A month of summer has lazily wasted away, and all I have to show for it a messy room, the sniffles, and an interview with Starbucks in a couple weeks.  I feel I have lost momentum having nowhere to distribute my energy.  The major factor is money; I am still searching for a job.  No funding means no art experimentation, no hanging out (which inevitably comes with a fee), and certainly no shopping (minus the strappy red pumps I found today). 

I hope the rest of the summer is more promising, not that the present lacks luster, but I am trudging out a path to mundane drudgery.  The potential for epic awesome is contingent on gayful employment, and as soon as I land a paid position I know the surface tension will smooth.

Meanwhile, the journey between sleeping will consist of three applications a day and the childlike anticipation of the next episode of Planet Earth.  Thank you, HD TV.

As we crested the hill, I quickly noted the eeriness of the cemetery on our left.  The large oak tree framed the monotonous stone slabs, casting large black whispers on the ground.  After my eyes opened a little wider, I realized-

it was a school.

Since second grade I have reserved my cursive for two things: signing checks and mother's day.  I am twenty years old, and I definitely sucked at writing "Grandma" this year.  This must be a new all- time low.

The cynic in me is wheedling away at my good sense, wanting to rant about the phenomenon of the Mother's Day tyrannical attitude yet again, but these things are so wearisome year after pathetic year.  Rather, I would [not] like to note two episodes where my grandmother verbally raped my grandfather in front of me. 

She did it in the middle of the Florian while tossing her stained napkin on the table.  People were everywhere, and I was ashamed.  She demanded my grandfather, a muscular welder up until last month, unbutton his coat because she did not want the crowd to see how much weight he had gained.  I dare to call this man built, even at eighty-eight years of age.  The assault lasted a few minutes, and when we left my face was red.

She did it in the car, all five of us packed into the Buick.  She was so sneaky as she recounted in glorious detail how the met and came together.  Somewhere at the end of the family lore to rival the Notebook, the story deviated into a rant attacking his husbandry.  He just sat there as she complained he did nothing for her, never took care of her.  The man, besides attending to his wife, also cares for the five widows in the neighborhood by cutting their grass and shoveling their drives.

I cannot go any further.  I am just stirring the red in my throat to eventually spit it in someone's eyes.

I just wish things were not this way.

Summer blew in on the breeze some day last week and thankfully brought me with it.  The headache of deadlines is for now a bad memory on par with a hangover; I contrive the past two weeks a groggy, jumbled experience. 

Now I am compiling my long list of summer aspirations, the primary objective (or at least the most pressing) is securing a well-paying job.  So in no particular order, the summer list:

• gut rearrange and redecorate my room
• revamp the basement into a studio
• create desirable art
• create a logo for college libertarians (in case they want it!)
• take a road trip out West
• continue guitaring
• attend the MAE concert in Columbus
• visit a different house of worship
• take pictures at the Gothic cathedral in Massilion (this is a repeat from last summer I never fulfilled)
• [continue] proper management of my finances
• counsel at Hollowrock
• buy a capo and new guitar strings
• make contact with former Heritigians
• watch a couple good movies I have yet to see
• run with Jarrod
• work out
• play soccer on Sundays with Scott
• teach art classes to Jr/ High and High School at church
• watch the sun rise
• get up for breakfast
• look into overseas trips and foreign exchange studies
• read anything I haven't read in my library
• buy a bookcase
• go to Iowa
• plan Becky's bachelorette party
• go on a mission trip with my Dad
• try not to piss off my Mom all summer (I've done it once already so I think I'm good for four months!)

Precious time, I will whittle you away until a nub of a toothpick remains.  I raise my toast to the summer, the endless, the expansive.  Let the reckless abandon begin.

