Merica

Well, this is it. Adios, America. America, here I come!

It is following me. Irony?

I put a picture of demons attacking St. Anthony on one of my posts, and now it shows up as my blog photo every time I post the link anywhere. Sorry. Not sorry. 

THREE DECADES

As two decades of my life draw to a close and my third about to begin, I realize that moments like these are not more significant than any other. In fact, their significance is so fleeting that they become a dry ritual 1. Because they are annual, but they are refreshing because 2. They always seem to catch us off-guard. 

As in: panicking the moment before you have to blow out the candles. You hold your breath just a little bit longer in anticipation of the right "wish" or perhaps for its mere validity. You fully know this ritual happens every year, and yet, every year you are caught off guard as if you'd never known of the simple concept of "birthday."

As in: Christmas Eve and trying to stay awake to meet Santa, or catch your parents. You fully know that all you have to do is simply stay awake, but it always turns out to be the one night of the year you absolutely cannot keep your eyes open. 

I remember a yearly ritual I attempted as an elementary student through middle school upon the turn of every new year. I decided that upon waking up on every January 1st, I would say one word, a particular word, and every year that word would eventually form a sentence. I think I started the first year with a pronoun, but after that initial year I must have forgotten what I had said the year prior because each year after Year Pronoun I probably said the same pronoun. I remember waking up each year and scrambling to remember what word I was actually going to say. I proceeded with the concept and no real objective outcome in mind, but I could never quite get it right, even though I had been attempting it for four years. This odd practice ceased upon high school, just to clarify so no one thinks I'm all that weird. 

It might have helped actually having a sentence planned out in the first place. Maybe that was my mistake. Or maybe it was because I wasn't too keen on getting it right. Maybe it was a lousy attempt to celebrate a tradition that was automatically going to pass me by whether or not I participated in some recognition or festivity of it. 

I am actually quite thankful that we don't go spending the rest of our time thinking about making wishes for birthdays, preparing for the first day of school, New Years, holidays and other suches. The stark realization of every time makes us recognize the continuity and consistency of life and our vital participation in it. 

Time. Time can be argued in many ways, including dimensions, mental states, and other fascinating whatnots. My argument of time for this particular post is that these caught-off guard kind of rituals allow us to feel time. These are the moments, the markers (no matter their significance and the perception of the timeline of situations) that let us feel time. Feeling a measurement of time, no, but feeling the presence of time, yes. Just for a stark second. 

So this is what I have to say at the close of my two decades. I have no advice for the young-ins, others in Satan-spawned situations (prayer and relationship with God will get you through), great quotes or mantras to pass on, but all I know is that I will be blowing out 21 representational candles tomorrow. I will still be caught off guard in that exact moment. I will be reminded by this insignificant action that I am alive, once again. 

Sleeping fluke

Trying to go to bed early -> insomnia -> acid reflux -> trying to fall asleep with insomnia and acid reflux WHILE sitting upright

YOLO 

Suitcase spoiler

Suitcase: signed, sealed, and ready to be delivered. 

Unusual contents of note: 

coconut oil

twine

salt and pepper shakers

Sounds dirty. 

Bee Enraged.

Enragement. Can you please define enragement?
Enragement happens when the computer won't print to the printer, and the scanner won't scan to the computer. Yes, we have called India, have had neighbors try to fix the problem, and we have befriended the gracious employees of multiple UPS stores. Our blood pressure has risen to unimaginable levels of enragement due to the faulty compatibility and communication between our electronics.
Enragement.

Twitter revelation

I have eight twitter accounts, all of which will remain unnamed. 8 twitter accounts = 8 different email addresses and passwords I had to set up. 

My main twitter account is not linked to or following any of the other accounts, so don't think you're so clever by doing some digging. 

But also, just because I may not be following a main-stream twitter account, it doesn't necessarily imply that I am the owner of that twitter account. You will never know. 

I haven't exactly been tweeting via any of the other accounts because it's a summer holiday all around. 

The awkward moment: I have been receiving notifications all week by the same person who has not been merely following and then unfollowing one of my accounts, but rather, this person seems to have figured me out and has actually begun following all of my accounts. 

