Having BBC News as my home page provides me with daily bits of information. It is incredible what I can learn just by the headline, as I quickly change the page to check my email.
Today, however, a headline caught my eye and demanded further exploration. "Ancient papers reveal legacy of Timbuktu." They discovered, that in this dusty city (referred to by the West as "the middle of no-where") thousands upon thousands of ancient written records have been discovered, locked away in cellars. Check it out!
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/programmes/world_news_america/8387544.stm
Monday, November 30, 2009
Saturday, November 28, 2009
False Alarm.
It had been a long day. Too long.
Kevin Walters squinted at the reflective road signs as his blurry head lights cut through the night fog. 72nd Avenue. That's right.
The tuning of his tires crunched softly on the dirt road and Walters longed for a Big Mac and a Slurpee from the Admiral. Unfortunately, Walters had promised his sister Tina that he'd pick up the old Buick and bring it to the lot. He grunted and drummed his thick fingers on the steering wheel. Drifting into a fantasy about being in a metal band with long wild dreadlocks, beer, and babes, Kevin rolled passed his sister's house. At the stop-ahead sign, Kevin's stomach growled and jerked him into reality. He pulled into the nearest driveway to turn around, then cursed aloud when he remembered the long trailer attached to the hitch.
Rather than jack-knifing the trailer and becoming stuck, Kevin carefully backed out and rode the quarter mile to Tina's house, in reverse.
Little did he know, Walters caused quite a commotion. The driveway he had randomly selected belonged to a particular family that was hyper-sensitive about trailer pulling up to their house in the dead of night, on a Saturday.
Within the dimly glowing windows of the driveway's house, the youngest daughter shouted an alert to her three siblings. "Holy crap! They're at it again!"
Four pairs of eyes traced the headlights across the bay windows until the pricks of light disappeared behind the trees of the neighbors' property.
"They're moving backward--they're going to park!"
In 3.5 seconds, all four Pineiro kids bounded into the dark, aggressively tugging on jackets and hopping into shoes. "If they put a couch on our roof, I'm going to punch them in the face!" the nine year old chirped, boldly. He bounded down the driveway and dissapeared into the fog. "Weston--get back here!" Rachael hissed in a stage whisper. The glow of the truck's headlights was expanding.
"He's coming back! Everybody hide!" The four young Pineiros hid behind various shaped trees--the nine year old behind a shrub.
"Don't move! Be quiet!"
In the silence of his truck, Walters debated between a Micky D's and Taco Bell. He couldn't make up his mind. Because of his lusty fixation on greasy wrapped treats, Kevin failed to notice the three oddly shaped trees, and one oddly shaped shrub, watching intently as his truck went by.
"Are they going to put a Buick on our roof?"
As the trailer-hitched truck continued passed the house and made a left onto Filmore, the Pineiros turned to go inside, their aggression dissipating into the night.
Kevin Walters squinted at the reflective road signs as his blurry head lights cut through the night fog. 72nd Avenue. That's right.
The tuning of his tires crunched softly on the dirt road and Walters longed for a Big Mac and a Slurpee from the Admiral. Unfortunately, Walters had promised his sister Tina that he'd pick up the old Buick and bring it to the lot. He grunted and drummed his thick fingers on the steering wheel. Drifting into a fantasy about being in a metal band with long wild dreadlocks, beer, and babes, Kevin rolled passed his sister's house. At the stop-ahead sign, Kevin's stomach growled and jerked him into reality. He pulled into the nearest driveway to turn around, then cursed aloud when he remembered the long trailer attached to the hitch.
Rather than jack-knifing the trailer and becoming stuck, Kevin carefully backed out and rode the quarter mile to Tina's house, in reverse.
Little did he know, Walters caused quite a commotion. The driveway he had randomly selected belonged to a particular family that was hyper-sensitive about trailer pulling up to their house in the dead of night, on a Saturday.
Within the dimly glowing windows of the driveway's house, the youngest daughter shouted an alert to her three siblings. "Holy crap! They're at it again!"
Four pairs of eyes traced the headlights across the bay windows until the pricks of light disappeared behind the trees of the neighbors' property.
"They're moving backward--they're going to park!"
In 3.5 seconds, all four Pineiro kids bounded into the dark, aggressively tugging on jackets and hopping into shoes. "If they put a couch on our roof, I'm going to punch them in the face!" the nine year old chirped, boldly. He bounded down the driveway and dissapeared into the fog. "Weston--get back here!" Rachael hissed in a stage whisper. The glow of the truck's headlights was expanding.
"He's coming back! Everybody hide!" The four young Pineiros hid behind various shaped trees--the nine year old behind a shrub.
"Don't move! Be quiet!"
In the silence of his truck, Walters debated between a Micky D's and Taco Bell. He couldn't make up his mind. Because of his lusty fixation on greasy wrapped treats, Kevin failed to notice the three oddly shaped trees, and one oddly shaped shrub, watching intently as his truck went by.
"Are they going to put a Buick on our roof?"
As the trailer-hitched truck continued passed the house and made a left onto Filmore, the Pineiros turned to go inside, their aggression dissipating into the night.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
There's No Place Like Rome...
Every now and then I feel as if reality warps and blends into the fabric of another quality. Perhaps it is dream. Or perhaps it is the recognition of a possible higher reality. Last Wednesday, I experience this warp, so to speak, during a presentation about studying abroad. I had been paying attention to the Director of the International program in a plane somewhere between mild interest and scoffing cynicism. I am a junior with a newly declared double major with English and Theatre, and I expect to graduate on time. My disposition was that I had passed up the opportunity to partake in the financially-crippling-over-seas program long ago. But as the speaker went on, I felt the floor beneath me lift and the ceiling above me plunge. In a dizzying lurch, I experienced a paradigm shift.
It was the program about Rome that caught my interest and shook the foundation of my career goals. Attached to the program was the opportunity to intern with Vatican media. This concept of being able to write or perform (in a sense) on the radio, in association with Papal news, infiltrated my imagination and mixed—almost chemically—into my bloodstream. My perception of its affect on me started as a dull questioning, but as the minutes went by, I felt it exponentially. Now I'm on fire. It's almost obsessive. Why not me? I could live and study in Rome—the home of the Catholic Church—a cradle to the art of theatre—I could be there next year at this time.
Living, studying, and interning in Italy, a mere five miles from the Vatican, would incredible on so many levels--as a Catholic, as a student--as a human being. The program is a semester long and operates as a partnership with the Thomas More College. We would be staying at the Villa Serenella monastery and I would be taking at least thirteen credit hours of Humanities, Theology, Poetry, and Art and Architecture.
As I do not yet have an articulate career plan, I am still dreaming up possibilities. The idea of working in conjunction with Catholic Media is an intoxicating prospectus—especially if it's in Rome. As a devout Catholic, a study abroad trip so steeped in the faith would help me develop on a personal level—inspiring me to further connect my degree with my faith—and hopefully shaping me into a powerful asset to the church. I want this trip to help direct me toward my destined vocation.
Unfortunately, there are many things that may stop me. I have estimated that it would cost me $15,500 in all--in which I would have to sell both of my kidneys, a lot of plasma, everything I own, and I'd probably have to rob a bank or two.
There are a number of other reasons that I shan't bother you with, but my advisor advised me not to go, and my father is convinced that the delay of my graduation for the sake of electives is not an intelligent decision.
In light of stark reality, my infatuation with the idea of Rome has paled to a wan heart-break. It is possible to go, but when I narrow my sight to financial and economic reality, I realize that it is not exactly the best thing, strategically speaking, to go.
