// untitled //

via pinterest

She stood still, frozen by the warmth of his nearness. She stared a desperate plea into the placid eyes of the painting she faced. Her thoughts darted to the statues in the next gallery and she envied them. Standing in elegant attitudes, sculpted in cool marble- what if they, too, were struck with the sudden breath of a certain cologne, or the way the air shifts and strokes you with a phantom touch when someone moves close by? As her heartbeat called her attention back, her last thought was that the graven images in the next room would surely fracture and melt if they were, like the living beings they represented, cursed with the blessing of sensation.  

He still stood, off to one side and just behind her, She didn’t know what to do- she felt as a bird must feel when it flies, all blithe and unsuspicious, into a closed area and cannot find a window again. He made no sign that he had ever noticed her, not now or ever before, in the hallways and class rooms they shared. She’d noticed him all right- fallen hopelessly and foolishly for his calm, sphinx-like face and dark, vaguely sardonic eyes observing the world from behind horn-rimmed glasses. For the way he held his pen, gracefully, as though it were the natural extension of his long, strongly veined hand as it carved firm script across the page. For the way his voice, quiet and self-assured, answered questions the other boys simply gaped at. Most of all for the time she’d seen him, curled knees to chest with a book (one she knew wasn’t for class, a book of old poems about Kind Arthur) balanced in one hand, and a cup of tea in the other. No, she hated him- almost- she hated herself for loving him, more. 

She was still outwardly studying the painting, but in her minds eye was only his slim form, in his coat and button down shirt. He was in her blind spot but she didn’t need sight to know, in detail, everything about his unwelcome? or was it welcome? presence. She thought sure he should be in class at this hour. She herself needed to be back in 15 minutes and it would take 10 minutes at a brisk walk 

Darn him! She thought half heartedly, knowing full well that this was not his fault, but hers alone. Was it really so hard to just turn and walk by him? Even- imagine- smile at him? The insistence of her own anxiety that any movement would make her stand out like a painted elephant, make her look like a fool, was nonsense and her rational mind knew it. Unfortunately, her mind wasn’t cooperating with itself. 

It struck her that she would most likely be late for class now, and have to face that conspicuous shame on top of the trial she was currently undergoing. Betwixt Scylla and Charybdis, she thought ruefully. She shut her eyes, trying to find a moment of courage. Now or never, she steeled herself and turned, flipping her long hair over her shoulder and facing him to find him turning at the same time. Their eyes met. Against her own realism she thought his face flickered, even show a trace of recognition, or something like it. Her courage failed her and she ducked her head, clutched her pocketbook and hurried away. 

He stood frozen, shocked by the sudden appearance and absence of her. He had seen her, maybe, knew her as a vague form from his familiar life. But never noticed her, really noticed her- until now. His thoughts spiraled as he trailed, hands in pockets, in the same direction she had gone. He, too, had a class to make. He had only come here for a moment of reflection and relaxation, something he did often and always with success. Until today, that is. 

The walk passed without his realizing and as he entered the building he was startled to see her again, slipping with a guilty movement into a class room, heavy book bag in hand. His heart quickened. In that moment it seemed he should have known she was there all along, that they should have been together somehow. Regardless, he knew now. And they would, they must, be together at last.

(what even is this) (I should have written in first person? I guess?) (I really don't know) (at least I posted) (bye)

// excerpt from a (non-fiction, actually) novel I'll most likely (because it's real and we can read it in the graffiti on walls and garbage dumpsters) never write //

...The tall fence cast fishnet shadows on her legs, her arms, her face. She was so trapped, and in so many ways. A fish in a ever-shrinking net, a girl enmeshed in the perverted cage of her surroundings. A kid stuck behind a chainlink fence at midnight, when the door is locked. But day doesn't come...

// the christmas ornaments //

The Christmas Ornaments

via pinterest 

Amidst the hustle and bustle of the holidays, it’s easy to miss little things. Seemingly unimportant things. To hurry by the displays of ornaments, tugging children away before they break something - is that little glass trinket really $12?!

