It is monday. I've decided that I would rather be a tiny not so skuzzy gypsy pirate girl flying through 75 degree skies on one of Ann Woods' amazing and ethereal ships. Wearing an eye patch and one huge hoop earring and a pink and black striped shirt, and eating dark chocolate M&Ms....The dark chocolate M&Ms part could actually be a reality--they do exist--and are delicious and dangerous and available at your local Aldi. A little scary for those of us with addictive tendencies.

Instead, I'm putting off getting ready for work and doing chores like taking out about 5 bags of trash. There's also a sheet full of our Christmas tree's coat, which he shed before he made it out the door late last week. Home to be with Jesus, bless his heart. I believe Jesse's name for him was "hairless cat," which wasn't very nice but was kind of true.

It has been a good morning in spite of the lack of magic beautiful ships arriving to take me away. I read some of this amazing prayer book that I checked out from Covenant's library. It is called 2000 Years of Prayer and contains things like ancient Celtic blessings, Saint Augustine, Mother Teresa, Henri Nouwen, Alan Paton. It's beautiful, and reminds me of the fact of being "surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses," which is a good thing to take to heart. So, in true post-modern, Gen-X style, I sat there for a while having a chat with God (a little more in depth than the usual "Have mercy" squawks that usually come out) that started with, "Hi, uh....how ya been?" I also read some of The Screwtape Letters, which is a great, great book. This caught my eye and heart this morning:

(Screwtape to Wormwood)"But do remember, the only thing that matters is the extent to which you separate the man from the Enemy (God). It does not matter how small the sins are provided that their cumulative effect is to edge the man away from the Light and out into the Nothing. Murder is no better than cards if cards can do the trick. Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one--the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts."

I also got to catch up a little bit with Lindz last night, and it has been far too long. I have been feeling a little January, a little tarnished and grumpy, but sometimes reconnecting with someone who has felt far is medicine for the soul.

Diversion:


Contemplation:

Rarities & B-sides

The other night at work my friend plugged her ipod in and we listened to some great music. Weirdly enough we have similar strange collections, ranging from the Cure to Ashley Cleveland to Moby. Listening and working, it took me back to high school: to combat boots & long skirts; to thrift-store rummaging on a regular basis (wait, I still do that); to a Midnight Oil concert at Riverport; and to listening to Sinead O'Connor cassette tapes in the parking lot at the academy (one of which included a rap-ish thing about the potato famine in Ireland--whoa) instead of studying for finals.

"Letter to Elise" for some reason reminded me of going down to the Loop when the Starbucks was a dirty and sketchy Dairy Queen, when the Qdoba was a laundrymat. Alas. Now there are places to buy $5 ice cream cones but no peanut buster parfaits to be found anywhere closer than St. Charles Rock Road. Just kidding, I'm being nostalgic for no good reason. I've never actually even eaten one of these and the ol' DQ actually kind of frightens me after an, ahem, episode, shall we say, on a road trip down to Chattanooga some years ago. I digress. For kicks, I listened to Sinead today: "Black Boys on Mopeds." What a great song. She's sassy. I bet she doesn't eat peanut buster parfaits either; she knows better than that.

I'm digging this band in spite of the fact I haven't purchased any of their albums. Yet. If you go to their site, you can automatically listen 4 or 5 songs. They are catchy and nice. Just thought you should know and see for yourself.

I also heard a song by this girl and lots of songs by these guys today, and they were all good.

It is January. Mid to late January, in fact. I can tell by how pale and seasonal affective disorderly I'm becoming. Every time I walk outside, I'm like a mole squinting at the sky and shielding my eyes. Whilst looking for a mole picture to make my point, I found this guy, who is seriously the scariest thing I've seen today, no, perhaps all month. Congratulations, little creature, you win the "involuntary yikes coupled with physical retreat from the computer screen" award. AND, one slightly less scary newsflash: we still have a needle-less Christmas tree sitting in our living room. How's that for delinquency? I'm not that ashamed. At least I got the ornaments off, and unstrung the lights, so we don't burn the whole place down.

Not sayin a whole lot here, but I can't sleep, so I'll keep myself company clickety clacking away at this machine. Good night and good luck, y'all.

the colors of numbers

Check out this story . I just heard this on NPR and find the excerpt of the book Daniel Tammet has written pretty amazing.

Somethin somethin.

"Questions About Angels"
by Billy Collins

Of all the questions you might want to ask
about angels, the only one you ever hear
is how many can dance on the head of a pin.

No curiosity about how they pass the eternal time
besides circling the Throne chanting in Latin
or delivering a crust of bread to a hermit on earth
or guiding a boy and girl across a rickety wooden bridge.

Do they fly through God's body and come out singing?
Do they swing like children from the hinges
of the spirit world saying their names backwards and forwards?
Do they sit alone in little gardens changing colors?

What about their sleeping habits, the fabric of their robes,
their diet of unfiltered divine light?
What goes on inside their luminous heads? Is there a wall
these tall presences can look over and see hell?

If an angel fell off a cloud, would he leave a hole
in a river and would the hole float along endlessly
filled with the silent letters of every angelic word?

If an angel delivered the mail, would he arrive
in a blinding rush of wings or would he just assume
the appearance of the regular mailman and
whistle up the driveway reading the postcards?

No, the medieval theologians control the court.
The only question you ever hear is about
the little dance floor on the head of a pin
where halos are meant to converge and drift invisibly.

It is designed to make us think in millions,
billions, to make us run out of numbers and collapse
into infinity, but perhaps the answer is simply one:
one female angel dancing alone in her stocking feet,
a small jazz combo working in the background.

She sways like a branch in the wind, her beautiful
eyes closed, and the tall thin bassist leans over
to glance at his watch because she has been dancing
forever, and now it is very late, even for musicians.

Karl Rahner, Prayers for Meditation

"The darkness is still with us, O Lord. You are still hidden and the world which you have made does not want to know you or receive you...You are still the hidden child in a world grown old...You are still obscured by the veils of this world's history, you are still destined not to be acknowledged in the scandal of your death on the cross...But I, O hidden Lord of all things, boldly affirm my faith in you. In confessing you, I take my stand with you...If I make this avowal of faith, it must pierce the depths of my heart like a sword, I must bend my knee before you, saying, I must alter my life. I have still to become a Christian." ~Karl Rahner, Prayers for Meditation

The Man in the Moon--Billy Collins

He used to frighten me in the nights of childhood,
the wide adult face, enormous, stern, aloft.
I could not imagine such loneliness, such coldness.

But tonight as I drive home over these hilly roads
I see him skinking behind stands of winter trees
and rising again to show his familiar face.

And when he comes into full view over open fields
he looks like a young man who has fallen in love
with the dark earth,

a pale bachelor, well-groomed and full of melancholy
his round mouth open
as if he had just broken into song.

"The Man in the Moon", Billy Collins