The Season Had Changed

Lately…

• I’ve been wondering where my spiritual home is. It’s a good thing to wonder about; good to openly seek a place in which to grow and be challenged. Last week I had the chance to sit down with my pastors over wine and discuss theology, scripture, what church is and why it’s important. I adore conversations like that. I wish I had more of them. I left more in love with those women than I was when it started, and yet still unsure of what I do next. Trying to be open to anything. May the courage of my convictions supersede the cowardly ease of my familiarity.
• I flew to Florida for a weekend with Erin. It was a lot of travel and a lot of money, but seeing the familiar is a necessary tonic. I love those friendships that have survived so much, that have that ease of conversation. It’s like being tuned back to the note at which I sing best.
• I’ve been a bit obsessed with Balmorhea, an Austin-based instrumental ensemble. Their 2008 album, Rivers Arms, has been on repeat for a few weeks; I haven’t yet found a place where it didn’t fit. “Baleen Morning” and “The Winter” just slay me. Highly recommended. I’ve not been one who was particularly drawn to instrumentals. Now I’m finding myself collecting more and more of them.


• This morning my windshield was covered in pollen and I scratched my itchy eyes and knew the season had changed.
• I’ve reconnected with my best friend from high school. She has been married for ten years and has three kids; I have a dog. Somehow we still have so much to talk about. There’s hope.
• I had a dream that a flock (gaggle? Posse?) of ducks had imprinted on me. They followed me around—about 20 of them, of all ages—and I was stressed because I knew they needed to get to water and I didn’t know where water was. I finally did find still water and I was so relieved. I discovered that it was saline, but it was too late. The ducks turned away from me. I awoke ashamed.
• The puppies will turn a year old this weekend. I live each day with that confidant expectation that I’ll never have to go through that again and I’m relieved. I’ll love them forever, but what an incredibly difficult time.
• My boss and I were talking about logic puzzles and now I can’t stop doing them. I love how clear cut they are. I love that there is only one right answer and that I can get there using what’s in front of me. I’m sure that sentiment is true in other areas of my life.
• I really loved “The Hunger Games” movie. I thought they did a great job interpreting the book. Odd to see places I know to be calming shown on the big screen (it was filmed outside of Asheville, much of it in Dupont State Forest) serving as the backdrop to a story so dark.
• “New Girl” is hilarious. I gave up on “Glee” months ago. I’m still scared to turn on my TV, so thank god for Hulu.

Pilgrim in Progress

I’m not one for resolutions.
This is probably because I’m terrible at remembering them and I lack the discipline to keep them even if I do remember they exist. So best to not make them at all.

As 2012 dawned, I was asked by some friends to join their indoor soccer team. This shouldn’t be a big deal; it’s rec league, indoor soccer. Basically if you have a pulse and paid your dues, you can play. The team isn’t competitive, it’s more for fun. And yet I still found myself paralyzed at the thought of playing, fearing that I’d be terrible, that I wouldn’t be able to do it. I haven’t played any sort of sport since elementary school. In a word, I feared I would fail. But I did it; I said I would play. I hyperventilated on my way to our first practice.
Revelation: I’ve had a BLAST. I mean a BLAST.
I LOVE IT.
I can’t believe I ever considered not playing. I can’t wait for the next season. It’s not that I’m particularly good, but that isn’t the point, is it?

I realized how much my fear of failure has paralyzed me in all these aspects of my life. I literally don’t do things because I’m worried about looking bad or ignorant, being terrible at it, or not living up to my ridiculous expectations, not being the best version of myself. I’m so insular.
And so, for 2012, I’ve decided that each month I’ll take something that scares me and I’ll try it. I’ll face it. I’m consciously trying to keep expectations out of it. I’m going for the experience.

