I hate that no matter how many times I see it, Rent will never fail to make me cry.

My thoughts for all those who suffer, have loved ones who suffer, who have died, or will die from AIDS.. who deal with drug addiction every day in their own lives or those of the people they love. It's not easy, but the journey through it is what will make life worth living in the end.

thoughts on death and thanksgiving

"No story sits by itself. Sometimes stories meet at corners and sometimes they cover one another completely, like stones beneath a river"

from The Five People You Meet in Heaven, Mitch Albom

This quote has been ingrained in my mind since the day I first read it three years ago. Just four months before a friend of mine had passed away due to complications from a disability she's had since birth. I saw her only for four hours a week, but she left a profound impact on my life. She struggled to do everything, but she was there, after her own therapy session week after week running right along beside the rest of us in that dusty ring, helping other kids find freedom in riding. Every evening, we would walk our horses back across the pasture to the small paddock that was their home. Every evening, we would talk about mindless things. It's funny how the last night I saw her is so vivid. It was the last night of the spring session, so we were later than usual walking the horses back, so it was already growing dark. The crickets were chirping and the horses kept trying to stall every few minutes for a bite of the fresh grass. We ambled toward the gate, talking. She was so excited.. she was about to turn 18 years old and she was going to have her first boy/girl party that next week. We walked back after locking the horses into their paddock, hung up our halters, and said goodbye for the next month. Two weeks later, she died.

Now, this quote has taken on a new meaning for me. It holds for me a new kind of hope, because I can at least hold onto to the idea that Travis's story still flows where our lives intersected.. I hold the stones from his river in my own.

In 2001 I met Travis aboard a cruise ship. I terrified him by accurately guessing that he was interested in boys (at a time when his own family had neither accepted nor seemed to be willing to accept his orientation). He would order the adventurous dinners while I had my customary fruit and dessert (and, of course, snuck bites off of his own plate). After our week aboard the ship, we continued meeting. We rollerbladed around the lake.. curled up in our favorite booth at "our" Mexican restaurant.. dreamed of moving to a big city.. flew around the city in his Saab while Rent and disco music poured from his speakers.. laughed as he, from Virginia, called me screaming out street names while I attempting to find the closest Wal-mart and the best directions from his current location. I was devastated when I learned (in 2003) that he had been diagnosed with HIV..and soon after, full blown AIDS. Believe me when I say I hate hospitals.. I hate medication.. I hate the way AIDS patients are treated. In early 2005, he called (along with his partner Michael) to tell me that he was going off medication because he wished to live what time he had left as a human being. The images I have of him from his last trip to New York show him as not the man fighting the disease.. but my friend. July 5th, 2005 Travis passed in a hospital in Kentucky. Michael called to tell me the news.

I like to think I could have handled the situation better. I threw myself into Sid with a new abandon that I think frightened even my closest friends. We were opening that weekend and I didn't let myself think or even breathe... I worked hard and partied harder. I never called Michael to see how he was doing. I regret that now, but at the time, the most I could do was survive. A week later, on July 15th, Michael placed three phone calls to my cell before and at 2 in the morning. Phone calls that I pressed "ignore" on.. because I was curled up on a friends couch speaking about some 'serious' issue that I can no longer remember. At 3 a.m., I received a message from his phone.. a message asking what we had spoken about (although, there had been no conversation). I called back, confused. Minutes later, I hung up in shock. Michael shot himself shortly after 2. I have not missed a late night phone call since, nor have I ever felt entirely comfortable making a phone call.

So, this Thanksgiving.. the second since their loss.. I am going to take a time out. Thanksgiving, for us, was a time of joy and phone tag and laughter over the fact that we were all, in different parts of the country, hiding out in seldom used rooms to escape from the insanity that was our families. Last year, I once again buried myself in work.. jumping a plane after a show.. flying home for the insanity.. then jumping back on a plane and throwing myself into stage managing/performing/designing. This year.. I'm going to deal with it. I think it's about time.

News

It's been a weekend with many high points and a few rough ones..

This afternoon, I got a phone call from my sister and since rehearsal was starting, I didn't get a chance to call her right away, so I was panicking. I rarely speak to my sister on the phone. Not that I don't talk to her, we just use the computer, and I'd just been on the phone with her last week, it was a little distressing.

