Make a list. Recite a litany. Remember.

wearing stories

2012-02-26T16:32:00.002-08:00

Clothes bought at department stores are nearly empty. They've all gone through the same process of being made, inspected, packaged, shipped, and unpacked. Then they're hung up at JC Penny's or Belks, ready for people to wear and fill with the physical stories of good and bad days, the first day of school, compliments, insults, and so on. I suppose there's something nice, something sterile and clean, about wearing a blank slate - about knowing nobody has experienced anything in your clothes before you. I think there's something even better, though, about wearing narrative and history.

In The Year of Magical Thinking Joan Didion talks about how whenever someone dies, it's custom to donate their clothes to Goodwill or a thrift store. You're supposed to get rid of everything, even their tennis shoes and dress clothes, to make grieving easier somehow. At first the thought of this was creepy: the thought of Goodwill racks holding leftovers of the dead for us, the living, to sift through and keep - the thought of a person tearfully bagging their loved one's sweaters and sending them away. But then again there's something nice in knowing that even when a person is gone, the clothing holding tiny pieces of them will be put to use. It will be dispersed on racks and eventually rescued, washed, and loved.

Of course, this isn't the story for all clothes at thrift stores. Some were outgrown, in the physical or abstract sense. Some lost buttons; some shrunk in the wash; some were purchased on an impulse or received as gifts and never worn. Some were accidental donations, a pair of gloves hidden inside the pocket of an old winter coat. Nonetheless, the clothing has found itself at the store, most likely under harsh fluorescent lights, and is awaiting new owners.

When someone finally does fall in love with a donated item, they put it on and wear all the history it has gathered thus far. Their own history becomes interwoven in the fabric of the clothing, too - adding more narrative and meaning. This cycle continues, on and on and on and on, until the clothing falls apart or rests stagnant at the bottom of a basement or the top of an attic. It's nice to keep the cycle going, though - nice to put on a dress or a sweater and wonder where it's been and where else it will go once you're done with it.

Although I could, of course, be adding too much meaning where meaning is not; although this could be the silly defense of a broke college student, it's nice to think about the small ways in which we're connected to our fellow humans. Even the ones we'll never meet - the ones we're anonymously brought together with (living or dead) thanks to our thrift store preferences and similar tastes in cardigans.

2012-02-22T22:10:00.002-08:00

A silly variation of Donald Justice's variation.

I will die in the city onthe street, downtown Charlotte,
on a day nobody’s there to say “watch out for that bus,

Tracy!” and pull me back tothe curb. I’ll be writing

something in my head – aletter, perhaps – in cursive font,

letters that curve and looplike microscopic silly string;

and when I hit the pavement,the words will simmer

on the asphalt in all theblood and bits of brain.

I think it will be on anafternoon, when the sun is full and
draining sweat from construction workers and men in suits

wear shades. Most of thecity will walk on, lunch plans
on their minds, but a man in the burrito place will see
and say, “oh shit, someone call 911!”
the way people do in movie medical emergencies

when an ambulance is alreadyon the way.

Tracy Lynn Martin is dead. Acity Humpty dumpty,
the hospital couldn’t put her together again.
Her skin, now painted and stuffed, is riding in a box in the
back of a car - slowing traffic - making people late for work.
On the asphalt in the city, across from the burrito place is
tiny bits of brain and a half-written letter. Occasionally

some brain gets stuck to someone's tires and rolls away.

valentine's day

2012-02-16T21:19:00.001-08:00

When I walked into the lab on Tuesday (Valentine's day), there was red everywhere, all over the white napkins my boss was working on. She wasn't trying to be festive, though; she was decapitating baby rats, little pink alien-looking creatures, with a pair of orange kitchen scissors. She dug the brains out of their heads, wrapped each one in foil, and put them all in the freezer. She called herself Dr. Death, and I could tell she hated doing it, especially when the rats' headless bodies wiggled all over the place spilling even more blood.

It was a gory scene, but more than disgusting it was beautiful. Scientists are often portrayed as cold and dispassionate in our culture - mad and evil at times, too - but the reality is the opposite. The scientists I've had the pleasure of working with lately are so passionate and caring in everything they do. As my boss cut each of their necks, she told me how much she hated doing it - how much she hated it for the rats - and her gloomy expression evidenced her sincerity. She knew she had to do it, though, so we could "get the real killers," as my old biology teacher says.

I'm 100% for the ethical treatment of animals in the lab, and I know none of those baby rats suffered as they were killed instantly. The good thing is the more advances made in the field of science, the less animals we need. This year, for example, chimps were declared unnecessary for for Hepatitis C research. I'm so thankful for the animals who do die and have died for the sake of research, who help us get the viruses and bacteria and diseases that eat away at the people we love and often times, take them away from us.

Later on that morning a procedure went wrong and we had to euthanize a full-grown rat. We put her in a clear box and turned the Co2 on and watched her run around until she finally just fell asleep, little pink paws up in the air. Today when my mom told me the Hepatitis C was currently undetectable in her blood, that image came back to me along with an overwhelming gratitude for scientists - and animals - who devote so much of themselves to helping others be healthy.

Really, the splatters of blood and frozen brains had nothing to do with Valentine's day. That is, until you think of all the people who might be better off because of that huge mess, until you consider all their loved ones waiting patiently and hopefully on science or God or both. Science isn't glorious to look at until you see the whole picture. Blood shed by animals in the lab is salvation for so many people, even if most don't realize it.

Tracy (the emptiness of names)

2012-02-14T21:05:00.003-08:00

Right after the smack on the bottom comes the name. I remember
crying as they stuck mine on me: T R A C Y,
the letters spilling from mama’s lips like a can of alphabet
soup into sterile air. Tracy.

If you swish the letters around in your mouth, just
say the name as it sounds,
Tracy is one who seems sloppily jotted down: a girl traced
into existence through the projects of lazy students, but

a book of names will tell you Tracy means harvest,
the short form of Theresa,
a verb for the Greeks. Can you hear it? “We
must go Tracy the fields today, in search of beans,”
or something along those lines. And this raises

the question: what use are baby name
books in a world where star-crossed skeptics declared
the emptiness of names? “A rose is still a rose,”
they said. “Even if you call it a daisy.”

I learned the good in names, though, at age thirteen -
lost out in the woods at dinnertime
and Tracy was the sound of mama’s voice running through the trees,
grabbing my hand and leading me home
before dinner got cold.

something bright burning, still burning

2012-01-24T09:45:00.000-08:00

One shot down, almost a year's worth of shots to go. My mom's skin is already looking gray. She says she's feeling gray, too: cold chills, headaches, weakness, pain all over. Hopefully these shots will work better than the last round - better than the shots that did nothing to keep the viruses from gnawing away at her liver. From making copies of themselves and putting their pieces together inside my mom's perfectly good cells.

For as long as I can remember, the centerpiece of my coffee table has been an outdated, 3000 page Harvard medical book. I still see that old thing lying around sometimes. The pages are swollen from being soaked and dried out so much, stained by both pepsi and water. The cover is full of cigarette burns, too, side-effects of my mom's sleeping disorders and eternally-burning Pall Malls.

It used to by my mama's Bible- the words inside were in red and black ink. Each time she had a new symptom, she'd search the book to see what illness to diagnose herself with. Coughing, the flu, chronic bronchitis, pneumonia, discs crumbling away in her back. Red ink, in the book, meant you were having an emergency. For awhile we thought she was a bit loony, a hypochondriac at times, and maybe she should just quit smoking. But everything made sense when we learned that Hepatitis C doesn't go away like they thought it did back in the 70's.

Forty years is a long time to have living things* inside you, living things destroying you, making your immune system weak, making your liver ache. I'm sure these shots will weaken my mother as they did before, making her feel like a skin-made sack of viruses, interferon, and its side-effects; the shots will make her feel "like death," as she always says. Our messy house will depress her, make her long for a beautiful, clean log cabin with shiny wood floors.

When my mom first learned the intensity of her illness - stage 2 out of 4, I still went to church, and she told me to put her on the prayer request list every sunday. That's how I knew Hepatitis C would change our lives. And even though I didn't tell my mom this, I much prefer to place my faith in science, in these shots and potential cures and transplants, instead of the supernatural - an unreliable God who only helps some and "works in mysterious ways" for all the others.

But maybe it's true what they say, that prayer doesn't change God, but the people who pray. Or in this case, the person being prayed for. Even if my mom only believes in a God sometimes, it must help to know that strangers are out in the world requesting that God somehow make things different for her.

I don't know about God or how prayers work anymore, but I still have my faith in science. I know that if anyone can heal the sick, it's the researchers who spend hours and hours in the lab recording the nature of the universe by looking through the lens of a microscope. This is going to be a long year, but I still have hope. My mom still has hope, too, and so do the researchers who are wondering how well this treatment will work.

Thankfully, I feel she's in good hands, and I take comfort in remembering that even when she feels like death, possibly even like dying, there will be "something bright burning, still burning" behind all the interferon and cirrhosis. There will be my mother and her strong, resilient spirit burning. And more than likely, she will not be without her her eternally-burning cigarettes.

*Though some say they aren't living, that viruses straddle the definition of life.

2012-01-23T15:23:00.001-08:00

"It does not suffice for you to say I am a sweet girl
Or to say you hate to see me sad because of you
It does not suffice to merely lie beside each other
As those who love each other do

I picture you rising up in the morning
Stretching out on your boundless bed
Beating a clear path to the shower
Scouring yourself red

The tap of hangers swaying in the closet
Unburdened hooks and empty drawers
And everywhere I tried to love you
Is yours again and only yours"

love in the time of burping contests!

2012-01-21T23:59:00.000-08:00

The other day a friend asked what my least favorite organ is and although I felt I was betraying myself to dislike any of my organs (they do a good job), the choice is easy. My least favorite organ is the stomach - no contest there, and I hate the whole digestive tract. I hate the sounds it makes, the run-to-the-restroom consequences when something inside goes wrong, the burps, the gulps, and the sound of people eating.

I know the digestive tract is necessary. I know that every person has one - though some digestive tracts are missing parts and some are noisier than others. I know food is good, and I love eating. But all the internal devices and chemicals involved with processing that food are just so repulsive to me. And this is all irrational, I know, but irrationality hardly matters when someone coughs near me and I immediately pray they aren't going to be sick.

With all that in mind - although it may be silly, I like to think my ability to tolerate the sounds of another person eating and digesting is positively correlated with how much I love them. There are exceptions to this theory, of course. Sometimes people are just quiet eaters and Hallie, my very best friend, has never burped before. But it's hard to deny that the situation is so much worse when someone you don't love is smacking their food, burping the alphabet, or telling you they might be sick.

It's strange how when you love someone, you learn to love everything about them - even the sounds their body makes as they eat food. You can share meals with that person, say "okay" without feeling strange when they say they're going to use the restroom, and know what to do when their belly acts funny. I know people often talk about the larger side-effects of love: the sacrifices, the weddings, the tears, the "based on a true story" Lifetime movies. But for me, although it may still be silly, the ability to be around a digestive system other than my own will always be a sure sign that - in the words of Don Williams, "it must be love, oh, it must be love."

The freedom to share food isn't all you become attached to, though. With time, you feel connected to their favorite songs, their t-shirt collection, the pictures of you together, all your memories with them. And you feel connected to the person you love as a whole - to them being greater than the sum of their parts. You learn how to know what they feel without them saying so. If they love you any less or more, you can tell from microscopic details in the way they look at you or speak to you.

And then sometimes something horrible happens. And whenever something horrible happens, it's hard to stop seeing love as terminal and useless. Once you get used to someone - their kisses, sneezes, hiccups, bellyaches, voices, laughter, eyes, smile and even their burps - once you love all those things about a person, it's hard to see the point in starting over new. You'd have to learn the meaning in another person's facial expressions, figure out how to know what they're feeling by the way they move. And what if you couldn't love another person so much? What if you couldn't bear the sound of a new person's hiccups, or what if you never guessed their feelings right?

Eventually, though, love will seem worthwhile. We'll all get lonely enough to want to worry with it again, and it's like Alvy Singer said in Annie Hall - we keep going through relationships despite their absurdity because most of us, uh, we need the eggs. I'm trying to keep this in mind right now. Even if something horrible happens, and even if I tell myself I'll never love again because love is plum stupid, I'm sure it'll happen. I'm sure I'll need the eggs, and the presence of another - digestive tract and all - again.

(Sorry for my incorrect usage of plural pronouns and perpetual switching from first to second person.)

2012-01-21T17:01:00.000-08:00

"Even losing you (the joking voice,
a gestureI love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster."

