my God

The one thing in my life I hold above all others is the thing hardest for me to write about. The very thing that sustains me, fills me, astounds me, permeates every minutia of my being- the very thing that can make me jump and sing like a fool for joy, and the very thing that can knock me to my knees and make me weep in contrition: this is what I can't ever write about. (The closest I have come is blog on 4-29.) This is not out of timidity, not because it is not continously present in my heart and mind, but simply because I lack words to do so.
There is no way to descibe the love of God, and the joy and peace found therein. To those who do not know Him intimately, it is utter nonsense- a security blanket, a pacifier for an immature soul. There is nothing that can convey the power, the reality, and the immediate necessity of Him. No strings of eloquence, no expressions of profound emotion- for these are the nominal external manifestations of an internal truth, the penumbras cast by a blinding light. They are viewing something perfect after it is reflected off of a mirror covered in vaseline.
That is where my problem lies. I cannot stand to write about what can never be adequately expressed. But I must, for holding captive the life within me does no good either.
So daily I must do my best as that inadequate mirror.

His fingers still my heart at times,
and pause my life to feel His touch.
--------------------------------------


with eyes closed
forehead on crossed arms
arms draped over bent knees
everything fades

and from dry parted lips
comes a cracked whisper
meant to be a song:
this is all, this is all that I can give right now,
and Lord I know it's not much,
but this is all that I can give...

And for the second organic lab in a row, I spilled a dangerous reagent on my hands. Last week...(Lab notebook: " WHATEVER you do, DO NOT get the bromine solution ANYWHERE near the skin, Kara, seeing as it causes severe burns and hard-to-heal blisters." [yes the safety section of my lab book feels the need to address me by name]) And of all the many chemicals dispensed by me that day, which one did I spill prolifically on my fingers? That's right- the bromine solution. Luckily I react quickly to such things, and so I am still in possesion of a hearty layer of skin over my hands.
Today it was ethanolic potassium hydroxide. I was marvelling at the soft texture of my finger when I realized, hey, that's not just soft, its soapy!! Then it hit me. Soapy skin= base burn= intense pain. So as my skin was saponifying I made my way (very very quickly) to the sink. Yes, my fingers are fine thanks to sodium thiosulfate and a fifteen minutes of water running over them.
Basic lesson: Kara plus chemicals = liability.
Perhaps the best solution would be for me to wear a large protective suit like those space explorers in old sci fi movies do. Apparently goggles don't cut it for me. At the very least they should require me to wear yellow rubbber kitchen gloves that go to my elbows. This, however, would leave my already challenged hands thick and unweildy, which would undoubtedly cause even more accidents.
I think I should star in one of those safety videos that everyone has to watch for chemistry lab. They could just follow me around for examples of what not to do. It is about time they film a new one anyway. Apparently there has only ever been one lab safety video made, seeing as I have watched the same video four times: twice in high school and twice in college. I think they keep the 80's masterpiece around not only because of the supreme acting display, but also because of the creepy shower scene which never fails to amuse students. (A guy spills acid or something all over himself and has to undress and go under the full body shower...as the narrator encourages students not to be modest because the teacher will escort everyone out of the lab, the video shows a male "friend" holding the burn victim's clothes and staring unabashedly at the poor naked boy under the safety shower! It is shockingly hilarious.) On second thought, I think I would pass up the opportunity to be in a lab safety video. I couldn't handle the scandalous shower scene.
In my defense, all these accidents arise from intrinsic need-lunch is on the line. Due to poor scheduling, I only have time to eat lunch if I get out of lab early. This means I rush through everything. I will sacrifice my skin for food.
Despite my reasoning, I still must admit that in general, I am fairly absent-minded. This may not explain the spills, but it does explain many other things. At least it fits nicely with my career goal, seeing as "absent-minded" is commonly paired with my dream job of "professor". Good thing I don't want to be a doctor...I would end up as one of those surgeons that accidentally left a large metal instrument in a patient while performing surgery. I would realize about the time I got to the last stitch. That's when you just have to shrug and say, "well we will just give him a note for the airport security working the metal detectors."

I can’t wrap words around this.

I sit staring at my computer reading countless poems because I can’t find words for my own. This, you, certainly cannot be described adequately in prose. So the dilemma comes. For I am here with so many feelings and thoughts that can’t be put together to describe you, us. I can still feel the warmth from your arms around me, and the feel of your hands hasn’t left me yet. It still tingles.
Nothing is coming out because this emotion is not found within the realm of ink and paper. It is so much harder to describe things that much deeper than the head. I have to get it while its fresh. But could it leave me, could that really fade?? I don’t think it ever will. You said you went head over heels - that flip was fast for me too.
I caught you every time. Sometimes I was too shy to look back, but I knew when you weren’t watching the movie or the night. Your eyes were on me. You were unashamedly staring.
I like it that you are too shy to admit that you are romantic.

