my hate for my ethnocentrism is growing.

lately i am being ripped from the sad, sad box i've lived in for a ridiculous amount of my life. it's happened in multiple ways. i'd like to write this out, so that maybe someone else can be ripped from their own box.

for my women's lit class, we were assigned to read the 2007 nobel prize acceptance speech for doris lessing. i cannot tell you how thankful i am that dr. priya menon assigned this to us. in her acceptance speech, lessing didn't talk about herself, her accomplishments, or her immediate desires. she spoke about the desires of others. she spoke about the people of zimbabwe, who hunger for books. yes, they hunger for food, they live in povery, but still, a hunger remains for books. as i read about this hunger for books that these starving children had, i was stunned. and ashamed to even say i was stunned. i imagined if i were starving, i wouldn't be concerned with books.

but do you know why i imagined that? because i've never known a life without food, or a life without books. i am far more blessed than i realize and reading her acceptance speech reminds of that, in a beautifully humbling way. she speaks of men who learned to read from jam jars. i remember as a child, i first started learning to read by trying to read signs to my mother in the car, or her first reading signs we passed to me, and me repeating. but then, as i got older, i got books. i grew up in a home that was covered in books. right now, i have so many picky likes and dislikes within literature and i am almost ashamed of that too. maybe i just need to be thankful i have books at all.

moving on, also in women's lit class, we are currently reading and discussing the book the god of small things, which has also had an impact on me. it's an amazing novel, but i'd like to speak more specifically to the issue of how we perceive places and how they really are. the novel is set in india, kerala to be exact, and my teacher is native to that land. as we read, she tends to express to us what the place is like, from the perspective of a native.

today she told us something very very interesting to me -- kerala has a 100% literacy rate. i immediately was, again, surprised. stunned, i could say again. our nation is given these videos of children starving to death from "india" and we assume that these people live in a third-world slum that is horrible for them. while many areas may not offer their residents wealth that they need, kerala has something that a sad amount of americans don't have, and that's literacy.

lastly, a documentary that i watched twice last week has had a wonderful impact on me. the documentary is titled traces of the trade and it follows a family who can trace their lineage back to dewolf, the largest slave owner in the united states. the family members get together, some meeting for the first time, to go on a pilgrimage of sorts that takes them to bristol, where dewolf lived, to guyana, where dewolf bought slaves, then to cuba, where dewolf had slaves living and working for him. throughout the film, the family has to come to terms with the background that their family has and the shocking things that their ancestor did that gave them wealth. though the documentary notes that the family members do not benefit directly from dewolf, they must realize that having that family name has brought them large amounts of wealth, and that the ancestors of the slaves that dewolf owned are still, today, living in poverty, or at least in hard circumstances.

the documentary basically touches on the truth of white privelege and knocks down the attitude that "slavery happened years ago and doesn't really mean much today." i am thankful for watching it, because i grew up in montgomery, in a largely racist home. it's taken a lot for me to shed this attitude, but i believe i am finally working towards it, and this documentary helped. i truly suggest it.

so what now? i guess realization of my ignorance is the first step, a step i'm taking. i'm thankful that in women's lit we are studying a variety of cultures, which is broadening my understanding of our world. i hope to study post-colonialism, so that maybe studying that will further open my eyes to culture the world over and the negative effects that have resulted from many things. it's important for me to know the injustices that have occurred in ages past, so that i can hopefully be somewhat of an activist now.

in our judgment of other places, we need to be ashamed. myself first and foremost. we need to learn about places before our mouths hang open in shock when we realize that a place that isn't the united states has priorities we should fervently envy. we desperately need to realize that the united states is just another part of big, vast, beautiful world, instead of falsely believing that we are the beauty of the world in its entirety.

Matthew 21:23-32

so, today at 4 i preached a sermon at the troy wesley foundation's ecumenical gathering called CHURCH. i figured i would post it. as a disclaimer, i'd like to mention that throughout the week i had a few ideas that i wanted to express in my sermon today (though thankfully i had not written it out) and many of those thoughts were in father jeff's sermon at st. mark's episcopal church. due to this, i shifted gears and wrote something rather different in regards to the text. i don't know if many would interpret it from this perspective, so be forewarned that it may seem a little strange.

