air mail: jet it!

Received a bright orange envelope in the mail the other day which made my day. I was home for only a second, but couldn't wait to read it. Much to the chagrin of my mother (what's done is done, mom) I read it in the car. Twice. Why is airmail so much better than regular mail? Is it the foreign stamp? Or the thought of the long journey from one hand to another? John Donne wrote, "Letters mingle souls." I heart that sentiment deep down. (There isn't a lot of Donne that I heart deep down.) I stayed up late last night penning a response. I put it in the post today and hope it gets there soon soon soon!

give it a go

I know, I know. People have been posting these for a long while now. So what if I'm late on the scene. If you're like me (and even if you're not) give it a go. It's fun (and addicting, if you're obsessed with fonts, color and composition). See here.

standing still

I decided last night that 23 isn't my favorite number anymore.

I spent much of yesterday and today pensive and pondering. I wish someone had a round trip ticket to certain destinations inside my head. To reveries and reflections. And, the great big Land of Wonder. Some seasoned tourist could land, ready to site-see and give their best interpretation on the origin and history of my latest thoughts. There are people who occupy my mind at times, so to speak, whether they want a free trip or not. There just there, lingering, with no anticipated time of departure.

The YTS has been powwowing-it in the name of Love as of late. We've spent hours, each adding our two cents to the discourse. We've sat fireside, chair-side, bedside and car ride, reading great lines from novels, past journal entries and emails, compiling our own Book of Love, stemming from our own experiences.

What are we to do with those to whom we've given fragments of ourselves? Our very soul? People who've made off with bits and pieces of us and left with us odds and ends of themselves? These people who are so much more than the word "memory?" They linger inside us; some sort of beautiful mess. Songs we'll forever know. Lyrics that won't leave our head. So we beat on, telling ourselves not to think about them, when all that really does is make it worse. With every turn, a memory, and with those memories, your heart begins to sting. Heartache. Actual heart ache. And, just when the stinging dies down, something surfaces - a line in a movie or a book, the same tattered baseball cap covering a head in a sea of people, or a tucked-away a post-it, with that signature scribbly-scrawl, becomes un-tucked, leaving you undone. You're caught living a life you can't leave behind.

There comes a time to empty the box of reveries and let the pictures fade. To delete the play lists. To cancel all flights and itineraries. And to finally stop living out of the suitcases of recollections. What you can't keep is a hard thing to lose.

Time has told me
You're a rare rare find
A troubled cure
For a troubled mind.

And time has told me
Not to ask for more
Someday (my) ocean
Will find its shore.

{Nick Drake}

One Fine Day.

At exactly 6:12 this evening, I put my laptop on the floor, my tired hand trying to steady it as it touched the carpet beneath my bed. My head hit the pillow. Sheer exhaustion set in. The best kind of exhaustion. For two nights, I had not let sleep come until all the laughter escaped and the wicks blew themselves out; until the cobbler had been gobbled, the firelight had dimmed and all blankets had been stretched over cabin-cozied bodies. All was quiet except for falling snow. It was time for sleep. Actual sleep.

Down in the valley, it came in like a storm. Reality. My cell phone was beeping with messages for work and my appointment book seemed to be shouting for attention. If I left my laptop open and on, the light streaming from the screen would be enough to keep me from falling fast into a full-surrendered sleep. Or that's what I told myself at laptop touch-down. I awoke one hour later to the sound of groceries hitting the kitchen floor and the feeling of cold air filtering through the hallway.

I'm back in bed after fending off sleep long enough to get some real food in my body. I've been laughing to myself all evening, thinking of fussball victories, color-contacts, shining statues, The Real Secret, and another few days worth of YTS theatrics. My appointment book is table-top, to my right. Closed. And, it's staying that way. After all, it's still a holiday. For a few minutes more.

fill me up.

Hearts that never lean must fall.

Laughter through tears is quite possibly my favorite emotion.
YTS forever.