Ann Lamott said, “Almost all good writing begins with terrible first efforts. You need to start somewhere.” With that in mind, I started in earnest my first novel in mid-January and it’s coming along, slow and steady. It’s outlined, and I’ve only about 5,000 words of it written but it’s forming. It’s thrilling. I can’t stop thinking about the story, can’t wait to get back to it. I have no idea if it’s any good. My goal is to have over 60,000 words by the end of the year. Hold me to that, will you?

February and March have brought their own fears and own challenges, neither of which I’m ready to write about just yet but know that they are identified & in progress and I’m super uncomfortable with them both.

I don’t know what other fears I’ll face this year. It seems horribly personal to consider. I wish I was frightened of something like public speaking, or heights, something easier to face than the personal demons I carry around in my own Pilgrim’s Progress Jansport full of self-loathing, self-aggrandizing & pride.

Space

I have a dear friend who is a bit of a space nerd, and he likes to complain during movies when spaceships pass the camera and their engines roar. “That doesn't happen,” he insists. “There is no sound in outer space. Sound is a variation in pressure in the air caused by waves, and as there is no 'air' in space, there is no sound detectable to the human ear.” This is usually when I'd throw something at him.

There is something so beautiful and mysterious about that. The vastness of space is silent. How absolutely lonely, to have the wonder of infinity in your sight and no way to proclaim it.

The Conductor

I live with an operatic chorus.
At least it feels that way, and in each moment one of those choir members has stepped out front to sing their solo. They are men and women, this chorus. Some sing so lovely that I stop and listen and savor; others are so jarring I grimace when they start their solo. But they sing louder than the beauty and try as I may to avoid them, I listen.
They are Self-Loathing and Pride; Guilt and Despair, Confidence and Loneliness, Destruction and Hope, Lust and Love and on and on. Somehow their songs make me, and no matter how I try I never seem to know the melody. I don't know where the song is going. Often I don't even know who is singing until they finish. But I'll find myself mouthing the words to an aria that I do not wish to know, or repeating lyrics to songs from too long ago that I cannot forget.
I wish I knew the song of my heart, of my character; wish I could read the music of my bests and worsts and direct them. The people I most admire seem to walk though life with a conductors baton in their hands, waving off the swells and beckoning the sweetness.
Oh to go from audience to conductor.

Lines in the Negative

I was one of the lucky few who got tickets for the Gillian Welch and David Rawlings show at the Grey Eagle last night. It was as great of a show as I thought it’d be; the crowd was reverential and Gillian and David seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves.

As they played their sets, I got distracted by the open rafters in that tiny space. I get distracted easily.

I was standing toward the side of the stage, so when I looked up and across the room I looked at the white rafters in profile; I could see the triangles of form and function. There was tape on the rafters where some wire had once been set and those pieces of tape formed black dashes across the scene, like highway lines in the negative. I started to think about perspective, how views change lines to curves, change great to small and vice versa; how perspective by its very nature is change.

I had the chance to canoe the Everglades a decade ago (GULP) and our last day we made the choice to canoe to a certain island and stop there for lunch. The island was clearly visible and didn’t seem too far off so we thought this idea reasonable. Not too far off ended up being about 4 miles. We had nothing to offer perspective, nothing to tell us what was near and far and so our best guesses ended up horribly off.

Perspective is the reason I keep a journal. I have to be reminded how I felt. I think it is terribly important to have something that acts as a bellwether, that serves as that buoy between the open seas of nostalgia and that narrow channel of truth.

Not What I Would Have You Be

Notes:

* Last night I had a dream in which Natalie drove up to me in her Volvo wagon. We were in Hamilton and she looked happy and healthy and as I was running toward her car I was yelling to the people around to take a photo of me with her, to show the world her happy and healthy face, to have proof of her there with me. It was so vivid. I woke up exhausted.

* I got a new phone the other week, an HTC Droid. I am in love with this device. I was already in a very serious, almost unhealthy relationship with my old phone and now that I've upgraded to Verizon's version of the iPhone I am hopelessly committed to my tiny technology. A few weeks ago I had several friends in town and we did the massive brewery tour known as Ducks & Bears. At the first brewery I got up to get samples and while I was gone, my friends decided to hide my phone and see how long it took for me to notice. Verdict? 120 seconds. Actually it was about 45 seconds, but it took me those extra seconds to ask them about it. See? Possibly unhealthy.

