When It's My Own Fault

Top line: Life sucks, especially when it's my own fault.
------------------
The walls cave in.
But I am the one who pushed them down.

The fire burns me.
But I am the one who started it and keep it burning.

My grave gets deeper.
But I am the one who is digging it.

My heart bleeds.
But I am the one who cut it.
-----------------
Bottom line: Life sucks, especially when it's my own fault.

Family Matters 2

"Welcome to Alan Brothers' Stone Engraving. How may I help you?" The man stood behing the marble counter with blue binders of endless samples stacked on top.

The couple walked into the store a bit apprehensive. Their eyes wandered throughout the relatively small corner store. They seemed unaware that the salesclerk was talking to them. As they approached the counter, the woman became aware of the clerk's presence.

"Oh! Sorry. Yes, I do think that we need help." The couple smiled at each other with slight embarrassment.

"What exactly are you needing engraved today?" the clerk asked.

The woman looked at the man, as if to say she wanted him to do the talking. "Ummm....well, brick. We are going to be putting it in a walkway-sidewalk thing. We would like our names and wedding date engraved into the brick," the man explained.

"Okay, that's a good start. Do you have the brick already or are needing to buy that through us also?"

"Oh, we have the brick," the man replied, pointing at his wife's purse. She reached into her bag and pulled it out.

"Yes, it's righ--" she began.

"O, it's not necessary that I see it at this point." The clerk cut her off. "We first have to decide what font and size and finishing. Why don't we have a seat right over there," he said, pointing across the store to a dim-lit corner, opposite to where they were standing now. He took several of the blue binders with him to the table. The chairs were simple office chairs, blue in color, and maple for the arm rests and legs of the chair. The couple sat, waiting for the clerk to get his paperwork situated. The clerk turned on an over-head light. "Let's start with a font. Did you have any type of idea of what you wanted?" the clerk inquired.

The man opened his mouth as if to start to explain what they wanted, but the lady cut him short. "Oh, yes. I've some idea of what I want. I want a kind of Victorian-cursive style handwriting font, not too big on the brick, but I still want it readable." She spoke quickly, without taking a breath.

The clerk flipped through the first binder and pushed the others aside. "Okay," his voice dragged out while he was still flipping through the thick pages. He stopped, stared intently at one page, and kept turning the pages. He sat up straight. Turning back to that initial page, he exclaimed, "I think I've found the perfect one!" He turned the binder to show the couple.

"Oh, that IS perfect. Isn't it, Darrel?" she looked at her husband for assurance, smiling sweetly, as if it would sway his decision.

"Oh, yes. It's absolutely lovely, dear. Yes, let's go with that one...if you want to," the man said, staring back at his wife, and then at the clerk, with a little nervousness showing in his eyes.

"Okay, I'll just mark this one down on my little paper here," the clerk said as he searched around for his tablet of paper, "...if I ever find it, that is. Hahaha."

The lady sat, waiting patiently, staring at her husband...who was instead looking at the samples in the binder. He stared at the same page for a while, but then starting flipping through the book. He looked at every page; then, leaning over to his wife, he whispered, "I don't see a price anywhere!"

"Darrel, stop worrying about the price!" she apprehended. "It's for 'us'; it's priceless."

Family Matters 1

It was all she needed. But not all she wanted.
_________
"More orange juice, ma'am?"

"No, thank you. I'm good for now," she said, still staring at the man across the table from her. He was a simpleton. He wore clothes of a simple nature. In all areas of his life, he was simple. Even in financial dealings.

"You know, you should have just ordered water. It doesn't cost a darned thing and it's free refills," the simple man said deliberately at the lady, who now sat upright in the booth.

"Why do you care so much about money? It's been handed to you all your life! You don't have a care in the world," the lady snapped back, insulted by the man. She adjusted her skirt plainly.

"You've always been this way, Lisa. I still have all that money because I am frugal."

"Oh! 'Frugal' you say? Hardly! You're just a cheap man. Always have been. I mean, after all, who paid for our first date?....Huh?"

"Why are you always bringing up our past? You know I hate talking about it!" He sat for a few brief moments, calming himself down. He had managed to get quite worked up and angry about the whole conversation. Now calm, he spoke again, "We're here for business today, anyway. We needn't bring up our relationship. Business, Lisa...Business."

Greenville [Documented]

[above]: truck driving from Greenville to Charlotte

[above]: self on roadtrip

[above]: what I ordered from Blueberry Frog, a frozen yogurt place



[above]: some old man during the BJU chapel

[above]: self-portrait and sister





[above and below]: some statues in Downtown Greenville, SC





[above]: inside the Mast General Store in Greenville

[above]: Giuli and I at Sonic

Is it Christmas?

We've all heard of the song "Where are You, Christmas?" Although, I could never really relate well to that there song. But, this Christmas I can say so. It all started, or rather ended, on the day after Thanksgiving, formally known as "Black Friday."

I resented Black Friday and vowed not to go shopping...but just because that's what everybody else was doing. I didn't want Christmas to be all about the shopping this year. And it isn't.

As of today the 22nd, I have done NONE of my Christmas shopping.

Our house is not decorated with endless Christmas decor, as it has been every other year past.

We do not have a Christmas tree and probably will not get one. (This is in part because of our dog who is a destroyer of everything.)

Baking Christmas cookies? That's unheard of this year.

The only thing that tells of Christmas is the snow outside and the Christmas letters we receive from friends.

I do not have the "Christmas Spirit".

I wonder if this is usual behavior. Well, obviously it's not usual for me, but rather unusual. But I wonder if it will become usual. I do not want it to though.

I almost feel guilty for not feeling "Christmas-y" this year. I instead feel very lax and mellow; unlike all the countless others who are frantically shopping and whatnot.

So, with having said that, I wonder if I have indeed mastered the Christmas spirit of relaxing and pondering Christ's birth, instead of focusing on gifts and shopping and decorating.

But I don't know. We'll see what next year brings.

Superglued Fingertips in an In-home Jewelry Shop

Superglued fingertips are a result of fusing together...



1] yellow polkadotted fabric + button + metal = a ring

2] magnet + metal = another ring

3] button + hair clip = trendy hair clip

4] part of the strap of the j crew bag + safety pin = a shirt pin

5] button + squiggley metal + bobby pin = hair pin

6] magnet + big button + bobby pin = big hair pin

7] button + white string + safety pin = shirt pin

8] bottle cap + button + bobby pin = epic hair pin


Yes, these are my creations.

Today, I woke up and said, "Today is the day I make something beautiful."

