tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11418061786702957012024-03-05T07:40:03.435-06:00Embrace Your Crazynauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-74314416109539251082013-07-12T15:41:00.000-05:002013-07-12T15:41:17.524-05:00GratefulI am grateful for every one and every thing that God has placed in my life.<br />
<br />
I am happy.nauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-27891597213523258342013-07-05T12:00:00.001-05:002013-07-26T12:23:20.559-05:00July 2013i am the luckiest woman alive.<br />
i have a wonderful husband-who after 21 years, has put up with more shit than any human is capable of enduring, a super smart, loving daughter who continually pushes all the right buttons and is growing up super fast! Man, is she smart!!!<br />
i share miraculous friendships with a vast array of good people.<br />
my family is top notch; bat shit crazy, but awesome nonetheless.<br />
i will continue to help my true friends and in turn they unconsciously help me- which is a Godly gift.<br />
My father continues to be the shining light of my life and for HIM i am truly grateful. Thank you, God for allowing me to choose Frank Tholke.<br />
It is my intent to better myself spiritually and honestly and to be there for my friends and family, no matter what they need or when they need it. <br />
This is what i do.nauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-31400597861230190332013-05-20T23:09:00.002-05:002013-05-22T14:48:21.643-05:00Gems<br />
I've recently, yet what seems like forever ago, lost a rare gem. I had grown to cherish this elusive gem more and more as each day passed. I don't believe in coincidences, but it did happen to be our birthstone. <br />
<br />
<br />
Now, this was no <span style="color: #674ea7;"><b><i>ordinary</i></b></span> stone...no.....just, NO! In fact, she was an <b><span style="color: #351c75;">extraordinary</span></b>- PURE, RAW, Truly UNCUT.. rock, MY ROCK.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I felt as if someone had broken into my soul (btw-it's where I keep all my gems) and yanked my lifeline. Just as one would start to pull a tiny thread- and it's been unraveling ever since, day by day. Perhaps, eroding would be a more precise word. Yes, eroding. Just as a rock erodes with each lashing of an ocean wave.<br />
<br />
Then, in the blink of an eye, POOF!, I was gem-less. Where had it gone
and why would anything or anyone want to destroy it?? My questions are
endless. The answers even more a mystery.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5qrqnV2MtWqpo4eAA8_8Cw8vdxH1rDmylJ3SBxfPap3h6ayTsHrybFzB3HZHEatF2syk6K-3ssdAfHzpcdRIkKytwvNasNqF-tQInztlRzKiE6vuOhz4Mh8yLYhJCx627a23s665rdoY/s1600/amethyst_gem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5qrqnV2MtWqpo4eAA8_8Cw8vdxH1rDmylJ3SBxfPap3h6ayTsHrybFzB3HZHEatF2syk6K-3ssdAfHzpcdRIkKytwvNasNqF-tQInztlRzKiE6vuOhz4Mh8yLYhJCx627a23s665rdoY/s1600/amethyst_gem.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
You ever really LOOK at a gem? Ah! the internal matrix's that sum up a stone. I mean, really examine all of the intricacies-all of the prismatic beauty, the cuts, the lines, the dullness contrasting perfectly with the sharp jagged bits encapsulated inside this semi-precious, yet sturdy stone?<br />
<br />
<br />
For all I know, my gem could be sitting on a shelf or have been thrown from the highest mountain; easily shattered if dropped, or thrown hard enough. <br />
<br />
I covet my gems. Why would I not? They're in my soul. <b><span style="color: #cc0000;">MY SOUL</span></b>.<br />
<br />
<span class="ssens"><span class="vi"> <i> </i></span></span><br />
<span class="ssens"><span class="vi"><i>I will miss you until the day of sweet release....</i></span></span><br />
<span class="ssens"><span class="vi"><i></i></span></span><br />
<span class="ssens"><span class="vi"><i></i></span></span><br />
<span class="ssens"><span class="vi"><u>for those reading who may be thinking- "just go get another gem"- you can fuck yourself. i don't require another GEM- i want mine BACK.</u><i><br /></i></span></span><br />
<br />nauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-87007067006439260122012-12-03T21:09:00.001-06:002012-12-29T10:54:27.698-06:00IHOPSo- tonight we went to IHOP- I was craving the grilled pot roast sandwich, with 2 cheeses. It's divine.<br />
<br />
Peyton was acting nutty, dragging her hands through the whipped cream, syrup, and yogurt. She was not listening or had a come back to each thing I said.<br />
<br />
Perhaps, I may have been a bit stern: but NOT to haven't warranted the following note that the waitress gave to me, from the 2 ladies that were seated at the table next to us.<br />
<br />
It read-<br />
<br />
"You have such a beautiful lil child and it breaks my heart that you speak to her so coldly. She is a child (underlined several times) and a gift from God" signed- God Bless You".<br />
<br />
Of course, this broke my heart- brought me to tears, actually.<br />
<br />
Then- i thought- this person has no idea about me or my child. Fuck her.<br />
<br />
So, here I sit, wondering if she's right, knowing that I can have a sharp tongue (never cussing), but I am quite stern. I am raising a respectful daughter, not an animal.<br />
<br />
I shared it with my husband, who shook his head and ripped it up while stating, "did she have kids with her", I said, "No"- he said, "well then she has no idea what it takes". <br />
<br />
Just wanted to share.<br />
<br />
Thanks for listening.<br />
<br />
Jenn~nauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-1968986267730224862012-12-03T20:27:00.001-06:002012-12-03T22:53:49.411-06:00Blog Award- LIEBSTER <div style="text-align: left;">
I have been nominated for the prestigious blog award named, LIEBSTER. Please copy the LIEBSTER award picture and paste to your page!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Below are my answers to the questions from the infamous, Gwen, author of http://www.pullmyfunnybone.com/ and I will also ask 11 questions of my own for the other award recipients to answer! Have Fun!</div>
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</div>
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Accepting the award also involves answering a series of questions so here you go- These questions-brought to you by Gwen-a-licious....</div>
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1. Have you ever been caught in a lie? probably</div>
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2. If you had superhuman powers, which power would you have? the ability to heal<br />
3. If your significant other gave you a "free pass" - who would be yours? Jack White<br />
4. What is your biggest phobia? Spiders & Roaches<br />
5. What is the longest you've gone without taking a bath or shower? a week, but i was swimming in a river daily, so it's not like i wasn't submerged in water.<br />
6. What flaw is enough to make you end a relationship? back-stabbing<br />
7. Do you have any tattoo's? No<br />
8. Have you ever looked in someone's medicine cabinet? Of course, doesn't everyone?<br />
9. Do you pee in the shower? of course, I've even pooped, when absolutely necessary<br />
10. How often do you ignore calls on your cell phone? rarely<br />
11. What's the favorite part of your body? my eyes</div>
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<br />
<b> Aubree, author of http://www.akashicwindow.blogspot.com/ has chosen the questions below, of which I have answered.</b><br />
<br />
<b>1.) Do you consider yourself to be super-duper fly? just super-fly, not super-duper</b><br />
<b>2.) What is your favorite reality show? i don't watch them, but I do enjoy re-runs of Project Runway & America's Next Top Model!</b><br />
<b>3.) Do you fear that the Apocalypse or Armageddon will occur in your lifetime? I feel we are on the brink of something. Nuclear- i hope not, war-Yes and beginning of a global consciousness- God, I hope so.</b><br />
<b>4.) What is one of your top three favorite quotes of all time? "It will all find its way, in time"</b><br />
<b>5.) Who is your Favorite writer? James Redfield & Maya Angelou</b><br />