* I'm trying to get better about being honest about how I feel. For a few years I've been trying to be someone who was more relaxed than I actually am, someone who was good with maybes and "let's see where this goes" and know what? I'm not. I'm terrible at that. No mas! I'm embracing my need for definition!

* I know I'm not too funny on my blog, but I swear I'm pretty funny in real life. At least I think I'm funny. I crack myself up every single day. I had a thought about Miami Sound Machine like four days ago that I'm still laughing about.

* My cubicle is a serious shitshow. I need to put away some files; it looks like a box of papers vomited all over my desk. That is both truthful and kinda metaphorical.

* Know what is a great damn song? "Alligator" by Tegan and Sara. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I love those wonder twins. My current favorite song to play on guitar is "Call it Off" by them; the line "Maybe I would've been something you'd be good at" just kills me. Also: they are wicked funny.

* There is a game on my phone called Drop. Betsy currently has the high score between the two of us. I finally beat her last night but this morning she pulled ahead again. It is slightly embarrassing how badly I want to beat her at this (guess who needs a new hobby).

* Natalie Merchant, yes she of 10,000 Maniacs fame, is back with a new concept album and what I've heard of it I've really enjoyed. She's taken poems from the 19th and early 20th centuries and turned them into song. Check it out.

* I'm exchanging social media classes for free wine. I met the general manager of a local wine bar, talked to her about Twitter and here we are. Best idea ever.

* 29 is coming up quick. What do I do about that?

* Last week I had a speed Scrabble/margarita night with the ladies. These are entirely necessary and should happen as often as possible. I pulled muscles laughing. Please note: jahats is not a word. Ahem.

* Friday night my friend Andrew's band had a show at the Grey Eagle. It was fabulous. I was super impressed with their opening act, Boys of Summer. Reminds me of Hem with a dash of Innocence Mission. Check 'em. Seriously great.

* Saw this quote today from Madeline L'Engle and I love it: "Because you are not what I would have you be, I bind myself to who, in truth, you are." That sounds like what I suspect love is but I don't know.

* My father called me the other day to hear my analysis on the Redskins signing McNabb. I talked for 10 minutes straight about it and he said, "Yup, can always count on you for better analysis than the commentators." Football is a way we connect, a language we both speak, so that was a huge compliment.

* I'm missing people even when they are standing next to me. Is there a name for this?

* This blog is brought to you by the letter N and the number 9.

Sweetness Follows

It is good to have a theme for a year.

My friends who live in the big blue barn have dubbed it "2010: The Year of Men" which is quite catchy; another friend is calling it "2010: Balls to the Wall". She decided this was going to be the year she said and did what she meant, social norms be damned. I respect her for that.

My theme for the year is Sweetness. I believe that 2010 is the year that brings sweetness; that after the soaring highs and storms and heartbreaks of 2009, 2010 will be the spring breeze. I hold to the confidant expectation that sweetness will follow this.

Sweet is one of the four basic tastes, the others being bitterness, salt and sour. I love the imagery of using those senses to describe our seasons; how every experience has a taste, as if life is on our tongues.

I don’t necessarily have any specific reasons to believe this sweetness will come, I just hope so. Maybe I’m just getting better at owning my hopes and expectations. It isn't here yet, but I know it is on its way.

I have I’ve found my attitude about things changing; I find I’m looking forward more than before. I’ve had to change some habits (people and actions) which is never easy, but those changes have slowly distilled, have begun to take out the salt, the bitter, the sour. And so I go toward the taste of this season.

“Life goes on; I forget just why.” --E.St.V.M.

Truth and Everything Else

Hello…you may remember me as someone who used to blog all the time. Remember those days? Those were good days.