----

After looking at today's gospel text, I think plenty of people have the tendency to use this to attack the chief priests and elders. While I think this exchange between them and Jesus does leave a sting, or maybe warrants someone saying "BURN" at the end of it, we have to remember that in reading it, we should humble ourselves so as not to believe we are above the chief priests and elders in our understanding of God. (Note: "Burn" in the "you just got told" way, not as a way of saying "burn in hell." The inflection of my voice made this obvious, but to a reader, it may not be.)

Jesus asks the chief priests and elders a stumper, a question that leaves them arguing for an answer. The question Jesus asks is, "Did the baptism of John come from heaven, or was it of human origin?" They argue, noting, "If we say 'from heaven' he will say to us, 'why then did you not believe him?' but if we say 'of human origin' we are afraid of the crowd; for they all regard John as a prophet." So, they answered Jesus, "We do not know."

This exchange is important. When put in a tricky situation, the chief priests and elders don't want to be wrong, so they argue. They try their best to come up with an answer that proves everyone wrong and themselves right, but see flaws in all of their arguments. Finally, in what had to be incredibly humbling to the chief priests and elders, they answer: "We do not know."

I think we can learn a lot from the chief priests and elders, a lesson in reminding us of how we often handle problems ourselves. We disagree with other people in the Body of Christ and so we argue. We try to come up with a way to be right, and prove others wrong. Sometimes we find flaws in our arguments, so maybe we proof-text to make our opinions more "right." Or, maybe we want to say something, but are afraid of the crowd. Maybe the crowd regards one view correctly, so in fear, we hold our tongue. We may even hold our tongue when it comes to something serious. Maybe when we have the opportunity to fight against social injustice, we look to the crowd and see that they have a different agenda. So we stay silent.

But then, we have to come to one realization. After all of our banter, our arguing, our searching, and our fighting for our huge desire to be right, one thing hits us -- "We do not know." We have to say it. We do not know. There are plenty of times we are asked spiritual questions that are a mystery. We even proclaim and celebrate the mystery of faith. Why then to we often push mystery away in search of answers? We seek to be above others in our understanding of things, creating our own sort of intellectual hierarchy. I believe we are all guilty of that.

Though it probably isn't the most preached message on this text, I would encourage you to think of how often you are a chief priest or elder. I've certainly relaized how often I play that role and arrogantly put myself into theological exchanges that I pray result in me being right and my adversary being wrong. It is a sad state that humanity is in, with it's dislike for humility. It was present in the attitudes of the chief priests and elders, and still exists today in myself and others.

And how does Jesus respond to this attitude? He reminds us that the tax collectors and prostitutes are going into the kingdom of God ahead of those with that attitude. Maybe we are not rewarded for the theological debates we win, but the times in which we humble ourselves before God and finally, and plainly say, "We do not know."

reflections.

i've had a rough day, and wanted to reflect. not everything written here is bad.

-- almost everything today has gotten on my nerves. this hasn't ended yet. lots of things have made me irritable, and even things that are silly. i don't know why. most people have done something to annoy me. i'm just not in the mood to always crack jokes like normal. sometimes i can, then other times people crack jokes with me and they just aren't funny at all. it's been a strange, strange day.

-- i've been busy since i woke up. i had class 10 am to 12:00, small lunch break, work from 1-2, class from 2-3, work 3-4, work meeting 4-5. you know what i almost forgot out of that wednesday schedule? class from 2-3. i realized at almost 2 and had to run back to my dorm then to class. the only good news? it seems my classmates like my story titled "the shipmaker."

-- today i got an e-mail from jordan green, editor-in-chief of burnside writers collective, and it seems they're looking for more hardcore writers. i'm exhilarated and sincerely hoping i get to work with burnside as a more constant writer.

-- i slept too late this afternoon and didn't make it to wesley bible study.

-- i don't have a lot of homework, but what i have, i don't want to do.

