This might sound like a lot of nothing.

But I enjoyed writing it. There's more, but it was getting pretty long.

Coherent or not, I like words. I like to weave ‘em ‘round my fingers, through my hair. I like to see ‘em reflected in your pupils. Reflected words. That I wrote. Gives me power over your mind for as long as it takes you to read it.

But, just for this moment, my moment, I want to try something. I want to see what you think. Yeah. You. I want you to think. I want you to smell the words, taste ‘em, feel ‘em.

Jurassic 5: “Words make sentences. Sentences make paragraphs.” Deep. But not always true. What about letters? They make words. Words make sentences. Sentences make paragraphs. But what about letters? Fundamental. Like molecules. No, like protons, and neutrons, and electrons. No. More like molecules. I was right the first time.

What about letters?

When I was learning to write my name, I got bored with the letter L. So I learned cursive. Before I could read, I wrote in cursive. Just the little l. In cursive. I couldn’t master the BIG L. And nobody could convince me that names were supposed to have BIG letters at the front. Because I liked the way the little l looked more than that fancy BIG L anyway. It was always about aesthetics.

BIG A, little a. What begins with a? BIG A: house with sloping roofline. A-frame? little a: pregnant, shy, little bug.

BIG B, little b. What begins with b? BIG B: the drugstore in the ‘80’s on Maple Street; fat man with a belt too tight. little b: long-necked, proud girl with big feet.

BIG C, little c. What begins with c? BIG C: a green caterpillar, curled into the shape, wearing a hat. No. Wearing a cap. little c: BIG C’s child caterpillar, smiling and looking at his father. (I blame this one on the alphabet posters on the walls of my kindergarten classroom.)

BIG D: Eh, I quit.

Right.

Words are the same.

Often they conjure images of the things they represent. But sometimes, the best times, those words, for lack of a better word, transcend an image. Sometimes, the best times, words conjure -- not images -- smells, or memories (which, I guess, are images), or thoughts, or some kind of gut-wrenching pain or dread. Those are the best times.

I hate authors that combine words that make me hurt. Then I know I give them too much power. Violation of my thoughts. Worst kind of violation. Best kind of violation.

www.myspace.com/laduff

Peer Pressure

I'm thinking about -- considering -- joining myspace.

I know. It's the devil. Bad layouts. Questionable content. Younger crowd.

Which brings me to my question. I feel like I'm too old to be on myspace (since I'm not trying to promote a band or something). How old is too old to join myspace or facebook?

All my friends are doin' it. So I might, too.

Pros? Cons? Don't care?

(In the meantime, mosey on over to this guy's myspace page. I don't know who he is, but it's some pretty good music, in my opinion.)

Dog Lady*

I just had a bad, albeit passing, thought.

There’s a guy in one of my classes that I think is pretty attractive. So in class I was thinking, “Hmm. I wonder what it would be like to date him. I wonder if we would get along.” (By the way, I think we would.) Then I started thinking about what our, umm, courtship would be like. (Because, c’mon, we all do it. Especially in class when we’re bored.)

Then I thought about how relationships always start -- about the stress, the nervousness, the fear that you won’t be accepted by the other person as readily as you accept them. I thought about the “what will I WEAR?!?” moments, and the lack of appetite. All of that stuff.

And then I concluded – and here’s the scary part – that it was too much trouble. Too much stress.

Uh-oh. I’m lapsing into old age, people. I’m getting stuck in my ways. This is not good. Not good at all. What can I do? I want to get married, but am I really willing to go through all the dating b.s. to get to that point? I am. I know I am. And if the opportunity arose, I’d jump at it. (I hope.) I am, however, a little more than hesitant to go out of my way to make that opportunity happen in the first place. I’ve initiated relationships in the past, but I think those days might be over.

I’m really, REALLY hoping that this isn’t a sign of the beginnings of resignation. No. No, I won’t let it be.

*I call this post "Dog Lady" because I'm allergic to cats.

Go Dawgs!

(That was a close one.)

And Ralphie the Buffalo wasn't as impressive as I thought she would be.

Good thing yesterday was such a good day.

