crash

At 3:15, I heard the unmistakable bang and screech of a car accident on the corner. I resisted the tempation to run out and look like all the children in the courtyard. I knew I wouldn't be able to help and, well, the memory of my own accident over two and a half years ago still makes my blood run cold.

At 3:18, I heard the siren.

At 3:19, the police arrived.

I guess that's why we pay taxes.

There haven't been any more sirens, so hopefully that means there were no injuries, though I am still praying.

Now they need to use some more of those tax dollars to put in over-street lights, instead of the short little posts on the corners that we currently have.

template

I'm trying to find an easier to use template for the blog, so right now it's pretty generic. Stay tuned for the new and improved version!

move over iphone...

...I just bought an omop.

This is Method's version of the mop, though to give this beauty such a lame moniker is a crime. Besides being the most beautiful apparatus used to clean anything, anywhere, it is easy to use and does a commendable job. Plus, it works with both a wet/dry re-washable microfiber pad and swiffer-type throw away clothes (except unlike swiffer, these are corn-derived so they're 100% biodegradable). The floor cleaner is also non-toxic and biodegradable, and smells like almonds instead of chemicals.

So it's a mop that looks good, smells good, and it's green. It's so cool that probably the next one is going to be able to surf the internet and make phone calls using power from the dirt it picks up.

Simpsonized

I saw the Simpson's movie in the theater this week. Ben, Luke, Ryan and I went to Tinseltown. It was terribly exciting. First, the girl at the ticket counter told us there was no 8:05 show. There was an 8:05 show online, we told her. She insisted that there was no 8:05 show. There was an 8:05 show on the marquee, we told her. She insisted that there was not, but then we politely asked her to check again, and she found it. We got the student price.

We entered the theater and discovered that though we were ten minutes late, nothing was playing. Everyone was just sitting in the theater and staring at the blank screen. So we decided to inform the management that the movie in theater 9 wasn't playing. We could have walked down to the concession stand and bugged them, but we were sitting down already. And we're lazy. So we called management.

When one frequents a run down theater, one should have the number for the theater management memorized (906-0496). When one is in the middle of the climax for Ocean's 12, and already so sure one has missed something important, one is not leaving the theater to tell them the sound is out of sync. So one calls the management and says, "Hi. I'm in theater 6, and the sound is out of sync...yes, I mean the lips don't match the words. Thank you."

The movie was actually really funny. I suppose that with a 18 year reputation to maintain, they had to make it pretty good. At least, I think the movie was good. See, right at the beginning of the climax, as Homer climbs aboard his motorcycle, strobe lights started going off in the theater. And a loudspeaker told everyone to evacuate. And then everyone got up and left, even though the movie was still running.

Everyone in the whole theater was in the hall, so they told us to go outside while they figured out what was wrong. They came out ten minutes later and yelled that it was a false alarm. Said they'd start the movies right where they left off. Except our projector was messed up, remember? We saw the last gag, then watched the credits. So I have no idea how the movie ends. Sad, but true. It could have been worse--the people watching The Bourne Ultimatum left the theater just as Bourne was about to discover his true identity.

We did get a rain check. But no, we aren't sitting through the entire Simpson's movie again to see the last fifteen minutes.

We're going to find out who Jason Bourne really is.



In honor of the experience, I Simpsonized myself. Thanks for the link, Tim May.

windows

The other day my "black brother" Chris stopped by the apartment but couldn't remember which door was ours. It was dusk, and we live in a brick courtyard building on the fringe of a not-so-great neighborhood. Chris stood in the courtyard and looked up at the windows until he found one that looked "like a window Ben and Anna would have." He knew it was our window because it was the happiest window in the whole building.

Pretty cool stuff. There are a lot of reasons that Ben and I chose this area. Money was a factor--our rent here is great. And the building is cool. It reminds me of where I grew up in Uptown, Chicago, with a black and white tile floor in the bathroom and paned casement windows. However, we also picked this building because we want to be like Jesus to the people around us. I've overheard some unhappy conversations through my happy windows, and I want to do something about that. That's why we are where we are. No kidding.

posting

must...post...more...often...!

I'm working on it. There are still boxes stacked next to my desk from the move into my new apartment, but the rest of the place looks halfway decent. Okay, it looks pretty good. I'll have to have a party and everyone who comments on this post can be invited. Just kidding. I'm not comment happy like that.

The worst part about having a bigger living space is finding things. I never understood why my mom loses her keys. When all I had was my bedroom, I never lost them. There were maybe two places they could be. Now I lose everything. Sure, some of it is the post-move debris cluttering up good places-to-set-things, but I think the bulk of the problem is that I have three more rooms to look in. Okay, I guess I'd be really dumb if I left my keys (or my phone, or my purse) in the bathroom, but you never know.

