Thursday, March 22, 2007
break
Hey, faithful readers. I think I'm going to take a break from blogging for awhile. (To spend more time on other writing projects, hopefully.)
Thursday, March 15, 2007
My windows are open
... now, and I'd like to write about dogs. No so much of a rant, than a rave?
My neighbor's dogs bark a barbershop quartet. There's a bass New Foundland, a spaniel, a tenor Corgie-mix and a pug, assaulting every tinctature of my eardrum. Actually, I'm not sure if the pug barks. He just kind of stands around and shakes the hypothetical tambourine.
A neighbor boy, 11 or so, though, sometimes just happens to walk his monsterous Great Dane past the yard. The New Foundland raises his dusty bulk, bounds toward the chain-links and roars masterful rage. That boy is my hero. The commotion is magnificent.
The subdivision I grew up in in New Jersey wasn't an ... airtight, treeless, taupe newcomer-depository (like we have around here, sorry), but I don't think I've ever lived in a real neighborhood until now. I look out my front door and see family-dogs-on-leashes. Terriers and greyhounds. Baby strollers. Greyhounds peering adorably into baby strollers. Tattooed neighbors, carrying babies. All waving, as I read on the porch. Even the dogs. (Which is kind of a dumb ending, but I was going for poignant, with a dab of mystic mystery, and came up empty. Maybe I'll try one more time ... )
I know I'm living in the perfect place, when I look out my open window under a full moon, and see the Corgie, the pug, the New Foundland, the Great Dane, the greyhounds, and the babies all dancing, paw-in hand-in-paw, in a great grand circle.
My neighbor's dogs bark a barbershop quartet. There's a bass New Foundland, a spaniel, a tenor Corgie-mix and a pug, assaulting every tinctature of my eardrum. Actually, I'm not sure if the pug barks. He just kind of stands around and shakes the hypothetical tambourine.
A neighbor boy, 11 or so, though, sometimes just happens to walk his monsterous Great Dane past the yard. The New Foundland raises his dusty bulk, bounds toward the chain-links and roars masterful rage. That boy is my hero. The commotion is magnificent.
The subdivision I grew up in in New Jersey wasn't an ... airtight, treeless, taupe newcomer-depository (like we have around here, sorry), but I don't think I've ever lived in a real neighborhood until now. I look out my front door and see family-dogs-on-leashes. Terriers and greyhounds. Baby strollers. Greyhounds peering adorably into baby strollers. Tattooed neighbors, carrying babies. All waving, as I read on the porch. Even the dogs. (Which is kind of a dumb ending, but I was going for poignant, with a dab of mystic mystery, and came up empty. Maybe I'll try one more time ... )
I know I'm living in the perfect place, when I look out my open window under a full moon, and see the Corgie, the pug, the New Foundland, the Great Dane, the greyhounds, and the babies all dancing, paw-in hand-in-paw, in a great grand circle.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
bright salt
Woke up at @ 2:30 a.m., thinking that what I wrote wasn't expressed in the right spirit. (Confirmed by the intro to Colossians in The Message, which I just happened to be on this morning!)
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
I Think ...
I'd like to write something without over-thought or merit. :) I'm making my own head hurt. But I don't know what to write! And I'm defeating the purpose because, right now, I'm thinking too hard.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Ivan the Wonderful
My cat, Ivan, bites. I like to blame it on his declawing because it's a rabid pet peeve of mine, and I trash it at every opportunity. I think, mostly, though, he bites because he's a cat. I hate that he wants to bite my friends but, being a cat (which, to train, would take more thought than the brooding Jellicles'), I mainly ask people not to touch him, despite his fluffy body, bright, inquisitive eyes, etc.
He doesn't bite me. I stuff him in a tote bag when I take him to the vet. After a shot for athsma, once, he galloped down the examination table, smacking the vet's arm with inpotent paws. (Scared my vet to death! Guilty hilarity.) "Do you need help getting him back in that bag?" No, thank you. I just picked limp Ivan up, stuffed him in, zipped it.
