The Beautiful Game

Watch this video. I dare you not to be excited about the World Cup after you see this:

Are you singing this song yet? I'm sitting in a coffee house, and the sound is off on my computer, and I'm singing it. So you have to be.

I admit it. I'm not the biggest sports fanatic. I'm not even a mediocre sports fanatic. I'm not precisely a fair-weather-fan (much like my love of Coca-Cola, my "team" affiliation resembles more of a no-holds-barred radical, purposeful ignorance of the merits of other "teams"). In other words: I'm a Braves fan... but I haven't seen a full Braves' baseball game since... High School? However, I'm also a huge fan of emotional-affiliation, of giving in to the joy of the moment and screaming at the screen when there's a fumble on the play, or leaning left in my seat in hopes that the curling stone will also curve left, or jumping up and down in the chair so that a jockey and horse will ride just a little faster, or holding my breath during foul shots so that the sound of my breathing won't distract the player on the tv screen. This may explain my near-religious experiences when watching Friday Night Lights. I'm emotionally invested. Just ask my roommates, current and former.

So, I think Soccer - nay - Football, allows for the best of all worlds. Brash support of the US team, despite our baby-hood on the field and a discrepancy in talent when compared to the world's heavy-kickers that is comparable to the discrepancy in salary range for US Footballers compared to England's or Portugal's or Brazil's. All-out emotional exclamation at the pubs and heart-in-it, eyes-glued-to-the-telly, what-a-great-play adoration. Some other appealing qualities? Handsome, handsome men. Wearing Ralph Lauren designs. And costumes. Lots of costumes. Entire flights of stadium seating for National Super Heroes.

One of my Philly roommates recently came out to visit me in Colorado. She explained several important things during the US v. England game: 1) what "Off-Sides" means. Because I didn't know. 2) The minor upswing in popularity of games after the advent of HDTV, because the cameras have to be so damn far away in order to take in the action, that plain-old-tv makes the players look like little colored blobs prancing around. With HDTV, viewers can finally see what's going on. 3) Football is a working-man's game. It enlivens towns full of blue-collar workers; it isn't a blue-blood's game. ("Chesley, Manchester is like... Pittsburgh. Lots of steel and factories. And that's kind of it.") 4) Footballers on club teams in foreign countries make millions of dollars... whereas a player on Philly's new team makes about 14k.

The only thing I really could bring to the conversation was: "Hey, I went to High School with one of the US players. We were in the same grade. Yay, Ricardo!"

Then I happened upon the June Vanity Fair. Current football stars on the front. Classic football legends on the back. Inside, Annie Leibovitz does her epic-photography thing with a bunch of boys in their boxer briefs. And A.A.Gill writes one of the best Vanity Fair articles I've read in awhile- because he writes about the game as "a powerful link between multi-millionaire athletes and the man on the street," with a literary style that does the same, interjecting tongue-in-cheek observations, jibes, self-aware blanket statements, and brief anecdotes into a rich-but-quick overview of the game's history. And it's all illustrated by boys in their boxers... and Ronaldo's mom.

Gill writes, "It seems that football took to the world pitch at about the same time as the modern independent nation-state. After a flag, a national anthem, and a press release decrying Yankee imperialism, the next thing newly minted nations do is build a stadium and come up with a national grudge match. As a result, most countries see their football team as an expression of national solidarity. The British, with a contrarian savoir faire, use it as an excuse to dissolve the union and play as four countries: England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland." (long quote- I had to put the whole paragraph in. It's brilliant. Kudos, Gill, on being clever, insightful, and succinct, all at once. Not an easy task.)

He personifies the countries using the characteristics of their in-game technique. And then shares classic fan traditions. When the Dutch play Germany, fans chant, "Give us our bikes back," recalling the WWII retreat of German soldiers from Holland, when they stole bicycles to use as getaway transportation. As for the English, they still play The Great Escape theme, and sing (to the tune of Camptown Races), "Two World Wars and one World Cup, England, England." I stand in resolute support of any tradition that recalls the greats in the cast of The Great Escape; Coburn and Bronson, Attenborough and Garner, and the inimitable Steve McQueen....