-- the weather is still beautiful, with crisp clean air that i love. i just hope it progresses down this cool path some more. :)

-- i'm looking forward to funbookfriday which will consist of john fannin giving me lots of books, i think. maybe? just the possibility of new books makes me happy.

-- i wish i had something of worth to talk about. i want to write, but feel drained of intellectual abilities.

"The Koz"

i'm submitting this for my non-fiction class tomorrow. major props to john nobles and ryan fucking charlton (yea, i said it) for their part in this memory. :)

-----

This August I enjoyed the excitement of seeing one of my favorite singer/songwriters, Mark Kozelek. Third only to Sam Beam of Iron&Wine and Ray Lamontagne in my list of favorite musicians, over the past year I had grown to love Kozelek's music and his distinct, melancholy sound. His lyrics are exquisite, and his voice strikes me as being a mixture of yearning and regret. Mark, affectionally referred to by my friend Ryan and I as "The Koz," was playing a show in Birmingham, of all places, which was very accessible and a must see. Ryan and I were dead set on attending and I was happy to find out his roommate, John, was going too. My only concern was the venue. A barbecue festival at Sloss Furnace? Barbecue festivals sounded like all out hick-fests and I'd only heard of Sloss Furnace as being epic in regards to its haunted house every October. I knew Mark deserved an epic venue uncluttered with hicks.

The smell of barbecue was strong and caught nostrils whole blocks away from the actual festival. My friends and I had parked rather close, but I knew that whether someone was going to the barbecue festival at Sloss Furnace or not, the smell had permeated the area.

"This smoky barbecue smell is going to be stuck in my hair forever."
It was a concern of mine, with my thick brunette hair that tends to trap smells and hold them. I looked pretty that night. My skinny jeans, black tube top, gray knit hat, and perfectly straightened hair. Straightened hair that now reeked of barbecue.

We meandered up to the entrance of the festival, when right as we went to buy tickets, what looked to be a father with his family who were leaving caught us off guard.

"Hey, are you entering tonight for the first time?"
"Uhh, yeah, we--"
"These are weekend passes. We don't need them anymore if you want them."

The man handed me two tickets and went on. I looked at Ryan, he looked at me, there was a mutual shrug, and we set off for the ticket collection area. John went to buy a ticket, which we had promised to split three ways in cost.

"Hmmm, there seems to be something wrong with the tickets, one second please," said the woman, as her brow wrinkled and she looked at the computer like a child who had just misheard her and not done what she asked.

I looked at Ryan with a face that said, "Oh look, these tickets don't work, how nice." As a reflex, my face flushed and I just started laughing.

"Ma'am, where did you get these tickets?"

I looked at Ryan, subconsciously trying to throw him under the bus by making him reply. In the wake of his silence I finally replied, "Someone handed them to me as they left."

“Oh, okay, well these have already been used for tonight, sorry."

As we walked away, I had one thing to say to Ryan: "I bet those people think we're total douche bags."

"Sorry John, everyone buys their own ticket."

We laughed and went to buy our real tickets. Tickets that would work.

"Hey, I'm back!" I said to the woman when I returned.

She laughed and we got our ticket stubs and went on in.

We walked purposefully, to try to find the main stage, yet at the same time probably looked really lost, because we kind of were. Holding our festival map like a paper compass, we found the main stage and surveyed the area. I first noticed how small and intimate it seemed. The ground we were standing on sloped down to a stage, which isn't complete with the almost kaleidoscope assortment of colors from lights. There were chairs set up, but most people seemed to just be standing around, or already locked in to their fold out chairs they brought themselves.

At the main stage, cigarette smoke overpowered barbecue smoke and I preferred it. Something about cigarette smoke made me nostalgic, whether it took me back to memories of live music, or sitting outside of coffee shops and talking about philosophy with some of my closest high school friends. Though I didn't smoke myself, the smell reminded me of good times, chill times.

I realized that I could most likely see Mark Kozelek play each and every song with my own two eyes. This was new for me. I often listened to live music, but rarely saw musicians play live music. It is a disadvantage to being 4'11". The slope of the ground, mixed with the size of the stage and crowd resulted in concert environment perfection for me.