Winter Day Nostalgia

slow motion snow days.
silent snow days.
frustration much with interent.
tire chains.
bumble and bumble.
black and white.
fragmented thoughts.
sunday mornings on ipod.
aroma of bacon.

tried once.
tried twice.
tried thrice.
tried fice.

simple.
foreign language learning.
spotlight searching.
forgetting photographs.
turtle slow.

antique pearls around neck.
beloved's voice on the telephone.
on the 18th floor balcony.
pin up dolls.
catching football.
gibson guitar.
polkadot kneesocks.

open the wardrobe.
deer and gorilla.
bee's apple.
flapping tongues.
baking ovens.
shoe store and the blueberry tree.
232.
broken vase on carpet.

happy go lucky.
leo-pards in leo-tards.
fratello.
night vision.
kenny.
garden of eden.

laughing with family.
snow angels.
flashlights.
candlesticks.
3 piano keys.
pen in hand.
nat king cole.

snowflakes on tongue.
mittens on hands.
flannel against skin.
charcoal tones.
reading sunday comics around imaginary fireplace.
hot chocolate and tea mugs.

kittens and mittens.
aids awareness.
plane tickets.
unemployment.
hotel guests.

drumsticks.
youtube videos.
molasses cookies on christmas plates.
disney princesses.
1st and 10.

winter day nostalgia.

Frames of the Road

The road curves. I turn with it.
The music is loud. I sing louder.
I roll the window down.

The wind blows. My hair flies in the air.
My eyes shift. This way and that,
Everywhere but on the road,
Only on the frames.

Out of the corner of my eye I see:
Figures dancing in the streets.
Trees dancing in the breeze.
Lurking shadows.
Sun setting behind the mountains.
Traffic.
Only on the frames.

[HALT]: Red Light.
My foot slams the pedal.
My breaks screech.
The music is silent...
The dancing stops...
The wind ceases...
But only for a moment.

[GO]: Green Light.
Music blaring.
Eyes wandering, seeing:
Figures dancing.
Trees dancing.
Lurking shadows.
Sun setting behind the mountains.
Only on the frames.

All these things that my eyes are attracted to
[frame] the road:
The people.
The places.
[Frames]

[Charcoal on Face]

I opened the box and fished around. I had to take nearly almost all of the contents out in order to find the pieces I was looking for. I pulled out the artist's tape, scissors, conte crayons, "viewfinder", glue, graphite, micron pens, and black pastels and simply pushed them around. I finally found my prized possessions: charcoal pencil, vine charcoal, compressed charcoal, smearing rag, kneaded eraser, and my click eraser. Yes, those were the items I needed this morning. The music in the background held a steady rap beat. I was ready to draw. I drew several layers of heavy charcoal and smeared it off, creating a warm gray tone on my white paper. I highlighted light spots with my erasers. I used my compressed charcoal to darken the shadows of the objects I was drawing. I repeated this process several times. Placing my charcoal stick down, I stepped back from my "masterpiece." I turned my head this way and that observing every aspect of the drawing. I approached it once again, taking my charcoal stick and my rag in hand. I made a few more quick smudges and smears, and stepped back again. I was done. I placed all of my items back in my packed box. As I bent over to place them back, strands of red hair soon covered my right eye, tickling my face. Without a second thought, I reached my hand up to place these stray hairs back. After I had done so, I brought my hand back and looked at it with utter dismay. My hand was black, just completely dirty. And to think that I had just touched my face and hair! Not only did I have charcoal on my drawing paper, I had it on my face and a little in my hair and all over my hands. I turned to one of my friends in class. "Is it [really] bad?" I inquired. He leaned in closer. I thought just to take a closer look. "Now it is," he said as he brought his hands up to my face and wiped them off, per say. His hands were as black as mine, if not darker. He now had a smurk on his face. I stood, momentarily, with a look of sheer astonishment on my charcoaled face. "What?!" I finally blurted out. His smile grew bigger. I can play this game too. I quickly reached my hands up to his face and marked him. He too stood in shock at my actions. He tried to mark me again but I dodged him quite surprisingly. I was able to succesfully mark him again just as he marked my face. With his last mark, he had clearly won the charcoal battle. We walked over to the sink area, over which hangs a rather small mirror. We both stood in front of the mirror, soaking in our new appearance. Our faces were laden with charcoal slashes; our hands were dirty; our fingertips were solidly black, like a reverse Michael Jackson. We still stood in shock and finally broke into a loud laughter. Then we decided it was finally time to attempt to clean ourselves up. I'm not even quite sure how long it took to get my fingertips to a light gray tone. Then it was on to my face. I had gotten most of the marks off, except for the one in which he won the charcoal battle. It too looked like a light tone of gray, a mere shadow on my face. He cleaned up pretty well, without any real noticeable wounds from our war. After class was over, we walked away from the battlefield, without even looking back. Now with my bag upon my shoulder, drawing board in my left hand, tea thermos in my right, I opened the door, leading out into a cold, unknown world. I took my first breath of this cold air. Deeply I breathe in and blow out, seeing my breath quickly dissipate. The fall air is crisp. Wind blows the leaves, which fall to the pavement. The wind also blows my red hair, blocking my right eye's view. I reached my hand up and pushed my hair aside, out of my eye's view. As I brought my hand back down, I panicked. I was sure I would see that my hand was black with charcoal. But no worry, my hand was sparkly clean.

Sad Songs

[Too many sad words make for sad sad song]
[FRAMES]

Me?....Trust?

So yeah, I have trust issues. So? What's wrong with that? It's never hurt anybody but myself.

[Oh but it has]

Lyrics: Jaded

I look at you
hoping to catch your eye
to see inside
But you look away
your eyes searching for hope
of a better life
Because you're

JADED
INACCESSIBLE
SO HURT AND TORN
YOU LET NO ONE INSIDE

I touch your face
to turn it my way
But you refuse and turn away
You long to be held
to be cared for
But you push me away
when I try to caress you
Because you're

JADED
INACCESSIBLE
SO HURT AND TORN
YOU LET NO ONE INSIDE

What makes you so far away
although you're so close to me?
What makes you push me away
when I give you what you want
and really need?
Will you ever let me in
when I'm knocking on your heart's door?
Will you ever let me in
to fix the hurt you feel inside?
But you're

JADED
INACCESSIBLE
SO HURT AND TORN
YOU LET NO ONE INSIDE

JADED
INACCESSIBLE
SO HURT AND TORN
YOU LET NO ONE INSIDE

Will you ever let me in?




written by: manda 2008

The First Rake of Fall

With blistery and calloused hands, I put the rake away. My boots were dirty. My nose was wet from raindrops. My hands: shivering. Today was the first rake of fall. And long overdue might I add. The colors of the leaves painted the yard. So many colors! Yellow. Green. Orange. Brown. Red. Mixtures. I almost felt bad for raking the leaves up, knowing they would decompose in a compost pile somewhere. How could I subject these beautiful leaves to such a fate?! Frankly, I had a hard time. I stopped many times and just stared at the leaves blanketing the grass. I crouched down and examined each leaf. Leaves are amazing, I found out today. I also found that I LOVE raking. *What?
__
Yes, I love raking. But it hasn't always been that way. On the contrary, my friend. In years past, I have utterly despised raking! I didn't see the point in raking up leaves when the yard would be covered with more the next day. The leaves were usually wet and heavy which made it more difficult to rake and then bag. They weren't even suitable to jump into! Most definitely not worth it then. But this time was different. I *wanted* to rake. It's amazing how much fun raking can be if you *want* to rake. I suited up: shirt, jacket, coat, mittens, knee-socks, pants, rainboots, and most important: the rake. I braved the cold weather and started the task. I soon stopped and stood, mid-yard. I looked at all the leaves. How amazing! I never realized how many leaves there actually are. Even though I'm sure some of them migrated over from other yards, via wind. I learned so many things from my raking today.

