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Posted on 2010.12.07 at 22:41
Miss you all.   Lots.  Seems like everyone's gotten busy with life and blogging and twitter and all the other fun things out there.

I think it's good we've found meaning out there in real life, it validates a lot of things I think about growth and maturity.

Doesn't mean I miss any of you fun folks any less, though.

Be filled with joy and hope and love this season.

Turn off the damn news and listen to the hope of living that moves around you.

Love you,


What's your dream job? Are you qualified for it? If not, would that stop you from taking it if it were offered to you?

Hell if I know.  To all of it.

Back up a bit, I'm only doing a couple hours of massage anymore.  My wrists and hands were getting too messed up and painful all the time.  After three years, the amount of massage required just to pay the bills wasn't sustainable any longer.

So I'm three weeks into an accounting job that I really kind of hate so far.  But it pays a little bit better than anything else I can find, so I'm sticking with it.

So what's my dream job?  Hell if I know.  I'd be doing it if I did.

At this point I just want to wake up on a work day and not think of a dozen things I'd rather be doing.

The Wastelands

Posted on 2010.06.03 at 22:16
Livejournal has become some post-apocalyptic desert, at least on my end.  There are feeds that I added years ago that have a lot of content, but the people that I originally joined LJ to keep up with (and unfortunately there were many from Swimmingly that I never got around to adding---and now I don't feel comfortable saying, "remember me from a forum from ten years ago?" Does that make sense?) tend to post more than I do, but still not frequently.

It's because LJ is fundamentally narcissistic, and while that's okay in fits and starts, everyone slows down writing about themselves after a while.  Especially, it seems, once life really starts to get going.  That is the great strength of forums.  There is always something to talk about, and it's relational and interactive rather than linear and self-absorbed.  But I digress.

I miss talking to you all, not because my life is empty in any way, but because you're good people.  And for a period of my life, you've all added a deep richness.  And I miss the frequency of that.  I miss you all.

So I decided earlier today that  one of my birthday presents to myself is to stop and treasure the time shared.  And tell you all how much you matter to me.

And how much I look forward to sharing with you in the future.


Posted on 2010.01.01 at 01:26

I think about every single one of you reading this daily.  I love you guys.  I miss talking with you, in depth, so much.  I' ve got a long post about what's happened with communication and the internet brewing, and hopefully I'll get around to posting it soon.

I just hope you all have a great 2010, and things that have been waiting in the wings start to happen.

Love you all, more than you know.


Posted on 2009.09.13 at 22:08
So where have I been?

Working my butt off to pay for a custody battle.

In the last several months I have:

- been accused of child abuse, child neglect and sexual abuse of a child (all of which were found to be groundless in about 5 days)
- had multiple police reports filed based on said allegations
- been informed that the biological father was refusing to return the children after a weekend's visitation, "because of concern for their safety"
- filed emergency petitions to get the kids back, hired a lawyer, went to court, spent $2500 on legal fees
- found out that up until the night before the hearing he was stupid enough to PLAN ON REPRESENTING HIMSELF IN A CUSTODY CASE WTF!!
- watch our lawyer make him look like a complete idiot and liar in front of the entire court (and he thought he was winning the whole time, I could tell by his grin)
- got to see the shocked look on his face when the judge ordered him to return the kids by 6pm that day

We still have the hearing coming up one of these days for the long-term custody orders.  And there's a million annoying details that I'm not going to bother mentioning.  And really, I'm tired of it all.

What passes for justice sometimes is just appalling.

I hope to post some more soon, but I gotta get our heads above water first.


