[Okay, I'm sure the grand two of you who follow this word-hash have noticed a severe lack of recent blogging these past few months. In my usual brilliance I would attribute this to the fact that Snowl has nothing worth reporting to the world as of late. However, that would not be entirely fair on Snowl's behalf and (since she will likely eventually see that I snuck on and wrote this) I must say that her usual insight and 'wisdom' is sorely missed by the world (of two readers who follow her blog). Hence, I, the Amazing Orville, have decided to fill you all in on Snowl's happenings, since the poor gal is too preoccupied with that whole 'life' thing to do so herself. Prepare, dear mortals, for the Orville's first monologue report!
I should probably point out that Snowl is plowing through the first semester of her last year of undergrad college... so her usual energies put into this blog have been re-funneled into studies. On top of that, the poor mess fought off chronic migraines for the first two months of school. (And as much as I enjoyed the extra cuddle time, she did look rather pathetic in that state.) Thankfully, modern science came through with a cure and I now get to make druggie jokes at her expense, since the school nurse wrote her a RX to chase the head-pains away. Now she is trying to make up the first couple months' worth of homework in the past couple weeks. (Makes me grateful I'm an owl and therefore inherently brilliant and all-knowing so that studies are unnecessary.)
On top of time-consuming classwork and daily brain-implosions, Snowl also had to cope with her first semester roomie-less (save for me, of course, and I simply don't understand why I didn't suffice. whatever.) as the dear Tulio/Rutt/Roy was absent, and many of her friends flew off into the world with their diplomas in hand at the end of last term. (Moper. Get over it and make new friends. Or hang with me more!) On top of that, one of her greater efforts at making a new friend suffered a fall-out at the end of summer which she -still- hasn't fully recovered from. (Girly, as much as I like the guy, he's not worth your poetry IMHO. MOVE ON.) So on top of course work, migraines and loneliness, she seemed repeatedly depressed at the lack of this douche-bag she'd grown so freakin' attached to. (I just don't get girls. He constantly flakes and messes with your head, but throw her a bone of your time and *poof!* she's right back to square one. 'Oh Orville, I just don't understand.' 'Oh Orville, I miss him so much.' 'Oh Orville...etc.' Pardon me while I vomit dust bunnies. Pathetic. Er, no offense Snowl. I love you. ... Erm, yes. *cough* ) (If you ask me they were both playing too carefully and ended up stalemating, so no one won. Humans and their dumb games... time to reset the board and start fresh. Maybe they can do better a second time around. *eyeroll*) But who needs love when you've got an ORVILLE like me?? Silly Snowl.
On a more positive note, Snowl was granted the honor of co-running Epiphany this year, which has been (although time-consuming) a positive inspiration for her writing. It is also forcing her to talk to more people, which I generally encourage (darn hermit). She is also on floor council again this semester, and has enjoyed meeting the new girls on W1S (which is pretty much the best kept secret of awesomeness at EU. just sayin'.) I myself got to play in the floor bunko party, and promptly defeated Snowl with a better score card (and no, I haven't let her hear the end of it since!). I also acquired several numbas from da lovely ladies~~*cough*. But yes, there have been definite highlights to this semester as well, and most of those highlights revolve around the darling people in her life (special props to 'Renee,' Turnip-Head, Roomie-turned-RA, and the Beauties of 117 for your awesomeness that brings sunshine on the dreariest of days).
As for me, life is as usual. I chill in bed most the time, Snowl smushes me in her sleep and fishes me from the crack between her bed and the wall in the morning, and I get to entertain guests she has over. I kinda smell like a mix of bed-head and febreeze, which is awesome. And as always, don't crack a joke at me, because I will glare at you. I have no sense of humor. At all. *glares*
I should probably wrap this up because the mistress will be back soon from Wally World. Oh, and don't mention this blog to her--I want to see how long it takes Snowl to figure it out. HA.
-Orville out.]
Monday, November 15, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Gifts and Spaghetti
Orville’s note: Men are like waffles, women spaghetti. Welcome to Olive Garden.
No matter how much you deny it, the highlight of Christmas for every little American boy and girl was the beautiful stack of presents under the tree. I’m often skeptical when girlfriends tell me that they don’t like gifts—normally this insert falls into talks about the 5 love languages, and it seems everyone thinks they would sound selfish to admit that gifts have any meaning to them. I’m sorry, but I just don’t buy it.
The idea behind a gift is that someone saw something that made them think of you, so on impulse they bought it/made it for you in the hope that maybe, even just for a moment, you’d feel a glimmer of excitement, self-worth, value, love, etc. etc. A good gift takes thought, time, and generally a cost to the giver... anyone who works for their money understands this. But to the receiver, the gift is completely free.
So why knock the gift love language ladies? You’re not foolin’ anyone.