A one windowed room impairs vision
but what I see from here is clear enough

I see them pass
veneers of sincere laughter
with shallow sneers inside
souls like mirrors
feigning depth and clarity

frought with the void of ever-lacking
from wisdom unsought
ideas bought and sold for ego

and those thoughts worth a penny
are good enough for them
as long as that copper shines


--------------------------------

I am not really in a "disillusioned with humanity" sort of mood right now, I just wrote that a while back as an observation. It does sadden me that the above came not from a fit of anger or a bout of despair, but merely from stepping back, opening my eyes to truth, and watching people. A depressing observation it might be, but it creates within me a realization of whom I hold dear in my life and why. The people I find who are real to me shine like gold. They stand out so brilliantly that I can't help but love them entirely. These are the people I am drawn to, and that is the commonality found in those whom I hold close to my heart- whether they know I hold them close or not.

This post should have been written a while back...
Weekends have been splendid lately. More so than normal I would say. I spontaneously drove down to San Antonio the weekend before last for two very worthy reasons. I was only there for 24 hours, but I needed it desperately. The 6 hours of driving was surely part of the vacation time as well, since driving for me is much the same as letting a washcloth unwind after wringing out any remnants of water. Me being the washcloth of course.
On the way home I called my roomate to wish her a happy birthday, and after a short chat she asked if it was pouring rain (seeing as the hurricane was supposed to have hit the area by then). My mom had warned me of the same hurricane and even suggested I not drive home, but I was pleasantly surprised that the sky was clear. After marveling at my luck, I hung up the phone and was promptly introduced to Ivan. We drove the rest of the way home together, and he was not pleasant company. I was actually driving 35 on a highway with my windsheild wipers set on "spastic" speed (you know the one where you are convinced that this swing around they will certainly fly off)- and I still couldn't see the lines on the road. He (Ivan) let up around Caldwell, which was convenient seeing as I needed to drop off my defensive driving certificate at the courthouse.
I figured the certificate was due dangerously soon for it to save the speeding ticket from being on my record, so before I left San Antonio I wrote down the address of the courthouse on a slip of paper. This was in case the courthouse wasn't open and I needed to mail it through the post office in Caldwell in order to have it reach its destination as soon as possible. I even had the foresight to put a stamp on an envelope. So I proudly reached Caldwell, found the post office (courthouse wasn't open), and slid the certificate in the blue steel box with a sigh of relief. I was thrilled to have it taken care of. As I lightheartedly drove away, every fiber in my being suddenly cringed in peripeteia as the utter horror and shock of a realization fell swiftly and forcefully...
I never addressed the envelope.
Blank. Nothing on it. Just a stamp.
My first instinct was to try to force my arm down the curved slot of the post office box and desperately sob NOOOO in a fit of sorrow. I withheld that urge knowing it would be fruitless. So my certificate was gone. I could not, however, have it gone. My future flashed before me as I saw my speeding ticket being marked in large red letters across my record, and my insurance company throwing back their heads and sneering those powerful executive sneers as they jacked up my rates. I could not let this happen. So the next day I called the post office in Caldwell. I explained my situation. After what were assuredly inward giggles disguised as incredulous silences, Bruce promised he would try to find the blank envelope. That he did, and he even addressed it for me. To him I owe many thanks. What would I have done without Bruce? I would perhaps be in a much worse situation after finding some intense metalworking tools and driving back down to Caldwell to tear apart the mail drop-off box myself, and would consequentially be charged with some sort of felony. That surely would have gone on my record.

Me, dramatic? absolutely.

