Diurnal Urinal

Everyone reaches the point in their life were they say, "I can't live like this anymore." Maybe it happens everyday, wakes them up like a whiff of coffee percolating not far off. Let's say it happens only twice a year; connected to the poles of the earth, a biannual flip flop for solstice celebration. Or perhaps it happen only once in a lifetime---an earthquake that opens a chasm that can never be closed. Does it matter how many? Are they all different, or the same? Do they come from the same place? Does the child who's secret love has kissed yet another boy on the playground, and never him, feel the same as the alcoholic who crashes his car through the center divider? Is it the same pain, the same gaping inability to see God in that solitary moment. And I bet you're sitting there saying, "No, no, they're not the same; of course one is different, some are worse, some are better. Some get better, some get worse."

And I say,"Yes!"to all of that. But, all that begins in the moment after. Whether one changes their life, or lives through their life, or dies right then and there; that all comes after that prickly gnawing feeling in the middle of your abdomen. Like a tiny hedgehog took to hibernating beneath the ribs, and now that fuzzy, sharp little fellow is opening up right there, right inside. After that feeling comes the decision to change, or move, or do nothing. But in that one moment, I think we all feel the same. We're bound together by a common thought wave descending from our Mother Eve. She was the first to feel the pull. She took that bite because she couldn't live like that anymore. Her gut told her that everything she knew was a shell; she was just a doll, and she wanted so badly to be real. And so she bit down; she threw away her shell so that she could feel pain, so that she could love, and so she could experience that final moment where she would say, one last time, "I can't live like this anymore." One final scary moment separate from God before her spirit left her body; refined to too fine a material for a life like this.

We are all the same, and we are all different. We all go up, we must all come down. My moment will never change me in the exact same way the moment changes anyone else. We many never share the same joy, or wallow in the same depths of sorrow, but I am almost sure that each breaking point, for one infinitesimal moment, is exactly the same.

I don't know that any of that matters; but it made me feel squiggly inside today, none the less. 

10 frings

1. I've never colored my hair, ever. Not even highlights. Now I can't, I'm just waiting for it to get too grey, and then I'll do some funky town on the 'ol bean.
2. I've never been in a tanning bed. Thank goodness.
3. Claire, my college roommate and bf, and I were once seriously addicted to solitaire. Many, many hours wasted, classes failed because of computer solitaire. I had to quite cold turkey, and I barely came out alive.
4. I've spoken of my love of miniature things, and my love of all things weird and supernatural many times; so of course, it only makes sense that I used to collect sardine bones, teeth, and kind of dead sick thing to keep in empty Altoid boxes lined in tissue.
5. I put hot sauce on just about everything.
6. I'm pretty much obsessed with healthy eating; but I will never give up pizza, doughnuts, or McDonald's french fries. I don't even eat them regularly, and I feel sick when I do, but I reserve that God given right.
7. This was the best thing that happened to me all day. I josh you not, lights up my face like a Christmas tree.
8. I used to say that if I wasn't married by 30, I was going to become a lighthouse keeper, a cloistered nun, or the appalachian goat woman from Cold Mountain.
9. This movie is so good I was screaming at the end. Literally screaming, it was that tickling. Watch it on Netflix and tell me I'm wrong.
10. I was once upon a time in a hand bell choir. No lies, I even played hand chimes before I could work my way up to the bells. I <3 nerds.

pin me

Here are some of ze things I have been pinning as of late:

A little throwback tune:

I used to drive around listening to this song, thinking how awesomely it would fit into a crazy, rainy car crash scene in a movie. The music video still tears me up.

And to end on a lighter note...watch the movie Butter, on Netflix. So good, so good.

stars daisies babies King Kong

I have a bad habit of feeling empty. I try and cram, cram, cram as much in as I can. I'm a junkie for knowledge, affection, style, the internet, and wishful thinking. But, as you know, the junkie never gets enough, hence the bottomless pit.

Oh, and I do very little doing. Not enough to stretch the mind, or the body.

Bad combo, that thinking and not doing. A breeding ground for fear. Fear from all the things that could be done. Fear of never being enough. Fear that eats dreams, like Kobayashi eats hotdogs.

I've let fear tell me my whole life that there are things about me that need to be hidden, sensitive bits that were hurt long ago. But they were beautiful bits, and now sometimes I think they've rusted in their hiding places. I call them out, and they come slowly. It takes a lot of work tug the nightmares of children from the bones of sleeping adults. I personally find that talking helps; I'd probably love to talk to you, if I already don't. I'd love to tell you how I feel about the decline in population of large cats, or food, or anything in your life. I'd like to talk to you about my crazy family, and my crazy life. I'd love to talk to you about God, and about what you think your potential in life is. I'd like to comfort you, and tell you you're good. A small word, that 'good', and often underwhelming; but I find sometimes, that it if said just so, just straightforward enough, it feels clean and strong, and warm. Like old bare wood. Sometimes when I'm around adults, which I don't get to do vey often :) I talk so much I get jittery. I get a buzz off words. In fact, I'm usually quite ashamed after this, like any tipsy party girl. I talked too much, too loud, too bold. Funny things slip out when you hurt inside, don't they? And then, something strange happened as of late. We moved, and I talked, and I walked, and I stripped things away. My possessions, my family, Vida's health, our safety, bits of B's and my relationship. And I just kept feeling, like I was losing feeling. I kept seeing myself as this cup, and I was emptying out; and the fear kept filling it in with nothing. Because when nothing is inside of you, it becomes something. And I jut kept praying that I would get filled up. I prayed that I would be filled with things that would make me a better me. That's all. It was like a crucible; sometimes we do have to burn it all down.This time it was so intense it was like nothing was holding me here; here on earth. I just waited, and felt ok with waiting. And I kept thinking this should feel scary, but it didn't. It just felt like a bubble; quiet, and muffled, full of space, and at the same time so taunt, so precarious. And then the bubble must have popped, because I'm back. And I feel it; I feel my life inside of me. So now I'll do, I'll do something for a while, and then I'll probably cycle back through some other interior passageway. I love to take adventures inside myself, it's like Magic School Bus up in this hizzy everyday. I highly encourage you try one sometime.

