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