Chuffed

I've been catching far too much sun, been sharing far too many laughs, enjoying work (which is a strange thing), flirting wildly with passerby's, and worrying not about the whithertos and the whyfors. It's been absolutely gorgeous. I've been absolutely gorgeous. Moved into the new apartment, bought a hellofa lot of groceries of the fresh variety, nicked a really good deal on beans for "beans on toast", dreamt a little more of Scotland, ran into old acquaintances, fell off a bar stool in total and complete swoonage, and managed to consume more than your average amount of cups of coffee. 

Absolutely cannot wait for vacation which happens to be in approximately twenty days (hurry the hours!), and having just watched Monty Python and the Holy Grail for perhaps the (insert some ridiculous number here) amount of times, I find myself quite satisfied with myself. See, there's this huge stigma about being safe, about withholding one's self from the rest of the world, but that's bloody hard work and blusteringly boring. Oh, don't put yourself out on the line because then you might be shot down. Well, consider me a goose with a silly looking apparatus alerting the general hunting populace of my location, because I am not going to get bled on. Even if you threaten to bite my legs off. 

To be succinct: It's summer and...

Rightfully chuffed,

M

Sleep Evasion

Because it's impossible to sleep when you can pour Gotye in to your head and endless dubstep remixes ala James Vincent McMorrow.

It doesn't help that I closed at the coffee shop tonight and so have espresso pumping through my veins. Turns to alternate methods of falling asleep: grabbing my extended editions of The Lord of the Rings to watch the appendices. No regrets.

Dangerware

I've been having regular dreams where I am a certified bad-ass. Whether dealing with sociopathic serial killers, apocalyptic worlds, or totalitarian societies, I've become quite the revolutionary there. I've decided that my bad-assery should not be confined to the world of the ethereal, and therefore, shall be committing deeds of great bad-assery  to great renown, and be the all around bad-ass of the upper Midwest. Yeah, it got away from me.

There's only so many times one can say bad-ass before the bad-assery becomes less bad-ass.

In preparation, I will shave my head, get a few more piercings, and acquire weaponry--circa the medieval century rather than modern technology--and throw them off with my anachronistic supply of dangerware. Well, maybe not. 

But dangerware, I think I've really got something there--hopefully it doesn't infringe on the copyright of tupperware (although for some reason I feel like that might be more of a registered trademark at this point); it could be a very lucrative business with all of those silly parties and such. Come to my dangerware party, Mary Kay and Pampered Chef are so last year. On top of that, anyone who purchases dangerware must sign an agreement to clean their dangerware after they use it, no more of this atrocious using a blade and then sticking it back in the scabbard all full of entrails and such. To use dangerware one must be conscientious. As conscientious as any person purchasing dangerware could possibly be. 

Also, I could open an accompanying strip mall full of lingerie based on the dangerware business. Real racy stuff. 

Hopefully not infringing,

M

Posing

Egregious Salute to the Gentry

It's been centuries, and by that I mean years, and by that I definitely mean about a month since I've shoved the poor thoughts of my mind on the general populace--well I say no more! Prepare yourselves!

I've spent the last month rummaging through the ups and downs of life shifts, blah, blah, blech, and I am now dealing with the closing of yet another semester at university, ergo I have about zero time on my hands (that isn't already dictated by someone or something else) and with the arrival of a new job (barista-ing) I haven't had enough bloody time on my hands to deposit ruminations of any sort. 

In any case, I suppose I should catch you up on the malarky and facetiousness that is my life:

It was wholesome and delicious. If by bear you mean chicken. Or if by bear you mean human beings bothering me.

I ate an egregious amount of peanut butter. It was astoundingly delicious.

I used what little time I had left on my hands to watch any Moffat that I possibly could and as a consequence spent countless hours screaming at a box.

Got my freak on to Fun.

Just saying. And they don't have posh prisons in Northern MN. At least not that I'm privy to.

So mostly this is just here because I'm hoping that this gif-heavy post will be enough incentive for me to return on the morrow and invest time here as well. More diabolical thoughts to follow, complaints, raves, and otherwise duplicitous material.

I shall return to you--good sirs and assorted gentry and the like,

M

New Man

The new man in my life is Espresso. He keeps me up all night, keeps me going through the day, and keeps my heart in a heightened state of near hypnotic paralysis all the while administering shocking reminders of his presence. He's cheeky. Sometimes I walk in on him and he's completely fried. Other times he's covered from head to toe in chocolate.  Espresso irrevocably drives me insane with ecstasy when he puts his nose to the grindstone and leaves me utterly senseless for the rest of the day. 

He may not have a beard but he's damn good,

M

The Bird

Every once in a while something inside me just snaps when it comes to academia. I can handle moronic behavior, really, let's face it--we're talking about me here. But what I can't stand is a professor saying the same inane things every time the class adjourns, running about in a frazzled manner equivalent to that of a dodo bird on crack, all the while arbitrarily oozing the education level of a pre-pubescent child. 

Suddenly, all those little moments add up to a hallucination of epic proportion until my poor little brain says "to hell with academia and your silly teachers".

It escalates like this:

Wait, you're saying you don't want me to analyze the text we are reading in my reflection paper? You say I theorize overmuch? Are my words too big for you? Shall I insist on discarding my vocabulary for your convenience? Well, then, let me reduce it to the lowest common denominator so that your tiny brain cells can compute and your neurons can start firing. You know what? I'll write you a paper. 

Not just any paper. What I like to call The Bird Paper. 

The Bird Paper has evolved a lot over the years. At first, it was a sort of passive way of acknowledging my disgruntled feelings towards professors. Back then, I was still more worried about the grade than anything, couldn't risk the wrath of the almighty teacher. See, but as the years go by, and cynicism festers in the way it generally does, and sarcasm develops even more quickly, I just can't help myself. The Bird Paper is basically my way of flicking said professor off with words. A weapon from a more civilized age. 

I turn in my Bird Paper, scathing criticisms and all fully expecting some challenge, and of course, I get the paper back within five minutes and a glittering A+ strewn across its cover along with an admonition of my "excellent" writing skills. Which leads me to think that I need to just start actually titling my Bird Papers as "You're Complete Rubbish And I Have Absolutely No Idea How You've Managed To Make It This Far In Life Or Get A Degree For That Matter Or Even Get Published You Probably Wrote A Terrible Self Help Book That Has Ended More Lives Than Saved Them."

