Thought of you, Precious!

I am a big believer in sentiment. It's a weakness. More like an obsession. An obsession that gives way to weakness: to poor spending.

I enjoy window shopping, and have gotten better at controlling my spending, but seriously, if I see something that reminds me of one of my best friends, well, I have to buy it and give it to them as a surprise gift!

In fact, I have one friend who loves Paris, so if I find anything Parisian, it's hers.

"Look! I got you a necklace of the Eiffel Tower! Oh, too big?" 

"I made you a croissant! Kind of. It's actually just a roll."

"French flag! You can put it next to the British one I got you!" 

 "I thought of you and wanted you to have it" is a sentence of which my friends are extremely familiar. I don't think that makes me a stalker... I just know my friends well! But it's their fault my bank account's in the negative.




A few years ago I lost my ring. The ring I've had since I was a sophomore in high school. No one gave it to me. It had no diamond. It just had the word 'Laugh' engraved on it, and God forbid I forget that I love laughing if I don't have my ring to remind me!

So, I lost my ring, and I went all-Gollum on it: panicked frenzied: Where's the Precious?! When I couldn't find it, I had to go on with the rest of my day, but I felt so naked, and every time I went to play with it and was reminded of its absence. I wondered if anyone would notice. I wondered if my ring was sitting up high in some bird's nest because the bird thought it was shiny and all things shiny belong to birds!

Except I had no Bilbo Baggins who too wanted my ring. It was just me.

With the utmost determination I flew back to my room (after classes were over) and searched and searched. I almost began to cry, when, I felt in my pants' pocket. And this was my reaction:

Although. My ring wasn't forged in Mt. Doom.

And I don't think I look like that.

I put it on and felt clothed: everything was back to normal.




I don't know what exactly has changed since then but now when I lose my ring, or any piece of jewelry, I'm just kind'a like, "Eh. I'm sure it'll turn up sooner or later."

I think, perhaps, I've found that whatever identity I do possess isn't defined by the things I own; the things I wear. I mean, yes, I pick the things I do because I like them- a girl doesn't just buy a Perry the Platypus shirt without first loving Phineas and Ferb!- but, unless the next item I purchase is going to have the answer to all life's questions written on it I think I can learn to do without it.

Besides, maybe all shiny things do belong to the birds. Ain't no Hitchcock film I'm living in.

Keep it, little birdie. Drop it onto someone else's head and let them enjoy it.

I'm a big believer in sentiment. Mostly because I like to give it away. 

picture on the front of the box.

i'm pulling together the threads
that'd seemed to accidental, mismatched.
it couldn't be right.
this isn't the picture i saw on the front of the box.
you want me to sew this together?
what am i even sewing?
what is this?

this piece is too rough.
this piece is too blue.
this piece is not long enough and i've no needle!

no. this can't be right. i saw the picture on the front of box.
this doesn't match.
how am i supposed to bring this altogether?
it couldn't be right
because this isn't right!

but i'm pulling together the threads,
instead of asking how to do it,
and i see now how these threads hold together
woven intricately and entirely meant to be.

oh, this isn't the picture.
it's a part of the picture;
but a corner unseen-
a corner i'd left unnoticed.
i didn't know that corner existed.
what a very important part.

i'll look at the picture again,
just to see what else i've missed.

Effected by Immortality.

ear candy: Snow Patrol's Eyes Open

What's the difference between me as creation and what I create? That is to say, what's the difference between me as created by God, and the things created by me? How is it that I as the creation am, cannot, be greater than the creator, God; but that I must create something greater than myself in order to achieve timelessness? Why are my creations greater than me? Why can God do what he wants with me--no, wait. Let me reword that.

...did God, in some way, make his creation greater than him? And I don't mean to say that having the option to choose evil makes us greater; nor do I mean to say that choosing good makes us greater. What is 'choosing good' compared to 'being good'? There's no Amber Spyglass here.

Perhaps my creations are greater than me because they reflect (or ought to reflect) the eternal things. Like...like love, joy, contentment; peace. God is all these things, which is why L'Engle 'sees God' in every piece, not because it is godly, or because it has missionary intentions to share the gospel, but because every immortal thing will point to the Immortal. Just as every mortal thing will never be remembered--mortal things point to nothing because they've not the strength to point. Besides, God will use any manner to reveal himself to his creation. 

We will use any manner to reveal ourselves to others: words or actions; ethical or unethical.