It was the program about Rome that caught my interest and shook the foundation of my career goals. Attached to the program was the opportunity to intern with Vatican media. This concept of being able to write or perform (in a sense) on the radio, in association with Papal news, infiltrated my imagination and mixed—almost chemically—into my bloodstream. My perception of its affect on me started as a dull questioning, but as the minutes went by, I felt it exponentially. Now I'm on fire. It's almost obsessive. Why not me? I could live and study in Rome—the home of the Catholic Church—a cradle to the art of theatre—I could be there next year at this time.
Living, studying, and interning in Italy, a mere five miles from the Vatican, would incredible on so many levels--as a Catholic, as a student--as a human being. The program is a semester long and operates as a partnership with the Thomas More College. We would be staying at the Villa Serenella monastery and I would be taking at least thirteen credit hours of Humanities, Theology, Poetry, and Art and Architecture.
As I do not yet have an articulate career plan, I am still dreaming up possibilities. The idea of working in conjunction with Catholic Media is an intoxicating prospectus—especially if it's in Rome. As a devout Catholic, a study abroad trip so steeped in the faith would help me develop on a personal level—inspiring me to further connect my degree with my faith—and hopefully shaping me into a powerful asset to the church. I want this trip to help direct me toward my destined vocation.
Unfortunately, there are many things that may stop me. I have estimated that it would cost me $15,500 in all--in which I would have to sell both of my kidneys, a lot of plasma, everything I own, and I'd probably have to rob a bank or two.
There are a number of other reasons that I shan't bother you with, but my advisor advised me not to go, and my father is convinced that the delay of my graduation for the sake of electives is not an intelligent decision.
In light of stark reality, my infatuation with the idea of Rome has paled to a wan heart-break. It is possible to go, but when I narrow my sight to financial and economic reality, I realize that it is not exactly the best thing, strategically speaking, to go.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Seventh Year,-- Dizzy.
"You're my only friend, Pidgeoto."
The little girl kissed the young chicken on its head and placed it on her lap. She gently kicked her legs, making the swing drift back and forth as she hummed a tune.
The sky was blue and clear--a blanket of silk over the Texas horizon. Haystacks and stubby trees dotted her sight, turning shades darker as the sun melted in the west and the vapor moon condensated on the glass shell of the atmosphere.
The sky dimmed and shimmered; less of a blue, now, and more of an azul--or an azúcar. Sugar. The sky must taste like sugar, thought the little girl aloud to her feathery companion. What do you think? Pidgeoto fluffed himself and cocked his head to the side.
Between the gravitational pull of the moon and the swing, the little girl imagined herself flying in the air--soaring with Pidgeoto nearby. Higher and higher into the sugar sky until the swing set and the haystack and the trees turned into specks--tiny chocolate chips on the cookie of Texas as the earth swallowed the sun and the icicle moon glowed brighter.
The little girl kissed the young chicken on its head and placed it on her lap. She gently kicked her legs, making the swing drift back and forth as she hummed a tune.
The sky was blue and clear--a blanket of silk over the Texas horizon. Haystacks and stubby trees dotted her sight, turning shades darker as the sun melted in the west and the vapor moon condensated on the glass shell of the atmosphere.
The sky dimmed and shimmered; less of a blue, now, and more of an azul--or an azúcar. Sugar. The sky must taste like sugar, thought the little girl aloud to her feathery companion. What do you think? Pidgeoto fluffed himself and cocked his head to the side.
Between the gravitational pull of the moon and the swing, the little girl imagined herself flying in the air--soaring with Pidgeoto nearby. Higher and higher into the sugar sky until the swing set and the haystack and the trees turned into specks--tiny chocolate chips on the cookie of Texas as the earth swallowed the sun and the icicle moon glowed brighter.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Oops, I'm a kid again
I'd like to think that I am not as disconnected with family life as I probably am. Or perhaps I just have unrealistic expectations of myself.
I knew I was going home this Sunday evening, and I thought I could accomplish a couple simple things within the familiar walls of my Allendale house. My goal to finish the lingering page and conclusion of my Transcendental term paper might have been a bit steep. I also wanted to prepare my directing rehearsal for tomorrow afternoon and perhaps write 2 or 3 journal entries. Ha.
With thoroughly scholarly intentions, I peregrinated away from my college roommates to my family home. 45 minutes later, I found myself giving my nine year old brother a piggy back ride while he pressed his hands over my eyes and mischievously shouted directions for me to stumble to. I ran into the refrigerator, my parent's bed, the stairs, and a closet door--to his utter amusement.
Somehow, I was even recorded for my sister's video blog with my hair brushed in front of my face with goggles over my "eyes," acting like an alien.
What's wrong with me? One moment I'm an adult, and the next moment, I'm inside of a closet, held captive by my kid brother (singing a Mario song), trying to manipulate my freedom with a tickly duster.
I have responsibilities! I'm a junior in college and I'm supposed to have a novel read by tomorrow and I need to contemplate my thoroughly passionate and culturally riveting senior project. Also, my exams are in three short weeks...
Will I be able to make significant strides surrounded by my family, if I live at home next year--where I will probably find myself with underwear on my head, scooping out bowls of ice cream singing the "Bert and Ernie" song from Sesame Street? Can I say that my family brings out the best in me?
...
I might have an incomplete paper for tomorrow's class, and I might not be completely on top of tomorrow's rehearsal, but at least I shared a couple hours with my family (and some silly memories with my rapidly growing baby brother).
When I look back on my life as a young adult--what will be more important?
I knew I was going home this Sunday evening, and I thought I could accomplish a couple simple things within the familiar walls of my Allendale house. My goal to finish the lingering page and conclusion of my Transcendental term paper might have been a bit steep. I also wanted to prepare my directing rehearsal for tomorrow afternoon and perhaps write 2 or 3 journal entries. Ha.
With thoroughly scholarly intentions, I peregrinated away from my college roommates to my family home. 45 minutes later, I found myself giving my nine year old brother a piggy back ride while he pressed his hands over my eyes and mischievously shouted directions for me to stumble to. I ran into the refrigerator, my parent's bed, the stairs, and a closet door--to his utter amusement.
Somehow, I was even recorded for my sister's video blog with my hair brushed in front of my face with goggles over my "eyes," acting like an alien.
What's wrong with me? One moment I'm an adult, and the next moment, I'm inside of a closet, held captive by my kid brother (singing a Mario song), trying to manipulate my freedom with a tickly duster.
I have responsibilities! I'm a junior in college and I'm supposed to have a novel read by tomorrow and I need to contemplate my thoroughly passionate and culturally riveting senior project. Also, my exams are in three short weeks...
Will I be able to make significant strides surrounded by my family, if I live at home next year--where I will probably find myself with underwear on my head, scooping out bowls of ice cream singing the "Bert and Ernie" song from Sesame Street? Can I say that my family brings out the best in me?
...
I might have an incomplete paper for tomorrow's class, and I might not be completely on top of tomorrow's rehearsal, but at least I shared a couple hours with my family (and some silly memories with my rapidly growing baby brother).
When I look back on my life as a young adult--what will be more important?
Saturday, November 21, 2009
A Graphic Genesis?! Oh my.
I just listened to an audio news bit on BBC.com about the publication of a graphic illustrated book of Genesis; I found it disturbing.
The book is explicit and has an "adult supervision" label (which shouldn't really come as a shock to those who have read the Old Testament). Listening to the artist's comments from the audio bit, it was really apparent that he didn't have actual Christian intentions. He said something like "The thought that people actually took this stuff seriously for thousands of years...I find it so crazy."
He sounded like a complete idiot, but I will give him props for something.
The graphic novel will illuminate some truths about the book of Genesis that may be typically ignored. The Old Testament is incredibly violent--the text doesn't seek to hide anything--it's all kind of out there.
