and it's black and it's white and it's wild

In exactly three weeks---twenty-one days---I will be on a plane home. Not even the flight from Salt Lake to LA, but the flight across the Pacific, the one that will land me in New Zealand's capitol and my first stop before Nelson. Whakatū: A place to stand. Literally, home.


Three weeks.

Twenty-one days.

All is well.

one year older and wiser, too

Happy Birthday, dearest M.

I love you a million journal pages, plus an a-tude.

if you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it

No post yesterday, I'm afraid. I am such a failure. Not only did I not post, I didn't even think about posting---though that's a credit to my family, seeing as they're the distraction this time around. When I'm with them, my world is so full that I almost don't need words. So, I'm sorry. But not really. Because it's been entirely worth it.

I've been sifting through old emails tonight, working through three years of one correspondence, alternately laughing and crying. Three years of love and laughter and alliteration, of boy drama and sister feuds, family and friends. Four days ago we sent secrets flying on paper airplanes' wings, letting go of the past and embracing a future. The activity had me reminiscing, and I couldn't help but think thanks for such a kindred spirit and the so very many dear friends I am surrounded by. At this typing I am overwhelmed with a million moments to explain how grateful I am for the light you bring and the humanity! you are, but I've settled on this one in the interest of time and because my sister is making me laugh so hard I can barely type in the first place. So I've copy-and-pasted this with some hope that it might convey my Joy, and that we might continue this journey, be it frontways or sideways or squareways and any other ways we might think of.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Fish and I took the elevator to the top floor of the JFSB late that night, to throw paper airplanes from the roof and watch them fly. It would have been terribly romantic if we'd have been in love. As we aren't, he kept me laughing instead as we talked about books and Carden and third grade romances. On our way back down, Fish held to the elevator railings. "It's a Wonkavator," he said. "An elevator can only go up and down, but the Wonkavator can go sideways and slantways and longways and backways . . ."

"And frontways?" I added. He nodded and kept on, perfectly Gene Wilder.

" . . . and squareways and frontways and any other ways that you can think of. It can take you to any room in the whole factory just be pressing one of these buttons. Any of these buttons. Just press a button and *zing*! You're off. And up until now, I've pressed them all . . . except one. This one. Go ahead, Charlie."

I pressed the star for the lobby.

That pretty much sums it all up.

bundle up

It smells like snow.

praise song

to this day, Monday,
that held all the glory of a Thursday
but shone with its own light.

and

to tomorrow, Tuesday,
that holds all the promise of home
if only I'd say goodnight.

i ragazzi scappano est le passe me revient

<---And that's about all I know.

I had one homework assignment this weekend, and one only: to read chapters four through seven of Italo Calvino's Marcovaldo and write a summary of each. I had an entire Friday night to get started, all workday yesterday to continue, and tonight to finish it off. Guess who just started?

Apparently I had way too much faith in my Italian skills---though I am back to dark doubt by now. I've read exactly one chapter and had to turn to wordreference within the first two sentences. Pretty sure I looked up 75% of the vocabulary, plus every other verb conjugation. A year and a half of oral exams, cultural events, midterms and finals for this? So disheartening.

I try to make up for it by doodling in Italian, thoughts expressed in infinitives and the simplest of subjunctive. I make myself feel a little better by keeping my Italian playlist on repeat, alternately playing Pino Daniele for the ballad days and Paola e Chiara for a disco beat. Still, when you find yourself looking up farlo only to realise it's just a combined phrase with the simple verb to do, you have to wonder.

Plus, I've recently undergone some sort of French revival. This was the more surprising aspect of beginning Italian; French vocabulary, long since forgotten, bubbled to the surface in light of the new twist on a Romance language. I found myself trying to explain the oggi with stressant or étonnant instead of stressante or favoloso, or answering the professor's domande with a peut-être instead of magari. Part of me wondered at the human mind's capacity, the other half cursed it. Why now, of all times, to remember those years under Mme. Simes' patient tutelage? The subtle accent I'd been so frustrated with before came back in full beauty; I fell in love with the language all over again and haven't gone back since. I mix Marc Lavoine with my Pino Daniele, sneak MC Solaar next to Paola e Chiara, indulge in doodles that start J'espere instead of Desidero.