What confusion I've experienced all week! And what a calamity now! My identity has been revealed, or my game, at least discovered. 

And don't think that you can find this one person and then figure out my other accounts. I wouldn't let it go that far.

I was almost outsmarted on my own strategy, by a complete outsider who would have had no suspicions or insight whatsoever. 

I would commend this person, but I cannot let on that they have found a kindred spirit in me. 

Concert, at least it's not my kind of concerto

Confession time: I know all of the lyrics to two of Lecrae's songs. I would have preferred Lecrae over Dierks Bentley. Heck, T-Swift could have performed, and I wouldn't have cared.

At most, they didn't choose Keane, The Killers, M83, Paolo Nutini, Travis, Arctic Monkeys, Boy and Bear, The Black Keys, Coldplay, Calvin Harris, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, Flo Rida, Florence, Foster the People, Gin Wigmore, Josh Pyke, Miike Snow, Moby, MGMT, Mumford and Sons, Passion Pit, The Shins, The Temper Trap, Tommy Sparks, Daft Punk, Two Door Cinema Club, Weezer, The xx, or Yann Tiersen. 

Heaven forbid Samford have Yann Tiersen perform on campus while I'm not there. I would literally be at a crossroads if that happened. 

Fire ants

It rained for a solid two days. We've sprayed around the floorboards for ants, and they're still infiltrating the premises. I've already been bitten twice earlier today by simply sitting on my bed. 

As I turn the last page of my book I feel a tickling presence on my arm... Could it be? Slap. Fireant down. Forearm on fire. My leg! Slap. Nothing there. An ant on the pillow next to mine. One exaggerated sweep of the arm. Head itches. Left ankle. Belly. Ear. Nothing there. Yet.

These phantom feelings are legitimate responses to a higher probability that at this rate, I will most definitely be bitten at least fifteen times by 7am tomorrow. Provided that I exercise the same level of caution, which would be impossible since I will hopefully be sleeping soundly sans apocalyptic-scaled pain of fire. 

I shake my sheets, the cortisone on standby. My only consolation is that this created will not have an afterlife with the Creator. Is that harsh? Is that arrogant? Is that sacreligious? 

Perhaps in order to express the torment of my mind, although only a trifling matter, really, I must simply provide my faithful audience with Michelangelo's first painting. 

FIRE ANTS, EVERYWHERE

Ay Dryer

I only use the dryer to dry my jeans, socks, and sheets anyways.

Good thing I'm not too attached to my dryer.
Take me to South America anytime, ay ay ay!

The Glass Woman

"Amelie" is a movie near and embodied by my heart. Today I had a revelation about my future, and I am not too keen on its results. If you've never seen the movie, then further reading of this post would be futile, and I most certainly discourage it. You have been cautioned of wasted time.

The Glass Man is one of the most important characters in the movie, in my opinion, and it is not simply because my revelation was of the correlation between us two. You would remember that The Glass Man is so fragile that even a handshake would cripple his fingers, and he has painted the same painting every year for the past twenty years. 

I have painted the same painting FOUR TIMES this year already. I reckoned that if I keep this up until I am thirty, simple math would indicate that I will have forty fine birthday presents to give, given that I will have forty as equally deserving friends. Perhaps the more deserving will receive a set of three paintings (I still have to work out those details). But, I could be one of those people who hoards the identical paintings in a forgotten, musty closet, or then again displays all of them on one wall. 

And wouldn't you like to know what I've been painting! 

Engaged... preoccupied, but not by an engagement

I reactivated The Facebooks in lieu of connecting with my first overseas study abroad friend.

And then for an hour I proceeded to sift through all of the summer engagement photos I had missed on my almost two months long moratorium.

Here's to cats.

Shot odd

Every night at 10pm for the past week I have been sitting in my bed reading and eating cheese and crackers. And every night I hear a loud, gunshot-like pop. I anticipated today's supposed body count of 6, and disappointingly heard nothing.

Can't have it all.

Savage at Tinker Creek

"These are morning matters, pictures you dream as the final wave heaves you up on the sand to the bright light and drying air. You remember pressure, and a curved sleep you rested against, soft, like a scallop in its shell. But the air hardens your skin; you stand; you leave the lighted shore to explore some dim headland, and soon you're lost I'm the leafy interior, intent, remembering nothing."