Posted on 2009.05.28 at 00:59
"The idea that creative endeavor and mind-altering substances are entwined is one of the great pop-intellectual myths of our time.  The four twentieth-century writers whose  work is most responsible for it are probably Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Sherwood Anderson, and the poet Dylan Thomas.  The are the writers who largely formed our vision of an existential English-speaking wasteland where people have been cut off from one another and live in an atmosphere of emotional strangulation and despair.  These concepts are very familiar to most alcoholics;  the common reaction to them is amusement.  Substance-abusing writers are just substance abusers--common garden-variety drunks and druggies, in other words.  Any claims that the drugs and alcohol are necessary to dull a finer sensibility are just the usual self-serving  bullshit.  I've heard alcoholic snowplow drivers make the same claim, that they drink to still the demons.  It doesn't matter if you're James Jones, John Cheever, or a stewbum snoozing in Penn Station; for an addict, the right to the drink or drug of choice must be preserved at all costs.  Hemingway and Fitzgerald didn't drink because they were creative, alienated, or morally weak.  They drank because it's what alkies are wired up to do.  Creative people probably do run a greater risk of alcoholism and addiction than those in some other jobs, but so what?  we all look pretty much the same when we're puking in the gutter."


"The last thing I want to tell you in this part is about my desk.  For years I dreamed of having the sort of masssive oak slab that would dominate a room--no more child's desk in a trailer laundry-closet, no more cramped kneehole in a rented house.  In 1981 I got the one I wanted and placed it in the middle of a spacious, skylighted study (it's a converted stable loft at the rear of the house).  For six years I sat behind that desk either drunk or wrecked out of my mind, like a ships captain in charge of a voyage to nowhere.
            A year or two after I sobered up, I got rid of that monstrosity and put in a living-room suite where it had been, picking out the pieces and a nice Turkish rug with my wife's help.  In the early nineties, before they moved on to their own lives, my kids sometimes came up in the evening to watch a basketball game or a movie and eat pizza.  They usually left a boxfull of crusts behind when they moved on, but I didn't care.  They came, they seemed to enjoy being with me, and I know I enjoyed being with them.  I got another desk--it's handmade, beautiful, and half the size of the T. rex desk.  I put it at the far west end of the office, in a corner under the eave.  That eave is very like the one I slept under in Durham, but there are no rats in the walls and no senile grandmother downstairs yelling for someone to feed Dick the horse.  I'm sitting under it now, a fifty-three-year-old man with bad eyes, a gimp leg, and no hangover.  I'm doing what i know how to do, and as well as I know how to do it.  I came through all the stuff I told you about (and plenty more that I didn't) and now I'm going to tell you as much as I can about the job.  As promised, it won't take long.
          It starts with this:  put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn't in the middle of the room.  Life isn't a support-system for art.  It's the other way around."

--  Stephen King, On Writing

I mostly posted this for myself, particularly the last part.  I could write something about all the pretentious self-serving B.S. that seems to float around about the creative process, but I think most of it is fleshed out in the above.  I had more to rant about it, particular the mystique that has sprung up around substance abusing artists.  The whole issue aggrevates me to the point of wanting to throw something, so I think I'm just going to post it as is.

Posted on 2009.04.02 at 15:44
Copied from a reply to miss mandapants:  (thanks for kicking me in the pants and having me type something)

Things with the fam are good, going on Monday to get the whole doctor-baby process rolling. We're very excited about another kid, we also are in the process of moving (well, packing as a precursor to moving). Some of the best news is that we're getting internerds at the new place, so I'll actually do things like post pictures and blog posts. Hurrah!


I thought my life was busy and hectic before, but since a wife and kids life is chocked full of stuff that needs to happen.


Posted on 2008.09.14 at 14:36
For the obvious:

Like many things in life that ultimately turn out to be horribly destructive, hurricanes seem really cool and fun at first.  There's lots of amazing Texas BBQ because the power is about to go out and everyone's thawing their food in the freezer.  Work and school are canceled and it almost seems like you and 2 million of your closest friends are about to all have a vacation on the same day.

Then you get a strong sense of unease as you begin to stock up on canned food, board up windows, and fill the bathtubs so you can flush toilet (hoping the sewage lines aren't broken anywhere).

You invite people over to your house so they don't have to stay in their apartment, and stay up late the night of the storm playing old nintendo games, drinking beer and telling stories until the power goes out.  Then you play board games, drink beer and tell stories until the eye actually hits.

And it is very, very eerie.  A wind storm from a nightmare, rain sideways, trees from the neighbors back yard being bent over into yours.  You know that these are the wind speeds that can take the roof off if they find a crack and the right angle.  There's a central room in the house stocked up and ready to go, and there's the wondering if 4 adults, 2 kids, 2 dogs and a cat can really last in there for a few hours if you really need it.

