Define God

I made a post along these lines of Facebook, but the feedback was extremely limited. So I appeal to you, the smaller but more motivated (maybe?) readership.I would like to collect short essays by Manchester College students and graduates answering the question, "who (or what) is God?" You can run in whatever direction you like with this question, talking about how you see God, how you communicate with God, what characteristics define God... how you answer is entirely up to you. And I'm not looking for any target group to respond; it's the diversity of faith that interests me, whether it be within the Church of the Brethren, throughout Christianity, in other religions or in the absence of religion altogether.

If you can find the time, I would love for you to write a short essay and e-mail it to me. If you don't have contact information for me, sending it to nmkauffman (at) manchester (dot) edu will suffice. Or, particularly if your answer is extremely short and you want to share it here, you could just comment on this entry. My ultimate goal is to collect enough of these essays to make a small book, which I will self-publish and give to the chapel and library (I can also have copies printed for anyone who wants their own).

The strike continues

Nyssa's comment notwithstanding, I am still officially on strike. But for one comment, I suppose I can write one entry.

I write this blog for everyone. It's public. It's not hidden, password protected, or restricted in any way. And there's no one I don't want to see it. Still, it's funny how knowing that particular people have joined your readership can change your writing. Can cause censorship, or even an utter failure to create.

I guess it's like some of the shyest people still being able to act - the public audience is a faceless one. But knowing one face in the crowd can make an amateur actor forget his lines... or an amateur writer lose his sting.

Me and the writer’s guild

Have you ever had someone mad at you, refusing to talk to you, and you didn't know why? That's no good for anyone, and I make sure to communicate better than that.

I am on strike from this blog until I get comments on my entries. Otherwise I assume I am writing merely for my own amusement, and I have a hardcover journal for that.

A photographical treat

I was thinking about making this a big long post with lots of photos and stories, but then I decided I just couldn't choose a handful of photos and leave all the other ones out. Also, my internet is being real slow. So here's another photo:

We had just come back from hiking up the mountain in Tepotzlán and had set off looking for some pulque, an alcohol older and more traditional in Mexico than tequila. That was a bad idea, but that's a story for another time. During our quest we found a touristy little shop that sold, among other things, about 857 different flavors of creamy alcohol, of which they were only too happy to bring us unsolicited free samples as long as we stood around pretending to consider buying things. Eventually they brought out these fancy goblets fashioned from a ram's horn, as you can see in the picture. We thought about waiting around to see if they'd bring us a cloak and sword, but as our wise BCA director Rob said, "We should leave before we get drunk and start buying shit."

Sandpaper

Shards of broken glass scatter on all sides as I hit the ground rolling, then running, hating and loving all at the same time and wondering where all the wine that used to refill itself in the empty glass went, because it's not here anymore, unless you count the purplish stain on the tablecloth in a suspiciously convenient location.  But that never did any good but to the dogs, and I'm not about to wring out cotton over my glass, so all I can do now is pick apart the words spoken by someone who never meant them and try to find a deeper significance to explain to the students and teachers, hoping and praying that the world will see some genius that has been missed by all others since the first time the window broke.

Breakout

Careening off the interstate seems to be a theme for the battered blue Toyota that never dies, though it slashes through guardrails and rolls through ditches.  I am in invincible, bulletproof, on the verge of being able to fly and leave this stupid car in the dust behind me, never again worrying about the money that spews forth from the exhaust pipes or the blood that pools on the ground behind, too much for survival but too little to account for everything, so you know there's a broken body still hidden in a shallow grave somewhere along the road.  I can still be brought down by the right shot and the woman in the lab coat knows how to take it, and for all my abilities I can't break through the cold steel of handcuffs or the harsh iron of prison bars or even the one disparaging glance of the man in tan, all conspiring to hold me in and keep me from doing a shred of good.

Sacrifice

What must I have felt?  A strange question, I'm sure, but I promise you I'm looking at videos that show me in a place of which I remember nothing.  There's the man in the perfectly pressed business suit, standing with his hands upraised as if in prayer, receiving some guidance or strength from above, or perhaps simply in reverence for himself and his sacrifice.  Hollow thumps of polished shoes echo against the shiny wood floor as his enemies bear down on him, their knives and guns at the ready, but he offers no protest as they take him away to be burned.