I’d say my top two love languages, hands down, are quality time and gifts. When it comes down to it, time is really the only thing we have, so when someone gifts you their time, well… it’s beautiful, isn’t it? They never get that time back, and they chose to spend it with you.
I had a bit of a rattling weekend. Besides the fact I got very little rest / quiet time, sat in the heat all day Saturday, and had to drive eight hours without AC in the 95* oven known as my truck, I also had an encounter that shook my content view of reality.
My 13-year-old sister had a softball regional tournament on the eastern border of Missouri. My mom caravanned with her team out there and my dad drove down from Wisconsin to watch her play. My folks divorced when my sister was 1 and I was 8 going on 9. Dad is remarried with two kids who are 6 and 3—and who probably contribute to my own lack of desire to ever have children. Dad thought it would be easier though to drive down alone. I was glad to see him, since I hadn’t since Christmas break—that’s half a year since I’d seen my papa.
Mom and dad were on their best behavior towards each other for the sake of Stacie’s tournament. Actually, they got along splendidly. It was weird. The rattle-moment struck me when the four of us went out to eat at a bbq place for lunch together and dad paid for mom’s coffee. (She and Stacie had already eaten earlier.) The four of us were sitting there visiting and having a good time, talking about the tournament, my summer job, etc. etc. The casual passerby probably thought we were one happy family of four. That’s when my brain exploded.
This was how it was supposed to be.
It blew my mind.
I guess as a kid I never gave too much thought to the single parent home thing. Sure, when it first happened I missed my dad, but I quickly got used to the absence and the 16-hour car rides up to see him (thank God for gameboys…) for the summer and holidays and whatnot. And I loved birthday and Christmas gifts from my family because, although I didn’t get to see them much, those were things I could take with me, and whenever I saw those things, I’d think of the family members that gave them to me. I love sifting through memories when just sitting alone in my room as I see each gift and remember its significance.
During the car ride back to Springfield my mom drove with me since the Kansas bound caravan went through Springfield on their way home.
“Do you realize what this weekend was?” she asked me.
Me: “Ummm… Stacie’s softball tournament…?”
Mom: “If your father and I had stayed together, this weekend would have been our 25th anniversary weekend.”
And my mind imploded again.
Our conversation drifted onto the topic of how their split influenced the difference between my sister’s personality and mine. For those of you who don’t know, I’m kinda the loner quiet type who likes to write, paint, and dabble with ideas. My sister is an outgoing jock. It doesn’t get much more opposite.
“You used to be different,” mom said. “In Virginia you were the popular kid, I remember.” She laughed. “Remember how you used to bark?”
She talked about the softball clinic she put me in one year, and how I used to talk to anyone, and how she remembered watching the changes.
“Then there was that girl who really hurt you in Wisconsin,” she glowered. “What was her name again?”
“Sam.” *grumblegrumble*
Mom nodded. “You got really quiet after that, even when we moved to Kansas. You didn’t seem to want to be friends with the kids I thought you should be friends with. I never understood it.” I didn’t say anything. “But you’ve always love art,” mom observed. “Even in Virginia. Other interests you’d jump between, but you always came back to your art.”
I nodded. “You don’t need other people to make art,” I said. “You don’t need a team, or a partner. It’s just you and the canvas. It’s portable. You don’t need a baseball diamond, or a stage. Just you, your mind, your ideas. Same thing with writing. Plus, when you get it all out on a page, all that chaos wracking around inside that makes no sense—when you can see it, written out in text or paint—you can let it go.”
Mom paused for a bit. “I’ve always thought us very blessed,” she finally said. “After all, I was supposed to be bringing different boyfriends home every night and you and Stacie were supposed to be caught up on drugs and pregnant and who knows what else by now. But we dodged all of that.” She sighed. “I’m very grateful.”
“We had a good foundation,” I said.
“Well, I think the God factor is what got us through,” mom replied.
“… That’s what I meant…”
“Oh.”
The conversation then turned to church issues, which I won’t go into right now, but there is a bit more spaghetti to be had. People have always told me that creativity is a gift from God, and that God’s gifts serve a purpose in our lives. Numerous times I’ve been told that God has blessed me with a wonderful gift in my art. Well, a gift is something someone puts thought and time into that they think the receiver will benefit from in some way, right?
This thought popped into my head around this point in the convo with ma: what if God looked down and saw this little girl, and saw the future ahead of her. His heart ached, because this division was not his ideal, but humans will be humans and bicker and split. But the little girl? How will she cope? She was years from even glimpsing the might of her heavenly father. How could he carry her though?
He’d give her a gift. A gift that would ease her heart and calm her mind, that would bring her joy and praise that would carry her confidence through the darkness, and would help her heal. He’d give her a gift that would provide a means to other doors, and would connect her with others like herself so she’d never be alone. And he would bless her in her endeavors with this gift even if she didn’t realize its origin or purpose, because once given, the gift was hers to use as she’d need it.