classes

Somedays you just want to erase everything and start over. This was not one of those days. This was one of those weeks. Actually not at all- it would be for most people I guess, but I have come to see the merit in my floundering.
**If entirely uninterested in science I would skip to the asterisk**
In organic chemistry lab the other day, we were doing what was supposed to be a pleasantly short and easy experiment involving vacuum filtration of some impure aniline. So I went along at a steady pace and all was going well. I then spilled half my sample, but you know what, I can live with a ridiculously low yeild. No problem. I also took about 30 minutes longer than I had to, because while I was waiting for what seemed to be a disfunctional vacuum to do its job, I could have connected the hose to the aspirator. But no, I didn't check that part, and instead waited while what was supposed to be vacuum filtration filtered in through gravity. The TA eventually came by and laughed after he saw the unhooked hose.
**Basic idea of the previous story: I am a retard.**
In Organic chemistry lecture, I am just constantly reminded of the thin line separating genius and insanity. My professor is assuredly the first, and seems to cross that line and dip heavily into the crazy side of things every once in a while. I am quite convinced that he does not sleep or shower except when absolutely necessary. I also speculate that when he does decide to sleep, it is most defnintely in one of his labs at school. He does, after all, have his own little wing in the chemistry building.
That, however, is not what tipped me off to possible insanity. I think it was the wide-eyed, mad scientist aura he exudes when he can't help but contain his ferverent excitement in dealing with organic molecules. In lecture he shoots these looks-I try desperately to avoid eye contact, because when he catches you it is over. That is it. His eyes get wide, and the thin lopsided grin curls onto his sleepless face wreathed in long greasy unwashed hair. And everything about that look draws you in and you can't look away. It is like when people can't draw their eyes from the very things that disturb them most. Despite this, I love him. One of the best professors I have ever had. Maybe it is exactly what makes him so good- he is entirely absorbed in what he does. I guess I can't blame him for being a tad insane- his life's work deals with things he can't see. It would drive me nuts too.
After leaving the lair of chemistry, I head to history with another of the best professors at A&M. A young Brit straight out of Oxford, Bickham is wonderfully informative and entertaining. The best part of it is that he lives up to his British accent and mannerisms by wearing tweed coats and such- as every good Englishman should. This is in the Texas summer heat, remember. I would not be surprised if the button up shirts underneath are long sleeved too. I always feel terrible in that class, for as interesting and funny as he is, I am always drowsy. I can't explain it, but something always gets me. The worst part is that I had him last semester for an equally interesting senior level course which consisted of only 15 people and almost all discussion. Unfortunately the same narcoleptic tendencies haunted me then as well. He ALWAYS caught me. Every time I would come to the realization that my eyes had been closed much to long to be considered a blink, I would fling them open only to find him looking straight at me. I took another class from him determined this time to prove that I really did find him interesting, but of course the same thing happens this year. I have tried desperately to prevent it with all sorts of methods. Generally stabbing myself with my mechanical pencil brings me out of my haze somewhat, but I have found that inflicting pain only works for brief periods. There is a good chance that he holds an irrepresible bitterness for me somewhere in his being because even in a class of 300, he still catches me with my eyes closed.

If you were here
first thing I'd do
is knock you down
you left me cold
to meet your ghost
all over town

so grind the stone
spin the wheel
lock the doors
on what you feel
looking back, it's like I always knew...
~David Gray

Para ti... Ze, mi inspiracion. Deseo que podría ser diferente. Su honradez es increíble, pero deseo a veces que no sabía la verdad. me haces falta. te echo de menos.

Deseo sabía qué pensar y qué para conocerme
deseo que podría vivir esa manera
en seguridad de sabiduría **

Echoes of footsteps linger, because I opened the doors to these unseen halls once. So imprints of the visitor remain. The steps taken inside were carved with permanence, and now the shape of him serves to make the feel of anyone else uncomfortable. For now, anyway. Thankfully I am not encumbered by the past. What was is not the problem. The problem arises when the what is combines with the what will be prematurely. That is why he doesn't fit in right now. Not comfortably. There just needs to be time to stretch out again.


**What I meant for that to mean:
I wish I knew what to think and what to know
I wish I could live that way
In assurance of wisdom

The beginnning was somewhat defined by an end, and it seems that the end now is most notable for a beginning. Funny how things come full circle when you least expect it. Months went by disguised as days, with enough curiosities to be thought of as years. And I still haven't grasped it all. Part of me wants to step outside myself, and replay it over again just to experience everything one more time. I want to have it all frozen in 3x5's and 4x6's. Little flimsy traps of time. But the other part of me thinks things are sometimes better in reflection. What the images and moments lose in clarity, they make up for in immediate emotional pull and beauty. Looking back gives a picture of the whole. And so everything can be drawn in with one deep breath of nostalgia.
One thing I can be happy about is that I never took it for granted. In every moment my thoughts of enchanted appreciation would rise up like a child who lives in black and white looking into a kaliedoscope with new eyes. And I told myself over and over that this moment would be one of the ones I would remember forever. I would squeeze my eyes shut as if that could preserve it in the fireproof archives of my mind. So I am left with still frames of a summer. Buying mangoes at a stand in a flea market downtown, sitting on the street against my car for hours of talking, laying under shooting stars on rocky ground, and just driving with good conversation as the music. It shall all remain with me for as long as I can muster. The future creeps up behind me as I am looking back, and manages to add a new dimension of excitement, But I view it with contempt, as if it is responsible for making the past a memory. I am so torn between looking back and looking forward that the in-between is blurry. The present is caught up in what isn't there. So I have tried to loosen my grip and focus on all there is momentarily. But I will always be Lot's wife, and life as a pillar of salt won't leave me soon I think.

So the performance was great fun...
sorry for the late response to your question Daniel T (aka my favorite person because you asked). We had a great time on stage and afterwards. It was at this really neat little Jamaican place downtown called tycoon flats. It had a great laid-back atmosphere, and the stage was outside among light-strung trees and tables. The most shocking part was that I sung a duet with Danny....in SPANISH. We wrote it on Wed (and by we i mean mostly he) and performed it that friday. Yo creo que mis amigos no tuvieron gusto con el concierto porque son gringos y no podrian comprender las palabras; por lo menos vinieron. I don't know if I said that right. We did play 3 songs that were in English. Anyway, playing that Friday night was the coolest thing I have done in a long time. I am sadly a temporary member of the band because I am leaving, but I will always have the memories. Wow that was a disgusting line. Let's ignore that unecessarily sentimental comment and move on.
So I am exploring cooking, and it is everything I thought it would be...suspense leading up to the good part (eating). However, I do really love it now. I also decided to teach myself guitar. I own a top-of-the-line acoustic that my dad purchased off of ebay for a total (shipping included) of $9. Oh yeah, it is quality. Not only is it the ugliest I think a guitar could ever be, it has the notable distinction of playing the second fret when I push the first one because it was made incorrectly and the string touches. The highest string also broke when I was tuning it. It is the special-ed guitar that all the other mean guitars point and laugh at on the playground of the guitar world. It does, however, have a bit of charm because it so desperately tries to be a real guitar. We will see how far it takes me.

