In the Land of Shiva: Part XIII

We rose with the sun in search of the holiest site in Sikhism. And I relished the plush green carpet beneath my feet, the Western showers, hot water pouring down, a four star hotel for the same price as a Motel 8 room in the States. It was luxury.

Not the same can be said for the taxi driver we reserved for the weekend. I discovered his bed was the backseat of the taxi, likely a quick face and ear wash with cold water in a bathroom nearby. He packed no change of clothes, np overnight bag for our two day journey, only his thinning button up shirt, pants, and a Punjabi music cassette that we’d listen to for over 5 hours that weekend. I thought it odd to memorize excerpts of a song in a language I didn’t speak, words whose meaning I failed to grasp. 

He left us in a parking lot. Melancholy buildings loomed around, Indian men’s eyes stared at these six Western women huddled together, whispering concerns, debating direction to step. The driver just waived for us to walk away, and hesitantly, we complied. But after five minutes, the same decrepit structures and eyes with different faces remained. It felt like post war Europe invaded with immigrants, and we panicked, racing back to the lot. Taxi and driver gone. Shit. Abandoned in Amritsar. 

We decided to retrace our steps thinking perhaps we didn’t go far enough. But nothing fit, nothing made sense. We were in search of a building of gold, but we were encompassed by forgotten structures, their facades faded and subdued. It would be like finding Eden within the bounds of a wasteland. 

After a ten minute walk and rounding a corner, we came to see this was indeed the case. Red and silver streamers glimmered in the morning light, a party at the edge of disaster. An immaculate structure encircled the Golden Temple, a threshold to be crossed, separating sacred from profane. 

Beneath a tent, we slipped off our shoes and handed them over in exchange for a chip. Within the tiled ground were basins of water. Slowly walking through, washing my feet of impurities so as not to taint holy ground. As I climbed the steps, a sliver of gold began to appear. At the top, all was revealed, a temple of gold that almost seemed to be floating on water. How the rising sun warmed its walls with light, causing it to radiate. 

At the sight of it, Haylee cried. Others wanted a moment of silent meditation. And I was in a state of horrific concern. Never would I share my thoughts at that precise moment with them, even with Jaye, nor with another when I returned home in the weeks to come. Before me was a building that invoked awe. That awoke the numinous and compelled people to to their knees, to prayer, to tears. But inside me, before that great temple, was a terrifying silence, a void of emotive fervor. So scared was I of this absent emotion that I almost broke down and wept. And the source of my tears would have been misinterpreted drastically.

The hallow state I felt then haunted me for so long after that day. I thought myself soul sick. How could a student of religions, so passionate about this discourse, feel nothing before one of the greatest temples in the world? And how could others that knew nothing of Sikhism, little of this temple, of its significance to Sikhs, could be struck so powerfully just at the sight of its walls? I evaded ruminating on this for months, fearing what I may unearth about myself in the process. I blamed it on the sickness waking from dormancy in my belly, the nausea and pepto chewables I ate like candy. Yes, it was illness, dehydration, a sick state of being that ruined my encounter with the Golden Temple. I knew this to be a lie, but I willed myself to believe it until the day I realized what had happened to me that day. A revelation that came almost an entire year later.

At the doors of the temple, sound changes. No longer can the ears distinguish between sounds. All there is is a series of voices, prayers, a chorus of bodies without a conductor to guide them. Men and women stand with eyes closed, hands pressed together all the while their mouths move. No room for air between brother and sister, feel the sweat of another, their breath upon your back. And the deeper inside the abyss of bodies, the sound rises, the mind hears nothing but hundreds of voices in indecipherable tongues and all that I can see is the center, the reason for bowed heads, and prostrations, tears and prayers. Roped off is three men and the sacred text, the eternal prophet of the Sikhs, the Guru Granth Sahib. 

