Tuesday/Thursdays At 3pm

Yesterday in Playwriting class (our last official one of the semester), we were supposed to spend a good chunk of time reading each other's one-act scripts aloud and giving feedback. What happened instead was much more riveting. I wish I had a video, but I was too drawn in by the moment and didn't want to break the spell.
Our professor, the gently formidable and whimsical Mark Stevick (or just Mark, as he insists we call him), got swept up recounting the time he saw the play that changed the course of his entire life- Orphans, by Samuel French. I've seen this play (on Broadway with Alec Baldwin and Tom Sturrige, no less) , and it's indeed phenomenal. But I've never loved it more than I did yesterday. In some sort of dramatic illustration of the power of throwing your audience right into the middle of the action (or something- I don't fully remember what brought it on, and frankly, who cares?), he launched straight into the first scene of the play:
"'Come on out, Phillip! I ain't in the mood for no games. Where are ya, Phillip?' Phillip's crouched in the corner. 'Don't tag me.' 'I ain't gonna tag you.' 'I'm tired of bein' it, Treat.'" He switched from the growling older brother Treat to the wide-eyed, huddling Phillip in a fraction of a second, spitting out the lines word for word. There was this moment of confusion, then delight between all of us at our desks as we exchanged wondering glances, realizing he knew the script by heart. His entire body language and mannerisms changed instantly from character to character. It seemed of the utmost importance that we grasp the dramatic power of the words. "And then Harold clamps his arm around poor Phillip! *makes a thumping sound of an arm hitting a shoulder* 'Do you feel encouraged?' 'Yeah.' I mean it's-" 
He painted his entire evening in that West End theater, right down to the Coke he drank at intermission and the British accents of the theatergoers around him. "'Whatta ya think?' *British drawl* 'It's quite good, yea.'" When he got to the end, he was crouched down on the floor, acting out the final scene of the weeping brothers. Then he was himself again, miming the tears streaming down the face of his former, theater-going self. "My whole body turned into a clap. 'BRAV-F&*#!-NG-O!'" He lept into the air, clapping with his whole arms. As long as I live, I will never forget Mark Stevick's whole body turning into a clap. My hands were pressed over my mouth, surpassing my joyous giggling. I think I was crying a little. He was, too. He came down from his theatrical high, waxing nostalgia about the power of great theater and what it had meant to him that night, tears in his eyes. It was incredible. We all applauded raucously when he finished.

It's moments like this when I think- how can I leave? How can the year be over? How can I spend an entire fall away from these people, and from English classes? How dare I? Not that Mark Stevick holds it against me. When I responded to his email inviting me into his 400-level Literary Journal class saying that I'd be abroad in London, he was nothing but thrilled for me. "London!" he kept saying in the email. That's how it ended:
"All the best,
Mark

London!"

I can't do justice to him or the class. But I had to at least write it down. Here's a video of him I did manage to take one day. It's horrible, but I was having too much fun to focus the lens of my iPhone camera.

Anyways. Hope that is a partially-fun snapshot of my college career thus far. I'm almost halfway done! (No need to remind me of that, by the way. I'd like to remain in denial.)

To the Cliff-Jumping Wildflower

The shortcomings and inadequacies of the written word are abundantly clear to me this morning, because Sarah Labanc got engaged yesterday. The world has shifted on its axis a full degree, I think.

It finally happened. The blue, brown, freckled wildflower with windy hair and perfect teeth and an afternoon sunbeam spirit found a friend for life. She made it, and that means we're all going to make it in our own way. As she tumbles into the unknown, gazelle-bounds into the grandest adventure she could possibly conjure, leaps off the oceanic cliff of all cliffs, she takes her dreaming, filled-to-the-brim, kaleidoscopic mind with her, and that beautiful gleaming pinpoint of hope will glimmer deep within my consciousness for eternity.

When I saw the small, declaratory rectangle on Facebook, the fuzzy edges of sleep were blasted like lightning from my head, and when my imagination had caught its breath, all I could hear were these words:

http://sarahlabanc.tumblr.com/post/39498753289/dear

http://sarahlabanc.tumblr.com/post/41561090655/dear

http://sarahlabanc.tumblr.com/post/37098669447/dear

http://sarahlabanc.tumblr.com/post/28557215230/dear  (this one.)