All this to say, I'm coming to the realization I have an animal heart. Quick to bite, very hard to tame, wants to love slavishly, but surprised, hurt, bites. Fight, hide, survive.
I've called it by 100 self-flattering names, while leaving teeth marks in table legs. It's like, I mean what I say, in love, and usually don't regret it, I'm just sick of the words marching out fully armed, swords drawn, ready to kill or be killed ... Breaking it out of metaphor, I'm timidly quiet, often, in general, to muzzle a potential roar. (Oops. Back to metaphor.)
I'd rather lean more on Christ-love, growing like a spirit-fruit, saturating that part of my wierd, fearful heart. And not so fearfully aware of the fearful potentials of fear. I don't think the Spirit would bring it to my attention unless He could do it. To be tamed by Him, and tempered towards everyone else.
I liked this out of "Blue Like Jazz:" "We dream of Christ's love for His bride reading like Romeo and Juliet; two equals enflamed in liberal love. I think it is more like Lucentio's pursuit of Bianca in 'The Taming of the Shrew.' That is, the groom endearing the belligerent bride with kindness, patience and love." Amen.
He doesn't bite me. I stuff him in a tote bag when I take him to the vet. After a shot for athsma, once, he galloped down the examination table, smacking the vet's arm with inpotent paws. (Scared my vet to death! Guilty hilarity.) "Do you need help getting him back in that bag?" No, thank you. I just picked limp Ivan up, stuffed him in, zipped it.
All this to say, I'm coming to the realization I have an animal heart. Quick to bite, very hard to tame, wants to love slavishly, but surprised, hurt, bites. Fight, hide, survive.
I've called it by 100 self-flattering names, while leaving teeth marks in table legs. It's like, I mean what I say, in love, and usually don't regret it, I'm just sick of the words marching out fully armed, swords drawn, ready to kill or be killed ... Breaking it out of metaphor, I'm timidly quiet, often, in general, to muzzle a potential roar. (Oops. Back to metaphor.)
I'd rather lean more on Christ-love, growing like a spirit-fruit, saturating that part of my wierd, fearful heart. And not so fearfully aware of the fearful potentials of fear. I don't think the Spirit would bring it to my attention unless He could do it. To be tamed by Him, and tempered towards everyone else.
I liked this out of "Blue Like Jazz:" "We dream of Christ's love for His bride reading like Romeo and Juliet; two equals enflamed in liberal love. I think it is more like Lucentio's pursuit of Bianca in 'The Taming of the Shrew.' That is, the groom endearing the belligerent bride with kindness, patience and love." Amen.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Monday, February 05, 2007
my sin, oh the bliss, of that wonderous thought ...
... that it's gone, under Christ's blood.
We took communion Sunday after a few minutes to think about how we might be at odds with the Spirit. Sin, after sin, after sin came to mind. I confessed and confessed and confessed ... We sang a closing song, and they came back again. But this time, they were sweet. Sin, the opposite of sweet, flipped suddenly to sweet because I was realizing grace.
I came from a Christian community, where, I think they're afraid to admit sin to each other, or themselves. It's almost as if there's a superstitious dread of "getting it on them." What? Get what on them, that isn't already writhing in their own hearts? It wasn't until I felt almost crushed under the weight of my own sin, that I felt grace. The freedom of admitting sin, and the freedom of grace!
We took communion Sunday after a few minutes to think about how we might be at odds with the Spirit. Sin, after sin, after sin came to mind. I confessed and confessed and confessed ... We sang a closing song, and they came back again. But this time, they were sweet. Sin, the opposite of sweet, flipped suddenly to sweet because I was realizing grace.
I came from a Christian community, where, I think they're afraid to admit sin to each other, or themselves. It's almost as if there's a superstitious dread of "getting it on them." What? Get what on them, that isn't already writhing in their own hearts? It wasn't until I felt almost crushed under the weight of my own sin, that I felt grace. The freedom of admitting sin, and the freedom of grace!
