Okay, I've decided.

It's official; we as humans are strange. Sitting in the furthest corner, on the second floor of Iowa State's library, I just decided this. I am in a cubby; I believe every college student knows where I am. Not me personally of course, but the general space in which I am currently inhabiting.

At first, I searched for a quiet, empty table on the ground level as a matter of geographic convenience to the door. But alas, little knowledge-filled study-ers crowd the public facility's tables--how dare they exercise their free rights.

Next, I thought I would snag one of the chairs in front of the back windows of the library. You can watch as destination-focused young adults walk back home, or to class. Also, being on second floor, each moving student is midget-sized and you feel far superior to them and embrace a king of the hill moment whilst you attempt to study.

But these chairs were filled as well.

Thus, all this resulted in my whereabouts in the furthest corner cubby. Back here people are not watched or judged by others correctly or falsely. In fact, if you sit positioned carefully no one can see you at all. Amidst this disappearance, you feel the necessity to lash out and to be heard, a longing to be comforted with the fact that someone somewhere at sometime will be aware of your existence within your invisibility. Thus, vandalism is a common reaction. Vandalism is described as "an action involving the deliberate destruction of or damage to public or private property." Although this is the depiction of the solitary individual in a place like this, I believe the intention of their action is better described as graffiti: writing or drawings scribbled, scratched, or illicitly on a wall or other surface in a public place. The definition of graffiti removes the connotation of planning to destroy public property. When in fact, no one enters the library with the premeditated thoughts to write their thoughts on the desk or walls. It just happens. Instead of studying, you sit and read what others have posted, and then, before you know it, you are reaching for your pen to comment on a post or to start your own discussion. To see what the reaction would be to the thought currently at my eye level: "God hates haters." or to "As far as animal treatment goes, HUMANS ARE NAZIS!" One person responded with "as far as plants go, cows are nazis too." Another strange one: "Death you are my bi*ch lover." The F word is a very common one among this graffiti, probably a product of that same desire to be known.

Yet, I can't help but be drawn to the Kurt Vonnegut quote engraved separately from everyone else's emotional discharging: "Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are 'It might have been.'"

This individual thought of all these words of men inscribed publicly, the worst would be ones of regret and discontent. What an interesting response contrasted with the crude comments. This person thought 'well, I can't judge them for trying to be heard, at least they are not holding it all in and regretting writing their opinion.'

I write this graffiti-entry because I want to be heard within my invisibility. And because I don't want to imagine "It might have been different" without this entry. It might have been different without my blog. It might have been different without writing. It might have been different without perseverance through the fire. I might have been different without the comfort that: "All things work together for good for those who love God."

God draws us into contentment with him. God calls us to live a life without regrets. God puts forth his opinion in our lives so that we may also be active like him and through him.

I just stopped typing and picked up my pen to decorate this corner cubby with small words with a big impact: God is love.

"...Because the saddest are 'It might have been.'"

Juxtapositional Pulling.

While one hand is holding a too-small

mugful of darkly soothing coffee,

the other is waving in circular motions to grasp

the concept of Time’s relevance.

The left foot is chaotically

pacing behind punctuality,

And, ironically, the right foot is upon a rock,

A steady landing of morality and holistic ideals.

His eyes are lurking towards the polar walls.

One wall is graced with engravings of forgiveness,

the opposing eye observes a vandalized

graffiti-version of justice.

Can I deny the dichotomy between

His heart and his mind?

The first, races at any source of light.

And the latter, rests under an umbrella to

Deliberate the necessity of romantic love.

Well, okay.

I laugh because in my mind there is always hope, so that is my normal attitude towards a brand new fresh year. It is a fresh new start. Everything is fresh. Like newly fallen snow. It is incredibly tempting to not to go to bed at all. That would be magically delicious, wouldn’t it?

