Hyperballad

Photo Entry

Beach




A View from Today's Bike Ride

Love in the Time of Cholera

I've gotten a new appreciation for Under the Blacklight.

And another thing...

I looked it up, and I was 11 years old when this song came out. I watched this video countless times, thinking that these men were possibly the sexiest beings that ever existed.

This is my message to 11-year-old me:

"What. the. hell."

If you scan forward to 2:53 into the song, they each dance in front of a silvery screen. It is one of the most bizarre moments in music video history. Why is that guy with the fur hat dancing like that? Why does Robbie Williams whip his coat off? Why in the world are they singing with rain in their faces? Why don't they go inside and have a nice cup of tea like good English boys instead of weeping in the rain together for their old girlfriends?

Quote from Wikipedia:
"On 13 February 1996, Take That announced that they were splitting. This would break the hearts of millions of fans worldwide - to an extent that hotlines were set up around the UK to cope with fans' grief."

What was wrong with us?

Hormones. I blame it all on hormones.

Even though he isn't as good an artist as me, I'll give him a shout-out.

Happy Birthday, Pablo Picasso!




"Le Guitariste," 1910

The View from the Ravenel Bridge: An Artist's Rendering

This is what I saw looking out the window today when Margaret and I nearly died 10 times trying to bring ribbon back to the office from Mount Pleasant. Notice that the rainbow ends in the water. Unfortunately I didn't have my scuba gear so I was unable to attain the pot of gold. Maybe next time...

Put a skirt on, Colbert!

We, here at skirt! want to get the message out to Stephen Colbert that we want to get him in a skirt for skirt! magazine.

If anyone knows him, fishes with him, coaches his kids' soccer teams, or bags his groceries, if you could tell him this, we at skirt! would be extremely grateful.

Sabrina and Margaret: Molding Young Minds--Mind-molding.

This is me, basically talking in circles about internships:


This is what we looked like when someone made a good point:

And this is when someone made a bad point:

A Prairie Home Companion: Nostalgia, Musings

This weekend has made me think about a lot of things; namely, A Prairie Home Companion. Yes, Garrison Keillor has an odd, breathy voice and sometimes tells stories with no apparent point. But it's not about him. It's about what his voice--his show--represents to me.

As long as I can remember, from 6-8pm, A Prairie Home Companion really has been our companion. I would wake up on crisp, fall Saturdays and play outside with the boys, climbing trees, making potions, playing kickball in the circle, until I had that outdoorsy smell that little kids get, and the knees of my jeans were thoroughly stained green. But as the sun started setting, and the already crisp air got that undercurrent of pure cold, it would be time to come inside. The lamps would be turned on, and so would PHC. My dad would be in the kitchen, covered in flour as he kneaded the dough for noodles while bread baked in the oven and the sauce bubbled on the stove behind him.

I'd run upstairs and leave my pile of tomboy clothes on the floor and step into a warm bath, thoroughly girly with piles of bubbles. I'd lay in the tub with the faint murmurs of the radio show in the background. It was in that tub that I imagined my future as a famous actress, archaeologist, or writer. I would make bubble beards and bubble bikinis until the bathwater turned chilly. I'd put my warm pajamas on and run downstairs to help my dad crank the pasta machine, making piles of ribbons of dough.

When the pasta was cooked and I had finished dancing to PHC's musical guests, I sat down with my family to eat. This is where the magic happened. I'd sip milk in a wine glass and my family would talk. We'd talk and talk and talk. I think it's what solidified us. On those Saturday nights, lulled by stories of Lake Woebegone, we shared our own stories: things that happened in our days, what we dream about, what we fear.

As I got older, Saturdays became less about tree-climbing and more about shopping. My bathtub musings became focused on how my first kiss would happen, what my first love would be like, and how it felt like the process of growing up was taking FOREVER.

My family's dinners became more rushed as I inhaled food as quickly as possible, to dash outside when I saw the headlights signaling that my best friend or boyfriend had arrived to cart me off to yet another movie or show.

The irony is, I can't remember the plot to most of those movies, or the lyrics to the songs played. What I do remember, with vivid clarity, are the endless discussions around the table--of religion, of politics, of silly stories--being accompanied by PHC's house band.

In college, when weekends at home became treasured, the Saturday dinners became longer again. The pasta was still fantastic, as I remembered, but my wine glass held a nice cabernet instead of milk. The discussions got larger and lingered past PHC, into some Celtic music program until someone put on some jazz. It was at that table where I saw my parents as real people, full of quirks and history and individuality. It's where I learned to respect them and like them, and understand why they did the things they did.