Something like that.

Of course, it will naturally conclude with this quote:

Mollified,

M

Urges and Satisfaction

An urge will come to you. A very strong one. The universe points to its fulfillment. Humor begs for it. The stars aligned for this urge. This urge to do something completely bonkers. Something completely justifiable. But then, you will listen to your ethical compass, and say no to said urge. Granted, if you gave into the urge, several people would be wildly offended, but even more would be frankly satisfied and all the better for it. Still--resist said urge. Yes, those crackpots who have been chiming in all your life will have to live another day without your input. Someday you will utter the most scathing, wondrous, witty remark and their damned tongues will be tied. Until then, resist said urge. Embrace it and revel in its mysteries. With time, this urge will become all the more beautific and will develop the necessary antiquity needed for its full blown sock 'em and drop 'em KO round. Keep it secret. Keep it safe.

Resisting...urges,

M

Battle Arena Motivation

Finding myself completely dumfounded, amused, and slightly wary of the weather these days. It really is ludicrous how brilliantly the sun is shining and how high the temperatures are skyrocketing in Northern MN. Unnatural really. But loving it all the same. See, that's the thing about spring, it always manages to sneak up on me when I least expect it and then I'm suddenly flummoxed by the idea and altogether enthralled with the changing temperatures and weather. I never realize how much I want it to be spring until spring actually begins. Oh, the sun wants to show itself? Oh, it isn't going to set until after seven? Oh, the universe is a beautiful thing that I've forgotten about for the last five months? Come to me spring, I welcome you with open arms.

In a show of good faith towards the weather, I've started running two miles every day. Why, you might ask? Certainly because it's gorgeous outside. But mostly because I just finished reading The Hunger Games trilogy and have come to the conclusion that I need to be in much better shape to survive in a post-apocalyptic world. The brilliant bit is that preparation goes all ways concerning the apocalypse: I'll be better able to evade zombies, survive the battle arena, and look damn sexy doing it. Sometimes the best motivation is the most unrealistic one. But who knows? Bear Grylls will vouch for me someday. Or just keep drinking his urine.

Definitely surviving the post-apocalyptic world (barring virus),

M

Dull Aches

You'd expect the ache to die out after a while. Expect the spark to finally bluster out in a cold afternoon, expect to watch the coals slowly turn inwards on themselves and leave only the decimation of ash behind. The ache doesn't die, it festers. Aches and desires go together like a balloon in a child's hand, a helium filled piece of stretched rubber that tugs incessantly at the heart until it finally manages to wrest itself from its captive's hand and rise meteorically to the atmosphere and beyond. Ache and desire, the juxtaposition of pain and elation, of fulfillment and doubt. Desire is such a wonton thing, really, grasping at straws and digging deeply for hope in the same breath. 

"How do you go on, when in your heart you begin to understand that there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep, that have taken hold." *

 Some hopes that go to deep, that have taken hold. That have latched onto the deepest parts of the soul, that have invaded the walls of our innermost being, that have decimated any logic, that have thrown thought out the window, thrown questioning into the pit of who-cares. Hope is a more dangerous thing than despair, it aches, it supplants any reasoning, supplants the words of your closely guarded circle, challenges the odds and consumes rhetoric. Hope is wily. Hope laughs in the face of opposition, makes a mockery of the fool who dares to challenge its lofty being.

"You have suffered enough and warred with yourself, it's time that you've won. Take this sinking boat and point it home, we've still got time. Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice, you've made it now. Falling slowly, sing your melody, I'll sing it loud. I paid the cost too late, now you're gone."**

Exult in hope. Exult in the lack of control hope brings, exult in the fallout, in the outcome. Exult in the uncanniness of it all, exult in hope's mockery of all things false, in hope's dull ache. Drown in the elation of this ache, though it burns your heart to a cinder and brings you to the edge of the precipice each time, drown. If there is one magical quality confined to the dull earth and rock of this planet hurtling towards its eventual demise, it's hope. Hope is ache. Hope is desire. Hope is destructive. Hope is regenerative. Hope is.

M

*Frodo Baggins, The Return of the King

**Glen Hansard, Falling Slowly

Relationship Status

Married Blokes, Sheets, and Roaring

One of my lovely Scottish friends, Fiona, commented on my twitter feed. 

I love my life.

Twitter update: Avoiding going to bed because it's laundry day, everyone else is asleep, and trying to put my sheets back on will be a herculean effort.

An explanation:

I know, I know, lazy, but I just can't be bothered. I share a room with two of the most brilliant people in the world and I'm not known to be the most graceful or quiet person in existence. In fact, stealth is so not my middle name. I went to records to try to change it but they laughed in my face and told me it was illegal to incorrectly label one's self with middle names that are the exact opposite of the said persona. Besides, you should see me put sheets on. There's a lot of grunting involved, blood, sweat, and tears besides. It helps that my sheet set is actually larger than my bed, so I've got quite a bit of wiggle room. What you should know: one of the brilliant people I share a room with has this thing for white noise, and more specifically, any soundtracks with water. Ocean sounds. Rain storms. Which wouldn't be a problem except for the fact that the bathroom is a run down a staircase, shuffling through a dark huge room accompanied by strewn about furniture, another trip up steps, navigation through a laundry filled corridor, and then usually a hop over whichever cat happens to be following me at the moment. On normal days. Right now, that bathroom is under construction and the other bathroom is in the master bedroom, in any case, I don't wish to intrude at the very least. Especially since stealth is so not my middle name. 

Well, I finally muster the gravitas needed to go upstairs to put my sheets on (everyone else abed at this hour) and I come up to the ocean track playing. Not a problem, I figure, the sound will cover up my unstealthiness. It did work, for about a minute and a half, until it had me lulled into a false sense of bladder security. Knowing of course that I wouldn't be hitting the wc until the next morning, I rushed across the room to turn off the cd player, tripping over strewn about objects in the process, stepping on a cat's tail in the process, and managed to cut the sound. The result? My two brilliant companions simply turned over in their sleep. Oh, to be a heavy sleeper! In any case, the sheets got put on. Of course, because I was involved malarky had to occur. 