The best part of the bigger living space is dancing. Now that the post-move debris is mostly in the dumpster, I can dance all around the big hardwood floors. The living room is particularly good for pirouettes.

I'll put up some pictures soon.

the park

Today I took my anonymous charges to the park for a picnic dinner. I had three of them, and the littlest guy is two and a half.

So he's playing on the merry-go-round and all these seven year old boys in soccer uniforms come up and jump on the thing and my little charge starts to push them. Pretty good speed, too. They were pretty much ignoring him until one of the cleated demi-athletes says, "Man, you a Cubs fan? That's awesome." My guy said, "uh huh!" and proudly lifted his capped head to smile at all those big boys. Who continued to ignore him. Then another said, "He's pretty strong for a little dude." Beaming, my charge replied, "Yeah, I's pretty strong," and proceeded to push with determination, laughing and grunting and laughing. The boys started paying more attention, asking him for a turn, helping him get on and off, and generally making sure they didn't run him over. He was in his element.

I think I learned a little something about men today. They totally open up and strive when men (or seven-year-olds) they look up to encourage and accept them. I know I see this in my guy. Am I on to something?

sobriety

so·bri·e·ty

1.	the state or quality of being sober.

2.	temperance or moderation, esp. in the use of alcoholic beverages.

3.	seriousness, gravity, or solemnity: an event marked by sobriety.

I looked into a sobering reality last week. Jimi Allen Photgraphy, the same people that put together girl. ( check out the previous post) created a photography show featuring portraits and stories of people who have no home. It's titled sobriety.

Going through the show, I was incredibly struck by how human we all are. Whether we live in an Oak Park mansion or under a Cicero bridge, we are all broken. We are all human. We all hurt...and so often we all ignore the hurt of everyone sitting around us. I cried looking into those faces.

I was struck with a feeling of lonliness. In a crowded room, surrounded by people, I felt disconnected. God didn't make people to have be acquaintances. He made them to love each other. Intimate, transparent. Crying with the hurt, mourning with the grieving, giving to the hungry, even until we are hungry ourselves. But we are hurt. Broken. And a fragmented heart is not conducive to giving. It is afraid. We become afraid and then we do not love. And when we do not love, we are alone. This is not what Jesus meant for his children.

Yesterday I started reading Sex God by Rob Bell, pastor up at Mars Hill in Michigan. He writes about the incredible value of humanity. Bearers of the image of God. Beautiful, precious treasures, who are so often mistreated. Why? Because things are not as they should be. We all know that. We are born with an ache in our hearts that never goes away. An ache to be in a community, to be intimate, to be connected. To love each other deeply. Like Jesus.

Let's start. Today.

hope
–noun

1.	the feeling that what is wanted can be had or that events will turn out for the best.

–verb

6.	to look forward to with desire and reasonable confidence.

7.	to believe, desire, or trust.

how can we keep ignoring?

On Sunday I went up to help out at a showing of 'girl.' It's a multimedia show that centers around the beautiful photography of Jimi Allen, who took a trip to Thailand with my Dad in February of 2004 and documented the stories of a few women who work in the bars and my parents' call to help them. It's amazing, thought-provoking, and a little disturbing.

On Sunday the show was presented at a large church in Rockford, IL. After the service people began meandering down the hall, and a few trickled in to the show. Many stopped and looked at the sign on the door, and I started asking, "Would you like to view the show?" Many said no, but I think it was because they were harried by lunch-grumpy little children. One older couple walked by quickly, but I saw the man tug on his wife's elbow and heard him say,

"Wait. I want to see the pictures."

They turned and walked to the doorway, where I greeted them with my best greeter smile. The man peeked into the room and asked what the show was about. Was it part of the Master's Commission at the church? No, I explained, this was a multimedia gallery that told the stories of women who work in Bangkok's red light districts and of the missionaries who work to remind them what real love looks like. I saw a wave of interest flash across the woman's eyes, but the man looked a little shocked, then turned gruffly and said,

"We really need to go."

He used the same elbow-tug technique and, within seconds, they were gone.

I was stunned, and a little angry. But my anger gave way to a deep sadness, one that went beyond me.

I understand the need to protect our hearts and minds from the evil parts of the world. Paul reminds us to think about things that are admirable and excellent, and prostitution is neither. But when our refusal to see evil things invades us to a place where our hearts no longer ache with the desire to see the evil ended, we allow it to triumph. By insulating ourselves in a happy Christian world, we leave the world Jesus made and loves to rot from the inside out.

Another elderly, hesitant couple decided to come in, and the wife later came up to me with tears in her eyes, nearly unable to speak. I asked if she would like to leave a comment, and she nodded. As we were packing up, I flipped through the book and found her words. Blinking to hold back my tears, I read,

"How can we keep ignoring?"

thai day

Like my new template?

