Molehill

It should have been nothing. It wasn't even dark yet and we were tying our sneakers and strapping our sandals to our feet. Mostly little feet. We gave the ball back and said thank you. Then one got on her scooter, one pushed a pink stroller and the other was in my arms as we walked the few blocks back to "safety."

I had three missed calls. I got three more as I walked. And before we reached "safety" Grapo Peet showed up slow and lurking in his shiny, white Toyota. Be Careful. It's dark. Don't go so fast down the hill. Stay together. Keep off the curb. Look both ways. Hold hands. Don't. . .

I wanted to cry, scream, shout at him; tell him that I felt belittled and untrusted. I wanted to calmly swallow my pride. Take the emotional slug to my gut and wash my hands of the day. I wanted to confront him and speak my mind. Even if my voice shook. So I sat there, and waited for his return and just before my fingers had tapped out their last drumming rhythm on the table I watched the lights reflect off the kitchen window, signaling his return. I was silent as the door opened. My mind was still debating its decision, deliberating my place.

I spoke. I told. I shook.

As I drove home my chest was heaving as I tried to swallow all that I had just said. I tried to keep the raging sea deep in my belly, rather than letting it lap up my sides and onto my pillow, but when my feet touched the carpet in my room I knew I needed solitude. Solitude to let myself spill and gush and flood and stream and burst. I was a tempest. And I received comfort like cold porridge.

capture(d)

She got me. Love her work. Love her. Love.

Regret

The rain was coming down in waves and sheets, filling the rain gutters, turning corners into waterfalls and gutters into rivers. The wind blew patterns in the water and pounding sounds in the air. I wanted to run outside. I wanted to jump. I wanted to splash and soak my jeans heavy. But for some reason. I didn't.

I miss racing to the roof to watch the lightning and sitting under the eaves to catch a view of the storm without getting wet. I miss the smell of warm pavement and feeling the heat rise through the water towards my feet. I appreciate the moments in reflection, but wish that I would have drunken myself silly in the rain while I was there. But for some reason. I didn't.

Marketeer

After going here in May I was hooked. As soon as I got back to Mr. Trusty-Apple that evening I did a bit of online searching and found this and It made me so glad to maybe get a taste of the fabulousness experienced across the Atlantic back at home. Every Saturday since I've been home something has come up. Sometimes the somethings really get in my way and keep me from doing other somethings I wish I had time for. Like visit the Farmer's Market.

Today my wish came true.

I visited this lovely lady a few days ago and she gave me a tour of her magnificent garden. She told me a bit about what to expect at the market and really got me rearing to go. I drug half my clan with me, so Mom, Dad, and OlderAndWiserToo all trekked downtown to see for ourselves what this place of produce and Provo-loving peddlers was all about.

It only took one free cookie and I was hooked. Though considerably smaller than the mass market in London, it had hearty goodness and the atmosphere was just grand.

So if you wish to join me, I am going to be a regular attending Farmer's Marketeer. I think I'll go for lunch next week.

Turn

She turned her heart inside out
And wore it that way
For you

Unprotected

With all those strange projections
Growing out
Instead of

In.

Fresh
Home
Scented
Summer.

Warm Apricots on a sun tree

You.

Ollivander

I am in search of a new one of these and used some time this morning to conduct a bit of research and do a little shopping around. I walked into a local art supplier's store and was greeted by the hearty smell of oil paint and canvases. But my mission is a brush for watercoloring so I steered myself to the left side of the first aisle and began picking up brushes and feeling their weight in my hand. Eventually I asked the portly sales associate a question and he came over to show me a thing or two.

I wanted an experience like his when he chose his wand in preparation for entering the world's best school for witchcraft and wizardry. I wanted to walk into a little shop where the wise owner was bustling about before I prodded him with questions and he helped me select the perfect wand. I wanted it to choose me.

So I watched as he picked up a brush in his hands and filled it full of water. He proceeded to flick the brush in demonstration and my might was illuminated with delight. "Swish and flick!" It was almost too good to be true. The beautiful sable hair came to a fine point and he painted a few lines with water on a colored page. Then he walked back behind the counter and took out a slender, red, satin-lined box. It contained a stunning brush. If I were set on my medium and perhaps came into a great deal of money, I would have purchased that little gem then and there. But the cost equaled what I have to pay towards tuition, so I left a piece of my heart in the box and he put it back in the glass case.