dedicated to anonymous commenter. congratulations on being the first comment. comments make me happy. but no, it isn't about love. (hint: read first line: don't start means it isn't there) Nor is is about anyone in my past, which I am sure many will consider, and it is not about anyone in my future, which undoubtedly comes to the minds of most. All you need to know is that it is about tension without a string that leads to nothing. Actually you didn't even need to know that.
but please, comment more. should give little leading questions like marcus to induce commenting...but i shall not stoop to the level of threatening baby seals. (only understandable if you are a marcus blog reader.)

conclusions

I think I will want to burn this after I am finished, (the reason for putting in a non-burnable form), but considering I don't entirely know what it is about maybe i shouldn't jump anywhere. Especially a place of conclusions. Conclusions. That has been a place distant from my mind lately. always I guess. A wanderer of a mind doesn't like to visit it often no matter how peaceful of a place it is said to be. So I go back and forth, oscillating in somewhere in between the place of confusion and obstinate but purposeful indecision. So I guess I have decided not to decide, which in itself is a decision. Oh what tautology.
Maybe this sort of dynamic tension is a good place to be. Tension forces things to stretch. Stretching helps things grow and prevents injury later on. So I am growing. With risk of small injury now, I stride forward in semi-confidant nonchalance. movelike a jellyfish rhythm don't mean nothin ya go with the flow ya don't stop. (jack's way of describing my current state of cognizance)
and now my way:

don't start lovin me I am afraid that you won't finish
but let's enjoy this delicious suspense while we both fish for more

i can't tell if this is a fork or a curve in this new road i'm windin down
so maybe i will just go straight on a path undefined.

and if I could just find a way to say where I am headed then i would tell you right away
but uncertainty precludes such courtesy

and maybe i am fighting an ant with a gun, but i still feel the need to either shoot it or run
rather than letting it fester.

but letting it bask in a hesitant sun, while frustrating, just might prove to be fun
on a crazy summer hot day

so I am forging ahead at the risk of sunburn because an experience is only worth what you learn along the way

so I will lay back, let it grow, and stay calmly excited,
for whatever it is, it's not unrequited.


none of you understand this, and that is because i didn't write it for you. no offense- this is just cathartic rambling, remember.

It has been a while, and nothing much has happened in that while. I just accidentally ended up in a band that is performing Friday night. You know, the normal stuff. OK, so it is highly abnormal. But yes, Kara is doing percussion and singing backup with two coworkers Danny and Ramon, both of whom happen to be incredibly talented. I have already had a blast practicing with them, so I can't wait until Friday. By percussion I mean tamborine, bongos and shakers...not like an actual drumset. So that is a new development which should be interesting to those of you who know that I have never played anything in front of anyone before (except for piano recitals long ago). At least I can't play the wrong note on maracas.

an explanation...

sorry the previous entry was so vague. I decided that copying part of a conversation would be easier than re-writing it, so for all who are not aware, this is the explanantion:

JuStIfIeDMiStAkE: aHHHH
JuStIfIeDMiStAkE: what happenenenedned
KALYHU: ?
JuStIfIeDMiStAkE: sad post in ur blog!
KALYHU: haha- yeah
JuStIfIeDMiStAkE: :-(
KALYHU: bittersweet i would say
KALYHU: jason and i broke up that day...had i not told you?
JuStIfIeDMiStAkE: nope
KALYHU: oops, sorry
JuStIfIeDMiStAkE: u told me about how the trip to austin would reveal that though
KALYHU: yeah, well he ended up coming down here
KALYHU: it was good though
KALYHU: we were both at the same place by that point
KALYHU: it was hard for both of us, bc we still care about each other alot
KALYHU: there's no bitterness or anger or anything btween us
JuStIfIeDMiStAkE: beautiful break up
KALYHU: we just knew it was the right thing to do
JuStIfIeDMiStAkE: thats how they all should be
KALYHU: it really was beautiful
JuStIfIeDMiStAkE: nice and clean
KALYHU: our breakup was indicative of our relationship
KALYHU: we just held each others hands on the couch, faced each other and each told the other one how amazing they were
KALYHU: how much we had learned
KALYHU: and how wonderful it had been
KALYHU: we never even had to say the breakup words
KALYHU: it was just understood
KALYHU: so after tears from both sides
KALYHU: he kissed me
KALYHU: and left
JuStIfIeDMiStAkE: but i wonder if that was the real end
KALYHU: not the end of our friendship
KALYHU: but the end of our romantic relationship, yes
JuStIfIeDMiStAkE: yea i know that, but ending it with a kiss leaves an opening for a sequal
JuStIfIeDMiStAkE: well to me anyway
KALYHU: yeah, i just don't see it happening
JuStIfIeDMiStAkE: maybe ive seen too many movies
KALYHU: probably
KALYHU: i think the kiss meant more than one thing, to both of us- it was sealing our feelings, and also sealing the ending while giving us both one last taste of what had been
KALYHU: if that makes sense
JuStIfIeDMiStAkE: awww
JuStIfIeDMiStAkE: awww²
JuStIfIeDMiStAkE: thats too good
KALYHU: haha
JuStIfIeDMiStAkE: i need to like write that down
KALYHU: it is really movie like isn't it
JuStIfIeDMiStAkE: hahah
JuStIfIeDMiStAkE: novel-like
...