Back to my Scottish friend. Her advice on my feed: 

"If you were a bloke you wouldn't bother with sheets! If you were a married bloke you would roar first. I don't recommend roaring it makes you very unpopular!"

If I was a married bloke all I'd have to do is roar,

M

Conducting Affairs

As much as I'd love to say that I spent the last week galavanting about the countryside engaging in high-falutin acts of extravagant grandeur, I spent the majority of my week developing an extremely close relationship with a box of kleenex. Well, several to be in fact. So I guess one could say that I've been very fickle with about five boxes of kleenexes. Kleenex? Kleenexs? Plurality is so arbitrary. Then, again, what isn't with the English? In any case, I'm sure the gossips will be at it tomorrow about my string of affairs with multiple tissues. 

Yes, I lead a grandiose life.

The other eve as I was driving back from night class, I experienced a spacial life altering event. And by that I mean a cosmic life altering event. And by that I mean an outer spacial life altering event. There's really nothing like driving on an ill-lit back road at dark when it's lightly blustering out. The snow comes straight at the windshield. It took me about 15 seconds to figure out why I was so entranced by this visual effect and plumbing the depths of my philosophy to figure out the gravity of the situation: hyperspace. 

I was flying the freaking Millenium Falcon. That's right. 

Luckily, I have yet to piss off Lando Calrissian and as I don't have Cloud City on my destination list, I'm not concerned. 

Carbonite is so not my thing,

M

Genderalligraphy

I'd put an extremely long winded post here, but as I'm only waiting around to avoid studying for my test tonight, I'll kick my procrastination habit. Instead, I will whine thoroughly about the fact that blogger lacks any font that is semi-masculine-semi-feminine to write my header in. At this point, my "Men, Women, and Society" teacher will step in and argue with me about what characteristics of writing are particularly feminine or masculine, citing the difference between sex, gender, and expounding on gender roles for the better part of an hour. But seriously, guys. 

I don't write all frilly-like and stuff. 

 

 

Mastering my masculinely-feminine hand,

M

Sunny Side Up Outcomes

Generally, I put all of my eggs into a basket at once, and then swing it to and fro and all about and pick up the gooey remains that slather through the wicker seams when it comes to counting my chickens before they hatch. I most always count them, and then bang my basket about, incidentally destroying the chicken figure I originally settled upon. Let's just say, I'm rubbish at calculating outcomes, my estimations are always far flung, and my dreams escalate just as profoundly. I wrest a ridiculous amount of dependence on these presumptuous outcomes and then still have the nerve to be dissatisfied when I overshoot. I suppose it's better than never dreaming, but spinning out futures gets a bit predictable after a while, especially since the outcome is generally far less than the descried future I formed. 

Weaving futures isn't really my thing, it's just so damned difficult what with the tapestry being larger than life itself. Fighting the urge to pick at the threads and weave new patterns. 

Patch-working,

M

Biological Warfare, Paint, and Bon Iver

What started out as a sore throat twinge a couple weeks ago has become a full on biological war. My head is determined to fall off of my neck, the right side of my nose is determined to snork for the rest of eternity, my throat has decided that its existence is arbitrary, my chest cavity took a break, and I've never been so aware of my ears in these long years. Not that there have been many.

In any case, I'm utterly convinced that fluid manufactured within my nasal passage has turned downright acidic like nuclear waste and I'm quite certain I might end up with super powers ala Daredevil, except just really really good olfactory sense. That would be a terrible superpower. They would call me the Schnoz. 

At least the left side of my nose knows to remain open so that I can get that altogether uplifting source of oxygen necessary for survival. Spent my morning eating Valentine chocolates, snorking, watching Downton Abbey, and then finally settled down to work more on one of my paintings. Best decision I made this morning. Especially because I've got Bon Iver's album "For Emma, Forever Ago" running cyclical in the background. 

Nothing like an overcast day accompanied by no one except for yourself, paint, and heart burning melodies. 

Sometimes being ill is exactly what it's cracked up to be. 

Luxuriating in sickness,

M

Constants

Here's hoping all of you lovelies have something to love on this, in the year of our Lord--Two-thousand-and-twelve, on the day of our Crumpets--the fourteenth, in the month of our Hazardous Waste Disposal--February. Find time in your day to fully appreciate that blade of grass that you've been so in love with for sticking out through the snow. Blades of grass can be redemption. 

If nothing else, Dharmacize your love today.

Celebrated Dydd Santes Dwynwen last month,

M

Writing Impressions

Brontosaurus

Today I will be examining the consistency of squirrel droppings, well, maybe not. But I will probably be bushwhacking since we are heading to Redwood to spend some time with jolly old friends, some of which just returned from a trip to Scotland, and I can't wait to hear all the best bits. Also going to a concert tomorrow night, so I fully expect to develop a good case of whiplash. Yup, this was probably going somewhere, and probably had some point or other at one time in my head, but it seems to have dropped off the map of my mind, so to speak. Have a brilliant weekend, prank call somebody, tip a cow, sit by the fire reading, and definitely ruffle somebody's hair. 

Searching for my inner mind cartographer,

M

Completely Unexpected and Altogether Brilliant

Okay, guys. I'm about to start talking about someone I'm truly starting to love, truly starting to understand, after all of this time. God. Man alive, I didn't think I was ever going to be one of those people so moved by this guy, was kind of expecting to be an outlier in the whole religion stratosphere. And I think that's the bit I'm driving at--throwing out religion and embracing something real, something breathing, an entity on to itself--not a grasping worldwide phenomenon of law embracers, but instead embracing his own good grace. 

