Sangria Montana Style

In other news, I make kick-ass Sangria—I only wish we'd had boot-shaped glasses, oh well, next time.

Joy's Punch
1 bottle of cheap cabernet
2 oranges, sliced and squeezed, added to mixture
1 lemon, cut in wedges, squeezed and added to mixture
half bottle of ginger-ale
half bottle of brandy
lots of ice
4 absinthe sugar cubes
Stir with a knife.
Mix in silver pitcher, serve in 1950s crystal tumblers.
Enjoy your hangover!

"I like how she's not drinking her own Sangria, it's really good though!"

WIN.

Hats: A Crowning Success

"I love your hat, when I was a girl I worked in a hat shop and oh did I have hats! I also had 32 pairs of high heels. But, when I got pregnant, I fell down the stairs in my heels and after that my husband burned them all, " she said pausing to peel the room with elderly and somber eyes, "it took weeks to get over."

It never ceases to amaze me how far the world has turned. My mom and I always wear hats on Easter Sunday, and sometimes Palm Sunday. The more elaborate the hat, the more we're winning. Though 832.5 miles away from mom, I continue this tradition—and quite frankly, it made my new church stir. I was even asked to help with the procession, "we're letting women do that now?" Said the usher, sarcastically, "well, you are an Apostate church," I retorted, "I think any church that does not allow a nice young lady in an Easter bonnet to carry in the cross, they are an Apostate church," interjected the pastor. Win.

This might sound superstitious and a bit puerile, but, I write better when I'm wearing a hat—specifically my black $5 cowboy hat, that is sun-bleached from living in the back window of Thundytoes, my car. If Scotch is a hug that you drink, a hat is a hug that you wear, for your head. (I should really write for the SAT people).

Whenever I feel sad or angry or upset in general, I always go visit the hats at the department store. I just feel better with them all around me. That and they all look good on me—they accept me. The hat section at Macy's is like my Tiffany's. (I wonder how much the SAT people pay?) When I put on a hat I feel special. Wow, I just typed that, but I mean it.

Random thought as I just saw an unfortunate looking dog pass by in the street, I wonder if ugly dogs know that they're ugly? I'm sure cats do, because cats are vain. This brings me back to the Dufflepuds in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.

I'm having thoughts all at once now. Shoe was right, "people accuse me of having my thoughts all at once—but really they come one after another, but you, Naomi, you really do have them all at once." :)

My Bible Has A Heartbeat

Christ the Lord is risen today—alleluia! He is alive—God is alive, and I refuse to keep Him in a neat fundamentalism-box! After a marathon of church (Thursday-Sunday) this week, I've began to feel real again—the realness C.S. Lewis described in The Great Divorce. Sometimes Lutrens (ya sure) scoff at the whole Faith by Reason deal and I suspect that is because often times churches ignore the liturgy, glaze over the meaningful aspects of being in Christ and the — quite literal — fire of God.


Easter Vigil will never be the same for me. Shoe procured a fire pit from an undisclosed location and we lit that puppy up like a good old hick fire. The Candle of Life was lit by this fire (see pictures), but unfortunately, maybe it was God's little joke, but there was about a 40 knot wind coming from, well, everywhere. We weren't so concerned about lighting the church on fire as much as lighting the pastor and assistant pastor on fire. It took all four pastors to light the stupid candle. Although flaming white robes would've been very dramatic, I think we prefer our clergy un-singed as well as un-hinged.

Shoe always brings exuberance and realness to his sermons and last night's did not waver in the howling wind nor in the face of the modern-fundamentalist evangelical-Christians and quite frankly the world. One of the things I love most about Bethlehem Lutheran is that they juxtapose relevant and prevalent issues into High Church—even on high Holy days—this is the modern Christianity that the world needs, not a rock show.

In my four or so months of attending Bethlehem Lutheran church, I have come to feel again, both joy, terror and Christ's strong, scared hand engulfing mine. So often we ignore the sprouting faith within us, as I have for some time, being churchless and all, but to turn our backs to the voice and Grace of God is just silly, and selfish.

Today leaves me feeling that my allegiance—my faith—to Christ has been re-affirmed and re-secured. And it is a good feeling. Happy Easter from the Lutrerns, ya sure!

Flip A Switch?

Letting something go should be as easy as flipping a switch, but it isn't. Neither is trusting, believing nor hoping. But we should all do so. I should've been less defensive, but I wasn't—but that's my personality. True. Lately, things have surfaced in ugly and unexpected ways, like a cancer—not the Zodiac, because Cancer's are alright. Wink.

What's thoroughly interesting, though, is that those who most think others should "let go" and easily so, are the ones causing the scenarios to be let go of. Or, they're the ones observing and not quite understanding what's going on.