I find the Old Testament a bit hard to understand, and thusly, I enjoy discussion on the topic. I think the worst thing to do with information--especially scripture--is to just blindly accept it if you don't understand it. Granted, there are things we just can't wrap our finite human minds around, but we can always ask questions and seek truth.
St. Thomas Aquinas would support seeking the truth.
The book is explicit and has an "adult supervision" label (which shouldn't really come as a shock to those who have read the Old Testament). Listening to the artist's comments from the audio bit, it was really apparent that he didn't have actual Christian intentions. He said something like "The thought that people actually took this stuff seriously for thousands of years...I find it so crazy."
He sounded like a complete idiot, but I will give him props for something.
The graphic novel will illuminate some truths about the book of Genesis that may be typically ignored. The Old Testament is incredibly violent--the text doesn't seek to hide anything--it's all kind of out there.
I find the Old Testament a bit hard to understand, and thusly, I enjoy discussion on the topic. I think the worst thing to do with information--especially scripture--is to just blindly accept it if you don't understand it. Granted, there are things we just can't wrap our finite human minds around, but we can always ask questions and seek truth.
St. Thomas Aquinas would support seeking the truth.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
The Dramatic Rendition of My Belated Return
Tossing and turning, seven hours later, I awoke with a start.
I forgot my water bottle!!!
How could I forget him? I mentally chastised myself then fell back asleep. My dreams were full of water containers of every sort: water towers, crock pots, flasks, tea kettles, cactus... There was no way to escape the guilt I felt in abandoning my friend that had been so faithful to me, throughout the past several weeks.
When I awoke, my throat was dry and my thirst unquenchable. Hurriedly, I dashed off to class and tried to think of my studies...
Theatre History.
Stage Movement.
Intro to Literature.
Work.
Around 6 O'clock in the evening, with the sun waning in its celestial arch, I snuck to the place where the brook babbles and the leaves are crunchy. My heart was racing--I experienced a wave of terror--IT WASN'T THERE!
"No! It has to be!"
I tried to imagine life without my water bottle--(I would have to get a new one!) The thought of my very own water bottle (which I typically keep by my side in waking and sleeping) being in the hands of some stranger with ill intentions, or worse yet--! In a garbage dump...oh no...the thought was too horrible to comprehend.
Just then--perhaps out of hopeful thinking, I thought--I spied a corner of maroon peeking out through nature's debris. On my hands and knees, I splashed about the crinkling cornflakes and discovered my bottle! It had burrowed under the pile of leaves for warmth!
"Ha! Ahaha!" My choked-up laughter echoed off Hruby hall and a nearby student cocked an eye brow. It didn't matter to me--I was reunited with my bottle of water!!
Joyously, I hugged the thing close to my body and promised never to leave it again.
I forgot my water bottle!!!
How could I forget him? I mentally chastised myself then fell back asleep. My dreams were full of water containers of every sort: water towers, crock pots, flasks, tea kettles, cactus... There was no way to escape the guilt I felt in abandoning my friend that had been so faithful to me, throughout the past several weeks.
When I awoke, my throat was dry and my thirst unquenchable. Hurriedly, I dashed off to class and tried to think of my studies...
Theatre History.
Stage Movement.
Intro to Literature.
Work.
Around 6 O'clock in the evening, with the sun waning in its celestial arch, I snuck to the place where the brook babbles and the leaves are crunchy. My heart was racing--I experienced a wave of terror--IT WASN'T THERE!
"No! It has to be!"
I tried to imagine life without my water bottle--(I would have to get a new one!) The thought of my very own water bottle (which I typically keep by my side in waking and sleeping) being in the hands of some stranger with ill intentions, or worse yet--! In a garbage dump...oh no...the thought was too horrible to comprehend.
Just then--perhaps out of hopeful thinking, I thought--I spied a corner of maroon peeking out through nature's debris. On my hands and knees, I splashed about the crinkling cornflakes and discovered my bottle! It had burrowed under the pile of leaves for warmth!
"Ha! Ahaha!" My choked-up laughter echoed off Hruby hall and a nearby student cocked an eye brow. It didn't matter to me--I was reunited with my bottle of water!!
Joyously, I hugged the thing close to my body and promised never to leave it again.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
The Dramatic Rendition of My Trifling Break-Up
"I'm sorry," said I. "I can take you no further. You see, I have too much to carry--what with juggling this loaf of bread, three pots, a pan, and a large mixing bowl."
My water bottle frowned back at me. He wasn't taking this well. I winced and tried again.
"Really, I barely have one finger to hold you with, and it's about to break off!"
The maroon plastic bottle indicated the scrape marks on its surface from the times I had dropped it and shoved it into the too small holder on my bike.
"Don't you dare pull that one on me." said I, shifting my weight awkwardly from side to side. "I can't take you any further and that's final." I felt the perspiration upon my brow. I had to have this dinner made in fifteen minutes and it simply would not do to be late.
Ignoring its silent shrieks of abandonment, I dropped my water bottle in a pile of dried leaves next to a babbling brook. Separated from the warmth of my body, it quickly snuggled up to a wooden fence nearby and wept dreadful drops of hydration.
"I'll come back--I promise!" I shouted over my shoulder.
My water bottle frowned back at me. He wasn't taking this well. I winced and tried again.
"Really, I barely have one finger to hold you with, and it's about to break off!"
The maroon plastic bottle indicated the scrape marks on its surface from the times I had dropped it and shoved it into the too small holder on my bike.
"Don't you dare pull that one on me." said I, shifting my weight awkwardly from side to side. "I can't take you any further and that's final." I felt the perspiration upon my brow. I had to have this dinner made in fifteen minutes and it simply would not do to be late.
Ignoring its silent shrieks of abandonment, I dropped my water bottle in a pile of dried leaves next to a babbling brook. Separated from the warmth of my body, it quickly snuggled up to a wooden fence nearby and wept dreadful drops of hydration.
"I'll come back--I promise!" I shouted over my shoulder.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
The Nightmare
The nightmare was harsh. I awoke--startled--into the darkness of my bedroom, my damp hair clinging to my neck. It was just a dream. Relief. Thank God it was just a dream. Sinking back onto my pillow, the haunting situation threatened to creep back over my mind...
I showed up to work. Late, as usual, but I sensed something was different. For one thing, there was a giant body of water stretching across the Media Center. A sea breeze whistled through our selection of feature films and rattled through the racks of CDs. But that wasn't it. Somehow I sensed more.
The familiar energy of my boss's presence infiltrated my reception and I instinctively twitched my head toward him. Too fast. (Idiot!) It had only been 3 seconds and already I looked unnatural and foolish.
As my stylishly dressed boss rowed up to me in his gondolier, I was surprised by his smile. He was happy to see me, but after I stuttered out an overly-enthusiastic "hullo!", his smile twisted into a sneer.
Oh no! What did I do?
Then it hit me. The sea breeze was cool and chilled me all over. I was naked. Naked at work because I had forgotten to don clothing, and now my boss (who already didn't like me) is seeing me naked and sneering.
Frantically, I reached for the nearest bit of foliage--next to the de-magnatizer. I was hoping for a nicely sufficient palm leaf, but instead I pulled a dreadfully thin tangle of vines that had been scarcely clinging to the closet door.
Oh no!
My boss rolled his eyes and continued rowing through the isles of VHS, mercifully allowing me to regain my dignity.
As I scrambled about, I heard the distinctive sharp ting of the bell behind me. A patron!
After analyzing this dream from a lucid state, I can successfully delve further into my introspection, in which I can delineate the manifest and latent content of my warped psychology.
It's a bit disturbing, but mostly depressing.
I showed up to work. Late, as usual, but I sensed something was different. For one thing, there was a giant body of water stretching across the Media Center. A sea breeze whistled through our selection of feature films and rattled through the racks of CDs. But that wasn't it. Somehow I sensed more.
