The Monster Nocturnes

Polaroids

2010-10-12T05:15:00.000-07:00

So, needless to say, it's been wayyyyy too long and I'm quite sorry. My technology avaliability is difficult to describe while in Maine; it's wonderful to never worry about overusing the computer, but the ten minutes it takes to load my email every three days generally just isn't worth the wait, so I'm sortof off-grid now. In many ways, it's wonderful.

My life now is three photographs. I wish I could post them (again, technology and my own impatience) but I'll describe them for you.

#1. Sitting on a wire-frame red chair at an outdoor wire table with Nate; behind is a flowergarden growing out of a bathtub. On the table is a half-devoured plate of fried pickles (the waiter is out of the picture, probably still fetching the tempeh burritoes). I'm wearing a scarf, jacket, and green crocheted hand warmers; Nate is only in a t-shirt; and I'm barely avoiding being skunked in cribbage.

While I spend most of my time in the amazing Patagonia outlet with amazing people (think: beards, big llama eyes, easy laughs, plaid shirts) the most memorable part of work is the hour drive. Photograph #2 then is me in the mussy black interior of my car, an apologetic apple core in the cupholder along with three pairs of sunglasses and a Maine gazeteer; the two front windows are rolled down, as is the sunroof but I'm wearing the same scarf, jacket, and green crocheted hand warmers; Avett Brothers or Matisyahu blasting. (I guess you won't be able to see that in a photograph...oops.)

#3. Armed with a blowdrier, a bag of bricks, three pillows, six sets of playmobile guys, and a bin of blocks, I face my cluster of sqealy, wide-eyed primary kids. The girls are wearing any dress that sparkles or has flowers, the boys are generally to be found crawling under the table. I am terrified but determined. The scarf, jacket, and green crocheted hand warmers are nowhere in sight.

Anyways. I'm sorry again about the terrible pause (and the rusty writing...). I'm trying to repent with more phone calls and fewer facebook posts. I miss you all! xoxo

An Oldie

2010-06-14T00:03:00.000-07:00

This one is from two, maybe three years ago? It's been through a few drafts, but it's always exciting to look back at old work, and pat yourself on the head from where you've come. Not that there's a ton of progress, but it's sortof nice to reread the oldies. K. Enough chatter.

Sketching in Periodicals

today, in the mellow gold of the library,

I scraped the lines of your arm,

tracked the ruffled arc of your hair

as it crept into curls around your ear.

The gentle curve of your fingers were childlike,

vulnerable-

your eyes so smooth,

gray swoops on my page

and I stared and stared at the way

the ridge of your nose slipped into your eyebrow.

It took time for me to get that right.

when I was done, you were there

dropped in the margins of my Economics notebook,

where I could shuffle back

and locate you easily;

quietly nestled between Positive Externalities

and the Law of Diminishing Returns.

I watched your face a minute longer

and suddenly

wanted to reach across the table

to rub your forehead, as if you were my little brother

sleeping on the couch on a Sunday

afternoon.

Island Dreams

2010-05-25T23:39:00.000-07:00

Don't you wish you could go back to that time when you were 9, and summer began with you walking out of the asphalt, brick and chain-link cage and heading into the forest path--the Snake Trail was what it was called--and through the tall, spiky grass (remember the milkweed plants? And the caterpillars who clustered there?) with your backpack slapping against your back and chafing your shoulders, until you reached your white house with the peeling blue porch paint--

--and you dropped your bag, thunk, on the stoop---
--and opened the door ("hi Betsy, hi Betsy! Down, girl!")--and yelled:
I'M HOME! IT'S DONE!!!!
as loud as your little lungs could manage.

