This last one is not from the mountains, obviously, but it was in the batch with the rest of them.  It is actually the carousel from the county fair.

I decided to change the background for the blog title, and, leaning towards the ADD side of life, I realized (as far as I remember, anyway, which isn't saying much.  But still.....) I'd never posted any photos from the mountain trip my mother and I undertook.  I'm really hoping I didn't actually post these and that this is not a mind numbingly boring repeat of something no one was interested in the first time it was posted....................

Although there was unfortunately no Brad Pitt in sight on Saturday, I did get to play Thelma and Louise by taking a road trip with a group of women.  To see The Phantom of the Opera.  Fortunately, no bail had to be posted.  The mother of my piano student told me not too long ago that "adjective" is no longer used in the classroom, as it isn't 'exciting' enough to describe descriptive words.  Apparently they are now being called *sparkle words* (insert hands raised 'Hallelujah' style with wiggly fingers).  Personally, using the more difficult 'adjective' never seemed to impede my ability to use them; I can't tell you what a preposition is, but I have a feeling I use those ocassionally as well.  Anyway.....Here are my *sparkle words* to describe the show: Spectacular. Mesmerizing.  Stunning.  Beautiful. Gorgeous. Wish you were here.  (Okay, I know that last one is not an adjective, and I'm only hoping the rest of them qualify, but you get the point.)  I read the book for the first time in sixth or seventh grade, and ever since then, I have wondered how they could accomplish the demolition of a chandelier on stage without incurring the wrath of sue-happy lawyers.  Well, now I know, and it was more than vastly entertaining.  It was an artistic revelation set to breathtaking music.  It is one thing to sit at a stoplight, belting out Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman in the secure solitude of a Mercury Milan.  It is an entirely different thing to feel the concussion of the drums as they accentuate the Phantom's footsteps as he descends the main staircase at the masquerade, dressed as the Red Death.  It was brilliant.  My only complaint is the same complaint I had before I saw it live.  Christine.  Being a slightly indecisive person myself, it is a shortcoming I can only barely tolerate in minimal amounts.  My "favorite" part?  At the end, in the Phantom's lair, after Raoul has discarded any regard for his own life, and has descended beyond the portals of hell to rescue the girl he has loved since his childhood with the type of devotion only Jane Austen heroines get the opportunity to experience- AND SHE CAN'T MAKE UP HER MIND!!!!! Really?!  I know the Phantom has that aura of mystery which usually surrounds paranoid, homicidal geniuses, but enough already! While the noose is tightening around the throat of the one man who truly loves her she does nothing but cringe and wail.  Voluntary helplessness is an unforgivable sin in my book.  So while Raoul is dying (literally and metaphorically) Christine decides to all but have a love-fest make-out session with his murderer.  Typical blonde.  (In the book she is blonde.  Her father was Swedish, after all.)  Anyway, other than that?  Marvelous.  Stupendous.  Entrancing.  I fell in love.  Not just with the production itself, but with....the conductor.  Strange?  I know.  I can tell you the moment it happened, though.  It was when Raoul first comes to see Christine after her astonishing success at the gala.  The mirror prop which eventually becomes the escape route through which the Phantom kidnaps her from her dressing room was somewhat tilted towards the orchestra pit.  The bottom of the stage obscured everything below the conductor's cummerbund while the angle of the mirror only revealed anything from the bowtie down.  Sounding stranger all the time?  Yes, I assume so, but let me explain.  In other words, the only thing visible was the conductor's hands.  Aside from Fred Astaire, men aren't usually described as 'graceful,' but this man was graceful.  To see what you were hearing is the only way I can describe the experience.  I watched him for a while, his hands enacting what the instruments would vocalize a split second later.  In the next scene, as the Phantom and Christine are moving across the candlelit subterranean lake, the conductor's silhoutte was rendered a bit fantastical and spectral by the smoke skimming across the stage and cascading over the ledge.  Again, his motions as he conducted the musicians was almost hypnotic.  I had never really thought about the vital role the conductor plays in such a production.  It was actually nearly as interesting to watch him as any of the other performers.  Anyway, it was fabulous and a grand time was had by all.  One day I'll see Les Miserables.  But my heart will always belong to the conductor of the Phantom. 