The familiar energy of my boss's presence infiltrated my reception and I instinctively twitched my head toward him. Too fast. (Idiot!) It had only been 3 seconds and already I looked unnatural and foolish.
As my stylishly dressed boss rowed up to me in his gondolier, I was surprised by his smile. He was happy to see me, but after I stuttered out an overly-enthusiastic "hullo!", his smile twisted into a sneer.
Oh no! What did I do?
Then it hit me. The sea breeze was cool and chilled me all over. I was naked. Naked at work because I had forgotten to don clothing, and now my boss (who already didn't like me) is seeing me naked and sneering.
Frantically, I reached for the nearest bit of foliage--next to the de-magnatizer. I was hoping for a nicely sufficient palm leaf, but instead I pulled a dreadfully thin tangle of vines that had been scarcely clinging to the closet door.
Oh no!
My boss rolled his eyes and continued rowing through the isles of VHS, mercifully allowing me to regain my dignity.
As I scrambled about, I heard the distinctive sharp ting of the bell behind me. A patron!
After analyzing this dream from a lucid state, I can successfully delve further into my introspection, in which I can delineate the manifest and latent content of my warped psychology.
It's a bit disturbing, but mostly depressing.
Monday, November 16, 2009
It's War from here on out.
I presently find myself among the shrapnel and whizzing bullets of the concluding semester. It is at once a terrifying and masochistically exciting time, though the latter disposition may be a bit forced. (Thus, if I were to have a split personality, perhaps I would be both masochist and sadist to my own being...a disturbing thought I should promptly banish from the surface of my contemplation, lest this blog get ugly and disturbing.) Alas, I sigh and long for the day of blissful sugar cookies and sugar-plumb fairies. For the time being, I must arm myself in the battle attire of academia and feign sanity. I sit cross-legged in my warrior wigwam, emotionally naked before the fire of my laptop screen, save the painted marks hither and thither on my body of intellect, assumed to savagely bolster my energy to flow powerfully and with wild abandonment.
Soon, I shall close my eyes and fall into a deep river. A ruggedly hollowed canoe shall be my bed, and with crossed arms, I will descend in a cascade of water into my spring semester where I will hopefully find rest. Sweet rest.
Soon, I shall close my eyes and fall into a deep river. A ruggedly hollowed canoe shall be my bed, and with crossed arms, I will descend in a cascade of water into my spring semester where I will hopefully find rest. Sweet rest.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Th Missing Lttr "e"
I apologiz most ardntly. A vry important key doesn't seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee333ee33
Wait a second...It's a miracle! My "e" key is working again!! OH MY GOSH!!! I can type E's!!!
Well, there goes the concept of my blog tonight. I was going to write this elaborate story to see if you guys could understand it without any of th---CRAP!! It stoppd working again!!!
Rally? For ral?
Okay, God...I wasn't complaining that you fixd my ""....Can you mak it work again? Plas?
Okay...back to plan A.
Try to undrstand this:
I wnt to a concrt today at th Mixd Tap Caf. My frind Lizzy turnd 21 and w wantd to clbrat it by sing this band she really liked. (e's back on board!)
It was called "Th Hard Lsson" ('s back out...)and thy completely rocked!(Oh my goodness key...) The lead singer had this black hair that hung to his shouldrs and strung across his fac, and his wif (who was also in th band) could play piano whil bnding backward rally far. It was imprssiv. Thir voics blndd togthr mlodiosly --his husky and manly, hr's, smoky and powrful.
During a lov song, th lad singr ddicatd th piece to all the couples in the audience, and thn brought on coupl up on stag. H askd thm what thir nams wr, and thn said he wanted to mak sur that thy wr a ral coupl. H askd thm to do somthing "Lik kiss, or somthing." Th guy kissd his girlfrind, and thn th lad singr kind of rpatd what h had just said, prssing for somthing ls...I was a bit suspicious.
Thn--and this was bautfiul--th man got down on his kn and pulld out a sparkly ring and askd his girlfrind to marry him. For a split scond, I thought it was a jok--but hr xprssion rvald that it was compltly lgit, and th guy and th singrs had plannd it out bfor th concrt.
Wow--I'd nvr sn anything lik that happn! Such tru motion--it wasn't acting--it wasn't a play! And it happnd right on th stag in front of m!
As th band finishd thir song, th coupl kissd and hld achothr, dancing slowly.
At th nd of th show, th lad singr wishd th nw coupl luck with thir livs togthr. Thn, taking his wif (th piano playr)'s hand, h said "If w can do it, you can do it!"
Wait a second...It's a miracle! My "e" key is working again!! OH MY GOSH!!! I can type E's!!!
Well, there goes the concept of my blog tonight. I was going to write this elaborate story to see if you guys could understand it without any of th---CRAP!! It stoppd working again!!!
Rally? For ral?
Okay, God...I wasn't complaining that you fixd my ""....Can you mak it work again? Plas?
Okay...back to plan A.
Try to undrstand this:
I wnt to a concrt today at th Mixd Tap Caf. My frind Lizzy turnd 21 and w wantd to clbrat it by sing this band she really liked. (e's back on board!)
It was called "Th Hard Lsson" ('s back out...)and thy completely rocked!(Oh my goodness key...) The lead singer had this black hair that hung to his shouldrs and strung across his fac, and his wif (who was also in th band) could play piano whil bnding backward rally far. It was imprssiv. Thir voics blndd togthr mlodiosly --his husky and manly, hr's, smoky and powrful.
During a lov song, th lad singr ddicatd th piece to all the couples in the audience, and thn brought on coupl up on stag. H askd thm what thir nams wr, and thn said he wanted to mak sur that thy wr a ral coupl. H askd thm to do somthing "Lik kiss, or somthing." Th guy kissd his girlfrind, and thn th lad singr kind of rpatd what h had just said, prssing for somthing ls...I was a bit suspicious.
Thn--and this was bautfiul--th man got down on his kn and pulld out a sparkly ring and askd his girlfrind to marry him. For a split scond, I thought it was a jok--but hr xprssion rvald that it was compltly lgit, and th guy and th singrs had plannd it out bfor th concrt.
Wow--I'd nvr sn anything lik that happn! Such tru motion--it wasn't acting--it wasn't a play! And it happnd right on th stag in front of m!
As th band finishd thir song, th coupl kissd and hld achothr, dancing slowly.
At th nd of th show, th lad singr wishd th nw coupl luck with thir livs togthr. Thn, taking his wif (th piano playr)'s hand, h said "If w can do it, you can do it!"
Thursday, November 12, 2009
A Vision of Winter...
I left the warm comforts of my house, last night, to behold the most beautiful vision of nature. It was about 11:30 pm. I slid a pair of snow boots on and tugged on a light jacket that hung by the door and dashed outside. As I pushed the sliding glass door closed, I shut away the noises of the kitchen and the buzz of the thermostat, and a myriad of other noises I had not been aware of. My senses immediately shifted. Silence pressed against my ears and the cold air stung my bare skin, as I had intelligently donned a pair of cotton running shorts. Several paces through knee deep snow brought me well into the mercy of the night. My eyes adjusted to the light that the full moon produced and reflected brilliantly off the breast of the snow. I had never seen anything like it…I stood in the middle of a dazzling field of shimmering light, sparkling from the iced-over branches--whose tangled shadows wrapped softly across the earth. The glittering snow, as if millions of tiny diamonds had been crushed to a powder and accumulated here, settling peacefully in a thick layer across this frozen tundra. I turned my gaze to the sky and drank in the icy heaven. A peaceful navy blanket of atmosphere, studded with diamonds, extended above my insignificant stature to a height I could only imagine. It wrapped around the whole earth and covered every human being that ever lived. Directly above my quiet house was the full moon. A perfectly round orb of celestial radiance, brilliantly burning the reflected light of the sun into the back of my retinas. When I closed my eyes, the moon was still there in a frosty, ghostly image against my lids. I felt the miles of cold air above my physical body and the perpetually frozen vacuum of ancient space above that, and somehow I was connected to the earth and floating in heaven at the same time.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Breaking News, December 10th, 1964
King's Work is Not Yet Done
-Rachael Pineiro
Civil rights hero Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. tells the world his work is not yet finished, but through the perseverance of nonviolent demonstration, King's mission of humanity will not fail.
