I heard an interview with a writer. When asked to talk about pivotal moments in his life, he said he didn’t really look back at his past because he was too busy looking forward. But ignored or not, the past trails my heels like a shadow. I can’t shake it, and really I don’t want to put it down. The stories and dust ridden memories remind me of who I am.
Tomorrow, the only thing that will be different in my life is the number on the calendar. But a year from now I will be different, a thousand different moments and memories will have shaped me up a little more into the person I am becoming.
In the past year I’ve stood next to a new grave, I’ve danced with a friend at her wedding. I’ve graduated from college and eschewed, at least for two years, my chosen profession of journalism in favor of teaching in a school where kids are struggling to learn. What should I say - That I laughed and cried this past year, that sometimes I did both? That’s life. Everyone on the face of the planet did those things in 2005.
So now we turn our faces to a new year that will come in the night. Maybe we stay up to watch the year turn because we are afraid the New Year will sweep away our memories and give us a clean slate if we aren’t awake to hold on to our remembers. Without our scribbles from all the years prior, how will we know where we are and where we have been?
I turn my face to the coming year and I can promise one thing in complete confidence. I will laugh and cry, sometimes I might do both. I can promise another thing too: at the end of 2006 I’ll turn another page in this story and what is to be written on that page won’t make sense without the ones that came before.
Happy New Year. It’s a prayer, really. A wish, a hope offered up, laid on someone’s shoulders in love and protection. It is a hope that one will find comrades to stand with in laughter and in not-laughter.
It’s the end of another year and I’m off to see the world, but not alone. For at my shoulder stand the people who carry my past, my stories, and so carry my future as well. Happy New Year to you all.

I savor the action of opening or closing a book, I don't know why. They are actions in which I take deliberate measure.

Tonight I finished what is essentially the last paper of my college career. In the past four and a half years, I've written on philosophy, music history, all sorts of literature, journalism ethics and British culture. And tonight was just an assignment like any other.

When I hit save and closed the document I reached down towards the text I was writing about. I removed the bookmark I had been using, set my pen off to the side and gently closed it's front cover and lay a paperweight on it so that the cover would lay flat and not half open. It's an action I've repeated so many times that I do it without thinking. As I sat back I smiled, realizing that I was done.

I closed the book. I finished my last paper. I made it through.

G.T.T. Y'all.

Poor Absalom and other musings from Bag End:
My roommate has the patience of a saint – particularly evidenced by the fact that she is still talking to me after I subjected her to a plot summary of Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom. Forcing someone through Faulkner is just plain mean.
Incidentally, my southern literature professor said I was an exception. I would like to think he meant that my genius was obvious, but I think he meant that the fact that this is my second time through Absalom makes me seem like a freakish literary loser to the rest of the class, who feels that once is one too many times to read this book.
“Where did you read the first time?” he asked.
“My mom gave it to me for Christmas.” I said.
“She gave you an oppressive text for Christmas?” he said and laughed.
Then he asked why I came back to it.
“Once there was a summer of wisteria.” I said. “It’s beautiful.”

***
I went to the contributing writer’s meeting yesterday, and found the doubt I’ve been feeling about the profession of journalism increasing. The editor of Vox pitched a profile on a yet-to-be-determined person who is in a severe state of “arrested development.” As he put it, someone who still buys comic books, is working on their fourth college degree at age 36, someone who still drinks with the undergrads at Harpos. Someone who refuses to grow up. Now the way he said these things made it sound an awful lot like they were just looking for someone to make a fool of, someone that the entire readership could laugh at together.
It’s not the first time I’ve gotten the sense that some of the people in this journalism school would rather tear people down just to laugh at them than to help them out.
It just about made me cry, just broke my heart to hear a story pitched that sounds so mean.

***
I’m idealistic in a lot of ways, and I dig that some people think that’s not a great way to be, but at the end of the day I want to know that I helped, that I tried to make things a little better. Somebody’s got to work towards that goal, right? So why shouldn’t it be me?

***
My desk has been broken since the day I inherited it – the keyboard drawer thing has never been right. That in mind I’ve taken to jotting notes on the actual desk with my fine-tipped Sharpie pen.
Here are some of them:
Cast your fate to the wind; see what the wind brings back.
When I say I am sorry I mean that I am not yet the person I wish to be.
Chase the greater dream. The one that seems just out of reach. The one that will neither let itself be caught nor abandoned.

***
We are such dreamers. And so often disappointed.

Ain't no body die, y'all. We got her done. Yeah we did. Ain't no body die.