<b>6.) Can you recite any movie in its entirety, and if so, which one?Yes, Grease 1 & 2, and Friday.</b><br />
<b>7.) What one person has most influenced your life thus far? Tori Amos</b><br />
<b>8.) What is your favorite childhood memory? can't remember much, maybe playing softball in Chicago during the summer.</b><br />
<b>9.) Why do you blog? to share my thoughts with others.</b><br />
<b>10.) What is the most terrifying thing to ever happen to you? thinking that my subconscious could come to a reality at a moment's notice or that it already happened and i am getting snippets of reality.</b><br />
<b>And finally, number 11) Do you wipe front to back or back to front?when i poop, front to back, when i pee, i pat.</b><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Questions answered! Per the rules of accepting the Liebster
Award, I have come up with eleven more questions of my own to ask
the eleven other righteous blogs that I nominate and promote for all earthlings to view. My questions are below"</div>
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1. Have you had conversations with the non-living?<br />
2. What are your must haves with you, at all times?<br />
3. How many friends do you consider "true" friends and why?<br />
4. What is your favorite food and beverage?<br />
5. Who is your favorite musical influence?<br />
6. What's the most embarrassing thing that's happened to you?<br />
7. What is your favorite time of the year?<br />
8. What do you collect?<br />
9. What musical instrument would you like to learn?<br />
10. If you had to choose between being blind or deaf, which would you choose?<br />
11. What do you quote, on a regular basis?<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Now, to nominate fellow blogarians~</b><br />
<br />
<b>http://www.akashicwindow.blogspot.com/</b><br />
<br />
<b>http://www.pullmyfunnybone.com/ </b><br />
<br />
<b>http://rockadocious.blogspot.com/ </b><br />
<br />
<b>http://onemoretimemama.blogspot.com/</b><br />
<br />
<b>http://keepinyouout.blogspot.com/</b><br />
<br />
<b>http://www.kristiewashere.com/</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
nauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-47615176116127970422012-10-29T20:36:00.000-05:002012-10-29T21:55:25.129-05:00Tides- They are a changin'So, with Hurricane Sandy in full force, I thought I'd write a poem.<br />
<br />
Full Moon staring into your eyes<br />
Breezy, fierce wind blowing by<br />
Brewing, boiling, and reaching to the sky<br />
<br />
Oceans erupting, swelling, engulfing<br />
Naive people not heeding their warning<br />
Stranded without power, nothing to do but worry<br />
<br />
When will it end you may wonder?<br />
<br />
I believe it's just the beginning<br />
<br />
May God Be Us, always, In All Ways<br />
<br />
<br />
ALL my Best-<br />
<br />
JENNnauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-24992053330231023322012-08-29T20:05:00.001-05:002012-08-29T20:35:26.274-05:00Chasing the Dragon<br />
<br />
I will not dwell...<br />
today was hell...<br />
makes me think of diving into the wishing well....<br />
<br />
jaws are clenching....<br />
gut is wrenching....<br />
every nerve standing on end....<br />
<br />
is going up worth coming down?<br />
we'll shall see..... we'll shall see....<br />
<br />
"How long is forever, this time?" Willie nauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-69616763314362044362012-07-24T10:34:00.001-05:002012-07-24T10:34:58.393-05:00Feeling GoodRecently I've been feeling really good. It could be the Celexa working combined with my thyroid medication; which has coincidentally allow me to drop over 20 pounds! I am trying to not over-think this new 'system' but recognize that I am truly grateful for its benefits.<br />
<br />
That being said, I would like to give a big Thank You to all of the world's energies that have come aligned for me to experience this newly felt goodness in my life.<br />
<br />
Humbly,<br />
<br />
Jennnauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-55550233758316373822012-07-15T19:30:00.000-05:002012-07-15T19:30:08.602-05:00Two-Take Exchange: Take 4Swap number four! This swap's image was chosen by yours truly, Aubree, and the following is my "take" on it. I don't title these things, but if I were to title this one, I think I would call it <em>"The Vain and the Obliterated."</em> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
As usual, you can pick up Jenn's "take" if you wander over to my blog, <em>Akashic Aisles </em><a href="http://www.akashicwindow.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">(follow the signs to the basement).</a> We hope you enjoy both perspectives. Feel free to leave comments, unless you are a spam-artist: in which case, we cordially invite you to...suck it.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8UmxazD-4SHtFrCtjAIDhZFoe4-o6mbQ91ZxLx-TQe8NN4wtif_J_MllLMPXXo7B_h7xF_A7u69SFDwjPVp259FV3zRirXwUNQcnt_QGVDuliVrPxhn0Z7arrbgzM7SZqU7DzrxS-zH0/s1600/blog+swap+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8UmxazD-4SHtFrCtjAIDhZFoe4-o6mbQ91ZxLx-TQe8NN4wtif_J_MllLMPXXo7B_h7xF_A7u69SFDwjPVp259FV3zRirXwUNQcnt_QGVDuliVrPxhn0Z7arrbgzM7SZqU7DzrxS-zH0/s400/blog+swap+4.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Speculate, Perspirate, Suffocate; all the while forgetting to Calculate the odds stamped upon the heavens and delivered unto our hands...<em>both </em>of our hands...without a digit to spare." -A.L.</td></tr>
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Basking in a light that is not the sun, while resting on an ocean floor that is now the same as any other surface...dry, and without purpose. Nobody sees it, but it's coming.<br />
<br />
So blind is she that she wishes only to use its heat to change her skin tone, struggling as she is to be the card that society flips over in a match to itself.<br />
<br />
"Society." This term and its implications will be told - as parables of warning - under an ashy sky to the unfortunate heirs of the Cleansing.<br />
<br />
Unfortunate? Who am I to say? There are gifts hiding in the strangest of places: perhaps under a broken shell left behind by a parched and foresaken ocean?<br />
<br />
Nobody sees it, but it's coming.<br />
<br />
The broken shells on hardened sands will be tools rather than reminders - or novelty bits of decor, for it is true that such luxuries will become naught but smoky memories that will soon enough turn to cold, but fruitful legend. And the next cycle: will they starve themselves of the fruit?<br />
<br />
<br />
I wonder. <br />
<br />
<br />
Is that a magnifying glass that she doesn't see? How fitting. As her hair is caught by flame and fury, she thinks only of the card she aspires to be in a game about to end. "Do these highlights bring out my eyes?" <br />
<br />
<br />
Even her grand illusion is brought together in pieces - one frame at a time - like the simplest of all puzzles. Still she cannot see the clues meant to remind her of Origin and Errand. <br />
<br />
<br />
She flaunts an Armani dress and flashes her best smile. Silly, distracted girl. <br />
<br />
<br />
It is not the mermaid that is fabled. <br />
<br />
<br />
Never have the fabled been falsities; and never have fairy-tales been stories reserved for any but the young...For there isn't an Old one among us.<br />
<br />
<br />
Nobody sees it, but it's coming.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Post Written by: Aubree @ Akashic Aisles: The Basement Viewnauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-45073201127960600372012-06-20T20:38:00.000-05:002012-06-20T20:38:04.727-05:00Take-Two Exchange: Take 3<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Blog-Swap number three is
upon us: I, Aubree (author of <i>Akashic
Aisles: The Basement View</i>), am posting my “take” on the below image, while
Jenn – who runs this blog, <i>Embrace Your
Crazy</i> - is posting her perspective
on the same image across the way at, <a href="http://www.akashicwindow.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"> The Basement</a>. And…Voila!
