A little addition to the previous post...

As I read through my previous post, I noticed a few things that needed further comment. I didn't want to change it, because that was one of those blogs that simply flowed from my finger tips, and I don't want to lose that at all. But I cannot leave the ambiguity as it is.

I said something about TiFi and Big Bear and Fred and I--how we weren't a clique because of whatever reason. I do not know how to stress strongly enough the fact that we are very good friends. Friends that understand each other and share a deeper bond than I can really put into words properly. But the thing was (and I think it was the way God wanted it, and a good thing), we had very separate lives in almost every other way. Much of what had to take up our time (jobs, church, relationships) were outside our little foursome. That is probably the bottom line reason we never were a clique. And I mean, it's probably good that we weren't...timing etc...

The final word on all this, every single thing, is that God's timing and His plan for my life is so completely above and beyond anything I could dream of that I shouldn't whine, because that shows my extremely disappointing paucity of imagination.

"Show me a clock for countin' my days down...

…cuz everything’s easier when you’re beside me.” Throw Me A Rope, KT Tunstall.

Perhaps there really isn’t anyone for me here after all. I mean, I didn’t exactly expect to get married in college. I suppose I thought I’d have a steady boyfriend for most of the time—but the pressure is too high here for a healthy relationship that Doesn’t end in marriage. But this brings me to the deep and penetrating question that is actually the crux of this whole meltdown—Why?

I thought that the world had lost it’s sway

(It’s so hard sometimes)

Then came you

(Then came you)

And you took that away.

(It’s not so difficult, the world is not so difficult.)

You take away the old

Show me the new

And I feel like I can fly when I stand next to you

So while I’m on this phone

A hundred miles from home

I’ll take the words you gave and send them back to you.

—Calling You, Blue October.

Some friends asked me if I was moving back to VA to go to school because *a certain boy* was here. No, that’s Not why I moved back. There are a million tiny reasons I thought I had, and a million more that I didn’t, but the bigger reason was because I didn’t know what else to do. And I still don’t. Nothing else appeals to me, but this seems fairly pointless too—in fact, it all does. But it’s almost harder to try to salvage whatever social, emotional, and spiritual life I can have here than it would’ve been to create a completely new life somewhere else. I knew I would be forgotten, and I knew my friends here had moved on with their lives, busying themselves up with all the new people and things that came along, but I didn’t realize how poorly I would respond to that.

I am so very, very lonely—but then, I was very lonely at home too, so it doesn’t really make much difference.

I refuse to fall into the trap that the Israelites fell into by idolizing “the good old days” which never were.

The honest truth is, I’ve never had a time when I wasn’t quite lonely, when I had friends I could always count on, who remembered to call me and invited me to everything and who all planned everything with the unquestioning assumption that I would be a part of it. I have had good friends—and I love them dearly, especially TiFi and Big Bear, and Fred—but we didn’t form that clique that other people seem to form almost instinctively. Perhaps it was because Fred and TiFi were on the verge of new and deeper relationships with people outside our foursome, so their hearts weren’t really in it. Perhaps because we were all working and busy and in that horrid in-between state, when we aren’t quite adults, but we’re not children anymore either. Whatever it was, I’m sure that there was no fault in it, and I find absolutely no flaw with that set. They were and are one of the finest and best blessings that God has ever seen fit to grant me. I miss them to the point of tears as I type this.

That is, I suppose, the heart of the matter. I am not content with what God has given me. Probably I never have been. I may be imagining something which does not exist outside of movies and books—or something that is merely an illusion in other people’s lives, like any other “perfect” thing other people seem to have—but I don’t think so. I think that for some reason, I have never been on the inside of a clique.

In That Hideous Strength, by CS Lewis, he describes something about this “inner circle” that everyone simply aches to be part of. Once in it, you only come to realize that there is a higher and “better” circle to join, and the one you’re in isn’t really all that marvelous after all. And so it goes, eternally seeking this “perfect” group, or circle of clever people.

But I don’t expect that—do I? I would so much just like a group of congenial persons, like minded individuals, who are kindred spirits, and whose gifts and personalities are as varied and complimentary as a rainbow, or a vista, or an ocean view.

Those last descriptive phrases remind me of something I had forgotten.

I have been a part of a clique—a deliciously complete and inclusive group, which I could count on, and who did include me in their plans, assume I would join them, and whose diversity could not be disputed by anyone. It was in Morocco. We called ourselves, “Real World: Morocco” because of how deliciously ALIVE we all were.

Do you know how some people seem to be so dry, so simple, so flat and uninteresting? I don’t mean that they aren’t worthwhile people, just, there are some people who, in any group, will always be the life of the party, and others who are simply attending. Most of the world is made up of those attendees, and only one of ten or even fewer are the life of the party. But it was so incredible, in our group in Fez, the entire villa was composed of people who were definitely the life of the party. The crazy thing was, it worked. Probably because we each had our own, different take on what the party was.

There were quiet people and loud people, and liberal people and conservative people and shy people and funny people and serious people, but each of us was so bursting with personality that when we were all in that villa together, or, (more likely) out on the town somewhere, there were so many adventures and such laughter that you realize how brilliant life really is, and how Good God is to have granted us time on this earth to enjoy His remarkable creation in the form of people and places and things.

And yes, there were circles within the circle, there were the “leaders” and the “followers” and the “annoying” and the “soothing,” but there wasn’t a single person in the group that I would think, “oh, please don’t make me be paired with them today.” Nor were there times when I would say, “Dude, I really need to make some new friends. This is so ______(fill in the blank).” No, every day we all would have such fun, and we would talk about how crazy it was that this totally random group was so perfectly complimentary.

So.

I know it can happen, because it has happened. Why doesn’t it happen here, or at home? At home, the timing was off, it seemed. The people certainly weren’t lacking in the darling qualities that were so explosive in the Morocco group. But here—there is really no excuse. There is a broad swath of people to choose from, and any amount of opportunities for us to get together and enjoy life.

It’s like being a Freshman all over again.

Back to my initial comment. Perhaps there really isn’t anyone here for me after all.

Perhaps I’m wasting my time.

Cried all night till there was nothing more.

What use am I as a heap on the floor?

Healing devotion but it’s just no good;

Taking it hard just like you knew I would;

Old habits die hard when you got—

When you got a sentimental heart.

Piece of the puzzle and you’re my missing part

Oh what can you do with a sentimental heart?

—Sentimental Heart, She and Him.

Or perhaps tomorrow I will wake up, and it will be a new day, and I will realize that it really is a good day, and I really do have friends (why, you silly, of course you do.) and that life really is worth living. I shall tell myself sternly to lay off the emo music, and I shall virtuously avoid sausage, which seems to have an adverse effect on my mood (Why, I have no idea). Also chick flicks are detrimental. I will go to class and thoroughly enjoy Geometry (much to my surprise), and then I will go to chapel and be encouraged (as I am every morning), then off work with the people who tease me and who I tease right back wearing comfortable jeans.