I suppose I'm not sure how everyone else juggles God, tacos, Guy Ritchie films, mourning, friendships, sunsets, bike rides, skinnydipping, excitement, and a whole assortment of oddments, but I've certainly engaged in an odd hierarchy for quite some time where God was in the mix, on the fringe, and most definitely a means to an end. It's the waking up and realizing that he's so much more than that petty excuse that is hitting me over the head with brilliance. I've always been very susceptible to music, always responded with yearning, with a sense of deep purpose whenever it alights on the ear. The other day I was listening to the new Bethel "Loft Sessions" cd and one song in particular caught me off guard: "Draw Near". The song is written from the point of view of one of us mere mortals to God, but as I was listening to it, my brain flip flopped the roles. And why shouldn't it? I'm starting to discern the fact that God is probably a lot more interested in me at the moment than I ever was. Not to be sacrilegious, well, actually, yes to being sacrilegious, I don't think I'll ever attain the depth of love needed in this relationship. But, jeez, I feel like I'm getting closer. 

In any case, this song hit me in the feet and has been slowly creeping up my body, and I can feel it resting somewhere near my chest cavity, and when it finally rises to my head, I think I might just possibly explode with gratitude. There's just something about this romance, about this lover, this God, who wants to respond to me as much as I should want to respond to him. See, that's the thing. It's not a give and take relationship, it's a give give give give give give give relationship of infinite surpassment without the expectation of any reciprocation. Just really blows me away. The "pull on the strings of my heart for I long to respond to you" gets me every time. It's that sudden tightening in the chest, the goosebumps that run down my arms and legs, the sudden awareness of every detail in the room, down to the last dust mote. It's expectation. 

The thing is, I've had "ask and you will receive" pounded into my poor sunday school head for years and it's never meant much. See, then I hear one random song, at one random moment, when the stars were apparently aligned, and the breeze was blowing just the right way, so that my heart started to burn, started to understand. Started to sense. He wants to hear all about it, the hard bits, the fun bits, the awkward bits, the bits in between, the angry bits, the depressing bits, the bits of frivolity, and he just wants to hear more and more. I think God had it figured out when he designed us; you see, the more you divulge, the closer you grow to another person. So, here I'll be, divulging until the stars fall from the sky into the depths of ocean caverns. 

I guess the chief thing I'm getting at the moment is the fact that God is ready to respond more readily, more than I could ever dream to, to me. He's got a place for me where all things are possible. And that's bloody brilliant. Damn, it's so intimate. 

Draw Near

Being wooed,

M 

Atypical Nomenclature

What's in a name? A rose by any other name would be just as sweet! I swear, everywhere I go I can't not (yes double negatives are key) see this certain name and it's driving me insane. What name, you ask? Phoebus, you wager? 

Of bloody course not!

 Maybe if I walk around and drive around without opening my eyes I'll never have to worry about it again. Highly impractical, that is, but come on. What are the odds? I mean, really? Really? If I could physically punch a name in the face right now, that is what I'd be doing. Maybe there's a little huff puff on this end of the line, but I assure you those damned bricks aren't going down!

Becoming a hermit and avoiding names, 

M

The Sans Matt Damon Legacy

As much as it behooves me to think that Matt Damon won't be incapacitating Swiss officers, I realize that I don't really care who it is that incapacitates Swiss or Polish officers, as long as they are in fact being incapacitated. Therefore, Jeremy Renner is the next best bet. I support you and your fellow incapacitation and will happily shovel over fistfuls of money to watch you incapacitate Europeans and stick it to the man in approximately a two hour period. Stay golden, ponyboy.

Incapacitation is a brilliant word,

M

Stirrings

                                                                                      I'm feeling a faint stirring in my heart.

                                                                 Now what?

Life is getting absolutely brilliant and unpredictable,

M

Beard Musings

Some people use pinterest as a DIY, wedding planning, ridiculous organized set of project planning. Instead, I like to abuse my right to use the internet and simply make boards full of beards. So, instead of a new post this morning (still off my head from my dream last night in which I had whiskey [which are the best and worst dreams--best because I get some--worst because there isn't any when I wake] I refuse to be witty at the moment) you can just hop on over to my beard board and revel in the mysteries contained there.

Pinterest Beards

Obeying beard laws,

M

Perfectly Stupid

Of Lofts and Weekends

Spent the weekend laughing, quoting just enough Monty Python, hauling logs around, losing my hearing in general, and watching men with pneumatic framing guns look dorky. All in all, it was great fun, I didn't get hardly enough sleep, and I ate far too much good food. The weather was absolutely ridiculously gorgeous, and if I don't get a snowball fight in somewhere this week I might go slightly mad from the itch at the back of my mind. Today feels a bit odd, mostly because there isn't a loud racket going on. One wouldn't normally think of boisterous banging and clanging chainsaws as being extremely comforting, but after hearing them on and off for the last two days, it has been uncommonly quiet around the croft. 

Probably in the yard making construction noises,

M

Fridays

Robbing Canada Dry Blind

Today, I was faced with one of the most beautiful decisions ever--whether or not to rob from Canada Dry. As I sat in my rocking chair in the Lower Union reading my copy of Moby Dick, a large dirty truck emblazoned with multiple cans of glistening Canada Dry products came into my line of sight. Not only was this Canada Dry truck unattended for an absurd and unsettling amount of time, it was also parked in the most inconspicuous place a Canada Dry truck could possibly be parked. No one would even know that a case had magically vanished into the thick, frosty air. That Canada Dry truck was asking for it. It was as if the clouds had parted, a vast trumpeting resounded, and a booming voice from the heavens issued out saying "Behold ye, behold ye, these fruits of my labor art thou's for the taking." 

The fact that a few doves flew over and landed on the truck in a pool of effervescent light also gave me the same feeling. Come, take of my vast stores of Snapple products! Come, fulfill yourself in my diet beverage! Come, take cases of this free beverage here only for you! Torn between my copy of Moby Dick and the Canada Dry truck I found myself being pulled in two opposing directions like a dwarf eating lembas bread. Social morae were appearing at that moment, urging me to fight or flee. Fight for my right to rob Canada Dry blind for putting their products in such an easy to reach place, or flee from the resulting penalties of law were I ever to actually rob Canada Dry blind. Needless to say, I fled. Or rather continued reading in my rocking chair. But then there was that nagging itch. The truck was still there, how in all of God's green earth was that truck still there saying, Come on you know you want to partake of my fizzy beverages. That's just the thing! There was no ginger ale in the ginger ale truck! Just snapple. Not enough to tempt me. 