Good thing yesterday was such a good day because today was a real stinker. Suffice it to say that only Atlanta city officials are smart enough to schedule a roadrace through downtown on the same night as the ESPN Thursday night football game at Georgia Tech.

Seriously. I spent probably 45% of my waking hours today stuck in traffic.

Yesterday I loved Atlanta. Today I hate it.

On a more positive note, the Sufjan Stevens show last night was AMAZING. I forgot to take my camera, so there are no pictures to accompany the amazing show. I couldn't have picked a better setlist. Beautiful. (The boy and the music. :) )

What a Beautiful Day...

Here's why:

• It's my dad's birthday today. (Happy Birthday!)
• There was a guy playing the bagpipes in Woodruff Park.
• I've been listening to Miles Davis.
• It was about 70 degrees and sunny.
  
• When I was driving home from school, it turned 3:00 and the church bells started chiming a church hymn.
• We watched Charlie Chaplin films in my History of Film class today.
  
• Did I mention I'm going to see Sufjan play tonight at the Fox?
• Did I mention it was 70 degrees and sunny today?

I'm Convinced.

Bloglines is pure crap. It never updates. Overrated. Big time.

In other news, I'm going to see Sufi play tonight. :)

Writing Exercise #13: GOD

Write a narrative through God's point-of-view. ("Since God should know how to be efficient and get right to the point, do this exercise in only 200 words.")

They showed her a painting in Sunday School when she was four. It was a picture of an old man in a cloud looking down and smiling. He had a long, gray beard and kind eyes. That’s the god she pictures when she wonders about me. She watched a lot of Care Bears when she was little, and they would watch people through their telescopes in the clouds and then go down to earth and help people. Sometimes she pictures me, on a cloud, watching the world through a telescope like the Care Bears.

She catches a glimpse of me sometimes when she doesn’t expect to. Stares me right in the eyes. I always enjoy those split-seconds when her heart beats a little faster, right before her reason drowns me out.

But mostly she just wonders if I’m vaporous or solid, or some kind of floating nebula of energy. I don’t blame her for not knowing. How can she, if she doesn’t know herself? I am, after all, part of her.

She wonders how, if I’m not nebulous, I must feel when I look through my telescope at the world I created. She wonders if, if I’m not vaporous, it was I who turned away from man or man that turned away from me.

Rain

I want a job where I don't have to work when it rains. And I want to live in Seattle.

(I'll take a tip from Lexia and call this:) Confession #1

You know, sometimes I wish I wasn't a dreamer. Sometimes I wish that I didn't wish. Sometimes I wish that I didn't want certain things to happen in my life.

I know what I want, and I want a lot. I know that I can attain some of these things. I know that I can't attain others. But what really scares me, what petrifies me more than I can express, is wanting something that I'm not sure I can have or can not have. That uncertainty is, yeah, what drives people. I understand that. Desire is good -- it's motivating. I get that.

But if I didn't dream about what my life could be like if I only tried harder, I'd actually live life a lot more.

I'm scared of failure, just like everybody else. But I believe that it's only failure if I see it as failure -- I don't care (as much) if somebody thinks I've failed. What I am really, really afraid of is that I won't amount to anything in my own mind. That is FAR scarier to me.

I'm just tired of realizing that situations won't happen. I'm tired of having the rug pulled out from under me through no fault of my own.

[Addendum: Blah. Sorry for making y'all read my whining.]

Lah dee freakin' dah.

"NEW YORK (Sept. 8) - Brad Pitt, ever the social activist, says he won't be marrying Angelina Jolie until the restrictions on who can marry whom are dropped.

'Angie and I will consider tying the knot when everyone else in the country who wants to be married is legally able,' the 42-year-old actor reveals in Esquire magazine's October issue, on newsstands Sept. 19."

I have a lot of problems with this. Want to hear a couple of them? Okay!

• Obviously, Pitt and Jolie don't respect the sanctity of marriage anyway. They're using marriage (or lack thereof) as a political statement. C'mon.
• What's the point? What's their incentive for getting married? Gettin' the milk for free...
  
• Are they talking about gay couples? Because they could be referencing underage teenagers, multiple marriage partners, or even just those of us who WANT to be married but aren't.
• Not only are they using a sacred bond as a political statement, they have children who are in the middle of this "union" who are innocent of all political inclinations and are facing the consequences of activist (and maybe extremist?) parents. (I guarantee Cambodia will look pretty good to little Maddox when he's in his teens. Okay, maybe that was wrong to say.)
  