There were questions that I wanted to ask, but I did not ask them. Sometmes the words a person does not say are as much of a gift as the ones they do.

Did I make the right decision? (Audience response encouraged)
Today was a first for me, about 20 minutes ago I turned down a story after an editor offered it to me. My name had been suggested by the contributing writing coach. I have never turned down a story that was offered to me before, so I'm kind of questioning my choice.

The story was a Scene and Heard - a short slice of life piece in the front of the book. It's one of my favorite sections. The assignment was to go to the Cat Fanciers
Association show next weekend and find a kitty-cat tale for the magazine. I would love to do this story, but as I've mentioned before on this blog - I'm allergic to cats. So the idea of going into an show room full of cat dander and fur just didn't seem like a good idea. Particularly when I can't even spend more than 10 minutes in Patrick's apartment (his roommates have cats) without sneezing. Right. Putting myself in the middle of the flying fur would have been a bad idea. I would have been sneezing all over cats and their owners and that's no story.

Some of my most miserable childhood memories involve cats - my eyes swollen shut, incessant sneezing. As a child, I blamed the cats - I didn't do anything to them, I just wanted to pet them. Originally I liked cats. But I couldn't be around them.

To this day, I am uncomfortable around cats. I don't even like them to touch me. My favorite thing to say to a cat is "Go'on. Git."

Still there's a part of me that would really love to do the story. I mean a cat show - what even happens at a cat show? And the Maine Coon cat breed will be there - those things get to be 20 pounds.

Alas. Did I make the right decision?

I have a first draft to turn in. It is all a first draft should be according to the author Anne Lamott.

Maybe someday I will learn how not to be a reclusive and grumpy hermit when I write, but considering the amount of writers I have read about who share this affliction, I'm not holding out much hope.

I tried to tell a story. Or at least tried to drive something to an ending. And it only took two cups of tea, my left over thai food and a diet coke to do it.

In a little under 48 hours I have to turn in a first draft of a personal essay for my advanced writing class.

I'm stuck. Completely and totally stuck. Like there is a wall in my brain and the words are trying to get over and nothing. I picture it a stone wall, just too high to jump. The words, the ideas, the letters keep throwing themselves at the wall. They are not trying hard enough.

I've made a pot of coffee. The bulk of this needs to be done by early afternoon tomorrow, cause I've still got reading for Brit lit. I've been nice enough trying to cajole these little words over the wall, now it's time for business. I'm pulling them over whether they like it or not.

Maybe I need to simplify. Quit thinking of thematic elements. Quit thinking of characters and time and just tell a story. This is what happened. This is what I took away from it. Tell a story. Over a cup of coffee. Tell it to an audience. Tell a story. Just a story. An everyday story.

About a night in a diner and seven people who danced. That's all the story is. Just a spring night, a diner and seven people.

Sometimes when I'm stuck in writing, it's because I don't know how to start. This time I don't know where to start, go or end.

I sit down. I start. The writing is heavy, like an elephant. I don't mind heavy, I just need the elephant to pirouette.

The elephant refuses to dance. Just sits there on gray haunches. Looks at me, reaches out for a peanut.
"No peanuts," I say. "No. I've need you to dance," I say.
On gray haunches. Looks at me.
"Elephants aren't really made for toe shoes," the elephant says.
"But you're talking," I say. "Elephants aren't made to talk, either."
"Yes, well. Just cause your imagination gave you a talking elephant, it doesn't mean I have to dance," she says.
"Stop reaching for the damn peanuts," I say. "Why don't you have to dance? If your a figment of my imagination you should have to dance. Why, when I say dance you say -"
"Now hang on a minute. No one asked me if I wanted to be your figurative muse -"
"No muse ever came in a body like yours."
"Oo - there's no need to be catty."
"I'm just saying, if you came from my mind, then you ought to do as I please."
"I'm not even working for peanuts," she snorts. "Even figments have free wills."
"I don't really have time for this," I say. "Oh have a damn peanut."
She catches the peanuts and turns around, her gray shoulders start to shake.
"C'mon," I say. Roll my eyes. "You're crying now? Crying?"
"I-I-I am n-not crying," she cries. "It's just that you didn't have to be so harsh, if you had just asked maybe I would have danced. If you had given me a lavender tutu, some lovely ribbons. Glitter eye shadow. But now. Only demands."
I step back. I take a deep breath. I am not paid enough to work with uncooperative figments.
"Fine. Would you please try to dance."
"No. I don't dance. I'm an elephant."
"Gimme back the peanuts. Go'on, git."