Standing but several feet away, I am pushed, jostled, shoved away by pilgrims earnestly reaching towards the sacred heart of their being. Rupees are being tossed in, crumpled bills, meager coin change. Dozens on their knees, arms stretched towards men who hold folded orange fabric. These are blessed, to be worn by men upon their brow, but only if the right number of rupees fall to the ground. So many palms open, waiting to be filled. 

I am entranced. Paralyzed by so much before me. My eyes attempt to take it all in, I want to remember it all. And the voices make it difficult to focus. I see the intricate craftsmanship of its underbelly, vivid paints on all its walls, blues, oranges, whites, and the reflected light from its gold walls cascades inside. I cannot move, cannot dismiss these prostrating bodies, their prayers, the smell of their skin, the reading of scripture, too much in this place lives, too much to segregate in the mind. And then I feel my sickness rising, the heat of too many bodies causing my body to concede. Now I pray a silent prayer, “Don’t throw up in their sacred space. Do not throw up in their sacred space.” 

And I’m chanting this over and over in my head. Trying to inch my way towards the closest open space, a bit of air and perhaps I’ll be okay. And then I feel a quick slap across my head, then another. I turn to find an old woman, hair white and face pruned, berating me in Hindi. She slaps the side of my head again, and I jerk away from her, think her mad. But then she smacks her own head, and I realize my grave error. In the midst of my fixation and illness, my headscarf had slipped off, exposing my dark brown hair, a naked head before something so holy. I am horrified, and quickly adjust my scarf, tuck back my hair. All the while I’m apologizing in a language no one around me knows. Long ago was I separated from the others, now alone to face my gaffe. I’m inching away, giving a half bow, the only Hindi word I can think of is Namaste, no use in this context. But I think myself forgiven, for she laughed at me, then went back to her prayer. I managed not to vomit on sacred ground, but brandishing an uncovered head just may trump illness.

The experience and exertion of the morning had drained my energy. I was so tired that all I yearned for was the small cot and window air conditioning that awaited me back at the hotel. My belly and soul were soured, and I just wanted to retreat back to seclusion.

A year later, I once again confronted the void I felt at the sight of the temple. It was an issue I kept analyzing for months, wondering the extent of the illness in my soul. But one day, I realized why it had been such. In Religious Studies, it is said that one sees religion one of two ways: from the top down or from the bottom up. Those focused on the top are usually fixated with god(s), philosophy, abstractions, manifestations of the sacred, symbols, and so on. But those that start at the bottom likely never raise their head enough to even see the sky. The bottom is the people. The focus on the ritual, the internalizing of beliefs, the manifestation of religion in thoughts, speech, action, the union of spirituality and religion with a person, a community, a people.

Since the day I devoted myself to the study of religions, I have been a practitioner of from the bottom up. It is within the lives and stories of the people that I seek religion and spirituality, abstractions do little to entice and engage me, as is the same with gods and philosophy. I felt nothing at the sight of the temple, but was greatly overwhelmed within its walls, engulfed by hundreds of devotees. I sought to etch into my mind the images of praying, prostrating, puja, the smells, all I touched, the sensuality and spirituality that saturated that space.  It took so long for me to see, to realize, what truly invoked me, but the day that I finally understood this gave me insight I had lacked even into my own being.

Ideas

I’ve been in need of some introspective time. No tele or person to distract me. It is in isolation that the ideas come to fruition, flesh out in my imagination before the struggle of manifesting it in prose or image.

Sluggishly, I’m beginning the early stages of a series on the dark side of fairytales. I want the images to be a bit gothic, a bit Tim Burton-esque, slight underexposure with an enticing shock of isolated color and light. My first venture will include Little Red Riding Hood and Alice in Wonderland. This artistic project, however, involves greater dedication and preplanning. I am but at the wardrobe phase, and so much is left to pluck from the mind to make this a reality.

I want two series with Feminist themes (no surprise there). The first I originally called it the Abandoned Bride series, but then thought, no, that is not right, it is actually the Runaway Bride series. For this, I envision desaturated images, cliffs, beaches, vast plains, lands or waters of open space. Tattered dresses being torn from bodies, washing away in the ocean, left to hang on tree limbs, an identity shed, a future left to her own will. 