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
bit part
I think I've done it! Moved from fantasy to the quest of an attainable dream.
First of all, let me innumerate my tragic assortment of paradoxical qualities. For one, I jabber without a single eye-blink before vast crowds (for better or for worse). Assigned a chapel seat "down front" in college, I realized, one morning, I was still standing when the organ cranked up the service. (Picture this in slow motion ...) I turned, looked behind me at five thousand of my peers, all looking my way. Whoo! Wow! I grinned, I waved, I finally sat down.
I also have a fair dose of audacity. And a ... secret longing for the theater. Enter the tragical paradoxical: I have a "tin ear" for acting. So, it's a pitiful whine of a longing, never to be fulfilled. (Though my parents were in plays, and took me to innumerable plays growing up.)
Auditions after auditions, from Cheaper by the Dozen in the tenth grade, to Into the Woods, a few months ago. So many, that the audition's kind of become "the thing." If an audition-reviewer had been there, this past summer, he'd most-definitely have noted my rousing rendition of "Rainbow High!" from Evita at the Little Theater.
This past Monday night would have been the pinnacle of my auditioning career -- to become my alter ego, Aldonza (Man of La Mancha). Aldonza, who sings, "kitchen slut!" and all manner of thrillingly despairing lines at the TOP of her beautiful lungs. The Aldonza I listened to as a child, over and over (my parents had the record). Doubtless, why I am so warped.
But I didn't go, Monday. Because, you know what? I think I actually, for real, might like a go at the stage. Just once. Which is hard to admit, because I have friends who are the real deal (maybe I'll sneak off to another state).
But just to taste it. Once. To get it out of my system. A few weeks in those mysterious shadows, behind the red curtains.
I may blaze with the fiery spirit of Aldonza! (ha!) but, with my ability, I wouldn't truly enjoy trying to play her on stage.
This year, 2007, I want to aspire to something real. A bit part. Which, to me, would be more thrilling than the breathless silence of an audience, just subjected to my heart-wrenching wail of a woman, "spawned in a ditch, by a mother who left her there; naked and hungry, and too cold to cry." (I can't say I blame her, I'm sure she left hoping that I'd have the good sense to die.)
First of all, let me innumerate my tragic assortment of paradoxical qualities. For one, I jabber without a single eye-blink before vast crowds (for better or for worse). Assigned a chapel seat "down front" in college, I realized, one morning, I was still standing when the organ cranked up the service. (Picture this in slow motion ...) I turned, looked behind me at five thousand of my peers, all looking my way. Whoo! Wow! I grinned, I waved, I finally sat down.
I also have a fair dose of audacity. And a ... secret longing for the theater. Enter the tragical paradoxical: I have a "tin ear" for acting. So, it's a pitiful whine of a longing, never to be fulfilled. (Though my parents were in plays, and took me to innumerable plays growing up.)
Auditions after auditions, from Cheaper by the Dozen in the tenth grade, to Into the Woods, a few months ago. So many, that the audition's kind of become "the thing." If an audition-reviewer had been there, this past summer, he'd most-definitely have noted my rousing rendition of "Rainbow High!" from Evita at the Little Theater.
This past Monday night would have been the pinnacle of my auditioning career -- to become my alter ego, Aldonza (Man of La Mancha). Aldonza, who sings, "kitchen slut!" and all manner of thrillingly despairing lines at the TOP of her beautiful lungs. The Aldonza I listened to as a child, over and over (my parents had the record). Doubtless, why I am so warped.
But I didn't go, Monday. Because, you know what? I think I actually, for real, might like a go at the stage. Just once. Which is hard to admit, because I have friends who are the real deal (maybe I'll sneak off to another state).
But just to taste it. Once. To get it out of my system. A few weeks in those mysterious shadows, behind the red curtains.
