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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.
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!///
I really kinda love this one.
Looks like someone is getting a ticket...*tsk tsk
I love the simple colors in this one. The patterns and reflections are great too.
I find moss to be utterly disgusting and atrocious, yet so intriguing at the same time.
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.
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.
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.
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...."