And then there were cookies from Mom, and a quick review of all the papers you had haphazardly shoved in your lime green backpack, and a reminder to call home--
and you were off to the woods again, up Centennial Ave and to the Whale Rocks or the My Side of the Mountain fort that you and Sophie had perfected last week or even, to check on the tadpole clusters that Echo had found in the concrete pond. It was sunny and not too hot, and you could wear a bandanna to keep the sweat out of your salty eyes anyways. And afterward, on special nights, you would find the soft, bleached log that had washed up to Centennial Beach, and Dad would bring the djembes, and you and Spencer would dance in the sand, kicking up the dunes and singing; the dark waves giving their measured, hissing applause while Mom bobbed her head in time, tapping the thick trunk.

Who says childhood is idealized? That's the truth, straight up. I lived a magical life, I think; I still wonder where I can bring my children to have their Island dreams.

On Human Sacrifices...or something.

2010-05-20T08:14:00.000-07:00

K, new poem! This one needs a title and lots of constructive comments, though, so go to. We're still at the butcher knife stage of drafting, so don't be shy...

Poem. (<---title goes here. Ahem.)

We all place our best work at the feet of God.
Sure, there are different way of saying it.
Back in the day, when the fiery angel dropped to prick the earth with his voice
(to Adam, to Eve, how tinny a voice that must have been!),
Abel settled his sheep (the whitest, the fleeciest, the warmest)
securely on the alter, then turned away, afraid.
Later, when Abraham rocked his baby on the stony crib,
sweat and lullabies streaming onto his child’s face,
or when Moses offered his tongue, his sandals, his future
to the glory of that electrifying shrub,
we stop and gape, amazed,
and poke our neighbors in their wooden pews
and quiver to compare ourselves
with those ceramic brows.

But, what is the difference then,
between us and those great, glassy men;
enamored in our gazes?
You and I,
we litter His feet with our own, private bounties;
tedious gray hours kneeling at the side of His childrens' beds,
hands hung over keyboards for long, long minutes, waiting to drop the perfect hosanna
onto the paper’s generous spread,
fishermen pulling in their sodden lines and pushing off, away, away,
preferring to hear God’s voice in the pulse of wave after wave after wave;
(what contrite thankfulness for salt and flippering fin!)
Even with a boyish whistle in the face of stark winter morning,
we honor His great hands.
And what greater proof do we need, in scripture or in hymn,
that we travel through our lives, whispering our hushed benedicti into our
handkerchiefs and to the insides of our scarves,
and finally, in that great moment of emergence,
when faced by mountains,
those resonant purple thumbs of God,
we stand up, and rub our palms together,
and sing.

On the First Three Days of Being in Love, Age 17.

2010-05-18T15:51:00.000-07:00

He
is the one buried in her furtive glance as she swipes three grapes
from the plate being marched to the dinner table
and it is his voice that echoes with each drip of the faucet
into the metal mixing bowl,
plink plink like tinny elevator music, punctuating the conversation with
such measured presence.
Today she finds his smile on fifteen street corners;
because every idle pedestrian knows his name
(and the secret weight of his hand on hers)
and they each wink to her
in silent confidence: yes, yes, yes.
It should be no surprise, then,
when he threads himself through the stubborn
air-conditioning vents of her car
(tickling the secret arcs of her calves)
and into the tangles of her morning-tossed hair, and oh—!
even now, his face appears
impressed into the pattern
of crumbs on her plate after Sunday morning waffles,
bobbing in a slick of syrup.
He waits patiently,
waits to be speared and devoured;
so small and so hungry.

What a Babe.

2010-05-09T20:39:00.000-07:00

Happy Mom Day Everyone!

Today in church, while Bismark was describing Ghanaian tooth fairy traditions, I started thinking about my mom.

Her name is Karen.

Isn't she a babe?

(Photocredit to my amazing Aunt Jen--check out her amazing blog.)

I could write Tolstoy-sized volumes on my mom without scrabbling for ideas. She is, in a word, stunning.

