If you've never stared off into the distance...

then your life is a shame.

I have had this song stuck in my head all day. I am telling you, if Adam Duritz (lead singer of Counting Crows) had a book--poetry or prose--I would most definitely buy it. The images in this song are incredible!

"Mrs. Potter's Lullaby" by Counting Crows

Well I woke up in mid afternoon, cause that's when it all hurts the most.
I dream I never know anyone at the party and I'm always the host.
If dreams are like movies, then memories are films about ghosts.
You can never escape, you can only move south down the coast.

Well I am an idiot walking a tightrope of fortune and fame.
I am an acrobat swinging trapezes through circles of flame.
If you've never stared off into the distance then your life is a shame.
And though I'll never forget your face sometimes I can't remember my name.

Hey, Mrs. Potter, don't cry.
Hey, Mrs. Potter, I know why.
But, hey, Mrs. Potter, won't you talk to me?

Well there's a piece of Maria in every song that I sing.
And the price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings.
And there is always one last light to turn out and one last bell to ring.
And the last one out of the circus has to lock up everything.

Or the elephants will get out and forget to remember what you said.
Oh and the ghosts of the tilt-o-whirl will linger inside of your head.
Oh and the ferris wheel junkies will spin there forever instead.
When I see you, a blanket of stars covers me in my bed.

Hey, Mrs. Potter, don't go.
I said, hey, Mrs. Potter, I don't know.
But, hey, Mrs. Potter, won't you talk to me?

Well all the blue light reflections that color my mind when I sleep.
And the lovesick rejections that accompany the company I keep.
All the razor perceptions that cut just a little too deep.
Hey, I can bleed as well as anyone but I need someone to help me sleep.

So I throw my hand into the air and it swims in the beams.
It's just a brief interruption of the swirling dust sparkle jet stream.
Well, I know I don't know you and you're probably not what you seem.
Aw, but I'd sure like to find out so why don't you climb down off that movie screen.

Hey, Mrs. Potter, don't turn.
Hey, Mrs. Potter, I burn for you.
Hey, Mrs. Potter, won't you talk to me?

When the last king of Hollywood shatters his glass on the floor and orders another...
well, I wonder what he did that for.
That's when I know that I have to get out cause I have been there before.
So, I gave up my seat at the bar and I head for the door.

Yeah. We drove out to the desert just to lie down beneath this bowl of stars.
We stand up in the Palace, like it's the last of the great pioneer town bars.
Aw, we shout out these songs against the clang of electric guitars.
Well, you can see a million miles tonight, but you can't get very far.

Aw, you can see a million miles tonight, but you can't get very far.

Hey, Mrs. Potter, I won't touch.
And, hey, Mrs. Potter, it's not much.
But, hey, Mrs. Potter, won't you talk to me?

I got to thinking about relationships and partial lobotomies...

two seemingly different ideas that might just be perfect together - like chocolate and peanut butter.

Okay, so this weekend I made a self-discovery. Typically I welcome self-discovery; as I have stated I am the kind of person that takes personality quizzes, fills out surveys, actually enjoys counseling, all in the attempt to find something out about myself that I was not already aware of. This weekend it hit me, and frankly, it caught me by surprise.

Friday night, after hanging out with Cara, I went to Bedford Street with Ashley and Cliff to hear Candace play. Anyway, I sat at a table with several of Ashley's friends from high school (three guys) and talked to all of them for a total of 30 minutes max. Later that night at Ashley's, she receives a phone call from one of the guys...Jason. Randomly, he asks to speak to me. He tells me that though he finds my glasses intimidating (which I don't get...they're just glasses) he wants to know if I will accompany him to a movie the next night before Ashley and Cliff's concert. I hesitantly, because I thought he was kidding, or drunk, or wouldn't follow through, said yes. Imagine...the anticipation is already building.

The next morning I am woken up at 10am by my cell phone. It's an unknown number. I answer the phone:
"Hello."
"Hello."
"Who is this?"
"Jason."
"Jason who?"
By this time a) it sounds like a knock-knock joke and b) I have already made a fatal flaw by saying "Jason who?" I am such a fool. But, in my defense, I know another Jason. However, the Jason I know knows better than to call at 10am on a Saturday.

The conversation continues. We decide on dinner instead of a movie. I hang up the phone knowing I will see him at 6:30. The anticipation continues to grow.

Sidenote: I just got out of a long-term, laid-back relationship, so the feeling of anticipation is somewhat new to me. Heck, let's just go ahead and "call a spade a spade"...it was fear.

