I want to do some basic bookmaking. I was thinking a journal or small scrapbook type. The stitching looks confusing, but all the sites I’ve looked at claim it is easier than it seems to be.
I’m looking forward to the cold again. The air has been hinting at fall here.
I’m over being cranky. It was a rather long day yesterday and I’ve decided to just move on. I turned 30 this morning, rolling around half awake in bed. I hear from so many that this is when life gets good; I hope that is true. I really do believe it too.
It seems that people do a lot of reflection on their lives at these milestones. I’ve done none of that. Perhaps I will eventually.
Today is nice. It is rainy, in the 50s, and largely uneventful. Thanks you to those who sent me birthday wishes. I appreciate it.
I kinda wanted the world to care about my birthday. But apparently, I’m not even allowed to be selfish for that. I’m sure this is teaching me some sort of life lesson, but I don’t care honestly. I’m turning 30 and can’t get anyone to notice. My parents will call. A few friends will probably call, but I’m being hugely reminded that I am only ever at the back of people’s minds.
And I’m tired of throwing parties for myself… even if it is the only way to get the people I love together.
Yep, I’m rather sad this week. I wish the crap would hold so I could celebrate turning 30. Did you catch that Life? Let me be happy for a least a week longer. It is probably just me coming off the high of having been on vacation. Or maybe not. Whatever it is, I don’t care for it.
Hugs. Big giant hugs to those in need of big giant hugs. I love you and I’m praying for things to work out.
Wow! I excel at procrastination. It is a terrible, terrible problem that needs to just stop. A week from now, I’ll be on my vacation. I’ll have just arrived in Dallas after a full day of flying. I’ll be quite thankful to be away. While I already dread not being near a computer everyday, a break will probably be good for me too.
Before I leave, I must get my house cleaned up, figure out what I’m taking with me, finish up a couple of projects, and pop a few things in the mail. It doesn’t seem like much, but also doesn’t seem like something I really need to keep putting off getting finished.
A seahorse struggles to hold life, gasping for water
as it dies, wriggling into the position it will dry into.
Agony for the sake of amusement. A carcass is worth
the smile on the face of a child who will pick at the bits
left in the bony-plated shell of now peaceful being.
We contort into positions that seem unnatural,
drying out in the forty years to hold onto life.
Our fragile bodies are thirsty and becoming rigid
as the important few decide how human we are.
America, the land of those whose voices don’t frighten
the small-minded into recruiting toddlers to fight
the great injustices of equality and tolerance.
The little hands hold the hatred in words they cannot yet read,
and the seeming importance of what they are doing shows
on bright and happy faces. They aren’t the evil they spread.
Our bodies are labeled for easy identification,
classified and sorted so the yokels will know where to direct
hate and whose livelihoods are free to destroy.
Hate never stands a chance against love;
those of us who’ve bathed ourselves in this goodness of life
are catching they eyes of the sympathetic.
Hate is sitting on rather shaky ground.
The heroes haven’t all made it through,
drying out at the hands of assassins or themselves,
future great leaders struck down in youth
by the oppression of a nation plagued with fear.
They are the fuel of our passion, the fire driving us
to keep searching for a little more to drink.
The arms are starting to open up, to take us in.
Bodies are too numerous to count, the toll is high.
War is ugly, but the fallen find great honor in victory.
None will be forgotten as we start to find our new America,
falling safely into the comfort of new friends.
Carcasses won’t be on display anymore, the animals
will have been put back into the water, into their homes.
Christopher Street will remain peaceful, the rage
we still feel fading into history. We will know only trust.
The sun of that day is just throwing light across the horizon
and perhaps our children will finally see it rise.
I was pretty shocked by the death of Michael Jackson. It is like a part of my childhood being ripped away somehow. That sounds weird, but it’s still the way I feel.
It is sad.
One customer at work, on hearing the news, was glad. It made me sick that the loss of a human life would bring joy to anyone. Those people are so hideous to me. I had to walk away to keep from telling her what I thought of her.
The icons are all dead or broken,
ushered off in wheelchairs and caskets of immoral expense to paradises
surrounded by wildness.
My childhood crumbles without the support of the ones I admired and by the weight of my guilts and follies.
That time of heroes is so distant — it no longer even feels like a dream,
no longer feels like a memory.
The blurred fragments of the Sues, the Mikes, the D’Jeilas… they are fading into emptiness,
leaving me with a search for new people to look up to, if anyone.
I miss the me who was in that time, but celebrate his death.
The me of now is an improvement, a focused replica of an aimless child.
The slate has been cleaned and readied for the new icons to place on pedestals.
Soon, I’ll break out of the thin shell of fear that remains and emerge as a fully complete person.
My wings itch to stretch out and let me fly.
“The man who doesn’t relax and hoot a few hoots voluntarily, now and then, is in great danger of hooting hoots and standing on his head for the edification of the pathologist and trained nurse, a little later on.”
–Elbert Hubbard