I may blaze with the fiery spirit of Aldonza! (ha!) but, with my ability, I wouldn't truly enjoy trying to play her on stage.
This year, 2007, I want to aspire to something real. A bit part. Which, to me, would be more thrilling than the breathless silence of an audience, just subjected to my heart-wrenching wail of a woman, "spawned in a ditch, by a mother who left her there; naked and hungry, and too cold to cry." (I can't say I blame her, I'm sure she left hoping that I'd have the good sense to die.)
Thursday, January 25, 2007
I Deserved That
Hey, Christian folks -- read this blog. For one, I love the writing. Which makes the ripping-out of my guts all the more horrible. Don't read to agree or disagree -- just learn.
I wish the only thing he had to say about Christians was, "There was this guy at work who spent all Saturday helping me move."
http://www.brentrasmussen.com/log/node/363
I wish the only thing he had to say about Christians was, "There was this guy at work who spent all Saturday helping me move."
http://www.brentrasmussen.com/log/node/363
Friday, January 12, 2007
Punk Write
I don't know if on-line guy-meeting is for me, because it involves writing. And writing's where I love to shout, rage, rave and basically, act the loon. I mean it! Everything I'm saying! With a world of thought and conviction! But the keyboard's still a 61-piece drum set, and I am the spiky-haired, tatted, two-drumstick-twirling punk. (Despite the limitations of my talent and skill.)
We're not entirely what we create, you know. I don't think Stephen King chats up the grocery clerk with, "Gray day outside! Kind of like the mottled coat of a ressurrected Yorkie." Monet wasn't a blurry smear of color; he didn't dash along hallways marking blurry smears, or smear YOU with blurry smears.
I once wrote to a guy I was just getting to know. A fellow creative. We ate supper one night, and the only thing I really remember him saying was a thin, dismissive: "weird." Which I've carried between my ribs since. Doubtless, something I'd written gave him that impression.
I have a few optional responses to my dilemma. Channel the inner Ritalin when it comes to the simple, communicative e-mail. Very good. Also, maybe I can do what the Apostle Paul couldn't even pull off: meld a mild personality with bold, vivid letter-writing.
I don't want to tame words, though. I want them to dance through a meadow like the townsfolk in the Safety Dance video. Give me a meldody -- a plot, a point -- and I'll crank it up as far as it'll go. Just be glad I'm not in your basement.
We're not entirely what we create, you know. I don't think Stephen King chats up the grocery clerk with, "Gray day outside! Kind of like the mottled coat of a ressurrected Yorkie." Monet wasn't a blurry smear of color; he didn't dash along hallways marking blurry smears, or smear YOU with blurry smears.
I once wrote to a guy I was just getting to know. A fellow creative. We ate supper one night, and the only thing I really remember him saying was a thin, dismissive: "weird." Which I've carried between my ribs since. Doubtless, something I'd written gave him that impression.
I have a few optional responses to my dilemma. Channel the inner Ritalin when it comes to the simple, communicative e-mail. Very good. Also, maybe I can do what the Apostle Paul couldn't even pull off: meld a mild personality with bold, vivid letter-writing.
I don't want to tame words, though. I want them to dance through a meadow like the townsfolk in the Safety Dance video. Give me a meldody -- a plot, a point -- and I'll crank it up as far as it'll go. Just be glad I'm not in your basement.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Something Like Shawshank Redemption
But not involving sewers (or emotionally gripping characters or situations). Independent filmmaker, I envision a cubicle, maybe seventh floor of your average office building. A woman, entombed in her gray box glances nervously right, left, before crouching and lifting a square of her carpet, cut with a razor. It resembles a hatch, a shaft, leading down so far the tiny square of light, shining like a diamond. A deep breath, one more glance, and she begins her descent.
Now, I think the hook to all this is: everyone really wants to see what's under the floor. Really. Literally, and what's between floors. Right? Cut carpet, wires, foam ceiling tiles, dust. Spiders. And what's at the bottom? You'll just have to wait for Sundance, or Cannes.