The “swap” has been <b><i>swapped.</i></b></span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Before moving on, though:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Already, in three swap-a-roos, I have learned
something rather fascinating. Of course
I knew that individual interpretation of all things artistic covers a vast
expanse from one person to another. I
did not realize, however, how different the manner in which we discover our
interpretations of a single piece can be, and often is. </span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For instance, I have learned that I am not detail
oriented in my artistic ruminations. An image
does not affect me in parts and pieces; it affects me as a whole…as a story
(which, I suppose is not entirely shocking, once considered). Rather than seeing it as a slow and
unraveling depiction of line and color, art impacts me like a tidal wave, and
my emotions continue to follow the tale past the point of impact and well into
the undepicted village that lies beyond the frame.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sure, this is an interesting discovery I have made about myself;
but that is not why I am sharing it. I
am prefacing the following text with this revelation, because I believe it
necessary to do so.</span></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now, onto the tale: beginning at the point of visual
introduction to the simultaneous point of impact….and beyond.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhadKZqxHHv-_tlbzr0bx90iaMQrUgcbWz1WbXohKSPppfZaNP_wijl_l5svIEDT4m-x-UUO1gZXlfS7M2BBxNl7elQct0L0wR6kS5P35KkwaappQ5ukGjmrBiqQJ2gAqTKdtjMliNXQ8U/s1600/blog+swap+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhadKZqxHHv-_tlbzr0bx90iaMQrUgcbWz1WbXohKSPppfZaNP_wijl_l5svIEDT4m-x-UUO1gZXlfS7M2BBxNl7elQct0L0wR6kS5P35KkwaappQ5ukGjmrBiqQJ2gAqTKdtjMliNXQ8U/s320/blog+swap+3.jpg" width="245" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The masons build, alter, and determine a structure's facade - brick by brick, but be of right mind in knowing that you can fire and replace the masons at will. A continent can be intimidating in its vast and changing terrain, but be of right mind in knowing that the smallest bit of sand and a sufficient wind can change the face of a mountain" -Aubree Luke</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have been given occasion
to take the Lookout’s seat in two separate watchtowers, each of extreme gift...and consequence. The towers have been
placed on opposite shorelines on the same continent, but they might as well
be galaxies apart, except for what they have in common: the light within,
and the misery that encompasses their views.</span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The two know of each
other, because I know of them – invited as I have been to climb the miles of
rickety stairs that exist within both.
Also, the continent that divides them sends tales about one to the
other, as frequently and garishly as possible.
Yet in truth, they know nothing of the other that can flaunt more value than
the briefest glimpse gained as their lights quickly cross, without
stopping. </span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">If only they would stop….</span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">One tower is much larger
than the other, and despite its weakening foundation, the masons insist upon
adding more stone <b>(these are the same masons that refuse to repair the winding
and wobbling interior staircase that leads to the light source).</b><b> </b> Without considering the tower’s view, the people
that run to and fro - casting havoc throughout the continent that divides the
towers - think it within their privilege to throw rocks of contempt at this
larger of two towers; yet strangely, no mind is paid to the masons who
hurriedly add more and more mortar, brick, and stone…yielding not to the cries of
the foundation as it screams under the crushing weight.</span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The smaller of the two
towers is so much the measure</span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> that it is but the slightest fraction in bulk of the
larger, and though its foundation remains sound in structure, the small tower
sways precariously at the mercy of passing winds. The inhabitants of the continent between the two
towers pass harsh judgment upon the smallest, demanding to know why it does not
fight to obtain more stone and mortar for itself. And, in fury and frustration, the continent’s
populace covers the frail tower’s facade in obscene graffiti; however - yet
again - the masses do not thwart, nor condemn the masons who have chosen to
leave the building materials by the side of the road to be weathered and
deteriorated by time and element, rather than putting them to good use for the
sake of the small tower <b>(these are the same masons that refuse to repair the
winding and wobbling interior staircase that leads to the light source).</b> No one stops to consider the swaying tower’s
view.</span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the exterior, these two
towers seem to have nothing in common.
It takes climbing the worn and beaten interior of each to understand the
viewpoint that they cast their wavering, but constant light upon. And rest assured, my friends, it is true that
each member of the dividing continent(s) will have the same occasion as I, and eventually,
the land between the two will lose acreage as Compassion makes water out of
land, allowing the towers to move closer to one another. Indeed, eventually their lights will not be so
eager to pass each other by, and they will share a view of commonality that
sows a growing reverence. Finally, when
the masons are given their share of responsibility, the faltering stairs
accessing the climb to higher perspective will be restructured with blueprints of
safe and nurturing priority.</span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The two structures will
become one, needing only a single light.</span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yet, understand (so as not to be misled with treacherous idealism) that <b>there will be</b> other Towers with viewpoints divided. They will rise again and again, until
every structured pair has housed every light, and every continent in between is
dissolved. Then - and only then - will we <i>all</i> be at home...in the same castle. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>nauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-41527844689932419892012-06-11T18:42:00.005-05:002012-06-15T17:17:22.087-05:00Tonsil Stones!<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tonsil stones are known as tonsilloliths which are calcified matter that gets trapped in the crevices of your tonsils. Nice, huh?</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">They can weigh 300 mg to 42 g. Can you guess how much this little gem weighs? I've added a penny for ease of estimation!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuvhb_PxD34b4ayWg0VBPiHx8hWkQ4QOopWMmZfmO46iAZYv7J_yqWoZHU0O-o9d7HS-nQdcSW7OGOSewj7U3Nzqc-4aXlAolx2hLysis5g09xEOpcUyYXRnzlijPFUkrImn2fnnpsWis/s1600/tonsil+stone+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuvhb_PxD34b4ayWg0VBPiHx8hWkQ4QOopWMmZfmO46iAZYv7J_yqWoZHU0O-o9d7HS-nQdcSW7OGOSewj7U3Nzqc-4aXlAolx2hLysis5g09xEOpcUyYXRnzlijPFUkrImn2fnnpsWis/s320/tonsil+stone+pic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tonsil stones are putrid, disgusting, cheese-like, curdled yogurt nuggets which I commonly refer to as gag-a-licious, vomitsville, and utterly repulsive. The doctor says there is nothing to worry about except horrible breath 24/7. Oh, that's great, it's not like I ever have to talk with anyone on the job.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">You can get them out on your own with the assistance of a q-tip and a little nudge on the tonsil or you can visit the doctor and have them pry it off of your tonsil with a metal instrument- when a tooth pick just won't do the trick.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It's good fun. So, the next time you're bored on a Friday night, have a peek into your throat or stop on by my house.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">There's always free popcorn.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>nauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-20215718860638456922012-06-06T19:51:00.000-05:002012-06-06T19:51:32.693-05:00The Two-Take Exchange: Take Two<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Hello to you! Once again, I, Aubree - fellow blogger and good friend of Jenn, am slinking out of <a href="http://www.akashicwindow.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">The Basement </a>to do my part in our second blog swap by sharing my "take" on the below image with Jenn's readers, just as Jenn, herself, has taken a break from "embracing her crazy" (ha! as <b><i>IF</i></b>) to write her words, as inspired by the same image, on the walls of my <a href="http://www.akashicwindow.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Basement.</a> <---click here to view Jenn's "take." This is our second "swap" thus far, and I am exceedingly proud of both she and I for our dedication. I mean, seriously: we could've just jumped ship after the first one, but alas...we are warrior princesses that do not give up so easily! </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">I hope you enjoy our <i>two takes</i> (this time, completely different - one from the other - as opposed to the parallel thinking that ensued within last week's "exchange"). Happy reading!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZZFP_A04Mvd8fRd2QtvYLO1lHsFO6oqxLJXmJtVKWvRYEnTdJEP6eyordy1o95xrlsY74kK_9wmMMwIdiZLOd7y_X4KJ0Kg6x-ghQI4QLG7PaZk-29nvISudkp477ZdeMqAUESC0WHd8/s1600/boatman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZZFP_A04Mvd8fRd2QtvYLO1lHsFO6oqxLJXmJtVKWvRYEnTdJEP6eyordy1o95xrlsY74kK_9wmMMwIdiZLOd7y_X4KJ0Kg6x-ghQI4QLG7PaZk-29nvISudkp477ZdeMqAUESC0WHd8/s320/boatman.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I perceive life...within death.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">I died. And never looked back. Not much to see, in the end.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">I rose above the deafening
cacophony that was life…and walked away.