Mark walked out onto the stage, and honestly, I knew it was The Koz based solely on his holding a guitar and waving awkwardly at the crowd. I'd never seen the man before, but I assumed that since he was sitting in the spotlight and center of the stage, he must be who I had paid to see.

Mark Kozelek is an awkward character. He spoke in almost short phrases, quickly I would say. He rarely seemed to be looking out, speaking almost as much to his shoes as those of us watching him. For some reason, his frazzled nature didn't surprise me. Depressing indie folk musicians rarely have a stand up comedian countenance. Something about their everyday attitude speaks of the songs they write. I imagine you can tell by speaking to them that they have, in fact, lived every hurt they've sung.

And so, Mark sang..

Cassius Clay was hated more than Sunny Liston....

He started off the set with "Glenn Tipton," which happens to be the first song of his recent album Ghosts of the Great Highway. When the song ended, I naturally expected "Carry Me Ohio" to follow, as it was the second song on the album, and my personal favorite. I'm pretty sure musicians rarely, if ever, play a set list that is their exact album list, but something about hearing the end of "Glenn Tipton" reminded me of listening to the whole album and left me expecting the next song.

Still, I was certain that when the night was over, I would hear "Carry Me, Ohio." The Koz had to play that song. It was my favorite. At one point in the night, I even heard a guy yell the song title out, a drunken request on his part. Mark would totally play that song.

False.

Of all the songs he played, he didn't play it. I can truthfully say that was the only downside of the night.

There is something about live music that exhilarates me. I am a writer at heart, but music has always been that unattainable love. I know it will never be a skill of mine but it still captures me. That might be why it captures me -- I can’t do it myself. I've always had friends that are musicians, some for fun, some signed on record labels. Many have succeeded, some have failed, and I've witnessed both end results. I walk around campus, or my neighborhood, with an iPod shoved into my ears, blocking out what's around me. I enjoy seeing a white-cloud sky and hearing a soft indie folk song in my ears. I like to watch someone sing a song they’ve written and hear their life experiences in the tone of their voice and the images they paint with their sound. When I listen to music, I feel like I’m invited into the dark crevasses of a stranger’s life, so that they don’t have to be such a stranger anymore.

And that is a little bit of what I felt that night. I felt like I was sitting in a beautiful haze composed of the emotion behind a man and a guitar, mixed with smoke and friendship.

community.

my friend, joseph mathews, asked me to write a reflection on community to be used in the united methodist church's program B1 (which works through, i do believe, another program called the advance). this is what i wrote.

-----

Community. Whether a person finds it in their household, their campus, their family, or in the breaking of bread with perfect strangers, there seems to be an innate desire for it. The soul and body together seem to yearn for other souls, and other bodies, and experience relational disconnect when it can't be found.

Throughout my spiritual journey, I have encountered a variety of different Christian communities, or simply social and non-religious communities, that have shaped my perception of people and my understanding of love. A recurring issue that I found to be a setback in Christian communities was the immediate reaction of leaving something if it didn't appeal to the person in its entirety. Don't agree with what someone said to you one Sunday? Leave the church. Think the organization should do a different sort of fundraiser than the one they're doing? Leave the organization. Wish you friend would agree with you on that one issue you disagree on? Leave the friendship. In the name of preserving a righteous community, leave the community. This is the attitude I've found commonly, and embraced at times myself, that I feel rips communities apart.

In non-religious communities that I took part in, things were vastly different. It seemed as if everyone knew that they would come together, have different opinions on things, fight them out at times, but then still meet together again in a few days to do the same thing. Sure, there were relational issues that came about, sometimes friends would part, but it was different. It was more merciful, and dare I say it, often more seasoned with grace. People didn't get together with a group in the hope that, when all was said and done, they would all believe the exact same thing and approach the world as if they were all of the same perspective.