So if you run across a Vanity Fair, pick it up and read the article. And try to catch a game sometime (preferably in a pub, or at least in the presence of someone schooled in the game... It's more fun when you have a personal translator...). Or just download "Wavin' the Flag," and enjoy a little catchy tunage that celebrates

The Beautiful Game.

photos: Children from the Toba Qom Ethnic Group play soccer on Indigenous Indian Culture Celebration Day, Screaming Woman, Aher Mendelsohn Fan Tribut, Soccer Boys by Flickr member Nattu, Annie Leibovitz Vanity Fair spread, image from Det Kempke, still from The Great Escape, Preparing for the World Cup in South Africa from Boston.com.

A Higher Power.

Click-Clack, Click-Clack, Click-Clack, Click-Clack, Click-Clack, click-clack...

It's the sound my heels make on the marble floors when I walk into the High Museum.

Don't be deceived- those click-clacks aren't dissipating into nothingness.

They're off on a treasure hunt, flying at the speed of sound through the new galleries and the old, hunting for something new to discover, and saying hello to old friends.

When you walk into a museum that has been Your Museum since before you could talk, things are different. Yes, the Met is magnificent- its lungs filled to bursting with beauties untold. Yes, the PMA, too, holds Ghosts and Opera Singers, is home to Madonnas and goddesses.

But for me, the High is like coming home.

At the High, I met a dignified Native American Indian Delegate. He told me about the pride of being a Warrior, and the pride of being a Diplomat. He wore his feathers in his hair, his bone jewelry, his weathered face; He wore fine clothes of a White-Man's cut. He taught me about Culture Shock, long before I left home.

At the High, I learned that Degas turned a brush around a horse's flank as magnificently as he did around a dancer's leg.

At the High, I met a Roman God, and learned all about the advantages of having wings on your feet and wings on your headdress. There are messages to be imparted to mortals, heroes to be warned, just in the nick of time; there are stories to be told.*

At the High, I contemplated Campbell's Soup Cans, on repeat. Tomato soup had a glamorous side. It wasn't just the comfort lunch of my youth. Tomato soup had an ego. Tomato soup was a star. Tomato soup had a message: commercialism reaches it's grasping fingers even into the warmest memories of your childhood.

At the High, I ran into an old acquaintance, David. I had met him in Florence, but he was visiting America. I introduced him to my family. With my mother, I examined the lines of a master, the subtleties of an artist's craft. With my father, I spoke of legends and histories. With my older brother, an engineer, I spoke of the alchemy of bronze, of casting and restoring. With my younger brother, I spoke of gore and battle and victory.

At the High, I met Whistler's Mother, years before I wrote a paper on the glorious nocturnes of her brilliant and expressive expat son.

At the High, I walked into a Passing Storm, to hear the distant rolling rumble, to feel the darkness and the electricity in the air slowly dissolve, to smell the moisture in the air, and bid farewell to the receding maelstrom.*

At the High, I smiled at Alexander Calder, 20 years before I ever looked up in the PMA gallery and met his Ghost.

At the High, I had a conversation with Howard Finster about God. Finster was a little kooky. Finster was a lot expressive. Finster was Southern. Finster loved God, and I loved Finster. I loved him so much, I introduced him to my Modern Art History professor in college, who had never met him before, never having been exposed to the glories of Southern Eccentricity.

At the High, I was introduced to a Lady in Black Velvet: Mrs. Eulabee Dix Becker; as a girl, I wondered what it was like to wear such rich clothes, to be so stately and elegant. As a young woman, I wondered what she was thinking, and if she was happy, and if her heart was whole or broken.

