Friday, April 26, 2013

Faithful Friday: The Rogue Tulip

There is a tulip that comes up every  year in a field a few miles from our house. It stands alone in the grass--no other petaled friend to be seen. Two years ago, I wrote this about the rogue flower:

Every morning and evening for the past week, I’ve driven the same road.  And each time, as I round a certain curve with a certain field off to the side, I glimpse the dancing head of a red spring flower on the hill.  A tulip – the kind that belongs in someone’s garden.  Not a wildflower among its brethren, but a bright red beauty reigning lone amid the grasses.  I have no idea how it came to grow there, but standing amid the wild green on the hill, it is more beautiful than a thousand of its sisters lined up in a garden bed.   


This morning, I saw that tulip again. I was struck at once with how amazing it seems that the tulip has made an appearance again. Have you ever tried to grow a tulip? It might be that my thumbs are all shades but green, but I've killed a dozen tulips without ever seeing a bud...

I was also struck by the majestic beauty of this lone tulip in the grass. This rogue tulip, this lonely tulip, this tourist tulip in a place where she doesn't quite belong. She doesn't seem to mind, though, and she stretches her petals to the sun with abandon.

Those thoughts reminded me of a post I made a year or so ago on what is now my book blog. I thought the theme went well with the rogue, tourist tulip:  

A few years ago, Chris's aunt treated us to a weekend in New York. On the way to some attraction, we stopped at a street vendor and bought hot dogs. This was such a "New York" moment, I had to get a picture of the kids eating hotdogs on the street. When Chris saw them posing, hot dogs slightly above open mouths, he said, "Stop that! You look like tourists!"

"But, we are tourists," I responded.

"Right, but try not to look like one. That makes you a target."

Lesson: Looking like you don't belong makes you a target. Although I'm not sure how dangerous it is to look like a tourist in a city filled with thousands of other tourists, I think middle school and high school confirms for many that "not belonging" = "target".

And so we learn, early on, to conform to the world. To wear the right clothes and say the right thing and fit in wherever we can. At some point, we stop looking at the awesome sights spread before us daily, we stop delighting in the wonder of the world, and we live as if we are of the world. What does our home, our yard, our daily coming and going have to do with wonder and adventure? 

But the truth is, we aren't part of the world. We don't belong. We are tourists.


"If you find in yourselves a desire which no earthly thing can satisfy, the logical conclusion must be that you are made for another world."  - C. S. Lewis

So instead of hiding ourselves in the world, instead of putting on the garb of the everyday and everyman, maybe we should be living like a tourist. Adventure in the moment, taking in the glorious attraction that has been created all around us. Really looking at what God has wrought and hearing the messages he writes in his creation. Messages for us.

"Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect." Romans 12:2 ESV

Thursday, April 25, 2013

I fought the wall, and the wall won.

According to expert bloggers, you're supposed to review your page traffic to get clues on what readers want to see.

Two of my posts that garnered the most interest were the one about Buff Jesus and the one where I almost killed myself on the murder deck. Taken together, I can't help but think that readers want to see me meet Jesus face to face sooner rather than later. I can't decide whether that's supportive or creepy...

The murder deck incident garnered a lot of support from those nearest and dearest. My husband, upon reading it, called into the kitchen, "Oh! I love this story about you falling off the deck." He doesn't usually show that much enthusiasm for blog posts. My sister wanted to know, "Why haven't I heard this story before?" As if I was holding back some bit of vital information to her happiness.

Only my new Internet best friend, Jess from No Pithy Phrase, commented on the post without making mention of my almost demise. Since Jess is in the minority on this one, I thought I'd make my husband and sister happy by sharing another story that involves bodily injury and almost-paralysis.

This is the story about the time I fought the wall:

We live in an A-frame house, and low, slanted walls are ripe with the possibility for injuries. There's a permanent soft spot on my head from slamming into sheet rock, but those are minor collisions compared to the end-table-paint-brush debacle.

I was painting Tucker's room last summer while he was visiting relatives in Louisiana and Chris was at work. Two of the walls in the room are angled, which made the job more difficult. Standing on a bar stool, I was too high up to be efficient. I found a sturdy old end table in the closet that was a perfect height, poured a bit of paint in a plastic container, and went to work on edging.