The second series I want to deal with Female Identity. This idea initially struck me when I saw an image of a pregnant woman under water, but her head was out of the frame, cut off so-to-speak. Though this wasn’t a favored image by the photographer, I adored it for my own skewed reasons. I thought what an intriguing portrayal of identity, and the odd fact that there is simultaneously an identity but not since the face of this woman is missing. And this is what I want, a series of faceless silhouettes who manage to tell the story of a person seen but also unseen. But to do this in a provocative way, I haven’t quite fleshed out.

Playing on an aspect of the Female Identity concept, I’ve been a bit obsessed with how other parts of the body reveal the nature of a person. Fingers, feet, stance, posture, and so on. I want an entire array of images that only reveal an isolated portion of a person’s body and how that alone can expose the soul of a person.

And my last photographic idea is Shadowplay. Typically, an eye is drawn to the lightest part of a photo, aka where the actual light hits. But I want to find a way to reverse that. To somehow make light the background and bring shadow to the foreground, perhaps by making light’s purpose change. By making it outline a shadow in a way that brings shadow to life, to form, to…something. This is another idea that remains a bit vague, more so in how to properly execute it. 

There are a handful of writing ideas as well. I may take back up my creative writing for a bit in order to potentially submit to a couple of contests coming up. But we’ll see. I’ve never done well dividing my creative energy, but perhaps a switch will offer unseen benefits. Besides, it is not my intention to choose either writing or photography. I want both. I just don’t want to be a jack of all trades but master of none.

Time Eclipse

So long have I keyed words into this cyber parchment. My ideas of prose I debate, weighing purpose and meaning, folly and just. What words rightfully belong in this place?

Lately, I’ve photographed little, but have viewed the works of others much. I was asked to attend a showing of a few AI photography teachers in a little gallery on lower King several weeks ago. Intrigued, I altered my driving path to take the photographic detour that awaited me twenty minutes away. My curiosity wanted to be indulged, to see these eyes that are training a new generation of shutter fiends.

First thought at the doorway entrance: “Pretentious. Indeed.” 

Landscapes, posed shots, pluff mud in sepia. I scribbled notes into my small black notebook. A woman’s feet standing on spring lush grass, tethered hem on her pretty linen dress and a black camisole haphazardly tossed to the side. The POINT? All caps warranted, trust that my meaning of “POINT” is crucial. Not in the sense of “I don’t get it” but a defined existence of meaning. How does this reveal the nature of the faceless woman, this is POINT. I see a right and a left foot benign before me. If one were turned towards the other, perhaps slightly elevated, what discomfort or vulnerability lay within her. If pointed to each other, a silent language, a bit of gossip between her toes, what childish nostalgia befalls her. If both were on tips of toes, what in the sky has grasped her? But none of this is there. No awkward. No revelation of the self through her bodily extensions. No pungent colors. No POINT.

Pluff mud chronicled. A day a man spent self portraiting in a putrid smelling substance, the Earth’s excrement. I wondered. His plight? Hands squeezing mud, meditative stance while covered, at one point, tearing saran wrap off his face. I wanted texture, I wanted to feel what was two dimensional. I didn’t want it in sepia. This, I can say, I didn’t get. But, it was a change, it was a creative journey taken no matter the potential absurdity, and for that, I gave him silent applaud. 

But what I found was a lack of adventure, an absence of questioning, of revelation, of an exploration in being no matter the subject at hand. Where was the creative trek? So much pretty that I felt compelled to gag. 

And these are a few at the podium of classes, etching the tabula rasa minds and eyes of future photographers. I trembled. 

But in the midst of my critiques I learn. My teacher of light cannot always be by my side to jostle my creative third eye. So, I must see the myriad of paths not suited for my passion, my goals. To teach myself lessons, to observe light, to realize what perspective could have enhanced a photo, what makes an image void of emotion, what could have made an image pungent, provocative, emotive and how I would have made it such.