Now, I think the hook to all this is: everyone really wants to see what's under the floor. Really. Literally, and what's between floors. Right? Cut carpet, wires, foam ceiling tiles, dust. Spiders. And what's at the bottom? You'll just have to wait for Sundance, or Cannes.
Friday, January 05, 2007
funky fonts
I think Christianity-in-postmodernism is all about Christian books and Bibles in funky fonts.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
holy, holy, holy
There's something fresh going on in my (sad, frail) Christian heart, and it looks like it's part of a collective sweep. I was reading the intro to "The Dust Off Their Feet" a retelling of Acts by Brian McLaren (I love it!), and picking up those buzz concepts: relevance, truth presented to appeal to the entire person (including sensory -- art, music) ... When opponents name this (movement?), we'll see all it's components in a nutshell, with a conclusion, probably, about selling out (selling out what?) to appeal to the worldly, or everyone jumping on a bandwagon.
The funny thing, though, is that I unknowingly climbed on the bandwagon a few years ago when I started longing for Real Truth in a (feeble, frantic) quest for holiness. I want the non-negotiables in Scripture that transcend, and translate to all cultures.
I'm too afraid to get close enough to a holy God to put words in His mouth right now. To say, "This is how God wants you to dress. This is the music God wants you to listen to ..." Look like this, say this, do that. I will say, "Don't get drunk. Don't steal. Be modest. Love, love, help, serve ..."
So, this truth-quest is the search for "relevance?" I'm already sure it's relevant, and not so much wondering "What's in it for me?" I wanted meaning, for me. Pondering all this, I'm both joyed and terrified that God's not compressed into Exactly What I Thought He Was, that He's untamed, that He's allowed to have mysteries, is in control of everything (sovereign), is author of my life and the world's life, and it's all good. Release and surrender. Relief. (Which is why I love a Reformed church for the chance to just lift the hands of my heart and say: "It's all You. Your blood has washed away my sin, Jesus, thank you.") Ponder God = truth/meaning = awe = joy/fear.
The funny thing, though, is that I unknowingly climbed on the bandwagon a few years ago when I started longing for Real Truth in a (feeble, frantic) quest for holiness. I want the non-negotiables in Scripture that transcend, and translate to all cultures.
I'm too afraid to get close enough to a holy God to put words in His mouth right now. To say, "This is how God wants you to dress. This is the music God wants you to listen to ..." Look like this, say this, do that. I will say, "Don't get drunk. Don't steal. Be modest. Love, love, help, serve ..."
So, this truth-quest is the search for "relevance?" I'm already sure it's relevant, and not so much wondering "What's in it for me?" I wanted meaning, for me. Pondering all this, I'm both joyed and terrified that God's not compressed into Exactly What I Thought He Was, that He's untamed, that He's allowed to have mysteries, is in control of everything (sovereign), is author of my life and the world's life, and it's all good. Release and surrender. Relief. (Which is why I love a Reformed church for the chance to just lift the hands of my heart and say: "It's all You. Your blood has washed away my sin, Jesus, thank you.") Ponder God = truth/meaning = awe = joy/fear.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Acts Now
A friend the other day commented on how men, in general, seem to be abdicating leadership when it comes to women, family, etc. Maybe guys see women's independence as a convenient excuse to fade into a more comfortable background, I don't know. (Really, I don't know what guy enjoys confrontation on an emotional plane where women stand, a lot of times, hand-on-holster.)
But a thought occurred to me, in relation, concerning Christian singleness. I wonder if we're waiting for the Magic Spouse in order to find real support and fellowship. And blaming guys (or girls) because we're ... missing a mysterious spiritual component. What is it? Is it support? Maybe not. We're comfortable, except for this one lack of security: someone to care, know me, offer insight, support. Otherwise, I'm comfortable. So, all I'm really waiting for is Magic Spouse.