He creates through us, in the same way we might be inspired by heroes who we hope to invoke (either literally or metaphorically) because I am never the one who truly does the work for I always have someone to thank; someone to whom I owe my allegiance, and in effect, my respect--any artist in any field will tell you that. Whatever work we think is 'as great as us' stays within our time, never to ascend with proceeding generations. But at the same time, any art that we know is beyond ourselves may not last (such is the consequence of critics or lack of funds); so, when we diminish art as cheesy, obnoxious, poor, stale...ugly, even, we have no idea what will truly last. I'm sure that there are many artists who wanted certain pieces to achieve fame only to have other pieces they think inconsequential become immortal. Mona Lisa, anyone?

Hmm. We create, hoping our creations will outlive us, not even knowing whether or not our creations want to be immortal.

God creates knowing that each of us want to be immortal, not always physically, no, but to leave enough of a mark to affect at least one person. Positively affect one person--we don't like evil, no matter how much we glamorize it. 

Perhaps God allows our creations to extend beyond us to give us a taste of what he tastes when he creates. Our creations, however, when they outrun us, aren't always Frankenstein's monster: God at least named the first man and even allowed the first man, Adam, to name the rest of creation. ...hell, we are not all Dr. Frankenstein's!- we sometimes love our creations to the point of protective insanity.

But if we as impotent artists (who do very badly want to give, or add life, but cannot do so without giving a little of ourselves) can cause the world's heart to palpitate with our voices, our discoveries, how much more should God affect the world with his potency? With his son's resurrected life?

The mortal creates immortality.

The Immortal wants us to conceive immortality, even only a slice of it, not to take immortality, but to know that it can be given.

We make things greater than ourselves to recognize the greatness that surrounds us, if only we would recognize that greatness as God. We won't be 'better' for it, if that's what you're looking for, but I guarantee you will certainly fuller. 

Any religious, irreligious, or non-religious person will tell you that from whomever or wherever our morality and desires sprout we want to be affected by the immortal. 

We want to touch the stars or topple them.

But science doesn't pick sides. Math doesn't pick sides. Philosophy doesn't pick sides. Language doesn't pick sides. History doesn't pick sides. Music doesn't pick sides. Nature doesn't pick sides. Great, immortal things don't pick sides; though they allow themselves to be twisted into 'picking' by tiny, mortal arms.

The one who speaks on his own authority seeks his own glory; but the one who seeks the glory of him who sent him is true, and in him there is no falsehood. John 7.18 (ESV)

We go together like...

Growing up I wanted to know how many friends I had, or could have. What middle schooler didn't want to know how many friends he or she had? You can imagine my disappointment when shopping in Claire's all the BFF jewelry could only be split between two, or among three, and I totally had more BFFs than that in middle school! But I just couldn't find any jewelry that could be shared among, at least, fifteen best friends. 

But I didn't really have fifteen best friends. I only had one. I think, at the time, I could only handle one best friend at a time. I mean, I liked talking to lots of different people, but I think middle schoolers are sometimes too insecure to know what to do with so many best friends which explain a lot of premature 'somebody I used to know' stories. 

So, I went on a walk this morning, by myself. Well, me and God. Or, at least, I was on my way to see him. I had to tell him something. 

I sat and started to write out a prayer. Short, simple; lots of lookingintothedistance, wondering what else to tell God. When a thought occurred to me: I don't have to be anywhere. I don't have my own thinking spot. I don't have a place where, if I ran away, people would intuitively know to find me. I don't have to be somewhere in order to talk to God. I just need to start talking...praying. 

I should be able to be anywhere and still feel close to those who are closest to me: something I couldn't understand as a middle schooler. 

On my walk back home I found these two puzzle pieces. They do not go together. 

These two pieces would make a horrible BFF necklace, bracelet or ring. 

But when you turn one of the pieces over...

They may not be right next to each other, but it is evident they are pieces of the same puzzle.

I don't have to be anywhere.

What if, really, we weren't just two pieces. A Romeo and Juliet; a Sherlock and John; lovers. A pair of friends are always excited to be joined by a third. 

I don't have to be your conjoined twin to know we get along, especially not at first glance--we might be as insecure as middle schoolers before we can know we're really part of the same puzzle. 

What if I never really knew my fifteen middle school friends because one of us was wearing a mask, and here we are, older, somewhat mask-less, and really, very similar. Yes! We really do want to do the same things! yes! We really are interested in the same things! Yes! We can talk to other people without throwing fits of intense jealousy or rage. We don't belong to each other. It's not us against the world! I am who I am because of the other puzzle pieces I've met along the way. 

