The worst thing is how smells will stay with you--like they somehow bonded themselves to the cells lining the insides of your nose. The other day, the dirtiest, smelliest guy ever came up to the register that I was on and the new girl decided that she had to have a conversation with him so that he wouldn't leave. I think I vomited a bit in my mouth. Although, that's not the smell stuck in my head today. I can't get the smell of the hospital to go away.

I've meant to write in one of many journals the last few days about this, but I really start then just stop. Before going out on my birthday, I got a call from the mother and she checked herself into the hospital to get some testing done. [She'd been sore for about a week and, over that week, became progressively weaker, while her muscles started to not only be sore but also painfully achey.] They have no idea what's wrong with her, so they've been prodding and poking her like crazy. There was a muscle biopsy today that left a pretty ugly patch of gauze on her arm.

Just odd. Completely odd. Hospitals make me increasingly uncomfortable and I feel like The Worst Human Alive sitting there and waiting to leave. But not really, you know? You want to leave, but sitting isn't bad and talking isn't bad. But it's that whole not talking about the pink elephant in the room. What's worse is hearing any sort of nervousness coming out of her mouth--no thanks.


Birthday speak will come later. Can't seem to get into it, although it was a lovely day. Absolutely fantastic. Too much else on my mind right now, I suppose.

Children at War

A new book at work I ran across yesterday. I forgot to check on how well it's selling--unfortunately, it's stuck over in Military History where hardly anyone goes. It'd be better off in Sociology just because a bajillion people in this area comb that section like they're looking for gold. Or even World History. But, interesting. It's on my list right before Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

Children at War: P.W. Singer
Review From Publishers Weekly

Over six million child combatants were killed or injured in the past decade. In this groundbreaking and comprehensive study, Singer, a fellow at the Brookings Institution and former adviser to the U.S. military, explores the rise and expansion of child soldiery. Children, Singer finds, enter armies and militias in numerous ways: as voluntary soldiers, indoctrinated to kill; as involuntary soldiers, forced into the militia or military by cruel adults; as child-terrorists; as members of all-child armies (such as the Hitler Youth); and as sexual slaves for superior officers. Singer (Corporate Warriors) explores different means of training and indoctrination, often through interviews with child-soldiers, as well as with adults who have fought against them and others who have tried to rehabilitate children forced into warfare. In the concluding section, Singer notes that instruments of international law such as the U.N. Convention on the Rights of the Child prohibit the use of child-combatants, but that these treaties have been ineffective in actually reducing the prevalence of child-soldiers. One hope is that the new International Criminal Court will be empowered to punish those who recruit children and send them into battle. However they seek to accomplish their goal, activists will be aided by the diligent research and reasoned analysis provided by Singer's study, as will those who fund their work?i.e., anyone who gives to international aid organizations.

our younger years

First:
I received an email from the only local piercing parlour that I trust. July 11th, 11% off jewelry or $11 off a piercing + jewelry. No idea how I randomly got this mail, but figured I'd been wanting a new stud for my nose, so why not? I was going to get a bright red one, like originally when I got it done in Madtown, but they were out. So the new color is bright blue. She even shaped the ring better so that it doesn't stick out and won't move around.

I think a tattoo may be in order before the summer is over--but we'll see how funds keep going.


Second:
Fantastic books are being released tomorrow. Until I Find You by John Irving and Robert Sabuda's Dinosaurs. I'm telling you, coolest pop-up book you will ever see. We've been drooling over it in the back for the past few days. And Irving's new one is just beautiful. The quality of paper and binding is unparalleled, I promise.


Third:
Jamie and I stumbled across a book called The Ethical Slut by Dossie Easton. There are so many upsetting books [like the one with the porn star straight out of the depths of the trailer park--completely naked on the jacket, aviators on face and only his hand to cover up what you really don't want to see] that you'll find in the sex section and even more that are awfully hilarious ones [like the book about penis size with a ruler on the bind]. There aren't too many that will make you think, but there are a handful. Unfortunately, they get dumped in a section that's more about getting off than actually exploring human sexuality.

