wtf, the paper type people, and influences

Our local paper, simply (ironically, stupidly, etc. . ) named "The Paper" sucks. It literally hurts me to see it in my mailbox every Wednesday. After writing for both the Quincy Herald and the State Journal Register, I'd like to think I know good journalism when I see it, but damn, Dwight, what is this shit? Basically a calendar of events for Dwight and surrounding areas, The Paper rarely covers news stories.

This week, the upcoming barn crawl is front and center, while the Shopko that just replaced Pamida is on page 3.

At least Willow likes it (4 months old)

Now, I realize nothing ever happens around here (forgive my cynicism, I hate this place) so I guess I'll cut The Paper some slack.

Nope. Not happening. Because every week a column titled "5 Minutes with Boma" happens. A recent graduate of Dwight high school, Boma is also the son of the owner of The Paper. When I learned this, the world made sense again. . Because there is no way any person in their right mind would let this guy write for the general public unless it was nepotism.

This week, he listed his favorite foods. I did that in kindergarten. Cottage cheese and apple sauce, fudge cookies dipped in chocolate frosting-- damn, I didn't even eat like this when I was whale-sized, nine months into being pregnant with Willow. Gross.

The grammar is atrocious, the editing fails consistently and it just needs someone has a semblance of what they're doing to fix it.

And with that rant, which I've been meaning to make for weeks, I move on.

Ten people who have influenced my life. (Edit, for some reason I jumped to number 9. . . Crazy mommy brain.)

1. My boyfraaaand. I can't say enough about him. He's my best friend.

2. J.R.R. Tolkein. I have read the LOTR books 9 times in one summer. I'm a fanatic. If there was a street gang, I'd be their leader.

3. Jamie Tworkowski. Jamie has a blog at Jamie Writes and it's amazing. His words make me soar.

4. Walt Whitman. I have spent countless an afternoon sitting on top of washing machines having gay sex with men and being a crazy vagabond with untamed white hair. Also, he's my husband. Bon Jovi and Whitman.

5. Mr. Nicholes. He was one of two that visited me in the psych ward. His wife brought me a teeny little photo album and he brought me the world in the form of a poem. I still have it. It still makes me cry.

6. Professor Watson. She believed I was good at my dreams which gave me the courage to be good at my dreams. I learned to speak before I thought and chart sociology on star graphs.

7. Professor Udel. Not my favorite professor but her choice in literature is fantastic. Bless Me, Ultima, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven, Lies my History Teacher Told Me.

8. Joss Whedon. Buffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffy. Fan girl orgasm commence.

9. My dad. I'm so thankful I don't believe in the invisible man in the sky anymore.

10.  Is a tie between Don Miller and Sierra DeMulder. He taught me that not all Christians are crazy and ridiculous. Also, Blue Like Jazz. And Sierra's poetry gives me goose bumps.
 
<3 br="br">

PS: Good journalism, granted video journalism, to me, would be Philly D / Phillip DeFranco. The title of this post is a nod to him.

the artist's way

Today I'm starting a series of blogs about my experiences going through the book The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. I'll be doing this in conjunction with my friend Karen's blog, so check her's out as well because we're doing it as a team.

The Artist's Way uses two basic tools, the morning pages and the artist's date. Morning pages are three pages of stream of consciousness writing every morning to sort of get the worries out of the way and clear the my head. I'm not supposed to read them again right away, but wait for a while and then read them, I guess for some insight into how my brain works. The artist's date is a weekly chunk of time (2 hours is what she said) where I go (or stay, I suppose, but that would be hard to do with le bebe) and do stuff. Anything, I guess. Walking, concerts, museum, bowling, movie, whatever. That's going to be hard for me. I always go out either with JP or Willow because my social anxiety goes crazy in the real world. If I do go out alone, I run in and out of the grocery store. . . And even then I hate it. Maybe these dates will help with that as well.

So, Karen and I will be chronicling our journey through this book. . I'm not sure what exactly it entails. I started flipping through it and got a little freaked out, which is probably a good thing, so I'll be taking this one chapter at a time. Karen has done this before, so if you follow her journey you'll be getting not only a whole different perspective, but someone who's a great writer and a pro at this whole finding your creativity thing!