2011 meant

2012-01-06T23:42:00.001-08:00

Graduating high school, being sad, moving on

falling in love with the brain

falling in love with science

falling in love with the human body and all its organs and nerves and complicated machinery

deciding at the last minute to be a psychology major instead of an english major

watching Mary, Paul, and Arthur grow into adult cats

applying to colleges, deciding on Salem, being happy with that decision

living with my best friend

failing at volunteering in the psych ward

hours and hours and hours of studying for physiology

celebrating christmas in the city and acting insane

becoming ridiculously obsessed with politics

Young Democrats

being better friends with Audry and Jake

missing Shacana and Lolo and Liz every day

barely surviving exam week

walks downtown to coffee shops with new friends

a lot of love and arguments and wondering why people I like are so far away

late night flakey conversations with Hallie while she tries to avoid waking up our neighbors

still finding the life of a truck driver appealing

hating the world’s obsession with Angry Birds and James Patterson

having a big sister, Gabi, who I love dearly

nearly getting my nose pierced way too many times

always chickening out

trips to my old school to reunite with people I still love

finding people who love the brain as much as I do

making dean’s list at Salem

my mom’s new medicine finally being available

learning how to wrap a towel around my head

becoming a feminist

kicking ass at arcade basketball games

surviving hurricane Irene

trips to Krankies with Sara, watching Twin Peaks with Sara

spending a week in Indianapolis

a lot of greyhound trips

getting my first paying job in a biology lab

getting an internship at the medical center

a lot of cigarette smoke

a lot of Taco Bell

a lot of baking, door decorating, and ordering pizza

still having that soda pop addiction

reading 56 books

carving the most wonderful pumpkin with Taylor

taking a whole class on human memory

trips to the library on days class was cancelled

sleeping on the floor, taking down our bunk beds, sleeping in a bed again

spending hours looking at graduate schools, realizing I have to start applying in less than a year, feeling terrified

nearly making it through Eric Kandel’s autobiography

bonding with my little nephews on a trip to the ocean, arguing with everyone else

falling in love with hush puppies and pinto beans

learning that honey bees have emotions and that I will always be horrible at math

spending christmas with one of my very best friends

buying way more books than I read

having (what seemed like) buckets of blood drawn

always being healthy in the end

falling in love with more local music

falling more in love with NC

missing West Virginia more than anything

wishing it would snow

thinking of my house as a happiness black hole

watching Community, Parks and Rec, and Trauma: Life in the ER

appreciating the holidays way more in college

wanting to have 4 billion babies but thankfully refraining

declaring Heat my favorite basketball team

opening a bank account

getting my permit

wondering why people stay here, wondering why I stay here, realizing that I stay here because I like it here and people keep me here

Dug

2011-12-14T23:09:00.001-08:00

I always talk about my mama, but I so rarely mention my dad. He's simple, but I don't mean stupid. I just mean he'd probably connect with most Bruce Springsteen songs, and when I asked him what he wanted for christmas this year, he replied: “a shoebox full of hunnert doller bills. I dunno kid, I have everything. but I found what we can get your momma. maybe a battery powered floor sweeper and/or some one piece pajammas. I saw some advertised on tv.”

When people ask his name, he says, "Doug - like you dug a hole yesterdie," and he's a firm believer in small government and getting in and out of stores as quickly as possible.
He really loves music, too. A few years ago he taught himself how to play guitar using online videos and whatever lessons we could afford. Now he has a collection of guitars and plays music in his garage with our poker-loving neighbors every weekend.

He hates pop and loves bluegrass, but he likes music fast. He doesn't want the banjos and guitars to melt together like two people melodramatically making love; he likes their sounds to leap through the air together like two frantic, happy deers in the wilderness. You can tell when he loves a song because he closes his eyes, takes a sip of beer, and sits relaxed with his elbows on his knees.

Growing up I hated bluegrass music. I thought it was for old people. But now, the very sound of it, especially the first few seconds of every song, is comforting. What's safer than music you heard in your daddy's garage when you'd spend the evening listening to the radio, making fun of the voices singers used? Sometimes we'd dance along as well, going in circles and slapping our knees. I'd have to make sure not to step on his tools or kick over his beer.

It went like this: a mixture of a lady singing "don't let your deal go down, go down," my dad's laughter as we mocked the singers' voices, the sound of people clogging in the background, the smell of my daddy's beer, the feeling of summer air at night, and the shadows of moths and nats dancing in the lights. As John Steinbeck says in East of Eden, "the memory of odors is very rich." My dad's garage always smelled like cut grass, rust, dust, gasoline, old tools, and the thousands of tiny bolts and nails he keeps in boxes for work and stray projects.

My dad's certainly not a shallow man, and I know his soul contains multitudes I'll likely never know. Stories about the war he was in, about what it was like to be a biker, how he felt when his parents died. Over fifty years worth of stories, and only a few have surfaced. I'm okay with never knowing, and I like to think he's okay with never telling. The times I've experienced his gentle spirit have been concise and sincere - "I'm proud of you, kid," "If there is a Heaven, I know nanny's in it," and "you need to do more around here to help your mama."

It's shown in actions, too, like all the times he's changed the station when songs about fathers came on the radio. All the times he's let me win our political debates. All the times he's picked me up from parties and skating rinks. All the times he's held his anger in when I've almost wrecked his car or made messes in the house.

We keep a safe distance from each other. We're never sentimental without our affections taking the form of subtleties, and it always seems right that way. If he had to pick a lyric to describe his life, it'd probably be something like the lines from Bruce Springsteen's The River - "I got a job working construction for the Johnstown Company, but lately there ain't been much work on account of the economy."

He's just Doug, like you dug a hole yesterdie. He comes home with smashed fingers from work; once he caught his pants on fire and fell off a roof; and he's spent weeks full of late nights re-building Hardee's restaurants so my family will be able to eat every night. He's just my dad, and I really wouldn't have him any other way. Balding head, strange political views, and all.

Wild, Wonderful West Virginia

2011-11-27T23:02:00.000-08:00

My dad used to always tell me that I'd grow up to be just like my parents - no matter how hard I tried to fight it, and I think West Virginia may be one thing he was right about. I've been so obsessed with going back to Princeton and making the 2 hour drive through the mountains and tunnels and seeing what used to be my nanny's house and that old park across the street and the mattress store and the air that always feels so cold and fresh and the feeling that time has gone backwards about twenty years or so. I would do anything to go back there and stay in my nanny's house again, if only it would be completely unchanged once I arrived.

2011-11-20T21:56:00.000-08:00

Schools don't

teach children

to write in cursive

anymore.

Does this mean

the letters

won't

curve and wind,

like mountains

through the pages -

the way my

grandmother's did

in her old Bible?

2011-11-04T23:17:00.000-07:00

"they will recognize all the lines of your face in the face of the daughter of the daughter of my daughter"

2011-10-09T16:33:00.000-07:00

Only on an Autumn day will wading
through death make wading more fun

as sidewalks turn to graveyards made

for the leaping of the living

and the bodies of leaves burst -- midair!

to the sound of children laughing.

2011-10-07T21:53:00.001-07:00

When I was younger, I was constantly amazed at my existence. I would hear myself speak, look at my hands, or see a photograph of myself and immediately think "my god, I'm alive. I'm a real person. How can this be?"

Now that I'm getting older this rarely happens anymore. As unfortunate as it is, it's like I've finally adjusted to being alive. And that desensitization to existence is how I know I'm turning into an adult - or a person who, in most cases, is no longer impressed by the universe.

Of course this realization makes me sad, and now I catch myself being amazed by the idea that one day my existence will be no more. Today I was walking through God's Acre to get downtown and entirely unprovoked, I nearly burst into tears from being hit with the sudden realization that one day I'll be old - an indifferent middle age, as Sylvia Plath called it.

My absolute worst fear will always be aging, and I have no idea how to overcome it. I need to keep telling myself that it's possible to be a passionate adult with decent musical preferences and a brain that's not all rusty.

I just don't wanna get old.

2011-08-16T01:30:00.000-07:00

When I was in Elementary School, my mama sent lunch money with me in the tiny bags that came around her packs of cigarettes. She'd give me forty cents a day, and sometimes a little extra for ice cream. One day I remember the lunch ladies asking me, "where does your mom find these little bags? They're so handy!" And I remember blushing when I said they were from Doral Full Flavor 100's - probably from feeling proud and embarrassed all at once.

I think it's so fitting that now - now that I'm getting ready to leave for college - she's sending all my things with me in boxes she took from behind her favorite bingo parlor. She's still as resourceful as ever. Plus it means a lot that even when she's dealing with her favorite things, she still looks for ways to make me happy. What a gal, that mama of mine!

2011-08-15T14:17:00.000-07:00

"Many feel that the study of human memory is the closest one can get to a systematic study of the human soul." -Gabriel Radvansky

2011-08-14T02:54:00.000-07:00

Tonight is so lonely and rainy and stormy and dreary and lovely. It's actually 5:55 AM right now, but it's still dark, so I'll still say tonight. I'm happy because one of my favorite things in the world is the beginning of a rainy day. What makes it even better is knowing that I don't have to leave the house. I can open my curtains and stay under the covers and read all day long!

2011-08-13T13:42:00.000-07:00

Earlier today I fell asleep and had a dream about Austin. His mama brought him into a place I was working at, and she put him down and let him run to me. I knew immediately the baby wasn't Austin, though. This baby was only a little over two years old, and I knew Austin had to be older by now. I kept telling them, "this baby isn't Austin, stop trying to trick me. Austin is five now. He's starting kindergarten. This is not my Austin, so where is he?" And then she took the baby back.

When I woke up, all I wanted was to see the real Austin again. I miss him so much. I can't believe he's really started school now. He probably has a little backpack and light-up sneakers and toy dinosaurs he keeps in his pockets. His mama probably gets to pack him snacks every day. She gets to hear his little voice talk about everything that happens. I hope she always knows how lucky she is to have such a wonderful baby.

I can't sleep.

2011-08-12T01:34:00.000-07:00

So I'm going to do a 30 day song challenge all in one night. Or at least until I get sleepy. Pretty impressive, huh?

Day 01 - Your favorite song

The Geese of Beverly Road by The National. It's the most perfect song I've ever heard, and I never get tired of hearing it. Matt Berninger talks about Beverly Road in an interview: "It's a beautiful neighborhood that feels more like Savannah, Georgia than Brooklyn. The houses are all free-standing with nice yards and wrap-around porches. I was sitting outside one night watching a bunch of kids running up and down Beverly setting off car alarms. The song is theirs." I know there are a ton of different interpretations as to what the song really means (Micah says it will always be about marriage to him), but Berninger's explanation has always been enough for me.

Day 02 - Your least favorite song

There aren't really many songs that I particularly go out of my way to hate, but I suppose I'll have to go with Getting Ready For Christmas Day by Paul Simon. Don't get me wrong, I adore Paul Simon, but this song drives me crazy, and for no good reason, really. I think those voices in the background sort of ruin it for me.

Day 03 - A song that makes you happy

Good Intentions Paving Company by Joanna Newsom. When I first heard this song, it really reminded me of Charlie Brown for some reason. It was also in the middle of Summer on a sunny day in Baby Blue. Micah and I were driving to Winston-Salem and we had gotten to our exit and Micah said, "see, listen to that little banjo part," and I've been in love with it ever since. Not to mention the fact that the song is just precious in general. "How I said to you, 'honey, just open your heart,' when I've got trouble even opening a honey jar."

Day 04 - A song that makes you sad

Call Me on Your Way Back Home by Ryan Adams. I don't know what it is about this song, but it destroys my soul more than any other song ever. And that harmonica part, oh gosh.

Day 05 - A song that reminds you of someone

Sleeper 1972 by Manchester Orchestra has always reminded me of my nanny. I remember listening to it over and over again after she died because certain lines were just so fitting and perfect. This verse in particular: "I still see you/ inside of this god awful house. / You move awfully quiet now./ And I still feel you everywhere." My nanny always had a walker she'd clomp around our house in, and I still listened for it a long time after she died.

Day 06 - A song that reminds of you of somewhere

My Girl by The Temptations will always remind me of New York City. When my school visited I remember all of us walking through the city singing that together, only some of us replaced "my girl" with "my school." My Girl makes me miss my little Early College so much.

Day 07 - A song that reminds you of a certain event

Cardinal Song by The National always reminds me of the time I saw them live and they played this song. When they sang the line "Jesus Christ, you have confused me - cornered, wasted, blessed and used me," I looked out into the crowd from my little seat and everyone had their hands in the air singing along as if they were in church. I remember feeling like a part of a religious community for the first time in a long time - only it was a very confused and conflicted religious community (one that I'd actually feel at home in).

Day 08 - A song you know all the words to

A song I know all the words to? Hm. I know all the words to a lot of songs, but my favorite song to sing along to is Kanye West's Power.

Day 09 - A song that you can dance to

I can't dance, y'all!

Day 10 - A song that makes you fall asleep

Well, if any songs made me fall asleep I probably wouldn't be doing this right now. I'd just listen to that song and then BAM, out like a light. But no. I feel like I can't leave two blank, though - my one cop out was the dancing song. So, let's see. I think I've fallen asleep listening to Cosmia by Joanna Newsom a few times. Not because it's boring, though. It's just dreamy and peaceful. "I couldn't keep the night from coming in."

Day 11 - A song from your favorite band

My favorite band is the National, and I've already put two songs by them on this list. So, we're going to go with my favorite nostalgic band, mewithoutYou! Here's the song that made me fall in love with them back in the day, Nice and Blue pt. 2. "All or what little joy in the world /
seemed suddenly simple and endlessly mine."

Day 12 - A song from a band you hate

What's with all the negativity?!

Day 13 - A song that is a guilty pleasure

I have a whole entire guilty pleasures playlist that contains almost 100 songs, so I'm extremely guilty. My current favorite, though, is All I Have by Jennifer Lopez. Party because it's catchy, partly for nostalgia, partly because it's so fun to sing along to.

Day 14 - A song that no one would expect you to love

Tonight The Stars Speak by The Glorious Unseen. I suppose nobody would expect me to love this song because it's a worship song, and I'm not particularly religious. But if any song could make me want to worship anyone, it's this one. I also love it because it reminds me of Taking Back the Streets and sitting out in a field under the stars with this band and a whole slew of super wonderful people. Also, this is the one song I remember The Glorious Unseen playing live, and I miss that night (and era) so much.

Day 15 - A song that describes you

Pimpin' All Over the World. The video explains why!

Day 16 - A song that you used to love but now hate

Basically any song by Neutral Milk Hotel. In The Aeroplane Over the Sea is the one I'm most sick of. It's my fault for overplaying it, though.

Day 17 - A song that you hear often on the radio

The one I've heard the most lately is Rollin in the Deep by Adele.

Day 18 - A song that you wish you heard on the radio

For some reason when I read this, the song Contact High by Architecture in Helsinki came to mind first. I suppose it's because this song is so catchy and unlike typical Architecture in Helsinki, accessible. But still so good!