</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">I walked away. It was easy.</span><br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">By and by, the joke is on you, my
friends…if you still believe in the boatman.</span><br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">As it is, ‘tis how it must
be. So, I laugh...</span><br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Souls perch like ravens,
trying to decide who and what is ominous among them. Keeping score, even in death. Fools.</span><br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Angels speak only to the
living, because the living are the only ones desperate enough not to listen.</span><br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">I died; I chose a
direction. So will you.</span><br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">I am not the raven; I am
not the water. <i>I am the boatman</i>,
ferrying my own clandestine(y) and collecting my own dues.</span><br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">And by and by, the joke is on you, my
friends…if you still believe in the boatman.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>nauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-40217171181396434932012-06-01T22:43:00.000-05:002012-06-01T23:13:23.629-05:00The Butterfly Effect<m:smallfrac m:val="off">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq0TLUSljtBFCWaCMTBgQtJnSzf5JwMInaTw5exMQk9x9jkJRhgVLglKhC-ppwMnFEk18g3R6R0Du16B0d3bNsW7zjhGxQQUm1Q8LjU5A6JF59oPkel0jSfR4a8AGFKzEhuI8rU4AVKUI/s1600/Purple+Butterfly+on+Hand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq0TLUSljtBFCWaCMTBgQtJnSzf5JwMInaTw5exMQk9x9jkJRhgVLglKhC-ppwMnFEk18g3R6R0Du16B0d3bNsW7zjhGxQQUm1Q8LjU5A6JF59oPkel0jSfR4a8AGFKzEhuI8rU4AVKUI/s320/Purple+Butterfly+on+Hand.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span>
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</m:wrapindent><b><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“and is it right, butterfly, they like you
better framed and dried” TAmos</span></b></m:defjc></m:rmargin></m:lmargin></m:dispdef></m:smallfrac></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">What does anything
anyone does matter? The answer is
simply, <b><u>everything</u>.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve
recently thought about this concept and how it relates to <b>everything </b>in the world. If
this is the first time you’ve heard about this, think of the phrases- chain
reaction, avalanche effect, chaos theory, and snowball effect and you’ll begin to get the
idea. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">As a
society, we’re so not in tune with our actions and the implications they
cause. Mostly because we’re only consumed
with ourselves, that we barely take the care to give a rat’s ass about other beings,
things, or creatures.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">I find the quote
below interesting. It shows the
relevance of how one simple, natural motion can perpetuate a chain reaction of
immeasurable proportions. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“This is an illustration of the
butterfly effect - the idea in meteorology that the flapping of a butterfly's
wing will create a disturbance that in the chaotic motion of the atmosphere
will become amplified eventually to change the large scale atmospheric motion,
so that the long term behavior becomes impossible to forecast” Quoted by R.C.Hilborn (Oxford Uni-versity
Press, 1994). </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">So, if we alter
the natural course of life, in a very small, <i>seemingly</i> insignificant way, are we altering everything in the
world that was meant to naturally occur in the future? I believe we are. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Our actions
and choices are shaping the future at an exponential pace. The further we continue to destroy the <i>minutest</i> things we encounter, the less
we’ll be able to understand how to forecast the future.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>nauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-77406718096598710362012-05-28T14:47:00.000-05:002012-05-28T14:57:09.414-05:00The Two-Take Exchange: Take One<m:smallfrac m:val="off">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hello to the readers of Jenn’s blog, and congrats on your
willingness to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Embrace Your Crazy</i>! I am interrupting this blog to inform you
that Jenn and I have decided to - every so often – engage in a “Blog Swap.” In case you are unfamiliar with the term, it
goes like this: We will choose an image of interest and without exchanging any
thoughts before or during the process, so as to avoid any accidental
interloping on the other’s view-point or “take” (which is why we call it the
"<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">two</i></b>-take exchange") - we will each write a little (or a
lot) about what we see or feel, as provoked by the chosen imagery. We will then trade our perspectives to be
posted on the other's blog. This is our very first go at it, and as it happens,
I seem to have written a mini-novel on this initial post (what can I say: I
just write what falls into place). But I imagine that the tone, texture, and
length will vary from imagine to image and post to post, as will the form and
genre. This, of course, is by design…to
keep it interesting. Below is my "take" on the attached image. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You
can find Jenn's "take" on my <a href="http://www.akashicwindow.blogspot.com/">blog</a> <--- </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Click here and look for the post with the matching image.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, without further ado, I introduce to you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> “Take One…”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijK_lSED9wQLV_DcsYHbrfG1gQIGc75gEkKDG1wCYv942lEjyNUfxYbchdxoZavomgHJ88QUNkM_gJm0wLo2f99AFKryckTDAJ04U95CJOCMDkAK4cjCZVTboI1kxoK6juYyZevkyZbsw/s1600/dreams+are+reality.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijK_lSED9wQLV_DcsYHbrfG1gQIGc75gEkKDG1wCYv942lEjyNUfxYbchdxoZavomgHJ88QUNkM_gJm0wLo2f99AFKryckTDAJ04U95CJOCMDkAK4cjCZVTboI1kxoK6juYyZevkyZbsw/s400/dreams+are+reality.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The eleventh hour barks a hasty order as false as its own existence.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The old
woman's raspy breaths were shallow and growing more and more distant, so as to
match the waning depths behind her eyes. Her family surrounded her in silent reverie,
letting the decades of memories they shared with this sweet and selfless woman
slip quietly down their cheeks. The only sounds in the stark and indifferent
hospital room where the beeps and blips of the machines that measured the short
time she had left coupled with the sniffles and pacing feet of her family
members that were a precious kind of measurement of a timelessness gone by. <br />
<br />
For the last few days, the old woman's adult children and grandchildren had
taken turns whispering to her that it was "okay to let go" and
assuring her that “they would be all right” without her. <br />
<br />
She knew they meant well, but she couldn't help but wonder at what point they
had decided that anyone other than she would know when it was time for her to
loosen her grasp on the last string that bound her to this world. In a way, it
amused her as she thoughtfully wandered back on the time in which she had
offered the same well-intended, but misguided "permission" to her own
mother…twenty-five years earlier. <br />
<br />
<i>‘We can be so foolish in times of
impending loss,’</i> she thought to herself. Inwardly, though, she was grinning with
compassion. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
She heard the door to her room swing gently open, and without opening her eyes
or having to hear a voice, she knew that the person on which she had been
waiting had arrived.<br />
<br />
Grief-stricken and tired from a geyser of emotion and a four hour flight from
California, her twenty-two year old granddaughter, Maggie, had answered the old
woman's unspoken call…across the miles.