Conundrum!

So here I sit, halfway through Marcovaldo but shouting Vivre la révolution! Unfortunately for my Italian homework, Les Misérables is winning out.

Énigme!

general announcement

There will be no real post today as X and I are busy writing fan letters to Oliver James. With pictures.

Really.

lynx

First:

james

and then, ha:

soy salsa

Off to our Thanksgiving themed Happy Hour---we're planting corn today just like the Indians, except with pudding and oreo crumbs and swedish fish. Griffiths has also promised an actual visit from the actual Squanto, but I don't know if I believe it.

I love these people.

the real deal

Wait, HELLO, what am I saying?! Today is a day to journal. Today is one for the records. Today is going down in history.

Today, X was accepted to the Marriot School of Business.


[Which is no small feat, especially with a Winter Semester application. It was celebrated by much silly screaming and hopping about, after which we three roommates trooped down to Guru's, singing all the way through mulligatawny soup and a round of sweet potato fries. So apart from being just utterly fantastic news, this development helped remind E. of humanity! and the story of the all, not just the one, which is exactly what this self-centered, prat-of-a-girl needed after a ridiculous sort of why-me? day. Remind me never to do that again.]

Happy, happy day.

dot period exclamation point

Technically, my salmagundi post was written today. Can't that count? I am so tired of this Thursday and its empty promises.

salmagundi

Yep, still up, and feeling rather guilty for my last Post of No Substance. I took an hour or so to ponder it, filling my tub with boiling water and bath milk and my bathroom in steam as John Mayer crooned Continuum from my laptop. Goodness, I thought, this is NaBloPoMo, for Pete's sake! What rubbish are you coming up with anyway?

I tried to let it go, but the perfectionist in me won't have it. The trouble is, what to write? I feel like the most I could do was sing praises to this day and humanity, but I'm afraid you've heard quite a lot of that from me and, though it may be perfectly true, too much of a good thing can turn sour. What to write, what to write? Should I tell you about WF conferencing today, about Excel training til nine, about twirling giddily with Jacq as I walked home tonight?

Yet the thoughts I came up with only lend themselves to one-sentence ideas, and so that is all I have for you---another series of line-blank-line:


::: If I'm so good at cutting bangs, why not go ahead and style my whole head of hair?

::: Sometimes I like living with these roommates only because I feel like I'm living alone.

::: If I had to trade old books for new ones, which ones would I let go?

::: There is a fifty book checkout limit at the uni library. I'm currently borrowing 43.

::: Is tomorrow afternoon's conference cancellation a sign from heaven, or am I looking too far into the newly free hours after CS Lewis?

::: "It's the greatest voyage in the history of plastic" is a fabulous lyric.

::: The Last Battle isn't necessarily the greatest bubble bath read, but it will suffice.

and

::: Salmagundi is my new-new favorite word of the day.

the average person falls asleep in seven minutes

And I am hardly average, apparently.

So, for lack of sleep but still being tired, I give you a no-thought-added post, the "If I Were" meme:
. . . . . . . . . .

If I were a poptart: A. would accidently punch in E-0 instead of F-9 and get a Snickers bar in place of my brown sugar goodness from the vending machine.

If I were a song: Right now? Mushaboom.

If I were a tree: I'd be an Aspen at The Lot. Or a maple on Yale.

If I were a salad: I'd be baby spinach and strawberries in poppyseed dressing.

If I were a season: I'd be autumn in all its soft-sun, china-sky glory.

If I were a beverage: Water. Maybe even sparkling. Is there anything else?

If I were a hockey team: You'd bet against me every game.

If I were a font: Air Conditioner.

If I were a hymn: Hie to Kolob.

If I were a sweater: I'd be mottled merino wool in sea-tone blues.

If I were a berry: Boysenberry.

If I were a car: I'd wish I were a bike.

