I'm nearing 22...

and I reject religious lectures.

No more lectures. No more scolding me how to live my life.

Just let me be. In peace.

a mind of piano

I have a favorite piano chord. It's CEA. I think it's more of a melancholy chord, and for some reason, I feel completely emotional when I play it.

Separately, each note is beautiful on its own, and it conveys its own mood. C is the good ol' boy note. The note that everyone knows, the note/key that I usually sing in, the back-up plan for any song. If it's hard to play, transfer the chord to C. C is easy and simple, but pretty.
E goes with C. It's the harmony and melody, it's the happy days duo, the reliable notes.
A and C go together pretty well as far as harmony, too. But when you add E, the mood, the tone, the emotion, the intensity completely changes.

Because I am muddled with all those emotions, all those combinations, but I feel like I'm a mere constant of CEA, or more preferably EAC...I like that order better for some reason, though I guess it doesn't really matter.

I'm not even good with music lingo, not really. I mostly play by ear, but I like to play what I feel, which is probably pretty common for you to understand if you've read anything I've ever written.

Anyway, from here forward, if I make any reference to EAC, just know I mean melancholy. Maybe I'm in a melancholy mood, or maybe I'm just in a mood.

conditional love

seems i'm on a bit of a love kick this month.

so i was thinking about love. godly love, parental love, unconditional love; i'm wondering if i wasn't my parents' daughter... would they even like the person i am?

honestly, if i were just a random girl who they saw walking down the street or had a random conversation with in a restaurant or wal mart, they might like me okay.

but if i were my actual self in wal mart--if i were checking out weird cds or looking at crazy clothes, playing with kids' toys or being obnoxious in the tampon aisle, they might not like me very much.

and i'm not trying to run down my parents, either. i'm just using them as an example. (is it bad to say that? that i'm USING my parents for writing purposes? i feel a bit like a bad child.)

anyway, i'm just wondering how conditional love really is.
people fall in love and get married because of this love idea. they make vows about unconditional love that can only be separated by our mortal conditions. but sometimes communication gets a bit fuzzy, things start happening, and the love--if it ever really existed--is over. people are broken, people are relieved, people are depressed, people are happy.

and clearly, i understand that since i have no child, i can't possibly understand the love for one.

but i can question it.
i know that there is unconditional love from God, and sometimes, i love how it overwhelms me. and sometimes, my dad might kiss me on the forehead and tell me he loves me, and i know that it can't have the same effect like God's love.

but of all the Christians in America...heck, in the world...we're supposed to be consumed with God's unconditional love. so if i see an obnoxious person in the tampon aisle or if i see an old lady digging out perfect change at the ice cream place as i'm salivating on my combination of coffee ice cream, toffee, caramel and walnuts, or if i see a guy at a concert with tight girl jeans and a sweater with another guy on his arm, both wearing big smiles... OR if i see a girl in a pretty scarf wrapped around her head, hiding her pretty dark features and speaking in an interesting accent...

i want to love them, too. i want to ignore any judgments i've accumulated over my near-22 years of being. i want to roll up all stereotypes i've sadly laughed at in this Bible Belt...I want to crumble them up like the poorly-written newspaper in this Mayberry of a town, and I want to throw it in the depths of the smelly garbage.

i want to really understand unconditional love. i want to give it to others. i want to feel it more often.

i want to love love and not be cynical about it.

you make-uh no sens!

ohhhhhh, life.
i want life to take me in a million different directions...as long as i don't become a tiny square of butter on a large piece of bread.
i often want to do this to myself... do a lot of things, keep busy, keep from being too focused on one thing. because if i stayed completely focused on one thing for a long time, i get tired of it. like noodles and sauce or yogurt. (i've eaten that a lot this semester.) or even exercise, softball, piano lessons (which happened like 10 years ago...crazy.)

i want my life to be hectic and make no sense to people around me. i don't want the attention--i'm narcissistic, but not THAT bad. i just do not want to fall into a common pattern, i guess. it's not to spite anyone else, not to spite the towns i no longer hope to live in after graduation. i just want to be that person--that christian--who can reach out to a lot of people in a lot of different ways, whether it be through writing, teaching, mission work, etc. i want to be a well-rounded christian/person/woman (yikes, am i really a woman?), writer...

i don't want to be common.

easy to be a hermit

i always thought my passionate love for writing could possibly (even eventually) cajole me into a hermit lifestyle. it could easily happen once i eventually get completely fed up with the american lifestyle. i can see myself in some makeshift cabin somewhere in maine or vermont or some random place like iceland. maybe norway. i can see myself in my proud little cabin with hoards of writer's notebooks--no computer, mind you, and nature as my toilet. i would grow long, frizzy hair with disgusting split ends and, i imagine, i would eventually wallow in my own stench, although i would probably try to attempt decent hygene.
well, i'm still in bg, ky and i am alone in my apartment. even worse, i'm alone in the entire house, which means the other 4 apartments are vacant. i went to wal mart to buy presents just so i could wrap them. i put on When Harry met Sally, made experimental pancakes (which were okay, i guess,) cheap but strong coffee, wrapped my presents, and started reading harry potter.
i even started to mentally diagram jk rowling's sentences, wondering if a complex sentence would work better if she began with the introductory phrase rather than splicing it in the middle.
i know.

anyway, it probably took 10 minutes before i realized that the movie was stuck on the scene after marie and whats-his-face's wedding, after harry and sally sleep together and their relationship gets all weird, but before the awesome scene on new year's eve where harry tells her he wants to spend the rest of his life with her. so the movie is stuck right before the resolution, i finished wrapping my presents, and i sucked down the rest of my barely-sweetened coffee (bitter is the new chocolate.) i stopped the movie, considered throwing my dvd player out of our already-cracked and terribly rickety window of the living room, and curled up with harry potter on the couch. i'm on book #5 in less than 2 weeks. (finals week was very un-tedious.)
anyway (again), i think i'll go back to the order of the phoenix, because now i've made myself type. i'm admitting my hermit-esque flaw. my goal is to finish the book by tomorrow afternoon. i'm on page 388 and haven't even reached halfway yet. rowling got a bit winded, i think, in this beast of a book. actually, i kind of like it... the books aren't so kiddish and i like the characters. i'm trying to provoke my creativity to see if i can actually think of a good fiction story.
i dunno, though. i'm a bit narcissistic and enjoy writing about myself.

why am i not into christmas this year?

i had no more than one week of a christmas music mood, and after that, i haven't really gotten into the holidays.
i'm not buying as many presents this year...which is good.
i'm not asking for as much stuff...which is good, honestly. i don't want a lot of stuff anymore.
every year, christmas seems to get more sad. i'm tired of trying to outdo myself for getting others different things, and i'm tired of others trying to outdo eachother (or even themselves). i dunno, presents...gifts. eh, not my favorite thing (unless of course they are books, movies, anything my parents think are more worthless than things like steel-toe boots...hahaha)
anyway, i dunno...just thought it was interesting to mention.
the only thing i've really enjoyed is decorating our adorable apartment with our adorable christmas decorations. that's when we loved christmas music.

a minor dislike

i
hate
milk breath,
especially in
a kiss,
especially when
my own milk
breath
reminds me of
your
sorry ass.

Vagina: a poem

Okay peeps, so here it is. Vagina. I read aloud in Java City today, and didn't do it much justice because no matter how energetic my voice is or how much I use my hands, I become mental. You may be thinking I'm weird, entitling a poem Vagina. Well, I'll tell you that I am weird. And that most times, my feminist self comes out in my poetry. So if you don't want to read a poem not only entitled Vagina, but that talks about vaginas and other metaphors pertaining to vaginas, I say man up and read it anyway.

Vagina

is the mouth of the south,
the chest of drawers--
no--the heart of the chest
of drawers,
pump, retract,
pump, retract,
it thumps and rattles.
No, it is the gun
in the chest of drawers,
tucked beneath silk or cotton,
spinning with a fresh round,
waiting to be released,
waiting to explode
like a row of clenched teeth,
masked by lips,
sewn together with twisted veins
that loop through the flesh like vines,
pump, retract,
pumping, retracting
the blood to the source
filling around th clenched molars--
the swelling tongue,
the tongue--click,
click
click
rattle
until it bursts through the veins
with a bloody scream.

escalator days

i had an escalator day today.
one that starts at the top and trudges downward--one in which the escalator takes a disastrous detour, uprooting from its path and causing a devastating accident in which a dozen people are seriously injured. I read that in a poem once. Not exactly what I just said, but Denise Duhamel wrote in some poems about an escalator incident in which her mom was literally scalped and her dad was badly injured.

My days aren't so devastating, but I do feel as though I'm being scalped--that the pressure in my head will literally pull my head right out, taking chunks of skin with it.

I got cussed out a couple days ago, which has kept me in a bit of a bad mood. It was stupid. Needless to say, I didn't deserve it, but I took it like a champ.
I am getting tired of work again.
I don't want to live in America right now...for several reasons.
Someone told me I looked ugly with my glasses, and that I should never wear them again.
My confidence in my writing is wavering.
Sleeping is...interesting. I sleep, but it's weird. It's like I'm not all the way asleep, so when I wake up, I still feel exhausted.
I don't want to go to my 8am class tomorrow...it's pointless and it's my last class of the semester.
I want my student loans to disappear.
I want my mission trip to be miraculously paid for.
I don't want to live in Kentucky anymore.