Is it so hard to believe? A passion sparked in the heart of a little girl that would consistently throughout her life pull her back up when everything else is crumbling, dubbed by others as a gift from God, was, indeed, a beautiful, beautiful, beautiful GIFT from God.
We all know of THE gift from God, which is why we celebrate Christmas. But don’t bash the smaller, subtler gifts. A gift is a beautiful thing. Don’t discredit what God has given you.
Several people the last couple days have asked me if something was wrong. Nothing is wrong; I’ve just had a lot of noodles to sort through. Hence, the word-vomit above.
No matter how much you deny it, the highlight of Christmas for every little American boy and girl was the beautiful stack of presents under the tree. I’m often skeptical when girlfriends tell me that they don’t like gifts—normally this insert falls into talks about the 5 love languages, and it seems everyone thinks they would sound selfish to admit that gifts have any meaning to them. I’m sorry, but I just don’t buy it.
The idea behind a gift is that someone saw something that made them think of you, so on impulse they bought it/made it for you in the hope that maybe, even just for a moment, you’d feel a glimmer of excitement, self-worth, value, love, etc. etc. A good gift takes thought, time, and generally a cost to the giver... anyone who works for their money understands this. But to the receiver, the gift is completely free.
So why knock the gift love language ladies? You’re not foolin’ anyone.
I’d say my top two love languages, hands down, are quality time and gifts. When it comes down to it, time is really the only thing we have, so when someone gifts you their time, well… it’s beautiful, isn’t it? They never get that time back, and they chose to spend it with you.
I had a bit of a rattling weekend. Besides the fact I got very little rest / quiet time, sat in the heat all day Saturday, and had to drive eight hours without AC in the 95* oven known as my truck, I also had an encounter that shook my content view of reality.
My 13-year-old sister had a softball regional tournament on the eastern border of Missouri. My mom caravanned with her team out there and my dad drove down from Wisconsin to watch her play. My folks divorced when my sister was 1 and I was 8 going on 9. Dad is remarried with two kids who are 6 and 3—and who probably contribute to my own lack of desire to ever have children. Dad thought it would be easier though to drive down alone. I was glad to see him, since I hadn’t since Christmas break—that’s half a year since I’d seen my papa.
Mom and dad were on their best behavior towards each other for the sake of Stacie’s tournament. Actually, they got along splendidly. It was weird. The rattle-moment struck me when the four of us went out to eat at a bbq place for lunch together and dad paid for mom’s coffee. (She and Stacie had already eaten earlier.) The four of us were sitting there visiting and having a good time, talking about the tournament, my summer job, etc. etc. The casual passerby probably thought we were one happy family of four. That’s when my brain exploded.
This was how it was supposed to be.
It blew my mind.
I guess as a kid I never gave too much thought to the single parent home thing. Sure, when it first happened I missed my dad, but I quickly got used to the absence and the 16-hour car rides up to see him (thank God for gameboys…) for the summer and holidays and whatnot. And I loved birthday and Christmas gifts from my family because, although I didn’t get to see them much, those were things I could take with me, and whenever I saw those things, I’d think of the family members that gave them to me. I love sifting through memories when just sitting alone in my room as I see each gift and remember its significance.
During the car ride back to Springfield my mom drove with me since the Kansas bound caravan went through Springfield on their way home.
“Do you realize what this weekend was?” she asked me.
Me: “Ummm… Stacie’s softball tournament…?”
Mom: “If your father and I had stayed together, this weekend would have been our 25th anniversary weekend.”
And my mind imploded again.
Our conversation drifted onto the topic of how their split influenced the difference between my sister’s personality and mine. For those of you who don’t know, I’m kinda the loner quiet type who likes to write, paint, and dabble with ideas. My sister is an outgoing jock. It doesn’t get much more opposite.
“You used to be different,” mom said. “In Virginia you were the popular kid, I remember.” She laughed. “Remember how you used to bark?”
She talked about the softball clinic she put me in one year, and how I used to talk to anyone, and how she remembered watching the changes.
“Then there was that girl who really hurt you in Wisconsin,” she glowered. “What was her name again?”
“Sam.” *grumblegrumble*
Mom nodded. “You got really quiet after that, even when we moved to Kansas. You didn’t seem to want to be friends with the kids I thought you should be friends with. I never understood it.” I didn’t say anything. “But you’ve always love art,” mom observed. “Even in Virginia. Other interests you’d jump between, but you always came back to your art.”
I nodded. “You don’t need other people to make art,” I said. “You don’t need a team, or a partner. It’s just you and the canvas. It’s portable. You don’t need a baseball diamond, or a stage. Just you, your mind, your ideas. Same thing with writing. Plus, when you get it all out on a page, all that chaos wracking around inside that makes no sense—when you can see it, written out in text or paint—you can let it go.”