Which reminds me, there's this brilliant brew of ginger ale called "Ginger Beer" that I have not had since frequenting The Calf Fiend Cafe and I mean to drink some within the next week when we head down Southern MN. I digress. 

In any case, I said no to the enticing Canada Dry truck and soldiered on, aware of a greater award, Ginger Beer, in my near future. Besides, I have Herman Melville to console me: "There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody's expense but his own. However, nothing dispirits, and nothing seems worth while disputing...And as for small difficulties and worryings, prospects of sudden disaster, peril of life and limb; all these, and death itself, seem to him only sly, good-natured hits, and jolly punches in the side bestowed by the unseen and unaccountable old joker...it comes in the very midst of his earnestness, so that what just before might have seemed to him a thing most momentous, now seems but part of the general joke."

Thar she blows,

M

Brain Fry

My brains are coming out of ears, and things are not exactly coherent at the moment, and it's brilliant, and I'm in stitches, and I can't spell stitches, but not stitches of the medical variety, rather stitches of the laughter variety, do you realize how hard it is to type the word stitches repeatedly when your brains are coming out of your ears or even type for that matter, cause all I keep doing is hit the deslete button and if ii didn't do it hten it would look something lke this becasue my brainesa are sayin gabsolutely not to me righ tnow an dso much frivolity is hapening and to hell with grammar and syntax an d runons and the like, I'm happy and laughing and have not idea what's gonna happen next, but by golly, i bet it's going to be absoltely brilliant. So there.

Love. I'm in love with everything right now. Gah, love. Laughing at nothing, at everything. Smiling, smirking, and the like.

Strangely sentimental and all together undone-ish,

M

Why Fly Paper and Excitement Do, In Fact, Go Hand in Hand

Pretty ecstatic right now, and just plain excited. As if excitement could be plain! Had a brilliant dream last night which makes me rearing to go. Maybe it's a wee bit silly, but my dreams can often be the setting point for the next day. It's almost like brain preparation, my subconscious manifesting itself within an uncontrollable situation, and seeing how I get out of it every day. Anyways, I can't contain it at the moment. Just want to shout and bounce around up and down. But that's me for you--just as attached to frivolity as melodrama. In any case, I find that I have a general proclivity for getting affixed to fly paper whenever I'm in a good mood. It's already happened once this morning and I'm expecting to be stuck at least three more times today. I'm not klutsy, per se, just very unaware of my surroundings, which in itself is a sort of paradox, since I'm always scanning for alien tech or axe murderers. So here I'll be, walking around with sticky residue on my arms and just being too excited for my own good.

Frivolity ensuing,

M

Good Adventure

Say It to Me Now

I think there's a real truth in journaling and spilling all of your feelings on to a page; not only is it highly cathartic, but you can come back months later (or even simply days later) and roll your eyes at yourself. I suppose blogging is a sort of journal for myself except for the part where it isn't entirely private. Which is, I'm finding, a bit unsettling. Ever feel pulled in too many directions? I find that juggling rarely works. I don't ever drop the ball, mind you, I just manage to throw it at the nearest person and then subsequently duck and cover, hoping there won't be too much backlash. It's those little seemingly insignificant doubts that become significant. Those little unseemly creatures that climb in to the back of your skull and fester there for a while. That begin to draw out other doubts, feeding on insecurities, on misgivings, adding fuel to the industrious fire. Like rabid pack hunters, they will chase down each hope until they are cornered ala Jack London style, picking off each new one until all of the old ones themselves abandon reason. Doubts that have no reason or logic, doubts that are based within fogginess and have a certain indefinable quality. It's the indefinable part that makes doubt so powerful--you can't quite ever put your finger on what it is.

"I'm scratching at the surface now

And I'm trying hard to work it out

So much has gone misunderstood

This mystery only leads to doubt."

In any case, sometimes I recognize the doubts for what they truly are and still invest my time in them, feeding the caged beast. It's this highly illogical bit that really throws me. It's been said that insanity is the act of doing the same thing over and over with a different expectation of result. Well, that's the way it is with me and doubt. It's almost as if the acknowledgement of those said doubts doesn't serve to dissipate them, rather it seems to enlarge them and solidify their hold. I've been told that there's no reason to cling to doubt, to shame, to fear. That there's always hope. Hope, that's the dangerous word. Hope, defined as "a feeling of expectation and desire for a thing to happen" doesn't really fit into my recollection of the work; instead, I seem to associate hope with a far more cosmic meaning. As if hope negates these doubts, these misgivings, this surrender to apparent taboo feeling. 

"And I didn't understand

When you reached out to take my hand

And if you have something to say

You better say it to me now."

Ever feel like you've had the same expectation, theory, ideology pounded into your head for so long that you think you might be going slightly mad in your want to reconcile it with your own experiences? For me, it's this idea of trying to realize what's up and what's down, the up you told me or the down you showed me? In any case, the problem here is the fact that some things will never be truly reconciled. And maybe that's sacrilegious. Maybe it's blasphemous. I feel like I'm right on the edge of discovering something truly defining, but it seems to be just out of my grasp. In any case, I'll be tackling doubts by the dozens and be prepared to utterly lose it when said epiphany happens to break over me like a tsunami on dry rock. 

"Cause this is what you've waited for

Your chance to even up the score

And as these shadows fall on me now

I will somehow."

"Cause I'm picking up a message Lord

And I'm closer than I've ever been before."

"So if you have something to say

You better say it to me now.

Say it to me now

Say it to me now

Say it to me now."

--Glen Hansard, Say It to Me Now

And in the darkness when you find this I'll be far to sea,

M

You're Stuck In A Metaphor - The Trip, Episode 6 - BBC Two

Hell Hath No Fury

See, here's the thing: you ruffle my feathers and there will be hell to pay. Or more literally hell will be handing out currency by the bucket loads to me for going on the war path. Because once it starts, there better be a hell of a good reason for me to stop. There usually isn't. 

Cross me and you're crossing Cerberus. The river Styx. Cross me and you'll wish you were Tantalus. Wish you were Prometheus getting your unmentionables eaten out every day. 

See, I have this thing, called a sense of justice, which likes to rear its ugly head in the most uncomfortable situations. Second only to cutting off my right breast like an Amazon to get the efficient kill, I will find you, I will expose you for the fraud you are, and you will regret it. 