"A youngster, clutching his soldier father, gazes upward while the latter lifts his wife from the ground to wish her a 'Merry Christmas.'  The serviceman is one of those fortunate enough to be able to get home for the holidays." December, 1944- source-National Archives and Records Administration  (I've always loved this picture.  My only question is this: how in the WORLD did she keep up with a toddler in those heels?!  Look at those things!)

Okay, so I know this post is late, but by my standards of procrastination this post is actually about a week early.  It seems as if the holidays have really just sprung out from a hidden recess and caught me completely off-guard, unprepared as I usually seem to be for their descent.  I love the holdiays, Christmas and Easter are my two favorites; however, it seems as I get older, the ability to enjoy them diminishes in the face of what must be done by tomorrow.  Tomorrow becomes next week, and before I realize it, I have missed the beauty of daffodils on Easter morning, the anticipation of Christmas Eve, the quiet moment I used to enjoy as a child when we arrived home late on Christmas Eve after visiting my grandparents.  It may sound cliche to admit, but there was something sobering, even as a child, about that pause for a moment on my way to a warm home to look at the stars.  They always looked so hard and bright against the frozen, midnight blue sky.  The odd thing is, it makes you feel infintesimally small; suddenly, you feel your place in the grand scheme of the universe.  The infinite number of stars remind you of that hand which orchestrated their placement in the depths of the universe; the untold mysteries of eternity suddenly seem inexplicably familiar. Although you do not understand, you feel.  When I tried to explain this to someone once, they asked a bit skeptically, "You thought about all that as a kid?"  Well, no, maybe not, but sometimes I think as adults we underestimate children's abilities to understand things intuitively which they can't yet express coherently.  Anyway, I promised myself I wouldn't digress into any tangents......So, to get to the purpose of this post (and yes, hopefully, there is one.....)  Monday was December 7.  Pearl Harbor Day.  As an individual who becomes unduly excited by anything remotely connected to history, I was debating about whether or not to post something.  But what?  A history of events? No, everyone knows the story.  Roosevelt's "A Day That Will Live in Infamy" speech?  No, too depressing and political.  Then, fate made an entrance.  I could write about Christmas and D-Day.  Genius!  I was reading through a book I purchased when I visited the Library of Congress (I hope that if I live a decent life, heaven will be the Library of Congress....).  It is entitled "I'll Be Home for Christmas: The Spirit of Christmas During World War II."  I had to eat sparingly for the rest of the trip, as I spent most of my money in the bookstore, but with a title like that does anyone really fault me?  Anyway, I came across this passage as I was reading through it the other evening.  Forgive me as I type it out in its entirety.

In Norfold, Virginia, news that the United States had been plunged into war sobers the mood of the shipmates on the USS Washington.  When the radio plays "The Star-Spangled Banner," the men all stand and sing.  They realize that immediate action on the high seas is ahead.  A few days later, just before Christmas 1941, a writer for the ship's weekly news-letter, Cougar Scream, talks about duty, love, and sacrifice.

