it's a boy!

Who knew The Garden had a personal pronoun?

Found in-between waka and waka tārere in the Oxford Encyclopedia of New Zealand in the DU stacks of the Social Sciences section of the Harold B. Lee Library in Provo, Utah at approximately 3:13 pm on this twenty-seventh of February 2007, causing its discoverer to stifle a laugh. Perhaps a note from God, a subtle reminder to call home?

glorious morning

Given that outside my world is a wall of white I'm going to assume that the above was my "glorious morning" promised and that this blizzard doesn't count. This morning, though, the new-lit dawn and playful winds---that was glorious. The warm air, the brisk walk to class, the heady moisture clinging to the dry air.

The canvas, newly gessoed, that waits patiently on my easel. The titanium white acrylic that rests on its side, shiny and plump in its newness. Knowing that all I have to do is make the decision to paint.

The soy milk in my fridge, the cranberries in my cupboard. A perfect breakfast. My bed not made, sheepskin tossed to the floor amidst pillows and books. Poetry journal open at my feet.

My fiftieth post, words running into each other in drunken stupor, typos abound. Praises for proofreading and the automatic spell check. I put e's in everything.

Pull the blinds, no need to remember the storm outside, a room of comforting darkness, the thermostat back up to 71. She's pushing it, and she knows it. I twist it back to 55.

Curl into the orange arabesque of my comforter, curl into the pillows along the wall.

Yes. Glorious indeed.

this receipt entitles the customer to:

We walked all the way across the street and bought a steak to share. What we didn't bargain for was the promise for tomorrow---and at only $2.49, for that matter. Oh, the possibilities!

a Dibble and a doodle and a piece of a poem

Another extremely productive day in physics.

* * * * *

You walk tall
But speak short,
Watch closely
But see far.

Part of me wants to wonder
that dangerous "what if"
But your half smile reminds me
there is
nothing
between us but
the awkward and insane
So I watch you walk away now,
Never to learn my name.

* * * * *

Also, I want steak. For dinner. But that would mean walking to Legends. And I don't think that's actually going to happen.

so this is what it's like

I set out for Happy Valley just past eight, slipping a CD of Samuel Barber's violin concertos into the player before hitting the freeway. Normal enough.

But here's the thing: the music matched my every movement, every situation exactly. As the road's occupants fluctuated throughout the drive, so did the orchestra, running from a quiet string solo to the busy hum of a full orchestra as cars merged and left. I summited the point of the mountain in triumphant fanfare, trumpets and horns heralding the sweep of winter sun illuminating the valley below me, my own personal Fantasia. At the very crest of the hill the music took a sudden turn, ringing out in surreal first violin, a soft slide that mimicked my suddenly effortless drive downhill.

My first thoughts were of Lord of the Rings, the Rohan Theme, images of the Golden Hall. The mountains looked the part, that's for certain. And I couldn't help but feel some sort of swelling contentment, my life finally in sync with something.

Then came the thoughts of ballerina hippopotami and drunken fauns in vats of grapes and I made a mental note to check that out again. My favorite was always the baby pegasus. The black one.

deep thoughts for a deeper night

Not actually mine, of course.

* * * * *

I don't require you to fall in love
with my boy, but please help him.
If only one could stop him from brooding.
And on what? The things of the universe.
I don't believe in this world sorrow. Do you?

No, I don't. Not at all, Mr. Emerson.

Well, there you are.
Make my boy realize that,
at the side of the everlasting "why",
there is a "yes," and a "yes," and a "yes"!

* * * * *

For hours' worth of conversation you would think there would be more
to be said, and yet I find it all summed up quite nicely in the words of
Room With A View's Mr. Emerson. It's a truth, and a simple one---and
in it, the answers to that vast universe, the echoes of the silver chair, the
rush of stepping into nineteen.

Why?

Yes.

entropy (it always increases)

Outside it is snowing and I write by the wan light only a dorm room can offer and the drone of a tired vacuum hums in the halls and for every reason I should be absolutely destroyed. Winter is back.

Instead I am leaping about the small carpet space, fluttering between desk and closet, bookshelf and bed. I typed the final work cited on a research paper, studied enthusiastically (enthusiastically!) for physics. I sang along with Earth Wind & Fire, I hummed to Chinese rap. I ate an apple while sitting lazily against my metal bed post, reading aloud my finished paper in a British accent. And suddenly, in that moment of long "a" and r'ed "idea," I remembered what this is: it's me! I'm back! I'm talking to myself in a British accent, an accent culled from years of Austen and mornings of Charlie & Lola, an accent that can only mean I am at complete peace with myself. I am happy! Ridiculously happy! And entirely out of my mind! Huzzah, huzzah, huzzah!

I remember something Mrs. Slighting always said, something about low air pressure brought on by bad weather brings out the silliness in young children. Ha. I don't know about that exactly, but I am rather silly at the moment. Especially when you consider the snow.

I am basking in the randomness of today.

And you know what? You're right. Blogging is insanely self-centered and does no good for the outside world. But . . . it makes me happy. And I love the easy-access of it, the instant gratification of seeing your words in "print." And though I may have nothing of great importance to say, or unbelievable wisdom with which to grace this world, there are some moments where a ruled journal page just doesn't do it. And you are left with this, wasting another five minutes of your life, wondering what in the world you're ever to do with me.

Posing a Sup

Last night was the sort of night that has you pacing up and down the room for lack of anything better to do. Okay, I could have been doing homework. But truthfully, I didn't have the attention span for that. I was so bloody fidgety, constantly sitting down at my desk only to jump up and stare at my art easel before finally resorting to shoe sorting and then mindlessly opening and closing the fridge. Yeah. One of those nights.

It was getting on to about two, then, when I finally collapsed on my bed, letting my thoughts careen and collide as they would. This is not the brightest of ideas, and I'll tell you why---I start doing this:

"I'm forever using the word "suppose." It's a funny word, that. I like it. Suppose suppose suppose.
suh-pose
seh-pose
soo-pose
saw-pose
sup-ose
sup-pose
pose-sup
pose a sup! Is that what it is? Posing a sup? "I'd like to pose a sup that she truly does love him . . ." What then, is a sup? Sup sup sup. Whenever I think of the word, I imagine Oliver Twist. Then again, that's just me. And what would supping on soup have to do with assuming and speculation?"

I pose a sup that's where I left off, finally lulling myself to sleep.

* * * * *

In other news, as a 'huzzah' for love week, we're going pink and red. Shocking, I know. I figured my spring green wouldn't mind a reprieve; he's working overtime down here in Provo.

nyt: gem of the day

Okay, so it's more like gem of the month, seeing as I scribbled this down sometime in early January. But I'm in a dust-and-file mode at the moment, and can't afford to lose this bit of wisdom amidst the papers stacked on my desk. It's from some book review or other (New York Times), author unknown.

"Time passes, and what it passes through is people — though people believe that they are passing through time, and even, at certain euphoric moments, directing time. It’s a delusion, but it’s where memoirs come from, or at least the very best ones. They tell how destiny presses on desire and how desire pushes back, sometimes heroically, always poignantly, but never quite victoriously. Life is an upstream, not an uphill, battle, and it results in just one story: how, and alongside whom, one used his paddle."