1] There are ALOT of leaves!

2] It is much easier to rake the leaves when they are NOT wet.

3] A good, strong rake is coveted when raking wet leaves.

4] It is not advantageous to jump into leaf piles filled with sticks. You are subject to being poked. *Lesson learned the hard way.

5] There are so many different kinds of leaves. Small. Big. Faded yellow. Bright yellow. Red. Brown. Veiny. Smooth. Sharp edges. Smooth edges. Orange. Green.

6] After raking into piles, IMMEDIATELY bag leaves, especially on a windy day. Just trust me on this one.

7] Beware of worms that live under the dirt under the leaves. It hurts them when you rake over them. *I raked over Mr. Jeffrey. Don't worry, I said sorry.

8] Slow down and really look at the leaves. Look at everything about the leaf. The leaf is amazing. Everything that the leaf consists of is amazing! Believe me!*

9] Have a good attitude. *Want* to rake.

10] Expect to be *amazed*. Be *amazed*. Have *marvelousness* in your eyes.
___
I look forward to more leaves falling tomorrow. *Psst! I heard it's supposed to be windy tomorrow. Yay!* I honestly cannot wait until the Second Rake of Fall. Geez! I am falling in love with Fall. It's marvelous.

Coffeeshop Sound-Sips

Coffeeshop sound-sips:

-I didn't do my homework because I'm a woman. *Why do woman think they are so superior?

-Bottom line: Clay Aiken.

-Cuddle cups on a Monday afternoon in fall.

-*click click*

-Buses are SOOOO ghetto.

-It was just beer and wine...just beer and wine.

-She bangs...she bangs. *'nuf said

-I'll break three today. *that's what playas do: break hearts.

-A wise crack about sleep *must have missed that one

-Hockens is INCREDIBLE!

-A little man complex

-I wonder what's he writing.

-I just want to take a big slurpee cup into a coffeeshop and ask for 64 oz of coffee; NOT that I want 64 oz of coffee, I just want to see the look on their faces. I don't know. That's my take on it.

-Soul Music.

-You're killin' me smalls *killin' my softly with your love...

-I wasn't going to use my FIST; I was going to use a METAL ROD.

-He doesn't even have a last name. It's just McLovin'

-Fields of Gold. Barley. Wheat.

-What about strawberry fields?

-Fratello.

"Strands of Amazing Marvelousness"

His beard is almost as manged and matted as his woolen scarf. On the corner of Glisan and 18th, he parks his bicycle with bags piled on top. He throws cigarette buts back out on the street; he picks up the scattered papers; he picks up the trash and throws it away. He has "four eyes", partly due to the fact that he wears glasses. He looks odd to me.I wonder at his story. He has bandaids on his fingers. He comes into the coffeeshop and sets his stuff down a chair away from me and hangs his coat on the chair next to me. To be honest, I really don't want him near me. He is "unclean". He sits down and rummages through some bags. He takes out paper plates and a couple of cups and sets up his own restaurant, if you will. I wish he would have found a table of his own to do whatever he is going to do. But I feel bad for judging him. He breaks bread off of a loaf and stuffs it in his mouth. I wonder where he got these bags of stuff from. He is interesting to me; but too close for comfort. I feel my muscles tighten; my heart beats faster from anxiety. I scoot over a little away from him. I hope he leaves soon. I wonder if he makes it a habit to come in here and do whatever he is doing. I came here and found the perfect chair and he is ruining it for me. The chair was in a corner with windows on either side. The counter is at bar height. It was a lovely spot, relatively secluded. A table opened up near us. He got up and is currently transporting his "junk" to the other table and takes up residence there. I am glad for this fact. I can now focus entirely on writing. Except for one fact: Downtown is utterly distracting to me, in a good way though. I am in constant state of amazement with everything downtown! The people. The places. The architecture. The motion. The "beat". the pure marvelousness of it all! I observe the many people surrounding me. They are strangers. They are passerbys. They are odd. They are happy. They, too, are amazed.///
///The sun has gone down behind the trees. The bottom leaves of the crowns of the trees are vibrant; the tops are yellowish-gold. They are lovely. They are marvelous. I see amazement in the people around me too. People are quite amazing, I find. I could just stare at people for hours. I could look at books of black and white portraits for days on end and be totally satisfied with the experience. The truth people reveal through their eyes is amazing. Everything that surrounds me right now is what I consider to be a "strand of amazement"--a "strand of marvelousness." Psalm 118:23 says: "This is the Lord's doing; it is marvelous in our eyes." I have marvelousness in my eyes. Everything I see now is amazing. Everything is marvelous to me. I can't stop looking at things. I can't stop seeing things. I want to see things. I want to behold their marvelousness. Again, as I said, its very distracting. But oddly enough, I came down here to be amazed. I came here to document these strands of marvelousness. I really did. But I find that I am too distracted by seeing these amazing strands that I do not want to stop looking at it in order to document it. I need to be more disciplined I think.///
///*Upon further observation of the bicycle-bag man, I have just realized that I was wrong in my first comparison of him("his beard is almost as manged and matted as his woolen scarf") I am embarrassed! What I thought was his scarf, is actually his hair! The way it hung down around his neck and over his shoulder and on his chest made it appear to be a scarf, when in actuality, it is his matted hair. How utterly disgusting! But I must admit that it is amazing! What a talent to possess: making your hair appear to be a wool scarf. Now that takes talent. Although he may be ignorant of his talent, it is nonetheless a great one.///He was actually just asked by the manager to leave because he's not a customer and he is taking up a table. A reasonable thing to ask. "Okay. I'm almost done here," the man uttered back. His speech was very precise. He meant every word he said. I honor that. As a writer, I find that "virtue"(meaning what you say) to be very important. As a writer, you cannot waste words. He didn't do that. In short, I am amazed by him. He is a "strand of marvelousness" I say today. How wonderful.///
///I reflect on what I have written up to this point. I have written quite a bit. I am amazed about how much I have written up to this point. I am ever thankful for my God given gift for writing. It's another "strand of marvelousness" in my life presently. Across the street I see whimsical houses. They are painted with at least seven different colors--and not boring colors. They are bright happy colors. Their architecture even possesses whimsy. They look almost as if they are a joke. It makes me smile. They are yet another "strand of marvelousness." I have developed writer's cramp. I envy the man two seats away from me who types on his laptop. It would make tings easier. While I would love a laptop, I think that even if I had one, I would still handwrite alot of my things. I think handwriting is an art in and of itself. It is added to my list as a "strand of marvelousness." The man who is typing on his laptop is another strand. He looks oddly familiar to me. He has blond hair with a hint of red. His beard is more red with warmer tones of brown. He sips from a sky blue tea cup. I know not what he is doing on his laptop; but I did notice that he looks up from the screen quite a bit. Maybe he is amazed too. I would hope that he is! I suppose I will leave him to whatever he is doing.///
///An old gent sits outside at the table. He is only about three feet away from me, but we are separated by a glass wall, referred to formally as a window. He is reading a book. I can't quite tell what it is though. His hair is mostly "salted", with some specks of "pepper." He adorns glasses. He also wears neutral shades, starting with his brown leather coat, brown textured slacks, and tan tennis shoes. He smokes a cigarette. The plumes of smoke blow away from him following the path of the wind. I find amazement in that very site. Another plume of smoke rises around him and dissipates in the air. It's a "strand of marvelousness." He gets up and walks back to his car, book in hand. I can read the title now: "A Hole in the Universe." The universe is an amazing thing in my eyes. People all around finish their drinks and head off to their next destination. I wonder how long I have been here. I lose ALL track of time when I am doing the things I love. My perception of time is completely lost. Time is also a "strand of amazement." The things I love are "strands of amazement." I suppose everything is a strand of amazement to somebody. I think you can tell alot about a person by what they consider to be strands of amazement.///
///I see another house across the street. It is faded golden yellow in color with creamy white trim. Absorbing the house in its entirety with my eyes, I find the spindles to be the most amazing. The many negatives spaces of the spindles are marvelous and incredible in my eyes. Yes, I love spindles. They are amazing. A man is currently standing on the sidewalk waiting to cross the crosswalk. He yams and stretches. I find yawns to be quite amazing too. Add that to my list! The coffeeshop has cleared out considerably since I first arrived. Even though he was asked to leave awhile ago, the bicycle-bag-beard man still sits at the table, his stuff strewn across the table. He has fallen asleep.///
///I catch glimpse of my reflection in the "glass wall"(which I find to be utterly amazing!) I see my eye staring back at me. The truth inside myself floods out and inundates me. I see it through my eyes. I find my eyes to be "strands of marvelousness". Their color is blue with hints of green. A honey brown dot is placed in the sea of green-ish blue color. the dot just sits there. I believe the most truth that is revealed through my eyes comes from that brown dot, or a "rust spot" as it has been called. Yes, my eyes are marvelous. I also find my newly found optimism to be quite the amazing "strand of marvelousness." It is indeed a marvelous thing to see amazement in everything. I still struggle; but once I find my "ish", the rest follows. when I'm writing, I am very much in my "ish". Writing is my "ish." My "ish" is a "strand of marvelous amazement" INDEED!///
///I end this blurb--what a strand of marvelousness this amazing blurb was!///

