You don't have to.

Before I lose you, watch this.
This has the potential to inspire me out of bed in the morning
for fiftybillionyears.

So I'm home from work. I would tell you how many hours that lasted-- but I keep doing that to people these days and it's really not the point.
My countrygirl feet are shinin clean.
I scrubbed and scrubbed.
Then came the cocoa butter for my heels.
Some people think this mess smells great.
It doesn't.
Though somehow... I am now slathered head to toe.
Cocoa butter: not appealing. still compelling. how?
Some humans are also this way.

Are you listening to me?
I never shut up.
Never
shut
ever
never shut
up.

I am always debating-- should my blog be for only my-favorite-ultra-revised-words?
Or is there value in daily rambling?

This post is an experiment, a favor to the ramblers.

(Before reading on, please but on your hillbilly voice and repeat the above sentence.)

This pose isin exspearahmint, a fayvor to thuh rAMMblurs.

Thankyou.

"There is always one boy.
I see him and get stuck.
YOU ARE MY PLAN OF ACTION.
I will pursue this course ...until I am blown off."
--Brooklyn

Friday, June 26th, 2009
Today I watched this movie trailer on Siovhan’s blog and cried.
I am so emotional.

...That was the Understatement of the century.

I SO know what its like to wait.
And wait
On a boy.
If you are reading this thinking “OMG she’s talking about me!”
Guess what—you’re wrong!
I’m talking about all of you.
Yes, multiple.
Maybe ya’ll could exchange addresses and start a little weekly dinner group.

Ahh. Do you see that up there? Sometimes these feisty and maybe, also… bitter… paragraphs just shoot out my mouth. They stand there big and winded, taking deep breaths with defiant looks on their blonde/brunette/red-headed faces.
“WE'RE HERE,” they say.
“Tell our story.”

Sometimes I say
“No thanks.”
“I’d really rather write about sunflowers and my feet.”
Then, they go away.
Relief.

"Throwing off the bowlines"

FRIDAY, JUNE 19TH 2009.

Tonight I watched my Claire,
brave on her carnival ride.
The lights flashed and
she was a blur: rising and falling.
For a few swings her direction was predicted—
back and forth.
But when she reached the peak,
there came a question:
Will she fall back or continue forward?

Surely there was an efficient physics equation for the outcome.

To calculate would be to miss the beauty

The beauty of Claire in the force of the moment.

Is she laughing in there? Screaming? Crying?
I yell for her from below.
I was exhilarated with her choice to ride and loved her from where I stood.
The music blared. “And I’ve got a long way: to run.” It sang.
All senses were intensified.
The opposite of silence.
It was at the carnival ride tonight, where Claire and I found a fullness of life.

1:19 AM.

*photos by kendra*

* * * * *

Friday, June 26th, 2009.
9:30 PM

Here lies a few paragraphs-- continually re-cut and un-pasted because I cannot decide if posting it up for the world would diminish its value. Am I brave or foolish?

* * * * *

I miss my blog.

Hi, I am nannyshae-- closet never-anymore-writer--- with a vacuum in my right hand and a baby on my hip applesauce in my hair crumbs on my bare feet from makin lunch for the masses.

Except for today, when we bust to a sweet waterpark for free.
Me and 5 kids.
But one of them is Stoph.
which was Mom's idea.
Oh wait, so this is the best job ever.

I miss my blog.

"Are they dying?" "Maybe they just look antique..."

* This is how Stoph responded to me yesterday, which was the nicest thing he could have said about my brown Chrysanthemums. *

Hi. I’m nuts.
Its 1245 in the mornin, which is not late at all for me—except that I had this revelation today about what sleep could do for my life. And still. I choose awake. Bad?
I just have so much to say.
I can remember feeling this way as far as ten years back.
Oh wait eleven, because whattheheck I’m gonna be 21 in one second.
When did that happen?
Life in my face.
I have so much to say.
And by that I mean—I have so much I don’t know how to say… which I should exhaust myself with via mad session of frustrating inarticulate pages until I figure out what the heck I’m doing with my life.
Which, tomorrow of course, could take a completely different turn. Because I change change change like I’m dang OPTIMUS PRIME.


