Let’s come to the table and talk – Seriously folks, I want a discussion here.
In this age of instant information we have been able to watch the families of the West Virginia miners sit vigil, experience the jubilation of a hope fulfilled and descend into grief and anger after the initial report of the miner’s survival was found to be incorrect.
I watched the story unfold on the 24-hour news networks. For around two hours the networks relayed the unconfirmed reports that the miners were alive. One source from the Red Cross said that she first heard the initial report when she was contacted by a media outlet. After hearing this report, she made her way to the mine site.
It is now being reported that no official source relayed the report of survival to the families, but that they received the information from a mine employee via a cell phone.
My questions to journalists and non-journalists are the following:
1)Do journalists bear any responsibility for the information failure that occurred during the mine tragedy?
2)If so, did the pressure to bring the most recent, if not accurate, information to the public, thus keeping pace with their competitors in the news market contribute to the continued relaying of false information?
3)What safeguards could journalists have put in place to guard against the spread of inaccurate information?
4)Many of the on-site reporters spoke of the “euphoria” that swept through the crowd. Do journalists have a responsibility to not be swept up in the enthusiasm? That is, should journalists distance themselves emotionally in order to report cautiously and clearly?
5)Does a reporter’s emotional involvement in a story contribute or lead to shoddy reporting?
6)Journalists were not allowed close to the church or close to the mine site. Should they have had greater access to the site of the story? Would this have made a difference in how the story was reported?
Enough questions? I won’t ask anyone to answer them without answering myself.

1)Yes, I believe the press bears some culpability for the spread of misinformation. In one instance last night, I watched the news networks go from reporting the likely identity of the first miner that was found, to reporting as though it had been confirmed the identity of the miner. It was my impression that as one network reported the likely, but unconfirmed identity of the first miner that the other networks simply “borrowed” the reporting from other media outlets. Eventually, it was reported as coming from the AP even though the niece of the miner was still saying that the identity had not yet been confirmed. It is my impression that this spread of information from network to network happened multiple times last night, despite the lack of official confirmation from the mine company or the governor of the reports of survivors. As one network reported information, other networks seemed to pick it up as well.

2)There is a tremendous race by the news outlets to be the first with information. This is seen quite clearly in the broadcast side of things. Unfortunately, the race to be first in the market with a story sometimes leads to the reporting of inaccurate information. (Such as when Fox News and other outlets called the state of Florida before all the polls were closed in the 2000 election). I believe the race to be first also leads to the great amount of speculation and interpretation that occurs on the news networks in order to maintain continuous coverage on the major stories, often from reporters who are unqualified to comment intelligently on the subject because of a lack of expertise in the matter. The problem with journalists speculating on air or in print is that we tell the public that we report accurate information. Because of our position as information hunter-gatherers the public trusts us to have confirmed our reports with more knowledgeable sources. When we make off- the-cuff comments, stemming from our own opinions we violate that public trust.

3)One of the first things I heard as a reporter was this adage, “If your mother says she loves you, check it out.” There is tremendous value in confirming information from multiple sources possessing expert information. I have heard it proposed this morning that the best way to report this would have been to attribute the report to the families in order to remove the news outlet from the “hook” of inaccurate reporting. To attribute reports to sources is not primarily a way to hedge the news outlet’s bets. Reports should be attributed in order to provide the public with the most accurate information and to demonstrate the sourcing of the story in order to show that the journalists was not making it up out of whole cloth. Had journalists displayed caution and restraint in reporting the story, saying that reports were being heard from family members, though not from official sources as they tried to confirm the story from official sources it would have been better than reporting primarily heavily on the emotion or jubilation of the community. Secondly: Do your own reporting, do your own reporting, do your own reporting. Period. Don’t take your reporting from other journalists or outlets, try and confirm the story yourself. Thirdly, place a higher value on accuracy and truth than on being first with the story. It is good to report quickly, but it is most important that the information be correct.

4)I believe that objectivity is a myth. I believe that when a journalist cuts him or herself off emotionally from a story an important element is lost. A personal connection, an empathy is lost when journalists place themselves completely apart and separate from the rabble of the emotions of the story. News does not happen in a vacuum, journalists become a piece, a sliver of the story despite their best intentions at objectivity. Journalists must acknowledge their own biases, experiences and limitations in approaching a story. Although I think that complete objectivity is unattainable, accuracy and truthfulness is completely within the journalist’s grasp. We must report the facts, not our opinions and speculations. As journalists, we stand in for the public, we are the self-appointed eyes and ears of the nation. We have an obligation and a duty to report what we witness, not what we believe or hope or desire. We are human beings and fallible, prone to emotion and hope. But in the public trust of journalism, emotion must be tempered with wisdom and discretion.

5)Sometimes, yes. Emotion can lead to bad reporting. I feel comfortable saying that every journalist on that scene wanted a happy ending. Wanted to be able to report a success. I’m not sure that I would have reported the story any differently than they did last night. It is a sad example of reporting the story that was wanted, rather than finding the story that existed.

6)My understanding of the access allowed to the journalists is incomplete, but it seems as though they were some distance from where the events were occurring. There are many reasons to keep journalists out of a specific area – to control the spread of information, to protect the safety of both journalists and rescue workers (the thought being that valuable resources could be used to keep bumbling reporters from hurting themselves or getting in the way.) But, journalists are professionals, with a specific and important job to do. If it were possible that a small press corps could have been placed closer to the scene, I believe it might have helped the real story – that reports had not been confirmed, that reports were false – get to the public faster.