Gosh, I am going through a complete bia-fest. I apologize. I promise you don't have to read any further. I'm kind of having an ungrateful day. No, not ungrateful, but I feel so sad. A bit helpless. A bit depressed. A bit stressed, a bit exhausted. Sleep-deprived, too. And thirsty, I'm always thirsty for some reason and my lips are always dry. It's odd.
And my head feels a bit implosive. And I have terrible purple bags beneath my eyes... which is why I mostly wear my glasses. PS, if you think I look better without my glasses, I don't freakin care so piss off.

I've had way too much sugar today, too. I was baking and forgot to eat lunch, then at my class's gathering I ate a lot of junk (although a nice amount of hummus,) then I ate a lot of chocolate and drank Diet Mt. Dew. Then I got home and ate more chocolate, drank sugar-infused juice, and my headache has worsened.

What do I want?
Do I really want chocolate that much?

I think I want to get away from here, become a great writer, get an MFA from an awesome school, get rid of all my loans, join the Peace Corps, have a nice life with a wonderful man. I want to feel unconscious of the ridiculous ways of society and America in general. I want to feel unconscious of people. I want to feel unconscious of logic and frames of mind that have been past down from generations. I want my headaches to go away. I want to stop biting my fingernails to bloody nubs. I want to feel better. Healthy. Confident. Refreshed.
I want to stop whining about my not-really-that-pathetic life.

Oh screw it.
BLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. blah.

spicing up a sunday

i rarely skip church. it's been engrained in every ounce of my body that when 9am hits sunday morning, i am out of bed, eating breakfast, and getting dressed for church. well, this morning started at about 8:30 for me. i woke up, and i knew i wouldn't go to church. this doesn't happen often--i enjoy church and i like feeling like one small inkling in the midst of a lot of people worshipping God. it's an amazing feeling, and i do look forward to it.
this morning was for personal worship time, because i rarely do it. i thought about missing worship service, preaching and Bible study, but the problem is that i enjoy all of those, but i never contribute to them, really. i don'r prepare for bible study, i don't prepare for preaching, and the most i do at worship service is sing some of the songs i know.
this morning was when God spanked me on the butt and said, "Read Your Bible, Jamie." (God speaks in capital letters, too.) So like always, I lottery-flipped my Bible to a random page--Habakkuk. i've never read Habakkuk before, and it's a short 3 chapters. Habakkuk was weary. very much so. he questioned God and questioned what was going on in the times. (relativity: check.)
then i started reading chapter 2. to you Bible-readers out there, this may not be new. again, i'm no Bible scholar and i certainly don't read it often enough to account for much, but verses 12-14 kind of rocked me a bit.

12.Woe to him who builds a town with bloodshed, who establishes a city by iniquity! 13.Behold, is it not the Lord of hosts that the peoples labor to feed the fire, and nations weary themselves in vain? 14.For the earth will be filled withthe knowledge of the glory o the Lord, as te waters cover the sea.

i'm not very politically involved, and altough i think this can be applied in different ways--especially to our current political situation--it really makes me think about my own motives as a Christian, as a person, as an american.
after i graduate, i'm taking a year off to try another summer/year of mission work. i'd like to travel, write, pick up random jobs,--something to pay bills and help me grow as a person.
sometime i'd like to join the Peace Corps. I'd like to continually be involved in mission work, but I never want my motivation to go beyond trying to help people. in my worst judgmental days, i became greedy for God, but in a very very bad way.
in a nutshell, i was not a good judge. i discouraged people rather than encouraged. then i talked about them, how they're headed on a road to hell, how they're in the wrong way, how God would do something bad to them to get their attention.

let me pause a minute. at this moment, you need to know that this is why i read those verses this morning. after i read them, i fell asleep for another hour or two. then i woke up, took a shower, and thought about those verses. then i started writing, and let me tell you, writing is beyond music in my way of worship. by writing, i am learning what God has supplied and i am trying to apply it to my life. i hope this doesn't sound egotistical...just don't think i'm full of myself.

so for all the bad things we Christians have done--throughout the history of Christian no-nos--of Christian violence through wars, through heated tongues and heavy hands, through pointed fingers... we cannot establish others. we cannot establish a group of people as a city because we are not God. that's what i feel like i need to be very careful of if i do the Peace Corps or if missions becomes very prominent in my life.

i want people to find Jesus. i want them to see Him in me. but i don't want to turn a small village or town into a mini-Bible belt. i don't want to americanize them. i want other cultures to embrace Jesus and worship Jesus...and still keep cultures if they can. basically, i don't want Christianity to be an "american" thing. it's supposed to be a world thing, and it won't work if WE always try to establish things as from us--honestly, Christianity isn't even a church thing. it's a personal relationship thing. it's a Jesus thing. it's a spirit thing. church is important, people are important, but sometimes we have to separate ourselves for a moment to analyze ourselves...to prepare ourselves when we forget. so that maybe we can be filled with knowledge and wisdom rather than following a pattern set forth every sunday.

i'm not discouraging church on sundays, either. clearly, i understand tht i could have had this epiphany thing during the week if i was more obedient, but that's just not how it happened. sometimes, God doesn't work in patterns.

thoughts on love (hold your breath, this is rare)

So I watched Australia at this time last night, and Elizabeth and I have just finished When Harry Met Sally.
Clearly I'm in a girl world mood. Watching girl world movies, having girl world discussions about girls in the world, the world of girls, and any other confusing syntactics pertaining to females and our surroundings. (Hehehe, figured I'd pull out an English major word to redeem myself from pathetic girliness. Did it work?)

At the end, Harry bravely says:
I love that you get cold when it's 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.

Yes, people, I know. I know that screenwriters of romantic comedies wait for that moment in the movie--that moment when although you know the stubborn man and sad-but-in-love woman will inevitably kiss and be happy--the writers have to create tension in which the resolution is a string of beautifully honest (or seemingly honest) words that make women grin and sigh. In this moment, men are slightly put at east because, let's face it, Billy Crystal is hilarious, and the smart screenwriter inserts slight humor to appease the reality of man world and the near-reality of girl-world.
And I love that right after this quote, they kiss and then Billy/Harry starts asking about what Auld Lang Sine means. At least randomness is a tad realistic, right?

I guess that's what I expect of love--not sappy and sweet lovey lines, but honesty. I want love to be honest, and that's why I've given up on becoming a cool, crazy old cat lady. Because when I see relationships that have lasted and endured without major erosion, I see the honesty of feelings and decisions and battles and scars and I see the healing behind scars and the love behind battles and the balance behind decisions, and the honesty behind feelings.

And what's so honest about love is that not everyone grows to love the hour-long decision of ordering a sandwich or talking with someone before going to bed. And love isn't about deciding not to be lonely anymore. That's what I considered for a while-- that I'd eventually get to a point where, after extensive schooling and career stuff, I'd get tired of being alone and eventually marry.
I'm speaking honestly, here. I really thought that. That's how my relationships normally go: okay, here's an available, convenient guy, I'll give it a go. Shortly after....nah, I'm okay alone. I'd prefer it, actually.

But I don't really like that back-and-forth frame of mind. It plays with my emotions and makes me sound like an advantageous a-hole, to be quite honest.

The fact is...I don't want to try the love thing because I'm lonely or needing something. I need to be honest with myself, and I think a lot of people need to be honest with themselves, too.
Doing the love thing or the marriage thing shouldn't be the habitual equivalent of doing the school thing because you're supposed to.
Just like you shouldn't date someone just because they're in the same city or state...
or country, for that matter.
Sometimes it's okay to reach beyond the realm of convenience and even expectation.

:)

okay, you can breathe now. i promise to talk about something else next post...like toenails or the way peanut butter feels in my mouth.