• Pitt goes on to give parenting advice in the article. Thanks. I'll really have to abide by those pointers when I have children of my own. Or maybe I could use Marx's Kapital or Neitzche as a handbook for raising my children. Jerk. Hippie. Hippie jerk.
  

Go Dawgs!

Price of tickets: about $30 face value

Price of cable TV: about $50/month

Witnessing the look on Steve Spurrier's face after UGA shut out South Carolina: Priceless.


(I know the whole "Priceless" thing is cliche and overused. But I don't care. 18-0. 18-0.)

Question

Does anybody know if/how I can put a file (mp3) on here for people download and/or listen to?

It's been a while.

I know, I know. I haven't written on here in FOR-EV-ER. And when I do, this is what you get, right? Sorry. Maybe I should put a nice, shiny picture up on this post to attract the reader. Maybe I will. Nah.

This post might not be that interesting. It's an exercise that I just finished for my writing class. I had to use a famous line for the closing line of the piece. (Hence, the quote from good ol' Socrates at the end.) Sorry about the generic nature of the post, but I have a feeling that's gonna happen a lot during this semester. (I'm taking 15 hours.) Here it is.

There was a time when flowers were just flowers and birds were just birds. Before they were begonias and chickadees. There was a time when water was just water. Before it was one molecule of oxygen and two of hydrogen. There was a time when love was just love. Before it was painful and confusing and slippery. Of course, the birds always had been chickadees, the flowers begonias. (At least since Adam came along and named everything.) Water had always been composed of hydrogen and oxygen. And love always had the potential to be painful and confusing and slippery. She just hadn’t known any of these things.

But knowing is half the battle. What did that mean, anyway? It was all much simpler when things were . . . simple. Before she saw death in the form of a butterfly being consumed by ants when she was five. Before her mother explained that beautiful butterflies die too, but only after they have laid eggs and fulfilled their life’s mission. Of course she didn’t use the word “mission.” A five-year-old doesn’t understand the word “mission.”

Things were much simpler before her little brother got leukemia. Before she met the first bald four-year-old she had ever seen. Things were much simpler before she knew what red blood cells and white blood cells and platelets were. Before she knew that children like her died too, long before they had children themselves. Long before they had fulfilled their lives’ missions.

Knowing is half the battle. Was she better off knowing leukemia intimately? Was she better off knowing that there was no such thing as a life’s mission?

Things were much simpler before she picked up Steinbeck and Dostoevsky and Kafka and (God forbid) Nietzsche. Before she flooded her brain with thoughts from others. On purpose. Before she empathized with unsympathic characters. Before she cried when Lenny died and Gregor got squished.

Things were much simpler before she met him. Before she noticed how his awkward walk was really quite attractive, in an odd, odd way. Before she noticed that his humor was akin to her own – sarcastic, cutting, quick. Before they bonded over Nirvana and making fun of people. But that’s what happens, right? In high school? With pheromones and close quarters? Things were much simpler before she cared, before she realized he didn’t care. (Ah, unrequited love. The stuff art thrives on. Over and over. Endlessly.)

Things were much simpler before her best friend got pregnant at seventeen and before 9/11 and before she began to understand that the image she had of herself wasn’t a healthy one. Things were much simpler before she realized she needed to change some things about herself. Quite a few things, actually.

Things were much simpler before she moved to the city. In a different state. In a different region. In a different world. Things were much simpler before she empathized with the stranger beside her on the subway or on the bus, before she wondered what kind of life they went home to every night, before she wondered what their childhood was like. Things were much simpler before she wondered what they strongly believed in, what they thought about when the television was turned off and the silence surrounded them.

Things were much simpler before she loved. Before she loved the chickadees and the begonias and the butterfly. Things were much simpler before she loved the bald boy, and Lenny, and him. Before she loved him. Before she loved victims and neighbors and the city. Before she learned that she needed to love herself.

Things were much simpler before. But knowing – knowing is half the battle. Ignorance is not bliss. And “the unexamined life is not worth living.”