"The knowledge of a catastrophe cannot be comprehended within the immediate moments of its announcement.  It is one thing to know-it is another thing to realize.  We all heard the shocking narration of death, disaster, and destruction as relayed from Pearl Harbor last Sunday.  We know it took place.  But do we realize its significance?
  It is difficult to realize that some of our shipmates of former days and duties are dead; that others are seriously wounded.  It seems incredible that ships-of-the-line have been sunk.  And to watery graves went men who manned those ships.  those men wore the uniform of their country by their own choice, through their own free will.  When each solemnly swore: "I do solemnly swear that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the United States of America, and that I will serve them honestly and faithfully against all their enemies whomsoever, and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the Officers appointed over me, according to the rules and articles for the government of the Navy," he assumed a grave responsibility.  That responsibility can be shouldered only by the security of a sense of duty.  Duty is any assigned service.  Duty is founded upon love or upon fear.  A fearful man could not freely undertake this responsibility. he would have to be forced into it because he would be afraid of its obligations.  That rules out fear and leaves love only.  It might be a love of country; a love of home and family-and their attendant preservation; a love of an ideal and the subsequent pride of maintaining the high standards of that ideal.
  Love and Duty have one common denominator-Sacrifice.  Both require it; both demand it.  Without sacrifice there can be no duty.  Sacrifice is in proportion to love.  The more we love something, the less willing we are to part with it.  Since self-preservation is the first law of nature, it follows that we are least willing to part with our life.  To part with life requires a tremendous sacrifice and such a sacrifice demands a tremendous love.  Therefore, "Greater love hath no man than he lay down his life for his friends."
  The men of last Sunday who could not be bribed by the Grim Reaper to desert their posts; the men who placed duty, love and honor above fear, life, and dishonor; the men whom the Angel of Death tapped on the shoulder and who, without flinching, returned Death's gaze as they stood by their stations-those men were our shipmates of former days and duties; those men laid down their lives for their friends.  Greater love could no man have.
  We of the WASHINGTON pause with bowed heads to pay homage to our gallant brothers who have "given the last full measure of devotion."  May their souls rest in peace through the infinite mercy and love of Almighty God."

I have nothing to add to that which could possibly improve upon it; I simply want to add a few thoughts of my own.  There have been countless sacrifices made for each of us; and for those who feel as if there has been no mortal sacrifice made for their security and comfort, perhaps not.  I don't know the circumstances surrounding everyone's station in life.  However, I feel obligated to add that there have been countless sacrifices made for each of us.  Wealth and privilege were and are not guaranteed or promised to any of us, but humanity and the opportunity to both experience and express kindness have been.  If kindness, mercy and forebearance seem to be absent, a different sacrifice of Duty and Love has provided for that as well.  There was a "last and greatest" sacrifice which provided for each member of the human race.  "Sacrifice is in proportion to love."  That is what I feel the most at Christmas.  A birth meant for a death.  A death meant for the benefit of all mankind.  It may be politically incorrect to write about religion on something as public as a blog, but political correctness does nothing to salve the pains of the human race, those seen or unseen.  Political correctness does nothing to provide for the loneliness felt by so many at this time of year.  Political correctness does nothing to remind men of their essential humanity, the humanity which suffers empathy for others, the humanity which is an indication of that from which it is derived.  So, politically incorrect or not, I say, "Merry Christmas," with all its inherent meaning.

Okay, so tell me if life is not fair.......this is one of my cousins from my mother's side.  Incidentally this is why I stick to books.  His older sisters are a jewelry designer and an architect respectively and his older brother is an insanely talented carpenter.  Yep, against this, I got nothin'........I'm hoping maybe I'll derive some benefits by association with talented people.  The saying is "those who can't do, teach."  In my case it is more of "those who can't do simply hang around those who can........."

Has anyone ever seen on a National Geographic episode or on the Travel Channel or the Discovery Channel a scene of Tibetan monks, sitting cross-legged with hands palm to palm, eyes closed, rocking slightly back and forth as they serenely chant their prayers?  Well, I have to say, sometimes I think they've got the right idea.  Of course, when I end up sitting cross-legged on the floor, muttering to myself with my eyes closed it is anything but a serenity exercise.  You know how on Seinfeld, George's dad would scream "Serenity NOW!" whenever he started getting irritated or stressed out?  Hmmm, yes, well.......I don't scream "Serenity NOW!"; instead I come home and watch some one or other of my favorite movies over and over. And over and over.  Basically I just leave it in the DVD player, grab something which includes a derivative of the cacao plant as a main ingredient and prepare to participate in a "cognitive disassociation" exercise.....Just ignore it all......However, I don't always watch one movie; sometimes I grab a stack of my favorite movies and skip to my favorite scenes.  The thing is, when I have a really bad day, I don't want some fluffy, "Malibu Barbie" style movie.  Don't give me something insubstantial and "cute."  I want something so intense, whether through the plot or through the philosophical issues it raises, that my mind is occupied by that rather than what I'm having to deal with.  So, I went on youtube and found a few of my favorite scenes. 