Thank you, Ms. Dillard, for so putting into words the phenomenon of the inexplicable. 

Thankfully, I do not have a cat with bloody paws that look like roses, but I am quite sure that the dried bunch of roses on my dresser look like a cat's bloody paws. If not that, "the memory remains of something powerful playing over me." 

Old pims, they are

This is the first blog post I actually hope nobody I met today will read, and I doubt they will - unless they have impeccable stalking skills for their seasoned ages that are well over sixty. I don't exactly know how, but I always seem to be the one not only (and not distastefully) "stuck with" talking to the "old person," but I am the one who attends social gatherings of literally all elderly women. You bet I'm out finding a husband in this world -- lifetime!

I wouldn't exactly call some of them sages, just as I wouldn't call some of them the desired grandparents. Them. What is them? I've categorized the elderly as a them. Qualifications for being considered a them have been simplified to a mere ardent nature of reflection. I neither liked the ardent nature nor the reflections I received as being the objectified "young one." I attended a lovely tea party, as I was hoping to share camaraderie with humans other than I, me, and myself. I did, towards the end, finally meeting my own match (only off by sixty years), which did give me hope in the them race.

After making my rounds inside and always near the pastry and finger sandwich tables, I decided that I would like to talk outside in the most lovely backyard garden you'll see from here to Windsor Castle. I breathed in a full breath of fresh outside air and exhaled a heavy sigh of reproachful second-hand smoking. Pretty dress: ruined by a smoke smell. But what could I do? I had already become the object of them, teasing my youthful brain. It was not pleasant, for I could not identify with the secret of birthing either a boy or a girl, or the way menopause did all sorts of things, or how her fifth husband married her third husband, or how they drink every night until the morning. As in, how are they still alive?

I decided that by now all of us had had plenty to drink, and spirits being high and absurd I could get away with saying anything, regardless of my age. This was my chance, this was my time to make a statement. Bastille Day it was! But none of them were English so it wouldn't offend them anyways.

In the most -I have something extremely grave and important to tell you all as a secret- kind of way, I leaned in with authority. And then -in the most jovial manner, as a Edison would have when explaining his invention, or some mission-hearted coffee shop owner would when explaining the importance of freeing slaves through coffee and burlap, or Hitler when he was giving his grandly persuasive speech- I toasted to Bastille Day and everything commendable about it. Cheers all around with them who after the toast proceeded to ask me what Bastille Day even was. As my soul silently died inside upon brief explanation and they were no longer keen on catching up on the latest history, I realized that that was both exactly what I wanted to happen, and what I did not want to happen. I wanted to be able to share a celebration and understood word, but I didn't want to be "that youthful know-it-all." As I self-scorned and chewed on some Pimm fruit I thought to myself, "I have been put back in my place; time cannot be transcended."

A polite escape was excused by a scone, and that was when I met my match. Imagine having an hour-long conversation with an eighty-year old woman about Queen Victoria, shipyards, fedoras, and beastly men! She was my kind of woman.

... And this blog post has yet to be finished to compliment it's original objective, but seeing how it is late, and almost the close of Bastille Day, yes, that is an important detail, and my poor toxified by English pim soda fingers are not in full collaboration with my tired mind, I must retire, as this post must retire, for now, upon the close of Bastille Day. 

Bastille Day

How invigoratingly odd it was to be a half-Australian living in America, about to leave for Argentina on this Bastille Day, celebrating the upcoming birth of an English monarch for my afternoon tea.

Dream-promise

For the second time this year, I have been extremely blessed to have been touched by an angel through a dream, and I truly believe that it was more than simply a favoring situation in thought of resolve. 

I dream about people all of the time. I dream about people who are currently in my life, and I dream about people who have left it, but never about people who have died - except for these two instances, and even then, these angels were not on my heavy mind before my eyes shut their heavy eyelids on my heavy head that rested upon my comforting pillow. 

The first dream earlier this year comprised a conversation over tea. The second dream, the most recent, was simply a long hug. 