Anticipation/fear...whatever. It was real. What will I wear? Fear. I should offer to pay for my own dinner, right? Are we going "dutch"? (I realize one of my friends doesn't know that this means that you each pay for your own meal...so I thought I should clarify.) Man, I hate first dates. Anticipation. He doesn't even know my last name. What all do I tell him? I always say too much. Fear. Do I take my own car to the concert? Is he going to try to kiss me at the end of the night? Anticipation. Do I have anything in my teeth? Should I tell him I watch Lifetime? Oh my gosh, what if he likes anime? Fear. His hand is on my leg. I don't know how I feel about this. Anticipation. He is telling me that the nudge at the concert meant I should have held his hand. I didn't know that. I am out of the dating loop. Fear. He asks if we can get together on Sunday. What do I say? I feel pressure. Does he want a relationship right off the bat? Anticipation. He is leaning in...is he going to kiss me? Do I want to kiss him? Fear. Oh, thank God. He is just giving me a hug. Deep sigh of relief as I head up to my apartment to slip into comfortable pajamas. Oh, sweet apartment...you don't pressure me; you don't care if I watch Lifetime in pants that are so worn they have holes; you don't care that I have on no make-up and you don't talk about video games incessantly. I wish first dates could be skipped over completely. I wish you could go straight into the comfortable moments I mentioned above, being with someone that knows what I like and what I don't, and when his hand settles on my leg I am not caught off guard.

What I learned about myself: I am a date-a-phobic. I, who have always thought of myself as having the ability to hold my own in conversations with strangers and keep a cool head in stressful situations, completely feared a date with a great guy. Maybe it's because I was comfortable in a relationship for so long that I am unsure of what to do with myself in situations like these. I want to sit down with someone that already knows me. Someone I don't have to spend hours catching them up on what activities I was involved in in high school, how many siblings I have, whether or not I like to travel, what I want to do in the future, etcetera, etcetera. It's exhausting really. It reminds me of a conversation from Sex and the City:

Charlotte: I've been dating since I was fifteen! I'm exhausted! Where is he?
Miranda: Who, the White Knight?
Samantha: That only happens in fairy tales.
Charlotte: My hair hurts.

Seriously, thinking about this makes my head hurt. I have to see the light at the end of the tunnel though. One day, a wonderful first date will lead to an incredible second date. Then, after a unforeseen amount of time, I will realize that this one is the one. That moment will make up for all of the mundane conversations about who my favorite bands are and whether or not I prefer my coffee black or with cream and sugar.

This entry makes me think of this song.

"Comfortable" by John Mayer

I just remembered that time at the market,
snuck up behind me and jumped on my shopping cart
and rolled down aisle five.
You looked behind you to smile back at me,
crashed into a rack full of magazines.
They asked us if we could leave.

I can’t remember what went wrong last September,
though I’m sure you’d remind me if you had to.

Our love was comfortable and so broken in.

I sleep with this new girl I’m still getting used to.
My friends all approve,
say she’s gonna be good for you.
They throw me high fives.
She says the Bible is all that she reads,
and prefers that I not use profanity.
Your mouth was so dirty.

Life of the party and she swears that she’s artsy,
but you could distinguish Miles from Coltrane.

Our love was comfortable and so broken in.
She’s perfect.
So flawless.
Or so they say.

She thinks I can’t see the smile that she’s faking,
and poses for pictures that aren’t being taken.
I loved you.
Grey sweatpants.
No makeup.
So perfect.

Our love was comfortable and so broken in.
She’s perfect.
So flawless.
I’m not impressed.
I want you back.

Skin...

Tonight I had the privilege of hearing Dr. April Linder, from St. Joseph's University in Philadelphia, read several poems, most of which are from her book, Skin.

It is always therapeutic for me to hear authors read their own works, and when I saw the poster hanging in Abilene Hall, advertising tonight's poetry reading, I knew it was just what I needed.

And it was. I promptly purchased Skin and had her sign it. Sitting here tonight, reading back over several of her poems, I am truly amazed by her art, and how she is able to intertwine the physical with the spiritual, beauty with reality, sensuality with everyday life.

I will post two of her poems below; I hope you enjoy them.

Crystal

It began as accident, a moment
beside you on a bench, our forearms touching.
(You didn't pull away; neither did I.)
As if our skins were porous and your soul
were liquid, you poured into me.
Like crystal,
my voice took on a new note, full of you,
and from your voice I knew you likewise full,
our conversation vibrant as the chime
of champagne glasses touched in celebration,
a fragile music tuned by borrowed contents,
each narrow flute enriched by what it holds
the song provisional, the precise note
inspiring thirst, but altered by a sip.