I'm zealous.

Watch your back, because I'll be coming for you.

Found my melodrama,

M

Edit: Oh, how the resolutions we make seem so bright in the late hours of the night and then the following morning look absolutely absurd. It seems another venting session has successfully been fulfilled. Hopefully I'll be able to keep the rants on the down low from now on. Just laughing as I re-read this today. Melodrama for sure.

Death First

Oh, the Princess Bride. There's really not much else to say after those words. Well, I suppose a few could follow: fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles. This one just never gets old, as it is, I'm currently in a room surrounded by a multitude of amazing people, each with their own stories and differences, united by one simple thing: their love of this film. Of Inigo's courage. Of Fezzik's loyalty. Of Vizzini's generous ability to utter the word "inconcievable" at every turn. Of Buttercup's vapidness. Humperdink's foppishness. Count Rugen's posterity. Of Westley's mustache. (Incidentally the only man on the planet to pull off a mustache without looking creepy, like a pedophile, or a porn-star.) Major props, Westley.

There's just something about the language, the inspired pauses, strange faces, and chemistry. I sincerely hope that this film is never redone. To do that would be unholy, a grave sin. Sacrilege! I could gush for pages, but the truth is, this film just doesn't get any better. What many people don't realize is that this film was actually based on a book, and a completely hilarious one, at that. I can't get through a page without physically laughing out loud. It's made for several untimely utterances in places where utterances don't quite belong. Apologies. In any case, find some time to add this one to your respective book list. You won't regret it. Well, you might. But I wouldn't. And definitely take the time to watch it. You'll never be the same. 

And remember this is for posterity so be honest,

M

Why Yes

I actually do take my scarf off like this.

We are men of action. Lies do not become us. 

Lake Bushwhacking

Today was just a day when I could not get down. I tried. I was given ample opportunity, but try as I might, that not-so-elusive melodrama as of late was missing. 

Everything just clicked today. This morning, when I woke up, I decided to have a what-the-hell-moment and change my hair part to the other side. Why, you might skeptically ask? Because I wanted to know how the rest of the world saw me. Yeah, that's me for you. 

Although this may sound like an un-bothersome occurrence it did in fact become a bothersome occurrence. 

I'm so used to having to flip my head in the opposite direction to get my bangs out of my eyes, that by the time I had flipped them in the wrong direction and then compensated for the now new direction I had developed a decent case of whiplash. I feel like I became slightly ambidextrous today, what with the having to use my left hand to move my hair out of my face. Okay, I'm a bit far off from that one. But I will tell you that ambidexterity is certainly on my horizon.

I had an excess amount of time today during lunch because one of my classes was cancelled, allowing for ample opportunistic reading time. Essentially, the best thing that ever happens to me. 

I've recently acquired a copy of Moby Dick and I can't stop laughing. I'm not entirely certain Herman Melville's intention was to make me laugh, but I can't help it. It's the little idiosyncrasies of several of the characters, the information that Ishmael feels the reader should know, and veiled truths that punch you straight in the face. Those don't make me laugh so much, but they certainly make my heart burn. There's one passage in particular that jumped straight off the page when I read it: "Faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs, and even from these dead doubts she gathers her most vital hope."

Chew on that one. 

After class in the afternoon I meant to jump into the car and drive home, but the car itself meant to be jumped. And so, instead of calling someone to come jump the car, I decided to go on an adventure. After all, there'd be nothing to talk about if I had waited for aid. Instead, I decided to spontaneously bushwhack my way home, saying "of course not" to paths and demarcated roads, instead deciding to trudge across the frozen tundra of the lake. It was absolutely exhilarating, and freezing, what with snow up to my kneecaps in places, and utterly brilliant. It took a half an hour to get across, far from my guesstimate of a 10 minute jaunt. It was strangely surreal, walking across that frozen desert marked by car tracks and ice fishing shanties, the occasional Minnesotan waving in the distance. (Of course,  I didn't wave back--didn't want to encourage them, never know who's a psycho stalker, what with me being alone and in the middle of a lake trudging through snow trying to make sure that I didn't die from falling in or from being kidnapped, seriously people, my imagination is ridiculous and nefarious and absurd.)

Finally made it to the edge of the lake, at which point I sunk into a snow drift up to my hips. Which is saying something, considering my 5'10" frame. Then I had to scale the cliffs of insanity, well not really, but they were quite insane, and I felt a wee bit like Bear Grylls. Totally worth it. I must have looked like a crazy idiot crawling on all fours attempting to scale the hill, pulling off dead branches and splitting my coat zipper in the process. At which point I managed to make it to the road, the very slushy road, that would lead me to the house. Of course, not before every car on that road subsequently slowed down and looked at me in their rearview mirrors. The long trek of awkward social situations as I spontaneously burst out laughing at cars as they passed me by. Really, there must be something in the water here. 

Joy is inescapable.
On top of that, I get to go watch Braveheart tonight with a friend, which will just be a brilliant end to an even more brilliant day. 

And that's that for you. Just wittering on. 

Embracing adventure and taking control of my story,

M

Sometimes It's All There's Left to Say

Cheesefest Epiphanies

I have epiphanies, left and right. The problem is, I have so many epiphanies that by the time I'm three or four away from the last one I've completely forgotten the first one. I always manage to have them when I'm nowhere near a pen/paper, sharp rock/dull earth, electrical pulse/brain, or otherwise. They just don't want to solidify. You have those ahah! moments and just as soon you're on to the next. It's almost as if each idea isn't given enough time to marinate--and maybe fester is the correct term here-- but the ideas certainly aren't given enough time to truly sink in. 

See, that's the thing that happens when you ride for hours on end in a car listening to folk music.  Which is what I did all day, driving home from Minneapolis. Anyways, I'm hoping to train my brain in the art of festering epiphanies. A true art. 

Continuing in brain wave melting material: right now, I'm writing this as I'm sitting in on a showing of the '87 cult show Beauty and the Beast. It's painfully dreadful and terribly awful. And maybe that's not the correct term here. I'm certainly not full of awe regarding it, but I can't look away. Even the people who made the show are fully aware of how much a cheesefest this thing really is as they pan away to a shot of the moon. I really can't handle any more of this and as I have to awake in the wee hours of the morn, I'll be hitting the sack. 