Tonight I can Write...

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

Escribir, por ejemplo: 'La noche está estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos.'

El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo lo quise, y a veces el también me quiso.

En las noches como ésta lo tuve entre mis brazos.
Lo besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

El me quiso, a veces yo también lo quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no lo tengo. Sentir que lo he perdido.

Oir la noche inmensa, más inmnesa sin el.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.

Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guadarlo.
La noche está estrellada y el no está conmigo.

Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberlo perdido.

Como para acercarlo mi mirada lo busca.
Mi corazón lo busca, y el no está conmigo.

La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.

Ya no lo quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto lo quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.

De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.

Ya no lo quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez lo quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

Porque en noches como ésta lo tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberlo perdido.

Aunque éste sea el último dolor que el me causa,
y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.
~Pablo Neruda (adapted)

Tonight I can write the saddest lines...
To hear the immense night, still more immense without him
the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture...

But I am ok. Nostalgic, sad, but at peace.
I could never thank you enough for being in my life, so I won't try.

a poodle named princess...perfect

While I may not have found a real job yet, I certainly am hooked up with a nice fake job for a few days. House-sitting is a fantastic deal. Especially when it is for your neighbors across the street: one essentially reaps all the benefits of having an entire house to oneself while all the amenities of one's actual home lay close at hand. Can't beat it. Well, I could beat it one way- by killing the dog.
There is a certain perfidious poodle that goes along with the house which somewhat hinders the glorious setup. Now do not jump to horrible conclusions about my peaceful nature- killing the dog wouldn't be nearly as bad as it sounds. The dog is probably about 160 years old (and I mean in human years mind you), so the senile canine really needs to be put out of its misery. Consider it more of euthanasia than killing. This dog has perhaps 60-90 minutes of wakefulness every day, which doesn't sound so bad for the dog-sitter, except for the fact that these minutes are inevitably taken somewhere in between 2 and 5 in the morning. The dog sleeps intensely ALL DAY and cannot be stirred except for an occasional bathroom break, but then magically wakes up by using some special sixth sense that lets it know when I have just fallen asleep. Since it sleeps on a pad in the same room as I do (it's name is princess, after all), I am awakened with a sharp "i need to pee...haha I woke you up yet again...I live to torture you" sort of bark. So I submit to the dog because I prefer not to deal with doggie doo doo, and I let her outside. She then trots back in and spends all the energy that 23 hours of sleep has given her on the unrelenting pursuit of rubbing her head noisily in her dog bed while her tags cheerfully jingle. Her pad is next to my bed I will remind you. This playfulness is accompanied by loud wheezing, attributed to the fact that she has lived longer than most of the old-testament characters ever did.
Also, I can't leave the dog outside late at night (the time when I am generally gone of course) because she barks incessantly and the neigbors get a bit ticked, so I usually leave her in the garage or in the house if I am not going to be gone too long. The other night I left her in the garage for about five hours, and was of course worried sick that she had done her nasty excretion business all over the place. I shared my worries with the guys I was hanging out with, and got great advice: such as, "just rub it in...it might pass for oil stains" etc. This increased my dread. I returned home, and walked towards the garage door with the funeral march playing somewhere in the distance, only to find that I had been spared, and nothing wet or brown was on the garage floor. Much relieved, I really liked the dog for a while (until I fell asleep, that is). So excited was I about my fortune, that I loudly excalimed " the dog didn't poop!" to each of my friends immediately when I saw them at church the next morning. This was much to the dismay of the pious elders passing by who undoubtedly mistake solemn and religious to be the same word. But oh well, I had to share the good news.
So that day, I left the dog sleeping and went to my other residence across the street where the one of the aforementioned amenities (mom) had cooked a nice meal. It was a pleasant, worry-free hour, seeing as that it was daytime, and the nocturnal dog was assuredly sleeping.

I found the pee spot on the carpet when I returned.
Perfect.