I Sing You to Me

So I'm watching Australia like a sap, and at this moment, little half-Aborigine boy says to Nicole Kidman/aka Mrs. Boss, "I sing you to me, Missus Boss, like da first day you came." Then she turns around and Hugh Jackman's beautiful beefy body is standing on the pier and ohhhhhhhhh my goodness I'm such a girl.
So the focus here is "I sing you to me."
I think that is absolutely beautiful. Not really for the whole mating call thing, either, or like the pengiuns on Happy Feet who do a special song and dance to gain couple status. It's cute, but it's a bit unrealistic for me. (As if Australia isn't, but hey-- Baz Luhrmann's movies are awesome.)
I've been thinking some about music. Songs, instruments.
Sometimes, I can't pray. To be honest, I suck at praying. You know, praying is essential in Christian world, and I understand it. But to me, praying is a form of worshipping, and although I believe I should pray more--I should be more afraid of what can happen if I don't pray--I worship heartier in other ways, and music is a way.
Sometimes, I want to sing God to me. I used to be so skeptical of "Modern" Christians and their Contemporary excuse for godly music. My opinions have changed a bit.
I used to skepticize those Christians who would blindly wave their hands in the air, thinking it was a pathetic attempt at doing something. I didn't understand that raising hands was an expression, a worship experience.
I was a bit judgmental back then, and maybe I still am to an extent.
But when I can feel the freedom to do that--to raise my hands, for example--I feel like I am inviting not only God, but others to join in this release. It feels nice and liberating and spiritual. I like the fact that God is spiritual, because I don't have to break him down like a complicated math formula, I don't have to structure him like the sentences I struggle to diagram. I can let him have a free form, let him float and maneuver in whatever path he chooses. To me, God's spirit licks about my heart, like the glowing ember chunks in a fire, the ones that softly pulse with golden shades, ones that sit calmly among rising and falling flames. God is that spurting flame--the one that grows and fades.
I like that--it feels like our relationship to God is inconsistent, but that's just an excuse to back away.
But I like the fact that God seems inconsistent. I know we are the inconsistent ones, but God allows our humanness to journy ourselves through the craziness of life. God wants us to grow, doesn't he? He wants us to realize what he is, what forms he takes, what land he occupies, what people he blesses and wants to bless.
In my classes, God isn't highly spoken of. There are no God fan clubs in liberal arts world, but I take the experience as one of worth. Because these people are still people, and they are good. And if I breathe Jesus down their throat, they'll only cough it back up out of bitter regurgitation. These people have experienced Christians, and sometimes we as God's followers need to be silent.
Maybe sometimes we need to just sing. You never who know might come.

the weather

Have you noticed that people relate bad weather to women? Notice--Hurricanes Katrina and Rita...it's that whole "Mother Nature" metaphor thing. Women apparantly do damage to society, right? Our emotions are sometimes unpredictable, and we tend to spaz out sometimes, right?
Something else I've found interesting: "the dead of winter." Winter represents death, nonexistent life, seasonal depression, etc. But honestly, I've found the life in winter. I've become more aware in winter. I look forward to cold, rainy days. I love leafless trees and soggy clumped leaves.
I love the calmness of winter. Even the rain is soft, and it makes me feel calm. And warm.

why you should read my blog:

because the last 3 poems i've written are entitled:

-Cats are feminist, even the boy ones

--Vagina

---When I Smoke Crack (AKA: when I listen to Radioead, who probably wrote these songs while smoking crack)

I'm debating on whether or not I'll actually post the poems. You may judge me if I do. You may see a Jamie you didn't know...or one you didn't want to know. (Duh-duh-DUNNNNNNN)

peace out homies.

my disgusting habit

I was playing with Ella, pretend-tackling her into my pillows on my bed when she said, "JJ ouchie? Ouch, JJ, ouch!" She put her teeny little slivers of fingers on my fingernail, pointing at a barely-scabbed-over "boo-boo" just below my nail.
I've bitten my fingernails for years...15, actually. It started because of those stupid Bernstein Bears books--"Sister Bear Breaks a Habit." I remember that book because Sister Bear had a terrible habit in which she chewed and chewed and chewed her nails.
For some ungodly reason, I decided to become the termite of philanges.
Yes, it's a nervous habit. It's also a bored habit, an "I'm preoccupied" habit, a reactional habit...one that calls for some action to be made in an awkward situation. Biting my fingers has become my crutch, and when all my fingernails were in peeled, layered nubs, I would pick and pick and pick at my skin and cuticles until little lines and drops of blood would bubble up on my skin. Then I sucked up the blood until it was gone.
Oh who am I kidding, I still do it. Maybe not as bad. Now I can actually stand to have a few centimeters of finernail, but they usually don't last long. I partially blame it on softball, because who can pitch or throw in nails? But still...it's still here. Even my 22-month old niece can spot a problem that I can't seem to just fix.

Stuffing

In middle school, I remember when a boy--who I eventually dated and dumped-- told me that I talked too much. My opinions were a bit different from his...which is why I eventually dumped him. He was a bit of a chauvinistic (fill in the blank) and would comment on my "fatness" which, at that point, was ridiculous because I was very skinny.
Okay moving on.
So clearly this boy was a prick. Not very nice, very self-centered and very defensive when someone disagreed with him on the role of girls in society, in the sports world, etc. (What? Me getting fired up about athletic sexism? NOOOO way.)
I said, "Mouths are for eating and talking."
So in the spirit of Thanksgiving, my mouth has had a motor for food, I guess. Household conversation has been pretty funny and entertaining, especially since Ella has a motormouth and is quite funny when she sticks a thermometer up a baby doll's cloth butt.
But I feel like I'm eating to stuff myself--to keep words from getting out. I graze among the kitchen before and after lunch with the family. I graze on the ham, the before-cooked stuffing, the cooked stuffing, the strips of moist turkey, the finger swipes of mashed potatoes, the peeled skin of a roll. I graze on it all. The food stifles any mode of expression I accidentally leak out sometimes.
The problem is that it's Thanksgiving and I still feel sad. I love my family and I'm glad they're mine. They are wonderful and I'm fortunate. But I'm growing in different ways, and I can't talk much anymore. I can't talk about things I'm excited about or new theories I'm pondering. I can't talk about my newest essay piece with them because it deals with a very difficult part of my life that my parents know nothing about.
Right now, I feel very very alone. I want to be somewhere else, not to get away from problems here, but to feel free. I want to breathe new air. I don't want to feel the country particles anymore. I don't want to feel the density of disbelief, the weight of dusty confines of religion and the "right" way of things versus the "wrong" way of things.
I can't speak anymore, and the sad thing is... things have actually gotten better.

Bible Belt

Miss Scarlett braces herself against
the bed post as Mammie tugs
the strings of the corset;
Scarlett inhales, holds, inhales,
holds her lifted ribcage in place
while the strings tighten,
inch—
Mammie pulls-
at—
“Woo, Miss Sca’lett!”
a—
“Won’ go no fu’tha!”
time.

Scarlett scoffs in frustration,
“18?! Mammie, I used to be 16, now fix it!”
“Won’ go no fu’tha, chile—yous done has
A baby, miss, you won’ see no 16 inches!”

Southern belles must’ve been disappointed
After their second, third, fourth child;
Another inch,
another hole in the belt
to loosen the strain,
to allow a little room for the belly,
to relax the ribs for deeper breaths;

and when little Georgia peaches emerged,
plump from the harvest,
Scarletts everywhere would scoff in disgrace,
Strap on the corsets,
Grab a Mammie
And demonstrate to their little peaches
The figure of a lady;
the corset seam stretches,
a thread—
“Won’ go no fu’tha, chile”
pops—
“You’s done has a baby”
loose
as Bonnie Blue runs to her pony,
straddling,
with one chubby leg on each side.

i don't have words, but i have lyrics

Top of the World
Patti Griffin

I wished I was smarter
Wished I was stronger
I wished I loved jesus
The way the my wife does
I wished it'd been easier
Instead of any longer
I wished I could've stood
Where you would've been proud
That won't happen now
That won't happen now
There's a whole lot of sinners
That ain't gonna be heard
Disppearing every day
Without so much as a word
Somehow
I'm afraid I broke the wings
Off that little songbird
And she's never gonna fly
To the top of the world How
To the top of the world
I don't have to answer
Any of these questions
Don't have no guide to
Teach me no lessons
I come home in the evening
Sit in my chair
One night they called me for supper
But I never got up
I stayed right there
In my chair
There's a whole lot of singing
That ain't gonna be heard
Disappearing every day
Without so much as a word
Somehow
I think I broke the wings
Off a little songbird
And she's never gonna fly
To the top of the world
How
To the top of the world
I wished I'd had known you
Wished I had shown you
All of the things I
Was all these are
But I'd pretend to be sleeping
When you'd come in in the morning
To whisper goodbye
Go work at the rain
I don't know why
Don't know why
Cause everyone's singing
We just wanna be heard
Disappearing every day
Without so much as a word
So how?
Gonna grab a hold
Of that little songbird
And take her for a ride
To the top of the world
Right now
To the top of the world

i am alive!

usually when i have down time, i emerge myself into computer world...aka facebook world, youtube world, picture-stalking world, people-stalking world, poetry writing world...
not when i'm sick.
i had the flu this past weekend and it was disastrous. my chest felt soooo freakin weird--all tight and raspy. i felt like i'd run a marathon in freezing cold weather like the time i had to pitch when there was snow and ice on the ground, 27 degrees outside in the middle of the day. i couldn't feel my fingers or hands or even elbows or shoulders. but this time, the flu BURNED my lungs.
and then that stupid nasal swab test.
i tested my pinky finger, to see how far up it would go. not even close to that skinny Olive-Oil representation of a Q-tip, which I'm grateful for its skinniness, but still--I felt like I was being embalmed by Egyptians, you know how they stick a hook up the nose to slide out the brain.
in other words, the flu sucks. as if my head didn't hurt enough...
but the point is that i barely touched my computer. i allowed myself a bit of a break--from school, from the electronic communication world, and i let myself breathe. I watched Lost like a madwoman--in 3 days, I went through 2 and a half seasons--and I also did some more reflection time, and a little more God time.

