I just noticed... it's spring. The birds are singing. The bees are buzzing. It's all very cliche. In addition, I have noticed that hormones are raging, and the daunting battle of the sexes between survival of the fittest and puppy love has started. Normally, I would roll my eyes and continue with my daily activity. In fact, that is exactly what I have been doing. However, when I recede into the solitude of my room, I remember that, alas, I am a hopeless romantic.
Unfortunately, I don't have anyone to focus my romanticism on... not even in my head. After years of having crushes on one person and then the next, I have chosen to take a step back and just observe my life as it is. And honestly, it's pretty good.
Without a proper springtime focus I have been forced to actually think about what I should look for in a man. (Man?... Guy?... Dude?... does being over 20 make someone a man?... I should find out.)
Although many would probably fail to recognize the fact, I am particularly strong in my faith... and my devotion to God through the Catholic faith is the biggest thing in my life, at least I try to make it that way most of the time. However, I'm very private in the way I praise God and my closeness to Him.
I recognize the convenience in having a relationship with someone who is Catholic; I would already know where that person is coming from spiritually. I would also have a pretty good idea about his values, morals and beliefs. That being said, I'm not so naive to believe that all Catholics are amazing people. I'm not necisarily looking for a guy that is Catholic. I'm looking for someone who has beliefs and is strong in them. I want to know what the believe and how they live by the way they act. But overall, I want someone who will respect my beliefs as much as I will respect theirs.
I'm looking for someone who's looking for marriage... someday (I'm in no hurry for that either.) I'm looking for someone who loves kids. I'm looking for someone who will drive for hours with me, going nowhere. I'm looking for someone who will lay in the grass, listen to rock music, laugh until he cries, sleep under the stars, buy me cheap flowers for no reason, draw me a picture, act like he's tough, make me smile every time I see him, hold my hand, put up with me, fix things, let me drive, sing in front of me and look into my eyes.
I looking for someone who will accept my unending love of poetry and music, accept that I am an artist at heart and, perhaps, understand why I've come to think that teaching English will add to my happiness.
I'm looking for someone to make happy.
But the truth is, I'm not searching. I'm just staying aware of my surroundings. Only God knows where an oppurtunity may arise.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
I officially have one day of school left and two finals. Life is soon to be bliss with a hint of sunburn.
I went to camp last weekend; and, of course, it ended up raining. So the rain isn't so much of a big deal... but it was a horse riding camp, and that poses a problem. Well, I take my ten seven and eight year olds to the barn to at least see the horses. It went a little something like this.
Wrangler: Sarah, after your girls have helmets take them up to the arena.
Me: Ummmm... okay?
Imagine this for me, if you will. It's been raining all morning, and basically the only thing behind the barn is dirt.... but, in this case, it's definitely mud. As my ten girls and I slosh and slip through the muddy expanse I realize that we will be forced to traverse up a 45 degree hill of brown, slick and sticky mud. The little ten struggle up the mud hill of death, slipping down several feet every now and then. A couple of them fall forward onto their hands that get covered in the wet earth. Eventually they all make it to the top; however, they have to spend ten minutes wiping the mud off of their shoes and hands. Still covered in mud, they take turns riding the horses. Meanwhile, I have to take one of them back to the barn to meet her mother, because she is leaving early. While doing this I try to find a better path; and, alas, success. As I lead the remaining girls down the somewhat better path we come to a small hill.
Me: Okay girls, make sure you follow my steps exactly.
Not even able to finish my sentence, I fall flat on my butt and slide down the hill. All I heard the rest of the way to the barn were little giggles behind me.
Little girl: Sarah?
Me: What?
Little girl: You might want to change your pants.
I can feel the steam coming from my ears...
Me: Thank you for letting me know, dear.
The end - Moral of the story.... Ridiculous!!!
And here is a poem that I wrote that I don't so much really like... But here it is.
East of Sahara
Three feet in rags
clogging the import
to export ratio.
Displace yourself.
Wading through the
thick eastern night.
Crying, choking, gagging
on malaria and
starvation.
Automatic yielding toddlers
stomachs bulging
bring down society.
Diamond tears sparkling
throughout a crimson
stream.
Continental shifts
to another world
with heightened awareness
and death rates.
Transparency moves to
the facade, revealing
Satan's lair in the
heart of a six letter
word.
I went to camp last weekend; and, of course, it ended up raining. So the rain isn't so much of a big deal... but it was a horse riding camp, and that poses a problem. Well, I take my ten seven and eight year olds to the barn to at least see the horses. It went a little something like this.
Wrangler: Sarah, after your girls have helmets take them up to the arena.
Me: Ummmm... okay?
Imagine this for me, if you will. It's been raining all morning, and basically the only thing behind the barn is dirt.... but, in this case, it's definitely mud. As my ten girls and I slosh and slip through the muddy expanse I realize that we will be forced to traverse up a 45 degree hill of brown, slick and sticky mud. The little ten struggle up the mud hill of death, slipping down several feet every now and then. A couple of them fall forward onto their hands that get covered in the wet earth. Eventually they all make it to the top; however, they have to spend ten minutes wiping the mud off of their shoes and hands. Still covered in mud, they take turns riding the horses. Meanwhile, I have to take one of them back to the barn to meet her mother, because she is leaving early. While doing this I try to find a better path; and, alas, success. As I lead the remaining girls down the somewhat better path we come to a small hill.