In the morning, trees and fences are down, the streets are flooded with debris and water.  The last gasp of summer swelter steals the rest and energy you managed to find in a few hours spent tossing and turning in the predawn hours.

I am so, so tired.  I have never been this tired and not sleepy in my life before.  The stress of survival has bled off and left a kind of numbness.

But I'm okay.  My wife and kids are okay.  The dog that we now want to give away is okay.  Our house and lawn are not, but we are, and that's what matters. 

I love you all.  *squish*

Give me a blizzard any day.

Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness

Posted on 2008.08.06 at 20:25
Somehow natural disasters always seem to be an inspiration for posting an entry.  Funny that.

So,  what have I been up to lately, you ask?  (Well, at least you all are mildly interested, I hope).  I've been seeing a girl.  A lot.  And getting to know her two kids, and loving it.

Today I went and renewed my library card, I had a $1.40 fine from over a decade ago.  Whoops.  Glad they don't charge interest.  After checking out a half-dozen books we went over to the courthouse and got our marriage license.

I'm getting married sometime in the next 30 days, which is awesome.

We've been planning to get married since the second week we were dating, which was about 7 months ago now, and we've been trying to get too many things in life lined up just perfectly.  So, come hell or high water we're getting married.

Finally, I get to get laid.

PS.  Usual stuff about computer being broken and having to borrow one, moving into a new house, possibly moving across the country (or out of the country, what's scotland like anyway?) in the next year.  Life is very good, and frightening, and I shall have pictures to post of it shortly, once I get my memory card back.

PPS.  I love you guys, and miss you, and I hope to post more often again soon.

Any honeymoon suggestions?


Posted on 2007.12.15 at 05:30
So I met a girl a while back and I'm really, really happy.  It's 5:30 am.  We just drove back from the beach.  I am sdo so tired.  Goodnight kiss was, I believe, the most breathaking thing I've ever known.  Seven consecutive nights spent together, with two more planned before I have to go on vacation for a week.

So sleepy.  Bed empty.

So in love

Posted on 2007.11.28 at 00:26
I see patterns.  In music, in nature, in relationships, in society, even in the span of life we all seem to live separate, and yet together.  It's one of the things that allows me to relate to people, to empathize with them.  It touches the worldview that allows me to be a bit cynical and still hope and dream about the future.  Underlying my interaction, though, is the feeling that I can't at all articulate how I see and interact with the world.  It's like trying to describe a kiss.  I can describe the raw passion or sweet tenderness; the breathlessness that is overwhelming no matter how many kisses I've known.  How a handful of kisses have led me to feel the most loved I've known from a person, ever.  But despite the pages I could go on and on describing it, I can't seem to truly touch how it makes me feel.

And that is how I feel when I look at patterns.  When I look back on the tangled web of events and choices that make up my life, I can point to seemingly innocuous decisions from my childhood that when tugged,  stir vibrations in who I am now.  And how certain so-called big events that were supposed to shape who I was as I became older, in fact contributed more to who I was not.  Sometimes the notes to a bridge of a song tie together the chorus and verses in such a way that I can't really imagine the components separated from each other, as if the song burst into existence all of one piece, and that it is only the limitations of the presentation that require it to be shared a line at a time.

I'm well aware that correlation does not necessarily equal causality, but at times I wonder.  And honestly, I'm quite amazed.

Posted on 2007.10.13 at 13:54
There are so many things I want to say about this, but I will say them later.  I first saw and met Jamie at an anberlin show sometime in the spring/early summer.

There were a bunch of us there, cynical twenty-somethings out looking for escape and a good show for a weekend.  Then Jamie came on stage and spoke a brief version of what you see below.  There was silence.  In the time since, when asked, "What do you think Christianity is really about?" the story of that night is what has come to mind.

Original Blog



February 24, 2007 - Saturday


by jamie tworkowski

Pedro the Lion is loud in the speakers, and the city waits just outside our open windows. She sits and sings, legs crossed in the passenger seat, her pretty voice hiding in the volume. Music is a safe place and Pedro is her favorite. It hits me that she won't see this skyline for several weeks, and we will be without her. I lean forward, knowing this will be written, and I ask what she'd say if her story had an audience. She smiles. "Tell them to look up. Tell them to remember the stars."