I love Optimus Prime.
I love changing.
But oh man it blows my mind.
I learned so much today, and loved too. I loved 50 billion miles today.
I am already new.
I am already different.
I am already more to figure out than I was yesterday, when I still had questions.
I know who I am.
I do not know who I will be, or how I am getting there.
Except that I need to listen and follow.
Lately, people talk about this:
They say it’s hard because God’s plans are different from my plans.
It’s hard because I just want to know what God’s plans are.
My issue is different.
I'll do whatever I feel I should do, whether I understand or not...
My issue is
listening to all that he is surely tryin to tell me from up there.
I keep shafting my commitment to receive.
The consequence:
I AM ALOOF TO THE POSSIBILITIES.
Am I hearing?
Not well enough.
Wake up.
Choose.
Act.

Sleep!
NO.



In the name of sleep, I’m lining up the rest of my unspoken words:

Stop desecrating my quiet place. Remember what this place meant? Can you stop wrecking everything? You’re not. You’re not wrecking everything. But you are wrecking valuable, beautiful opportunities—and then reappearing everywhere as a reminder. It makes me tired and sad.

I want to have children that look like your sweet hispanic beautiful family, except to reach that I would have to stop dating Stoph, which is how I met you in the first place. And no thanks on account of I like him.

Get the heck home from California woman. My toenails are waitin. Which is code for—I just want to be around you and don’t actually care about whether we paint our toenails as planned.

Thanks for forgiving me today. I want to be so much like you when I grown up. I know you are my roots.

When I am with you, I feel EFY.fourteen.years.old again, plus a mass motivation to proactively seek my potential. Saturday sleepover was healing. I’m thankful for your rad example, like when we were ten and you wore sweet one-piece speedos.

I am worried about you because of the difference between who you are, and who you were. And mostly, the difference in who I know you could be. I see power in you. Do you feel that? Harvest yourself.

I love you, but not enough outloud-- to your face. You are solid for me, unending. And I spend my time writing anonymous frustrations rather than be solid for you. Who am I being right now? Why do I do that? For now, I delete the angry paragraphs from this post. For a decent hour tomorrow, I will call you.

* * * * *
Cait showed me this live cover of Free Fallin on Saturday. I know Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers had soul, but I am affected spiritually when I hear this guy sing it on stage.

res⋅o⋅lute [rez uh loot]

–adjective

characterized in spirit by firmness and determination.

I am up at 4:20 (Seriously, not a time for pot jokes.)
Live from the bottom bunk.
I am holdin down the nanny fort like nobody's business-- 19 hours in the past two days.
I sing Hillary Duff and David Archiwhatever with Radio Disney and the kids. In a fatty Suburban. At the pool. Running a cornucopia of errands and stoppin at Discovery Park to play in the rain.

I am capable.
Most likely because I came from Amy L. Wooten Brown.
AKA The beast of get-that-mess-done Motherhood.
(She also taught me about cornucopias.)

There is so much in my head that wants to be on this page.
There is so much in my head that wants to be on this page.
There is so much in my head that wants to be on this page.

There is so much I could be in the morning.

06.10.2009
There is that phenomena, of not knowing, which can bring either peace or pulsing unrest. I wonder at the difference: does the outcome depend on personal choice between the two? Or the extent of God's presence within you?
I know direction will follow your uncertainty.

From the Weekendpages.

June7th2009
I reserve the right to choose RAD pens and bring 7 or so around with me everywhere... because color matters. Texture matters. Speed flow matters-- and you just never know what combination the moment will ask for.
Who could refuse a moment its ink-match?

But what if you take them on the plane to Oregon and they explode from the pressure?

Keep using them.
The ink will seep into those certain places on your fingers,
places that will later trumpet the proof: YOU are a writer.
You with your man-sized sweat pants and obnoxious lack of shoes.
You with your confused future and empty wallet.
You, with the bag of avocados and the bucket of ice cream.

You You You are a writer,
and no one can make that a lie.
Have you seen your fingers lately?! Look at that: TRUTH.

* * * * *
June8th2009
Today I drove home from work with sunglasses on my head... even though there was also a hat there. What's up: I have an overly decadent FACE. So indulgent.

If you look up the word indulgent online, you will find this little gem...
Sponsored Results
Indulgent
Find Indulgent Online. Free Shipping on 150,000+ Products!
No way! I then look up the words:
CLARITY
PURPOSE
ANSWERS
...But do not receive the same offer. Which is a bummer, because I would order those regardless of free shipping.