Away you rush, leaving the sparkling trees behind without noticing a little white tulle clad, balletic fairy hanging and twirling on the limb of a silver, tinsel tree. Nor do you notice a handsome, bright nutcracker just across the aisle, standing-or dangling - at attention, on a green tree decked in festive color. It certainly would never cross your mind to look close enough to notice their tiny faces, frozen into wide-eyed stares that had been fixed on each other since the beginning of the season.

Until the day before Christmas Eve. A little old lady wrapped in a thick, warm sweater hobbled in from the frigid parking lot and paused at the dazzling display of trees. She had just found out that her daughter and grandchildren were coming home for Christmas and she wanted something special to brighten up the house. She selected a tube of bright, shiny balls, some tinsel and colorful lights and a twinkling yellow star. Then she looked around for something more- and her eyes fell on the fairy and the nutcracker. A smile split her soft, wrinkled face as she gently took them from their trees and went to make her purchases. Her grandson would surely love the soldierly nutcracker. And her little granddaughter would be entranced by the fairy, she just knew it. 

So, the nutcracker and the fairy went home with her. She lived in a little house on a quiet side street. In the living room, amidst bookshelves, squishy, comfy chairs and old rabbit-eared TV set, stood a little evergreen tree. She set down her bag of trimmings and dusted off her record player. It took her a little while to sort through her stack of old records but eventually she found her Christmas ones and started them spinning. Bing Crosby’s deep, homey voice filled the house as she began trimming the tree, humming along to the tunes in her crackly voice, worn like her records but still lovely. Slowly but surely, the tree was transformed into color. The nutcracker and the fairy went on last of all, side by side near the top of the tree. Satisfied, the old lady brewed some tea, and sat admiring the tree and watching a TV program before heading to bed.

The next day her daughter and grandchildren arrived in a whirl, with all the noise and bustle that holiday visits bring. Bags to be unpacked, presents to be set under the tree, treats to be eaten - but the tree didn’t go unnoticed. The little girl had scampered over to look up at it, reaching up to try to touch the fairy before darting away again. After the hubbub had died down, the grandmother led them over to admire the tree properly, showing them their special ornaments with pride. Even the daughters sad, lined face lightened a little as the tree unlocked memories of carefree childhood Christmases. Before long the sky grew dark and they all dressed up and headed off to the church for Christmas Eve service. Not a sound could be heard in the house. Outside, snow began to fall.

When the family returned, the little girl was asleep and the boy nearly so. They were both put to bed and the mother and daughter soon followed suit. The still, silent living room was filled with the blue light of the moon, peeking in fits through the clouds. The clock was ticking…tick…tick… until it was the last minute of Christmas Eve. Then the hand touched midnight.

We’ve all heard the tales of magical things happening on Christmas night. Animals gifted with speech, a fat jolly man and his reindeer traveling around the world in record time, or Christmas trees growing, wooden toys coming to life and mouse armies waging war in living rooms. And while it’s hard to say whether any such stories are true, it is certain that if any night in the year feels like something special is about to happen-could happen - it’s Christmas. Deep down we all sense the wonder of this night of nights when the supernatural really did touch earth, once upon a time. When stars and angels sang, when kings brought treasures. Is it any surprise, then, that so many stories have been told about fantastical adventures happening? Or that we, no matter what, always hold in our hearts a childlike belief in this ‘magic’ of Christmas? 

What happened as the clock struck twelve? No flash of light or chime of bells. If anything, only a deeper hush in the already silent night.  Then something stirred, barely audible even had there been anyone awake to hear. Like a breath, or the stir of a breeze, the tree seemed to quiver, inhale and exhale. Then, near the top of the tree- a movement. A glisten of moonlight on sparkling tulle. A flash from martial, golden trim. 