I read them and wept without knowing why.
I remembered what she'd wished, and feared, and hoped. I remembered how I'd studied her like a painting and hoped those things too. And suddenly, inexplicably, I was terrified and needlessly protective. I scrutinized his Facebook page, this future Mr. Sarah. I was suspicious and hesitant to give in, like a child that has been given a puppy it didn't get to pick out at the pet store. Two things made me do it. One was a single shot in their roadtrip montage video. They were eating ice cream cones in the car, and he looked over at her impishly, and there was her girlish, whimsical dimple. This told me he too had a child heart, that he knew and loved the girl. The second was the ring. Plain, gold, elegant with a humble white opalescent stone, it embodied her spirit in a way no physical object will probably ever personify. This told me he knew and loved the woman, and in her entirety. I stared at the picture of them together- snow dusting their shoulders, beaming, her left hand curled against his sweater- and I could see their dimpled, blue-eyed children.

So she did it. She found her hand to clasp, her pair of running feet with which to plunge over edges. She has taken that great and magnificent step, and so we all must take our own, whatever they may be.



We can talk smart or just act a fool
...It doesn't matter to me
Because I know that I'll be with you

The Latest in Resolutions

I know what you're thinking:
"Abby, where's your yearly evaluation of last year's resolutions, complete with your new list that we all treasure and look forward to so much? We've been on pins and needles. We've sent out an FBI search party to ensure you're still of sound body and mind." 

Well, loyal friends, I'm sorry. But life is crunchy and startling, and I'm overly ambitious and busy and need to be humbled a lot. I've decided my New Year's resolutions are going to look different this year. Instead of a straight list of 10 goals that covers a wide range of categories (or the 16-or-20-item monstrosity I tried to attempt last January), which I methodically select based on what in life I think is most important, I'm going to go simple and just list a few things I want to be better at. Not crazy bucket list items, not even simple daily habits. Because I could go abroad and lose 5 pounds and write a novel in 2016, but if I haven't bettered myself and the lives of others and the kingdom of God in the process, what's the point? So there.

Oh, and about last year's resolutions? I'm not even going to post them. It's not that I failed miserably or anything, but let's just say I was pretty ambitious last January. Had I fulfilled every single one of them, I'm pretty sure it would have transformed me into some immortal perfect being, and turns out I'm a person instead. So let's say we just work on personhood, hm?

1. Ask more questions than I do talk about myself.

2. Challenge the people I care about in healthy ways.

3. Be so uncompromising on the things I believe in that a few people hate me.

4. Let things go that I can't control. Who cares who cares who cares.

5. Pursue learning for its own sake.

That's it. And I'm not sorry that it's the middle of January. You need to feel out the year a little before you decide what you want it to be filled with. You can't plan your 2016 during 2015- don't be absurd.

Wait and see.

Heart is Where the Home Is

In three days, I will once again set out for the mountains of upper New York and abandon suburban toilets and makeup and cell phone service for trees and mountain air and bug spray and tennis shoes, this time not as a La Vida camper, but staff.

And that's amazing and all- and believe me, no one is more psyched than me that my time in Stafford is coming to a close (since I'll go straight to Gordon after my time at Base Camp ends), but I realized something. Though several beautiful and terrible revelations have come to me this summer that are worth writing about, I've recorded all but none of them. Sure, I've journaled and talked with a few dear friends, but I've almost stopped using the one cathartic method that's always been my standby, and it makes me sad because I probably won't be able to for a while.

What's with me? Is it because the powerful, awe-inspiring truths that God has revealed about His character this summer are just too intimidating to try and capture on this measly page? Because deep down, I don't really believe anyone out here would want to know what's happening in my heart and mind? Because I still doubt every day whether my life is worth writing about?

Yes. Yes. And yes. Unfortunately.

But inspiration struck! In a lovely twist of fate, I read something (duh) that reminded me of a sweet truth that always strums a strong chord within me, and cried because I hadn't felt it in a while.

I don't belong here in Virginia. Or at Gordon. Or in Okinawa, or California, or anywhere. I've never had a place I steadfastly called home, and it's been this dull sorrow that never really goes away. But in those moments, I remember that awesome, mind-blowing truth that- neither does anyone else, because God tells us that our kingdom is not of this world. We're never really home... until we're with Him.

But it doesn't stop there. For the past ten days, I visited my family in California for the first time in two years, and guess what? I've never lived there in my life, but I was home. It was this rich, loving moment when I felt surrounded by the people I love and connect with most and thinking, these are my people; this is what I've been missing. They're home to me. My parents and brother are home.

When I think about marriage, I think about having a home in my husband. I think about how every time he walks into a room, I might not necessarily always feel butterflies, but I'll feel safety and comfort and belonging and... home.

Jesus is my home. He's all those things. He's safety and belonging and unconditional love and utter knowledge and understanding of my inner being. I long to be understood, sought-after, and cared for, and He perfectly fulfills all those desires like the true Prince He is.

Which is probably why, when this song by Bethel Music comes on in my car, I instinctively blast the volume, belt the bridge with all of my vocal strength, and get shivers down my spine (and occasionally cry) when I remember how perfect and complete my Home already is.

It will not, it will never be enough

 just to know about You Jesus, and never call You my own

For my heart was made for love, I can't live without You Jesus

A Love Letter: From a Salt Shaker to a Sugar Jar

You keep saying how alike we are
and I have to admit, we both have
a pretty unique flavor
the party would be pretty boring
without us
I liven the bland
while you are everyone's favorite
the treat that even I
look forward to

So it's only fair to tell you
the bitter truth
before one of us ruins this mixture
because I keep waiting for the moment when
you'll figure it out

You'll realize that I'm only bearable
in measured amounts
I'm fine by the teaspoon
but a spoonful of me
is too much
and next to your resolute solidity
I feel full of holes

Sifted between each other's fingertips
sure, we look the same
but I can't keep on pretending
to be as wonderful as you
any longer

I can only hope
that when you get
a real taste
of who I am
you won't crinkle your nose

Meanwhile, I'll savor the idea
of you and me
the perfect blend
munching on
chocolate covered pretzels
together.

The Tiny Thief

Like fluffy bits of cotton floating lazily, the thick snowflakes gently cuddle every crevice of the deck in a soft whiteness. As I am drawn to the tall window, the outline of my sweater silhouetted by the crisp coolness of the outside light, my breath catches in my throat at the sight of a tiny sparrow perched on the swinging birdfeeder. Entranced, I watch with an amused smile. The feeder is intended for the larger and more ostentatious cardinals, but they are too busy chasing one another around the trees to notice their stolen breakfast. The sparrow pecks nervously at the seed, tensely awaiting the imminent bombardment. He grabs a minuscule bite, then peers over his shoulder to check for danger. He repeats this process several times as I smile at him with rapt attention, an unseen guardian, my face inches from the chilled glass and frosting it slightly with my breath. Normally, I would dart for my camera, but something about his secrecy stops me. Every bird who stops at the feeder pays the toll of documentation except this one. The way he jumps from his perch as the cardinals swoop past in their game of tag, then hops back when the coast is clear is heartbreaking and charming all at the same time. And so I let the tiny thief have his breakfast in peace, maintaining a quiet vigil at the window, unseen by the scavenger; and when he has pecked his fill of the seeds, after one last nervous glance at the treeline, he darts from the perch, his daring venture a success.  

Some Interesting Samples from My Writer's Notebook,

which I keep on my phone to jot down interesting things that I might use in Creative Writing class.

"I'm really good at things that don't matter"- Marshal Nichols

"The problem with BLTs is that I don't like lettuce or tomato, so they quickly turn into me eating a bacon sandwhich." -Sarah Genovese, friend and the author of some of my favorite quotes

I'm a blinking cursor on the computer screen of life. 

Why is his hair gray?

Look up: parachute making (and folding)

Sonnet about hispanic SAT scores (which I actually wrote, and it was mediocre)

Poets have long fingers.....haha, Longfellows

Clouds have gold linings, not silver

Always hurrying

It's kind of a neat little snapshot of my life, and the things that I observe. So there ya go. 

Make poems out of them. 

Decorum

Now that I'm applying to colleges, I've been hearing things like,

"You should really be careful about what you post 'online', because you need to think about who can see those things. Like colleges."