God, it’s so clear now that you are all that I have. I have no fear now you are all that I have. Snow Patrol’s Eyes Open has been such a sweet, warm hugging friend. Like a good cup of tea. Not coffee, a good cup of coffee is far too sacred (no offense Snow Patrol). I wouldn’t mind owning another Snow Patrol album. This entry reminds me of 'media streaming' we learned in seventh grade--it was a new technology back then. I remember everything about that day--having to share computers because they had an insufficient amount at at Walcott Middle School. Mrs. Toppler, who was so stereotypical librarian, and I remember a severe dislike for her for it. Because, if anyone has had a share of stereotypical librarians, it would be a me. A year in that beautiful cage. A cage is too harsh a word. A year in that... Library, what can I say I call them how I see them. Anyways, that is besides the point, I have gotten distracted. Media Streaming. Mrs. Toppler. Seventh grade. This entry reminds me of media streaming because it is a constant flow of thoughts exploded without thinking. And because it is such a thin streaming of light from inside out, it is everything. When there is only a pinprick of light streaming from lack of internet connection at a rural middle school, it was and always will be everything. Therefore, everything I am right now is upon this pages program of Mac’s iWork. With sole-y 348 words.

I know what you learn-- which senses you remember and in which order. They say smell is your longest memory companion. But I don’t care what the hell those experts say, they have no idea the pain I feel when I hear the song “if I saw you in heaven” because of memories of too young people dying too young. And I don’t care what the mother those experts say, because they have no idea the inspiration the song “christmas tv” gives me to dance and hold hands with someone. And I honestly could not care less what those monkey experts say, because every time I hear Tom Brokraw's voice, I am back in the front room of my house, eating homemade macaroni and cheese with unfrozen frozen vegetables mingled within, watching the Nightly News with my brother and my sister.

I could not tell you why.

Except that the best advice I was ever given, is to trust that core emotion within you. Not the fleeting ones of anger, or lust, or superficial sadness. No no no no no no. NOT that emotion. If you feel like you can hardly characterize those nonsensical butterflies emotions. No.

I am talking about GUTfeeling. The one deep insides you that stirs when something is right. That is how I always knew God was real before I even had ANY encounter with Him. He was there because in my deepest GUT, he HAD to be there because nothing made sense if he wasn’t. NOTHING. So when I hear the middle-aged Tom Brokaw deliver any sort of news about foreign affairs, or bombs in a car in a land not my own, I am eating hot, cheese-covered food.

And that in itself, is perfect isn’t? The knowledge that anything MAY happen but it MAY not happen. That truth is everything and it is nothing. What can you get from black and white, right? Wrong--you can get lots from black and white but you can’t get EVERYTHING. Maybe gray, but only if you play your hand with a straight face while doing a cartwheel with synchronized swimmers.

I feel cloud-light. Like every limb is perfect and at one with my Father, the most high king.

Good night, Moon.

Envelop

My feet are stagnant on the manicured square of land, the tips of my muddy toes are facing the edge of the twisted, gnarled forest. The dividing line between this artificial perfect and the wild, untrustworthy woods, curves with the hills for miles on either side of me. The thickening air is descending and replacing this summer morning’s fabricated calm; with each breath, my lungs intake water within the humidity. To the right, far above the horizon, the sky is a blur gray as the clouds expand within themselves.

My right foot begins the trespassing within the savage, moving timber. The trees’ local birds squawk as they circle overhead; further past them, the sky begins to wheel around tinges of ashen greens and grays.
A thorn bush clasps hold of my arm, I free my bleeding limb and quicken my pace. The ground in front of me thrashes with movement, I swerve to the left and begin running.

Minutes pass of splintered bare feet pressing into the woods’ harsh earth and various tree limbs strike my face as I hurtle myself further into the grasping nature.

Without warning, a small rectangular clearing appears in the center of the dense jungle-like woods. I enter it and spiral around to discover that there is no trace of where I came, just a hemming of wild, dark growth.

The heavy air stoops again, I sit in the bed-sized, moss-covered glade. Fatigue fills my muscles, so I relax to my side on the velvety canopy.

Horizontally, looking at the surrounding weeds, twigs, and grass, I imagine them growing supernaturally fast and enveloping my body within this hedge. Dead, broken leaves would thrust their way into my mouth and soaked dirt would fill my eye sockets.

If I stayed here, this would happen.
If I stayed here, we would both be in the ground.

While we are on the topic...

Love hits you on the forehead.

All the while frantically shouting: "I'm RIGHT here! and I've always been RIGHT here!"

While quickly scampering up some retro, neon arrows that point in every direction.