Scribbling my notes, looking at framed images from several angles, I noticed not a person approached me. Too busy drinking champagne, networking, praising egos. OH, JUST HOW DO YOU DO IT?! Silently, I vowed if ever the day comes that I have a showing, let me notice the quiet eyes in the room. It is their thoughts and critiques I want to hear. I need no words to seduce an ego I desire to stay fragile and eternally questioning. 

And I also came to better understand the underbelly of my intention. I want my images to invoke rage, tears, joy, laughter. I want the eye to quake at the sight whether in delight or fear. Photographs that remain a flat dimension but feel through multiple planes of existence to reach out towards someone. Pungent…it’s my new favorite word, it is these eyes’ purpose.

Excerpts from Eden Prairie

Going against my paranoia of putting creative ideas in public domain, I’ve decided to put several excerpts from Eden Prairie, chosen a bit haphazardly late this night. 

Note: The following words are the property and copyright of Priscilla Thomas. And if I find anyone that ever plagiarizes these words, may whatever god you believe in help protect you from me. That’s not a threat, that’s a fact. 

Chapter II

When Ruth was younger, she sort of came upon the Forgotten Eden. From the outside, it don’t look like nothing more than an oversized shack. Some of the planks are rotting, others crooked out, all being held together by rust sick nails. The Forgotten Eden was built on the edge of town; it’s the first thing seen walking in and the last thing out as people leave. But most pass it because it don’t look like a warm place, a welcome house. And most in town consider it unholy. 

“Forgotten Eden is marked like Cain,” Ruth said, “Almost no man will deal with it, but they can’t help but be drawn to a cursed thing. You always wonder about its story, about a mark that can’t be hidden. And there’s a lot of cursed souls in a place like this. All a bunch of Cains tellin’ their story.” 

 

“I’m not sure I get what you’re saying, Ruth” I paused to take a drink from my cider, “But I just know I feel pain in a place like this. It aches just as bad as a bruise.”

Ruth smirked, and took into her cigarette, letting the smoke blow out slowly from her nose. “Jessie, one day you’ll come to know that everyone is Cain, just some come to realize it, and others just rather deny what they really are.” 

Chapter IV

There was no guitar or drum, so Ruth just started humming real soft with her eyes closed. And it seemed that all them men and women put down their glasses just to hear. 

Paradise got lost along the way

A forgotten dream like miner’s gold

It’s morning in Eden

But God is asleep

And I wish I could sleep

But I can’t go home

To a Mama that says I lie

To a preacher man that gone and made me cry

Pretty blue eyed girl he told me once

And I thought him kind

But I became a prophecy gone wrong

Fallen off Jacob’s ladder

Heaven lost forever 

Preacher man tore my wings

Now I just a bird that can’t fly

No longer the glint in the spirit’s eye

Yes, preacher man did me in 

With that nasty little smile

And a hand of sin

So I can’t go home

And I can’t go back

But I miss the fire in my soul

Before God slept in Eden

And left me on my own 

 

Chapter V

But none of that struck me so much as the music did. That thing called Blues was something different. The sound seemed like it came from the belly, a deep moan that just sang so loud and long, weaving through the air, and it just had the power of the soul. And that seemed its meaning, to rise up from the spirit to speak. It was something the people in this place could understand. And though its words was about pain, it somehow made me feel down but comforted. It healed because it made me come to see my pain and know my hurt, and it didn’t promise nothing past that. Didn’t give me no heaven, no promise of peace, but it made me think about my sick soul and I had to do the rest myself. And to me, the Blues might as well be God talking to me, telling me it knows my pain, lets me feel it, and lets me go mending how I see fit. 