The question of whether the news media “blew the story” has just been posed by Fox News, nearly 12 hours after their correspondent broke the incorrect information. It has taken 12 hours for the news media to even acknowledge that it may have some responsibility for the misinformation.
Journalism proclaims itself the watchdog of democracy, journalists find themselves in a position of authority. But that authority is lost, the public trust is breached when we report false and inaccurate information. I heard an interview from a scholar of journalism who said that journalists may see themselves as a type of priest in a sacred order. I am no priest. I don’t believe that journalism is an inherently precious or sacred thing. If anything gives a noble air to journalism, if anything hallows the newsroom it is the communities we serve. It is the trust placed in daily newspapers. The promise that journalists will provide accurate information that will help our communities.
I would like to close with a few words of the journalist’s creed penned by Walter Williams.
…I believe that the public journal is a public trust; that all connected with it are, to the full measure of their responsibility, trustees for the public; that acceptance of a lesser service than the public service is a betrayal of this trust.
I believe that clear thinking and clear statement, accuracy and fairness are fundamental to good journalism.
Journalism has no internal board of standards, no governing body to hand down ethics and instructions. All we have is the trust that may be placed in our word. Any journalist, any news outlet, is only as good as their name. And the title of journalist is one that presupposes a commitment to truth and accuracy.

P.S. Just now, in a story on Fox News that was discussing media culpability, a judge acting as a commentator said that we may see the first instances of an emotional distress suit against media outlets as a result of this story. The journalists reply was “We didn’t start the rumor.”
To report inaccurately is offensive, but to not take full responsibility for it is inexcusable. By not owning up to factual errors, journalists further violate the public trust.

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.

Timely Thoughts, or two seemingly unrelated themes united by brief refrences to the Underground.

Thought 1)
It is the end of another year and I am astounded by how much distance I have covered.

How do we ever manage to find the people we make our lives with – we get a leg up with our family, because if we’re lucky we don’t have to find them. But all the other people – the people who go bowling with us, the ones who cook us mac’n’cheese after a few drinks, the one’s who know any number of inane facts about us and who love us all the same – how do we ever, ever find them. How is that you can wake up suddenly and someone who is on the periphery of your life is suddenly one of the most important people in your world, while someone you pinned some dreams to is gone without a word, leaving only some questions? And how is it that some people are supposed to be in our lives forever and others only for as long as a trip on the subway? Why is it that sometimes the people we thought were forever end up getting off at the next stop?

We fold people into our lives, we take them with us and vice versa. And somehow it all works out. All of the folding and traveling and distance and storms and we change with each other, and sometimes we part ways, but if we are lucky we move forward. It is such a gift.

Thought 2)
It is the end of another year and time is a funny, funny thing. See – we tend to think of time as a constant natural law – like gravity, but its not. When you look at the stars you’re seeing light that started traveling towards the earth years ago. That same star you’re looking at could have died ages ago – the news just hasn’t reached us yet.

Maybe time is just a way of trying to make sense of the way life changes. I’m not the same person I was a year ago – but it wasn’t time that changed me. Life happens without a calendar. Go out and shake the world without getting hung up on time.

(I think it was Jim Elliot that wrote, “Wherever you are, be all there.” I get so wrapped up in thinking about what comes next that I miss the moment I’m in. And I really believe that every moment is valuable – the subway is an excellent place to learn this.)

And even though time isn’t a constant – we can’t go back and we can’t change it. There are no do-overs.

What do you want? Because whatever it is, it is not going to knock on your door and ask if you are ready. Does life happen to you, or do you happen to life? What have you got to lose? Go out and shake the world.

So tonight marks another year. “Good luck, exploring the infinite abyss.”

Just when it feels like my feet are finally starting to know their way around this city, I find that it's nearly time for me to head back home. I'm excited about that, but I know I want more time in this city - in this country. Who knows, maybe I'll read law at Oxford and join the inns of court?

So here's my A to Zed of London - or at least how I perceive it tonight.

A: Allsop or Alsop - which is how my name is always misspelled over here. The second "L" I've seen before, but the "O" is a new variation. Allsop is also the name of a very successful real estate company over here.

B: Barbican - the crazy, industrial chic part of London that I work in. It landed itself on a list of "Ugliest Areas in London" earlier this year. But it's not bad.

C: Colin Firth. Who Jo and I happened to run into at Leicester Square at the same time we saw Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgewick. We're not a crazy celebrity stalkers, we just wanted to buy tickets to a musical and the London Film Festival just happened to be going on right across from the ticket booth.

D: Dancing at the Mean Fiddler up near Tottenham Court Road. Dance Contest. Strobe lights. London hipsters. The Clash's "London Calling" on the stereo.

E: E-mails with Blythe, Tim and Jo in the downtimes at our internships. These people are some of the smartest, funniest, insightful and passionate people I know. From discussing the presidential election and press coverage to learning fun facts from world fact books - these kids make me smile everyday.

F: Foyles book store - one of the best finds.

G: Great Ormond Street Hospital - did you know that the royalties from the sales of J.M. Barrie's "Peter Pan" go to this children's hospital. Go buy a copy - now!

H: Hogarth Road - with it's hotels, flats, Asian grocery stores and some good take-away places. Home.