I hope to get two things out of this exercise. Mainly, I hope to learn how to write even when I'm happy and everything's going well. I've never been good at writing happy poems. My writing started as a coping mechanism, and every time I tried writing not-sad poems they ended up sappy or stupid. Secondly, I'd like to shake the writer's block that plagues me every few months. Sometimes, I can write for months and months but then I stop. For like a year. Usually, it's when I'm depressed, and not being able to write makes it worse. . . So, Julia Cameron, I challenge you to fix my creative.

In the book she asks us to sign a contract, so I will put it on here so I can be responsible not only to myself and Karen but to you all,

I, Annie, understand that I am undertaking an intensive, guided encounter with my own creativity. I commit myself to the twelve-week duration of the course. I, Annie, commit to a weekly reading, daily morning pages, a weekly artist date, and the fulfillment of each week's tasks.

I, Annie, further understand that this course will raise issues and emotions for me to deal with. I, Annie, commit myself to excellent self care-- adequate sleep, diet, exercise, and pampering-- for the duration of the course.

So, there it is. I'm not sure if I'll be posting updates or other stuff along with the weekly artist's way blogs, but I guess we'll see.

I, Annie, am signing off.

<3

velvet elvis

I've been reading all night.
It started with New Moon. . . which, in my humble opinion was far, far, far too sappy and didn't resolve all the way. The story is still decent, as was the first book, but it leaves something lacking. Maybe it's the fact that Bella is selfishly concerned about other people's needs (meaning: she acts like she's doing it for their good but there's always something in it for her, and she knows it and likes it).
Second in the list of tonight, since I finished New Moon in a matter of hours (this is how you win reading contests, too bad they don't have them for kids over, say 12) was Velvet Elvis by Rob Bell.
It confused me at first, and then I kind of stopped thinking about what he was saying- stopped dissecting it, and just read. Ah, it was great. I'm about half-way done with it, and am probably going to finish it today, unless I suddenly get sleepy, which rarely happens.
He talks about so many things. . and I don't have time to really hit on any of them, since I'm deathly afraid my mother will come find me typing away (she doesn't understand that I feel the most inspired when I'm sleep deprived).
More tomorrow- I promise, but for now, suffice to say that I am giving up on Christianity as I have known it to be so far. It sickens me to death. I hate it.

Goodnight,

<3

stars are the twinkle in god's eye

It's early morning. 1:20.

Hunger is gnawing at my stomach. Damn thing needs to stop.

Band of Horses is in my headphones, which are much too big- you know, the heavy-duty ones that look like they belong in a recording studio.

My mother made me promise that I would go to sleep before 5, because yesterday she woke up to go pee in the middle of the night and saw my light on. I can't tell you how extraordinarily creepy it is to be reading a book, totally lost in a magical world, when your mother creeps into your bedroom in her nightie and jolts you awake. I hope you never experience it, friends. It almost put me in my grave.

Today is Tuesday. Tuesday is a very insignificant day, unless you go to the Voice, which I've stopped going to. Seeing Curtis makes me sad- especially since I haven't talked to him since last week. Maybe he's mad. I got him a (I thought) cool leather journal thing with his name engraved in a little metal label and The Dark Knight. Rachel said it would be perfect, you know, since he's a writer. . .

"Hatred is a sharp knife held by the blade".
"Love is a thing that you can't define".

I wish I was a lightning bug. They actually gross me out. . . But they're beautiful, if you just look and don't try to touch. They kind of flicker and float- like faeries. I guess if I was a lightning bug I wouldn't be grossed out by myself. I guess I'd think I was beautiful.

I would come out when the sun went down, just because.

I would stare at the stars, too. . . maybe I'd think that they were what fueled my bright little behind. Maybe I'd come up with some kind of lighting bug theory, and become lightning bug famous.

New topic.

I'm reading the Uglies/Pretties/Specials trilogy. I loved Uglies, got turned off at Pretties and am wading through Specials. The story is good, but seriously, can you make it any more drawn out? Maybe I'll change my opinion when I finish the last book. . .

