One brownie, a glass of Shiraz, a leather couch. Then here.

Right now, I am home in my bed. I should be sleeping because I need to wake up at four to go to work, but I am not sleeping. Instead, I am blogging because - oh, how I have missed you! - and not because you are a blog or because you are the reader of a blog or even because I need people to read and "know me". I've missed the writing, the capture of details, of emotions, and meaning.

So, I will detail what is around me and then I will fall asleep (in all honesty, I really love making lists after my experimental fiction class had an assignment. Is really quite fun - would you be willing to try one?)

My phone is to my right, balanced on the upper corner of my mattress so that when it rings in the morning I have easy access to it (in an effort not to wake up my roommates). The phone is a cherry red Samsung with a small scratch beneath the "alltel" symbol and various other, slight scratches along the edges (presumably from dropping it over and again). It has a camera that does not work well.

My knees are up and my computer props against them. I'm nearly completely covered by a quilt that was made by someone very dear to me for my 20th birthday. It is colorful, with stripes of greens and yellows, blues, pinks, white, and red. The border is a dull green color with small white dots that remind me of birds.

And as special as my quilt is, what is really important is the blanket beneath my head. It props me up to read and write at night, but when I sleep it covers me. This blanket is misshapen, and one side is completely worn through. It is the blanket my Grandma Helen made out of scrap material for me when I was six or seven. She died soon afterward, and it'll be difficult to part with it when I get married. The only aspect about storing the blanket that appeases me is that if it is in good enough condition and if I have a daughter, she will be able to use it and love it like I have.

Then, I have this computer I type on.

Then, I have my engagement ring.

And, I stare at white metal rods above me. I sleep on a bottom bunk. Our room is messy.

I have tried to write tonight. There are so many, many things to talk about and there is such little mental endurance right now. And for that, I apologize. Tonight is an effort. It is not my best.

And with that, goodnight to you all. Best of dreams, best of sleep.

Approximately 1:45 p.m.

I am sitting at Barnes and Noble with my computer, checking my emails and responding to important ones and catching whiffs of my smelly feet. A man with a Venti drink saunters up to me and (in a heavy Italian accent) asks if he can interrupt. I begrudgingly abide (since all I want to do is play on the internet) and he proceeds to engage me in a conversation about Macbook computers.

"I notice you have one. You like it, yes?" Sips his coffee.

"Yes, I do."

"Can you download the different Internets for it? You know, I mean like the certain ones that have Google on them?" Leans in to look at my screen.

I minimize my webpages. "Yes, the computer actually comes with the Internet on it and you can download other ones."

"Oh!" He smiles. "That is perfect, so perfect. I was so nervous about that because, you know, I am a stupid little Mozilla boy. I like the Mozilla Firefox. What do you use?"

"Safari. It comes already on the computer."

"Oh! Good, good. I was nervous about that. I am just a stupid little - well you know, I am always on Google. Google everything - they know all about me. What about the iPhone? What do you know about the iPhone?"

I look at my red 2007 Samsung flip phone. "I know nothing about iPhones."

"Well what internet provider do you use for WiFi?"

"I am using the one for Barnes and Noble, which is the ATand - "

"Oh, yes! Yes, I see. You do not have a phone you plug into your computer and pft pft, have the Internet. I am stupid with those things, I do not know. You may know much more than me."

I itch my neck. "If you buy a Macbook you can take classes and they'll teach you how to use it. They have very good customer service."

"Oh, oh! That is good. That is wonderful. So you bought your Macbook and then you took the classes?"

"Well, actually I didn - "

"No, no! Of course not. You are too smart for those things. I am so stupid when it comes to this technology stuff. I just wsh wsh go into the computer and do not know what to do. But you recommend this Mac?"

"I, uh, yes. I do. I -"

"What, do you have the one with all the fancy things on it?" Sweeps in to look closer at my screen. There is a rail between us.

"No, I just have the basic one. But I - "

"What is different with the fancy one?" Leans back out.

"Um..more memory. Maybe another type of - "

"So you are saying I should save my money and get a Macbook, eh?"

We look at one another. I nod.

"Well yes. Yes, I am."

"You have been so helpful. Thank you, thank you!"

"You're welco-"

Walks away.