If I were a children’s book: I'd be Pat the Bunny, though I might grow up to be Peter Pan.

If I were a place: Okarito, NZ

If I were natural disaster: I'd be a tsunami.

If I were an accent: I'd be Nelsonian-kiwi.

If I were a fictional detective: I'd drive a roadster and speed after criminals with the Riverside wind blowing through my titian hair.

If I were a Starbucks drink: Caramel Apple Cider (or Miracle Cider, if you like)

If I were a book: O would laugh at my unicorn friends.

If I were a building: I'd be centuries old and still standing.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Pretty sure there were at least twenty more questions, but at this point you're probably just as bored as I am. *Sigh* To bed, I guess.

G'night!

oh happy day

There's not much else to say here but JOY. Today was a gift of the gods: weather, classes, books, conversation, love, a sunset divine. This day had it all. It may be a long day (and not even quite over), but it was a good one, and I'm afraid I'll have to leave it at that. Public Speaking starts in fifteen minutes and I have yet to make the dash across campus.

singin' heals the soul

I live a lyrical life, sometimes to a fault. Occasionally I can only think in song segments, music overriding any original ideas and erasing any hope of academic focus. Moments, conversations, whole days can remind me of one line and instantly I'm off singing along.

So this was going to be a long post all about the songs in my life and the medicine music can be, but inbetween that thought and this writing I've filled the apartment with Missy Higgins, Regina Spektor, Jay Chou, MC Solaar and Feist. X and I danced about the kitchen while pulling trays of cookies in and out of the oven, singing like we were meant to be on the stage. I've been thinking about this post all day, thinking of how to organise it and imagining lyrics to slip between my words and prioritizing songs to share. But Sophie just got home, iPod on and humming along. She's switched to speakers now, and we all belted out Fine Frenzy's Almost Lover without second thought. I pulled out the guitar and strummed along to Rachael Yamagata while X sang a spontaneous descant to match my alto. The apartment is golden and warm with those notes in the air, and my heart is happy.

Which is, I think, enough of an explanation. That long lyrical post will have to wait, but it might be summed up here: Music is a miracle. Lyrics are a lifeline. And in the famous words of The Tom Butler Band, singin' heals the soul.

will ye go to flanders?

Happy Veterans Day, everybody. Today is one of my favorite days of the year, and it's been a beautiful 11.11 on my end; the day was grey and stormy and the air smelled of dead leaves and cold concrete. I spent 11:11 on the front steps of Carden Memorial School, breathing in the silence mixed in memories of plaid skirts and navy blazer. I love this day, when quiet contemplation is nearly mandatory and you can't help but pray gratitude.

I remembered standing in Arlington Cemetery, blinking back tears as I found the grave of a teacher's husband. It was part of the school's American History pilgrimage--we'd been hearing about it from kindergarten on--but it still caught me off-guard. Days before we'd danced away in Williamsburg, skipped about the Smithsonian, sat in on Congress. Every new lesson had built up to this point, to this sacrifice, and yet I felt overwhelmingly unprepared. The others moved quietly on, but I couldn't leave. I was there a good five minutes before he came back for me, a friendly hand at the small of my back, a whispered "You ready?" I turned to Fish with a weak smile. "I can't . . . this is . . . this is . . ." He nodded as we walked past the white stones, row upon row of lives lost for ours.

We had walked for a half an hour in silence, up one road and then down the other, hill upon hill lined in white. Occasionally Fish would stop to swing his camera off his shoulder, snapping still memories of the spring morning. At the final hill we began the descent to the bus, and Fish suddenly spoke.

"In Flanders fields the poppies blow between the crosses, row on row." He enunciated the last phrase just as Mr. Bradford had taught years ago, and I picked up where he left off with a grateful smile; he'd left the larks to me. "That mark our place; and in the sky the larks, still bravely singing, fly scarce heard amid the guns below."

He joined me then, and we continued our poetic conversation til the final phrase, settling into the last open seats on the bus without any other explanation. We didn't need any; our every thank you was carried in John McCrae's words---in those stanzas are years of closest company, of beloved school and honored education. They encapsulate the life we'd come to love and the knowing that such a life was a gift, bought at a price. They captured a moment where boy and girl walked freely across independent land. And yet we may never be grateful enough.