You wanna know what really got me? I'm sure you do, and if you don't, too bad. This my blog, and I can talk about whatever my little self desires. =] So there.
Okay, really now- I hated the fact that he did that stupid little thing with "The Cutters". No.

For those of you that haven't read the books: There's this world out there where every one has to go through an operation which makes them beautiful, thus eliminating racism and all kinds of injustices by making everyone equal. This operation also makes people stupid. So this group of kids decide to try to cure themselves from the stupidness by what they call being "bubbly". This consists mainly of adrenaline (that's my opinion anyway) and one girl from this group sets about getting "bubbly" by cutting herself.

Now- seriously? This isn't a psychological thriller, it's science fiction. Keep it that way. Plus, thus far, the author has not said anything about this action not being a good thing- only that it works for becoming "bubbly". Yeah, I know it's a story, but I don't like the underlying moral so far.

Plus, it's insulting. It makes it seem that real life self-injurers do it for the kicks and attention (this group later become really important in government secret operations), which is a very misguided view.

My opinion: if someone's going to do stuff like self-injury, or any other kid of self-destructive behavior, even if they are doing it for "attention" there's something to pay attention to! There's obviously some disturbance going that needs to be dealt with, and the self-destructive behavior is the red flag that is to alert us to what's going on.

Thank you. I'll get off my soap box now.

As far as music is concerned, Noah Gundersen is freaking amazing. Look him up, listen to Middle of June.

I love you, stay strong, keep being the awesome individualistic free-thinkers you are.

<3

PS: I bought new toe rings today. They say: love, peace, and luck on them. I don't like the luck one. Oh well.

"are you lonely? are my scars too deep, or do you have them too? or do you only love the ones that look like you?"

Do You Only Love the Ones That Look Like You - Molly Jenson and Jon Foreman. It's pretty much the best thing ever, so thank you to Jamie for telling us about it, huh?

Are you lonely? Are my scars too deep, or do you have them too? Or do you only love the ones that look like you?

Today is Wednesday, and I have the choice of going to church- or not. Not.

I had pancakes today, but we didn't have any maple syrup so I had to be creative, finally settling on strawberry preserves and whipped cream. Not bad, but not as good as chocolate chips or syrup.

There's this book, and I just finished it. It's about rape and boys and obscure music- it's great. "Just Listen" by Sarah Dessen. If you're reading this, you should read that, because it's good. . . though she takes a hell of a long time getting to the point. It sort of annoyed me, but once she got there, she was right on. It made me wonder if she'd been raped, the way she described the separation of body and emotions, one blocked the other just present; just alive.

Music is the main thing that's been happening these last few days, mainly U2 and random local bands. Hopefully going to SOHO this weekend.

I leave you with this, I thought it was really cool. . . a song with a title that's me:

Annie- Mat Kearney

I'm caught in a moment out in the rain
Tell me there's something we can say
Help me to find a light
Something that's worth living
Shes walking the backbeat out in the grave
Tell me there's something we can change
Help me to find my way back down

Cause Annie's got to get out
Before she never can
Were chasing for the ceiling
I'm grabbing for her hand
Were calling on a thin phone line, tonight
Cause Annie's got to get out

Holding the line from the back of the car
Miles and miles from where you are
Maye the hardest things are the dreams that we've been given
And you scream and you sing and you shout
There one way in and there's one way out
Help me to find my way back down

Cause Annie's got to get out
Before she never can
Were chasing for the ceiling
I'm grabbing for her hand
Were calling on a thin phone line, tonight
Cause Annie's got to get out

There's one love in the morning
Add three days in the grave
Fall back in the evening
Now our lives will change

I'm caught in a moment out in the rain
Tell me there's something we can say
Help me to find my way back down

Cause Annie's got to get out
Before she never can
Were chasing for the ceiling
I'm grabbing for her hand
Were calling on a thin phone line, tonight
Cause Annie's got to get out
Oh Annie's got to get out
We sing......

<3

call me mashed potato girl.