Mom paused for a bit. “I’ve always thought us very blessed,” she finally said. “After all, I was supposed to be bringing different boyfriends home every night and you and Stacie were supposed to be caught up on drugs and pregnant and who knows what else by now. But we dodged all of that.” She sighed. “I’m very grateful.”
“We had a good foundation,” I said.
“Well, I think the God factor is what got us through,” mom replied.
“… That’s what I meant…”
“Oh.”
The conversation then turned to church issues, which I won’t go into right now, but there is a bit more spaghetti to be had. People have always told me that creativity is a gift from God, and that God’s gifts serve a purpose in our lives. Numerous times I’ve been told that God has blessed me with a wonderful gift in my art. Well, a gift is something someone puts thought and time into that they think the receiver will benefit from in some way, right?
This thought popped into my head around this point in the convo with ma: what if God looked down and saw this little girl, and saw the future ahead of her. His heart ached, because this division was not his ideal, but humans will be humans and bicker and split. But the little girl? How will she cope? She was years from even glimpsing the might of her heavenly father. How could he carry her though?
He’d give her a gift. A gift that would ease her heart and calm her mind, that would bring her joy and praise that would carry her confidence through the darkness, and would help her heal. He’d give her a gift that would provide a means to other doors, and would connect her with others like herself so she’d never be alone. And he would bless her in her endeavors with this gift even if she didn’t realize its origin or purpose, because once given, the gift was hers to use as she’d need it.
Is it so hard to believe? A passion sparked in the heart of a little girl that would consistently throughout her life pull her back up when everything else is crumbling, dubbed by others as a gift from God, was, indeed, a beautiful, beautiful, beautiful GIFT from God.
We all know of THE gift from God, which is why we celebrate Christmas. But don’t bash the smaller, subtler gifts. A gift is a beautiful thing. Don’t discredit what God has given you.
Several people the last couple days have asked me if something was wrong. Nothing is wrong; I’ve just had a lot of noodles to sort through. Hence, the word-vomit above.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Fragile my foot.
[Orville's note: Names have been changed for the sake of privacy. Then again, if Snowl was really concerned about keeping things quiet, she wouldn't bother posting anything in this blog. But that's just my opinion. And what do I know since I'm just an owl.]
Snowl: So guess who's in here chatting with Mr. Boss...? I feel like my turf has been invaded. Must prepare minions for sneak attack on danger-danger.
Renee: Wait a min... you mean cleavage girl?
Snowl: No, lol. I meant our fun-dangerous male friend. I'm officially invited over for the evening again. super. Renee, SAVE ME FROM MYSELF! AUGHHHHHH!
Renee: There is no help for you.
Snowl: That's what I was afraid of.
So I was recently buried alive beneath a suffocating mound of blankets and then sat upon by my arch rival in taking over the world. As he snickered gleefully at his little ploy, I dramatically emerged from the depths to strike at his weakest point--the tickle spot. [Of which he has many.] As said arch-rival scampered away in giggly defeat, I of course gave chase--who wouldn't?--only to have him bow out ever-so-humbly by saying he refused to partake in such play with a girl since girls were more fragile than boys.
Fragile my foot! You just knew I'd win this tickle-fight!
*simmergrumblesimmer*
Since when is it okay to sit upon suffocating females but not okay to let them tickle you to pieces?? The injustice. bah.
I feel the need to say thank you to another of my friends who has proved very helpful in the editing process of my book [that she might actually finish in another ten years or so]. Besides the comments that rip my main character to shreds, he has actually been very helpful in working out some of the kinks I've been stuck on (yay for rewriting chapter 4! again!) and catching smaller things I overlooked (changed ack-centz any-von?).
During this editing process said editing friend has given me wonderful insight into the male psyche [since Snowl is female she tends to need all the help she can get in this department]. Overall, Mr. Ef (editing friend, as he shall now be called) was (dare I say?) impressed with the reactions of my main character [despite his repeat stupidity] in how he would interact with a new female interest. Mr. Ef then gave me a multi-page breakdown of what exactly was going through said character's mind on each smile, look or word from the new female character. It was quite insightful, I must say.
So of course, as with all fun reading/writing, I then tried to see how much of this new knowledge [the girl was handed a freakin' gem of information] on the page really applied to real life. And the results of this inside scoop?
I have concluded that insecure males simply need to buck up and realize that if they want something, they need to freakin' grow some [*ahem*] and pursue it. (or in this case, her.) [Ouch.] Seriously though! How long does a guy expect a girl to wait around for him to decide if he's interested or not? This isn't rocket science! Generally speaking, most girls know within five seconds whether or not they'd date a guy. We're really not nearly as complicated as people make us out to be. [Yes, but Snowl...] No buts! Ok, ok, sometimes getting to know a guy better will shift that initial call (quite likely for the better, if a guy is bothering to put time into pursuing a girl), but in general, all the excess mind games of trying to figure out how interested a girl is are quite unnecessary. If anything, those excess stall games will only cause great confusion and annoyance on the girl's part and do more harm than good. Especially if the girl is impatient. [Like you.] Like me. Wait, no. [Ha!]