I walk her to the edge of the page. "Go'on."

My natural writing voice is the voice of an elephant who wants a lavender tutu.

Just tell a story. Tell a simple story. A cup of coffee story. An all-night diner story. Tell the story. Of a group of seven who danced.

When I go for a run, I run up Garth Avenue past an elementary school, past a wooded trail and over a creek. The bridge that goes over the creek has a concrete barrier on the road side and a tall chainlink fence on the other.

Everytime I run by this chainlink fence on the bridge I have a bizarre urge to loft my keys into the air and over the fence and into the creek below. I don't know why I want to do this. Everytime I go through a dialogue in my head.

"I should throw my keys into the creek - it would be a gesture of triumph. Symbolic of some type of freedom. I would swing them once around my finger and let go, watch the sun as it would glint off the metal."
"If you toss your keys you will have no way to get into the house."
"I wouldn't even watch them hit the water. I'd just catch a glimpse of their arc over my shoulder and keep running. Maybe I would hear them hit the water."
"Do you know how sheepish you are going to feel when you have to tell your roommate/landlady/friends/family/professors/random strangers how you lost your keys."
"I could do it, I could toss 'em. But after I tossed them, they'd be gone and I'd still need them."

At this point in the dialogue I'm usually across the bridge. I have the same dialogue as I come back the other direction.

I overslept for class this morning, and needed a little warm up before I started my day, thus I give these lists that have been running around other people's blogs:

Seven things I want to do before I die:

1) Go surfing
2) Have a vegetable garden
3) Get a tattoo
4) Have a great love
5) Have some kids, take them to the circus
6) See the Northern lights
7) Be a teacher

Seven things I can do:

1) Write illustrated letters – as in little narratives with pictures
2) Whistle through my hands
3) Sleep with my eyes half open
4) Follow a recipe
5) Organize my books according to a personally devised system in which authors that were or that I think could have been friends go together on the shelf, thus Hemingway and Fitzgerald go together.
6) Wake up early
7) Turn off my alarm clock in my sleep

Seven things I can’t do:

1) Skateboard
2) Put away my clean laundry
3) Keep books from forming piles throughout the house
4) Listen to Holst’s Mars from his Planets suite – it scares me too much
5) Stomach lima beans
6) Do a pretty dive into water
7) Tell a lie

Seven things that attract me the opposite sex:

1) Generosity
2) A great laugh
3) General dorkiness
4) Confidence – but never arrogance
5) Ambition, but not in a cold aggressive sense
6) A nice beard or goatee
7) Gentleness

Seven things I say most recently:

1) Well, I figure there’s a lot of places with newspapers – one of them’s got to be hiring
2) Can I get you anything?
3) Hi, my name is Sara and I’m a reporter with …
4) Oh, I don’t really know yet but I’m casting a wide net
5) I’m writing a paper on the development of the plantation romance
6) Do you want lunch?
7) Huh.

Seven Celebrity Related Thoughts I’ve had recently:
1) My professor just called a place someone’s Xandu, that means he’s probably seen Citizen Kane
2) America’s Next Top Model starts in two weeks and I am totally watching it
3) I’d like to meet Emma Thompson
4) So not excited about the remake of Pride and Prejudice with Keira whats-her-face
5) Would Oscar Wilde be fun at parties or just obnoxious?
6) Has Sally Field done anything lately?
7) John Travolta and Tom Cruise are both weird, but I think Travolta would be more fun at parties.

My immediate response to recent occupants of Speaker's Circle:

I went to Speaker’s Circle today to listen and to watch the team of approximately 10 people, six or so of whom were holding large signs proclaiming that angry women and rock’n’rollers were bound for hell, and the rest rotating in and out of speaking and sign holding.

There I was asked if I was a Bible student. “Yes,” I said warily, not knowing if I was about to be converted by one of the performer’s number. “Well what about 1 Peter 3:15,” the man said as he shook his head at the performers. “…Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give a reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect.”

We looked towards the signs, looking for the gentleness. For the metered tones and for the eagerness in sharing that hope; instead in red letters, 10 inch letters were the words, “judgment,” “sin,” and “hell.”

I went to my class; my skin full of sun and turning pink, sweat running down my neck and back. Afterwards, I returned to Speaker’s Circle, for no other reason than that I did not understand why these performers were so compelled to be there, to yell so strongly.