I discovered that the times when I am happiest I don’t write much, because writing is the method I use to scratch the itchy places in my life. It puts my fears, frustrations, hopes and heartaches into words; map them into something I can process; organize them into the stacks of Truth and Everything Else. When I am happy, when I am not itchy in those deep places only I know, my words evaporate into a trickle. Thoughts don’t stay with me long; they alight before words can catch them.

This spring and summer I have been busy. Not hectic; busy. As in full. As in constant. As if I live life like the outline of the soft Blue Ridge and not the harsh extremes of the Rockies. And it has been good.

I’ve been canoeing on the French Broad with Emily, floating gently by the back side of the Biltmore House on a Sunday beatific in its summer uncomplicatedness.

I did a random road trip to south Georgia with Leslie and her gaggle of kids (and aging wiener dog) to sit on a back deck with her parents, drink gin & tonics, eat boiled peanuts and kayak through a cypress grove.

After a particularly rainy week I ended up in a whitewater raft with Doug, his father and Nathan on section IX of the French Broad, guiding those silly guys down Class III-IV rapids with 24oz cans of Modela shoved in our PFDs.

I had a birthday.

I’ve had some damn good kisses.

I took off my flip flops, rolled up my jeans and splashed in puddles in the street after finishing wine at Bouchon while the sky threw the sort of tantrum it only throws in the summer.

I’ve laughed with my whole body.

I discovered that I really, really don’t like sea urchin.

I've tried acupuncture.

When I was in Georgia, Leslie’s mom showed me a green plant climbing the trunk of a massive live oak tree. She said, “That is called a resurrection fern. When there is no rain it withers up and appears dead. It shrinks to nothing. But when the rains come again, it unfurls and greens. It resurrects over and over again.”

I haven’t stopped thinking about that resurrection fern.
Or whether it falls into Truth, into Everything Else, or both at the very same time.

Easy Living

It started on Saturday when I was sitting on the couch in the living room and Lucinda Williams' West ended and I was wondering what to listen to next. I haven't been able to stop listening to West lately--it's so solid from start to finish; I love her songwriting style. I wanted to keep the alt-country thing going and pulled out Kelly Willis' 2002 album Easy. It's a strong listen, albeit a short one. I listened twice.
Lately the word easy has been coming up a lot. I think about it because I wonder when easy became easy; that is, when did the easy route become my de facto choice. For years my default was the difficult, the tough, the narrow rocky road. I wanted the path of most resistance, I wanted a head wind, jeers against me, adversity, wanted the loneliness of the long distance runner. I took on more than I should, I squeezed myself into ill-fitting groups, beliefs and expectations to prove to some unknown idea that I could do it. I bit off and bit off and bit off long before I could even consider chewing.
And one day I just got tired.
And it was so easy to leave all of it.
Now I choose easy for most everything. I have leaked ambition. It feels like I just ruptured. I don't know if it is precisely the path of least resistance; it feels more like the path of less resistance. I take things as they come and leave them as they go. I don't beat myself up about things I've done or didn't do, things I should be doing or feeling or saying. I'm not holding tightly to much. I'm trying to learn how to balance the idea of long term dreams with the concept of living one day at a time and my pendulum has swung the other direction from where I was. There are times when I get saddened by this type of resignation, but most of the time it's a relief to live without my fight face.
It is selfish but god, it's easy.

Think Think Thunk

I think one of my problems lately has been my inability to think. I haven't been able to. This is partially due to being busy; going out every night, having something on the docket at almost every waking hour. I run and run and laugh and play and somehow in doing so I completely detach from whatever it is to which I am moored. As if I need the scheduled cloister to settle me, to let me back into my own head. Though for the life of me I don't know how I manage to so easily lock myself out.

Shoulda Put A Ring On It

Very often I write down thoughts or ideas on little slips of paper and stick them in my pocket while I'm working. Ideas for stories or blogs, quotes or lyrics that I found relevant to wherever I am at that moment. I own too many pairs of pants and sometimes I won't wear a pair for quite some time and yet when I finally pull them out the little pieces of paper are still there and remind me in a vague way, like having someone else recall something you once dreamed.