The deep of night holds a sacred place in my day.  Sometime
between the newness of morning and the fullness of twilight a deep blue
roundness unfolds for several holy hours.  All possibility is
there, and God is there.  I hold equal fear and reverance for the
dance of the stars, since the beauty and ugliness of the soul manifest
themselves at their fullest under the same moon.   Perhaps
part of the fascination is the fear of my own capabilities, carnality's
quick bloom under the waxing sphere.  Still, beyond the terror a
vague loveliness wraps around me like a lover, and whispers of the
unrestricted glory blown in on the white trees.

playlist: the deep of night

"We Looked Like Giants" Death Cab for Cutie
"Heartbeats" Jose Gonzalez
"Sometimes" My Bloody Valentine
"Girls" Death in Vegas
"Insomnia" Electric President
"She Cries" EastWest
"Everlong (acoustic)" Foo Fighters

And mascara ran like a lonely strip of highway down both cheeks because rather than unlock the world,

Faced with my lesser demons and those of others, I decided to reflect
on those things that give me joy: understanding the ins and outs
of  people.  Here are a few masticated thoughts carefully cut
and pasted in a montage.

Talking to the naturally meek is a simple art most never
discover.  Many people would rather not take the time to delve
into the introverted, but upon discovery, the method is quick and
easy.  Quiet persons will sometimes confess that they are slow
thinkers; by pausing (almost awkwardly) after dialogue the introvert
will have more time to collect their thoughts.  If this occurs too
late within conversation, they will be less likely to comment. 

Find the time to wait on others.

I retract a statement I once made: love does not make the world go
round.  Perception does.  A person I am unaquainted with (or
ever dislike) carries more sway with a quip or off-handed compliment
than any value I may place on myself.  The opinions I then possess
(which hold little value to me) are the success or ruination of
others.  Love is akin to a web with its many centrifical points,
many of which touch some and not others, whereas perception is a grid
where all are equally connected.  In a way, we are all little
"brave and reckless gods", controlling each other on whims.

But if love was ever perfect, I would again retract a statement.

Sporting events are not the measure of a man's body, but the strength
of his character.  Athletics are a breeding ground for every taboo
known to man- envy, jealousy, rage, and deceit to name a few- and the
politics behind them are an entirely different ballgame.  Man in
his most primitive and prized feats, glorying for all to see is the
reason why we gather.  Yet amidst the angst, one questions if the
man will surmise the beast.  Will Jekyll ursurp Hyde?  Who
exactly is the man behind the façade?  Even the mildest man may
become a tyrant in a moment of weakness.  Sportsmanship is that
invisible fence barring an individual from acting cruelly, but too many
know how to jump the barrier.  Goodwill is the banner carried by
those that willingly practice.

In a lost moment is found the true man.

Of all the day's melancholy, the saddest thing was the gray light
sighing on her face as she strummed, thinking nothing and knowing
everything, singing mute songs of self depreciation.

The goodness of the human race rarely shows its face multiple times a
day, and somehow I was fortunate enough to kiss its gentle face all day
long.  Today of all days, I received what I most enjoy: 
people being people loving people.  The kind mounted cop, the
talkative photographer, the pensive and jaded collegiate, the lively
cashier, the reasonable vendor, the mayor at the next table over, the
wonderful ladies with whom I chose to spend my week; all found their
own way to make me feel like a valuable and cherished being. 

God, I love people.  I love the God inside them.  I also love
free dessert that I experienced not once, but twice today, the first
from a complete stranger, the second, from intimate friends.  Such
a gambit of love to run... what a marathon I ran today.

Some years ago, I wrote a hopeful projection for age sixteen. 
These ambitions were not unordinary for a young, developing girl, but
in many respects I could see that I did not desire such things
anymore.  Popularity, a boyfriend, a car....  somehow I see I
have attained these things today at twenty in a more satisfactory way.

Being well-liked and personable beats popularity back with a
stick.  Yes, I have a boyfriend, but I do not need him to feel
worthy or beautiful.  I have a car that my mom graciously allows
me to drive without paying for insurance.  Twenty feels much
sweeter knowing that I have become what I have always aspired to be
without becoming bent by unnecessary things.

Ten years from now- whoa- I might have gray hair.

That's weird.