–8/28/2004

My dad looks over the driver's seat, "How does it feel?"

"It's a weird feeling," she continues. "Like..." The night envelopes her thoughts.

My dad finishes it for her. "It's like you've lost something."

She thinks for a bit, hesitating, bating her breath, holding her words. Then finally: "Yeah. Like I lost something."

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1. Vignettes II He is speak­ing, much too loudly, but nobody is lis­ten­ing. Slowly, delib­er­ately, enun­ci­at­ing every word....

Sit down and drink it in. Just sit. Let your heart stop pounding, feel the tension bleed from your muscles, drink slowly and deeply.

(Today, I couldn't take it anymore. Six hours at the computer terminal and I couldn't stand it with my legs all jittery and my head whirling with code. So despite the rain, I took a loop about campus and ended up at the campanile steps.)

A brief flash of terror runs through me and I am eight years old again, watching the sunset through approaching rainclouds, kicking pebbles in the rock garden in front of my art teacher's studio. It is approaching seven; my mother is two hours late. I strain at passing cars to make out the shape of the family minivan. I've run out of games, of little rhymes or ditties to sing, and I can't help but feel a fear and despair that is only fully realized by children my age.

(It is seven now and my mother pulls up fast by the curb, apologizing and apologizing over again. I sit silently in the passenger seat and stare straight ahead, holding everything back.)

I wonder how much of that terror I still hold latent in me. Of the unknown, of uncertainty, of waiting and of loneliness. I am certain it is still lurking there, deep in my tissue.

What is this perfect love, that it could cast out all fear? I painted this for you, My son.

I sit and take it in; there is soft rain but the scene remains unchanged.

Let me tell you what he's done for me / Let me tell you what he's done for you / He has done for us

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I played in D# minor, no particular reason except that I've always liked the sound of the black keys and the way they stick out of the keyboard, like landmarks, asking to be touched and played. In my head they're associated with the blues, with the minor scales, with Texture and Difference. So I played them, dragging out their tones with total abuse of the sustain pedal (that would give my piano teacher a fit).

I find a left hand chord progression that I like (it's a minor progression that resolves on a major key) and dabble around with melodies with the right. I'm playing now by my own rules, turning accidental notes into chords that I can't name. I'm not even thinking but imagining this to be a soundtrack and it's filling my head and overpowering the rain, it's echoing through my house and I'm glad nobody's home to hear it.

I wake up, 10AM, grasping at echoes, and it's raining outside.

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God, I want the real thing. Don’t let me settle for anything less.

I want to be around the crazy ones, whose hearts’ eyes fill to the brim with hopeLoveFaith and they see that ambition fulfilled before their lives are over.

They are like Kerouac’s mad ones; mad to live, mad to burn, mad to throw themselves recklessly on something REAL. They don’t settle for less.

God, I want to know faith when life crumbles. I want to know mercy when I am the least. I want to understand and somehow wrap my puny mind around a crumb of your grace.

I want more than religion. I want more than Sunday services and Monday hypocrisy. I know there’s more than an industry of Jesus rock songs or power chords in the key of E.

I want–SO MUCH–to believe you’re the one who provides for me. I want to get over my past feelings of hurt and bitterness towards you and the way you may (or may not) have met my expectations on my terms, I really do. Help me with my unbelief.

I feel like there is a vision I’ve lost–somewhere years ago it was in my possession. Vision, passion, purpose. Not that I don’t have it now, but I remember it so much clearer then.

There is something real in here, I’ve been shown that so much recently…

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Woes of a CSS Designer
Ach, IE5/6+, you’re killin’ me.
Holly hack,
Bang!

Some interesting Musical Mashups I’d Like to Hear:
Wolfgang Amadeus ‘(e)minem
Death Cab for Dizzy (Gillespie)

Margaret Treadbar, from St. Louis. She’s a stroke survivor who cannot recall anything in her short term memory. She can read, but will not remember once the bookends close.

She’s regained her speech and relearned reading from scratch. But anything she reads, she forgets. She drawls out the next few lines and trails them with a sigh.

“I’ve searched high and low, but it doesn’t seem there is a novel that will fix me.” She laughs a little. She is 33.

“I derive most pleasure from movies that seem like novels.” It’s something about the audio/visual inputs that helps her cling to characters who will not disappear. She was a successful lawyer a few years ago. These days, she wishes to read.

“I watched Spring Forward a few days ago and was almost moved to tears. It was almost like reading.” A long pause.