This long hug in my dream was a reminder to my subconscious that the presence of God is an ever-faithful and total loving in every season of my life. 

This dream has given me the encouragement to keep soldering on. 

Not that every dream has a particular meaning, and I'm not going to go soul-searching in my dreams, but I also do believe that if The Lord revealed his promises through dreams to many people in the Bible, then he can also use that avenue for me today. 

Press

"For what were so many thousands of victims sacrificed by the dagger? What were so many battles for if, in the end, you had to decide on a peaceful discussion in the press?"

Oh, CP as a LAS class. How you charmed me then. How you charm me now. 

Facundo is finally taking this savage to Argentina. 

zero dark thirty

The little sister was given an iTunes giftcard, and I would like to take this time to commend her choice of purchases.

As of now, we have
Zero Dark Thirty
Top Gun

If anyone would like to contribute to the Little Sister Inspired to join the military iTunes giftcard fund, please comment below.

angry doodles

Here's to the customer service aspect of my job.

To the man on the phone yelling "if I weren't in the store right now I'd be yelling at you!"

Try me. I bet you beat your wife and kids, and you probably kicked the cat while you were pouring your coffee this morning. So suck it. 

We appreciate your business. Thank you, and have a wonderful day, sir. 

Thank you for my angry doodles.

Terms & Conditions

I just read the entire Terms & Conditions for Instagram. 

Four points that were particularly interesting:

1. It is possible that Instagram may cause physical injuries. Instagram is not personally liable for these injuries.

2. It is not to be used as a means of stalking.

3. Exportation and software downloads from any country that has an embargo on goods with the U.S. are forbidden.

4. If used in a manner that is not in compliance with the Instagram specifications, one could be taken to local court.

Friday night. YOLO.

I am an enthused and enthusiastic enthusiast!

The plethora of travel blogs I've read today all include the same generic tag line: enthusiast.

Obviously. You wouldn't be personally blogging about any subject if you weren't absolutely enthusiastic about it, and you wouldn't be traveling if you weren't absolutely enthused about traveling.

You are an enthusiast, I get it. Whatever that really means...

Save yourself the space and description, and tell me something completely far out about yourself, other than I am oh so enthused and such an enthusiast about traveling.

Take Instagram descriptions, for example. My propensity to follow someone whose description is a quote from Nietzsche or George Villiers, 2nd Duke of Buckingham is more likely than if someone's description lists PETA or coffee connoisseur and travel enthusiast. No kidding.

Each to his own. And hey, at least you're an enthusiast about something. But let's not taint that word, shall we.

How about something spicy: 

1. coffee villain 

2. traveling serf  

3. "Ground beans are my juice!" 

4. "Finding my multiple personalities in every corner of this round world!"

5. "Self-scattering the groundwork for my future ashes."

6. "Losing my epidermis in as many places I can!"

7. "French Press or Bastille Day Bust"

8. "Cain't get better than rotting wood."

9. "My lunch, your lust."

10. "Professional Juanes stalker"

Anything, really, trumps "enthusiast." 

etsy -- from the future

The baby sister is setting up an Etsy account and asked me, "should I write my 'About' in third person -- how should I write it?"
I responded in a growling-whispering-ominously-toned voice "from the fuuuutttuuureee."

"Muwahahaha ra ra ra," I laughed in my head while I imagined some poor soul wondering in which dimension the baby sister was... or will be.

selfish jean

I bought a pair of the most rad jeans from a thrift store about eight years ago and have since then grown a few inches in height.

What was done to the jeans this morning: they were cut and made into shorts (definitely not bermudas). Holla.

Here's to another great eight years!

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Selfish Jean

Amp it off

How common, exactly, are index finger amputations? 

the tangibility of time

I'm a hypocrite. And I don't care.

After having a semi-okay-I-am-actually-slowly-dying-in-my-swivel-chair day at work, I decided that my shopping list and lust would have to be my shopping therapy for the week.

I spent 26.67% of an hour's worth of pay on a tube of purple lipstick. Living is expensive period, yet alone the pampering part. Should have gone for the black lipstick. Next time, over time.