big deal (ehh it's whatev)

maybe i'm one of those lucky people who is content with the speed of days and weeks and months. if days go faster, my brain would possibly explode. if days go slower, my brain would definitely implode.
so i can't complain about the pace of my life. it seems steady enough, and i don't feel that days go too fast or too slow...well, until i have umteen billion papers or poems or stories or narratives or blackboard posts due. i don't seem to be completely worked up about school--i mean it has to take up a lot of time, but i'm glad it does. i'm glad for my midnight munchies that often occur at 2am... not the regular munchies. i shall call them... inking. sometimes i can't go to sleep unless i've pulled an idea or even a word from the emergency flashbulb of my brain...the bright orange and blue and red one that goes "Hey!" (flash) "Write me!" (flash) "I'm important!" (flash) "I have a resolution for your story!" (flash)

it's probably boring that i write about writing a lot. but it's such a process... it's just a way of life for me at the moment. i have passed on hanging out with friends so i can get a story out of my head that, in stead of my projected short burst word-vomit", lasted hours.

i wish i could write the resolution to my own life sometimes. i wish that my own caricature would start alleviating her own stress, therefore causing the growing mountain range on her chin to simply disappear. this character would also become more vibraint-looking, getting rid of the purple smudgy swipes under her eyes, and would simply smash her phone into black plastic chips of oblivion and screw you!'s.

this character would allow her nails--and the skin around them--to grow past the quick. This character would stop writing notes on her hand, because she would actually check her calendar every day and write in the planner that sits in her backpack, stuck in mid-October.

this character would submit her work to publishers and contests out of self-confidence. she would throw her "what if's" and self-doubt into the speckled toilet and watch it swirl gracefully and dizzily through the hole, where all the other poo in her life had been disposed.

this character would be impatient for next year, anticipating the growing and changing and relief she will experience.
i AM under anticipation, but it's calm and overpowered by questions of who i am, where i've ACTUALLY come from verses where i used to think i come from. questions of friends, questions of why i'm satisfied with continuously rescheduling my dentist appointment, questions of why i feel much more comfortable in a messy room than a clean one, questions of why i'd rather type on a blog than complete my assignments, questions of why i don't seem to care about my jiggly cottage-cheese thighs or my funny spare tire i've seemed to inherited in the last couple of years.
big deal.

long-term relationships

so i haven't completely come clean. if you really know me, you know that boys are... an issue with me. well, i suppose they're an issue with every girl. but i'm just not good with boys. i can be loud, a bit obnoxious at times, a bit blunt at times, a bit funny at times...but as far as the "let's get together, yeah yeah yeah" (remember, from parent trap?), i'm a bit...i don't know, i guess you could fill in the blank. i honestly don't have the right adjective. usually i start off as "sweeeeet" or "he's nice" or "reor!" but then...i dunno, i get skiddish, skeptical, then i freak out and bail out.
bailing out's my favorite. :/ (sadly, yes...i'm that girl.)

and i'm sure i'm the maestra of all bad liners.
"....." ehhh no, i won't quote myself out of fear and embarrassment.

okay, friends: most of you know that my longest relationship has been under a year... i'm pretty sure it was about 9 months.
well, i had a longer one. and it lasted...sixteen years.
yup, ridiculous. sixteen years of love and hate and fights and screaming and laughing... wins and losses
okay duh, you're saying. duh, jamie. we all know about the softball thing.
yeah, i mean you do, but you don't.
right now, softball is definitely not my favorite part of life. i've completely detached myself from the scene, only i give pitching lessons to young girls who want to throw like cat osterman or monica abbot (oh dear, i hope not) or even me.
i feel like i'm falsely advertising, since i honestly see softball as a growing disappointment, but at the same time, i'm trying to be as honest with these girls as possible.

i started ball when i was 4, played slowpitch til i was like 10 or something. lalala, details are boring, i started pitching between ages 10 and 11, then fastpitch began.
for 8 years--EIGHT--my dad and i would drive (sometimes with people, sometimes without) an hour and a half for lessons and an hour and a half back. for years, i had no saturdays, i pitched generally 3-5 days a week, depending on what part of the year it was.
appointments...all the time. pitching appointments, hitting appointments, fielding appointments, chiropractic appointments, physical therapy appointments, orthopedic appointments, massage therapy appointments (which i won't complain TOO much about).

and it was worth it, i suppose. in high school and travel ball team, we were always successful. my parents forked up a lot of money, along with the support of our team sponsor, just so i could be good. so i could have a name for myself, be known by others, and have fun. now, don't think my parents were just nazi-harsh with my training and playing year round...literally. dad always told me to stop playing when it wasn't fun. well, it stopped being fun my freshman year of college. i stayed another year, endured an absolute ________ (fill in the blank) of a coach, and after tearing my rotator cuff and blowing out my ulnar nerve, i finally... after years of debate, years of strawberries and pulled muscles and jammed fingers and bleeding callouses and bruised shins, years of parent drama and player drama and team drama and coach drama, years of traveling more and more and more, years of fun times and sucky times, i finally broke up with softball.

it felt great, and i haven't regretted it since, much like all my other relationships. but it makes me question myself. my own feelings, my own attachments.

i literally spent years and years, innumerable hours working specifically for softball. sure, it got me a great job as an instructor. but as far as feeling a great reward for it? not so much. and i mean, i did well--i was successful. i have things and awards, but i was never that deeply rooted. it was like, "okay, i'll do it. i'm pretty good at it, why not?"
i'm sure it kept me out of trouble, giving me an outlet for my energy. and as of now, becoming more involved in mission work, softball is something i can teach others as a means of outreach. which is great.

but i'm just not emotionally invested. i never am, really.

i don't know why she swatted that fly

Flies are hands-down the most annoying creatures on this planet. What possesses them to flit around a room, making the sound of a dentist's drill, sporadically landing on the window, the wall, the ceiling, the lamp, making an even MORE obnoxious sound--one that fools you into thinking that fly has been electrocuted, thus putting you out of your misery.
Wrong.
The fly is definitely not dead or electrocuted. It is just teasing. It will be silent for several minutes, feasting, I'm sure, on some tiny crumb left from a nibbled cookie. Or perhaps it found its way into the trashcan of leftovers and stink.
But most of all, I hate hate HATE the feeling of a fly--how it mounts the tiny hairs on your forearm, tickle tickle tickle. Then it skirts over to your leg--the sensitive spot on your calf, tickle tickle tickle.
I hate flies. And for some reason, my aim is terrible and I never kill them. I swat, bang bang bang! slap slap slap! thud thud thud!
and on the sucker goes, flitting and skirting and prancing around the room.

ingrid continued...

Lady In Spain

I am a lady in Spain,
I'll sing a haunting refraind
I am a lady from Mars,
and I can unscrew the stars
I can be anything that I see,
I can be anything that I, anything that I see

I am in love with a boy
manufactured to destroy
So I shall unravel my love,
it's like an old red woolen glove
I can do anything I want to,
I can do anything I want, anything my heart tells me to do

frame of mind

one of my favorite lyrics is by ingrid michaelson in her song "keep breathing."

"the storm is calling but i don't mind.
people are dying, i close my blinds.
all that i know is i'm breathing.
i want to change the world, instead i sleep.
i want to believe in more than you and me."

i don't know, maybe these lyrics seem completely simple and not that great, but to me, they are so honest. 1.) first of all, i love storms. i love the energy and emotion behind storms...the elements are so layered and dramatic, and i think that's why we as humans identify so much with the weather. on a rainy day, maybe we're a little mellow or blue. stormy day, we're scared or something. sunny day is supposed to mean happiness. but it's because weather has layers--it's this atmospheric, choreographic dance...layers of dramatic effect and it's just moving and powerful.
2.)the second line is amazing to me...honestly, i won't even try to provide commentary.
3.)third line...sometimes, my brain becomes so mushy, so cluttered, so overwhelmed that all i feel like i ACTUALLY know is that i am alive and breathing.
4.) MY LINE/STORY OF MY LIFE. i want to be this amazing, change-the-world person, but half the time i feel like i'm so caught up in how to make things better that i don't actually do anything...it's like i'm sleeping through papers and even my own spirituality. then again, i feel that sometimes, change is such a gradual process that as we're changing, we don't realize it. i hope so anyway.
5.) i want to believe in more than you and me... you know, i see this as a love line. but i see this as a "let's look beyond our own self-awarness and do something" line. and it makes me think of God. of my struggling, stifled Christian spirituality. i want to believe in more than myself, more than you, more than anyone...because something is terribly lacking.

we all need work...not sleeping through our lives, not ignoring important issues, not dodging difficult things to which we can ACTUALLY contribute.