Groceries

I really kinda love this one.

Ticket Time

Looks like someone is getting a ticket...*tsk tsk

Jacob's Ladder

I love the simple colors in this one. The patterns and reflections are great too.

Moss

I find moss to be utterly disgusting and atrocious, yet so intriguing at the same time.

Mr Snowy

Mr Snowy is a stray neighborhood kitten that we adopted for a few days. I wanted to keep him(*or her) but I couldn't. Sad day.

Niel Allen 9

One of the books I had brought with me to read was filled with poems and short stories. I've always been inspired by poems, being a writer myself. I could never write a poem though, only read them. I found it hard to concentrate on reading the poems. My mind with filled with questions about Mr Allen's life story. I longed to know more about him and his life and his family. But even if I weren't trying to read these poems, I couldn't ask him anyway. He was still asleep. He was a peaceful sleeper, yes. I wondered at how he could stand sleeping in that hard chair though. I didn't quite understand why he didn't lie down in his bedroom. I could stand to read no longer. I decided that I would try to take advantage of the situation and explore Mr Allen's house while he was still asleep. I quietly put my book back into my bag. I slowly rose to me feet. The fall board creaked. I feared that I would wake Mr Allen. I could just imagine the disappointment he would feel if he found that I was snooping through his cabin. I tiptoed out of the tiny kitchen past Niel Allen's chair. My heart was pounding inside my chest. I was nervous. I tried to justify my actions. "It's not like I'm doing anything bad...I just need to find the bathroom."(of course I was going to have to enter every other room in his cabin in order to find that bathroom). I came across a door. I stopped in front of it. I assumed it was only a closet or something. I placed my shaking hand on the handle about to open the door. Mr Allen snored suddenly. It startled me. My heart now beating harder than it was before, I proceeded onward. The door creaked open. Why does everything in his house have to creak? I was dissatisfied with my findings. It was the bathroom. I quickly closed the door and pretended I never saw it was the bathroom so I would be justified in exploring the rest of the cabin. The further down the hallway I walked, the darker it became. This added to the mystery of it all. The next door I came across seemed more promising. The door creaked open yet again. I peered over into the living room, checking on the condition of Mr Allen. Still fast asleep. I entered the dark room. My hand ran up the wall searching for a light switch. I finally found one. It was a bedroom. The bed was centered under the small window. The bedspread was a simple quilt. It looked hand made. I wondered if Ginny made it. On either side of the bed were nightstands. The one on the right held a picture of Ginny and a notebook. A vase with a single red rose was placed next to the picture. The rose was dried. On the left side was a photograph of Niel Allen, also next to a book. Pushed back on the small table was a small plush teddy bear. I guessed that this must have been their bedroom. It looked untouched though. Everything was placed perfectly. I doubt it has been used in quite some time. On the wall nearest me, there stood a four-drawer dresser. Atop of that was an oval mirror with a silver hair brush. It must have been Ginny's. On the wall adjacent to that, was another four-drawer dresser. A small mirror also sat upon that dresser, but in conjunction with a shaving blade. I felt the warmth of the room. It was warmed with love. I stood for a moment, looking around the room, soaking in the details. I then remembered Mr Allen. I feared that he had awoken. I quickly took one last glance at the room before turning off the light. I quietly shut the door. I took a peek into the living room again. Mr Allen was still asleep. "Phew!" I'm safe. There was one more door at the end of the hallway. I quietly yet quickly walked towards it. As I approached, I noticed a small lock on the door. Mr Allen is the only one who lives here. Why would he need a lock on the door? I was curious at what lie behind that door. Just then, Mr Allen awoke. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "I'm sorry. I must've fallen asleep. I'm sorry, child." I rushed out into the living room, acting as though I had just came back from the bathroom. "Oh, it's really okay Mr Allen. I caught up on some reading," I said, breathing hard. "What'cha reading?" Mr Allen inquired. "Oh, just a compilation of poems and short stories," I explained. "That's the best kind. Just lovely." Niel Allen blinked hard, as if he had just awoken to reality. After a moment, Mr Allen piped up. "You know, Ginny used to write poems. She would sit on the back deck, even in the freezing cold weather and just write and write. She wrote some pretty good things. Boy did she ever have a way of painting a picture with words. She possessed a real talent for that. I'll have to find her papers and let you read them sometime. I'm sure you'd enjoy them." "Oh, I didn't know she wrote. I'm sure I'd enjoy them. I enjoy almost every writer," I replied. "Yes, now...if I could only remember what I had them last. It seemed like just yesterday I was reading one of her stories. Tell you what, kiddo, I'll find it tonight, then you can read it tomorrow. How's about that?" "That's just perfect, Mr Allen. Did she write alot of stories?" "Oh, yeah. I don't even know how much she's written. She kept them pretty organized and filled them all. She kept them in the office. It full of her files of stories and poems. She also has many pictures. It might take me awhile to find the exact story I want you to read, but I'll get it to ya." "Okay, thanks. I appreciate it." "No problem, child." I wondered if the room with the locked door was the office Mr Allen was talking about. I love reading stories and looking at pictures. I'll have to most definitely try to venture in there another time; but I think I've had enough adventure for one day. I mean, after all, this is just my first day here. I wondered what we were going to do next. Niel Allen was silent. Typical I thought. He looked up at me and began, "You know what, child? You've been such an excellent help to me today. I appreciate it. You can go on home now." I was surprised. "Well, are you sure, Mr Allen? Don't you want me to cook dinner for you?" "It's ok, Jocelyn. You can go." That was the first time he had called me by my name. I so enjoyed my time with Mr Allen that I did not want to leave. "Well, okay then. I suppose I'll see you tomorrow then!" "Yes. I'll see you tomorrow, kiddo. Say hi to your mom for me." "Oh don't worry. I will. Bye, Mr Allen!" I gathered my things and headed for the door. "Bye," he said faintly. I exited.