Day 19 - A song from your favorite album

There's already a song from my favorite album on here [Aligator], so I'm going to put one from my favorite EP. Sufjan Steven's Heirloom.

Day 20 - A song you listen to when you’re angry

La Dispute will always be my official "pissed off at the world" band, especially when my reasons for being mad are relationship-related. Here's Andria. "I felt my anger swelling / I swam into its sea."

Day 21 - A song you listen to when you’re happy

The Gardner or really any song by The Tallest Man on Earth. And he automatically makes everything happier.

Day 22 - A song that you listen to when you’re sad

The song I listen to most when I'm sad is no doubt A Song For a Lover of Long Ago by Justin Vernon. I love the rawness and the honesty and the lyrics. It's so perfect for those really late, rainy, gloomy nights. And when Justin Vernon's voice breaks at the end it kills me.

Day 24 - A song that you want to play at your funeral

In tenth grade I told Hallie I wanted Radios in Heaven played at my funeral. Even though that's not true anymore, she'd kill me if I didn't put that. Plus I don't even want to die, much less have a song picked out for when it happens!

Day 25 - A song that makes you laugh

I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles) by the Proclaimers. It's just so cute.

Day 26 - A song you can play on an instrument

In elementary school I could never quite figure out how to read music, so I sat in music class and watched as all my piers learned Beethoven on their recorders. I learned how to play the very first song in our book, Peace Must Be Our Goal, because it had letters instead of music notes. That's the only song I've ever known how to play on an instrument.

Day 27 - A song you wish you could play

Patti Smith's cover of Smells Like Teen Spirit always makes me so sad that I never learned how to play my banjo.

Day 28 - A song that makes you feel guilty

Another song by The National, imagine that! The song Val Jester made me feel guilty for a little while after my nanny died, mostly because of the lines "you should've looked after her better" and "take your time when you tell her how she lives in your blood." I should've done both of those things, "cause one day when she goes, she's gone."

Day 29 - A song from your childhood

This song, Baby Write this Down by George Strait, is the first favorite song I ever remember having. I used to scream when the music video came on CMT, and I wanted to be one of those people in the audience holding a sign up so badly. I would've been seven then.

Day 30 - Your favorite song at this time last year

Hm, favorite song last August. Probably Days Like This by Van Morrison. I was going through a major Van Morrison phase, and that was the song that hooked me.

2011-08-10T13:54:00.000-07:00

Why I should not freak out about going to college:

I'll only be 30 minutes from home.
I'll be living with my best friend.
Doc always says, "if you get accepted to [INSERT SCHOOL NAME HERE], you can pass classes at [INSERT THAT SAME SCHOOL NAME HERE]."
I'm going to get everything done.
I have a job already.
I've always heard that teachers at Salem really do care about their students.
I was lucky enough to have four wonderful teachers at Surry who never babied us or treated us like "Community College kids," and I'm sure I'm actually ready thanks to them.
My family has faith in me.
Hallie has faith in me.
We're going to somehow pass Spanish together.
I don't have to take anymore math classes after Statistics.
No more Trig. No more Pre-Calc. No more Trig wheels. No more Sin/Cos. No more math tutoring.
I'll be at school all the time, so I'll be less lazy (hopefully).
Hallie and I have a calendar to write important things down on, and we won't forget about them.
I won't have to wake up at 7 AM to be at class on time.
I did fine at the Early College.
I'm going to love everything I'm studying.
I'm not going to write all my papers the night before like I always have (yeah right).
Brewnerds.
I'm going to stop being loony right after I post this.
It's gonna be fine.
It's gonna be fine.
It's gonna be fine.

2011-08-10T01:04:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure why, but Autumn and Winter always seem to be the craftiest/bakiest seasons of the year. I'm so happy they'll be here shortly.

On Memory and Flooded Kitchens

2011-08-08T01:06:00.000-07:00

One day, gathered around a table decorated with dishes of potatoes,

our grandchildren’s names will leave us

and we will hunt wildly for them within the wearied old well of our minds.

Their beginning letters will sink to the bottom, and every name

will become a face - a he, a she,

A lazy, giggly tader-head over there.

We’ll forget other things, too:

to turn right by the white house,

to make sure the old dog gets fed,

to turn off the spicket in the sink.

Our kitchen will flood, and we’ll ask our old minds what to do

and finding an answer will be like finding the cards

we thought we bought for birthdays passed but never did.

Our grandkids will ponder where to keep us, and we will ask who they are;

they will ask who we are,

and we won’t know, and they won’t know, either.

Then, one day, gathered around a table with dishes of potatoes,

all we know will leave us.
All the answers in our wearied old minds

will be next to the cards

with the beginning letters of our grand children’s names,

beneath the dog food and the spicket

at the very bottom of the well.

2011-08-06T02:21:00.001-07:00

Oh, and on a slightly less optimistic note, I absolutely hate when things happen that challenge the decently-sized amount of faith I have in the human race.

Things that are Nice

2011-08-05T13:40:00.000-07:00

(that I've been thankful for lately):

Cats. I've been re-reading William S. Burrough's book The Cat Inside today, and I just don't get how anyone could hate cats. It's such a wonderful feeling when a generally misanthropic cat (Arthur) attaches himself to you and follows you everywhere. It's equally wonderful when a little white cat (Mary) runs to the door whenever it's time to check the mail because she loves walking with you to check it. It's even kind of cute when your only true boy cat (Paul) goes through an "I'm tough and I hate my mama" phase and won't let you hold him anymore.
Being sick. Even though it sucks and I've felt horrible these past few days, it's so comforting to think I'll be less likely to get sick this winter. Because really, what's worse than being sick in the middle of February when it's freezing out and you just want to lay in bed all day, but you can't because you have to go sit in a class where you sniffle obnoxiously the whole time?
That little piano part in Bruce Springsteen's "The River."
Cube Crash. I feel like a complete loon for saying this, but seriously, that game is so calming. Who knew that trying to align squares of the same color could prevent so many potential anxiety attacks?
The fact that nobody really reads this blog. Looking back on some older posts, man, there's some pretty embarrassing stuff.
The book Proust Was a Neuroscientist by Jonah Lehrer. I honestly didn't have high hopes for this book, mostly because of some bad reviews I've read, but gosh I love it so far. As someone who can never fully commit to any one mindset (a scientific one or an imaginative one), it's nice to see them merged so tastefully and intelligently. Maybe Marcel Proust wasn't actually a Neuroscientist, but he (along with all the other artists in the book) sure did know a heck of a lot about the human condition. And I think that's the most important thing to take from the book: science and art don't have to be separate. "Science is seen through the optic of art, and art is interpreted in the light of science. The experiment and the poem complete each other. The mind is made whole."
My mama. She goes out of her way to make my life better so often. Whether it's spraying ant killer in my room for me, trying to cook the foods I like from Taco Bell at home, or trying super hard to find me a bookbag I like, that gal is always cookin' up something. She once wrote in a card to me that she just wanted me to be happy, and I'll never believe that coming from anyone else as much as I believe it coming from her. What a lady.
Books. I think I love them an irrational amount. Earlier I put all of them in one pile, and it was so nice just to be completely surrounded by them. I've probably only read about 25% of the books I own, but that doesn't make them any less wonderful. All I kept thinking earlier is how happy I would be if all my walls were bookshelves and there was nothing in my room but a little bed to nap and read on.
Hallie. Let me tell you a few things I love about my best friend. Sometimes she bursts out laughing at the most random things in the world, things you'd never even expect her (or anyone else) to laugh at, and it's great. It's contagious, too. She's also a darn good cheerer-upper, and she's letting us have a brown rug in our dorm. I love knowing that I'm lucky enough to be best friends with my favorite feminist ever, the most precious future librarian, and one of the smartest gals I've ever met. She's a firm believer in letting people "have their moments," and she deserves to have her own moments so much more. She's never stopped believing in me, and I'm so thankful she believed in me enough to let me copy her homework back when I was a lazy little thing. Not to mention how unorganized the Young Dems would be without her and her Leslie Knope attitude/emails. We have the strangest collective life, but it's also the most fun, most silly, and most ridiculously lovely collective life there ever was. At least to me.
Finally having enough motivation to start packing for college. It feels great to be almost ready, to have almost everything. Minus some some scissors, three books, and some magnet-making supplies at least.

Ranting

2011-08-05T01:08:00.000-07:00

I love my mama. I really do. It's amazing what she's able to endure - physically, mentally, and emotionally. She's the most selfless lady; she's smart; she's funny; she's lovely. She's just wonderful.

But good lord, she can drive a daughter crazy. Sometimes it's like she destroys her health just because she can, just because she knows it's hers to destroy. I keep watching her fall apart more and more, and people keep saying, "why don't you do something - just cut back on your smoking? just change your diet a little." But she never does, and she never will.

Why doesn't she want to get better?

2011-08-04T01:41:00.001-07:00

There's currently a huge pile of used tissues on my bed beside me right now (yeah, gross, I know), and that basically sums up how I've been feeling lately. And by lately I mean the past two days. But goodness, y'all, they've dragged on and on and on and on.

"But stop what? Maybe just growing up."

2011-07-23T22:44:00.000-07:00

I always feel so perpetually melancholy. I don't think it's bad, though - the feelings are a mixture of nostalgia and realizing that the present moment, especially when it's particularly happy, is being transformed into a memory just as quickly as it's happening.

Maybe it's because my life has been so full of changes lately. And Hallie and I do stop so often to reflect on how wonderful our lives have been these days. We always say our 10th grade selves would be horribly jealous of who we are now, and I've never heard anything more true. It's just that sometimes being overly sentimental means every joyful moment is thinned by a tiny pinch of gloom. And time just moves so quickly. And I want to capture everything. And I don't want the good days to keep ending.

All I know is that no matter how old I get, I never stop being afraid of getting older.

2011-07-23T20:57:00.000-07:00

The day my family took a boat ride to heaven (and got really, really sunburned):

9/11

2011-07-22T09:24:00.000-07:00

September 11th, 2001 is no doubt one of the most significant events any of us will ever live through, but I was so young when it happened - only nine. I feel like I'm constantly trying to catch up. To understand what happened, why every person put a flag on their front porch. To mourn with every American who felt sadness on that day, no matter how late I may be. I always feel guilt when I remember how my heart didn't ache when my mama and I stood in front of our television set and watched the planes crash over and over again.

Every following year on the "anniversary of 9/11" - as people on the news still love calling it, us students were required to write a paper - sometimes just a paragraph - on where we were when we learned about September 11th. I never knew what to tell the teachers, though, so my papers were either blank or fabricated. That's because my memories are shadowy at best - I remember the faces of my teachers crying, their whispers, seeing the smoke, the bus ride home, wondering if my grandpa was okay, and hoping my trip to the Stokes County Fair that night wouldn't be cancelled. And how do you tell that to a teacher in a paper? "On September 11th, 2001, I worried most about getting the cotton candy my mama promised me." I was only in Fourth grade, mind you. But still.

Now I mostly remember the sunshine of the day, how it warmed everything. How the school year was still so new, my clothes were so new - how everything in September always feels so new. But then the black smoke came through and tainted everything, and I never really understood. Sometimes I still don't understand. After September 11th life was narrated by a string of overly-patriotic country songs. And fear. Complaints about airport security. What were you doing when it happened? The flags. The God Bless Americas. What ever happened to September 10th? Our country looked like a perpetual Fourth of July. And time went by, drawn by slow horses.

And that was then. These days I feel like I'm constantly having delayed reactions to September 11th. Last year the day fell on a Saturday, and I wrote this in my journal: "How can life still go on today? How can my daddy be at the dump right now, and how can my mother be waddling through the kitchen looking for bubble wrap? I feel like this should be the only thing on anyone’s mind. Death and planes and buildings are terrible things to fill a Saturday with."

Even though it was sunny, I stayed in bed all day that day listening to Chris Garneau's song "Saturday," which very appropriately mentions the stopping of time. It was like I was finally reacting to what had happened ten years ago. Ten years. I also wrote: "I feel like the whole world should be required to stop today. I don’t feel like anyone should be able to function on the anniversary of 9/11. Maybe because it seems to be all anyone has talked about for so long. Maybe because it truly was awful, and I was too young for my heart to ache when it actually happened, when the world really did stop." And I felt the same thing earlier today when I stumbled across Jon Stewart's reactions to the events on the internet.

But even now I'm not sure if I'm reacting to what really happened or if I'm only reacting to reactions. I can understand - but I can only understand objectively. I'll never know what it felt like to hear the news for the first time - or rather, to hear the news and understand for the first time. My memories are still mere shadows, faces, and facts. Somedays I wish I could just go back in time and be older, wiser. And not in Fourth grade. Maybe then September 11th would mean what it's supposed to mean to me.

Things that are Nice

2011-07-21T21:40:00.000-07:00

My parents have never had very much money, and I think that's one of my favorite things about belonging to this family. That's because when there isn't much money, everything instantly becomes more meaningful. Trips to the library when I was little, gadgets from my eye doctor's toy box, clothes that weren't from yardsales, books from the book fair at school. I always got to pick out one toy - but only one toy - on all of our Wal-Mart trips. I also think it's due to my family's lack of money that I've always imagined the smallest places to be the happiest. Little wooden cottages seem most appealing. Places filled with only the things we need and maybe a select few, very-loved extras.

F. Scott Fitzgerald describes exactly what I'm talking about in The Ice Palace:

It was a large room with a Madonna over the fireplace and rows upon rows of books in covers of light gold and dark gold and shiny red. All the chairs had little lace squares where one's head should rest, the couch was just comfortable, the books looked as if they had been read-- some-- and Sally Carrol had an instantaneous vision of the battered old library at home, with her father's huge medical books, and the oil-paintings of her three great-uncles, and the old couch that had been mended up for forty-five years and was still luxurious to dream in. This room struck her as being neither attractive nor particularly otherwise. It was simply a room with a lot of fairly expensive things in it that all looked about fifteen years old.