I think I found my brush. Not the glass-case wonder, but an almost equally as beautiful one that whispered my name as it was flicked through the air by a man who strangely resembles Ollivander.

Enlivened

The morning came and went without me stepping out into the cool. Before I had the chance, the heat of the day was singing the sidewalks and all hopes of getting out on a run were dashed until dusk.

By the time the sun set behind the lake and the smell of fireworks filled the air, I laced up my Nike's , donned a blue tank and let my feet rhythmically strike the pavement as they carried me away from my home and towards another. The run down Timpview Drive was dotted with firework shows. I ran past family after family; moms in lawn chairs holding their littlest kittens in their laps while the dads held the lighters. The display of fountains ranged significantly, but the spray of color was second only to the magical dancing sparklers held by little hands and waving in the darkness. It reminded me of when I would twirl around with my little shining wand on the 4th of July and pretend I was a dancer, or a princess, or a fairy.

When I reached the top of the hill I walked briefly before sinking in the grass to think and thank. I pondered the wonders of the world and the beauties of my life. I thought about the clarity of the gospel and the easiness of the way. At that same moment thoughts of how difficult easiness can be and how simple it is to live a flat-line life. The hour kept burning late with the fuses of the last lights I could see flashing in the night so I picked up my feet to begin the run home.

Though the journey back was far less spectacular, it was accompanied by the smell of the shells of the fiery displays and pockets of cold air created by sprinklers. During the final seconds of the sprint down my block I thought how blessed I am to have had all my senses enlivened in a single night of celebration.

Textual

TEXTUAL CONVERSATION
MysteryDigits at 12:25 am: i just pised in this diaper i found
Me at 12:16 am: firstly, you're gross. secondly, you spelled pissed wrong
MysteryDigits: i don't care
Me: why did you tell me that?
To close out freshman year, the mates and I hit a few relics in the apartment in memorial of the memories and feats of the first year of college. Last night, I was reminded about a little present we left and all the laughs we had with these (see #1).

MysteryDigits at 12:25 am: i just pised in this diaper i found
Me at 12:16 am: firstly, you're gross. secondly, you spelled pissed wrong
MysteryDigits: i don't care
Me: why did you tell me that?
MysteryDigits: i found this diaper at efy and it had this number on it
Me: OH MY GOSH NO WAY! that's amazing!
MysteryDigits: who is this? how long ago did you do this?
Me: I lived in heritage last year. my roommates and i hid them up in all the closets the last week of the semester

- ten minutes pass (i can only image boys in lanyards throwing open the top cupboards and finding 5 more adult diapers)-

MysteryDigits: that is so funny! we're streaking in them tonight!!

Me: send me a picture. i need to show my roomates. you don't understand how urgent it is
MysteryDigits: only if i get a pic of you first
(at this point i'm nearly laughing out loud picturing this little boy trying to send a flirty text and get a picture out of it)
Me: what? how old are you 14? i'm not a pedophile
MysteryDigist: 18. so is the pic coming?

No sir. The "pic" never was sent, but I can't even begin to describe how elated I was to find out that someone wore that diaper. Even if they can't spell.

Eight

I only had eight minutes but I knew that I wanted to fill my senses so I decided to take a wall. Just one. I opened my eyes and put on my discerning glasses. Then I unscrewed the top of my head and stood in a wide stance, hip cocked to one side and head cocked the other. My arms were folded across my chest and I stood there peering down my nose.

On that wall I saw family, symbolism, holding hands, eternity, brown, red, white, gray, black, blue, repeating, pattern, line, texture, value, chaos, order, love, stress, endurance, skill, time, neurosis, obsessiveness, tension, serenity, and maybe a little of myself.

It made me want to pick up my brushes again and get a board to paint on. I need to work out a few series this summer, but two-thirds of the summer months have already burned away with the water that evaporated out of the bottle left on my dashboard. So I'll have to do a lot of thinking while I drive or slice lemons, or box, swag and fruffle, or mindlessly drone away at the desk job. And then I'll come home and get started. For real.