It's epiphany marination time.

Cheesefest coma commencing,

M

Premonitions

Information Release Form

I secretly love when it's so absurdly cold outside, because in that moment when I step out of any heated building into the frigid air, all of my nose hairs freeze. I know, completely weird. But I just love that feeling, especially when I scrunch my nose around and flare my nostrils. Not so secret anymore.

Sharing far too much information these days,

M

Highly Unsatisfactory Tauntauns

Let it be known that yesterday I was flirting with myself. Today is a different character altogether.
The only thing better than waking up at 6:15 to get to your morning class on time, the car failing to start in the frozen tundra, and managing to get to class on time and then realizing it's cancelled, is absolutely realizing that the wind chill is ranging from -30 to -50 [how the hell do you make degree symbols (jeeze I need to figure out how computers work) there's really no excuse for that]. I said it was terrifyingly/exhilaratingly cold yesterday. God must have thought that was hilarious because I'm now convinced that I no longer dwell in Bemidji, MN, and have instead been transported to the frozen tundra of Hoth.

Seriously, I need me one of those tauntauns. They're perfect. No batteries, no gas, although I suppose you would have to give them some sort of sustenance, but if you ever get attacked by a sasquatch creature you can always cut open your tauntaun and climb inside to redistrubute your body heat. It's the perfect vehicle for  especially-Northerly-Northern Hemisphere dwellers. Well, heating aside. You'd have to have a hell of a coat, face mask, hat, bushy scarf (of the non-vegetative variety) mittens, twelve layers of thermal underwear and possibly even keep hamsters in one of the layers just to stay mildly warm and keep your body from freezing into a cadaverous state. See, but that would be a bother as well, because then you'd have all of these rodents slowly shuffling about in your clothing, which would not only look entirely awkward to whoever you happen to converse with that day, but would also be incredibly ticklish. And probably smell.

So. Things I've determined:

1. Tauntauns, although highly fictionalized and somewhat of a satisfactory ride, would not make things easier. They would in fact cause more problems. Just imagine the droppings.

2. Never use the term terrifyingly/exhilaratingly cold. There is colder and you can bet your arse you will feel it someday.

3. Checking email to find out that morning classes are cancelled usually helps you to not wake up early and madly dash about the house trying to gather all of your schmutz.

4. Plug your cars in overnight when you live in a frozen wasteland of particular iceberginess.

5. Keep calm and carry on.

6. God laughs.

So, here I will be, wittering away my time and subsequently spend my break hours reading. It's practically a holiday. Speaking of which, I'm about to go on a four day holiday to Minneapolis to catch up with old friends, family, and just have some plain good fun. Can't wait to reunite with the art museums. Mmmmm, good. There will be much partying, much frivolity, far less sleep than I can ever hope for, and even more laughter. Oh, and cake. I'm turning old on saturday.

Sadly there are no tauntauns for me,

M

Frozen Flirt

And now I can say that my arse is officially frozen off. It's terrifyingly cold today. But not really.

It's exhilaratingly cold today, in the damn-it's-freezing-but-i-really-love-it-why-is-there-a-paradox-here kind of way. I think I figured out why I was so inherently happy walking around campus freezing my arse off. Because I was outside when it was actually snowing. When any type of precipitation falls from the heavens I get unusually giddy. I laugh uproariously at nothing. Literally. I'll be walking along, smiling like a dope, and then laugh at nothing. And then proceed to laugh at the fact that I'm laughing at nothing. It's really a conundrum wrapped in an enigma surrounded by a question. And it's never ending, ever-spiralling. 

Seriously, people must think I'm insane. 

And then that laughter sets me up to spontaneously combust later as I'm reading hundreds of pages of textbook material. Luckily, the only other inmates in my presence at the moment are a large, unassuming dog that I've dubbed Jackleton [based off of shackleton's arctic adventures] and a really fluffy cat named Chloe that I've taken to calling Drunk kitty [whenever she wakes up her hair is all rumpled and she has one eye half closed in a "could you be any louder as you enter this room" kind of way]. I mean seriously, guys. This is a problem. I'm using the word kitty and laughing at everything today. 

I'm practically flirting with myself. 

Maybe that's what it is. Whenever there's rain or snow I fall in love with myself all over again. So. I'm going to go keep reading exorbitant amounts of text, laugh uproariously at nothing, and in general finish out my day.

Laughing for no reason and Loving it all the same,

M

Dagwood

Dagwood sandwiches again?

You Can't Bloody Be an Astronaut

And then there's that whole responsibility bit, when everyone's madly dashing about saying to you over and over again in a never ending matrix of infinity "you should do so and so and you should be with so and so and you should go to the moon even though NASA isn't sending anymore astronauts there and you should just grow a pair and get over it and you should just spend thousands of dollars on an education and you should just settle down and you should just keep a straight face and bend over and take it and you should just do an endless supply of things that I think would make you happy or at least keep you occupied". Sometimes it's a bit flustering. More than flustering, I should say. 

I find myself in a rather defiant mood at the moment (but who's kidding I've been in a defiant mood for the last several years) and I'm not one to roll with the punches. A bit tired of having my life dictated to me by everyone. I'm even tired of having my life dictated by me. And that's where the paradox comes in folks, because apparently I can't even bloody dream big enough to get the rest of the cloying noise out of my own ears. 

Rant, rant, nudge, nudge, say no more, say no more. 

I want to do things. And who's to say I shouldn't? Shan't? A lucrative career apparently isn't one of those things. I have a brilliant idea that I've managed to hatch so far: maybe I should graduate from high school early, move to Minneapolis and start a degree in English Literature and then say "hang this" and move to Bemidji to start a degree in Modelmaking. Hell, I can read all the books I want for the rest of my life, but I don't want to teach them to people. I want to horde them like a jealous thief and change the password from "open sesame" to something no one else will ever figure out. I just want to see mountains again, Gandalf, and then find somewhere to finish my book. I can work for Weta Workshop, not minding of course the fact that getting to work there is highly competitive and they won't add you if they have a similar person with credentials in New Zealand, so hang immigration! 