The end table provided the perfect solution as long as I stood in the exact center. After half an hour, and numerous trips up and down to fill up my paint container, I made the near-fatal mistake. I stepped back slightly to reach an odd angle.

My entire world became the violent sound of wood ripping. The slow tumble of "I'm a complete idiot and am about to die" began. As I fell backwards, I watched a perfect arc of paint hover in the air above me. The end table tipped, and I came crashing down right on top. I imagine it looked like one of those action movies where Dwayne Johnson throws his enemy down across a beam or a fence or a rock in the desert. Except with more leg flailing and wild hair and flashing (because my shirt rode up a tremendous amount during the debacle).

I hit the end table, bent backward, then rolled onto the carpeted floor. After the cracking of what I
hoped was wood and not bone, the room was silent. I struggled for breath and began to sob, certain I was horribly injured and thinking I might die in the room with paint all over the carpet and my chest hanging out. And you guys, Chris would be so pissed about the carpet, right?

My phone was across the room. Still sobbing, I drug myself across the room with my elbows. The room was littered with furniture in all the wrong places, and I felt like I was a crippled snake in a maze. Before I reached the phone, I felt something wet on my leg. I thought, "Thank God, I can feel my legs! Not paralyzed!" Then I thought, "Oh my God, I'm bleeding." And finally, "Blood is not cold...agh. I'm dragging paint all over the carpet!"

After about twenty minutes of laying, and sobbing, and slithering, I pushed myself up to inspect my injuries. My left thigh was already completely covered in blue. Three angry red marks lined my left side and back. I could only turn in one direction without cringing, but I was still whole and I felt like I was more "terribly, permanently bruised" rather than "suffering broken ribs and a punctured lung."

I turned to the carpet. You guys, do you know how much paint you can fit in a very small plastic dish? I thought maybe a cup, but apparently the correct answer is "infinity." At this point, I was still a bit dazed, so I did what anyone would do to remove wet paint from carpet: I made it wetter.

I filled up a pitcher of water and slowly poured it over the paint. Perhaps I thought I could dilute the paint so it wouldn't be noticeable? It turns out, however, this is a genius way to deal with the problem. Because wet paint sort of floats. For the next hour, I poured a little water on each area, sponged up the floating paint, poured more water, and repeated the process. By the time I was done, half the floor was sopping wet, but the paint was gone. Or possibly, diluted so as to be unnoticeable.

Then I did what anyone else would do. I tried to blow dry the carpet. This took way too long, and the hair dryer got dangerously hot, and I figured burning the house down was not the right way to hide the fact that I'd made a terrible mess. I opted for air drying.

I threw the murderous end table out the front door, got my trusty bar stool, and finished the paint job. Because at that point, I talked myself into the fact that end tables and horses had one thing in common: You get back up.

By the time Chris got home, the room looked great and I could barely get off the sofa. The bruise on my back lasted for three months.

I fought the wall, and the wall won that battle. But since the room is painted, there are no paint stains on the carpet, and I'm not paralyzed, I think we can conclude that I won the war.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Socially Awkward, but Not a Snob. Maybe.

Chris tells me that I come across as a snob. I remember years ago, my sister ran into people I went to high school with. "You're her sister?" they said, "But you're so friendly and different. She was kind of snobby."

A few years ago, we invited a couple and their children for dinner. They went to our church; we'd been attending a year or more. It was a nice dinner, and the man sat at my bar to make small talk while I cleared things away. I thought that was a bit odd--that the man sat and talked to me while his wife sat with Chris in the living space. He was also quite chatty, asking me a number of questions--almost insistent, in a charming way, that we have a real conversation--and the entire thing made me slightly uncomfortable.

After they left, Chris said, "That was fun. We should have them over again."

"Yes, it was nice," I said. Chris heard the unspoken "but" and lifted an eyebrow my direction. "He was kind of odd, though. What was that about?"

After I explained myself, Chris grinned. "That might be my fault."

It turns out Chris had gone fishing with this gentleman a few days before we had dinner. At some point, the man had asked, "So, what's up with your wife?"

Apparently, he'd tried to engage me in conversation at church several times and I "ran away." He said, "She'll say hi, but that's about it." Chris explained that I wasn't a snob, but that I was socially awkward and shy until I got to know you. He said that someone else had to do the work, to ask the questions, to draw me out, and then--after a while--I'd be comfortable enough to be the one who started the conversation.

