The earth is not a cold dead place.

THE DAY: January 24th, 2oo8
THE TIME: 7:50 pM
THE MUSIC: Fake Plastic Trees; Radiohead
THE MOMENT: Sepia Gold Saturation.

Last week after News Writing I scribbled this down in my Humanities class.

"I hope to one day be spiraling up the stairs of the Brimhall building with my strawberry popsicle... and for someone to say "That's Lyndsi Shae, She's a writer... and she shook up this place."
For now I frolic around the floors like it's where I belong-- I hope it is."

THE DAY: February 1st, 2oo8
THE TIME: 5:45 pM
THE MUSIC: I need a boss; Shareefa
THE MOMENT: Another revolution.

I feel like so much of journalism is about sacrificing your perspective.
They write objectively,
efficiently,
quickly,
concisely.
Writing is the way they fulfill their purpose-- which is to inform.

My purpose is to write.
I don't want to inform the public, I want to liberate the public.

I don't want to sketch out the latest politics. I hate politics. I'm not here to hand you an inverted pyramid story with a direct lead that gives it all away in the first sentence.
They do that.
That way the least important stuff is at the bottom, so someone can chop off the ending and fit it into a column of grey paper.
Reality: I've only been in real communications classes for a few weeks and already I feel like I'm losing my voice. I like endings. I like my soul. I think I'll keep it thanks.

I may be walking away from this mess.



I'm talkin bust out like a woman been cheated on.

English major anyone?

.Eyes Closed.

THE DAY: January 24tH, 2008.
THE TIME: Two*Eleven a.M.
THE MUSIC: Nightminds; Missy Higgins
THE MOMENT: "You haven't blogged in forever." --Sabrina


My entire apartment is clean.
I have done all my laundry.
I have re-redded the underside of my hair.
I have washed my sheets, sprayed my pillowcase with fall-asleep-smell.
I have painted my nails, bought new mascara, written a paper a little early...

Within me, I do the same.
I categorize the people in my life and our potentials.
I search for dust in the corners of my first impressions.
I find streaks in my own reflection.
Not because I am not content, but because there are blurs in my understanding.

I am searching.
I am praying.
I am writing.
I am sorting.
I am following my intuition, riding the current of my instincts... both of which are made from the small answers I've been asking for.
Born in His timing-- I follow their first words.
I am still trusting.

An aftertaste.

THE DAY: January 15th, 2008 and 17th
THE TIME: 1:05 aM
THE MUSIC: flustered sounds outside my bedroom window.
THE MOMENT: bed, pajamas, writing by laptop lights.

Tonight I was walking home when a question snuck up behind me…
“Lyndsi Shae, WHAT are you doing?!”
I realized… that I didn’t really know.
That wasn’t enough.
It jumped in front of me, blocked my path, and demanded an answer.
“LYNDSI SHAE, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

And all I could say was “No game. No plan. No idea.”

These days…
Answers aren’t coming in like clean-shaven black-and-white suited messengers.
They’re more like big burly cave men that just grunt and point in a general direction.
I know the vague outer-workings of what I should do.
I know where.
I do not know why.
I do not know how.
I do not know with who.
I am tempted to want God to explain the very interior of His will for me.
Tonight, I let the uncertainty shake me to standing still.

“Lyndsi Shae, what are you doing?”

I am trusting.
That is enough.

"I just noticed that you talk to strangers like they're your friends."
--Girl in my line last night.