So, I call her back:
K: So, how was your weekend?
Me: Good... how's yours? okay, so it can't be too bad, she's making small talk
K: Pretty good. Anything interesting going on?
Me: No.. we went to a museum and bought some Warhol prints and watched the clock change and watched QVC to laugh. wtf is going on???
K: So, I was calling earlier to tell you that you're going to be an aunt.
Me: Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

So... wonderful news :o) She's due in June.

Marie Antoinette

We went to see Marie Antoinette tonight.

Beautiful movie. The contrast of modern music with period scenes was wonderful. Camera angles were amazing. Story line? Moving, but not so great. I mean... who really needs to see them NOT have sex 10 times? Do they not think we got the point the first three times he shut her down?

The movie did, however, make me feel sorry for M.A. which I guess was the point.

Jello shots and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind Saturday night, anyone? I need some non-intellectual movie-ness.

Time

"Maybe I can convince time to slow up, giving me enough time to grow up. Time be my friend. Let me start again."

Okay, so it's more convincing sung, but I can't find the box with the actual recording of it.. so.. just think about it?

I'll blog about why I put that quote later, but now I'm off on a fabulous adventure!

Lost.

Today, I ventured into IKEA for the first time ever. Now, being naive as I am, I figured, "Okay self, we're on a mission. Go in. Grab storage bins. Leave." Easy, right? Well, nicely enough when I got to the kids' section they were playing 'Love Shack' which made me laugh because I was there to get bins for the theatre. Okay. Got bins, check. Now the hard part -- find check out. I spent 10 minutes wandering around the store trying to find the check out while the IKEA people laughed at me. Argh.

Then, after rehearsal tonight I completely ended up heading towards Baltimore because I was blasting AIDA and got so wrapped up in the songs that I couldn't focus. It was awful.

Laundry should be done in 2 hours and then I'm in desperate need of sleep.

Kids...

Highlight of my day (aside from a very yummy dinner):

Kid: Look I have a toy gun!
Me: That's nice.
Kid: Do you have one?
Me: No
Kid: Does your mom not let you play with them?

...I didn't have the heart to tell him that I no longer live with my mom, so I just nodded.

You know you're obsessive-compulsive when...

...the highlight of your day was switching your closet from warm weather to cold weather and then arranging the new clothes by thickness, style, and color.

Argh.

My question to general humanity is this: What on earth would possess a person, following a lengthy discussion about helping, to call the person who had cooked us dinner and force them to return to wash the two dishes that he'd left in the sink? Anyone? Because I'm angry. Beyond angry. Although, I was nearly in tears with laughter when the absurdity hit me.

Man of the Year is a great movie. Not at all what I expected, a little better. It raises a lot of questions about the validity of our current political system and the role that the entertainment world should/could/might play in the grand scheme of things. Plus, Robin Williams amuses me.

Oh.. and they made a film of the book Children of Man. I squealed in anticipation when the preview came on before I saw the name. The book is amazing. When I first started reading it I couldn't get through the first chapter... but once I got hooked into it, it's just simply amazing. It's not that the words are particularly beautiful, but the story is just so powerful. It's the story of a world in which men have become sterile and people are simply waiting to die. People are killed when they are no longer useful. The world is in uproar. The governments are shutting down entire cities. Those who are members of the last generation born are taking over and ruling in fear. Women push baby dolls in carriages and treat them as if they are real. And one woman is secretly pregnant. The future of the world rests on her shoulders, those of her protector (a scholar who ran over his 3-year-old child on accident) and a small group of vigilantes known as Humana. Go. Read. Before the movie changes the view of it. It's not a new book. I picked it up at the market used bookcart in Florida, but it's amazing.

I still need to get some work done and then try to map out some stuff for November. I hate November. A mixed up time of not yet winter and not quite the end of fall.. too many birthdays I'd rather not remember. Maybe I'll declare it a non-month and skip it all.

I'm going to stop rambling and deal with my anger in a more constructive way... work and knitting.

Here goes.

This is our life.

This is Becca and I, plus unnamed spouses (green) greeting Scott and his unnamed wife. Yay.

Aw... Baby girl!