Lunch will perk me up immeasurably, even with the slightly tasteless, mass-produced food that is provided (at which I will turn up my round little nose and flounce over to the salad bar and create some monstrosity in order to lose that 20 pounds before Fred’s wedding), and then I will go to my last class of the week, then walk out of the class into the bright sunshine (it darned well better be sunny tomorrow, that’s all I say) and I will toss my book bag into a chair somewhere and run off into the bright, beautiful weekend that is stretching before me like a new life.

Isn’t life so deliciously ironic?

"Words are flowing out...

...like endless rain into a paper cup." Across the Universe by the Beatles.

Do you ever catch yourself in a bizarre situation, or a set of peculiar circumstances which cause you to say, "I'm going crazy. I standing here, solidly, on my own to hands, and I'm going crazy." (Tracy Lord played by Katherine Hepburn, Philadelphia Story.)

That has happened to me today.

As it turns out, I spent much of today alone--walking back and for from the main building to my dorm (many more times than strictly necessary, but it was a nice day), in my room, doing laundry, cleaning, studying in the library, etc... and when I did spend time around people, I found myself putting my foot in my mouth even more than usual, which put me in a more melancholy mood, and made me talk less around people, but narrate more in my mind--which is what happens when the words don't come out. I think I've mentioned this before, but momma likes to say that I have "a rich inner life." It's quite true--there's a running commentary in my head.

Actually, I think it's my imp. Everyone has an imp. Some people's imps give them tunes to hum, and other imps create rude limericks about things, some draw deep conclusions or great works of art or poetry or prose (at which point the little fella is no longer an imp, but has crossed the line and become a definite muse), and some people's imps create comparisons. If you've seen The Holiday with Cameron Diaz, that is a perfect example of an imp--when interesting things happen in life (or when she's bored, or when a thought is nagging at her mind) her imp presents her with a "movie preview" that highlights the point of whatever is at the front of her attention. Jack Black's character also has an imp that helps him write movies soundtrack scores--and it provides the perfect background music for him to "doodly doo" and hum in everyday life. Another example in film is in Elizabethtown with Claire, who sees most of life like a kind of scrapbook, for which she takes those little "mental pictures" that allow her to remember and treasure those ironic moments of life. Closer to home, I think Fred's imp draws connections--which leads to her quoting seemingly unconnected things or bursting into song like an early Disney cartoon--but she can almost always explain why it connected--and that is due to her imp.

My imp sometimes comes up with rude limericks--only on special occasions though. Most of the time the little booger is busy keeping up a running commentary which sometimes runs right through my mind and out my mouth, and that's when I get into trouble. Or more precisely, that is when I exercise my "gift" of disrupting things.

It causes me to interact with everything--including inanimate objects--which would lead the common and unenlightened person to the conclusion that I'm crazy. This would be untrue (at least, I think it would be untrue.) The truth is, this little imp inside myself is simply jabbering on a mile a minute (he doesn't get as tired as I do) and he, being an immaterial and imaginary creature, is not bound by the societal values of "sanity" and "insanity" and is therefore free to interact with any object, real or unreal, whether sentient or no, and as often as not the response is completely irrelevant to my continued interaction. It's the irony of the actions (or lack thereof) combined with words. It tickles my funny bone, more to the point.

For example, tonight as I sat on my top-bunk (trying to study) someone came in to find my roommate (who wasn't here) and then said, "Wow, you look so cozy up there, and you know, you're top bunk is seriously the coolest top-bunk I've ever seen."

"Really?" I asked. "How come?"

"I don't know--I guess just because you took the guard rails off." She bounced out of the room.

I turned to Audrey Hepburn, who was simpering (as usual) at me wearing her classy black dress and toying with a long black cheroot. "Nice to know that we're still cool, huh?" I asked her, as she pouted in silent agreement. She blinked and shook her head slightly, indicating her disassociation with the whole affair. Cardinal Richelieu looked up at me (but only two of his three faces from the famous painting are on the front of the book, so he seemed a little lopsided) and wiggled his nose in affirmation. I blinked down at him and said, "You know, in pink, I simply can't take you seriously." (The book is bright pink, even the image of him is pink.) He wiggled his nose again, signifying his disappointment in my shocking paucity of imagination. I could hear conversations from the rooms around me, girls doing homework, girls bickering, girls doing laundry, girls singing, someone in the basement was practicing the piano (sounding good) and someone above me seemed to be either having a knock-down drag out fight or clog dancing. Over on my desk I saw Frodo and the Rubick's cube having a heart-to-heart about the merits of black-tea-versus-herbal, and on my dresser, my bamboo waggled its leaves in a shimmy in time to the music that was playing softly from my ipod, "Ah W Noss" by Nancy Anjram. Two mugs, a spoon, and a bowl full of cheez-it crumbs winked at me balefully, reminding me of my neglect of duty in terms of keeping up my end of the room cleaning. My printer shone dark and ominous in its little corner, still a new-comer among my possessions and a bit of a black sheep, apparently. (They have not welcomed him into the fold, and I suspect it's causing a little bitterness. He does look rather evil, being all black and shiny--possibly a distant relation to Darth Vader--but hopefully that will pass, and he will be invited to all the little gatherings my possessions have in my absence.) I think Frank Sinatra (on the calendar) is the ringleader of the month--they all look to him when I search accusingly for the guilty party when things go awry. He does have a self-satisfied look about him. Audrey simpers from across the room, and he leers back. Good thing January's almost over, and hopefully next month will be someone with a more congenial attitude--Sinatra makes me quite nervous. Richelieu doesn't like him either, which isn't such a problem, but I think there would be some serious conflicts when I got out Ben Franklin, who, thankfully, should not have to be brought out too much until well into February when Sinatra is safely behind the next month.

Jolly Berry informs me that my imp needs a name. I respond that imps do not have names, but she is insistent. Her imp is a slideshow with vocal narration. It's a little man behind a curtain, pushing buttons to make the slide show go on. He has a black suit and top hat, he's kind of thin, with a smile--a happy man, as Jolly Berry says, and she calls him "the little man."

If I could describe the shape of my imp, it would be a humanoid, with fuzzy hair on top, and a very expressive little face, with ears that lie quite flat against his head. Kind of a mix between a fairy and a leprechaun.

Davin, his name is Davin. He's youngish--which explains his immature glee at sending me into fits of giggles at very inopportune moments.


Isn't life ironic?

"Sunday Monday...

...Happy Days!" Happy Days Theme Song from the TV series, Happy Days.

My computer screen is all fixed, and I'm finally all moved in and pretty well caught up on my homework, so now is an excellent time to catch up with you all here in the blogosphere. Hi!

There have been a lot of things worth writing about in the last week or so since I last wrote, so I'm having trouble collecting my thoughts enough to really get into one subject. I'll begin with a quick recap of the last week's activities.

