You're Welcome

I've got wherever it takes
to stand out
above the crowd
even if I gotta shout out loud
till mine is the only face you'll see
gonna stand out
stand out yeah
stand out yeah yeah yeah yeah
stand out
till mine is the only face you'll see
gonna stand out
till you notice me

words schmerds

There once was a little girl who owned a leopard-printed purse and a lack of words. She tried to speak but had yet learned enough words to piece together in order to accurately articulate the thoughts she thought or the feelings she felt. Hot stem of frustration would billow out of her ears at every attempt to speak. This was a growing problem for this little leopard-printed-purse-carrying girl. After a farcical outburst in the cafeteria (over corn dogs from what I could gather), she slowly began to withdraw from society. She moved into the woods with only her limited vocabulary to keep her company. 

Moral of the story: Make your children learn GRE words starting at the ripe ole age of five years.

Untitled #001

This past March I was on a team that went to Texas. This is my absolute favorite quote from the trip: "Three things make my wife cry. Old people, Native Americans, and Louisiana coastal erosion." I have never met this woman but I'm pretty sure I would like her.

Library

    I found this on my computer the other day. I'm pretty sure I wrote this sometime last summer.

I got a library card last week and I've been there three times since then. It's very easily becoming one of my favorite places in Lafayette. It has this sort of 1970s vibe to it...the architecture, the style, the windows, the chairs. The first time I went, I was looking for a GRE prep book. The guy from the circulation desk that was helping find the book asked me what I was going for. I told him anthropology. He said that he had received his masters from LSU in the same field. His thesis was on political cartoons pertaining to Native Americans and the casino industry. It didn't surprise me that he was an anthro major. We talked for awhile about anthropology and graduate school, our only shared piece of history. He was a pleasant fellow with a long black ponytail streaked with grey, although I left feeling slightly disheartened. He has a masters degree in cultural anthropology and is working at the circulation desk at the local library.
    Yesterday Joi and I rode our bikes down there again. Another reason I love the library, I get to ride through downtown to get there. She got her own copy of the Catcher in the Rye, then we proceeded to check out. While the lady was checking us out, I told her that I thought the library card keychains were a great idea. (When you sign up for a library card you get a normal library card and another one that goes on your key chain. It looks like one of those win-dixie money-saving keychain cards.) She looked up and after a long pause said "....okaaay." Really dragged it out too. It's like she really didn't know how to respond to me. It was as though she was thinking, "this is strictly a business transaction, no conversation necessary." Kind of fun to breakup someone's normal routine with human interaction.
    When we were leaving the old security who sits near the door said "I'm beginning to feel like I've known you two for a long time." For we had talked to him in that very same spot the day before. Laughter followed us out the door and we hopped on our blue bikes and rode home. The end.

Likes and Nots

To keep it balanced for every don't I need a like.


I don't like gauchos.
I like ponchos.
I don't like dictators.
I like dictionaries.
I don't like child soldiers.
I like old people hands.
I don't like discrimination.
I like origami cranes.
I don't like bras.
I like sisters.
I don't like writing on chalk boards...or writing vertically at all for that matter.
I like pencils.
I don't like insurance.
I like nature.
I don't like public speaking in Spanish.
I like spoken word poetry.
I don't like high heels.
I like community.
I don't like when the author's name is bigger than the title on a book cover.
I like Dylan's lyrics.
I don't like to shower.
I like knitting.
I don't like the fuzzies in socks when you wear them right side in.
I like maps and globes.
I don't like party planning.
I like hearing laughter.
I don't like telling people to 'be safe'.
I like roadtrips.
I don't like loopy bubbles in letters (like when people write the letter 'm' for instance and have a small loop on the middle line of the 'm').
I like pocket-sized notebooks.
I don't like frat boy sunglasses connector bands.
I like blonde eyelashes.
I don't like sticky hands.
I like helping others.
I don't like seeing thirteen-year-old girls in Starbucks.
I like bookstores.
I don't like air conditioners blowing cold air directly on me.
I like aboriginals.
I don't like chicken noodle soup.
I like modern dance.
I don't like eight hour bus rides packed to the brim from Cairo.
I like documentaries.
I don't like realizing that the b.o. smell is coming from the shirt that I pull off the floor to wear.
I like Mother Theresa quotes.
I don't like alarm clocks.
I like Native American prints.
I don't like alarm clocks.
I like hammocks.
I don't like itchy sweaters.
I like baby owls.
I don't like wasting.
I like hiking backpacks.
I don't like writing on the backs of pages. (But I'm trying to overcome for green's sake.)
I like different cultures.
I like napping in parks too.

BurgKing

Outside blacks and whites are yelling and fighting each other
within the fighting ring of the Burger King parking lot.
As we sit in our sheltered yellow house living, loving, dating,
cooking, and rooming together. We hear the noise but we just can't
quite understand what exactly they are saying.
So we open our windows and try to let our love escape.


(While trying to study in our living room, this was the scene outside.)

Lady Wanderlust

She walks lightly upon the soil.

Tiptoeing around the edge of a concrete jungle.

Modern nomad with proud Indian chief feathers 

braided into her tangled hair.

She stands tall because she has nothing to hide.

With a whimsical collection of stories tucked away 

in the pocket of her tattered jean cut-offs.

Mobile roots in Argentine boots.

Diaspora.

 Traveling because the earth beneath her moves.

 The wind dances between her fingertips

while the sun kisses her shoulders.

Freckles drape across the tip of her nose 

 and the peaks of her cheeks.

Forming a typographical map across her face.

She just couldn't sit still. 

Her song is soft intertwining with the wind. 

                                                            A calling for others to join in.

 The traveler's tale ends with only traces of her trail.

Walking alone on a southern train track rail.