Okay, so I wrote out an actual post to post here today, but I don't have the time or energy to do so, so that's it. I'm off to Rocky Horror.

Remembering

Tonight turned into a Go Fish/Word game shouting/Life playing adventure. I shall post our Life tomorrow when I have the energy to load the pictures of our rather crammed car.

For today... I'm posting a bit from Are. Because, well, I can. Also, because I was playing the random Coyote Ugly CD I found in my car today and came across my fair song from 2002 "Please Remember". The same song that the junior class of 2001-2002 used to commemorate Mandy following her death in 2001. Anyway... for the fact that I neglected my remembering this year.

....the opening monologue of Are.
Growing up, I knew the word “gay” existed. I mean I knew “they” were out there, but I never paid much attention to the concept of people loving within their gender; it just wasn’t something I’d ever actually seen. At least not until much later, when I found myself seated at a dinner table on a cruise ship: across from me a young man sat discussing the meaning of the ring on his right hand, although only after much prodding from myself and the rest of the girls at the table. “This is something my, uh, ex-fiancé gave me,” he’d said, “but we broke up before it was made final. Too much pressure... They said I should keep the ring, you know, to remember the person by.” In my naiveté, I cocked my head to the side and asked quite bluntly, “So do you like boys or girls?” He stared at me for what seemed like hours, terrified that I was about to shout his secret to the entire ship. Then he finally replied in a hushed voice, “Boys... Is it that obvious?” I shook my head, attempting to reassure him that it was only the manner in which he spoke of his fiancé that caused me to ask.
At the time, I didn’t understand his fear at “being found out”; in fact, I thought his fear was pretty irrational. But, now I understand. You see, I know now, because he is, was, one of my closest friends. I understand, because even now, looking at the pictures of his latest trip to New York City, the smile on his face is strained, his eyes not quite as full of life as they were at that table, his shoulders seem heavier as if he was burdened by something that no one else could carry. Because, in a way, he was.
These images are all I have left of him, these random memories: me gripping the door handle of his precious Saab, praying that he’ll slow down, with ‘La Vie Boheme’ from RENT blasting in the background – my first experience with the musical that now seems to be my life; racing him around the lake, struggling to stay balanced on my new rollerblades while he whisks away from me, well into his second lap, literally skating circles around me, or curling up in the booth of our favorite Mexican restaurant listening to him moan about the boyfriend of the week; him arriving at my house to pick up my failing computer, only to return it the next day running faster than ever, laughing that all it needed was a rest from me; him teasing that all he needs to find a boyfriend is to drag me out with him – if a guy speaks to me, he has to be boyfriend material for him, right?
I understand more now exactly why he was terrified of being found out. He was afraid that people would view him differently, I understand, but I was never more acutely aware than the night he called me, his voice shaking, and asked me to come over to his apartment. When I arrived, he motioned me inside and sat beside me on the couch. He looked somber. I was confused; I mean normally our “serious” conversations were held over chips and salsa at our favorite restaurant, not curled up on his couch. Quietly, he murmured, “I need to tell you something.” “Okay…” I replied, “What’s up?” I wasn’t prepared for his next words: “I’m HIV positive.” I stared. “It’s not true,” I told him. Over… and over. Funny, isn’t it? He ended up consoling me that night. He was brave, solid, in the face of so much uncertainty.
