"This city just showed you that it's full of people ready to believe in good."

I was planning on posting about this movie, and the great quotes from it, but Katie beat me to it.

Go here. Read.

Savor the poetic symbolism of the Dark Knight.

**spoiler alert!**

My absolute favorite moment of the movie is when one of the convicts gets up and takes the detonator and says, "Give it to me. You can tell them I took it by force. Give it to me, and I'll do, what you shoulda did, ten minutes ago." And then he throws it out the window...

I think this movie is so powerful and has so many beautiful themes. It portrays evil so well without glorifying it; it portrays it as evil, and I think that is really important.


(not to mention the excellent musical score from it)

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Because I believe in true love.

This seems like exactly my kind of movie. Is it lame if I get chills during the trailer...at about 1:58?

May 2010. Can't. Wait.

'Tis the Season...(well almost)

Yes. This is one of those totally typical Thanksgiving gratitude lists. But I don't care. I like them anyway.

Reasons to keep breathing every day:
1. My family is incredible and I get to see them [except Christine :( ] tomorrow!
2. Family. Friends. Work. School. Every aspect of my life is a gift from God.
3. Excellent roommates
4. I think I've found my niche. Let's just hope it {the Ad Program} accepts me.
5. This song. Still playing it on repeat.
6. The Doogie Howser M.D. theme song.
7. Undeniable optimism.
8. The AdLab won the Canned Food Drive Sculpture contest. :)
9. All of my classes were canceled today.
10. Finding out curry is not that hard to make.
11. Music. Always a good reason to breathe.
12. Finding a great job.
13. Dinner group.
14. New friends.
15. Professors/TAs who care.
16. Late night Smiths runs.
17. Seeing/talking to old friends.

18. Family stories.

19. Listening to my grandparents and parents reminisce.

20. Spending time with my little brother.

21. Being home. There is nothing like it.

Happy Thanksgiving to you all!

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When your secret heart cannot speak so easily

Katie's post title reminded me of how much I love this song.



Love-to-be:
This one's for you.

Sometimes I just need to hear a song. Over and over. I need it because it feeds my soul and it builds me up and gives me that something I need to get through the day. It's a break from the monotone chaos of life. It's a fresh breath from the mundane. It is how I find my "invincible summer."

Today. This is that song.

“The world is not respectable; it is mortal, tormented, confused, deluded forever; but it is shot through with beauty, with love, with glints of courage and laughter; and in these, the spirit blooms timidly, and struggles to the light amid the thorns.”

-George Santayana

The Long Walk Home

I hate that because I'm a woman, there are things I ought not to do.
I hate that I shouldn't walk home alone because there is a chance I could encounter a dangerously forward male with ill intentions.
I've been conditioned to think that because I am a woman, I am weak and helpless to defend myself.

I hate that.

I hate feeling like this rare occurrence is not so rare.
Vulnerable is one of my least favorite flavors of fear.

I don't like calling someone to walk me home. If someone I know is around, sure, I'll walk with them. But I don't like making someone go out of their way to do something I have done by myself thousands of times (even though I know, most likely none of my friends would mind).

I'm stubborn, I know.

I just don't want to be scared of the world.

I am not naive enough to think bad things don't happen, or to think that it couldn't happen to me. I just don't like feeling like it will happen to me. Every.Night.

I guess this post has no real resolution. Except for the fact that I will continue to: rarely be on campus at night, walk with my head held high and buy some pepper spray.

I still don't like the sound of that. Because I've heard so many guys (and my Mom) tell me not to walk home alone after dark, I want to do it more. Just to show them I can do it. That I'm tough enough. It's a stupid reason, but it's my reason.

Take that, invisible male demons. Another successful walk home. I didn't even run.

image via deviantart

{And I hate that Southwest Airlines took away my pepper spray. So I forgot to put it in my checked luggage, it could have come in handy if the guy sitting next to me was planning on hi-jacking the plane. But they threw.it.away. Now, if that should ever happen, I'll have to settle for a ballpoint tracheotomy a la Red Eye. }

While sleeping I slipped on a reason*

I love live music.
I always forget how much of a rush it is until I'm there, feet aching, heart pounding, soul searching.
Emme Packer opened for Kate Voegele up at Kilby Court (totally sketch-o garage concert venue. I loved it.) It was an incredible concert.

I think it's pretty cool when you like the opening act as much as the headliner.

There is something about packing into a tight space, bumping into strangers, and feeding off their body heat, to share a common experience. It's utterly human; for 2 or 3 hours we felt a little more alive. A little more connected. A bit less alone in this thing called life.

Maybe a little more willing to believe in our dreams and in ourselves. Maybe a little inspired. Or a little hopeful.

I'm so inspired by the talents of others. Music gives me hope in people, because they really do have such good hearts.




*{Ghost on a Shelf} --wonderful song by Emme Packer. I highly recommend it. And anything else she does.

A passion that won't be bridled

I have two wonderful little blisters on the backs of my heels, right where my standard dance shoes rub.

These soon-to-be callouses are a reminder that today I worked hard. I danced hard. I let myself put my heart into it more than usual, and it felt so good.

I worked up a sweat, the satisfying kind of sweat. And it's been a while since I've done that.

Since the beginning of the semester, I've felt so guarded. I put up the walls and didn't let myself care too much or expect too much from myself.

Not today.

Sometimes I forget that dance is still one of my passions. I forget to enjoy it, and I get caught up in all the stress and competition and comparisons and politics involved.

It's because I start doing it for other people, rather than dancing for myself.

Today I remembered why I love to dance. It's something my heart and body craves. I remembered that I don't do it for awards or praise. I do it because I love it, because it pushes me to be better; because every time I learn something new, or master part of a step or routine, I feel triumphant.

And because it's like floating and lifting weights, at the same time.

image via deviantart

Vectors, guides, cloning, and spreadsheets*

I'm trying to become more technologically-savvy (and less technologically-loathing).

I'm trying my hand at graphic design, and, for once, not expecting to be great at it right away.

But I'm loving it, and let me just tell you, they call it the Creative Suite for a reason.

I'm getting my fingers wet, and it's glorious.

And it's fulfilling my number 3 on this list.

image...forthcoming...once I have something to show

*this last one just refers to me figuring out how to, once again, begin keeping track of my finances.

Like a rolling stone...

He sat down in the cafe with a cup of something steamy and a worn out copy of Metamorphosis by Kafka.
It's been on her list of books to read for a couple of years now. Thanks for the reminder, she thought.

He was just an ordinary boy. And then he wasn't. The difference? An old acoustic guitar, a dusty harmonica, and a soul full of lyrics to change the world.

He led her through places she'd never been, like dance steps she did not know. And she followed. And she followed well.

He had convictions, and would not let them go. He had opinions, and would fight her on them. And they would fight until the madness overcame their stubbornness and turned into the greatest love of all time. And they knew that it didn't make any sense, that they didn't make any sense. No one believed it could last.

But they didn't care. And they didn't quit.

image via deviantart

Note: This is not a personal narrative. But I wouldn't call it a work of fiction, either. Let's just say it's some stranger's narrative. I'm just the ghost-writer in another's love story. But I wanna know how that feels.