So, sitting in church, I did what I did best and began to make lists. And, while it is certainly sub-Tolstoy sized, it is still worth sharing because it IS mother's day and she IS an amazing, amazing person. So here goes:

(ahem) The Qualities I Hope to Inherit From My Gorgeous Mother:

Goal setting: My mom is the world champ, no joke.
Money matters!
The quality of never being satisfied, in the best possible way. Mom is always looking for ways to improve, to stretch herself. She is always searching for excellence.
a knowledge and love of the scriptures
SO. MUCH. ENERGY.
In her free time, Mom hangs out with her family! (Good deal for us.)
ADVENTUROUSNESS! She rock climbs! Tries vegetarian adventures! Bikes! Moves to Boston! Runs a Boy Scout Camp! Sends her kids to far off lands! Wears interesting clothes! Marries an artist! (Is there anything she is afraid of?!?!)
She NEVER complains. Maybe she "constructs" on occasion, but never complains.
I have never heard my mom say anything bad about her family or children to anyone else. Ever. (WAA?!?! Isn't that crazy?!?!)
She doesn't care if flowers are particularly beautiful as long as they smell wonderful...aka she likes things that are useful. She's not a knick-knack person, but a utility/artistry woman. An amazing thing, really.
she has excellent taste in clothing
she loves and values education, and never backs down from an intellectual challenge. (Her response to why she studied medicine and chemistry in college: "Because it was the hardest thing I could find. I didn't want a 'just looking for marriage' major.")
She can raise good men.
She loves delicious food.
Wayyy spunky. (In the righteous sense)
She has a burning testimony of the gospel.
She loves, values, and defends motherhood.
She has vision. (A favorite T-shirt of hers: "Dorothy had the shoes, but she didn't have the vision. Take the controls: Women Fly.")

What an amazing person! What an amazing mother! What an amazing precedent!

What a babe!!!!

Sometimes You Just Need Time to Think

2010-05-01T19:23:00.000-07:00

(kazachenin)

A Guilty Post-script...

2010-04-18T22:34:00.000-07:00

So, you know how people have that little gadget thing on the side of their blog that has a handy little photo of the book they're reading? I wanted to make one. So I started. And then I realized that it would take up...soooo....much....space....

because as an English major and as a student who commutes at least 4 times a year on airplanes, I've started wayyyyy too many books.

So, here's what I'm reading right now. (Sans pictures, we'll chalk that up to laziness.)

A Good Man is Hard to Find- Flannery O'Connor. Given to me by my Hawaiian creative writing teacher, it's a spectacular collection of short stories.

The Hungry Ocean--Linda Greenlaw. Autobiography of a female swordfishing captain who captained the sister boat of the Andrea Gail, of "Perfect Storm" fame. Super interesting book, with too few technical drawings for those of us who aren't avid swordfishers.

The Count of Monte Cristo--Alexandre Dumas. It's been my airplane book for the past three years, and I think I just need to start over with it. Dang.

Breakfast of Champions--Kurt Vonnegut. As much as I love Vonnegut, I'm taking a moral pause on this one. I need a breather from him sometimes. But his writing is snapping and precise, like Fitzgerald. Mmmm.

To The Lighthouse--Virginia Woolf. Amazing, with more character depth than possibly any other book I've ever read. Also assigned for a British literature class, so I need to have it finished up before that final on Wednesday....

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man--James Joyce...also amazing. Also needs to be done by Wednesday. Dang.

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter--Carson McCullers. A personal favorite, it's so tastefully and powerfully written, sortof a mix of Barbara Kingsolver and "Winesburg, Ohio." I'm in the last 20 pages, and just need to finish 'er up, to cross it off the list.

The Book of Mormon--inspired prophets. Oldie but goody, I think. ;)

So. What's on your list?

This is What I Miss Sometimes

2010-04-15T19:32:00.000-07:00

my family...

(all of them)

the white mountains

my parents, and their great sense of food

Ferry Beach, a 10 minute drive

But! This is what I have:

laughter! (and BEAUTIFUL women)

color!

bicycles!

and homemade ginger beer, among other things.