So long story short, bluntness is generally the best option. Like a girl? Tell her. Know a girl likes you but don't return the feelings? Tell her. That way she doesn't have to keep wondering and waste time/emotions on it. Just be honest. We can handle it, really. We're not as fragile as we look.
Snowl: So guess who's in here chatting with Mr. Boss...? I feel like my turf has been invaded. Must prepare minions for sneak attack on danger-danger.
Renee: Wait a min... you mean cleavage girl?
Snowl: No, lol. I meant our fun-dangerous male friend. I'm officially invited over for the evening again. super. Renee, SAVE ME FROM MYSELF! AUGHHHHHH!
Renee: There is no help for you.
Snowl: That's what I was afraid of.
~~~
Fragile my foot! You just knew I'd win this tickle-fight!
*simmergrumblesimmer*
Since when is it okay to sit upon suffocating females but not okay to let them tickle you to pieces?? The injustice. bah.
I feel the need to say thank you to another of my friends who has proved very helpful in the editing process of my book [that she might actually finish in another ten years or so]. Besides the comments that rip my main character to shreds, he has actually been very helpful in working out some of the kinks I've been stuck on (yay for rewriting chapter 4! again!) and catching smaller things I overlooked (changed ack-centz any-von?).
During this editing process said editing friend has given me wonderful insight into the male psyche [since Snowl is female she tends to need all the help she can get in this department]. Overall, Mr. Ef (editing friend, as he shall now be called) was (dare I say?) impressed with the reactions of my main character [despite his repeat stupidity] in how he would interact with a new female interest. Mr. Ef then gave me a multi-page breakdown of what exactly was going through said character's mind on each smile, look or word from the new female character. It was quite insightful, I must say.
So of course, as with all fun reading/writing, I then tried to see how much of this new knowledge [the girl was handed a freakin' gem of information] on the page really applied to real life. And the results of this inside scoop?
I have concluded that insecure males simply need to buck up and realize that if they want something, they need to freakin' grow some [*ahem*] and pursue it. (or in this case, her.) [Ouch.] Seriously though! How long does a guy expect a girl to wait around for him to decide if he's interested or not? This isn't rocket science! Generally speaking, most girls know within five seconds whether or not they'd date a guy. We're really not nearly as complicated as people make us out to be. [Yes, but Snowl...] No buts! Ok, ok, sometimes getting to know a guy better will shift that initial call (quite likely for the better, if a guy is bothering to put time into pursuing a girl), but in general, all the excess mind games of trying to figure out how interested a girl is are quite unnecessary. If anything, those excess stall games will only cause great confusion and annoyance on the girl's part and do more harm than good. Especially if the girl is impatient. [Like you.] Like me. Wait, no. [Ha!]
So long story short, bluntness is generally the best option. Like a girl? Tell her. Know a girl likes you but don't return the feelings? Tell her. That way she doesn't have to keep wondering and waste time/emotions on it. Just be honest. We can handle it, really. We're not as fragile as we look.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
blah blah blah (gotta love the originality...)
Today was a gray day that could have never happened and my life would be the same.
These days make me melancholy.
Work went well, I suppose; it was just me and the boss in the office--did some editing, filed files for about 3 hours... got stuff done, left around 4.
Zoomed 45 miles south to pick up the room mates from the airport--it's about a 50 minute drive, and ol' Trisk only gets about 18 miles a gallon on a good day, and this was through mild mountains--you do the math--so the landlord-roomie graciously gives me 10 bucks off this month's rent. The other roomie skipped the thank you and went right into an accusation about not moving the trash bin away from the street. Whatever. Next time they can get a taxi and save me two hours and 30 bucks. *grumblegrumblegrumble* Or just fly out of the airport in the town we live in... heaven forbid you spend the extra 20 bucks and save someone else the hassle and gas money to take you and pick you up. Sorry, I'm venting.
Finally getting back was nice--tried out a new chinese place with one of my favorite people, then crashed on her couch for about 20 minutes later on, ha. [Snowl has excellent social skills as I'm sure you can tell.]
Made it home for the night around 8-ish, cleaned some dishes, attempted to accomplish something with my bank account online but of course the bloody thing decided to freeze up, so I suppose I'll phone tomorrow about it... so I called it quits put in a movie and painted for two hours. Ironically, my hand randomly selected 'He's not that into you' from my movies case [she's useless in decision-making when like this so I actually picked for her] but it was basically perfect for my recent grumble-state about relationships in general. [[I promise I'm not usually this moody. *sigh* I hate feeling this way. angst angst angst. Thank you, Tiny Tim, for the word of the weekend.]] And to top off my evening, while I was finally starting to calm down for the night I spotted a centipede-like demon-bug scurrying under my bed. How wonderful. Now I won't be able to sleep tonight.