I did not understand why these people were compelled to say that Jesus was a capitalist. That God was not a God of poverty. That women are supposed to be babymakers, and if they have to work it means that their husband is not a good enough provider. That the hurricane was a judgment on New Orleans.

I went to a religious school for 10 years. In that time I sat through weekly chapels and daily Bible lessons. Still I must have missed the lesson where God endorsed an economic platform and political party. That was probably when I had the chicken pox in 5th grade. Also the lesson on women not having jobs or going to college, since women only exist to procreate and serve at man’s pleasure – that was probably the week that I went to the All-state academic competition. Don’t get me wrong either, I was definitely there for the science class where we studied weather patterns and natural laws of physics – and nowhere in that did we discuss God’s judgment-through-weather clause of interaction with His creation. And as for God being all for material prosperity, well I guess that my check has been lost in the mail.

I am a Christian. Not because I believe God endorses a political platform. In his own day, Christ refused to lead an overthrow of the government, “My kingdom is not of this world,” He said.

I am a Christian. I do not see this as inconsistent to my belief in the equality of the sexes. For in Christ there is neither Jew nor Gentile, nor male nor female.

I am a Christian. Not because I am looking for earthly blessings, Christ never said that His followers would get monetary end-of-the-year bonuses. Rather He encouraged the building of lasting Heavenly treasure which could not be corrupted by rust nor stolen by thieves.

I am a Christian. I am a Christian because I have seen in my life that I am a sinner, and as such have no fellowship with God, but Christ’s sacrifice and moreover His resurrection offer forgiveness and grace in order that I may enter into communion with God. It is not a state I have earned or worked for or deserve, it is a state that I have entered into and continue in by faith.

I do not say these things to the performers in Speaker’s Circle because at some level I feel burdened to try and understand these people, to come to some level ground. It is just as well, I think, that I do not speak from the crowd of hecklers because my voice is not good for yelling and I do not think that the performers know how to listen.

I know I do not speak often here of my faith. But at some point, those of us who earnestly hold a Christian faith must respond to people like these who make, purposefully or not, a mockery of the Church. We must no longer ignore these loud voices so enthralled with passing off weary and worn clichés as doctrine. We must not respond to them in anger or hate or animosity, though at least for me, groups like these are completely baffling and definitely raise my ire. We must instead continue to bear forth Truth in our lives and actions by and through and for the grace that is granted us in Christ Jesus.

A year ago today I was getting on a plane to London. I wanted to remember everything. As I waited in the airport I wrote in my journal.

My family and I cried as we said goodbye and I headed off through airport security. We always cry at airports.

I sat in the chairs at DFW waiting to board my flight to Chicago, and I was a little nervous. But I remembered that my Mom had been about my age when she moved to Germany to be with Dad. I remembered that Grandma Alsup had been over 50 when she left the country for the first time – by herself, that Grandma Hefflinger had moved the family to Saudi Arabia. I thought about these strong women that I come from and I felt better. That's what I wrote about in my journal.

A year ago I was on my way to London.

Now I’m back in Columbia, missing Texas and home, and looking forward to wherever comes next.

An explanation of sorts:

I’ve got this belief that if I throw enough words at a problem maybe I can fix it. Words are a salve. Words are the way I put my finger in the dike to keep the flood from overflowing.

Virginia Woolf said that she wrote to make things whole.

I am no Virginia Woolf, but I think I understand where she was coming from. If I can throw enough words at a problem, something will stick, a solution will be found, understanding gained.

This makes me sound altruistic as a writer. Which, I can assure you is not the case.

A good friend of mine wrote a piece once for our dorm literary magazine about creating art. He said it was like a drug, he was both the dealer and the junkie and he couldn’t produce it fast enough to feed his addiction.

That was how I felt about the saxophone. It is how I feel about writing. The challenge of producing one good sentence, one that will be remembered after the newspaper’s been thrown in the trash is what I enjoy. Still, I don’t write for immortality or fame; I write because everyday I need the high and because I think some good can come of it.

I have the drug on one hand and on the other hand I see that there are a lot of problems in the community, in the world, that are threatening to overflow the embankment. I am compelled to try and make these things better where I can.

A drug and a compulsive behavior ... words are how I try to fix things, for myself and for others.

Rollerskate Skinny

I can't find the moon. Ten till 11 and I can't find the moon. I just want to look at Mars friends. Is the moon not up yet? I don't know. I will be checking again in a half hour or so, providing that I am not asleep.

First week of classes down. Something like 16 weeks till I'm done with college. I told my Mom that it was like the biggest "choose your own adventure" book ever.