I thought those words today, as I sat alone on those steps. The world continued on around me in a whirl of traffic and everyday errands, but I sat on hallowed ground. So much we take as deserved and commonplace, and yet I can hardly justify the shoes on my feet. I sat on steps worn with countless years of student traffic, steps that led to classes filled with creative thought and the opportunity to become whatever we wished to be. I was minutes away from leaving for my own home an hour away, where I'd walk to church to worship as I chose. I made dinner tonight unusually conscious of full cupboards and warm home. At the moment I'm stressing over filled classes and discouraged with the limited choice of a sophomore standing---and yet I still have a choice. A choice to learn what I love, to say what I feel, to become whoever I wish to be.

What am I giving back?

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.

Q & E

[We now join a conversation already in progress]

Q: Honestly, I don't know what's happening to me.

E: And how do you feel about that?

Q: Like a million bucks, of course. I feel like my life sank, and the various bits are floating away from each other, each in an opposite direction, and I need to grab one to stay afloat, but I can't let everything else drift away, so I keep swimming out to another piece, swimming to another piece, dropping it and going out for another one, trying to bring them all together in a futile attempt to keep my bits of soul into a collection of Q that somewhat resembles a life. And I feel like the most important bit is the one that's furthest away, the one I have to get, more than anything else, but it's floating away faster than I can swim. Like hypothermia's setting in, and I don't have much time before I just drift under, and the damnedest thing is I'm not even sure why I'm sinking.

E: Ever read Voyage of the Dawn Treader?

Q: I may be dumb, and uneducated, and a philistine, but of course.

E: Okay, here's the thing. What really stood out to me this past read-through was Lewis' theme of light and dark, and especially the idea of a journey to light. All adventure in the story happens during a sea voyage on a quest for Aslan's country, something the crew isn't entirely sure actually exists but pursue anyway. They meet with storms on the way, with dark adventures and potential dangers, yet they never turn back---Reepicheep won't let them. He steers their course, constantly calling them to focus when all seems lost. "To Aslan's country," he says, time and time again.

Every page held some battle of light and dark, and the sun always won out in the end. I found myself following this story, making connections and wondering in the margins: Why a ship? Why the name Dawn Treader? A ship for a life of tossing and turning, for bouts of calm water but anticipation of the storms. Dawn Treader for the hope of morning, to remind you it's just the next side of night. I guess your sea analogy sparked the connection, but it's applicable to any situation. Don't exhaust yourself putting the pieces back together after the storm; focus on getting to land.

The pieces will come together themselves. You'll see. Focus on the light.

Q: You have such faith in the ability of my life to put itself back together. I just don't have that. Nobody has the same penchant for snatching defeat from the jaws of victory (I know, overplayed cliché), let alone defeat from the jaws of defeat. Honestly, when have I ever proved that I can?

E: As long as we're being completely honest here, um, not really ever. But that's not the point. We believe that you can. I know, I sound silly. But that's why we're here. You can, you can, you can. I . . . I don't know what else to say but start swimming. Hard. Fast. Toward land. What else is there? "To Aslan's country!"

Q: Are we seriously publishing this?

E: Well, that was kind of sort of the point. What else can I write about?

Q: "Bloody, can Q sound any more like a Fall-Out Boy song?"

E: We could change the names to protect the innocent.

Q: And the guilty as sin.

E: Stop swearing. Now I really can't publish this.

Q: That does put a damper on your night. What will you write?

E: I really can't publish this? I've run out of time. We've grocery shopping to do and only an hour left of the day.

oi.

I don't want to sound highbrow, but I'm really glad I like the boys I like.

I can't take much more of this "bro, sick, freakin' awesome" banter. And Guitar Hero is giving me a headache.

and we'll make a home from rented house

My family came to visit #215 last week, and my dad walked in with a laugh. "All this stuff is yours," he said.