Momma and I arrived at school and I quickly signed in, started imposing my stuff and presence on my dear roommate, Jolly Berry, and did all those nit-picky little things that one has to do when they move. It all flew by very, very fast indeed, and before I knew it, I was dropping off my mom to stay with some friends who moved here from home who would take care of getting her to the airport the next day while I was in classes. Very sad. I am not a huge fan of goodbyes, especially with my mom, who is definitely my best friend.

The next day, classes started. Eek! Busyness! Homework! Papers! Assignments! New Professors! New Ideas! Lots of other things flying up and down and all around and into my face, flapping their noxious little wings making me sneeze. Which eventually turned into a full-fledged sinus infection which I am affectionately calling, "the green goblin."

So, long story short, we had a deliciously free snow day where I played all day in the snow and watched a movie. I also met up with Angel Face and Mr. Where? and we taught Angel Face, who is from a warmer clime, how to drive on the snow. We went to a parking lot in Mr. Where?'s car and practiced slipping and sliding and we had lots of fun with the parking brake (which was AWESOME!) and the experience turned ourselves into the three musketeers. We are still bickering over who is actually who, but we three are all for one and one for all, regardless.

The three of us also spent the next evening hanging together. We went to Costco and ate their delicious pizza. Mmm. We also took The Kid. It was so much fun.

The night after that (we're up to Saturday) we all went Swing Dancing, which was also ridiculously fun (I hadn't yet really gotten sick--but by the next morning, the green goblin was definitely a reality). Both Mr. Where? and The Kid are marvelous dancers--though I was dancing with someone else (a guy who actually teaches dancing) when some random person from the Washington Post asked if he could take pictures of us for an upcoming article. We were like, "uh, sure." and he took billions of pictures while we danced. Awkward. Of course my partner was very good, so it was no surprise that HE was chosen as the subject, though as for why the one dance I was dancing with him was the one which apparently "stood out" to this reporter, I'm not sure. We had on complementary colors. Maybe that was it. Brown tones. He was going to email us pictures--hopefully he does, it'd be fun to see.

Sunday was delicious. I studied a little, and rested a lot, and slept some--and unpacked a little more. Very restful.

Monday started in a mad rush. Classes went well, and the day flew by, as did Tuesday, and here we are on Wednesday, all ready to do it all over again. This semester is going to absolutely soar past me in a blur of color and laughter. I've already laughed more in the last week than in a very long time--and I love to laugh. Mr. Where? and Angel Face keep me on my toes, I can tell you.

I'll try to find a good picture of the three of us and put it up in a future post.

Oh, and the new Buzz-Phrase is, "you have nice lips." (You'll have to ask The Kid.)

Ta-ta,

And isn't life ironic?

"Take the last train to Clarksville...

...and I'll meet you at the station." Last Train to Clarksville by the Monkees.

We passed the last exit to Clarksville, TN today, and I always think of the Monkees there--even though it was very probably a different Clarksville.

So, would you believe, that my computer screen has cracked completely in half? I can only see half the screen as I type this, so it'll be short and sweet (like most things worthwhile--though I don't know that this will be) and possibly my last for a week or so--until I get to school where the nice tech people lurk and fix things for irresponsible people like me.

No, but seriously, it was in its nice, padded, SAFE case all day--what on earth happened?

Ok, so two quick notes.

First, as we drove through Arkansas today, and made all the normal jokes about the piles of "stuff," but occurred to me that I would take someone from Arkansas over anywhere else in the world anyday. (In terms of American pride, and all that, of course.)

Second, and more interestingly, we ate lunch at a Cracker Barrel today. It was its normal, delicious self, and the sweet looking older lady at the table next to us was eating alone. She was quite genteel--a southern lady, as it would appear, and as she finished eating, the manager came out to say hello. I don't think they knew each other, he was just perusing the store and saw her solitary repast. In her expressions and mannerisms, I was so strongly reminded of someone. I couldn't think who for the life of me until she left (we were still eating) but then as she walked out, it hit me. She looked precisely like Judy Garland would've at about 70. She had that same, sweet, slow smile that was characteristic, and the big brown eyes, and she was quite petite. Her voice was low and musical too. But she had a quirk and a dimple that was exactly like Judy Garlands. Ah me.

Finally, my mom and I were talking about romance, because one of the CDs we listened to today was my own mix of very mushy-gushy music called "Potty Lurves Looney" (That is a cultural reference to Harry Potter, for those of you who were homeschooled.)

Anyhow, we spent a good hour discussing what is REALLY romatic. So I thought I'd share that with you before I go off the air indefinitely. We decided there are three things that are compeltely, 100%, true-blue, no-kidding, utterly romantic. But all of these have to be done in just the right way, or it all falls apart. But I'll explain that as I go.

1. Paying special attention at dances.
What most guys don't realize (which is why I'm explaining this here) is how much dances mean to girls. I don't know why--but they do. Perhaps it's our early training with White Christmas, but whatever the reason, we always expect "the best things" to "happen while we're dancing" and when they don't we are depressed and crushed, like Lizzie in Pride and Predjudice when she realizes that Wickham didn't come to the ball, and when Darcy insulted her. (Which brings me to note another useful lesson for guys--Jane Austen has plenty to teach about women if you're willing to sacrifice and read the books or even see the movies.)

2. Surprises. I think the element of surprise is vastly underestimated anymore. I guess it partly comes from the "need for communication" that we have today, as well as the quick turnaround time for all relationships and activities in our modern lives. I was thinking of my sister, and her recent engagement when I realized that I don't want to be like that. I want to be surprised. I want to be close to the guy, and totally love him, and know I would marry him, but I want to be like, "wait, are you SERIOUS?!?!" and then, of course, "Yes!!!" This also applies to things like starting a relationship--dating and such. I don't mean you shouldn't explain where you are (dtr's--define the relationship.) but it shouldn't make you fear surprising her.

3. The final notice of this discussion was that girls (ok, at least, THIS girl) thinks the utterly most romantic thing ever is to be "stolen back." The absolute best two examples of this that I can think of, are Sweet Home Alabama and The Absentminded Professor. I think of that line when the professor's housekeeper says to him, "Even a chimpanzee will fight for its mate."

So anyhow, that's the depth of the thought on the roadtrip for today.

Ta ta for now, folks.

"Look at this photograph...

...every time I do it makes me laugh." Photograph by Nickelback.

(Home as we left it--SO MUCH SNOW.)

(Crossing the Rio Grande)

(Camel Rock)

(Sweet Tea. Nectar of the gods--even from McDonalds.)

(Nod to Elizabethtown. Someday I'll do it out a plane window instead of a car.)

(Big cross at Groom.)

(I love how they advertise every single town you pass through in OK.)

Here are some pictures from our roadtrip so far. It's been fabulous--we started out with a selection of soundtracks, like Garden State, I Am Sam, and Elizabethtown, then we rocked to Muppets and Veggie Tales, then eased back into something resembling our normal mature status (ha) with Shrek and some crooners--Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis Jr.

I like Dean Martin the best of the Rat Pack crooners, I think--though my all time favorite will always be Bing Crosby (not a rat-packer). Tomorrow we're going to go through American classics, like American Pie, Rockin' Robin, and various big band albums.