So then came the next stage of our friendship, where I watched his dealings with the medical staff and his eventual decision to no longer stay on the medication that was keeping him alive – he wanted to die on his own terms. These years weren’t all about the illness – there were the random calls, like when he first moved to Virginia on a new job assignment and called me one afternoon to say “Hey, are you near a computer?” “Yeess…” “Um, can you go to walmart.com and find the nearest Wal-mart for me?” “Where are you?” “Uh, I’m driving down this street…” which led to me frantically typing various addresses and trying to find both the nearest store AND directions from wherever he happened to be at that moment. But it also included me, from hundreds of miles away, staring at the images of his face, listening to his exploits with seemingly idiotic medical staff, with his new partner, Michael, who cared for him in his darkest hours, when he feared no one would go near him again, and me, utterly helpless to do anything. I remember all too well the call that came one summer night; of standing beside my car wishing upon any star I could find that it was not the truth, that he and Michael were playing some great, though horridly not funny, joke on me, and he would come on the line at any second, laughing at my gullibility, and perhaps a bit hurt that I believe that the almighty had fallen.
I remember a week later, curled up on a different couch, deep in conversation with another friend about an all too familiar topic, pressing the ignore button on my cell phone when Michael called for the fourth time that day, figuring that yes, he wanted to talk to me, but I could always call him back when it wasn’t one o’clock in the morning. Then, hours later, I, shocked, listening to the message that Michael committed suicide. I blamed myself for months before I realized that nothing I had done that day could have changed his mind. There’s nothing I could do. Nothing – because society had already made their decisions that much harder for them to survive without fear of repercussions.
This story may seem irrelevant, and maybe it is, but it’s something that shouldn’t be buried anymore. For too long, the idea has been that so long as these so-called deviant members of society can be swept under the rug, forgotten, everything will be okay. It’s not true. It never will be. They don’t deserve it. They deserve to have their stories heard, to know that people at least accept even if they don’t understand, to not live in fear of public opinion suddenly turning and the persecution that could soon follow.
I’m not saying that life is necessarily easy for any one of us. That’s the point. Every single one of us deals with these events in every day life. We all deal with temptation and heartache and abandonment. We are all, essentially, human and thus have to deal with the complications of growing up and making our way in this world. And, no, I don’t think that it’s necessarily society’s fault that my friends aren’t here anymore. I understand and accept that events that were sometimes completely of their own control led to their deaths. But, I also think that if we all were a little more accepting, a little more aware, these events wouldn’t even have the possibility of occurring.
Sometimes I feel almost as if I’ve seen too much in my life, like at twenty that I have lived every story possible, that through the lives of my friends I could explain any possible emotion present in human condition. Sometimes, I felt like my brain might explode from my ears at the sheer pressure of it all.
Since you’re along for the ride with me now, I assume it would help you to understand who I am right? I’m Jaime. Affectionately, sometimes even possessively, termed by many of my friends as a “fag hag” or “fairy princess” – you know, the lone straight girl in a sea of gay men? Apparently every gay man needs his hag, or so I’ve heard. Now, this isn’t something I set out to accomplish. I didn’t wake up one morning, burst into the kitchen and exclaim “Mama, I want to be a fag hag!” No it wasn’t like that at all. It just happened.
It’s exhausting. My life is marked by drama and AIDS tests and murder attempts and rape and drugs and fear, and none too infrequently, the possessive friend who wants no other gay male to come near me. But my life is also marked by friendships that run deeper than any I’ve ever known, by the love that flows from our makeshift families, by the utter protectiveness of my friends when I’m too tired to bother protecting myself.
My friends are some of the most affectionate, loving people I have ever met, but this love sometimes comes at too high of a price. Where emotions run high, often so do tempers, which leads to hurt feelings and flying liquor bottles – because you know it’s not a party until the entire group has consumed far more alcohol than is conceived “safe” by the Surgeon General, at least any that I’ve ever heard from.
These people just happen to be my friends. Every one of them has his or her own story to tell, his or her own successes, failures, and struggles have marked the person he or she has become, and the people that we all will become in the future. But their stories are not mine to tell, they are the only ones who can do justice to their tales. So now it’s up to them.