Quoting:

"And the world's got me dizzy again. You'd think after 22 years I'd be used to the spin. And it only feels worse when I stay in one place, so I'm always pacing around or walking away." Landlocked Blues, Bright Eyes

"Every writer obsessed with depressing realities knows we are totally draining type to have around. Most of us are rational people - we know ten dollars, or even 3,500 words, is not going to change anybody's life. But until we can supply some meaning to what we are witnessing, we are doomed to reel from the resonances." Red, White and Oh So Blue, Mary Kay Blakely

Strange happenings:

Had my ipod on shuffle today. As it selected melodies from 1,002 options it made a very interesting decision: after playing Bright Eyes', Landlocked Blues it chose to play Emmylou Harris' Boulder to Birmingham. This is only interesting because Harris makes a guest apperance with Connor Oberst on Landlocked Blues - how did the ipod know?

And now a actual discussion that is occurring in the office of whether the magazine will run a controversial cover featuring the confederate flag. Oh yes, I'm serious.

Backstory: The cover feature next week is one that is supposed to be examining the existence of confederate Missouri, looking at the lives and reasons for modern day citizens who support the confederacy, or consider themselves confederates. This could have been a really beautiful narrative piece examing the reasons people need to hang on to causes and purposes, or looking at how people twist history and flags to suit their own ends. As it is, it looks as though it will simply be a piece offering the information that some people in Missouri identify as confederate soldiers.

The debate: This feature will be going on the cover, the most obvious visual image is the confederate flag, and yes people are seriously considering running it big on the cover.

Point: Those in the pro-camp feel we shouldn't shy away from controversy before we've given it a try.
Counterpoint: Those in the opposing camp feel that the story - the narrative, point and writing should be strong enough to justify selling controversy on the cover. At this point the story looks as though it will be an embarrassingly weak effort, barely addressing the amount of conflict surrounding new and old supporters of the confederacy.

My feelings: I hope that I don't have to waste words here reassuring people that I have no problem confronting controversial subjects. However, I see absolutely know point in running the stars and bars on the cover. Though I haven't read the story yet, my understanding is that it is not strong or compelling narrative. Secondly, I don't see a point to riling people up by putting such a controversial image on the cover without a strong justification. Thirdly, I really have a serious problem placing a symbol that is so associated with racism on the cover of a community magazine, particularly one that sells itself as more pithy than serious, more fun and offbeat than concerned with social issues. Whether the flag originally represented racism is moot, as the symbol is now associated with racists groups and sentiments. Fourth, controversy for controversy's sake is always a distasteful and uncouth choice in journalism.

Stay tuned for Monday when we find out what the ones in charge have decided.

What I want (is it really so much to ask?)
1) The student editor who is doing the second read on my feature to finish reading the galleys instead of leaving them for long intervals to handle issues in her department. She could tell her other editor, "If you'll just let me finish this galley, I'll be glad to give you my opinion."
2) A pony
3) For editors to understand the difference between proofreading and trying to over edit the text.
4) For TA's to do it right the first time rather than finding two more things they don't like and wish to change on each new clean draft.
5) Mexican food.
6) For writers to make the changes I have asked them to make before turning in a second draft.
7) To be home at Bag End.
8) For the schedule that says editors are done at 7:30 p.m. on Tuesdays to be taken as a literal deman and not a figuarative suggestion.
9) Clean laundry
10) For people to put two ounces of effort and thought into what they're doing.

Surely I'm not the only one who hates staying here late. This staff needs a union and some brains.

True Story:

Dreading your work place will not make it go away, nor will it diminish the amount of stuff you have to do.

I'll bet you that I'm here until midnight tonight.

I know I haven't written in a bit ... and that's all right.

What I really wanted to say is that though I lose sight of it sometimes, I know that there is truly an astounding amount of goodness in my life.

Not due to any fault of mine. I'm just blessed to be surrounded by good people.

I look at the people in my life, the artists and dancers, the lovers and writers, those who know exactly what they want and those who are still looking.

I thought of my people today as I walked up the steps to a job that I don't fancy where I work with several people for whom I have little admiration or warmth.

I thought of us - the whole ragtag bunch - I do not know where we are headed, but I'm sure we are going with smiles on our faces.

So though I get caught up in work, frustrated by things I can't change and people who can't see past their opportunistic noses, I know that at the end of the day there is still an anchoring point for my life. That the things I hold true and dear, remain, even if I am not always the best keeper of them.

At the end of the day, I will try and remember to say thank you.