I HATE COLLEGE

...when the freaking homecoming parade is about 50 yards from your apartment and there are __ (fill in the blank) college students who are screaming and chanting and singing and it's freaking loud...it's up the street, below my apartment--everyone is yelling! all i want to do is watch White Christmas, snuggle up with a cup of tea, some awesome sugar cookies i got from wal mart, and watch a stinkin movie. screw college on days like this. and screw school traditions.
i'm not sure where that came from. i've never held any angst for such activities, but right now i'm very cynical. i just want to watch a nice movie and eat nice cookies and drink nice, warm tea and think nice things. they keep beating a drum-type thing and it's so loud! please just imagine me all snuggly on the couch, getting teary-eyed when bing and whats-his-face start singing to the general, and things are so sweet and emotional and then rosemary and ellen come out in the cutest outfits ever, then they break out in "white christmas" and i'm all excited and reflective, hoping for a white christmas, wishing i could remember a white christmas, and i'm interupted loudness! all loudness! arrrrrrrrrrggggggggggg.

the tv is trippin...

So I'm watching Sleepless in Seattle and after my dvd player stuttered for the 5th time, the color just completely emptied out of the movie. So I'm watching Sleepless in Seattle in black and white, and it makes me want to watch Casablanca, Sabrina, Roman Holiday... there's something soothing about black and white movies. And the music, the interaction between characters. It seems melodramatic sometimes, but I love black and white movies. On days like this, I would love to live in black and white. The colors would be soothing in a sense--there's something I love about the color gray. How it eases into vision with no attention. Some days, I don't want color. The sun and bright colors give me headaches, and gray would be excellent right now.

big moment

so i am reading mark halliday's poetry, which is quite intriguing and interesting because i love how he discreetly sneaks in the conversational "like" in his poetry--it gives an awesome tone.
so i'm reading a poem about wine and cheese and cheating husbands and poetry readings, nibbling on my ham and cracker concoction because my bread is probably old and i need something salty to soothe my throat.
so i'm reading these poems, i finish chewing and swallowing my ham-and-cracker, and with my mouth closed, i feel a wave pushing up my sternum, where it usually stops right before the collar bone. but no, it keeps going. this wave thrusts up my sternum, passed my collar bone, through my scratchy, sore, red-streaked throat, and then....magic.
I BURPED.
i tasted the hammy vomit taste, actually felt the noise like when a dog stretches and yawns and you hear that rattly noise that almost sounds like it should end with a question mark.
i tasted the hammy vomit-burp and it was fantastic.
it may seem completely strange to you, but you don't understand. i don't Burp. ever. i can remember on maybe 3 or 4 occasions where a Burp has popped out mid-conversation, and in stead of apologizing to my fellow conversationalist, i smiled victoriously, saying, "did you hear that?! i Burped! i never Burp!"
so this is a big moment for me. i Burped while eating ham and crackers, reading funny poetry, sitting in my poet's chair by the window in my apartment. the chair looks like one you'd find in a professor's office, with the professor smoking a pipe, reading a book of poetry, eating cubes of cheese and drinking a glass of wine. but the chair is (until the lease is up) partly mine, and while reading poetry, eating ham and crackers, enjoying the sunlight creeping through the strips of opened blinds, i Burped. and it was marvelous.

epiphany at a poetry reading

i heard a kentucky poet read some of his work today, and it was interesting, thought-provoking, visual, creative...
he is a devout buddhist and much of his work relates in some way to his faith. but what i loved most about his work was that he didn't ignore issues that maybe contradict buddhism. one poem was about heaven and what we could find there (of course it had a twist...there were exinct animals that we humans have plowed out of the earth,) but it talked about heaven. he even said, "i'm not a christian, so heaven isn't the main goal of religion in my faith, but writing about things that aren't in my beliefs is very liberating."
that really helped me clarify my own writing. i've been beating myself up a lot because much of my subject matter is dark, almost atheistic, but i cannot write these happy pieces of work. i feel that because of my faith, i have an obligation to write good, happy things.
but i can't do it. writing is liberating when i can write without obligation and without trying to provoke a certain feeling.

brett ralph, the poet, also said something else that really interested me. he said that his faith isn't based on how we were created or where we'll go after death, but how much we can help and love and influence others in the actual life.

with the exception of my ultimate confidence in heaven, i found myself agreeing with his mindset. although the creation is important to christianity, i'd rather not argue it. i don't think verbally quarreling with others will help them see a christian viewpoint. instead, i'd rather do someting else with my life. actions intrigue me much more than words.
confession is important in christianity--witnessing, explaining to others why we love Christ, what he has done for us. but actions--loving them, spreading christian ideals--set the example.

i want to set an example with my writing. i don't want to be stephanie meyer famous--only popular for mediocre writing and one powerfully strong character that provoked my interest enough to fill 4 books of fluff. i don't want that. (and don't get me wrong, i've been as obsessed with twilight as anyone.) but i want to write words--poems, stories, nonfiction--that identifies me with readers who need some sense of catharsis.

as a writer, i always need catharsis. i need it.

when i eat m&ms

situation: i have 4 peanut m&m's (because i hate plain..they're gross) two are yellow, one is blue, one is green. i always eat two at a time. i pop in both yellow, chewing one on each back molar. then i pop the blue in one side, the green in the other. bada bing bada boom, my m&m's are gone.

situation: i can't let hard candy just dissolve. i'll bite it in half, one for each molar. (currently, my candy=cough drops. ick)

situation: my favorite sound is the static behind ear phones/head phones when they're plugged up to my computer with no music playing. it puts me in this zone where i pay attention to nothing else. it calms me and helps me write.

situation: i like grey weather. i love rain. i love clouds. i love wind. i love crispy bitterness of fall and winter. i like the way it bites at my cheeks...and i like how it gives me wind-burned cheeks. and i like being pale now. pale and cold. i think seattle or some snug town in maine would fit me perfectly.

situation: i love typing in all lower case. i thought about getting rid of punctuation, but people who try to be ee cummings get on my nerves, so punctuation will stay... for now.

situation: carbonated beverages make me gassy and bloated. (then again, what doesn't?)

situation: iiiiiiiiiiiii llllllllloooooooooooovvvvvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeeeee jamie time. i used to get really depressed and sad when i was alone, but now i kind of embrace it. when thoughts get confusing and things tend to go mushy and disappointing, jamie time is my way of survival. now i'm trying to incorporate more God time in with jamie time. (i had to break my no capitalization rule. i think if anyone deserves to be capitalized, it's God. i mean he's pretty amazing and worthy of capitalization.)

situation: i'm going to belgium in january. and i'm excited about it, too. :)

I just gagged

WARNING: DO NOT BUY CLOVER VALLEY'S ATTEMPT AT A POP-TART: DANGER FOLLOWS!

poetic perspectives

So we're wrapping up my first month of blogging (applause), and I feel pretty good about this whole thing. It's another notebook for me to add to my collection, as I've exausted a few and started another one that's this awesome ugly yellow color. (I love composition books!)
So I do want to put an after-note on some of these entries, poems, rants, etc.
We're pretty much all adults here, and I'm sure we can handle all adult content at its best and worst.
But I definitely want to address perspectives. In classes, we all learn about "first person", second, third, lalala.
Most of my work is written in first person/"I"--whether it's in my poetry, fiction, and especially nonfiction. This blog is my regurgitation of all forms of writing, and (with the previous entry "Adam's Apple" for an example,) my speaker doesn't always mean me.
For example, the speaker in "Adam's Apple" is a young, confused, sexual girl. Although I am young, confused, and love talking about sexual things, she is a character--a speaker--that lives in my head. Just as characters like Caleb, Ruth, a nameless girl, etc. also live in my head. (These are story ideas, by the way.) In my head, there is a woman who has just undergone a sex change, and a man who falls in love with her. When this guy finds out his girlfriend used to be a man, he goes nuts, starts walking around malls, auto shops, fitness clubs, etc. to check out his gaydar. He tests his own physical attraction for others, and frantically tries to find out of he is also attracted to men.
I also have a cat named Felipe that lives in my head. But I think it's because I want a cat named Felipe. However, I think he could definitely contribute something to the cause.

Adam's Apple

You chugged a bottle of water,
and my attention shifted from your sweaty,
water-pearled hair, your slick chest
to the bobbing lump in your throat
and I imagine a fishing line
teasing my eyes in the water's reflection
and the sun's playful peek-a-boo
over the pond's circumference.
I see the red and white bait slowly meander
over the surfance, and sometimes it dips
and dunks but I can never
catch a fish.
Why is it called an Adam's apple? I ask
and poke the bony, tumor-like interruption
in your throat.
Dunno, you said.
I try to push it back in.
Ow! That's tender, don't poke it, you said
and gave me the remnants of water, probably
dominated with saliva.
I thought of the tender bite on my shoulder,
how you bit into it as if it were a peach or something.
Your teeth slid in easily,
not as hard as your apple,
and I wonder if Eve took your hard
aggressive bite, or if she just nibbled
like I do on the half-crescent of your
ear, a taste-test, a sample;
I'm sure she'd never tasted something like that before.
And Adam sees this rebellion
of God's broken rules
And he sees Eve nibble and gets jealous.
I think Adam ripped Eve a new one
or maybe chewed through her cognitive wires and said,
You idiot, why did you do that?!
but Eve was confused and she had no idea.
But Adam, what are you talking about? she asked.
God said don't touch! Don't bite! he said.
But he didn't tell me--you didn't tell me, she said.
But you should've known, you stupid woman.
So Adam thought, what the hell,
we're dying anyway,
so he ripped the fruit from her hand
and chomped a chunk out of the apple
and obnoxiously chewed with apple mush stringing
among the threads of saliva.
Eve starts getting angry
Why didn't you tell me?
You should've known. There are some things you shouldn't have to be told, he said.
She took the apple from his hand and,
mid-bite,
she shoved her hand down his throat
until the apple gets stuck
and Adam is suffocating,
choking as the apple bits fly like
little gnats out of his gasping, gaping mouth.