I would rather write her a song, because songs don't wait to resolve, and because songs mean so much to her. Stories wait for endings, but songs are brave things bold enough to sing when all they know is darkness. These words, like most words, will be written next to midnight, between hurricane and harbor, as both claim to save her.

Renee is 19. When I meet her, cocaine is fresh in her system. She hasn't slept in 36 hours and she won't for another 24. It is a familiar blur of coke, pot, pills and alcohol. She has agreed to meet us, to listen and to let us pray. We ask Renee to come with us, to leave this broken night. She says she'll go to rehab tomorrow, but she isn't ready now. It is too great a change. We pray and say goodbye and it is hard to leave without her.

She has known such great pain; haunted dreams as a child, the near-constant presence of evil ever since. She has felt the touch of awful naked men, battled depression and addiction, and attempted suicide. Her arms remember razor blades, fifty scars that speak of self-inflicted wounds. Six hours after I meet her, she is feeling trapped, two groups of "friends" offering opposite ideas. Everyone is asleep. The sun is rising. She drinks long from a bottle of liquor, takes a razor blade from the table and locks herself in the bathroom. She cuts herself, using the blade to write "FUCK UP" large across her left forearm.

The nurse at the treatment center finds the wound several hours later. The center has no detox, names her too great a risk, and does not accept her. For the next five days, she is ours to love. We become her hospital and the possibility of healing fills our living room with life. It is unspoken and there are only a few of us, but we will be her church, the body of Christ coming alive to meet her needs, to write love on her arms.

She is full of contrast, more alive and closer to death than anyone I've known, like a Johnny Cash song or some theatre star. She owns attitude and humor beyond her 19 years, and when she tells me her story, she is humble and quiet and kind, shaped by the pain of a hundred lifetimes. I sit privileged but breaking as she shares. Her life has been so dark yet there is some soft hope in her words, and on consecutive evenings, I watch the prettiest girls in the room tell her that she's beautiful. I think it's God reminding her.

I've never walked this road, but I decide that if we're going to run a five-day rehab, it is going to be the coolest in the country. It is going to be rock and roll. We start with the basics; lots of fun, too much Starbucks and way too many cigarettes.

Thursday night she is in the balcony for Band Marino, Orlando's finest. They are indie-folk-fabulous, a movement disguised as a circus. She loves them and she smiles when I point out the A&R man from Atlantic Europe, in town from London just to catch this show.

She is in good seats when the Magic beat the Sonics the next night, screaming like a lifelong fan with every Dwight Howard dunk. On the way home, we stop for more coffee and books, Blue Like Jazz and (Anne Lamott's) Travelling Mercies.

On Saturday, the Taste of Chaos tour is in town and I'm not even sure we can get in, but doors do open and minutes after parking, we are on stage for Thrice, one of her favorite bands. She stands ten feet from the drummer, smiling constantly. It is a bright moment there in the music, as light and rain collide above the stage. It feels like healing. It is certainly hope.

Sunday night is church and many gather after the service to pray for Renee, this her last night before entering rehab. Some are strangers but all are friends tonight. The prayers move from broken to bold, all encouraging. We're talking to God but I think as much, we're talking to her, telling her she's loved, saying she does not go alone. One among us knows her best. Ryan sits in the corner strumming an acoustic guitar, singing songs she's inspired.

After church our house fills with friends, there for a few more moments before goodbye. Everyone has some gift for her, some note or hug or piece of encouragement. She pulls me aside and tells me she would like to give me something. I smile surprised, wondering what it could be. We walk through the crowded living room, to the garage and her stuff.

She hands me her last razor blade, tells me it is the one she used to cut her arm and her last lines of cocaine five nights before. She's had it with her ever since, shares that tonight will be the hardest night and she shouldn't have it. I hold it carefully, thank her and know instantly that this moment, this gift, will stay with me. It hits me to wonder if this great feeling is what Christ knows when we surrender our broken hearts, when we trade death for life.