As we drove, we also listened to Rush Limbaugh for HOURS--or however long he was on. On commercial breaks we would discuss whatever he'd said in the segment before. It was lots of fun. Hillary got lots of abuse, as did Obama, Huckabee, Thompson (dear ol' Fred), and Romney. Liberal women in general also figured prominently. Yech.

It was "hillary-ous" to listen to the clip of Hillary saying, "It's just so hard!" and then we stepped in to a Walmart to pick up some snacks and see that Shrek the Third was on. It happened to be playing the part when Arty (Justin Timberlake) was whining to Merlin--"It's just so hard!" Momma and I looked at each other and nearly DIED laughing. Oh me.

Other than that, it's been a pretty slow day. Nothing earth-shattering to report.

I love roadtrips.

"I dug my key into the side...

..of his pretty little souped-up four-wheel drive." Before He Cheats by Carrie Underwood.

I love that song--even though no one (at least, not to my knowledge) has ever cheated on me.

So today I disengaged myself to Big Bear.

I marched in to his coffeeshop, carrying a Christmas box of trinkets that he gave me (ok, so it was empty except for a card thanking him for his participation in the charade) and his ring (which was, in fact, a twisty tie) and I stood at the counter waiting for him to notice I was there. There was only one table with customers at it, a group of guys discussing gravity, or something equally boring. My little drama was much more interesting, as they stopped their discussion immediately and watched.

In the back was the manager (or so I assume) and other workers at the coffeeshop. Big Bear was wiping off the counter opposite where I was standing. It was not long before he turned around and stared at me. I stared back, my eyes stony, my brow wrinkled with a frown (I think the term used to describe the expression on my face was "stinkeye").

"Hello," he said, a trifle nervously.

"Hi," I said shortly, and glared a moment longer. His normally cheerful countenance became so serious that it might have even been a bit angry.

"Well?" He said, with one very impolite eyebrow raised expectantly and very condescendingly.

"It's over," I said scathingly, shoving the box across the counter toward him. The supercilious twist of his mouth wavered. "Here's the stuff you gave me, and here," I threw the ring across the counter at him "is your stupid ring." And I marched out, with my head held high.

I glimpsed the shock and distress on his face as I turned, but I didn't care. I walked out, a free woman, and leaned on a rail outside to gather myself after that breath-taking performance.

A few moments later Big Bear came out and we had a good laugh.

"Not quite as loud as I expected, but well done," he said.

We parted a few moments later on very amiable terms, and him with a devilish grin and a murmered, "I hope my manager is upset."

Ah, the things we do for entertainment around here.

Isn't it ironic?

"Breaking up is hard to do...

..now I know, I know that it's true." Breaking Up Is Hard To Do by Neil Sedaka.

So I woke up (too early) this morning with every intention of disengaging myself to Big Bear. His ring was nestled comfortably on my dresser (NOT my finger) and his "box of stuff" was all packed and ready to be thrown dramatically at his face.

So I left the house at 6:30am to pick up my car from the shop, 45 mintes (on a good day) from my house. It ended up taking about an hour-and-a-quarter to get there, and then the same or longer to get back because of the snow, which is even as I type this pelting down outside beautifully.

So I get home around 9, and Big Bear calls me pretty much the moment I walk in the door. "Hey," he said, "I know love is gone, but I still don't want you to die on your way down here, ok? Can we postpone the disengagement till tomorrow morning?"

"Sure," I said, being in a generous frame of mind since my car troubles seem to be all sorted out now. (Thank you, Daddy!)

Then I did go work out with my friend, and we had a lot of fun. It wasn't nearly so bad as I thought it would be. I could actually see myself getting used to something like that on a regular basis.

And then I came home to pack and eat and prepare for my busy social schedule of this afternoon. I'm thinking of calling everyone and saying that I can't come because of the snow.

It really is too cuddly today--so calm, with the snow-enforced silence outside, and the cat curled up on my bed, sleeping peacefully, and the oldies playing on my computer, and the smell of Macaroni-and-cheese wafting through the house.

I hope it doesn't delay my leaving for school though.

And I hope the disengagement goes smoothly tomorrow.

I love snow.

Isn't life ironic?

"Grab your coat, don't forget your hat...

...but leave your worries, leave them on the doorstep." Sunny Side of the Street, by Louis Armstrong.

I am so close to going back to school (yay!!!) but that means I'm packing up my little life and carrying it across the country in my car. On one hand, that's magnificent--because you all know how I feel about roadtrips!?!?!! but on the other hand, that's "rather a chore" as Fred says.

First of all, my car has decided that now is a good time to exhibit bad behaviour, and is therefore being fixed. Hopefully I'm going very early tomorrow morning (like, leaving home at 6:10am) to pick it up and bring it home for the rest of the days fun activities, like disengaging myself to Big Bear (we became engaged last week when we realized we were the only single people left. It seemed inevitable, but we agreed that I would dump him in the most amazing way possible Monday at 10:00 sharp. If you want to come watch, it'll be at his coffeeshop, and it's going to be amazing. I'm quite excited, actually. Then I promised a friend I would work out with her, at 10:15 sharp, so the disengagement better not take too long.)

Second, there's packing. When you live somewhere, your belongings tend to sort of expand and soak in, if you know what I mean. In the same way a fat man will settle down after a meal, lean back in his chair, and loosen his belt for a relaxing nap, so my stuff seems to have let itself go and simply collapse all over everywhere. It's being quite a job deciding what I'm taking, leaving, getting rid of, giving away, mailing to myself, taking at a later date...etc. (Picture of me in front of a mile-high pile of boxes and stuff that I'm trying to pack...)


And besides all that, I'm such a sucker for pretty boxes. I hate those compactable file boxes that you usually move stuff in, or the huge Tupperware monstrosities. I refuse to touch them--though the file boxes are inevitable, I'm afraid.

Haley Mills did quite a number of movies. She was one of the original Disney girls--which is now the legacy that Lindsay Lohan tries to live up to, but simply can't--and one of her less known films was Summer Magic, which also featured Burl Ives. At the beginning of the movie, there's a part where the family is packing up all their things in Boston and preparing to move to a little upstate town called Beulah. One of my favorite songs for moving is in that part of the movie:

Flitterin'

It's time for flitterin'
Dusting off the trunk and flitterin' far
Where the grass is greener
Now and then, comes the time again, for flitterin'

We'll soon be packing up
Stacking up our dreams and bric-a-brac for
Some destination
Don't know where, but we're going there
We're flitterin', again

New places, new faces
New friendships will start
While old places, old faces
Stay dear to our heart

As we go flitterin'
Following a rainbow, flitterin' bright
Over the horizon
Maybe then and maybe there
We'll settle down and never care
For flitterin' flitterin' flitterin' again

Someone asked me tonight if I was glad to be leaving.

I love home here, but I also love home there--and I miss parts of either half when I'm in the other, but I'm always glad to get to the first when I was at the second, and vice-versa.