word vomit

Roots
Change
Grow
Exterminate
Bloom
Expand
Depth
Grow
Growth
Growing
Grown
Roots
Uproot
Uprooted
Replanted
Grounded
Sand vs Soil
Peace vs Ignorance
(un)willingness
acceptance vs. rejection
home
dwelling
dwell
grudge
circles
questions
answers
repeat
over
over
over
repeat
over
roots
sanity
uproot
denial
right
wrong
over
over
over

a penny for your thoughts

I wrote a sonnet for a class assignment, and I want to know what you guys think. So PLEASE comment, and feel free to critique. If something doesn't make sense or sounds funny or awkward, please tell me! For those of you who don't live in English world, a sonnet (the English, anyway) is a 14 line poem, written in iambic pentameter (10 syllables with the accent being on every other syllable,) with the rhyme scheme being ABABCDCD, etc...then the sonnet ends with a rhyming couplet (the last two lines.) I will say that I do follow the formalist requirements, only my iambic pentameter isn't perfect...I do have 10 syllables in each line, but my stressed and unstressed syllables aren't perfect, which isn't a big deal.

Here goes.
Oh, and I'd love to have thoughts on what you make of the content.
Thanks guys!

Trees that Die

The trunk stands crooked, shedding woodchip scales;
the leaves are red and gold and fading green;
the knobby arms with bony fingers fail
to reach the clouds that taunt and sky that cleans
the earth and roots with a freefalling sea.
The storm sends wind, caressing branch and bloom,
and thunder vibrates heating air, a tease
that tempts barky spine to release its tomb
of guarded and logical heart. Trees strain
and reach for the atmospheric borders,
roots wiggle through the mass of soft terrain,
they spiral down like lightning that orders--
"Depart from me" He accents with a bolt,
as leaves float down like hands He couldn't hold.

The Beginning of my Journey into Superpower-dom

After a night of not enough sleep (which I blame fully on Joyce Kilmer and his insult to women and his motivation to make me write blasphemy against him; and yes, Joyce is a man), after 8am poetry, I attacked my bed, a bowl of rice krispies (no sugar), and the remote. I flipped it to one of the last episodes of the 3rd season of Heroes...one of my only tv obsessions, which I don't even watch episodically on tv, but through the complete seasons.
I've become entranced by this whole superpower idea--somehow I missed that from around ages 4-18. I watched an episode and a half (the suspense nearly killed me,) then as I trudged up the hill, I kept wondering what it would be like to read people's minds like Matt Parkman. I passed by several people around Cherry, wondering what the guy with the dreads would think. He was wearing those ear-swallowing headphones, the ones that look like an agent would wear in the 40s as he tried to crack the code of Japanese correspondence.
Then I morphed back into English world as I entered Cherry Hall.
I swear, I'm not on drugs. Not illegal ones, anyway. And I had yet to have a cup of coffee, but I know I was not hallucinating.
You know how sometimes--especially during school or as you're walking down the street in a big city, you feel a bit alone (this can be good or bad,) and you feel like it would be crazy to run into someone you know?
I feel like that a lot, even though I've gotten to know many people in Cherry Hall--all my classes are there, plus I work there.
Well, I would say about 3 seconds into my stoic-faced entrance, I immediately noticed 4 completely random, unattached friends in the same cluster outside room 120. Some were walking out of the class, one was standing against the wall, a couple were walking in. I thought about saying hi to Dustin and Lauren until I realized I'd have to say hi to everyone, but I'm not in that much of a people mood.
I kept walking.
Nathan came out of Dr. Hunley's office to my left, someone else (I don't remember which friend it was,) came out of the door to my right, then 10 yards down the hallway, Sarah was to the right against the wall, Elizabeth was to the left against the wall. I approached the Writing Lab as someone (again, a friend who I forget) came out of the lab as my other Lauren was walking in.
I was FREAKING OUT. That's like 10 people within 30 seconds of walking down ONE HALLWAY ON ONE FLOOR. Maybe it seems strange to you. Why would that freak me out?
I guess it might've been rude of me not to say anything to anyone. Honestly, I was walking and very dazed, but the reaction time between sight and thought was a bit slow, so talking to these people was an option that didn't really hit me until I walked into the Writing Center with buggy eyes and a quickened pace.
I told one friend. We went to the bathroom--the private one for faculty only, we each peed, telling funny stories of the day. There are 3 stalls, and usually no more than 2 people in at once. A lady was in another stall--probably pooping--then Kelly and I started washing our hands when 2 more professors walked in, each took a stall. 5 people in one tiny bathroom is pretty overwhelming. I felt claustrophobic. We walked out the first door into the lobby area, another professor walked in. Walked out the other door to the hallway and another was making her way to the pot.
WHAT THE FREAK.

I get the feeling this entry probably isn't as interesting or thought-provoking as my others.
But my friends speculate that I have this superpower in which everyone I know is drawn to me somehow.

Bleeker: "You definitely bring something to the table."
Juno: "Charisma."

I worry about things, and I get scared about things.
Things I worry about should be more of a scared thing, and things I get scared about should be under "worry" criteria...as in not so big of a deal, but worthy of worry. Then again, nothing is worthy of worry in a Christian perspective. Though I'm Christian, I feel like my human tendencies greatly overwhelm the Christian part.
ex:
I worry about paying bills, skipping exercise for like 2 weeks, the greasy spot along the dips between my face and nose, my consistently bloody fingernails, my Peace Corps application that is still unfinished (although it's for a purpose,) reading the books I need to read, writing the things I need to write, getting all A's, taking the GRE, Grad School, mission work, relationships, friendships, family, my future family, boys, finding enough chocolate throughout the day, getting smothered by all the Wal Mart people traffic, finishing up the 3rd season of Heroes...

Here's why I'm scared:
I worry about those things, but they don't deeply affect me.
I do cry sometimes from being so stressed and overwhelmed, but my outbursts don't get deep to the core. In stead of internally being so wrapped up in an emotion, I often feel that I'm 20 feet away from myself, looking through a window or mirror, watching myself cry out of partial emotion. I cry because it's this bodily reaction due to internal and external factors. Crying is normal. But me crying doesn't mean I'm having this super-intense feeling session.
In fact, I'm scared because most of the time, I'm numb.
Beyond the body-part-goes-to-sleep tingle numb, but the absolutely-no-feeling numb. I feel like a phantom limb would create more nerve-ending reactions than my body would right now. I'm in this state of no-repurcussions...I can't be too busy...who cares what people think (which I actually do appreciate)...I could write all day and be content...I could cuss out somebody and not feel regret...someone could cuss me out and it wouldn't really bother me that much...
THAT numb.
The does-God-hear-me numb followed by the I-don't-try-to-be-heard numb.
The stoic-face numb. The mechanical-voice numb. (My voice has changed...I noticed that today.)
The slice-your-toe-and-ask-your-roomate-to-sew-it-up numb.
Honestly, pain affects me, but my body doesn't really respond to it that much. A lot of people think that I put on this "tough girl" front, that I can handle things non-babyish, especially with my softball background.
And honestly, I worry that pain isn't that big of a deal for me anymore.
I got plugged with a softball the other day.
I sliced my toe open a couple months ago, and it needed stitches.
But honestly, I didn't really care.
The initial pain hurt, but later, I didn't think about it. Until I will randomly glance at the thin scar on my toe, or I'll rub my barely-tender forearm against the edge of a desk and feel the slightest twinge of a bruised muscle.
Then I go on with life.
I guess I should appreciate pain--that I can still feel it, that my nerves rush through my body like an alarm just went off.
*Wee-uw, wee-uw, wee-uw!* the sirens of my nervous system scream.
My body reacts, but my emotions don't--unless I say something like "piss!" (or other words to that effect) as a response.
But honestly, I feel that I say those because it's normal. Because it's pure reaction for me to scream my favorite four-letter words when I'm pegged by fallen blinds or piss-rocket throws.
A numb, unthought reaction. One without root, one without nerve endings.
Worry is a simple reaction to things we don't fully comprehend
But I'm not scared of grades and the future.
I scared my feelings won't wake up to my own urgency, that I'll ignore myself along with ignoring other opinions that I don't care so much about. Scared that I may stay for things I don't need to stay for, scared that I'll leave purely for the sake of leaving/running/escaping.
Maybe numbness could pay off when I need to do what I need to do.
I don't know, but I'm very intrigued by this numbness thing.
Relationships fail, no big deal. My ideals change, no big deal. My body changes, no big deal.
It's life. It moves, I move. Sometimes it moves just out of reaction.