I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder, and I knew I must have been lost in my mind again because I wasn’t paying any mind to anything around me. Rabbit stood pale and wet. Those eyes dark as coal seemed to shiver. Reaching up, I grabbed his face with my hands, and he felt cold. I rushed up, and took him to the back room where no one could see us. I sat him down on a wooden box, tucked back his wet hair cause it was sticking to his face. Taking his hands, I started blowing into them to warm them. He was shaking bad, and even his clothes were soaked. 

“I know you won’t like it,” I said looking him dead in the eye, “But you have to take your clothes off.” 

He jerked his hands back and shook his head.

“Oh don’t be so damn modest,” I said, “You want to just freeze? Ain’t no one gonna see you.” 

Rabbit just sat there shaking, not doing a thing, so I started unbuttoning his shirt. His body tensed up so tight, but I couldn’t stand to let him be going on cold. By the end of it, I left only his under britches on. I ran back into the main room to grab my coat and put it over Rabbit like a blanket. He’d finally stopped shivering. I asked him what had happened, and he actually tried talking. But nothing came out that I could understand, a bunch of sounds bunched together, and then the pained look on his face when he couldn’t get it out. Almost like he forgot he couldn’t talk. He just closed his eyes tight, bunching up his brow, and then he started to cry. I wanted so bad for him to tell me, but I knew he just couldn’t. All I knew to do was just stand there and hold him. And before I knew it, I couldn’t help but cry too. There we were in that back room, him in nothing but white shorts and my worn plaid jacket, holding each other and crying crazy mad. Neither of us could say why. His tongue was not right and my spirit was no better. So, I guess the crying was all we could do in a moment like that. 

I couldn’t think a darn thing, I just could feel it all. And that Blues was reaching for me in that back room, calling my spirit, but I didn’t want no pain. That melody deep and low like a knocking on the door. Leave me be, that music, it knowing me too well. And I sobbed into Rabbit’s hair, holding him closer. Took all I had not to scream for no good reason. But that music was climbing deep into me, it just wouldn’t let go. It swam in my blood, became my bones, and my heart was beating with those plucked strings. Blues had me good, and my eyes were aching from the crying. But I couldn’t quit those tears, and Rabbit cried into my shoulder. And in my mind I was yelling let it be, let me be, let it be…please, God let me be.

 

Chapter VI

I didn’t want anyone to wake, so I left the lights off. Bringing a chair to the kitchen window, the moon was shining down bright that night; so, I could read with just a bit of squinting. Right before I turned that first page, I was still debating to read it or not. This was Rabbit’s thoughts, but I just wanted so bad to know Rabbit. My curious mind won out, and I turned the cover slowly as if someone may hear the pages move and find me out.

His scribble was hard to read, like he slanted his hand while he wrote. On the inside of the cover was a sketch of a girl walking on creek rocks. It took me a bit to notice the wild hair, and I knew it was me. My arms were in the air almost like an L, on the tips of my toes walking across the creek. It was a pretty little sketching. I could better know his drawings than his words though.

 

Eve defied. Madam cursed by Adam. No serpent in Eden except Eli I’le. 

That first line alone seemed like nothing I’ve ever read before. And that’s all there was on the first page. If this is how Rabbit thought all the time, a working tongue wouldn’t do him much good anyway. 

 

A republic lost. Land lay in soil. Wrapped in the grasp of a snake’s coil. 

Eden forgotten like the left hand, evil a live, evil a live.

How easily Lucifer descends upon man,

Another pawn in the lions’ den.

 

Chapter X

“This is how He works,” his voice quaking, “I can heal, but my body reacts. I ain’t goin’ to make you sickly child. I just take in the poison of the unclean myself, but God lets it pass.”