Isn't it ironic?

"A half-a-million thoughts...

...are floating through my mind." Lebanese Blonde by Thievery Corporation, from the Garden State soundtrack.

I'm not usually plagued by insomnia this time of year.

I just pulled out my journal from the Big Adventure of last summer to Morocco--I wrote it in pencil and I'm gradually inking it in before the pencil all fades away--and got to the June 1 entry. (Picture from my excursion into the Sahara, with sun rising behind some camels.)


"We ate cous cous for lunch--they served it in the Alif garden. Yum! After, a group of us all went and got some AMAZING mint tea.

Mine had a free bug included. And a hair.

I drank it anyway.

In the pot (explaining the bug, but not the hair) was a huge wad of very fresh mint--delicious. The hardest part of the day was the "Moroccan Survival" class. The professor refused to speak any English, and conducted the class in Moroccan Dareeja--which is the Moroccan dialect of Arabic. I was horrid at it." (Picture from a rooftop in Fez, Morocco, in the medina, or old city. Notice the green roofs, and especially the mosque with green tile roof rising in the center.)


I got a note from one of my housemates from the trip too, and my! I got such a wave of homesickness, you cannot imagine.

But yesterday I spent an hour and a half in the post office and the people (there were about 15 people at a time in the little waiting room) and they started to get grumpy. I couldn't stop grinning, thinking of the four-hour wait I had at the PO in Morocco, where waiting in line is unheard of, and no mail will be delivered without extensive bribery. (Which I did not know, and which explains why only about half of my post cards made it back to the States.)


I could have had the school take care of mailing my cards, or I could have dropped them at the hotel lobby, but I wanted to try it for myself. And I did. It was loud, and long, and very un-American--which is only to be expected. Ah well, TIA. (Picture from Temarah, Morocco, watching the sun SET over the Atlantic. That was surreal.)


But as I was in this American (but slow) post office yesterday, grinning like an idiot, a lady who was glowering around the room glowered directly at me and said,

"So why are you enjoying this so much?"

I continued to grin--I almost couldn't help it--and told her about Morocco.

I talked about how cats are everywhere, because while dogs are unclean in Islam, it's said that the Prophet liked cats; and I talked about the camels, and the desert, and waking up at 3 every morning to hear the call to prayer from the mosque near our villa, and how green is the color of Islam, but blue is the color of Fez, and about the food, and the smells, and the noise, and the heat. (Picture of one of the millions of cats in Morocco.)


The gentleman behind her asked some question which led to another story. So for the remaining 45 minutes of the wait, I managed to keep the whole line laughing and cheerful with stories about my visit to Africa. (Aha! It wasn't a waste of time, money, and energy after all! Picture of me on a camel in Morocco.)


By the time I got up to the register and the nice lady helped me mail my packaged and sold me stamps, the people had begun to chat amongst themselves and I was free to submerge back into my own little world of thoughts. The postal worker smiled and thanked me and I went on my merry way, in America--cold, wintery, but home.

Isn't life ironic?

"I hear music when I look at you...

...a beautiful theme of every dream I ever knew." The Song Is You by Frank Sinatra.

Do you ever hear a song that is only instrumental but you can almost taste the words--but they just escape you?

There are three songs that always get me that way. I don't think any of them actually ever had words. They are My Father's Favorite from Sense and Sensibility, Anne's Theme from Anne of Green Gables, and Karen's Theme by The Carpenters. All are piano (primarily) in their original performance, and all of them are part of a larger story. But the music itself simply speaks--and you can imagine a phrase or word or expression in it--though never the entire thing, and never long enough to write down or even really put into verse.

I think what makes them so striking is the people or story behind them--I like to think that the music speaks for itself, but since I have only ever heard since I knew the context, I cannot tell.

My Father's Favorite is a song performed by Kate Winslet as Marianne, though the redition of it in the soundtrack from Sense and Sensibility includes a prelude and interlude all of which circle the theme itself but is "soundtrack" and not the song as performed by Marianne. It sends me straight to the beautiful solitude of melancholy, like walking alone in a tree-lined space, with no one around you. Yet it is refined, almost formal in its sweetness. It is precisely the feeling one gets when you get to walk around outside while still being well dressed. It's the kind of song that plays in your head when you are quite, quite alone--and happy to be. There is a certain emptiness, as if something is missing, but there is always time for that tomorrow, and till then, I can be quite content. It is a song which brings out emotion and poetry. (The picture was taken in Harper's Ferry, WV)


Anne's Theme from Anne of Green Gables has a bit more thoughtful. It has more philosophy in the sound--the kind of song bringing you to realize the value of friendship or love, or something equally priceless. There is a little less formality in this song, and it allows you to be a real person, who would trip or make mistakes, or have an accident, and possibly get mud on your clothes. There is ocean in this song, and wind, and laughter and sorrow. (The picture is from near Guilford, CT.)



Karen's Theme, by The Carpenters, is possibly the sweetest sad song ever to be played on a piano. Partly probably because of the story of Karen Carpenter (she and her brother sang and recorded hundreds of songs together and were very popular throughout the 70s, but died from anorexia and other eating disorders when she was 32.) this song is so sorrowful, yet containing nods to various Carpenters songs (you will hear measures from "Solitaire," "Top Of The World," and "Rainbow Connection" to name a few in this piece) which seems to celebrate a life that touched many people. It is a sweet and innocent song, that always makes me think of The Secret Garden, or some other place of solitude, where one can sit and think and simply BE for a while. (The picture is from Purcellville, VA.)



I see that my description of all these songs explained their melancholy, or sorrow. They do have that aspect--which is part of what makes them so thoughtful--but there is another aspect, a hopeful, sweet, smiling sound in these songs, which makes them anything but depressing. How can something so sad be so encouraging too?

Isn't it ironic?

"I wanna have the same last dream again...

...the one where I wake up and I'm alive." The Adventure by Angels and Airwaves.

So it is New Year's eve, and I thought I'd put up a few thoughts about resolutions.

Prospective resolutions:

1. Read my Bible EVERY SINGLE DAY (which I didn't do last year).

2. Memorize a chunk of Romans or Proverbs or both.

3. Lose weight (which I always say, because I am an American).

4. Have an adventure (which I've already done, but I plan to do again).

5. Conquer a fear (of which I have too many).

6. Be more positive consistently (i.e., Trust God) and therefore more encouraging to others.

7. Witness to someone at least once a month, as the Lord provides.

8. Follow II Peter 1:5-11 (More on this later).

9. Bring my GPA up at least to a 3.0.

10. Revel in the adventure of every single day.

I may narrow it down or expand it, but that will do to get on with.

Happy New Year!

"There's something that I can't quite explain...