She had come to say farewell, after all; she had mustered the strength
to face the fading embers of the woman who had influenced her happy life more
than anyone else ever had, or could.<br />
<br />
The old woman smiled inwardly, again. The rest of the family had felt sure that
this was more than Maggie could handle, and Maggie herself had thought the
same. But the old woman had known better…truer.
<br />
<br />
After the shuffling embraces and whispers of the rest of the family as they
greeted Maggie at the door, the room became completely silent except for the
old woman's over-burdened lungs and the noise of the machines that everyone
thought had been keeping her alive these last few weeks, when all along it had
been the promise of Maggie's presence that had filled her old heart and kept it
beating. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As
granddaughter made her way to grandmother, the two generations between them
dissolved with every step, until time seemed an empty and meaningless notion. <br />
<br />
Maggie stood over her grandmother and took her old, tired hand into her own
tender and youthful grasp. The young woman jumped a little with surprise when she
felt the frailty of the hand she held turn to a hard and firm grip. A surge
flew through Maggie's body and caught in her throat. She could not speak. She
could not breathe. Her heartbeat was
thunder in her own ears.<br />
<br />
The rest of the family looked on, unaware. <br />
<br />
The blast of energy pulsing through her very being brought with it a vision, a
memory. In a matter of seconds, the
young woman relived every detail of her grandmother telling a tale of wonder to
a raptly engaged five year old version of Maggie. It was a story of two doors: one displaying a
perfectly vertical sign that read "Dream," and the other was marked with
a skewed sign that boasted, "Reality." A little girl - no older than
Maggie's five years- stood before the two doors, at the instruction of an
angel, trying to decide which to open...which to enter. <br />
<br />
"Which one do you think she chose, Maggie-May?" her grandmother had
asked. <br />
<br />
After a long and focused deliberation, five year old Maggie answered, “I don’t
know, Grammy.” Her young and
unencumbered eyes searched the gently lined face of her grandmother, looking
for a hint or revelation.<br />
<br />
"Well, when you think you know, you come tell me, okay?" And with
that, Gram kissed Maggie’s forehead and sent her off to play. How she loved to watch that child play…and
dream.<br />
<br />
As the years passed, Maggie would approach her grandmother with an alternated
guess, and not just any guess; oh no, Ms. Maggie was a <i>thinker.</i> She always had been. She pondered each door with heartfelt reason and warrant, changing her
mind from week to month to year, and each time she did and presented her newest
guess (and accompanying explanation), the old woman would smile sweetly down at
young Maggie, and would utter a thoughtful “hmmm” and nothing more. The young
one would search the old one for any gleam of a hint, but all she ever got was
all that was ever offered: a loving smile and a kiss on the forehead. <br />
<br />
As the years cartwheeled on, eventually Maggie forgot about the two doors, and
her grandmother never mentioned them again. The tale of the doors had become a
riddle lost in the folds of life...until now. <br />
<br />
Without realizing she had moved at all, Maggie rediscovered her place - in a strange
semblance of time - stationed on a chair beside her grandmother's bed, with her
head bowed and resting on the back of the old woman's hand, onto which she
still fiercely held. Even through the bedsore creams and other ointments,
Maggie could smell that old familiar and heartwarming scent of age and wisdom
that came with being close to her Grams.<br />
<br />
"Look around you, Maggie-May. What do you see?" It was her
grandmother's voice. Maggie snapped her head up quick enough to give herself
whiplash. Her grandmother laid there, eyes closed and taking quick breaths that
made her chest move almost imperceivably. Looking back at the rest of the
family, no one showed any sign of having heard Gram speak aloud. Maggie turned quickly away from her loved ones: she could barely stand to see the pity that painted every one of
their faces into a sad and emotionally wayward distortion.</span></div>
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The old hand tightened its grip on her young hand. And, again, she heard her
beloved grandmother speak aloud, except…from within. "Tell me what you see.
Look closely, Mags. It's easy to miss…but not for you, my girl. You've always
been able to see what others cannot, because you see with your mind. Now, <i>look</i>."<br />
<br />
Maggie looked around the room: stark, stale, medicinal. She looked back again
at her family, all of whom had moved in closer, surrounding her from behind
like a wall of broken hearts. It was almost more than she could stand. As her
eyes were in route – with contemplative intent - back to her grandmother's face,
she saw it. <br />
<br />
Through the window, a beam of sunlight was pushing aside the gray clouds that
had thickly veiled the sky since Maggie had arrived back in her home state a
couple of hours prior. The ray shone through the window's glass with little
effort, and as Maggie followed its trajectory, she smiled slightly to discover
that it ended on the left side of her grandmother's chest, precisely underneath
which lay her heart. <br />
<br />
And then, she was thrown into a perpetual state of déjà vu. No…not déjà vu.
Maggie was stumbling around in her own mind as extrasensory activity forced
its way outward. She knew that the nurse was going to peek in to let them know
that visiting hours were almost over two seconds <i>before </i>it happened. She heard her mother mumble under her breath,
saying, "They will have to drag me out of here," moments <i>before </i>she said it. She felt her
father's hand on her shoulder a full minute <i>before</i> he placed it there. And she
knew the words her grandmother would "speak" just as they echoed in
her mind.<br />
<br />
"You've seen this before, Maggie." It wasn't a question. <br />
<br />
"Yes." And after a moment, "So have you." Also, not a question.<br />
<br />
Maggie knew before he asked that her brother was going to question, "Who
are you talking to, Mags?"<br />
<br />
She hadn't realized that she had spoken aloud, but it didn't matter. She knew
she could have continued this conversation with her grandmother in silent
thought exchange, but she did not. The
importance of sound and silence seemed to be as mutually torn as the very
fabric of time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"We've
been here <i>together,</i> Gram…haven't
we?"<br />
<br />
The family stood united in shocked mystery, and then, came her father's hand on
her shoulder. Maggie put her own hand up to knock away the sympathetic words
her father was about to send out on a breath of pity and misunderstanding. At
her gesture, the room became completely still. <br />
<br />
Gram's voice filled Maggie's head, "Which door did the little soul choose,
Maggie-May?"<br />
<br />
"I am the girl?" This time it was a question. <br />
<br />
"Yes…you and I and every other soul whose travels have brought them to the
same choice; the same...challenge."<br />
<br />
"So, if you and I have both been here - <i>seen this</i> - before, then..."<br />
<br />
"Yes?" Maggie could detect eagerness in her grandmother's question. <br />
<br />
"We chose <i>both</i> doors, didn't
we?" A question. "Expecting a difference. "Not a question. <br />
<br />
Gram squeezed Maggie's hand, and after a brief moment of pondering, Maggie
burst into a fit of laughter. She waved the approach of her concerned family
away, but continued to laugh until tears ran free, like rain on a sunny day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
After she gathered herself, and ignoring the worried looks of her family (and a
nurse that had entered to investigate the raucous), Maggie sat in silence for a
while. Finally she spoke, this time without sound, "But if you knew the
truth, why did you pick the other door, too?"<br />
<br />
"Because I knew you would. It was
your second choosing, and we all need to walk through both doors to realize
there is never a need to walk through both doors. They are interchangeable. <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1141806178670295701" name="_GoBack"></a>Two doors: one
destination. It’s seldom that a soul figures it out on the first go
‘round. So, I came along – a third time
- to help you remember…just in case. It was my choice of sacrifice, and I made
it happily…for you.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
"You went through the same experience <i>a
third time</i>, even after you had solved the ‘riddle?’" She looked at her grandmother’s quiet face in
disbelief, and then in offense, but she continued to communicate with
thought. “What does that say about <i>me</i>,
Gram, that you should have so little faith in me that you would endure the bore
of a <i>completely foreseeable lifetime</i>?” She was almost angry. “If others can figure it
out on their own, why couldn’t I be expected to?” Maggie was feeling a lot like a huffy child,
yet somehow her inquiry seemed justified.<br />
<br />
"Is that what you think?" Gram’s chuckle filled Maggie's head.
