A Hoot Owl's Confession

Owl City fans are the happiest people that I know. J I mean, honestly, I couldn’t even refrain from putting the smiley in just there!

I’ve recently discovered about 15 songs of Adam’s that are just instrumental. I’m very pleased to report that even just the melodies of his songs ignite smiles. Combine those melodies with his lyrics, and Owl City fans are ready for a giddy twirl around the room. Personally, my cupcakes and pralines probably wouldn’t be the same if I cooked without music playing.

I think another factor that sets Adam apart from most artists is his view of his success—he doesn’t believe he’s famous. That endearing humility only make his listeners(and fellow dreamers)respect him even more fervently. So often you can see overloaded egos and rancid attitudes, so a sweet and adorable guy is looked upon with both surprise and affection. He credits his happiness to God, and his music reflects that faith. I myself was actually once intimidated by Adam’s faith, believe it or not. I was raised Episcopalian (Catholic lite) and schooled Lutheran for 11 years, and still go to church regularly, but I have to admit my admonition of uniform religion. I won’t go into great detail on my reasonings, but I take comfort in my mother’s remark that there is such a thing as being spiritual instead of religious. I believe in God, Jesus, and that we have a Heaven waiting for us, but I find that I feel closer to Him when I simply look at the sky or water than in church. One day I’ll look up at night and see all of the stars He made us, not just the few the shine through our city lights.

I’m not intimidated by Adam anymore because I’m secure in my Faith, and he’s secure in his. There had been a time when I wasn’t secure and a bit lost, and I partly credit his music with guiding me here. I truly believe that I would follow no other North Star farther than I’ve followed my God.

So I find myself now, happy, hopeful, and faithful. I’m proud of myself for not stopping before I made it here, because I’ve never had more reason to be thankful. So I thank God, Mom, Sarah, and Adam for walking with me, and filling my heart till it burst, because now I can share the love flowing out of it.    

http://www.flickr.com/photos/31491326@N06/5844078705/

Oh, Boys!

I’m disappointed to report that boys have no idea of the power they have, at least when it comes to girls. But, as they are infamously reputed to have very limited emotional and listening skills, it’s probably because we haven’t told them point-blank.

Admittedly, much of the primping and styling done by almost every female in America (and the world) is done less for boys as it is for OTHER FEMALES. Because honestly, who’s gonna be the one to comment on your hair—which took you about an hour to do—your girlfriends or guyfriends? Obviously, 99% of the time, it’ll be the ones wearing bras.

And THAT, ladies and hopefully currently attentive gentlemen, is EXACTLY why boys wield so much power over us. Not only are we programmed to at least try to attract potential mates, but the fact that they so seldom seem to even notice our efforts makes the times when they do brighten our day.

Vain? Oh, completely. But let’s face it, if we’re going to spend so much time, money, and effort on what we look like, we better get some positive feedback once in a while! Otherwise, the world would have to begin preparations for anarchy.

And so, boys, a simple “You look nice today” or “You have beautiful eyes” would be nice. *Notice the use of the word BEAUTIFUL. This word is the key to your success with the opposite sex.*

Also, it would be immensely sweet of you to pick up on personality traits as well as appearance. A “You know, you’re a pretty cool chick” or maybe just a “You’re so ____” <insert adorable adjective here.

You have no idea how a girl feels after getting a compliment, or maybe just an admiring glance from a boy; some of us start walking on air while others hold their heads a little higher, if only from being a little prouder of themselves for that moment. It’s sad that girls allow themselves to be vulnerable, yes, but it’s been that way in almost every culture for as long as we can remember. My proposition for a cure are those rare and heartfelt compliments from her special someone when she’s home in her PJs, hair messy, and makeup off. These little gifts will last for years, while the compliments she gets, say, at a dance after hours of primping may last only a few days or weeks.

So we’re vain. Get over it. Besides, you guys are too. You just have testosterone thrown into the mix instead of estrogen.

So I think you’ll do well to remember this: shower her with compliments and affection, even when she’s watching TV with you in a big T shirt and boxers, and she’ll give you the same, if not more.      <3 = J

We Forget

Many times, I do believe that we forget what makes us happy. Instead, we bury ourselves in what society serves up—that which we can hold, and break, in our hands and then just as easily replace.