Um, yes. Yes, it is. Because most people don't make interior decor a priority for temporary living, and if you're a university student, essays and exams usually come before curios and canvases. And maybe I would do better to fall into the category of most and usually, but I simply can't help it. If I'm going to study and work and live in this small space, I want it to be more than a house---I want it to be a home.

Which is why I've filled our flat with the familiar and the comforting, small knick-knacks to remind me of where I've been and where I'm going. The bookshelves are home to years' worth of collecting and we add new colour to the walls every day. There's a robin's egg blue kettle on the stove and an E mug at my side; mismatched plates in the cupboards and twisting bamboo along the windowsill. It goes a bit beyond the usual coed's band posters and plastic frames, I know, but some part of me hopes it reflects a love of line and colour, and might be a heaven and a haven to any who stop in.

And for the record, both roommates gave me full reign in the design department. Link below.

[second floor living without a yard]

duck, duck, goose!

I've been tagged by MM, so I suppose this is the bit where I go about the circle duck-duck-ducking before tagging the rest of you (be ready, A!). Here are the rules:

1: The player lists 6 facts/habits about themselves - try to find 6 you haven’t already posted about!
2: At the end of the post, the player tags 6 people and posts their names, and then goes to their blog and leaves them a comment, letting them know they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog for the rules.

Disclaimer: My siblings learned a song in their kiwi primary school that went something like this: "It's a song about me, it's a song about me, it's a song about my in-di-vid-u-a-li-ty!" We like to sing it in our family when someone's being particularly self-centered or when the world's tiniest violin needs vocal accompaniment. This post might warrant both. "It's a song about me, it's a song about me . . ."

1::: My mum collects chairs, little ones. They line our kitchen window sill and cast miniature shadows across the tile. Mr. Knightley likes to purr among them, stepping inbetween their spindly legs, crying to be let out. Whenever I see a little chair, I think of my mum.

I collect birds. I collect books. And I collect globes. I used to collect cats when I was small; I had a sturdy green cabinet full of them---ceramic, wood, doodled, carved. There's a jar of sea-glass on my nightstand and my bubble pens are clustered on a shelf. This year I began collecting old Kodak Instamatics, and now they're nestled between books on the shelf. I collect words. I collect names. And I collect Es. Sometimes I want to make up my mind but then I think, maybe I collect collections, and it makes me feel a little better.

2::: If I had to play a board game right now, I'd choose Candyland because it reminds me of my dad. It went the same way every time: me and O vying for Queen Frosty's title, one of us ultimately being relegated to a mere Princess Lollipop, crying if destined to be Mr. Plumpy. Within days of use Queen Frosty's card was crumpled and bent, giving it a distinctive place among the deck of cards. A good half of each game was spent figuring out how many turns it would take to get to her card and devising some way to rig the whole thing in order to get it for yourself. I used to tell myself that I was destined to be Queen simply because she had long hair and I did, too, and Princess Lollipop had short hair just like O's and so didn't that seem right? O didn't like that reasoning much. But my dad put up with all of it. (See also: Pretty, Pretty Princess. He'd wear the earrings, even!)

3::: I once wrote an "I Will Never" list that included, among others, these three points:
---write science fiction
---care about professional sports
---wear yellow
I have broken all three promises within the last two days. Turns out that my novel idea lent itself to the SciFi genre, caring about professional sports doesn't necessarily mean you have to be passionate for them, and my new yellow sweater's glowy hue was the perfect reflection of my mood the Tuesday I wore it.

4::: During my fourth year at Carden I went through an incredibly optimistic stage where everyday I'd declare a new "Joy in Life." Eventually the whole class caught on and my daily mantra became morning devotional ritual. Mr. Bradford was especially excited about it, and would ask me for the latest whenever I passed him in the halls. I still remember a particular May day when he was just leaving the staff room as I passed down the hallway and he asked for the news. "A toasted sourdough sandwhich filled with provolone, honeyed ham, dijon and romaine," I replied without pause, and he burst out laughing. Looking back on it, I think he may have inspired it all: he was a fabulously alive teacher who gave us every reason to love life.