"Well, there are still many years and lessons before you, Maggie-May, but
I will give you a small hint on these matters:
First of all, <i>nobody</i> goes at
this alone. We all have help. Never forget that. Secondly, choice will always rise up and meet
the ‘foreseeable’ head-on, my love. Always."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Before
Maggie could respond, Gram cut her off by necessity, but also because she had a
last silent favor to ask of her granddaughter. "Sing to me, Mags. Sing my
favorite song as I untether from this world.
I have more doors to open, and I need my rest."<br />
<br />
Maggie smiled even as a single tear escaped, and feeling joy and understanding,
she said aloud, "I love you Grammy." Then, she fell comfortably into the melody and verses of <i>This Little Light of Mine</i>. By the time she sang the last note, Maggie-May
had all but forgotten what she had just shared and "heard," and when
the machines let the family know that Gram had passed, she joined her family as
they embraced in love and mourning. <br />
<br />
Thirty-five years, and two (or three?) shared existences later, Maggie sat her
granddaughter upon her knee and told her a tale of an angel, a child, and two doors. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</span></div>nauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-43617001906832032382012-05-08T22:29:00.003-05:002012-05-08T22:36:40.843-05:00Rage Against The Machine<m:smallfrac m:val="off">
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(No, not the band.) </div>
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<br /></div>
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We-the machine, our body-and-soul-the machine, and the every
breath we take- the machine.</div>
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<br /></div>
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At times, I feel as if I have a multi-level personality. I can be content one minute and the next- a
raging lunatic, lashing out at anything in my path. It’s tragic really. It’s what invoked this post. I wish there would come a time when I could
be completely even-keel, at all times, without the need for a leveling
medication. I am not on ‘that kind’ of
medication and really don’t want to be for fear that I would become numb, and
all for what; to numb the machine, that’s what. Fuck that. I refuse to believe I
have the need for a chemically balanced pill to make <b>it </b>all go away or dull down the crazy.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Maybe I am happy with all of my discontent, maybe. Maybe I secretly enjoy the aggravation,
maybe. Maybe I need the pharmaceutically
induced elixir that calms down the crazy, maybe. I don’t know. One might say a
person in this state of flux would take any measure to feel better, right?</div>
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<br /></div>
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I’d like to meet those people that are at ease in life,
mainly to karate chop them in the throat, but really to ask them what they’re
hiding behind, because I don’t believe for one second that there are people
that are TOTALLY OK with life and everything they’re dealt. Really?
DO YOU EXIST OUT THERE? Hello? Is this thing on?? If you do exist, how
do you cope? DO YOU cope or are you hiding? And, if you’re hiding, WHAT are you
hiding behind? How do you release?</div>
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<br /></div>
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After a while, you
get really tired of asking questions and even more tired of hearing one-sided
bullshit answers.</div>
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<br /></div>
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this post was short, like my temper.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEI_VJh5rvIBiFTysqGVeKpNDh6pC9CKylrxHD8-0Gc1K7wZR9YBPzPt0znL8i5dPYJuVTUpgHNso-Fip_GftOmktfrMloj30vRhW09pp5FGwlg31fkTNUh0gvXtAd5lGDIm7iupWhYSc/s1600/mad+face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEI_VJh5rvIBiFTysqGVeKpNDh6pC9CKylrxHD8-0Gc1K7wZR9YBPzPt0znL8i5dPYJuVTUpgHNso-Fip_GftOmktfrMloj30vRhW09pp5FGwlg31fkTNUh0gvXtAd5lGDIm7iupWhYSc/s320/mad+face.jpg" width="244" /></a></div>
</div>nauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-47622504539683302632012-05-05T23:33:00.000-05:002012-06-01T15:51:51.333-05:00Beyond Intuition<m:smallfrac m:val="off">
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;">I challenge anyone to tell me we haven’t already been
here. Even if you tried to convince me otherwise, I couldn’t believe you. I know
better. Do you really believe there is such an idea of coincidence or are you
more aligned with the thought of </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Déjà Vu, as it suggests in “The
Matrix?” </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">I truly believe some of us are vibrating on different frequencies and that there are a lot less people
in the world capable enough to tap in and see it for themselves.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAg3YYTMWMOURFt3OzobjC7YuOYbr8a9WIONmeI2LjWGt97T1Z7uxHKF_MC6suv4Ewsh1sgb9ZE_9-6ElnBvcQ5khvUaqpGY09HVejmsbGtKKFaooLYqmzSRiLVLEhNp_M7qtLetLK2CE/s1600/matrix.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAg3YYTMWMOURFt3OzobjC7YuOYbr8a9WIONmeI2LjWGt97T1Z7uxHKF_MC6suv4Ewsh1sgb9ZE_9-6ElnBvcQ5khvUaqpGY09HVejmsbGtKKFaooLYqmzSRiLVLEhNp_M7qtLetLK2CE/s320/matrix.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">A few years
ago, when my daughter was 2-ish, she sat down between my husband and me and put
her arms around our shoulders. She looked at each of us and said,
“I remember you guys.” My husband and I looked at each other, with a slight tear in our eyes and at that moment we knew she was truly a gift from God. We asked her what she meant, but she didn’t
elaborate and we </span><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">didn’t want to press her for information, as to be suggestive</span><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">. We were stunned that our daughter affirmed what we already knew! </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Last year,
Peyton and I went to a folk art festival. She walked up to this lady and her five
month old baby and said, “Hi, my name is Peyton….How is your sister?” The
lady looked at me puzzled, so I said, “she senses things.” She began to tear up and said,
“my sister is stuck in South America and we’re trying to help her get back into
the United States.” It was bizarre, but very cool to observe.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Last night, I
was out with the girls, so Peyton and daddy decided
to make a campfire outside. He pitched a
tent, lit a fire, and began to tell stories.
