on david sedaris and buttons

On Thursday something amazing happened. Well, a few things, actually. First, I got to spend a great evening on a date with my husband. Second, we met David Sedaris. Third, I got to sew a button back onto one of Mr. Sedaris' shirts, and he paid me five dollars for it. We stood in line waiting to meet him to get our book signed (which he did sign - and addressed to our dog) when we heard him asking everyone in front of us if they could sew. The conversations went something like this:

DS: "Do you sew?"

Person: "No..."

DS: "Ugh. The women in this town!"

Then we stepped up to the signing table to say hello, and he asked if I could sew, and got the answer he was looking for. It was a fancy French shirt, and he happened to have a sewing kit in his bag. From what I can gather from his stories, Hugh does most of the domestic things at their house, and David spends his time writing. It was extra awesome because I got to sit down next to him and chat with him while I sewed the button back on. He was delightful. Funny. Personable. Told everyone else in line about me and how I was sewing a button back onto his shirt for him. The five dollar bill and my ticket stub are now framed and on a shelf in my living room next to the signed book. And I have a new amazing story to tell.

the post

It all started with a book. One that was left behind. One that I picked up. One that a few years later, finally made it back to its original owner. And being lovers of the written word ourselves, Elizabeth and I saw this as the perfect opportunity to start up a real-mail correspondence. Because, let's be honest here, who doesn't love getting mail that isn't junk or bills? There's just something about receiving and writing/sending a letter. Something magical. Now if only the post was actually carried by owls. 

double rainbow all the way

"You think dark is just one color, but it ain't.  There're five or six kinds of black.  Some like fingers.  And it don't stay still.  It moves and changes from one kind of black to another. Saying something is pitch black is like saying something is green.  What kind of green? Green like my bottles?  Green like a grasshopper?  Green like a cucumber, lettuce, or green like the sky just before it breaks loose to storm?  Well, night black is the same way. May as well  be a rainbow."

Toni Morrison | Song of Solomon

to the lighthouse

images found here and here.

"What is the meaning of life? A simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark."

virginia woolf

art.

image via pinterest

Last night, at Wal-Mart, the sign's lights were out in such a way that the sign only lit up the word 'art'. Something intriguing about it. Something sad and beautiful too. Like it was trying so hard to be something it's not. Something that it never will be. Life imitating art. Or is it art imitating life? Trying so hard to be something better than it is. We are painting the canvases of our lives. You. Me. Us. We. Becoming better. And that's something to celebrate.

why don't we go somewhere only we know?

There was something beautiful about the way the cars drove around the curve. In perfect synchronicity and one fluid motion, they moved. Moved like the waves crashing onto the beach - persistently moving forward, only to be pulled back from that motion by some force greater than themselves. Repeat...repeat...

international

Recently, Richland County and the city of Columbia finished constructing these giant matching brick structures, like the kind you see at the entrances of neighborhoods, at the start of Decker Boulevard. The brick structures have pictures of different countries' flags on them and text that reads, "Decker Boulevard. International Corridor". The sentiment is nice, but I'm pretty sure that the only thing that qualifies the street as an international corridor is a string of slightly sketchy (mostly Asian and Mexican) ethnic restaurants that I wouldn't eat at for fear of dying. You know the kind. Dingy. Outdated, falling apart signs. The brick entrances to the street are nicer than the street and just about everything else on it. I'm glad our city has its priorities in order.

haiku.

A dark country road.

Driving with the windows down.

Stars light the way. Home.

homeward bound

Once upon a time two people from South Carolina met at BYU, fell in love, got married, graduated, and moved to Salt Lake City. Six months later, that wonderful man got a job offer in none other than Columbia, South Carolina. It's been fun, Utah, but we're heading home. Soon. Two weeks from now soon. In an instant, our world has been turned upside down and become consumed by a sea of boxes and packing tape and figuring out the logistics of moving ourselves (and our two cats) across the country. There will be people I'm going to miss so dearly, thinking about not seeing them makes my heart crumble to pieces. I can't even form the word goodbye right now. But we're headed home. Home. Where family lives and my heart resides. To that place where everything makes sense. "No, my life began and continues to exist in the antithesis of a city. I live on a dead end street. Trees surround my house. We can’t see our neighbors. The air is humid, but clear; no city smog exists here. Summer afternoon thunderstorms happen almost daily from June until September. Thousands of stars illuminate the night sky, and also at night, symphonies of crickets, cicadas, and frogs provide the accompaniment to the rhythmic creaking of our front-porch rocking chairs. It is quintessential countryside – the perfect small town." Home. Home. Home. Home. Here we come.