"Why would you say that?" I asked.

"Would you rather I let people think you're a snob?"

Sigh. I don't really want people to think I'm a snob. But sometimes, I feel like it might be easier that way.

Saturday, April 20, 2013

That time David Bowie wore my imaginary pants

This is an accidental text conversation between my sister and I that pretty much runs the gamut regarding popular goblin literature or movies.

Me: I found the imaginary pants!

Me: Oh, sorry. Meant to send that to Chris. You know when you lose a pair of pants for so long, you start to assume you made them up?

Her: I was about to ask you if you found them on the imaginary goblin.

Me: Ew! No. That wouldn't be cause for excitement. Who'd want to wear pants after a goblin had worn them? I'm like a goblin racist; they have cooties. And other deadly diseases.

Her: Griphook wouldn't like you very much.

Me: And this is why you don't put clothing in your Gringotts vault. Gobins like to play dress up. . . Also, if they know you're a goblin racist, they might put icky goblin stuff on your clothes. And you would never know. Kind of like they do at McDonald's with your food.

Her: Is it just goblins you hate, or house elves and the like also?

Me: No. House elves make you cake. Goblins lurk in the basement. Why am I having to explain these obvious things?

Her: What if a goblin made you a cake? Could it wear your pants then?

Me: What??? Have you not been paying attention? If a goblin makes you a cake, you throw that mess away. In the outside garbage. Because it's probably full of poison. Or goblin boogers, which are probably poisonous.

Her: Well, elves would probably be the worst dentist ever, but they still let Hermey give them check ups!

Me: Are you saying I should accept poisonous cake from goblins because this one time, a misfit elf could clean teeth? Because that's some fairly poor logic.

Her: I'm saying if an elf can be a dentist, then a goblin can bake perfectly good, non-poisonous cakes.

Me: I'm pretty sure that's not how it works. But how about this: If the goblin can prove he's from the island of misfit toys and he bakes a cake, I'll feed it to the cat. If the cat doesn't die, then maybe I'll have a bite.  But I'll never completely trust the goblin chef, and I wouldn't eat a sandwich he made, because everyone knows goblins lick the lettuce.

Her: You're just racial profiling. Not all goblins are evil and make poisonous booger cakes.

Me: Clearly you don't take LoTR seriously.

Her: So, in that logic, all vampires are sparkly because they did that in Twilight?

Me: Ah. No. All vampires suck blood. She made up that sparkly bit.

Her: Well, maybe ALL goblins being horrible and gross is made up, too. Maybe there are goblins out there that want to change, want to be loved, and just want to make delicious cakes!

Me: Now you're just being ridiculous.

Her: Just don't let Jareth hear you talking about his goblins.

Me: Ugh. Also, I don't think I'd wear any pants after David Bowie.

Her: That I can't argue with.

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

A Murder of Doctors, or Why My Sister is the Coolest Dork I Know

This is less of a real post and more of some shared Doctor Who fangirlness. If you don't use numbers in sentences like "9 was awesome, but I fell in love with 10 and 11," then you might want to skip this post.

My sister sent me the following image via text:


Then we had this related text conversations:

Her: This makes me happy.

Me: Sweet! A murder of Doctors! No, that's not right. A gaggle of Doctors? A school of Doctors? What's a group of time lords called?

Her: An awesome of Doctors!

You guys, trust my sister to know something like the appropriate name for a group of Doctors. 

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Murder decks and forks with authority; or, things I associate with my in-laws

A few years ago, my in-laws had an above-ground pool in their backyard. My father-in-law built a gorgeous deck out from the door and around part of the pool, and when we went to visit, he wasn't quite finished. The railings weren't in place, so for the entire weekend, everyone constantly reminded my son to be careful on the deck. I think he was around six at the time.

After days be being told by every adult, including me, not to run, jump, sit, stand, walk, or lay down too close to the edge, my son was pretty much only taking the middle-most route when he traveled too and from the pool.

After a few days, Chris and Tucker went out to swim and I decided to sit on the deck and watch them. During this time, my brother-in-law, sister-in-law, and father-in-law were working on turning a shed in the corner of the yard into a cottage, so there were people scattered throughout the yard.

