Warmth...
~ Smells that remind you of people you love.

~ Listening to the rain fall.

~ Curling up under a blanket and feeling peaceful.

I am tired of words.

They are a damned nuisance. And a threat.

I grow weary of the ability of words to maim. To dismember. The way words may wound so swiftly, but so deeply.

Silence may be an ideal virtue to strive for...

I am tired of words. Their neccesary evil that so nefariously winds its way into our lives.

Let then my words be quick, for why should I engage their mercenary services to tell of my distaste.

I am tired of words. Weary. Worn. Pressed sore by them.

I am tired.

Infallible Logic
Then there was the Christmas that Mom wanted to decorate two trees, one upstairs and one downstairs. We were living in Houston, and I was probably four or five.
"Do you want to decorate a tree upstairs too?" my Mother asked me.

And the wheels started turning for me. If, according to previous experience, presents appeared under the tree on Christmas morning, then would not two trees yield two sets of presents?

"Yes," I said, picturing two present-unwrapping-extravaganzas on that merry morn. "We should decorate two trees."

It was a slightly disappointing Christmas, when checking first the tree upstairs, I found not the packages I expected, but just some lint and tinsel under the tree.

This was my first inclination that 1+1 might not always equal the anticipated result. Perhaps this is the beginning of my loathesome relationship with mathematics.

Tradition
Each year as we near the end of the unwrapping, my Mom gets a slightly puzzled look on her face.

"Hmm...Now you should have had one more something," she says as she hops up to look in her usual hiding places.

Off to her bedroom to check under her bed, back to the guest room to check the closet, her nightgown and slippers swishing with a sense of urgency. She invariably returns, only to say, "Well, you did have something else, but I can't remember where I hid it."

This year she really topped herself. She lost a present she bought for herself.
"Where do you hide a present from yourself?" my Dad asked increduously.
"I don't know" she said.

We shook our heads and started to laugh. That great Alsup laugh that I happen to think is one of our better traits. We laughed until tears ran down our faces. How do you manage to lose something that you bought yourself?

It was the greatest of all Mom-loses-a-Christmas-present moments.

Anyone, Anyone?
Today I was forced out of bed at 8:30 because my dog, Pepe, was frantic to have Christmas. Yes, we get him presents. And I promise you, this dog knows Christmas. He knows that we will let him outside, and place his presents in his chair. (Yes his chair. It's a wing-back red leather number that no one ever sat until Pepe appropriated it for his own purposes.)

Come on, I know there have got to be other people that give their pets presents.

I have never seen an animal like to get presents more than that dog. Pepe is a character, and that's probably a good thing, because being a character with plenty of quirks and eccentricities is the only sure way to fit into my family.

Why...
is it my basic nature to not go to sleep like a reasonable person?
I just stay up, and eventually end up posting dumb questions about sleeping habits on my blog.
I really like sleep a lot, and display ample inclination to sleep at inappropriate times, i.e. in the middle of the afternoon, in class, when I have large amounts of school-related reading to do.
(On a sidenote: if you hand me a dry-as-dust book about ocean currents but tell me to read it at my leisure and only if I enjoy it, I will most likely read it in a week, even staying up late to do so. But if you hand me any midly entertaining book and call it school the first paragraph will put me to sleep, guranteed.)
Most of the time though, even when class is in session, I have to work really hard to put myself to sleep. I'd have no idea why? I just want to be one of those people who lays down, and is asleep before their head hits the pillow.

I'm miffed...
that I've broken my, "I've never broken a bone record" -- One stupid rib, and 20 years of work toward snobbily having all my bones intact goes down the drain. I don't even get a cast for people to sign -- and I feel awkward about asking them to sign my rib cage. So really there's no benefit to it. Break an appendage, get a cast in a fun neon color; break a rib, get nada, except lots of tylenol and slower movement that people can't attribute a reason to (see, not only do casts serve as portable get-well cards, they also serve as important visual cues, "Ah, that person is in a cast, that must be the reason that they are moving slower than molasses.")

All right...
Enough mindless blathering, I'm going to close my eyes now, but probably won't go to sleep, because that would be to sensible. No, I'll just contemplate the completely mind-numbing prattle I just posted on my blog.

Kid's drawing
This is my first blog-entry in over a week. Mostly because at this time last week I was in a bed at St. Luke's Hospital in Chesterfield, Missouri.

Two of my dearest friends and I were in a car-wreck early last Saturday morning. And so all week, I've wondered what to write in this blog. My inclination was to lean towards the comic. And trust me, a weekend of Sara on lots of medication, "high as a kite" as one of my friends put it, lends itself amply to comedic purposes.

I have really beautiful people in my life. Truly, beautiful people in my life. Melissa, Joanna, and I spent a weekend in the hospital and the amount of support we received from our friends and family scattered throughout several different places was astounding.