I just kept thinkin’ about how nice Preacher Man looked, and how he looked covered with fat boils on his body. Eli ain’t no healer; he is. And Eli gone and needed somethin’ to make him look like a magic man. But he couldn’t do it alone. Preacher Man still on the floor cryin himself out of his mind. I can’t stand to see a being in pain. Hurts me bad when I can’t do nothin’ but watch. But I figure I ain’t got the power to heal a healer, but I can help him hurt less. So I find strips of white cloth and grab a basin of cool water and the holy oil Eli uses on occasion. And though he tried to push me away again once I settled on the floor, I just grabbed his hands firm like a man would and tugged them down. Not so much as lookin’ Preacher Man in the eye, I start dipping his hands in the water to help that fire in his fingers. And those boils feel almost like paper wax, like one tough touch and they’ll be busted open and sore. So, I keep gentle as can be, and once his hands feel a bit cooler, I take the holy oil and pour a small bit in my hand. Slowly rubbin’ it into his hands so that the oil coats the skin well, protecting it from the air. His hands gone cool just like I hoped, and in all that oil, they became shiny. Then I took the strips of cloth and started wrapping them around his hands till it looked like he was wearing a leper’s gloves. All the while he ain’t said a word to me. Just kept looking into my face, but I kept my eyes on his hands. And it wasn’t till I was done that I finally looked Preacher Man in the face. Though some bumps had come up, they wasn’t red hot or large like the ones on his hands. Just looked like he had some blemishes creepin’ up on his face. 

And it strange how you may see a person, but don’t see a person. All that while I’d seen Preacher Man and his city boy suit, and looks as nice as an actor in the picture shows. But his eyes didn’t match none of that. They seemed like an old man’s eyes lookin’ back at me. Something in them that ring more true that I had first thought. Preacher Man may put on a revival show, come as a God lovin’ entertainer, but he believe strong in what he does. So much so that the Lord let him heal. But that healin’ brings him pain, brings boils on his hands that heal, but that don’t stop him none. Preacher Man still came down to help little girl. He still hadn’t said a word to me, and I thought it funny for two people just to be staring at each other so long.

“I’m Jessie.”

“I know,” he said.

“Well that’s good and all, but I don’t know you from a hare.” 

He almost smiled, “Malachi Jefferson.”

“I know,” I whispered, “But for some reason, I just call you Preacher Man.” 

Heretic

Speak with a sin tainted tongue. Nooses, guillotines, death by fire, all fates to questioning minds. Kill the intellect and what is left but sheep unaware they’re trotting towards the edge of a cliff?

Tonight I listened to This American Life, an episode dedicated to a modern day heretic, Carlton Pearson. Evangelical born and raised, cast out his first demon in his teens, rose up in the community of Tulsa due to his charismatic and spiritual presence. Established a continuously growing church, national prestige, and notoriety. And then he decided something, that hell doesn’t exist. Hell is a concept, a state, created and alive within this world but not the afterlife. This conclusion came when he decided that his god would not drag people into eternal suffering that had no way of hearing the word of god, to opportunity to be saved. Pearson said at that moment the spirit spoke to him and said hell, suffering, was of this earth and all were saved through the death and blood no matter what. Quite a detour from traditional theology, especially a denomination known for its passionate sermons on brim stone and fire, words intent to instill fear.

Because of this, he was officially declared a heretic. His congregation that was in the thousands dwindled to a couple of hundred, a schism occurred between him and several of his pastors, Christian media ostracized him and maliciously set out to ruin him. The concept of an open door heaven and a nonexistent hell was something most Christians couldn’t digest or accept. Pearson received one letter stating that the Bible laid out all the rules whether we liked it or not.

And that statement written by a stranger I will never know is what terrified me. Since when is the will of a person so crippled to as not change anything let alone the interpretation of a text that has been victim to misinterpretation, manipulation, and assumption for hundreds of years? A book created by a council that determined what to be orthodoxy or heretical; to sift out texts that stood alone in theme and concept. Those men sought to change the literature of Christians, their intention to unite a greatly diversified tradition still new in comparison to its Ancient East siblings.

I say this, and I mean it to be taken with great thought and introspection, God is not absolved of accountability.

Nor are we.

