Precious in the sight of the Lord are the death of his servants.

Billie Maxine Paul McKinney
1927 - 2007

     Billie Maxine Paul McKinney, 80, beloved Mother, Grandmother, Great-Grandmother, Sister and friend passed peacefully on June 21, 2007, after a valiant fight against a debilitating auto-immune disorder. Billie, nicknamed Winkie by her sister Betty for her skill playing the game of Tiddlywinks, was born in Memphis, Tennessee January 19, 1927 to Erman F. and Edna M. Paul. She moved to Las Cruces with her family in 1945, where she graduated from Las Cruces Union High School and later married Dan McKinney.
     After raising a family of three sons and one daughter, Billie and Dan divorced and Billie moved on to work as a licensed practical nurse. As a nurse, Billie served the Las Cruces community for 21 years, touching the lives of many. Upon retiring from her work at Memorial General Hospital, Billie enjoyed working at several national parks, traveling through the United States, Canada and Europe, gardening, and spending time with friends and family.
     Billie was preceded in death by her parents, sister Martha Joy Paul and former husband Dan McKinney. Billie is survived by sisters Kathryn Phaup, Betty Maluf Tver, and Nancy Aderhold and her husband Jon, son Jim McKinney and wife Elaine, son Daniel Dale "Bear" McKinney and wife Lucille, son Bill McKinney and wife Helen, daughter Barbara Streander and husband Kim, granddaughter Melissa Roetker and husband Sean, granddaughter Melanie Gonzales and husband David, grandson Dan McKinney, granddaughters Megan and Kate McKinney, granddaughters Lauren and Kristen Streander, great-granddaughters Layne Roetker and Amber Gonzales and great-grandsons Nick and Mathew Gonzales.
     Aunt Winkie leaves behind many nephews and neices. She is also survived by extended family Della McKinney, James and Sheila Richardson, Nita and Larry Cohorn, and Wade and Jodi Richardson and their children. In addition to her family, Billie leaves behind many friends in the US, Canada and Germany.
     Billie will be remembered for her strong spirit and courage that she shared, even in her final days.
     The family thanks the staff at Mesilla Valley Hospice for the caring service they provided. In lieu of flowers, the family requests memorial contributions be made to the Mesilla Valley Hospice, 299 E Montana, Las Cruces, NM 88005, Church Triumphant or a charity of your choice. A memorial service will take place Wednesday, June 27, beginning 10:30 A.M. at Church Triumphant, 2020 North Valley Drive, Las Cruces, NM 88007

I feel nothing
I feel broken and numb
Even the pain is disconnected from my reality
Nothing touches my mind

Sever the tether
I feel like my strings have been cut
Now I’m floating free
Erratic and uncontrollably

____________________________________


When she died
I was there
I was the only one there
I held her hand
And read to her
Psalms 116
As I read she opened her eyes
Eyes that had been closed
In near comatose sleep for days

She couldn't breathe
She died holding my hand
Hearing my voice

____________________________________


I have flashbacks
The clicking sound in her throat
The far off
But terrified
Look in her eyes
As she struggled to breathe
Struggled to live

Holding her hand I told her it was okay
It was okay
She could let go
Go home
Go rest
It’s over

I still feel like I have blood on my hands

She wanted to die
Chose to end treatment
Chose to enter hospice
But how can I know if in that instant she relented
Reached out her hand to live
And I simply waved as she fell away from me

____________________________________


Hour after hour I dream
Every night
Every time I close my eyes

I dream about being there
Feeding her
Massaging the cramps from her legs
Reading the bible to her
Those moments we shared in her last days

I dream about being there when she passed
Holding her hand
About having to decide whether she lives or dies
In my dreams she wants to live
And in my dreams I let her die

I dream about being alone at the funeral
Screaming at the top of my lungs
No one can hear me

I dream about death
Chasing me for hours
For miles
I have to run away from the people I love
Or death will take them too

Listening to the breathing of my family
I wait on edge
A phantasmagoria of death tainting every thought
I hear the clicking sound
Louder and more frightening than some ominous heart beat

I wait
Unable to sleep
Until morning when it is safe


____________________________________


I wake
Starting from my bed
My eyes open wide
I prepare to bolt from the house
As fast as I am capable

I have to be there
Must be there
She is waiting for me to come
To feed her
To read to her
To be with her

She is…
           …Dead

In that moment I feel it all again
I will wake like this for months
Without her there
I have no reason to wake
It feels like my purpose has been taken from me

I feel hollow
And broken
I cannot escape my mind
Never for long
The world is bittersweet and grey

With time will come the better days

____________________________________

One week
Since she passed
Thursday June 28th
One week and one year
Two mothers
One to either parent
A year for my mother
A week for my father

Precise aligning dates
The cuts are that much deeper
New wounds tracing over old scars

Death is not difficult for the dead
It is for the living
Left behind
Who feel a hole being cut in their existence
Part of them being torn away

I am one of the hollow men
What you see is a shell

You won’t find me for looking
I am gone from you
When or if I’ll return remains unseen

Take pleasure
In not having known this pain

Goodbye is the hardest word to say.

I'm not ready for her to leave this world, not ready to say goodbye, not ready to not be someone's grandchild. She is the last of her generation of parents. She has fought long and hard and done her best. I know this is her decision, but it's too soon. It will always be too soon.