In community, a single heartbeat ripples through a beautiful collection of diversity. The Body of Christ should function with this attitude. When one eye in the body of Christ is hurt, or one foot in the body of Christ cannot function, in some way, shape, or form, the entire Body of Christ may lose its vision, or sit when it should stand. It is because of this relational connection that the community of the Body of Christ has that should call each and every member to hold dear to the First and Second Commandments. We must love God, we must love our neighbors as ourselves. When we do, that love heals the eyes and heals the feet and results in a divine vision and a community that stands.

the shipmaker.

this is the first section of the short story i am working on. after this part, i put a page breakish sort of thing, and i've started working on the next section a bit but will not share it just yet. i've worked more on what i wrote before. i tried to put it in a better format that is hopefully easier to understand. i hope it does a good job building character and setting the stage for everything else. feel free to comment with thoughts. :)

-----

Walter Hinkle lived a simple life. Every morning the sun crept through his drapes and rested on his eyelids, bringing him out of a light sleep. Walter never fell into a deep sleep; any ray of light, or creak in the house, could wake him. He needed complete darkness and eerie silence to drift off. When he woke, he followed his routine.

"Walter, what do you want today?"
"Usual, you know that."
"I know, but I can't get a word-a conversation outta you if I don't ask you a question or something."

He didn't reply.

Walter walked into the Town Square Coffee every morning around 8:30. He functioned more robotically than humanly until he got black coffee in his system. Even with the coffee, to many, he still acted robotic.

"Tell me something you're gonna do today, Walter."
"I'm going to wait until you give me my coffee, then I am going to walk out of the door. I'm going to look for supplies I need, go home, work on something for a while, then eat and sleep and breathe."
"How fun! What you working on?"
"What I work on everyday."

Walter couldn't stand Martha, the barista at Town Square. She was in her mid sixties he assumed, and she fit the mold of the sort of woman that was in her mid sixties and lived in Newberry. She was rotund, the dimples of her face could not be avoided, her glasses sat the tip of her nose, and she talked too much. She tried to hide graying hair that was obviously still graying. She seemed to him like the sort of woman who, if she asked a personal question and someone answered it, would tell everyone else who came to Town Square that day.

The reason she always had to pull teeth to get conversation out of him was because he always avoided her. He didn't mind people, he just minded people who asked questions that didn't matter in the grand scheme of things.

Walter lived off a disability check that he started getting years ago. He found out at the age of 39 that he had severe carpal tunnel, was developing bone crippling arthritis, and that he could not continue work. He had built houses, starting at the age of 18, right out of high school. He'd never wanted to go to college. Walter's dad worked with his hands, Walter worked with his hands.

"Son, whatever you do with your life, do something you can look at later. Something you can put on a shelf or take a picture of to remind you that you did it."

He thought a lot, but never felt like thinking alone should earn a man his keep. He needed to have a craft. His father made that clear. He needed to feel like he could hold something for long enough and it become beautiful. When he realized he could no longer hold two-by-fours for as long as it took to watch them become beautiful homes, he needed another craft.

He started to make small ships. He collected twigs from his yard and larger branches that fell from the oak by the tool shed. These he carved into being the hull of the boat. He looked at thrift stores and went to yard sales and bought old, yellow paged books that he ripped apart and used to make the sails. Every sail covered in words from books he'd never read. Every now and then he'd do a double take on the sail of a ship, seeing words he recognized.

"... nature, red in tooth and.."

Walter wasn't a reader, so he never understood how he would see words he knew. Later he'd notice a book of sonnets by Shakespeare, or early poetry by Tennyson sitting in the trash, gutted of pages, and it would make sense to him. Everyone quoted them, he couldn't avoid knowing their works. He never looked at the titles of books before he tore into them. It didn't matter if he threw away Emerson or a cheap Harlequin novel, they all made similar kachunk sounds when they hit the sides of the trash can.

"You don't even read Shakespeare?"
"What the hell does a carpenter do with a play by Shakespeare?"
"At least you knew he wrote plays."
"Just because I don't read doesn't mean I'm an idiot."
"Oh, you're still an idiot."
"And you're just an educated son of a bitch."