I decided around Christmas that I really wanted to learn how to play Beyonce's “Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It)” on guitar and make it into a folky fun-fest but alas, Erin McKeown beat me to it and her version is way better than mine ever could be. I freaking love Beyonce, I don't care what you say. And Erin. Check out her blog. It's priceless.

It was upwards of 75 earlier this week and Sunday afternoon Margarita and I went down the Parkway to Graveyard Fields and sauntered around a bit. I'd say it was a hike only because we both had day packs and I slipped in the mud. It was lovely. Monday afternoon was just as beautiful and after spending the morning on the roof cleaning the gutters I conned Doug into slacking off in the afternoon and going hiking. We drove up the parkway to were it is closed (due to that stupid rock slide near Craggy Gardens) and hiked on the Mountains to Sea trail. I'd say it was a hike because all in all we did about 7 miles and increased our elevation by about 2600 feet. Wandered through the ruins of Rattlesnake Lodge and up Wolf's Den. It was silent and remote and lovely and I was exhausted and elated in the same rapid heartbeat. I can't believe I get to live here.

Tuesday was 12^th night apparently. Asheville is full of NOLA ex-Pats and they keep those Cajun traditions alive and thus four of us decided to check out what the fuss was all about. We met up with the krewe (as they are called) at Ed Boudreaux's and we were by far the most stodgy looking in the bunch. None of us had capes, wings, giant gold and purple beads or a crown. Laaaame. We did enjoy the 12^th night pub crawl and by the end of it there was zydeco dancing, a very small man in a jester hat and Dale Ale in cans. Again, can't believe I get to live here.

Twitter. I'm getting a little addicted.

Before I drove back from VA I decided to buy Sarah Vowell's The Partly Cloudy Patriot as an audiobook and I have to say that was a wise purchase. I've had the book for almost 7 years, have read it dozens of times but hearing her read it brings it a new dimension (and Conan O'Brien reading Lincoln and Stephen Colbert reading Al Gore does add a nice zing). I'm racking my brain as to what other audio books I should stockpile; good books make that 7 hour drive fly by.
“My ideal picture of citizenship will always be an argument, not a sing-along.”-Vowell

Dumbest joke I've heard in quite a while but still makes me laugh:
Q: What looks like red paint but smells like blue paint?
A: RED PAINT!

The other day my iPod was almost out of juice (poor me) and so I busted out some old cassettes I had in my car (CD player was stolen last year, along with my old iPod). The tape was almost 9 years old and it shocked me how familiar it was to hear songs so connected to very specific memories and moments. How those people are years distant and faded from my life yet these songs are still around. It was like my 19 year old self came to ride shotgun for a few miles, reading my sonic diary.

Smudging

Somewhere between 1am and alarm o’clock there is a line. Crossing it is walking into dreams rather than sleeping there; those odd hours where the smudging of actuality and imagination is strongest. I wake not sure what transpired and what I dreamed. Some days I like that uncertainty.

Without Time to Rise

I had to go back through some old posts to make sure I'm not re-writing one. Blog is now 6 years old, so happy birthday blog. You should be in first grade now. Here's a hat. And a pink plastic pony. And a new composition book.

The other night one of my oldest friends called and after lamenting the Redskins loss we got to talking about more personal things. Once again I'm reminded how much we need witnesses to our lives, eyes to see the truths and beauties where we don't see them. My friend points them out as if they are these glaringly obvious notions, which of course to me they aren't. Maybe it's just that I don't see them and need to be reminded that others do. It changes my days.

I'm a tinkerer. I love projects. I love woodworking, renovations, baking, writing, projects. I tinker partly because it has such a clear conclusion: finish. Make the creation become created. Make the parts into something whole. Feel like I did something. I made bread the other day and while I was working the dough all its metaphors came out. Sometimes I need to knead. To work out those wrinkles, to sum up the parts better, to allow whatever is growing the time to grow, to become warm from the yeast and expand as it should. I don't want my creations to look like communion bread, baked without time to rise, baked with fleeing in mind. I want a living loaf.