When white light passes through a prism it is broken into an array of colors. When grief is filtered through an individual's perception of death, grief is broken into an array of emotions too many to name.

You can't know what this is like for me, no one can. Death is filtered through personal experiences, we all grieve in our own ways. Hold me and let me sob, need to feel safe. If only for this moment, I need to feel this pain.



Dear Winkleberry,

Some grandparents are part of a child’s life only fleetingly, there to buy presents and spoil them, or there only on special occasions and then gone with little or no communication, some are not present at all. You have been an integral part of every stage of my life, helping to raise me, to care for me, to comfort me and to teach me. You took care of my sister and me.

When our parents would leave town, you would play games with me when I was lonely; you undertook projects to make headbands and play the organ, and bake cookies at Christmas. You were willing to get dirty, to help pick “pomatoes” in the garden, to sit on the floor and play with us. You made sure we knew you love us and are proud of us.

Once you played baseball in your back yard on Calle de Rosa with an Oar and a tennis ball, another time you invited me over to look at slides and you made me a Peanut butter and Jelly sandwich. I felt like the most special person in the world because you took the time to spend time with me. I treasure all the memories of you I have.

I’ve known you for 19 years, you’ve been there to shape who I am in every way. It was from you I learned to go after what you want and not to give up until you get it, it was from you I learned to be strong, and it was from you I learned that just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I’m any less capable. Thank you for everything you have taught me.

I love you very, very much. I want you to know that I will always love you. I understand that what you’re going through right now is exhausting, painful, and scary. I want you to know that even if I don’t agree with the decisions you make, I will respect them because I respect you. I understand that if you are tired you have every right to rest.

I don’t know what’s going to happen when you are gone, no one does. But I do know that I want you to know how much you will always mean to me, and that I love you very, very much. I’m proud of you for fighting as hard as you have in everything you’ve done, you’re amazing.

Thank you, for everything. Thank you Grandma Wink.

Love you.
Kate

The time for make-believe is over.

I suppose it’s sappy, trite, predictable, and very “emo” of me but I can’t help whining about how much it hurts to be without her. The summers are always a dry season: no real social happenings, never really busy, just sort of slow and sparse. But this is my last summer with her. After this summer she’s free to fly around the world and fall in love and make mistakes and forget about me. I just want this chance to have her to myself, to be content to sit next to her on her couch with her needy cat sprawled in our laps as we watch Cirque shows, or to watch her dance against the backdrop of the fire as I lie in the grass.

With her half a world away I realized that as much as I would like to replace her with something fleeting and superficial I won’t be able to fill that need for deep connection. I realized I love her, or rather I am in love, although I’m not sure she’s “with” me in this whole love thing.
Seeing her smile makes the world seem just a little easier to take, hearing her laugh puts me at ease. I value her opinion deeply, taking her thoughts and criticisms to heart. I love the thrill of when she challenges my opinions or ideas, picking them apart, cocking an eyebrow and gazing sternly at me as if to say “you can do better than this,” and I can. She makes me want to be better. Gives me reason to write. Pushes me to maintain my passion for life.

She is everything I never knew I wanted, unpredictably bounding into my life. She didn’t turn it upside down; she just rotated it 15 degrees: enough to throw me off balance and make it difficult to understand. And I know I’m awkward. I know I’m not what she wanted. I know I’m not what she expected or predicted when she meticulously planned her life. I know there’s nothing she can do. I just wish she could understand how much she’s done for me and how much I wish I could repay her.

I’ll never forget that the last time I saw my grandfather I forgot to tell him I loved him assuming I would see him later. Two days later I was informed that he passed away of a heart attack during the night. I never forgave myself for letting that opportunity slip through my fingers. Because of that, I spend my life hoping for the best and preparing for the worst. I can’t bear the thought of missing another chance and couldn’t bear it if I did miss that chance.

I can’t stay quiet. I can’t keep this to myself. I can’t pretend I don’t dream about her every night, think about every hour of every day, miss her when I don’t see her, wish she were with me, wish I could hear her voice again, wish I could smell her hair and hold her in my arms. I can’t pretend that I don’t Love her. Not the new fleeting, changing, sugar glass, puppy, pretend, lust version of love, no I mean the kind of love that is simultaneously earth shattering and as delicate as the wings of a humming bird.

I can’t pretend I don’t honestly feel this hollow ache in my breast. I can’t pretend I haven’t cried without her. I can’t pretend she hasn’t changed my life.

I miss you, Clara Bow.

Farewell Falwell: Falwell buys the farm.

It doesn't get a whole lot better than this.

I've been waiting for nigh on a decade for this fucker to bite the dust. I prayed in vain to our Glorious God, hoping he would take pity on me and the rest of "the family" and give us a fighting chance.

On Tuesday, May 15th my prayers were answered and Falwell kicked the bucket!!!

The world is split between celebration en masse, a la Stonewall Riots, and mourning like Superman just died. On the whole he pissed off enough minorities that the line to dance on his grave will be longer than the lines of people waiting for the next Harry Potter book.

Any man who supports Aparthied and criticizes the efforts of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr deserves to be roasted by the living as well as those dead he joins in hell. I suppose my overwhelmingly Liberal true colors are shining through and may piss off a few people but I know that I'm not alone in my celebratory mood. I found particular comfort in the words "Ladies and gentlemen, Evil has left the building. " posted by an individual identified only as "rufus" on the Gawker forums.