With a graceful gentle movement, the fairy stretched her arms to their fullest, then swooped them down like bird wings. The nutcracker briskly brought his gun from his shoulder and then held it across his chest. Both looked around, wondering and blinking, then turned toward each other. 

The strings that had held them captive had melted into nothing, like snow in spring. The warmth now was not that of the season, but of the heart. The nutcracker set aside his gun. The fairy smoothed her skirt. He held out his hand, and she took it. An old music box, sitting on a bric-a-brac shelf, began to play a Christmas Waltz. And, together, they began to dance. The tinsel glistened, a draft stirred the sheer, pale curtains. Outside, the sliver-edged snow clouds parted and the stars in the dark sky were like a mirror to the ice and the lights below. 

They didn’t speak. No words were needed, really. Just the moment- the music-the magic. This brief time would have to last for forever. It was their forever. Even when the gentle ring of the music box faded and they were held fast to the tree once more, even when they were tucked into darkness for another year- in their hearts they would dance together until the next Christmas Eve. And then the next. Just as the world, each year, seems to slow into a loving dance and become blanketed with peace and light, the ballerina and the nutcracker would find the promise of love each year. Just as people, trapped in our endless solar circuit, in wars and tears and darkness, can see- for one moment each year- the star’s eternal light, they would be able to remember what it means to be real. What it will be. What the angels really meant when they sang-

‘Peace on Earth’

xx merry christmas everyone. as a side note, I haven't been able to get out of my mind the awful contrast between our Christmas and that of the people of Aleppo. I can't put words to what this juxtaposition makes me think or feel- but pray for those people.  xx

// parable of the tiny kernel //

There was a man who searched for many years to find something that was worth his life's work. He began to grow jaded, disillusioned with what the world had to offer. In disgust, he moved to the country  taking a little, secluded farmhouse and completely abandoning the brilliant, scholarly world he had once inhabited.

While he was cleaning out the barn, deep within the feed bin he found one, tiny kernel. Seized by a sudden impulse, he took it out and planted it, placing markers around it so he would remember its location. He didn’t think much more about it but continued his labors, tending it occasionally when he found many weeds grown up or if the weather was dry. Later in the year, it sprouted and grew into a tall, vivid stalk of corn. He ate one piece and was astonished by the satisfaction he found in its flavor. He saved the rest to plant the next year.

When it rolled around he did so. Instead of just one plant, several grew. This went on over the years until his original kernel had multiplied into enough to feed a village. Then he had enough to spread across the countryside. Eventually, his variety of corn had become so well known it was in demand around the world.

By now, the man had grown old. And he realized that, at last, he had found the truth for which he had sought. 

A little kernel can grow and touch the world. Tiny bits of truth, kindness or corn can have an impact far beyond their size if one only takes the time to cultivate and spread them.

// shower thoughts (or, ''tis I, your friendly neighborhood AWOL blogger') //

John Singer Sargent

I was thinking about the medieval crusades, and how they relate to the modern crisis concerning Middle Eastern/Muslim immigrants and terrorists. You hear a lot, from the left particularly, about accepting Muslims, that they aren't all terrorists. And they have a point. Hateful attitudes and biases about those who adhere to Islam and are Middle Eastern are just as wrong as hateful attitudes and biases about anyone. There is a difference between caution and suspicion.  Christ died for everyone- in fact he did so wearing brown skin and the dust of the Middle East caught in his beard and on his feet. Something to think about, eh?

But anyways, here are two of my cents, for the consideration of folks on BOTH sides of the story.

Let's go back in time, shall we?

Throughout the Middle Ages, Western Europe staged many crusades against the Muslims in the East. For ostensibly religious reasons, knights rode into battle to reclaim the Holy Land, displacing those who lived there and disrupting their way of life. With them came peaceful merchants who were prepared to settle down and integrate with the culture. This-these people- was what the majority of Muslims knew about Western Europe.