As his slow and deliberate words rang out in the City Hall of Oslo, Norway, on the 10th of December, the magnitude of his people’s struggle settled into the consciousness of every distinguished guest in the company. King spoke of the 22 million Negros, struggling presently in the heat of injustice and indignity in the United States of America and elsewhere in the wide world. He questioned why he should receive such an award when the accomplishment of the movement is yet so premature.
Merely nine years have passed since he organized the first bus boycott, the incipience of his spirited campaign for equality, and King has found himself to be in a position of the highest prestige and honor. He is the youngest of the laureates, throughout the 20th century, to be awarded a Nobel Peace Prize for his contribution to promoting global peace. King accepted the award with grace, but illuminated the situation in light of its position in reality: his work is far from being done.
“I accept this award on behalf of a civil rights movement which is moving with determination and a majestic scorn for risk and danger to establish a reign of freedom and a rule of justice,” he said at the commencement of his speech. The risk that King has taken in his ministry has lead to his being stabbed in 1958, and stoned, as of just last summer.
Dr. King alluded to several recent incidents which highlight the reality of the civil rights struggle: fire hose assaults, bombings, and brutal murders. He articulated the extent to which the colored person is degraded in the construction of society and the work that is yet to be done. He acknowledged the debilitating scorn his people have faced and the struggle of the movement in its cry for brotherhood, but the tenor of his speech was far from despairing.
“After contemplation, I conclude that this award which I receive on behalf of the movement is a profound recognition that nonviolence is the answer to the crucial political and moral question of our time - the need for man to overcome oppression and violence without resorting to violence and oppression,” he said.
Rejecting the pessimism of a non-progressive future, King’s speech bounded toward a future of optimism with the fire of possibility. He stated his refusal to despair, his refusal to believe that nations are bound to destroy one another, and his refusal to accept that men, as they are today, are not capable of fashioning the world the way it ought to be. Man, according to King, is not a powerless character in fate, unable to improve or perfect the future. His voice rang with optimism: “I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality.”
His message is not confined, only, to the people of the United States. Basing his civil rights campaign on the foundation of Christianity and the philosophies of Ghandi, King affirms that the dignity of all people will soon be realized as love and truth will inevitably succeed in the scheme of the entire world, and that this will be attained only through the persistence of non-violent ambitions.
“I believe that even amid today’s mortar bursts and whining bullets, there is still hope for a brighter tomorrow,” he said. “I believe that wounded justice, lying prostrate on the blood-flowing streets of our nations, can be lifted from this dust of shame to reign supreme among the children of men.”
After nine years of demonstrations, fraught with multiple arrests, and with the repeated debasement of racial attacks and violent assaults, King accepted the award with a renewed air for his mission of humanity. The faith and burning optimism with which he spoke exposed his elevated expectation of mankind’s ethical capabilities, although these capabilities have not been exercised.
“I still believe that one day mankind will bow before the altars of God and be crowned triumphant over war and bloodshed, and nonviolent redemptive good will proclaim the rule of the land,” he said.
King concluded his speech, reiterating his stewardship of the award he received. The Nobel Peace Prize of 1964 belongs to every individual “to whom beauty is truth and truth beauty – and in whose eyes the beauty of genuine brotherhood and peace is more precious than diamonds or silver or gold.”
-Rachael Pineiro
Civil rights hero Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. tells the world his work is not yet finished, but through the perseverance of nonviolent demonstration, King's mission of humanity will not fail.
As his slow and deliberate words rang out in the City Hall of Oslo, Norway, on the 10th of December, the magnitude of his people’s struggle settled into the consciousness of every distinguished guest in the company. King spoke of the 22 million Negros, struggling presently in the heat of injustice and indignity in the United States of America and elsewhere in the wide world. He questioned why he should receive such an award when the accomplishment of the movement is yet so premature.
Merely nine years have passed since he organized the first bus boycott, the incipience of his spirited campaign for equality, and King has found himself to be in a position of the highest prestige and honor. He is the youngest of the laureates, throughout the 20th century, to be awarded a Nobel Peace Prize for his contribution to promoting global peace. King accepted the award with grace, but illuminated the situation in light of its position in reality: his work is far from being done.
“I accept this award on behalf of a civil rights movement which is moving with determination and a majestic scorn for risk and danger to establish a reign of freedom and a rule of justice,” he said at the commencement of his speech. The risk that King has taken in his ministry has lead to his being stabbed in 1958, and stoned, as of just last summer.
Dr. King alluded to several recent incidents which highlight the reality of the civil rights struggle: fire hose assaults, bombings, and brutal murders. He articulated the extent to which the colored person is degraded in the construction of society and the work that is yet to be done. He acknowledged the debilitating scorn his people have faced and the struggle of the movement in its cry for brotherhood, but the tenor of his speech was far from despairing.
“After contemplation, I conclude that this award which I receive on behalf of the movement is a profound recognition that nonviolence is the answer to the crucial political and moral question of our time - the need for man to overcome oppression and violence without resorting to violence and oppression,” he said.
Rejecting the pessimism of a non-progressive future, King’s speech bounded toward a future of optimism with the fire of possibility. He stated his refusal to despair, his refusal to believe that nations are bound to destroy one another, and his refusal to accept that men, as they are today, are not capable of fashioning the world the way it ought to be. Man, according to King, is not a powerless character in fate, unable to improve or perfect the future. His voice rang with optimism: “I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality.”
His message is not confined, only, to the people of the United States. Basing his civil rights campaign on the foundation of Christianity and the philosophies of Ghandi, King affirms that the dignity of all people will soon be realized as love and truth will inevitably succeed in the scheme of the entire world, and that this will be attained only through the persistence of non-violent ambitions.
“I believe that even amid today’s mortar bursts and whining bullets, there is still hope for a brighter tomorrow,” he said. “I believe that wounded justice, lying prostrate on the blood-flowing streets of our nations, can be lifted from this dust of shame to reign supreme among the children of men.”
After nine years of demonstrations, fraught with multiple arrests, and with the repeated debasement of racial attacks and violent assaults, King accepted the award with a renewed air for his mission of humanity. The faith and burning optimism with which he spoke exposed his elevated expectation of mankind’s ethical capabilities, although these capabilities have not been exercised.
“I still believe that one day mankind will bow before the altars of God and be crowned triumphant over war and bloodshed, and nonviolent redemptive good will proclaim the rule of the land,” he said.
King concluded his speech, reiterating his stewardship of the award he received. The Nobel Peace Prize of 1964 belongs to every individual “to whom beauty is truth and truth beauty – and in whose eyes the beauty of genuine brotherhood and peace is more precious than diamonds or silver or gold.”
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
No More Miss Nice Rachael
I just had an hour and a half conversation with one of my mentors, and I have some things to say about myself.
I am a bad ass. Plain and simple.
I have a black belt in not one, but two forms of martial arts and I can break wood, cement, and watermelons with my bare hands. If a man ever tries to rape me, I know how to rip off his face and his testicles--not at the same time, but I'm sure I could work it out.