Peace,
O.

Dinner Date with the Stars

If I were going to throw a beautifully organized dinner party, for any five historical dead figures, they would be as follows:
1) Princess Leia, hands down the most bada**, capable female lead character I've ever seen on film. I mean, she choked Jabba with the chain he had her tethered to him with. Girl be what I like to call a roll model. (And yes, I'm counting her as a 'historical' figure)
2&3) Sofia Tolstaya and Leo Tolstoy: Tolstoy has always been a hero of mine, and I recently finished reading War and Peace. Did you know that Sofia was scribe for him on that weighty tome, and copied it out, by hand, a total of seven times. That's true love! Tolstoy's depiction of marriage, and love, in W&P, gave me one of those moments, where like, a little piece of emptiness opens up inside my chest, so that I can start to fill it with new emotions and feelings, after experiencing something so enlightening. But, if you've seen the Last Station, you know that their marriage had its down side. They'd be perfect to see in real life.
4) Hans Christian Andersen: That dude be a freak, and I like it. His stories are so twisted and beautiful. He had to be pretty nuteriffic in person. Wikipedia tells me this:  Shortly before his death, he had consulted a composer about the music for his funeral, saying: "Most of the people who will walk after me will be children, so make the beat keep time with little steps." Moribundus; I can dig it. And yes, I already have the music picked out for my funeral; I'm going to be lowered into the ground as the song 'Blinded by the Light' is blared.
5) Cleopatra: Not original, I know, but the reality behind her story that is so constantly repressed by modern depictions is fascinating. You know, the not actually being Egyptian, her real political ingenuity, and ruthlessness. Since studying her as a young child, (along with my obsession for paranormal phenomena there is a close second for ancient cultures, I mean come on, the egyptians swirled brains around with a stick, and drained it out your nose!) I combined my love of paranormal and egyptology, and fancied myself the reincarnation of Cleopatra. It explains my love of power, and seducing men by rolling out of carpets.


Bon Appetit!

Is It You?

If you think time is linear, then you're a fool.
My heart beats hollow sometimes, there's a trap door there.
It leads to the past, which, I constantly think about becoming my future.
It takes me under you, around you, through you;
But never to you.

There is no such thing as 'space'.
The distance between us is always the same.
It fits half way across the world, and in between old embraces.
If you called me there, I would already be THERE;
But will you?

There is a difference between joy and contentment.
I will have one without you, but not the other.
One can live a whole life with a smile on their face,
For a memory that isn't there.
It is you.

Howdy y'all!

Well, I'm sure that was a refreshing break for you all; unless you started following me on my newly minted instagram account, and if so....suckas! But, I think I could be back to the blog with a little consistency, perhaps. Haha, that sounds very convincing doesn't it?

Texas is....Texas. We're trying hard to settle in, and that's all you can do, correctamundo? Loving the sun, the hip hop music on the radio, and of course, the Mexican food. Vida is having a little relapse of her kidney disorder, that we're having a harder time getting under control than we have previously. Prayers and kind thoughts directed her way always help in my own, very earnest, personal, opinion.

Let's start with something silly, shall we? For the last year or so I've been feeling less like myself, for you see, the me I knew firmly shut the door behind herself. And it all has to do with a name, and the hair. I used to have beautiful hair, and a beautiful name. Not anymore compadres, and don't way one word otherwise, this is my sob story ya hear!? All growing up, I rarely ran into anyone named Olivia, never attended a school with another one, and I rather got to liking that original factor of my nomenclature. BUT NOW I'M A DIME A DOZEN!!! I heard a radio announcer the other day tell people not to name there kids Olivia, because they'd become the Ashely of their generation. Oh no, I'm an Ashley. No offense, Ashley; which one of you, you ask? Oh, I mean you Ashley, or you, Ashleigh, or you, Aeshlee, or you, Aschlea. NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! Wailing and gnashing, I was original with an original name, and now I whip my head around at the park to every three year olds command from their mom. And to top it all off, the straight hair epademic. Each one of my tiny, curly hair soldiers has fallen down flat on the floor. Rest in peace curly hair. Where did you go? How do I use a curling iron? What is this nonsense about it mattering what your haircut really looks like? Someone save me from this hell I'm living in.

Ok, this was funny at first, but now it's kinda whiny, so long story short: I used to have a beautiful name, and beautiful lustrous curls, and now I am bereft of both. So I'm changing my name, and getting a perm. I shall from here on out be called Zarahemla Fae Lyons and I'll be rockin a sweet jheri curl.

Like this:

Ain't nobody mess with Zarahemla!