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Wednesday, January 31, 2007

surprise surprise


I should clarify that I can read and speak Japanese (for the most part).

Saturday, January 27, 2007

an ode to mother goose

Yes, I usually expect to come across harmless thoughts like this when I'm reading to the kids:

I had a little nut tree, nothing would it bear
But a silver nutmeg and a golden pear.
The King of Spain's daughter came to visit me,
And all for the sake of my little nut tree.
I skipped over water, I danced over sea,
And all the birds in the air couldn't catch me.

I love little pussy,
Her coat is so warm,
And if I don't hurt her,
She'll do me no harm.
So I'll not pull her tail,
Nor drive her away,
But pussy and I,
Very gently will play.

In Spring I look gay,
Decked in comely array,
In Summer more clothing I wear;
When colder it grows,
I fling off my clothes,
And in Winter quite naked appear.

Thursday, January 25, 2007

prepared for minimal number of comments

For some reason lately, whenever I hear music, I stop and take notice more. It might be because we hardly ever play loud music around the house, or even just music in general, here, but that wouldn't explain the weird feeling that I get of being transported. Like, I have to stop what I'm doing and tuck myself into a nice cozy bed of memories that I'm transported to when I hear a particular song. Or songs.
Like for example, when hearing songs from "Country to Country" (that obscure country-music tape that came out when I must've been 11 or so), I get real melancholy, and I mean REAL. I get that feeling that comes from being sad and lonely and THEN being flat down in bed. I can remember being in a trundle bed shoved against the window, turning that tape over and over, looking out the window at the roof covered with pine-needles. Opening the window and feeling the freezing winter air against my blazing hot skin. I feel 11 years old.
When hearing Simon Rugley songs, I'm reminded of the days when I was 12 years old, sleeping in a single bed with two teenage girls (because we WANTED to, for some odd reason), and exercising like wild-women. I remember jumping on the bed and doing crazy things (like not those "Oh we're so crazy that we're fun and adventurous" kind of crazy things, ACTUAL "whoa that's pretty nuts" things).
When hearing songs like "It's Gonna Be Fine" and "These Kinds of Questions", I'm reminded of a certain person with whom I spent the best part of 3 years--roommate, best friend. We used to common-pot our money and sleep together in the same big huge bed, go on walks together every day and sit in our special places eating special snacks. It was one of the most painful experiences of my life to have her move away from me, get married...I guess that's what happens when your friend is 6 years older than you.
Hearing "Deck the Halls" (only THAT particular family-made version) I'm reminded of years when we huddled around weak dynamic mics and sung our lungs out, usually some combination of vastly varied heights like Steve, Gabe and I sharing one mic, trying to swing back and forth and clap and look lively whilst trying to actually be heard. Those were fun. Funner yet, swinging big golden skirts with El and trying to "take it easy and enjoy Christmas". Somehow the older you got the funnier Christmas became, with everyone stressed out and giving up. El was one of those people that shared that twisted sort of sanity with me, where you survive by laughing at everything. There was nothing too terrible to laugh at.

Those are the kinds of songs that take you away.
But then there are the kind that bring something to you.

Like LJs. For some reason, listening to them, regardless of personal preference as to style or vocalist, etc, I can really appreciate them for what they are. They're the sort of songs that don't get fixed to any one place, they get attached to a feeling. And every time I hear a particular song, "Beyond Compare" for example (which was and is one of my favorite songs), I feel the same sweeping feelings. I don't want to talk about feelings that wash over you like a wave, cause then that would make me sound corny, but it's true sometimes. Maybe feelings that wipe over you like when you're walking through those bead door-curtain things. Or a feeling that drives over you and leaves tire-marks on your leg.

Dad and I are always commenting on how music was so much a part of our home. No one really needed an MP3 player because someone ALWAYS had an MP3 player to plug into the speakers, wherever we were--in the car, waxing the floor, cooking dinner. There was always music playing so loud you could hear it in either house. Or you could mosh to it on the way to our witnessing spot. We had people that would come in and turn it down a bit secretly, or that asked if we could turn it down during quiet time, and we despised those people (in small amounts).
But then you move and you realize how quietly some people live. And then you get so used to having no music blasting everywhere that you begin to crave it. The other day Dad was cooking and had some music on and I was just standing there listening. I realized how hungry I was.

Basically, yeah.

I don't think before I had what you could really call moments of "reflection" or any sort of deep, deep memories. I don't think I comprehended what people refer to as the sanctity or beauty of memories, until just recently, when I started making a whole slew of memories that are completely different and almost entirely detached. Then you start looking back at the last things you used to do like as if they were part of a movie you really enjoyed once upon a time, or a dream you had that you always mull over in your mind, wishing you could write it down and make a novel out of it.

Sunday, January 21, 2007

After Years of Deception...

...you deserve the truth.



There is no such thing as banana honey. Only rotten banana.

Like Bill Nye said: Now you know.

To Ry

This morning on the phone, you asked me if it was hard for me, the day of the fateful white stick with the blue line...
Well.
*Deep breath*
Here's how I feel about it. I'm sure you know it all already, but since it's much easier to say it to someone else than to oneself, I think I'd better write it down for posterity. You can remind me to read it to myself in a...while.


It takes patience and acceptance.
You wait for the promise to arrive or wait to understand why it was returned to the Sender. You accept that nothing and everything will change violently. You'll be a hundred women in one, and some of them will have teeth. You might be any age you've been, on any given day.

It takes serenity and surrender.
You learn to cry, to laugh, to be frightened and delighted like one of them. You give a pulsing piece of your heart up to a residence outside yourself-in a tiny, helpless leaf of a frame. You make yourself willingly vulnerable.

