I really, really, really wish my cat were a lolzcat.
She needs a hobby. Bad. And I’m finding it difficult to accomplish anything with her half draped across me at any given moment.
She’s even begun invading the bathroom in a draped-across sort of way. I find myself looking at her big-cat eyes and thinking, “She’d be a star in ‘Children of the Corn’ if she were human.”
She’s staring. And she’s purring. And she’s drooling.
And I wish she had a hobby.
My apologies to my Irish friends, but I couldn’t think of anything half as appropriate for a title.
Today was the Unity Easter Sunday service, and, heaven help us, we had Phil Jones there again. He’s giving another workshop tomorrow night, so I am beyond thrilled. Last year I both met him and the didgeridoo, and it was such an incredible experience. I made sure to tell him how much I enjoyed the workshop he gave from last year, and how pleased I was to see him again.
I was reading about last year’s Unity Easter Service, and I realized how much I’ve changed since then.
In some humorously surprising ways, actually. Reverend Dave read the Matthew version, and one of the first things that hit me was that the first person Christ appeared to was a woman. Mary Magdalene, actually. Not an “apostle” but a woman. Not really important for me personally, I don’t think, but with all this feminine awareness I have about me now, I thought it appropriate that I noticed it.
I’ll refrain from going all Sojourner Truth right about now and her opinion of men’s place with Christ, and get on to what I was really talking about.
I’m back. Oh, boy, am I back.
I don’t know if I’m back to blogging as often as I had been, but I’m back, back, back.
This morning, as I was walking (and feeling incredibly ungrateful that I’ve managed to misplace my MP3 player), I realized that I hadn’t actually posted a gratitude for Thursday.
At the moment I was thinking about it, I was feeling so very good in my body as it was moving, I was feeling swept along, legs stretching, feet up and down and up and down and arms pumping. And I was feeling so grateful for movement. And the product of movement. The joy of moving is joy enough, but when I can feel with my hands my muscles coming together, strengthening, lengthening, moving.
Continue reading Double Dose (Gratitude Thursday, a Day Late)
So I was talking to a recently acquired friend about my love affair with Chekhov. God help us all when I get to talking about Chekhov.
I don’t even know a whole lot about Anton Chekhov. I only know “Lady with the Pet Dog.”
Actually we were talking about what I would consider “good literature,” but even that was after the point of origin. We were talking about passion. Yes, that was it, indeed.
We were talking about passion, about living a passionate life, about what made one passionate.
So I started discussing literature, which, is as far as I’m concerned, started for me with Anton Checkhov’s “Lady with the Pet Dog.”
Anton Checkhov’s story is all about passion, or rather, it culminates in what I consider to be the perfect example of passion. It’s a rather unoriginal story when reduced to its plot: man meets girl, man gets girl, man loses girl, man summons courage to get her back, and the end is left open, while optimistic (at least in the mind of the lovers) it is open ended and ambiguous.
I’m trying really, really hard to find something to be grateful for today, but no luck so far.
Thankfully, there are still 14 hours left in the day.
Things had been so good since January, magnificently so, that it took my by surprise when I hit Spring Break. It seems like I got things all figured out, and then they all fell apart.
And fell apart and fell apart and fell apart.
I’d say that I’m grateful that there are 14 hours left in the day, but I’d be lying.
But I am trying.
It’s Spring Break, which means I have a metric ass-load of unfinished projects that I have to somehow pull off by next week.
Because not assigning homework — and lots and lots of it — over Spring Break would be simply unAmerican or something.
Yesterday was National Nap Day, so I had an excuse. Today, I’m not sure what it is.
I’m tired, tired.
And I’m going back to bed, if even for just a little bit.
So I actually made it to church this morning. I got home from work, crashed, and made it back up in time.
Sometimes it’s the little things that reinforce my belief in miracles.
I had been asked a few weeks ago to speak at a Sunday service. It was during one of the follow up meetings to the “I of the Storm” class that I had taken last year.
And, well, January was a phenomenal month. And I’ve become an obnoxiously happy, bright and shiny person despite my best efforts.
So they want me to speak.
Me, speaking in front of people? Are they out of their ever-loving mind?
Found on a church sign as I was on my way to Pet Smart to get kitty food the very day the ex brought my girls to me.
I drove by it before it registered. When I saw it, I turned around, came back and stood to take a picture of it.
I really do lead a charmed, charmed life.
Meh.
I wrote something once, “Words will be the death of me, and in Truth I shall be reborn.”
I think it’s fitting…the difference between words and truth these days, or, perhaps more accurately, Truth these days, is astounding.
We’re talking about style in ficiton writing class last night. What’s style? Out of all of the elements of fiction, I think style is the most difficult to define. It’s more than grammar or syntax. More than mere word choice. But it has little to do with storyline or plot or even character, I think.
If you find that one writer that just zings off the page, it doesn’t matter if he or she rewrites a nursery rhyme or a short story — her style is there, and you know who wrote it.
Mark over at the Naked Soul wrote this post about fingerprints, and it made me think. It made me think that style and fingerprints in that sense, aren’t really all that different.
But back to words.
I was absolutely horrified when, in a moment of brilliant clarity, I realized just how much I sound like Eric Cartman’s mother when I talk to my recent-arrival cats.
Were I to try to coax them with Cheesy Poofs or offer them a pot pie, I’d have it nailed.
The bad news is that I sound like Eric Cartman’s mother. That’s pretty damn bad news.
The good news is that I’ve noticed that my throat is healing. I’ll never have the voice of a three year old getting her pig tails pulled (thankfully, I’ll admit), but I have noticed some subtle changing with my voice, and I can only guess that it is the vocal chords healing from the lack of smoking.
I noticed it first when I was singing (yes, singing, me, scary thought), and I found myself thinking, “Wow, I sound pretty damned good!”
Now if I could only match key to words. I’d be super-rocking then.
Lyrical Fool 