The nice thing isn't the poverty, though; it's the simplicity. The joy of knowing everything you own has some sort of story. That it means something.

All I want is a tiny house filled with meaningful things and meaningful people.

Things that are nice

2011-07-16T21:49:00.000-07:00

I just want to take a minute to say how much I love the Young Democrats of Surry County. I've spent a lot of the last two days with them (minus a few Young Dems who were dearly missed) at the park playing games, grilling hot dogs, wading in rivers, and feeling at home. I remember Hallie and I used to always complain about the laziness and apathy of our generation when we learned about how much younger generations have done in the past - we felt like there was never any way to be involved with service projects or political activism in our little town. But having the Young Dems solves both of those problems, and it's just so nice. It's so nice to be around people who explode at the sound of sexist ideologies - people who sincerely care about plastic bottles being recycled. Out of all the groups of best friends I've had in the past, this group is my absolute favorite. This is cheesy, but I'm just so thankful for all the wonderful people I've met and/or grown closer to through the Democratic Party of Surry County.

Things that are nice

2011-07-15T21:41:00.000-07:00

Even though Micah and I always complain about how few pictures we have together, and even though I agree entirely that we need more, it's kind of nice only relying on memories to recall certain days and events spent with him. They're much more dreamy that way, more sentimental. Tonight I keep thinking about the evening we went to thrift stores to look for books in a town that was sort of far away from Akron. We were in Baby Blue and Micah was listening to Neil Young's On the Beach. The sun was setting; our windows were down; we had new bags of books; I remember driving by a lake. Micah was telling me memories he had that involved the town we were leaving, and I remember loving every second of them. I didn't take any pictures that evening, but that's okay. It's perfect in my mind and now, right here.

2011-07-13T00:00:00.001-07:00

I usually hate the beach. I hate the houses and their silly signs with silly sayings; I hate how they all look the same save the color and the phrase. I hate the sand, the heat, and the gift shops. I hate the rebel flag keychains, trinkets that glow in the dark, the three-week tattoos, and the 5.99 t-shirts.

Plus the beach has always reminded me of parents, of adults and control. A lack of freedom. Someone yelling to not go in too deep because of rip-currents, because the ocean will take us away and never give us back. The beach also reminds me of a parent who's afraid of sharks and jellyfish, of sea creatures in general and us losing our toes or legs to them.

But these things have never happened despite how deeply we've ventured out into the ocean. Sometimes we've swam far past the point of breaking waves, leaving a frantic grown up at the shore to yell, and it seems we still have all our limbs, and we're still on land; we're not floating out in the Atlantic somewhere. The warnings of adults have always seemed nonsensical to us kids. We see the ocean as it's portrayed in an episode of Spongebob, friendly and explorable. They see the ocean as if it were a watery monster - angry and waiting for us to slip.

Despite these differences, however, several moments of my beach trips are always much more pleasant than others. In my most recent trip, most of my favorite memories involve the evening the adults let us kids walk the 10-minute walk to the ocean without any of them coming along.

Nothing incredible happened on this trip; it was actually pretty normal. I had to get onto Ashton and Justin for talking too loudly and walking through people's front yards on the way there, and we ranted and complained about how strict our family is. But it was also in those first few moments that I realized how much I enjoyed having two other young people on the trip with me, even if they did come with an extra adult.

When we got to the ocean, it was almost sunset, but it had been rainy that day. Walking on the beach was like pushing through a misty dream. A collage of sea glass and broken shells clanked below our feet as we walked and looked for shark teeth. The sky was purple - a blueish tint, and the clouds were literally lined with silver from the sun. People were animated silhouettes in the light, at least until you approached them. Then they became friendly and detailed.

I thought of Bob Dylan's Mr. Tambourine Man - "to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free, silhouetted by the sea," and remembered that Micah was obsessed with that song when I first met him. He always told me it was the perfect illustration of freedom, and now that I think about it, those few moments on the beach with Ashton and Justin were, too.

As we walked on, discussing how much time we'd have to explore, I noticed a dog running into the water chasing a frisby. With the splashing of the water and magic of the day, he looked like a chariot driving into the clouds. At one point I compared the ocean to a Heaven where profanities were not prohibited - after writing my name I turned around and realized my nephews had written several of them into the sand, and they were never sent away or expelled from the sea. They never even had to seek forgiveness.

Sadly, though, we had to cut our exploring short because the tide was coming in. We watched as the water swallowed the shore in tiny gulps, until it had nearly reached the steps, ready to drink our shoes, too. We got to them just in time.

I didn't think about it until now, but that particular trip to the ocean played out as if a writer of magical realism had sprinkled magic all over the realism that is Topsail Island, North Carolina (and most other beaches). A dog turned divine; the clouds turned silver; the remnants of death and aging turned to art beneath our feet. I didn't even mind the houses lining the shore - they, too, looked magical in the natural lighting of the evening.

And I think that's why Magical Realism will always be one of my favorite literary genres and if it's okay to say so, philosophies. It doesn't avoid the truth or create a fantasy - it simply adds beauty and magic to what's already there. Did my experience change the fact that people feel the need to put disgusting houses all over what should be considered nature's territory? No, but it made them a lot more enjoyable to be around.

But the magical realism of real life can be created by more than just sunsets and weather. It can be a scientific discovery (Richard Dawkins refers to science as "the poetry of reality," and I've always liked that). It can be the way the world looks when you're tired and everything is funny. It can be the presence of someone you really, really love. And it can even be a certain mindset. These are the things that make an experience transcendent and life meaningful. And the very best thing about magical realism (which, in this case, was nature itself) is its ability to create a new world without ever leaving the old one. The magic only adds -- it never takes away.

What I Talk About When I Talk About Love

2011-07-08T18:11:00.000-07:00

One year ago at this time a tiny blue car (who goes by the name of "Baby Blue," if you were wondering) was traveling through the mountains on the way to my house. And I was terrified. I remember being so scared, in fact, that I played Paul Simon's "Graceland" over and over again on a little tape player I kept beside my bed. That was my favorite break-up song, and I wanted to mentally prepare myself for the worst. I kept listening so I would know what it feels like to lose love, to have a window in your heart. I knew it would happen, and I wanted to be ready.

That night the power went out. I was worried about how Micah would find my house before, but now even more worried about how he would find it without the porch light. That was the end of my Paul Simon listening. I sat on the bed I made for the first time this year and practiced the apology I would make when Micah finally got here and realized he'd made a huge mistake. There were a few candles burning beside me, and my belly was full of bumblebees. I hadn't seen Micah in over a year; he was on his way to my house, and I was in a room with no power, feeling scared and in love. A few hours later I got a phone call from Micah saying he had reached the North Carolina state line.

I met him at the local McDonalds that evening, much to my mother's dismay (it was well after midnight when he finally arrived), and we rode to my house together. My belly was still full of bumblebees. The only thing I remember about our conversation is Micah saying, "my hands are sweaty, so I can't really go in for a hand-hold," and I remember thinking that I'd never wanted to hold a hand more than his, no matter how sweaty.

When we got to my house we carried his things in and put them in my room; it was finally a mess again and felt like home. Micah hugged me and all my bumblebees went away. The rest felt like a dream. We spent that night talking and laughing and hugging, and I realized I wasn't going to lose love after all - not that night, at least. The power would blink on and off and we'd hear musical flashes of Paul Simon's Graceland on the tape player beside my bed. This carried on until morning, until my mom warned me that my father would be waking up for work soon. And that was the first of many all-nighters I would spend with him, in person or in conversation, realizing that I didn't have to be so afraid of losing his love after all.

I've learned a lot this year. That Micah likes to sing in his car when he drives, especially if it's Kanye. That it's hard for us to talk about what it's like to live in the south in a civilized manner. That Micah finds monkey vaginas extremely funny when they're on television and he's tired. That I can never talk about Hitler's perhaps-unstable mental state in a serious manner because that lets him off the hook.

The most important thing I've learned, though, is that it's always important to have faith. More and more these days I find myself wanting to completely forget that I'd ever believed in a God; I want to try to give up the search and continue to re-shape my life without religion. But Micah never let's that happen, and I'm so grateful. Whenever I'm feeling desperate I tell him it's impossible for me to have faith, that I'm literally incapable of it, and he says, "Tracie, every single thing you do requires faith," and I remember that I only need to practice more.

Most of my favorite memories with Micah are simple: sitting on the kitchen floor after church, drives in the middle of the night when we're all bundled up, kisses at stop lights, visiting book stores, spending an evening making silly voices and laughing, reading together on his bed. When I think about this a quote comes to mind. I don't actually know who said it, but it goes - "Whether you're skydiving together or sitting at home and doing different things, it's always comfortable. That is fucking love." And I am always comfortable with Micah, and happy, too, and I don't really know what could be better than that.

Sometimes I feel sorry for myself for being in love with someone who lives 9 hours away, but then I realize how lucky I am t0 be in love and more than that, to be in love with the person I'm in love with. Micah is someone I take for granted far too often - someone who reads "How We Decide" so he can talk to me about neuroscience, who tells me there's nobody else he'd rather share a meal with. Micah is a constant source of motivation and inspiration to me. He makes me feel pretty and even though it's cliche to say so, complete.

I've always thought people were silly for saying a person is all they ever think about, but now I understand what they mean. I can see a peach in a grocery store and think of Micah, and pomegranates are even worse. My mind is never safe - a picture of a president, a love poem, a certain highway we've traveled on together (that chances are, I've gotten us lost on). He introduced me to the music I like the most and we've watched more movies together than I can keep up with. I wake up every morning and talk to him all day, and I wouldn't change that one bit.

But this isn't to say that everything is perfect - we fight and love with equal amounts of passion. Micah's far too honest to tell me exactly what I want to hear at my command, and even though it makes me mad in the heat of the moment, I've always found that so endearing. He hates when I tickle him, and I hate when he gets sleepy too early (even though I know this comparison is hardly fair - a desire to tickle can be suppressed much easier than the desire to sleep). But the thing is, after an argument, I realize I have exactly what I've always wanted: someone who is honest - someone I can trust entirely and therefore, love freely.

And that is what I talk about the most when I talk about love, when I talk about Micah: freedom. The freedom to sit on the kitchen floor on Sunday afternoon and talk, the freedom to tickle (even though I know it will make him mad), and the freedom to love without holding anything at all back. Whether my belly is full of bumblebees or I'm crying on the phone to him after a silly argument, I know he will bring me comfort. And to me, that is exactly what love is all about. The associations, the memories, the motivation, and the freedom.

It might be silly and sappy to say so, but I'm so thankful I can be best friends with the boy I'm in love with.

2011-06-20T20:40:00.000-07:00

Nobody has had a bigger influence on my life than this fella right here:

And y'all, this lady could not be more grateful!

looking for blackberries

2011-06-15T18:23:00.000-07:00

Tuesday Morning, 6 AM

2011-06-14T02:51:00.000-07:00

I haven't slept in 21 hours, and I'm feeling pretty loopy. And by loopy I mean ridiculously in love with everything- the sun that's currently rising, the barn across the street, the mess all over my bed, my best friend who's asleep in her little house on Main Street, the boy who will be waking up for work in an hour. I'm in love with the past, the present, and the future. And my mother, who has been the only one to know me during all of my past, even before I was born. Whenever I get into these crazy sentimental moods and realize the beauty of life all over again, I just want to capture everything in words, photos, and little souvenirs - like receipts and dried up flowers placed into books.

I keep taking pictures like this one, pictures of places I've seen my whole entire life, just in case my memory one day proves to be fallible:

Even though I'm only going to be 30 minutes away, I feel like once I leave, coming home will never quite be the same again.

Lemonade

2011-06-10T15:57:00.000-07:00

When I drink lemonade it pulses and burns in my throat; I have to take small sips. But I keep drinking because the good outweighs the bad; lemonade is a symbol of sunshine and joyfulness, of warmth - despite its cool, refreshing nature. Such is the South to me.

Flannery O'Connor short stories are often tragic. My favorite, "The River," tells about a little boy who took religious ideas literally and drowned himself in a river while looking for happiness and the Kingdom of Christ. The current pulled him under, and the story ends with the boy looking from the water as Mr. Paradise watches him float away. Of course the story is heartbreaking, but it's beautiful - so full of passion and hypocrisies and characters with good intentions who are terminally thoughtless and narrow-minded and blinded by their preacher's interpretations of Jesus Christ. This is the south to me, too.

Lately I've found myself more and more conflicted about living in North Carolina, especially since I happen to live in one of the most Christ-haunted (as O'Connor would say) areas. I'm right smack in the middle of the Bible Belt, where Baptist Churches are as common as hungry old dogs and the word "y'all."

But don't get me wrong - I'm not against religion. I think it can be incredibly meaningful and freeing, just as long as it isn't used to justify hatred - as long as it doesn't do harm to another human being. The problem is living in my little Southern town, all the oppressive aspects of the Bible are brought to life and inflicted upon everyone, even if some people don't happen to believe in Jesus.

A good example of this is the Christian flag debacle that occurred in King last Autumn. What happened is a person realized the Christian flag at a public park was unauthorized and requested it'd be taken down. As you can imagine, the public fell to pieces. Miniature Christian flags pinned to automobiles flapped through the wind; thousands of bumper stickers proudly proclaiming "Fly the Kings Flag!" were sold; and one church even bought a Christian flag the size of a school bus and placed it in the church's lawn. There was a riot, too - the Christians swarmed through the town of King like angry hornets, spreading the love of God all over the place in the form of $1.99 flags and some poster board.