So basically, I can't post anything I wouldn't want to explain someone anymore. That was my decision, no one else's.

And yes, I have another, locked page, that I can just rant on and no one can see it but me. But we all know that's not at all the same thing.

So basically, this is just stifling. I have no outlet anymore! I can't get out the things rambling inside my head, because it's not nearly as satisfying to just look at them in this secret corner that no one else will ever see.

I think we all knew that was never the entire point of this blog, anyway.

I give full freedom to my thoughts and feelings on here not only because I can, but because...

...I think deep down, there's always the notion in the back of my head that those people will, in fact, see those things.

And I think deep, deep down...

... I want them to.

I want you to know what I really think of you. I want you to know the music I'm listening to or why I wasn't myself at school today. I want you to know what made me happy this afternoon or who intrigued me last week. I don't like hiding it. I never have. I don't feel myself when I hold it in.

And some things, of course, are too much. But that was why I made the other page. Not for what I'm forced to use it for now.

But it's no use. This is the way it has to be until I say otherwise.

I'm sorry, world. But college is turning me into an ankles-crossed, hands-folded, mouth-closed version of myself, and even though I hate it, it's the way it has to be.

I'm just going to have to hold it in.

Turn It Into Literature

So I got this potentially amazing idea for my script for Drama class.

It came to me after a friend mentioned that their idea was semi-autobiographical, with some stuff added to it, and suddenly I remembered every time this summer that I thought "Wow, my life would be such a good book/movie/TV sitcom/work of art."

So now I have this honest, beautiful, powerful idea inside my head, but I don't know how to do it justice without putting everything... well... out there.

And of course, no one would have to know it's true. My drama teacher might be the only one that ever reads it.

But what if it by some fluke, got chosen to be performed in December???

There are people out there who would know. 


So you see my dilemma...

Dear Stanford University,

Okay. I know my application probably won't look at all imposing amongst the stacks of class presidents and swim team captains and geniuses with SAT scores of 2360. Some of them will probably even have poetic, beautifully-worded essays. I like to say writing is my strong suit, but of course several of your other early applicants will claim that the essays are their forte as well.

But listen. You, in the Admissions office. You, deciders of my fate. Do you have any idea who I am?? I'm Abby freaking Erdelatz. I've lived in 4 countries and gone to 10 schools and still managed to keep up piano lessons for eight years. I can memorize the lines of every cast member in a show, including my own, by the second week of rehearsals without trying. I make my bed every morning without being asked, keep my room clean, have never snuck out or tried drugs, have a great relationship with my parents, and my hair is really soft! You have no idea who I am because on paper I amount to little, but in the real world I am spectacular. But you'll never know, will you?

You'll see a kid with probably some lovely teacher recommendations about my cheerful and cooperative personality in class, a few too many B's and B-pluses on my transcript, and who had some mildly interesting adventures as a military kid. You'll see average. You'll see pleasing, refreshing even. But you'll see average.

What you won't see, however, is me.

Style As Needed

My life is a lot like my hair.

Sometimes I wake up and all it takes is one glance to know it's a mess. So with a sigh, I grab a rod of hot metal and a brush and I clean it up. Tangles are ripped out because anything gentler would take far too much effort. In some places, the hint of a nice wavyness is visible, but it's not enough. It's never enough. So the curling iron presses and molds and exaggerates until the waves comply and become perfect, or near-perfect curls. Then it must be engulfed in a cloud of hairspray, or the curls will fall. Because they are, after all, fake.

No matter how much I use, they always fall out.

But sometimes I wake up and it's baby soft. I start to glide a brush through it, but realize that it would interrupt the angelic waves that already cascade across my shoulders. I brush my fingers across the front to see if they'll scatter, but they only fall gracefully into place, comfortable as they are. So I simply gape at the mirror with 20 extra minutes, unable to believe my luck.

Life is precisely like that.