Learning to Float

Relax. It's like love. Keep your lips
moist and parted, let your upturned hands
unfold like water lilies, palms exposed.

Breathe deeply, slowly. Forget chlorine
and how the cement bottom was stained
blue so the water looks clear

and Caribbean. Ignore the drowned mosquitoes,
the twigs that gather in the net
of your hair. The sun is your ticket,

your narcotic, blessing your chin,
the floating islands of your knees.
Shut your eyes and give yourself

to the pulsating starfish, purple and red,
that flicker on your inner lids.
Hallucination is part of the process,

like amnesia. Forget how you learned
to swim, forget being told
Don't panic. Don't worry. Let go

of my neck. It's only water. Don't think
unless you're picturing Chagall,
his watercolors of doves and rooftops,

lovers weightless as tissue,
gravity banished, the dissolving voices
of violins and panpipes. The man's hand

circles the woman's wrist so loosely,
what moors her permits her to float,
and she rises past the water's skin,

above verandas and the tossing heads
of willows. Her one link to earth,
his light--almost reluctant--touch is a rope

unfurling, slipping her past the horizon,
into the cloud-stirring current. This far up,
what can she do but trust he won't let go?

How I celebrate after the completion of a research paper...

I pop a bag of Act II buttered popcorn, place my Diet Coke on a coaster (as to not leave water rings), turn my television to channel 46...Nick at Nite, and begin filling out another online survey.

Why do I do this? I am fairly sure the results of this online quiz are not going to spawn any epiphanies, and I could be lying on my couch watching back-to-back reruns of "Friends", sure to make me laugh out loud, but instead I sit in the same seat I have sat in for countless hours typing papers galore.

I have no answers. I do not know why I fill out these surveys. Maybe in an attempt to find something new out about myself, but that never happens. I wish I could say it is due to peer pressure. I could make up some elaborate story about how I received anonymous phone calls all day telling me that if I didn't fill out this survey...my love life would be cursed for seven years... or something. I filled this out freely; I have no one to blame but myself.

Because I spent the time filling it out, I will post the results. Somehow it feels like less of a waste of time if I share, if I put the results out into the faceless void that is the Internet, or more specifically, this blog. On the website where I filled this out, they say you can take it multiple times to make sure the end result is ultimately reliable. I ask you, who has that kind of time? I am no one to talk, though. I filled this stupid thing out. I will now share my waste of time with you, thus making it your waste of time.

Global Personality Test Results

Extraversion 56%
Stability 56%
Orderliness 90%
Empathy 90%
Interdependence 23%
Intellectual 90%
Mystical 10%
Artistic 90%
Religious 83%
Hedonism 30%
Materialism 76%
Narcissism 83%
Adventurousness 70%
Work ethic 90%
Self absorbed 36%
Conflict seeking 16%
Need to dominate 10%
Romantic 90%
Avoidant 10%
Anti-authority 43%
Wealth 70%
Dependency 36%
Change averse 83%
Cautiousness 83%
Individuality 50%
Sexuality 83%
Peter pan complex 16%
Physical security 90%
Food indulgent 16%
Histrionic 43%
Paranoia 30%
Vanity 36%
Hypersensitivity 90%
Female cliche 56%

Stability results were moderately high which suggests you are relaxed, calm, secure, and optimistic.

Orderliness results were very high which suggests you are overly organized, reliable, neat, and hard working at the expense too often of flexibility, efficiency, spontaneity, and fun.

Extraversion results were moderately high which suggests you are, at times, overly talkative, outgoing, sociable and interacting at the expense of developing your own individual interests and internally based identity.

Trait Snapshot:
clean, organized, dislikes chaos, semi neat freak, perfectionist, traditional, realist, fits in most places, enjoys managing others, risk averse, good at saving money, prudent, respects authority, high self control, hard working, does not like to stand out, follows the rules, finisher, resilient, takes precautions, cautious, honest, practical, dutiful

It's a photograph extravaganza...

So, here are the photographs I promised oh-so-very long ago. There are still more to come, but that is going to require me actually having them developed, scanning them, etc. Needless to say, it could be a while.



Trevor later regretted ever asking me to duel with him. He had no idea I had been formally trained in fencing from a young age. He lost a hand, but he has since replaced it with a top quality sterling silver hook. Who knew James Avery was also into the hook making business? I thought he only made religious jewelry. Oh, well...now we know.



This was taken at Campisi's downtown. Delicious Italian food, great ambiance, mafia waiters...awesome.



Trevor. I think he was contemplating the drink menu. Decisions...decisions.



Posing with Kim's cigar. It seems like there should be a deck of cards on the table in front of me, or stacks of money, or...something.



