Tuesday, November 10, 2009


So, last night, my very considerate converted* sister emailed me to let me know that on Twilightsaga.com you could post questions to Stephenie Meyer until noon today... but for some reason I guess 1200 and Twilight equal midnight to me... not noon. I somehow assumed I had until MIDNIGHT, the turning of a new day, as my Deadline to ask questions about NEW MOON. Duh. I really need to wake up....

in a patch of ferns, in a wet forest, in the rain, after many hours... catatonic, in a fetal position

AAAAAhhh!!!! Can I really put myself through THAT again? I'm so ready, in hurts. (though not in some Wide Awake way!)

Counting down to New Moon:


http://www.thetwilightsaga.com/ I guess we can still log on to see her answers... Also, she will be on Oprah this Friday, apparently.

*Twilight Convert

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Wind in the Pine

I recently had a dream, involving, amoung other things, a Blue Footed Booby. And a Loon. In consulting an online dream interpretation resource, I found little to speak to the Booby, and some interesting comments on the Loon (predominantly pertaining to deep introspection and transformation-- cool! and a little pertaining to a crazy unpredictable person in one's life. Eh, well... what's new with that?). Well, I thought, in my Google prowess state of mind, fully expecting that expectancy could equal success, why not search for them together? The Booby and the Loon? Lucky me. I found Lew Sarrett. (not to be confused with Lew Sarett) This poem speaks to my heart of hearts to my integrated body spirit and mind. *refreshed sigh*


Oh, I can hear you,

God, above the cry

Of the tossing trees

Rolling your windy tides across the sky,

And splashing your silver seas

Over the pine

To the water-line

Of the moon.

Oh, I can hear you, God,

Above the wail of the lonely loon

When the pine-tops pitch and nod

Chanting your melodies

Of ghostly waterfalls and avalanches,

Swashing your wind among the branches

To make them pure and white.

Wash over me, God, with your pincy breeze,

And your moon's wet-silver pool ;

Wash over me, God, with your wind and night,

And leave me clean and cool.

by Lew Sarrett*
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