It takes humility.
Find and be found, see and be seen...it's what everyone wants. You retreat a little, set a couple of your identities afloat, and become a home.

It takes love.
But that's the effortless part. It wells up of its own artesian accord-all fierce and primitive and overpowering. You say, "Welcome and make yourself comfortable. I'll be your nurture as long as you stay, and love you for longer."

You're a home for a miracle.

I have it on dependable authority that Jesus thinks you're incredible, and I admire you.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

HA, right between the eyes.

STEMORAMA.COM

YEAH!!!

I risk sounding like a strange bird at this comment, but if it can save someone helpless floundering in a moment of desperate desire--HOVER OVER THE FLOATING BALL!
Oooh sneaky hidden things ay?

Monday, January 15, 2007

2006 in Pic after Pic after Pic...

Happy new year from us and ours to you and yours.



Made for rellies (read: grandfolks) so these all err on the boring side of kosher. Maybe I'll put some more funner ones up later. Is not this slide thing nifty though?

Sunday, January 14, 2007

"I never said it would be easy.
I only said it would be worth it."




Praying for you.

Friday, January 12, 2007

Nothing in particular.

I can promise you, that were I like this 3 years ago, I would've never started a blog.
Or, had I known that I would be like this eventually (say, three years in the future), I would've never started a blog.
Before "like this" starts sounding like some kind of mutated manic depression, I am not actually like ANYTHING in particular right now, which is exactly the problem. All I'm like is LIKE REALLY FOCUSING ON OTHER THINGS IN LIFE. I realize that doesn't give me any excuse, because there are plenty of busy people, wives, home managers, mothers, that still maintain regularly-updated (fairly) blogs.
But since when have I ever needed an excuse not to blog? Ha. Take that.

But I still feel real bad about the whole thing and I wish you never had to end up at the chewed-up end of the pencil. Really, I do. But it's better than a poke in the eye with a burnt stick!!! Gosh that must hurt.

Saturday, January 06, 2007

What Were You Doing Under the Desk During Biology Class?

This is THE "lizard story" I was telling you about, Al.





Just after dinner one night, my son came up to tell me there was
“something wrong” with one of the two lizards he holds prisoner in his
room.
“He’s just lying there looking sick,” he told me. “I’m serious, Dad. Can
you help?”; I put my best lizard healer expression on my face and
followed him into his bedroom. One of the little lizards was indeed lying
on his back, looking stressed. I immediately knew what to do.
“Honey,” I called, “come look at the lizard!”
“Oh, my gosh!” my wife exclaimed. “She’s having babies.”
“What?” my son demanded. “But their names are Bert and Ernie, Mom!”
I was equally outraged. “Hey, how can that be? I thought we said we didn’t
want them to reproduce,” I said accusingly to my wife.
“Well, what do you want me to do, post a sign in their cage?” she inquired
(I think she actually said this sarcastically!).
“No, but you were supposed to get two boys!” I reminded her, (in my most
loving, calm, sweet voice, while gritting my teeth).
“Yeah, Bert and Ernie!” my son agreed.
“Well, it’s just a little hard to tell on some guys, you know,” she
informed me (Again with the sarcasm!).
By now the rest of the family had gathered to see what was going on. I
shrugged, deciding to make the best of it.
“Kids, this is going to be a wondrous experience,” I announced. “We’re
about to witness the miracle of birth.”
“Oh, gross!” they shrieked.
“Well, isn’t THAT just great? What are we going to do with a litter of
tiny little lizard babies?” my wife wanted to know.
We peered at the patient. After much struggling, what looked like a tiny
foot would appear briefly, vanishing a scant second later.
“We don’t appear to be making much progress,” I noted.
“It’s breech,” my wife whispered, horrified.
“Do something, Dad!” my son urged.
“Okay, okay.” Squeamishly, I reached in and grabbed the foot when it next
appeared, giving it a gentle tug. It disappeared. I tried several more
times with the same results.
“Should I call 911?” my eldest daughter wanted to know. “Maybe they could
talk us through the trauma.”
(You see a pattern here with the females in my house?)
“Let’s get Ernie to the vet,” I said grimly. We drove to the vet with my
son holding the cage in his lap. “Breathe, Ernie, breathe,” he urged.
“I don’t think lizards do Lamaze,” his mother noted to him. (Women can be so cruel to their own young. I mean what she does to me is one thing, but
this boy is of her womb, for God’s sake.).
The vet took Ernie back to the examining room and peered at the little
animal through a magnifying glass.
“What do you think, Doc, a C-section?” I suggested scientifically. “Oh,
very interesting,” he murmured. “Mr. and Mrs. Cameron, may I speak to you
privately for a moment?”
I gulped, nodding for my son to step outside.
“Is Ernie going to be okay?” my wife asked.
“Oh, perfectly,” the vet assured us. “This lizard is not in labor. In
fact, that isn’t EVER going to happen . . . Ernie is a boy. You see, Ernie
is a young male. And occasionally, as they come into maturity, like most
male species, they um . . . um . . . masturbate. Just the way he did,
lying on his back.” He blushed, glancing at my wife.
We were silent, absorbing this. “So, that wasn’t a foot?” I asked.
More silence. Then my vicious, cruel wife started to giggle. And giggle.
And then even laugh loudly. Tears were now running down her face. “It’s
just . . . that . . . I’m picturing you pulling on its . . . its . . .
teeny little …”
She gasped for more air to bellow in laughter once more.
“That’s enough,” I warned. We thanked the vet and hurriedly bundled the
lizard and our son back into the car.
He was glad everything was going to be okay. “I know Ernie’s really
thankful for what you did, Dad,” he told me.
“Oh, you have NO idea,” my wife agreed, collapsing with laughter.
Moral of the story: Pay attention in biology class. Lizards lay eggs.