At the High, I learned that a woman's writing desk in the 19th century was like a rocketship that could take you to distant places, to travel the globe in a friendly salutation, or even skip through time, like Jane Austen or the Bronte sisters, disappearing into flights of fancy. A writing desk was where a woman was allowed to think, and it was a sacred place.

At the High, Sol LeWitt taught me about the color palette. Long before I ever knew what conceptual painting was, I learned red, blue, orange.*

A museum isn't just a repository for artwork. It's a building full of connections waiting, striving, yearning to be made. It's a storehouse of realizations and epiphanies, of humanity and deity, of presence and meaning.

At the High, I learned not just to look, but to see.

* Mercury statue, Inness painting, and LeWitt lithograph are not replicas of the actual pieces in the High Collection, or seen as visiting exhibits at the High. Lacking the actual artwork, I used something similar to the pieces referenced.

Images: High Museum of Art, Atlanta, No-Tin by Henry Inman, Race Horses in a Field by Edgar Degas, Mercurio by Giambologna, Campbell's Soup Cans by Andy Warhol, David by Verrochio, Whistler's Mother or Portrait of the Artist's Mother by James McNeill Whistler, Gathering Storm by George Inness, Three Up, Three Down, by Alexander Calder, Angel by Howard Finster, Lady in Black Velvet (Mrs. Eulabee Dix Becker by Robert Henri, Untitled Lithograph by Sol DeWitt.

Think Fast.

Life is always happening. The omnipresent choice of "do something, or don't" becomes a whisper for the workaholic, a shout for the young graduate, a rhythmic mantra for the artist. Sometimes you're just rolling along, enjoying yourself, and Life screams "THINK FAST" across the schoolyard. You've got three choices: duck. run like hell. or open your eyes, throw out your hands, and catch it.

Now. Where was I?

Tracy and I had arrived at Hand in Hand. Imminently, Flock-of-Forty-Somethings spotted us,

and it wasn't long before one had swooped in for the kill. (note: it's very nice to offer to buy girls drinks. But if you're not literally standing at the bar, a little introductory banter is advisable. When you start with, "I'm buying you drinks," you end up gaged too high on the 'Likely to Rufie my drink' scale. In retrospect, however, thank you, Rufie-Bird, wherever you are.)

As RB leaned in to get our drink orders, I looked over his shoulder and made eye contact with Tall, Dark, and Handsome, who was standing a few yards away. This wasn't your average, awkward, oops-I-looked-at-you-in-the-eyes eye contact....

And as RB disappeared toward the bar, I did what any girl with her wits about her would do. I beckoned.

So, (lucky us), TDH and the gentleman with him (we'll call him...RayBan...) sidled over.

"Would y'all do us a favor?" I said, dredging up the Southern accent that only seems to appear when I cross state lines into Mason-Dixon, Proper. "Can you just stand here with us for a while, and pretend you know us?"

Okay. So the fact that I managed to divert the threat of Rufie-Bird, score the attention of the cutest guys in the bar, and throw out what was an honest plea, but also a great Line - that's just luck. The fact that our little foursome clicked, quick - that was Serendipity.

And the "cutest guys in the bar" comment wasn't hyperbole. I mean it. Eyes like old amber and smiles like the sun. They were cousins, and clearly shared the family genes...

Fast-forward through the "Wow-it's-really-nice-talking-to-these-guys" realization and the first quakes of "Maybe-you-can-meet-a-nice-guy-in-a-bar." I was ticking off a checklist of evening accomplishments: Girl's Night Out? check. Meet boys? check. Talk with boys? check. "Suck out the Marrow of Life"? Thorough Thoreau living was pending. About 2 hours after eye-contact, TDH upped the stakes. He invited Tracy and me to a concert. A concert on the following day. A concert in a cave... in Tennessee... 3 hours away.

And you know what?

I said, "Absolutely."

I'll take a break from the narrative to say: Yes, I fully realize that was crazy. Yes, it was a shaky limb to climb. But I've got good intuition and had a lesson to impart to dear Tracy: When Life is knocking, open the damn door and go play.

