I am the sonnet, never quickly thrilled; Not prone to overstated gushing praise Nor yet to seething rants and anger, filled With overstretched opinions to rephrase; But on the other hand, not fond of fools, And thus, not fond of people, on the whole; And holding to the sound and useful rules, Not those that seek unjustified control. I'm balanced, measured, sensible (at least, I think I am, and usually I'm right); And when more ostentatious types have ceased, I'm still around, and doing, still, alright. In short, I'm calm and rational and stable - Or, well, I am, as much as I am able. What Poetry Form Are You?

My name is Rebecca Ann. I'll be the first to tell you that I don't have anything put together. I have no real formulated plan, and the plans that I do have, I have no idea how to carry out with any sensebility. When I say plans though, I don't mean my plans, I mean plans given to me by a higher authority. I don't dissagree that they're wrong in any way, shape, or form. I just believe that they're plans that are a little bigger than I am.

I love writing. Well, no. I take that back. I like writing, I think at times I have a knack for it. More than writing though, I love telling stories, formulating stories, instigating things that become .stories. I'm not the greatest story "teller," however I see stories everywhere, I dream them, I breathe them, I drink them, I am one. I even have my own page in the Book of Life. It's a pretty nice place to be established.

So what is the plan? Well, the shell of it is to get the stories out: To write them, to sing them, to paint them, to draw them, to act them, to live them. There are so many of them in this body that have yet to be solidified that it would be unfair to shirk from what I believe is my purpose to give them that chemical change. The small but solid formed plan is to start with one.

I've been in a ministry for the last six years of my life that had me pulling so far away from what my ultimate purpose is. I mean, it is a good ministry, and I believe it is a ministry that I will continue to be a part of, possibly until the day I die. It's time to take the inititive to step into the right skin though. So for the next six months, I'm going to start with the first story.

One story in six months? Am I crazy? Part of me believes so...the other part believes that higher authority is a lot better at making chemical changes than I am. He's given me what I believe is a gift, and if I sit on that, I'm just gonna smell like a lot of gas, (I apolgize for taking the analogy too far.) and nobody wants that.

So what is the beginning? Tonight I bought a desk. I bought paper and pens and white-out, and a calander. I bought a desk organizer and a sense of wide-eyed accomplishment. It's been a long time since I've gone this far for anything. Everything since the last time I put a pen to paper with any kind of sensebility has been a lot of dust in the wind.

If I believed in praying to Mary, this is where I would start...

(This is the one holiday you can have multiple times a year, so enjoy the cupcakes while they last!)

Kristina (my friend who's staying with me while the family is playing in DC) had never seen Empire Records, so we just finished watching it and making cupcakes!!! They were funfetti with strawberry icing and sprinkles because, "There are twenty-four usable hours in every day, thank you!" Also, and more important, she loved the movie!

It's bedtime now.

...and she is.

There's a six-foot wonder at work that goes by the name of Dave. We need to talk more.

Also...other things.

I was looking online for the Christmas present of my dreams. It's a model 100 button maker. It's $199.99, and then you have to buy the cutter and the button supplies seperately. Altogether, it'd be about $400. I may have to wait and just pay for it when I've saved up enough...but I've wanted one since I was a little kid. Also, watching the movie, Empire Records doesn't help the situation much.

I don't know if I want a 1-incher or a 1 & 1/2 incher though...

This would be the year that I've dreamt of all my life. Well, at least since I was in sixth grade. I always thought it'd be by the time I was twenty-three that I would have a good job, a good car, a good man, and be on the way to completing my dreams. In all, I'd be set. Here's to going above and beyond...

When I have converstions with people who tend to tell stories a lot, I have this long-running commentary on what the antagonist or protaganist was thinking or what they should have said...I actually verbalize these thoughts. I don't know if it annoys anyone who I do it to, but I annoys the crap out of me...except that I enjoy doing it. I also don't know where I got that.

I finally got this hint last night when I was talking with Jill after the John Mayer concert (happy birthday to me). I did it the entire night. I do it with more than her though. Oi. I need to stop that...or do I?

Monday, September 08, 2003

Oh, comely
I will be with you when you lose your breath
Chasing the only meaningful memory you thought you had left
With some pretty bright and bubbly terrible scene
That was doing her thing on your chest
But oh, comely
It isn't as pretty as you'd like to guess

Oh, comely
All of your friends are now letting you blow
Bristling and ugly
Bursting with fruits falling out from the holes
Of some pretty bright and bubbly friend
Whom you need to say comforting things in your ear
But oh, comely
There isn't such one friend that you could find here
Standing next to me
He's only my enemy
I'll crush him with everything I own

Your father made fetuses
With flesh licking ladies
While you and your mother
Were asleep in the basement
Thunderous sparks from the dark of the stadiums
The music and medicine you needed for comforting
So make all your fat fleshy fingers to moving
And pluck all your silly strings
And bend all your notes for me
Soft silly music is meaningful magical
The movements were beautiful
All in your ovaries
All of them milking with green fleshy flowers
While powerful pistons were sugary sweet machines
Smelling of semen all under the garden
Was all you were needing when you still believed in me...

The whole of existence is probably justified by the existence of a single girl who is probably reincarnated all throughout history, most famously as the Virgin Mary. She was Eve's firstborn daughter - she was Nausikaa, Clare, Beatrice, Joan of Arc, and countless martyrs. She is Wisdom in the Proverbs. The Taj Mahal was built for her; Raphael's Madonna was modeled after her. She's always young and wise and beautiful. She's a spiritual presence, gorging with life yet always aware of the cosmic perspective. She's set apart from nature and yet a manifestation of it. Through her God can yield a harvest unthinkable to a regular individual, and she is a salvation for millions. She has the power of healing and the flames of inspiration. She is a humble genius with magnificent wit. Yet she's protected not by her wit, but by her untarnishable purity. She lives not for herself but for others; she is despised by no one. Her girlish qualities, her untouchable innocence, is never met with disdain or cynicism; it cuts through the reservations of even the most hardened soul. No man can possess her, even when she is married - she is wife and sister to all, but she is submissive to God alone. She is the nursemaid of humankind, the most potent antidote to our disease, God's answer to Job.

She was Anne Frank. Some know who she is today.

And I know they buried her body with others
Her sister and mother and five hundred families
And will she remember me fifty years later?
I wish I could save her
In some sort of time machine

Know all your enemies
Know who are enemies are

Goldaline, my dear
We will fold and freeze together.
Far away from here
There is sun and spring and green forever
But now we move to feel
For ourselves inside some stranger's stomach
Place your body here
Let your skin begin to blend itself with mine

posted by Seth Studer | 11:22 PM | Comment (1)


...

Ummm...that only comment was from me. I think it said, "Crap. That was amazing."

I remember talking to Seth about it. He is a good kid. He's gonna make a pretty girl a lucky woman some day. I'll be terribly jealous, but that's only because I know it's likely that if my spirit becomes one with someone else's, that spirit won't be that...well-spoken? I can't think of the word I'm thinking of.

Seth came to Omaha and without so much as stopping by to see me.

So if this offends him, me dragging this over to my blog, tough. He owes me a trip to Omaha.

Ow.