Today was a Thai day. I started this morning by writing down words in english and in Thai script and posting them in my room. When I see them, I 'read' the Thai words and pay attention to the script. They say a five-year-old needs 2-3 thousand literacy hours in order to learn to read well, so I have a lot to catch up on. We'll see how it works. I wonder if there is a Thai equivalent to Dr. Suess...

Ben and I went to Thai Spice for dinner. They changed owners a few months ago and we'd heard mixed reviews, but the food was great. Not quite spicy enough, but excellent in a bland sort of way. I love rice. It meets a need in my soul. Sort of like peanut m&ms, and if you understand the depth of my addiction to peanut m&ms, you'll understand the gravity of that statement. Rice is a beautiful thing. It reminds me of living in Asia.

I rounded it out by reading dad's blog and then watching youtube videos of Songkran, the national Thai New Year's celebration where everyone wears Hawai'ian shirts and throws water at everyone, even innocent bystanders. I've never seen a Songkran, but it is on my list of things to do before I die.

Now I'm trying to finish the guest list for my wedding and starting to wish we'd chosen to elope. Oh well.

fact of the day

Double entry bookkeeping was invented by a magician. I wish he'd make my taxes disappear. A la peanut butter sandwiches!

Man, I really miss being four some days.

Real entry soon to come.

reality, age three

In one of my education classes, the teacher likes to go off-topic and go on and on about how tv is bad for little kids because they need to experience the real, 3-d world in order for their little brains to develop, which, of course, reminded me of being three.

Remember the old 1970 tootsie pop commercial? When I was a very small being, I didn't realize that commercials repeat. So I thought that the dumb kid kept giving his candy to that meanie bird with a funny hat who never counted the licks properly, the cheating scumbag. I tried yelling at the kid to warn him that the owl was a conniving candy thief. When that didn't work, I nailed the owl on the head with a toy. To this day I still get miffed at that blasted owl.

(If you can't get the youtube, here are the storyboards to the original commercial)

stress and nausea

Without a doubt, this last weekend was one of the most miserable I have ever had in my life.

There is nothing more disheartening than staying up until 2 am, waking up at 6:30 and working all day until 12:30 am on the next day to finish a huge, sixty-one page long, quarter-of-your-final-grade assignment. Unless, of course, you spend most of that interminably long time dry-heaving into a mixing bowl. Then it's like dying over and over and over again.

I made it. Barely. I still feel shaky all over and I'm super behind on everything else, so if I kind of hide out this month it isn't because I don't love you. I do.

Did I mention that all the crocuses bloomed?

you ain't foolin' me

You ain't foolin me, February.

You think you're all that,
with your sunshine
warm breeze
and muddy puddlin' sidewalks.

But you ain't foolin' me.

You might be foolin' the birds, February.

They're singing thier hearts out
with lighthearted chirpin',
crazy tunes
and high-falutin' lyrics.

But you ain't fooling me.

You might be foolin' the grass, February.

It's trying to grow green
with muddy snow,
squishy earth
and springtime determination.

But you ain't foolin' me.

You might be fooling my friends, February.
They're acting crazy
with summer clothes
no coats
and joyful winter-dead cries.

But you ain't foolin' me.

I know you, February.
I know you are still winter.
Leave the guesswork up to March.

Still, it was nice of you to try.

living for crocuses

One of my profs calls me a "super student." I wish I got to wear a cape and fly, too. Stress is my sunshine and worry my kryptonite, and academia is a sickening balance of the two. A blank white poster board reclines on the floor next to King Bidgood's in the Bathtub, a lesson plan gapes unfinished from the monitor on my desktop, and a glossy mountain thirty picture books tall graces my bed. There is a quiz waiting in the wings, biding its time on my thumb drive, as well as a journal entry that hasn't crept out from the recesses of my mind quite yet.

All due early next week.

I am living for the crocuses. I know enough about the leonine madness some dare to call spring in Chicago to not worship spring break, but I am ready to see the bold green fingers laugh at the snow and the cold and come up, quietly smiling at the world, not audacious like the fanfare of daffodils or loud like sirens of tulips. They are the first, the brave, and the beautiful.

I am living for the crocuses because I want to be one. Despite the mounds of suffocating snow pressing against me, I feel the warm sunlight above. It urges me on through the malicious elements and blustery days into a world of sunlight and hope of a verdant summer.

My petals are purple.

winter

I like flying along the satin sheen of wind-buffed snow on a sunny morning.

I like hearing nothing but the rythmic tramping crunch of snowboots on salty concrete.

I like inhaling the sharp bitterness of frozen air.

I like dancing like black branches abandoning themselves to a deeper velvet blue sky.

I like listening to the whispered downy quietness of moonlight on drifting snow.

I like snuggling into the softness of a fuzzy-thick scarf.

I like identifying with the violent angry rattle of the storm windows.

I like tasting the sweet, crystal-clear coldness that sticks to my face.

I like breathing big white clouds.