            But, my sincerely dear reader, as we all someday will realize this—be it in full vivacity or on our deathbeds—we must now rediscover what gave our beginning generations the desire to continue on our allotted plot, our own Earth. Here and now I tell you that we will not find it together. Be it a soft smile from an any-weather-friend, the sight of a sky torn by lightning, or maybe the sound of a lone, proud violin, once you realize that you were born to live, you will be happy.

              I personally can’t even remember when I had this moment. I don’t want to say that it’s been eclipsed by even more joyful times, but that doesn’t help in remembering anyhow. It could have been while watching a storm at the Pier. Maybe it was discovering streaks of luminescence in the tiny jellyfish by the seawall. Then there is the first day of high school, the saving grace which led me away from that haunting depression once and for all. It might have been a night that I stopped and just looked up, really seeing the stars for the first time. My mother tells me that when I was young, I once stretched out my arms and screamed back at the roaring surf, simply because it was loud enough that no one else could hear me.

            I’ve had so many happy moments because I’ve learned to blunt the sharp edges and cancel out throbs of pain. I mentioned that I was once regrettably fencing with depression, an opponent both nimble and wiry. Well, that was because I saw nothing but the dark. But the thing about Darkness is that it’s only a bad thing when it is alone. When Light tiptoes in, Darkness takes on charm of its own and gently graces the dance floor next to its partner. The same can be said for Light, for how can we know Light without knowing Darkness? How can we know happiness without knowing pain? I believe that you are truly happy when you are thankful for your scars, because they make today so much sweeter.

            I want you to know how much I wish for everyone to be happy. I know that I can’t make them happy, but I can at least hope for it. And so, I’ll leave you with this:

Your time will come, and your patience will measure your strength. So in the mean time, work hard, and play nice.

We're Better Than You Think

Yeah, nice guys usually finish last. Think about it—doesn’t the small business struggle more than the corporation? Don’t nerds almost never get the pretty girls? Doesn’t the person who holds the door open go in last?

But that’s what makes them the nice guys, I reckon. That small business struggles because the owner wants to run it right. That nerd didn’t get to ask the pretty girl out because he was nervous and completely unaware that she thought his stuttering was adorable. And the person holding the door was doing what their mother taught them. They’re all miniature martyrs.

I know that older folk say that our generation is headed for the dumps, but there are still little things that I like to think proves otherwise. There are still guys who let the girls go first. My friend and I once gave our seats on a trolley to two old ladies. A boy, who I still don’t know, tells me “Good morning!” whenever he passes me at school. There are still a few mothers who let their kids play in the dirt, like kids should do. There are still some youngsters who say “Ma’am” and “Sir”, “Please” and “Thank you”, “I’m sorry” and “I love you.”

To be honest, this is still a pretty good world to live in. Of course we all know about the bad things that are happening right now, but I wish that we could see the better things a little easier. So sure, the nice guy finished last again, but who cares? If he’s a nice guy, people will still cheer for him. I promise you, he won’t be any worse for wear when he crosses the finish line.

The Only Enemy.

I will tell the truth. It is not the idea of success that drives me, but the need for exploration. Here at home, there is nowhere left to go that is unmapped. I try to keep myself from thinking the same about the entirety of the earth, because that would seem to defeat my purpose. I want to go alone to a place where I will be alone. People can be rather cruel when they tell tales or show pictures of places where the vastness and mystery overwhelms. My heart aches for that, for the solitude, for the sense that there is so much more to be discovered. I feel too big, not small, when I’m here. The thing most frequently larger than I are the buildings, not trees or formations in rock. The land is flat, enabling us to see for miles if we had not blocked our own view. To try to make myself smaller, I sometimes rely on the pictures provided by the previously mentioned cruel.

So, in a bigger sense, they are not cruel.
Their work brings maybe a fragment of the world they revel in to those envious enough of them to look with sad hearts. The cruel ones are those who have led us out of that world and then tore down the bridge. Now, only the spirits who are strong enough to leap the expanse can make it back, having to leave many more, paralyzed, behind.

I wonder if they miss us, those who have returned home. Do they cry at night for us, we who cannot jump? Do they try to find ways to help us, or even attempt to throw us a line? Or are they oblivious to us, that there are others who want to go home?

Because I do.

And I feel that if I don’t, I will have no purpose. For what am I, if not a human? Are humans not but animals who have called this place our own since our beginning? So why have we, in our latest generations, deemed it uninhabitable? We were created for the earth, not the earth for us. And so, now that we have recreated it for ourselves, what shall we do? Aren’t we all but destined for death, leaving these things we’ve built behind? For we have searched all corners for answers we are not meant to know, and we have taken all that is not ours. Thieves are we, until the day we are gone and all is returned.