Whether we were part of the same puzzle, or our crooks fit well together; whether we were completely abhorred by the other--doesn't matter. 

I may not find the right BFF necklace in Claire's to share with all my good friends. But it's good to know that I am part of a small piece of a huge puzzle, and that we're being put together by God. 

No, I don't have to be anywhere. 

Anyone that I used to know I may not have really known. 

Besides, whoever heard of a puzzle with only two pieces? Whoever ate peanut butter and jelly without bread? Even gluten-free bread! 

When I have good news I like to share it.

May I only be brave enough to be.

"Tonight felt like Brasil."

Tonight felt like Brasil. 

The sky looked like Brasil.

It smelt of campfires, sunburned skin and fried cheese.

But I could only hear traffic, and not even the right kind of traffic

which drives on dirt roads, or over three foot high speed bumps

that would flip over any poor driver

who preferred texting to driving.

Tonight felt like Brasil.

Now, mind you, I haven't been to Brasil for five years. I don't know if it still feels the same. It might've changed. And that was only one part of Brasil. One small, yet incredibly detailed part of Brasil that has not left me. That cannot leave me. That will not leave me. I have found home there. 

But Brasil might not have affected me if it didn't first remind me of the Philippines.

The plane landed. We got our luggage. We slid into a pickup truck; I'd never felt more at home. I was stunned: how can I feel at home when I've never before been here? How can I feel at home when I hadn't showered for seventeen hours? How can I feel at home? How can Brasil remind me the Philippines?- another home which my mind's eye can only see with blurred vision. Sitting in the pickup truck I was almost upset that I felt like I was in the Philippines? What does the Philippines have in common with Brasil?

The orange street lights. The dirt roads. The dark, sunkissed skin. The concrete walls, gated with rusted metal and protected by electrified barbed wire. The stray dogs. The street vendors. 

I haven't been to the Philippines since I was in first grade, and I hardly remember that trip. I remember the previous trip and during that trip I was barely four. 

And here I am, sitting in my room, wondering what my next destination will feel like. 

If it would care to feel like New York City or Montreal. 

Maybe one day I won't feel like a native. I'll just be a native.

truck ride- 032409

"are you ready? let's go! there's no room in the front," he said. "ride in the back."

"yes, ma'am! yes, sir!" i was hesitant no more (aHA!) here we go.

i jumped in, sat down, and smiled and laughed.

packin' ten people in.

no seatbelts, lots'a gas.

flashing cameras, bumpy roads.

starry night, flowing hair.

passing cars- so illegal!

"don't fall!" she screams.

"oh, i won't!" i gleam.

say a thankful prayer as them street lights turn on.

wave your arms around like the foreigner you are, or want to be.

hug your legs to your chest and masquerade the whole town.

move without moving, defining memories entirely worth consuming.

so daily, not productive in the least.

so daily? why not?! break down, have fun! throw your weight around!

drive through dirt roads and paved.

relax! you're in good hands, salvation’s holding your oncoming grave.

what’s that? hold up! shut up! lay down.

can’t stop. why stop? y'a got'a inhale, exhale- breathe deeply, grip quickly.

say one more plea, say one more prayer.

it's almost over, close your eyes- mm! dream a little dream! my little dearie, let go.

we're slowing down.

no seatbelts, less gas.

flashing cameras, soft grass.

starry night, frizzy hair.

parked cars, you’re safe- you've been safe. very legal.

"don't fall!" i joke.

"oh, i might!" she croaks.

"there's no room in the back," he says, "get in front, this time. no truck bed."

i laughed. "chick's lyin' dead."

"am not!" she chokes. "your sanity's most broke!"

"yes ma'am," i agree. i salute. "but i'd do it all again, most gleefully."

shall we repeat?

DUI

Last summer I received my first ticket (only $15) because I parked against the flow of traffic. I parked against the flow of traffic because I was just so exhausted, and simultaneously understood the street to be invariably traffic-less, that I didn't bother turning my car around; I just wanted sleep! I was so tired.

Not that I was expecting a ticket the next morning, but when I first saw the ticket sticking out of my window I thought I totally deserve that, and continued eating breakfast. What else was I supposed to do? React? I only react when I think something's funny. Okay, I take that back--I do react, but usually when it's something funny. (Seriously, I have, like, the most obnoxious laugh.)