Sleep.

This appears to be another of those... I wish to all that will listen that I could sleep but I cannot so I will randomly write... kind of nights.

I don't really have that much to say. It's been a relatively uneventful week, and most of my creativity has gone into at least attempting to sketch out some kind of outline for the beginning of NaNoWriMo in two weeks. ha. My insomnia will only grow when I have to write at least an average of 1,500 words a day. But then, I wrote most of Are in 2 parts over two nights, and that's 16,000 words, so that's 8,000 words in one night.

I love night time. It's peaceful and quiet, but not always in a good way. For a long time I've been afraid of it, and I know it's ridiculous, because at present I'm as safe as I'll ever be, behind two locked doors and two carded doors and a window I wouldn't even attempt to climb out of, let alone blindly into. Another of the random hang ups that remain from last summer.

It's like silence
An ever present nagging sensation
Wrapped in silky velvet skies
Ceases to push against
And pulls you towards
A lull, a moment, an instant
In which all is well
And fear is squashed.

I spent the weekend driving dog rescue transport, and it was both wonderful and exhausting. I'm a horrible morning person, and of course, I was driving early morning shifts both days.

Saturday, I got up at 5:30 to drive the 2 hours to Hancock to pick up a feral Springer Spaniel and drive him to PA. It was my first transport, so I was a little nervous.. but it went well.

Sunday, I got up at 6:00 and met the guy in a parking lot near here... which was nice. I didn't have to drive forever to get the dogs. I was clueless... and didn't know I was supposed to bring my own leash (and I do not have my dogs here), so the nice man gave me two leashes. I drove two labs, one yellow and one black. The black lab puppy curled up on the part of my backseat that wasn't put down (so they'd have more room) with the Smurf that was sent along with her as company (Sunday morning was the first time she was separated from her sister). The yellow lab, Princess, decided that riding in my lap is fun... for her. I finally got her to lay down on the front seat with her head in my lap.. but every time I stopped at a toll booth, she sat up and put her head on top of mine. I'm sure we gave the toll people lots of laughs.

It was rewarding and very exhausting.. and of course this Saturday I'm driving two separate rescue transports before doing a show that night. Someone slap me.

Wow... Neglect much?

I've been seriously neglecting this blog with the advent of school, so I suppose with that I should get back to it, despite the fact that I should be studying/cleaning/anything but sitting at my computer and updating a random spot on the internet with details about my life.

School's started again. Classes are entertaining but severely draining.

Oscar and Felix now have a small companion in the form of a betta fish named Gladys. No, they're not in the same tank. Oscar is currently playing Superman in his favorite spot on their basking rock.

I've started interning at the Venus Theatre Playshack in Laurel, which is wonderful. The space is fun... it's every 5-year-old trapped in an adult's body's dream, so it's obviously very exciting for me, as I often think like a 5-year-old.

I'm in migraine hell right now and trying to alleviate it before the Jeopardy test tonight.. and all the time that I should be studying for the major Physics exam I have on Friday. *sigh*

No, please, NOT on the road again...

After twelve hours on the road from Florida to Maryland, we're finally in our hotel one mile from campus and nine from D.C. It's wonderful to be back again, though amazing how much has changed in the course of the summer. Tomorrow's going to be insane. I have a lot of stuff in storage, and our goal is to get everything from storage into the apartment... I don't think that's going to happen exactly, but it's a nice dream.

I'm home and not home at the same time. I know I should be used to this, nothing has been "home" since my parents moved from the house I grew up in a year and a half ago and moved to Rogers and then again to The Villages last fall, but I don't think I'll ever forget it. I miss knowing where home is, knowing that it's a place where all of my friends are, where I have memories. Home is now split between a small villa under the Florida sun and a smaller apartment on the UMCP campus.

But, tomorrow, I shall find a new home.

Dear, To, Me.

Dear,
The three year old girl who talked to the spirit in the tree.
The five year old ballerina.
The eight year old activist.
The ten year old horseback rider.
The twelve year old singer.
The thirteen year old thespian.
The sixteen year old techie.
The endless dreamer, writer, artist.

To,
The girl who...
Smiled for the cameras.
Jumped for the gold.
Fought 'til the end.
Twirled for the videos.
Turned "it" on for the judges.
Stood shoulder to shoulder with Ed McMahon.
Scribbled under the stars.
Danced for Mickey Mouse.
Read under the covers.
Sang for anyone who would listen.
Loved until it hurt.

You are me.
But I am
Not you
Anymore.
Time has shredded,
Broken,
Smashed
You.
And you grabbed up your duct tape and super glue,
And put me together.
I may have some seams and scars,
But I'm okay.
Embrace you.
Revel in the fact that you are you.
Know that
With a little tape
And a little glue
Everything will be alright.

Me.

Release

Blank.

White page.

Empty lines.

Staring

Mocking

Three a.m.

Four

Sleep eludes me

Want

Need

Must

Write

No rest for the weary

Thoughts build

Pressing dam

Unwielding

Want

Need

Must

Make silence

Make stillness in my head

Pencil to paper

open the dam

relieve the

mounting cracks

gaping wider

and longer

and wider

threat growing

for my thoughts

to implode

no explosion

just erosion

a slow

subtle

wearing

of my sanity

slipping further

Pencil to paper

Release.