..I'm so in love with you." Calling You by Blue October

Here's the whole song:

theres something that i cant quite explain
i'm so in love with you
you'll never take that away

and if i said it a hundred times before
expect a thousand more
you never take that away

well expect me to be
calling you to see
if you're ok when i'm not around
asking if you love me
i love the way you make it sound
calling you to see
do i try too hard to make you smile
to make a smile

well i will keep calling you to see
if you're sleepin are you dreamin and
if you're dreamin are you dreamin of me
i cant believe
you actually picked...me

i thought that the world had lost its sway
(its so hard sometimes)
then i fell in love with you
(then came you)
and you took that away
(its not so difficult, the world is not so difficult)
you take away the old
show me the new
and i feel like i can fly
when i stand next to you
so what if I'm on this phone
a hundred miles from home
i take the words you gave
and send them back to you

i only want to see
if you're ok when i'm not around
asking if you love me
i love the way you make it sound
calling you to see
do i try too hard to make you smile
to make a smile

i will keep calling you to see
if you're sleepin are you dreamin
if you're dreamin are you dreamin of me
i cant believe
you actually picked...me

Apologies for the lack of punctuation and such--that's what you get when you type a song as they sing it. I guess love songs have been much on my mind since my sister just got engaged. :-)


So. We went and saw National Treasure 2: Book of Secrets today. Reilly is so awesome--he's totally my favorite. I completely identify with his living with brilliant people who always make him feel dumb--even though he's a super-awesome hacker with mad skills. I envy his mad skills.


I don't think there's that much to say about the movie. It was a cute, funny, smooth adventure using American (and a few other) settings to familiarize the audience with a little more history, and to fictionalize a little bit more. It's a classic legend series, which America lacks spectacularly, but, as we see by most critics' negative comments about the National Treasure movies, America does not seem to want it's own legends. The criticism hasn't changed the fact that the theater was packed.

Speaking of packed, I am getting ready to pack for my return to school (i.e., I realize I'm leaving in a week-and-a-half) and I'm absolutely boggled at how much stuff I acquired this year. I have not gained any space in my car, so that means I need to seriously plan and pack very carefully for this trip.

I can do that.

"Thank you...

...falletin me be mice elf again." Thank You by Sly and the Family Stone.

So here are pictures I've promised all fall. I appreciate everybody's patience as I forgot until ::gasp:: December 29th.

"When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie...

...that's amore." That's Amore Dean Martin

I am deeeeelighted to announce that my sister, Fred, is officially engaged to Joba. Oh, it's been a happy evening at our house, I can tell you!!!! It's simply oozing out the walls.

Fred drove Joba home from the airport, and I had a bunch of buds playing Poker and then Cranium, and Joba and Fred declined to join in the games, and they went to look at the stars. In 17 degrees.

"Aww," I thought, and we continued with our games.

Finally, when Fred and Joba returned, and we were winding up the evening, with card tricks, I saw a sparkly blue ring on Fred's hand, and thought, "Huh, I don't remember that ring." Big Bear began talking about work (grout and toilets) and Jesp and Hoity were adding their two bits, and, as usual, Monkey Smith said nothing and observed everything. Fred leaned over to me and whispered, "Should I show them my new jewelry?" pointing to her ring, which I now realized was on her LEFT HAND!?!?!?!?!?!!!

"O MY WORD YES!" I said back.

"If you guys are done talking about toilets," said Fred, "I think you may be interested to see this." She regally extended her hand, like a queen bestowing blessing on her humble subjects.

The room collectively exploded with congratulations and hugs for the couple.

The boys soon left after that--except Joba, of course, who is staying for a week--and we sat around the fireplace basking in Fred and Joba's happiness more than the heat from the fire.

My sister is engaged.

Isn't that delightful?

Stargazing indeed. Huh.

"I'm just a singer of simple songs...

...I'm not a real political man." Where Were You? Alan Jackson

In case anyone wanted to know my blog's readability, it is:

"I follow the night...

...can't stand the light." One Day I'll Fly Away, from Moulin Rouge, by Nicole Kidman

I suppose it's normal to have questions as a college student--questions about dogmas, and theories, and choices, and life, and authority, and religion, and people. Always, always about people.

I think it is less usual to have your questions written up in a book by someone who has decided to document your college because it is, as Hanna Rosin says, God's Harvard. I was surprised and slightly flattered--though in a sort of half-cocked way, at being called "America's young Christian elite." I never expected to be elite at anything, much less Christian elite.

I have always been middle of the road-ish. I mean, I take sides in arguments and put my foot down and have even been known to slap boys who were--what is the term?--"Fresh." But I am not a revolutionist, an activist, or a marvelous leader. I have always found there to be people better suited to lead than myself, and I generally am quite pleased to let them get on with it, and I will comfortably do what I do best in the background, or perhaps center state, but with very little real authority. I will be a voice or a mind, but never both. To quote Anne Hathaway, "I'm invisible. And I'm good at it."

I noticed this in the book, God's Harvard. I got it for Christmas, and just finished it--exactly 8 hours after I opened the box in which it was enclosed. I know, I know--nerd! But it was very well written, and I couldn't put it down. Especially since, as I read her words, I would remember being there, seeing these things happen, noticing her in the corner with her notebook or her bright, intelligent, interested eyes, watching us as we made our daily quota of stupid decisions. I am somewhat grateful that I WAS invisible, after reading it--for though she is not expressly malicious, she certainly does not pull her punches. But, of course, why should she? I no more desire that we "young Christian elite" be sheltered from her inquiring and blunt analysis than I desire Hillary Clinton to be treated with kid gloves in her debates. And in both cases, I don't want a chortle and a smirk and a "next question, please?" No. I want answers.

Yes, I sat on my bed--which was actually the couch in the library, since my room is currently the guest quarters to visiting relatives--piled high with spare blankets and my sleeping bag (sub-zero) with the cat (who is healing nicely from her surgery, by the way) nestled at my feet, making pilgrimages up to my face to make sure I didn't forget that she was here and was the center of the universe, not that book that I was reading and I read through the entire thing. In almost every chapter, she would describe a scene and I would think, with a slight jar, "I remember that. I was there. She sat in that corner and I sat in this. I remember wearing such-and-such that day. Whatever happened to that sweater, I wonder?"
She even included scripts of conversations in which I was involved--obviously very unimportant, as my words were never recorded. She changed some of the names (quite appropriately, as it happened), and I even would think, "Why, that must have been so-and-so. How interesting!

And it broke my heart.

Not all the drama and trauma that I already knew about--that is old news, and those scars are healing over. No, it was the bits I didn't know about, that mostly focused on individuals. I would think, "I had no idea that was going on! Oh, poor so-and-so!" And to think how blind I was when it was happening. And yet, looking back, I remember other things that were so clear, that I tried so hard to head off at the time, and either had not the experience, wisdom, or power to accomplish. And again, that intuition, or sixth sense, or people skills, or whatever you want to call it stood me in good stead. It is always a shock to read one's story from a third-party perspective.

But it does make me wonder. What in the world am I good for? I want to be a mover and a shaper, and yet, here I was in my own personal microcosm of the universe, and did I have a single, solitary effect on anything that happened? No, I did not. And I find that rather sad.