* * * * *

06.07.2009

"A person who can discipline himself to fast on a regular basis in the way God has designed can resist every temptation, overcome any burden, and become free from any yoke."
Elder Bowen
Fasting with Power

Isaiah 58
6 Is not this the fast that I have chosen? to loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke?
8 Then shall thy light break forth as the morning, and thine health shall spring forth speedily: and thy righteousness shall go before thee; the glory of the Lord shall be thy rereward.

REREWARD:
footnote-- or rearguard
battle term: strong men guard the flank to prevent a surprise attack on the weaker portions of your army.

Apoidea Level

06.04.2009

“We were seventeen again togetherrrr”

I sang this all the way home.
When I was seventeen, I was a lot of things. I was laying sleepless by my open window, scribbling in the dark humidity. I was in the lake with no pants on and stumbling daily into seminary with my bowl of cereal. There is actually a disclaimer line in my journal, 09/23/2004: "Mom, if you're readin this-- nobody saw me on land without jeans on." I was finding.

Lately, I keep seeing stages of women and wondering What was I like when I was like you?

Today:
“My friends call me KaitKait.” 10 years old.
We’re trying to get to Costco in her Mom’s big suburban as I talk to her about social categories.

What did I long for eleven years ago?

I search out my mind: Gymnastics. Playing football with foxy Tyson Stewart. A tie-dye pink-orange dress. Secret Clubs. Grilled cheese with Mamaw at midnight. Passing notes. Ace of Base.

We continue down unfamiliar roads and Kait points the way. I know she is growing over there next to me, and I want to be a part of it. I think I’ve always done this—this arguably overeager approach.
“I’ll just relentlessly love you until you love me back,” I once said.
This is my natural flow.

* * * * *

"And there was that law of life
So cruel, and so just...
that one must GROW
or else pay more for remaining the same."
--Norman Mailer

* * * * *

05.25.2009
Last night I was standin on Dave Smith’s porch. Everywhere: there was rain. Across the street, a ponytailed foreign man strutted rhythmically down the sidewalk. The chain on his baggy black shorts rattled in time with his mumbled cry. I catch “This is my land!” and “I had it all before...”

Someone from our group glances over. “What’s that guy doing?”
“I think he’s just yelling for whoever wants to listen,” Dave says.
Emily laughs and says she doesn’t want to listen.
We laugh too, confused at him, and I think---

WHAT IF THE RAIN WERE A TRIGGER FOR THIS TOWN?
What if every time it poured , we were driven to the streets...
saying aloud (allowed) all that we keep to ourselves.

Imagine the shameless howls of liberated college students:

“I kissed a boy in your yard last night while you were sleepin through the stormmmm!”
“All day I’ve positioned my face to hide this gnarly zit from you.”
“I’m worried my brother may never come to church again.”
“I wake up every 3 hours for a protein shake because I wish I were 50 pounds heavier, Tongan, and dang foxy.”
“I haven’t read my scriptures in two months.”
“If I do not ask her out tonight, I may cease to be a man.”
“Last night in the pool, I sorta forgot you weren’t my missionary…”
“Before I found out about your secret girlfriend, I was hoping you’d come home for Christmas with me.”
“I work out behind fat people to stay motivated.”
“I know she wants to marry me, but I’m hoping it won’t come up.”
“When the radio breaks, I freestyle in the car to pass the time, and to feel LEGIT.”

When the thunder rolls, brace your bones.

The truth falls forth and covers everyone in real, wet colors.

My Secret: I’m dyin for a day like this.

* * * * *

06.03.2009
Today I walked into Nanny job #2-- It was just me in the house. They’re on vacation and as I’m vacuuming the Great Room, I come upon 75 dead bees. They sprawl out by the tall windows, the potted plants, and the hardwood floor. Why? From where? I catch my breath.
I am fascinated, morbidly connected to their obscure presence. Something in my stomach pulses at my discovery. I lay on my stomach, and look over the brown expanse of wood paneling. Each lay alone in its exhausted death. The one near my nose is propped vertically on one wing and its stinger, as if it died watching. Watching the yellow dust waft around in the light… wishing to drift as the pollen he once lived to carry. How curious to have lived in the air: a home within the intangible.
I feel as though I’ve walked in on a secret— ½ sacred, ½ haunted. I am an intruder on these bodies that caused wild flowers to breathe, and tame humans to run in fear. A few in the middle lay on their sides, faces curled in—--like they slept into the end. Each expired wing points to a different mystery.Somewhere, a body still buzzes.