Yes, it's tasteless. What can we say? We're giddy!!!

I'm throwing a huge drunken, gay, interracial, pagan, orgy in honor of Herr Falwell.

Happy Beltane, it's a little late but we'll take it.

Overactive Imagination

I could explain to you exactly what I’m doing, but that would be boring so instead I’m going to lie and say that I’ve become a fabulous secret agent, and have not been lazy but rather executing high stakes operations.

So far I’ve busted a sticky-toffee pudding smuggling unit out of Botswana; a terrorist organization dedicated to undoing the world by having really, really white people try (and fail at) dancing to hip-hop; and an evil mastermind who has been slowly building support for his world takeover by bribing the people of the world with “preferred customer” cards at supermarkets when really it just makes the prices normal rather than extravagant.

My last mission I posed as a ceiling tile in order to collect evidence on a terrorist cell of secretaries dedicated to putting the world into a mass coma by replacing all regular coffee with decaf. But not before I was captured by the enemy and tortured in an effort to get me to tell them about the agency I work for, and their whereabouts. I endured countless hours of off key singing and was forced to watch tapes of the Eagles/Cowboys playoff game. Still, I remained strong.

I managed to escape from prison with a cunning plan involving a paper clip, a banana, a zebra, two mimes, a blimp, the entire collection of Blackadder, a copy of Great Expectations and my trusty albuterol inhaler. But I won't bore you with the details.

After managing to convince the giant moth to fly me to America I returned to ************** (location must not be named for security purposes) and had a bagel; then I met with my superiors and looked over our newest weapon. It was absolutely brilliant, the best yet I’ve no doubt, regular wheat bagel with some high quality butter and strawberry cream cheese, it really hit the spot, especially with that smoothie... the weapon was fine too.

Why haven’t you known about this you ask? I’ve cleverly disguised my secret goings about as sleep and anti-social tendencies. I am sharing this information with you now so that if you don’t see me for a while, you’ll know why.

But more about my intensely interesting life later, right now I have to return to my undercover work as a student infiltrator.

So far I’ve managed to learn that language experts are trying to create mass hysteria by making the rules for colon use even more confusing. So far, no one seems to care.

The Powdered House

Littleone has been hiding a secret from the world. One secret for each scar she bears. This secret she bears on the inside; it is her hiding place. She has built a safe house entirely from white powder. Rent is expensive but she is willing to pay if it means she can hide. She has lived in this powdered house for months, only peeks her head out to check the weather conditions of her life in reality. What she doesn’t see is the cracks in the foundations. This house could crumble and crush her. But she feels that then she would die happy.

She shows me this hiding place, only a picture, a corner, a whisper that it exists, and I ask her to trust me. I make promises to bring her out of this house, if only for one day. I invite her into my world, she doesn’t come. I open the door for her, she is welcome whenever she likes. I promise her that she is protected by the fiercest love, safe from harm. She nods and promises never to visit the powdered house again, promises to stay away. I am wary as she will crave that solace, her body will turn on itself to feel that safety, that happiness. I ask myself to trust her.

There is only one person I might turn to with a problem like this. Madame Butterfly has served as the wings to support the others that have come before Littleone, living in their own worlds. She has served as my wings. I trust Madame Butterfly.

I confess to Madame Butterfly about everything, the powdered house, the danger for Littleone, how broken and bruised Littleone is. Madame Butterfly sighs with sorrow that any should have to bear these weights, especially one as amazing as Littleone. We make a pact to save Littleone from her crumbling powdered house.

Littleone is panicked, frantic and afraid of the reality that is crushing her. I promise secrecy and safety, I hide her inside myself.

I lie, I hate that I lie but I have no choice. I cannot carry this weight on my back alone, and she lost emotional mobility months ago, numbed herself into a stupor to keep from letting the razor blade rotate ninety degrees. Down the street, not across the road: directions to the final kingdom. I look her in the eye and I lie. I ask her to wait.

Madame Butterfly is doing what she does best. She mingles and gratefully accepts compliments and criticisms. I approach her from behind setting my hand on her shoulder. She turns never breaking eye contact. I whisper to her, my lips close enough to her ear that I can feel her warmth. I whisper that Littleone is beginning to buckle; she can’t bear it any more. Madame Butterfly follows. This is when we find Littleone outside.

It is pouring rain, and the Littleone is perched on a concrete picnic table crying. These are not crocodile tears with heaving sobs but rather shaking rattling drops of fear, shame, pain, memory: barely noticeable with the swollen clouds weeping down on the world. She hugs her knees as if trying to disappear into a singularity. I cannot bring myself to touch her, comfort her: it is not my right. I have broken her confidence.

Madame Butterfly alights next to Littleone; they are the same size. The water is pelting now. The sky is sobbing. Littleone can only shake; her breath rattling her body. Madame Butterfly wraps her arms around Littleone providing comfort and love. Littleone has never known the love of a mother, only the harsh criticism. The harsh words that have eaten away at Littleone’s soul have no place with Madame Butterfly.

I try to justify what I have done. I try to explain what it is I intended. My words fall away like the water rolling down our faces. I hang my head as Littleone begins to sob. A voice like quiet thunder speaks.