Now, put yourself into the shoes of the Muslims- when you though of Western Europeans, would you automatically think of those peaceful merchants? I know I wouldn't. In fact, we still look back at the Crusades and our minds instantly create an image of knights fighting exotic warriors. Their mental reaction would be fear, suspicion, a natural distance from these foreigners who were well known for their destructive actions and their religious motivation against those who believe differently.

Sound familiar? Uh-huh.

'So what?' you might think. Well, so we need to learn something from this.

***(cue total digression. You know you've missed my digressions.)***

I think- in fact, I see all too often on FB etc.- that Americans in particular look at history through this weird, nationalistic lens. As if all 6,000 years of human history center around the United States. Maybe I'm misrepresenting- maybe people don't actually think this way. Maybe it's just me- maybe I'm more aware myself since taking a history class. But it just seems like there is a wide-spread tunnel vision among Americans that leads to the belief that America is the greatest country ever, that our experience is somehow unique among all other peoples and civilizations of the world. And if you study history at all, with an open and critical mind, you'll find that presupposition totally destroyed.

I've never been a patriotic, nationalistic type- I thought it was silly and idolatrous before seriously studying history. But when you look back at the broad sweep of human history, at the 'great' civilizations that rose and inevitably fell- they all sort of shrink. 'Great' loses it's meaning, in a way. What really is the measure of greatness when even that which we call 'great' is completely fallible? Is gone in a matter of centuries- spans of time that look so vast until they are put into perspective of millennia. Even smaller when compared to eternity. Great is an entirely subjective term. With too much thought it becomes a nearly meaningless term, humanly speaking.

Ok, all this to say that when we study history more objectively, we can gain insight into ourselves and others. We can apply lessons learned about human nature and political situations to our current experience. This example- looking at the way Westerners would have been viewed by the Muslims during the crusades- can help everybody. It can help us remember that individuals among any group vary greatly, and although we must use caution, we should still seek to inspect each person as a person even when we must keep their background in mind. It can help those who cry 'intolerance' to see that fear is a very natural reaction when any group causes a threat to any other group. And it helps us all to realize that our world, here and now, is not really so different from any other age. We're still human. We're still sinners in need of grace. Sinners that don't do what we should, most of the time, even when we've accepted grace.

We need to put ourselves in other's shoes in order to better understand how to live in our own.

So there you have it. I actually posted!! I don't know if this is coherent... I want your feedback and opinions! I am sorry I've not been active- truly sorry- but I'm not going to offer excuses. It's just life, you know? Perhaps on Christmas Break I'll even make the Q&A video!

// Meet Vincent Van Gogh //

I. The Life

1. Childhood
2. Teens
3. Adulthood II.The Legacy
1. Career
2. Goal
3. Influence
   III.The Legend
1. Popular Misunderstanding
2. Cultural Image

Vincent Van Gogh

                                                                                                                

Vincent Van Gogh is one of the most well known and easily recognizable artists in Western art history and also one of the most misunderstood artistic figures. He remains a major influence on other artists and the history of art in general. Furthermore, he was a unique and sensitive individual who was articulate and intelligent as a man and an artist. Yet, he is remembered by many as simply a mentally ill man who painted the few striking works that have entered pop culture and ultimately committed suicide. When we look at his life, we can better understand the legacy of his work and also evaluate the legend that he has become.

     Van Gogh was born in 1853, (Van Gogh Museum) in the Netherlands. Growing up as a minister’s son in the country shaped the sensitivity that would later become his trademark. In his teens, his job at an art dealership exposed him to new art, literature and life experience. Afterwards, he floated among professions. His parents began to worry about his lack of direction so he studied to go into the ministry. Although he was deeply spiritual, this path soon proved too studied and disciplined for him, and he became a missionary among the poor instead. Though this work suited him better and he was well loved, his lack of orthodoxy and ‘success’ resulted in

his dismissal (Schapiro 4-6). However, during this time he began sketching and realized that perhaps he was meant for another path.