Stranger Love

I recently came across the slogan "Stranger Danger", teaching children that they are not to fellowship or much less interact with strangers. That phrase may have meant something to me in elementary school, but it does not mean anything to me anymore. Strangers are not to be feared; they are to be embraced. Strangers cannot hurt; they can heal. Strangers do more for me than I realized. I don't believe in "Stranger Danger"; I believe in the power of "Stranger Love."
As we approached each other on the sidewalk, he caught my eye and stopped me. "If you can make a woman smile within five seconds of meeting her, you've got 'er," the stranger said, smiling with a twinkle in his eyes. He was a black man, dressed in what looked like to be work-out clothes. He was clean. He was definitely a jovial man, possessing an apparent charm. His statement inevitably made me smile. The stranger went into talking about gifts: "You know, I give you a gift, you give me a gift and give it to someone else, until everyone in the world has a gift of some sort." I now recognized him as a homeless man. I then quickly understood he wanted money. He held out a ring. I refused his offer because I had no cash to give him in return. "Never refuse gifts from strangers," the man replied. "You never know, it could be valuable." He held out the ring again. I accepted it. I did end up giving him a gift card; and he, noticing the camera in my hand, let me capture a photograph of him. He shook my hand, telling me his name was Tex. Before we went our separate ways, Tex said, "Smile…it looks good on you."
As an aspiring street photographer, I meet many strangers and ma therefore constantly reminded of the impact of stranger love. I believe there are three aspects of stranger love. The first being commonalities that strangers possess. Although differences abound, commonalities prevail. Tex and I were both wandering the streets, seeking something…wanting something. He was homeless; I had also subjected myself to being "voluntarily temporarily homeless" just for the afternoon, as an escape of sorts. Those two commonalities were the most prominent between us. With commonalities bring acceptance, the second aspect of stranger love. Even though Tex didn't know me, hence his status of "stranger", he accepted me, and I accepted him. We didn't need to know why the other was seeking; we didn't need to know what the other was searching for. We accepted each other's commonalities. We also accepted each other's differences. We were going separate ways on the street, but met in the middle, finding common ground—literally. He is a man. I am a woman. He is black. I am white. He is older. I am youthful. He has no home. I have a place to call my own. We had many differences. We were clearly mostly opposites. But because of the presence of stranger love, we were able to accept one another's differences. And not only accept them, but embrace them—love them. You see, stranger love is very much a process: the initial meeting(Or meet cute, as I like to call it), seeing the differences, discovering the commonalities, embracing both, and our final aspect: helping, offering aide. In my experience with Tex, the help/aide offered was very apparent. We exchanged gifts, if you will. I gave him a gift card; he gave me a ring, a photograph, a smile, and a good story. He gave me much more it seems. He was in need physically. I was in need emotionally. We recognized each other's needs and tended to those needs by giving gifts.
It isn't just material gifts that are given during the act of stranger love. Stranger love keeps on giving. It keeps on helping. Ever since my experience with Tex, I look for every opportunity of give stranger love. I seek out needy people and offer aide. I give them stranger love. Like when I helped the old lady onto the bus. Like when I gave my lunch to the man on the bench. Like when I carried that old man's groceries to his car. Like when I listened to the Veteran's story of war and death and sadness. They give stranger love right back too. Like the man who hugged me because I am a "good girl." Like the woman who helped me when my car broke down. Like the old man who encouraged me to never give up. Like the woman in the park who read my story and loved it. In all of these instances, stranger love followed the same process: finding commonalities, embracing both commonalities and differences, and finally, recognizing the needs and meeting them. This process happens in just a few fleeting moments, but the effects of stranger love last a lifetime.