That month North Carolinians probably spent enough money on Christian flags and stickers to feed the homeless for a year. If someone went into Gullions looking for a flag, they'd more than likely be out of luck because an earlier crowd of raging Christians had already been there. Kurt Vonnegut's quote about Americans constructing their lives from things they find in gift shops always comes to mind whenever I think about the drama of last Autumn (that still hasn't entirely fizzled out yet; you still see stray flags and stickers here and there).

The conflicting feelings I spoke of earlier all arise outside of the churches - out on the street, at dinners, or when I'm enjoying the general warmth and beauty of the South. A few weeks ago I was in downtown Mount Airy with Hallie eating ice cream, and a man walked by and said how good it looked. He smiled the whole time.

Whenever I go to Peggy and Willie's house, who live right down the road from me, they never let me go back home without having a home-cooked meal. I sit at the table and Peggy makes me cornbread and Sara makes me Kool Aid and we all eat together. Whenever I was younger Sara and I would spend the afternoon exploring the woods and sneaking on top of tobacco barns. Combined we had over 200 acres to run and pick berries and swim and get lost. My feet are still tough enough to walk barefoot for miles.

And these aren't stray occurrences; where I live, this friendliness - this caring - is the norm. Say what you want about my little piece of North Carolina, but you can never call this place insincere or unfriendly. This is the South that I love and will take with me everywhere.

The problem is that I know if I were different - perhaps if I were gay or Hispanic or African-American or just extremely weird, a large majority of the people I love so much would treat me differently. And the last thing I want to do is spend my life benefitting from the oppression of others. The same Bible that tells them to be kind is the same Bible that justifies their hatred of people who aren't exactly like them. But I'm not speaking of all Christians, just those who use God to practice intolerance, which sadly makes up the majority in these parts.

But what is there to do about it? I could leave, but that wouldn't change the fact that every Sunday more little children are scared into Christianity for fear of spending eternity with flames and a devil they probably imagine to have red eyes and a pitchfork.

Arguing and debates certainly don't help, either. Since the Bible is the supreme law of the land, generally speaking, a Christian's interpretation of how its message should be handled overrides any sort of logic and reason. And to me, forcing ideas of secularism onto people of religion is just as intolerant as religious people forcing their ideas on others.

So, essentially, I'm stuck. Usually when writing, a solution comes to mind, but that just didn't happen this time. I feel guilty for adoring the South and benefitting from such harsh ideas, but leaving would not change those ideas one bit. But whenever I think about this for awhile, I come to the same conclusion Kurt Vonnegut came to when a woman asked him if she should bring a baby into this horrible, horrible world: "I would say it is still a wonderful thing. What makes life worth living are the saints I meet -- they can be long-time friends or someone I meet on a street. They find a way to behave decently in an indecent society."

For now the only solution is to wait - to look for more people like Hallie who believe it's possible to be tolerant and religious, who would strive to be a good person even if God never told them to. The only thing I know to do is to keep enjoying the warmth and passion of the south and to continue to stand up for those who aren't as free to do so.

The best place in the world:

2011-06-06T20:00:00.000-07:00

things my parents talk about on Saturday mornings

2011-06-04T09:50:00.000-07:00

"How many types of toothpaste are they gonna come out with? Wal-mart already has a whole damn aisle of toothpaste. I just buy whatever is cheapest."

"Me, too. That's what I do. I just buy what's cheapest."

"That Ultra bright."

"Yeah, Ultra bright."

Why I now love science!

2011-05-31T14:41:00.000-07:00

I've always had a strange relationship with science. When I was younger, I absolutely hated it. Not because I thought it was boring, but because for me, examining life on such an intricate level meant sacrificing my ability to see beauty within it. I saw no point in picking apart nature and giving unpronounceable names to the parts that make up a leaf; there was never any reason to explain the moon. Selections from Thoreau's journals constantly gave my feelings life and form, and I held onto them tightly throughout all of my High School Biology and Physical Science courses. Thoreau and I felt that science is the often like the grub which, though it may have nestled in the germ of a fruit, has merely blighted or consumed it and never truly tasted it (7 March 1859).

At the beginning of the summer all of this changed when I decided to re-read* the book Phantoms in the Brain by V.S. Ramachandran. My decision was revolutionary because in this particular book, Ramachandran makes the topic of science an existential one. The book sat on my shelf for ages before I actually read all of it again, but the day I picked it up, I felt I was tossed into a brand new truth-seeking journey that I had never even wanted to be a part of. Using science and poetry combined, Ramachandran's book (in an extremely simplified way) explains tiny pieces of what it means to be a person. Immediately after I finished Phantoms in the Brain, I wanted more. (I learned quickly that any answers found within the world of Neuropsychology come equipped with a bag of questions.) I kept asking myself:

How much of who I am is pre-determined by genetics?

How much of who I am is shaped by experiences?

How involved am "I" in making my own decisions?

Where do my words and ideas and memories come from?

How can I think without knowing how it happens?

How can I move without knowing how it happens?

How can I talk or sing or love without knowing how it happens?

And so the journey began.

In my studies thus far (keep in mind that I'm writing this as a person who has barely skimmed the surface of knowledge to be gained about the complicated machinery of the human mind), I've learned about many unsettling aspects of the brain. What we've always thought of as the soul - ourselves in a cohesive spirit that eventually exists the body - actually comes in damageable, examinable parts. The brain and the mind are one and inseparable. When Phineas Gage was working on the railroad and had an iron rod shot through his frontal lobe, his family members found that he was never quite the same again. He had became angry, short-tempered, and irresponsible. These concepts - the idea that a person can lose such a large portion of their identity simply by damaging a portion of their brain, that the soul can fall apart and break down in pieces - are the most uncomfortable parts of learning the science and philosophy of mind.

But, while reading and reading and reading some more, I've also stumbled upon several interesting studies that reveal the sincerity and beauty of human nature. The pessimists who claim that love is merely lust atop of more lust, for example, are partially mistaken. Love is a messy sea of hormones and emotion and sexual attraction, but it also involves the same sort of deep attachment that occurs when mothers and babies bond. Humans really can need one another; our minds are wired to connect.

And now even evil can be mapped out. The actions of those who have no moral compass, like Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy - can be at least explained in part by examining the size and function of the Amygdala (what controls fear and allows us to feel empathy) and the prefrontal cortex (what is most involved with decision-making). Psychopaths can harm others so easily because they do not feel the pain in another person within themselves. Feeling sympathy is impossible. What this means is there is no longer any need to philosophize over the good or evil nature of humans because science shows us people neither good nor evil: we are complex and shaped by the shapes of our minds.

What makes Neuroscience so wonderful is the way it forms an inseparable connection with philosophy and human nature. Love and sadness come in the form of chemicals and hormones; our memories are scattered about everywhere – different types in different places; and a map of all our whole entire body – our fingers and toes and legs and arms - exists on the brain, and little balls of energy that travel at speeds of 90 feet per second tell our bodies how to move.

Still, knowing all this, it's important to keep in mind that so much of science involves the naming and discovering the nature of different elements. Knowing that feeling in love involves the activation of different hormones does not change the nature of being in love. It merely picks apart the feeling and names all the little pieces and explains how they work. People are intricate and beautiful and complex. Language is our invention. It's important to remember that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. In other words, knowing all the parts that make up a banjo or guitar or piano does not change the beauty inside the music they create.

*The first time I read this particular book, I was much too narrow-minded to accept the information being presented, so it never really stuck with me.

Early Morning Portraits of a Wintry Kitchen

2011-05-17T18:21:00.001-07:00

A collection of haiku poems

I.

As blood fills all limbs

After a night of sleeping,

The sun, too, wakes up.

A morning with air

As damp as cold bath water

Spills about the day.

Eighty-two sixteen

Rutherford Street sits next to

The used mattress store.

The tiny white house

Has pear trees and an old dog

Making sure it’s safe.

II.

Smoke surrounds the red

Chair, yellow table, and fridge.

It hides the kitchen.

The kind grey haired man

Has an old heart that likes to

Swallow people whole.

His wife, a joyous,

Plump, robe-wearing soul, has just

Misplaced her false teeth.

Newspaper headlines,

A little cup, and warm food

Appear as smoke fades.

III.

Drenched in cold sunshine,

He devours his eggs, and

She drinks her coffee.

Both crispy and bright,

Happiness, it seems, has found

Its way to their home.

scraps collected over the years

2011-05-02T15:15:00.000-07:00

♥

2011-05-01T15:36:00.001-07:00

Today Paul got “fixed!” We had to pick him up from a van that was full of other babies who had also gotten fixed. I felt so inadequate standing in a circle of ladies who all had at least seven kitties each, but I am well on my way to becoming a crazy cat lady, too! The best part, besides seeing people’s reactions when they found out their cats were actually girls, was hearing a list of names called like Fluffy Atkinson, Bigfoot Childress, Powderpuff Edwards, and then my little Paul Martin! All the old ladies told me that was a weird name.

The meaning of OW!

2011-04-29T18:10:00.000-07:00

Today I was walking downtown in Winston-Salem, and I heard this behind me:

SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE YOUR BOOTY

WOOOO YEAH SHAKE THAT BOOTY

YEAH BOOTY SHAKIN’ OWWWW

and I thought, “surely he isn’t saying that to me!”

But then it kept getting closer…

And then he was beside me! But he just kept walking and singing!

Then he looked at me and said SHAKE YOUR BOOOTAY……OWWWWW!

And I didn’t know what to say, so I said “who me?”

And he went on the longest rant about how he wishes he knew what they meant when they said OOOOWWW! and how he was so young when that song came out, but one day he was going to get enough money for that CD and he was going to figure out what they meant when they said OOOOWWW!

And then we got to a crosswalk, and he went OOWWW! one last time and went the other way.

It was one of my favorite moments ever.

2011-04-27T13:10:00.000-07:00

I just saw a group of old ladies bending over and standing back up repeatedly in the grass, and I thought, "well, maybe they're looking for Easter eggs!"
It's a silly thought, but it's the first thing that came to mind. And then I realized that Easter was last Sunday, and I felt overwhelmingly sad.
It's so perfect that I re-read Slaughterhouse-Five last week because this quote sums up my life so perfectly: “The time would not pass. Somebody was playing with the clocks, and not only with the electric clocks, but the wind-up kind, too. The second hand on my watch would twitch once, and a year would pass, and then it would twitch again.”

Kites

2011-04-07T22:03:00.000-07:00

Today I told my mom I wanted a kite, and she told me I’d never been a kite person. “It’d get stuck in a tree and hang there for weeks,” she reminded me, “or the string would get all tangled.” And she's right. So I'm leaving this post here, just as a reminder, that I'm just not a kite kind of gal.

2011-04-06T22:12:00.000-07:00

After tomorrow, I will be one week closer to freedom. This means that in a few more weeks I:

will never have to take another math/science class again.
can finally read all I want. I can read about the most glorious things! I can read without feeling irresponsible.
can devote tons of time to political "activism."
won't need insane amounts of soda-pop just to stay awake all day.
can go everywhere!
can finally be nocturnal again. Well, without having to pay for it.
CAN SLEEP ALL SUMMER!

Anyway, I needed motivation, so there's that. Goodnight!

2011-04-04T17:55:00.000-07:00

Today Hallie pulled me all the way to her car by my wrist. Our bookbags were causing us to hunch, and our laughter spilled onto the air like water that splashes and falls out of a toddler's cup the first time he tries to drink all by himself. I'm realizing that right now we are stuck in the most beautiful eras of our lives - the time between adulthood and childhood; we're skeptics, but not so much that beauty is impossible to see, and we are still free to be as silly and chirpy as we please.

Sometimes I try to imagine what my life would be like if I'd had never chosen to attend the Early College. The thing that always scares me the most is that one tiny, wrong (well, I never would've known how wrong it was) decision could've kept me from my "twin soul" and my best friend in the whole world.

2011-03-25T17:27:00.000-07:00

This didn't get to happen nearly enough this year.

2011-03-23T21:12:00.000-07:00

Blues the Morning After a Slumber Party (a very liberal villanelle)

Leaving looks like a blue Oldsmobile –
Oversleeping, a horn,
A dust-followed speck falling over a hill.

“Rise at dawn- real early - please, if you will,”
Said my mother who would not wait (could not wait)
In her blue Oldsmobile.

And though the sun was awake, my body was still.
You guess what my mother became!
A dust-followed speck falling over the hill.

Wet grass cut my feet, and my heart was plum ill,
But I ran and I ran
After that blue Oldsmobile.

“Please, mother, please. Just keep the car still!”
But she would not wait, for it was too late:
She was a dust-followed speck falling over the hill.

My mother never looked back: no salt, fire, or kill-
Just little old me, feeling like I might spill,
Thinking, “leaving looks like a blue Oldsmobile –
Like a dust-followed speck falling over a hill.”

Hallie Elizabeth Fields.

2011-03-05T22:20:00.000-08:00

I only titled this blog "Hallie Elizabeth Fields" because we both hate when people do that - write whole names for dramatic effect - and I knew she would understand. Hallie is really the most wonderful person I know. She's so under-appreciated, so smart and so sentimental in the loveliest ways. It will be her birthday in a few days, and we can never believe how old we are when we really think about it.

Whenever I do really think about it, I'm always glad I've been able to spend all of my time being old with her. She will be the first person I live with when I move away from home. She is my keeper, and she is the only other person in the world to experience an Acsuf high. We've already made our dorm rules; number one is "always love ACSUF." There are so many animals named after that silly band: a turtle, a fish, a goat...

I'm so glad we will not be separated as so many best friends are while transitioning from high school to college. There's still so much we need to do. I want to learn how to knit (or crochet) with her, hear more of her stories, stroll across college campuses with her while giggling and answering her questions about whether or not people think we're best friends (how could they not think that?), share books with her, scrapbook with her, cry with her at graduation, and stay up all night laughing and ranting about politics and feminism and boys.