These are the things I cling to; the things I want for my future family. I want to sit around a table with my childern as they tell me about their dreams over pasta, and look into their eyes and be shocked at how quickly they grow, while they sit in bathtubs filled with bubbles, wondering why growing up takes so long, and what are they going to be when they grow up (if it ever happens) and who will kiss them and what will they smell like, and what is it like to love someone so much that it actually hurts...




Side note: Last night, when my family went to see A Prairie Home Companion live, we all talked about how surreal it was. My father has been listening to this show for 26 years. His history with the show is older than his history with me. It was magical. Also magical: Mr. Nappy Brown. This talented R & B musician is 78 years old, but when he sang and danced (yes, danced) on stage, it took everything in me to not throw my panties on stage. He had that kind of presence that only the truly, utterly talented do. He is famous for writing this song:



for Ray Charles, but he's now famous to me for giving my family yet another incredible memory.

Mark Ronson

I want to make babies with him.

Netflix is Crack.

Seriously.

I just looked at my Netflix queue. 182 movies. Yes, a lot of them are BBC series with 6 DVDs, so it's not that bad. Right? Right? I am becoming an escape artist. I can hop from a modern-day comic situation (Knocked Up, which is HILARIOUS) to 1860s London in just a few hours (or days). From the looks of my queue, I spend more time in English period pieces than present-day poop joke comedies, but still, everyone needs a cheap laugh.

It's Scary How Much I Relate to This Song

Things I Probably Say Too Much.

* Are you drunk? (The person I'm asking is generally not drunk.)
* I'm drunk. (I am generally not drunk while saying this, but I have made an error of some sort.)
* If ____________ (place, thing) had a peepee I would marry it.
* ...like...
* ...well...
* I found this kitty on Craigslist, and...
* Seriously. Seriously? Seriously!
* You want to hear something crazy?
* Sonofabitch.
* Fantastic.

More words phrases TK, probably/possibly.

What the eff is this travesty? If I could reach through the computer screen and slap them, I would.

How Did I Miss This?

First, read this:

Impossible is Nothing Wikipedia

then watch this:

Impossible is Nothing Video

and then watch this:

Impossible is the Opposite of Possible

A Belated Birthday Wish

I missed something HUGE yesterday. It was someone very important's birthday.


I carry your heart with me(i carry it in

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go, my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(I carry it in my heart)

Thank you, ee cummings, for putting words together in a way that makes my heart sing. If only people like you existed today.

Things I've Loved This Week

Pushing Daisies

I've given it two episodes and it still seems fantastic to me. It has all of the great visual effects of Amelie, and the female lead says "son of a bitch" when things go wrong, and it's really funny.

Michael Sowa


Speaking of Amelie, you may recognize this painting as being one from Amelie's apartment. Michael Sowa, a German painter, uses a color palette and animals in humorously serious poses and situations that make me smile whenever I see one of his works.

So cute. I love them all.

My Even Newer Pair of New Shoes

These shoes are so high and so freaking sexy.

Harry Potter

I always said that once all the books were out, I'd read the whole series. The time has come. Plus, it serves as a great distraction from the other book I'm reading: If I am Missing or Dead by Janine Latus. It's a memoir of a woman who analyzes her own abusive relationship history after her sister is murdered by her boyfriend. Whew. Heavy stuff.

I can't wait to see what new loves this week brings me.

Also, hopefully this will be a future love, because I already love the trailer:

Journal Entry from February 17, 2004

There is a sort of beautiful desperation in a singer when he is on stage, eyes closed, voice hoarse, singing to the person he sees in his head. He sings for no one else on stage, no one in the room, but someone far away and broken. With his eyes shut tightly, he imagines them in the back of the room, near the door, watching quietly with the biggest eyes he's ever seen. And suddenly, everything else disappears. His lyrics become a plea; a plea to stay, a plea to change, a plea to forgive. He keeps his eyes closed for the entire song, because the moment he sees the smoky crowd staring, the spell will be broken and the internal magic of the song lost. So he buries himself in his vision, leaning over the piano, stroking the keys with such delicacy and deliberation that it seems almost sensual. He is lost, lost forever in music, sound enveloping, emotion building as he cries out, head far back, lights blazing on his sallow cheeks, and his pleas to the heavens, to the angels, to Her, are heard. His baptism is complete and the sweat on his brow mixes with the tears on his cheeks. He is purified until tomorrow night on a different stage. A temporary musical crucifixion of the soul, of the spirit of music. The pain is worth the pleasure, day after day. This is his ritual until the ache is gone. Whether the ache ever leaves is unimportant--what matters is the emotion it evokes. People can linger forever on the words, on the melody, on the heartbreaking harmony of the lowest keys. They copy the lyrics in notebooks, trying to decipher the meaning of this mystery, this golden boy of broken hearts, playing his piano under the spotlight.
Always with his eyes closed.