Madame Butterfly is holding Littleone, speaking words of tenderness and caring. She is gentle like the breeze when a butterfly beats its wings. She breathes life into Littleone, shows her life on solid ground without pain. Littleone is confused and scared, waiting for the blow to undercut words of kindness. Madame Butterfly holds fast as Littleone rails against this love; when Littleone is exhausted she rests and Madame Butterfly is still holding fast. Littleone shows a flash of understanding, a flicker of hope in the back of her mind where part of her has hidden scared and crying for years.

Madame Butterfly speaks softly asking Littleone not to give up. She asks Littleone to hold fast to what is left of life. She asks Littleone to keep breathing. Then Madame Butterfly does something I have never seen, she cries. Her voice breaks almost imperceptibly. With the rain washing us the tears are almost invisible. But they are all there. Madame Butterfly opens the door she keeps locked tight, just enough for Littleone to catch a glimpse of the beauty life can hold. For a moment, Littleone hides safely. For a moment, all that has been done is undone. For a moment, Littleone realizes what it is to live.

Littleone clings to that moment. It is her safe house now.

Patron Saint of Innocence

For Melissa

How is it you’re so strong when you’re his only hope??

It follows, that neither of us could understand why it happens. If I raise my hand high enough, I should be able to touch the sky, and catch a star for this crying child in my arms.

Why he got burned I don't know; she would have sold her soul for those hands to have been hers. Her baby's crying in her arms, scared and unsure why it hurts so bad.

The strength of a mother figure, this is her without boundaries, this is her when she knows the world is betting against him, and she's his only hope. This is her when her baby has no where else to turn.

How must it feel to know that your joy in life is limited so?

That he will never feel so many of life's greatest pleasures, he will never fall in love, and he will never hold his own children.

Here is happiness in a boy, patron saint of Goldfish snack crackers and Disney DVDs, 5 years old and still learning to walk, talk, move. Not like me and you.

And yet, more beautiful, because he loves people the only way he knows how. He can't judge you or me; he can't second guess us for failing.

This beautiful tragic baby in her arms. Angelic in his sleep, he can't hear her tears as they run down her cheeks.

Give them both hope, Take mine and give it to them, as I find my hope in him.

"Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."

"Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."

There are some gratitudes
That no words are expansive enough to contain
No notes with which to express in melody
No color or line with which to envision it
And such is that gratitude
That I would offer you
Thank you

For holding my hand
When I was scared to fall
For believing in me
When I could not find strength
To believe in myself
For teaching me
I am what I make myself
That strength is not always visible
That it is in the silence that meaning often lies

You taught me to craft my own wings
With which to fly above
The level plane of tradition
And expectation
You took my hand
And lead me to the ledge
You became the breath of Zephyr
That would carry me in the direction of my dreams

You taught me the meaning
Behind wordless looks and quiet smiles
To understand human need
And that solace
Is in the laughter of a child

There is a sharp divide between
You as most people see
Self-contained
Seemingly attached to no one and nothing
And you as you rarely let others see
Connected
Understanding and loving

It is a paradox beyond words
To see the passion and strength
You quietly cradle in your heart
Concealed by the lullaby siren-song
You sing to keep those from coming too close
There is always distance

When I look in your eyes
I never see hopelessness
But there is never outpouring hope
It seems to be something you
Try not to consider too often

And though I try
I cannot capture
What I perceive in you
Anymore than I can describe
A face
By looking at a shadow

Yet there have been whispers
Teaching me to understand
Tomorrow is not today
It is tomorrow
Yesterday has passed
It cannot be changed
Today is all we have

I will never fully understand
The gift you gave me
This is a fight no one should face alone
Purpose
You handed me meaning
And I have nothing to give you
But my promise

I will fight for them
“[The] huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse”
My Promise
I will be in the trenches with you

But that’s tomorrow
Today all I can give are my words
Thank You
Beyond what words can say
Thank You

When I Grow Up...

When I was very young (four or five) I wanted to grow up and get married; except I wanted to be the man and I wanted to marry a beautiful woman. I grew up expecting to have several children with my wife, live in your average suburb, and be the model of the American family. Because I attended a Christian preschool I was quickly corrected and informed that I couldn’t marry a woman and it was my job to stay home and be the mommy. I spent the next eleven years of my life fighting with myself over what would become of me socially and emotionally. I eventually learned that love is love, regardless. As for my suburban life I realized that there are more options than just Middle America. I have no set goals for my personal life, only to be happy in the end. When considering careers I knew with conviction what I wanted to do with my life when I was quite young. Of course I changed my mind but adopted each new career choice with the same fervor and conviction.

“I’m always sick, and I have to see my doctor all the time so I want to be a doctor. I want kids to have a doctor who knows what it’s like to be sick and not be able to play or have fun.” I succinctly explained to my 2nd grade class. How typical that I wanted to be a pediatrician when I was a little one. I decided early on that I would grow up to treat kids who were like me because I was so frequently sick I wanted the kids to have someone with whom they could identify. During preschool I habitually played doctor and had a habit of diagnosing my patients as having suffered severe head trauma; I blame “General Hospital.” I held on to the idea of becoming a doctor for at least six years.

Another phase of career option I went through was engineering. As my motto proclaims: it sounded like a good idea at the time. I joined the Math Engineering and Science Achievement team at my middle school and began actively participating in math and science classes. I had no real concept of what engineers did, or what the various branches focused on, but I was hell bent on having a high paying engineering job. Eventually I realized I didn’t like math or science and thus engineering might be a poor choice of career.