I: Internship at the Methodist Recorder. Which has had it's ups and downs, but have made me more sure than ever about what I aspire to be as a journalist.

J: Jam - Blythe and Jo know what I'm talking about. Jam the bane of my existence.

K: King's Cross Station and the night we tried to see the Decemberists, but it was sold out so we walked down to the Thames and found a crazy bowling alley.

L: Lectures - lots of class lectures. The worst one was the one about Prehistoric England. Also the Laundrette - with it's slightly mean attendants.

M: Millenium Bridge - which I must say, is one of my favorite spots in London. St Paul's Cathedral on one side, the Tate Modern and Globe on the other and a really pretty bridge.

N: Notting Hill - well really the pub in Notting Hill that also has live jazz every Sunday afternoon. Also - George Orwell use to live there.

O: Oxford - the college town where I ate at the Eagle and Childe (where C.S. Lewis and Tolkien hung out) and Oxford Street - as in I'm going to go look at stuff I can't buy on Oxford Street.

P: Seeing "The Producers" in its first London run. Also seeing Nathan Lane reprise his starring role on Broadway as Max Bialystock after Richard Dreyfuss pansied out.

Q: Professor Quirell from the first Harry Potter book. The president of the Methodist Conference looks like Quirrell in the movie - it's freaky.

R: The Russian restaurant near Harrod's - Borscht and Tears, baby. Complete with live Russian music - even songs about freezing to death.

S: St. Bride's Church on Fleet Street. The church that is historically associated with journalists. I will say that one of my best memories from London will come from this church.

T: Trafalgar Square by night - I think this could be my favorite sight in London.

U: The Underground is a warm and happy place, like a womb.

V: Victoria and Albert. Victorian architecture. Statues of Queen Victoria everywhere.

W: Wesley. John Wesley. Founder of Methodism - whom I feel a lot closer too after my sojourn at the Methodist Recorder. We ran a full length column the other day dealing entirely with the subject of whether he was a vegetarian - whether or not an old, dead guy was a vegitarian. Hard hitting news, folks, hard hitting.

X: "Xenophobia" as in I have seen the word "xenophobia" in newspapers over here way more than I ever have in the states.

Y: Young directors giving lectures on the Globe theatre. Young directors with dark hair and eyes. Dreamy young directors. Nuff said.

Z: Zed - as in no one says "Z" here, it's always zed.

Edinburgh

Can I say I love art? Cause I do.

Saw "Three Tahitians" by Paul Gaugain today - part of one of my favorite group of paintings ever. I just about had a fit - okay - I did have a fit when I saw it. The colours. The warmth. The fact that one of the figures has their back turned. Goodness - it's good.

Low key weekends are also fantastic. As are happybooks.

Train rides. Rugged hikes. Clean hostels. Good food. Pints. Beautiful cities. The ocean. Bagpipes. All things that are rocking my socks off.

What a blessing this entire time has been!!

Next weekend - Paris. Quite Shortly... The World!!!!

Estoy aqui.

I am in Madrid. I am leaving on Friday and I am already thinking about how to get back here.

My Spanish isn´t great, but being able to communicate with people is thrilling.

Yesterday, an old Spainard and I talked about bullfights. Mostly he talked and I listened. But I understood and that is a gift beyond words.

I'm off to Spain tomorrow for the mid-term break.

Those of you reading this should know that I am excited out of my mind. But in case you didn't - I'm excited out of my mind.

Sun. Spanish. Good Food. Good Company. Really - do you need anything else in life. No. I'm so glad you agree.

Rather than be the girl who never updates, here you go...

Post-o-Wonders 0r random meanderings through my mind:

1) I saw an American company perform "Death of a Salesman" - it was. It was. I've made my peace with it since the last time I threw myself into it.

2) I bought some colored pencils. And a little green journal with blank pages. Sometimes in the evening I write and then doodle in the margins with colored pencils.

3) I've decided I should be the boss - eventually.

4) I've also come to other conclusions. You know that moment when you realize that you've been going in a completely opposite direction than you ought. That's a good moment. I had it the other day and I danced.

5) My mom sent me some pictures - three of which were all taken on the same day - and that day is one of my best days of my entire life. Looking at the pictures is almost like being there again. So thanks to Mel, John Doe, Sam and Jon for now appearing in pictures on my wall (P.S. Jenny - you would be there too, but you left before we got the camera out)

6) My parents make me really happy.

7) I saw the ocean yesterday. I smelled the ocean yesterday. That was the best part of yesterday.

8) Old church ladies are the same everywhere - from Dallas to Dublin, they all encourage you to "join them after service for coffee and biscuits." Coffee in the crypt of ChristChurch Cathedral, no less.

9) It's a bad moment when you think "Alright tasty veggies - who wants to come home with me," in the grocery store. It's worse if you say it out loud.

10) I should find some coffee. And a cake. And that should happen...now.

I get off at the Barbican stop, walk past Nagshead Court and up Golden lane to my office. It's an a quieter part of the city, out east of everything. My office has a baby blue door and green carpeting. When 3.00 rolls around it's tea time - milk and sugar please. And occasionally there are chocolate biscuits. There is also quiet - the Methodist Recorder doesn't have the same frenzy as a daily paper.