These days make me melancholy.
Work went well, I suppose; it was just me and the boss in the office--did some editing, filed files for about 3 hours... got stuff done, left around 4.
Zoomed 45 miles south to pick up the room mates from the airport--it's about a 50 minute drive, and ol' Trisk only gets about 18 miles a gallon on a good day, and this was through mild mountains--you do the math--so the landlord-roomie graciously gives me 10 bucks off this month's rent. The other roomie skipped the thank you and went right into an accusation about not moving the trash bin away from the street. Whatever. Next time they can get a taxi and save me two hours and 30 bucks. *grumblegrumblegrumble* Or just fly out of the airport in the town we live in... heaven forbid you spend the extra 20 bucks and save someone else the hassle and gas money to take you and pick you up. Sorry, I'm venting.
Finally getting back was nice--tried out a new chinese place with one of my favorite people, then crashed on her couch for about 20 minutes later on, ha. [Snowl has excellent social skills as I'm sure you can tell.]
Made it home for the night around 8-ish, cleaned some dishes, attempted to accomplish something with my bank account online but of course the bloody thing decided to freeze up, so I suppose I'll phone tomorrow about it... so I called it quits put in a movie and painted for two hours. Ironically, my hand randomly selected 'He's not that into you' from my movies case [she's useless in decision-making when like this so I actually picked for her] but it was basically perfect for my recent grumble-state about relationships in general. [[I promise I'm not usually this moody. *sigh* I hate feeling this way. angst angst angst. Thank you, Tiny Tim, for the word of the weekend.]] And to top off my evening, while I was finally starting to calm down for the night I spotted a centipede-like demon-bug scurrying under my bed. How wonderful. Now I won't be able to sleep tonight.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Calling
(Umm… so if you’re one of those ‘anti-religion’ types, you might not care for this one. But I felt I needed to post it. This is one of my [likely rare] ‘serious’ blogs. It might seem out of place with the others. Er, that’s my disclaimer.)
A phone ring, a bird trill, a shout across campus, a fire within—so many types of calling labeled under one word. Sometimes we wait anxiously by the phone, hoping a certain someone might also be thinking about you. Sometimes it’s your job to answer if someone calls, and your hands feel all clammy in nervous anticipation (what if you don’t know what to say? Bumblebumblebumble.). Sometimes a whistle sounds and you’re unsure if it was the black beater’s driver that just rumbled past, smile hanging lop-sided out the window, or if it was (preferably) the black bird perched on the wire overhead.
It’s amazing the tingles a set ringtone can trigger when the one calls you’ve been hoping for.
Perhaps that’s what the small voice is like—not so obvious, not so loud, it doesn’t vibrate your pocket, it doesn’t drop white poo on you from above (hopefully). For me, the calling’s soft, like a turtledove’s coo—when it stirs me, I have to stop and listen. Locate the source. Not doing so would… would… why wouldn’t you stop to hear? To push through and ignore would physically ache. Like unheeded curiosity. If you just investigate, follow the sound—who knows where it’ll lead?
I’ve been trying more to listen. Listening is the easy part. The trouble is stopping to do so. And when you do pause, but still don’t listen—that’s when you feel the jar-jolt of error. You can tell when you pushed away, and when you missed it. There’s almost a tangible sadness left hanging in the air as you walk away from it. At least, there was when I did, the few times. [slow learner.]
I’ve been trying more to listen. I like to paint, to draw, to stretch my imagination, to spread color, to fiddle with words, to mix ideas on a page or canvas or screen. Sometimes I feel I’d be better off stacking numbers or dusting off history, studying law or finance or something ‘practical’ that could benefit mass society.
But that’s not my calling, is it? Even the thought jars the breath in my lungs.
I’ve been trying more to listen. Trusting in something beyond yourself is scary—what if you wait too long, and suddenly it’s too late? Drat. Shoulda taken that waitressing job. Phooey. Missed out on peas this year. How can you know it will all work out?
You don’t. But you trust that God will see you through. That doesn’t mean you sit on your bum and do nothing. It means you make the time to pause, to wait, to listen, to pray. Be still. He will come through for you. Just trust, and listen. Your journey will not be the same as mine, but God is the same, and he is faithful. This past year has been a giant lesson, and I feel I’m finally learning to wait. And in seven days, God completely came through—last minute miracle, everything fell into place. I could not have orchestrated it better. I don’t know what he has planned for me. I don’t know what he has planned for you. But I’m learning, slowly, to wait… to listen. He’s calling out to us. Stop and hear.