Furrow

I love the word furrow.
It has an imagery that I adore, the lines that make up time and etch across skins and skies. To me it has a monochromatic feel to it, it sounds like a field in winter, rows of wind planted on frozen plain. A hopelessness that comes from farming frozen ground. I get cold thinking about furrow.
(I'll stop before Emilie mocks me again for too many adjectives)
As a young child my sister used to tease me about my brow; apparently I had an "unhappy" look and it bothered her. She said I looked stern and unkind. I'd furrow my brow unconsciously; it was(and is) my thinking face. It wasn't that I was unhappy or unkind, it was that I was in a different place in my head and my face didn't travel with me.
With time a line has formed regardless of expression. A small one--less than half an inch long--but a crease nonetheless, right between my eyebrows. Now it travels with me wherever I go, visible evidence of a life lived elsewhere. I like it.

Moments of Static and Jazz

I've been distracted lately and terrible at writing down thoughts.
They switch quickly, those thoughts. Often my head feels like a radio constantly seeking through stations, moments of static and jazz, loud car commercials and top 40. Call letters calling out just enough to stay blurry.
I am one who carries great intentions.
I have ideas to do much, intentions to do much, but rarely act.
I am perpetually distracted.
Sleep is like liquor: once you know what bad sleep feels like it's easy to see why one should invest in the good stuff. Bad sleep comes off feeling like a waste of time. I don't sleep well most nights. I wake more tired than before.

Saturday night I was at the shop with Margarita and Jonathan, lounging around the woodstove, thankful for its heat. Seems so far from the hazy summer nights with the bay doors wide open, sitting out on the roof watching fireworks and life. These are days of woodsmoke and wool. Jonathan said something that had me thinking about the difference between talking and conversing; they are hardly synonymous. Very often the intention to converse exists but the ability to do it is missing. And thus I talk with no direction.
Like roving between the static.

Things I Think I Think

I love watching the Dallas Cowboys implode. Love it. There is very little in the sporting world that I relish more than the Cowboys failing. It's a sick sick pleasure.

The fall...lets talk about how great it is. The leaves, the crisp air, football, apples, haunted pub crawls, sweaters, oktoberfests, less leg shaving...yesss.

I still haven't posted photos from Paris and I plan to, but the internet at my house is virtually nonexistent so it takes more time than I've had recently.

Tomorrow is my first day off (by "off" I mean "without travel/to-dos") in about a month. This, this is needed. Sleep, laundry, bills, etc. PJs til 2pm, catch up on those Netflix rentals, loaf.

My dear dear friend Caroline got hitched this past weekend and I wasn't able to be there (too many weddings/travel in the past month to be able to afford to go, both monetarily and vacation-time wise) and I sulked most of Saturday thinking about missing it. Thanks to Murphy who kept me posted on the happenings. Her wedding is next...

I don't remember the last time I saw a movie in the theater. I really like movies in the theater too, just haven't heard of one I thought was worth it.

Moxy Fruvous did a song called "The Drinking Song" that somehow gets me every time. No specific reason, it just does.

Sarah Palin as a Spoonerism: Parah Salin. You just think on that.

I read Sarah Vowell's The Wordy Shipmates on my trip to Europe and though it was good it wasn't as catchy as Assassination Vacation, her previous work. Part of this I attribute to assassinations being more interesting than Puritans. I do have to respect their words though; their intentions are inspirational and full of hope. I recommend it if only for how she captures the words of Winthrop, Cotton, Williams and Hutchinson and their personal brands of rightness and crazy.

SNL on Saturday: I haven't considered that show reverent in years and then this fall I've actually been excited to see what they can produce. I credit Amy Poehler, Tina Fey and Seth Meyers for this. That Sarah Palin rap Amy did was astounding, especially since Amy is about 7 months pregnant and Sarah Palin was sitting there watching her pretend to cap a man in a moose outfit. Amazing.