So in my sleep-deprived stupor I have come to the point when I must chant the only mantra that gets me through it all..."I am getting paid for this, I must keep her alive, I am getting paid for this..."
After all, in theory it is a good fake job.

So I went driving the other night. Not the deliberate "I'll go for a drive alone" driving, but rather the "I just drove past my neigborhood, and I am pretty sure it was on purpose" sort of driving- led entirely by impulse. I was in a thinking mood, and driving facilitates thinking somehow- especially middle of the night driving. Same with walking. Anyway, I discovered that random, capricious driving is not intelligent for one so directionless as I. Thus, instead of just driving until I found my way home, I was forced to retrace my path. It's ok though, I still got good thinking time. I was lost, but eventually found a major highway. In the end, I drove in my driveway with thoughts still as unclear as my mental roadmap. I guess things have to get less orderly before they can be ordered again. Let entropy take precedence, let the natural order of things go for a bit, then maybe clarity will come. It is like pulling everything off a shelf to reorganize. So I went backwards, but made progress in doing so, if that makes sense.
See, I told you my thoughts were tangled.

I thought that starting this thing would make me feel obligated to write. Turns out that doesn't work. Well, I feel mildly obligated because people have asked about my long hiatus, but it just hasn't been overwhelmingly important. Finals came quite viciously, and didn't go away for a bit, which is one excuse for not writing. The funny thing is that I had plenty of free time to write, but I wouldn't because guilt would have overcome me when thinking of what I REALLY should have been writing- history essays. I think that I might still be caught in the high school "I don't need to study" mode, because, well, I did much less than I should/could have. The thing is, I don't really care. (*GASP* Kara doesn't care about SCHOOL!! What has college done to her? Has the freedom has led her astray and into the world of binge drinking and wild nights of uninhibited partying?)....ok, hopefully reading this means you are aware that the previous statement is stereotypical of many people, and vastly untrue for me, the anti-person. I mean, no, I am not an ANTI person...I guess un-stereotypical would be a better way to describe it. Anyway, the importance of school remains in my mind, but my mind has less sway with me these days. This is the major change that has occured in me this year: my heart is taking over. It has always been there, but it was wrapped in plenty of chain linked fence and barbed wire. Jason (the boyfriend for you unacquainted folks) has been working pretty diligently with the wire cutter for quite some time now, and has made plenty of progress, but for some reason the freedom of college expediated the process. Perhaps the liberty to hang out into all hours of the night with no curfew encouraged the roaming of my heart (night being the best time for it to show itself, since my mind generally shuts down rapidly after midnight. During the day it is overbearing, but at night it runs away like cinderella. It is such a pansy little princess. Typical of those bully types. [heart talking-time is 1:50]) Anyway, so the more the heart got to breathe, the more I became used to allowing it to do so. Or maybe the heart finally gave a braveheart-esque (need i point out the pun?) pep talk to itself and the surrounding visceral tissue, and after shouting freedom and painting the right ventricle blue, it just went from there. It wouldn't be THAT much of a stretch- the textbooks paint the right ventricle and atrium blue already anyway. wow. see- i am still bookish and nerdy.
Anyway, I learned to place relationships far above the books I love so dearly, and I am in the process of learning to share my heart in those relationships. It is a good change to have undergone, and was a step toward the maturity of balance between heart and mind. Unfortunately I don't think maturity is really a place one ever reaches- it is just the journey towards a very abstract destination. The world may view it as how seriously one presents themselves publicly, but I think it truly lies in the depth of what one thinks internally, and with what sincerity they examine the external as it relates to the internal.
So, I guess that is my "what I learned this year" entry. It is funny how those cliche essay prompts from elementary school seem to be legitimate now, like "what do you want to be when you grow up?". I DON'T KNOW. STOP ASKING.
(frustration exaggerated. go ahead and ask)

Whatever it is, whatever reigns in the depths of my mind that allows me to love and hold the world so dear bewitches me. I am repulsed by the sick deceptions and the sad malevolent lust encompassing all the actions, thoughts, and rationalizations that come so quickly and flippantly to the minds of men. Perhaps they don't come, but they arise from their natural resting place, which accounts for the swift ease of deliverance. I don't understand. the more i see and experience and observe, the more i realize i am foreign here. there is an inherent awkwardness present in one who lives in one world, yet belongs in another. a desperation uncried, but a hope sustained covertly. thankfully hope is not a form of wishful thinking, but confident expectation (shout out to butch). an expectation of the pure things i do see, for there are still things untainted. caught in a moment seen as ordinary by multitudes, the artful milieu grabs that passionate part of me. the cool smooth stone under my back, the covering overhead just large enough to put the sudden downpour at a distance to be observed, but allowing the light mist to coat the eyes looking toward it. and against a deep purple sky, shining drops covered over that place in my mind filled with an intercessory sadness. the smell of wet earth inflitrated the recesses knowingly blinded by darkness. and so i saw, there, a tiny bit of Him. and even that was enough to create a longing awe. For the artist puts only an abstract dash of himself into every work, so how much more indelible the real beauty of the Artist must be.
and so hope remains.