After studying the history of Christianity, I found its past littered with a disturbing lineage filled with murder, war, oppression, greed, and power. It seemed nothing like the serene white bearded man I heard of in Sunday school. What Jesus had started as a novel revolution eventually reverted to the same corruption he condemned and attempted to change. And so I walked away from a tradition that scared me more than enriched my spirit. No longer willing to associate myself with people that seem so easily to forget to love, act with compassion.

Why is a hell needed? Who does its existence truly serve? What use for hell does god have anyway? To make nonbelievers suffer forever, is god that much of a sadist? I think if god is like Jesus, then god would see no need to act from anger, resentment, betrayal but rather love, compassion. We suffer now so what good for it to occur in another life? Such a shift in thought, in doctrine, is proving difficult, but more than that, it shows the nature of those that turn away from these ideas. It reveals their true religious selves.

I have a feeling Jesus would preach a similar inclusive message to the world. No need to strike fear into a heart. No need to slaughter one’s hope. To condemn and guilt. Act with love, empathy, compassion, and what evolves from such pure intention and action can be nothing but good.

In the Hour

At night, my brain just releases a multitude of thoughts. Ideas that just flood out like a deluge, just as sporadic in theme and coherence as rushing waters. It makes falling asleep a restless affair.

In the past hour…these have been my thoughts, actions, rests…

- Holiday adventure with Anna. Beginning plans for a spring trip to…haven’t gotten that far yet. But I’ve asked that it be narrowed down to France, Morocco, or Egypt. Paris may be the most cost effective at the moment, but I find Europe so subdued to me.

- How to acquire money for this trip. I’m realizing I’m not so good with finances anymore, and debt from college doesn’t seem to be diminishing like I’d hoped. So, I need to start living as if I have nothing. Basically, I’ll be eating a lot of yogurt and fried egg sandwiches in the near future. Unless photography starts bringing in more paying gigs, but those are sporadic and usually not scheduled far in advance. I get the “we decided to get married in three weeks and need a photographer” stuff since I’m still in process of establishing myself in the photography business.

- What can I sell? My new laptop is coming this week (it’s a gift, no I didn’t spend more money just after complaining about not having any and trust, it makes up for a handful of pretty bad Christmases). My desktop. My total gym (that obviously doesn’t get use). Mini fridge that I didn’t ask for but appeared in my bedroom one day. Old cameras that will get pennies since tech stuff depreciates at a rate worse than cars. Old laptop is nearing 6yrs old…just going to mail that to my sister and brother-in-law to have. A leather couch with chihuahua teething remnants on the armrests. What sucks about still being a relatively recent college grad is that I was poor then, and still poor now, and the stuff I have still isn’t worth crap. Hmm…my tv…could sell the tv.

- Reading. I’ve neglected this so much lately. I keep abreast with news through several internet sites, but as for books, fresh crisp pages, virgin to being thumbed through, this I miss. I need to designate one evening for reading only. No tele, no editing, no internet use…just me snuggled in bed with a good book. Mondays sound good, just not this Monday, ha.

- I’ve been tossing around the idea of starting a short story within my blog. I’m still hesitant about putting creative ideas/writings in public domain, but this would strictly be for the blog and hopefully not the best thing to ever be written by this mind.

-Work…bleh.

-Sleep…should probably do that soon since I’m waking up at 5am.

-Pancake. Poor Pancake.

-He’s a carpenter? Oh, well, Jesus was a carpenter; so, I guess it’s okay.

-Editing…over 500 images to still edit…I loathe editing.

-Read Postsecret and several friends blogs. Wrote several e-mails.

-I should blog. But about what? I have too many ideas and they sound like trivial dribble. India? I can never decide what to write next of India. Hey, I’ll write about my scattered jumbled brain that wants me to be sleep deprived tomorrow for work.

-Work…bleh.

These are the thoughts of this past hour. This is how my brain works at night. Quite tiring, but how the mind won’t let me rest most nights. It awakens when the body needs to go coma. What a sadist my mind is, the torturous master to my being.