Anyways, that's the irony I found today...

and Merry Christmas!

"I can't believe it's Christmas...

...been waiting for a million hours!!!" --Can't Believe It's Christmas from The Toy that Saved Christmas, a Veggie Tales Christmas movie.


I'm such a bad blogger--I'm completely spastic and random and amb--not ambiguous, what's that word? It means you make decisions without having any real reason behind it? Am...al...ar...arbitrary! That's the word. On second thought, that doesn't really apply, but oh well.


Being a bad blogger is kin to being a bad friend. It's like, "Oh, hi, remember me? I'm the one who never responds to your emails, never answers your calls, and can't ever make it to any of our chill times, but yes, I'm still your friend!" That puts you immediately in the "user" category, the type of person who only hangs out when there is nothing better to do. Perhaps being a bad blogger isn't quite the same, but still! And of course, as friends make admissions for extra busy times and uncontrollable circumstances, so, hopefully, will the readers of this blog. (I still have trouble believing you exist, though I am assured by a Reliable Source that you do. I am glad. That does make it worse, though, when I forget to write for days on end...)


Let me see, so much has happened since I last wrote...when did I last write? Let me check. Aha, Mr. Magorium.

I watched Everything is Illuminated with Fred, TiFi, and Big Bear. (We watched it at Big Bear's house, and ate chips and dip and cookies that Fred made.) It's an interesting movie, with Elijah Wood, about a Jew who goes back to Russia to see someone who helped his family escape during persecution in WWII. There is language, suicide, and sexual references, so I wouldn't necessarily recommend it, but... it sort of makes you pause, and noticed your surroundings a bit. What I found incredibly tragic was how the people didn't seem to get to know each other at all. It was like they lived parallel, never intersecting, though they saw themselves ever day, and when they suffered, no one stepped up to help shoulder whatever burden was crushing the one, and no one had a kind word to say, or anything like that. Everyone was incredibly focused on themselves, which was part of the tragedy of the story.

I also saw Enchanted, which was cute--although I had trouble sitting through the first half because it was SO cliched. Of course, it was supposed to be, and the second half did make up for it. The two of us who went to see it walked out of the theater and a said, "Well, I'm glad I saw that, but we won't be buying it when it comes out!" and then my dad greets us with, "Oh, we saw Enchanted, and we HAVE to buy that as soon as it comes out!" It was cute, but none of this life-changing nonsense. It was precisely what it was supposed to be. A celebration of the tradition of princesses. But unfortunately, the reason I like fairy tales is because of how the original story--the original Cinderella, or the original Sleeping Beauty, (which the Disney version renders delightfully, but does leave out a few bits)--has a very untraditional story. That is why it became the tradition, because of those originals. Anything since then simply doesn't cut it. I adore the Dealing with Dragons book series for that reason. They have very untraditional stories, about nontraditional characters, and yet throughout the books they run into traditional characters and problems, and they laugh at them.

For example, Princess Cimorene finds out that her father is going to have her be kidnapped by a giant or something to make sure she gets married. She doesn't like that idea, so she runs off to find a dragon she can stay with so that she won't have to marry some boring prince. She finds a dragon, Kazul, who takes Cimorene to be her princess, and Cimorene spends most of the book trying to convince princes and knights who come to save her that she doesn't need saving and that she enjoys being a dragon's princess, thank-you-very-much. As you would imagine, the princes and knights have trouble getting their minds around this concept. Silly creatures, princes and knights.

Other than creating my own, personal philosophy of fairy tales (which I do have) I have been decorating for Christmas--our house was already done, but my room hadn't been touched, so I finally put my room decoration up yesterday--and making and sending Christmas cards (almost done!) and petting the cat, and baking cookies, and doing all the other homey things that I've missed out on the last few years at college. It's delicious. I even shoveled snow the other day! Oh yes--it snowed. I'll put up some pictures next post (if I remember.) In honor of that, I'm cutting out paper snowflakes right now. I have about 26 already done, but I'll need MUCH more than that, if I'm going to make a real, honest-to-goodness blizzard out of them.

Oh, and I bought a bunch of mistletoe. ;-)

So that's about what I've been up to.


I adore snow.

"I shall never grow up...

...make believe is much too fun--can we go far away to the humming meadow?" Brightly Wound by Eisley.

Today I saw a movie--surprise, surprise--and it was excellent. This was Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium, about a magical toy store (with a 200+ year old owner, played by Dustin Hoffman and an assistant, Molly, played by Natalie Portman). As I told a friend the other day, I don't want to grow up. I have very little desire to move on to the bigger, more "real" things in life. This movie definitely fed that part, the childish side, of me.

It made me want to make paper-airplanes, to drink cherry 7-up, to fly kites, lie in the grass and watch the leaves fall and clouds go by, to sit on mom's lap and let her rock me in her rocking chair. It was lovely.

I shan't give away the movie--no spoilers here. I won't even rave about it for very long. There are a few things that I want to draw your attention to, however.

First, the four main characters are Mr. Edward Magorium, Avid Shoe-Wearer, played by Dustin Hoffman; Molly Mahony, the Composer, played by Natalie Portman; Eric Applebaum, the Hat Collector, played by Zach Mills; and Henry Weston, the Mutant, played by Jason Bateman. It was fascinating to me to see how they dressed. The little boy, Eric, and Molly and Mr. Magorium all wore bright, bright clothes, with candy stripes and polkadots, and the kinds of things that kids see as so beautiful, like velvet and brocade in bright, sparkly colors. Meanwhile, the Mutant (actually an accountant--and did I mention I work in an accounting office?) always wears the same faded colors of gray--grayish black suits, with grayish pale ties and grayish pale shirts. He always looked very nice, but just like a hold of dullness in the bright, colorful world that was Mr. Magorium's Magic Emporium.

Now, I have made a little agreement with myself. I'm only buying clothes that are black, white, and gray until I graduate. It's sort of just to keep me focused, but also because that way I'll get lots of nice, basic stuff, and as soon as I graduate, I can start adding the colorful pieces. That movie seriously made me reconsider--but it's not too long now, so I think I'll stick it out. And after all, I am only sworn to primarily black and white and gray. I can still buy colorful scarves and stuff... and of course all the colorful things I already own...

Looking at the Mutant, (which they insist on calling the accountant throughout the movie--Mr. Magorium has some explanation as to why, but I'm going to let you watch it for yourself to understand that part) he sees his shortcomings very clearly. He acknowledges within the first thirty seconds of being on screen that children never like him, and later he tells Eric that he doesn't have time to play, because he's working. Eric asks if he can play when he stops working. The Mutant replies, "I never stop working." Oh, and Eric's face is a picture. You can tell, that he sees that as the most tragic thing he has ever come in contact with. I feel his pain.