After my brief affair with engineering I never settled on anything. In high school I began to realize that I have no idea what I want from life. It was only by accident that I discovered what drives me. Without realizing it I have spent a majority of my time creating, over the course of 6 years I have amassed easily over 300 pieces. Throughout my entire life one thing has sustained me: writing.

When I was in fifth grade I had a teacher that changed my life forever. Having dyslexia often meant my writing was, excuse the pun, written off as low quality. My self-esteem suffered severe blows from verbal and psychological abuse at the hands of my first and second grade teacher; I held the firm belief that I would never amount to much. In fifth grade I had the luck to be taught by Kathy Porter: a woman of kindness, compassion, and encouragement. She was the first person to validate me as a human being and recognize my abilities, specifically in the field of writing. We were assigned weekly stories and other various assignments. I gladly took to the task of creative writing allowing myself to start getting a feel for who I was creatively. Student teachers, substitute teachers, aides and Mrs. Porter herself were continually impressed with my writing and encouraged me to pursue it with passion. It was then that without realizing it, a large part of my future was decided.

Today I am slowly beginning to realize that the world is far larger than what I have seen or known. I have passion but have not chosen a direction in which to focus it. I continue to write. I continue to exercise compassion. I continue to search for my purpose. As for what will happen in the future, “I neither know nor think that I know.”

Buyer Beware

This is a guide to a few of our favorite pick-me-up study buddies: Energy Drinks!

Redline-

Sold in gas stations and health food stores across America this tiny blue bottle looks relatively harmless, at first glance I wrote it off as low power but it would do in a time of desperate caffeine need. Within 30 minutes of finishing the bottle I was shaking and sweating and my heart was racing like a speed addict. There are warnings on the bottle in tiny print warning that consumption should take over two hours and reactions were frequent. Of course I didn’t notice these warnings until I had already slammed the bottle. I remained in this state of hypo manic for 36 hours before I finally relaxed enough to sleep. Even then I still felt the effects such as shaky hands, chills, and difficulty sleeping for another 3 days.

Seeing how frequent these reactions are I would warn anyone who is thinking about trying Redline reserve it for times of desperation and use very little. It is sincerely a dangerous product causing deaths due to heart palpitations and heart attacks in many users. It is only for the truly fearless and hardcore caffeine addicts. As far as I’m concerned, there are much better less deeply affecting products out there.

Sobe Adrenaline Rush-

A common friend to the average college night owl, this variation of liquid energy makes up for what it lacks in caffeine with massive amounts of High Fructose Corn Syrup. I’ve tried using it when pulling all nighters but found that it only works if you are willing to drink it almost constantly. I do have to say that it tastes the best out of the world of energy drinks but as for effectiveness it lacks a serious punch.

Go with Sobe if you’re only looking for a minor pick me up or energy with flavor. If you’re looking for a serious ally you’ll want to skip this one.

Red Bull -

The notorious wing-giving energy concoction can be summed up in two words: caffeinated Smarties. We all remember Halloween and those horrible chalky little rolls of Smarties. At first taste I was convinced they had liquefied Smarties and added caffeine. Although it has a slight kick the tiny cans, exorbitant price, and weird taste are a definite turn off.

If you’re looking for something strangely sweet-ish with a kick and you have money to burn, go for it.

Coke Blāk-

Lesser known and soon to be discontinued this variation of traditional Coca-Cola and super strength coffee packs a punch with a new twist on flavor. The taste is a mix between the bitterness of black coffee with the sugary sweet of Coca-Cola making for a taste bud wake up call. The amount of caffeine is virtually perfect for a late night, not enough that you have serious side effects, but not so little that you have to have a constant stream.

The price is reasonable. The taste is strange but still good. The caffeine factor is dead on. If you’re planning a late night for finals, or any reason, stock up because word has it that Coca-Cola is planning to pull the plug on this one.

Drug of Choice: My Musical Obsession

My collection is not so much a collection as it is a full blown addiction. Although most addictions are characterized by interfering with the user’s day to day life, I am not concerned with interference mainly because my addiction permeates our culture already. What could I possibly be addicted to that is so common? Nicotine? Alcohol? Reality Television? Unfortunately for you I am far more mundane than that. My addiction is music.

Music is such an integral part of my life; my home is saturated with it in every way shape and form. I grew up listening to satirical rock, classical, oldies, rock, alternative, folk as well as blues, jazz, and of course country. By the time I was four I had a small collection of my own cassettes as well as my own tape player which I prized above all else.

As I grew older my collection expanded. When I was nine I received my first CD. It was –sadly- “SPICE” by the Spice Girls. I took over our computer and listened to it as often as I was allowed. I say our computer because my family did not get a CD stereo/boom box until I requested one for Christmas when I was ten. My mother was originally hesitant to purchase one because I would have to expand my collection to make such a device useful. Oh my, did I expand my collection and make use of that poor stereo. In fact that stereo is still in use at my house, although I think it may have recently played its last song.

The first CD I ever purchased with my own money was the soundtrack to “Muppet Treasure Island.” Thus began my life long affair with musicals. After that fateful trip to Sam Goody it was all down hill. My home now houses upwards of two thousand CDs: there are discs in every room, and I do mean every room, except for the master bath. However in my journey I managed to rope the rest of my family into the frenzy. My father focusing on jazz, blues, and classical; my mother prefers certain veins of gospel, pop, country, and even the select musical. My sister who was my original cohort in my musical escapades has tastes as diverse as mine: our musical libraries look eerily similar because we share so much of our music.