Socks and Windshield Wipers

1. Although the heater in my apartment is finally fixed, my feet are always cold. I usually sleep in as few clothes as possible because I love being cold when I sleep, but for some reason, I love the feeling of socks on my feet.
2. I love winter because I get to wear funky, warm, thick, long, decorated socks.
3. I am currently wearing light blue socks with yellow ducks on them. I got them when I was a freshman in highschool, maybe a sophomore, so these things are super old. But they're still un-holey. They're absolutely fantastic. I love them.
4. I never pay attention to windshield wipers until my windshield is dirty or until it rains/snows/other crazy precipitation.
5. I'm always complaining about how streaky my windshield gets from the wipers.
6. It takes me forEVER before I'll replace them.

The moral of the story...
wait,
there is no moral to the story.

In fact, there is no connection between duck socks and windshield wipers.
I'm writing about them because I'm wearing duck socks and I'm currently thinking about my car and how it can be improved in quality. (It's not a quality car by any means, but I should take better care of it.)
And I'm random.
Many things I write have no purpose. I prefer that, because I spend a lot of time
thinking in such depth, connecting important things, making metaphors between things like
duck socks and windshield wipers.
But I'm rebelling against my literary needs to make such connections.
Tonight, I choose to write about duck socks and
windshield wipers
because I feel like it.
Because I can.
Because sometimes, writing doesn't have to be burdensome.
Sometimes it can be fun and pointless.
Fun and pointless like duck socks.
Wait, did I just make a metaphor?

Ahhhh...nuts

So I'm in Fiction Writing listening to someone critique a story and I'm being all puppy-dog ADD, watching a fly skirt across the room, picking my fingernails until they bleed. I'm checking my phone every 10 minutes, consequently seeing the minutes end with 9. 3:19, 3:29, 3:49, 4:09, 4:19.
4:19. We're supposed to be out in exactly one minute, and we've just started critiquing the third story.
Come on, seriously?
I look out the window, look at a girl's crazy outfit with teal-colored tights, a navy shirt, brown snow boots. Boobs hanging out. She talks a lot.
I look at Dr. Bell's collared shirt. Another set of blue stripes. He wears stripes a lot, specifically blue.
I feel my thigh jiggling from my foot across it--it wag wag wag wag wags like the puppy dog I'm resembling.
I look at my pitiful-looking nails, at the faded writing on my hand. The knobby bone in my right hand sticks out a lot more than my left hand. My red-green-white braided bracelet on my left wrist is starting to fade a little. The white is getting a little dingy, but someone will have to remove my wrist to get that sucker off.
4:23. Come on, dudes. Shut up. I need to go to my apartment, go to the library, get something to eat.
I check my backpack, throw my phone in the pocket out of frustration. But my pocket looks flat.
Uh-oh.
My keys aren't there.
I yank the phone right out of there, text my roommate.
Keys are on my bed. Along with my WKU ID card. Money. Debit card. Credit card.
4:29, we get out. 9 minutes past is completely unacceptable. Come on peeps.
I walk to the apartment, obnoxiously knock on the door, no answer. I repeat several times. No answer. I call both roomies. No answer.
Well, nuts.
Story of my life.
I think I have ADD.
Or amnesia.
Or epilepsy.
Maybe I have a brain tumor.

Let's Get Tribal or Something

So a series of songs has been crossing my mind this morning after staying up way too late to finish a poetry portfolio and to study for an 8am quiz.
"Everybody Dance Now" by C+C Music Factory has always reigned as one of my all-time dance-like-a-white-girl-pretending-she's-a-black-girl favorites. It brings out my inner arm-pumping, robot-moving, heisman-posing self. (The Heisman pose? Sadly, yes.)
"15 Steps" by Radiohead brings out my wanna-be tribal self. I want to make a ginormous fire somewhere and do the rain dance. What exactly is the rain dance? I think I'll learn it.
"Bobby McGee" by Janis Joplin...don't be fooled. This may not seem like a dancing song, but I guarantee you it brings out my inner air-guitar hippy. I think I would dance to this around a fire, too, only I would dance like a leg-pattin' country fool. And it would be marvelous.
Prepare yourself for this one.
And remember, I like weird things and I like musicals, so I'm completely justified in wanting to learn the tango.
Probably two of the greatest musical scenes I can think of are from Chicago and Moulin Rouge, where both movies have a super powerful tango scene.
Chicago's is the Cell Block Tango/Murderess Row- "He Had it Comin"
Moulin Rouge's is Le Tango Roxanne.
OOoooooohhhh I have chills! They're so flippin' amazing! (PS if you haven't watched them, youtube them NOW!)
The tango is super powerful, super sexual, super emotional. It's awesome.
And I want to dance so I can find a physical outlet for release, because Lord knows my physical activity is going to pot! Running just doesn't feel so enthralling anymore...

I'm trying to do one post per day. If I had my ways, I would probably post 30 entries a day. Writing is a bit of an addiction to me. Sometimes, too much is not good.
But at the moment, I have to write again. I posted probably an hour ago, and as if I just swallowed a whole pot of coffe, I gotta go again.

I need you to know something. Every day, I am both Christian and temporary-Athiest.
Woah now, you say. Woah Jamie.
Listen, I know that sounds crazy. In an attention-grabbing way, I'm telling you that I doubt God's existence every day. And if you're Christian, you doo, too. Now, usually, those nonbeliever moments are only seconds long. I know God is real.

Somehow, I ended up with my friend's set of post-it notes in my car. (Lauren, these are yours from our Wal Mart list we made before the yard sale.) The other day, I was driving, and had major wordage just attack me. It was like....word diarrhea. Yeah, it's that serious. This is my world. Sometimes, if I have no pen or paper around, I'll record things onto my phone so I won't forget. Yeah.
So I took the post it and scribbled in between stop lights or in a parking lot or something. I don't really remember.
But I wrote this.

"Why God?" they don't ask.
............ is what I don't say.

All the .......s took up about 5 lines worth of space, because I didn't have time to write out my answer.
Here is my answer.

Why God?
Because there was a moment when I realized the seriousness of faith. I was 10-ish, sitting on my bed. My heart felt as if it were being yanked across my chest, and I knew what it was. Who it was. It was God, and he was pulling my heart--gripping it, squeezing it, tugging it, until I gave him...not things, not promises, not desires. But me. I gave him me. He was squeezing and tugging and pulling to find the deep, dark, hidden thing I call my soul. My spiritual Jamie. He found that. He was asking for it. Then as I hit my knees, I was asking for him.

Thoughts did not cross my mind. This is how I know God is real. Because just as my shoulder aches when I sleep, just as my nostrils flair if I sing, just as ribs expand with each breath, God sought something that had never before been sought, and I knew what it was. God had never touched me before, but I knew it was him. Our souls are hidden deep within the crosswires of our minds, our hormones, our organs. And only He can move our souls like that. Only He can grip my heart so tight that I knew I could find relief by only asking for Him. He already had me within his grip, but it wasn't painful. It was peaceful. It was breathing. He didn't ask anything. I had to ask Him to take it, to take over. I needed him to do this.
He did. I didn't tell it for 6 years--that I was saved. I didn't understand somethings, and I got confused about salvation, about how others were saved. Mine seemed odd.

To make a long story long, I eventually told it. I prayed about it--really prayed, not just pretend prayed--and finally accepted that God was mine, I was his, and we were in a relationship together. And to have a successful relationship with someone, you have to claim them. To talk to them. In relationship terms, if God were a boy, he so would've dumped me.

Here's my problem. Amidst my journey, my relationship with God, I have lost so much confidence in myself, which culminates from lacking trust in God.
It has been embedded in my mind that we as God's children are nothing. We are sinners. God saved us, but we are dirty sinners.
I can't stand it anymore. Yes, I sin.
But I am somebody. I am something. Because of God. Because of Grace. Because of Love. Because of a tugging heart and a hidden soul and the peace I have about my life after death. If I tell myself I am nothing, I will do nothing for myself AND for God. If I tell myself I am a dirty sinner, I will sin over and over and over, because that's my self-expectation.
So don't tell me I'm just a sinner.
Because I'm God's child. I'm God's. Not yours.
I need people to get out of my head. I've never said this before. I've never tried it. For some reason, I've been scared of saying it, scared of how the word will come off my tongue, scared of the reaction it would bring, scared of how cheesy it would sound.
Rebuke.
Yes. To all of these things, to all of these people who are literally or mentally in my head trying to convince me of my unworthiness, of my fall from grace,
I
rebuke
you
from my bound-up life
from my confused mind
from my questionable past
from my uplifted roots
from my unclear future
in the name of
Jesus
Christ.
I rebuke you.

Get away from me, stay away from me, until you have positive encouragement to offer me. I don't want this negativity anymore. Someone else can take it, because I want to be through.

I See/Hear Colors

I've never been a hypochondriac. Well, I say I haven't. I've always had headaches (every day for years...I can't remember a day when I didn't have one,) but once they started getting serious, once the migraines graced my presence, I tried to convince myself I had a brain tumor. Actually, I've never told that one before. *sigh of relief* Then again, this may place me as an unreliable narrator.

Okay here's my point: for a while, I thought seeing colors was normal. We all see colors, right? Example: My oddly shaped mole on my arm is very dark brown. (Oh no! Oddly shaped mole?! Could this be....) Our Halloween decorations are orange.