I am sitting in front of a brightly lit screen with a pot of mashed potatoes, garlicky mashed potatoes, cheesy and garlicky mashed potatoes off to one side of the screen.

There is a wooden spoon in the mashed potatoes, and also a smaller metal one.

Just a second ago I was staring at this screen, with the smaller metal spoon in front of my face. I was licking it, thinking I could star in a porno about mashed potatoes. I laughed at myself.

It was all about fun, and I really don't have any weird fetishes about mashed potatoes.

Viva la Vida was playing, and I turned it way up. I love Coldplay, and I especially love Viva la Vida.

I finished a book today. It is called "The Perks of being a Wallflower".

I was shocked at the ending, but as I thought about it, it all made sense.That's why he was scared to have sex with Sam. Yeah. Makes sense.

But he loved his Aunt Helen.

Just like I still love Joe. But Joe killed me.

I wasn't exactly scared of sex. (Pokerface, by Lady Ga Ga is on now. How do you wake Lady Ga Ga up? Poke her face.)

Maybe it would have been good if I had been scared of sex.

Then it maybe wouldn't have happened. Especially without a condom. Who does that?

Seriously?!?

That's not even that bad. But knowing the sperm donor for only 6 days before settling yourself down on the piano practise room floor. Wrong. Wrong. Me.

(Let's face it. When it's come to size, there is one thing that really does matter. I'm talking about diamonds of course. Be Iced Jewelers.) What?

Oh yeah, and I thought I was pregnant. Because that would be convenient. And just my luck. I kind of wanted it though. Rachel and I went to Walmart, and I grabbed a liquor bottle. . and pretended to drink, and then I thought I couldn't, because it could cause birth defects.

Then I made her promise she'd never, ever let me wear sweats during the whole 9 months, that she'd make me dress cute, no matter how much I didn't feel like it.

That got me thinking about clothes, so I begged her to go to the maternity section with me. No go. I looked at it longingly though.

I wasn't.

Pregnant, that is. I was so relieved, when I found out. Right before Art class, I went to the bathroom, and there it was. The woman's plague. I was like "Geez, I wish I was pregnant. This sucks." But I was only half-wishing. Half.

I don't know why I am saying all of this. I was actually going to talk about something way different. I was going to talk about Curtis, but I started talking about Charley in the book, and Aunt Helen.

So, here I go, talking about I was originally going to talk about.

I went to prom this Friday. I also went to after-prom on Saturday, with Rachel. We drank way too much coffee, and stayed up longer than Rachel had ever stayed up. We went to Denny's, which is my favorite restaurant place of all time, because they have the best Bocca burgers ever. I said that, and then started laughing. There was all these random girls I'd never seen, and we sat with them, and I couldn't stop laughing. I've never done that before. It was great. I felt so high. It was ridiculous. I got coffee. And mozzarella sticks. (Mozzarella is a really weird word.)

But, on Friday, at prom. . well, it wasn't actually prom. It was like, fake prom. Or. . Modest prom. Or Mormon Prom. Choose one, it works.

We had to wear sleeves, because Mormon's are OCD about all girls having sleeves on. I looked ridiculous. Curtis took me. He looked at me as I opened the door and told me I looked weird. And then he said he should say I look beautiful, but he's really tired. 44 hours of no sleep, because he was thinking about marijuana.

Well, he was writing about marijuana. For a research paper, he wasn't just randomly thinking about it.

But he was honest, and out of it, so I decided that that night was the perfect night to ask him what he thought of me. I mean, if he liked me.

He said: "Yeah, sort of."

For a poet, he sure knows how to not say things poetically. Maybe it was because he was tired, because he always says things perfect, except for then. He amazes me.

I told him that I liked him because his writing gave me shivers. I wanted to write like him, but I never could. I wished I could have ran my fingers through his hair.

He was scared he had hat hair. Because he wore a hat. A pin stripped one from Walmart. It cost $10. He told me.

I wore it alot of the night. At one point, we both wore the same hat, because someone else had the same one.

We danced.

He twirled me.

And I was terrible.