Invitations

To the Future Mrs. ScootScoot

I'm not a scrapbooker, but I am crafty when called upon and have the aid of LilLou. Now I have the rest of the plans to pull together in T Minus Ten Days. Sometimes delegation is not worth it.

Babysitting

I forgot that I had been running on empty for days before heading out of town, so when Monday morning hit and I found myself commuting to Highland to spend the day babysitting The Rugrats my journey started with a trip to the pumps. Can I just say that it makes me feel old to say things like, "I remember when gas was $2.00 a gallon!" Unfortunately I didn't have time to save a dollar and thirty cents and make a pit stop here. Instead, I hit up the Maverick just off the freeway and let Brian guzzle down $57 of fuel. I wanted to throw up. Sometimes I feel like driving is like sitting on the curb taking a lighter to one dollar bills and setting them to the wind just to smell the fumes. I'd rather walk. But not to Highland.

I arrive only to find Pinky at the door in her tiny pink shorts, equally as miniature white tank and her cotton candy hair looking like it had been massaged with syrup. Oh how I love her. I was whisked to the living room where she performed a series of acrobats for me while I was trying to have an exchange with The Rugrat's dad. "I'll be home arou--" "WATCH THIS!" "Hold on a sec--" ". . . so just call me on my number it's 83--" "I LEARNED A NEW TRICK!" (as she's tugging so hard on my arm it permanently lengthens about two and a half inches) ". . . So you're okay with everyth--" "WAAAAAAAATCH ME!" "Yeah, (kick in the leg as Pinky flies across the living room and Jet Li's me from behind) I think I've got it covered." "Great. See you at 5." And then the door closes.

Sch and Ducky were practically worshiping the screen of their laptop. If I hadn't known better I would have thought they were traipsing around a little digital Mecca in their cyber world. But no, they were playing some game that apparently has no point. Or at least not one that either of them could explain to me. When I glanced over an hour or so later at them and saw that their corneas were starting to augment and fall out the front of their skulls, I suggested doing something else. I should have kept my mouth shut.

Only moments later I heard giggles coming from directly behind me and before I could turn to look at what was spurring the muffled laugher, heaviness followed by the feeling of claws was plopped on my head. I felt it wriggle a bit before each of its 20 nails were successfully tangled in my hair which was secured in a knot at the back of my head. The giggles became guffaws and the muffled laughter turned to outright hysterics. Slim, the iguana, had found a new home in my hair. I was slightly less than thrilled, though not panicked or scared (OlderAndWiserToo and I chased our babysitters with our snake, I guess everything comes full circle).

"Schlim" the Iguana.

Slim was pried off my head (along with about half a fist of hair) and spent the rest of the day skittering around the kitchen. The ticking sound of his claws on the wood floors were accompanied by the sound of Pinky belting made up lyrics to some chord progressions I recorded on the Clavinova. "I don't even know you, but I saw you . . ." streamed in from the other room and The Boys and I had to plug our noses so she wouldn't hear us laughing. Who teaches little girls to make up lyrics like that?

We ended the day with a lot nail polish and a bit of her hair products. I ended up looking like a mermaid and lost even more hair as the kids took turns coloring sections of my head. I swear I'm a few ounces lighter. My toenails now have four nails painted dark purple on my left foot, the big toe left bare, and my right foot has two hot pink nails, the Big toe and the one just right of it. I returned home a pink and purple menagerie and although I felt a little frazzled, at least I learned that I can survive.

Pinky and the Mane.

Worth

The trip has ended and by unanimous vote, it was worth it. It was worth the squabbling and tension, the annoyances and inconveniences. It was worth time off from work and a little out of pocket cash. And why was it worth it? Because family is always worth it. Period.

Kissy fishy.

Matatattat. AKA: Mastercraft Master.

Far too beautiful.

I want to eat him.

The perfect Mogli face.