I truly feel in my heart that life would be miserable without her. We've discussed this many times before, often after people have told us we are too dependent on one another, but who better to be dependent on than your best friend? It's so nice, in a way, to have someone to be dependent on without being afraid of their leaving or betrayal.

In one of her sentimental cards to me, which I always love so much, she sent a picture of us in the snow and said we looked like two people who had our whole lives ahead of us. I've always loved that. I love the idea of us having our lives ahead of us together. Hallie with her life, me with mine, and both of them together - being flighty and silly and happy...

2011-03-05T18:26:00.000-08:00

"Leaving looks like a blue Oldsmobile."

When I was younger I always hated for my mom to leave for bingo. I would stand in front of her, hold onto the car by the windows, cry, tell her that bingo shouldn't be more important, and eventually, give up. My mom always left, and my dad would have to spend his afternoons consoling a crying kid, which I hated. I hated to be consoled, and I mostly still do.

My experiences with my mom and her bingo were no different from any kid being upset when a parent leaves for work, so why do I still feel so sad when I think about her car driving away without me all those times?

One day we were both in the middle of my road, her in her car and me in bare feet, and I was in the middle of one of my normal fits. I made a funny face, though, one I had never made before, and my mom laughed. It's one of the few memories I have of her sincerely laughing and sounding happy. She told me to go show my daddy the face I had just made.

"You'll me leave while I'm doing that," I told her. I was probably still holding onto her halfway-down car window.

She assured me she wouldn't, so I ran between my pear trees, onto the front porch, and showed my daddy the face. He wasn't as amused as my mother, but I think he at least smiled.

The strange thing about that was, even though I fully believed she would be gone when I ran back outside to her car, her little blue Oldsmobile was still there waiting for me. I got to see her and whine to her for a little bit longer. Of course, she did leave for bingo only a few minutes later, but the fact that she didn't drive away even though she had the chance has always meant a lot to me.

A conversation....

2011-02-19T23:02:00.000-08:00

One Sunday nobody was at home but me and my nanny, so we had a tea party with soda and my mom's antique tea cups. I recorded us talking so I would never forget it. Today I found the cassette tape that had our conversation on it.

Me: Tell me a story.
Nanny: Tell you a story?
Me: Yeah, tell me a story.
Nanny: Once upon a time, there was a little girl. And her name was.....
Me: TRACIE!
Nanny: huh?
Me: her name was Tracie!
Nanny: Huh. And she didn't have very much money. And she went out and.....uh.. she went out and bought a little thing like this [my tape recorder] that you could hear the radio on. And I used to play it. And..... that's about all I remember.
Me: What was her favorite song?
Nanny: Uh.....
Me: What was your favorite song?
Nanny: Uh... let's see. What was my favorite?
Me: Yeah. What's your favorite song now?
Nanny: Let's see.... what was her favorite? I don't know that she had one!
Me: But what was your favorite song?
Nanny: What was my favorite?
Me: Yeah, yours!
Nanny: Darlin', oh my darlin', clementine... I guess that's the only thing I can think of.
[Laughter]
Me: Tell me another story!
Nanny: You mean! You want another one after that one?
Me: Yeah.
Nanny: Golly Ned. That's... glutton for punishment.
[Laughter]
Well.... (pointing at the tape recorder) automatic stop. I'm glad that's automatic.
Me (while laughing): I love you, Nanny.
Nanny: I love you too.

♥

2011-02-10T21:46:00.000-08:00

What makes me think of you: books, Lyndon B. Johnson, the future, religion, chinese food, blue cars, Ohio and Indiana and sometimes Arkansas, love letters, basketball, Bradley Hathaway, the extra room in my bed, milkshakes, songs about love, cake and pie, history, cream puffs, waterfalls, passion, reason, happiness, Bob Dylan, the future, It's a Wonderful Life, hand-holding, Ron Swanson, craisins, red balloons, book stores, bus stations, Ramen noodles, christmas, being tucked in, penguins, kitchen floors, Toy Story, peaches, Kurt Vonnegut, love in general, Only Skin, belly aches, smiling, the future, laundry, airplanes, my creek, philosophy, staying up all night, hip hop, black friday, goodwill, apple cider, the Beatles, ice cream, basements, Woody Allen, Chickfila, summer, spring, winter, fall, waking up, and the future.

♥

Early Morning Portraits of a Wintry Kitchen

2011-02-10T21:12:00.001-08:00

Things with feathers

2011-02-10T19:34:00.000-08:00

In elementary school the bus dropped me off every evening at exactly 3:30 PM, and I would always shed my backpack and jackets and sneakers in the doorway, and my mama would always say, "You're going to have to get out of that habit one of these days.”

She wanted me to quit making messes because she didn’t want my daddy to have to plow through "all that" when he got home from work. He drove a black pick-up truck at the time, and whenever I heard that old thing pulling into the driveway, I knew I'd have to be on my best behavior. He was always a little cranky right after work.

After my mother would finish with her fussing, I'd ignore her and walk to the kitchen or pet our cat, leaving that forbidden mess right in the middle of the floor. Of course, she would follow behind me, usually with an old rag in her hand, saying something along the lines of, “I can’t keep picking up after you, Tracie!”

And right after that - probably not even five minutes after she decided she didn't want to pick up after me anymore - she’d pick up my backpack and jackets and shoes and put them in my room for me.

The whole time I would be drinking Pepsi from a styrofoam cup or petting the cat again, probably watching her make the trip from the doorway to my room.

One thing I always loved was that even on the coldest of afternoons, my house always smelled like sunshine and Pinesol mixed with my mother’s cigarette smoke. The living room was always so bright.

Sometimes on exceptionally sunny days, my mother and I would stand at the screen door and look for cardinals until my daddy got home from work. Even though she has never much appreciated the poetry of Emily Dickinson, my mother does, in her own way, believe in the correlation between hope and things with feathers. Whenever we’d see a cardinal on the branches of our pear trees, she’d tell me to make a wish, and I’d always secretly wish for her to live longer than me because living without her was my biggest fear in the world.

Today I was thinking about that when I came home from school, and I realized I still haven't done much cleaning up behind myself, and living without her is still something I will never be prepared to do.

The only thing that has changed is the Pinesol and the truck and the jackets and the size of my shoes. And I just wish it could always stay that way.

2011-02-06T20:07:00.001-08:00

When was writing ever your profession? It’s never been anything but your religion. Never. I’m a little over-excited now. Since it is your religion, do you know what you will be asked when you die? But let me tell you first what you won’t be asked. You won’t be asked if you were working on a wonderful, moving piece of writing when you died. You won’t be asked if it was long or short, sad or funny, published or unpublished. You won’t be asked if you were in good or bad form while you were working on it. You won’t even be asked if it was the one piece of writing you would have been working on if you had known your time would be up when it was finished…I’m so sure you’ll get asked only two questions. Were most of your stars out? Were you busy writing your heart out? If only you knew how easy it would be for you to say yes to both questions. If only you’d remember before ever you sit down to write that you’ve been a reader long before you were ever a writer. You simply fix that fact in your mind, then sit very still and ask yourself, as a reader, what piece of writing in all the world Buddy Glass would most want to read if he had his heart’s choice. The next step is terrible, but so simple I can hardly believe it as I write it. You just sit down shamelessly and write the thing yourself. I won’t even underline that. It’s too important to be underlined. Oh, dare to do it, Buddy! Trust your heart.

From Seymour: An Introduction

About my cats: Part One

2011-02-03T16:44:00.000-08:00

For their papa who wishes he knew them better!

Mary Marie Martin
Mary is the prettiest little lady I've ever seen. She always tip-toes across the floors of my house as if she were walking on kitten-sized heels. Sometimes she will sit in my lap, but I am never ever allowed to pick her up. If I try to hold her, she smiles and politely (but assertively) makes her opinion on the matter known by finding her way back onto the floor. She's lovely and graceful and noncommittal and happy. Her favorite toy is a tiny red and green Christmas mouse that has catnip inside of it. Her face always looks curious and excited, and she is almost always sneaking into the refrigerator when someone opens the door. Also, she is the kitty who first decided that climbing to the tops of Christmas trees is a worthwhile art for kittens to master.
One of my favorite things about Mary is that she will eat anything. Roast beef I drop on the floor, fat free yogurt, pancakes, lady bugs, anything. Her appetite knows no boundaries; she is not a picky eater, and I love that.

2011-01-29T20:16:00.001-08:00

When it comes to religion* (or a lack thereof), there are two very important ideas that I simply can never accept. The first is that God - a god, any god - exists somewhere. The second idea is that a god does not exist. Both of these concepts are equally absurd to me, and being stuck in the middle - having neither belief nor non-belief - is just so darn awkward and unsettling.

Also, when I say the idea of God existing/not existing is absurd to me, I don't mean it in a scientific/theological way at all. That is a whole different matter. This one is entirely personal.

If I were to pray, would I honestly feel like someone was listening? That is what this is like. Years of Bible study never made me feel any less alone while praying.

*I apologize for another post about religion, especially since my thoughts on the matter are always poorly written and unpoetic.

2011-01-28T18:09:00.000-08:00

Whenever I have biology homework, I do everything in the world to avoid it. This list is one of the ways I avoided reading about the respiratory system tonight. These are, in my opinion, the 50 loveliest songs of all time.

The Geese of Beverly Road - The National
Go Long - Joanna Newsom
Graceland - Paul Simon
Into the Stream - The Tallest Man on Earth
Dakota - Bradley Hathaway
The Sea and the Rhythm - Iron & Wine
Song For a Lover of Long Ago - Justin Vernon
Relief - Chris Garneau
Caravan - Van Morrison
You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go - Bob Dylan
Blindsided - Bon Iver
Winged Spirit - Tall Tales And The Silver Lining
Mary - Bradley Hathaway
Val Jester - The National
Sleeper 1972 - Manchester Orchestra
I Feel it All - Feist
Jersey - Mayday Parade
Woman at the Well - Sufjan Stevens
Don't Think Twice, It's All Right - Bob Dylan
Carry Me Ohio - Sun Kil Moon
Oh My Sweet Carolina - Ryan Adams
New Storms for Old Lovers - La Dispute
Safe Travels - Peter and the Wolf
Leaving Green Sleeves - Leonard Cohen
All I Need - Radiohead
Coffee - Entire Cities
Lord I Hope This Day is Good - Don Williams
By and By - Lay Low
We Looked Like Giants - Death Cab For Cutie
Comptine d'un autre été - Yann Tiersen
On the Beach - Neil Young
Re:stacks - Bon Iver
Inch of Dust - Future Islands
Silent Signs - DeYarmond Edison
These Old Shoes - Deer Tick
Fur Elise - Mozart
Oh Comely - Neutral Milk Hotel
America - Simon & Garfunkel
Sittin' On the Dock of the Bay - Otis Redding
Only Skin - Joanna Newsom
The Weight of Lies - The Avett Brothers
Up on Cripple Creek - The Band
Give a Little Love - Noah and the Whale
Sore - Annuals
Tea for the Tillerman - Cat Stevens
Little Girl - Robert Francis
Walk Little Dolly - Dionne Warwick
Of Angels and Angles - the Decemberists
In These Arms - The Swell Season
Angelika - Devendra Banhart

2011-01-28T08:55:00.000-08:00

I know it's probably wrong to hold a grudge against a certain religion because of my experiences with it, but right now I can't seem to separate the two. I know good things happened when I was a Christian, and I met so many good people, too, but that doesn't seem to matter now. Now whenever I think about Christianity, all I can think about is oppression, intolerance, bribery, and fear. I know I'm being unfair, but I just can't help it.

2011-01-23T21:37:00.000-08:00

"It was late, and we were tired.

We assumed there would be other nights.

Anna's breathing started to slow, but I still wanted to talk.

She rolled onto her side.

I said, I want to tell you something.

She said, You can tell me tomorrow.

I had never told her how much I loved her.

She was my sister.

We slept in the same bed.

There was never a right time to say it.

It was always unnecessary.

The books in my father's shed were sighing.

The sheets were rising and falling around me with Anna's breathing.

I thought about waking her.

But it was unnecessary.

There would be other nights.

And how can you say I love you to someone you love?

I rolled over on my side and fell asleep next to her.

Here is the point of everything I have been trying to tell you, Oskar.

It's always necessary.

I love you,

Grandma"

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

raisons d'être:

2011-01-17T00:27:00.000-08:00

An Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close inspired list!

Books
"la possibilité de créer"
Beauty, though that covers nearly everything on this list
Love, since I'm being obvious
Mary, Paul, Arthur, Sassy, and Sary
Music
Teachers
My creek
Sharing Milkshakes
God, whoever He is
My best friend, Hallie
My Micah
People
Empty notebooks
Full notebooks
Mrs. Tucker. my favorite Sunday school teacher
The ocean
Travel
Victoria Dawn Tesh
The plays of Tennessee Williams
Trips to Goodwill with Hallie
North Carolina
My 8th grade English teacher
Anything that's warm: sunshine, mittens, blankets, people
Cream puffs
Oxford commas
Going for rides in Baby Blue
Waiting at stoplights in Baby Blue :)
Banjos
Humanism
Larry, my favorite bus driver
His one tooth
Woody Allen movies
The Aristocats
Smiley strangers
Searching for books at thrift stores with Micah
Kurt Vonnegut
Shoals Elementary School
Death
Poetry
All-nighters
The National's "Alligator"
Future combined book collections
My mother

2011-01-15T18:17:00.000-08:00

"I still see you inside of this god awful house. You move awfully quiet now. And I still feel you everywhere."