The content of the book is about polyamory, but the title itself is just enough to think on for a few days. The implications on female sexuality--or even the term slut being applied to a man. Few and far between, but it happens. And what it means anyway. Does it connotate someone being jealous, or disgusted? Feelings being hurt, whatever. Or even just the ability to speak about sex openly without someone cocking a brow at you.

Last night, we walked to VC from the apartment we were at and Jamie and I talked about sex just like Marty wasn't there. The expressions on his face were priceless, but it made me think about the title of that book, the subject matter. The worst thing is thinking about it. Most cases, you don't care how you sound because you know you're safe and you believe strongly that women should own their sexuality and that having a sex drive [and acting upon it] is both healthy and human, but most people still have a number in the back of their mind.

As long as it's less than ten. Anywhere between seven and nine. Who cares as long as you can remember [most of] their names? You know, I'd never go over four. Well, I don't want to seem like a total whore, but...Anyone you know--there's a number that is acceptable to them and one they'd like to stay in.


Really, the point is that I'm glad I'm hanging out with the kids from work more often because now there's someone to talk to as openly as possible again. I hadn't even realized how much I wasn't talking about certain things [read: sex].

I know this is a huge jumble of thoughts. Completely incoherent. Oh well. Maybe this is something to touch back on after I get my hands on that book, or whenever I finish the other book I have. After, you know, reading about 900 pages of Irving, I'll be all ready to discuss the evolution of the female orgasm. Bring it.

I believe that there is a type of exhaustion that is unique to working retail. Although, there is something to be said about working retail in the summer because it is always so much fun--at times. There are times where the anger comes through [when helping customers, or picking up books thrown on the floor by badly disciplined children, etc], but usually there are better times that poke through when working with young people full of aspirations.

I have a book that I won't mention in my bag right now. It's being released on my birthday and I am way too excited about having it in my posession right now. Way too excited. I'll talk about it once I read more of it. I'm afraid it will be as shitty as Douglas Coupland's last book--talk about a waste of words and ink.

The other one that I checked out today is The Case of the Female Orgasm: Bias in the Science of Evolution. Honestly, you don't think I could pass that one up. The other book that I'm going to read after these two is one that was just published about children soldiers. Supposedly, it's the foremost printed with refined information. We'll see. I honestly haven't looked that much into books published in the united states about children warriors.

The other day, I took some books to my sister written by different authors from different backgrounds. Pulitzer prize winners, different minority groups, bla bla bla. The next step is to introduce her to the @ers here at the university and maybe she'll start thinking about herself as a piece in a larger puzzle. Maybe she'll only drink free trade coffee for the next four years.



I've been in the weirdest moods for the last few days--for various reasons. It bothers me that everyone I talk to about the bombings in London assumes an angry expression and says, I KNOW IT SUCKS. Then everything stops.

Not sure what else anyone would say, but it doesn't seem right. Like enough.

I think this ties back into the restlessness to leave. To go camping in the middle of nowhere for a few days.



Before I left work, I meant to ask people what award they'd want to win if they could get any one that they'd pick. Suppose I forgot.

Sixty-eight years ago, Amelia Earhart disappeared and here I am sitting in our office (plants definitely dead and a mess everywhere--still), wondering how to eat up the next two hours. I could read (Eleanor Rigby by Douglass Coupland), or I could write. Or I could try to nap.... Go outside and lay in the grass.

Right now, I?m polluting the fourth floor of the union with music. I don?t think it matters much because the entire world seems to have disappeared somehow. Let?s assume it?s because it?s the fourth of july weekend.

I left work early last night because I?d somehow turned into a zombie. Perhaps that has something to do with going out until late, coming back to lay in bed for a bit, then cuddling and falling asleep for one hour just to wake up and catch a flight back to Detroit, then go to work directly from there. This lead to leaving work three hours early with the intention of coming back this morning to do those three hours then spend the rest of the day laying in the grass somewhere and watching the clouds race across the sky. Of course, when I went in to do those three hours, I noticed that they?d scheduled me for the afternoon.

