Journal 10.30

My word, that was harder than I thought. The three janitor pieces are all attempts to communicate the single, same idea. The thought entered my mind and I tried to describe it and flesh it out a bit. Hense I. Though it went in a different direction than I wanted. In it, the shrink came to the house. I meant to show that we left our junk in their office, so I tried again. But I couldn't shake the cooperative cleaning. So finally, after a third attempt, which is also the shortest, I think I finally came as close as I'm going to on this. Bon apetite.

Psychologists are the janitors of our minds III

I walk in, loaded down with crap. Everything I’ve been collecting
Since my childhood. Slowly, I separate my self from my issues.
They become a pile on the carpet next to my chair. Afterward,
I feel light, clean, and I think I smiled. I left my crap where it fell.

Psychologists are the janitors of our minds II

Psychologists are the janitors of our mind.
We enter their offices covered in angst, despair, depression,
Hatred, pity, loathing, sadness, stress, issues, and family.
They pull out the fire hose and rinse us off.
Then they grab the soap and industrial gloves and get to work.
These problems won’t solve themselves. That’s why they
Have solution. Together we remove all those nasty things
That have been festering for years, just drop them on the carpet.
We leave smiling, squeaky and sparkly. We leave our problems
In their office. They’re the janitors. It’s their job to clean up
After us.

Psychologists are the janitors of our mind I

Psychologists are the janitors of our mind.
They knock gently and wait for us to let them in.
Going from room to room, they point out the tough stains.
“How long has this been here?” They wonder.
“Don’t you know that you’re supposed to throw this out?”
We sit back and try to relax, while they walk around our psyche
With a vacuum cleaner, but every time the machine catches on
Something large, we flinch and show that we really were paying attention.
Then they pull out the dust cloth, and we really start to sweat.
“You don’t need to go in there.” We tell them.
But with persistence, or perhaps when they’re done with everything else,
They make their way back into the corners that have been mildewing
For years, and with their Freudian carpet cleaner, they attack the nastiest spots.
Finally they pack up their gear, hand us the bill, and walk out with a whistle.
We shut the door, marveling at the fee. Then we stand uncomfortable,
Unfamiliar with this space that was once our own.
And despite the knowledge that eventually we’d have to call them back,
We can’t stand the white and the stench of cleaning solution,
So we spill our coffee onto the carpet.

I am not the lost sheep

I am not the lost sheep,
I am not the prodigal son.
I obediently stayed at home,
I am with the other 98.

I envy the lost sheep,
I am jealous of the prodigal son.
My father killed not the calf for me,
My shepherd has not carried me home.

I stumble within the herd,
I falter in my work,
But my father is watching for my brother,
My shepherd is out searching for the lamb.

I stare at the pit,
I know where to find sin.
I know that a rebuke is still attention,
That to be dragged by the neck is still to be touched.

But the shepherd sees my mind,
My father’s disapproving eyes make me consider.
So I return home, untouched,
I back away from the pit.

I hide in the center of the herd,
I work the fields with the servants.
But he left the party to talk,
And he reached out his staff
To tap my head.
He cares for me.

To All Literary Professors

My professor is a valiant knight
protecting the fortress of her convictions.
It has taken her a lifetime to build,
using bricks of books and cemented with historical perspective.
We lay seige to her castle
attempting to tear it down.
To exploit her holes, her seeming weak structure,
to build our own upon her rubble.
Her one goal is to defend her fortress.
To prove her stance, and win us to her cause.
Sometimes she cheats.
But then, sometimes she has to.

Present Life Lesson: Humility

There are times in my life when God needs to apply a 2x4 to my head. These, I am sure, are times when the gentle nudges were unnoticed, and are the final resort of a Teacher needing to impart a lesson. The current lesson is: (check the title) Humility. The acknowledgement that alone, I can not do anything. Or at least, anything good or worthy. So far, it's been a rather gentle 2x4 experience, no nails yet. He started with a definition of humility in a sermon.

Humility is: acknowledging that we need God to help us. One of my friends told me once that she saw God as a crutch. Yes, to a healthy person, a crutch slows us down, gets in our way, and weakens us. But ask a person with a broken leg who can't put weight on it without excruciating pain how they feel about a crutch. Guess what? Our legs are broken. We need a crutch in order to function. And if we can't acknowledge that, God will break our legs.

Yes, that seems ruthless, and mean, but it is necessary. In order to prove to us how much we need Him, He will take away His crutch, and let us fall. He will bring us low in order to raise us up again. But the point in raising us is that He actively does it to us, we don't pick ourselves up.

I used to not (and still don't, as I am in the process of learning my lesson) understand how we needed God for every little aspect of our life. Why I should be in constant communication with Him throughout my day. Surely I can handle most of my life on my own, I only need help with the tough stuff. I see ungodly people prospering, and so my logic is: if they can do that well on their own, without God, then surely, I can go as far without Him, and He'll supplement for me in my life what they don't have. But that is one definition of pride. "I can do this on my own. I am self-sufficient. I don't need you." Or even, "surely God has more important things to deal with, why would He care about these little details?"