5::: All my life I've thought that, if I had a cat all my own, I'd name him Dante. My dog would be Samwise and we'd live ever after in a small cottage curled into a green valley and fill our days with heart-happy things like hot water bottles and postcards. But that's beside the point: All my life I've thought that, if I had a cat all my own, I'd name him Dante. At least I thought that until yesterday, when I manned the WF recruiting booth with Maryon and she reminded me of the cat from Runaway Bride that's named Italics and I thought, wouldn't that be great? What if I had three cats, Italics, Bold, and Regular? Or what if I named them after fonts? Like Gill Sans, Zapfino, and Plantagenet Cherokee?

6::: I am a solidly odd-number person. My favorite numbers are 11, 17, and 23 (which all happen to be exactly six numbers apart; don't ask me what that means) and I avoid anything divisible by two at all costs. I don't know exactly what it is, but it might have something to do with how I prefer assymetry to balance, or that I associate Tuesdays and Thursdays with odd numbers (and they are my Destiny Days), or that odd numbers leave room for growth---even numbers seem too full to allow adventure. This pattern has been proven, too: all odd years in my life have been the best. I'll never forget fifteen in Aotearoa, or seventeen with the Nerd Herd, or nineteen with all the possibilities ahead. Trust me, sixteen, eighteen, etc are merely gap years in my big picture. With that revelation, then, I'm afraid this can't be the end. One last thing about me to push past this multiple of two:

7::: I have laughed more in these past few days than maybe the entire semester combined.

Goose! Your turn, A, Marcus, Jacq. Anyone else may join in, of course, but for you three, this is mandatory.

a cycle of lyrics

I have several songs stuck in my head and cannot get them out. The strangest thing is that they're not songs I've listened to incredibly recently, so I'm not sure where they're coming from. At the moment I am humming:

Better ::: Brooke Fraser

Close to You ::: The Carpenters

July, July! ::: Decemberists

Daylight Robbery ::: Imogen Heap

Torn & Tattered ::: Joss Stone

. . . . . . . . .

And six hours later . . .

This post has been interrupted more times than I can count and it's now 8:41 p.m. and I've written exactly one (1) page of my research paper. The good news is that all the interruptions were worth the procrastination, and I can blame everything else on The Boy.

And Imogen's still stuck in my head.

holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

Happy Guy Fawkes day, friends! Although now that I just typed that, I'm wondering if one can precede "Guy Fawkes day" with "Happy" in greeting, but no matter. What counts is that it is indeed November the fifth*, and there will be gatherings and bonfires tonight. Holloa!

Until then, however, I continue on in a Monday existence. I failed an Italian quiz, debated Referendum One with my shift supervisor, and designed several buttons for the WFs that (hopefully) will be done by tomorrow morning, just in time for recruiting. Which led, in this case, to a lot of thinking on poetry.

I have to give a reading tomorrow night for my public speaking class, which, to tell you the truth, completely delighted me. Poetry! Out loud! There's nothing more dear to a Carden alum than such a thought. Seconds after getting the assignment my mind was awhirl with the poems of my childhood, looking for the perfect one for the occasion. Wilcox, Kipling, Wordsworth, Millay; first lines and entire stanzas played in my head as I ran from third to eighth grade. I was jolted rudely awake, however, by my professor's next words.

"Which means, of course, no Dr. Seuss. He's great, but I want something solid, real."

"What about Shel Silverstien?" a boy called from the front row.

"No, sorry."

"Then where are we supposed to find a poem?" came the reply.

At which point I felt like crying. What? What? What world do we live in that such beauty is forgotten in our earliest education? Who judged elocution should go and "Life Prep" should stay? When did we decide the art of speaking to be old-fashioned and obsolete?

I am more than a little upset about this development, and yet there's not much I can do about it. One more reason to vote vouchers, I guess.

. . . . . . . . . . .