A Series of Sentences That Have Nothing To Do With Each Other

Yesterday morning I saw three hot air balloons floating in the cloudless blue above the just-starting-to-turn Smokies and I sighed and was in love.

When Tina Fey's Palin made fun of people playing drinking games with the VP debate I laughed because I was guilty of that.

I leave for London and Paris in three days and I am stressed about travel.

My father and stepmom came to AVL on Thursday night for dinner and didn't meet a single of my friends and it breaks my heart to have had them here without knowing it as I do.

My youngest sister turns 15 on Wednesday and I suddenly feel creaky and unbearably old.

I believe there is a timelessness to "Find the River" by R.E.M., the last cut on "Automatic for the People"

My summer shoe collection is much more extensive and feminine than my winter shoe collection.

I feel like all I do in conversations is tell stories, like all I am is just a bundle of stories...maybe I am and maybe that isn't necessarily a bad thing.

My friend Paul sent me the following text: "Do a search for 'ferret' & 'hat' under google images sometime. I won't tell you how the subject was broached initially." and I burst out laughing without even doing the search (which is very funny) because it was just so bizarre and typical.

I have been needing more time alone lately than normal, and I normally need a lot of alone time.

Why is it that blogger (which is owned by Google) doesn't recognize the word "google" and just started to recognize "blog"?
(mystery solved...capitalize Google and it's all well and good)

Lastly, this is what I look like when I do an impression of Seth, my dear friend (and a 260lb man)...now that I know what I look like when I'm thinking uber fat man, I'm a little creeped out.

Ghosts

I finally got up the nerve to ask to whom my dad was referring when he used that vicious pronoun "us" and I was correct, it is my former step-mom. What broke my heart was the other guest my father mentioned that was coming along, "the ghosts of [their] relationship."
Great way to word it but it has crushed me today.
One of my good guy friends just broke up with his long-term girlfriend because of her infidelity and he has his own kind of crushing weight to carry, his own ghosts that haunt. Yesterday he said, "I love her and I'm terrified about what she may do to herself," fueling a conversation about rescuing and being rescued.
I don't believe that we can rescue those we love, we can't save them from themselves. We can love them, we can encourage, we can support but we cannot carry.
Sorry it's such a downer of a post; I blame the rain.

Weekly Ponderosa

Got my first speeding ticket ever driving from my sister's house in Southern Virginia up to my father's house in northwest VA. I mean I've never even been pulled over. To be honest I was a little excited; I didn't know what to do and I may have scared the cop a bit when I told her it was my first time and that I had been driving for 11 years. And of course she totally fined me (to be fair the speed limit kept changing from 65 to 60 to 55 to 65 to 60 and with the hills I had to keep turning my cruise control on and off, so my 73 in a 60 isn't that giant of a ticket as I couldn't keep track of the limit and I was going with traffic) but afterward we talked about weddings for a while. She was rather nice.

Historically I've been fairly open with some of the more private aspects of my life and so I shouldn't be surprised when that openness manages to find the very clearly marked path back and bite me on the bum as it has recently. Thus I decided to develop and maintain some boundaries and actually keep some private things private. How novel. This has been met with mixed reviews, but then so was “30 Rock” and we all know that it's the best comedy on TV.

Sunday was the very first wedding in which I've been asked to write and read something for the ceremony and I was a wreck leading up to it. The night before the wedding I had four different things I was thinking of reading. I didn't know what they expected me to say! What do I know about love and marriage; I mean look at me! I was worried they wanted me to write a poem and if there is anything I can't write well it's poetry. I'd love to, it just isn't my forte. Prose. Verbosity. Grammar. Love 'em. So in the moments leading up to my speaking I still had two in hand; didn't decide until I stood up and in hindsight I chose correctly.