The post what I wrote:

These are the words that came to me as I waited in Lee Hills Hall for my friends to call to meet up at the twilight festival.

Picture perfect view in a quiet room with no lights and just my fingers tapping. Peace park, and folks walking and knowing that 9th street is buzzing.

Warm outside, hot and I like it. Windows rolled down, sun roof open and music sounds better in summer. Who was the bassist for Led Zeppelin?

How many thoughts can come and go before the phone rings? Before life calls me from my reverie, here - if a reverie could be had in Lee Hills Hall. And there goes someone with a sizable bare midriff - side to side that is.

Leaving was the hardest thing I had to do, even while driving over the Missouri River in Boonville, I wanted to turn around and go back. As though going back over the miles were going back over time as well.

These are the thoughts what I wrote. Because I haven't written in a month, only edited, tried to direct other writers.

And 22 feels like a lot suddenly, but only cause I'll never go back to the place where I learned to tie my shoes.

And Stevie Wonder just called, so I am off. But this is the post what I wrote on Thursday afternoon.

Time's not getting any shorter, so I guess I better get on down the road.

Remember that time...
This morning I was pulling images off the web for Vox, I needed to get a movie poster from Lord of the Rings from an upcoming article. Scrolling through the various images, I saw Ian McKellan.

And of course, I remembered seeing him in the Christmas Pantomime, “Aladdin,” at the Old Vic in London. Playing on the story of Aladdin, in which the boy finds an enchanted ring, McKellan stepped to the front of the stage to deliver the aside, “One ring to rule them all,” to which the audience burst into applause.

Rainy here and there...
Before I left for London, I told people that I was sure there would be some point at which the novelty wore off and it would simply be a rainy, cold day in a big city. And there was, there were only so many days that you could walk in the drizzle with your collar turned up and think, “Gee, I'm walking in the rain in London.”

So looking out the window at the rain falling in Columbia, I compare it to London. I didn't hear it thunder the entire time I was in Europe. The summer rainstorms are one of my favorite things here. I'm glad to have a porch to watch the storms from before I head off into the world.

Also...
Remind me never to watch an adaptation of a Nicholas Sparks novel, they are all horribly sad.

And so...
I sit in the Vox office and look forward to the day ahead.

"Nothing’s gonna change my world, nothing’s gonna change my world."

We sang along to Rufus Wainwright covering the Beatles’ song. Neither of us looking at each other, both bad at goodbyes. It was nighttime; the Columbia streets were quiet. Across I-70 and into downtown and nothing’s gonna change my world.

A statement and a prayer. Our lives shifting and changing even as we clung to them.

But still, nothing’s gonna change my world.

Speaking of Magnolia Trees:

The one in front of Neff Hall, that valiant Southerner far from home, is still waiting for its blossoms.

Missouri is just at the edge of where magnolia trees can grow. In the South, these trees tower and shade and the white flowers dangle among the dark green leaves. In front of Neff Hall the magnolia tree is shorter, it looks stooped, like it is trying to make the best out of its lot in life.

Speaking of transplanted Southerners:

It’s 74° in Dallas, Texas. I picture that a warm breathy breeze is blowing across the North Texas plains. The stars are out and lights are glowing in the open windows.

There is warmth and the very beginning of the idea of a Texas summer, which is hot, filled with bright sunlight and evening thunder and lightening, but perhaps no rain.

And I want to be in Texas so bad I can taste it. There is something there that centers and grounds me. More than the familiarity of home, more than the place where I grew up. There is space there, room to think and breathe.

Maybe it’s the fact that a day’s drive can lead to the Piney Woods, tall and green, to the rolling hill country with its scrubby trees, could lead to the coast painted in sea greens and blues, could lead to the Davis Mountains. The fact that in all those different places you would still be in Texas, still be home.

Speaking of Summer:

Right now it’s 59° in Columbia and maybe all my longing for Texas is just coming from the fact that I am cold. It really galls me to be able to wear long sleeves in the middle of May. I’m hoping that the heat will get here soon. But until then, I’m going to snuggle in under my blankets and read.

Sitting today we asked each other the same question:

What happens if the sky falls?

And in our own ways we answered.

If the sky falls, we will rebuild it. If the sky falls, we will build a new sky of the jagged pieces. But whether the sky falls, we will continue to dance. Continue to dream. Continue to move always forward.

Here is the edge of earth and sky. It is all changing. Here we stand to meet it.

New centuries tremble with questions, always the same questions. What changes and how shall we help and how shall we be better than those who came before?