As we arrive at the treatment center, she finishes: "The stars are always there but we miss them in the dirt and clouds. We miss them in the storms. Tell them to remember hope. We have hope."

I have watched life come back to her, and it has been a privilege. When our time with her began, someone suggested shifts but that is the language of business. Love is something better. I have been challenged and changed, reminded that love is that simple answer to so many of our hardest questions. Don Miller says we're called to hold our hands against the wounds of a broken world, to stop the bleeding. I agree so greatly.

We often ask God to show up. We pray prayers of rescue. Perhaps God would ask us to be that rescue, to be His body, to move for things that matter. He is not invisible when we come alive. I might be simple but more and more, I believe God works in love, speaks in love, is revealed in our love. I have seen that this week and honestly, it has been simple: Take a broken girl, treat her like a famous princess, give her the best seats in the house. Buy her coffee and cigarettes for the coming down, books and bathroom things for the days ahead. Tell her something true when all she's known are lies. Tell her God loves her. Tell her about forgiveness, the possibility of freedom, tell her she was made to dance in white dresses. All these things are true.

We are only asked to love, to offer hope to the many hopeless. We don't get to choose all the endings, but we are asked to play the rescuers. We won't solve all mysteries and our hearts will certainly break in such a vulnerable life, but it is the best way. We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we're called home.

I have learned so much in one week with one brave girl. She is alive now, in the patience and safety of rehab, covered in marks of madness but choosing to believe that God makes things new, that He meant hope and healing in the stars. She would ask you to remember.

To Write Love on Her Arms


Posted on 2007.10.04 at 17:16

This is crossposted from my myspace, where I keep up with the people in a 20's Christian bible study group I'm a part of it.  I brought it over for grins, and because it's the only decent thing I've written in a while.

This ended up being a lot longer than I intended.  Oh well.

First a quote I've been meaning to put up for a while now , first posted on Andrew Schwab's blog:

"Repugnant is a creature who would squander
the ability to lift an eye to heaven,
conscious of his fleeting time here." --Anon.

Well, that's not exactly nice.  But I like it.  Maybe that's the reason I like it.

Life is so fleeting and so very precious that we should really take stock of what we spend our time on or put our energy into.  Not so that we can greedily grip our own selfish interests and wile away the years looking only to ourselves, but so the we may live each day seeking greater intimacy with and understanding of the divine creator who spoke the great cosmos into being, so that we may be consumed by that great infinite love to overflowing, so that it spills out onto the streets around us.

Repugnant. has many great definitions/synonyms.  Distasteful.  Offensive.  Opposition, averse.

My favorite is actually quite simple:
Logic:  Contradictory; inconsistent.

What is our nature?  What is our responsibility?  Why is it that we try everything under the sun, moon and stars to feel whole?  Why don't we learn that they're never satisfying?


Next fall I'm hoping to go to a bible college in Charlotte, NC.  It's kinda out there.  As in, when I mention which one it is to certain Christians they say, "Wait, isn't that blahblahblah?  I don't know how you can think of going there."  Or, "where?"  Or very rarely, "That place is so awesome!"

There are many, many reasons I want to go there over some of the other places available, but here's a good example.  Here's a recent bulletin from the worship leader, Leonard Jones:

As I was praying for our meeting last night I was reminded of the time when in one of our conferences, the Lord told a friend that he was going to come. On the last day we had worshiped about 8 to 9 hours with very little break, and my friend finally went home disappointed when it seemed to die down. On the last song it got so intense it seemed impossible to go higher, when a glory cloud appeared on the stage. After the meeting I phoned my friend and said; "you will not believe what just happened". After much prodding I finally told what had happened. There was a long silence and finally my friend just cussed. So my prayer last night was; "Lord do something tonight that would make the people that missed it want to cuss". He did.

This makes me laugh!  It also moves me in a way that is infinitely hard to articulate.  Several things strike me.