As technology evolved and the iWorld emerged I managed to persuade my parents that it would be in their best interest to purchase a 20GB iPod to accompany my sister and I on our backpacking adventure across Europe in the summer of 2005. They agreed because they knew of my uncanny ability to lose large amounts of CDs: when I was thirteen I lost a CD wallet with nigh on forty-five CDs, again when I was fifteen I lost another wallet of twenty or so CDs, in between I managed to lose individual CDs quite often.

After we added the iPod to our arsenal of musical equipment I discovered the beauty of iTunes and their ripping tool. As the aforementioned iPod belonged to my sister I requested one for my eighteenth birthday and my parents obliged with a 20GB color iPod which was with me until the hard drive bit the dust for the second time recently. I confess that when it died I had a full blown panic attack knowing that I had no source of music thus I was a junkie without a fix. Eventually they replaced the iPod and I happily resumed my musically hedonistic life.

Upon receiving the iPod on my birthday I set to work collecting every song and CD I owned and thought I would possibly be interested in listening to at any time. My collection of digital music grew exponentially quickly ballooning to several thousand songs.

After discovering that cursed iTunes Store I found myself even more doomed. Over the past two years my collection has grown by at least a thousand songs I have purchased from the iTunes Store. The latest track count on my iTunes library is 4,248 tracks (totaling 11 days 14 hours 19 minutes and 11 seconds of total playing time, accounting for 15.53 GB of memory on my external hard drive) which is no small feat. My library is so massive I was forced to purchase an external hard drive solely for the purpose of housing my audio library.

To some the sheer volume of this collection seems baroque but to me it simply acts as an artistic outlet. My life is constantly provided with its own soundtrack, music to uplift me in the harder times, music to console me in times of loss, music to motivate me, music to make me think, music to relax me, music to do just about anything. Music is designed to provoke emotion and make people feel certain things; it is no different than any common drug.

I can quit any time I want… except I don’t want to quit.



Is Music a Drug?

http://www.1729.com/blog/IsMusicADrug.html


Feeding the Habit

http://www.theinquirer.net/default.aspx?article=28646
http://weblogs.jupiterresearch.com/analysts/wilcox/archives/001100.html


Links to my Favorite Bands

http://www.placebo.co.uk/
http://www.pulponline.com/
http://www.myspace.com/bloodorwhiskey
http://www.righteousbabe.com/ani/index.asp

Quote-y goodness!

They're like literary Wheaties!!!

You all know me well enough to know I'd usually choose something profound and somber but today I'm feeling chipper so they're somewhat comical and offensive (okay, really tastelessly offensive). Despite their questionable nature they're still profound in someway. Enjoy!!


"Only for now! (Sex!)
Is only for now! (Your hair!)
Is only for now! (George Bush!)
Is only for now!

Don't stress,
Relax,
Let life roll off your backs
Except for death and paying taxes,
Everything in life is only for now!"

-"For Now" Avenue Q The Musical

Why do I enjoy such a profoundly tasteless quote? Because it's honest, it's funny, and most of all it's true. Though I rarely give an explicit definition of why I try to live life without fighting against the impermanence of it all, my mantra is the above song. These words have gotten me through some of the hardest times in my life. Buddhists define pain as clinging to the things in life that are impermanent, as most things are. Change is one of the only guarantees and the sooner someone learns this, the easier his life will be. This doesn't mean giving up entirely but rather learning to "roll with the punches" and keep going. This quote is about not letting the things in life that suck keep you from achieving what you want. Remember, all of life is only "For Now."


"We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be?"
-Marianne Williamson


I recently discovered this quote on the homepage of S.A.R.K. (Susan Ariel Rainbow Kennedy) who is one of my favorite authors. I love it because it pushes people to recognize and revel in their inner fabulousness, something most folks rarely do. People rarely recognize or validate their own creativity claiming they "aren't good enough." I think this movement of self doubt should be done away with; people need encouragement. We watch a handful of "celebrities" act out these fantasy lives, claiming all the glory and recognition for themselves, and then we doubt that we have a right to be amazing. Children should be allowed to believe that they are inherently good people, they are wonderful humans and they have a right to shine and be recognized. Never let anyone take your right to be an amazing human being, and never let anyone tell you that you aren't amazing because, honestly, everyone in the world has something inside them that makes them unlike anything or anyone else. Shine.

An Open Letter to Rush Hour

Dear Rush Hour,

I understand your excitement at your release from the work day and your frustration at wanting to get home but I have to say that our relationship is starting to bore me. You leave me sitting for at least 30 minutes waiting for you to move or show signs of life.

At first the rush was exciting and I got caught up in your slow, easy pace. Now I see you for what you are: a carbon monoxide emitting, smog addling, fossil fuel wasting time leech. And it’s not just your environmental impacts that are starting to hurt our relationship, we also want different things. I want to go places and see things; you want to clog the roadways and slow life down interminably. I can’t see us working out.

Not only do you waste my time, you push me around. I feel abused when you don’t let me change lanes, merge, or make it through the stoplight ahead. Furthermore you never remain consistent, you are everywhere I want and need to go. You block exits I need to take, you place construction zones on streets I need to use, you close lanes when I least expect it. Worst of all you put “Turn Only” lanes when I need to go straight and “No Turning” lanes when I need to turn. Why do you have such a personal vendetta against my vehicular freedom?