To The Stranger

Whenever I close my eyes and picture you
you're looking me right in the eyes
telling me that everything will be alright
because
you love me

Usually you have dark hair
because the Tall Dark Stranger
is the stereotype you embody
in my mind

But even though your mental image is
strong and quiet
I know you are funny
goofy, even
because you see humor in everything
the way I do

You like being a kid again
But take time to appreciate unnoticed beauty
Like the breeze That One Thursday
or the way the sun hits a branch
because your soul
is decades older than your body

There will be many a time
When you'll run up to me, panting
Red-faced and grinning from ear to ear
clutching your leather Bible
because you can't wait to show me
what God just showed you

And then we'll sit
and drink coffee
in a downtown cafe
and comb through scripture
enraptured by the new meanings
in verses we've read
a hundred times before

But every time this image surfaces
your face is always cloudy
your eyes are bright
but what color are they?

Do I know you now?
Did I pass you on the street yesterday?
Did I disregard you as an acquaintance?

Have I looked at you and wondered
what if?

Are you someone
destined for the same mystery college as I
that I'll meet one day in a writing class
someone brand new?

Who are you?
Where are you?

To know your name
your face
would be to disregard
everyone else

But here, now
I'll never know if
I'm wasting time?
Or will these stories will be told later
to our children?

Nanoseconds of Inner Freefall

The things that make my heart race
are so, so
infinitely small
and infinitely large
and infinitely insignificant
and infinitely life-altering

Pixels fill oceans in my mind
yet in the physical world
a single tear will only drown an ant.

Drink This In

"When despair grows in me
and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. "

The Peace of Wild Things
Wendell Berry

Serenity in Black and Red Nylon

In, out
Gentle sway allows just enough movement
for the sun to wink from behind a leaf
and brighten the dimness behind closed eyelids

In, out
Gleeful shouts slowly quiet 
as the mind finds its own sounds
namely a soft piano
and swallows

In, out
Pretend not to hear the tittering whispers above 
or sense the shadows above the hammock
and camera shutters discreetly clicking away moments
that were never meant to be seen
only remembered

In, out
A patch of sunlight on one leg
warmer than the rest
but time has run too far
since tired muscles have felt this peace
Don't break the stillness, they say

In, out
A thick volume, still open
but for the moment neglected
cradled below sweaty palms
its words dancing through the air
floating above heads
unseen, but felt
by the whispers of the leaves
and by the militant lines of ants on the rock
and by the rippled waters of the lake
and by the stag
who is likewise unseen
but felt

In, out

Dear Girl I Used to Hate,

Thank you, thank you, thank you for that Twitter message.

Like I told you, normally that kind of stuff doesn't get to me. Ever. But it did. I don't know how you knew. But even after I put the urge to violently subtweet to rest and logged off Twitter, I was still fuming. I mean, all day. All my joy from the previous afternoon had been completely drained.

Who is anyone to take away my joy??

For the first time, well...ever, I had gotten actually excited about college. It made all the frustrated tears and pillow-screaming disappear, like it was God's way of telling me this could, in fact, be a little fun. Like there was, after all, a place for me out there.

And then... it all crashed to the ground, shattered, and my joy was replaced by me picking the shards out of my skin and smoldering.

But at approximately 11:00 that night, I got a message from the last person on earth I expected. You.

What you said to me made up for ten months of resentment I'd built up against you. Pointless resentment. Resentment I didn't even think was still there.

It wasn't until the remaining trickles of ill will dissolved from my heart that I realized I'd never really dealt with it.

But at last, it was gone.

At last, we were on the same side.

The fact that anyone said that to me made my night. But the fact that it was you multiplied it by a million.

Thank you.

We're friends.

Moving Up in the World, Maybe

So today I met the wife of the Commandant of the Marine Corps. Never mind the unfortunate circumstances. Basically, I'm still reeling.

But let me back up.

About a month and a half ago, my dear friend Bethany West asked me to write a piece on what it was like being a military kid. She had been asked to speak at a symposium with around 400 people about being a military kid, but her dad retired when she was younger, so she asked someone she knew had a few more years in The Lifestyle... and who could string a few sentences together. :D

So I wrote a piece. I typed a ton of stuff, emailed it to her, and said she could use whatever chunk she wanted- it was pretty long. She said she ended up using practically all of it, that it took up a good portion of her speech, and that people were saying amazing things about the whole thing. Naturally, I was immensely proud of her and glad I could help.