You might be wondering why I've taken such a strange turn in atmosphere and diction, but I can only reply that I've had a little bit of self realization tonight. I think the message of the great Transcendentalists has finally percolated into my brain--perhaps not in a way they would have imagined--but the substance of the matter is the same, nevertheless.
I am going to go out into the world now and do things that bad-asses do--things that I want to do, that is.
I encourage you all to do the same. Next time you are having a bad day and your self-esteem is low, just think of all the amazing things you've done--or have somebody you love tell you those things, for you. (That sentence is grammatically correct, promise.)
I'm going to write a paper. Then I'm going to direct a play. Then I'm going to conquer the freaking Amazon.
Peace.
I am a bad ass. Plain and simple.
I have a black belt in not one, but two forms of martial arts and I can break wood, cement, and watermelons with my bare hands. If a man ever tries to rape me, I know how to rip off his face and his testicles--not at the same time, but I'm sure I could work it out.
You might be wondering why I've taken such a strange turn in atmosphere and diction, but I can only reply that I've had a little bit of self realization tonight. I think the message of the great Transcendentalists has finally percolated into my brain--perhaps not in a way they would have imagined--but the substance of the matter is the same, nevertheless.
I am going to go out into the world now and do things that bad-asses do--things that I want to do, that is.
I encourage you all to do the same. Next time you are having a bad day and your self-esteem is low, just think of all the amazing things you've done--or have somebody you love tell you those things, for you. (That sentence is grammatically correct, promise.)
I'm going to write a paper. Then I'm going to direct a play. Then I'm going to conquer the freaking Amazon.
Peace.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Michigan "Promise"
I would like to briefly meditate on the state's recent repeal on a trust of financial aid.
Isn't it ironic that it was called the "Michigan Promise" and now it's been dashed? They broke their promise.
My entire vision of the government as the means toward an eventual utopia is shattered. The intrinsic trust for my government that has been instilled in me since my embryonic education in kindergarten has been violated in a most profoundly disturbing way.
Our Governor said "I promise I will give you this money." Now, she snatches it back with a snarky gleam in her eye; my promised money disappears in a puff of red smoke and a choking fiscal fume.
Indian Givers.
Isn't it ironic that it was called the "Michigan Promise" and now it's been dashed? They broke their promise.
My entire vision of the government as the means toward an eventual utopia is shattered. The intrinsic trust for my government that has been instilled in me since my embryonic education in kindergarten has been violated in a most profoundly disturbing way.
Our Governor said "I promise I will give you this money." Now, she snatches it back with a snarky gleam in her eye; my promised money disappears in a puff of red smoke and a choking fiscal fume.
Indian Givers.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
The Oddest Dream I've Had Yet
It was a crisp morning and the ice had not yet thawed from the brook behind the stables. I awoke earlier than usual and accomplished chopping a day's amount of fuel and hauling it from the wood field, up the hill, and into my home with the strength of my back. I got the fire started (making a mental note to purchase more matches next time I journeyed into town) and boiled water for coffee.
The house warmed and the rich scent of my Colombian roast melted through the room. Rubbing the shadow of scruff on my jaw, I rocked back in my chair and puffed heartily at my pipe. As the smoke of my exhale swirled about my head like dizzy trout in a current, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to dream.
It was the most queer dream I have ever had.
I dreamed I was a 20 year old female, living in the year 2009--quite the stretch for my imagination, but it was oddly vivid. I was of short stature, with long bonny hair and nimble little feet. I wore trousers like a man and guzzled coffee as I do when I am awake. I remember entering a large building, illuminated strangely from the inside, though it was well past dusk. I made my way to a series of glowing rectangles and sat myself down before one. My fingers moved naturally to a tray of smooth pebbles with letters stamped upon each one, individually. My little fingers began stamping away at the pebbles and lo! characters and words began emerging before me on the glowing rectangle, as if they had been slumbering behind the frost of white, and melted through to the forefront.
The stamping went on for quite some time, until I heard the sound of a click--somewhat akin to the snapping of a twig, and I awoke in a cold sweat. My fire had died out and the tobacco leafs had tumbled onto the ground, along with my pipe which lied, reposed, next to my boot.
Running my hands over my beard, I was relieved to discover I was yet a man. But the stamping sound from my dream echoed throughout the day and generated the most irking sensations.
The house warmed and the rich scent of my Colombian roast melted through the room. Rubbing the shadow of scruff on my jaw, I rocked back in my chair and puffed heartily at my pipe. As the smoke of my exhale swirled about my head like dizzy trout in a current, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to dream.
It was the most queer dream I have ever had.
I dreamed I was a 20 year old female, living in the year 2009--quite the stretch for my imagination, but it was oddly vivid. I was of short stature, with long bonny hair and nimble little feet. I wore trousers like a man and guzzled coffee as I do when I am awake. I remember entering a large building, illuminated strangely from the inside, though it was well past dusk. I made my way to a series of glowing rectangles and sat myself down before one. My fingers moved naturally to a tray of smooth pebbles with letters stamped upon each one, individually. My little fingers began stamping away at the pebbles and lo! characters and words began emerging before me on the glowing rectangle, as if they had been slumbering behind the frost of white, and melted through to the forefront.
The stamping went on for quite some time, until I heard the sound of a click--somewhat akin to the snapping of a twig, and I awoke in a cold sweat. My fire had died out and the tobacco leafs had tumbled onto the ground, along with my pipe which lied, reposed, next to my boot.
Running my hands over my beard, I was relieved to discover I was yet a man. But the stamping sound from my dream echoed throughout the day and generated the most irking sensations.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Delighting in our Curves and Kitchens.
Feminism. I am being bombarded with feminism.
Women have never been able to make their own decisions--we have always been oppressed. The worth of a woman has always been measured in her ability to attract a man's attention and her ability to have babies. Now we should fight back--instead of "history" we should call it "herstory." Marriage is imprisonment--having babies is to submit to a man's will. We should completely deconstruct the infrastructure of civilization to make the world a woman's world--instead of having our "own piece of the pie," we need to construct a whole new pie.
Well, I don't know about you, but I just got done baking a pie. And my roommate Allyse and I ate the whole thing, but not before cleaning the kitchen and preparing homemade dinners for ourselves for the next couple nights. And, I'm wearing an ankle-length skirt.
I delight in my femininity and rejoice in my maidenhood. I love to wear pretty dresses and long skirts that flutter and flow in the wind, and I love to pick flowers and go for walks and wear my hair long. And my favorite color is pink.
I turn now to the opinions of my roommates, which would perhaps boil the blood of any of the fire-and-brimstone feminists in my college classes:
"I love under-wire bras and tampons and scrubbing the floor (on my hands and knees) with my pink latex gloves," said Allyse, after gushing about wanting to have a baby.
"I love it when a man opens a door for me or offers to carry my books or my bags...it doesn't mean that I am not a strong woman--I just don't want feminism to kill chivalry and gentlemanliness," said Ember. Then jumping on the couch and thrusting a fist in the air, she added, "Chivalry lives!"
As for myself, I have made it a goal to live up to my female ancestors by learning the traditional domestic skills of cooking, cleaning, baking, and sewing. My goal is not to attract a husband, but rather to become a better person in general. I pride myself in being well rounded, as I am equally capable of breaking a cement slab with my bare hands and whipping a guy on the grappling mat as I am capable of whipping up a kick-butt goulash.
Eve might have been made out of Adam's rib, but Adam was made out of dirt.
I just want to add that my roommates and I love men. "Manly men," Allyse adds. The more like Paul Bunyan, the better. I believe men and women should be equals in the workplace (that's a no-brainer) but just as I rejoice in femininity, I also rejoice in the masculinity that God has blessed the earth with.
Beards. Hatchets. Flannel.
Deep, sexy voices.