Half

Today is my half birthday. I remembered when Agreeada asked me if I was nineteen yet. I told her I’d be twenty next January. “January what?” Agreeada asked me. “The nineteenth,” I replied. “So you already had your golden birthday.” “Yeah.” (Remembering made the sides of my tongue burn with the bitterness of a three-day span). “Why?” Why asked. “Why what? Why is it my half birthday? Seriously?” It is easy for me to get impatient with her. All she asks is why? Why is she driving? Why does she have to wear shoes? Why does the water bounce? Why is your swimsuit grey? Why is your hair up? Why can we go? Why is that called a tire? Why is she driving away? Why don’t you need a key to start it? Why is it not lunchtime? Why do I have to wear a lifejacket?. . . I’m about three seconds away from tattooing “I DON’T KNOW” on my forehead.

It is strange that time passes so quickly but I forget to notice. Last time we were here together Fresin and I were counting Matatattat’s armpit hairs and marveling about puberty. This time we counted his tattoos. Last time we were reminiscing about EFY crushes. This time she’s engaged. In almost one month exactly she’ll be married. How does time pass so quickly? The most incomprehensible bit of it is that it passes unnoticed. It’s not until you stumble back upon yourself or upon where you used to be that you realize you’ve changed. Most of all you realize how much everyone else changed.

I still feel like I just turned 13.

Dream

Some dreams wake up with you. You feel them stuck in you, warm and in your gut, as you go throughout your day. I had a dream like that this morning. My alarm went off at 6:50, a reminder that in only a few days I’ll be back home where the mornings come far too quickly and the nights seem to always be too short. After I dismissed the buzzing and crawled back under the frog skin blanket, I felt my eyes close heavy.

In my dream he came home and we were together in Typewriter Grandma’s backyard. I showed him all my favorite places, but the yard was as I remembered it years ago. The paths that zigzagged up the back hill ran into rows and rows of unattended grapes and there wasn’t a chainlink fence to separate the forests of imagination and adventure from the neighbor’s yard. We named flowers together and he loved me as much as he knew how. He told me to be good and generous and kind; to always try my hardest and to keep improving. I promised him I would. It seemed so easy as we sat there in the garden together.

Then I woke up and started a day full of tension, high anxiety, exhaustion, exasperation, confusion, miscommunication, bottled emotion that became unbottled, burning, festering, and tears. And I thought of him, and thought of him, and thought of him. He kept reminding me to be good and generous and kind; to always try my hardest and to keep improving.

After taking Why? and Agreeada on the jet-ski (and earning the title of “the fun driver”) I found myself on a boat with two non-drivers and what felt like a zoo of 4 year olds. I tried to do my own thing, finish my book, stay out of the way, but I soon realized that I was needed and he told me just this morning to be good and generous and kind; to always try my hardest to and keep improving. I pulled the tube in. I wrapped towels around bodies so tiny I wonder how they work. I was slammed against a metal pole and cut my arm and was trapped between the floor of the boat and white, plastic tube and as much as I tried to be good and generous and kind; to always try my hardest and to keep improving, I found myself trying to push tears back up my cheeks and into my eyes and biting my tongue to keep from screaming. The ride was bumpy and I felt so angry at myself for falling short. Only hours before I had promised him in the garden that I would be everything I could.

And hours later I was crying because it was too hard.

I realized that is just how life is. We are always trying (and much of trying is remembering) and then we fall short. And we feel sad about it, and let ourselves get down. We give ourselves a few bruises and we let ourselves cry a few tears. And then we eat a peach in a grotto and let ourselves fall into a good book while the words wash away the bitterness and anger, and the sweet juice runs down our arms and chest until the sweet stickiness consumes us. Not the bitterness. And then we start over and make promises to Him and begin each day with brightness, until rocks fall and heaviness sets in again. Waves overtake us and jostle our frames against everything hard until at the time we think we’re about to burst. We’re saved.

Now

Right now I want to read poetry and remember the beautiful words I ingested in London. I miss them. Come back Mr. Blake. Return fair Wordsworth. Come Eliot, Milton and Donne, Keats, Clare and Herbert. Hark one and all! I wish they were all in my pocket, so I could open it just a peak when I was feeling a little homesick, and they would recite fond words to enlighten and illuminate my step. Everyone needs to carry a little sunshine in their pocket.