Oh life. :)

Memories of My Dad Coming to Me While in the LawBrary, Trying to Write A Paper

2010-03-25T21:48:00.000-07:00

I remember chicken marabella and couscous that mom cooked, the way it rolled in it’s own light olive-colored sauce, the tiny bubbles of oil pooling at the bottom of the bowl as I lifted it to the dishwasher.

I remember cherry pie and mango ice cream, him twisting the ice cream maker’s handle with his large hands.

I remember his hands, with black hairy knuckles and broad, flat fingernails; how I used to play with them in church, try to stick my pudgy fingers into his cavernous palm before it closed on me.

I remember sitting in the yoga room (before it was even that, I guess) on the burnt orange couch, sitting there with a sketchbook in the evening, and seeing his sure, easy fingers draw the smoky outline of a face, a woman’s face, beautiful and definite. “You come from a line of beautiful women”, he told me there, while I sat staring in frustration at the page, an unhappy thirteen year old. “Let me tell you about yourself. You’ve got your mothers lips, big and full, and that’s a good thing, although you may not think that now.” and he drew them there, a curving, gentle line with a smoky dark shadow under it. I stared at the page. He smiled as he drew. “You’ve had your mom’s lips since the day you were born, and you’re lucky.” And I thought of a picture of me, maybe three months old, clutching a tiny teddy bear and puffing out my lips, wide eyed and whispy haired. (I feel that way now, sometimes, just sitting and clutching and staring, adjusting in my body, knowing my own skin and eyes, sitting breathless in my own life.) “And,” he said, “you’ve got your grandmother’s hair. My mom.” I winced a little, running a hand over my frizzy splitting ponytail and wishing that I had inherited something a little less unruly. His voice changed for a moment, thinking, not talking to me anymore. “Your grandmother was a beautiful woman.” I thought about her, hunched and a bit paunchy now, generally looking stressed. Carma. I hardly know her, I wonder sadly, Grandma Carma. I thought of her name, Carma Carma Carma. What a beautiful name, I thought. I wish dad had a photograph of her when she was young, like a wedding picture. I imagined Carma with brown, curling hair, still short, but very thin, like all the girls of the 50’s. Maybe she wasn’t like this at all, I didn’t know though, so I let her name and Dad’s thoughtful description whisk me away, while he sketched.

“Carma Carma Carma.” I remember this.

If I Ran The Zoo...

2010-03-07T22:20:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, one of my friends asked me why I was taking German. I shuffled through the various reasons:

because I've heard too many lame jokes about choking on your food and being mistaken for speaking German
because after three years of Latin in High School, I didn't feel up for another romance language, but wasn't quite ready to commit to hours of meticulous scratching over kanji or Chinese script during my first semester of college
because Germany and Austria sounded completely bomber places to visit
because it wasn't Spanish, which somehow seemed so boring (and now, I envy the pure range of communication that any Spanish speaker has, just the functionality of being able to speak with so many people in America...unfortunately, there aren't that many Germans wandering the Utah highways, asking for directions...)

and then suddenly, I realized why:

Because when I take over the world, I'll be able to communicate with the most organized and technical people on Earth, who have already had some decent experience with world domination.
Bingo.

And then my friend reminded me that with my background in Latin, I'll have both the Germans AND the Romans behind me. Alll RIGHT.

(Mostly) all joking aside, though, what would I do if I ran the Zoo? A few thoughts:

have more art and music taught in schools
abolish billboards
bigger libraries, with higher paid librarians
more funding for the UN
tax breaks for people who recycle, and for people who bike to work
frisbee more popular than football
start breaking down the military-industrial complex
more cobblestoned streets
un-invent drugs. (...unfortunately, this is a very hypothetical world...)
have mango trees in my backyard
more bike racks
lower the prices of: climbing shoes, ice cream, hand lotion, tie-dye kits and laundromats
more stores closed on Sundays
no torture, ever.
give funding for free concerts in the summer
live in a place where the Wasatch Front meets the North Atlantic Ocean
more local businesses!
lose the drug taboo on dreds
be able to slackline/hang hammocks on BYU campus

and, as a shout out to the newly Oscar-ed Ms. Bullock: World Peace.