The strength to throw me in a swing dancing move.
These are all precious things; I tip my hat to God.
Women have never been able to make their own decisions--we have always been oppressed. The worth of a woman has always been measured in her ability to attract a man's attention and her ability to have babies. Now we should fight back--instead of "history" we should call it "herstory." Marriage is imprisonment--having babies is to submit to a man's will. We should completely deconstruct the infrastructure of civilization to make the world a woman's world--instead of having our "own piece of the pie," we need to construct a whole new pie.
Well, I don't know about you, but I just got done baking a pie. And my roommate Allyse and I ate the whole thing, but not before cleaning the kitchen and preparing homemade dinners for ourselves for the next couple nights. And, I'm wearing an ankle-length skirt.
I delight in my femininity and rejoice in my maidenhood. I love to wear pretty dresses and long skirts that flutter and flow in the wind, and I love to pick flowers and go for walks and wear my hair long. And my favorite color is pink.
I turn now to the opinions of my roommates, which would perhaps boil the blood of any of the fire-and-brimstone feminists in my college classes:
"I love under-wire bras and tampons and scrubbing the floor (on my hands and knees) with my pink latex gloves," said Allyse, after gushing about wanting to have a baby.
"I love it when a man opens a door for me or offers to carry my books or my bags...it doesn't mean that I am not a strong woman--I just don't want feminism to kill chivalry and gentlemanliness," said Ember. Then jumping on the couch and thrusting a fist in the air, she added, "Chivalry lives!"
As for myself, I have made it a goal to live up to my female ancestors by learning the traditional domestic skills of cooking, cleaning, baking, and sewing. My goal is not to attract a husband, but rather to become a better person in general. I pride myself in being well rounded, as I am equally capable of breaking a cement slab with my bare hands and whipping a guy on the grappling mat as I am capable of whipping up a kick-butt goulash.
Eve might have been made out of Adam's rib, but Adam was made out of dirt.
I just want to add that my roommates and I love men. "Manly men," Allyse adds. The more like Paul Bunyan, the better. I believe men and women should be equals in the workplace (that's a no-brainer) but just as I rejoice in femininity, I also rejoice in the masculinity that God has blessed the earth with.
Beards. Hatchets. Flannel.
Deep, sexy voices.
The strength to throw me in a swing dancing move.
These are all precious things; I tip my hat to God.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
4 Easy Steps to Secure Your Home from Intruding Raptors
Okay...I just spent 45 minutes raptor-proofing the house. I know a lot of people don't do it, but really--what if the raptors attack in the middle of the night? People are always surprised when they are attacked and eaten by a dinosaur, but I am wise enough to know that in today's world, anything can happen. Anything. After everybody but me dies from the swine flu, I need to be able enough to protect myself from any sort of thing that might come my way to gobble me down--and that includes those nasty raptors.
Here's my plan in a couple easy steps. (I would encourage you to simulate this and to tell everyone you care about to do the same.)
First, I installed a simple lock chain on my front door. This might sound overly simplistic, but it will through the raptors off and it might buy you a couple moments, and every moment is precious when you are under attack by dinosaur.
Secondly, I rigged up some sweet barred pocket doors in every major entrance way: the entrance to the living room, living room to the kitchen, and the top of the stairwell. (I know this won't protect my roommate Christy, who lives down stairs, but I can only do so much).
Third--and this was kind of difficult--I dug a hole in the living room floor and stuck 438 forks (prongs up) into the musty woodwork below the floor. I then covered the gaping pit with the strip of carpet I had peeled away. It looks almost natural, so I'll be sure to warn my roommates about it before somebody falls into it. (Ember is kind of accident prone, and it would be just like her to stumble into my scarcely concealed booby-trap in the central walk way.)
The last step will only work if you have a laundry shoot, or if you are willing to construct your own laundry shoot. When all my roommates were out, I put on a slick outfit of spandex and slipped into the square shaped hole in my bathroom--which (thankfully) turned out to be a laundry shoot. (I was pretty sure it was a laundry shoot, but there as an 11% chance it could have been a swirling vortex that would suck me back in time to an age when women didn't shave their legs or have tampon--and that would be awkward--but in retrospect, I suppose it would be effective in helping me elude the dinosaurs). In the scariest 13 seconds of my life, I peregrinated through the metalic, dust-coated tunnel and landed on the cement in the basement. I think I have a minor concussion, but it's okay because I know for a fact that a full sized raptor could not follow me down that opening. And if a baby raptor gets through it, I am confident that I could punch it in the head and at least stun it.
That was all I did, and it only took 45 minutes, give or take a half hour that I might have been passed out in the basement. It wasn't difficult, so I would encourage each and everyone of you to follow my easy four-step plan to protect yourself from dinosaurs if you do, indeed, survive the H1N1 plague.
Here's my plan in a couple easy steps. (I would encourage you to simulate this and to tell everyone you care about to do the same.)
First, I installed a simple lock chain on my front door. This might sound overly simplistic, but it will through the raptors off and it might buy you a couple moments, and every moment is precious when you are under attack by dinosaur.
Secondly, I rigged up some sweet barred pocket doors in every major entrance way: the entrance to the living room, living room to the kitchen, and the top of the stairwell. (I know this won't protect my roommate Christy, who lives down stairs, but I can only do so much).
Third--and this was kind of difficult--I dug a hole in the living room floor and stuck 438 forks (prongs up) into the musty woodwork below the floor. I then covered the gaping pit with the strip of carpet I had peeled away. It looks almost natural, so I'll be sure to warn my roommates about it before somebody falls into it. (Ember is kind of accident prone, and it would be just like her to stumble into my scarcely concealed booby-trap in the central walk way.)
The last step will only work if you have a laundry shoot, or if you are willing to construct your own laundry shoot. When all my roommates were out, I put on a slick outfit of spandex and slipped into the square shaped hole in my bathroom--which (thankfully) turned out to be a laundry shoot. (I was pretty sure it was a laundry shoot, but there as an 11% chance it could have been a swirling vortex that would suck me back in time to an age when women didn't shave their legs or have tampon--and that would be awkward--but in retrospect, I suppose it would be effective in helping me elude the dinosaurs). In the scariest 13 seconds of my life, I peregrinated through the metalic, dust-coated tunnel and landed on the cement in the basement. I think I have a minor concussion, but it's okay because I know for a fact that a full sized raptor could not follow me down that opening. And if a baby raptor gets through it, I am confident that I could punch it in the head and at least stun it.
That was all I did, and it only took 45 minutes, give or take a half hour that I might have been passed out in the basement. It wasn't difficult, so I would encourage each and everyone of you to follow my easy four-step plan to protect yourself from dinosaurs if you do, indeed, survive the H1N1 plague.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Are We Human? Or Are We Fish?
Today I sunk to the bottom of the ocean and burrowed in the murky floor of sand and sediments that had been collecting over the past several millennium; the sensation was curiously frightening and exhilarating as I could no longer use my lungs and was forced, instead, to breathe out of the pair of gills that spontaneously flared out of the side of my throat (an experience of awkwardness unequaled, even by puberty) and to swish about with the pointed tail that erupted after my legs melded together--but before my arms withered into little undulating fins that fluttered about like sea-butterflies in the muck of the ocean floor, thickening the darkness of the water.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
The Orbit Room in Orbit
The mosh pit of the Orbit Room was cramp and smokey. I was being smashed into the punked-out lesbian in front of me, while being (purposefully) kicked in the legs by some high school brat behind me. I found the opening band to be fascinating, if only in their vanity.
The dudes were younger than myself with a mark propensity for head-banging. I'm not sure what the head-banging accomplished, other than delightfully tossing about their lusciously conditioned locks and making their head look like a pompoms.