South America, here I come!

online shopping!!!!! xoxox yippee

My idea of online shopping includes and only includes the following:
cheapest textbooks
Narnian swords (specifically High King Peter's)
Che posters
dainty signet rings
Anne Boleyn necklaces
teacups with thin lips
anything leathery
Army Surplus Store

... and it's not even shopping. It's more like browsing, lusting, and then going outside to paint.

Whim

I pulled out the cuticle from my left index finger ON A WHIM, yesterday, and now I can feel it pulsating in pain.

Once, I read a book about whims, ironically, while on a whim, and it seems as though I have proven the point on much smaller scale.

"Just as man cannot survive by any random means, but must discover and
practice the principles which his survival requires, so man’s self-interest
cannot be determined by blind desires or random whims, but must be
discovered and achieved by the guidance of rational principles. This is why
the Objectivist ethics is a morality of rational self-interest—or of rational
selfishness."
-On the Virtue of Selfishness, Ayn Rand

I was self-interested by a whim on which I acted by such a deed that was based on poor judgement with no concrete rationality at all -- by which, of course, I presumed as a first-response effort to maintain my general humanity, but in turn, was the exact antithesis of a desired rationale that would have kept me from harm and led a life of happiness. Morals are destroyed by whims. My finger still hurts.

whim. whim. wimp. whimper. in pain.

Gran-old-a

Happily eating a bag of the good granola from the Caf that I stole back in January. 

..... and it's currently July. 

Take that, Yolanda. 

furry belly-button

One Fuzzy Navel
Two Fuzzy Navels
Three Fuzzy Navels.
fuzzy fuzzy fuzzy for sure

ProsPhotos

Riddle:What is a memory on a wall with half a sky and no hands or feet?
Answer: A bad photo shoot.

Thanks, didn't need my coordinated shoes or wedding ring in the photo or anything. AND I LOOK LIKE I HAVE CANKLES.

The Effortless Effect

My efforts were completely effortless. (Other than the fact that the process of a thought requires a human being and their degrees of consciousness and unconsciousness.)

My effortless efforts were a mere demonstration of an inspiration I thought worth sharing with the being who inspired those thoughts in the first place.

If effortless inspiration or evocation happens in vain, does that then make it an effort?

... if a response or a non-response to the "effortlessness" yields disappointment?

I mean, it's not every day that just anybody evokes a degree of enthused effortlessness from Katie Savage.

Perhaps the effort effect is a statement that the effortlessness has a deeper meaning, a desire to express the effortlessness with effort, and a longevity.

Is this subtle flirtation at the core?

Please, take this effortlessness away from me so that the effort is beyond my reach, beyond my efforting ability, so a memory becomes unattainable.

Houston

Dear President Sam Houston of the Republic of Texas,
Thank you for the annexation.

But Houston, Texas sucks.
I drove THROUGH Houston today.
I hate Houston.

armed and alarmed

That moment when the house alarm goes off while everyone is sleeping... and all of the doors are closed and locked. 

Cue Jason Bourne heightened senses mode. 

*quietly grab bowling pin from under bed* 

Phone doesn't have a dial tone. 

*great, we're surrounded* 

Alarm deafens hearing. 

*stealth crawl to a better vantage point because hearing is now impaired* 

Sister walks out, turns on light, shotgun in hand, yells "why is it going off!"

*hold bowling pin above head while slowly rising from behind vantage point, Bowie Knife in other hand* 

Matriarch walks out with Bible and glasses in hand. 

*girls!*

Equally as confused. 

*phone rings*

*we would have been slaughtered by now, but thanks for the courtesy call*

"De cive"

On a scale of class being canceled to a day off work, I'd say that I pretty much annihilated an entire species of bird with one concentrated toss of a pebble. 

Forms, emails, applications, culinary endeavors, and books - all from the comfort of my fairy garden backyard. Thank you, cool front. 

fenced-in phantoms

One might be alone in their own backyard garden, but a sneezing phantom just might be on the other side of the fence.

Were my respects verbally paid? Yes. 

Was the phantom startled? Yes.

For it was I who then became the phantom on the other side of the fence.

I feel a haiku coming on...

variance

AAASSS

QPQPQP

HRHRHR

variance matrix