Saturday, July 26, 2008

Dear Mormon Boys,

I hate your guts.

(This is in no way an editorial on the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints; which I totes approve of. Clarifying disclaimer? Check. Securing my future of eternal solitude? Also check.)

Monday, July 14, 2008

Strike me.

I have been praying for a thunderstorm.

I have been praying for a lot of things.

I'm only in Virginia for two more days. This has been a crap month. A crap month of cosmic magnitude. I've felt a lot of things: like a wild horse rearing up against being broken, a tree split twain by lightning. Abandoned. Rejected. Betrayed. Even more upsetting is what I haven't felt. Comfort. Clarity. Love.

Anyway. My mom came home for lunch and cooked some chicken with shredded carrots and onions. I have been considering going back to vegetarian, but there's no point in not eating my mom's food. I will never understand how she can cook something so delicious in less than fifteen minutes. As we sat at the cluttered dining room table we heard a faint rumbling from somewhere beyond our backyard. We both expressed the hope that it was a storm coming. Oh how I needed a thunderstorm before going back to Los Angeles. We don't get those there. Not real ones, anyway.

My mom went back to work, and I got back to scanning all the old pictures we got from her dad's house in Indiana. So I was sitting in our empty living room. It is totally bare except for a bookcase, a parrot, two wooden chairs (one broken), and my little pile of photographs and the scanner. There are huge curtain-less windows overlooking the front yard. I suddenly noticed that it was raining as a few thunderclaps echoed from miles away.

I was in the middle of doing laundry, and was only wearing my grey tee shirt and some dance briefs. I put down my laptop walked outside without my shoes. I never wear shoes here. The rain started coming down harder, and I toed around our maple tree and pushed my wet hair out of my face. I began to feel a little sheepish and went back inside and began toweling off in the den. I looked out at our backyard as the rain began pouring down in sheets through the sprawling mulberry trees, vines, and clover that have usurped any other flora that might have been there when I was a child.

I needed to go out there. I ran back out the front door and around back. The storm had finally settled over my neighborhood, and I was drenched in seconds. The thunder was rolling straight over me. I found a flooded spot of clover and dropped to my knees. I closed my eyes and as rain streamed down my face and chubby naked legs, I poured out my heart and soul to Whoever might listen. I can't write everything I said, but more than anything I just wanted to be heard, and maybe answered, one day.

I am struggling for humility these days. I don't know who heard me, or if (T)they cared. But see, that's not the point. At least not at first. The point is to push yourself, to explore what you don't know, and more importantly what you think you know. I understand more than ever the desire to let it go, to give up, to not believe. But even if you find nothing, how will you know it is nothing until you have pushed until your hands and feet bleed, scream until your voice gives way, and lay still until you disappear? We shouldn't stop searching, or trying.

I do not know where I will find my faith again. I do not know when I will recognize the voice that beckons. I don't know if this is something that will pass, or can pass, but I am thankful for those of you intercede on the behalf of a very small, very wild creature.

If nothing else, my soul delighteth in warm air rising, atmospheric instability, and the shedding of water from an inscrutable sky.

Monday, July 7, 2008

Three years old.

Already not a fan.

Wednesday, July 2, 2008


Sometimes when I watch James McAvoy I suddenly feel like King Haggard. I want to find the Red Bull and drive all the beautiful young talented actors into the sea, forever caught in the waves that crash against the shores by my lonely, twisted castle.

The tide is turning. Come and see. Come here. There. There they are. There they are!
They are mine! They belong to me! The Red Bull gathered them for me
one by one, and I bade him drive each one into the sea! Now, they live
there. And every tide carries them within an easy step of the land, but
they dare not come out of the water! They are afraid of the Red Bull. ...I
like to watch them. They fill me with joy. ...The first time I felt it I
thought I was going to die.