They looked cold.  I looked down.

Watching my feet, partly to protect my socks, somewhat hidden by closed toed open heeled shoes from a sudden influx of cold, wet slush, and mostly to avoid the stares of thousands of waiting teenagers, I struggled to match my friends’ pace, trailing behind as we made a bees line for a side door.

Before long, our group doubled, tripled, as others joined.  I heard comments that we must have been VIP too and held back for a moment to walk with the strangers, assuring them that the lady said that there was a special entrance on the other side of the building as we walked perpendicularly across the front of the line.

Once inside, we were given our position- the tables on the arena’s floor- and few directions.  Help the people fill out this form and if they pay by credit card, give them the speaker’s book.

I could do that.

The Holt International volunteer sticker was clearly visible, but since I didn’t put on the bright yellow volunteer sandwich board type vest, when the main guy in charge rushed in and said ‘I need three’, I didn’t think I counted.  The lady I had been speaking with since getting there rushed out the door, but I didn’t look enough like a volunteer to direct traffic, or at least point the youth pastors to the room where they’d pray together and meet some of the bands.  After I missed my chance to join, a straggler still asked where they went, to which I had no suitable answer.  All I could do was pass out books.

Completely clueless.

She returned with the report, It was really cool- you should’ve gone, and I smiled, nodded and remained silent.  There was nothing to say.

Workers came and left the table reporting that they had been everywhere but I remained seated.  They wouldn’t let me give the chair up.  I obediently stood during much of the concert, but when Newsong’s new lead singer Michael Tait encouraged his audience to sway like a really large black gospel choir with a lot of white people in it, I stayed put.  There was no one to the left or to the right of me to knock me over if I didn’t.



Am I required to finish that thought?

Am I allowed?image

I’ve been having such a hard time lately finding a nice even balance between book and blurb.  A complete rounded thought.  I really do have a bunch of these- automatically saved intros- atheistically pleasing to the ear fragments that once had a foundation and background and plan and potential- when at work when my mind is free but my fingers are figuratively chained to the number pad.  A cord no longer ties me to my desk as it did in the call center, but to be so severely restricted physically while the mind has the time to play whatever song happened to be catchiest that morning on continuous loop for a few hours leaves me with a mistaken sense that I have written quite a few more posts than in reality.

Then, after quickly proving my subconscious wrong, I sit to type only to have the well laid out plots that make up this ongoing commentary either fade on the spot or remind me that they had walked out, given up on waiting for me a few hours (or days…) ago when my body was still ignoring the urge to forget all else and capture that moment’s somewhat profound epiphany.


Sometimes I scribble regardless of inspiration,

as I’m doing now, merely because I like the sound of my own fingers clicking on the undersized keyboard, because I like to hear myself think and my voice is also going to walk out one day because of neglect.  Sometimes I continue just moving the fingers out of a desperate attempt to get it to come back, knowing I had something good going but not exactly sure what or how- as I do the mornings that I inevitably regret keeping my head on the pillow for that extra thirty seconds or so.  Although for the last year or so I’ve been recording and able to remember most of my dreams, the most frustrating mornings start when, in that slight eon, the vivid dream dies and seemingly unrelated fragments pollute my dream journal with question marks and really odd statements, or worse- nothing at all.


And then sometimes there are just leftovers from a bored scrambled mind.


(Slip and slide competition using non buttered toast? )


I still have the false start

from a few weeks ago for a comparison of tattoos and missions trips.


They say they’re addicting.  That sensation- the prickling, prodding, stabbing – the willingness to allow, willingly, to ask for, pay for, pay a lot for that uncomfortable sensation – is not unique.


We all want to feel unique.  I am not unique


Intriguing thought that I’d like to revisit.