Me: Okay girls, make sure you follow my steps exactly.
Not even able to finish my sentence, I fall flat on my butt and slide down the hill. All I heard the rest of the way to the barn were little giggles behind me.
Little girl: Sarah?
Me: What?
Little girl: You might want to change your pants.
I can feel the steam coming from my ears...
Me: Thank you for letting me know, dear.
The end - Moral of the story.... Ridiculous!!!
And here is a poem that I wrote that I don't so much really like... But here it is.
East of Sahara
Three feet in rags
clogging the import
to export ratio.
Displace yourself.
Wading through the
thick eastern night.
Crying, choking, gagging
on malaria and
starvation.
Automatic yielding toddlers
stomachs bulging
bring down society.
Diamond tears sparkling
throughout a crimson
stream.
Continental shifts
to another world
with heightened awareness
and death rates.
Transparency moves to
the facade, revealing
Satan's lair in the
heart of a six letter
word.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Musings and Poems...
139 Ways to sings the blues (abridged)
The walls in my house are
transparent revealing
histories of Broadway
and Madison. How I
imagine them, unknown
to my own eyes.
And suicide sleeps in the
closet next to Hughes
and Bessie Smith. Because
real art may have disappeared
within the last 20 years.
I am of separate
generation of dreamers
and hypocrites. I ignore
beggars on the street, but
want to solve world hunger.
And Nixon bathes next door
to the kitchen. Smoking
a joint and smiling as
he listens to Bono. Smiling
as he begins to drown.
Inquiries about price pop
up form observers who
think home has an
appeal. Forgetting the
importance of objectivity.
The basement is full
of ghosts passed down
through the generations
like furniture, but nicer.
Lithium batteries and
nuclear power charge
party night needs.
And I walk through
walls, knowing that
they didn't ever exist.
Transparency is a
game for the mind.
And objectivity died with Ginsberg.
And apathy is the drive in my eye.
Call me Lorraine
I dream of fishnets,
green sequins,
sleeping on the hood
of my car.
Counting 330 brushstrokes
to my two pairs of
jeans. Seven pairs
of clover shoes.
Chastity calls me
names to see if I
will react, I am
slipping away.
I remember stop sign
battles and bulemia
caught in a war of
wits and skirts.
Dreading the day he
realizes I love him,
and daring God
to hide it.
Patience is a virtue
I knit in my sleep.
Potholders yield my
inability to read.
I beg call girls to
say my name to
strangers, they
unwittingly agree.
Shifting position with
a lack of grace, no
beauty. Bitten nails
and Sharpie tatoos.
Luck is a seven letter
word, who few can
spell and even less
are willing to drink.
Makeshift virtue in
a yellow pill comes
fast and silent. A
pineapple's frown.
The walls in my house are
transparent revealing
histories of Broadway
and Madison. How I
imagine them, unknown
to my own eyes.
And suicide sleeps in the
closet next to Hughes
and Bessie Smith. Because
real art may have disappeared
within the last 20 years.
I am of separate
generation of dreamers
and hypocrites. I ignore
beggars on the street, but
want to solve world hunger.
And Nixon bathes next door
to the kitchen. Smoking
a joint and smiling as
he listens to Bono. Smiling
as he begins to drown.
Inquiries about price pop
up form observers who
think home has an
appeal. Forgetting the
importance of objectivity.
The basement is full
of ghosts passed down
through the generations
like furniture, but nicer.
Lithium batteries and
nuclear power charge
party night needs.
And I walk through
walls, knowing that
they didn't ever exist.
Transparency is a
game for the mind.
And objectivity died with Ginsberg.
And apathy is the drive in my eye.
Call me Lorraine
I dream of fishnets,
green sequins,
sleeping on the hood
of my car.
Counting 330 brushstrokes
to my two pairs of
jeans. Seven pairs
of clover shoes.
Chastity calls me
names to see if I
will react, I am
slipping away.
I remember stop sign
battles and bulemia
caught in a war of
wits and skirts.
Dreading the day he
realizes I love him,
and daring God
to hide it.
Patience is a virtue
I knit in my sleep.
Potholders yield my
inability to read.
I beg call girls to
say my name to
strangers, they
unwittingly agree.
Shifting position with
a lack of grace, no
beauty. Bitten nails
and Sharpie tatoos.
Luck is a seven letter
word, who few can
spell and even less
are willing to drink.
Makeshift virtue in
a yellow pill comes
fast and silent. A
pineapple's frown.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Weather in Lincoln is in limbo. I hate that. I hate the unsure... not the unknown. I got used to 70 degree weather and beautiful cool nights. Now it hasn't been over 50 in a week. It's sprinkling right now. I want so desperately for it to pour, for God to let loose the the floodgates and be able to watch a thunderstorm do it's damage. I want to be able to take a walk at midnight with a sweatshirt and a friend. I want to be cliche... because it's spring, and that's what nature is telling me to do.