Since then I've never received another ticket. I mean, it's been less than I year, I might be speaking too soon. You know, if I may be frank, I'm surprised that my first ticket was because of a parking violation. I'm surprised it wasn't for speeding (I'm a reformed speeder), or for texting (I know! I'm a horrible person!) or eating! 

And no, I've never gotten a DUI.

I can't ever get a DUI.

Not because I couldn't possibly be susceptible to drugs or intoxicants (I'm as weak as anyone else). but because I just don't like medications in general, legal or illegal. When I was in middle school I used to pretend to swallow my allergy medication, then I would sneakily spit it out. I was too afraid to choke on it. I didn't like the idea of swallowing something I'd never chewed! What if I choked and died! In fact, I did choke on one once and it left such a horribly dramatic scar that I was so worried I'd have to take my pills chopped and dipped in peanut butter for the rest of my life! 

(Nurses do this for their elderly patients, I know this because my parents are nurses and so made me take my pills like that a few times. Trust me on this: no matter how much peanut butter is mixed with the pill you'll taste more pill than peanut.)

I also don't think I ever get sick. Especially when I am sick, I am in an impenetrable wall of denial: I AM NOT SICK.

I can take pills now, so no need to worry.

And I only partially believe I can get sick.

But anyway, I've never gotten, and cannot get a DUI. (knock on wood)

I can't ever get a DUI because the kind of DUIs of which I am guilty are not the same kind of DUIs for which people get arrested. 

My DUIs are of a more spiritual nature. (Argue all you want that snorting drugs is spiritual, hence hallucinatory, but that's besides my point.) 

I am supposed to be under God's influence, yes? Yes. As a Christian my main influence is God. In everything I do, I must consult God, allow Him to speak through me; work through me. Lately, I've allowed myself to be influenced by my own plans (which aren't that great anyway), and have allowed the world to impose it's limitations upon me. 

I seem to be obsessed with hidden potential, and obsessed with how I am much more than I appear because I will be more if I'm less now. Not because I'm all that and a bag of chips, but because King David was one a shepherd. Moses was a murder and coward. Jacob was a trickster. Lucifer was an angel. 

(So was Islington, thank you Gaiman; speaking of which, Richard Mayhew became something great in London Below, so much so that he left London Above. You and I both know how difficult it is to leave behind the familiar and comfortable for what is dangerous, exciting but fulfilling.)

All these characters, real and unreal (only Islington is unreal), show that I have the potential to become better or worse than what I am now. 

I want to be better than what I am now. 

I want no queenship. I just-. I just want to stop talking about potential and start fulfilling my potential. 

And the only way I can do that is if I'm guilty of a (forgive me) godly DUI. (I am murdering all good and decent colloquialisms today!) It doesn't matter if I read my Bible daily if I don't practice what I'm learning. I know, I know. I've heard this before. You've heard this before. But the amount of hearing such truths makes them no less truthful. Redundant, but never less truthful.

So this morning I've learned (again) that I really need to step up my prayer life. Again, and again, I need to be reminded that if I want to be as great as I hope to be I need to believe on something greater, outside of myself. Even Richard Mayhew didn't know where he got such courage to kill the Great Beast of London, and he's hardly under godly influence. How much more should I, could I, be if I've got God on my side?

But truly God has listened;
he has attended to the voice of my prayer.
Blessed be God,
because he has not rejected my prayer
or removed his steadfast love from me. 

Patience is a Virtue? Yes!

It is easy to admit that I can be impatient with others, which is wrong, but I hardly acknowledge that I am impatient with myself. Whoever willingly notices self-inflicted injuries? Those are embarrassing. 

"What happened to your arm?!"

"I, uh...nothing."

"But it's bleeding! Why are you bleeding?"

"Blood means life. It's a good thing I'm alive."

"Are- are those puncture wounds?"

"Vampire."

"On your arm? And there are four holes right next to each other! What happened? Do you need to go to the hospital?"

"No. No hospital."

"What happened?!"

"My fork couldn't find my mouth."

"Why are we still friends?"

But in all seriousness, if it's wrong or rude to be impatient with others, why should I allow myself to be impatient with myself? Why can't I wait? I don't even know where I'm heading, so why rush? I've never liked travelling quickly anyway. I like taking my time, and learning from anything, everything and from anyone I can. 