This is one of my favorites because it is everything I imagined as I read this scene in the book when I read it so many times as a child.  Sometimes I think I lived more in the world Lewis created than my own.


Before everyone freaks to no end, I own the EDITED version of this, okay?  Anyway, truth be told, I didn't like this movie at first.  Now.....?  It's in the DVD player right now.  I just like this scene because it is about living with the decisions we make, and our reasons for making those decisions.  How the decisions we made at one time we wouldn't have made now, or, even, if the same decision were still the only one to be made, our reasons would be different. (Plus the music is just great.)


As you can see, I really love this movie.  The cinematography is so artistic, to me; the music is great-very subtle, but it affects the scene so much.  So, although there is no 'profound' message in this scene, it makes my list simply because it is interesting. 


One of my favorite lines in the movie is in this scene. "Are you with me?" "To the death." Don't ask, I don't know.  I just like the way it is delivered.  Plus, I love the final sword fight between Peter and the White Witch.  Tilda Swinton makes an awesome White Witch; even as an adult her portrayal freaked the heck out of me, because it so adeptly ressurected all of the fear the character generated as I read the books as a child.


Again, edited, don't worry.  If I have to explain why this is a great scene, it'll never be understood.  "I am Maximus Decimus Meridius....Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife, and I will have my vengeance.  In this life or the next....."  Plus, one of my favorite lines comes immediately before this scene.  "We are but shadows and dust, Maximus. Shadows and dust!" I don't know that's just a great line to me.  (And I can tell now that I've watched this movie entirely too many times.)



I won't say anything about this next movie except three things: My family LOOOVVVEEESSS  this movie. Yes we do.  If you've never seen it (what?!)-please, watch it.  More than once.  If you have seen it, go watch it again.  And again.


This is also one of my favorite movies.  This is the point in the movie at which I begin to tear up, just a tad; according to whatever your definition of 'a tad' is, of course.  It is also a favorite book of mine (well, novella, as it is technically called.)  My copy has notes all over the margins, with lines and paragraphs underlined, and a plethora of stars indicating favorite passages.  I was actually talking to a professor once and something came up about this book; he said, and I quote, "I just don't really see why I should read a book about fishing."  Apparently the look on my face was nothing short of murderous, as he quickly amended his statement by saying, "Of course, I know it's not really about fishing."


So, there it is, my cure all for whatever life's got to bludgeon you with.  (And yes, I realize that is a grammatically incorrect sentence.)

I finally have internet again!!!!!! Woo-HOO!!! I feel as though I have regained the land of the living. I have reentered the human race after a period of involuntary seclusion. First things first: Don't worry, mother, the motel wasn't that bad. Or maybe it was, but hey, I'm a librarian, I don't scare easy. (Too easy, anyway.) Annelise, maybe for our next adventure we should run away and join the circus? We could probably adapt pretty easily now. No, I didn't meet Jack Nicholson. If I had, I would have asked him if he knew Johnny Depp, and if so, could I get a meet and greet. Thanks, Mr. O'Keefe, I have a Nikon D80. Don't listen to anyone who says Canon is superior to Nikon. Yeah, I've never been brave enough to even read any Stephen King, so I'll have to take your word on the "book is better than the movie," although that is the way of things 98% of the time. (By the way, I read 'Love Walked In'-GREAT!!! I was reading through going, "Oh, I LOVE that movie!!! Oh, I know exactly which part she's talking about!!!" Thanks for the suggestion!)

