give my regards to soul and romance

muddy feet

window

one eye

school's out

three in a row

chains

hermes

fallen

curious

hello kitty

goose

pathways

at the waterfront in hoboken

coneflower

summer's going . . .

crab apple blossom

yellow miniature daffodils

sandpipers

compacted

these lines traverse the wanderings of a soul.

--Richard Kempton

through the looking glass

the colours painted in my sky
are blurring into watery streams
that flow before my startled eyes
and vanish into heaven.

- Dante Wydhe

unfurling

from this past summer.

digging

it is so easy to lose the innocence of a child, and so hard to gain it back, no matter how often and how intensely we may wish to.

little boy blue

from our vacation in virginia beach.

winter's coming, which means I am well embroiled in school, and beginning to wish otherwise. the air is sinking closer and closer to freezing each night, and the days are growing increasingly cold.

living in cleveland for fifteen years planted a deep dislike for winter in me. in a way, I'm darkly attracted to the cold, the gloom, the frozen air, but when it's over, I always feel like I've just been saved from drowning.

winter is when my creativity resurfaces from its dormant summer state, pushes through my concentration, and disturbs my work on assigned projects. winter is when I write poetry, when new ideas for stories suddenly spring up and take hold of me until I can hardly think. winter is when my dreams come alive.

winter is a narrow line that I walk each year. it is treacherously easy for me to fall.

for now, though, I still feel fresh from summer, and the cold has not yet fully penetrated.

prayer

sammy said today: "I'm thankful for my brother.

I want to pray for my sisters."

worries

I'm seriously considering a school in NYC--in the empire state building. leaving the wealthy vacation spot in our beautiful maryland boonies for The City could be a major change. I think I would like it, but I can't help wondering:

what do you do when you commit yourself to a place during a major time period in your life and only discover after you've settled that you absolutely hate it?

my big head

I got my hair cut. short.

it was long before: gorgeous curls that reached the middle of my back. it was almost a separate identity. my hair and I went places together. there was no ignoring my hair.

I got it cut for a number of reasons. to keep things simple, I tell most people that I just needed a change.

now, however, my new style seems to have made more of an impact on some people than I would have liked. there were a number of males who I knew liked my hair the way it was before three weeks ago. I got used to slapping hands away from my head. for three weeks, though, I've been ostracized by said males. the connections are pretty easy to draw.

should guys be permitted to dictate to girls how they must style their lives, if they wish to enjoy the guys' company?

en la playa

at the beach. the water was gorgeously clear.

note to self:

in future, remember sunscreen when spending six hours in full sun at the beach.

avoid comments from friends on the gorgeous new pink collar and questions about excessive amounts of blush.

why I chose my name

in the dominican republic, the earth is composed of layers: about two inches max of loose soil, and then solid clay until you hit either bedrock or water--or both. on thursday, towards the end of a week of digging, I swung my pick full strength into a hidden rock. that hurt. for a while, I kept on digging, but soon I could no longer persuade myself that this was just a passing ache in my back. I had seriously pulled something out. climbing out of my hole, I went to sit in the only shade near: the canopy over the water cooler. a large, flat stone had been set in the center of the shade, and I sat on it to watch the workers and try not to think of the pain in my back or the mental pain that came from sitting and seeing others work while I was unoccupied. a few minutes later, one of the younger workers came to get a drink of water. leaning on his pick handle, he sipped his water unhurriedly. we chatted a little; he grinned at my faltering attempts at his language. then he called to someone, "¡Jeyurus! ¡Aquí! ¡Un pico para tú!" (translation: Jeyurus! here! a pick axe for you!)

Jeyurus came from where he had been standing idle at the edge of a hole, and they began to converse quietly. Jeyurus said he had been working hard, while this lazy clod had been chatting with girls. Just one girl, the other boy said. Still, Jeyurus scolded, there was work to do, and here he sat as if he were a male celebrity and had a right to all the girls in the world. She's very nice to talk to, the male celebrity wanna-be said quietly, grinning, dropping his pick and sitting down. Jeyurus sat down too, and asked me for a cup of water.

after ten minutes, I was surrounded by about eight guys, ranging from twelve to twenty-one years of age. after eleven minutes, my spanish vocabulary ran out. we sat there, me looking at my fingernails, them looking at me. after twelve minutes, I said in english, "this is awkward." several of them imitated me, "dis is ahkwahd," and laughed. sighing, and muttering an uncomplimentary generalization about boys, I reached for a plastic cup and said, "mira." all their eyes turned from my face to my hands--a welcome relief. I showed them a hand clapping game with the cup, moving quickly to impress them. "aahhh," they said. I did it more slowly, then grabbed another cup and shoved it at the male celebrity wanna-be. "tú," I said. "mira." I did it slowly, and he copied my movements. again, then again, and he got it. I offered the cup to Jeyurus, and he shook his head. I set it down in front of Israel--the twenty-one year old, the one who quickly found out how to annoy me. he shook his head. "tienes miedo," I told him, smirking. (translation: you're scared.) I had also found out how to annoy him. he grabbed the cup immediately, set it on a flat surface, and watched my hands intently.

