Mother Nature Knows No Vanity

These days the sidewalks of Ottawa City flow like tiny torrents of Hell. Looking out my 13th floor window, all I see is white. Muted, bloated, grayish white, punctuated by the occasional barb of a barren brown tree or ominous gray of some foreboding office tower. The buildings seem to cry out, "Flee, Sarah, Flee! Tear yourself from our bosom before we do imbibe you and leech out your precious spirit!" And so I flee. I flee from that window where the office towers pulse with yearning, reaching desperately while bidding me go, their windows glassy and dead. I flee to my memories, where magnolias perch calmly, peering down at me quizzically as I walk slowly through their shade. Where green marble and grey cement shine through bleak days. Where low-lying buildings in purples and reds collapse with laughter behind me. I long for the freedom of small dark rooms with old linoleum floors and poor insulation. I long for imperfection and excitement. I long for the humidity of melting snow and the hum and babble of bridges and atria. My eyes are lifting, filling with foliage and tropics. Oh can't you smell the spring?

Rage, Rage, and Passionate Cries

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

Where Do We Go From Here?

A number of events of little significance have got me thinking, as of late, about what I need to do with myself before I die. I have either an infinite or an infinitessimal amount of time left; while I'm not particularly fearful of my own death, I am, at times, apprehensive of what will happen to me in the moments between now and then. What will I do, what will I see, where will I go? Will I stop dropping my freaking cheerios on the floor of my cubicle? I've always had a somewhat morbid view of my own future, expecting it to be rife with intense heartbreak and disease or mortal injury. Is my obsession with tragedy and passion just girlish fantasy, or could there be something more, something real in my dreams? A few people close to her believe that my mother has a certain amount of metaphysical power, that she can will changes into the lives of others. Could it be possible that I will tragedy into mine? Or is my awareness of mortality simply so excessively accute that it permeates my vision of life?

Addendum: Melancholy and Laughter

I have added a slew of links to the Weblogs and Journals section of the sidebar. For perspective into the muddle that is my mind, please peruse. I stongly suggest some of the items available at Girls are Pretty, as they reflect with remarkable accuracy my own morbidity.

When You Just Want to Kick the World in the Nads

Disclaimer: I hate EVERYTHING, and will likely do so until two hours after falling asleep tonight.

Rrrrrrr. ARRRRRRRGH. GAAAAAAHHH!

You Know, You Can't Just Run Around Willy Nilly Making Up Acronyms.

My father, new to the world of instant messaging, is rapidly adopting a number of the annoying habits normally attributed to preteen and adolescent IMers. Coupled with his general infantility, this can create what many mothers and pseudo-mothers affectionately refer to as a handful.

Dad:
but what the heck is wha ja guh

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
"wha ja guh?" is my reaction to you making up msn language

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
you know, you can't just run around willy nilly making acronyms

Dad:
wot i do?

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
wjg is not a valid acronym

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
where joo go is not a commonly used expression, and therefore not acronymable

Dad:
that's just what u wrote........where joo go

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
i am aware of what i wrote

Dad:
stop using words I cant pronounce

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
the offense was commissioned when you decided to acronimify the phrase

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
stop using acronyms that aren't legitimate msn fodder and you have a deal

Dad:
kaaki tu angraizi di lat punrahee hain! (Note: unapproximable punjabi interjection)

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
aha! don't try and wile your way out of this with foreign languages!

Dad:
don't try and what?

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
wile your way out

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
like, use your wiley charms

Dad:
my name is not wily coyote (Note: Unforgivable. Who doesn't know that it's Wile E. Coyote?)

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
are you a coyote? i think not

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
precisely

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
so no wiling

Dad:
you're so cute when u r mad!

Dad:
oops was that wily too?

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
i'm not mad

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
and no... i think that was patronizing, father

Dad:
crazy?

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
oh that mad

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
well yes, i am that

Hurry up Sarah, There's a Doggy Coming! And Other Such Lies

When I was a very small child my brother used to walk me to and from school. Our relationship was not completely antagonistic, but was often so. Walking anywhere these days, I can always here the crunch and squish of snow and slush beneath my feet. I was reminded on a recent walk home from work of one of the obscure barbs that my brother once threw my way. I was told that the level of noise that I made in my clunky plastic winter boots was simply abhorrent. Further to this point, my brother informed me that no man would ever love me if I continued to walk so loudly. In truth, I cannot recall his exact words. He may in fact have told me that no boys would ever like me. Although these days I tend to disarm people with my ninja-like stealth, I have, in fact, never been loved. Single. Solitary. Tear.