Adventure over Spring Break

Just supposing I were to live in Oregon 10 years from now and own a ranch... This picture is my future. Imagine the possibilities.

Call Me Carefree

I wonder if you’ve ever had home ripped from you
You wanted to scream, you wanted to cry
You wanted to beat your chest
But you stayed stoic
It made more sense
You hadn’t been there for years anyway
It wasn’t really home anyway
You didn’t want to be pitied

It’s a tireless subject and I’m tired of it
It would be pointless to bring it up again
I’m not a real part of it
I didn’t live it
Far and away, that’s where I stayed
Watching the world pass me on a twelve inch screen
That’s where I’d like to stay

Every once in awhile it surprises me, though
I catch myself crying
Suddenly realizing
Why I feel so contorted inside

True Love in Bikerdom

I used to think bicycle seats caused some discomfort. I, also, used to think of my bike as a horse. (Or, perhaps, that was someone's influence...some confused fellow who tried to decide if my bike was a noble steed or a mare). But, no matter. I've found the solution to all my problems and the answer to all my intuition.

COLLEGE STUDENT SADDLES UP FOR CLASS
College student so-and-so awakened one blustery California morning, brushed his teeth, took a large saddle from the shed, and strapped it to his Cruiser. Yes, folks, I actually saw him on campus--bike, saddle, and all. No time for a picture. I simply thrust myself in his path and begged him to marry me.

Stream of Consciousness

I have a professor who talks as if he could be a sportscaster. I, also, have a professor who has loafers, pointy hair, and big ears. These guys show potential for a lot of writing material--the former because it seems he stepped straight out of a movie, the latter due to what he teaches.

Loafer man lectures for my "Leadership and Personal Development" class. I look forward to this course a lot. I'll get to look inward more than usual. We get to write journals and supposedly become better leaders.

Sportscaster professes history after the 15th century.

I'm taking the other half of history from man-in-leather-jacket-who-paces-from-one-far-end-of-the-classroom-to-the-other. I wonder if he killed my friend.

So...welcome back.

water, water, do not flee, flood my thoughts, wash over me

Here's a picture I've been meaning to post for some time. I took this in the sanctuary of my church back in New Orleans. Notice the line left by the flood. They restained the pews before they took off the line. Now it serves as a mark in the history of this church. Look here and see, you future generations. See how God has carried us.

Holy Smokes! I've been tagged.

I've been tagged by bellavoce! And today was a good day. Two good reasons to blog.

Blog tag goes like this: Since I've been tagged, I must write five things about myself. I'm going to try and write five unique things unheard previously by anyone in California. Then I get to tag five people. They will write five things about themselves--whatever they choose to reveal. Thanks to Miss Bellavoce for getting my blogger juices flowing again.

1. In waking up one morning after a storm (was it a hurricane? I cannot remember), I was carried into another room of our apartment. Trashcans sat in different spots of the room collecting water. Yes, New Orleans is perhaps notorious for its storms. It rained and rained so hard that our ceiling had brown spots for years afterward. We painted the ceilings. Another storm hit, causing the paint to warp and form air pockets. I always wanted to pop those air pockets. I think I did.

2. At the age of 10 and 11 I was in my school's traveling production of Dead End Street, a show to drive kids away from drugs. I dressed in ragged clothes, teased my hair, and painted my nostril with lipstick to make it look bloody. I climbed on ladders, beat on trashcans, stomped, and screamed. Those early shows in elementary school shaped me. Thank you, Lusher school, for sharing the gift of art and performance! Thank you for your art classes, your dance troupe, your tap classes, your festivals!

3. Speaking of Lusher school and festivals, my elementary/middle school held the annual Crawfish Boil. I usually kicked off the day performing with the dance troupe. I ate a carton of crawfish with seasoned corn and potatoes. Then, I roamed from the bake sale to the games and back to the bake sale, back to the games. I climbed Jacob's ladder. I bought a plant. I joined in the crawfish races. I bought confetti eggs to crack on the heads of my teachers, friends, and crushes. My parents insisted on taking a picture of Emily and me in front of the old oak tree every year. Ya'll come now!

4. My dad's work hosted an annual crawfish boil, too. It took place on the Sunday of the Thoth parade. Again, I ate crawfish, corn, and potatoes. Everyone chatted in the front yard. Policemen on horseback would pass, signaling the start of the parade. And, oh, here come the bands! And Mount Carmel's "Carmelettes," a local high school's dance squad. Now, the floats! Throw me something, mister! Stuffed animal! I want a stuffed animal! A spear! A spear! Anytime a crewman would pull out a plastic spear, adrenaline would rush over me. Outta my way! I'd get as close as I could to that float, my arms flailing! HAPpy Mardi Gras!

5. My family once dressed up like "Bloomin' Idiots" for Mardi Gras. I must have been two or three--back when Granny Crawford lived near downtown New Orleans. I'm sure my mama could tell you what possessed us to do such a thing or what possessed us to be the Potato Head Family or the Troll Family or the Moo Cow Family, udders and all. I'll never forget my pink velcro sneakers peaking out from under my hooves.


Now, it's your turn!
Yes, you: Rae, Rachel, Ma-Mamushka, Stephen, and Felix!

Violin et. al.

Why can't I just stick to ONE THING?