But, with the saddest of hearts, I say again that all is gone. Yes, it is still there, but nothing of worth. Every inch is claimed and every mountain scarred. It can be still beautiful, but the future remains to be seen. Our worlds, as children, were ones of surprise as we learned about our earth. But now, even at my young age, we know that it is all gone. Whether destroyed by our parents or smothered by us, we can no longer find the purities of the nature once witnessed. Forests are leveled, rivers are dammed, and glaciers are melted. What left have we to conquer but ourselves? In all truth, once we have destroyed each other, the earth will remain. And flourish it shall, for its only enemy will be dead.

Swings

Sarah and I were headed for the St. Petersburg Museum of Fine Arts. Why? Well, it was Free Museum day, after all.

We had taken the long way downtown to avoid the perilous one-way streets that I hated so much. We were driving along the water’s edge near William Straub Park when we noticed large groups of people in purple; an Alzheimer’s walk. Keeping at around 20 mph for cause of the many pedestrians, we slowly made it to the Pier parking lot. We set off from there, having only about a quarter of a mile to walk. We bobbed and weaved between the crowds on the sidewalk, all the while chatting and laughing at little oddities in ourselves and everything around us. Sometimes we looked up at the sky and wished for clouds. We were sweating already in the Florida sun.

Passing the old fashioned light poles and manicured crepe myrtles, we were about to overtake the St. Pete Museum of History—our planned destination on the way back—and saw a small artist’s market set up on the lawn. We walked by, but promised each other to visit before we left.

We neared the Museum of Fine Arts. Now, for any who aren’t familiar with the area, the first thing you notice about the Museum is an ancient kapok tree—low, thick limbs splayed out and inviting to those vulnerable to a wind of free-spiritedness. Sarah and I had climbed the tree many times, examining dozens of carving left for us and testing the limits of our balance. It’s a wonderful, exquisite tree, and beloved by all hearts.

Today, after pausing to pick a hibiscus from one of the bordering bushes, Sarah squeaked and pointed to the tree.

There were two swings hanging from one of the lowest branches. Together we tramped through the grass towards the canopy and examined the two painted planks. One had “Swing Life Away,” traced on it, the other something that I can’t quite remember. Beaming and giggling, we swung contentedly together and watched passersby glance over, sometimes smiling at us. Eventually Sarah moved on to climbing, while I sat and watched both her and the sky through the canopy. There in the shade, we were happy.

We only abandoned ship when we spied a hoard of kids charging at us. I gave up my swing for a couple of little girls, while Sarah slid down to make room for the boys. We smiled as we did it; it was just as nice to let the kids enjoy something like that as to have it for ourselves. Teenagers we may be, but Sarah and I shared a concern for the little guys. We wanted to give them things that we were stripped of as the dawn of the new age of lawsuits washed in—things like old plank swings and seesaws and dirt, things that our parents had and wanted us to have, too. But over-protective, lawyer-happy stinkers had done away with these little joys.

So we left them to enjoy while they could, though we could hear the sharp hissing and yelling of parents as we walked away.

The museums were wonderful. Free Museum Day is ranked among my top five favorite days. But once we were done with the exhibits, we made our way to the little market again. We strolled around the tents with paintings and bracelets and hand-made soaps, waiting to see something worth ogling at.

We found it at a booth with a banner displaying the logo, “Swings Tampa Bay”, where a man in his early 20s came amicably up and asked if we had heard about the group. Turns out, they were the ones who had put the swings under the kapok, and so he immediately earned my respect. The group hangs swings randomly in the middle of the night, sometimes invited, sometimes not. They do it to invoke the exact emotion that Sarah and I had felt when we saw the two earlier: glee, serendipity, and love for the community.

The young man invited us to come paint a swing, all for free, for them to hang somewhere. I chose a green one and Sarah a purple. They’re simple things, just a plank of wood with holes for the rope, nothing like the rubber ones that made it difficult to fall out of which we had grown up with. The simplicity makes them better. Remember that, toy makers of the world! Kids don’t need flashing lights or gizmos or loud sound effects! All we want are swings and seesaws and dirt.

