Rocking out the phone

Finally, finally, when my phone rings it plays Sweet Emotion. It took a long time to get the program to work and I had to do some fiddley reg edits, but it works. So call me so I can hear my song.

Because of Sarah's Emily

Always, forever my favorite.

Renascence -Edna St. Vincent Millay


All I could see from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood;
I turned and looked another way,
And saw three islands in a bay.
So with my eyes I traced the line
Of the horizon, thin and fine,
Straight around till I was come
Back to where I'd started from;
And all I saw from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood.
Over these things I could not see;
These were the things that bounded me;
And I could touch them with my hand,
Almost, I thought, from where I stand.
And all at once things seemed so small
My breath came short, and scarce at all.
But, sure, the sky is big, I said;
Miles and miles above my head;
So here upon my back I'll lie
And look my fill into the sky.
And so I looked, and, after all,
The sky was not so very tall.
The sky, I said, must somewhere stop,
And -- sure enough! -- I see the top!
The sky, I thought, is not so grand;
I 'most could touch it with my hand!
And reaching up my hand to try,
I screamed to feel it touch the sky.
I screamed, and -- lo! -- Infinity
Came down and settled over me;
Forced back my scream into my chest,
Bent back my arm upon my breast,
And, pressing of the Undefined
The definition on my mind,
Held up before my eyes a glass
Through which my shrinking sight did pass
Until it seemed I must behold
Immensity made manifold;
Whispered to me a word whose sound
Deafened the air for worlds around,
And brought unmuffled to my ears
The gossiping of friendly spheres,
The creaking of the tented sky,
The ticking of Eternity.
I saw and heard, and knew at last
The How and Why of all things, past,
And present, and forevermore.
The Universe, cleft to the core,
Lay open to my probing sense
That, sick'ning, I would fain pluck thence
But could not, -- nay! But needs must suck
At the great wound, and could not pluck
My lips away till I had drawn
All venom out. -- Ah, fearful pawn!
For my omniscience paid I toll
In infinite remorse of soul.
All sin was of my sinning, all
Atoning mine, and mine the gall
Of all regret. Mine was the weight
Of every brooded wrong, the hate
That stood behind each envious thrust,
Mine every greed, mine every lust.
And all the while for every grief,
Each suffering, I craved relief
With individual desire, --
Craved all in vain! And felt fierce fire
About a thousand people crawl;
Perished with each, -- then mourned for all!
A man was starving in Capri;
He moved his eyes and looked at me;
I felt his gaze, I heard his moan,
And knew his hunger as my own.
I saw at sea a great fog bank
Between two ships that struck and sank;
A thousand screams the heavens smote;
And every scream tore through my throat.
No hurt I did not feel, no death
That was not mine; mine each last breath
That, crying, met an answering cry
From the compassion that was I.
All suffering mine, and mine its rod;
Mine, pity like the pity of God.
Ah, awful weight! Infinity
Pressed down upon the finite Me!
My anguished spirit, like a bird,
Beating against my lips I heard;
Yet lay the weight so close about
There was no room for it without.
And so beneath the weight lay I
And suffered death, but could not die.

Long had I lain thus, craving death,
When quietly the earth beneath
Gave way, and inch by inch, so great
At last had grown the crushing weight,
Into the earth I sank till I
Full six feet under ground did lie,
And sank no more, -- there is no weight
Can follow here, however great.
From off my breast I felt it roll,
And as it went my tortured soul
Burst forth and fled in such a gust
That all about me swirled the dust.

Deep in the earth I rested now;
Cool is its hand upon the brow
And soft its breast beneath the head
Of one who is so gladly dead.
And all at once, and over all
The pitying rain began to fall;
I lay and heard each pattering hoof
Upon my lowly, thatched roof,
And seemed to love the sound far more
Than ever I had done before.
For rain it hath a friendly sound
To one who's six feet underground;
And scarce the friendly voice or face:
A grave is such a quiet place.

The rain, I said, is kind to come
And speak to me in my new home.
I would I were alive again
To kiss the fingers of the rain,
To drink into my eyes the shine
Of every slanting silver line,
To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze
From drenched and dripping apple-trees.
For soon the shower will be done,
And then the broad face of the sun
Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth
Until the world with answering mirth
Shakes joyously, and each round drop
Rolls, twinkling, from its grass-blade top.
How can I bear it; buried here,
While overhead the sky grows clear
And blue again after the storm?
O, multi-colored, multiform,
Beloved beauty over me,
That I shall never, never see
Again! Spring-silver, autumn-gold,
That I shall never more behold!
Sleeping your myriad magics through,
Close-sepulchred away from you!
O God, I cried, give me new birth,
And put me back upon the earth!
Upset each cloud's gigantic gourd
And let the heavy rain, down-poured
In one big torrent, set me free,
Washing my grave away from me!