8-9 hours of worship.  Straight.  (and a cloud of glory!)  When was the last time I experienced 8-9 hours of worship in a week?  And why did God show up in the way he did only after all that time?  Why does God do things this way?  Why did Jesus tell the rich man to sell everything he owned and give the procedes to the poor, and then to come follow Him?  Modern Christianity would say, "Jesus was making the point of not being tied to material things."  Which is true, but totally misses the point.  Does anyone honestly think that if that young man had agreed to sell everything he owned Jesus would have stopped and said, "Son, you have proven yourself.  Therefore you may keep those riches and not sell them to feed the hungry and help the poor.  You can be the wealthy disciple."  Anyone?

Look, I'm not saying we should sell everything we all own and go start some cultish commune in east Texas.  (cause that would totally, completely, suck)  I'm not saying that God is telling us to literally follow this passage.

But what if, one day, He does?  Look around you, how hard would it be?  To give up every, single, stick of everything you own.

I think there is a fundamental principle reflected in the offering up of finances, the offering up of hours of worship, the offering up of the thing you love most that God responds to.  I think that's the reason that God has told many, many of the amazing Christians I know to give their guitars to someone.  I look at mine, and I wonder if one day God will tell me to do the same thing.  Honestly, I think it's very likely.  Mostly because I really, really don't want Him to.

We don't get the cloud of glory, brooding over us, on our own terms, by our formula.

And I have to say, I hope I have the audacity to pray prayers like that.

I was accepted to the school for the fall, but couldn't come up with the moving expenses or the tuition in time.  There's a month of classes gone by already, Harvest Festival, and who knows what else.

After reading this bulletin, there's part of me that wants to cuss.

Posted on 2007.10.04 at 15:42
Just got some news from a friend that I love dearly, of the not-so-good medical variety.

I'd appreciate it if you'd say a prayer if the thought crosses your mind for the next little while.

I'm a firm believer that God knows who we're praying about, even if we're not sure.

Hug someone you love today.

Blessings friends, thank you

Posted on 2007.10.02 at 15:46
So, in case someone hasn't heard, Radiohead is releasing their new album from their own website.  It's not on iTunes, it's not through any record label.  There are two versions, a digital download and a really amazing box set that sells for ~$80 U.S. (shipping included)

Here's the catch:  You can decide how much you want to pay for the digital download.  20 pounds?  How generous.  10?  5?  2?  Apparently even "0" is acceptable, you just pay a small processing fee and you'll be e-mailed your download code so you can get your copy on the 10th, just like everyone else.

I'm inclined to pay more than the standard price for a digital album, just because of the sheer awesomeness of this.  I hope this really works.  I hope Radiohead makes a great profit on this and this proves that consumers value good music, are willing to pay for it, and that a record label isn't really needed so much any more.

It's not like this is just some band off myspace pulling a stunt, it's freaking radiohead for crying out loud.

This makes me very, very happy.

Time mag article

Posted on 2007.09.28 at 14:46
Happy birthday miss ainj!

I hope it's a good one.

Love you lots!


Posted on 2007.09.20 at 11:32
My last blog was a total reaction to news I had just received, and really didn't get across everything I wanted it to.

First off:  Yes, I swear when I'm thinking sometimes.  And yes, I've been known to do it out loud.  Hopefully we can all still be friends?

Second, the superman comment is actually based around a conversation my father and I had years ago.  Shortly after my grandfather died we had a long conversation about the nature of fathers and men, and one of the things he told me was, "You're not going to understand this now, but there's a part of a man that never quite grows up while their father's alive.  Something changes when you realize that the man that taught you all those things about life isn't there to teach you or guide you any longer." 

I've always known my father was mortal, but I never really believed it on a visceral level, that my dad, flawed as he may be, is anything other than Superman, and that one day he could be gone.  Having that shaken is eerie.

Back when I was in highschool I used to get two IV immune system treatments a month for almost two years.  They were painful, boring, absolutely irritating and overall terrifying.  Not because of the procedure, but because I was being told that I might have to deal with it for years, possibly decades to come.  That scared me.  So I would sit in the chair for hours and read and listen to music and escape the reality that was looming.