* * * * *
05.25.2009
I write about myself relentlessly because I have to figure out who I am. I have to VIEW MYSELF. Because if I don't, it's over. I will never see you. I will never see the cicadas under the lightning in my stormy North Carolina. I will never find the compass or the microscope or the right place to burn them and I will never, never be a writer.

A Splattered Return.

Last night it was rainin after midnight and we didn't want to go home-- so we snuck out by one of our trees, under a playground structure with a tarp on top and blankets underneath. There was a sketchbook with colors, and a book of short stories by this brilliant man from Argentina. Claire's right, reading things aloud together is INTENSE. Flashlight: line by line. Rain is kind of our thing.
* * * * *

Today I lay on my front lawn with my head on Danielle's belly-- who's head was on Melissa's belly--- who's head was on Steph's belly--- who's head was on Brooklyn's belly-- who's head was on Stephy Lou's belly-- who's head was on my belly. (All of these details are surely crucial.) We laugh and laugh and all I can see is sky and bouncing roommate heads. I. am. joy. I am scrubby after a day at The Peaks and I'm eatin sweet potato french fries in the grass with my Conexsh women. I know that this moment is beautiful because it is fleeting, because Meliss is getting married and Sister Swain's goin to Japan and I, again, am transforming. In this minute of bellybumplaughing, we are trying to hold on.
* * * *

MARRIAGE
That's a big word. (Try not to crap your pants.)
Stephy Jay rides in a car with me and Brooklyn and we talk about what the freshmanfive of us were like before that word: Marriage.
"Mano y Mano" we used to say. HAND AND HAND. We were the five fingers, and sometimes, we'd call someone out for being the thumby. Thumby is the one who's being far away, the one who is studying when the other four want to snuggle or definantly eating a cucumber while we nag her to join in on the fatty queso dip.


How does it feel? Stephy Jay asks.
She wants to know what the transition was like for the two that are left.
Because the other three girls got married last summer, and now its Brooklyn and I at The Conexsh. In response, these words come spillin out of me...It was a more of a sacrifice than a loss of you. Because a sacrifice happens on purpose, in the name of something with promise. Something with sun. A loss is uncontrollable. A loss is a cause for mourning. A loss is not the right word. What I feel in the five of us is difference, not distance.

That's been in my heart and I had no idea.
Here's another one of its voices...

"I'm not scared of that anymore." I tell her.
This is my answer to:
"What if you're the last one left unmarried?"
I hadn't realized that I was free from the fear of being separate.
I am no longer worried that the loneliness will be too much. I will give my favorite women away in waves. I cannot see who I will be, but I know she could rock #5. She could be the thumb for a while.

op⋅pos⋅a⋅ble [uh-poh-zuh-buhl]
1. capable of being placed opposite to something else
2. capable of moving toward and touching the other digits on the same hand.



"Full but not heavy.
Floating, but anchored.
Anchored yet free."
--Stephy Jay.
August 2007 Reunion
* * * * *

05.17.2009 Relief Society.
I know that when I am completely healed about things with my Dad, it will be a miracle.
A slow-process miracle, so that I can combine
[my faith with God’s healing,]
and feel that combination steep in me.
The steeping feeling takes time, and becomes a reminder of what occurs when I let Him expand my potential. The steeping is part of the miracle, a feeling I’d miss if God healed up my heart in an instant.

steep [stēp]:
1. to immerse in or saturate or imbue with some pervading, absorbing influence or agency.
2. to soak in water or other liquid, as to soften, cleanse, or extract some constituent: to steep tea bags in boiling-hot water; to steep reeds for basket weaving.
* * * *
06.02.2009
I’m sitting cross-legged in my living room floor over a wooden cutting board. The knife we never use goes into the canteloupe slow—with this motion I feel the texture before I can see it and the smell floats up to me through the small slice in its middle. The color falls open and I cut carefully in slices—no rindless cubes, just rounded slivers of core and exterior. “God, is this what love is like?” I wonder.
“I think this must be what love is like.”