A phone ring, a bird trill, a shout across campus, a fire within—so many types of calling labeled under one word. Sometimes we wait anxiously by the phone, hoping a certain someone might also be thinking about you. Sometimes it’s your job to answer if someone calls, and your hands feel all clammy in nervous anticipation (what if you don’t know what to say? Bumblebumblebumble.). Sometimes a whistle sounds and you’re unsure if it was the black beater’s driver that just rumbled past, smile hanging lop-sided out the window, or if it was (preferably) the black bird perched on the wire overhead.
It’s amazing the tingles a set ringtone can trigger when the one calls you’ve been hoping for.
Perhaps that’s what the small voice is like—not so obvious, not so loud, it doesn’t vibrate your pocket, it doesn’t drop white poo on you from above (hopefully). For me, the calling’s soft, like a turtledove’s coo—when it stirs me, I have to stop and listen. Locate the source. Not doing so would… would… why wouldn’t you stop to hear? To push through and ignore would physically ache. Like unheeded curiosity. If you just investigate, follow the sound—who knows where it’ll lead?
I’ve been trying more to listen. Listening is the easy part. The trouble is stopping to do so. And when you do pause, but still don’t listen—that’s when you feel the jar-jolt of error. You can tell when you pushed away, and when you missed it. There’s almost a tangible sadness left hanging in the air as you walk away from it. At least, there was when I did, the few times. [slow learner.]
I’ve been trying more to listen. I like to paint, to draw, to stretch my imagination, to spread color, to fiddle with words, to mix ideas on a page or canvas or screen. Sometimes I feel I’d be better off stacking numbers or dusting off history, studying law or finance or something ‘practical’ that could benefit mass society.
But that’s not my calling, is it? Even the thought jars the breath in my lungs.
I’ve been trying more to listen. Trusting in something beyond yourself is scary—what if you wait too long, and suddenly it’s too late? Drat. Shoulda taken that waitressing job. Phooey. Missed out on peas this year. How can you know it will all work out?
You don’t. But you trust that God will see you through. That doesn’t mean you sit on your bum and do nothing. It means you make the time to pause, to wait, to listen, to pray. Be still. He will come through for you. Just trust, and listen. Your journey will not be the same as mine, but God is the same, and he is faithful. This past year has been a giant lesson, and I feel I’m finally learning to wait. And in seven days, God completely came through—last minute miracle, everything fell into place. I could not have orchestrated it better. I don’t know what he has planned for me. I don’t know what he has planned for you. But I’m learning, slowly, to wait… to listen. He’s calling out to us. Stop and hear.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
It's just a... minor... compulsion...
So I have officially butchered my sleep cycle this week--after only getting 4 hours of sleep last night, I conked out shortly after 1pm today and didn't wake up until dinner time. That said, my body is now under the illusion that we have an entire day to get the three reflection papers and journal card assignment done for tomorrow when in fact we only have a few hours left. So of course instead of starting those, I ended up on here. Cheers to self-discipline.
Speaking of which, does anyone else have minor compulsions that, if you do not obey, you find yourself utterly incapable of doing anything else? I have this problem with art, and sometimes with writing. I'll be sitting at my desk, minding my own business, and suddenly *VWHOOMPH!* an image strikes me, and I have to have to have to creaaaate! [That doesn't mean these 'images' turn out particularly attractive, it just means Snowl will waste three hours a day working on them instead of doing what she needs to do. And then she wonders why she's up until 4 doing homework. Silly human.] My most recent obsession is a texture piece. I'm not really sure where I'm going with it yet, but it's the fourth piece I've done in this particular style, and it's the first piece I've done that involves multiple panels, so that's been a fun experiment. Last night instead of working on either of my papers due the next morning I found myself scribbling a Wordsworth poem on the metallic ocean waves. Then again today before my mind lapsed into blackness I found myself tearing dried leaves for forest texture while watching Prince Arthur flirt with the Once and Future Queen Gwenevere on youtube. [Good show, but the way, if anyone is into Arthurian legend or fantasy.] Is anyone else helplessly struck with a random compulsion from time to time? What do you find as your distractions? I can't help but notice these things happen most when I have too many other things going on to justify it, but I normally give in anyway. I have three other art pieces made this semester as proof. Bah.
Speaking of which, does anyone else have minor compulsions that, if you do not obey, you find yourself utterly incapable of doing anything else? I have this problem with art, and sometimes with writing. I'll be sitting at my desk, minding my own business, and suddenly *VWHOOMPH!* an image strikes me, and I have to have to have to creaaaate! [That doesn't mean these 'images' turn out particularly attractive, it just means Snowl will waste three hours a day working on them instead of doing what she needs to do. And then she wonders why she's up until 4 doing homework. Silly human.] My most recent obsession is a texture piece. I'm not really sure where I'm going with it yet, but it's the fourth piece I've done in this particular style, and it's the first piece I've done that involves multiple panels, so that's been a fun experiment. Last night instead of working on either of my papers due the next morning I found myself scribbling a Wordsworth poem on the metallic ocean waves. Then again today before my mind lapsed into blackness I found myself tearing dried leaves for forest texture while watching Prince Arthur flirt with the Once and Future Queen Gwenevere on youtube. [Good show, but the way, if anyone is into Arthurian legend or fantasy.] Is anyone else helplessly struck with a random compulsion from time to time? What do you find as your distractions? I can't help but notice these things happen most when I have too many other things going on to justify it, but I normally give in anyway. I have three other art pieces made this semester as proof. Bah.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
"Round."