*which also means, I've just realised, that rent is due. Blast.

it's just make-believe, you can't believe everything you see

I dreamt last night that I sat in my C.S. Lewis class, only we were in some sort of amphitheatre and the twenty of us were spread about the place, my classmates mere dots from my seat at the upper end. Everyone sat alone---except for me. One boy was next to me but there was a seat in-between us, so we weren't actually sitting together-together, just . . . together. But leaning in toward each other with our books and notes. You could feel the awkwardness. My professor stood at the bottom, rows and rows away from us, and throughout his lecture I was busy popping popcorn. Popping popcorn. In a jar. And the boy kept on looking at me as if to say, "Can't you see I'm trying to learn, here?!" but I kept on, at least until the popcorn grew too much for the little jar and started overflowing. Pop, pop, pop. No matter that it's a jar doing the popping, transformed to a mini microwave with some Potteresque charm. Pop, pop, pop, it went, the kernels now piling up at my feet. I swept it away a bit, but let it be; the boy grew more and more frustrated. Suddenly he grabbed the jar (still pop-pop-popping) and sprinted for the door, where I saw him set the thing in the middle of the quad (now apparently back in some sort of reality---it was the quad that is outside our actual classroom). I was a bit miffed but simply rolled my eyes at him as he settled back into his (one seat away) place.

Except that our professor was having none of this. "Boy!" he yelled from the stage, "What have you done? Now you're going to have to fight for the popcorn!" An angry murmur swept the (all nineteen of us) audience. That's right, my dream-self thought, he'll have to fight. The boy stood slowly, squaring his shoulders in preparation and taking one last look at me before striding back to the doors. And there it was, a great, grey elephant. Guarding the (my) popcorn. Ready to fight.

. . . . . . . . . . .

There's more to the dream, if you'd believe that. Eventually the boy realises he can't face the elephant alone and turns to me for help, after which the elephant shrinks to a wee grey thing and I am able to walk right up to it and practically ask for the popcorn back while stroking his long, wrinkled trunk and grinning teasingly back at Boy. I'm assuming we then lived happily ever after but seriously?Where in the world do I get these things? What could this possibly mean? What part of my subconscious clings to elephants and amphitheatres when I've given thought to neither anytime recently? Aren't dreams just the craziest things?

Truth be told, I love dreams and I love dreaming. But sometimes, you've really got to wonder---and if any of you feel up to Daniel-ing this Nebuchadnezzar's dream, I'd be much obliged.

Republika Slovenija

I'd be the first to admit it: I am not very good at this post-a-day thing. But with exactly one hour left of November the third, I'm certainly going to try.

My grandparents stopped in Salt Lake City on their return from yet another adventure, this time bringing tales of Slovenia and stacks of superb photos to illustrate the trip. It was shockingly beautiful in the sort of way that surprises because we don't often think of that corner of the world much, and absolutely heart-wrenching in the wanderlust such scenes summoned. My mum joked later that it was simply the calling of a distant homeland, but I don't think she's far off the mark. I truly do feel a yearning for the place, a pull to these stones saturated in centuries of history. I wish I had deeper words for this yearning, but the truth is I'm tired, and such words will have to wait. Until then, take these: Slovenia inspires me, and one day I'll be some small part of her history.

And a library like this wouldn't hurt, either.

humanity!

I feel so . . . invigorated. Energised, awake, alive--and it's not just that chilly autumnal walk home, either. This is the energy of conversation, the waking of passion, the life of human connection.

Being an every-other Friday, today was Happy Hour in the WF office---or a Happy Two Hours, as it turned out. There was all the usual revelry, celebrating another week's end and turning in our time cards, catching up on the general goings-on as we all surfaced from midterms. Blythe had decked the place in Canadian glory, a map drawn freehand across the white board, Cadbury chocolate in a hockey helmet, Joni Mitchell crooning from the computer. He'd even written up a mini-quiz on his homeland, which we all took to eagerly and finished depressed and downtrodden; we know far too little about our Northern Neighbours. I had no idea A.A. Milne was Canadian, and most scoffed at my "Ottawa!" to his "What's the capital?" I mean, how many of you just wikied Joni Mitchell to see if she's truly Canuck?