At 11:11, he texted me, “ I told her she never knew my dad,” and she
said, “I remember Chuck.” BT’s dad passed away in 1998. Peyton was born nine years later.</span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif_8VePAxah1EDRXIzmx-yRqItyj6l9NGKKephaXhGOY3tRaTyJ45mdUYoSQ4wTZr7bvMoCFeMLo7J7s0h2Ogg28Xx-pQ26bL1omNh4XkcToFsYma9xGLfWbs5x3UVx0h_N8XhwFt7npo/s1600/PRAYING.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif_8VePAxah1EDRXIzmx-yRqItyj6l9NGKKephaXhGOY3tRaTyJ45mdUYoSQ4wTZr7bvMoCFeMLo7J7s0h2Ogg28Xx-pQ26bL1omNh4XkcToFsYma9xGLfWbs5x3UVx0h_N8XhwFt7npo/s320/PRAYING.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Now, I'm not sure what springs to your mind when you hear mystical tidbits of your past, but
we are fascinated by this little creature’s ability to spontaneously hit the
proverbial nail on the head about our family and others’ lives.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Call it what you <i>will</i>, but I believe it goes beyond intuition. We're here to remember.</span></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmbP0blir2ApDUuKVLJUbHXP1_8gR5iG0Iuzb3xGB7UYRwJs-VYS08888eIl-Z5LAaMUX35mBg5ikn3mE-ffBHH2qt0S6MvTGZ9tghPqruKwrbCm2KBSy3_-WRH0ZEYduhGdkbGnbwDUw/s1600/intuition-mindmap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmbP0blir2ApDUuKVLJUbHXP1_8gR5iG0Iuzb3xGB7UYRwJs-VYS08888eIl-Z5LAaMUX35mBg5ikn3mE-ffBHH2qt0S6MvTGZ9tghPqruKwrbCm2KBSy3_-WRH0ZEYduhGdkbGnbwDUw/s320/intuition-mindmap.jpg" width="320" />-</a></div>
</div>nauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-10433348656884792472012-04-29T22:30:00.000-05:002012-05-30T19:13:59.652-05:00Tommy Two-Wheels: Frank Thomas Tholke<m:smallfrac m:val="off">
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">He who holds the key can open my
heart.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">( I have the heart and pop has the key)</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">How do I even
begin to describe the connection I have with my Pop? We have an amazing
relationship and friendship that grows stronger with each passing day. We are
so much alike, which my mom really loves! They divorced when I was 6 months old
and she moved us to Florida, leaving Pop behind in Chicago. For days, he played
“It’s not supposed to be that way,” written by Willie Nelson. If I respond to
her in a certain way, be it the tone of my voice, or a smart-ass remark, she’ll
say, “You sound just like your father.” To which I respond, “Thank you, what a
compliment!” She chuckles, because she knows it’s true.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">When we talk
on the phone, there is nothing but belly-shaking laughter, with occasional gasps
for air, only to fall into more fits of hysterical, spontaneous laughter. What
are we laughing about you may be wondering? We talk and laugh about nothing, anything,
and everything in between, but the conversations are always priceless, to us. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">I tell my
Pop <b><i><u>everything</u></i></b>
that is going on in my life, and he tells me what’s in his heart as well. He may
have a few stories he’s not ready to share with me <i>just yet:</i> this I know. I can feel it and that’s OK. “It will all
find its way, in time,” to quote Tori Amos. We have a beautifully cathartic
relationship that no other father/daughter can match, and for this I am eternally grateful. I wouldn’t change a
thing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">We often
text each other Willie Nelson lyrics, and he gets surprised at my quick
responses with the rest of the line to the song. He introduced me to Willie’s
music early on. He took me to my first Willie concert by the age of 8. We were
always backstage hanging with the crew. We absolutely have a Willie Nelson
bond. He loves Willie Nelson as much as I love Tori Amos. Our mutual respect
for these two musical artists works in our favor, because WE GET IT -in turn- we
get each other. Our father/daughter dance at my wedding was -and my ring tone for
him- is “Always on my mind,” written by Willie Nelson. And he is, always on my mind. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">I know he
knows how much I love him: unconditionally: most people have conditions. That’s
sad. If we’re both having an off-day, we sense the disturbance in each other
from 1,232 miles away.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">He’s a wonderful
soul, a loyal friend, a loving husband, Tok’s- the fisherman- and also fondly
known as, Tommy-Two-Wheels. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">He is my pop
and <b>most</b> importantly, he is my best
friend. <b><i><u>Eternally</u></i></b>. </span><br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">"I've got a couple more years on you babe, and that's all," Willie Nelson</span></div>nauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-78549355511797818172012-04-29T15:34:00.007-05:002012-04-29T19:55:13.684-05:00Tori Amos: Sonic Architect<m:smallfrac m:val="off">
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Music is the soundtrack to the soul. My ears prefer
a harmonic register in a minor key; it strikes the minutest nerve of my core. </span></div>
<h1>
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 16pt; font-weight: normal;">I will do my best to illustrate my
deepest appreciation for Tori Amos.</span></h1>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">She has the natural ability to evoke in me the
ultimate paradox: happiness and sadness; a raw emotion and release of which no
drug could ever take the place. From the first passionate stroke of her Bösendorfer
piano, I’m hooked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">There is no <i>fluff</i>
in her musical composition or lyrical content. She speaks the ultimate truth, even
when -at times- her tongue cuts sharper than any object you may have lying
around in your kitchen drawer.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">She is other-worldly and is my safe place that I
run to when I need soothing, need a reality check, or feel the need to put on
my brass ovaries. Whenever her music is playing, I am completely consumed in her
rhythm; which in turn, seeps into my being, setting me off into my own rhythm.
I <b>dare</b> not be interrupted, or my
world turns upside down and I become instantly livid, as it breaks my vibe and
changes my frequency. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">She <b><i><u>is</u></i></b> the opposite of zero point
energy. </span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Throughout the course of my days -by the minute
or hour- there is a meaningful and purposeful lyric, completely appropriate for
any situation, and because I GET IT, I internally smile with pride. It is my
hope for others that there are musical artists who resonate with their souls.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">I am truly blessed to have awakened the connection
to incorporate Tori into my life. Her music allows me to see everything in different
hues, not just rose-colored glasses. Also, Tori seems to speak a different
language. She has an innate ability to deliver a word like you’ve never heard
before and ends up giving new life to a word you’ve always thought you’ve
known.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Over the years, I’ve realized as Tori matures,
so do I. I find it intriguing that she and I seem to be riding on a similar wave,
even though we’ve never met. Her metaphors pierce through my heart and soul on a
deep and mystical level that is undeniably <i>meant</i>
for me. Her voice instantly heals and soothes my soul, leaving me literally
aching for her deliberate tones and next breathes that once-heard are unmistakable
and incredible. That sounds odd to read and even stranger to write. But, it’s
what I know and it’s very real.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Tori’s music has opened a metaphorical door, which
has guided me towards my evolution into a strong, confident, fierce, and most
importantly, vigilant woman. She’s helped me realize that -under no circumstance-
must we settle for anything we’re told to <i>do</i>
or <i>be</i> if it does not agree with our
own common sense, or if it goes against our gut feeling. We <i><u>must </u></i>fight the good fight musically…defiantly,
musically. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">“Concertina, concertina- a chill that bends,
this I swear- you’re the fiercest-calm I’ve been in”- Tori Amos</span></div>nauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-82773786041964803532012-04-26T22:47:00.003-05:002014-04-17T19:19:55.793-05:00My Filter (or lack thereof)<m:smallfrac m:val="off">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%;">A friend
once told me that I could make friends at a post-it convention, which I felt was a
nice compliment.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%;">What can I say?
I am a <i>very</i> sociable, extroverted
soul. I will and do engage in conversation with ANYONE, solicited or not. If I
sense a disturbance in the force, I will back off as to not go into stranger-danger
mode, but if we gel, hot damn, it’s on! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%;">This is
where my fun begins!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%;">I am
passionately curious and genuinely interested in people: their thoughts, ideas,
personal stories and the overall absurdities they’ve encountered during the
course of their lives.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s quite
the experience when I am with my friends...my true balls-to-bones home girls.