In that century, we stood through the War to end all Wars and through the wars that followed. Here we stand in another. And still there are people hungry, people thirsty, people dying because they have no medicine. Against the screaming harpies Hunger, Thirst, Sickness and Poverty, we must stand together. Against those who will not lend able hands to help a brother-sister, we must stand and dance.

This century, five years old, feels tenuous, feels tender and those who follow us ask already in not yet spoken voices what changes and how did you help and how were you better than those who came before?

We who write, those who sew, those who sing, all who build must stand. The scientists, the doctors, the mechanics and the farmers, the actors, the cooks, the legislators and the taxi drivers, nurses and painters, all must stand on the edge of earth and sky and dance.

Move feet, snap fingers, bop heads, shake limbs dance on the edge to spin forward and change. When the changes are terrible and great, those who hope must step forward to dance; when the changes are difficult and good those who entertain, who cook, who comfort must step forward while others rest. Where there is need let us step to meet it.

There are still tyrants, kings and empires willing to steal the ocean’s freely given salt from the people; rulers who would put laws around a birthright.

We will dance to the ocean and take the salt; we will dance through fields and sow a harvest. We will not sell our birthright and we will seek our blessing. Most of all, we will teach those not yet spoken voices to stand on the edge of earth and sky unafraid.

Here on the edge we are dancers.
We who are about to die, dance. We who dance change the world.

1. Pop Quiz:
   
   While loading your two chosen washing machines in the basement laundry room, one of your neighbors comes down and starts loading the third. You and your neighbor’s laundry starts at the same time and thus will be finished at the same time. Ordinarily, this would not be a problem as there are three washers and three dryers to accommodate them; however, on this day, one of the dryers is out of order. Because there are three loads of clean, though wet clothes and two dryers you and your neighbor now have a problem. You decide to:
   
   a) Just take the two dryers and leave the poor sucker to fend for herself when she arrives in the laundry room minutes after you have left.
   b) Consolidate your two loads into one by removing items that you can hang to dry, thus considerately leaving a dryer for your neighbor.
   c) I don’t do laundry and this quiz is irrelevant to me.
   
   If you chose a, then you are my neighbor, who apparently is a thoughtless boob.
   If you chose b, then you are me and are currently sitting in room surrounded by wet T-shirts on hangers and jeans hung over doors because your neighbor, the thoughtless boob, took the only available dryers for her clothes.
   If you chose c, then you are gross and I can do little to help you.

So much cooler than you:

So I’m at Shakespeare’s today with a couple friends and who should be in front of us but the one and only, Jacqui Bana-what, otherwise known as the Pulitzer Prize winner and general writing guru at the J-school.
These are the pearls of wisdom she imparted to us:

1) She danced while ordering her pizza. She danced while paying for her pizza. We should all dance more often.
2) She said that veggie pizza was “all-girl pizza.”
3) She also said that we should just get beers and dance.

Clearly a woman after my own heart.

The fates are smiling:

Kids, I got an e-mail today that made me squeal. No really, squeal. Grupo Fantasma is playing a concert in Columbia. April 15. Music Café.

I covered this band last year for Adelante. They will rock your face off, even if you don’t speak Spanish. 12 piece band, wicked percussion and horns. This band grooves constantly. It is not to be missed. I expect to see all of you there.

Second, Klezmerica at Mojos this Friday and the Decembrists on Monday at the Blue Note. And Of Montreal will be at Mojos on April 22.

Could life get better? Clearly not.

I’m out. I’ve got some tunes on the stereo and I’ve got to dance.

G.T.T. Y'all.

Looking for a few laughs?

To good not to share, if you have a few moments follow the link and click on "Loose Lion":

http://nbc17.feedroom.com/iframeset.jsp?ord=581053

Apparently, this zoo in Japan wants to be ready should an animal ever escape. After watching the drill it's clear that their zoo staff is top notch.

It made me laugh. A lot.

What you probably didn’t know...

1) When trying to decide on my name my Mother really loved the name Ellen, but my Dad said that Ellen Alsup had too many l’s. They also really liked the name Jennifer and were pretty set on it until the doctor told them that everyone in Houston was naming their daughters Jennifer. So they went with Sara and liked how Elizabeth sounded with it.

2) I actually do answer to the name Elizabeth because that’s what my Dad has always called me.

