really pass. It either stops or you have left it. You are in this other dimension (the creative dimension?) and time does not exist. That helped me solve what life would be like without time. Then I would just think about all of the things God would write. Each molecule would at least have its own page. I would have an entire saga. God wrote down every minute detail that would happen in life. Thus, I reasoned he was omniscient and omnipotent. However, any writer knows that the character does not always do what you planned them to do. You say, "I want you to swing in, save the princess, marry her, and live happily ever after." But somewhere along the way Satan messes with it and instead your character develops a fear of rope and thus cannot swing, does not save the princess, and dies a bachelor. Free will. That explanation is good enough for me.
God is a storyteller. He's the man in Arabian Nights who is the master storyteller. He is the man who can captivate an audience in the first sentence. He's the man who is so good at writing, that we forget we are living out his story.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
God is: a pacer
Apologies, as I definitely promised this post to be up a couple days ago. Life is a busy thing.
It's going to become very clear that I am a stalker kid. I find people-watching calming and thought-provoking. I like to wonder about their lives and what they are thinking about. The last post was about me watching a painter and how I related him to God's peace. A while ago, I posted a poem about a man who paces. He is the subject of the second comparison.
Across from my second-floor apartment, there is a bookstore. This bookstore is my favorite place in Clifton. It is a quiet, old-smelling escape from the noisy street. Above this bookstore is an apartment. The four windows are directly across from my three windows. In said apartment, there is a man. While knowing nothing about him, I am convinced he is at least creative. He only comes out at night. And when he does, it is not to party or do typical idiotic things. He just paces. The two windows on the right belong to his kitchen. And he just paces through them. And drinks water. And his cat stares back at me.
Once, though, he ventured into the left room. The light was finally turned on. And he paced, and paced. And then sat down and furiously began doing..something. I decided that from the movements of his arms he was either typing or playing the piano.
Honestly, I kind of like to think of God like that. There's an aura of mystery about him. He is just a faceless man, in a tiny apartment, constantly preoccupied with the matters of the world. He has already written the story, and is waiting to see how we play it out. Sometimes, there's a hurt in the pace. Sometimes, we choose the wrong route. And Got gets hurt. I like to think that God stays up battling sleepless nights to think about us, to help us. Maybe he's pacing angrily, or sadly, or impatiently, or just thoughtfully. But it brings this rather human aspect to God that I like. He's just eagerly awaiting us to come up the stairs to meet Him face to face. And sometimes, he likes to stop and write a special sunset or an intricate cloud formation-just to make our hearts stop and look. Sometimes, he likes to play music, to write us a song. And that's when we suddenly notice how beautifully composed the seemingly random noise of life is.
So, that's why God is a pacer. I promise I'm not a horrible stalker, I just enjoy staring out the window, observing life from a distance. And then feeling how curious it is to step out and join that life.
Next up: Storyteller :D
It's going to become very clear that I am a stalker kid. I find people-watching calming and thought-provoking. I like to wonder about their lives and what they are thinking about. The last post was about me watching a painter and how I related him to God's peace. A while ago, I posted a poem about a man who paces. He is the subject of the second comparison.
Across from my second-floor apartment, there is a bookstore. This bookstore is my favorite place in Clifton. It is a quiet, old-smelling escape from the noisy street. Above this bookstore is an apartment. The four windows are directly across from my three windows. In said apartment, there is a man. While knowing nothing about him, I am convinced he is at least creative. He only comes out at night. And when he does, it is not to party or do typical idiotic things. He just paces. The two windows on the right belong to his kitchen. And he just paces through them. And drinks water. And his cat stares back at me.
Once, though, he ventured into the left room. The light was finally turned on. And he paced, and paced. And then sat down and furiously began doing..something. I decided that from the movements of his arms he was either typing or playing the piano.
Honestly, I kind of like to think of God like that. There's an aura of mystery about him. He is just a faceless man, in a tiny apartment, constantly preoccupied with the matters of the world. He has already written the story, and is waiting to see how we play it out. Sometimes, there's a hurt in the pace. Sometimes, we choose the wrong route. And Got gets hurt. I like to think that God stays up battling sleepless nights to think about us, to help us. Maybe he's pacing angrily, or sadly, or impatiently, or just thoughtfully. But it brings this rather human aspect to God that I like. He's just eagerly awaiting us to come up the stairs to meet Him face to face. And sometimes, he likes to stop and write a special sunset or an intricate cloud formation-just to make our hearts stop and look. Sometimes, he likes to play music, to write us a song. And that's when we suddenly notice how beautifully composed the seemingly random noise of life is.