A phrase that  has been running through my head for two days now could have been the perfect title to an unwritten Valentine’s Day post:


Happy Monday right back ‘atcha


and I still have a few things to say about how much I enjoyed Beauty and the Beast last week (even though I claim to be dead set against chic flics).  I was going to take a pic of my shirt from the musical junior year and have it line up with the newspaper article I saw the following afternoon about the book Cinderella Ate My Daughter.  The dentist told this woman’s 3 year old daughter to sit in the throne while she ‘sparkles up her teeth’.  Ok then.  In that case mommies are queens and should expect and not dread getting her crown?

We also watched Sin Nombre last weekend.  That’s 2 1/2 blog posts just right there.

image 913 words.  ( A whole lot more than that now that I’ve been playin’ ) There’s a site called that challenges its users to write 3 pages a day – roughly 750 words.  They claim to let your words remain private, but I see their version of privacy as equivalent to the airport body scanners- just because faces are blurred, its not in color, identities are supposedly impossible to find out etc etc doesn’t mean that very personal stuff is being seen and analyzed in a completely obtrusive manner.

I feel like I’ve made you sit through my free for all clearing out the trash schpele beforeside note/ tangent/ track…I’m pretty sure that regardless of how I spell a sound pattern we’ve all used, it’s gonna be wrong.  The little red squiggly, as least on my end, leaves itself alone, causing me to wonder whether I have used squiggly before, and have thereby added it to the oh so trustworthy dictionary, or whether it is really considered an (honorary) word.  Still, MS is throwing it’s usual fit over gonna and is going to continue to point its finger accusingly over schpeal so I shall let it be– but it makes me feel better so I shall continue.


Wordcount 1032.  Goal 1400.


If someone asks you to go a mile, run two.  Easier said than done, but I’m a surprisingly wordy lady and can easily squeeze out a just a few more. (Gilberto – no me digas no.  es necesario para mi salud- debes probarlo)



Am I required to finish that thought?

Am I allowed? (Am I able?)


I started the intro ‘quote’ in reference to Winterjam, where I was given the chance to sit at the orphans table in the middle of the arena, right next to the card for a little girl from Mongolia named Ama.  Ready to celebrate her first birthday in another week, Amarzayana? (The sponsor packets upstairs), seems to have been hand selected just for me.  VIP.

There were people looking for specific birthdays, countries etc and a couple that must have spent a half an hour trying to decide but for me at least, everything about her said now.  This is the one I have called you to love, pray for, support.


Ama.  Love.

Friendly to the masses but friends with few. Making a bees line past the crowds, focusing in on one, not by random chance.  VIP

Oh how I wish you could sense all the connections- get automatically that Sunday’s sermon was about being careful who you let in and have an image of a little boy skipping six easter eggs because he had his eyes set on one and of Jesus walking past the beggar of ‘silver and gold I have none’ fame daily for years because that man’s time had not yet come.  See how I flip quickly through the pages of a hand drawn flipbook and marvel at the artistry of the sweeping viewpoint coming down on two dancing figures.



I almost wish you could automatically understand how strange it was to recognize the violin  part Beauty and the Beast and hear the unspoken implications that click upon hearing that the prince had until age 21 to find his girl.  Last time I watched that movie, it was still a long ways off.

Unspoken connotations.

1246 words. (hehe- not any more)  I can leave it at that. You’ve been patient enough.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll let you in on some of the closed eyes non stop stream of consciousness stuff that I resort to when I don’t feel like ‘putting my face on’ – Mom’s term for breaking out the makeup in preparation for leaving the privacy of home.


Maybe- and then again maybe not.  I’m not one for the all out glamorous, gooey all the same to me full blown makeup before leaving my bedroom stuff, but even I have limits as to what can be considered presentable.  Who knows who, if anyone, is reading this __¡¿?endeavor__ so somewhere in my search for a decent balance between blurb and book, I’ll try to stumble across a decent balance between stiff and personalitylessness and tell all.  After all, my dream last night was about uninvited guests stuffing into a private pool like sardines simply because I didn’t bother to shut the door behind me.  We wouldn’t want that now, would we?


1428  Well look at that- I made it after all.


1542.  Don’t go by the numbers.