Changing My Mindset

My body is not used to this cold air. The way it reacts is quite extreme. It shakes. It shivers. I wish I were swallowed up in a cozy red chair seated next to a blazing fire as I sip steaming hot tea from the perfect cuddle cup. My wish can never be fulfilled. I must sit here, subjected to this freezing cold air, body shaking and shivering. Nothing I do can warm my body. But I must say that it almost doesn't matter that my body is cold. My soul is warmed by the fellowship with family and friends. My spirit is filled, and flowing over, with love. I cannot explain this feeling of love. I do not understand this intangible idea of love. It is ever most difficult for me to grasp intangible concepts, that can just merely by felt, not touched and seen. It is hard to understand why people love. It is hard to understand why God loves me, a worthless being. How could He love me so much as to die for me? Maybe he died on the cross, an outward showing of His love, that I might better be able to grasp this concept of love a little more. It shows me that love is not just a feeling; I now see it manifested as actions. When one feels love for another, it will cause them to act a certain way. Love should sine through my words and actions. My words don't always tell of love; my actions don't always show love. I am human. But I must not make that an excuse. I have to overcome that with God's help. He can help me tell love with my words; He can help my show love through my actions. It tears me apart when I hurt people with my words and actions. I often turn people away even when they are caring for me. I realize that this hurts them. My actions say "I don't care that you care about me. I don't want you to care about me." My actions aren't of gratitude--"Thanks for caring. I appreciate it...I love you." That is what I "need" to say. That is what I WILL say. I have also recently discovered why I find it so difficult an frustrating to change. I can point out all of my flaws in what I do and what I am. Once I discover that flaw, I then say, "I 'need' to change that. I 'need' to do this..." Then I am left with a long list of all of the "I need to"s. This is overwhelming. I don't internalize it. I don't personalize it. I make it passive, just like I am. I don't apply it. I realized that I "need" to make those phrases into actions. Instead of saying "I 'need' to..", I now say "I DO do.." This is much more reasonable. I take one thing at a time, taking the outward steps to change, taking ACTION to change. It is a determination--a promise to myself. I am tired of being passive. I will have an active part in my life. I will take what I know I "need" to do from my mind and put it into action. I will take my negative energy/thoughts and convert it to positive actions. I WILL. I DO.
But changing the way one thinks can be difficult and again overwhelming. It is much easier to break it into smaller steps. That's what I had to do with my way of thinking. How can one get from I "need" to I DO? I sat and tried to discover exactly how I could make that quantum leap from passiveness into activeness. I first had to discover what my current mindset was. It was distant. It was cold. The phrase prevailed: "I 'need'..." Okay, so I've established a "need." What next? This is what I had the most problems with. Moving past the "need" and solving the "need" with my actions was definitely necessary; but it seemed to me to be an impossible task. I struggled. I knew I "needed" to do something; but it was easy to forget about that "need" and just brush it aside saying, "I'll deal with it later." That's exactly what I did. But every so often, I have an epiphany. I came across a grand idea of how to personalize the "need". I "need" to want it. I took out my "I 'need' to..." list and replaced every word "need" with want. It become my "Want List: I want to..." I want to change. While this mindset did personalize it a little more, it was still very distant and unapplicable. The want list soon became a "wish list". As with every wish list, not all of the wishes come to fruition. That's what I thought about my list. "I can't do all of these things. It'll just never happen."But I knew I "needed" to cahnge that mindset; and according to my list, I apparently wanted to change my mindset. Okay, so...what's next? I went from seeing the "need" to wanting to change it. What can I do now? I thought and thought. I wanted to change so badly it became frustrating when I didn't know what to do next. Like clockwork, I came across a grand idea! I "need" to believe I have the ability to change...I want to believe Ihave the ability to change...I can change. As I began to change my mindset, it became more personal. I was afraid of this. I had never--NEVER--confronted myself like this before. I have never thought like this. For a time, I crawled back into my hole, realizing my worthlessness. I was afraid. I was running from my newly and even self-given responsibility to change. I was then ashamed that I feared this change. All of the sudden, I did not want to change; although I still needed to change. I was back at the drawing board. I fell back into my old mindset of being distant. I decided that I would try to forget the fact that I ever wanted to change and actually thought I had the ability to change! I created a new list, yet it was all too familiar. The "I need to..." list was back in effect. Things were back to normal..at least how I know them to be normal. Things were going "fine" for a time until something hit me: I need to cahfe my mindset. I couldn't get the process I had started to take out of my head. I sat at my desk, staring once again at the drawing board. I saw the wastebasket out of the corner of my eye. In the wastebasket laid the "i want to..." list. I was taken back. "Yes," I thought, "I want to change my mindset." I burned my "i need to..." list. Before my want list turned into a wish list, I changed my mindset. I took the next step, very hesitantly might I add. I feared again. I knew i didn't need to fear. I didn't want to fear. I cannot fear. I shredded my want list and soon constructed the "i can..." list. I was excited with my new list. I had a new-found determination to tackle this list. I indeed believed that I had the ability to change. I was eager to take the next step, maybe a little prematurely though. So, yet again, I sat down at my drawing board, pondering my next step to change. I started from the beginning. I discovered a need. I wanted to change my mindset. I have the ability to change my mindset. I paused, my pencil hovering above my paper. I knew what I had to do next. But it struck me like lightening. All of the sudden, it was all so personal. It applied to me. I did not want to write it down. The implications of it were too strong. The responsibilities that it held were too many. I thought, "I cannot do this." I looked at my drawing board again. I realized in my past few thoughts I was falling back into my old mindset. On top of the paper that lie on my desk, in big bold letters, I read: "I WANT...I CAN..." I mustered up the strength to overcome my fear. I added to that list. I wrote: "I will/do..." After I had identified my abilty to change, I needed to do something with that ability. I needed to take that ability and turn it into action. That'w what I did(and still continue to do). I still find it difficult to be active because I have been passive nearly my whole life. One afternoon, I was walking past my drawing board and noted the papers that lied thereon. I sat down. "Can I get anymore personal?" I thought. I again took up my pen in my hand and began to write the rpocess I had been through. "I need...I want...I can....I will/do..." "Will" seemed still kind of impersonal to me; the future tense made me put off the action--it was still distant from me. I crossed it out. All that was written on the new paper was "I do..." That was much better. It was in the present tense and indicated on going action. "PERFECT!" I thought. That is where I stand in this whole process. Sometimes I do momentarily slip back into my old mindset; but I recognize it more quickly and do change it right away. I must constantly change things about me. I must have an active part in my own life. "DO" helps me accomplish that. I do change. "I DO...."