So everyone knows that today is Veteran's Day, the day we celebrate the signing of the Treaty of Versailles and pay tribute to all the courageous men and women who have made it possible for us to celebrate whatever we want, however we want. Don't turn blue around the gills yet, this is not going to be a post about the history leading up to the signing of the Treaty, promise. (Although it is interesting to note that, when Hitler's armies conquered some of the more prominent European signers he had the same railway car which had been used in 1918 to house the signing of Germany's surrender dragged into the same location which was now overgrown forest and forced the same countries to sign their own surrender to Germany in the same car in the same spot. Apparently he had a hard time letting things go.) Anyway, it being a bank holiday, the public library was also closed. Glory hallelujah, a day both we and public school are closed, rather than getting the run-off from teacher workdays. With hurricane Ida moving across the state, we're expected to get up to 8 inches of rain today and tomorrow. The wind has been blowing 15-20 miles an hour (literally, no exaggeration, I just looked it up). The high was 57 degrees. Cold. Wet. Windy. I was planning on spending the entire day in a blissfully hygiene deficient shower-less state if I felt like it. I would sit inside by the warm fireplace reading a biography on Nelson Mandela and cheerfully watch the dripping trees outside sway alarmingly in the 15-20 mph winds. Sound good? Yeah, it did to me, too. Instead, after an insomniac night, the phone rings verrrrry early. Rings persistently, in fact. I figured it was one of two groups, a random political call (of which have been calling at the crack of dawn from some unknown reason) or the American Red Cross, who calls me in an obsessive stalkerish way, as my blood type has an O at the beginning. (The only thing is, these little vampires don't have perfectly tousled hair and a 'Oscar-winner' style moody gaze. ) I let the other 'party' hang up, only to be awakened again half a second later by more persistent ringing. "I just gave blood!!!!" I screamed at the phone. I dragged myself across the floor and picked up the receiver "Whaaatt?!" I whined. No, really, I put on my Mrs. Ha-Wiggins voice and answered as professionally as possible in my near-comatose state. Good thing too, it was a summons for a substitute teaching job. Yes, you read me correctly. Me. Substituting. In Art. Just to prove the universe has a sense of humor.

I got dressed and reported for duty. The first class was third grade. "Ha," I naively though, "I can handle third-graders." No, my friends; there is a sixth sense among the little darlings. It sniffs out fear like a blood hound. As they meandered in, spotted a face they didn't recognize, put two and two together in the most mercenary of fashions, their faces lit up with a maniacal gleam. Sharks smelled blood and my life was at stake. Have you ever seen grey-hounds sprint out of the gate after one of those synthetic rabbits? That's how fast order spiraled into anarchy. I might as well have handed out the Elmer's glue and invited them to stick their noses in, just to add a little more hyperactivity to the scene. Suddenly, from the dark recesses of the Caves of Lascaux my ears detected amongst the din a horrible, soul-piercing wail of agony. "Lord, if I never get anything else I ask for, just grant me this: please let all body parts be in their correct state of attachment." Turns out it was Caesar the turtle in a mortal state of sideways-ness. He had gotten himself in a 'tight spot' in the mulch and his stumpy little appendages couldn't reach the bottom to right himself. I did a search and rescue for Caesar and got a standing ovation accompanied by tearful expressions of gratitude. (Okay, well, maybe not, but one little man did express his approval by "Dude, that was awesome!") Not wanting to potentially pick up the swine flu from Caesar, I promptly washed my hands. I turned to the paper towel dispense and searched vainly for a release lever. And searched. And searched. Searched until some tender hearted juvenile took pity on the poor out-dated substitute and surreptitiously waved a small hand over the motion sensor. I sheepishly took my paper towel and quickly dried my hands.

45 minutes later I traded 3rd graders for 4th graders. I nearly teared up as I watch them tromp out; it was like watching the men you survived the muddy trenches of France with be reassigned to a different regiment. 4th grade descended. The carousel of irony began to turn once again. The accompanying theme song of "Don't draw on yourself." "All on art on paper only, please." "Take that out of your nose!" "Don't touch the person next to you, please!" "No, you can't release Caesar into the wild; especially in weather like this. He's had enough excitement for today." etc., etc. 45 more minutes survived. Lunch, assembly, planning period, steel myself for the last leg of the day's journey. Incidentally, I was on my last leg of just about everything. The 5th graders trooped in. I realized today that I stopped growing in the fifth grade. "Are you the substitute or a new student?" Okay, so they didn't ask, but one child did eventually say, "Where is Mrs. ----?" "She's not coming today." "Are you the substitute?" "Incidentally, yes. Yes, I am." Their looks of incredulity defy description. Want to hear the funniest part of this whole story? I enjoyed it. It was an adventure. Like climbing Mt. Everest without oxygen.