Holocaust

When I was seven years old, I climbed to the top of my treehouse with the children of one of my father's business associates. Our parents were inside talking over the requisite glasses of wine, and we had been released to expend our energy as kids often do -- running amok under the stars. But this night was different.

On this night, cross-legged on the wooden planks, the heat of a Memphis summer pressing down upon us, we had other matters of importance. As the fireflies danced around us, their elder son began to impart his new found knowledge. He must have been only ten at the time, but to me, he seemed ancient as he talked about dividing fractions and Hitler's attempt at annihilating an entire race.

This conversation was only three weeks shy of my third grade lesson on the Holocaust, but this hushed speech left a greater impression on me than any school room lecture ever did. That night sparked my crusade for learning anything about the disenfranchised and the persecuted. I think that's the reason that to this day, I still have a tendency to "collect" strays. I seem to draw people who are drifting in life.

They stick around long enough to become comfortable with themselves again, and, more often than not, as soon as they have found their bearings, they slowly begin to realize just how little we have in common. Some of them stick around and have become some of my closest friends, but many have drifted out of my life much the same way they came into it.

I wish I could say that their disappearances brought great sadness, but I don't feel sad -- I'm grateful. Grateful that both of our lives were brought together, even for such a short period of time, and grateful that in some small way I could say that I have made a difference in another person's life.

Revelation

Revelation. It's an odd little word. It's the symbol on the cover of my written journal. It means all too many things to too many people. For some, it's a symbol of fear in the form of the "Book of..."; it is the end of the world - it is destruction. A revelation can be positive or negative. It can mean you've suddenly found your purpose in life, or it can mean you've just discovered your lover has lied through the entirety of your relationship.

For me, revelation is awe, fear, and intense sadness all rolled into one. It's the exhilaration of walking onto an empty stage before the cast has arrived and knowing that is is where I truly belong. It's sitting alone in the dead of night, terrified that I've somehow become lost along the way. It's the gutwrenching moment when a friend's death becomes real and I must accept that there will be no more pictures, phone calls, or hugs.

Revelation is that moment of finality when there is no turning back. It has the power to knock you instantly to your knees or lift you above the highest mountain. It isn't just a descriptive word -- it's what makes life truly worth living -- holding out for those delicious revelations of purpose and wading through the revelations of desperation.

Beginnings

The end of the beginning.
The beginning of the end.
Complex. Paradox.
Rainbows. Triangles. Love.
Shunned.
Narrow. Traditional. Anger.
Preserved.
A generation searches
Peace. Tolerance. Knowledge.
Forbidden.
For corporation
For oil
For an end of freedoms
Beginning of tyranny
Ours.
The beginning of the end.
The end of the beginning.

It's a not so beautiful day...

My life just keeps getting more and more exciting. I'm going into my second full week alone with two dogs and two turtles. And I'm so ready for human contact again! I mean, as much as I love getting up at 6 in the morning because Caela has decided the best way to spend the rest of her sleep time is on my back (and twenty five pounds of dog on muscle relaxants is not a pleasant feeling), I long for the days of sleeping until 9. I guess I should be grateful, I'm catching up on my sixth season of Buffy-verse in syndication.
The highlight of the weekend was purchasing pretty colored composition books on sale at Target, along with calcium bones for the turtles and kongs to keep the pups busy when it rains (Te's deathly afraid of storms, and the best way to get him through it is to give him a yummy treat that also takes forever to eat).
The turtles have taken to playing Superman all 10 hours that their basking light is on. I guess they think they're going to take off flying to Pond Land where the scary person no longer talks to them... although I think they're growing fond of me. They swim to the side of the tank whenever I come near... Or maybe it's because my arrival often means that food or weird chewing treats will soon appear in the tank. Hm. Food for thought! (pun intended)

Connections

We all are, at least to some degree. It's almost incomprehensible. Our actions -- large or small -- have an effect on people worlds away, in the present and in the future. Actions don't have to be the catastrophic missiles Israel launches at Lebanon, or terrorists striking innocent people, or our own troops striking innocent people. Actions can begin in the sees of intolerance, or tolerance, planted by a parent in a child's head. Or the simple act of picking up a dropped pencil for a stranger. Or ignoring a cry for help.
The events the world faces at this moment have not appeared over night. The wars we are facing today are the same wars we were fighting ten, thirty, a hundred years ago -- there are just new faces attached to these battles now.
We have failed to learn. To learn from history. To learn from our mistakes. To learn from ourselves. To learn from each other. We have yet to grasp just how much we all have in common, and until then, we'll learn nothing at all.