Gutsy

I learned today that Mom is gutsy. I guess I had known that before, but I re-remembered when the insides of my thighs were chaffing away on the yellow vinyl of the Sea-Doo seat and I was barely staying on as we sped across the water. Water, in this instance, is relative. I felt like we were airborne most of the time and touched down briefly to lap up a bit of wetness before lifting off again.

I am not gutsy, but it is one thing that I wish I were. People tell me that I’m good at everything and I think that they know as well as I that it simply isn’t true. I believe that most people are capable of being good at most things, though usually no one cares enough to try. I try hard at most things. But in instances like today, when I almost tip a Sea-Doo or screamed as one started up while I’m climbing on the back, I remember that I’m not brave or gutsy. But Mom is. Was she always that way? Is there something about getting married or maybe having kids that makes a person as fearless as she? Could it be the number of survived car accidents or all the instances when something bad that could have happened didn’t? Or maybe it was in the moments that something treacherous did befall her and she rose to the occasion and put on another layer of courage?

I’m reading a book and the protagonist just met someone who catalogs everyone he meets. He writes their name and a boiled-down, one-word description of them on a note card before filing it away. If I had a note card for Mom, it very well might read:

Mom: Gutsy

Even though I was numb after, I loved riding as the third of three. We bounced in unison one after the next, Mom, LilLou, and then me, and hit wave after wave at top speed. Lou’s curly fringe would catch the wind in ways that if I sat just close enough, it would tickle the tip of my nose. I didn’t tell her, but it make me smile every time. I watched as Mom’s strong arms would muscle the machine left, then right, then left again in a seemingly orchestrated performance of driving proficiency, and her hair would blow back like puppy ears. I wish I could have watched her face. She loves it down here.

Our day ended with white capped water made dark by the impending storm. Soon enough we found ourselves trying to get back to shore before we were tossed in a monsoon and left for some slowly evolving, deep-sea version of a carp (my greatest fear) to devour us. The water slammed up against the sides of the boat and sent it’s iciest bits to slap our faces. It was wet in all the worst ways. But because I was with Fresin none of it seemed to matter. Between her faces and my laughter, we forgot about how cold it was, and that if we did happened to blow into the waves we’d be eaten by a carp with eyes the size of yoga balls fashioned neatly on its body the size of a small school bus. The size of its eyes are only rivaled by the enormity of its gaping mouth which would be lined with six inch fangs. Basically, it could swallow me whole, but it would score me like a cucumber as I slid down its gullet. Scary.

Lucky for me (unlucky for the carp) I got to shore after jumping of the bow of the boat and swimming to shore. I could feel the sand grinding on my skin and soon, coupled with rain, it was forming muddy trails down my face, arms and legs. I watched them conjoin and diverge as the little redish-brown paths met the sand after tipping off the sides of my feet.

I grabbed everything I could and helped untie the shade while the wind started an erosion process with bits of sand in our ears. We piled heaving bodies covered in red mud into the Landcruiser and heaped clothes, towels, books, bags, and other things on top of them. I was the last one in. Everything felt gritty, but in a good way. In a raw, wild, I’m-here-to-be-here sort of way. And I felt a little bit gutsy.

Senses

There was a moment when the car was dark and quiet. We were driving through moonlit sandstone landscapes that reflected the silvery light off their wet, shiny surfaces. The distance held flashes of lightning that were so far off there was nothing terrible in its thunder, only beauty. The soft sounds of rain hitting the windshield accompanied by the gentle smell of rain reminded me how incapable I am. It was a moment when my eyes weren’t big enough to take in all the beauty and my ears weren’t big enough for the sound and my lungs couldn’t breathe deep enough to store the smell of wet rocks. I was reading lines from a book I am learning to love. And I remembered all the moments like these that I keep in the most protected part of my heart. I was grateful for the dark, and for flashes of lighting, for convenience stores, and raindrops, for silhouettes, for the way Mom shoves her laptop between the front seats for a makeshift movie screen, for lightning, and most of all for eyes that remind me how much I love.

Two

Summer means two things:
- Fruit Leather
- Lake Powell
both of which take a lot of sunshine to come out just right.

Leather in the oven (or on a cookie sheet baking on the tennis court).