Robert and Walter had been friends since pre-school at Newberry Baptist. In Newberry, that's how people got to be close friends, they grew up together. The only difference is that, for close to eight years, Robert left. He moved away after high school, went to college, put his thoughts on paper, and returned to Newberry with a new level of pretentious conversation that Walter never could have imagined in Robert. Walter liked the new, educated Robert. Walter tended to be perceived by outsiders as an asshole because he wasn't into small talk and had no sense of humor. Robert was close to being the same way, only his attitude stemmed from his undergrad degree in English, masters degree in philosophy, and doctorate in liberal arts. Robert could deal with Walter, and that's what kept them friends.

One thing Walter couldn't grasp was why Robert returned to Newberry. He moved back and told Walter he was doing so because he wanted to "get a feel for Newberry so that he could write an autobiography that was true to self." Walter thought it was a bullshit way of saying that even after three degrees, he still got scared sometimes and wanted to feel comfortable.

"Comfortable? What does that even mean, Walter?"
"You know what it means. You want to feel like you don't have to fear something."
"Everyone fears, you can't avoid that. I wouldn't move somewhere to try to avoid the inevitable. Not to mention, I have an awful lot of comfort. Her name is Pam."
"Right, right, a wife. I guess another warm side of the bed is what some people need."

Walter never married, and felt himself to be a hollow man. He didn't blame himself; he didn't cry himself to sleep. Long ago, after his one bout with love, he had chalked it up to providence and left it at that. He thought too much, his bones were breaking underneath him, and he had little sense of humor. These were truths of his being he could not shake. There came a day when he decided that he was better off alone, because the only graces he had ever offered, he offered to himself. He had no reason to be concerned with romance anymore. He concerned himself with the work of his hands. He had accepted and made the most of this life, a life he was content with.

"You're going to die alone, and you're going to regret it, Walter."
"Says the man with the wife, of course."
"I'm just saying, I think it could brighten up your days a bit."
"And I'm just saying, I'm not Robert Allen."
"You sure as hell aren't."
"Robert, do you think dreams mean anything? And don't feed me that Freudian theory bullshit either. I'm asking you."
"Do you mean dreams when you go to sleep, or goals you have?"
"Seep dreams."
"I think it depends. I guess it could mean something, but other times I imagine it's just random stuff. Or, maybe it's random to you because you are having issues with identity that are so subconscious you don't realize they're issues you're having."
"I said no theory bullshit."

Walter had an attachment to a sort of recurring dream he had. There was a unifying factor, but then differences also. The unifying factor was a woman with changing hair. He thought he recognized her, because of how he felt when he woke up, but wasn't sure. Throughout the dream her hair would shift from being brunette, to auburn, and sometimes to black. He never remembered any distinct facial features, only her hair, and he knew it was always changing. He would always feel as if he'd seen a different woman, but in the dream and after, he knew she had to be the same.

The dream would include snippits of him being in a forest, cutting down a tree, then another snippit of a tree in a barren field, set on fire. Other times he would be on a ship, with the sail of the ship covered in words that appeared and ran across the sails as if someone was writing on it as he journeyed the sea. He never remembered what the words said. He figured he had no attachment to anything in the dream, but instead, just to the feeling he had when he thought about it.

you have no idea how much i am writing this in random chunks.

shipmaker -- another chunk.

---

Walter had an attachment to a sort of recurring dream he had. There was a unifying factor, but then differences also. The unifying factor was a woman with changing hair. Throughout the dream her hair would shift from being brunette, to auburn, and sometimes to black. He never remembered any distinct facial features, only her hair, and he knew it was always changing. He would always feel as if he'd seen a different woman, but in the dream and after, he knew to recognize it as the same woman. The dream would include snippits of him being in a forest, cutting down a tree, then another snippit of a tree in a barren field, set on fire. Other times he would be on a ship, with the sail of the ship covered in words that appeared and ran across the sails as if someone was writing on it as he journeyed across the sea. He never remembered what the words said. He had no attachment to anything in the dream, but instead, to the feeling he had when he thought about it. It wasn't as if any image in the dream struck him, or made him want to decipher it. He just liked the thought of having a dream and remembering it.

my apologies!

i'd like to apologize to anyone who watches my blog carefully (or watches at all, really) because i've been busy lately and haven't had time to find a computer and write much.