Which came out snarkier than I intended. It's just that, it's not all about comfort, right? Think about Truth and how, if you really meditate on it, Meaning soaks through your mental membranes. Then comes awe = joy + fear. Not comfortable. Almost unbearable, but God's joy = strength. And you want more, more, more ...
Desiring God, I experience joy (thank you, John Piper, for putting it into words), and I chase Him via the "Way" (thank you, Lao Tzu and your brother-mystics for suggesting a "best way"). The Way, as I mean it, of "forget me, love God and others." Which is absurdly un-safe, in a world whose most-every fiber shouts: "forget you." (Or worse.)
I want to -- intentionally -- give God my little loaves/fishes of obedience and -- expectantly -- watch Him multiply it. Which = joy. And I need brothers/sisters to 1. want that too, 2. team-up and get to know me, bear burdens, share insights.
Embarassing, obvious simplicities. But I haven't experienced this much. And not for a long time. And in the meantime, I've been eaten alive by discouragement. While I've smiled and eaten potluck.
"Join a team! Join a ministry. Become a missionary, and head to China." Those are great ideas, for real. But I have a mission field already, and a Christian organization doesn't guarantee heartfelt brother/sisters.
I don't want a para-military prayer group, a curriculum-spurred Bible study, matching T-shirts, communal living, just serious, lets-get-busy, here-we-go heartfelt teaming-up to care and serve.
"Join a care group! Meet with an older woman!" I will. This is just a Wed. afternoon blog-servation -- and prayer request. Less a want ad than the little ads Catholics sometimes take out in the back of newspapers: cryptic "thank you's" to God.
I want to live Acts now, even single. I absolutely cannot wait.
But a thought occurred to me, in relation, concerning Christian singleness. I wonder if we're waiting for the Magic Spouse in order to find real support and fellowship. And blaming guys (or girls) because we're ... missing a mysterious spiritual component. What is it? Is it support? Maybe not. We're comfortable, except for this one lack of security: someone to care, know me, offer insight, support. Otherwise, I'm comfortable. So, all I'm really waiting for is Magic Spouse.
Which came out snarkier than I intended. It's just that, it's not all about comfort, right? Think about Truth and how, if you really meditate on it, Meaning soaks through your mental membranes. Then comes awe = joy + fear. Not comfortable. Almost unbearable, but God's joy = strength. And you want more, more, more ...
Desiring God, I experience joy (thank you, John Piper, for putting it into words), and I chase Him via the "Way" (thank you, Lao Tzu and your brother-mystics for suggesting a "best way"). The Way, as I mean it, of "forget me, love God and others." Which is absurdly un-safe, in a world whose most-every fiber shouts: "forget you." (Or worse.)
I want to -- intentionally -- give God my little loaves/fishes of obedience and -- expectantly -- watch Him multiply it. Which = joy. And I need brothers/sisters to 1. want that too, 2. team-up and get to know me, bear burdens, share insights.
Embarassing, obvious simplicities. But I haven't experienced this much. And not for a long time. And in the meantime, I've been eaten alive by discouragement. While I've smiled and eaten potluck.
"Join a team! Join a ministry. Become a missionary, and head to China." Those are great ideas, for real. But I have a mission field already, and a Christian organization doesn't guarantee heartfelt brother/sisters.
I don't want a para-military prayer group, a curriculum-spurred Bible study, matching T-shirts, communal living, just serious, lets-get-busy, here-we-go heartfelt teaming-up to care and serve.
"Join a care group! Meet with an older woman!" I will. This is just a Wed. afternoon blog-servation -- and prayer request. Less a want ad than the little ads Catholics sometimes take out in the back of newspapers: cryptic "thank you's" to God.
I want to live Acts now, even single. I absolutely cannot wait.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Monday, November 27, 2006
Freak of Gravity
I visited a great Methodist ministry this past week, prompting me to ponder how service harmonizes with my now, Reformed-ward longings: "It's all for God, by God. (Praise God!)" Where does that leave me?