Switchblade

The cool touch of the night twists through the narrow gap of the window, ducking under the curtains like a creeping tendril searching for a tidbit to bring back to its owner.  I see it, of course, sitting still as could be on the bed, staring out at whatever it is I can't see but feeling it calling to me and not knowing whether I'm on the verge of seeking a new and important truth or just about to become somebody's next lunch.  The friend beside me smiles up, knowing no more than me but entirely unworried for my safety or his, because as far as he's concerned I can do no wrong, and I realize that underneath his furry features is hidden the very essence of friendship, and I finally understand what it is that keeps me on course on such a tumultuous river.  The steady hand on the paddle and the constant vigilance of the crow at the stern guarantee that I will not stray no matter how much I do, for the divisions and the flood-plains and the inlets all re-converge, carrying an uncertain me to the magical pond with that perfect log for sitting and watching owls.  And right there, right here, right now, in this exact moment I realize that the majesty of such a creature is far beyond my humble sins, but that I will spend my lifetime drowning any who have the arrogant audacity to so much as look where their eyes don't deserve to look.  I will be the guardian of my fellow sinners, and together we will cross streams with our eyes downcast, as much to hide them from the sun as to watch our footing.

Some countries are islands

Mexico is not an island. It has a massive northern border with the United States and a smaller southern border with Guatemala. Mexico has vibrant (if not healthy) trade relations with the U.S. thanks to NAFTA, and immigration from Mexico to the U.S. is the largest country-to-country immigration in the world. In fact, more Mexicans are living in other countries than are any other nationality. But sometimes you can still feel really alone here.

I don't write about my feelings based on the theory that nobody has the slightest interest in spending their time reading a website on which someone writes about his or her feelings. But as this blog is supposedly about frosting, cake, Mexico and me, I think in this case it applies.

I think there's a difference in attitude between year-long and semester-long BCA students. The semester students can't wait to get home. Some of them hate being here. Some of them talk eagerly of their upcoming returns to the United States. In contrast, the four year-long students love it here. We can't imagine ending our Mexican life in just two weeks. We're just getting started. Hell, we're still getting on our feet - how could we leave now? As such, I think homesickness has been more an issue for the short-termers, while we're more likely to just accept that we're building a life here.

I have not once felt homesick since I got to Mexico. Our BCA director at Manchester has this whole elaborate theory of the homesickness pattern, but I haven't found that it applies to me. Sure, I miss Manchester. Sometimes I get crazy and even miss Goshen (don't get me wrong, I love Goshen as a place - I just don't have much of a life there). But I never wish I weren't here, nor do I ever feel any pangs or longing to be somewhere else. No homesickness for me.

That is, until last night. I had an unpleasant conversation with my mom that left me feeling rather upset and alone. I couldn't talk to Dad, because he was really busy. I thought through my friends I felt I could talk to, and unfortunately several of them are, like me, in other countries and unreachable by phone. I tried a few friends in the U.S., but nobody picked up their phone. I was very, very alone. And it sucked.

I talked to Mom today, and things are looking up. Connection-wise, anyway. The fact remains that I literally have no money - an ATM stole my last $100 from the bank yesterday, and I have my doubts as to whether the bank is going to pay up. I'm getting back from BCA too late to secure a summer job, which means I'll be going into next year - renting an apartment and paying for food - completely broke. I hate money. I hate that a lack of it can threaten my plans - my ability to stay a second semester in Mexico, my ability to have an apartment next year. Going to annual conference is definitely out.

There is one bit of good news from last night, though. I stumbled across (okay, ruthlessly hunted down) this study. I'll quote the last paragraph for you: "These findings suggest that complete abstinence from alcohol during the acute and convalescent phases of viral hepatitis does not influence the final outcome of the disease in patients who are not chronic carriers. Moderate alcohol intake does not seem to be harmful."

Word.

Faking precedent

Regardless of what my personal opinion may be, it always annoys me when people start acting all indignant about the law and their rights over things where they are clearly on the wrong side of the law, or at least of its widely accepted interpretation.

Examples:

[Situation]
At the beginning of last year, when a comedian was kicked off stage at Manchester for using hate speech and being wildly offensive. People started throwing a fuss about free speech and how Manchester was infringing on our rights, saying "free speech is dead at Manchester." Later that year, a discussion arose on the board outside the Peace Studies lounge asking "should Manchester College have a hate speech code?" One answer read simply, "NO! First amendment!"
[Fact]
First, we should make clear that declaring codes against hate speech or indecncy in violation of the First Amendment is not exactly settled law, though it seems to be getting in that direction (thanks in part to the ACLU). But more applicably, the First Amendment declares that "Congress shall make no law... abridging the freedom of speech..." It says nothing about Manchester College, a private institution that is well within its rights to restrict hate speech as much as it wants.

[Situation]
I was arrested in March on charges of criminal trespass in the Federal Building in Fort Wayne, Indiana, while sitting with two friends (Cliff and James) in the hallway outside Senator Lugar's office. We were praying, reading the names of Indiana soldiers killed in Iraq, and talking with each other, all while "occupying" the hallway and awaiting Senator Lugar's full support of complete troop withdrawal or, more likely, arrest. At around 3pm we were arrested by U.S. Marshals and later transferred to the Allen County Jail. Friends and allies consistently expressed anger at our arrest, and a popular slogan in the area peace community and on websites became "Arrested for praying."
[Fact]
We were in a publicly-owned building inside normal business hours when we were arrested, and we were not causing any sort of a disturbance. But the fact is we were willing to stay until after business hours and had every intention of being arrested. And the White House is public property, but that doesn't give you the right to waltz into the President's bedroom. We disobeyed a direct order by a U.S. Marshal to leave the hallway. We were, in fact, engaging in criminal trespass, and it was no injustice that we were arrested. I think some people want the government to be the "bad guy" in every situation, and they were quick to grab our arrest as a great example of horrible oppression. That's a lost cause - we were breaking the law (a perfectly reasonable law at that), and we were willing to accept the consequences. I'm sure Cliff and James would be with me in saying our arrest is not where we want people to focus their attention - instead, we rather hoped our arrest would direct attention at the injustice of the war itself.

[Situation]
Tv-links.co.uk, a popular website for viewing TV shows and movies, was recently shut down and its owner arrested. There were indignant protests on Digg, saying this isn't democracy and we're on our way to a complete loss of our rights, and, as always, more comments about the First Amendment.
[Fact]
The U.S. Constitution does not say anything about guaranteeing the right to take a video camera into a movie theater and post the movie on a website, and no court has ever ruled that movie or television piracy is protected under freedom of speech. I'm opposed to copyright law and enforcement and all for the free flow of ideas, but I don't think any of it is illegal or unjust.

Mexican Lava, American Pie

Classes were canceled yesterday because November 20 is el Día de la Revolución, so Rob, Norma, Amy, Jared and I went up to Volcancillo, an extinct volcano half an hour or so outside of Xalapa. Boy was that an awesome trip... we hiked up to the rim of the volcanic crater, which is basically like being on the edge of a cliff except the cliff encircles a huge crater. Then we crawled into a tiny lava tube and followed it down the hill a ways, at times having to lie on our backs and scoot ourselves along with the cave ceiling just inches from our noses. Claustrophobia, anyone? After that we went to a much bigger but far more out-of-the-way cave, where we had slow going because it wasn't exactly fixed up for tourists. Our only sources of light were four (and at times just two) candles, which we trusted to show us the difference between a rock we could step on and "the abyss" (in reality, usually just a gap where you could fall two or three feet, but still quite dangerous in our situation). We finished off the day by eating at a nearby restaurant, where I had rabbit. It doesn't taste bad, but I wouldn't recommend it - you're paying a lot for a rather pathetic quantity of meat.

Today turned out to be the worst day ever to take public transportation because, as you may have noticed, yesterday was just the 19th of November. Today was the real holiday, so the streets were jammed with parades and people standing around not doing anything. I understand the extended weekend mentality, but I really think they could have canceled classes today. I hopped into a yellow line colectivo (a van) because I was too lazy to walk to school, which turned out to be a big mistake. I started to realize this when the driver kept following 20 de noviembre (that's the street name) when he should have gone onto Xalapeños Ilustres. When I questioned him about this, he said not to worry. Apparently "don't worry" means "I'm taking you to the middle of fucking nowhere," because when I finally gave up and got out of the van I had absolutely no idea where I was. Trusting my innate ability to intuit the general direction of el centro, I wandered around for about an hour before finally finding familiar territory, forcing my way through crowds of people and arriving at the school, forty minutes late for class.

Thursday will be some sort of presentation at my school about various ethnic foods, an event in which students are encouraged to take part, bringing traditional dishes from their home countries. This begs a question that has come up several times here: is there really any traditional American food? We have a HUGE variety of food, and while you might attribute burgers and fries to a normal American diet, they're hardly traditional, nor are they unique to our fine country. I will venture so far as to claim that we do not, in fact, truly have traditional food, and I'll also speculate as to the reason: we're a nation of immigrants. Other western hemispheric nations, like Mexico, have notable indigenous populations with their own traditional dishes, as well as foods from the conquering lands (i.e. Spain). We, however, have virtually no remaining indigenous population (not to marginalize what American Indians are left), and our heritage is so diverse we don't have one or two countries providing native dishes. Our diet includes elements from Italy, France, England and Germany (and now even Mexico, another relatively new country). And while we can find a few stereotypical items like meatloaf and mashed potato items (or more accurately, corn and turkey), we really don't have much in the way of our own line of actual traditional dishes.

But then, nothing's more American than Apple pie!

(We also invented the burrito).

All things beyond my control

(Written yesterday and contains more interesting things than my smelly socks)

My room smells, and it is not a pleasant smell of daffodils or skunk (which I do appreciate). More like the kind of smell you'd expect from opening the 3-year-old gym bag you just found or sitting near the bathroom on a 10 hour bus ride in Mexico. I spent much of this morning following my nose around my room, attempting to locate its source. It's amazing how the human nose can pick up subtle smells from tiny particles, yet we never seem to be able to track down where they're coming from. I checked my shoes to see if they could be at fault (I do believe I walked through dried-out vomit on my way home last night), but they did not appear to be the focal point of the smell. I checked all corners of the room for dead animals. In the end, the culprit was clear: the socks I'd worn in the rain yesterday and put outside my window to dry had, due to what I can only assume was overnight rain, not done so, and the smell was wafting into the room. Mystery solved.

The socks weren't the only thing emitting a foul odor, though. Last night, as some of you might be aware, was a CNN Democratic presidential debate, starring Hillary Clinton, Barrack Obama, John Edwards, Bill Richardson, Dennis Kucinich, Chris Dodd and the unforgettable Joe Biden. I'm right there with all the pundits who say Clinton basically carried the debate - after weeks of Obama and Edwards taking shots at her, she showed up well-rested and well-spoken and managed to rise above the squabble, though not without a little help from Wolf Blitzer, who seemed to be keen on interrupting and patronizing everyone but her.

Obama and Edwards were just outright embarrassing. Obama spent the evening tripping over himself and failing to answer questions, while Edwards came across as hot-headed and angry. Joe Biden was his usual hilarious self, repeatedly saying things like "Let's just cut the crap, America doesn't care about this stuff" and being the only candidate to answer yes or no questions with a yes or no.

In my mind, the shining stars were Kucinich (who I always love) and, actually, Bill Richardson, who I hadn't paid much attention to before but now am starting to like. Richardson won my heart by saying "give peace a chance" and saying human rights should get a higher priority than percieved national security. Meanwhile, Kucinich just agrees with me on every issue out there.

A couple of my favorite moments:

Hillary Clinton was asked whether it was true that her campaign was playing the gender card. She said no, absolutely not, and that she's running for president not because she's a woman but because she's the best qualified candidate. She went on to tell an allegory of a 95-year-old woman who shakes her hand and says "I was born before women could vote, and I want to live long enough to see a woman be president."

How is that not playing the race card?

And finally, my favorite:

Moderator: "Mr. Kucinich, you're the only person on stage that had the opportunity to vote on the Patriot Act and voted against it..."
Kucinich: "Because I read it."

And, since this post is regarding all things beyond my control, I want to express dismay that I'm being charged 920 pesos (90 dollars) to replace the lens mechanism on my camera.

Finally, I continue to be frustrated by some comments apparently not showing up. Try leaving some and see what happens.

Further thoughts regarding my arrest

Unlike my last piece discussing my arrest in Fort Wayne two months ago, which was written for the osteinsible purpose to justify my actions to my employers and with the intent to convince them of my position themselves, and which was organized using some regard for appropriate English composition, this post will just be a collection of thoughts with no editing work. You have been warned.

My arrest keeps coming back to haunt me... or rather, to praise me. I think I'd prefer the former - not because I don't like positive attention (I admit it, I do), but because like it or not, I don't really know what to do with it. It would be one thing if I ran a 5k in world record time or something, but I'm not convinced I did anything special. At the risk of sounding preachy, it's not accomplishment that people like me are out getting arrested. It's a shame that more people aren't. I reluctantly accept speaking engagements and - more reluctantly - my father's constant bragging, but while part of my motive was personal, I never wanted this much attention.

I did want to get arrested for selfish reasons - I wanted to show myself that I could do this, set a precident for being willing to risk the consequences of my convictions, and have the exciting new experience of being thrown in jail. And I did, in a way, want to be a symbol. Not a symbol in that everyone praises what I did, but a symbol in that I hope I can in some way show others that they too can go out and (try to) make a difference, consequences be damned. In terms of how much we're willing to sacrifice for our way of doing things, I think we're still lagging way behind military personnel. That's we, me included, because while I think I would be willing to give up my life for peace, I still seek the luxury of planning out exactly what risks I'm going to take. I'm still convinced Jesus calls us to a more active discipleship than that.

Let me expand on my comment that I want more people to get arrested. According to one diagram (I forget the original source, so I can say it's mine, right? At any rate, I learned this from Matt Guynn of On Earth Peace), a social movement includes four types of actors: The citizen, who earnestly follows a lifestyle reflective of the movement's values; the reformer, who seeks to change the system from within and advocates a patient pursuit of legislative action; the change agent, who recruits others to the cause and supplies information; and finally, the rebel, who wants change now and seeks to bring it about by more radical means (e.g. civil disobedience). The original author of this concept asserted that all four roles are crucial to the movement, and I agree (my favorite is the citizen, actually). But I firmly believe that the peace movement has a great scarcity of rebels, and those we have are often sadly untrained, unfocused and unprepared for their actions. Additionally, many who seek rebellious paths do not show Christlike love for their enemies or a deeply held conviction to nonviolence. This is not to criticize those persons, but to demonstrate the need for committed nonviolent Christians to take part in organizing, preparing for and executing civil disobedience.

Another thing I don't especially appreciate is the indignant response some people have to the Marshals arresting me. There's been talk of my rights being violated - and I can't help but mention, since this is a personal reflection, that the U.S. Marshals did very clearly violate my first amendment rights a few minutes after the arrest - but let's get one thing straight: yes, I should have been arrested. We weren't just visiting our representative, nor were we arrested for praying. Yes, we were in a public building, but we were in a part where there was no staff to supervise us, and the U.S. Marshals told us to leave. We refused. Yes, we were arrested during normal business hours, but we had every intention of staying until we were put in handcuffs (honestly, the early arrest spared us hours of boredom and a late night in the Allen County Jail). If we fight the premise of our arrest then we undermine the very convictions for which we were arrested. If we manage to weasel our way out of trouble with arguments about public property and first amendment rights, then we aren't really making any statement because we're not willing to sacrifice. As Martin Luther King, Jr. stated, a crucial element to civil disobedience is a willingness to accept the consequences, because that shows the highest respect for the law.

I hope I haven't bored you too much. As always, feel free to share my thoughts with anyone you like, but also feel free to just absorb it yourself. If I were going for circulation, I'd write to a magazine.

Foundations

Tinnish noises fall from the speakers that desperately need replacing over the scuffed brown floor of the roller rink, reflecting, *I* think, the hollow noises that still spring forth through voice and pen like harsh laughter at a statement that, you realize a second too late, was never meant to be a joke. Once upon a time there was a place to ice skate on the island in the middle of the dirty brown Elkhart river, but time or tiredness or financial trouble or who knows what wore it down to its very foundations, and now all one can find there is dirt and plants and mosquitos whining incessantly past our bare ears. You have to wonder, really, whether the emotion invoked by those worn-out and abandoned places where teenagers used to hold hands is one of listless romanticism or pure, wistful depression. There is the sadness at such a dreary image, but there is the joy at feeling such sadness. And you - yes, silly girl, you - you know what I'm talking about. I see you standing there staring at the overgrown foundations with a sparkle of what you want to be a tear waiting in the corner of your eye for you to muster enough feeling to force it out, because we all know crying is a hell of a lot better than the tormented in-betweenness I see you living, always drifting between the shores but never quite settling on either one.

the dancer

The slow silk waterfall caresses her skin, dancing down her arm and weaving its way around her wrist, a ribbon of meaning from a stream of thought that usually flows too subtly for there to be much commotion about it.  She smiles the sad smile that makes me long to be seen, for there is not enough in me to offer all the love she draws out of me.  She tosses the white scarf more securely over her shoulder - somehow it remains dry in the midst of the water - and dances gracefully to the riverbank, and with a playful wink and a child's laughter she is lost in the trees.  Yet when I listen, I can hear her song, soft and pure as no other could ever sing, and I feel certain that home cannot be far away.

A Letter to a Death Row Inmate

Dear Kevin,

I hope this letter finds you well. I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to get back to you - I have been crazy busy for the last several weeks. I was in a play - Shakespeare's "Much Ado About Nothing" - which was pretty much my life. It's over now, though, which gives me some much needed free time.