Note: when God tells you to let something be, just do it. Nike.

Tenderized Me

I'm as tender as a peeled grape. I'm broken. This campus has finally gotten to me and I have snapped. The caged animal mentality has passed, lashing out is no more for I am now as a kitten rolled over on my back in vile submission to the dog that is the world. That was quite possibly the worst sentence/comparison I have ever written. I'm with it enough to recognize that, a step in the right direction.

No jazz for me tonight. Not even with the bribe of martinis. I can't hold it together around people. There is a sense of calm associated with losing it, though, I can stop fighting my emotions now. It's like the day after the election, when we're just all glad it's over. Now to rebuild the country within me. My writing improves.

Playing my cello is the only thing I seem to want to do. Tonight I ate an actual meal though, no more oranges for dinner. I need sustenance. The scriptures and cello feed my soul only I can feed my cells.

I Can't Ignore How Similar Loneliness and Hunger Are

I can't ignore how similar loneliness and hunger are.

Loneliness for an introvert is unbearable. As unbearable as the broiler setting would be to an ice cube—a different environment. I used to think of "keeping my sense of humor" as a strength. It's not, at least, not anymore. It's a mask—a shroud. Why cant I cry? Because I laugh, often maniacally. Now I find myself weeping on a "Sunsational" Saturday morning, I've lost the humor. I'm so Goddamn lonely and can't do a thing about it. So, let my hair down and go on and cry? OK. Check.

What does it solve, nothing. What does sleeping solve? Nothing. WHy sleep when you can worry? Worrying is, by nature, selfish, though, for we should trust God in all we do. Do you know how hard that is? What will become of me in life? What the hell have I done besides mess up after mess up? I don't even have a friend I could call right now. Not that I'm the "call you crying" type. No, which is why men love me. That, and my wit.

But wit is but a feather in my mask. I use it when I flirt and become vulnerable. I use it when I feel sad or * gasp * lonely. I use it when I'm nervous. One hell of a defense mechanism, don't you think? Reaction formation? I become witty when I come unglued, for wit is tight, calm, cool togetherness. I use it when I write these stupid blogs to keep from being "too emotional" or complaining. I hate complainers, but I hate false people even more-so.

Don't be fooled by my calm visage—I've been false. I've been hiding.

I hide behind the "I hate people" image, so many "friends" think I actually subscribe to, I don't hate people and I am not socially inept. I find most people iritating and FALSE. I want real, lasting, truthful realationships, but I do not find them. Howcan I be so open when I seek and do not find? Tell me, my extroverted social geniuses. Tell me.

I do not have a need to please everyone, or to have everyone accept me, but to paint me as "anti-social" or "depressed" or whatever, is just plain wrong. I hate it. I don't care if you like me, but please don't think that, anything but that. Children are the same story, I do not want them, and no it won't change when I have my own, because I'm not going to. Blah blah blah. I do not like them. Do I hate them, no. Do I hate anyone? No.

I just want to rest. I want to go home, but even home isn't really home anymore.

Poetry > Rage

It took me a while to channel my rage into poetry, it helps that the Writing Competition due date is tomorrow. Here goes...

“Coward”
By: N. Myrick

I simply shake my head at you —
sifting Voltaire,
and off of your Vanity,
peeling layer
after odious layer.

Noxious waves flow —
from your deceitful hole.
Your Silver tongue spews,
blames and excuses.
It penetrates my nostrils, ears and bones.

So flee, coward, to your layer —
stew in blackest dank and putrescence.
And concerning wrath and ware,
you’ll be in my prayers.
Your heart so full of fear.

And for the ex-wife, of course...

“An A Flat Major Kind of Day”
By: N. Myrick

It’s an A Flat Major kind of day.
The landscape entombed by apathetic snow.
Frost fills the inside of my small vessel.
As an already dank morning sits on my head,
sinking claws of still dissipating wine into my scalp.
All fibers forebode betrayal—my unconscious stirs.

My head swims as I re-enter our happy home,
And there you sit, perched frozen in icy guilt.
Barely look at me — go ahead and
pull the strings of your puppet dad—
or the boyfriend figure with dumb beady eyes.
Do I not look surprised?

It’s an A flat major kind of day.
An ugly key in which we play.
Beautiful, sorrowful, though,
sharp tones and major falls paint our trials,
with indubitable plotted perfection.
Marks the beginning of downward progression.

Returned again upon sunlit afternoon reeling ambushed rejection,
steamy eyes, searching for a couch on which to cry.
But the floors are as barren, as your heart is for me.
Upon discovery, you both emerge and smile audaciously.
Nodding in repugnant realization I exit,
the human fiends — leaving them to dragonish subsistence.