(Believe it or not, this is an actual website, giving advice to "career clowns" on how to deal with petrified children. My advice? don't become a clown. There's something decidedly off-putting about clowns.)

I have recently returned from my first "official" road trip. I believe I can understand now why some people are drawn to a more itinerant lifestyle. If it were for the lack of a dental or health plan, I just might join the circus....or, you know, the creepy circus people.....I still can't bring myself to watch lovable Jimmy Stewart as a creepy circus clown in "The Greatest Show on Earth," even if it is a classic. Clowns have just always freaked me out, so imagine my utter horror when I was introduced to the idea of a film entitled "It." Never seen it (no pun intended), never intend to. Anyway, speaking of creepy movies I've never had an inclination to watch (because we were, weren't we), the initial stages of the road trip boded ill. Not the drive, that was fine, fun, adventurous. It was my first view of the hotel upon the midnight arrival. Being a poor, recently graduated, part time librarian, I couldn't afford the Ritz; the budget wasn't even a 'shoestring' one....more along the lines of velcro. However, stepping off the elevator and onto the set of "The Shining," monetary concerns suddenly became irrelevant. Ever seen a still of that shot of the two creepy twins looking down the hallway....yep, I've lived that hallway, my friends. My only consoling thought was, "It'll all look better in the morning. Sunshine works miracles...." Which led to the song "The sun'll come out tomorrow! Tomorrow! Bet your bottom dollar....." playing on repeat in my head for the rest of the night...Which led to long repressed traumatic memories of being forced to watch "Annie" in the second grade resurfacing. I've never recovered from that incident. Anyway, the rest of the trip proceeded wonderfully. So, here are a few pictures, hope they prove worth braving meeting Jack Nicholson.

I love fall. The change in weather from sweltering humidity to crisp autumnal breezes. The array of brilliantly colored leaves. The big yellow school-bus carrying children to the epicenter of learning, a place in which to mold their little characters into the future Madoffs of the world. After two months of being a surrogate mother/babysitter/sheep wrangler, the sight of that hideously tinted transportation unit is a beautiful sight to behold. It brings tears to my eyes, watching those children with their adorable little plastic bookbags waiting faithfully on the curb each morning, eager to broaden the scope of their minds. Of course, the teary eyes could just be a symptom of the terrible cold the little darlings bequeathed to me before abandoning me for the institutions of learning. A librarian's job lies somewhere in the realm between Spanish matador and rodeo clown. The first few weeks of summer proceed, accompanied by the increasingly resigned chant of "don'trunDon'tRunDON'TRUN!!!!!!" which eventually subsides into "Just DON'T bleed on the carpet!" By the end of the summer my immune system is either worn to a frazzle or so strong it could laugh boldly in the face of Swine Flu and a resurgence of the bubonic plague. However, children being the biohazard they are, I never seem to accomplish an escape entirely unscathed.
It all began a long, long time ago, in a land far, far away, where soap was as yet undiscovered. We have children's computers with various games installed, but the children have to come to the desk and ask for headphones, as there are no speakers attached. One day last week a child bounced up to the desk. "CanIcanIcanI......" "Yes, did you need something?" "Uh....yeah....." "And that would be.....?" "Uh, microphones...." "Headphones?" "Yeah, that's what I said....." As I begin to hand them over, the child's modern dance moves suddenly become alarmingly familiar. "Do you need to go to the restroom?" An urgent nod. "Out the door, on the right." More modern dance. "I won't give the headphones away before you get back." "'kay....." "You should run on, before it's too late; certain cleaning duties are NOT in my job description." The child makes a sprint that would bring pride to the heart of Jesse Owens. Before the door swings shut, the child is back at the desk. "Are you done?!" An cheerfully emphatic nod. A sneaking suspicion crept into my mind. "Did you wash your hands?" "Uhhhhh, I don't know....." "Did you ever turn on the faucet at any point in your recent past?" A shrug and unconcerned shake of the head. "GO WASH YOUR HANDS!!! Do you know the song 'Happy Birthday'?" A beaming affirmative. "Sing it twice before you rinse those grimy little digits, 'kay?" My wishes were gloriously complied with, and I felt a false sense of security. Attila the Hun left and soon after a small group of invading mercenaries descended. The soundtrack to my life began to replay. "You got microphones?" "Nope, Britney Spears needed them for her lip-synching concert." "Can I get the microphones?" "Here's the headphones.......Wait, what have you got in your hand?" Turns out it was a piece of hard candy. The child knew I would tell him to spit it out if I saw it in his mouth, so the next logical step was to hide its existence. In his hand. In a hand that had to open two public doors to get to his post in front of my desk. A hand that had very obviously made a scenic detour through the playground. A hand that wiped a nose which was currently performing amazing feats of the Mississippi River impression-type. "When was the last time you washed your hands?" Staring ruminatively at the ceiling, contemplating profoundly. "When I went to the doctor.........." "When was that?" An unconcerned shrug. "Today........" "GO WASH YOUR HANDS!!!!! Do you know the song 'Happy Birthday'?.............." Another triumphant return and bestowal of the headphones. Time travel forward to Saturday morning-I 'awoke' after a sleepless night, feeling as if I had been breaking in a small Clydesdale horse. Every muscle, joint, and hitherto unknown portion of my miserable carcass aches. My head is pounding in a fair imitation of the soundtrack to 'Gladiator.' (Great soundtrack, by the way.) However, I still have to muster up enough life to go to work. Amazingly, I survive, find my way home, and deposit my poor bones under a sheet, a blanket and two comforters. Children should all receive a little yellow sticker upon arrival into the world. Let me wind up this little narrative by saying that Advil PM is one of the most under-appreciated miracles of the modern age.