Street Closed

Paper-Stacks on a Highrise 4

Ok, so that last statement was somewhat of a lie. I had already given the Organizer's evaluation to the Boss. I was just curious about why she said she didn't want to do the job if it involved paper-stacking. I simply did not understand her reasons. She was so qualified; she was so perfect for the job. Maybe she just wasn't ready to be an Agent. In fact, I didn't even know how long she had worked at the Business. I jotted that question down on the piece of paper in front of me. Also written were other questions I had planned to ask her to clear some things up. She sat humbly in her chair, her head hung down, her eyes gazing at the floor. She didn't look at me. She didn't talk. As I observed her, guilt overwhelmed me. I had been so selfish in calling her back into this Board Room. I didn't have to tell the Boss about her; I wanted to...and I did. My intentions for telling him were as follows: I just wanted my actions of calling her back(*just because I was a wee bit curious) to be justified; and who better to justify my motives/intentions than the Boss himself? It was a perfect plan. But a selfish, evil plan: one that the Boss did not know about. I determined that I would not tell the Boss for I was going to change my outlook and intentions this instant. I am merely going to ask the Organizer questions without my selfish intentions backing it. I gazed at my paper, the questions written in my finest of cursive handwriting, and in blue ink nonetheless. I always thought that blue ink stood out more than black. Blue ink possesses whimsy, much like myself. I skimmed over the questions:
1. You are very qualified to be a paper-stacker; why would you not prefer doing it?
2. Would you be willing to blindly enter the position of Agent X?(i.e. not knowing what your responsibilities would be?
3. If you were to be Agent X, what would you like to do?
4. How long have you worked at the Business? Have you enjoyed your experience at the Business?
I thought my questions were very thought provoking and would get to the point I longed to find out. The silence in the room was awkward; the time passed slowly. "Okay," I finally said, "as I said before, I have some questions to ask you; four questions to be precise. But there's no need to be nervous. Ready?" "I am a little bit nervous, yeah. But I'm ready. Go ahead," she replied, looking up now. "Ok, let's see here." I referred to my paper. "First off, you are very-VERY-qualified to be a paper-stacker. Your skills in that area astounded me! Why would you prefer not doing it?" She sat, her eyes looking up and to the right. She was clearly formulating her answer. It was a tough question indeed. I was most curious to know the answer to this here question. "Well, ummm...." She paused and thought a bit longer. "...If I were to choose between what I am doing now--organizing for the other employees--or stacking papers, even if for the Boss, I would still prefer to organize. It's what I am best at. I may be good at stacking papers, but I am best at organizing," she stated simply after much consideration. "Okay, fair enough. Next question: Would you be willing to blindly enter the position of Agent X--as in not knowing what your responsibilities will be?" I looked up at her. She looked away. I thought she was acting strangely. I had never seen the Organizer act so....guilty of something. I suspected nothing of her though. I waited for her answer. "Well," she spoke up, "I don't know that one would necessarily be "blind" in entering the job of Agent X. I don't think anyone is "blind" when it comes to knowing what the agents do. I mean, c'mon, we all know that they deal with the Boss's papers. Whether it's sorting them, stamping them, hole-punching them, or--in Agent W's case--filing them. It all has to do with papers. I would think after just a little while of dealing with papers, an agent would get tired of that job. It's just too boring and dare I say...simple. I'm not quite sure why the Agents are regarded so highly." She rolled her eyes. I wondered at what she said. How did she know that agents deal with papers? I didn't even know that! Even when I inquired from the Boss, he would not tell me. "If you don't mind my asking, how do you know what the agents do?" "You mean, you don't know? I thought everybody knew. I thought that you knew especially because you are the one doing the interviewing? You mean to say that you never heard Agent W?" She looked at me as though I were the stupidest, most ill-informed person on the Planet. "No. I never worked too closely with Agent W. I was too busy running errands for the employees," I kindly explained. "Oh yeah," she said, "I almost forgot that you are the Gopher." She chuckled a bit. It was a derogatory statement to me, to say the least. I was indeed offended. How dare she! I began to see her in a different light. She wasn't such the nice, shy, and humble person I had once thought. She cannot be Agent X if she is acting like this. I took some quick notes that I would be relaying to the Boss. She continued: "The Boss had given Agent W an ultimatum. Agent W wasn't going to give in though. So, before Agent W was let go, he had time to tell everybody what he did exactly. I guess he figured that if he had to go down, he would go down with a fight, with style nonetheless. Agent W was supposed to file papers; he obviously didn't do a good job--I believe he actually took some papers: some very important papers. SO yeah, that Agent W." She shrugged her shoulders. I couldn't believe her.I sat, thinking about my next move. I didn't even want to finish asking her the questions. It would waste my time, and hers. I preceded to ask her the next question. "Ok, question 3: If you were Agent X, what would you like to do?" "Umm...alot of things. I would want to be Vice President of the company and help make executive decisions. I'd make the Business better, definitely more organized too. I'd rid the company of half of the employees--whom we really don't need anyway...You know, things like that." "So, you would basically like to run the Business?" I inquired. "Yes. Who doesn't?" Her attitude was repulsive. I jotted down a few more notes. "Okay, I think we're done here. You may go." I gestured toward the Doors. "I thought you had 4 questions for me. That was only three," she observed. I looked her deep in the eye, my face hot with anger. "The last question is not going to be a necessary factor in determining whether you will become Agent X. It seems pretty clear to me, although you are quite qualified, that you prefer not to be Agent X. I'll relay that information to the Boss." I tried to say that as objectively as I could without showing my anger and irritation. I looked down at my notes and continued writing. She stayed put. "Excuse me, but I never said I didn't want to be Agent X. I said that wouldn't want to stack papers." She snarled at me. "Well," I said, referring to my notes, "you said that you wouldn't want to stack papers or deal with papers, claiming the job was 'boring and simple'. And since you know that agents work with papers, and said that you didn't want to work with papers, I assumed that you meant you didn't want to be Agent X. That is what you said. I'm sorry if I inferred that you did indeed want to be Agent X," I snarled back. "Well, now that I think about it, stacking papers would be alright since I would be working in close proximity to the Boss. He would make the job worthwhile," She defended herself. But it was too late. I had seen enough. She still sat, waiting for my reply. I remained focused on my notes. "I am done with you. Please leave and resume your duties as the Organizer," I said, gritting my teeth, not looking up at her. She remained stayed. "NOW!" I snapped. She casually rose from her seat, and moseyed to the Doors, and yet again, paused before exiting. "It never would have worked out for me anyway. The Boss would never consider me to be Agent X; we have too much of a past..." her voice trailed off and became inaudible, the creaking of the Door drowning her out. My curiosity perked up for a moment and desired to call her back in to ask about what she could be referring to. But my business-oriented side overrided my curiosity and I left it alone. I decided I would act coy about the whole situation and just tell the Boss my objective observations. We'll see how this goes.