"What would your mother say?" you ask? Well, I'll tell you what she said. She said, "Ooh. Sounds fun!" No joke.

Back to the bar.

Our foolish foursome headed to the Majestic diner on Ponce de Leon Ave and stocked up on 1AM deliciousness... like mashed potatoes and chocolate milkshakes. Then we bade each other farewell...for a few hours.

Because TDH and RayBan showed up outside of Christ the King Cathedral right after 10AM, to pick up Tracy and me from the steps of church after morning mass. By this time, we'd spent all of 3 hours with these boys. But don't worry; they met my mother. Next stop was Starbucks for some iced goodness, where we also picked up 6'4", the largest yoga instructor I've ever met.

Scene: TDH and me in the front seat. Tracy crammed in the back with RayBan and 6'4". Neither of us could really complain.

And we were off.

If you've never been crammed into a car with one friend of 22 years and three handsome perfect strangers, with three hours of I-75 ahead of you, I'd suggest you find the nearest opportunity to do so. It was riotous. And three hours + 1 pit-stop later, we emerged on the grassy plains of Tennessee, two clicks over from a cow pasture. The boys sprang for our tickets (Dear South, I love you, and I love the gentlemen you foster. This never would have happened in Boulder), and we found ourselves walking into the earth, feeling the temperature drop from 82 to 55 in a matter of seconds, the soft closeness of underground humidity brushing at our skin. Stalagmites, stalactites, underground waterfalls and pools of water, low ceilings, (-duck, 6'4", duck!) and dirt in your flip-flops. After about a 1/4 mile trek into the mountainside, the ceiling lifted into a huge cavern, with folding chairs set in rows, with stage lights set into the walls, with a soundstage beneath a natural arch, and a giant crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

And then the real magic began.

Caverns have built-in sound systems, and it was a matter of moments before we were awash in the sounds of Bluegrass Underground. Monty Montgomery, and then Darrell Scott, then the unforgettable lyrics of Will Hoge (who asked the startlingly apropos question: Where do we go from down?), and the quirky-isn't-quite-the-right-word Justin Townes Earl.

It. Was. Amazing.

I'd try to describe it more, but those moments belong wrapped up in that earthy cocoon, deep beneath the root systems of Tennessee Pines, some distant echo of Orpheus singing to Eurydice.

You know that feeling when you're coming out of The Mineshaft Ride at SixFlags, or finishing the It's A Small World caves in Disneyworld? After the concert, we emerged from the subterranean haven, back into the hot and sticky world of the South in Summer. We stopped in Chattanooga for dinner, and at about 10:30 PM, RayBan hollers from the back seat, "Hey guys! We've known each other for 24 hours!"

"Think Fast!" screamed Life.

"I got it! I got it! I got it!!"

photos: The Year 2008 in Photographs -The Big Picture- from Boston.com, seagulls {rose-coloured-rain} Happy (pretty) Monday from vi.sualize.us, NicoliNiki image from Phototree, Clock by Ejfel Utan Zita, Old door by Bogdan Dascalescu, Nighthawks by Edward Hopper, Harkness Tower clock face, open road from 500px by Yuriy_Nezdoiminoge, Cumberland Caverns chandelier, Cumberland Caverns concert image, Tennessee Hills at Sunset, North of Knoxville by sky scooter at panaramio.com, University of Rochester clock, Goodbye by Zara J

Proves Me Right.

Do you believe in Serendipity?

Because I do.

But then, you would know that, wouldn't you.

Dearlings, I am not a "relationship" kind of girl. It's not that I don't want to be in one, I just figured that when the right boy came along, it would just happen. But I'm also a romantic, so in keeping myself open to the possibility of Magic, I have had some crazy encounters with the opposite sex.