Last week I saw Hamlet performed by the Royal Shakespeare Company - from the time the first person came on stage till Horatio's "Good night sweet prince, and angels sing thee to thy rest," I had tears in my eyes. To see it staged, see the intricacies of the plot - Hamlet's transformation from grieving son to young leader, Ophelia's descent to madness, Queen Gertrude's repentance, the King's villiany and Horatio's truest friendship. It was like hearing music for the first time - that same wonder and astonishment.

I know that the four months I'm planning to spend here will be far too short.

But London's not going anywhere - right?

You can take the girl out of Texas, but she's quite keen on London...Besides, I did happen to find a place that flies the Texas flag here, so I figure I'm in a good place.

I am mostly recovered from jet lag. Air India's customer service philosophy is "the customer is god." If I were god though, why would I be flying on an airplane? Clearly a question to think through.

London...

It is dense and wonderful. It truly is a city that moves and lives and has a life all it's own. It feels comfortable.

Notably today, me and some lovely companions rode on the London Eye - the large ferris wheel. The LARGEST ferris wheel in all the world.

At first I was a bit apprehensive, as I don't fancy heights and have never been on a ferris wheel.

But it was beyond amazing to sit on top of London, looking from St. Paul's dome to Big Ben and the Houses of Parliment. To see it sprawl below.

I live here. And at night, I can feel the tube (subway) train as it rumbles on the tracks beneath my kitchen window. In the morning I turn back the curtain and see the hotel with it's hanging flower baskets across the street, and see parents walking their children to school. And I am home.

Today I am going to London.

But it was a summer - everything that a summer should be. Everything that I needed.

I saw elephants in a cornfield. And I caught fireflies. There is a difference between existing and living of which elephants and fireflies are only a small part.

There were fried green tomatoes, Texas thunderstorms, and the cool sanctuary of a familiar church. There was a family that is amazing and strong and beautiful. Home.

And there was life. There was life waiting to be had. It doesn’t always wait – but this time it did, fortunately.

That was my summer. Full of quiet and whispered realizations about what’s important and what falls away. If I had talked any louder the quiet would have fled in an incalculable loss.

Today I am going to London. But I’ll be thinking about elephants and fireflies. And home.

So I’m off then. But, I’ll be back soon enough – “Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise.” I’ll be back soon enough.

What I take with me

My brother told me to always remember that there is someone out there who wants it more than you, will work harder than you, will fight harder than you.

My Dad told me never to look a gift horse in the mouth. And he taught me how to sing, “This is the day the Lord has made, I will rejoice and be glad in it.”

And my Mom told me not to let my ears start itching. (This is not in regard to bathing habits.)

That’s the most valuable advice I’ve gotten in my life and I carry it very close to my heart.

Sleeping with Prufrock

Life twists in unexpected ways so I feel as though my feet are already off the ground with one week left here in familiarity growing increasingly unintelligible.

One week till...London, four months till...home, less than that till...the rest of my life.

"And time yet for a hundred indecisions/ and for a hundred visions and revisions/ before the taking of toast and tea." The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot

Where are those damnable mermaids and will they ever sing for me?

Flashback and explanation
I was a substitute teacher yesterday at my high-school - two 10th grade Bible classes and one freshman study hall.

It's somewhat strange for me to go back to First Baptist Academy. As it is always strange to return to one's past and roots. But important to look back and remember. I can't say enough good things about the teachers, both academically and personally, that I had at the Academy. And if you really want to understand where I come from - FBA would be a prime place to start.

Sometimes there's a pretty interesting dynamic in private religious schools. It's hard to explain...and it's very easy to laugh at. I guess one fair way to look at it is that it's essentially like every high school -with it's share of cliques and dramas and teenage angst, but then it's got this whole spiritual element to it that, to some extent, heightens all situations.

I don't often write on this blog about my personal faith. In fact this is probably the most I've ever written about anything related to Christianity. I also rarely volunteer to share either my personal testimony or a testimony of "how the Lord is working in my life" - in fact I can recall only one time that I have spoken up volunteerily in a group setting about how a particular event affected me. And I still consider it a story worth sharing and occasionally I tell it and the whole thing happened in remote Alaska - no kidding.

Most of that attitude stems from my experiences and observations from my high-school and my youth group involvement. For many kids in that type of setting, it is almost a contest to see who can share the most dramatic testimony or show that the Lord is clearly doing more work in their lives than anyone else's. Who can lead a prayer, who can lead a song. The hottest guys at summer camp are the ones that have felt called to the ministry. Testimonies that rely upon the emotional roller coaster that you can lead the audience through.

I have always eschewed arguments which rely upon emotion, simply because emotion comes and goes and is not so sturdy a thing as to build a life upon. And as for me, well, I've always been of the mind that my actions ought tell my faith and heart more accurately and eloquently than words. At times, my actions have miserably failed to speak of my faith - and this too is a testimony of my state.

And quite frankly, it also comes from the fact that I don't fancy public speaking and I tend to be a very guarded person. I don't wear my heart on my sleeve, particularly when it comes to my personal life. And that's at least one of the reasons why I don't write about my faith a whole lot on this blog.

I've written myself out. It's just an explanation, I guess. Doctrinally, my beliefs haven't changed that much over the years. But I've grown up a bit and seen more of life, and so my faith has grown up a bit as well. Funny how that works.

Sometimes I fear that I say too little of my faith, that I am too guarded with it, and too private about it. But it is deeply important to me, and I would say, the best thing in my life.

When I first met my editor at the Missourian she asked me about my family.

"Do you have any siblings?" she asked.

"A brother, about 13 years older," I said.

"Tell me about him," she said.

"Well. Everyday he's my hero," I told her. "Everyday."

And this is why.

"I could go on and on….Thinking of these things makes me realize that it “Rocks my face off” that I am such a good brother. "

Jimmy - my bro sent me an e-mail today. It read like this:

"Just read your Blog which you finally updated. It was ok, except for the fact that there was no mention of me. I think you should Blog about how good a brother I am. How I set the bar so amazingly low that you look good (probably better than you really are) by comparison and how I didn’t beat you for watching David Letterman in my bed while you ate crackers when you should have been asleep. Also…how I handled mom and dad having children 14 years apart (which was an alternative lifestyle then), and how I never did anything really bad to you even though you could be irritating when you were young (and will grow out of it soon, I hope).
Also…how I was a “Brother Reader” and read “Horton Hatches an Egg” to your kindergarten class. Also, How I didn’t beat you when you would wave at the people selling flowers at I-45 and 1960 and they would walk over to the car (back then, kids could sit in the front seat in their car-seats). Also…how I used to drive with the sunroof and windows open in the car because you liked it…even if it were 212 degrees. "

It's true - I did eat crackers in his bed. Although I don't know about the irritating bit. I still like to drive with the windows down and the sunroof open in the Texas heat. I no longer wave to the vagrants selling flowers on the highway - but if it pushed Jimmy's buttons I probably would if we were riding together.

Yeah, as big brothers go, I'd say I got pretty lucky.

Summer Reading:
The books I’ve read:
Reading Lolita in Tehran – excellent, hard to fathom that it’s non-fiction
A Wrinkle in Time – Yet again, but it’s a great
A Wind in the Door – A wee book, but great ideas
Into Thin Air – About a doomed Mt. Everest expedition, grim but interesting
We Were the Mulvaneys – Biggest waste of time ever. Ever. Ever.
The World According to Garp – A little wacky, but definitely worth it.
A Widow for a Year – My least favorite John Irving that I’ve read- too far reaching and unbelievable.
Ten Minutes from Normal – Yes, this is Karen Hughes memoir. No, I don’t agree with everything she says – particularly about Bush. But, a really interesting read about a highly successful woman who tried to put her family first in everything she did.
The Poisonwood Bible – Really excellent, well written. Falls into one of my favorite books category.
Secret Garden, Secret Window – the novella by Stephen King that the movie Secret Window was taken from.

The books I’m still working on and hope to finish before London:
Absalom, Absalom – Beautiful.
Eats, Shoots and Leaves – Grammar beware.

The Flaming Lips said, “happiness makes you cry,” and I say that life is a series of adaptations.

Tonight is a night in which I will turn out my light and stare sleeplessly at my ceiling and rather than find satisfaction in the silence feel only the vapid sucking of time past my window.

I’m working up to a good cry – I can sense it like animals sense the atmospheric changes preceding a tornado.

Not a sad cry, or a mad cry – just a long-over-due-completely-irrational-making-sure-my-tear-ducts-are-working cry.

Ch-Ch-Changes…are coming my way in the form of a couple of plane tickets and a key to a flat. And all London really means to me tonight is a place on the far side of familiar.

Worry has been my struggle lately. Worry in the form of a rather nasal voice that belongs to the skinny, middle-aged librarian that works in the archives in the back of my mind and wears orthopedic shoes everyday.

She points her finger and says, “Everything bad that can happen, will happen, to the people you love while you are away across the ocean.”

“Shut up you old bag, your shoes are ugly, your face is pinched and you smell of moth balls and dust and stale cellar air,” I say.

Then she gets huffy and bustles off to reorganize a file cabinet. She’ll be back, I owe her a paycheck. Still. By that time, I may be on my way.

People say time flies, and I agree that happiness makes your face awfully wet.

Knickers in an Uproar
 
Last night I laughed so hard  that I had tears streaming down my face.  I guess that's what happens when you get my mom and I and my aunt and two cousins together.

Yesterday I got massive quantites of water up my nose doing underwater flips with my 11 year old cousin.  We also made amazing salsa.

The week before I was in Austin watching my 15/16 ish cousin play some wicked volleyball - she can take your head off.

In short, my family rocks my face off!   I'm so glad they're here.

 

Hello Blog, I've missed you.
I haven't written anything in a while - not a blog, not letters or e-mails, not even very many journal entries. I guess I'm still looking for words.

But I feel as though if I don't start writing again soon I'll just get flabby.

A while ago...

In eighth grade we had to memorize Emma Lazarus' "New Colossus." "Bring me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breath free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door."

I wish I remembered it all. I realized last week that I was born with the American Dream in my tightly closed fist. That I have never had to look for it because I am a favored daughter of the lady with the lamp.

Last week I talked with a woman who lived in fear of her life for over 30 years all the time looking for her entrance to this free land. Land of the Pilgrim's pride, where my father's died, but not her's.

She, orphaned at 15. She, waiting for her chance and that of her family's. She, wearing now only to church the brightly colored sari's of Sri Lanka.

Land where I've never questioned my freedoms but worn them as peacock feathers in my cap.

"The first year I was here, I did not like the fireworks because of the sound," she said, miming the action of a machine gun with her arms.

She told me of a church and a bomb and a world where her family was singled out because of their faith. She told me this as we watched fireworks light the sky above the Wal-Mart Garden Center. She knowing that her two children and the rest of the family were watching the same fireworks - safe and sound. Later they would share the watermelon she took home with her.

"I like them now," she said, smiling as she saw the red and green and white explosions. "It is peaceful here."

And I looked in my hand and saw the dream and freedoms I have taken for my birthright. And I looked in her face and saw only gratitude for the life that was peaceful here.

To see the fourth day of the seventh month through an immigrant's eyes is an experience which humbles.

"El sueno Americano es para todos," said President Bush, addressing the national council of La Raza. "The American Dream is for everyone."

Only when I looked at Philo. Only when I heard her story. Did I realize how true a statement that is. Only when I looked at Philo - who reached out and grabbed the dream.

...And the lesser light to govern the night.

The moon was beautiful tonight. Full and clean and very bright. And I was glad of it.

So much cooler than you

My friend Ann is officially, the coolest girl ever. She rocks, hardcore. She will rock your socks off and you won't know what hit you.

My phone's on vibrate for you, too.

Oh yeah, baby. Rufus Wainwright, performing live on my voicemail. I felt like I was there for just a second.

Ann - she's hot(tttt) with five t's.

More than a week ago I wrote that I was waiting to be sure of what I know. There’s been a lot of upheaval in the past several days. Little sleep and lots of bad coffee. And I am much closer to being “grown-up,” than I was before.

If I wait until I am sure of what I know then I will never write again. There must be some aspect of faith in one’s life. And sometimes that requires a step without knowing…

Knowing. Living. It all requires some amount of faith. A small amount of trust that the sun will also rise and you with it.

At six years old, a child may think that her heart is actually heart-shaped. And why not? The two people the child loves and trusts most in the world, the people she places her six year old faith in have named two semi-circles and a peak a heart.

It is sad to hear a six year old voice say, “I thought my heart was heart-shaped.” To know that her heart has become to her merely the lump of muscle that resides in her chest.

And for some children, this is the first small test of faith.

A child’s faith in a loved one’s words. What else could a heart be but that which we draw and color on scraps of paper? What does it mean if a heart is not actually two semi-circles and a peak? When one is six, the heart is for loving and believing and hoping. The heart, for a child, might be the principle organ of faith.

What is lost when a child’s heart becomes to them only a round, fist-sized organ?

It may take some years, but she may find the heart truly is something for wishes and dreams and faith. A force of strength that may guide according to the love it holds. What’s the old line…where your treasure is, there also your heart.

For some adults, this is both the test and the restoration of child-like faith. Belief which looks past the immediate and hopes for things unseen. A heart which trusts its treasure.

Of this I am sure. This I know.

Until further notice...
"Listen, to live is to be marked. To live is to change, to acquire the words of a story, and that is the only celebration we mortals really know."

"I may have to stop talking again, until I can be sure of what I know." ~ Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible

I haven't updated in over week. It's not for lack of trying. So, gentle reader, rather then leave you in suspense, I'm just saying that productivity is down.

I'll continue to write, and when it's coherent - I'll put it up for your enjoyment (and your criticisms - which I tend to prefer). Let's just say I'm acquiring the words to the story. Stories.

And there are several rolling around up there - stories of elephants and mushrooms and other pieces of life crammed into dusty corners and gathering cobwebs.

Maybe I'm just waiting till I'm sure of what I know. Soon though. Soon.

"I love thee to the level of everyday's most quiet need, by sun and candle-light." Sonnets from the Portuguese, Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Posted by Hello

On a sunny Saturday, two young women – freshmen at the University of Missouri – sat at a kitchen table in a house in Barnhart, Missouri drinking coffee.

Glad to be away from classes for the weekend, the ladies relaxed in their pajamas in front of the kitchen window.

“Oh, do you see that little box of house down there,” said Jana, the one who had invited her roommate to come home with her. “The one just down there at the bottom of the hill?”

The white house at the bottom of the hill was beyond tiny. Just four walls enclosing four rooms. It had a gracious front porch that looked out to a garden that seemed almost bigger than the house itself.

Jana knew the family that lived there – the father had passed away the year before, when Jana and one of the boys had been seniors at Crystal City High. There were eight kids in all, and only two were still under the family roof. The mother was a tough old bird who worked long hours at Steak ‘n’ Shake to take care of her boy in college and her son still at home.

“Yes, I see it,” said her friend. She was from Raytown, the eldest of five children and the first in her family to attend college. The daughter of a TWA pilot and an Illinois farm girl, she was studying to be an elementary school teacher, but spent lots of time playing bridge and drinking coffee in the Union.

“Well those people can cram more people into that house for barbecues and get-togethers than you could ever imagine,” said Jana. “They practically pour out of the house and on to the porch and into the lawn.”

“But the house is so small – how could they possibly fit two people, much less ten or fifteen?” said her roommate.

“Oh, more than that. I say you wouldn’t believe it if you saw it – their family is large,” said Jana.

With that, they finished their coffee, and at the end of the weekend returned to their life in Columbia.

I suppose Jana’s roommate didn’t think much more of that weekend until she found herself, three years later as a senior in college, in the small house next to the man she loved.

She must have laughed remembering her first encounter with her husband’s family from Jana’s kitchen window.

Actually she’s still laughing about it. Both of my parents are still laughing about it.

37 years ago, today, Jim, who grew up in that box of a house, and Lynn, who was Jana’s roommate in Johnston Hall, got married in an evening ceremony at a Methodist Church in Kansas City, Missouri.

She carried a bouquet of daisies and yellow roses and her husband wore a daisy in the button hole of his jacket. And in every picture the joy on their faces seems to challenge the world to find something to bring them down. Hasn’t happened yet.

Here’s to them: 37 years and they love each other something fierce. They have a gift of laughter. They have a tremendous sense of adventure and curiosity. And they have given their children a vast appreciation of life and love and all that those two things entail.

Congratulations folks. And thanks.

This little piggy went to market, or
An open letter in response to the recent flurry of comments

To the one who posted the comment, "which gives me the right to free speech,":

The constitution also gives you the right to not speak - it's a lesser known right, but just as cool.

It's a little incomprehensible that you seemed to reiterate Jo's comment - but perhaps you were confused about what the first amendment is - that's the free speech one - which is actually what Jo was pointing out.

The right to free speech is wonderful - you're absolutely right. And it's that right that protects that marketplace of ideas of which you are so fond.

Why then, does it seem like just because Sam and Jo and me don't agree with you, you respond as though it is an attack on your right to free speech.

Do you really want to play in an open marketplace of ideas, or would you rather just bemoan the entire "liberal media," and follow your country unquestioningly because of your belief in the fundamental goodness and decency of your nation and the righteousness of your cause.

And by the way, the above paragraph isn't an attack on your right to free speech. Just a question of how open the marketplace of your ideas is - wouldn't it be kind of pointless if everyone agreed on everything - how horribly blasé.

Yeah, the first amendment rocks my face off - the right to speak or not speak, the right to worship or not to worship, the right to have a courageous and free press. The right to question your government.

You want to go to market? Great, come on, there's room for everyone - but let's not feel your speech is being subverted or attacked simply because people don't immediately see the "rightness," of your words. By posting your response to, “Penny for your thoughts, a flag for your troubles,” on a separate blog, you invited comments and responses to that. And I would say that most of those comments have been extremely kind and more generous than I am being right now, or am inclined to be.

Perhaps if your response had been grounded upon stronger evidentiary proof, the comments you have received would have been different. By basing a response upon your knee-jerk reaction rather than well documented occurrences, you have effectively closed the door on any truly open and reasoned discussion about your position.

It's a big market - and in this particular booth, there aren't any bullies trying to steal your lunch money, er, I mean your right to free speech.

Penny for your thoughts, a flag for your troubles

The vast majority of the bodies of American soldiers fly into Dover Air Force Base in Delaware. Under the auspices of protecting the privacy of the soldier’s families, the Bush administration has enforced the policy used in the first Gulf War, which prohibits journalists or other citizens from witnessing the homecoming of these now quiet Americans.

While no press cameras are there, photographers from the Department of Defense are clicking away for record keeping purposes.

The public saw these pictures after Russ Kick, of Arizona, requested their release under the Freedom of Information Act. Kick requested the photos and was denied on the grounds that releasing the photos would result in an invasion into the privacy of the families. Kick finally won on an appeal, and received 288 photos of U.S. dead returning to Dover.

Not all the pictures are of soldiers killed in Iraq. Some are from Afghanistan, others from U.S. military operations in other parts of the world. But it is a reasonable assumption that most of the bodies are coming from combat actions in Iraq.

In Griswold v Connecticut, 1965, the Supreme Court held that there was indeed a right to privacy within the constitution. Justice Douglas wrote in the court’s opinion, “Specific guarantees in the Bill of Rights have penumbras formed by emanations from those guarantees that give them life and substance.”

Thus, there are implied freedoms, without which the “specific guarantees,” would not stand.

Justice Douglas illustrated his point using the example of freedom of speech and freedom of the press. He wrote, “The right to freedom of speech and press includes not only the right to utter or to print, but the right to distribute, the right to receive, the right to read and freedom of inquiry, freedom of thought, and freedom to teach…Without these peripheral rights, the specific rights would be less secure.”

Justice Douglas efficiently affirms both a right to privacy and a right to know.

The Restatement (Second) of Torts, an academic collection of laws, states that a charge of invasion of privacy must meet two requirements in order to have legal weight. The matter at hand, in this case, pictures of caskets, must be both highly offensive to a reasonable individual and not involve a matter of public concern.

Even if the subject is deemed offensive, it may still be released if it is a public concern, that is, if it is newsworthy.

From Iraq we have seen pictures of the dead bodies of Uday and Qusay Hussein, towns a flame, and other violent pictures which might be called offensive.

But the pictures recently released show nothing of that sort. There is no blood, no anguished faces, no smoke or fire or terror.

Just an honor guard. Just a white hearse. Just the belly of a transport plane and rows of simple boxes covered with the stars and stripes.

So here are the soldiers who joined up to pay for college, or escape from their town, or to provide an income for their families. Here are those who went to a strange land to die.

And the American government refused to let you see them cloaked in red, white, and blue. Not because the pictures were gruesome or offending to delicate public sensibilities. But because, these pictures, more clearly than any chart or newspaper show the cost of the war.

The Vietnam War was called “the living room war,” because of the broadcasts that were shown on the evening news. The images returned from those jungles played a great role in turning the tide of opinion against that war.