Plateau

I hate the feeling after you close out your day and as you take a moment to reflect you are stuck wondering what you did and what was accomplished. I like productivity and the evidence of work and striving. It's easy to get comfortable and sink into ruts of this and that. But when I feel like I'm slipping into a "comfortable" rut, I don't feel agreeable in my skin. It itch to move and climb out.

If I were a snake and could shed my skin once a month, would I feel clean a shiny and would it rejuvenate me enough to keep me in a life-long crescendo? I just want never to plateau. Though the rocks may be beautiful, the feeling is not. Stagnation feels like vinegar in my mouth.

There is a way for me to shed my skin and start anew. Once a week I can as I contemplate my Savior and the way He reaches down as I look up with a face wet and gleaming.

Hills

I've been riding my bike quite frequently as of late. I'd just rather save the gas and get the work out. My friends make comments like, "Oh my gosh do you want a ride?!" No. I'd rather you just rode your bike too. (Hooray for reducing our carbon footprint). Truth be told I have always loved my little red beach cruiser fashioned with a basket and a bell and I wish the sun didn't set so early so I could ride it to a late night movie. Aside from the aerobic benefits and my thighs that are beginning to look like his (I wish I had his personal trainer), it has been enlightening to become acutely aware of every slight incline along my path of travel. Now, even when I'm in my car, I know the stretches of road where I can shove Brian into neutral and coast (until I finally relent as the needle dips below the speed limit and I kick him back into gear). On a lucky light day I can get going to about 45 at Day's Market and until halfway up Grandma's street. If only traffic lights were always catered to me . . .

Yellow

I have always claimed that I don't have a favorite color. Dahlia Boy always insisted it was yellow. "You just pick it more" he told me. Maybe it's true. This weekend I was certainly in love with the tangible sunshine that was blooming on the Wyoming hillsides.

Saturday evening my family stole away on ATV's and the like and headed our way into the forested mountains. I ended up driving with Dad on the back when we came to a meadow absolutely abounding in big yellow blossoms. The sunflowers were set ablaze by the sage brush and in the evening light the hillsides looked like they were dusted with fire. It took my breath away. It was one of those moments I try to memorize; try to take a moment of stillness and let it fill me, press on my mind and my eyes until I feel like I can't press back. It's in those moments when my heart swells with gratitude for refreshing sights that seem to cleanse my soul and replenish my bones with the marrow that life sucks out of them.

We drove through three such meadows and every one was vibrant and stunning. Sometimes beauty just catches you off guard. And nothing can prepare you for the things that pierce you in all the best ways. It's almost painful beauty. The kind that leaves you near tears because you needed to see it so badly and didn't even know you did. The rushing feeling of grandeur fills up all the empty spaces that the daily ins and outs tear away from you and leave you wanting.

It's funny that I am sometimes too busy, too self-centered, too crazy, too over worked . . . to realize that I need to be filled.

But I was. In those brief moments where sunshine flooded my being and yellow overtook me, I felt peace.

Mortars

One good thing about celebrating Independence day in Wyoming was that not even the ridiculously massive fireworks are illegal. So we had a bit of fun. And only one mishap when the mortar got tipped and shot green sparks straight into a barn of hay and ATVs. Hoorah.

4th

The 4th this year was different.

Growing up the 4th of July was always ranked near Christmas. I loved it. It meant setting up the car port with Grandma and arranging berries on the top of a whipped dessert to make an edible flag. It meant making centerpieces with fireworks and helping stock the goody bags for the grandkids. It meant a "talent" show and silliness. It meant family and barbecuing, strange relatives and the morning parade. It meant a bike ride and a trip to the Stadium. It meant a race home and desserts by fireworks. It meant sparklers and laughter. It meant tradition.

In recent years it seems as though growing up has meant less festive magic to be had. The tradition I assumed was age old and timeless has begun to decay. I feel sadly nostalgic for what "used to be" for the past few years. It makes me feel old.