And what about YOU? What would YOU do if you ran the Zoo?

Which direction is YOUR duck facing?

2010-01-24T21:27:00.000-08:00

Today in Sunday School, I heard an interesting idea. The young man teaching the class (which happened to be about love and communication within relationships) told a story about his friends, recently married and living in San Francisco. For their wedding, they received a traditional Korean gift (er, did I mention they were Korean? So the present wasn't as random as it sounds...)
The gift was two miniature ducks, carved from wood. The couple would place the ducks on a mantle or shelf, and used them as a weathervane for their relationship:

Ducks facing each other: all was well. No misunderstandings, no hurt feelings. He was using enough dishsoap in the washer, she was folding the towels right way, the dog was being fed, things were going smoothly.

However, a Duck facing away: trouble. Someone's hurt, upset, a little confused, feeling uncommunicated with. Maybe her back is sore today, maybe the radio was on too loud last night, maybe there were unkind words said in the car, maybe there was just a little problem with the tax receipts--but now, we're all aware of it, thanks to the unassuming, unbiased ducks, and now, it can be solved.

Strange? Maybe a little. Visual representations of personal conflicts are always a bit uncomfortable. But think of the genius: if I had my feelings hurt, but knew my (theoretical) husband was too busy to talk at the moment, how simple to sneak to the table and do a quick rearrangement of the Duck Creche, knowing that resolution would come quickly, at a better time for both of us. Also, ducks can't gaze in spite: no hurtful words would need to be said to initiate the issue, it could just be a simple conversation. ("Sooo, the ducks are fortelling a little conflict, hmmm?" "You look happy tonight sweetheart, but the ducks tell another story..." Heh.) But seriously, no emotional elephants lurking in the corners of the living room. And maybe, just looking at the two, unassuming animals gazing in opposite directions would be enough to soften my perspective. Interesting, how when I am forced to take physical (and not just verbal) action on my inner feelings, I tend to adjust them. Are the dishes left in the sink really worthy of a duck adjustment? Probably not.

So, I haven't scampered out to buy duck effigies yet, but I'm thinking about it! Until then, I'll just try to keep my duck facing in. :)

A Small Poem.

2010-01-23T01:28:00.000-08:00

(Painting: Monk By The Sea, by Caspar David Friederich)

A monk by the sea,
A monk by the sea,
With his ponderous cloak
and back bent like a tree.
He peers through the mist
past the soft-spoken glee
of the wind-ruffled waves,
and he whispers his plea.
oh what does he see
as he stares out to sea?
Perhaps it's a vision of you
and of me.

Repentance and Thrice-Wrapped Scarves

2010-01-11T21:46:00.001-08:00

Today, I ran into a good friend whose writing makes me drool (and whose blog you really must check out, called Word of Me, it's brilliant) and we talked about writing, Sherlock Holmes, Ghana, and blogging, among other things. And so I've decided to repent! And write more, just little pieces, to keep words fresh within myself.

So. Tonight, as I walked home from Spencer's apartment, (where I brought him a grapefruit and five dollars and returned with an original piece of artwork, a fortuitous exchange!) it was so cold that I wrapped my scarf around my neck three times (until I almost couldn't lower my chin without fear of cutting off my windpipe) and then once more, across my face. And then I sang all the way home, as loud as I wanted, all sneaky-like because the cars dashing by had only a smeared view of my eyes, forehead, and very shiny earrings before I disappeared again. My breath evaporated before me, slipping back into my face as I trotted homewards, back to muffins, a toasty afghan, and a good dose of literary analysis on "The Importance of Being Earnest." What strange breath of fortune tangles my hair on evenings like these.