a little bit about myself

I have often described myself as a "socially adjusted nerd". This means that upon first meeting, people rarely pin me as the 'I love learning' type. We will chat, have a good conversation, I might make some corny jokes, but for the most part, they think I am fairly cool. Then BAM. I accidentally let a word like obsequious slip out and every preconceived notion they might have comes crashing to the ground as the real Kara shows through. There then passes a short period of stunned silence and perplexed facial expressions which they try to pass off as "what on earth does that word mean??", but in reality the primary thought going through their head is "why on earth did she use that word??". I have become fairly adept at using normal language, but my nerdiness is so inherent that the comments i make often give me away. For instance, when my mom asked me to describe the crack in my windshield, I said without hesitation, "it looks like the graph of negative x cubed". Well, it does. But WHO SAYS THAT? And I HATE math, so you can only imagine the science analogies that come out of my mouth. At least I have come to embrace my nerdiness. After all, I will actually enjoy these many years of school that are before me.

I haven't quite figured out what this is for- why i want this online expose. I do know that I want people to understand who I am outside of the shallow small talk held daily, because I inadequately relate to most people. That doesn't mean I will necessarily bare my soul all the time because in some cases it is better for that to remain private, and just between the few people who are allowed fairly unlimited access to it-(there aren't a huge number of those.) I think I am just afraid of it becoming me writing for an audience instead of me writing for me, and merely allowing an audience to view that foggy window to my thoughts. I want this to be cathartic, not a show. I know how I am, and I am so unused to this open rambling that I am fully aware of the danger. Then again, it doesn't matter. I will just write what I write, and it will evolve as it must.
I was going to apologize for my cynicism in the former entry, but then I realized that a) I already wrote a very long disclaimer, and b) I can be cynical sometimes. ( I prefer the phrase "realistically perceptive"). I don't think that it is to the point where i am hardened or unhappy because of it though. Why apologize- that is who i am, and i am not going to speak with sugar. Salt is what i want coming out. The only problem lies in the people who view it as horseradish.
I rediscovered my friend Katherine's blog, and being the remarkable girl she is, she eased my discomfort with my open cynicism. She wrote, "A cynical person is hardened, often sarastic and stubborn, but insightful. To be cynical, you have to be aware; you understand and therefore are compelled to dissect, ponder; feel as though you must struggle for conclusions, answers. It is rare to know all you know and embrace it all, to think about it and not have frustration or even outrage at times - so long as you are paying attention. " Thank you Kat. I could not have said it better myself. In fact, I can't really say anything better than you can, and I love that about you. You might be far in distance and relation, but at least I still have your blog.
Anyway, I had taken the link to this off of my profile because of discomforts with the whole idea. I am putting it back on now. I need to stop caring anyway.

I am writing yet another Easter entry. Two in one night... that spells schoolwork procrasitnation.
Anyway, I went to Easter church of course, the other time of the year when people decide they really DO want to be Christians. Mike Lowry, my pastor, was looking rather monkish as he tends to do on special occasions. I can't help but think so. When he wears a white hooded robe with a rope belt over his less than thin tummy, his short stature and bald head wreathed with thin hair screams monk. It isn't a bad thing at all, in fact it is rather endearing. The only problem is that it invokes another religion's style. Dye the robe a brick color and we would have a Tibetan on our hands.
I think Christianity is the only major religion without some sort of style. How very un-American of us. We like style, I am surprised we haven't classified one for oursleves. The orthodox Jews have the black, the tassles, the yamaka, the curls...Muslims are typified by turbans, or for women hijabs, niqab, or the more all encompassing burqa....and we have already discussed Buddhism. Now, some would say..."well Kara, all of the other religions somewhat classify these standards in their beliefs, their dress is also built on deep traditions, and the other groups are rather ethnically homogenous, and that is the reason for the apparent 'style' that appears when compared to Americans' relatively diverse dress".
I say no. The difference must lie in Planning. Somehow, their forefathers worked it out for them. What happened with Christianity! We need to know what to wear!! The problem must be because all of our American clothes are made throughout the Third world, so there is no central and consolidating authority on what the American sartorial standards should be. What a travesty. We should get all the Kathie Lee's to come together on a single unifying element for the deprived American Christians who can't find unity. Maybe James Avery could count for Texans, but what, I say WHAT will people do who don't know of the hill-country legend? I guess we will have to settle for the common theme of wearing something different every Sunday because Heaven forbid that an item of clothing be recognized by all those people who undoubtedly scrutinize your clothes every week.
Actually, the more I consider it, the more I realize that maybe there is an American Christian dress. The Chaco sandals and Christian T-shirt wearing Nalgene bearing camp-types. Wait...maybe that is just the Aggie Christian dress.
***DISCLAIMER***
In case you aren't familiar with me, this entry was dripping with sarcasm towards our culture...no one elses. Sarcasm isn't always a good thing, sorry I am really trying to cut down a bit. Also, just to let you know, I in no way claim immunity from all the things I criticize. I am annoyed by the things that I see in myself (like the rampant materialism and full satisfaction with wearing a million things we don't need that are made off of the exploited children in poor nations-we all do it) I also own about 500 Christian t-shirts from various organizations, events, and trips. This is not really a bad thing, it simply typifies the Christians where I live. It is rather humorous. A friend has a shirt (ironically) that says it best:"they will know we are Christians by our t-shirts". How true, and how sad. They should know by our actions. So please do not think this is a self-righteous rampage, it was merely an overtly sarcastic commentary.

