Month: February 2007

Slush – to be shoveled


Slush fell from the sky last night

that was the night I was trying to give the car back
that was the night my windshield wiper tore
that was the night I couldn’t see through the windshield
that was the night I turned around
that was the night I gave up

that was the night I went to bed crying
that was the night I woke back up and called you
that was the night I told you not to tell me “the obvious”
that was the night you said “fair enough”

that was the night I called her back to tell her I couldn’t make it
that was the night I became her disappointment
that was the night she made me feel useless

that was the night I needed a hug
that was the night I didn’t want to let go
that was the night I wished you were there
that was the night I didn’t want to feel alone

Slush fell from the sky last night.

And it hasn’t gone.

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Into Hiding


I was reading Andi’s post about being old and it brought back my similar feelings.
I have borrowed a friend’s 1980 (guess) Buick Park Avenue which is blue as opposed to the brown car in the link. Um, for those of you who don’t know, my grandmother had a similar car and I remember sitting in the back seat. Now, I’m driving it (of course only for about a week). [In case you are puzzled why I am driving it, my car broke down 6 weeks from this coming friday and I have been borrowing friend’s cars since.]

I don’t feel like I can connect to this generation anymore.

I was emailed by a dear friend about her wedding photography. She does beautiful photgraphy. I’m pretty sure we can’t afford her, but if you geta chance, please do look at her pictures.
In looking through her pictures myself I realised a few things…
1. She does amazing work
2. Our wedding isn’t going to look anything like any of those gorgeously expensive ones
3. We probably can’t afford my friend’s photography
4. I’m looking at weddig photography critically as to whether or not I can purchase it = I’m getting old.

Today has been a pretty blah kind of day.
Blah morning.
Blah afternoon.
Blah foggy rain.
Blah.

And it’s giving me blah thoughts.
And blah feelings.
Blah.

I’m old.
Blah.

I’d prefer to go into hiding today.
Blah.

I think I’m going to go to bed at 8:30p.

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Gave Out

At what point, O Lord, do you move us? At what point in our walk do you separate us for leadership or not for leadership? At what point do you say ‘no’? At what point does leadership become more than just a leader’s task? At what point does the responsibility become other’s responsibility as opposed to the responsibility of others’ placed on our shoulders? At what point do we do enough to be seen as good leadership? “Good job” if said at all is always an afterthought. Are we always bad leadership? More, more, more is asked of us as if we do nothing right. As if we try never. As if we desire to fail. At what point do we do enough to be seen as good leadership? At what point? Or do we break before that point? Do we give up, shut off, and silence our desire to serve? Do we become so overcome with tasks in which we are told through silence that we fail that the spirit within us dies back as it touches acidic attitudes? More, more, more. How can we? How can we without support? How much loner until we give out so much that we turn around and realize we gave out all of our character and nothing is left?

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For Monday

Cold Regurgitation
“Anyone want to try to come up with an example…”
Monotone voice attacks peaceful silence
Defenseless, silence shatters
Shard pierces distant thoughts
Dragging us back
Back to a place we so desperately were striving to escape
PowerPoint too bright
His wandering failing to make up for lagging
dragging
statistical
ramblings
Exit sign not close enough
Names mispronounced
The example picks at her nails and blankly stares
“Real life examples” die as quickly as stale air pumps from vents
Clocks freeze
Unnoticed until no ticking heard
Character is crucified in cold regurgitation
Bright room
Dark blankness
How much longer?

How much longer?

-written 2/19/2007-

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The Trump Card of Her Hatred

My parents have been gracious to allow me to borrow their spare car, but little did they know that that car is inherently evil…
While the ’93 Honda Civic may appear to be a well-used, un-dented, well-behaved vehicle, to this manual driver, that car is nothing but an escapee from the abyss of a demonic car lot. I am learning again and again about my personal value of reliability due to the inconsistency of her April-fools engine. And do not be fooled, replacing a dead battery ensures nothing in terms of reliability, but only drains bank accounts for mere joyous laughs and frolicking fun. Sunny day or snowy day, no mercy is found in her cold, harsh “I’m going to make a fool of you” clutch changes. One time, two times, four times, thirteen times, “no mercy” comes her engine’s noncompliance to rouse. With my jumper cables security blanket, the adventure is new with every morning, with every start, with every gear shift. Will her spite overcome me? Will alternative transportation be needed? Will she slowly feed on her battery in orneriness amongst the ice she refuses to budge from?
No known answers.
Oh, how I hate her…
but how the fatal sting lies in how she
hates me.
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