What do I write?

I think that has been the question for the three of us that got out of a 1988 Honda Accord early last Saturday. Even though Mel, Jo, and I went through the weekend together, I'm quite sure we came away from it with different perceptions. So what follows is part of what's being going through my head for the past week.

There's so many different aspects of these weekend that I'm sure I'll be picking a part for a while to come. But the one that rings truest is the friendship that carried three college kids through a weekend stranded in an unfamiliar place.

I have now spent two weekends of my life in hospitals because of car accidents. The first one was with my brother after his wreck, and the second was just this last weekend with me in the role of patient.

Having been now on both sides of the hospital bed, as it were, I think the role of patient is decidely easier. You have a lot of drugs, you're not all that aware of your surroundings, and if you're lucky you're nurses are nice and don't jostle you too much.

Melissa and Joanna had the decidely more difficult part of being lucid and alert for most of the weekend (aside from the times when Mel was "feeling really good" -- due to large amounts of codine).

They were nursing their own injuries, and trying to sort out their emotions, but they stayed by my side the entire weekend. They brushed my hair, helped me eat, and held my hand. They showed me amazing love, compassion, and gentleness. And courage. Much more courage than I typically possess.

In short, I was blown away by their character this weekend. Not that I had any doubts before...I've always known them to be amazing. I know that they got me through the weekend. And I would like to think that even in my purple haze, I was somewhat of encouragement to them. (I do remember Jo crying at one point, Mel was asleep due to aforementioned codine, and Jo was handling the phone. She was sitting on my bed faced away from me, and I could tell that she was crying. At the time I thought I was actually not loopy, and I remember patting her arm, and telling her "It's okay, don't cry, Jo." -- only not that cohesively. And at the time, I thought I was being pretty comforting -- I was happy to return some of the comfort that I gotten from them. Now it just kind of makes me chuckle, because I really don't think I managed to be all that helpful and/or comforting, just really loopy.)

There's not a whole lot of my time in the hospital that I remember very clearly. But I know that the presence of these two friends had an unbelivably calming and quieting effect on me. There were several times that I looked over my hospital bed simply to assure myself that they were still there. And once assured that they were indeed in arms reach, I would lay back calmer and able to rest. That's what I remember, more than anything about my weekend in a hospital bed. How peaceful and good Mel and Jo made me feel just by being there. By being willing to help me get up, or lay down. By moving my pillows, or holding my hand. The feigned excitement when the nurses brought me a clear liquid diet, and the endless patience. The amazing patience they both had. Getting up to get me water, or ice, or juice, or move pillows, or hold my hand because I asked them to.

I could go on...I thank God for them. Oddly enough, before the car-wreck, I was planning a blog entry on these two girls. Simply because of the support they have always shown me. I'm so thankful for it.

My words are poor. And I wish they were better. I wish they were prettier or more eloquent. Because as they are now they can't possibly convey what my friends mean to me. It's a bit like when you're a little kid and the best you can manage is a few shaky crayon lines that try to represent your reality on a crumpled bit of paper. The little kid may think it's a masterfully done work, a perfect explanation for his surrounding world. But everyone else who sees it requires a small explanation for the shapeless lines of wax on the page.

And so here is the heart of what I'm trying to say:
If you have the privelige of knowing Mel and Jo than you should count your blessings. Because to know them is to know strength, tenderness, fortitude, and gentleness. I've never understood why women are thought to be the weaker sex.
These girls prove that untrue daily. They are two of the strongest women I know.

I love them dearly. I'm so very blessed to have them in my life.

I'm back
Well, after a week of being too sick to much of anything, I'm finally on my way to recovery.
And there was much rejoicing!!
I realized that
~I really hate being sick
~I turn into a big grumpy monster when I'm sick
~Going to the doctor is not really that bad of an idea

Major thanks to all my friends who called, or came by, and generally put up with me being grouchy and gross!! Also thanks to a certain person who suggested going to Student Health -- You were right, what else can I say.

Why Sara isn't ruler of the universe
I know that it may come as a shock, but I really don't have any control over this world or human beings. Mostly because if I were running the world things would be all in fuss.

Earlier this week I stopped in at the bookstore after a particularly cold jaunt to 9th street video.
"Joanna," I said, "I think that people should have removable ears. That way you could just take them off and stick them in your pockets when it was cold, and warm them up in the microwave when you got home."

Now I had been pondering that idea all day, and it seemed flawless to me. But my sage friend quickly pointed out the problem.

"I think we would have a lot of damaged ears," said Joanna.

There you go. That's probably why our ears are attached to our heads, if they weren't then people would lose them, or drop them, or all manner of other unpleasent things.

What do you write when you know that no matter what words you choose or how you string them together there is no way that you can approach conveying what you actually feel or perceive?