I see those colors. But I also hear colors. Or when I hear certain things, I see colors. Example: at church, when I hear people sing in harmony, I see this vibrant shape of multi-colored, blooming flowery things.

I know, you're thinking WTF?

I know. I know. But I never even questioned it until I read a memoir with a girl who may/not have epilepsy, and she has auras. These auras are colorful and surround people like halos.

Auras? Colors? Hmmm...

I immediately went to my Nursing major roomie Elizabeth, "DUDE, do I have epilepsy?"

She asked me a series of questions and shortly determined that no, I do not in fact have epilepsy, but those with epilepsy generally have seizures. Did I have seizures?

No, not that I know of.

So I've decided to accept the fact that I see colors/hear colors at random moments of time. Good news=my days are usually pretty when I hear music. (This happens with instruments, too.)

Okay I'm done now.

I'm Frontin'

I like to give this air that I'm a very striaghtfoward, honest person. For the most part, I'm honest and straightfoward. I'll tell you random things that come to mind. I'll explode with independence/individualism.
But I've learned that this will also be a problem. In Soul Cravings, Erwin McManus writes of how we try to distinguish ourselves by specific labels, or by obtaining a label that differentiates us from the norm. We do this through clothing, tattoos, hair, etc. (Do you see where this is going?)
McManus says, "Whem we live outside of healthy community, we not only lose others, but we lose ourselves."
He says that when we develop relationships with others, we become more in touch with ourselves. We cultivate love between each other and increase our godly love.
I love love. I do. But sometimes it's very hard for me ro receive love. (See Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller.) Sometimes I want to just thrive on my own. Sometimes I want to just grab a backpack and some supplies and just rough it in the wilderness. Clearly I know this wouldn't work, but it's my desire to get away from things. To become introverted and self-reliant, and most of all, more God-reliant.
For some reason, it's very hard for me to rely on God in the life I'm in now. I get so involved in the age-21 life. Not the stereotypical age-21 life. But the schooling, writing, working life. The stressing-over-money-and-future life. I still enjoy getting giddy over boys and movies. I can emerse myself in books and my own writing. And friends. I love my friends, and what they spiritually mean to me.
But I'm relying on my friends for a spiritual outlet, and I feel that I'm relying less on God. I need to find a balance.
If I leave Bowling Green, KY in May and seek a life elsewhere, I need to find community. I need to find self-growth where I'm not lonely and wanting. If I get lonely and wanting, I'll become vulnerable to other vices, and I refuse to let myself do that. I have no self-control with coffee, chocolate, and peanut butter, but I will not let myself get so vulnerable that I lean to other things to get my fix. I feel that as much as I try to run away from communal comformity, I still need a sense of relational community for self-growth, self-discovery. I want to discover a new part of myself all the time. I want to expand, but not just for the sake of expansion. (I don't want to sound too much like a hippy.) I need to think more in terms of God.
I need to think love. Feel love, receive love, give love without thinking about vulnerability or repercussion. I need to feel community without feeling self-conscious or judged. I need to breathe for more than a day. I need my wonderful epiphanies to last weeks or months or years, not just hours or days at a time before they're crushed with negativity.
I need community.
We all need community.
I need love.
We all need love.
I have God, but I need God.
We all need God.
And I need a community that embraces God's love, that embraces me so tightly that I can breathe and feel free of judgment, free of cynicism, and sometimes, free of myself.

Do-Over

For Memoir/Autobiography, I'm reading a book called "Do-Over!" by Robin Hemley. This man is 48 and goes back to better his experiences through his childhood. For example, his kindergarten teacher was a tyrant/ended up being thrown into the loony bin, and treated the guy very poorly. So at 48 and with 3 kids, he enrolls in kindergarten (after a long process of paper work, background check, etc.) for a week. I haven't gotten far into the book, but he also does the same for summer camp, prom (which should be verrry interesting), etc.

Question: What would I do over? What would I, at 21, currently do to better an experience?

--I, too, would go back to kindergarten, hoping to encounter a much better teacher. My teacher, Mrs. Lonas, was nice, I think. She was old and scary. I peed my pants almost every day for fear of having to ask her a question. (Back then, I didn't talk to grown-ups. I was shy.) I also cried every day because I missed Mom, but that ended when the Lonas told me she would send me to Mrs. Coots (aka: Mrs. Toots) the principal if I didn't stop crying.

--I would go back to my last gymnastics class at age 7, when my dad told me I was done with gymnastics because it was softball season. I was good and in a class with high school girls. I was 7, had perfected the back-handspring, and almost did a back tuck by myself when Dad yanked me out of the program. I would say, "No, Dad. I'm staying. I'll play softball, but taking gymnastics over the course of several years will also help me to maintain muscle tone when I grow 5 1/2 inches between 7th and ith grade, thus causing my muscles to stretch out too fast, which will eventually cause many injuries throughout high school and college. I'm staying."

--I would go back to the summer before my freshman year of college, when my sister got married. I would do a much better job of planning her showers and try a little harder to ease stress, not to provoke more. (This was my first wedding, so I was highly inexperienced.)

--I would go back to a random day when I was little, my sister and terribly manipulative cousins persuaded me to pick up these "special rocks" by our neighbors goat farm. "But those are goat poops," I said. "No, stupid, those are rocks,' one of the cousins said. My sister encouraged me to pick them up, too. Maybe that's why I didn't try so hard at her wedding. (Joke, Kelly. Just a joke.) So I did, and they laughed. "You're such an idiot, Jamie," one of them said. I hated hanging out with them, but I had no one else my age. Well, actually, I did. My two other cousins and my brother were more my age, but for some reason, they weren't there that day. So I would go back to that moment, pick up those goat turds and pellet them in the face. I would try to smash those turds up their nose, into their mouth, in their pockets, in their earholes. Ohhhhh, victory.

--I would go back to a revival at my church when countless people would come up to me and my sister and constantly ask us questions. Were we lost? saved? going to hell? confused? going to heaven? ignoring God's knockin? listening to the preacher? listening to them? wanting to go to the altar? wanting to pray? And I would tell them to leave us alone. Tell them they were embarrassing me, making me angry, making me feel victimized and confused and very turned-off to their ways.

--I would go back to a time when I was about 12, filling up Sandy's water bucket. There was a dirt dobber in the bucket, and I didn't want Sandy to drink it, so I started fetching it out with my hand. The bug latched onto my middle finger and rear-ended its stinger into my tender little pad of a finger. I remember staring wildly with disbelief at this Dirt Dobber con. Stupid wasp! You tricked me! I starting shaking my hand frantically, hoping all that wind and air I was creating would heal the hurt. I ran across the back yard, finding Mom and Dad working in the yard, and I was crying--no, blubbering about this wasp and how my middle finger was throbbing. I'm pretty sure this cultivated my hidden fear of bugs. It's like I'm afraid I'll start trailing a ladybug with my finger, then it will suddenly morph into a terrible wasp Transformers-style and then I'm screwed. So I would go back and leave the wasp alone.

A Buffer into My World...

So I just realized that post #1 was a little intense, so I feel like I should preface this whole blog thing a little. I write all the time, and I currently have 3 writing classes. Poetry. Fiction. Memoir/Autobiography. I think in verse all the time, I think of how I can develop my main character (Caleb) in my short story. I listen carefully to people's names to see if I'd ever use them in a story, I pay extra attention to little buds spurting through cracks in the sidewalk or the way coffee leaves a faint, annoying ring around the mug. I watch body language, noting who is really lonely or really aggressive or really flirty or really passive or shy. I have a writer's brain, and I'm trying to develop that further.
So don't be alarmed if I write things that seem odd.
I am odd. And I kinda like it. :)
So as a preface, here is a poem I wrote last year about poetry. Don't worry, it's not this amazing piece of work. People write poetry about poetry all the time, so this is not a new, amazing, provocative thing, but it's honest and it's me.

Poetry the Manipulative Prick

I've tried simple,
complex,
longer detailed lines with similar syllables
then short and direct
staccato
for contrast

Creative imagery
--gone,
dashes--symbolic punctuation
feels overused.
simple things
described with disgusting details
and damned alliteration

I'm through with analyzing
I'm through with seeking a muse
in the swirling toilet water
or a dried leaf.
I can't handle manipulating myself
to regurgitate old feelings

But I can't stop
--notebooks--stacks
by my bed
on my desk
in my car
pens never at hand,
and a mind full of lyrics

I'm manipulated by words
letters
lines
shapes of black symbols,
empty white space

Anecdote 1 (written on a receipt)

I remember him opening his wallet in church. I was building hymnal houses and he opened his thin wallet to show me small, square packages that looked like mini wet wipes you get while eating hot wings.
Condoms.
I gave him my disgusted face and turned around to face the preacher. I pretended to set an example, but I thought about that square package and why he would need it at church. After he got saved, he would walk around the church giving everyone hugs. He hugged me with complete control and I felt as though he were humping me.

*I'm not sure when this actually happened, but I'm estimating about 10 years ago. It's funny, all the things you witness in church.