And Here I Am Again

Sitting here at 5 o'clock in the morning has brought me to realize that I have horrible time management skills. And at this very moment, I'm only making my dilemma worse by once again delaying work. My problem is, I think, that I hate the class for which I am working. I think the professor is an idiot, and I wish I didn't have to take it. I think the assignment is a load of crap.

But the more important question is: why didn't I do it this afternoon? I had several hours where I was just sitting around contemplating doing my homework, but never actually doing it. What is it about the night that is so enticing to me? Is it the silence? The empty feeling of a house gone to sleep. I know it's not watching the sunrise as a work. I'm hating myself at this moment for a number of reasons, but mostly because I have to be up in another four hours.

Unsure

I leave for Mississippi tomorrow, and I am unsure of what I will see. I am conscious that this trip, although brief, will not be easy; most things aren't if they're worth anything. I've seen pictures of Pass Christian, Mississippi before and after the hurricane. Total devastation. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but seeing it live and in person, even weeks after Katrina...let's just say that a picture, no matter how good, won't capture everything.

That being said, I'm taking along a camera, to capture my experience, and I'm sure they'll be up here soon. So frequently you see pictures of devastation and despair. I want to bring back pictures of hope.

This trip will be hard. Seeing my family's home after hurricane Charlie last August was hard enough, and the damage to our house and neighborhood, as bad as it was, cannot compete with the flattened homes in Louisiana and Mississippi.

More to come...

Out With The Old, in With the New

There'’s a new resident of the tree outside my window. The female cardinal (who I fondly call Clementine) that used to live there disappeared some time last week, and now there'’s a new bird who is at this moment giving me the evil eye and puffing up his chest. Methinks he's not used to having someone watch him. I actually don'’t know if it'’s a male or a female, or what kind of bird it is for that matter, but I'm in the naming process right now anyway. Martin maybe, or perhaps Carl. I like naming things if you hadn'’t noticed, maybe it's from reading Anne of Green Gables too many times (if that'’s even possible), or maybe I just like being familiar with my surroundings. He'’s gray with a white belly, and he's really pretty. He seems a little suspicious of me, 'cause he stares at me and puffs himself up a lot. I'’ll try not to begrudge him the spot in my tree; I was rather fond of Clementine, she'’d lived in by window off and on for almost a year now and I liked watching the bright red gentlemen callers that stopped by from time to time. I have a suspicion that Martin/Carl/the Godpigeon (he's not a pigeon, but I love the Animaniacs, so perhaps the scientific inaccuracy would be permissible) drove her away. He is, however, starting to grow on me, and he'’s irresistibly cute when he grooms his feathers. I have officially welcomed him to the window shared by the tree and room 5.

There's also this lizard that crawls across my window screen from time to time. I've named him Gary. I don't know that it's the same one every time, but well, I'm assuming it is, because that would be cool. It interesting how many little animals are drawn to my window into their world. I do enjoy watching them though, even the little moths that somehow find their way in between the screen and glass and can't seem to find their way out. I don't usually name them though, I know they'll probably be dead by morning, so what's the point really.

Sometimes I wonder if they watch me as intensely as I watch them. I have been know to stare at Clementine for several minutes at a time (usually when I should be writing a paper, but that is besides the point). It's really relaxing to watch these creatures who just live in their simple lives and don't worry about much of anything. Their routines are always the same, no all nighters for them. They are constant, but still alive, and I am happy to share my window with them, as I glance into their world, and they glance into mine.

Are We Missing Out?

I saw a program on PBS this summer about the new hydrogen cars and was completely fascinated by the technology that would enable to cars to operate with water as the only pollutant. Then I got to thinking about the advances in technology in the last century or so. Just think that a hundred years ago, most people would still have been driving a horse and buggy, and the fastest cars went an astonishing 20 miles per hour or something like that, and did you hear that two brothers from Ohio actually got something to fly!?! There were so many things that were brand new to people a hundred years ago, things that would have tangible affects on their lives. Refrigerators, electric lights, airplanes. Looking back at the last century, I wonder what it would have been like to live through that; to see cars become the primary mode of transportation and progress from the Model T to the Taurus; to watch Neil Armstrong walk on the moon live; to see a TV for the first time; to hear the voices of the actors on screen; to put a gallon of milk in the fridge and know it won't be spoiled the next morning.