Bring your empty coffee cups, your weary minds, your bloated eyelids. Across the counter, hand us your ware, the tear of your day, and your tired burdens. Give us money for it and we can do anything for you. I look up and see you walk through the door, see you block the sun for a moment, and watch as you carry your legs and arms and core across the tiled floor to my register. You use your hands to hold yourself up at the counter and you stare at the menu. You tell me you don't even know what you want, and that is fine because I do not mind waiting. Eventually you say you just want a coffee. You just want a black coffee and no room. Just black, okay? You are so tired. I tell you how expensive our coffee can be and you breathe heavily and you give me your credit card. Let's just charge it to credit. I swipe it, you wait. Then I pour your coffee. I watch the dark liquid splash around the cup until it nears the rim and I cap it with a lid and I hand it to you and you thank me. We exchange pleasantries of, "Good luck at your job tonight" or, "You've made it through the day!" and then you leave.

I have the power to caffeinate the masses.

Where do you feel at home?

in bookstores

under my covers

in a car on a roadtrip

wherever I'm making coffee

whenever I am making food

under large oak trees

in a poolchair, in the sun

anywhere inside or outside my parents' house

with Matthew

with an idea and access to pen and paper

on a couch with a cup of tea

in my bathrobe, napping

From the overflow of his heart a man speaks.

We first feel. And then we speak. This concept is one that I love, that I keep coming back to meditate upon, that reminds me to maintain my heart. It spurs me on to think about things that are good and truthful and right. Because when my heart is taken care of, when my eyes first look inward at my spirit, when my sights are set on what is good, then out of my mouth springs encouragement for others and admirations of beautiful creation.

It is as if when my heart is in a good place I can experience life entirely differently. Instead of ignoring it, I am perceptive to the sun beaming through my window. Rather than irritation when my roommates' alarms ring brightly, I take advantage of waking up earlier than expected. I get excited about a cup of coffee (actually, I'm always excited about that).

And when these small, good things are tangible, then my heart is full of joy and thankfulness for them. And eventually it will be full so that it overflows into language, and my speech will be edify others.

Until that happens, I'd like to practice silence in the mornings because I don't see why I wouldn't want to seize the advantage of sensitivity to all small joys while I can.

Hereto, I have neglected this blog for 10 days.

I cannot say I am sorry for any reason except that I've now no record of my thoughts the past week, and I'd much like to maintain recording them for this reason, for that reason.

I once journaled nearly every day and, sadly, the habit escaped me. But as hypocritical as I am about it, I hold onto the posture that journaling in a real paper/pencil combo journal is not only relieving, it is nearly a necessity.

Now that I cannot fathom catching up on my thoughts this past week, I will forgive myself the discrepancy of not retaining my goals and subsequently vow to keep on with what I have started. Why have I convinced myself to write upwards of every day? Because most of it is absolute trash that one good idea will eventually spring from. I am convinced that the discipline of this exercise I've set before myself will, at some point, provide something of substance that I can reap from this blog to use in my real writing. Until then, the mere act of practicing continues to sharpen the skills I learned at undergrad, and I do not, do not want to become lazy and lose those or forget my passions as I sat in a wooden desk and took notes.

Right now I have a ridiculous bugbite on my neck that will not stop itching. Since I have sensitive skin, my neck has blown up into a red conspiracy of raw skin with the single white bugbit beaming from its center. Bugs and their bites disgust me. (I also didn't creatively use "conspiracy" like that on my own. Well, I used it on my own, but I didn't think of it by myself. It comes from Fitzgerald. He says, "Her outfit was a conspiracy of pink and purple."

He's such a clever man, isn't he? At any rate, I don't even know which short story that comes from.)

“Who has but once dined his friends, has tasted what it is to be Caesar.”
Herman Mellville, 'Moby Dick'

When you grow up what would you like to be?

I wanted to be either a paparazzi photographer, a social worker, or Celine Dion.

Paparazzi because I thought hiding behind bushes and taking pictures sounded exciting.

A social worker, most likely spawned from the Meals on Wheels we took part in.

Celine Dion because someone told me (in fourth grade!) that I looked like her and also because she was quickly becoming the famous voice of Titanic.

Then I found out that the paparazzi are a despised breed.

Then I became too concerned with myself.

Then American Idol rejected me.

And so I decided to try and write because in the end, all I really want to do is capture truth. And I discovered that even this takes work. Even this requires a vision. Even this demands I maintain persistence because anything worthwhile requires it.