These Things Were Lost

2011-01-13T18:06:00.000-08:00

A "found" poem

Water and earth,
the good sky over it.
These things were lost,
and Ma smiled sadly.
Secret gardening in the evenings,
water carried in a rusty can:
leave the weeds around the edge;
leave some big weeds.
Cars rolling over the highways,
rattlesnakes,
the feral hunger,
the gnawing, tearing hunger.
And Ma smiled sadly.

Days to Shape the Days Upon

2011-01-06T21:39:00.001-08:00

"Trousers rolled to the knee but still they got wet. They tied the rope to a cleat at the rear of the boat and rowed back across the lake, jerking the stump slowly behind them. By then it was already evening. Just the slow periodic rack and shuffle of the oarlocks. The lake dark glass and windowlights coming on along the shore. A radio somewhere. Neither of them had spoken a word. This was the perfect day of childhood. This is the day to shape the days upon."

-Cormac McCarthy, The Road

I know nobody would ever read all of this, but here is a list of days I never want to forget about. My future self will be very thankful for this one day. :)

The day Hallie and I went shopping together for the first time and bought Pocahontas and Snow White barbies from the Disney store. That was the day I wore a yellow and blue polka dotted "Idiot Box" shirt and we tried on silly hats. They were the Red Hat Club ones. An old lady took a picture of us wearing them.
The day I spent all day on my sofa reading Into The Wild. It was my summer reading project. That was the day I fell in love with reading.
The day I saw The Rocket Summer live for the first time. Hallie and I stood outside all day waiting. I had to push her over the barricade during the second band because the crowd was too rough. I think that was also the day we became good friends with Shacana and Liz. I met Bryce Avary and said goodbye to him way too many times.
The day I spent all day at the Greensboro airport reading and writing down the conversations of people. It was rainy and I was sad, but I still felt happy in a heavy way. I drank so much mocha from one of those $1 coffee machines. I said goodbye to a person I had needed to say goodbye to for a long time.
The day I was fishing with my grandparents and my dad and our boat flooded. We were on my grandpa's fishing boat, out in the ocean, not far from a little island, and a huge speedboat flew by us and filled our boat with water. It started to sink, so we had to take buckets and empty all the water out of the boat. It was so salty. We never even caught any fish.
The day my mother drove Hallie and I to Virginia to see Bradley Hathaway. It was Autumn, and I accidentally hit the "avoid highways" button when I got our directions. So we drove for hours on back roads, probably blaring awful music and giggling. Some of the roads we went on weren't even paved. Our drive took forever, but it was so wonderful, and seeing Bradley is always the best.
All the days I spent at Livin' Lattes with friends. The one on Main street and the one behind Wendys in Pilot Mountain. Hallie and I would always sit outside and giggle and wait for people to approach us. The only band we ever really watched was ACSUF, but it all seems so lovely in hindsight.
The day I spent walking through Kernersville with Victoria. We went to a craft store and a dollar store. I found a book of all of Paul Simon's lyrics, and we bought Obama socks. Shane picked us up after that and we went to see a play at her school.
The day my mother heard rumors about the Wal-Mart in Galax being better than the one in Mount Airy and decided we should go to that one instead. Our drive there lasted an hour, but it was Autumn and everything was beautiful, the mountains and the highway. Once we got there, the Wal-Mart wasn't any different; the prices were even the same, but neither of us regretted going at all.
The day we got book orders back in second grade. Of course, I don't remember what day it was, but my mother somehow placed an order without me knowing, so every thing my teacher gave me was a surprise. Book orders were the light of my life in Elementary school. I remember there being Clifford-shaped erasers. I know know they're a strange thing to feel fondly about, but I think I've always loved erasers because they remind me of that day and my mother and book orders. I also remember my dad picking me up early that same day and us driving to West Virginia to see my grandmother. I kept falling asleep, and I hated when I fell asleep in his truck when we were going somewhere. He knew I hated it, too, so whenever I woke up, he'd laugh and say, "have a nice nap, Taterhead?"
The day Micah drove from Ohio to my house to spend a week with me last summer. I met him at McDonalds because I didn't want him to get lost trying to find my house. There was a thunderstorm that evening, and our power was out. It stayed out for most of the night, and whenever it would flicker back on, Paul Simon's Graceland would play from the little tape player beside my bed. That night was the beginning of one of my favorite weeks of all time.
The day I was riding home from school on Larry's bus, number 134, and started reading God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater by Kurt Vonnegut. I fell in love with that book and Vonnegut and bus rides and compassion and people all over again.
The week (sorry, parallelism) Victoria and I spent at the ocean with her dad. That was the week I experienced freedom for the first time. We spent all of our days walking on the pier, buying huge lollipops from gift shops, making sure my rubber rat and her rubber lizard had a proper wedding, harassing people in arcades, and watching Billy Graham on TV at night. We were convinced all of his messages were sent from God just for us. We would make up silly stories as we were falling asleep, and none of them would be funny until the next day. Her dad didn't care what we did, so we did what we wanted, even if we got in trouble for it from adults who were not fans of our antics. That will always be one of the best weeks of my life, and I will always think of the ocean as mine and Victoria's place.
The Christmas Eve my Nanny and I decided to find a church Christmas program to go to. I don't remember how old I was, but I blew my first bubblegum bubble that night. My parents took a picture of it and I looked at it in the mirror. I felt so accomplished. We went to a little baptist church a few miles from my house for the program; it was one I had never been to before. I remember children singing, and we both got brown paper sacks filled with fruit and candy and walnuts afterwards. I got to open one gift when I got home that night. It was the Barbie I wanted, the Barbie that baked real strawberry cakes. It will always be my favorite Christmas eve.
The day Liz and I drove for four hours to Murfreesboro to see Bradley Hathaway and Backseat Goodbye. It was the longest drive ever, but we talked and laughed and ate Slim Jims the whole time, and it flew by. The town had no cell phone service, and only two other people showed up. Bradley sat and talked with us on the sidewalk and played us the songs we liked most. We only had light from street lamps. We took pictures in the grass and our "friend" Zach gave me a tattoo with salt and ice. The rest of the evening we sat outside and laughed and talked with Chad and Lauren. They snuck us into the venue and I rapped the traffic for them. It was a beautiful night.
The last sunday Micah and I woke up early to go to church. We drove to church together, listened to the sermon, came home, and sat on the kitchen floor together for a long time just because nobody else was home and we could. After that his mama had made chicken casserole, so we went to another lady's home and ate with two families of people. There was lemonade in pretty glasses and macaroni and cheese. We had cherry pie for desert. After that everyone sat on the sofas and watched football. It was normal for a sunday, but it was the most dreamy and surreal day in the world.

There will be more.

2010-12-23T20:14:00.000-08:00

I’ve felt like such a noisy little balloon deflating and flying around and going nuts inside of quiet rooms all day. It doesn’t make sense how dead everything has been lately. I need to go somewhere where people besides lunch ladies are alive. Or maybe I'll just be a lunch lady.

2010-12-23T19:23:00.000-08:00

Today third grade was much better than usual. The halls were lined with construction paper christmas wreaths and santa clauses with cotton ball beards, and it was precious. The kids were all super happy because they have an early dismissal today. When I took them on their bathroom break, one girl said, “Tomorrow is my uncle’s birthday!” and that started a chain reaction. They were all lined up yelling their stories to me as quickly and loudly as possible. It went something like this:

“Tomorrow is my uncle’s birthday!”

“Tomorrow is MY birthday!”

“Tomorrow I’m going to the Smokey Mountains!”

“I knew someone who got Smokey Mountain Spotted Fever once!”

“I watched old Yeller yesterday. He got shot!”

“My uncle ate 6 pounds of dressing on thanksgiving!”

“I ate 7 pounds of cherry pie on thanksgiving!”

And so on!

And then we were reading about Johnny Appleseed, about how he lived with settlers while he was planting orchards because he didn’t have a home of his own and moved around a lot, and several of the kids were so puzzled over why he didn’t just buy an RV to stay in. I laughed quietly to myself for three minutes.

The very best part was during Social Studies. I was working with two boys who sometimes unintentionally disrupt class because of their inability to sit still and stay calm, and one of them said, “Ms. Martin, can you help me with this? You would be a really good teacher.”

And then he looked at the other boy and said, “Ms. Martin really would be a good teacher,” and the other boy agreed.

It completely made my day.

2010-12-10T08:07:00.001-08:00

I had the scariest dream last night. When it began, I was at a playground,and a lady asked me to carry her baby. The baby was too heavy, but I ended up carrying her anyway. Later I somehow found myself at the mother's house and needed to use the phone to call my parents to get home, but I couldn't the phone to work. I went to their neighbor's house and the neighbors were all people I know in real life, only they were creepy in my dream. So I went back to the house with the baby. In the house was a family of all ladies, and even the babies were girls.

When I went back to the first house, the ladies are all in a van looking for a pair of gloves. It was very cold and dark in my dream. It felt like it does on most Halloween nights. The ladies told me to help look, and they say I can use the phone if I do. At one point, I saw my mother's car drive by, so I chased it and tried to flag it down. She didn't stop driving, though, so I had to go back to the van.

Later I looked up to see a different van stopping in the street. A soldier who is dressed like a sheriff got out, and he was wearing a very strange crown that was made of gold. There were random people walking on the street even though it was at night, and the soldier walked up to them and asked them a question. He was speaking in a different language so the people didn't understand him. So, he shot the people.

The next parts were all very vivid.

Next the soldier noticed us at the van. At first I just watched and didn't know what to do, and then I heard a gunshot. One lady yelled, "Oh god, there's a bunch of them!" and we all ducked. They all came after us. I remember the one with the golden hat standing over me and pointing his gun towards me, and all I thought about was how I was going to die. It was very strange to me that I didn't think about God or my parents or anything. I just thought about how I was going to die right then, and I covered my face with my hands.

I remember hearing gun shots and feeling bullets flying past me, but for some reason he didn't kill me. After he left a bunch of soldiers came up and stared at me.

I pretended to be dead, but I did a horrible job, but they still didn't notice I was alive, so they left.

That was where I was right before I woke up. I was on gravel with part of me under a van, thinking about how much better everything would be if I could have caught my mother when she drove by.

2010-11-21T20:44:00.000-08:00

I don’t know why I’m so afraid to explain to my mama how much I love her, to tell her that she’s the very reason I even believe in love. she’s in the other room right now ordering my cat to become a better feline: “you need to make some damn changes in your life, cat!”

My cat scratches holes in the sofa if my mama doesn’t squirt cheese on the floor. Sometimes my mama makes special trips to the grocery store simply because she knows how cranky my cat gets without her easy-cheese. This special treatment isn't just for the cat, though.

She has always fed every stray dog in our neighborhood; she’s never impartial to any of them. She sits on the porch and yanks ticks from their flesh for hours as if the cast-offs were her own children. she always brings them a slice of cheese, too. no dog - no matter how dirty, ugly, or smelly - leaves my mama’s porch without a thankful smile on his face. The ol’ mutt could have knocked up every girl dog in my neighborhood and still gotten his portion of cheese.

And once, there were a few beagles trapped in a cage a few miles up the road from my house. They would bake in the sun all day with no food, no water, no shade, no companionship; they belonged to a fella who mostly liked to drink. My mama would not (could not) sleep peacefully until she was certain of their being liberated.

She doesn’t reserve all of her love for the animals, though. She always goes out of her way to make sure I'm the happiest lady in all of pilot mountain. Sometimes she even gives up a bingo night for me, which means more than anything because everyone knows how much my mama loves bingo.

She used to drag me all around the world to see silly little bands even though I know she really didn’t want to.Driving at night hurts her eyes but she still tries her hardest to take me everywhere. My mama hurts a lot, and sometimes it seems as if her own blood and lungs were made to spite her. She smiles, nonetheless, and I admire her even more for that.

It's impossible to create a dam inside my mama’s heart. The love never stops; it knows no boundaries. My sister never writes, but my mama still sends christmas and birthday packages every year. It's so beautiful and scary to be loved with a love that can’t be changed or stopped. What is done out of love always happens beyond good and evil. To make my mama love me more or less would be impossible because of the infinite immensity of it all.

When William Wordsworth visited tintern abbey later in his life, the place meant so much more because he had been there once before with his sister. Everywhere I go with my mama already means so much more just because she has been there with me. My mama won’t be here forever, and that thought is so completely foreign and heartbreaking at this particular moment in time. I need her. I could spend every second of my life trying to tell my mama how much I love her, but my efforts would still be inadequate.

she is the reason for the cigarette burns in the sofas, blankets, and mattresses. She's proof that love isn't. She's my faith in humanity. She's the can of easy-cheese on my coffee table. She's the happiness of every stray; she's the happiness of every tracie.

(She is also at bingo every tuesday, thursday, friday, and saturday.)

I love my mama.

2010-11-14T22:12:00.000-08:00

Today i rode the bus to school and laughed and listened to the lovely people in the seat behind me sing and play guitar, and tomorrow i’m bringing my harmonica. i got to school and saw my favorite lunch lady and laughed with her because i dropped my money all over the place. next, i went to english and laughed with tasha because she was so completely spastic and in the best mood ever and it was wonderful. after that, i went to psychology and blake refused to eat any of my caramel popcorn. he never likes the food i have. and then it was time for spanish, which i’m sure would’ve been funny as well, only it was canceled. so i got to spend all afternoon laughing with my best friend, and she is my very favorite person to laugh with. after school, i hung out with friends and ate at olive garden and went to the mall, and none of us could eat our breadsticks from laughing so hard. and then i didn’t have enough money so they bought my gloria jeans coffee for me and we rode in kiddy rides. daniel gave me his mint from olive garden. they are the best people in the whole world. and when my mom picked me up from victoria’s, she kept pretending to sing along to every song i played so i kept changing it until i found an instrumental one. and she still sang along. thus, we laughed the whole entire car ride home. it is impossible for me to ever be sad with so many wonderful people around me at all times. and plus hallie and i saw liz in her little yellow car and sang “you’re beautiful” while falling off the sidewalk. she completely made our day.