So, that's why God is a pacer. I promise I'm not a horrible stalker, I just enjoy staring out the window, observing life from a distance. And then feeling how curious it is to step out and join that life.
Next up: Storyteller :D
Friday, January 22, 2010
God is: a painter
This past week, I took on the position of "Assistant to the Production Assistant." Official, right?
I was helping my lovely JennFrennd at the high school event, "Pneuma." It's just two hours of really intense God time, and it's different every time. This night was a worship night.
Besides finding out that I actually am half-decent at changing the lyric slides, I thought a lot about uniquely defining my relationship with God. Alton, high school pastor, asked us to write down three words that define Jesus. Mine were painter, pacer, and storyteller. And there is a story behind each.
Painter: There's something you should know about me. I worry constantly and have an anxiety disorder (GAD). It will happen, on occasion, that I freak out to the point of having a panic attack. One afternoon, this happened in the middle of psychology class. I have learned to keep calm, and so talked myself home. I tried all of the calming down methods: yoga, music (Enya or Sigur Ros), warm drink, trying to sleep. But it wasn't working because of this group of stupid people by my apartment. They're always around and they are LOUD. The only way of communication they have is apparently by yelling. If they texted each other, it would be in all caps. The aggravated tones were getting to me. That's when I looked out the window.
A painter was balancing on a ladder a little ways from me. I watched him, like a proper creep, for a long time. Somehow, he was calming to me. I started to breathe and relax. That feeling is as close as I can humanely relate to the way God makes me feel. A lot of my super intense God time seems to focus on rest. I don't plan it that way, God just does it. And afterwards, I feel as though I've been sleeping 100 years. I'm thoroughly refreshed. That is why this painter symbolizes God for me. He was slow and methodical in his movements. He took his time, and repositioned himself to make sure everything would run smoothly. He even took a smoke break. Plus he was painting the background of this building. God's like that: He spent all of eternity (except not, because that's a measure of time, and I'm talkin' bout before time) just creating our story. He stepped back, and made preparations for things that would go wrong. And after he created, he rested.
Focusing on that painter's slow, careful movements is soothing in the way that God's story, slowly and carefully painted, brings peace.
Tomorrow, I'll talk about the pacer :)
I was helping my lovely JennFrennd at the high school event, "Pneuma." It's just two hours of really intense God time, and it's different every time. This night was a worship night.
Besides finding out that I actually am half-decent at changing the lyric slides, I thought a lot about uniquely defining my relationship with God. Alton, high school pastor, asked us to write down three words that define Jesus. Mine were painter, pacer, and storyteller. And there is a story behind each.
Painter: There's something you should know about me. I worry constantly and have an anxiety disorder (GAD). It will happen, on occasion, that I freak out to the point of having a panic attack. One afternoon, this happened in the middle of psychology class. I have learned to keep calm, and so talked myself home. I tried all of the calming down methods: yoga, music (Enya or Sigur Ros), warm drink, trying to sleep. But it wasn't working because of this group of stupid people by my apartment. They're always around and they are LOUD. The only way of communication they have is apparently by yelling. If they texted each other, it would be in all caps. The aggravated tones were getting to me. That's when I looked out the window.
A painter was balancing on a ladder a little ways from me. I watched him, like a proper creep, for a long time. Somehow, he was calming to me. I started to breathe and relax. That feeling is as close as I can humanely relate to the way God makes me feel. A lot of my super intense God time seems to focus on rest. I don't plan it that way, God just does it. And afterwards, I feel as though I've been sleeping 100 years. I'm thoroughly refreshed. That is why this painter symbolizes God for me. He was slow and methodical in his movements. He took his time, and repositioned himself to make sure everything would run smoothly. He even took a smoke break. Plus he was painting the background of this building. God's like that: He spent all of eternity (except not, because that's a measure of time, and I'm talkin' bout before time) just creating our story. He stepped back, and made preparations for things that would go wrong. And after he created, he rested.
Focusing on that painter's slow, careful movements is soothing in the way that God's story, slowly and carefully painted, brings peace.
Tomorrow, I'll talk about the pacer :)
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
The Outline
It's clear that the things
We have thunk in our heads
Are a lot worse than
The words that we've said
I'm trying to read the pavement:
Decipher the messy splatter
Where your head met the ground.
The truth is what you meant:
Not the clunking clatter
Of your lip's coded sound.