But this year the 4th meant a 57 hour work week and celebrity sightings. It meant lifting and arranging, hauling and serving. It meant fruffling and swagging. It meant red, white and blue linens. It meant sore feet and endless snacking. It meant stealing away moments to watch the show and laying in the grass on the Cougar's field watching the bursts of colors light up the sky to a musically coordinated display of pyrotechnics. It meant spending time being silly with two of my favorite girls on the planet and keeping ourselves going by stripping down and doing dishes right before a slurred chocolate "fight" ensued.

It meant droopy eyes and utter fatigue.

The day was well worth it. The little sticker on my Access Pass gave me a strange authority complex. Being able to romp where ever I pleased (even in her trailer) put an extra little spring in my step (which by hour 15 I really needed). Dancing to this while wearing ties and aprons made me feel like a part of the silliness of yesteryear was still alive and well.

Hopefully next year I can rally the troops and we can hearken back to the days when Grandma's driveway provided a sanctuary for togetherness and patriotism.

Independence

It's funny that we still call the 4th of July "Independence Day." I mean, no one even thinks about independence. We think about freedoms and our troops overseas. We think about veterans and patriotism. We think about red, white and blue, and we think about firemorks. But I haven't met someone yet who thinks, "Happy independence day, take THAT Britain! Hoohah and yippekiyay we're free from colonization and oppression from you! John Adams, The Continental Congress, Thomas Jefferson, Patriots, Loyalists, Founders, Framers, Star and Stripes. . . IN YOUR FACE!" In fact, I hope never to meet some one like that.

Mostly we just like to blow up things in the sky (and other places too) and hold our hands on our hearts whilst reciting what began as propagandistic material in children's magazine in 1892 and contemplate our freedoms.

Cynicism aside, I'm proud to be an American (even when bad singers belt patriotic songs on microphones at every civic event across the nation). I love my country and I love what it was founded on. I love the resilient spirit of Americans and the way that hardships unite us. I'm proud of the women and men who serve our country (despite the rumors and controversy, conflicting views and propaganda and falsehoods). I love our civil servants (not our politicians) and most of all I love living in a land where I can be with those I love and feel safe doing it.

Aftermath

Monday, approximately 11:03am a girl on a white scooter flew headlong into on coming traffic, clipped the back of a car, was sent spinning and ended up with her back against the curb and the scooter on her right leg. She was more mad than hurt when the nice man and his son who witnessed the freak accident pulled the white machine-trap upright. What happened? What happened? It all happened so fast. A stuck throttle, a fleeting realization of panic, a piercing scream from the neighbor on the corner, and a moment of disarray before slamming to the asphalt. That's what happened.

And now my leg looks more blue than tan and my side and back have bruises to match.

The aftermath.

Exist

I love the summer for more reasons than there are pages of Norton's Major Authors Anthology (8th Edition to be precise). I love the nights where the temperature of the air matches the heat rising off my body so that I can't tell where my arm ends and the night begins. It's a fluidity of tangibility and space that transcends physicality and makes me feel like I've entered an esoteric state of being. Then as I sit there in the grass, staring through the darkness, a breeze will whisper by and immediately remind me that I exist.

Routine

6:25 wake up for morning familial rituals
6:50 convince myself I should exercise
7:15 run/Gym/Justify to myself why I don't need to exercise (aka: I'm riding my bike today, I'll be lifting at work, my body says "no!")
8:30 take a pill
8:31 eat breakfast
8:45 shower and ready myself for the day
9:30 read the newspaper and catch up on current events
10:30 make my to-do list
10:40 grab a snack
10:55 leave for errands
11:00 get in a scooter accident, end up smashed between the curb and the scooter, but no worries, the 4 Galaxy Bars and the apple in my bag remain unscathed
11:30 try again to run errands
12:00 hang with OlderAndWiserToo and Pseudosister whilst continuing errands
1:20 go to work
1:30 work
9:45 leave work, bedraggled
9:50 take coworker home
10:00 pull up at the 'rents and realize how much my body hurt
10:10 leave for the airport
11:05 arrive at the airport
11:35 leave the airport
11:40 sleep in the backseat, sigh periodically in my sleep (according to outside sources)
12:40 arrive at home, more bedraggled
12:45 fall asleep fully dressed, with my shoes on, on top of my covers
3:00 change into my jammies, remain on top of my covers, sleep for 3+ more hours