I sat down on one of the deck chairs as Chris tossed Tucker around in the pool, and that tiny moment turned into one of those awful slow-motion sequences that is fraught with slow-waving hands and a deep, low-tempo voice saying, "Nooooooooooooooo." Or possibly, "Aghhhhhhhhhhh." In my case, it might have gone down in complete silence, like an artsy movie; I remember the sounds of splashing water and laughter and hammers hitting nails, and then I remember silence.

The chair slid back just an inch or two; the back of the chair dipped down, found no support. I gripped the sides of the chair, as if staying with the crashing vehicle would be better than ejecting. The chair and I tumbled backward into a drop that was over four feet. I hit the ground with my shoulders, flipped at least once, and came to rest in damp grass without any breath. My first thought was that I could be paralyzed; my second thought was that someone had to have seen the entire ridiculous thing.

Of course, there were numerous witnesses, and plenty of merriment regarding the fact that they should have been directing all their warnings about decks and railings to me instead of the six-year-old. Next time we visited, my father-in-law proudly showed me the installed railings.
_____________________________________________


A few times during the last eight years, I've heard the term "fork with authority." It's something said while setting the table, and it refers to forks that are larger or heavier than some of the others. When laying the table with a mixed set of silverware, one apparently gives the "forks with authority" to the men.

Before anyone starts crying feminism in the comments, it seems to be more about physical comfort than chauvinism. The men have bigger hands. My husband prefers the forks with larger grips because they fit his hand better, and apparently so does his father and possibly his brothers.

My husband also prefers to sit at the head of the table because it gives him room on either side. He doesn't like to be scrunched up between people, and honestly, no one really wants him scrunched up next to them while he's wielding a fork with authority.  I think his dad probably feels the same way, because when we have them over, Chris and his dad occupy the ends of the table.

Also, probably my husband likes, at least a little, being the head of the table.
_____________________________________________

A few years after the incident on the pool deck, we were visiting my in-laws in their home in a new town. My brother-in-law and sister-in-law also live there, and they'd recently bought a new home, so we planned to see the home and have dinner with them.

Their house is a bit of a rambling, unique place. One of the design elements is that the dining room steps down into a living space; they had a large table set up in the dining area. Before dinner, I was sitting at the head of the table speaking to Chris's aunt when his brother came over and said, "You know, I can't let you sit there for dinner."

Having been well-trained regarding proper place settings and forks with authority, I jokingly said, "Oh, I know. Don't worry, I'm well-trained; I'll move so one of the men can have the head of the table."

He looked at me as if I'd just spouted nonsense and said, "What? No, I mean because the chair backs up to the ledge and you might fall."

It'd been a few years; apparently my clumsiness is memorable.
_____________________________________________

All of these things happened some years ago, but the memories were brought back by the warnings in this blog post about Mid-Century Modern homes that will kill your children.

Thursday, April 11, 2013

No One Broke the Windows Last Night, or Why the Loaded Gun is Out of Reach

Chris had evening training yesterday and wasn't going to be home until 9:00 or later, so Tucker and I were on our own for the evening. About the time night fell, Tucker went up to his room to entertain himself. He was playing jazz music or something, but just loud enough that I could tell he was doing so. I was in the office working, and everything was swell.

Then, I heard four loud pounding noises. It sounded like it was coming from the basement, but I ran upstairs to check on Tucker anyway. We had this conversation:

Me: What was that?

Tucker: What was what?

Me:  That noise.

Tucker: What noise?

Me: It's okay if you made it, I just want to know what it was.

Tucker: What are you talking about?

Me: Never mind.

Tucker: Maybe the cat knocked something over?


But the cat was asleep in my bed, and it wasn't that kind of noise anyway. Since the noise couldn't be explained by boy, cat, or dog (the dog was with Tucker), the logical conclusion was that someone was beating on the large glass doors in the basement. I ran downstairs and locked the door that leads to the basement and sat in a chair in the living room where that door, and all the other exterior doors, were visible.

My heart was pounding a little as I calculated how much time I'd have if someone tried to break through the measly door between us and the basement. Fifteen seconds if it was a large guy, a minute or two if it was a weakling. Even I could break into that door.

Then I realized my phone was in the office. If someone did try to break in, I'd need my phone. The hall to the office passes right by the basement door. You guys, I was like a pajama-laden ninja until I laid hands on my phone and the obnoxiously loud ring tone went off. Heart attack, but only a teensy one, because it was Chris calling.