3) I have a little scar under my chin from when I slipped on the blacktop while playing ring-around-the-rosy. I had to have stitches. When we got to the doctor’s office the nurse/receptionist person said that I sure must have hurt the pavement when I fell. I still think this is a rather stupid statement and not really what any child wants to hear.

4) I’ve wanted to be a writer since Mrs. Brumet’s second-grade class. I decided that if reading were so much fun then writing would have to be even better. My poem, “Tea with the Dragons,” was published in the second-grade anthology. I illustrated it myself. Copies available upon request.

5) About the time I was in middle-school, I decided that writing was too personal a medium and so I focused on music.

6) The first chapter book I read was, “The Boxcar Children.” I can remember laying on our tan and brown couch in our house in Houston and being almost too excited to open the book. I felt incredibly accomplished when I was done.

7) In second-grade, Gaston called me monkey-face. I am still a little ticked off about this. And I hate the name Gaston.

8) In about fourth grade I got really mad at my parents for something (probably for asking me to do my chores) and told them, “Fine. I’ll be my own woman when I’m 18 and then I can do what I want.” (This was because I had learned that the government considers you an adult with rights at 18) The morning of my 18th birthday, when my Mom heard me coming down the stairs, she put the song “I am Woman hear me Roar, in numbers to big to be ignored,” on the stereo and then cooked me breakfast. It’s one of my best mornings.

9) For most of my childhood I was extremely allergic to cats. If I got anywhere near a cat my nose would start to run, I would start to itch and my eyes would swell up. I still get nervous around cats.

This is the most excited I've ever been about an article in the Missourian:

http://www.digmo.com/news/story.php?ID=11981

Honestly Ridiculous

This morning I woke up and hated everything in my closet. Not a single thing to wear. None of it.

I spent around 30 minutes trying on clothes, different tops with different pants, occasionally perusing my shoe options only to end up in the same sweater I started off in, albeit, with a different pair of jeans.

When I wore a uniform to school, this never happened. I had two choices of shirts, one skirt, two pants. Aside from the fact that I can never learned to coordinate anything that wasn't white, blue, khaki or gray plaid, I've gotta say that the uniforms were much easier.

Ridiculous.

Okay, well. I lied. There was one thing in my closet that I wanted to wear. My lovely summer dress with a lovely summer sandal. (The green dress with a robin-egg blue floral print and lining. It's sleeveless, with a high waist. And looks like it came straight from the 1950s...oh it just makes my heart flutter. Ooo, and if I could just find a delicate blue shoe, I would simply be the cat's meow.) But I just didn't think that would be pratical. I did, at least, resist the urge to try it on. Perhaps this afternoon...

I think I will wear my Methodist coat to make up for this morning's wardrobe woes.

House Cleaning, an introspective, journal type entry:

It seems like I’m always leaving Texas…I hope that someday I’ll be back here for more than a few weeks or months at a time. But before I come back to Columbia there are some thoughts I need to clean out, just so I can have a fresh start there.

London was one of the best decisions I have ever made. I’ll be honest, in a lot of ways I went to London because I needed to be out of Columbia for awhile. And it’s only been with in the past 3 months that I’ve really been ready to come back. That being said, I’m excited to see the people I’ve been missing and to be starting with a nearly clean slate.

FARC is really the only home I’ve ever known in Columbia. I didn’t live in FARC my freshman year – but there was one night in winter. I came out of Loeb Hall after a band rehearsal. It was cold, crisp and getting late. As I walked past the front doors and windows of FARC, I could see that the lobby was darkened and Jim Widner and his combo were playing to a packed house. I could hear the music and I stood in the cold and listened. To see one of the biggest musical influences in my life, playing to a group of people my age…the smile on the band’s faces, looking at everyone gathered... I stood there for a long time, wishing that I could be walking into McDavid and calling it home. I was so jealous, and I just stood there, feeling like that’s where I should have been. Eventually I walked on back to 528 Hudson Hall, but I didn’t leave easily.

I got so lucky…I didn’t want to teach a FIG, I wanted to be a CA over in Johnston. But I landed in FARC…exactly where I belonged. For two years, one of the best feelings I had was coming down the hill from the quad, seeing McDavid and knowing I was coming home.

FARC is different now, of course, and in a good way, I’m sure. Because it belongs now to different people, who are creating and living and sharing themselves and investing in a community. Because more than the community goals or the building, it is the people who make it an amazing place to live.

Some of the most important relationships in my life are ones that started in the hallways of McDavid.

Tennyson wrote, “I am a part of all that I have met.” So, I like to believe that my experience in FARC is as much a part of the building as it is a part of me.