But the thing is, not only is He powerful enough to help us handle the little details in our lives as well as everything else going on in the universe, but He already does. He cares about the little things that matter to us, and He's already involved, it's just that we don't recognize Him. That's part of humility. Recognizing what He does, and giving Him the credit. If we don't, He'll remove his crutch until we do. And it's not being mean. For all the blessings He gives us, for even just being Him, the fact that He is what He is, He deserves our praise and acknowledgement. It's not too much for Him to expect from us. And if we're dense enough to need a rough wake up call, and that's what it takes, then we deserve it.

I said that this particular lesson was more gentle than usual, for me. Instead of dropping me to the ground, He showed me an obstacle in my path, and pointed out to me that with my broken leg, I COULD NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT GETTING ACROSS. Together, tonight, we have taken the first step through this obstacle. Time, humility, and patience will show me whether or not God will bring me through this obstacle unscathed. But even if I do get hurt, it will be nothing compared to the absolute disaster I would have brought upon myself, if I had tried it alone.

Labeling Forever

Shivering, shuffling, scooting down the hall,
Pushing, pulling, kicking the stupid flat.
Searching, seeking for my predecessor's place,
Finding, feeling, taking and opening.
Groaning, grumbling, shutting mine eyes,
Picking, placing, covering, stamping.
Replacing, removing, endlessly repeating,
Impractical, impossible, a feat a decade long.
Bending, breaking under the Hunt's lash,
One day I'll shove this label right up his

Journal 10.9

I won't go into why I was thinking of this, but anyway, when I was five I got my ears pierced, and from then until I was ten I wore earrings on and off, and after ten, I stopped. Now, my lobes didn't really close up. Cartiledge grew back in, but it was a thin layer, easily punched through for special occasions.

When I was 16, I decided to wear an earring. Just one, because I thought it would be an individual thing. I picked one of my mothers loopy ones, that don't have a rod to stab your neck with, and it happened to have a lot of glass "diamonds" so it was really sparkly.

"I'm thinking about wearing an earring." I said to my friend. "Oh," said she, "only one?" "Yeah, which side do you think it should go?" "Well, if you're gay, you wear it on the left." "Really? On the right it is."

A few months later, I was visiting my dad in another part of the state. We all went over to the neighbor's, and there was a boy about my age there, wearing a single earring on the left. Mentally, I giggled at him. I knew he wasn't gay, but I suspected he didn't know the statement he was making. Anyway, he's laughing with his brother, and then he came over to me.

"So, you're only wearing one earring?" "Yeah." I was thinking, 'so are you.' "And you're wearing it on the right?" "Yeah?" 'You're wearing yours on the left.' He and his eavesdropping brother exchanged knowing smiles and then he walked away. It was about then that I realized that perhaps in different areas, the gay ear may switch. We had been laughing at each other, basically for growing up somewhere else. Unfortunately, I had been more able to conceal my mirth, so he didn't know that he was actually the gay one.

Another thing, people aren't very perceptive. I wore that one earring for a good 9 months, and people didn't realize it. They either thought I didn't wear earrings, or that I had two. I know this because when I'd point it out to them, they'd inspect both sides of my head and agree with me. Then they'd marvel that they hadn't noticed before (Like I said, it was a pretty gaudy earring). They did the same thing when I dyed half my hair candy apple red. I had zigzagged the part, so that I had red streaks on one side, and blonde streaks on the other, and people thought I just had put some red streaks in, or that I had dyed it all red and left some blonde streaks. Apparently people only look at one side or another of my head and assume the other side matches.

I hate names!

I dread them. Yes, they're fun at times. It's always fun to take your name or your friends' names and learn what they mean. And I believe that names are important. I think they have an effect on the personality of the kid they belong to. So when I'm writing, I can't just pick a name out of thin air (like some people I know) and move on. No. I need to find a name that FITS the character. Do you know how hard it is to look up the meanings of names? To think of a single word that MAY embody this character, look up names that match, decide that none of them fit, and then try to think of what OTHER word may also embody my character? Oh, and even worse, after I've found a suitable first name, how the hell am I supposed to come up with a last name? They have meanings too, though they refer to the past generations of the character, while the first name is pertinent only to the present generation. Most name books/sites only care about first names. Who wants to look up last names? Only authors without the ability to name their characters. Normally babies come with last names already, the parents only need a first name, and it is to parents that these sites cater to.

I'm to the point where I don't want to introduce any new characters. I hate it. But it's unavoidable. And I put off the naming for a page or so. My characters frequently have no manners, so they don't bother introducing themselves to each other until later, and then when it becomes absolutely necessary, I realize that I brought in a new character, and before I can write another word, I need to pick a name for them. Urgh!

I need to hire an official name picker. Their sole job would be to research possible names for possible characters, so all I'd have to do is email them with a description: "SWF 5'7", brown hair and eyes, Likes walking on the beach, hates dogs and tequila, and will die a horrible death in chapter 6." and they'll email me back with: "Deadlia Girlio." Okay, well, they'd come up with something good, since that's what their job would be. Obviously, that was a bad example, cause I can't come up with names.

I cry at this part in "Babe"

If I had words to make a day for you,
I'd sing you a morning, golden and new.
I would make this day last for all time,
And give you a night deep in moonshine.

To the blonde in my Poetry class

World on a plate,
Men's hearts on strings;
Twiddle your fingers and
Your desire they bring.

If men were free,
That would not do.
Draw out your smile and
Once more their hearts lasso.

Your looks an art,
Your mind you drop,
Unnecessary, for
Duck your head, the world stops.