He was getting out of his meeting early and coming home. We had this conversation:

Me:  There was a huge pounding noise, someone was trying to get into the basement.

Chris: What? No one ever comes out to our house. It's fine.

Me: They didn't get in yet. I didn't hear glass breaking.

Chris: There's no one trying to get in.  (You guys, in my defense, this is the same man that fusses when I don't lock the deadbolt, because that is like "inviting someone to steal our stuff." Seriously, Chris. Choose a platform here.)

Me: I don't remember which gun is loaded. Also, you should probably teach me to shoot them.

Chris: You aren't strong enough to pull them back!

Me:  I can shoot a rifle. I know how to shoot a rifle. Just tell me which one.

Chris:  The (name of gun) is always loaded.

Me:  Ok. Point that one out to me when you get home.  (Turns out that gun is on the highest gun rack for safety. Out of reach of children. And me.)

Also, it turns out that no one was trying to get into the house. Honestly, if anything was beating on the glass in the basement, it's a thousand times more likely that the thing would be a deer. Because deer hate our basement; it's happened before.


None of this kept me from imagining crackles in the glass when I went down early this morning to get the laundry. For a few seconds, I had an elaborate conversation with Chris in my head where I pointed out the non-existing cracks and chided him for not believing me. And he was super guilty and sorry.

And then I had to become a 30-something mother instead of an 8-year-old girl, because there were lunches to be made.



Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Show your weird, unmask your anxieties, put a name to your fears.

My social media feeds were rife with a single theme today: People are struggling to live in a world where everyone else appears to be happier than they are.

There was this blog post about dealing with depression that stemmed from the author raging against "the Cult of Happy."  The post begins with, "It pissed me off beyond belief, that there was an inference that if you weren’t Happy, you simply weren’t doing the right things."

Then there was this post, which points out the lie of perfection and which made me cry. Because I lived that lie for years and was miserable and wasted and heartbroken without ever realizing why.

There were people in private messages telling me their story and listening to mine; there were short Twitter quips from people who are struggling and people saying it's okay to struggle. In a few phone calls, there was that hint of frustration that comes with a really crappy day; there was my son, who simply responded to the question about his day with a shrug and an, "It wasn't the best."

And you guys...ALL of that is okay. Not every day has to be the best. Not every moment has to be happy. You don't always have to be full of energy and living life to the fullest. Because you aren't up to it every day; no one is, but some people are better at living the lie than others. That doesn't make them better. In fact, in my experience, it generally makes them more miserable.

So, don't be afraid to say "It's not okay." Don't always say, "I'm fine" when you aren't.

Let's start being real with each other; let's stop the faux Facebook living and be genuine. Show your weird, unmask your anxieties, put a name to your fears. I promise, you aren't the only one. Every time I take a leap and let a little more of myself free, I'm surprised at the number of people who respond with "me too!"

C. S. Lewis said, "Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: 'What! You too? I thought I was the only one.'”

Because you aren't the only one who is looking for someone who will understand. You aren't the only one who just wants one person to really get you. You aren't the only one who is lonely, or scared, or struggling, or crying, or worried, or terrified, or so tired of the day after day that you can't bear it another hour. I'm that person, too. And so is the girl next door, or the man across the street, or your prim and proper coworker.

Not everyone will admit to it, because that type of honesty takes courage. Unmasking comes with a lot of risk. But the rewards can be great as well; when you are real, people may be real with you. And when people are real together, beautiful things begin to happen.





Shops that Make Crayons from Children

While driving around looking for a place to get hot tea during travels last week, we popped into a bookstore that ended up being a comic shop with a few cases of books thrown in. One book was called "Coloring with Children."

Me:  Coloring with children, that sounds illegal. Also, wouldn't it limit the shades in your picture?

Chris: Eventually, it'd all be red.

Me: Well. That got disturbing.

I think it's important to note that my images of coloring with children were all innocent and cartoonish; they involved children singing about diversity whilst kind-heartened giants rubbed them lightly across the pages. Fun for all involved. My husband somehow turned it into a grizzly scene of gory art. And he says I'm weird.