At one point, he did this dance move that he really wasn't supposed to, because he was Mormon, and all these older Mormon psychiatrists and psychologists and presidents and business dudes were watching.

He twirled me so that I landed with my back right next to his chest. I said "I can see why this isn't allowed", but what I really meant was I could feel why this wasn't allowed.

I think Mormons aren't allowed to kiss.

Shame.

Maybe some day, because I'm willing to wait. And wear sleeves. And not swear, and not kiss him. Or even, if I have to, not run my fingers through his hair, even if it's just to convince him that he doesn't have hat hair.

And I don't love him just because he's a nice guy, but because he's honest, and he has silky arm hair and funny fingers. But I love it. I love all of it.

*Sigh*

<3

hot pink ribbons

Sometimes I think I've found someone that thinks like me, maybe, if you're Anne of Green Gables, a "kindred spirit", somewhere, writing something, and then they disapear.
Usually they are famous writers, like Don Miller.

I love Don Miller.
While I was reading "Searching for God Knows What" I wondered if he had a girlfriend right now, and then, during "Blue Like Jazz" I wanted to stalk him and get his phone number so I could woo him and marry him.

That was during a state of extreme tiredness and caffeine deprivation, though, so I'm really not that creepy.
Now, when I think about him, I wish there were less people in the world, so maybe he'd actually be interested if I wrote him an email and tried to have a conversation with him. Maybe if there were less people in the world people, even famous people, would listen.

Jon Foreman is another one.
And then there's you.

I'm sure we have alot in common. I'm sure you've stared as far as you could into the darkness straining to see what's at the other side. I'm sure you've done this, both literally and figuratively.
I'm sure you've cried so hard that after you were all done all that would come out of you was more snot and hiccups.
I'm sure you've wondered what the right spelling for the red condiment is. Is it catsup? Or ketchup?
(It's ketchup.)
I'm sure you've stood at the edge of a couch and closed your eyes and jumped- and repoened your eyes at the impact; the shock of hitting the ground, because you know you were meant to fly.
I'm sure you've sat listening to music and moving to the beat when you suddenly felt they were singing about you.

I know these things because I am you, and you are me.
We are members of the same planet; one of a million.
We are fighters and followers. Hopeful and hopeless. Singers and dancers. Smart and dull. And sometimes duller. Maybe all at the same moment.

If there is one truth I want to hold in my hand, it is that I am loved, and you are too (because remember, we are one and the same).
I want to hold it in my hand, and wrap my fingers around it.
Maybe the light coming from it will slide between my closed fist and turn my fingers orangish red. Maybe the liquid from it's heart will seep through my closed hand and pour down my wrist. Maybe then I will understand.

If love was a song, I would sing it to you. I would scream it right into your ear, where I could see the follicles of hair and the tiny bits of earwax stuck to them.
If love was rain, I would dance in it, dragging you with me. The water would make our hair stick to our face, and I would brush it away from yours and kiss you on the forehead. I would let it drench us.
If love was a book, I would read it out loud to you while you laid your head in my lap and dreampt. I would do all the voices, and at all the exciting parts (there are many) I would jump out of my seat and act it out- like charades. Maybe then we would fully grasp it.
If love was a brick, I would build you a sky scraper so tall that it would scrape the sky, and tear at it, and all the lemon drops and gum balls and lollipops and cats and dogs that are hidden up there would pour all over us, and we would stand looking up at the sky with open mouths- breathless.
If love was a promise, I would say it but once, and then draw you a picture that will help you remember that I will not forget. It would be colorful, and it will have dandelion seeds floating in the sunlight.
If love was a tree, I would chain myself to it until the end, and they would have to cut me down to touch it. I would water it, and I would hug it.
If love was a kiss, it would be the most passionate lip lock in history. It would be lustless, but instead full of unspoken electricity traveling between the skin of our lips. It would be a promise.

What is love?

Love is all of the above, and more.

Love is you and me forging ahead, no matter what is in our path. Whether it's lions,
or tigers,
or bears.

I love you. You are worth every single breath that has ever been breathed. Every drop in the ocean.

You are beautiful.

Remember that, and I promise, I won't forget to remember you.