Fast forward. When I met the Commandant's wife today, I mentioned that she had probably met my friend Bethany, that she had spoken at a-

At once, she grabbed my hand and said, "Were you the one who wrote that-"

I nodded and smiled.

She immediately grabbed my mother and said, "You didn't tell me this was your daughter!"

Then, after overflowing the most gracious compliments I have ever heard about something I did, she asked if I could send my piece to her so she could publish it on her official blog.

I. Was. Floored.

So as of five minutes ago, I sent the aforementioned email, complete with document attached, to Mike Tollinson, the official aide to the Commandant, and now I'm sitting here thinking I should actually publish the thing I wrote on here so people will believe I wrote it. And I'm also starting to be really grateful that I've kept this thing going for almost a year and a half, because look where it just got me. I'm so grateful to Bethany for asking me to write something, to Mrs. Amos for complimenting me on it, and truly, sincerely, thankful to God for giving me the ability and the love to do this.

So. This is what I wrote.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I was little, the military and moving every 2 years was just as much a part of my life as swimming lessons every summer or snow every winter. Predictable. Normal. When I'd learned what I needed to learn and made all the friends I would make, that part of my life would come to a satisfying close, and I would get in a car or a plane and start it over again somewhere different. But by the time I was in middle school, it started to change. I developed deeper friendships, and grew attached to places, and with each move, goodbyes were a little harder.

Finally, I was almost 16 and I was moving away from, of all places, Okinawa, Japan. I had been there for three years. It was the longest I'd ever stayed in one place. Without realizing it, I'd put down roots and developed my closest friendships and begun to treat Okinawa as a real home. The concept of "home" was something that had always eluded me because I had memories from everywhere, and who was to say which ones were more special or valued? And so I assigned the term to where my extended family lived, because they never moved. But as I finished out my sophomore year, I realized that for the first time, I didn't feel like I was finished with that part of my life. I wasn't ready to go, and it was scary because I knew that I didn't have a choice.

There are few things in this world stranger than driving on an ordinary American highway and gasping in awe because you forgot how big they are. Or being grossed out because American french fries are a shade darker than Japanese... because of all the extra oil. Or going into a public restroom and realizing that the toilet seats aren't heated. Remembering how to live in the Western Hemisphere was strange, and one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, because the whole time, it felt like someone in my family had died... because I knew I might not ever see any of my fellow military-kid friends from Japan again.

None of this is to say that living in the military has been anything less than exhilarating. I have always loved those times during the first week of school when kids are asked to talk about what they did over the summer. As kids stand up and say they went to the beach and slept in a lot, I stand up and casually say (like it's no big deal) that I went diving with whale sharks and hiked the temples of Angkor Wat in Cambodia. I love that I've seen more of the world than most, and can speak a sentence or two in more than 3 other languages. I love that I can navigate an international airport in Hong Kong with the speed and efficiency of Jason Bourne. I love that I can understand ridiculous sentences full of military jargon and acronyms, and that one time at a gas station an elderly man came up to my dad and personally thanked him for serving our country. I love how Army/Navy football games are twice as awesome every year because my dad went to the Naval Academy. I loved, when I was younger, the amazing moment of running into my dad's arms when he came home from a deployment. (I love that one time it was so perfect that a reporter actually took a picture of me hugging my dad in his uniform and put it in the newspaper.) I love that I can strike at least a little fear into the hearts of teenage boys when I mention that my dad is a Marine. I love that my family are the only ones that know what every place was like for me. And I love that friendships mean so much more when I've learned to cherish them for only a few years at a time.

The Choice

Sadness is contagious
Like a raging disease
A dark and heavy blanket
One can't shake off with ease

It plants itself inside you
And you wait for it to pass
But then it starts to grow
It lingers and it lasts

It settles in your stomach
And leaks in through the cracks
Of all your biggest bruises
Like a rock upon your back

And when you become tired
You decide to let it stay
Because it's far too big a burden
To kick up and chase away

So though you say you hate it
It's become your closest friend
You relish in it's dampness
And act like it's pretend

You say that you're in hiding
So someone will come and find
Because you don't like living there
Yet neither do you mind