A Day in the Life of Sab and Marge

Today Margaret and I spoke to the Creative Writing class at Charlestowne Academy's high school. It was pretty great.

Essentially, while we talked, the boys took pictures of us on their cell phones and the girls asked us questions like:

"Do you have a boyfriend?" (Wow. So much to say but this classroom is neither the time nor place to say it.)
and
"What's a cervix?" (At this point, Margaret is laughing so hard, she isn't breathing. Her body is just shaking and tears are coming out of her eyes. These girls obviously read her blog today. Go to skirt.com and read her blog to find out why.)

We essentially sat in 2 grandad chairs at the front of the class for over an hour while trying to find SOMETHING to say to these kids.

"Does anyone in this class like to read?" (One hand goes up.)
"Does anyone like to write ficiton?" (Same hand goes up.)
"Does anyone want to be a writer in any form when they grow up?" (Same hand.)
"Does anyone here write poetry?" (For some reason, three-fourths of the class raised their hand. I asked one girl why she likes writing poetry and she said, "I like to rhyme."

That's a good enough reason for me.

Overall, it was a fantastic experience.

I say, and I know Margaret would agree:

Thumbs Up!

Then, on the way back to the office, we had an INTENSE moment with a driver on I-26. You'll have to visit Craigslist and go to their "Missed Connections" to find out more.

Extra-terrestrials

Sufjan Stevens: "Concerning the UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinois"



The flashing at night, the sirens grow and grow...

Who knew songs about aliens could be so beautiful?

Also see:

The Prayers and Tears of Arthur Digby Sellers: "Concerning Lessons Learned from the Aliens"

Also, why are both these songs "concerning"? I might be on to something here.

Speaking of songs...

Can you live in a song?

I like when she goes to the ocean.

A poem:

Into My Own
by Robert Frost

One of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.

I should not be withheld but that some day
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.

I do not see why I should e'er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.

They would not find me changed from him they knew--
Only more sure of all I thought was true.


A line of another poem from Robert Frost:

"One could do worse than be a swinger of birches."

Night Map

Sometime between 3:42 and 5:17 this morning, I had the strangest nightmare. My dad and I were driving down the street and we saw all of these people running. Apparently we were used to this, and my dad parked the car behind a building and we ran across the street into a concrete parking deck where others were hiding. We had to crouch behind concrete walls so that we wouldn't be spotted by the searchlight. Then they started shooting missile-like fire things through the parking deck. I'm pretty sure I woke up before I got hit by one, or the machine gun-fire. (Isn't there an urban legend that says that if you die in a dream then you die in real life?)

Anyway, the even funnier thing is that dream was more comforting than the things I was thinking in all the times during the night when I was awake.

Thank you, AC's.

Tonight was my first experience at AC's on King Street. It was fun, with one exception: the female bartender. I was hoping that the times she ignored my drink requests and allowed guys to shove beside me and take up all of my personal space in order to talk to her were not reflections on her personal attitude, but, instead, minor details that she didn't notice. However, I was mistaken. Her character came out even further in the women's restroom. I was standing in line for one of the two stalls, and the stall nearest to the door opened. I was just about to grab the stall door when the main restroom door opened. The female bartender breezed into the stall. I said, "Excuse me, but I was in line." At this point she responded with, "Fuck you. I work here." I stood there, stunned. The girl washing her hands was like, "Wow. She is not even worth it." At this point, the other stall opened and I went in. I'm still completely shocked. I wish I weren't so passive-aggressive and weak. Otherwise, she would still be experiencing the taste of my knuckles in her mouth. Thank you for teaching me a lesson, Ms. Female Bartender in a Black Halter Top Typical Stereotype.

watching Teee Veee

I know that I love television far too much, but now that I've watched all of the Weeds DVDs, and since I don't have Showtime, I have to wait until Season 3 comes out on DVD, I needed a new fix.

Yesterday, while my blinding, splitting, nauseating migraine was ebbing, my new fix hit me. Pain was replaced with laughter in the form of:

30 Rock


Goodbye to: ANTM, Top Chef, Grey's Anatomy (unless I'm bored and then maybe I'll watch online)

Hello to: 30 Rock, Weeds, Pushing Daisies (which I'm very intrigued by, but this could disappoint...)

Either way. With my new love for 30 Rock, I think Thursday is going to be my new favorite day of the week.

30 Rock + The Office = Pure Heaven

It's in these moments where my fingers--my body--misses the piano. To feel the smooth keys, solid, singing darkly under my fingertips. To quiet the voices in my head. To quiet the aches in my heart. To sit alone, surrounded by familiar notes and chords, enveloping me.