There's the atheist I met at the rock gym. He asked me out and I thought, "why judge? I can be open-minded!" Fast-forward to the unforgettable line, "I'll buy dinner. You buy drinks. I'll have a Grey Goose Martini." (immediate succession of thoughts: ...um, is it archaic to think that YOU asked ME out, so YOU should be buying? I can't believe you just ordered a $12 martini. I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU JUST ORDERED A $12 MARTINI IN A DIVE BAR AND THEN SENT IT BACK BECAUSE IT WASN'T MADE RIGHT. Oh dear heavens....)

This was the night that not one, but two separate barkeeps, at two separate establishments, both gave vocal reinforcement. Barkeep 1: "Is this a blind date? Because that guy is horrible. Someone owes you, bigtime, for going out with him."

Barkeep 2: "You want me to make you a coke that looks like a whiskey and coke so that he doesn't know you're trying to sober up? Sure thing, sweetie. I can call you a cab and cover for you while you make a break for it. No? Well, good luck."

On the up-side, I learned this night that my long legs and winning looks was what made me dateable for this boy... because he doesn't usually like dating Catholics. (...ass.) Then (idiot that I am) I let him drive me home. I think he had too much to drink, because he was driving like a lunatic. And all my analytical mind could think was: "This is unbelievable. When I drive like a maniac, at least I believe in a Hereafter, a Heavenly Reward, if something horrible happens and I kill myself. This boy is putting my life at risk believing that earthly tenure is all we've got. WHAT AN ASS!"

I think this is going to be a long post. Because I just got started.

There was Sweetest Guy Ever, who had physical stats to beat the band- 6'4", 195, and shoulders and arms that must have been on loan from Adonis. And he was unbelievably nice. So nice. So nice that he drove 2 hours with flowers for me from his home-town florist in his back seat...

...even though he was horribly allergic and arrived at my doorstep with tears streaming down his face. Darling boy. That was when I discovered that, Adonis-be-damned, I needed wit in a man. And a lot of it.

Coffeeshop Canadian was a trip-

I agreed to go out to dinner with a boy I met in a coffeeshop here in Boulder. I realized only too late that this is not the town to find sweet gentlemen. He liked my face, and he even liked my mind, but we were on the market for completely different things. Enough said.

Then there's Hanes His Way, another boy I spotted in a coffee shop.

He left before I could scrounge up the courage to say hi, so I asked his friend what his name was. In a matter of hours, we where having witty banter over text messaging, and then facebook. I was over-the-moon! Cute boy, copy-writer for a living, grew up back east, was active and fun... And then, no joke, he sent me a picture of himself in his underwear. (My mother's gonna die when she finds out I posted this for all the world to see...). No. Honestly. A text-message image arrived of this boy in his boxer-briefs. POSING. You know that sound the needle makes on the LP when it scrapes off to the side? Yes. That is what happened in my head. "Wow. I'm really glad your self-esteem is so...substantial. Let's be friends?"

There's TurkeyFest/Blind Date from Hell boy...

Another perfectly charming gentleman. Not my physical type, but quick to smile and very nice. He came from money and was in law school. He was also a pilot (which is, 3 times out of 4, a warning sign. Yes. I just made a blanket statement about pilots. I worked for an airline. I can do that.) TF/BDfH invited me to a Thanksgiving Feast at his friend's place. We had never met before, but were being set up by a darling dear friend, so I figured, "Hey, Carpe Turkey, shall we!" Oh. Good. Lord. This boy took being "amenable" to an outrageous extent. I'm not big on compliments. I'm big on banter. I want a little mental push-back, a little give-and-take, some minor disagreements that lead to intellectual conversation. I don't care if you agree with me. I want you to respect my mind, and demand the same from me. This boy, bless his heart, felt more like a lackey than a date. He loved that I was Catholic. He loved that I sang. He loved my Arts Major. He loved that I'd never done drugs. He loved that I have no tattoos (and made some sort of asinine comment about "girls who have tattoos are loose." Yes, I realize I made an asinine comment about pilots... but still...). He loved that I liked Heidegger and could do without Descartes. Etc., etc., etc. And he kept TELLING me so. I make mental check-lists about prospective romances, as well. But I don't provide a play-by-play, you're-my-ideal-date commentary! All that would have made for a bland date. But the kicker was when I ordered a Coke (I had to drive downtown, and I wasn't drinking with this boy). Because he ordered a Diet Coke. Okay, yes. I made a snap judgement. You invite me out. You take me to a bar after dinner. Where you order... a Diet Coke. With lemon. Alone, it would have been a benign move. But after hours of seeing no mental or physical signs of strength or acuity... I was done. Oh. That, and, he loved loved loved that I was a Catholic, because he was a Catholic, and he really wanted to date a girl who understood Catholicism... But he didn't know what Transubstantiation was... and that's kind of a biggie... and when I told him what it was... he had that completely-understandable look of doubt on his face. You're looking for a knowledgeable practicing Catholic... but you aren't a knowledgeable practicing Catholic? ruh-roah...