You like the muted colors

And find rest in cloudy skies

A tear becomes a comfort

A truth becomes a lie

The darkness is now permanent
You think it makes you wise
But blindness is still blindness
If you don't open your eyes

Sadness is a choice, you know
Though you say it's chosen you
You were there to let it in
And tell you what is true

Brightness is still out there
It burns and stings your eyes
But it lightens the dark corners
And illuminates the lies

Though shadow is familiar
You can always choose the light
And put up with some sunburn
To prove you can still fight

From here it looks so distant
An strangeness you forgot
To some it may look welcoming
But you pretend you'd rather not

Too Late and Gone is just a front
You act like you don't know
That God is always right on time
He didn't come too slow

To pull you from your self-dug pit
Of Lonely and Unfair
And bring you from your darkness
Your exhaustion and despair

So now you're in the middle
Of darkness and the light
The dark pulls a bit stronger
And you tell yourself you're right

That there's nothing to be done
And the brighter days are gone
Why try and run the race, you think
There's no more to be won

But just as you chose sadness
The other's your choice too
It only looks so distant
Because of your old view

So go ahead and walk
The first few steps feel weak
But the treasure can't be found
Except to those who seek

Of course there will be dark days
But they won't swallow you
Because just like you chose Sad
You can choose Happy too.

Dear Threaded,

Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, you have a blog like mine.

And it was the poetic, cryptically-worded final straw that cemented the decision that there fails to be a logical reason for ever attempting to speak to you, because one simply can't measure up.

I had to blink a couple times when the complete picture finally emerged... because I wasn't convinced (and still fail to fully grasp with certainty) that you were, in fact, real.

Oh! The insanity I inhabit!

I will remain, wide-eyed and breathless, in the shadows.

New Books

So I got another Sarah Dessen book at Barnes and Noble today. Yes, they're adorable and teenager-y, but they're my guilty pleasure, emphasis on guilty, because everyone reads them. Besides, they're mostly about a girl who meets a guy who sparks some break from her normality and teaches her to be more impulsive and less of a perfectionist about her life.
I mean, every book.

And I made the mistake of (unknowingly) picking one where the main character is already sort of a party girl. The drinking, carefree type who is starting to slide back into old, dangerous habits when some sweet guy saves her and takes her home when she almost passes out. Ick.

But I ramble. The point is, the attitudes of the main characters in novels always rub off on me. Sarah Dessen has a way of making her characters really believable - which, don't get me wrong, is a great skill for a writer to have. But they become so believable that I start to agree with their decisions. Which, in this particular case, isn't the best idea.

So essentially, I'm in a backsliding, carefree mood, and if the friendly, almost-ginger boy from the bookstore were to walk into my kitchen and hit on me, I wouldn't push him away and freak out like the normal me would.

This is not a good thing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Is this a fairy thing or an angel?" Olivia blurts in her curious-yet-blunt eight-year-old voice, jerking me for the fifty-seventh time from my book. I glance at the necklace she's referring to. It is neither a fairy nor an angel, but an Eagle, Globe and Anchor, the symbol of the Marine Corps, which was given to me as a Christmas present by my parents when I was about twelve. 
When I said she could wear something of mine, she clearly picked it thinking it was something more whimsical. When I explain to her what it is, I can see her in the side of my vision studying the charm; it is losing its appeal.
"Which one do you think is cutest?" She continues before I can put my nose back to the page. She displays the back cover of her chapter book, which depicts a row of different books in the series, all with pictures of different puppy breeds on the covers. After a very, very cursory glance, I tell her the white one.
"So, you think I should have gotten that one?" 
"I don't know." By now I have almost lost my place on the page of my book.
"Or maybe this one?" She is determined to keep my interest.
"Olivia." I lower the thick volume briefly. "I'd really just like to read a little."
She slumps a bit, disappointed. "Okay."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Because reading someone else's writing always causes me to narrate my own life in the same way. Had to get that out.

In other news, my package of gifts I sent to Okinawa has arrived, and I received a thank you wall post from one of my friends. This means that within a week or two I'll either be getting one awkward thank-you email from someone, or the same familiar silence. Don't know which I'd prefer.

And a bloodcurdling scream has just erupted from the basement, which means Olivia is in yet another spat with her siblings. Ah, cousins.

Gotta go.