Operation Iraqi Freedom is already an unpopular war. And it isn’t just about the dead Americans. It’s about the Japanese humanitarian workers taken hostage, the journalists who have died, 25 since 2003, according to the Committee to Protect Journalists, and the people of Iraq.

There are folks here in Columbia who stand on street corners holding signs asking people to “Honk for peace.” And several people sound their horns each time they pass, but whether the sound is heard in the hallways of the capitol has yet to be determined.

There have been numerous ceremonies here to read the names of the American dead. Still the appropriation of the names of the dead soldiers in an anti-war protest is arguably offensive. No one can say whether these soldiers would have added their voices to the vehement declarations against the war.

Either one of these actions may be thought offensive and ineffective in turning the tide of war.

But pictures of living soldiers helping their fallen compatriots to a final home?

This is not offensive. This is not invasive to their privacy. This is their last statement, neither affirming nor denying the justness of the war. These are their silent voices. And no one may say what these soldiers thought of the war except that they are dead because of their service.

They are no different from those silent Americans in Flander’s field, who, “short days ago…lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved…”

Regardless of one’s stance on the war there is no denying that there are costs to the action.

We hear that we are at war in order to protect our freedoms – this is a perennial justification for military action. Yet this most recent challenge to our freedom to view public records and the freedom of the press, came not at the gates of Baghdad, but from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

And that ought to be offensive to any reasonable person.

Hi...surreal
Jenny is totally back in Columbia, and today she swung by Panera to say hey. It rocks my socks off that she's back. I envision some many good times and I can't wait to hang with her.

But, it is a bit strange to think that she was just in London, ordering from the Easter Star and riding the tube.

Welcome back, yo.

"I get by with a little help from my friends," The Beatles

My Saturday should have been terrible. It was rainy, I had to work an eight hour shift at the Mo-ian, during which I had to write three (count them, three) obituaries - that's three phone calls to three different grieving families, and then I got off at 8 p.m. and ate dinner by myself.

But, due to a variety of beautiful people in my life, this was probably the best Saturday I've had in a long time.

Thanks to:
My Dad for a lovely Saturday morning conversation.
Sammy D. for wanting to play Scrabble.
Mel and Jon for coming over.
Scrabble followed by Euchre followed by a trip to the diner with three of the best people in my life.

I wish you all such wonderful folks as these. Today picked me up in so many ways, and for the first time in awhile I don't feel a knot of tension between my shoulder blades.

"Why he left his home in the south to roam round the pole, God only knows," The Cremation of Sam McGee ~ Robert W. Service

It is my firm belief that all truly great writers are stronly connected to the place where they consider home. What is Faulkner without the South, Steinbeck with out California? Who would read Garcia-Marquez if his words did not carry a Colombian heat? And would Tom Robbins' characters be convincing out of their pacific-northwest home? Incidentally, Robert W. Service was the poet laureate of the Yukon.

People tease me about the south and Texas, and that's fine - I make most of the jokes myself. But I'm counting the days till I can get back to that place, because I need it. And my home is a much bigger part of me, than I will ever be of it.

I need the housewine of the South, amber in glass that flows from morning to night.

And the wisteria that hangs so heavy on it's branch that it drags the ground.

I need magnolias as big as dinner plates and Southern lilacs in every color you can think.

I need my Texas sky, and Texas bluebonnets, and Texas longhorns.

To sing "Just as I am," in the cool of a Southern Baptist Church.

Banana pudding, and fried green tomatos, and creamette salad.

The skyline of Dallas and the Red River.

More than anything I need my family who loves me and the familiar faces I grew up with in a place called Texas.

Hello Weekend - I will pet you, and hold you, and love you, and....study like a mad scientist for my comm law test.

Exhausted and going through the motions.

Win some, you lose some

MU Jazz Concert, 8:00 p.m., Stotler Lounge - Memorial Union.
(Good music, good people, good times)

If things work out...
If my life will go, just for the next few hours, exactly as I have it planned (I know - I'm jinxing it) then I will be able to both spend an hour with four nurses from Mexico, and have dinner with a jazz musician and writer who is in town to perform with our band.

I've got one hour to interview los enfermera's and then book it to Loeb to make dinner.

Hoping and wishing, ya'll

On the edge of what promises to be a long day...

8:42 p.m. Adelante Newsroom...
Wrote a new lead - hacked about 5 'graphs out of my story.
Am now waiting for editor to return with coffee so that we can put out a magazine.

8:44 p.m. Wondering...
Why do the international people that use McReynolds always play in the FARC yard? All winter it was snowball fights and now it's frisbee. Why do they want to play outside so much - the snow I get, 'cause maybe they don't get snow. But still - is it that restless drive to be Joe College?

8:46 p.m. Must be spring...
The landlocked Mizzou campus smells of dead, festering fish - is it a plague? No. Those trees that smell of fish are in bloom.
Almost brings a smile to my face.

8:48 p.m. Decided (mostly)
I told Mel that I've decided what I really want in life.
I want a dog. I want a kitchen.
These are my top picks. Anything that comes with them is gravy.
I possibly want: someone to share dog/kitchen with and/or children to play in kitchen with dog.
The someone and the children are tentatively penciled in -- we'll see.
But I'm sure on the dog and the kitchen.

9:00 p.m. Trabajo
Editor back - bearing gifts - back to work.

P.S. If anyone has leads on a dog or a kitchen, let me know.