Later, we were still in search of a tea house when we drove through a collection of high-end shops. You know, the kind where you know you can't afford anything, but it doesn't matter, because no group of shops that pristine and alike are going to offer something of interest.

Within the building was a place called "The Body Factory."

Me: Look! The Body Factory. (whispering:) Do they make people there?

Chris: ...

Me: Let's go in; I'd like to see people being made.

Chris: ...

Me: Perhaps that's where you can order children filled with colors other than blood.

Chris: You are weird.




Monday, April 8, 2013

Ghosts Who Make Toast, or, When I'm Really Good at Prayer

I'm really bad at prayer, you guys. Partly because I was shy for so long, and it still feels weird to open up that much of myself to anyone. Partly because I'm never quite able to shut off the analytical part of my mind, so I'm constantly thinking, "Did I really need to say that bit? Because it's God, you know, and he knew that already. And am I really asking God for this and that? Does it work like that? Do I get to order off a menu of blessings like he's my divine waiter?"

I understand logically about prayer, and I don't really think I'm ordering from some buffet of blessings because I'm feeling hungry for a little financial success or whatever. I understand about building relationship with Christ and all the other things you hear about in church.

I'm still bad at prayer, just like I'm bad at building relationships and communicating with people. Unless you really know me, I probably find it super awkward to communicate with you. It's not you, it's totally me. And you may not even realize how much of an internal edit I'm doing on every single thing that comes out of my mouth. Those who really know me (which is a small list) might wish I'd edit more with them, and they aren't even getting it all. In fact, people who don't know me in real life probably get a better glimpse of me through writing, because I'm always more comfortable sharing myself that way.

So imagine how I feel when I'm conversing with someone who hears it all. The internal editor is of no use; He hears it all--he knew it before I thought it.

You'd think it would make me more comfortable, right? That's how it should work: God knows how bizarre I actually am, and he still loves me. I realize this, too, and prayer is still hard for me. Sometimes, I write letters to God instead. It's easier.

Except there are times when prayer comes easily. It's easier for me to pray for someone else than for myself. It's easier for me to pray for my child than for anyone else. Mother's instincts override social anxiety and other messed up personality traits, y'all.

It's also easy for me to pray in the middle of the night when horror-movie thoughts dance in the shadows.

I've mentioned before, I don't watch horror movies much. I don't need the fodder; my mind is rife with shadows and terrors as it is. Remember about there being monsters in my basement? Seriously, you guys, inside I'm still an 8-year-old girl sometimes. Except I never wanted to be a princess. Ironically, I wanted to be the monster-slayer.

Sometimes, a tiny, not-so-innocent thought will pop up. For instance, have you ever been in your kitchen and smelled toast? But no one's cooking toast, and it's 1:24 a.m., and there hasn't been anything going on in the kitchen for over eight hours?

The rational thought for some people might be, "Perhaps I should clean out the toaster. I'm clearly smelling what must be an army of crumbs collected therein."

My thought? "There must be a ghost making toast." For a moment, I'm amused by the concept of Casper spreading jam on his toast. And also by the clever internal rhyme. Then something happens and an odd thought becomes a gaping maw of darkness that is all the scarier because I'm the one creating it.

Quickly, I become some sort of paranoid Stephen King character and shadows take on sharp edges and every single thought I ever locked away in the mind box labeled "Nightmares: Do Not Open" comes flooding to life. It's a paralyzing fear, y'all. This is when I hide under a mass of blankets even though it's 75 degrees in the room. This is when I contemplate waking my husband, but I don't. First, because he'll think I'm being ridiculous. And second, because if I break the terrifying silence with a sound, everything hiding in the darkness might leap forward to do whatever shadows do. Like consume your body or whisper evil in your ear.

So it's here, in the ridiculous darkness of the night, that I'm actually good at prayer. I'm not saying I'm eloquent or that I'm able to follow some sort of Christianese formula for praying. It's in the night terrors--or during the more realistic and more terrible actual horrors in life--when everything else is falling away and only darkness is surrounding me, that I can actually break through and communicate freely, purely, and without editor.

It's also during such a time that I ask for the most important blessing: I simply pray, "Be with me."


Saturday, April 6, 2013

Silence Falling

Remember when my sister was all, "There are Silence in your basement?"

"Do you even know why you're doing this, eh? Can you even remember?" -Amy Pond