BUT last night i ordered a macbook, meaning SOON i'll have a personal computer again and can blog as i like! wahoo!

until then, best wishes to all.

in case you're tracking my publications..

http://epfnational.org/dfc/newsdetail_2/28

weird, right?
my face is on the front page.
<333 epf.

shipmaker.

i started working on this tonight, based on an idea i thought about when i was trying to help a friend write a poem. i'm going to see how far i can take this, and see if i can even turn it in for a creative writing contest. i'm concerned with the fact that i am writing as a woman, with a male character. i just want to make sure i appropriately capture the male psyche. any thoughts are appreciated. but do note, i am NOT done with this. this is just the first 4 paragraphs of what will definitely be a longer work. this is basically alllll exposition....

--------------

Walter Hinkle lived a simple life. Every morning the sun crept through his drapes and rested on his eyelids, bringing him out of a light sleep. Walter never fell into a deep sleep; any ray of light, or creak in the house, could wake him. He needed complete darkness and eerie silence to drift off.

Walter lived off a disability check that he started getting years ago. He found out at the age of 39 that he had severe carpal tunnel, was developing bone crippling arthritis, and that he could not continue work. He had built houses, starting at the age of 18, right out of high school. He'd never wanted to go to college. Walter's dad worked with his hands, Walter worked with his hands. He thought a lot, but never felt like thinking alone should earn a man his keep. He needed to have a craft. He needed to feel like he could hold something for long enough and it become beautiful. When he realized he could no longer hold two-by-fours for as long as it took to watch them become beautiful homes, he needed another craft.

Walter never married, and felt himself to be a hollow man. He didn't blame himself; he didn't cry himself to sleep. Long ago he had chalked it up to providence and left it at that. He thought too much, his bones were breaking underneath him, and he had little sense of humor. These were truths of his being he could not shake. There came a day when he decided that he was better off alone, because the only graces he had ever offered, he offered to himself. He had no reason to be concerned with romance. He concerned himself with the work of his hands. He had accepted and made the most of this life, a life he was content with.

He started to make small ships. He collected twigs from his yard and larger branches that fell from the oak by the tool shed. These he carved into being the hull of the boat. He looked at thrift stores and bought old, yellow paged books that he ripped apart and used to make the sails. Every sail he covered in words from books he'd never read. Every now and then he'd do a double take on the sail of a ship, seeing words he recognized. Walter wasn't a reader, so he never understood how he would see words he knew. Later he'd notice a book of sonnets by Shakespeare, or early poetry by Tennyson sitting in the trash, gutted of pages, and it would make sense to him. Everyone quoted them, he couldn't avoid knowing their works. He never looked at the titles of books before he tore into them.

strange thought today.

so today, whilst sitting in old english class, i got to thinking about something. okay, so i was sitting down and i looked up to see a girl walking back into the classroom that was definitely already seated at the start of the class. i always look towards the front of the classroom, where the teacher lectures, and i sit by the door, so i am positive that this girl HAD to walk right past me to leave the classroom.

so here's what i was wondering -- what's the disconnect between what we see, and what we acknowledge we see? how is it that a girl can walk right in front of me and me obviously HAVE to see it, yet me take no notice, but then take notice of her return?

i know this is a really weird thought, but if i wasn't an english major i'd be a psychology major, so i think about these things.

you may know me.

i think i am turning this in as "non-fiction poetry" for my tuesday non-fiction class. here's hoping this actually counts. worth a shot, right? it isn't really a good poem, but i wrote it today, so i am sharing.

----

i get a bottomofmystomach squirm
when someone says an old
flame's name, or asks me
what i believe.

i get to crying sometimes,
a lump in my throat, as a
collection of all the things
i can't be.

i get a heat in my face,
that surges from my ears,
when i hear that i'm ugly
or not enough.

i feel a bright red blush
appear on the apples of my
cheeks, if you tell a story i
want to forget.

i am a rush of feeling
screaming from my very face
and if you know what
my faces mean, you may
know me.