The lead singer was a red-head who adored his body. In a ceremonial act, he peeled off his jacket and revealed a naked torso, before turning around and shaking his ass at the audience. The stage was electrically charged with adolescent male hormones, emitting statically from the tossing hair to the shrieking teenage girls around me.
I was not particularly moved to join the adoration, but I did raise an eyebrow. I felt as if I could read the red-head's mental mantra. It went something like this: "I'm so awesome. I'm so awesome. I play guitar and I sing and I'm so awesome. All these girls want me--look at my chest! It's showing--see? And I'm sweating. I'm so awesome."
As he prepared to dive into the sea of raised hands, I momentarily saw through his mask of testosterone and bravado and saw a scared little boy. I pitied him and hoped his mother would swaddle him after the show.
The dudes were younger than myself with a mark propensity for head-banging. I'm not sure what the head-banging accomplished, other than delightfully tossing about their lusciously conditioned locks and making their head look like a pompoms.
The lead singer was a red-head who adored his body. In a ceremonial act, he peeled off his jacket and revealed a naked torso, before turning around and shaking his ass at the audience. The stage was electrically charged with adolescent male hormones, emitting statically from the tossing hair to the shrieking teenage girls around me.
I was not particularly moved to join the adoration, but I did raise an eyebrow. I felt as if I could read the red-head's mental mantra. It went something like this: "I'm so awesome. I'm so awesome. I play guitar and I sing and I'm so awesome. All these girls want me--look at my chest! It's showing--see? And I'm sweating. I'm so awesome."
As he prepared to dive into the sea of raised hands, I momentarily saw through his mask of testosterone and bravado and saw a scared little boy. I pitied him and hoped his mother would swaddle him after the show.
Monday, November 2, 2009
This is Ridiculous--Part III of the Couch Chronicles
Okay. The first time--whatever. The second time--fine. It could have been a mistake. But the third time somebody drops a random couch on our property...Now I know they're doing it on purpose.
Not just one couch, this time. Two.
It was October 31st, Halloween night, and my Father and brother had a feeling the pattern of Sunday-sofa-surprises might continue without exception on his hallowed night of romping hooligans.
And thus they found themselves freezing in the thick of our woodsy front yard, crouched in the dried leaves and shrinking as much as possible into the shadows of the trees beneath the bright silver moon. Determined to catch the sofa-stranders in the dirty act, my father and brother planted themselves in different positions in the yard and communicated via two-way radio, attempting to keep the beeping to a minimum.
Ansel--who would have been up this late anyway--was chagrined to be outside. The long interval of no-activity was broken by the frequent sound of owls hooting. "It was quite eerie," Pineiro said.
But waiting in the cold darkness between 11:30pm and 12:45am somehow inspired a kind of primitive hunter instinct. It was as if my brother had made contact with his ancient Neanderthal impulses, and allowed them to take over. He was determined to wait out the night until his prey scuttled up the driveway with a fresh sofa.
After waiting in the chilled night air for almost an hour and a half, my father realized his fingers were frozen to his radio; he decided he needed a mug of hot chocolate--pronto. He gruffly radioed over and out to my brother, and retreated to the warm house for some chocolatey rehabilitation. Ansel went too, but only to quickly turn off a light he left on in the basement.
It was only a matter of minutes in which both men were inside the house. My father told Ansel to keep an eye out--just in case. As he was opening the bag of mini marshmallows, my dad glanced out the window--and is if by wingardium-leviosa--a couch had landed in our driveway.
I'm guessing my father let out some kind of yell, and then it was a mad dash out the front door and into the street. "I'm so out of shape I almost died," Dad said.
In the blur of running, Ansel could see that another couch was placed on top of the garage roof. They couldn't be far. Ansel sprinted into the dark dirt road and witnessed two shady figures dart into a get-away car, and screech off down the road, southward.
The Neanderthal spirit pulsed through Ansel's veins, and growing a metaphoric coat of fur over his body, he thirsted for blood and bounded after the car on foot.
"I was debating about [trying to] jump on the back of the car and punch through the window," Ansel said (completely seriously), with the hint of a primitive grunt.
Unfortunately, neither my father nor my brother were able to catch the speeding vehicle on foot, and it was too dark to get the license plate number.
But what we did get was two more couches. One is resting in my sister's typical parking space, and the other is obnoxiously on top of the garage roof.
Again, I was thoroughly shocked to hear the news of another strike. I can't help but feel a little helpless living in Grand Rapids with out a car and not being able to hunt sofa-stranders with my kin, or insist to the police officers that it wasn't my fault. I have resorted to leaving a public note on my facebook status, so that hopefully the perpetrators will get the message:
"Dear People Who Have Been Putting Couches on our Roof, please stop. My family is getting really upset and you are giving my father migraines. Why would you want to pick on the Pineiros? What have we done to you? I don't leave my furniture ontop of your garages..."
Not just one couch, this time. Two.
It was October 31st, Halloween night, and my Father and brother had a feeling the pattern of Sunday-sofa-surprises might continue without exception on his hallowed night of romping hooligans.
And thus they found themselves freezing in the thick of our woodsy front yard, crouched in the dried leaves and shrinking as much as possible into the shadows of the trees beneath the bright silver moon. Determined to catch the sofa-stranders in the dirty act, my father and brother planted themselves in different positions in the yard and communicated via two-way radio, attempting to keep the beeping to a minimum.
Ansel--who would have been up this late anyway--was chagrined to be outside. The long interval of no-activity was broken by the frequent sound of owls hooting. "It was quite eerie," Pineiro said.
But waiting in the cold darkness between 11:30pm and 12:45am somehow inspired a kind of primitive hunter instinct. It was as if my brother had made contact with his ancient Neanderthal impulses, and allowed them to take over. He was determined to wait out the night until his prey scuttled up the driveway with a fresh sofa.
After waiting in the chilled night air for almost an hour and a half, my father realized his fingers were frozen to his radio; he decided he needed a mug of hot chocolate--pronto. He gruffly radioed over and out to my brother, and retreated to the warm house for some chocolatey rehabilitation. Ansel went too, but only to quickly turn off a light he left on in the basement.
It was only a matter of minutes in which both men were inside the house. My father told Ansel to keep an eye out--just in case. As he was opening the bag of mini marshmallows, my dad glanced out the window--and is if by wingardium-leviosa--a couch had landed in our driveway.
I'm guessing my father let out some kind of yell, and then it was a mad dash out the front door and into the street. "I'm so out of shape I almost died," Dad said.
In the blur of running, Ansel could see that another couch was placed on top of the garage roof. They couldn't be far. Ansel sprinted into the dark dirt road and witnessed two shady figures dart into a get-away car, and screech off down the road, southward.
The Neanderthal spirit pulsed through Ansel's veins, and growing a metaphoric coat of fur over his body, he thirsted for blood and bounded after the car on foot.
"I was debating about [trying to] jump on the back of the car and punch through the window," Ansel said (completely seriously), with the hint of a primitive grunt.
Unfortunately, neither my father nor my brother were able to catch the speeding vehicle on foot, and it was too dark to get the license plate number.
But what we did get was two more couches. One is resting in my sister's typical parking space, and the other is obnoxiously on top of the garage roof.
Again, I was thoroughly shocked to hear the news of another strike. I can't help but feel a little helpless living in Grand Rapids with out a car and not being able to hunt sofa-stranders with my kin, or insist to the police officers that it wasn't my fault. I have resorted to leaving a public note on my facebook status, so that hopefully the perpetrators will get the message:
"Dear People Who Have Been Putting Couches on our Roof, please stop. My family is getting really upset and you are giving my father migraines. Why would you want to pick on the Pineiros? What have we done to you? I don't leave my furniture ontop of your garages..."
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