As much as I want to understand and help you, this situation is beyond my ability. I suggest you seek help. Find alternative routes of travel, seek out public transportation, and find support in a carpool. I hope you see the error of your ways soon, and make an effort to change. Please, don’t count on me to be among the masses of victims you consume each day across the country. I’m finished wasting my time sitting and waiting for you to move.

Good Luck
Kate Taylor

Broken Flight

Wings fluttering hard
Against cement
Flecked with obsidian
This cuts my fingers
Turns them white with torn layers of skin

Tiny wings:
Colored to hide in wooded secrecy
Stand proudly against the drab grey of the morning
Shadowed pavement cold
Inches from the blinding sun

Small and helpless
Wings softer than silk
Are trying to fly
Panic desperate
Faith and fear
Keep you fluttering
Beating your wings

Tiny
Cannot fly
Your soft body heaving hard
Again
And again
Against the shard-walk

You are not strong enough to live
You will die soon
As Darwin dictated
You will have to sacrifice yourself
Waiting anguished
Extinguishing in pain
To serve another creature

Waiting pain
Quietly and quickly end it
Save you
By killing you

But is it right of me to take your life?
Which you seem to cling to
As you cling to my finger
In my cupped child-hands
You spend your energy
Not escaping

Soft wings
You leave cold dust on my hands

I am cursed
Steinbeck’s simpleton
You are soft
Contact comforting

Was it mercy that I killed you?
Is it ever mercy that kills?
Can you forgive me for what I did to you?
I’m sorry

I wish I could have seen you fly.

Greatest Site EVER!!!!

So boredom has dictated that I find something to do on el inter-web. This said I scowered Google for something worth my interest. Lo and Behold I have found the Holy Grail of RANDOM!!!!

http://www.superbad.com/ - it makes no sense, you randomly click your way through a series of webpages/images but it is infinitely fascinating because it has no logic to it. It goes on forever. Long Live Surrealism!!

http://www.intute.ac.uk/artsandhumanities/cgi-bin/fullrecord.pl?handle=artifact565 - the origins of SuperBad. it all makes sense.

if that doesn't suit your fancy pick something else
http://www.bored.com/

Curiosity killed the magic.

The smell of rain is a magic in and of itself, especially here in the desert. Probably because rain is a kind of magic, the wetness as it falls from the sky like a rite of purification. For centuries literary masters have taken the ideas of rain and run with them. Off the top of my head I can’t think of an example but I know they have. The smell of it, before and after the rain, has inspired authors and poets as much as the rain itself.

Of course, being captain curiosity I had to find out what makes rain smell. I felt sadly robbed of the magic when I found out it’s the smell of bacteria. You can buy it in a bottle. I think a little part of my soul just died. Damn you science!!!

Here, see for yourself. Science kills a small part of the magic of youth: http://www.weatherchannel.com.au/WWSM/images/0003/GlobalImages/30933.pdf

The History of "Nerd"

There is some debate over the origin of the word nerd, some say it was first recorded by Dr. Seuss, however scientific and literary evidence to the contrary has recently come to light. According to the American Heritage Dictionary the word "nerd, undefined but illustrated, first appeared in 1950 in Dr. Seuss's If I Ran the Zoo: 'And then, just to show them, I'll sail to Ka-Troo And Bring Back an It-Kutch a Preep and a Proo A Nerkle a Nerd and a Seersucker, too!'" citing Dr. Seuss as the origin of the word.
Long before Dr Seuss, in the Elizabethan court, there was Wiley Shockespair –a knock off of the much better known William Shakespeare- who wrote such works as MacNugget, Julius Ceaser Salad, and OJello. Where Shakespeare wrote "Turn Hellhound, Turn" in Macbeth, Shockespair wrote "Come back here, you nerd!" proving that the word "nerd" was in existence long before 1950. Although Shockespair's use of the word "nerd" suggests an insult definition is not explicitly provided. However there are records of the word nerd go back even farther.
The assassination of Julius Caesar may have been a tragedy but Caesar had the last laugh. According to the diary kept by Brutus, Caesar's final words were not "et tu Brute?" as suggested by many but rather "Brute, vos es a nerd," roughly translating to "Brutus, you are a nerd," Caesar died laughing. Apparently the insult made Brutus cry, according to his diary.
Even before the Romans or the Egyptians there were the cavemen. Upon examining several cave paintings in Montana, archaeologists came to the conclusion that a prominent character in all of the paintings appeared to be a secluded and sickly male who managed to stay alive only through protection. He was apparently protected because of his invaluable ability to fix and create things. Unfortunately he created a Mastodon Whistle designed to call mastodons; when he tried it out he was trampled to death. Evidently his last utterance was a noise to the effect of "NEEEEEARD." This concept corroborates a fossilized caveman who was apparently crushed to death. The fossilized skeleton was found with what appears to be an animal skin pocket protector.
Evidently the word "nerd" dates back beyond memory and history so one can assume that nerds have played a notable enough role in history to be remembered for millions of years. Those people strong enough to claim the moniker of nerd for themselves should stand up and be proud of their vast heritage. *
*note: This entire article is fictional and made up; but then, most of history is. You know George Washington never cut down a cherry tree!