My mind checked out of school a month ago. I've been looking for it ever since. And I think almost everyone is ready to kill each other (in the most loving and friendly way imaginable.) It's time for summer.
And summer has been one of the only things on mind since August. I yearn for hobo delight and people who can't keep their flipping hands to themselves. Not because they are the good things... but with the bad comes the amazing.
If I ever become a journalist people are going to shoot me, because I've said too many bad things about them. It's sad that a few (or more) people can ruin the appeal of a profession for many.
I have a no track mind... I can't keep my thought in order. I'm going to work on that. Until then, you have this jumble - Good luck!
Suggested reading: Look up some Bob Dylan lyrics.
My mind checked out of school a month ago. I've been looking for it ever since. And I think almost everyone is ready to kill each other (in the most loving and friendly way imaginable.) It's time for summer.
And summer has been one of the only things on mind since August. I yearn for hobo delight and people who can't keep their flipping hands to themselves. Not because they are the good things... but with the bad comes the amazing.
If I ever become a journalist people are going to shoot me, because I've said too many bad things about them. It's sad that a few (or more) people can ruin the appeal of a profession for many.
I have a no track mind... I can't keep my thought in order. I'm going to work on that. Until then, you have this jumble - Good luck!
Suggested reading: Look up some Bob Dylan lyrics.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Completely Random... ish
People (myself included) get ridiculously caught up in the bad things that are going in their lives. But, they forget "bad" is a relative term. My life is NOT bad. It's never been bad. I may never be bad... but it probably will, someday. Sometimes I think it sucks that my life doesn't suck. Why? Because the vast majority of great literary minds have had hardships in their lives. Hardship sparks creative flames and gives conviction to emotion.
God has made me a optimist at my core. I have trouble being sadistics, but I don't have a problem being sarcastic. I have trouble holding a grudge, but I don't have trouble forgiving people. I can't think of any reason why I couldn't forgive a person.
Ah! Enough with the being introspective. I'm like freaking John Lennon (but not nearly as talented or amazing!)
The sunshine colored flowers on my desk are smiling, and should be punched in the face. I think I might like spring, but not nearly as much as I like fall, as a season. But summer is the best for memories.
My dad recently bought a house to fix up and then rent to people. It's a hellacious pit... it's going to be great. The people who previously lived in it painted the windows in their bedroom black so no one could see in. I want to take a crowbar to the floor and uncover the the meth lab that probably exists beneath the boards. Or I'm going to venture into the decrepid attic to unearth the amazing past of the family the first lived in the house over 80 years ago. Perhaps I'll just go into the basement where some teenagers thought it would be funny to spray paint "Please dont retruv" on the door to the closet... I'll be sure to not RETURN if it's as scary as they meant it to be. Painting that house will be my May project. I'm going to need something.
I think I have a weird obsession with lips... or feet... or both. God... I'm so strange.
Can I just say one thing? This is my life: I have one sibling just married, one getting divorced, a picture of a demonic clown on my closet (one of my best friends), a miniature sheep on my shelf next to fish (who is still going strong), my bed has become my desk, I bought daisies for myself at Wal-Mart, and a Santa puppet resides on my bookcase. It's complete and utter chaos all the time.
The word dragonfly is pretty.
I'm done.
Suggested reading: Something/Anything (that's not the title) by Buddy Wakefield
God has made me a optimist at my core. I have trouble being sadistics, but I don't have a problem being sarcastic. I have trouble holding a grudge, but I don't have trouble forgiving people. I can't think of any reason why I couldn't forgive a person.
Ah! Enough with the being introspective. I'm like freaking John Lennon (but not nearly as talented or amazing!)
The sunshine colored flowers on my desk are smiling, and should be punched in the face. I think I might like spring, but not nearly as much as I like fall, as a season. But summer is the best for memories.
My dad recently bought a house to fix up and then rent to people. It's a hellacious pit... it's going to be great. The people who previously lived in it painted the windows in their bedroom black so no one could see in. I want to take a crowbar to the floor and uncover the the meth lab that probably exists beneath the boards. Or I'm going to venture into the decrepid attic to unearth the amazing past of the family the first lived in the house over 80 years ago. Perhaps I'll just go into the basement where some teenagers thought it would be funny to spray paint "Please dont retruv" on the door to the closet... I'll be sure to not RETURN if it's as scary as they meant it to be. Painting that house will be my May project. I'm going to need something.
I think I have a weird obsession with lips... or feet... or both. God... I'm so strange.
Can I just say one thing? This is my life: I have one sibling just married, one getting divorced, a picture of a demonic clown on my closet (one of my best friends), a miniature sheep on my shelf next to fish (who is still going strong), my bed has become my desk, I bought daisies for myself at Wal-Mart, and a Santa puppet resides on my bookcase. It's complete and utter chaos all the time.
The word dragonfly is pretty.
I'm done.
Suggested reading: Something/Anything (that's not the title) by Buddy Wakefield