...To Those Who Raise an Eyebrow at the Poets

2009-10-19T00:54:00.000-07:00

The Camp at Mauthausen sat grave, grey, authentically numbing. The wind washed over the barren hills of the nearby countryside, bringing with it a barrage of snow and freezing rain which snuck under the collar of my peacoat and through the thin cotton of my gloves until the sub-freezing temperature had burrowed inside of me, chilling me from the stomach outwards. I wandered through the barracks and fields with my oversized audioguide (forced to keep one hand out of my wool pocket, clasping its awkward bulk to my ear, horrible punishment in its own quiet way), my coat pulled tight against the snow and cutting wind. The numbers and testimonials that swept into my ear in a measured English accent were unreal, horrifying—thousands of deaths, overcrowded tent camps, starvation walks, ashes from the ovens dumped indiscriminately into piles along the road, people being hosed down naked and forced to run outside in the snow (imagine! I pull my woolen coat tighter against my ribs), prostitutes shipped in from Treblinka as part of the so-called “camp incentive system”, medicinal tests on prisoners...it was seemingly endless, one long pavilion of human suffering and sleet slipping down my neck.

Eventually, I began distancing myself—I had to distance myself, disconnect me and my own humanity from the people who lived and starved and burned here on the white-washed strips of cement. But when I did allow the tiniest connection, two wires of application brushed together to snap into a spark of personal impact (—these testimonials of dying men suddenly becoming my dad’s, my brothers’—can I imagine them here? Those skinny knees, those swollen eyes as theirs?—) I was overwhelmed with grief, amazement, disbelief, and that unswallowable question: how?

A quote from one man saved me. I found his story recorded in a solitary booth inside the stone-gray museum, his interview from 2003. His name was Leon Ceglarz, and he was Polish—and after 15 minutes of watching him explain the plummeting sequence of his life: capture, grueling labor, starvation, even being beaten almost to death with a soup ladle (a soup ladle! What a debasing way to be tortured!), he ended, and his dignified old-man eyes wrinkled with tears; explaining that to survive, we needed to connect ourselves with humanity, to not forget the ties we hold to one another. For him, he clung to his ties of family (a wife and new baby, only four months old when he left); to Poland, the reason his imprisonment in Mauthasen in the first place; for the young people he had taught before the war; these were the things that kept him human.

And, finally—and when he said this next part, the tears moved from the creases of his eyes to his cheeks, and I, watching a screen with headphones strapped to my ears, I began to cry too, struck with the importance (essentiality?) of language and words and expression—he said that: “I stood outside doors left ajar and listened to beautiful poetry—and that is what strengthened me.”

Humanity, family, hope, nation, and poetry.

What beautiful, crucial things to live for.

Apricots and Recollections

2009-10-13T02:19:00.001-07:00

Today:
I am eating a bag of dried apricots at 9.50 AM, and I realize that I haven’t written on my blog for over a month. I freeze, the leathery button of fruit half-eaten between my thumb and forefinger.

What to write about?

Maybe I need to write about the swimming in the Danube last Thursday, its frigid, brown water closing over my head as I dive in, ahhhhhh!!!! gasping and spitting out flecks of ancient water, feeling deliciously patronized by this old, unimpressed river. The Donau has seen its fair share of foreign idiots jumping in and out on warm autumn days, so my white legs and streaming eyes were nothing new to her; but she was new to me, and I laughed and skipped rocks, feeling impudent in the newness of my first European swim.

Or about the smell this morning when I stumbled across the living room and into the bathroom (watch out for sleeping cats, they’re like furry landmines; especially Chou Chou, the one who speaks German and won’t let me pet her)—it reminded me of autumn mornings at the Fryeburg Fair, and electric blue skies and orange leaves and Dad making apple crisp late at night. I stood in the kitchen with cold bare feet on the wooden floor and breathed in deeply: cinnamon and apples and autumn. Apfelstrudel. Frau Panzenböck is a genius, an easy-smiling Martha Stewart, and I dance down the outdoor hallway, electric in anticipation.