There is never any need for explanation; and for that, I am thankful to an
infinite degree. Anything can set us (me) off: the sound of someone’s voice,
the song on the radio, the tasteless kitschy objects at lunch, etc. It’s difficult
to appreciate the insanity of my inner-circle: we’re all bat-shit crazy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%;">Those that do know me and hear my ramblings are
secretly waiting to witness the hysterics that will ensue or cringe at the
content that will definitely escape from my pie hole.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s
difficult to pinpoint what happens during the course of my unusual days. Sometimes
I feel that I have Tourette Syndrome, but mostly it’s that I have no filter or
a lack of a filter, like a Dyson vacuum. I call things as I see them, no matter
the circumstance. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%;">I can’t help
but call out the obvious stupid bullshit people say, so I ask questions that
create more questions. At times, I completely
repel people by voluntarily elaborating on my own personal stories (that I don’t
consider too personal, but is apparently TMI for others). When this occurs
(which is daily), it’s never in a rude, but most always in a noticeable way. It either takes them aback in disbelief to
what they’ve just overheard, which either makes them want to join in on the
conversation because the topic hits home, or sends them running for the hills
because they know they’re about to be embarrassed because I would totally ask
them a personal question if they were in my peripheral.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%;">Do I really give
a rat’s ass HOW people react to my lunacy? Not <i>really</i>. I know I’m off my rocker, but I honestly don’t care. I am
who I am. Some people get me, others don’t. I understand that, but it is what
it is and for that, I have no apologies. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%;">We’re all
different ‘human’ beings coming from different backgrounds, cultures, and upbringings; but come on, when something is funny, wrong, harmful, or just downright
ridiculous, how can you not expose it? You can’t just keep it in like a rumbling
fart waiting to explode. You have to let
it out or one day you may pop. Can you image the mess <i>that </i>would be?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%;">I have
ONE voice; it’s neither indoor nor outdoor: it’s ONE setting, and it’s quite loud.
Whenever I begin a story or I am about to comment on something, I preface it by
saying, “I’m not yelling!” For example, Asian people don’t get my sense of
humor; they think I am yelling at them and being a smart-ass.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%;">Are there
really that many personal questions? I’m
not asking the color of their fecal matter that morning (although sometimes I do).
However, in a professional environment, I am consciously and constantly aware -at all times- of who is around and their proximity of my bullhorn to their ear. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%;">I don’t
believe in small-talk bullshit such as “the weather’s nice, isn’t it?” Nobody really cares to talk about the weather;
they have real issues they’re thinking about.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s a
proven fact that people are attracted to others who have shared similar experiences to which they can relate. What better way to
know who those people are than to reveal your thoughts and experiences to them?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve learned that once you self-disclose to someone, they unconsciously open up.
I love when this happens; it’s like a mental picture of a calving glacier.
Their walls come crashing down. I can feel their catharsis and that’s when I like
to dig in and probe, like an alien abduction searching for what makes people tick.
It’s fascinating and heartfelt. We both walk away satisfied; at least I do.</span><br />
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nauticalnunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15900745087814810910noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141806178670295701.post-49487255264601988462012-04-24T20:36:00.000-05:002012-04-29T18:53:14.267-05:00Poop Chute ReportWelcome to my experience of the dreaded colonoscopy.<br />
<br />
While
being driven to the hospital, I decided to read through their
brochure. I noticed several spelling errors and word omissions and was
immediately riddled with anxiety about their ability to stick tubes up
my anus if they couldn't even hire a qualified editor.<br />
<br />
Upon
arrival to the hospital, I met Beverly. She was a dear, elderly
woman. I jokingly asked her for a sip of her juice, because I was
parched beyond belief. She chuckled, but declined; greedy b*tch.
Anyway, she handed me my check-in form and a laminated number and asked
me to have a seat until my number was called (they give you a number as
to not call your name out for all of creation to hear). BT and I sat
down, and I began to examine my check-in form. It stated I currently
worked at the Hartford (which I haven’t since 2004), that my husband’s
last name is Tholke, and that his phone number is the same as mine.
Perhaps for some of you this is not a big deal, but for me, this is set
off numero dos before 8:00 AM with no coffee or food for over 24 hours.
I was HANGRY.<br />
<br />
To alleviate some frustration, I took pictures of said errors and texted them to my friend in disbelief.<br />
<br />
“Number
10,” said Valerie. Ah! Sweet Valerie… She greeted me and walked me to
the automated check-in kiosk to electronically sign my life away. I
began clicking “yes,” “I agree,” and “next” until I completed the
process. Well, as luck would have it, the machine flickered on and off
and then powered down.<br />
<br />
I said, "Valerie, I’m about to lose my shit.”<br />
<br />
Valerie said, “Don’t worry. I am the Patient Experience Coordinator; you can tell me anything.”<br />
<br />
To
which I said, “GREAT! Well, first your brochure has spelling errors and
word omissions, of which I have taken the liberty of correcting for
you, IN INK; my check-in form information is incorrect; and this f*cking
machine just blacked out on me after inputting information and agreeing
to multiple questions. Frankly, I’m not very confident about this
hospital!”<br />
<br />
“That’s OK,” she said. “I have a hand-held mini-computer you can use to input the same information.”<br />
<br />
“OK,”
I said. Just as I signed my name and clicked “next,” like a glitch in
the matrix, that lil mini bastard flickered on and off, on and then
OFF. DEAD…the battery was kaput.<br />
<br />
I paused, smiled and
turned my gaze to Valerie. She said, “It’s OK, I got your information
recorded, I’ll just print it out and you can look it over for errors.”<br />
<br />
While she was jacking around with the cord on the mini bastard, she said, “Are you an English major?”<br />
<br />
“No,
just a grammar Nazi,” I replied. She laughed, but asked if she could
call me in the next few days and thanked me for pointing out the
errors. She, too, was in disbelief.<br />
<br />
“Jennifer?” I
heard. So much for anonymity! “Let’s get you started.” I started to
feel better as I followed Nancy down the hall, but honestly I was mostly
excited for the Propofol!! Two nurses, Marlo and Lisa, began to fire
off questions, which sounded like echoes; “What’s your name, who is your
doctor, and do you know why you are here today?” (As if I had
forgotten). I know, I know, it’s all protocol; I just found it amusing.
“Is there any possibility you could be pregnant?”<br />
<br />
I busted
out into laughter and shouted “uh, No!” Since nurses are not allowed to
take your word for it, off I went to piss in a cup and lest we forget,
shit like a goose, as I’ve not yet-STILL- stopped shooting liquid out of
my anus.<br />
<br />
ONE minute later, knock-knock- knock...“Whatcha doin in there Jenn?” asked Marlo.<br />
<br />
“Dancing, Marlo-I’m almost finished.”<br />
<br />
After
the peeing, questioning, signing, initialing, and vein poking, I was
greeted by Scatman Crothers to whisk me away. As he wheeled the gurney
through the halls to the ‘prep room,’ I noticed literal signs everywhere
(God made the heavens and earth and Mother Mary figures illuminated in
the halls, etc.). We engaged in small talk, and then I asked him if he
enjoyed his job to which he replied, “Yes, ma’am.” He was pleasantly
wonderful, so polite, and wished me well when we parted ways.<br />
<br />
My
next stop on this joyful morning was to meet the wonderful inducer of
pleasure, Dr. Purkey, the anesthesiologist (yes this was his real name).
God Bless this man. Seriously, please bow your heads. He hooked a
sister up! He was a bit of a jokester, but I honestly don’t remember one
ounce of that blissful half hour slumber. BOO.<br />
<br />
When I
awoke in the recovery room (AKA: the bog of eternal stench), my
wonderful husband was sitting next to me, laughing at my flatus and when
I perked up enough to laugh too, I then became conscious that I might
shit myself if I wasn’t very careful. We were literally in a recovery
room of fart rippers. It was hysterical and a pre-requisite in order
for discharge; no pun intended.<br />
<br />
Finally, the doctor came in and informed me that I was as clean as a whistle and off I went.<br />
<br />
In the words of Tori Amos- “Exit 75-I’m still alive, I’m still alive!”<br />
<br />
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