And then there's the whole wanting to move to Scotland bit. How in the hell can I work for Weta Workshop (New Zealand) when I'm living in Scotland? There's a bit of a distance issue here, at least cartographically. So. My ideas flummox me just as much as everyone else's ideas about where I should be going and what I should be doing. At the moment, I'm supposed to be working on learning Adobe Illustrator for Technical Foundations II class, but hang that,  because now I'm just spiraling into a rant about how not thought out all of this really is. Every once in a while you'll hear me exclaim "my life is in shambles" and then go about the rest of my day. It's just what I do. So. There. I've done it.

My life is in shambles.

And yet, I have hope. I'm surrounded by people I love, people who love me and don't give a rat's ass what I do as long as I'm happy. And that's a support system Batman could only dream of. I don't think it's quite near the hour to throw in the proverbial towel, so to speak. Hell, I want to learn Gaelic as well--better shove that in somewhere. Here I'll be. Trying to figure things out and failing miserably and triumphing greatly in my ineptitude and descrying my future. 

Ranting, raving, and altogether looking up,

Mo

Edit: Actually, I'm loving what I've chosen to do at the moment. Adobe Illustrator is actually completely interesting to me and is currently occupying my time. I'm not in a real huff. This isn't sarcastic, for those of you concerned, I'm excited about it. Uncertain, but certainly excited. Had to fit my rant in somewhere, too much straight-facing it these days. My life isn't really in shambles. It's just a bit disconcerting at the moment, is all. Keep calm and carry on!

Saying No

When the man tries to take your head, simply smoke derisively in his direction. It usually works.

Sometimes.

The Road Goes Ever On and On

The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.

Roads go ever ever on,

Over rock and under tree,

By caves where never sun has shone,

By streams that never find the sea;

Over snow by winter sown,

And through the merry flowers of June,

Over grass and over stone,

And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever ever on

Under cloud and under star,

Yet feet that wandering have gone

Turn at last to home afar.

Eyes that fire and sword have seen

And horror in the halls of stone

Look at last on meadows green

And trees and hills they long have known.

The Road goes ever on and on

Out from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

Let others follow it who can!

Let them a journey new begin,

But I at last with weary feet

Will turn towards the lighted inn,

My evening-rest and sleep to meet.

-- JRR Tolkien

Shortcut to Mushrooms

I tend to get ahead of myself. Not ahead of myself in a "right then she's gone over the deep end with ideas" sort of way but more of a "she's got a future persona who jumps through wormholes and gives her intelligence on what to do and not to do" way.

Unfortunately, this future persona who jumps through wormholes and gives her intelligence on what to do and not to do is entirely "un-forthwith" [making up words] in information. And maybe that's a good thing, present M decides, as knowing things usually tend to lead to choices. 

Ahh, choices. That's the rub here. 

Good choices, bad choices, outlandish choices, what-the-hell choices, possibilities, more possibilities, decisions, an unending string of possibilities that tend to swallow each other in the giant maw of hindsight. This choice leads to this and this choice leads to that and this other choice leads to both this and that. Choices, choices, choices, choices. That's all they ever say and that's all they ever want to know. 

Ever feel stuck fast to something? Someone? Cosmic irony?
Ever feel like you're right on the edge of discovering something truly profound, yet all the while there's a gnome hitting you on the head with an absurd pair of dull sardines hoping the elusive truth won't quite come to you? Well, maybe not. But the sentiment is the same.
It's like I'm aware, deep down, that something's about to break; there is a certain expectancy permeating the air at the moment.

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."

Because that's the rub, isn't it? Two paths diverged in a wood...and I took one of them. Maybe not the one less traveled. Maybe the one everyone else decided was right and true. Then again, maybe I took neither--maybe I foraged ahead and bushwhacked my own trail. The thing about it is, I don't really think there are black and white choices, decisions, possibilities; in fact, I think they're infinitely limitless. Cause and effect, the close comrades of hindsight, rear their gruesome bulbous heads in a fashion each time. See, that's the thing about this metaphorical road, endless possibilities. It's true that when you step on to the road there's no knowing where you might be swept off to, there's no knowing the outcome, good or bad, no knowledge of what is to come. Sometimes it leads to mushrooms. Sometimes it leads to lovers. Sometimes it leads to terrible endings. To new friends. To loss. Sometimes it's a bit like hope. A bit like expectancy. But how will you ever know if you don't venture out? If you don't step onto the road you sure as hell aren't going to be swept off anywhere. You'll just rot in stagnancy.
Choose a road, choose a path, just choose. Decide.

"It's late, the road is long. Yes...it's time."

Half thought out,
M

Let's Be Honest Here

So, I made some resolutions this year, after avoiding what fate chose to throw at me with the new year, and not wearing the same clothes tomorrow is definitely not one of them. 

One of them was making my bed everyday. Almost made it four days in a row. I can't kick my habit of completely and shamelessly messing up my bed; it's messy now, it's messy in the morning, and you can bet your arse it'll be messy when I sleep in it tonight. But still. Four days--that's gotta count for something. I've heard somewhere that if I were to make my bed for five days in a row some person in Russia is supposed to fire a nuclear missile at the US, who in turn will fire an exorbitant amount of nuclear missiles in return, therefore causing the end of the world. 

So, if you're a betting man, you can bet your arse the reason that the apocalypse happens on December 12th will be because I made my bed five days consecutively. 

Another one is...nah. No more divulging. No more of this free information.You'll just have to ask. 

Possibly wearing yesterday's clothes,

M

And Now For Something Wildly Inappropriate

Signing Off

What's happened to me so far since starting this and coincidentally what you may have missed: 

Much love

Crossing my fingers and Dreaming big

Scratching away and Blotting my paper

Breathing easier

Winking and not blinking

Dancing like a European

Demarcating the space between today and tomorrow

Getting bled on

Still dreaming of Scottish beans

Avoiding the situation

Constructing fortifications around my bed

Avoiding fate as well

Rubbish in general today

Disregarding thermometers and meteorologists everywhere

Treating third degree burns

Bushwhacking/recovering addict of Scotland

Don't you feel caught up?