God and stuff

I want to talk about God.

But all the capitals that people use when they talk about Him make me uncomfortable. What if I don’t address Him in the Proper Way? Will I Offend Him?

I like capitalizing things too, but the words that are crowned with a capital letter are often arbitrary and contingent upon my whimsy, so that I’ll write a sentence about gossamer wings and capitalize Leaf.

I’m not purposely trying to be blithe, because this really is a topic that interests (and confuses) me, especially in light of my dad’s recent surgery. Let’s suffice it to say that not enough people get liver transplants, and there happened, in the few years running up to that thankful Thanksgiving, a slew of random-seeming events and decisions that really opened the door and sped up his recovery.

I was so immensely relieved at the end of it (for even though he’s often cranky and surly and traditional, he’s my dad, and he is more loving and caring and thoughtful. I state the obvious.)

I digress.

I was so immensely relieved at the end of it all, that I wanted to thank someone.

The question wasn’t Whom (am I doing it right?), but Am I Allowed to Thank You If I’ve Never Gone To Church Regularly?

There are a few things (I don’t know enough to say that there are a LOT of things) on which organized religion and I don’t agree. I won’t get into them here, because one of them makes me honestly and truly fired up, and I don’t want to be all aflame when I talk about God.

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This post ended there, and I never got back to it, or possibly I went on a tangent with that whale photo. Anyway, here it is in its un-entirety, perhaps to be returned to later.

To the spiders hanging out in my bathtub:

STOP.

I’m serious. Quit. It.

I don’t want to kill you, and I want to drown you even less, since the last spider I tried to drown was super water resistant and just would not die. I’m sorry it’s windy outside, but this is my bathtub, and I need to take a shower, and you need to go and not lay a sac of eggs like Black Sally did.

This is Black Sally:

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losing my shadow

I’m tired of rushing.

I like being busy, but I’m the kind of person that needs to recharge every once in a while.

I’ve just had a brainwave (brilliant ole me), and I would be more correct in saying that I’m the sort of person that needs roots.

If this seems like a strange statement from someone who has never lived outside California, I assure you I understand the absurdity, and then I assure you that you must let me finish.

During the Weekdays, I am a full-time graduate student, English and SAT tutor, dutiful daughter, amateur writer and blogger. I go from housekeeping duties to hopping on BART to attend 3 hour classes to hop back onto BART to make it home in time for my tutoring session and to help with dinner. I can’t remember the last time I slept before 3 am, and I am so bloody tired because what little weekend time I do have I like to save for my boyfriend, so I try to get as much work done during the week as I can.

Now, I hear you say, the weekend is practically three whole days! Are you saying you haven’t got time for all that and your boyfriend? Che! Time management!

To which I say, fuck you, I work on weekends and have only a few measly hours to spend with him Fridays and Saturday nights. Then, because he has a big social circle, it always seems to be somebody’s birthday/going away party/celebration of one kind or another, and then before you know it I’m charging my boyfriend’s phone for him and I’m driving back home at 3 am.

Sundays! you exclaim. Sundays you have no excuse!

Which is wholly true. I have nothing definite planned on Sundays, but I try to get a run in (I get little enough exercise during the week – my ass will soon be permanently in the shape of an uncomfortable computer chair) during the mornings when they have pick-up basketball games, and then it’s a mad dash through the shower, through my house packing up anything that I might need for a Sunday afternoon, because god forbid if anyone’s made any sort of concrete plans so it’s best to bring clothes to change into in case we picnic in Dolores or go to a nice restaurant or go to a late movie, don’t forget dear to always pack your glasses because your eyes can’t last with contacts anymore, and bring the laptop and books and notebooks and pens because there’s always the possibility there will be enough down time to get some work done, never mind that even if there is, you never see a shred of productivity in that house because there is always something more fun going on.

So yes.

I’ve barely been home all weekend, I see my family only in passing, and I miss my dog. You have no idea the sort of guilty feelings one comes across when you are only at home  at an hour to wake up your puppy from his sleep and bring him to your room and tuck him into your bed before falling asleep yourself. And then you wake up and abandon him, backing out of the garage with his puppy breath fogging up the living room window, already awaiting your return with a love and a loyalty you have yet to experience from any other living, breathing creature, never mind that during the week you can’t pay attention to him because of work, and that during the weekend, you can’t pay attention to him because of your social life.

And, what?

A great, big, girl like you, Alice, crying? For shame. 

Fashion / lifestyle blogging

When I feel like procrastinating trawling the internet for inspiration, my poison of choice is always the blogs of my favorite style bloggers, and my absolutest favoritest fashion bloggers have a nice balance of lust-worthy wardrobe combos and an adequate amount of words about their why and how, and also, because I am a snoop, snippets of their personal life.

All of it makes me want to create instead of only consume, and I keep telling myself that when I’m not so busy that I’ll get around to it.

Roland told us last week that we can’t wait, and to use your limitations instead of be … limited by them, so we shall see.

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Dear God

I’ve been wanting to thank someone for the very fortunate chain of events that led to my dad’s successful liver transplant (for which many wait years to never receive. it still gives me goosebumps.) I’ve talked to Jen about this, and she admitted to also thinking that the fortunate chain was extremely sovereign, and was encouraging of my idea of discussing with and ultimately thanking God, although I didn’t really know how.

whale

a lonely little whale, marooned on an island of its own shadow, amidst the vast ocean of possibility

I’ve been trying this thing, lately, where I try not to put off things into the nebulous future, so here goes:

Dear God,

Thank you for my father, my mother, my brothers (even though it annoys me sometimes that one has an old and frumpy soul and the other one can be a know-it-all little prat), my large and wonderful extended family and red envelopes (just kidding), my best friends, my way-better-than-acquaintances-and-would-totally-invite-to-my-wedding friends, my dog (if it’s not too much trouble, could you make sure he lives a long and happy life? I mean, the Tucks gave Winnie magical spring water, and she wasted it on a toad she didn’t even love very much), my boyfriend (no complaints there… maybe see if you can make him read more), my past and my future (thanking you for this in advance), for courage, optimism, imagination, dreams, and my words.

I know there are a lot of little and not so little things I haven’t articulated, but if I wrote it all down my owl would have a lot of trouble getting this letter to the north pole you, so I’ll end it here, and I hope you don’t find it particularly blasphemous that I wrote to you in a blog post. Or that sometimes when I think of you, I picture an eternal Dumbledore.

Love,

Julia

it's not blasphemous that whales need help too

it’s not blasphemous that whales need help too

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