the other boys were impressed. nobody told Israel that he was a coward. this chica americana had manipulative power. "es una profesora," the male celebrity wanna-be crowed. "sí, la profesora," Israel echoed, a slightly mocking tone to his voice. then, he stopped trying to learn and stared at my face, the smirk now on his face. "estás un estudiante muy malo," I told him. "sí, estoy un estudiante muy malo," he replied. (translation: you are/I am a very bad student) I finally taught him the game, and once he learned it well enough that the other boys stopped laughing at him, he began to think that, just maybe, this stupid game was actually fun.

Maximo, one of the few locals who spoke english, came over. "Ana," he said in english, "we need our young men to work." he was smiling. "I know you have hurt your back, but if you get in the hole, then say you are in pain, they will get in and work very hard, and that would be a very good thing."

"okay," I agreed, standing up and walking away from my dismayed students. taking a pick, I hopped into a hole, swung, and let out a small yelp. "¡mi espalda!" (translation: my back!) Jeyurus was beside me in an instant, taking the pick, and I looked up to see the others clustered around the hole. Israel pulled me out and asked if I was alright. "yes," I told him in spanish. "now go work."

"sí, profesora," he said.

friday night, everyone of them came to say goodbye. "adios, profesora," they said. "regrese por favor."

my sister has pneumonia.

diagnosis

arachibutyrophobia: I have it.

I love peanut butter. I adore peanut butter. when I die, it will probably be from a fatal dose of that divine stickiness.

and that leads me to arachibutyrophobia: the fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth.

it's rather a paradox, is it not?

progress

I dreamed in Spanish last night.

I was angry at this guy I made friends with in the Dominican. he was being annoying--again-- and I yelled at him. "¡Pare! No me gusta."

(it means "stop! I don't like that!"

the offending young man, showing off:

drawing board

the kids in the dominican loved to draw. any flat surface was usually appropriated at some point for a drawing board. this girl lived directly across the street from the house where we stayed:

ostracization

my family tends to run in two social circles: the homeschoolers, and everyone else. within our group of homeschool friends and acquaintances, there are also two circles:the ultra conservatives, and everyone else. the ultra conservatives are mostly my parents' friends. I am friends with some of them, but really only a few.

it's not that I don't like them. it's that they don't like me.

let me define ultra conservative: the people who wear potato sacks, because to show that you have any sort of feminine figure is a deadly sin. yes, I am friends with some of them. because some of them are great people, and I have nothing against wearing potato sacks. but some of them not only dress according to their convictions: they also try to apply their convictions to me. in their eyes, I practically have a scarlet 'A' emblazoned on my chest. I wear pants, which show to the world that my legs are separate identities, and not a single blob of flesh. and worse, I wear shorts, showing to the world that I have knees. to pile on iniquity, I do not try to hide my figure. I do not thrust it out, evident for all to see, but I take no great pains to disguise it. when I come to a gathering where they are present, I have actually seen them turn their boys away.

yes, that hurts.

on the 4th of july, our family went to one of these gatherings at a friend's house. the young people played outside for a while after the meal, and both girls and guys had a good time. it started to rain. some time later, I came inside to change into a dry shirt. just within the door, there was a lady whom I have always thought to be rather quiet, mouse-like. when I came in, her eyes lit up with something unpleasant, and she gave me a terrible look. it was almost hateful.

you sinner, you were outside, in the rain, playing in front of the boys like a loose woman.

my attire was perfectly decent; it did not cling at all. if it had been immodest, I would have come inside long before. but it was modest, and I had no qualms about it. neither had anyone else outside. her look caught me totally off guard.

this weekend, I've been helping my aunt get her house ready for the reception after her daughter's wedding. yesterday, I was there cleaning, and so was this lady. when she first came, she ignored me completely. she refused to look at me.

yes, that hurt.

I was sweet. I was polite. I was respectful. mid-morning, she had to come and ask me for something. I gave it to her with a cheerful smile. by the time she left that afternoon, she was looking me in the eyes, speaking directly to me, even smiling. I guess I had redeemed myself in her eyes.

but it hurts that I should have to redeem myself at all.