Finally, the sock monkey. There is a sock monkey in the store, that does precisely what I always feel stuffed animals do. He chooses who he wants to be adopted by, and he reaches out to him--in this case, it's The Mutant--and then when he is ignored, or rejected, or whatever, his little face falls like only a stuffed animal's face can. I swear, that happens to me Every Time! I have so many stuffed animals (still!) because I couldn't bear to see their little faces fall when I walked away. Sometimes I feel positively manipulated, but I know it's just in their nature, it isn't malicious.

Many of you are shaking your heads and rolling your eyes at this, saying, "Geez, she has seen WAY too many movies, and she definitely read The Velveteen Rabbit a few too many times. Guilty as charged. And I will add to the list--Toy Story, The Toy Who Saved Christmas, Corduroy Bear... oh, the list could go on and on. Besides, if you saw my room...you would see where my priorities lie. Dolls, teddy bears, decks of cards, paints, a keyboard, storybooks, movies...many things with which to waste precious time. And I don't regret it for a second.

Isn't it ironic?

"I want more, impossible to ignore...

...impossible to ignore." Dreams by The Cranberries (as sung in You've Got Mail.)

As I looked at some pictures from my Morocco trip this summer, I suddenly got an awful, awful case of wanderlust. I felt like the Rat in Wind in the Willows:

"And you, you will come too, young brother; for the days pass, and never return, and the South still waits for you. Take the Adventure, heed the call, now ere the irrevocable moment passes! 'Tis but a banging door behind you, a blithesome step forward, and you are out of the old life and into the new! Then some day, some day long hence, jog home here if you will, when the cup has been drained and the play has been played, and sit down by your quiet river wit ha store of goodly memories for company. You can easily overtake me on the road, for you are young and I am ageing and go softly. I will linger, and look back; and at last I will surely see you coming, eager and light-hearted, with all the South in your face!"
The voice died away and ceased, as an insects tiny trumpet dwindles softly into silence; and the Water Rat, paralysed and staring, saw at last but a distant speck on the white surface of the road.
Mechanically he rose and proceeded to repack the luncheon-basket, carefully and without haste. Mechanically he returned home, gathered a few small necessaries and special treasures he was fond of, and put them in a satchel; acting with slow deliberation, moving about the room like a sleep-walker; listening ever with parted lips. He swung the satchel over his shoulder, carefully selected a stout stick for his wayfaring, and with no haste, but with no hesitation at all, he stepped across the threshold just as the Mole appeared at the door.
"Why, where are you off to, Ratty?" asked the Mole in great surprise, grasping him by the arm.
""Going South, with the rest of them," murmured the Rat in a dreamy monotone, never looking at him. "Seaward first and then shipboard, and so to the shores that are calling me!"
He pressed resolutely forward, still without haste, but with dogged fixity of purpose; but the Mole, now thoroughly alarmed, placed himself in front of him, and looking into his eyes saw that they were glazed and set and turned a streaked and shifty grey--not his friend's eyes, but the eyes of some other animal! Grappling with him he dragged him inside, threw him down, and held him.
The Rat struggled desperately for a few moments, and then his strength seemed to leave him, and he lay still and exhausted, with eyes closed, trembling. Presently the Mole assisted him to rise and placed him in a chair, where he sat collapsed and shrunken into himself, his body shaken by a violent shivering, passing in time into a hysterical fit of dry sobbing. Mole made he door fast, threw the satchel into a drawer and locked it, and sat down quietly on the table by his friend, waiting for the strange seizure to pass. Gradually the Rat sank into a troubled doze, broken by starts and confused murmurings of things strange and wild and foreign to the unenlightened Mole; and from that he passed into a deep slumber...
Poor Ratty did his best, by degrees, to explain things; but how could he put into cold words what had mostly been suggestion...
Casually, then, and with seeming indifference, the Mole turned his talk to the harvest that was being gathered in, the towering wagons and their straining teams, the growing ricks, and the large moon rising over bare acres dotted with sheaves. He talked of the reddening apples around, of the browning nuts, of jams and preserves and the distilling of cordials; till by easy stages such as this he reached mid-winter, its hearty joys and its snug home life, and then he became simply lyrical.
By degrees the Rat began to sit up and join in. His dull eye brightened, and he lost some of his listless air.
Presently, the tactful Mole slipped away and returned with a pencil and a few half-sheets of paper, which he placed on the table at his friend's elbow.
"It's been quite a long time since you did any poetry," he remarked. "You might have a try at it this evening."

I apologize for the lengthy quote, but you see, it is precisely my feelings now. I too felt the sweet and spicy seduction of travel, and I too lost myself into the misty grey eyes of another thinking of the distant isles and lonely coasts waiting for me to reach them. I felt the pull of the romantic boat-streets of Venice, the frightening ancient beauty of Egypt, the bustle of stony Rome, the snub of silvery Paris, the regal splendor of the Forbidden City in China, of the shining Mediterranean, the glistening China Sea, the sparkling Caribbean, the mystery of the Nile, the murky of the Seine or Thames. All these are all calling me, these and more. I can smell the mould in country estates in England, I can hear the chirping of insects in the jungles in Africa, I can taste the tang of seawater in the air and hear the babble of mountain streams. I remember the glorious exhaustion of some distant trail walked or mountain climbed, I feel the delicious melancholy of being alone in the middle of nowhere, I hear the unknown and unfamiliar sound of a language that I don't know, and I sense the terror of my inability to communicate. I feel the surprise at a friendly face in a strange place, and I feel the intense solitude that only comes from being alone in a strange place and I crave it. The tendrils from distant ports of call are gently, inexorably leading me, pulling me...

And then I am held down, and I lose all strength. I sink, then shake, then sob, then stare at nothing in particular, with my eyes no longer that queer grey, but again their own, normal color. Slowly, my mind is brought to the present, with my own little room, and a yellow tree out my window, and my little path I walk down to work from where I park my car, all lined with crunchy leaves and smelling of autumn. The birds fly south--and let them!--for soon it will be winter, with it's sledding, and roaring fires, and pies and cranberries and stuffing, and the cat to sit on my lap, and books to read, and movies to watch, and music to listen to. Presents to wrap, trees to trim (we have 23) and family and friends coming home again from their travels to wish a Merry Christmas! And at the thought of Christmas, I become quite lyrical and content to stay at home.

I highly recommend The Wind in the Willows, if you've never read it. Perhaps it is my romanticism coming out (so it is, but what of it?) but the charm of the innocence of simple life, without lofty goals and complex schemes or adventures beyond our own little sphere, that, the home of life, that is the point of the book. Though since I am of the age when one longs to go and make home somewhere else, this too gives me a sort of homesick wanderlust (like of the kind discussed in Garden State, but that's a whole 'nother blog!). Until then, I am content in my little home here, nestled in the mountains, over looking the River of the North.

I have expansive vistas to overlook, and treacherous cliffs to look down, and winding paths, and desert trails, and lonely peaks that I have not yet explored--right in my backyard! So really, I need not go any farther than out my front door to find another adventure.

And, would you believe, I've got a quote for the occasion? It's from Lord of the Rings, something Bilbo told Frodo:

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."


Isn't life ironic?