   His career began in tentative steps as he began exploring artistically. He studied, practiced and improved (Schapiro 6). He knew what he wanted to achieve- what remained was to see if he was capable. Before long, he realized that he was. Although his style and vision evolved over the years, his goal shines through in all of his work. His goal was simply to touch others and express his deepest values and feelings through his paintings. Through his career and gradual torment by mental health problems, we can trace his urgent need to find his voice(Schapiro 4). He did, but very few could, or can, understand what he was saying. Artists of all fields remain influenced by Van Gogh (Wikipedia). Most harbor within their hearts a hope to approach the vivid expression that has made him into an icon- those sweeping strokes on canvas that seem, in their flashes of unexpected color, to brush the universal human heart.

What of his legend, the myth we have created to surround this man that simultaneously glamorizes and marginalizes his troubles and triumphs?  The problem is that not many know who he really was. Being separated by a gulf of time inevitably creates a disconnection from any historical figure. Van Gogh is no different. Films, books, and general misinformation have created a sensationalized image (Wikipedia), but when we study him through the lens of his own letters and the writings of those who were close to him, we find a more holistic, realistic picture (Van Gogh Museum). We meet a troubled but brilliant man, who even through the disappointments of life held desperately to his task of creating beauty that expressed his pain and his hope.  

Works Cited

“‘Cultural Depictions of Van Gogh’” Wikipedia  Wikimedia Foundation. Web. Nov. 8, 2016

Schapiro, Meyer. Vincent Van Gogh Portfolio Edition, Harry N. Abrams, New York. 1969. Out of Print

"Van Gogh's Life, 1853–1890 - Van Gogh Museum." Van Gogh's Life, 1853–1890 - Van Gogh Museum. Web. 08 Nov. 2016.

(Written for English class)

// little story //

The tension in the air was tangible- as real as the forgotten pens in restless fingers around the room. The stern grey walls, carpet and computers seemed to grow livdi with electric charge. Glazed, intent eyes focused on one glowing screen, distracted only by the numbers and lights that speaks in a language of data. The overhead lights seemed to buzz in their sockets.  A steady pulse of seconds, ticking down gave those in the room a common heartbeat, a rhythm of suspense connecting them all to time itself. Everything seemed a vortex, swirling around one moment, set in one screen. 5 seconds… 4 seconds… (never had seconds seemed so infinitely long)…3…2…

  A pause, a hush. Even the beat of the clock stopped a moment. Then, clean and confident, an image appeared on the screen. No introduction or preamble- simply a picture of another world, a foreign and inhuman landscape that even in it’s unveiling seemed to speak defiance to those who looked on.  The first noise was a choked laugh-sob from the director.

  “You- you’ve done it. We’ve done it.’ The room erupted into ecstatic murmurs as another picture, then another, pulsed from space.

  One man alone stood speechless, his eyes shining and his lips parted as congratulations seemed to fall unheeded in his ears. Finally, as if coming from a daze, he took a reanimating breath and slowly adjusted his glasses.

  ‘I… need to call my wife…’ He said, his hand aimlessly patting each pocket in search of his smartphone. Someone pressed into his grasp and he dialed the number. He waited for the waves to connect them across the miles to where she sat in anxious prayer, alone in an airport. She had been delayed by weather from reaching her husband in this of all moments, this moment of giving birth. The room hushed for a moment.

  ‘Katy? It’s me- it worked, Katy. It worked.’ A pause and then finally a rush seemed to sweep him and his face exploded into a grin. Everyone began to cheer as he laughed his thankfulness to the Creator. And one by one, more images marched across the screen.

xx I didn't have a name for this one. I got the idea from a science magazine I was reading in a waiting room. It was describing the emotional reactions of scientists and I just got ideas :) I'd like to expand but it's sort of self contained...  I'm still going to be posting the Q&A video, sometime soon.  xx