The Hollow Men

Possibly the most profound poem I've ever read. Thus I'm sharing it with you all.

The Hollow Men
T. S. Eliot

Mistah Kurtz—he dead.
A penny for the Old Guy

I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Placebo songs that could change your life.

they're all a bit of the softer side of placebo, sad, maybe even depressing but all of them are amazing on some level. if you don't know who placebo is, learn.

1. Sleeping With Ghosts - Sleeping With Ghosts


2. Passive Aggressive – Black Market Music


3. Follow The Cops Back Home - Meds


4. Peeping Tom – Black Market Music [bonus tracks]


5. Running Up That Hill – Sleeping With Ghosts [two disc edition] disc two


6. Protect Me From What I Want –Sleeping With Ghosts


7. My Sweet Prince – Without You I'm Nothing


8. Ask for Answers – Without You I'm Nothing


9. The Crawl – Without You I'm Nothing


10. Blue American – Black Market Music


11. Narcoleptic –Black Market Music [bonus tracks]


12. I'll Be Yours –Black Market Music [bonus Tracks]
    

Currently listening : Sleeping With Ghosts By Placebo Release date: By 18 November, 2003

Things even I can't understand: 1st and 2nd grade

Some days I feel it is an insult to women who were violated and raped that I would claim that word for myself. There are times I cannot find words to express the powerlessness that still haunts me.
When I was 7 and 8 I was in a multi age classroom. I had the same teacher for two years. This teacher did not believe that I was trying hard enough, that I was honest, sweet, and sincere. She believed I was lazy, useless, and manipulative: in turn she convinced me that I was those things. There was introduced, a simple white kitchen timer that would ding when the time was up to make me finish my work on time. She would set it for whatever amount of time was allotted for me to finish my task, and I would race to beat the timer. For two years I raced to beat the timer, and each time I didn’t she would stand me up in front of the class and tell me what a failure I was, that I wasn’t trying hard enough, and that I was just lazy, and then she would tell me to stop crying because she was doing it for my own good.
She convinced me that I did something wrong, that it was my fault, and day in and day out this happened for two years until it was so engrained in me that I believed her, and no one has been able to convince me otherwise.
Other times when I didn’t finish my work she would keep me from going out to play at recess, or I wouldn’t get to eat lunch, instead I would sit at the desks near the front office and work, she ate lunch in the lounge and I worked and then went back to class, no food for me. Every Friday was cupcake day, I missed those: I wouldn’t be allowed to go to lunch or recess so I never got to buy a cupcake. I loved the ones that had spots of color in them and the vanilla frosting with the rainbow chips.
Once when my mom bought me some “Gemstone Crayons” and I took them to class she brought me up in front of the class and accused me of stealing them from another girl who had them, and then wouldn’t believe me until the girl could produce her box of crayons. She never apologized.
Half of the abuse was her memory, her convincing me that she was right and it was my fault. Once she had achieved that her torture of me continued every time something went wrong and I blamed myself.
I’ve spent all of my life since then trying to prove that I can do something right, that I’m not a failure, I’ve spent my life trying to beat a timer that doesn’t exist. Inside of me there are little 7 and 8 year old me’s that are terrified of falling short and being told how bad they are. The powerlessness of the situation has terrified me my whole life.

That phone call was about me flashing back to being told how bad I am, and what’s wrong with me and being able to do nothing but stand there and take it. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t escape from all of the memories of times it was ‘my fault.’

This abuse by my teacher has been a thread that has run throughout my entire life, it is the underlying theme of everything I’ve ever done or worked to achieve. I finally saw my life for the first time; saw the weight I’ve carried and the pain I’ve put myself through. I can’t explain why it matters, or how much it matters. I cannot explain what happened enough to make you understand what it did to me. All I know is I’m mad. For the first time in my entire life I’m mad, and I’m mad at someone who isn’t me. I’m scared of what’s going to happen now, because all of a sudden I don’t care about much of anything the memories of what has happened came in a flood and I feel as though it happened in the past, it is happening right now, and it will continue to happen. I am devastated that no one protected me, no one bothered to try to understand what this did to me. I am tired of so many things in my life going wrong.
I want a fair chance; I want to run the race without the ball and chain.

the circus surreal

I held her body close to mine
Clung to her
And did not want to let her go.
I wanted her to stay leant against me like that
Not forever
But for longer than that short moment
Standing on the corner of Cornell and Central
Trying not to block or disturb the patrons
As they flow in and out of the Frontier
She is hard to miss in her hoodie
The color of a sickly margarita, and so worn
It seems she had to mug a hapless hobo for it
And yet here she is
Arms wrapped around my rather cushy mid-section
Her coke-bottle glasses smushed up against my left shoulder
Her face is toward my ear
And she is whining
She whines like a small child when she is afraid
And she is often terrified of the world
Preferring her small existence
Where she must flip the light switch three times
Before she can leave a room
Her existence where she is safe
I don’t want to let her go, let her get in the car and drive home
But I have to, I cannot hold her against her will
She is not mine, has never been mine
To love or hold or protect
And yet I persist
With a dozen roses and constant affection
I persist
And I apologize to her
For forcing my self on her in this way
Afraid to miss my only chance
I cling and won’t loosen my grip.
She is the sun in the circus of my life
My strange miracle and my haven of nonconformist conformity
Who she is makes me inexplicably happy.