NY

Just got back from the Big Apple. As with all conferences, you meet great people and then have to leave too quickly. Along with activity-packed days and hanging out with some outrageous nuns, we spent some time at the UN in NYC. Throughout the week we heard many presentations, but the one that I really feel compelled to share was about human trafficking:

http://www.humantrafficking.org/countries/united_states_of_america

Community.Pray.Service.Study.

Truth.

3 hours North of Madison

This is where I can go a whole day without seeing another person.

And when I look North, South, East, West, I see gravel roads that slant upwards, and seem to shoot up towards the sky. Like this city was punched into the map by an angry fist, making it difficult to get up, and get out.

Everything is square, defined, and I can hear a lawn mower at almost all times of the day.

Laundry constantly on the line, giving the illusion that we're housing a small army.

I always say I'm going to go for a walk, but I never quite get there. I think I'm most afraid of realizing that there isn't any place that I'm going to want to sit for awhile once I walk there. Like that epiphany I want, will never happen.

So instead I lay on my bed, and have an anxious feeling in my arms, legs, toes. The kind that makes me feel nervous, but not enough to vomit. I just fidget constantly and think about things that shouldn't be thought about.

iPod Memories

Play: {Million Faces by Paolo Nutini}

We're dancing

to Paolo's seductive voice.

My hand wrapped around your shoulder,

yours holding my hip.

Left folded in right, porcelain and bronze.

I can feel the life from your palm, like stigmata.

My cheek on your chest, smelling clean and earthen like sunshine through a forest,

yours on my hair, breathing in vanilla and jasmine.

Swaying slowly,

enjoying the shuffle of feet on hardwood floor,

the occasional creaking board,

the slight smiles.

My eyes close and you mouth the lyrics in my ear,

warm breath,

chills up my spine.

Soft laughter, a trickling creek.

Soaking in your strength as you pull me close.

Feeling every word, like we wrote the song ourselves.

Dream, memory.

Next.

My friend the onion.

Once you pull back the dry layers,

you begin to smell something real/pungent/sweet.

And no matter which way you slice it,

you realize that under the white skin, there is a strong core.

Sometimes a little too strong, and could maybe make you cry, but never on purpose.

Not always socially accepted, and sometimes hated by young children.

Useful in cooking, works well with others.

Cheap.

C(on)n([i]o)r [n]

My Sister is Beautiful

http://rkaiser-astheromansdo.blogspot.com/