 

pen pal

I have a friend from high school who now teaches fifth grade in Morogoro, Tanzania.

He needed pen pals for the girls in his class, so I volunteered to get to know one of his students through perhaps my favorite medium, the written word. I am now anxiously awaiting my first letter from a fifth grade Tanzanian girl, and I cannot wait to get to know her, and about what life is like in Morogoro. Learning about other cultures is one of the best ways to expand your knowledge of the truth and beauty that exists in the world. I thrive on it.

just a little something i wrote about the culture i love so much.

The old women in their hats sit in the front pews with
Little children gathered at their feet to hear their stories -
Unaware of the wisdom they are taking in.
Simply enthralled with the tale of a bird, and a woman:
Blind. Wise.

The sweltering Southern summer breeze drifts -
Lazily through the open windows.

The preacher raises his arms.

"Let us be thankful (yes)
I said Let us be thankful (yes, Lawd)
For all the good in our lives."

Heads in the congregation nod their agreement in unison.

The choir stands and sings songs of freedom.

They are here.
Mr. Hughes,
Dr. King.
Their spirits, palpable.

The rich harmonies wash over us,
Floating effortlessly on the thick, sticky-sweet air:

"Oh freedom. Oh freedom. Oh freedom over me!"

Amen, brother. Amen.

"spirituals"  |  a.                      

I am a writer, and I will write.

I had a realization last week while walking to work, listening to Fleet Foxes, and enjoying the cooler air that brings hope of Fall. It came in the form of a Jack London quotation. "You cant wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club." I was in a particularly downtrodden mood at the time, lamenting the fact that I had nothing to write about, no good ideas, and thinking all sorts of other equally pessimistic thoughts. It was then that Mr. London came to mind. Right when I needed him. Thank you, Jack. It really was as perfect as timing can be. I realized - though I'm pretty sure I already knew it - I cant just sit around waiting for inspiration to permeate my thoughts. Fabulous ideas take time. Work. Cultivation. More work. More cultivation. I need to write. write. write. Keep the good. Keep the bad because one day it might look good. I bought a new notebook and new pens. I'm ready. I really am. No more waiting to do what I want to do. It's time to just do. Just be. Exist. Think. Write. So, look out inspiration. I've got a club, and I'm coming after you.

read it. saw it. loved it.

I was the youngest in the theater by thirty years. Why no young people were there is a mystery to me. From my next to last row perch, I can see everyone. A group of four women, silver hair dyed blonde, chatted gaily about the upcoming feature. "There's one part you might not like," one says to the other. The miscarriage scene. That has to be what she's referring to. Two other slightly less silver haired ladies sat quietly on the other side of the room. I'd like to think they were contemplating the depth and importance of what we were about to take in, but I'm probably wrong. A man enters alone. Moments pass. A woman joins him. She was probably in the bathroom, but I like to think that they are lovers, meeting for the movie under cover. A secret rendezvous away from their normal lives. Two men sit together. They look happy. I'm happy for them. Then I wonder: Are any of these people Southern? Do they know what its like to live there? What do they think of the South? Don't think that Southerners are like the awful women in the film. We're not. Promise. Maybe in the past. Not now. It's not the norm.

Then the film starts. I am instantly enchanted. Transported through space and time. Those accents. That scenery. My heart ached for that place. I could almost feel the warm, humid breeze I saw rippling through the leaves of the weeping willow on the plantation. I closed my eyes. I was in the South again. The air is humid, but clear; no city smog exists here. Summer afternoon thunderstorms occur almost daily from June until September. Thousands of stars light up the night sky. Symphonies of crickets, cicadas, and frogs provide the accompaniment to the rhythmic creaking of our front porch rocking chairs. It is quintessential countryside - the perfect small town. Life is different here. Everything moves slower. Its quaint charm has a hypnotic effect. Once you go country, you never go back. My heart smiled. For two and a half hours I was there. In the South. My South. Then my eyes opened again as I walked outside to my reality, and realized that I need that place more than anything in my life.

just lovely.

image found here.

"I am awestruck, excited, smiling inside creamy as a cat." 

Friday, 8 August 1958 | sylvia plath

!

I just stumbled upon this article the other day, and since I tend to side with Fitzgerald on the exclamation mark, this article really says it all.

"The Joy of Exclamation Marks!" by Stuart Jeffries

The article had me positively laughing out loud - mostly because it is nothing but the truth.