One of those sessions, my girlfriend was there.  I sat in the chair, watching her eyes tear up when they missed the first stick with the needle and had to try again.  I had learned to block out that pain a long time ago, it was almost amusing to see someone so sensitive to it, if her discomfort with the situation hadn't been so disarming.  After the drip had started and the nurse departed the room, she came over, eyes huge, and stood looking at the IV tree and where it entered my arm.  She then crawled into my lap, so carefully, like a needle in my vein made the rest of my body a live wire, and wrapped my good arm around her.  I still remember thinking, "what am I going to hold my book with?"  She then proceeded to tuck her cheek into my chest, and with her miraculous ability to sleep anywhere, start the early deep breaths of slumber.

I sat and felt her heartbeat against my chest, and smelled the  conditioner in her hair and the deodorant that she'd put on, and underneath a scent that was intrinsincly and uniquely her.  I listened to her breathing as she drifted off.  Then I just sat there and felt her next to me.

The nurse came back to check on things, her face reflecting humor at the two of us crammed in a recliner and concern with the oddity of a patient being sat on.  After her checks, I announced I would be taking a nap as she walked out the door, and reclined the chair back, which woke the girl next to me just slightly.

She kissed me.  A kiss that was one of the most amazing I have ever known.  Not sensual or particularly chaste; it was a kiss of maturity and love that said, "even as your girlfriend, lover, best friend, there is nothing I can say or do to make this better for you.  But I will be here."

Her wedding day was quite surreal.  I was so happy for her, but the reality of it took a while to sink it.

So much of relationships is just showing up in a given situation.  So many of us focus on the "doing" or "saying" but just as important, maybe even more so is the "being".  I have many, many amazing friends but I truly miss knowing that there is someone that will be there, whether they think I'm crazy, hurting, obnoxious or just plain wrong, they'll be there.

I am so glad that I have a heavenly Father that teaches me, and a Savior that speaks to me and provides everything I've always needed.  The things that shake our lives show us how amazing and important God really is.

But today, call up your parents and tell them you love them.  Those of you fortunate enough to have a deep and meaningful relationship with someone, stop and take two minutes, and see them.  Don't say anything, don't do anything, just be there completely.

It's all about loving each other.

Posted on 2007.09.19 at 21:51
I just found out that my dad's been in the hospital the last few days.

Mild heart attack.  No heart damage, prognosis is good.  Whatever.

He started explaining and my thought/prayer process went  jesusjesusohgodohgodohshitnoohgodohgodjesusplease

My dad isn't superman?

Days like this are part of the reason I want someone to curl up with.

Posted on 2007.09.19 at 15:50
**note** This bulletin is not for those without a sense of humor ***

Avast ye' scurvy deck swabs, international talk like a pirate day it be!

What, ye say? Ye not know what that'd be, you lilly-livered landlubbers?

These here mateys be gettin' ya started...

So ye thrice-cursed bilge rats, splice the main brace and hook yerself a wench that be sharp-tounged, for talk like a pirate day does come but once a year!


Posted on 2007.09.18 at 16:02
Robert Jordan died Sunday afternoon.  "Who?" you say.  He was a fantasy writer, most notably for a 11 book epic (the 12th and final book of the series is currently incomplete) that his fans by turns loved and were endlessly frustrated with.  15+ years waiting for a conclusion will do that to you.  Everything I ever heard was that he was a most gracious VIP and was a great conversationalist with all his fans.

The funny thing is, his writing is how I inadvertently came to know all of you wonderful people from swimmy.

My first foray into an online community was a Usenet group that's stated purpose was the discussion of said series, but in reality politics, the day to day, news and crazy life experiences dominated conversation.  I found many wonderful friends there, for almost two years.  Then a series of things happened, mostly my fault, or my inability to deal with situations that I had no experience with and should have never been in in the first place, and I ended up burning some bridges and loosing some friends.

Later, when I found swimmingly, I recognized the intellect, community and fun that I had enjoyed before, but even more so.  And I stuck around and got to know people that I've come to love.  All because I read some books by some author back in high school.

Thanks RJ, you affected my life in an odd way I never anticipated.


Oh, that happy excitement I mentioned posts back?  Turned into heartache.  But I tried for it to work, which is everything, and not taking the risk would have been the greatest failure possible.

"Go big or go home" is either breathtakingly rewarding or eviscerating.  It's my favorite way to live.

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