Eventually I will buy a good camera.

I will help others.

I will still sing in the shower.

Modified, yes. But why not? My former self would thank me.

I finally found out how to switch the background of my blog. Not such an eyesore anymore, and three cheers to the friend who helped me!

Today is Friday. I intend to rest. And you know, I've been thinking about this quite frequently lately. I've realized how thankful I am for what I am learning right now - suddenly the pressing deadlines and schoolwork are behind me and there's a freedom that comes with that which is new. Not better, just new. And exciting. I can afford idealism. I can afford to begin pursuing so much more than schoolwork. My mind accepts the invite and tends to wander everywhere on a daily basis because I am no longer forced to submit it to a certain author or text. This is how it is new.

I'm sure that parts of my excitement also lie in the fact that I am engaged, and in the preparation for marriage I have become exceptionally excited for what's to come.

But for now:

The water faucet to my left is running. The dishwasher is spinning its cycle.

My hair is in its sad excuse for a ponytail, but it grows a small amount each day (thank goodness).

It is overcast, but it isn't cold.

It is breezy and not yet rainy.

I'm getting over my cold.

Yesterday was my last day at the retail place.

I look forward to so many things but I am content in this moment. This precise moment, and the ones to follow it. To find rest in the present - whether amidst chaos or not - is something the Lord has been teaching me of late and embracing it fully is, I am testament to, a way to live fully. I am a princess with treasures more than I know what to do. I am rich with life.

Post 19

How about just meditating today.

Words are not always necessary.

UPDATE!

I got the job. WHOO!

Now ensues the obvious: When, Where, How much?

Oh, all of that will come. I am just happy to have a job (and two, nonetheless!)

Details about the interview to follow when I can gather my mind enough to really describe things well so that you, dear reader, do not fall asleep.

Job hunt = successful.

Now, onward to pursue the GREs and continue wedding planning.

Also, I want to honeymoon in Guernsey. That is a small English channel island. I dream idealistically because as far as I'm concerned, at some point one of my ideas is bound to become reality.

Well now I've decided to try getting creative so that this blog looks appealing without ever having to read it! (And by that I mean that I've changed the font to blue.)

But as I simultaneously work on those efforts, please note that I realized yesterday that I've not mentioned my job search and results of late. And so, as I sit on my bottom bunk and drink (much too strong) coffee with my friend's foot dangling in my face from the top bunk, I will tell you the little I've learned. Helpful or not, here it comes.

First of all, I have learned to be absolutely persistent. For a week or so, I felt as if I was applying to one job every day. That is, Whole Foods, Starbucks, nannying (did I really apply? Eh.), SKIRT magazine, Carolina Autism, etc, etc. I wrote many a cover letter, copy and pasted many manager's email addresses, eagerly awaited many phone calls, and maintained the retail job.

When I interviewed for Starbucks, I was ecstatic to think I would be making lattes with them again, although I did prepare myself mentally for what I fondly call the "coffee pores". That is, after a day's

work in that environment, I leave steeped with coffee bean smell and chocolate splash

es on my arm. And I get home with a red, oily face after working at a high pace for hours amidst the espresso, and if I do not shower before sleeping, my bed will smell of the coffee shop for days. What I mean by "coffee pores" is that coffee literally inhabit my pores.

Anyway.

A wise friend told me that on cover letters I should not talk about "job experience" because that alludes to temporary work. What right-minded business folk actively seek temporary workers? Stay away from that phrase, folks! Sadly, I'd already sent my email, and so the help my friend was giving me made me question my abilities rather than help at all. But, for you reading this, now you know if you didn't already.

Also, put on your resume that "If I do not hear back from you by (date), I will call you to follow up." This alerts the potential employer how serious you are about the job. Again, I did not do that.

0-2

Bleh.

So then, you've those three tips I've learned:

1) Persistance

2) NO "work experience" talk

3) Give a date you want to be contacted by

With all of that said, I did not strictly abide by these rules, but rather wrote honestly and genuinely and sent all papers off with prayers. Thankfully, yesterday I received a call from Carolina Autism and have an interview in... one hour and a half! (That is, 10:30). I am incredibly excited about this opportunity, and will spare no details upon documenting my experience here.