Here's wedding sum up: Heels. Hair. Old Friends. Old friend's beaus/spouses. Old friend's parents/siblings. Good god it's my AP US History teacher from 10^th grade. Prettiest bride. Choked up groom. Waterproof mascara lies. Wine. Mini bottles of Scotch for the boys. “Hamburgler” used in best man speech. Hid behind wall when bouquet was thrown. Groom's college buddy is giant manwhore. Calves really hurt from heels. Bell ringing. Photos. Goodnight. See you at the next wedding.

I forgot I had a ticket to Brewgrass until the day I was leaving to drive up to VA and so in a panic I hopped on craigslist to see if I could find a buyer. I got hold of a guy in town, we emailed and got it set up, he asked to take me out for a beer in gratitude (I declined as I was leaving right then for a long trip which does require...umm...driving) so then he asked if he could make me a mix CD instead. I said absolutely. So when I met him that evening to do the exchange I got money, a sweet mix CD and possibly another friend to add into the fold. I love you, Asheville.

Wise decision on my part benching Kurt Warner this week. I did it because he was playing the Redskins and that just hurts my loyalties but then he had a crappy game so I looked like a genius. Willie Parker: you let me down.

Lately my head has been the most empty it has seemed in years. I don't know what that means. I feel like my writing skills are off, my thoughts are very shallow and I catch myself staring off thinking of absolutely nothing. I rather like that the constant humming in my head has wained yet I don't appreciate feeling anything less than on my game. Whatever game that may be (unless it's a game on my list). Regardless I'm sensing and reacting to everything at a snail's pace.

VA is no longer home. I've finally come to the realization of this. I love it, I always will, I harbor deep pride in being from VA, I love my friends and my family here, but my home is no longer here. It is in NC. My heart has finally moved south with the rest of me. I feel like when I say, “I'm going home,” all the parts of me finally know what that means.

Ponderosa

I don't remember if Ponderosa is a buffet restaurant or not, but I like the sound of the word so for the sake of the blog today it is a buffet restaurant.

As most people who know me know, I have a giant, insatiable girl crush on Edna St. Vincent Millay, who died oh, 60 years ago. The Washington Post on Saturday did an article about the restoration of her famous farmhouse near Albany, NY and it got me all a-flutter again. I am thinking that if/when I go to the Hudson Valley for Caroline's wedding this fall I shall have to pop up there to look around. I can't help it, my love runs deep. She was an ass-kicker.

Rita threw a martini party on Sunday night and as is the case with situations where people drink out of tiny glasses that are chock full o' straight liquor, it got crazy quickly. After two I switched to cranberry juice so I just to got watch the magic happen. Thanks for that, Rita!

(Nate was J.Crew swanky-tastic at the party. Dan, on the other hand, came straight from his soccer game...oh the freedom of Asheville)

I may be taking a road trip later this week. I'll keep the blog posted.

I can't tell you how many times I've had someone say to me, "I know what you've been up to...don't worry, I read your blog." and it has never ceased to make me crack up laughing. It hasn't gotten me fired just yet (though it got me in some hot water last year) so I guess I'll just keep plugging along.

So Hasbro has also changed the look/characters/format of CLUE. No revolver? No Wrench? No longer Colonel Mustard? For this and the Trivial Pursuit debacle I banish Hasbro to the shit list. Way to crap on the best games out there, Hasbro.

If you have time to kill and need to laugh, go look up Chelsea Handler on YouTube. Just about anything you can watch is hilarious.

Dear neighbor who just got WiFi and has an unsecured network that reaches into my living room,
Kisses.
Love,
Sarah Spooner

I think I've been in nesting mode. The other night it was almost 1am and I was scrubbing my light switch cover because it looked dirty. This is not my normal behavior. "Nesting Mode" for me looks differently than it does for others, as I don't even own a houseplant.

Went out to dinner with Katherine and Andy on Saturday night and didn't realize til the end of the meal that the entire time Andy and I argued about fantasy football. Yet another reason I love those two.