And now we come to my favorite. The Inspiration of The Barking Cat Theatre, one of Philadelphia's newest theatre companies. I have to preface by saying: I love this boy. I hold him in my heart, and he has become a darling, darling friend. But just to show you what I can get myself into:

Mutual theatre friendships led to some gee-this-guy-is-really-great moments. And then we had the Barking Cat night, in which darling darling friend drank a leeetle too much, so I drove him back to my place. On the way, we listened to The Last Five Years soundtrack (Sherie Rene Scott and Norbert Leo Butz, I heart you.) It was his car, his cd (he was a theatre guy... I loved that he had Broadway in his car). But then he shushed me when I started singing the Girl Parts, so that he could sing them. (Don't ever, ever shush a girl when she's singing in the car...). When we got home, I directed him to the couch. He was allergic to cats, so I scooped up my Sadie to lock her in my room for the night. "Can't I cuddle with the puppy," he said. Sigh. I told this boy goodnight, and headed to my room. About 5 minutes later, I had that Something's Wrong sensation, sat up, and looked out the window. And there is boy, opening his car door. Of course, I figure, "I'm going to have to run into the street and throw my pajama'd body across his windshield so he doesn't drive drunk." But then he shuts the door, and walks toward the houses. Not toward MY house, mind you, but up the sidewalk, and into my neighbor's yard. And not just any neighbor...but the one with a police record, a drinking problem, a German Shepherd, and probably a shotgun. I race down two flights of stairs and stop short at the door- Before barging into a stranger's house to retrieve a drunken boy, I dial said boy's phone number.

"Hello?"

"Hi. Where are you?"

"I'm asleep on your couch."

"No. I'm looking at my couch. And you're not on it. Where are you?"

"No, I'm asleep on your... your neighbor's couch..."

"Don't say anything else. Don't say a word. Just get up, and leave."

"How did I get in here?"

"Stop talking. Walk out the door."

"Oh! I hear the cat. The cat's barking at me."

"Out the DOOR, NOW."

I flipped on my front porch light so he could see where he was headed. He arrives on my doorstep. "The cat bit me."

No joke. I couldn't make that up.

"The cat bit me."

Considering it wasn't the nicest German Shepherd I'd ever met, he'd come off pretty lucky. No bleeding, thank God.

In the morning, all was forgotten. At least by him. For me, it was a marvelous story. We bonded over that night, and became good friends. Not exactly a winning first-impression in pursuit of a romantical relationship, but pretty good fodder for a friendship.

If you're in Philly, and you're going to the Fringe Festival, look up the Barking Cat Theatre Company, and tell the actors that Chesley sent you.

So...that was fun.

See, it's not that I don't put myself out there. I'm romantic enough to believe that magic can happen anywhere, you just need to stay open to the possibilities. I'm sensible enough to know that it can't happen ALL the time. And I've proved myself right.

But I kept waiting for the exception to prove the rule. And that happened last Saturday.