So here I am, in the office to burn time. I have emails to go through, music to listen to, and a volume of thoughts to capture in word.

[In a few minutes, I?m going to write a love letter to Becki and tell her how much I miss her. Also, that I?m much cooler than ants so she should be here hanging out with me, instead of there counting them.]




I have so many more story ideas in my head right now and wish I had about twenty years to sit down and copy them perfectly onto the page. The problem that I?ve been coming into is that I feel like a literary Judas when I think about writing about real things, real events and real people?but all fictional, of course. You know?

Because when you think about things, events change and characters change. Someone is not always cast in the most positive light?or maybe it?s not that it?s negative, just real and honest... and that means capturing defaults and whatnot.

The thing that I?ve come to learn is that no one ever thinks anything is real. You can write about your deepest, darkest secret and rarely anyone connects that to you. Maybe they?re just being polite, maybe not. Up until lately, I never wrote about anything that ever happened to me because really? who wants to upset anyone? [There?s this quote?from someone?about how no one wants to be friends with a writer because suddenly your whole life is cataloged]

So yeah, Literary Judas?to be, or not to be?




Ann Arbor seems so? like Ann Arbor. Here, we are talking about the real city--not the college town. This means you see people that live here, and it's entirely populated by them. More pleasant than not, but calm--quiet like life sometimes should be.

It?s near empty and things get stranger every day. I walked here along Maynard and ran into a man teaching another Tai Chi in Michigauma Plaza.

It feels more like home. This is the town that I grew up in?the students are gone and it feels nice again, but it?s making me completely restless. Usually, I would embrace free hours like this. Just absolutely eat them up like you would not believe. I?d call Kim who lives right around the corner, so that we could get some food, or I?d call Becki so we could go get veggie subs from Jimmy John?s then go sit in the diag and talk about how pretty it is outside.

Or I?d call any number of people?but that number has dwindled exceptionally and now the home that used to feel like home doesn?t feel like so much that anymore. Maybe a rest stop?where you?re uncomfortably sleeping in the car (like South Carolina where we slept in the Camaro and the rest piled into the moving truck to sleep on any available surface).



So many more things to say, but that whole? private and honest thoughts placed out there for public consumption?hard to get over. Will take a few more days. Right?

I'm not sure where to start, so we'll start by saying that.

Michigan is so the last place that I want to be right now. I'm not sure if I know exactly where I want to be, but yeah. Not here. Somewhere far away that I couldn't imagine, maybe.

Leaving work early today was a must. Absolutely exhausted right now. Also--they didn't put me on the schedule for tomorrow so that really means I should have skipped work today and stayed for another day. Really, I don't think enough and someone should make all of these important decisions for me.

I'm probably wrong, but everything in Miami looked more intense. The colours shone a lot brighter than they do here--maybe it's all the heat, the moisture in the air. Maybe it was just the experience in general.

It was really nice. Felt like I was gone a lot longer than a few days, but, at the same time, it went by much too quickly.




The flight back was very nice. On time and everything--so that's a first. I was stuck between two teenage females who were reading fashion and gossip magazines like their lives depended upon it. The one to my right sitting at the window was a young blonde--maybe fifteen or so. She kept looking into my writing journal, where I was capturing all of the random thoughts in my head. I'll admit, maybe some of the things I were writing weren't exactly appropriate for her age bracket and I'm sure her parents wouldn't have appreciated her looking over my shoulder like that. Oh well.

So now there's a new story sitting in my head. I'm not sure where or how to start with it, where it will go exactly. So there will be a few more days of brainstorming, then a story will be born.

Eventually, more thoughts will be captured in here also--for now, my brain is too dead and it's time to watch the movies I rented [The Jacket and Hitch].

It's going to be really interesting, getting used to having a bed all to myself again. [Half empty, half full?] Or listening to music to fall asleep. [But not the same albums as before.]

thoughtsthoughtsthoughts--lots in my head right now, but not awake enough to do anything coherent with any of them.

But yeah. It was a great week and I wish I were still there.