If salvation, on our part, (faith), is a "non-work" -- "I accept/submit to/want/need/am engulfed by Your grace" -- maybe our service is really a series of "non-works." (Don't blame BJU's faculty for this idea. I think it was more Taoism-inspired: wu wei, "doing" by not doing ...)
Not so much living Christ via these verbs: "Storm! Besiege, infiltrate, persist, break down, demolish!" But these: "Gravitate, enjoy, share, explain, love, help, serve, whisper, wait, wait, listen, walk-beside, hold, weep, willing and want." Kind of sounds mamby-pamby, but all that with a definite intent, expectancy, firm truth-grip and Godward-ness.
If salvation, on our part, (faith), is a "non-work" -- "I accept/submit to/want/need/am engulfed by Your grace" -- maybe our service is really a series of "non-works." (Don't blame BJU's faculty for this idea. I think it was more Taoism-inspired: wu wei, "doing" by not doing ...)
Not so much living Christ via these verbs: "Storm! Besiege, infiltrate, persist, break down, demolish!" But these: "Gravitate, enjoy, share, explain, love, help, serve, whisper, wait, wait, listen, walk-beside, hold, weep, willing and want." Kind of sounds mamby-pamby, but all that with a definite intent, expectancy, firm truth-grip and Godward-ness.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Friday, November 17, 2006
All Quiet
Now that everyone has forgotten my blog (except for Nicholas), I will begin to write again. My shoes climp clomp across the old stage, dust angels levitate in the solitary light.
"Hello?"
All quiet.
A tentative: "At first I was afraid, I was petrified ..."
No muffled twitters.
"I felt I could never live without you, by my side ..." (Continue full-fledged singing of 70s liberation anthem, complete with dancing!) I think blogging's like the difference of singing in your car and getting out, and singing on the sidewalk in front of your house. A neighbor might be listening, but he's more likely to be watching The Office or Dr. Phil. But still, there's that 1% chance that someone, somewhere, is paying attention.
"Hello?"
All quiet.
A tentative: "At first I was afraid, I was petrified ..."
No muffled twitters.
"I felt I could never live without you, by my side ..." (Continue full-fledged singing of 70s liberation anthem, complete with dancing!) I think blogging's like the difference of singing in your car and getting out, and singing on the sidewalk in front of your house. A neighbor might be listening, but he's more likely to be watching The Office or Dr. Phil. But still, there's that 1% chance that someone, somewhere, is paying attention.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Friday, October 20, 2006
Evora Tangeline
Mi abuela was a pistolera. A hired gun. Unheard of, for her day, when the only acceptable professions for women were wife, school teacher or saloon can-can dancer. They had not yet won liberation enough to be stage-coach drivers, cowhands or bartenders.
Mi abuela, though, was not seeking fame or glory, though both haunted her through her short, tragic life. Haunted her with shame.
She grew up the only child of a blind farmer, maimed at the Alamo. Maimed by the Alamo, a bit of exploding brick struck his handsome visiage. Now marred, mi abuela's mother left him, and left mi abuela to shoot the jack rabbits who sought solace from the scorching sun in the grasses twisted hard as wicker. The droughts were terrible, as was the shooting. Her father wiped away the tears he knew, without seeing, streaked his child's silent face. It was appropriate, he said, to kill to eat. To kill for independence, even. She was not convinced.
Mi abuela, though, was not seeking fame or glory, though both haunted her through her short, tragic life. Haunted her with shame.
She grew up the only child of a blind farmer, maimed at the Alamo. Maimed by the Alamo, a bit of exploding brick struck his handsome visiage. Now marred, mi abuela's mother left him, and left mi abuela to shoot the jack rabbits who sought solace from the scorching sun in the grasses twisted hard as wicker. The droughts were terrible, as was the shooting. Her father wiped away the tears he knew, without seeing, streaked his child's silent face. It was appropriate, he said, to kill to eat. To kill for independence, even. She was not convinced.
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