"I will never meet a good man in a bar."

If you have ever said this, turn around three times, spit over your left shoulder, cross yourself, and say "Googly Googly Googly" three times fast. Because it happens.

Last Saturday, in Atlanta, I swept up my friend Tracy to head to Virginia Highlands as two girls on the town. To meet boys. To talk to boys. To have fun. To get someone to buy us drinks and then go home. Accomplished. Accomplished. Accomplished. Accomplished. Accomplished. And then some. And in the next post...I shall tell you that story.

photos: Believe by *UnaObsesion at deviantART, image by Eugenio Recuenco / Vogue Novias,Careful Not to Spill Your Martini While Changing Gears by Marcus Lam, A Wildflower Bouquet by Nancy L. Stockdale, Leaf Dance tapestry from art.com, One More Cup of Coffeefrom photo.net, Turkey image from Texas Parks and Wildlife, German Shepherd image from "We Love Our Puppy . Com", image from polyvore.com, To Be Continued text image from photobucket.com

Life.

Hello loves.

Greetings from the edge of the earth. I'm sure I fell off last week.

My long trip home held some surprises. Some were anticipated, and some were not. But my discoveries of the past week have put me back into that wonderful place of life. It's not that I've been depressed over the past few months, but after so much wondering and wandering, one runs the risk of becoming a little listless.

But no more. It's nice to be me again. (Isn't that a nice place to be?)

Here's what happened while I was in Atlanta.

1) I popped on the plane out of Boulder just a few hours after presenting a lecture on Marian Iconography, examined through multiple art historical, cultural, symbolic, and spiritual lenses.

It was so well-received, and I gave it twice more while in Atlanta. After meeting with a number of different people in liturgical ministry and adult enrichment roles, I've gotten lots of support for this endeavor.

Now I just need to put it into article form, see if I can get it published, and start on my next lecture....

2) I wrote my Bryce Dallas Howard article on the plane flying home, and then edited a slew of articles for the publication, New York Moves Magazine. I think the BDH article came off fairly well.

She was delightful to interview, and so enthused about so many different subjects, and she served me my concluding paragraph on a golden platter. I love that she was so interested in Grace as an empowering attribute. (We think alike...).

3) Discernment is not an easy process... particularly when you're multi-interested. I can see myself doing a lot of things. A lot of things. But I spent most of the week trying to figure out the best path for me, because applying to every corporate marketing position I can dig up hasn't been working. It's time for plan B.

So I've decided to try to cultivate a writing career, and drum up some new clients,

while simultaneously finding some sort of part- or full-time position with a not-for-profit, preferably nestling myself into the arts community. And I'm casting my net wide, for Fate to send me what she will. Because if I can find a lovely NFP spot, but it's not in my backyard...well...I've already learned that I'm good at picking up and moving, right?

With the art historical lectures, I've decided to try to head back to school in a year or two. I'm spreading knowledge to the masses with my little B.A. I imagine I could do some real damage with an M.A. or a Ph.D... And I always have my singing, too... I was promoted to Head Cantor while I was away. I'll be singing all summer!

4) has to do with my last post. This was the truly unexpected surprise. And though the ruminating on career options re-invigorated my mind, this surprise made me sit up and breath deep the joys of being.

You know those moments when life comes knocking, and you just open the door and let it in? That's what I did. It has to do with some great music, a great man, and a series of rather delightful moments. And I'll tell you all about it.

Tomorrow.

photos: imaginary friend by *mOthyyku at deviantART, Edge of the Earth, Edge of the Sky by Enrique Fernandez Ferra, image by Perhydrol from 500px, Joy Division, Bouguereau's Pieta, Henry Ossawa Tanner's The Annunciation, Bryce Dallas Howard, image from ffffound.com, Fork in the Road from melodyross.typepad.com, visual inspiration from vi.sualize.us, happen from imgfave.com/Melissa, Jump in the Sky by ~Loona5, Lovestory from 500px.com