Category Archives: dreams

that girl

I’m suddenly that girl.
I’m the girl who lives up the spiral staircase
I’m the girl who’s got a bird’s nest for a balcony
The girl you’re always so curious of,
In the house you’ve always dreamed of.
Who lives up there?
What books does she read?
Is it dark and mysterious in that tippy top room of hers?
The girl I’m always so curious of.
Who lives in that house?
I do.

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no one can foretell the lessons they’ll learn
not even the teacher with her lesson plans –
not when the blizzard comes
or the baby has colicked for days

so I won’t prescribe myself a destination, this year
a resolution I’ll never resolve
I’ll steer my mind hard to starboard, though

see, I can pinpoint the lessons now,
those that have crossed my way
so I’ll sail toward learning until morning
refrain from forcing my hand
and let myself be taught

announcing an announcement

The winner of the Probably Not Annual Subconscious Limerick Completion Contest, selected by a half-biased and half-objective panel, is Mrs. Heidi Chupp, with the following submission:

A grad student, once, while a-quinceing
Read a poem on the values of mincing
It was a humble narration
Not long in duration
But it was, nonetheless, quite convincing.

As the winner, Mrs. Chupp will receive in the mail the most excellent prize of several brownies I made last night on a whim, with no recipe, because I wanted french fries. That is, if my roommates (and/or Jessie Riley) don’t eat them all.

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“Well, that was terrifying,” she cried.

On the night of March 30, two hours after I fell asleep, I woke up and suddenly realized Several Key Facts about my circumstances.

  1. I was at work at Payne’s.
  2. My name was Arthur Conan Doyle.
  3. Mark Gatiss and Mycroft Holmes were sitting in booth number 13, and I need to bring them their coffee immediately.

I set out from my bed to do so.

And then I stepped on Jessie’s neck.

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A Time to Lose, and a Time to Win

And you have the chance to do either.


This morning I woke up having constructed the middle two lines of a limerick in my sleep. They are as follows:

It was somewhat a humble narration
Not very long in duration

. . . . . .  but what? I really can’t construct the rest (it seems to me a form of cheating on my subconscious), so I’m going to let you partner with my sleepy self and find the best surrounding lines for this most excellent limerick. Please leave a comment containing the whole of your suggested limerick. If you feel the need to tweak the inner lines a bit, I will allow such changes. However, both the judging panel and the author do frown a bit on such practices.

There will be prizes.

Food will almost definitely be involved. I will even mail you food.

Some limitations apply. And by “prizes,” I probably mean just one prize.

On a Contrary Note

I really don’t want to be doing this.

I don’t want to be studying for two more years so I can get a higher paying job.

It’s one of these moments again where I remember that all I want to do is open a haven of good coffee, used books, and local art, and/or start it all over again and become a potter or a linguist.

I don’t care about those high-power jobs lurking in the future. I don’t mind being broke. I just want to revel in the simple things.

And right now, I am, honestly, perfectly, happy.

I like living in my tiny apartment with three other women, with light switches and outlets and thermostats all hung at crooked angles, cranking the heat down in the winter to save electricity and walking around wrapped in my blanket toga.

I’ve got a kettle for my tea, a press for my coffee, and loads of British TV on youtube. I’m unsure what else I could need.

I’m worried that my aspirations for the future will be far below my pay grade, and I’m worried that I’ll mind.

It might just be one of those cold days where drinking tea seems like the world’s best occupation, and the 2×4 of reality will hit me upside the head tomorrow.

In other news, I have just burned a second batch of rice.


I began reading Radical by David Platt this morning, and although I’m only five and a half chapters through, I’m about ready to recommend it as required reading for every Christian. This message is needed and gives me courage. More thoughts later, when I’m more fully informed.

Also, I have been woefully remiss in my gratitudinal posts. I’ve decided I need to keep a gratitudinal journal and keep myself committed to this. Recently, however:

#32 – Provision of part-time job opportunities.

#33 – Opportunities for trust (also known less thankfully as “WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON IN MY LIFE?”)

#34 – Espresso. More specifically, Americanos. However, as I found out just this morning, not particularly from Starbucks. In this regard, I prefer the Lone Star Coffee Bar.

#35 – Unspeakable, unrealistic peace.

#36 – Friends who were given me by an all-merciful God.


Hannah sits at the piano, quietly … no, never. Not quietly. Not Hannah. Let’s start over.

Hannah sits at the piano, plinkering away to herself. (Just because she’s plinkering to herself doesn’t mean it’s quiet.) Many pages of these three hymnals have been witness to her peering eyes, thumbing … well … thumbs, and that claw-like system that keeps the pages to where she can see them.

She announces to the world (and to her mother in particular) the reason for the awkward harmonies her out-of-use hands have contrived at the expense of the well-worn keys. (It seems to be along the lines of her declaration at a young age: “Mom, I will do gymnastics, and you will clap.” Maybe the following words, like her former proclamation, will be prophetic.)

“When I am 75, I will be that old lady leading a small country church in worship. That’s why I’m playing all these hymns now. I’ll have years of practice.”

Her mother is unfazed and unconvinced. “It’ll have to be a very small church…”