It is not as though there are not words enough to paint an experience. No. The weakness lies within the writer. For how can someone adequately write how beautiful and painful life manages to be all in the same moment?

Maybe the goal of the writer is not to record, with acute accuracy, all the various facets of life. Each writer sets thought to paper from their own experience and understanding, trying to communicate a sameness of experience to an unknown reader.

Maybe the best anyone one can do is to hope that the readers have had some experience with those carefully crafted ideas.

It’s whistling in the dark and waiting for an answer. Playing a solo, waiting for someone in the audience to lean forward and talk back.

Sometimes there is no greater meaning than that something is beautiful. That beauty (and truth, to acknowledge Keats) is not always approachable or inviting. It is fearful, and revered. It is warmth and security. It is not completely understandable, or even explainable. Yet man feels compelled to try to capture beauty, or truth, or whatever fact he knows of existence in creativity.

Artists are compelled to create.

Humans are compelled to create.
To understand in creating that which we cannot fully define within ourselves.

What do you write when you know that you are not adequate to the task?

What words do you write to explain what without words your heart knows?

These are the questions which stop my words before they touch paper, before they have time to swim around a bit, rearranging themselves in cohesive bonds.

These are the questions that I strain against when…

I want to write about how playing music is like flying. The plane takes off and there is a moment when your body is pushed into the seat and your insides drop, and you are conscious of your suspension above the stable earth. When you are playing with a band, and everything is grooving hard, there is a moment that comes when you are no longer aware of yourself. There is only the music and the steady advancement of time and the band’s voice trying to understand itself and preaching an urgent idea to the audience.


Questions that give me pause when…

I want to tell someone how beautiful it feels when you have the calmness of heart to know that whatever may present itself you will glide gracefully through, and come out the stronger for it. For that is what my heart told me Tuesday night as I walked in Columbia at midnight. The low hanging clouds caught all of the city’s lights and held them reflected in the water crystals and everything was close in, secure. And I knew that here was life, ready for me to jump in with both feet. Not to dabble toes but to immerse myself completely. A surety that my life would (or could, possibly could) be lived well, which in the end, is all I ask. I will count my life successful if I am able to say that I lived it well, loving those around me, embracing opportunities, experiencing things without holding back, and fighting through the painful moments that come when one loves greatly and lives greatly. And maybe loving greatly and living greatly are one in the same.

Questions that stay my hand in half-a-dozen other situations.

As a writer I may never be successful.
Maybe I will earn a living by writing the social column for a newspaper in Ponca City, Oklahoma. And I do not know whether that would be failing or not. I do know it would fall woefully short of my hopes.

Still, I am compelled. Driven to sling ink against fiber and hope for the best. Pushed to choose words, and rearrange till things look close to level.

I hesitate to write this next bit. But when I write, it is for, and maybe because of, the people I love. When I sit down, it is with them in mind. Their laughter, ambitions, sorrows, fears, their manner in the way that they tackle life. Everyday those people, whether near or far, show me what it means to live greatly. They are patient people, these teachers who have taken my hand and pushed me beyond myself.

In some way I feel that trying to create something is the best I can offer these people who so generously let me share in their lives. That my striving towards beauty, however poor and patched together my words may be, will thank them for the truth they have shared.

What do I write and how?

I hope that someday, I will find the words that I am seeking.

Rise and Shine
This morning I hit my snooze forty-one and a half bazillion times.
Good: Feeling well rested.
Bad: Feeling like I'm two hours behind on my day -- well forget that, I'll just pretend like I meant to wake up at 9:00 instead of 7:00.

Fact
Who has the best, most amazing friends in the world? It's me, It's me! Oh, yeah, it's me!

When is the Jazz Concert?
The MU Jazz bands will be performing at 8:00 p.m. tonight in Stotler Lounge (Memorial Union).
It will be an interesting concert considering that all of the musicians just had a week off of rehersals.

Do a dance, do a dance, it's concert day! I really dig performing!

There will be two guest performers, Dr. Steve Bottom on trumpet, and Lecolian Washington (the bassoon professor) on vocals. Stop, I know what you're saying, "A bassoon prof. doing jazz vocals -- what a joke?" Really? Come see then.
Mr. Washington is one bad funk singer -- for real, ain't no lie.

And last but not least, I will be playing clarinet on one of the songs.
Reasons I'm excited about playing that primitive hunk of wood:
~ In the song the lead for the band is in the clarinet, and as a tenor play I never get a chance to play lead.
~ It's a historical piece, and having the four saxes with clarinet lead is a very historical, old big band sound.
~ Playing clarinet makes me think I'm a better sax player -- jigga what?
~ And well, I kind of like playing the darn thing. I know, I used to complain a lot when I had to play clarinet, but it's growing on me.

Right. Going to start my day now.