They flicker and blink on, a buzz of electricity sounds and continues ringing. They are scattered.

Because "RIGHT here" can be found just about anywhere.

Love hits you on the forehead.

With the hammer-stamp reading: "Good GOD, finally!"

While arranging the mixed emotions in your cranium,

so they are in a chaotic order,

a mechanical system which-only-makes-sense-to Love.

Love hits you on the forehead.

While setting an alarm, the fickle machine explodes off

"BEEP! BEEP! BEEEEEEP!"

So Love grabs the thing, hits you with it,

and slam dunks the time-teller in the nearest waste bin.

Love hit her on the forehead.

She's still standing there surrounded by the inorganic source of energy humming,

with the permanent indication blaring: "Good GOD, finally!"

I might be "RIGHT here" rubbing my bruised brow.

Acrobat

Through generations of evolution, the human child has developed the uncanny talent to find refuge from their encompassing life. Some children hide, while others rebel; another breed of young escapes merely with the flick of their imagination. And some rare specimens, like myself in the summer of my eighth year, learn to master all three vanishing acts. I was barefoot and vertical, standing and staring at the base of my vertical sanctuary. Under my feet, the sweating grass was impatient for my lift off, restless for the propelling off the green blanket and onto the continuation of my disappearance. Before my limbs begin ascending the tree’s limbs, I hear a distant command from weeks ago: “You are not allowed to wander outside unless your sisters know where you are.” Incapable of hearing the call of the wise Pine, the fear of heights has slain my mother's imagination. He sways, and the breeze flirts with his branches; the tall structure invites me up for the afternoon. Above all, with the necessity of concealment afoot, I am in no position to decline such an offer. Both my arms grip to the nearest bough, while my lower half swings around to stand on a sturdy offshoot of the tree. The sap glues my hands and feet, as my arms and legs acrobat into a swift motion. Scaling higher, the fragrance of warm evergreen hugs me; the birds are chased by panic from the stranger. An alarming tremor crowds my insides when a single nude foot slips; my right arm loops around and severely strangles the higher branch to regain balance. Disquieted by my foot's miscalculation, I steadily cling to the tree's smooth trunk. Four branches away from being to the top, I will go no further today. It is not a necessity for I have hidden, rebelled, and imagined. Mastering the illusion, now I am invisible.

Tinker

She used the verb, "tinker." Meaning: to attempt to repair or improve something in a casual or desultory way, often to no useful effect. Her question was directed towards the only other person in the room. You don't mind if I tinker around on the piano, do you? No, I was just about to leave anyways, no big deal. But with the unexpected impending events I would not leave. And what she was about to do was more than a "big deal."

When she connected her hands to the keys, the painter's brush, the writer's pen, the magician's timing, the lover's gaze--nothing until the two inanimate objects were brought in an intimate vicinity. She and the piano were holding hands, too desperately close to be a recently married couple, too fiercely passionate to feel there was no spark of exhilaration left. The experience was trained, sporadic, and completely and utterly, mutual.

I will attempt to elaborate the depth of their affection as seen and heard by the rest of us.

A metaphoric distant rain came from far off and immersed itself wet and cleansing in our ears. All four of our ears showered.

But, of course, she interpreted the rain much differently than I. To her, it was her serene mother's voice, a kitchen floor board creaking, the blowing of fall leaves across her backyard. Recognizable. Comfortable. Habitual. Friendly.

Not I. The droplets came and expanded within themselves and blossomed and began digging at the recently, destructive weeds around my home's foundation. The battle between the fresh water and the calamitous demons roared, bellowed, blazed.

Outcries. Casualties. Raging.

And then, the victory horn of the rain blew throughout the wild, breathing field. A celebratory, traditional jig was danced upon the piano keys. A soul was saved by the rain. the music.

Soon, the girl, the rain, the mother, the floor, the leaves, the familiar, the blossoms, the war, were gone. Berefit, I searchingly spun around. All but one remained, one that had not been there before. Just entering across the newly healed yard, far more valuable than the fear of returning destructions:

The memory. The refreshing friend was staying here.

Thank you for tinkering with the healer.

I believe it is repaired now, and can begin working immediately.

"As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it. You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands."