Those of you who know me even the slighest bit know that I love to read. I just finished Diary by Chuck Palahniuk (which was not my favorite of his) and am in the middle of Beloved by Toni Morrison (good, but I think I liked The Bluest Eye better) and Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Also, I am rereading The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros (who I love, especially Loose Woman).
On other fronts, the move to Newnan (for me at least) has been very slow. I just brought another car load of my things to the new apartment and there are probably two car loads left to bring. I spent the better part of today hanging pictures and putting books on shelves -- basically making my room my home. It may sound materialistic, but I like my things. I mean, really like my things. Or maybe what my things mean. I found hundreds of old pictures, my first drivers license, cards, wedding invitations, and a myriad of other things I've collected in 27 years. I found a scrapbook my best friend made for me when I moved from Dothan to Montgomery when I was 13, my senior yearbook, the ticket from the Dave Matthews concert we went to the summer we were 18, my Auburn student ID, and a bunch of Beckett's baby pictures. Recently, I've been feeling, well, out of it. I wouldn't say depressed, just maybe not like myself. These things were a great reminder of what a great life I've had. It's a reminder I desparately needed and welcomed whole-heartedly. A reminder of 27 years of people who have loved me, and more importantly, who I have loved. You all know who you are, from high school to college to law school. I have been a tremendously lucky girl. If I had a scanner near me, I would post some of the pictures here, for they contain the most wonderfully hilarious memories (maybe that will happen soon).
Now, onward to that blog challenge I have so gracefully avoided...
Day Twelve: A Picture of Something You Dislike
I got a lot of problems with a lot of things, and now you have to hear about them. Or read about them.
First and foremost, I am big on table manners. They are very important to me and I will not hesitate to judge you if your mama didn't teach them to you. Or if you weren't smart enough to figure them out for yourself.
And then there's the issue of grammar. I have no idea why the difference between your and you're, or there, their, and they're is so difficult to master, but apparently it is. I also take issue with the use of the following abbreviations: Ur, plz, cuz, etc. But I'm the girl who punctuates and capitalizes text messages, so what do I know?
There are, I'm sure, a million other things that I dislike. But in an effort to get me out of whatever funk I've been in lately, I'm not going to dwell on the negative any longer. Those are two things I dislike without having to think about it, and that will suffice for today.
I think I've posted this poem before, but I love it so much. It's by Sandra Cisneros and appears in Loose Woman, which was given to me by one of my favorite women (and oldest friends), Hillary Ballant Ryan, who you can find here.
There's a poem in my head
like too many cups of coffee.
A pea under twenty eiderdowns.
A sadness in my heart like stone.
A telephone. And always my
Night madness that outs like bats
across this Texas sky.
I'm the crazy lady they warned you about.
The she of rumor talked about -
and worse, who talks.
It's no secret.
I'm here. Under a circle of light.
The light always on, resisting a glass,
an easy cigar. The kind
who reels the twilight sky.
I'm witch woman high
on tobacco and holy water.
I'm a woman delighted with her disasters.
They give me something to do.
A profession of sorts.
Keeps me industrious
And of some servicable use.
In dreams the origami of the brain
Opens like a fist, a pomegranate,
an expensive geometry.
I haven't a clue
Why I'm rumpled tonight.
Choose your weapon.
Mine--the telephone, my tongue.
Both black as a gun.
I have the magic of words,
the power to charm and kill at will.
To kill myself or to aim haphazardly.
And kill you.