I'm no temptress. it's not like I walk up to their boys--hey, handsome--start feeling them up. I treat the guys there like they're humans, which is more than they do for me. I don't flirt, but neither do I snub them. I don't make them prove themselves to me before I pay any attention to them. until I make a flying leap to catch a frisbee, knocking aside a much taller guy in the process, or catch a soccer ball with my head, and show that, despite my gender, I am actually a competent human, many of them manage to avoid acknowledging my existence. at least I have found the happy medium.

the parents don't seem to view it that way, though. to them, it seems I have gone over the end of the 'temptress' diving board, and am a sinner sunk deep into my lifestyle. I'm not even a poor sinner for them to evangelize, and gain points with God. I'm a sinner, and heaven-forbid they get contaminated by getting too close.

oh, by the way, I'm a Christian too, people.

I'm not going to change who I am for them. sure I have problems, but not like that.

I'm just tired of being The Bad Girl.

I won

please go to this link

in the lower right corner, at the top of the column titled "Category III", you will see my name. click on it, and you may read my poem.

cheap

shoes for $6.50. does life get any better?

__________

Alba! I miss her so much:

cheep-cheep-cheep

(title of post comes from a song in Music Man)

someone said:

"I'm not going to gossip about this person, so I'm not going to say their name. but they annoy me so badly. sure, they've got a good heart, but they're always looking for attention. it's like they're going to grab onto you and start to whine like a puppy any moment."

what is gossip? can something be 'not gossip' if you keep the subject anonymous?

____________

at church yesterday, my choir director was leading the praise team. during the "meet and greet" portion of the service, while everybody was talking and shaking hands, she started waving, trying to get the attention of the sound board operator. I waved back--just as she was beginning to say something. she stopped, glared at me, and several heads turned. I had a sudden coughing fit.


something like this would never happen in the States. that's my dad in the orange shirt on the right. this was one of the most practical ways of transportation, as long as you didn't fall out:

retribution

when someone hurts you . . .

badly. inside. deeply.

when they let you think it was over, then opened old wounds all over again.

when you have outward physical scars to commemorate one of the worst days of your life, because of them.

when every time you see them, you have to repress the impulse to gag, strangle them, and run away.

when you see them crying . . .

what should you do?

and in light of that, what would you do?

______________

barbed wire laundry line, in the dominican:

good people

I overheard two acquaintances talking the other day. they were discussing a tragedy that had happened to another family.

"they must have done something terrible to deserve something like this," one said. "I can't imagine what. they always seemed like such good people. I guess appearances can be deceiving. God looks at the heart, you know, and all we see is the outside. but, at least we know, God knows best, and when he judges people, who are we to question him?"

I resisted several impulses, ranging from slapping her to merely confronting her, and walked away.

is everything good that happens a reward from God for some good deed we have done?

is everything bad that happens judgment from God because of some sin we have committed?

____

on a different note, this is the view from the road from Yaguate to Calejon, in the Dominican:

the girl in red

this little girl was running from her brother

he wanted to give her a piggy back

nationwide is on your side

my younger brother's voice started cracking three days ago.

life comes at you fast.

this is me

it's who I be

my true love is writing. most people don't know that, though. most people see me with a camera clutched in my hands as if I were in downtown Chicago with a purse full of expensive, illegal . . . things . . . but how many people bring a notebook and pencil everywhere they go? my camera is an accessory more compatible with my public life. behind my closed bedroom door, however, my private life is filled with notebooks, and my light is often on until the morning hours as I sprawl on the floor, scribbling desperately in an attempt to get the words out of my head and onto paper.

my second love is photography. for a while, I couldn't understand what attracted me so strongly to this 'hobby'. while visiting a sister in Indiana, I met a photographer who looked like he ought to be behind a tractor wheel, not a camera. bearded, dressed in greasy, torn jeans and a matching plaid shirt, his calloused, stained hands trembled as he talked about his craft. "when we take photos," he said, "we aren't capturing objects. we're not capturing color. do you know what we're capturing? we're capturing light." when he said that, I immediately understood why photography held me so enthralled. I was capturing light.

my love for music trails closely behind photography. some things there simply are no words for. sometimes the pain or the joy is so great that my human vocabulary becomes useless. some things I can only express through the touch of my fingers on the piano keys. there have been nights when I have played until midnight, nights when I cannot sleep until my fingers are stiff from playing nonstop for three hours.

my fourth love is reading. reading the work of people better than me is humbling, and it prods me into spending more sleepless nights glaring at another rebellious pen which has again failed me, and at a page full of angry lines slashed across each wrong word. child prodigies, like Mozart, infuriate me. they live in their fantasy bubbles, their work approaching the divine, having been born with the words or the music inside of them and straining to break free. while I, normal human that I am, strain to pull the fragments of gold or silver from the pig iron mass of my brain.

and in my mad scientist moments, I love to cook up delightful concoctions. this is probably the most rewarding of my many occupations. people drool over my culinary creations, while I hover near with a camera to capture their greedy expressions at sighting my Taste of Home cover-worthy vittles.

say hello, gracie

say hello, gracie

I'm here

hang onto your hats

it's going to be a bumpy ride