(Which would explain why I can never walk slow or fast enough; talk about walking to the beat of my own drum!) 

If my twenties are my prime years, then I should live them well. Sure, I'm always told to 'live while I'm young'; never to take for granted my youth and all the opportunities presented to me, but success isn't reserved for a certain age. Besides, all of my heroes weren't 'famous' or 'successful' until they were much older than my age now. I have my whole life ahead of me. I've had my whole life ahead of me.

You have your whole life ahead of you! 

Worry never got anyone anywhere--just a bad case of heart palpitations.

So, I'll live my life well: starting with reading vintage Peanuts comic strips [;

Hey! Snoopy can teach me a lot, and I don't have to pay tuition! 

@Snoopypins

"...want to fly."

Yesterday my grandfather recruited me to teach him Internet basics; I willingly agreed. He'd been asking and asking for a couple weeks now but I hadn't been available in the mornings until, well, just yesterday morning!- I planned nothing except to download Spotify for him because he's also been asking me to find obscure music records  of Ray Conniff and Frank Sinatra, and since the library proved unhelpful (unfortunately) Spotify seemed the best option. Although, he doesn't know how to link his computer to his Bose stereo, which annoys him, but he'll settle for regular audio if he has to.

First world problems, bro. 

So, he sits down in front of his computer and asks all these questions; making all these comments:

"My computer is old, I know."

"You know, I type really slow on the computer."

"Aha, I don't remember my password. You have to write it down for me. See, there. Here's the tape. Tape it there."

"Can I listen to music with this?"

"Do I have to click twice?"

"YouTube?"

and my favorite conversation:

"'What's on your mind?' What's on my mind? I don't know what's on my mind."

   "Grandpa, that's called a status."

   "What's it for?"

   [pause] "Um...it's to, uh, share your thoughts with your Facebook friends. So, what're you thinking about now? You could put like 'I'm eating' or 'Watching television'."

   "I want to fly."

   "Oh, so, you want me to-."

   "W. ...Justine, where's the A? A. A. A. N..."

(Now just imagine all this said with a Filipino accent and you've got the gist of it.)

Sometimes I forget how different my grandfather's generation is from my generation. I forget that it wasn't as quick to communicate. Travel wasn't as quick. Shopping wasn't as quick. Music wasn't as quick. Television wasn't as quick. It's ironic that as people age, the rest of the world moves faster, and sometimes elderly people find the need to keep pace.

Not that grandfather is taking a typing course anytime soon. I think he's pretty content with idly listening to music on Spotify. 

After all, he did say that he'd call me if he needed help.

I am honored to be such an expert on Facebook usage!

Although, I have thought about buying my grandfather a book called 'Facebook for Seniors'.

Mostly for kicks and giggles. I wouldn't actually ask my grandfather to read it. 

...I might read it though.

No, no, no! I'm not ranting against technology. Hello, blogger here! I use my Facebook statuses to share newspaper articles, or (what I hope are) encouraging words, songs, organizations, publications; I am sharing and sharing and sharing, but yeah, 'What's on my mind?' Not always very important things. Not always very honorable things. (Zuko, anyone?) 

WongFu Productions has a perfect illustration of our love/hate relationship with technology. In fact, they have five very good, very funny illustrations of it.

Care to watch it?

For those of you who are wondering why my grandfather wants to fly it's because he's a retired pilot.

my stranger.

i have dreamt of many faces,
but yours isn't among them.
so many strangers.
where are my friends?
i never know what to do with strangers.
they are so distant
but have no problem bumping into me,
accidentally holding my hand
or stepping on my toes,
sincerely apologizing, but quickly forgetting their misdeed,
paying attention to another stranger--
their friend, not me--
i'm no friend of theirs.

i have dreamt of many faces,
but yours isn't among them.
is that my fault?
do i only pretend to know you?
oh, but you're not a stranger!
does that make you my friend?

your acquaintanceship hurts.

i much prefer your strangeness:
to feel free to wonder about your life,
imagine what your struggles might be
never to worry that i might be one of them;
to sincerely apologize for stepping on your toe but quickly to forget my misdeed.

feigning distance hurts much more than actual distance.

i have no reason to reach out to strangers--
i wish i didn't want to reach out to you.

my stranger?
my friend?
acquaintance.

i have dreamt of many faces,
but yours isn't among them.

you must be standing behind me, then,
waiting to surprise me.

i'll practice my 'surprise' reaction for you.