Anyway, in the midst of all the maple leaves, Lund, Griffiths and I got to talking. It started out with the expected--what's your major again and all that--and yet twenty minutes later I found myself defending the fantasy genre and the differences between the High and the Hero-Ethical. Griffiths (who thrives on non-fiction and had been the one to challenge my reading habits) was taking this all in with a pensive nod while Lund contributed with a heartfelt "Exactly!" or "That's just it!" and I continued on in my opinion of Literature as a Higher Aspiration and somewhere along that line I realised: Wait. This is a real, passionate, worthwhile conversation. And it only got better.

Griffiths grew up in the foreign service, which lead to a discussion of travel and culture and the idea of missing. Which somehow tied into the literature vein we'd started in on, and led to a discussion on time management and tutoring techniques. From there we jumped to Learning Logs and a problem-solving session on passionate learning and how does one promote excitement in an academic environment? I learned all about the hydrogenated oils in peanut butter (they are bad) and why maths should be relatively applicable in day-to-day life (because apparently everyone needs to compare cell phone plans), and what professor to take New Testament from (Huntsman, if anyone's wondering). We discussed feminism and its place in our religion and culture and in relevance to our respective hometowns (between the three of us, we've spanned the globe). We debated the characteristics of the introvert, settled on our differences, and then put the definition to the test. We talked of progression and growth, of coming together and falling apart. Other fellows wandered in and out of the conversation, but we never broke the original triumvirate. In fact, we were still going at it long after Blythe pulled the flag down from the ceiling and packed up his pucks and loonies. It was nearing six-thirty when we finally agreed that, fun as it was, the sun was setting and the weekend was just beginning. We set off in separate directions with a final wave and the warmth of a new friendship that begins, "What, you too? I thought I was the only one!"

Which leads me to this: Isn't life beautiful? Isn't it simply divine? Relationships, the sharing of joy and knowledge, are what this is all about. What---or, more importantly who---else have I missed? I've sat by Lund all semester in room 118, only ever exchanging the friendly hello and perhaps pairing up for a group exercise or two. Griffiths I met on my first day of work and, while we got along from the start, neither of us took the plunge into Actual Conversation. And yet this is the heart of it all, the sharing of souls and the excitement of alliance in an attempt to live. I got to experience it all, leaning up against the old oak doorframe, frantically scribbling notes on the backside of my Italian dictionary, full of the light of learning and loving. It was the sort of moment where you could never deny that we are a part of something so much bigger than we could possibly imagine.

People, I am in love with humanity.

double jeopardy

Here we are: November 1st. A month of Thanksgiving, 11:11, Carden plays and, for the crazy few, writing. Lots and lots of writing. Because November 1st marks the beginnings of National Novel Writing Month---or, as it's more dork-ily known, NaNoWriMo. 50,000 words in thirty days, a draft of 175 pages in any genre you'd like. And I have, once again, joined the madness.

Which seemed just as well, seeing as it would force Nulla out of hiding (she's currently scrawled across scrap papers and wedged between old binders) and get me back into a regular writing routine. I reworked my school schedule to include novel-writing and set my alarm clock a wee bit earlier than usual to allow for the adjustments. I'd fully come to terms with the idea, and it was settling in nicely. But that was all before NaBloPoMo. National Blog Posting Month. Because apparently November didn't have enough going on as it is.

National Blog Posting Month/National Novel Writing Month. What do you think? Would it be insane to attempt them both? For the record, I'm not dropping NaNoWriMo, just wanting to wonder if I should add NaBloPoMo (Yes, you have to say them this way. It's, um, crucial to the cause.). Both call for new writing everyday---though writing of different sorts, so that might keep me on my toes. And blogging lends itself nicely to the rant--a common side effect of the NaNoWriMo bug--and could be the perfect cure for writer's block. Dangerous, dangerous thoughts lurking here. . .

But it's not too late to stop me. This is just a post. One silly little post. One ridiculous meandering thought. But what if it's The One? What if it's the start of a string of posts--thirty, in fact, all in a row? What if . . .?

Please, somebody stop me.