"My first thought upon seeing her was 'circumnavigate.'"
[Be warned, Snowl's about to go into a rant.]
Alrighty boys--for any of you who failed to learn it in Social Relationships 101, -never- call a girl "round." Nothing good can come from it. Either she'll think you're calling her fat or well endowed. Either way, you're likely to get slapped.
One of my creative writing buds recently decided to write a couple of his gal-friends into his newest story. Yes! A character based on me--how exciting, right? Such an honor! Said writer friend even gave me a list of special power options to pick from. I was pretty pumped about it. Who wouldn't want to be portrayed as an epic sassy heroine with mad fighting skills? Who even trains owls to do her bidding? Pretty cool, huh? I thought so until said name-sake character was introduced with the rotund adjective "round." And he wasn't saying I was well endowed. In fact, said "friend" thought it would be a cute idea to base the character's appearance on her owl-loving. So she has a round face, round glasses, etc etc. *POP!* There went my starry-eyed dreams of epicness. (Not that there is anything wrong with being round, it's just not particularly fearsome. Feeear the Snowl.) [I personally loved my character--who wouldn't want to be based on an Eurasian Eagle Owl? So stylin'.] Oh, and Orville made it into the story too. He does my bidding and talons-attacks my enemies. Owl-minion, attack! [...] *Orville slashes foes to shreds* Snowl: MWAHAHAH! I am invincible!! >=D [Don't let this go to your head, Snowl.] Right. Sorry. So anywho, after reading this line, and then having a couple other fellow-writers read it, our little anime-loving-nerd-group-of-awesomeness proceeded to give feedback on the writing. Which then turned into a series of 'round' jokes. [Hence the quote at the top.] And although said writing friend hopefully knows I was joking about taking offense to this description (after all, it's not like I can manipulate water in real life either) (that you know of), it still seemed worth noting to all other young men (who hope to reproduce someday) that your life will be considerably easier if you learn a few tips on what to say (or not to say) to a girl. "Round" would be one of the words to avoid. [Duly noted.]
Thus ends my rant for the evening. Have a good night--and when you're reading a new best selling fantasy in a few years with an owl girl complete with a trained minion named Orville, you can grin at knowing the backstory to this tale.
[Be warned, Snowl's about to go into a rant.]
Alrighty boys--for any of you who failed to learn it in Social Relationships 101, -never- call a girl "round." Nothing good can come from it. Either she'll think you're calling her fat or well endowed. Either way, you're likely to get slapped.
One of my creative writing buds recently decided to write a couple of his gal-friends into his newest story. Yes! A character based on me--how exciting, right? Such an honor! Said writer friend even gave me a list of special power options to pick from. I was pretty pumped about it. Who wouldn't want to be portrayed as an epic sassy heroine with mad fighting skills? Who even trains owls to do her bidding? Pretty cool, huh? I thought so until said name-sake character was introduced with the rotund adjective "round." And he wasn't saying I was well endowed. In fact, said "friend" thought it would be a cute idea to base the character's appearance on her owl-loving. So she has a round face, round glasses, etc etc. *POP!* There went my starry-eyed dreams of epicness. (Not that there is anything wrong with being round, it's just not particularly fearsome. Feeear the Snowl.) [I personally loved my character--who wouldn't want to be based on an Eurasian Eagle Owl? So stylin'.] Oh, and Orville made it into the story too. He does my bidding and talons-attacks my enemies. Owl-minion, attack! [...] *Orville slashes foes to shreds* Snowl: MWAHAHAH! I am invincible!! >=D [Don't let this go to your head, Snowl.] Right. Sorry. So anywho, after reading this line, and then having a couple other fellow-writers read it, our little anime-loving-nerd-group-of-awesomeness proceeded to give feedback on the writing. Which then turned into a series of 'round' jokes. [Hence the quote at the top.] And although said writing friend hopefully knows I was joking about taking offense to this description (after all, it's not like I can manipulate water in real life either) (that you know of), it still seemed worth noting to all other young men (who hope to reproduce someday) that your life will be considerably easier if you learn a few tips on what to say (or not to say) to a girl. "Round" would be one of the words to avoid. [Duly noted.]
Thus ends my rant for the evening. Have a good night--and when you're reading a new best selling fantasy in a few years with an owl girl complete with a trained minion named Orville, you can grin at knowing the backstory to this tale.
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