Sarah painted flowers and, “Let It Grow” on hers. On mine were little swirlies and my favorite Owl City quote, “Let Felicity Fly.” I thought about keeping mine and making the suggested $20 donation, though the group volunteers, (mostly young men in their early twenties with, I must say, refreshingly good manners) hinted at letting me take it for free. But we both let them have our creations because we knew they’d find a better place for them than we would. But before we left, they took a picture of us with our sings. Sarah held hers upside-down. On purpose.

We left. But the group stuck in my mind and I felt the need to write about them. I would never have guessed that the idea of swings would prove so uplifting (no pun intended). Those swings make you stop to sit for a moment, maybe rifle through a few memories, perhaps letting your toes drag through the dirt. You just stop and sit. You smile. You giggle. You fall off sometimes. But that’s living! That’s what we’re missing from our withered lives! A chance to do nothing! A chance to be happy over something as simple as a swing!

I’m planning on going to paint another swing at their next event on Oct. 15^th at the Fine Arts Museum. This time, I’ll take mine home and hang it in my backyard. When the fall breeze comes, I’ll sit out there and be happy.

You really should come. We’ll save a swing for you!

Pets offer lessons in life, and death. They're often the first introduction a child gets to death-- that mysterious, eternally heartbreaking idea of whatever life is being stripped away. We will never accept it completely.
A pet is our friend, one so innocent and so loved. When you know that the moment is soon coming, your heart is crushed and your eyes are wet. There's nothing you can do, and you know it, and you hate yourself for it.
Eventually, if death is not in a hurry but taking its merciless time, you do start considering quality of life. You think more about their suffering, not how sad you are. You force your weary feet to make that harrowing trip to the vet, and return with a shoebox for a coffin, and family car for a hearse.
You bring your friend to a nice place, maybe among some flowers, maybe under an old tree, and you start to feel a little better, because you know that they are too.

We brought home a litter of kittens today, and the runt has stolen my heart! Boudreaux, as I call him/her, is black and white, his black face amplifying his white whiskers. There are seven kittens total, but mama cats only have six nipples. Boudreaux is thin and scraggly, but he's eating more than the others.
My sister saved them from a condemned building, spending the entire day collecting the kittens then resetting the trap. The place was falling apart and mold was growing on the wall, piles of rubble serving as thier homebase. They're now huddled together on a blanket in a box on the porch, yet they're probably more scared here for the moment than they were back in that suffocating building. But they'll calm down, I believe. We already have homes lined up for them.
Save something innocent every once in a while. It's good for you.

Ok, so what's the deal with rude drivers? Are their lives really so horrible that they have to spread around the bad mood to everyone else? Everyone has stuff to deal with already, but people with selfish tendencies make sure that everybody and their brother a know that they're upset.
So let's try to polish something so that it comes out a little clearer: Rudeness brings rudeness, kindness brings kindness.

So can we just be nice to eachother? Please?

Tampa Bay is the #1 spot in the nation for lightning strikes. Funny, then, that St. Pete is called the Sunshine City in this Sunshine State of ours.
Last night I was up later than usual, having put my ATBAB cd on and became fixated on "Hospital Flowers" as my lullaby. During the song I'd half fall asleep, but my ears always woke me up to restart it once it ended. Eventually I simply shut it off and tried to let sleep linger in by itself. But alas, the bright blue flashes of light coming through my thin curtains chased away any slumber coming my way.
At first, there was no thunder. It was quite plainly just random sequences of flashing lights, no noise, no percussion to accompany them. I watched for what must have been half an hour before I heard anything. But when that familiar, rumblingtumbling, sonorous thunder finally made its debut, nothing in the world sounded sweeter. Powerful and graceful, terrifying and exhilarating, thunder is a blessing only God can create.
A crazy, stupid, idiotic urge hits me during my warm Floridian storms. I want to run out to my car, drive through the deserted and flooding streets, and stop when I hit the Gulf. (This is when it gets really unintelligent)
I would run onto the beach, stop only when I was knee deep in the water, and stand there for a minute. My hair and clothes would be soaked, but the warm rain and sea would soothe my tired heart. The lightning would shoot down to the ocean and the thunder would shake my very being. That salty sea air would mix with the mist from the rain and taste sweet. The foamy waves would crash just offshore, the suds coming to gather around my knees. I'd have to squint through the rain, but the sight of the dark, swirling clouds would be beautifully clear.
I would feel so small, so tiny, so awed.
I would feel so happy.