I wonder if my generation has missed out on being astonished by technology. We've become so used to the leaps and bounds that are so common today that they aren't leaps and bounds...just the natural progression of science. I heard that they mapped the human genome (whatever that means), but what affect does that have on my life? They put an ice and water dispenser in my freezer door, now that's something cool, but not earth shattering. I barely remember the advent of the internet, but I only remember it, I have no idea what life was like before the internet. They invented a car that has no pollutants. Okay, so when are they going to invent a car that runs on air?

We have become jaded, unsatisfied and unimpressed by the technological advances that are daily changing our world. I really think I'm missing out.

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

-Robert Frost

Some time last month, my voice teacher asked us to bring in our favorite poem to use as text. I have never had a favorite poem, so I began searching through poetry I'd read in high school to find a few lines of verse that tickled my fancy. I plowed through some Emily Dickinson, contemplated Alfred Noyes, cringed at Sylvia Plath, then came to Robert Frost. I paused. I remembered sitting in Mr. K's class reading assorted works of Robert Frost, only half paying attention, knowing that it was English class, and I could easily get away with making something up when it came time to produce some sort of work that indicated I'd been paying attention. I remembered that I liked it. Of all the poets we read, I liked him the most I think. I don't recall why exactly, just that I did. I read a few of the familiar titles, "Mending Wall," "The Tuft of Flowers," "Out, Out--," then "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening."

Having not seen it for several years, I read it again, seeing if it could pass as a 'favorite poem'. I found that not only did it pass, it became a favorite poem. When I got to class and recited it, I felt a little silly. Everyone else had chosen a poem that had some deep and profound meaning, something horribly valuable and grown up to say. Mine was just simple and calm. I liked that it made me feel peaceful inside. I liked how it was quiet and sad. On the walk home from class, I thought, why does this poem grab me? As I thought, a picture came to mind.

A little girl in her pajamas and slipper socks sits next to a window, knees pressed against the side of the radiator, elbows resting in the valleys on top. There is the soft glow of a night light shining near her, comforting her fear of the dark. But at that moment, her focus is not on the gloomy room behind her. Hands cupped under her little chin, she stares out into the dark night, watching the snow fall gently over her play land, tucking it in under a white blanket. The old gray maple tree outside her window doesn't look as sad now that he's covered in white. She knows she shouldn't be awake, her bedtime came and went hours ago, but she cannot pry herself from the transformation happening before her eyes. Tomorrow she will put on her coat and too big boots and play in it, make snow angels and snow forts, and maybe even a lopsided snow man with a crooked carrot for a nose. But tonight she'll just watch.

Deep Down

I've been doing a lot of thinking recently, most of it as I stare at my scarred finger, poking at the area void of feeling. It's hard to think about it. Every time I do, some place deep down in my stomach starts to tingle, my throat constricts, I feel the urge to cry. I keep imagining what will happen if the motion doesn't fully return to my finger. I might have to permanently change how I hold a pen. My thoughts float to the guitar resting in its stand six feet behind me, untouched since Monday, dust slowly accumulating on the frets grooved from years of love and frustration. Will I be able to play again? It was such a battle when I learned to play; molding my unbending fingers into unnatural positions; sighing in frustration as I came across chord after chord that I knew I would never be able to play; smiling at the strings when I found a way to do what everyone, including myself, thought impossible. Why did this happen now that I've finally gotten to the point where my repertoire is greater than a few three chord songs?

Could this be God's way of taking me down a notch? Stripping me of my pride, I don't seem to want to give it up on my own. Maybe He's asking me to give Him the situation; He made my body, He can fix it if He wants.

It seems dumb to cry over something like this. The stitches haven't even come out yet, it's been four days, of course it won't be healed in so short a time. I just worry sometimes that my hand will never be the same. In public I laugh and say, "It's awesome, isn't it?!?" Don't be fooled, it's just a facade. Deep down, I'm terrified. Every time I bump it accidentally and that electric shock shoots up my arm from what feels like the fingertip when in reality I've just hit the knuckle, will it be like this for the rest of my life? When I turn a page in a book and there's no sensation in my ring finger, will I ever feel the soft touch of paper on that fingertip again?

I bury my face in a bandana, hiding my tear-streaked face. I don't usually cry. I'm a robot, few people have seen me cry, just the bird that sits outside my window at night. I stare at her, she stares back at me with her beady black eyes. I wonder if she's ever cried.