I have the following fantasy:

I will work at Starbucks for a year or so, along with my job at Carolina Autism and meanwhile will begin freelancing for a smattering of publications

(including and not limited to SKIRT magazine). Eventually I will join a staff of some sorts and be a full-time writer with them. However, I will long for the days I was able to read wonderful writers' thoughts and write papers about them, and I will realize (in my later 20's) how much I want to go back. Matthew will tell me to apply to any graduate school I would like to go and I will go on to get my master's and finally, PhD.

Somewhere along the line my thoughts will morph into something of importance.

And I will write and write and write.

But for now, I will continue to dream as I drink my coffee with nonfat milk because we're out of half and half.

Can you imagine standing amidst the rubble and snowfall of a storm and looking at this mountain?

This photo was taken in Lassen Volcanic National Park in California. Much of what

we wanted to see was blocked off because of a horrific storm days before (which also ironically delayed our flights into San Fransisco), but without that storm there would not have been snow atop the mountain.

It was breathtaking. I imagined standing at the top and cringed when I thought of the hike.

Matthew and I drove the forty-five minutes from Redding, California the day before, hoping to drive through the park (of which he'd kept a surprise until the last minute). Sadly, the fog was so dense that the troupers were not allowing people into the park. It most likely had something else to do with the massive amount of snow on the roads.

The next morning we left early and traveled to Lassen again, with high hopes. We stopped at a small gas station to get a cup of coffee to share and I stayed in the rental car while Matthew went in. When he came back he told me about the old men who were sitting around a table together and drinking coffee. The gas station apparently worked doubly as diner, and as we drove away I imagined they were just about to get cards out and gamble away quarters like my grandfather used to do when I was very young. In fact, those men reminded me heavily of Grandpa Everett. I pretended those men were his friends at coffee and he sat amongst them in a flannel shirt with his robust stomach. Almost 2,000 miles from where he lived in Minnesota and over a decade after cancer took his life, I saw those men through a window in rural California, and Matthew said one sentence about them, and rushes of my childhood, of old nicknames, of his jokes came flooding back to me. And the car rolled over the hills and we shared the coffee and listened to either Bjork or The Beatles and we sped on toward Lassen.

And then I stood in front of that mountain and realized how small we are and how important those men are to one another.

And I asked Matthew if he'd like to be like those old men one day. And he smiled.

And so you would think I'd keep along with writing every day if it were as easy as blogging.

But no.

This, even this, I need to be reminded to do. BUT - I cannot be too hard on myself. Rather, let me just tell you this:

Encouragement is imperative. Tell people when you appreciate what they do because it's a high chance you will not realize how much it means to them. Thank you.

And so these meanderings from the day:

I remember much of today, but in such flashes. Don't you find that true for yourself, too? Mostly, there are colors and shapes in my mind that materialize but a moment as if to say, "Remember? You worked today, you ate today, you read today, you emailed, you did that and you did this. For an hour I did what? Yes, you wasted that time [or] that time was well-spent. You were productive, you were lazy." Flashes. Recollections. I see the flash of a large rectangle desk with fake wood - the register area at Gap. I remember a window I looked out of when I was in a friend's car minutes before I was at work, I smell the leather seats and I can still feel the ribbed steering wheel under my palms, can remember the shapes of the chairs I sat in when I got my hair trimmed at noon, distinctly recall the exact colors of the highlights in Casey's hair as she cut mine and we talked about wedding plans and about her young daughter. I remember walking out of the hair salon and wincing for fear of a breeze but I was greeted by the sun beaming onto the street corner and into my eyes. I squinted. I remember the mother and her son who walked into the store today and I laughed to myself as I watched the young boy stick his hands into his pockets and saunter after his mother with a swagger far superior than my own.

I remember reds, blues, khakis, and purples. I especially remember purples.

"Aesthetics" is what you would call it, I believe. Sensory, perhaps. I do not know the technical terms of it. Do you remember in colors and shapes, in smells and textures? I remember going to a party, talking with a friend whom I hold dear but rarely see, if ever. We spoke of New York, of Pratt and its atmosphere - the artists, the creative genius, the ambitions, the potential. We spoke of her sister, who feels at home there. I remember the yellow package I received from them, thought about when I was determined to study photography at Pratt. How easily we let dreams drift.

I remember hugging a friend goodbye, remember laughing with someone about something fleeting, remember beginning to lose my voice because of a cold and of yelling over noise.

Remember, remember. Practice and do not forget because - my gracious, life is so precious.