Though there was caution tape
We were reckless
It was a closed case
But we were curious
This never should have been a scene
Tried going but the light's not green
They took chalk and drew the outline
Can't press charges, we're out of time
~~~~~~~~~~~
Not my best work, but I'll figure it out. I need Matt. He always figures out the reality of the melodies. (It's a song. Yes)
We have thunk in our heads
Are a lot worse than
The words that we've said
I'm trying to read the pavement:
Decipher the messy splatter
Where your head met the ground.
The truth is what you meant:
Not the clunking clatter
Of your lip's coded sound.
Though there was caution tape
We were reckless
It was a closed case
But we were curious
This never should have been a scene
Tried going but the light's not green
They took chalk and drew the outline
Can't press charges, we're out of time
~~~~~~~~~~~
Not my best work, but I'll figure it out. I need Matt. He always figures out the reality of the melodies. (It's a song. Yes)
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
A little poem candy
Some Outside Help
Focal point is lost
Falling, dreaming, running after
Somehow, ignoring the cost
And writing with an unnamed lead.
Stand up, and make the fresh clot bleed
In a grave, miles back, I lost some things
An innocence, a dream, an untamed breed
From when childhood mated with reality
The chain was strong, but I'm an escapee
The traps have been set, the holes covered
Soy debil; the cold, wind feels free
My own chains are strong, but I have the key.
Focal point is lost
Falling, dreaming, running after
Somehow, ignoring the cost
And writing with an unnamed lead.
Stand up, and make the fresh clot bleed
In a grave, miles back, I lost some things
An innocence, a dream, an untamed breed
From when childhood mated with reality
The chain was strong, but I'm an escapee
The traps have been set, the holes covered
Soy debil; the cold, wind feels free
My own chains are strong, but I have the key.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Settling, but not settling down
Settle: kind of feels like a horrible word.
Settle: rhymes with nettle. Prickly, evil stuff. Think about Jesus' parable of the sower. Chokes the faith out of the believer.
Today has been, AWESOME. And also bad. I got rejected for a job. That was bad. On the A side, I had been feeling like I didn't want to work there anyway. On the A-PLUS side, an article I wrote was published in The News Record! On the EXTRA CREDIT side, I was the only article in today's paper to be commented on. And fifth in popularity.
I had this buzz going. But Jamie was napping. So, I silently did a couple happy dances, and then became bored. But still buzzed! Hello, Bible.
Okay, I'm reading in Exodus. Just in the beginning, chapter four. You know how people say that the Bible just does not "apply to their life?"
What a load of a cow's relative's excrement.
I wasn't reading too deeply into the story, just reading it. This one is all about Moses, and the burning bush, and the plagues, and yoda-yoda-yoda (because what is a yada?). I know this story. I wrote a paper on it in high school. I've got this story in my back pocket.
BUT. And this proves that no matter how well you know the Bible, something new always jumps out.
I was reading in chapter 5, about how Pharaoh is angry and makes Israel work extra hard because of Moses and Aaron. My crazy brain (insane in the membrane) jumps ahead of the story and starts focusing on how the Israelites react to this.
And I quote:
"May the Lord look upon you and judge you (Moses and Aaron). For you have caused us to be hated by Pharaoh and his servants. You have put a sword in their hand to kill us."
Umm. DRAMA QUEENS?????
Seriously though. Work load increased plus beatings equals.... "a sword in their hand to kill us."
Yeah, okay.
And also! Hated by Pharaoh???
Hated?
Because he was just all over them before. Yeah, go Israelites.
Let me fast-forward. God's plan works, the Israelites are freed. There is much praise, rejoicing, and "God-is-good-ing." Current setting: hungry. And quote:
"We should have died by the Lord's hand in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the pots of meat and ate all the bread we wanted. For you have brought us out into this desert to kill all of us with hunger."
Again. WHAT???????????????????????????
Enough with the drama. I now believe that the Israelites are the social equivalent to a helpless, high-school cheerleader.
(No offense to my high-school cheerleaders. Talkin' bout the stereotype ^_^)
I really want to say that this little complaining thing only happened once.
But, just read the Bible. It's embarrassing.
Now, a lot of talks on this aspect of the Israelites is about how it relates to us and how we are never satisfied with God's promise.
This is similar. But more personal and specific.
I'm reading this chapter and I just ask myself "Why do they settle for that?" It quickly turns into "Why do I settle for guys who I know deep-down are not the one?" This whole issue is something I've been dealing with since the Dan-Amanda split.
