2am

all nearness pauses,while a star can grow

all distance breathes a final dream of bells;
perfectly outlined against afterglow
are all amazing the and peaceful hills

(not where not here but neither’s blue most both)

and history immeasurably is
wealthier by a single sweet day’s death:
as not imagined secrecies comprise

goldenly huge whole the upfloating moon.

Time’s a strange fellow;
more he gives than takes
(and he takes all)nor any marvel finds
quite disappearance but some keener makes
losing,gaining
—love!if a world ends

more than all worlds begin to(see?)begin

-E.E. Cummings  (who is, aside from Billy Collins, my absolute favorite poet.)

Nostalgia

I love that we value childhood so much more when it’s in our past.

[If I had to choose an album to describe my early 20s, it would be Coldplay's X&Y.]

I love this picture.

the act of Loving

I came across this and thought yes.

One of my philosophy professors lectured wildly about love once, yelling: “When you’re in love with someone, that person is the lighthouse of your universe.” (I scrawled it inside Science and Poetry in pencil—lighthouse of your universe—as if I would ever forget that phrase.) He was a delightful caricature of his position. I could swear he literally tore his hair out while howling at us. He went on, “Nothing means as much without that person.”
One of the men in the class repeated, incredulous, half-laughing “so you’re saying you can’t enjoy, like, a vacation, without someone if you’re really in love with them?”
“Of course not.” the professor replied. “Not completely. You recognize beauty, but beauty means less if they don’t witness it with you. Beauty is less. You see something sublime and your first thought is that they should be there with you. It’s not as good without them. They illuminate. They make everything more.”

from here.

of cookies and things

My name is Jo and I can sometimes channel a middle-aged soccer mom… without the kids, husband, or minivan.

In case I hadn’t mentioned this:  I love to cook.  I suck at the whole “making up dishes to go together” thing, but I love to be in the kitchen, starting with a bunch of ingredients, and coming out the other end with a masterpiece.  Someday I want to be able to walk through a store and grab the necessary ingredients without having to painstakingly construct a list and triple-check it.

Pseudo thinks I’m amusing as hell.  Pseudo is an accomplished cook.  He can throw things into a dish and have it come out tasting like heaven.  He likes to hang around the kitchen, laughing, and watch me throw things around and follow the recipe exactly (I’m super-anal about it if I’ve never made the dish before).

Pseudo is also a backseat chef.  ”Are you sure you want to use those tomatoes?”  ”Don’t chop it like that, you want to mince.”  ”The recipe is wrong here, you want to do this instead.”  Eventually I either threaten him into silence (gesturing with knives and a fierce expression can have that effect) or just give him the reins in exasperation.  (He doesn’t mind, of course; he’s getting food out of it either way.)

Basically, we had a bbq for my roommate’s birthday this past weekend (in the rain).  I decided to make her an ice cream cake.  (I… don’t know why.  It was suggested as a joke, and I took it on to prove that I could.)

The cake took a day overall to prepare.  It’s actually a very basic recipe: bake a cake in 2 round tins, melt ice cream into a round cake tin and freeze them separately, then freeze it all together, and figure out something to throw on top.  (Pictures may or may not be coming soon, depending on my roommate’s boyfriend.)

It was amazing, and to this day, one of the things I’ve been most proud of making “all by myself.”  I also made some black-and-white chocolate chip cookies (which were the other hit of the party, btw) which are easy as…pie… (groan) to make.  I followed this recipe, and believe me, people love them.

Anyway, as a grand finale, my favorite part is actually giving it away.  (Hey, if I always ate what I make, I’d be the size of a house!)  I love to show up to work with a big plate of some new invention.  And hey, it helps them love me, too.

I’m okay with the concept of bribery.  ;)

It’s January Carnival

…over at 20something bloggers. It looks fun, so I am going to share my own story.

There are many types of First Kisses.  There’s the first closed-mouth innocent, first french, first I’m-so-in-love-with-you, first I-must-have-you-now, first let-me-just-sink-into-your-soul, first have-a-nice-day-at-work-honey, first morning-breath-is-not-sexy-but-you-are… you get the idea.

One other thing before I begin: I am of the camp that believes that a kiss Means Something.  It doesn’t have to be love, it doesn’t even have to be affection, (hello hot-and-steamy goodness), but I firmly believe that a kiss should not be wasted.

Victory Kiss

…

For those of you who don’t know me (and let’s face it, the internet does not), I am not a typical girl.   I do not do things “in order.”  (hence the “jumble” part.)  If this was intentional, I believe it would make for a cute quirk, an endearing trait, a Way to Be Unique.

However, I live out of order entirely on accident.  It’s almost as if I just trip my way through life, bouncing off of whatever experiences happen along the way.  Thankfully, I am able to be purposeful, to seize an opportunity and act… but my default mode is apparently labeled “Life Happens.”

As this appears to be my autopilot mode, one cannot be too surprised that my first kiss was not the sweet, innocent, chaste peck that one hears described, or sees in the movies.

No, my first kiss was… hot.

There was a guy, as there so often is.  He was sexy and smooth.   (and a complete sleazeball as I later learned, but hey.   I’m not telling that story today.)  He would walk me to class, and help me “study” for finals, which mainly consisted of him lying in my lap and distracting me madly, guaranteeing that instead of recalling which country pissed off the others the most during the Middle Ages, I would sit in class and doodle with a goofy smile.

During one of these study sessions – I believe I was attempting to read a 700-page book for a discussion class – he was playing with one of my hands, stroking up my arm and back down, and lightly tracing the pulse point at my wrist.  My exact thoughts were somewhere along the lines of “shanahana…” but I was playing it cool, because come on, ladies, we have our pride.  At one point, he kissed my wrist, then sat up.  That’s right, giving all the signals that The Moment was here.  My heart was already in my throat, so I was mildly afraid of choking on it, and worried that it had nowhere else to go.  He must’ve said something smooth and cheesy, but I don’t remember what it was.

All I could think was, “Oh God, really?  Now?  I just drank a strawberry-kiwi Snapple and I want to brush my teeth.”

It wasn’t the sweet chaste peck, but rather an intense sort of whirlwind that leaves your breathing a little unsteady and it’s hard to pull away.  I had no control over my hands; apparently they just ended up in his hair.  (You watch enough movies, you begin to assimilate the “natural” moves.)  When we finally broke apart, I had no idea what to do or say.  I was certainly not going to tell him “oh by the way, surprise, I’ve never actually been kissed.”

Before I could even start to freak out about whether it was good or horrible, he leaned in again, and we were off.  At some point, he informed me that I was a great kisser (what a line), but I think I ended up just pulling him back again.

I learned a lot of things with him those few months, mostly on accident.  Turns out, you don’t have to be fully prepared for everything.  Sometimes it’s okay that Life just Happens.

Now I want to hear your stories, so feel free to share!  What was your first kiss like?