I ceased; and through the breathless hush
That answered me, the far-off rush
Of herald wings came whispering
Like music down the vibrant string
Of my ascending prayer, and -- crash!
Before the wild wind's whistling lash
The startled storm-clouds reared on high
And plunged in terror down the sky,
And the big rain in one black wave
Fell from the sky and struck my grave.
I know not how such things can be;
I only know there came to me
A fragrance such as never clings
To aught save happy living things;
A sound as of some joyous elf
Singing sweet songs to please himself,
And, through and over everything,
A sense of glad awakening.
The grass, a-tiptoe at my ear,
Whispering to me I could hear;
I felt the rain's cool finger-tips
Brushed tenderly across my lips,
Laid gently on my sealed sight,
And all at once the heavy night
Fell from my eyes and I could see, --
A drenched and dripping apple-tree,
A last long line of silver rain,
A sky grown clear and blue again.
And as I looked a quickening gust
Of wind blew up to me and thrust
Into my face a miracle
Of orchard-breath, and with the smell, --
I know not how such things can be! --
I breathed my soul back into me.
Ah! Up then from the ground sprang I
And hailed the earth with such a cry
As is not heard save from a man
Who has been dead, and lives again.
About the trees my arms I wound;
Like one gone mad I hugged the ground;
I raised my quivering arms on high;
I laughed and laughed into the sky,
Till at my throat a strangling sob
Caught fiercely, and a great heart-throb
Sent instant tears into my eyes;
O God, I cried, no dark disguise
Can e'er hereafter hide from me
Thy radiant identity!
Thou canst not move across the grass
But my quick eyes will see Thee pass,
Nor speak, however silently,
But my hushed voice will answer Thee.
I know the path that tells Thy way
Through the cool eve of every day;
God, I can push the grass apart
And lay my finger on Thy heart!

The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide;
Above the world is stretched the sky, --
No higher than the soul is high.
The heart can push the sea and land
Farther away on either hand;
The soul can split the sky in two,
And let the face of God shine through.
But East and West will pinch the heart
That can not keep them pushed apart;
And he whose soul is flat -- the sky
Will cave in on him by and by.

The CD

Okay, so I'm obviously not the singer, but it's still really cool. This is my friend Monica's new CD Cover. I had a really good time doing all the CD work even with everything else in my life going on. So here's a sneak of the cover, shh, don't tell.

My mother

Wants to have a Harry Potter funeral.
Was mortified that I read in Elvish at my grandfather's funeral.
Makes me laugh.
Has turned out to be a better mother that she could have thought.
Loves me, no matter what.
Still can't figure out what our new holiday celebration will be.

Even Eighty is too young.

Grandpa was 46 when I was born, the first grandchild of five. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t part of the weft of my life tapestry. My first memories are mixed in with scents of their house, scrambled eggs, hot coffee, cinnamon toast, pine needles from the trees surrounding their house.



I was never too little, never too young, never kept from sharing his interests even though I was a girl. When they lived in Spring, Texas he would take us on walks through the pine woods around his house, pine needles crunching beneath our feet in the still air, pointing out trees and animals that seemed hidden to a small child.



I remember him leaving in the mornings for work, black lunchbox packed, and thermos full of coffee. Coming back covered in brick dust from building skyscrapers in Houston. He would have stories of his day to share while he changed into his professor clothes to go teach his evening courses at college.



On the weekends, he would show us the buildings he had helped build. He would point out where he had left his mark or signature worked into the design of the granite or brick buildings.



As we got older, my grandparents moved to the Woodlands, a suburb of Houston. Many more summers and vacations were spent here, walking the trails and learning from grandpa.



One of the most memorable was when I was not much older than my children are now. Apparently, nine is the perfect age for Earl grey tea. Grandpa drank hot tea every evening, but this night he brewed a cup for each of us, explaining how the tea brewed, the scent of Earl Grey tea filling the kitchen. He’d brew tea for each of us to share with him while the evening would down. After tea, was time to read and he chose to immerse us the world of J.R.R Tolkien’s the Hobbit. He enthralled us in the adventures of Bilbo Baggins, Gandalf, Golem and Smaug the dragon. I can still here his voice as he read the words of Golem and the deep throaty voice he used for Smaug. He passed his love for tea and adventures of Tolkien’s world on to all of us, but he didn’t just leave us with Tolkien and tea, he encouraged each of his grandchildren in their pursuits and hobbies. After he retired to Marion, he had the opportunity to help us mature from teenagers to young adults. We got to have not only our grandparents down the street, but an avid supporter of our passions. I feel in each of us, he saw aspects of himself mirrored back at him.



Grandpa loved to bicycle and still rode into the early 1990’s. He always encouraged us to ride with him. When they were still living in the Woodlands, we would all spend hours riding our bikes on the paths through the woods. While we all loved to ride, Catherine caught his passion. They would spend hours riding together. He also helped her train when she was preparing for bicycle races.



In Sarah, was mirrored his passion for teaching. Both he and Sarah were Emporia State University Alumni. He had to have been proud to have one of his granddaughters follow in his footsteps to give others the gift of knowledge.



Freddy followed in his footsteps and joined the Navy continuing a heritage of Military service. Catherine also joined the Army and was inspired by her grandfather’s service to his country.



Suzanne, while in the Marines for a brief period, shared Grandpa’s love for target shooting. He inspired her to become a better marksman.



I fell in love with photography and could not have asked for a better mentor or teacher. We could spend hours talking about techniques, what other photographers had done, and equipment. I was never more privileged than when he let me join him at coffee for a school photography assignment. He has helped me hone my art.



All of us share his love of reading. Any visit to his house would invariably lead to a discussion of what we were reading, what we enjoyed, and old and new favorite authors. We would always leave with either new books or lists of new authors to discover. Without grandpa, I never would have discovered J.R.R Tolkien, Edgar Rice Burroughs, or Julian May on my own.



Even though we are still on the road, and he’s taken a different lane, pieces of him will still live on in us, his friends, his children, his grandchildren, his greats and his greats to be. He inspired us with the best parts of himself, each of us getting a share to carry along the road.



So Jack, the road goes ever on and on and we’ll see you when each of us is done, waiting for us, surrounded by new friends with a mug and a story an the inn.

This time you get the fuzzy pom pom alien with feet.

I know none of you know what that means, but I do and he does and that's all that matters.