123 Yo Mama Lane

2010-11-12T15:38:00.001-08:00

What I Learned From an Early Thanksgiving Dinner:

1. If your aunt Valerie starts smoking a joint in the front seat on the drive home from dinner at your grandmother's house, gulping all the air in the car will not really do anything to the contents of your brain at all. You will just feel silly for making yourself breathe harder than a flounder in an old bucket for so long, and whatever Ke$ha song happens to be playing on the radio will still sound entirely uninspiring.

2. Eleven year olds DO know how to spell "douche bag," so don't even ask them to prove their abilities to you.

3. Sitting at a table full of grown ups will not make you like turkey, cranberry sauce, peas, corn, stuffing, gravy, candied yams, or mashed potatoes any more than you did before. Especially not mashed potatoes. Please just never even try to eat mashed potatoes no matter where you are or who you are with. They are just no good.*

5. If you are like me and realize you still do not like thanksgiving food even as an adult, planning an elaborate scheme to take your tray into the kitchen, throw it away, and swap it out with a new tray -- a tray with better food on it -- will not work.

Your aunt will ask, "what happened to my candied yams, tracie?," and you won't have a clue what to say, and then your whole family will notice your tray has changed, and everything is questioned.

You will ultimately get in trouble for throwing your food away instead of saving it for the old strays back at home on the front porch. After all, every real adult understands the importance of saving candied yams for hungry dogs.

4. The best way to play basketball while wearing pantyhose -- the only way, in my opinion -- is sitting in front of a computer, using the space bar to shoot. Any other way simply does not work.

5. Do not accidentally search for something in google images when you mean to search google maps. Today my dad and two nephews decided to look for their homes on the map section, and Justin, my little nephew, asked my older nephew what their address was. Ashton, being the thug he is, said "123 Yo Mama lane." Of course my little nephew actually googled that, with the safe search off and everything, and he did not see very pleasant images.

I was sitting at the kitchen table - the adult table - when I heard my nephews slam the screen of their computer down as quickly as possible, while my dad awkwardly laughed and said "that is not the yo mama lane you were looking for." And it certainly wasn't.

6. Everything.... everything is worth it for the cake.

*Here is what I don't understand about mashed potatoes, if you were curious: I like spaghetti, pears, macaroni salad, roast beef sandwiches, and cake. I also like potatoes. However, I would not like mashed spaghetti, pears, macaroni salad, roast beef sandwiches, or cake. What makes potatoes so special? Absolutely nothing.

My Sadie

2010-11-07T19:24:00.000-08:00

The only time I can recall ever being fond of dogs is during my childhood. Age seems to have turned me into a very neglectful dog owner, even though I've only ever actually considered one dog, Sadie, to be mine.

When I first met Sadie, I was four years old and had recently moved into a double-wide in the middle of the woods. The patch of trees behind my house seemed to be the size of a national forest, and I remember roaming through those ten acres like a Meriwether Lewis-William Clark hybrid on a sugar rush. I was determined to prove that my woods were full of treasures: old deer stands for climbing in, a little cottage made of candy, arrowheads left behind by native Americans, and so on. You might be surprised to know that a little red dog was my only worthwhile finding.

I thought she was a wild animal at first. I remember running from the depths of the woods as fast as I could to find my father who was innocently fixing his pickup-truck in our gravel driveway. It was most likely a Sunday afternoon.
"DADDY," I yelled, probably jumping up and down with tears of fear and excitement in my eyes, "DADDY, DADDY, DADDY! There is a fox in our yard! I think it's a fox!"

My father was not amused.

I remember him laying his manly DeWalt gadget down on the toolbox of his truck and reluctantly allowing me to take him to where I supposed the fox was. I made him walk over briers and scrape his balding head against the branches of trees that happened to be a bit shorter than him, but what are daddies for, right?

We eventually found my "fox."

She was red, skinny, quick, and short; who wouldn't make the same mistake as me? She was friendly, too, and a fan of Kraft American cheese. In spite of my father's disapproval, I was able to lure her to my front porch without many difficulties.

I knew keeping her would be impossible without the persuasion of my mother, so I closed the gate on my porch and waited for her as if it were Christmas eve and she was Santa Claus himself. Occasionally I slipped a slice of cheese out to my Sadie.

My father has been pointlessly fighting a battle for as long as I can remember -- one that involves my mother, my front porch, me, and a bunch of old strays. Sadie was one of the first. You see, my mother absolutely adores every little critter she gets her hands on, and they always love her back just as much. My porch seems to be the shelter of every animal in our neighborhood. Birds eat from the hanging feeders; little squirrels sit outside our screen door every winter and find what the birds left behind; three dogs, as of right now, all have their very own blankets in the corner. Sadie is one of them.

My dad always throws a fit, but he knows once my mama has been around an animal for longer than five minutes there's no taking it away from her. My house is now home to five cats for that very reason. I don't know why he even argues anymore, why he doesn't just post a sign outside our house declaring it the official animal shelter of Pinnacle, North Carolina. It really might as well be.

The point I'm trying to make is this: my father and I both knew very well that as soon as my mother returned home from bingo, the little red dog would be a part of the very elastically-sized Martin family.

I named her Stacy at first. I had a skipper doll named Stacy, one with a pink bicycle, and my distaste for the name "Tracy" is not a recent development. I hated my name even as a child, and I hoped naming my dog Stacy would be a way for me to live vicariously through her much in the way a mother wants to give her child everything she never got to have. I wanted to give my dog the name I'd always longed for.

The similar sounding names quickly got confusing, though, as you probably guessed. Sadie and I were explorers: we were always in the woods looking for arrowheads and candy cottages. Only, unlike Lewis and Clark, we had separate dinner times.

My dad would yell Tracy or Stacy, and from the depths of a forest, even for the ears of a dog, the "ACY" part is most distinguishable. We would both run wildly at the thought of food, and of course, one explorer was always left disappointed and hungry.

My parents instructed me to think of a new name for her, and Sadie seemed to be the next best thing.

I had no idea where I wanted to go with this blog when I started writing it, but I knew I didn't want to turn it into a sentimental-Marley & Me-like story about the loyalty of my childhood pet, but sometimes I just gotta be sentimental. I just gotta.

For as long as I remember, just like any good dog, my Sadie was always waiting for me after school. When I was a child she was the best part about coming home. Just as soon as I had my play-clothes on, it was time for us to make our daily rounds visiting our favorite trees and streams and pine-cones. I always felt so much safer having Sadie there with me. She would always walk with me in the woods, even last year when Hallie and I adventured into the woods, Sadie stayed with us the whole time.

As I grew older, the time I spent with her grew shorter. Sadie seemed unphased, though. Even yesterday she greeted me as soon as I climbed out of my father's car after arriving home from taking the SAT. Up until today, Sadie has been there for nearly all of my arrivals home. I sincerely believe she is best dog I've ever known.

That is why I was so confused tonight when my mother told me to say goodbye to her, and I did not feel heartbroken. I hugged her, kissed her four times, told her I loved her, and left without even feeling the desire to shed a tear.

I blame my acceptance and understanding of her death on both her old age and mine.
We all know what is happening.

The pear trees outside of my house have grown so large they now need to be trimmed. When we first moved here, my mother planted a row of bushes along the walls of our house, and last week I watched my father cut them down because they had finally gotten too big as well.
Just like the greenery, I, too, feel as if I am stuck inside of an era that's meant for growing. My books no longer fit on my bookshelf, I can make an A on a math test, and I no longer need my parent's help in order to be awake in time for school.

Sadie was a major part of my childhood, and it only makes sense for it to be time to say goodbye. I know my dog is much happier now, as cliche as it is. She no longer has to worry with hot spots or tumors or dry dog food.
I love Sadie very much, just as I love those pear trees, just as I love remembering my days as a child.

What I'm trying to say is this: sometimes things are happier when they are only alive inside of memories.

" So dig up your bone, exhume your pine cone, my Sadie."

2010-10-25T23:45:00.000-07:00

Today was very unlucky. I checked the mail, and the mailbox was just as empty as it has ever been. Later, I slipped on my old shoes because I had big plans to check the mail again, only this time my mother said, we didn’t get anything today, Tracie. The mail lady came before you checked the first time. I didn’t believe her, but I should have. When I checked the mail the second time, my mailbox was even emptier than before. It should be against the law for a mail lady not to have mail for any particular mailbox. What am I supposed to do all summer if no mail, not even cigarette coupons, ever comes to our house?

Beauty

2010-10-25T14:47:00.000-07:00

Today Hallie and I were talking over our chicken tenders, and I mentioned to her, again, how much I adore the book I'm currently reading: The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. I told her if anyone I knew decided to read it and discuss it with me, I would feel uncomfortable and vulnerable, as if the contents of my very soul were being explored and analyzed and judged.

This is the first time a book has ever had such a profound impact on me, the first time I have ever been hit right in the gut so forcefully by any work of art, and of course Hallie understood entirely.

But one particular passage from the book has stayed with me for far longer than any of the others, and for that reason I feel the need to share it:

"When Sabina was working in the student brigade, her soul poisoned by the cheerful marches issuing incessantly from the loudspeakers, she borrowed a motorcycle one Sunday and headed for the hills. She stopped at a tiny remote village she had never seen before, leaned the motorcycle against the church, and went in. A mass happened to be in progress. Religion was persecuted by the regime, and most people gave the church a wide berth. The only people in the pews were old men and old women, because they did not fear the regime. They feared only death.

The priest intoned words in a singsong voice, and the people repeated them after him in unison. It was a litany. The same words kept coming back, like a wanderer who cannot tear his eyes away from the countryside or a man who cannot take leave of life. She sat in one of the last pews, closing her eyes to hear the music of the words, opening them to stare up at the blue vault dotted with large gold stars. She was entranced.

What she had unexpectedly met there in the village church was not God; it was beauty."

When I read those words for the first time, I was in the passenger seat of my mother's car riding towards Winston-Salem on highway 52. For a small portion of the journey from Mount Airy to Winston, it appears as if Pilot Mountain has been placed right in front of the highway. It looks like a barrier, like if you were to keep driving, you would eventually drive right into the mountain. And when I read the line "it was beauty," for the first time, something inside of me clicked so intensely that Pilot Mountain really could have been blocking the road, and my mother really could have crashed our car into it, and I really would not have even noticed. My thoughts would still be consumed by those words.

I blame this on the religious conflictions I have struggled with for as long as I can remember.

My parents and I moved here from Florida when I was four years old, and one of my very first memories is spotting a huge white bus in the parking lot of our town's Lowes Foods store. Of course, I was intrigued by a vehicle so large, and my one true wish became to sit on its broken leather seats and look through its tinted windows.

Luckily for us, the people who were responsible for the bus noticed my fascination and explained that it was a church bus.

They offered to pick me up on Sundays, and of course my parents had no objections. I was thrilled.

I rode to church with those people every sunday for nearly twelve years.

My mind is filled with memories of the bus: memorizing Bible verses for one-dollar bills, crawling on its floors and coming home with my "pretty white tights" covered in black dirt, listening to various bus workers read Bible stories from a children's book, spilling my Sam's Choice soda all over the floor, getting in trouble for dipping peanut butter nabs into my Dr. Thunder. And at one point, I even remember "giving my life to God," and "getting saved," as my church called it.

I had tried many times before; I would ask God, beg him even, to take my soul away from me and use it for something better. I would sit uncomfortably in my pew and watch sobbing people of all ages get on their hands and knees and ask for forgiveness and permission into Heaven.

This had never happened for me, as much as I longed for it to, and for years I wondered what exactly I was missing spiritually.

Redemption eventually happened for me, too, though.

My salvation took place at a movie theatre on July 23rd, 2007. The preacher at this particular youth conference had just given a sermon that finally seemed to reach me deeply enough for me to actually give my whole entire life away to God.

I remember being pulled to the alter, which was really a stage, and praying to God like I never had before. I remember weeping and being overwhelmingly overjoyed and feeling so complete.

It wasn't long, though, before these feelings began to fade. Doubt haunted me, and I would always run from it, using my spiritual experiences as evidence for God's existence.

How could I have felt a spiritual stirring overpowering enough to make me literally cry without a supernatural being causing it? It simply didn't make sense.

And even now, even though I have considered myself agnostic for nearly a year, none of those spiritual experiences have made sense until today.

That was, until I read the line "it was beauty."

As my mom continued to drive down highway 52 towards the mountain, I put my book down and thought of all the songs that make me want to weep simply for how lovely they are. I thought of all the books and movies that have moved me because of their beautiful love stories. I thought of the trees in Autumn and how wonderful it is to get my feet soaked in puddles while running across a rainy campus under my best friend's umbrella. I thought of how she understood what I meant when I explained my feelings about the book. I thought of how Anne Frank was still able to believe people were good at heart after experiencing something as horrendous as the holocaust, after living hidden in an attic for so long. I thought of the boy who once said my face was something worth living for. I thought of how rare but beautiful my mother's laughter is.

It was as if all at once, all of the world's beauty had fallen right into my mom's Oldsmobile. I felt so enlightened, so complete, and so happy. Even more, these feelings were not unlike the ones I had experienced in that old movie theatre the night of my salvation. They were proof that perhaps a God does not have to be behind spiritual experiences. Maybe, like Sabina, what I experienced that night was merely beauty.

And really, what isn't beautiful about love that never changes, forgiveness, community, happiness, meaning, and goodness? And even more importantly, why can't these things exist even if God may not?

The lovely things in the world - best friends, Autumn, music, mountains, love - should always be something worth sharing and appreciating, whether a higher power asks us to or not.

Of course, I am still unsure about my beliefs in God, and I probably always will be, but life should be beautiful no matter who you are living it for.