The "community" drink. Good times.



Me taking a swim in the community...drink? I basically could have.



Kim entertains with nothing but a lemon peel and a knife. She is like the MacGyver of clowns.



Party at Ashley's.



Crazy Shannon with the orange hair brought the musket. We always like to have one on hand at a party.



Ashley was unsure about having a musket in her house. Cliff seemed alright with it.



I too was hesitant about being so close to a crazy girl and a musket, but Cara reminded me that it is Shannon's Constitutional right to "bear arms", and who am I to rob her of her freedom?



I am not sure what is happening here. I, as an advocate of peace, am flashing the peace sign...or something, and apparently Cliff is almost licking my ear. Riddle me this.



When someone tells me to rock, I rock.

Okay, so these are a few vignettes from my life. As always, more to come.

The bluest eye...

Sunk in the grass of an empty lot on a spring Saturday, I split the stems of milkweed and thought about ants and peach pits and death and where the world went when I closed my eyes.

The truth is never sexy...

so it's not an easy sell. -- Derek Webb

This week I have been thinking about the movie Closer. Honestly, I have been thinking about the plot since I first viewed it in the theater right before Christmas break. I could not get the underlying symbols or all of the innuendos, realities, and deeper meanings out of my head. The main point of the film is truth, and it is both a harsh and accurate portrayal of the society we live in and how we often turn a blind eye to Truth looking for something more appealing, glittering, candy-coated.

Yesterday I was reading prose by Samuel Butler, and I stumbled upon this passage:

Truth herself has little or nothing to do in the affairs of the world, although all matters of the greatest weight and moment are pretended and done in her name, like a weak princess that has only the title, and falsehood all the power.

How many times do we hear ourselves saying something one minute, and then contradicting ourselves the next?

"Yes, I am a truthful person. My word is my oath."
"I would never think of telling anyone. You can trust me."
"If you come to me, you will always get the truth. Sometimes it won't be what you want to hear, but I have to remain truthful to myself."

We say things like this in moments that demand the most sincere truths, but how many times have we betrayed our words and told that deep secret, let a white lie slip from our mouths when we wanted an out, told someone a half-truth to appease them? These are the questions I asked myself when I sat down at my apartment this past weekend to watch Closer.

For me, the main theme of the movie is revealed in one scene between Alice and Larry. Alice says:

It's a lie. It's a bunch of sad strangers photographed beautifully, and all the glittering assholes who appreciate art say it's beautiful 'cause that's what they want to see. But the people in the photos are sad, and alone... But the pictures make the world seem beautiful, so... the exhibition is reassuring which makes it a lie, and everyone loves a big fat lie.

I see this as a microcosm of the world we live in. We surround ourselves with lies: lies that comfort us, make us feel like everything is okay, tell us to turn away from the moral decay of our society, glossing over it with a euphoric stain that gives us a feeling of complacency. We would rather see something that is fake and beautiful than something that is real and unattractive. The fact that this is how members of our society live (including me) impacted me in a way that I have yet to fully understand.

Ultimately, the characters in this film are lost on every level: lost in desire, lost in lies, lost in lust, lost in their definitions of self. Lost and fearful. They find themselves in relationships that are developed out of the society they live in. Relationships that appear beautiful from the outside, but are glossed over for comfort's sake. Relationships that are surface-superficial. Relationships that are selfish and void of any true love.

At one point in the film, Alice says:

Where is this "love"? I can't see it, I can't touch it. I can't feel it. I can hear it. I can hear some words, but I can't do anything with your easy words.

Both Alice and Dan are merely playing roles. If their relationship was built on truth, it would seep out of every pore of his body, every action. Instead he appeases her with sweet nothings, notions that have no true substance.

These characters are all confused. The line that separates truth from lies is completely blurred and out of focus. Dan is a walking contradiction, saying in one scene:

What's so great about the truth? Try lying for a change; it's the currency of the world.

And in another:

When I get back, please tell me the truth. Because I'm addicted to it. Because without it, we're animals. Trust me.

They don't know what they want, just as often times we do not know what we want. Towards the end of the movie, Alice asks: Why isn't love enough? And the answer to that question is another question. What is true love? The loves, the relationships in this film, are picture-perfect on the surface, but underneath they are eating away at the very souls of the characters. Truth, just like the concept of true love, is not always pretty. It may not speak the words you long to hear. It may not lead where you want it to. It may cause you pain. But, in the end, it is real, and if we are not real, what are we?

I want to be the kind of person that desires truth above all else, knowing that it often comes with consequences. The alternative is a life filled with shiny, beautiful things that are slowly rotting under the surface.