Well, I just finished the walk for Cistic Fibrosis. It was great…almost two hours long. My legs are burning, but it’s all good. I’m not entirely sure what C. F. is, but I know a girl at home that has the disease. When she was eight years old, they gave her two years to live. That was a year ago. She’s so precious.
I had the strangest dreams last night.
Maybe it’s part of my sadistic nature–listening to music being sung in some unknown language I will never understand, all the while wishing I knew what was being said.
One of the girls on my hall last night told me my room was “peaceful”. I really like that. I’m looking at it right now, my room, my “house”, my little corner of the world. My name means “peace”, did you know that? I love to bask in the sunlight of belonging, that feeling that oneself and one’s belongings match. For example–it’s like when you’re driving through, well, anywhere; and you’re listening to the radio, and all of the sudden a song comes on that fits your surroundings so perfectly, you feel as if you’re in a movie and for the first time you can actually hear the soundtrack playing in the background.
Except…things are not quite perfect in peace-land–can one be sadistically peaceful? Or peacefully sadistic? I’m not sure. I’m not worried about it, though.
Putumayo puts together the best compilations.
Tonight is open mic night at Thirsty Thursday’s–for music or poetry, or what have you. There’s karaoke too, which should be highly amusing to watch. I’ve only done karaoke once, and I’ll never do it again.
If I were brave enough I’d read something of mine, or Bryce’s, but I don’t think I am. I don’t really have a “poetry-reading” voice. Instead of sounding profound I just sound like I’m trying too hard. Maybe, I could bring things and make some random person read them.