Paper-Stacks on a Highrise 3

At this, I wasn't quite sure what to think...or do. I didn't want to let the Boss down. I had promised to find a qualifying Employee to be the Agent, but the more time I spent with the Boss, I wanted to become the Agent. Each Employee that came into the Board Room was so hopeful, even the usually melancholy ones. Why can't I possess the same great hope just because I can never be Agent X? But early on, I told myself not to hope because I knew that I would just be let down for I could never--EVER--be an agent; I was good only as a Gopher. Indeed I was the best Gopher the Business had ever seen. I did my job quickly and efficiently, with a good attitude. I had always had a good work ethic; mostly because I had always been so organized, even as a young child. As I thought about myself and my qualities, my thoughts shifted back to the task at hand. I must find someone, somewhat like myself, to fill the position of Agent X. The Boss had liked my ability to stack papers; maybe I could find someone who could stack papers as well as I. And I thought I knew the Employee who would be just as organized. I paged the Secretary. "Secretary?" "Yes, Interviewer," she said with much spite and bitterness. "Could you send in the 'Organizer'?" I inquired. "But you still have a few others to interview that are waiting here in The Waiting Room. Can't you just interview them first?" she snapped back. "No. I want to speak with the Organizer. I need to speak with the Organizer," I explained. "Fine then. It will take a few minutes though. I still have to call and then she'll have to come then I will have to send her in and---" "Well then! Get on it!" I interrupted her. She has a tendency to babble on about nothing. She was wasting my time. She was wasting the Boss's time; and I couldn't let her do that. Whilst I sat waiting for the Organizer to come, I jotted down some notes concerning the type of person the Boss would need. They were mostly character traits. I then compared that list the notes I had of the Employees I had already interviewed. No one possessed all of the qualities. I wonder if anybody did. I wonder if the Boss even did. I was repulsed that I had thought that. How could I think bad of the Boss this way? He had enough character to build this Business; I'm sure he still has enough of that character to maintain it. I'm glad I got that straightened out. But I still was surprised that that thought just popped into my head. I had never thought ill of the Boss in any way before; and now I found myself to be almost mad at him. I mean, after all, why would he pick the least qualified person to interview the others? At this I was convinced that he just wanted me to be the Interviewer so that I could never be the Agent. This angered me. I felt hot in the face. But I must regain my composure; the Organizer will be here soon. I sat. I twiddled my thumbs. I strummed my fingers. I grew impatient. I grabbed the intercom, which was inches away from me, and slapped it down upon the table. With an angry and clearly annoyed voice, I said, "When will she be here, Secretary? I have been waiting forever!" "Interviewer, I told you it would take a few minutes. I paged her and she said she was coming as fast as she could. You could interview one of the others while you wait," she suggested politely. "I don't want to do that, I told you. Page her again. She's not coming fast enough!" I commanded. I threw the intercom back in its place. I wallowed in my anger for a few moments. Then I realized how incredibly child-like I was being. I became embarrassed at my behavior. I wish that I hadn't snapped at the Secretary. I wish that I hadn't been angry. I was ashamed. I felt as though I had let the Boss down, without his knowing it. I must straighten my act up...and soon. The doors opened and in walked the Board Room. I smiled. "Sorry it took so long getting here. I'm really sorry," she said, fluttered and nervous. "I would have gotten here sooner but The Maintenance was cleaning the elevator so I had to run up the stairs from the first floor. I'm really sorry." I became red in the face from my embarrassment. I supposed she got the message that I was pretty angry. I must somehow change her impression of me and soon. "Well, it's really okay. I just didn't want to waste the Boss's time, if you know what I mean," I said all cheery-like. "Oh, yes. I know what you mean." I shuffled my papers around, searching for a blank one. "So, I assume that you know I'm interviewing each Employee for the position of Agent X?" I asked, still searching. "Oh, yes. I am aware," she replied humbly. "Ok, so I'm not going to ask you any questions, as I did with the other Employees. I have a mere test for you. Once you finish, you can leave. I will take notes throughout the test, and will documents the results for the Boss to see and evaluate. Sound good enough?" "Oh, yes. That's entirely fine." Her voice cracked from her sudden nervousness. I suppose she wasn't one for tests. I proceeded to throw my papers on the floor beside us. We both looked down at the papers. "Oh!" she piped, surprised at my actions, probably more confused at what her test would be. I explained. "Each pack of papers is stamped either "Suitable", "Unsuitable", or it's not even stamped at all, simply because I haven't interviewed them yet. I want you to stack these papers in three piles as best as you can." I paused, bending over to rustled the pages more. "You may begin." I was secretly timing her. You may think that I was just concerned with how the stacks looked; but I was also looking for a few other things. First, I wanted to know how seriously she would take this job. Basically, I longed to see her attitude about whatever job she was given. So far, so good. Secondly, I wanted to see if she could be trusted. I intentionally told her what the papers were. She would be able to see the names of the Employees who were suitable and not suitable. With that information, she could tell the respective Employees how their standings. If she had integrity, she would not look at the names. She would only look for the stamp. I observed her closely. Not once did she ever glance at the names. She was fast and efficient at stacking likewise. Although she seemed a bit timid, I think she would be most definitely suitable to be Agent X. This made me both joyous and sad. "I am done." She stood to her feet and placed the stacks neatly on the Meeting Table. "Thank you. You may go. Thank you for your time...oh, and for coming quickly." I grinned. She smiled back and proceeded to walk out towards the Doors. She paused, her right hand already grasping the handle. She spoke quietly: "Is this what Agent X will be doing? Because, if it is, I don't want to do it." She walked out. "WHAT?!?!?!?" I thought to myself. Her statement surprised me so. I examined the stacks of papers. Not only were each of the papers in their respective stacks, but they were also alphabetized! The neatest stacks of papers I had ever seen lie before me. I looked at my stop watch: three minutes. Only three minutes. She had done such an excellent job and passed my test, probably more like surpassed my test. And then she had to say that as she exited! What she said ruined it for her; it really did. For the next few following moments, I pretended that I didn't hear her say those words "I don't want to do it". I took my notes and praised her abilities. I wrote down the character traits she possessed. I compared it to the list I had written earlier. She had every single character trait I had listed. She has to become Agent X! It's her fate. It's who she is destined to become. But she said she wouldn't want to stack papers. I didn't even know what Agent X was going to be doing; but she couldn't have that attitude. I was scrutinizing her and judging her just based on her last statement. Then I realized what courage it took to say something like that. I realized how honest that statement was. I admired her for saying something. Maybe she just wasn't ready to become Agent X. I look at her evaluation sheet. I had not included her last statement. To be fair to the Boss, to be fair to her, I wrote my thoughts about what she said. I called for the Boss. "I just interviewed the most suitable Employee in my eyes. You have to come take a look at my notes about her," I informed him. "Okay. I'll be right in." In no time at all, the Boss was sitting next to me. "Here is my evaluation of her. I'm quite impressed with her. He started to read through it; but before he got to the bottom of the page, I interrupted him. "But, Boss, I would like some more time with her if you don't mind. I just thought she would find her interesting." "Oh, yeah, no problem. Take all the time you need. This is interesting. I'll continue looking this over in my Office. Thanks so much!" He smiled big and boyishly scurried out of the Board Room. "Umm..Secretary," I paged over the intercom, "could you send the Organizer in one more time. There's actually a few more things I need to discuss with her. And I'm sorry about snapping at you." "Oh, no problem. I understand the pressures of the job can get to you sometimes. I'll send her right in." How could the Secretary be so understanding? I didn't doubt the sincerity of what she had just said. Why all the sudden was she being nice to me, when she had been so rude to me earlier? I wondered at this. I suppose I still felt bad for snapping at her. The doors opened and the humble figure of the Organizer appeared. "Yes?" she said nervously. "Come, take a seat and relax. I have a few questions I actually wanted to ask you before I sent your evaluation to the Boss."

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