Just a day late..

Five on Friday

Shop-a-holic
1. What are your five favorite stores? Target, Books-A-Million, Borders, Kohl's, Ebay! *L*
2. Is there any store you absolutely hate going to? Not really. I'm usually not a huge fan of shopping in general..
3. Do you pay with cash, credit, debit, or something else? Usually with debit, though I tend to spend much more than I should that way. It just feels like I'm spending fake money.
4. Do you prefer to shop in person or online? In person. I like seeing the things I'm buying. (you know, so when ordering a 4'' natural light bulb for my turtles, I do not receive a foot long sun glo lamp for brightening fish color)
5. In the last six months, what single purchase has been the most important to you? Ha. This is an easy one, Oscar and Felix. Since they're living creatures, I should hope that they're the most important purchase I've made!

Musings

I am a child of war -- not strife, at least, not completely, but war nonetheless. I haven't fought on foreign soil. I wasn't born into a combat torn nation. I am an American citzen who's life has never been touched, at least directly, by international terrorism, bombs, or gunfire. I've never been trapped in a situation in which my life was directly in danger, so, how can I say that I am the product of strife?
You see, in today's world, war isn't black and white. War is no longer always about men and women gathering together in a fight to the death. That war is still a part of our lives, now perhaps more than ever. There's combat continuing in all parts of the world. There's gunfire and bombing in Iraq, in Israel, in Palestine, in Lebanon. Of course, there's also gunfire on American streets: random killings, methodical murders, acts of terrorism.
But, there's also more subtle forms of war. There's a constant battle against peer pressure -- both for children and adults. There are battles in courtrooms for and against the legalization of same sex marriage -- a battle for rights that seem to be guaranteed to every person in the country, but rights that continue to be denied. Men and women fight for their lives every day against addiction -- alcoholism, illegal drugs, and prescription drugs. Still more men, women, and children fight against terminal illnesses in a struggle to be that one person who beats the odds.
War is a part of our everyday lives. War isn't just a concept of the chess pieces moved in international relations, it's a piece of the fabric that weaves all of us together. Peace isn't about the absence of war; at this point in our evolution, I doubt we are even capable of such a concept. Peace is about people not fighting their small wars alone. Peace is people working together to cope, to live, to grow. Peace is creating the building blocks of unity to find a way to oblivate war tomorrow.

Another Day

Yup, it's yet another beautiful day in the Villages. Now, I thought living in a retirement community for the summer would be boring, but nothing's compared to being here for the past few days. For the first time I'm here alone, which is great - I mean adjusting to being back with my parents after living away from them for two years was a little difficult and was steadily becoming even more so with my apartment move in date looming steadily closer. However, my days are now reduced to sprawling on the couch with my two dogs (Caela, an epileptic mutt we rescued, and Te, a neurotic papillon) and watching my two turtles, Felix and Oscar, float around their tank. Which was fun. For the first hour. Now it's growing steadily more tedious. It's lovely.
Anyway, the highlight of today was loading up the two pups into the golf cart (which seems to be the preferred mode of transport here) for a daily jaunt to the mailbox. Uh. Now, I'd heard that this task would be difficult, but I figured the dogs had to be going as crazy as I was, right? So I put on their seatbelts, which earned me much excitement. Then I proceeded to try to load them into the cart.. I got Te into the back basket and proceeded to fight to get him latched to the wiring. Easy. Then I hauled Caela onto the seat and attempted to hook her in. Except, she's a little... round. Okay, dogs tethered : Check. Then comes the actual ride. Bark. Bark. Bark. I earned the stares of a lot of people today.
Tomorrow's adventure: cleaning the turtle tank.