First, I'll give you some updates from my life. As you know, I spent my January session in Mexico. I was taking Spanish classes down there and just generally enjoying the sun and beach - we have neither in Indiana in January. I also got to visit some Mayan ruins, which were really interesting, and of course the food was amazing. Unfortunately, I also caught a Malaria-like disease called Dengue Fever, which had me out of action for a week. I thought it funny that I got Dengue in Mexico, since when I was in Costa Rica last January there was a big scare about it but I was fine there. Dengue is mosquito-borne, and I guess if you get it a second time there's a 30% chance it will kill you.

The trip helped me decide something, though. I'm going to study in Mexico starting this September, for at least a semester and possibly a year. I'm not sure how we'll stay in touch, but I'll figure something out.

In other news, I got an internship in Elgin, IL for the summer. It starts in early June, and as soon as I find out where I'm staying I'll get you the address. Sorry I keep jumping around... eventually I'll settle down. Anyway, I'll be working for The Messenger, the Church of the Brethren news magazine.

So how are you? What's been going on lately? What's it like there? Obviously you don't have to answer these questions if you don't want to, but I am interested in you as a person and I do care about you. I also know you don't talk very much about yourself, though, so you don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to.

You asked quite some time ago what I would do to change the world if I could, and to not answer with "world peace." Fair enough. I think before we can have world peace, we need world justice. I think world peace is prevented by corruption of leadership, power differentials, poverty gaps, oppression... a lack of justice. I don't know. Justice might be a word you would consider overused or abused... I certainly think the Justice System could use a lot more justice. To me, the primary element of justice is the recognition of the infinite worth of every individual, and I don't think the courts have that. Then again, all I'm going on is Law & Order reruns, a high school law class and whatever I pick up with my peace studies major. You're probably much more an expert than I am.

My dad once told me "if you want peace, work for justice." I'm not sure exactly what he meant... he's a mayor and sometimes hints that he'd like me to become a cop (ha!), so he may not have been referring to the social justice and equality focus that is much more my thing. At any rate, I didn't like the saying at the time because I'd recently heard a lot of "justice" talk being used to talk up invading Iraq. It was only later that I came to understasnsd the importance of a different kind of justice.

As long as the poor wait at the gates while the rich feast on ten times their share, there will be no peace. As long as we would rather hit back than understand why someone hit us in the first place, as long as our leaders govern and we merely follow, as long as our simple greed and fear are causing the unnecessary deaths of thousands every day, we cannot possibly think to have peace.

As for what I can do... well, I can't change the world. I am one young man with big dreams, disappointingly little motivation, a lack of patience and a quick temper to boot. But I can do my part, and hope that thousands of other dreamy, angry young men do theirs until something gives way.

What's my part? Community peace. Community justice. All I can do is apply my grand vision for the world to how I treat those around me, to how I live my life in the here and now. One kind word can make a big difference. Gandhi said, "be the change you wish to see in the world." This is a step up from the Golden Rule. Treating others as you'd like to be treated is one thing, but to act as you wish ALL others to act is a higher standard, for we always hold our society to a higher standard than we do ourselves.

I hope that you are doing well, and I look forward to hearing from you again.

Your friend,

Nicolas

Snow Angels

Four snow angels, all side-by-side in the crisp white on the back yard. I'm not quite sure how they got there... one I made in a dream, I know that much. And then one looks as if it was made with hope. As if I hoped I was going to make a snow angel, but knew from the start it wasn't going to come out right... see where the robe isn't quite formed, and the wings don't quite stretch high enough. One I don't remember making at all, so I don't even know if it counts. And one I'm lying in, right now, moving my arms up and down and staring at the sky.

It's funny, you know, lying here in the snow where the world makes sense. I know as soon as I get up my perspective will change and everything will be all upside-down, just like before, and just like forever more. I imagine what would happen if I wrote this story down, and I laugh out loud. People will read it, I say to myself, and they'll wonder what it means.

Well, it doesn't mean anything. Not from where you're standing. You have to lie here in the snow with me. There's another snow angel planned; I've left space. We'll lie here together and stare at the sky, and then - maybe then you'll see.

Melancholy

Blotted ink is scattered across the crumpled scrap of notebook paper, spilling blackened feelings and hidden dreams in a futile effort only good in fairy tales and romances, where flowers and chocolates give way to perfect speeches in perfect rain with a perfect soundtrack.  But I don't have a soundtrack and without that the rest is all in vain, having no more worth than the words of good intention from the talking dummies in the store window, programmed to say all the wrong things for all the right reasons but never able to break through into the bitter reality that only the living know.