This is going to be a boring post for the non-readers, just to give fair warning. (Just as a side note, did anyone know that there really is such a thing as a 'bibliophile'? Really, there is. I'm not sure I would use it too often in day to day conversation as, for some reason, it sounds....I don't know......creepy? Like "pedophile" or something; something about adding the suffix '-phile' just seems to make it sound dirty.) People seem to tend to think that if you like to read, you are not very interested in other people. I would beg to strongly differ. Reading, aside from music, is the only way in which to access exactly how another human being's mind operates, how much more interested in your fellow man can you be than that? By reading you are not limited to knowing only those fellow men who are your contemporaries, but expands your opportunities to make friendships to all those who precede you. This may sound odd, but it amazing how many people you feel you know very closely, simply by reading their work, or a biography of his or her life. I just recently read a few biographies on William Wilberforce, and I have to admit that by the end of the second book, I cried when his death was related. I am currently reading the selected letters of C.S. Lewis, and I must admit, I've been reading his works since the second grade, but the more I read and learn of him personally, his personality and characteristics, the more I go, "Whoa! That sounds eerily familiar." When I die some of the first people I want to meet outside of my family are C.S. Lewis, Louisa May Alcott, Nicholas II of Russia, Jane Austen, Victor Hugo and Charles Dickens. All friends I've made simply by reading. Does that sound crazy? Probably. Do I care if it is? Not really, to be honest. Does anyone else have 'friends' they've made through books? Fiction or non-fiction, it doesn't matter-I personally became very attached to the fictional character of Paul in "A River Runs Through It." (And NO, not just because Brad Pitt played him in the film version.) I also became very attached to Sidney Carton in "A Tale of Two Cities." Valentine from "The Count of Monte Cristo" always seemed the type of person I would like to be friends with, should a contemporary version exist. I keep holding out hope that if Elizabeth Bennett can find a Mr. Darcy, so can I. I've always hoped I could be a strong as Jo March/Louisa May Alcott when the need arises. So, yes, although I suppose it is a bit 'crazy', I prefer to be crazy and have these mute friends than 'sane' without them. Anyone else agree?
(The origin of this random, rather extemporaneous and discursive post is the fact that I posted a new book suggestion and a couple of new quotations, just so I don't seem completely insane.)