Or maybe talking with Franz, my host brother, as we walked home after a brief two hour stint at the rock gym that left us both weak and somewhat discouraged. Walking next to him, I’m surprised about how tall he actually is—maybe six and a half feet? (And how many centimeters is that? My European conversions are still greatly lacking.) He is wearing his enormous army coat and his dreds are in a ponytail, still reaching past his shoulders. And he’s talking about the government. “I hate all politicians,” he says, “all they do is talk talk talk talk talk. And does anything actually happen? No!” I suggest that maybe politicians do more than we can do in areas that we can’t affect—schools, hospitals, etc. He laughs. “Sure, sure, that’s what they say. But people can take care of each other much better than one person can take care of all of us. We don’t need politics.” Ten minutes later, I almost give up. “Franz, do you even vote?”
He grins. “Of course. Last time, I voted for the communist party. A whole .02 percent of the country was on my side.”

So yes, Austria is a place for me now, with cold rivers, apfel strudels, and communist brothers. Could I ask for anything else?

On second thought, maybe more apricots, I’m almost out. :)
Happy Tuesday, all.

Wilkommen!

2009-09-09T05:32:00.000-07:00

Well, it's official! After many hours on a really lovely airplane (only outdone by the really lovely flight attendants in carmine red full-body tights) and a brief stop through customs (I didn't even have to say anything, just hand them a passport and look non-threatening), I arrived in Vienna! The city is beautiful, although viewed through a slight haze of jet lag. We went for a walk after arriving at the hotel, and in a matter of hours I saw more statues and cathedrals than I have my entire life. The attention to detail in every column, every lamppost, every flowerbox; as if the city had been crafted by thousands of tiny artisans, each caring specifically and pedantically to their own tiny corner of the Stadt. Needless to say, I took dozens of shamelessly tourist-y photos, which will be soon posted.

But, one final thing, because everyone loves lists...

Top Five Things Learned Today:
1. Playing the recorder can be a lucrative career (rejoice Jamie!), as per the street performers in Michaelsplatz.
2. Brie cheese tastes inexplicably good for breakfast.
3. Pattered tights are the new pants, apparently.
4. Look up, when you walk, always. The view will be so much the better.
5. Citybike= Pure Genius.

Bis spater!

In preparation of Adventure...

2009-09-01T08:00:00.000-07:00

Hello! After getting a few proverbial elbows-to-the-ribs by good friends, I've decided to start a blog to document my upcoming three months spent cavorting through Vienna! Sooooo....this is it!
A caveat: (and yes, I just wanted to use the word "caveat" in a sentence today, thank you very much) the name may be subjet to change, as I don't intend to permanently subject my readers to the associated images of Frankenstein's monster, the (ex) Cookie Monster, that weird furry guy from the Muppets (or is that Animal?) etc. every time they want to look up a few photos of Vienna. In my defense, though, choosing a blog title this morning was unreasonably hard! Sitting here in the immaculate and air conditioned comfort of Baxter Memorial Library, I tried to rummage through my recent memories for something flashy, quippy, inclusive; the three-word summation of my literary personality. "The Monster Nocturnes" surfaced as a projection of my suspicions that the majority of my blogging will be late at night, the restless hours before bed when I'm pulled between temptations of both pantry and Microsoft Word. (The runner up for the title was, incidentally, The Salsa Nocturnes", another indication of my usual late-night activity, many thanks to my roommate's amazing culinary skills.) And "Monster"--the nickname given to me by my freshman year roommate-- referencing my laughable inability to hold actual conversation after midnight. So, hopefully, while I can't verbally articulate in the evening, the Nocturnes will at least prompt me to put some scattered adventures into writing!

So, essentially, I'm stoked. I'll write again next week, but from a bedroom in Ledererhof, Wien!
Tschuss!