Le passage du temps

Do you ever sit back and ponder on such happy affairs as birthdays?
My father said to me in the car today how 17 was a bit of an in-between sort of year- no longer Sweet Sixteen, and not quite the 'adult' we will become in...Oh, let's say 365 days and 2:20 hours.
My friend is scared of 17- although she is already 17 and seems to be dealing quite nicely. I always told her this was absurd and that although it was strange and a little frightening to be thinking of the places we could, will, and won't be in the next 2 years, we'll always make it. But things change, on the eves of birthdays, I think. I can suddenly step into your world, Hannah...
It seems so strange to think of yourself being alive for so many and so little years- to us, an eternity, but in the grand scope of things, barely a smidgeon in the time lines of history. Every small celebration of another year feels like a milestone. I mean, really- every year, don't we feel the tiniest bit more self-important? More imposing, more...incredible?
But more importantly...17. I can't believe that in two hours, I will never be 16 going on 17 again- not innocent or naive, needing someone to depend on, but rather the other way around. I don't like how 16 is something I will never get back again.
But more importantly...next year, at this time, where will be? What will I be going through? Will I have a plan?

It's the end of an era- and I'm seeing clearer.

I watch my dreams over and over again, in black and white, like an old video recording.
The dreams from last night.
The dreams from four days ago,
6 months ago,
12 years ago.

I eat cereal in the mornings, and wonder how many more mornings will be spent eating cereal and staring off into enraptured silence, in complete loneliness.

I wonder how many mornings it will be until I am feeding my own children cereal.

4 minutes ago, I was in kindergarten, following fairies around the classroom, with free spirit and wings.

I have 56 seconds until I am sliding down that hill.
42 seconds.

As warm, frothy milk spills over the side of the mug slowly revolving in the microwave, I do nothing to stop it. In 2 minutes and 46 seconds, I will have a mess to clean up. I do nothing to stop it.

2 minutes and 46 seconds are spilling over.

24, 989 snowflakes have melted on my tongue in 17 years.
I will graduate in 94 seconds, and have my degree in 54 minutes, and then I will marry a boy and we will watch the ocean steal nine minutes of our lives away.
We will watch 24, 989 grains of sand slip through our outstretched fingers.

In 34 seconds, I will be dead.

I do nothing to stop it.
Time is meaningless.  

Des onomatopees

c'est l'eternite qui nous suive

God moves in extremely mysterious, not to say, circuitous ways. God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of His own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of any of the other players*, to being involved in an obscure and complex version of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won't tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time.

Pour ma tante- qui aime etre inclue- la neige;

For lack of a better aorta...

If only, if only, the woodpecker sighs-
The bark on the tree was as soft as the skies
As the wolf waits below, hungry and lonely
He cries to the moon
If only, if only.

There was once a girl named Sunshine Buttercup. She wanted nothing more than to trot aimlessly and jovially through rosed, sun-dusted parks upon freshly freed grass lawns, basking in the warmth of comfortable, forgiving arms and comfortable, forgiving sun rays.
But she couldn't because her puppy had peed on the carpet and she must therefore stay at home and not only discipline said puppy, but also have all her carpeting redone because she was a clinical obsessive compulsive, and before she had her carpeting redone she had to clean all surfaces of the house so the carpet-redoing people would not judge her for the lack of tidiness in her spotless home, and before she did this she might as well build a fence around her small front yard so that she could leave her puppy there so he did not make a mess of her tidying, and she should probably stop at the grocery store on the way home from the hardware store to pick up not only new wet wipes and puppy treats, but a new recipe book and some ingredients for a fancy dinner she should hold to celebrate the new carpets being put in, but before that she should schedule a day to hold said party and call her friends to make sure that they are available, and probably catch up with them, maybe arrange a coffee date, because Fred and Annie Tulips had just returned from their European trek, and they would probably have much to recount about it, even though the idea of Europe repulsed her for the squat toilets that were simply unsanitary and uncomfortable for someone of her background, and whilst on the subject of toilets she should see whether it was possible for the carpeters to also have a look at the toilet that was acting up again, but before asking she should look up and see if carpeters usually double as plumbers, for if not, she had a real predicament on hand.

Nous sommes pas les amis;

Mmm, sunshine...

I do love sunshine.
And thunderstorms.

Baby, listen to the thunder.


BIrthday Countdown: 10 days.
 

Les poetiques

1. Hold on, don't cry yet
2. I won't let you go
3. All right - the panic recedes
4. All right - everyone bleeds
5. All right - I get what I need
6. Nobody needs to know
7.  

Utilisez votre coeur

Sometimes I feel like bits of me like to wander off, all on their own for a while; test out the waters, go exploring in the lands of Over There and Where Did You Go. I can tell when they're gone- I could probably pin down the exact time that they creep away- but only after the fact. The lead-up is always a mystery to me; no pattern, no preeminent gut feeling, just the sudden loss of a word, a thought, or a feeling.
If I'm lucky, they return after a while; some, like magnets, are instantly reunited with my whole self again, unable to escape the gravity of the immense black hole that is me. Others inexplicably seem to be able to resist the intense and immovable gravity of my other parts, and surpass the speed of light while zooming away from my outstretched hand and albeit imperfect vision- those uneven brown eyes watching them leave with not always regret, but confusion and frustration.

How can I want it, and not feel it? Shouldn't it be effortless?

I need you to give me something to go on. Is it fair to stop something that has accomplished moving faster than the speed of light?

C'est un loup-garou!

You know, they might not look it, but bunnies can really take care of themselves.

C'est le journee celebrer de

What the hell, for the following reasons:

1. My computer APPARENTLY creates accounts on foreign websites for me. By foreign I mean Skype. Ryan found an account on Skype that is lyndsay.gundesen with my e-mail attached on to it- my computer does not even have a webcam. Plainly it is functioning against my will. I hate technology that does that. Eff you, I didn't tell you to do it, so don't do it. It's just like Tia said. Robots, even friendly ones, helpful ones, or useful ones, are creepy and I don't like them.

2. Musical Theatre. Look, I'm sorry, but when you call a full cast rehearsal, if you end up realising that you don't need the full cast, release us from your grasp. People have other places they need/want to be other than sitting there waiting on their turns that won't come. I understand how difficult it is to put on a show when you can only see half the cast at once- but realize that you can't have a full cast rehearsal with half the cast, and let those who came go if they won't be used.

3. Que sera, sera. Carpe Diem. All that.
Annoying, cliche...etc etc.

4. I missed you.

Donc;

Oh!

Birthday Count: 28 - 11.

For once in your life, do the math yourself. Solve the problem without my help.