Okay, so I try not to get on too many soap boxes in my blog posts. Really, I do. I admit, it does occasionally occur, try as I might, but still, I do try. Sort of. As much as my lazy half-hearted personality will allow me to 'try' with anything. However, someone had this posted on face-book and I watched it. Twice. I suppose I had to watch it twice for a few different reasons....one being, I was mesmerized by the photoshop skills. How do they DO that?! Second of which being, I really needed something like this today. Now, not to get too personal, because spilling your guts is just as cute as it sounds, but, for the sake of explanation, I'll say this much: I've never considered myself attractive, glamorous, beautiful, or any other confidence-inspiring adjective. Self-confidence has remained elusive, even as I have become an adult (or at least, as close to an 'adult' as I'll ever be, I suppose....). I adore old movies, but sometimes you sit back and say, "Wow, I'll never be as sophisticated as Grace Kelly, as endearing as Audrey Hepburn, as svelte as Ava Gardner" and that feeling of dejection and despair only deepens as you're faced with the demands of impossible beauty passing you on the sidewalk every day. Here's the thing: I despise sweating in a room with people I don't know. It's a little too "chummy" for me, hence, I am not a patron of the gym. I'm Irish. I could hold my breath but I'll only turn blue, never tan. I'm 5'3", not even a potential contestant for "America's Next Top Model." I was raised in the South. We eat. We eat well. This combination of undeniable facts do not lend themselves to a particularly good self-image. However, at work the other day, someone donated a stack of In Style magazines. I took one home over the evening (there was an article on Clive Owen.....and, well.....there was an article on Clive Owen......) and flipped through. There was a short article on one young female celebrity (don't ask who, I've not the slightest idea who she is....) and the steps she endures each month to 'look her best.' Fake eyelashes, fake tan, fake nails, fake hair (extensions), etc. At the end of the article there was a list of prices. Overall, this little sweetheart spends over 2, ooo dollars a month. 2,000!!!!!!! Despite the obvious economic issues inherent, my question was this: how many people, who live a much less privileged life than she, could 2,ooo dollars ease the suffering and anxiety caused by day to day expenses? It's amazing to me that humanity will pay more for vanity than for kindness. Anyway, I apologize, this post has become a bit biting, I suppose, but I guess my point is this. We are taught to expect a certain physical image, the corporeal becomes more important than the metaphysical. Characters fall into disrepair and disuse while cuticles receive undivided attention. I did some thinking and had an epiphany: I'll never be beautiful, but I can be helpful. I'll never be glamorous, but I can be kind. I'll never be attractive, but I can comfort others. I'll never be 'perfect,' but I can be forgiving. So, I suppose it as George Washington once said, "Live so that when you are alone, you will be in good company."


(11:40 a.m.-Just read over it for the first time and realized-my spelling capabilities decrease exponentially every hour after 5:00 p.m. Hopefully all errors have been corrected. It's rather difficult to make a point when your spelling is atrocious......)

We had a wonderful thunderstorm this afternoon (I just love thunderstorms for some reason; sometimes all that sunshine can become so banal and predictable, you know? Thunderstorms are always original, unpredictable....I think I've been watching too much "When Weather Changed History".......Anyway.......) It seems that after a late afternoon thundershower there is always the most beautiful evening light. I took advantage of it this afternoon and went to the city cemetery. Now, I know that sounds morbid/disturbed/frightening/gothic/Stephen King/"You-really-need-to-find-a-therapist" but trust me, it's not quite as crazy as it sounds. It's remarkable to me how cemeteries really are peaceful places. Anyway, here are a few shots, let me know what you think, or if the consensus view is just that I need to find a social life and drop the field-trips to the cemetery........

The sun was beginning to go down, so there was this lovely ethereal glow to everything.


I developed kind of an 'art crush' on this particular statue; he had a very neo-classical look about him.