I have spent more time convincing myself I am in love (with all of the guys I've dated), then really being in love. What is with that? I realized it comes down to some fear. Fear and the fact that I just really love being in a relationship with somebody. The person to text throughout the day. The person to go with to things. The person to cuddle with. The person to kiss. Blah, blah, throw-up, blah.
Backing away from the cheesiness, now.
This is a true thing for a lot of people out there. We spend all this time picturing the perfect person, wanting to be with someone, feeling insecure about it, and then settling on the first person who steps through the door.
Why?
I think it stems from this fear that there's not going to be that someone who can complement you perfectly. You know the things you really want in a person. But maybe spend time convincing yourself it's not that important? I've done that too many times and have ended up sacrificing whole halves of my identity. With one guy it was my poetic, dreamer side. With another, it was the fact that I kind of like the idea of being a stay-at-home mom and would like a husband who can support me. With another, it was the whole side of me that loves being around all kinds of people.
Enough!
Can't we focus on the fact that God has created the PERFECT someone for us?
Not that they are perfect.
But they ARE perfect for us. Yes, there will be sacrifices you have to make. But not ones that jeopardize who you are! God has made someone out there who LIKES all of those things about you. And it's important to know that just because someone falls head over heels for you, does not mean you are going to be head over heels for them. Don't fall for that.
So. This story just reminded me of all that. The Israelites lead this awful life as slaves to the brutal Egyptians. But when God freed them, they wanted back! They could not hold sight of the glorious future God had promised them. They kept thinking of that first guy-the one who took care of them, even if he was dominating and beat them. Do you get what I'm saying? Don't fall too soon. Keep your eyes on the future. God's future for you. When the time is right, there will be this sense of security.
Yeah :)
Peace up!
Amanda
Settle: rhymes with nettle. Prickly, evil stuff. Think about Jesus' parable of the sower. Chokes the faith out of the believer.
Today has been, AWESOME. And also bad. I got rejected for a job. That was bad. On the A side, I had been feeling like I didn't want to work there anyway. On the A-PLUS side, an article I wrote was published in The News Record! On the EXTRA CREDIT side, I was the only article in today's paper to be commented on. And fifth in popularity.
I had this buzz going. But Jamie was napping. So, I silently did a couple happy dances, and then became bored. But still buzzed! Hello, Bible.
Okay, I'm reading in Exodus. Just in the beginning, chapter four. You know how people say that the Bible just does not "apply to their life?"
What a load of a cow's relative's excrement.
I wasn't reading too deeply into the story, just reading it. This one is all about Moses, and the burning bush, and the plagues, and yoda-yoda-yoda (because what is a yada?). I know this story. I wrote a paper on it in high school. I've got this story in my back pocket.
BUT. And this proves that no matter how well you know the Bible, something new always jumps out.
I was reading in chapter 5, about how Pharaoh is angry and makes Israel work extra hard because of Moses and Aaron. My crazy brain (insane in the membrane) jumps ahead of the story and starts focusing on how the Israelites react to this.
And I quote:
"May the Lord look upon you and judge you (Moses and Aaron). For you have caused us to be hated by Pharaoh and his servants. You have put a sword in their hand to kill us."
Umm. DRAMA QUEENS?????
Seriously though. Work load increased plus beatings equals.... "a sword in their hand to kill us."
Yeah, okay.
And also! Hated by Pharaoh???
Hated?
Because he was just all over them before. Yeah, go Israelites.
Let me fast-forward. God's plan works, the Israelites are freed. There is much praise, rejoicing, and "God-is-good-ing." Current setting: hungry. And quote:
"We should have died by the Lord's hand in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the pots of meat and ate all the bread we wanted. For you have brought us out into this desert to kill all of us with hunger."
Again. WHAT???????????????????????????
Enough with the drama. I now believe that the Israelites are the social equivalent to a helpless, high-school cheerleader.
(No offense to my high-school cheerleaders. Talkin' bout the stereotype ^_^)
I really want to say that this little complaining thing only happened once.
But, just read the Bible. It's embarrassing.
Now, a lot of talks on this aspect of the Israelites is about how it relates to us and how we are never satisfied with God's promise.
This is similar. But more personal and specific.
I'm reading this chapter and I just ask myself "Why do they settle for that?" It quickly turns into "Why do I settle for guys who I know deep-down are not the one?" This whole issue is something I've been dealing with since the Dan-Amanda split.