So today was Easter. The most important day of my faith. And what do I think of on Easter? CADBURY EGGS!! (just kidding- although they do follow the risen saviour fairly closely). How sad when little chocolates and pastel colors come to mind on a day so ridiculously glorious that it is sickening to think of bunnies because they are so grotesquely insignificant.

A note on Cadbury eggs... Though I consider them to be perhaps the most delightful elliptical spheres of sugar ever allowed to rot my teeth, I truly understand people who are disgusted by them. The idea is really quite sickening. (Can the phrase elliptical sphere be used in place of egg-shaped??) It is made to resemble an egg, and so the inside is full of a white pasty substance reminiscent of thick influenza-ridden mucous. To top that off, they decided it would be a good idea to make it more "realistic" by putting orange food coloring in the middle to remind the eater that there is a runny YOLK there. Now just when someone might think they have gone too far in recreating an un-boiled egg, we see that the outside is of brown chocolate. An odd choice considering white chocolate would have gone right along with the unsuccessful yet nasty realism of the whole thing...but then it gets you thinking about the implications of a brown egg. Of course there are plenty of light brown eggs layed by hens round the world, but the darker brown throws you off. Lets not discuss this farther because I prefer not to bring in dramatic fear-factor ish ramblings on what you might eat. Oops-too late for those of you that have already thrown away the foiled eggs from the fake grass of that colorful Easter basket. Don't throw them away, give them to me! (Ok, so this whole thing was merely a ruse to get you to give up your Cadbury eggs. Maybe it didn't work, but it sure made ya think twice about them, didn't it?) If I have turned you off to them, well hoorah for distasteful rhetoric, and at least I saved you some calories. If it didn't at all work, congratulations. Fear is not a factor for you.

I feel like i could have titled this "nighttime revelations". Not revelations really, just mental clarifications of feelings or situations. But they always come at night, when thoughts are coming untangled, unhindered by reality...those expressions of sorrow, or far-reaching experience and understanding, only met through dismantled words put together blindy but with reason. Usually, sleep dulls them, and lets them slip away before they are preserved. Then at least they are not tarnished by the imperfection of language.
Everything I think during the day doesn't always make sense to me, and I can't ever get a good grasp of what exactly I feel. Day thoughts often remain shallow. I guess that is why I must "untangle" later on. The big question is why are my thoughts tangled in the first place? I think I use the phrase untangling thoughts in place of delving into thoughts. My mind just doesn't stand still long enough to delve during the day. My mind refuses to do work responsibly during the day also..see, it is a doubly destructive thing. It wanders without wandering profoundly, so absolutely nothing but leisure is gained. I think leisure is wonderfully necessary, but my mind ends up trading sleep leisure for awake leisure without my permission. It decides to daydream when it should be working, and then I have to stay up until the butt-crack of dawn to work...or delve. One would think that after 18 years I could have worked this out with my mind, but no, we still have some communication issues. This is very apparent in the present situation- it is now after 3 in the morning, and I have a test in less than 7 hours (with a class before that) for which I have not studied. And yet I continue to delve. Actually it is becoming less and less delving-ish, so I shall cease now.

so I am giving in to the time-consuming blog trend. It will be good for me though...I think I need a place where I force myself to write and clear up all the jumbled mess of thoughts packed tight in my head. I actually wrote a song last night that inspired me to start this. I am sick of how limited my relationships are with most people because I am inherently closed off to others, so I figured that the easiest way to start easing my way in to a slightly more vulnerable social position is to practice by writing in a semi-public place. Everything I have ever written has previously stayed in my obscure little black book. No More I say! This is a big step for me.
Here is that song:

She Remains a Mystery

A single tear
blurs the confusion on the page
erasing constrained passion
that leads to muted rage
I'm too afraid to cry,
I must remain opaque
because darkness is what's safe
and glass is prone to break

the life that I can't live
the person I can't be
is all trapped up inside
this mind that cages me
I long for them to feel
I long for them to see
the person that I am
but she remains a mystery

but it's getting much too hard
to throw my weight against the door
because the pressure's building up
and I don't know what I'm holding for
the stain of imperfection
against the white sheet of my creed
seduces me to cower
I can't let them see me bleed

the life that I can't live
the person I can't be
is all trapped up inside
this mind that cages me
and I long for them to feel
I long for them to see
the person that I am
but she remains a mystery

I can't forever hinder
who I'm supposed to be
It's time now to unveil
and expose the naked me.