["I know all those sitters-and-talkers are going to worry their guts into fiddle strings until they find out what we've been talking about. That's all right, Phoeby, tell them . . . because my love doesn't work like their love, if they ever had any.

"Then you must tell them that love isn't something like a grindstone that's the same thing everywhere and does the same thing to everything it touches.

"Love is like the sea. It's a moving thing, but still and all, it takes its shape from the shore it meets, and it's different with every shore."]

-Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God

(It's in brackets because I translated it out of dialect.)

and i don't want the world to see me

'cause i don't think that they'd understand

when everything's made to be broken

i just want you to know who i am

"you can't lose a battle you didn't fight."

"yes, but you can't win either."

what if

every time you met someone

you fell in love?

what if

you loved everyone you met

with everything that is in you?

what if

you could continue to love

even after you had been hurt?

what if

you could love everyone

without condition?

is that what it would feel like to be God?

i'm baaaaaaaaaack . . .

and it was amazing.

i'll have lots of stories/quotes for you later, but for now . . .

i'm just glad to be home.

i leave tomorrow morning at 10.

i come back the next saturday at 3 or so in the afternoon.

i'll miss all of you terribly.

We all have a place we would like to return to; a place from another time in our lives.

There was a tree with a tire swing and rotting 2x4 boards nailed into it for steps. A rag-tag combination of other pieces of wood helped to form a path up from the ground into the winding limbs and from there out onto the sloping roof of an old bus that had  definitely seen better days. A wooden ramp down the other side of the bus provided an easy way off.

From the top of the bus it was possible to see for what seemed like forever across flat Texas plains. Fields sprawled all around, and cars drove down the narrow road nearby. Every once in a while a plane would take off or land at the airport there in Harlingen, Texas, and the lights could be seen against the darkening sky.

The sky was alight with shades and hues of purple, pink, and orange as the sun set and the stars began to sneak out; stars unadultered by the lights of civilization.

And we would sit and talk underneath them.

So here we are, once again, climb up and we can sit and talk about where we've been and where we'll go, memories made and memories being made.

Welcome to the Dead Bus.

i think i'm having my baby soon.

so what?

"i try to take one day at a time, but sometimes several days attack me at once."

-jennifer yane

that's about how this week is going to feel . . .

find what makes you happy

(be it person, place or thing)

and never let go,

even if it kills you.

hold on with all your might

for this is who you are,

and what is human life

without love?

i pray that the only sin

you ever stand accused of

is having loved

too deeply.

walking with my feet 10 feet off of beale . . .

yeah . . . this afternoon i am leaving with my father for memphis. i shall return friday afternoon/evening.

so . . .

if i don't get a chance to talk to you tomorrow . . .

top o' the mornin' to ye, and a happy saint patty's day!

i feel better today.

when you haven't got a prayer . . .

boy, you got a prayer in memphis.

"deciding whether or not to trust a person is like deciding whether or not to climb a tree, because you might get a wonderful view from the highest branch, or you might simply get covered in sap, and for this reason many people choose to spend their time alone and indoors, where it is hard to get a splinter."

-lemony snickett, the penultimate peril

i think i spend too much time inside . . .

copacabana beach in rio de janeiro, brazil . . .

where today it's a balmy 86 degrees outside . . .

and tonight the low is a chilly 66 degrees . . .

. . . so who wants to go?

greer is beautiful.

i think i'm in love with her, because she's amazing.

the way she looks . . . the way she smiles . . . the way her hair lightly floats in the breeze . . .

one day, she will be mine.

            "Remember from dust you came and to dust you shall return."

            Somewhere in Paris, Marguerite crossed herself and stood up, having received the ashes from the priest on her forehead.

            With a glance to the stained glass Madonna and Child above the altar of the small chapel, she turned and moved back towards her seat, making room for the other parishioners to take the place she had occupied kneeling in the front of the church. A mother, with head covered, accompanied by a small boy kneeled at the rail where she had been. The young woman tried desperately to keep the boy still long enough for the priest to make the sign of the cross on his forehead, but he squirmed away and escaped back to his pew.

            His father is probably at the Front, she thought to herself. Then, taking a morbid turn mentally: Or, of course, he could be dead.

            She continued her walk towards the back of the little church, past a shriveled old woman holding a worn wooden crucifix close to her heart and silently repeating the prayers for each bead.

            She passed men too old (and boys too young) to fight.

            She passed mothers and wives weeping.

            She passed far too many young girls holding close the letters they had last received, hoping against hope.

            It all made her sick to her stomach.

            She also passed more than a few off-duty German soldiers (not to mention the few stationed in the back of the church with guns to make sure nothing got out of hand), most of whose heads turned to follow her in her walk towards the back.

            She glared at them. Sick dogs.

            Instead of turning back into the pew she had occupied, Marguerite continued straight back out of the sanctuary and into the foyer of the church. She retrieved her coat and scarf from the rack. She was disappointed that she could not stay for the remainder of the service, but timing was everything these days, especially for her. Especially in Paris.

            Stepping out of the church and down to the street, she looked around, pulling her coat closer around her. It was unusually cold for this time of year.

            A nondescript car turned a corner onto the narrow Paris street and stopped next to where she was standing. The driver spoke through the rolled down passenger side window.

            "Everything set?"

            She nodded, opening the door and climbing into the car.

The driver pressed the gas.