I have spent more time convincing myself I am in love (with all of the guys I've dated), then really being in love. What is with that? I realized it comes down to some fear. Fear and the fact that I just really love being in a relationship with somebody. The person to text throughout the day. The person to go with to things. The person to cuddle with. The person to kiss. Blah, blah, throw-up, blah.
Backing away from the cheesiness, now.
This is a true thing for a lot of people out there. We spend all this time picturing the perfect person, wanting to be with someone, feeling insecure about it, and then settling on the first person who steps through the door.
Why?
I think it stems from this fear that there's not going to be that someone who can complement you perfectly. You know the things you really want in a person. But maybe spend time convincing yourself it's not that important? I've done that too many times and have ended up sacrificing whole halves of my identity. With one guy it was my poetic, dreamer side. With another, it was the fact that I kind of like the idea of being a stay-at-home mom and would like a husband who can support me. With another, it was the whole side of me that loves being around all kinds of people.
Enough!
Can't we focus on the fact that God has created the PERFECT someone for us?
Not that they are perfect.
But they ARE perfect for us. Yes, there will be sacrifices you have to make. But not ones that jeopardize who you are! God has made someone out there who LIKES all of those things about you. And it's important to know that just because someone falls head over heels for you, does not mean you are going to be head over heels for them. Don't fall for that.
So. This story just reminded me of all that. The Israelites lead this awful life as slaves to the brutal Egyptians. But when God freed them, they wanted back! They could not hold sight of the glorious future God had promised them. They kept thinking of that first guy-the one who took care of them, even if he was dominating and beat them. Do you get what I'm saying? Don't fall too soon. Keep your eyes on the future. God's future for you. When the time is right, there will be this sense of security.
Yeah :)
Peace up!
Amanda
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Mutant RedHead?
Oh, hello!
It's been a while hasn't it? Poor blog.
Yeah, this whole "Christmas-NewYears" thing swept me away to South Carolina and Florida. (sunburn in December. Interesting.)
It's the redheaded skin. It's the worst.
No one should have to suffer from redhead skin.
It's pale. Ghostly so. It's terrifying.
And it burns unnaturally easy. Like it wants to be burnt. Like it wants to hurt me.
And it's sensitive. And for some reason turns red easily.
Like, okay, seriously? My hair is already obnoxiously red, why are you following suit, dear skin? (Is suit spelled differently in that context?)
They say red hair is a genetic mutation.
Who says? I don't know. MLIA for one thing.
Maybe... It is the beginning of a metamorphosis into a fiery phoenix!!!
Maybe we are all some crazy pre-form of Jean Grey. (Gray?)
If so, I'm just waiting for Professor X to show up.
Or maybe it's the slow progression into becoming a Strawberry Shortcake Doll.
I hate those dolls.
So, anyway. I wanted to talk about New Years resolutions. I was thinking of writing an opinion article about it for The News Record, but wrote something WAY cooler. Trust me. Did I mention I wrote an article for the News Record? (Right, right???? Extra points if you heard that in Ted Moesby's voice.)
Uhm, but unnaturally enough, I'm blogged out!
I'm surviving on a total of 14 hours of sleep for the last three nights.
And I haven't had coffee since this morning.
*passes out*
It's been a while hasn't it? Poor blog.
Yeah, this whole "Christmas-NewYears" thing swept me away to South Carolina and Florida. (sunburn in December. Interesting.)
It's the redheaded skin. It's the worst.
No one should have to suffer from redhead skin.
It's pale. Ghostly so. It's terrifying.
And it burns unnaturally easy. Like it wants to be burnt. Like it wants to hurt me.
And it's sensitive. And for some reason turns red easily.
Like, okay, seriously? My hair is already obnoxiously red, why are you following suit, dear skin? (Is suit spelled differently in that context?)
They say red hair is a genetic mutation.
Who says? I don't know. MLIA for one thing.
Maybe... It is the beginning of a metamorphosis into a fiery phoenix!!!
Maybe we are all some crazy pre-form of Jean Grey. (Gray?)
If so, I'm just waiting for Professor X to show up.
Or maybe it's the slow progression into becoming a Strawberry Shortcake Doll.
I hate those dolls.
So, anyway. I wanted to talk about New Years resolutions. I was thinking of writing an opinion article about it for The News Record, but wrote something WAY cooler. Trust me. Did I mention I wrote an article for the News Record? (Right, right???? Extra points if you heard that in Ted Moesby's voice.)
Uhm, but unnaturally enough, I'm blogged out!
I'm surviving on a total of 14 hours of sleep for the last three nights.
And I haven't had coffee since this morning.
*passes out*
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