Definition of TEMERITY
transitive verb \ˈlim\
transitive verb \ˈlim\
Yesterday, I went for a walk downtown in the town I was born in. I sat by the Library that I grew up with and cried.
And that was okay.
I’ve often used “goodbye” as a kind of finality; a kind of “I’m never going to see you again.” I don’t think that’s what it means.
It doesn’t mean “I’m never going to see you again”.
Thank you. For everything that you’ve been to me. Thank you for everything we’ve shared. You have been important to me.
I love you.
I don’t know when I will see you again, and I know that we’re both going to change. Right now, we fit like a puzzle, but the next time we meet, our gears might slip against each other. We might work well enough to limp back to the station, but there’s no guarantee that we’ll ever purr like a well kept engine, next time we meet.
You have made my life what it is right now, and for that, I am forever grateful, but we can’t assume the things we once had, and we can’t recreate moments that once were.
Knowing you have footprints in beautiful places
and walking forward anyway.
A reminder to all members of the Ministry of Silly Walks:
These are official and accepted Walks that have been approved by the MInistry:
The upper body is held upright, while the legs are extended fully, from the knee at a slightly outward angle.*
(a note, this is improved with the addition of velociraptor arms)
To leap like an antelope. (In particular, a Springbok antelope.) Very efficient for travelling downhill. Gravity helps with catching big air.
To move quickly, especially with a whirring sound.
(Not unlike that obnoxious four-year-old running down the aisles of the grocery store.)
The following is not an acceptable Silly Walk, and any members found supporting it will be fined.
Any spastic movement.
Some time ago…
I stole The Book Thief.
It was an accident. My friend had loaned me several books, and I read them over break, and then I returned them.
I hadn’t gotten to The Book Thief, and I’d left in my bag, thinking I’d get to it later.
Then I moved away.
I went through my bag later and realized… in a beautiful stroke of cosmic irony, I had stolen The Book Thief.
Later I ended up forgetting it at a house that I was cat-sitting for.
Last week, I was cat-sitting at this same house, and in-between books, and I happened to stumble upon…my stolen copy of this book.
I began reading it last week. It lived in my car for all of those 5-minute moments when one is waiting in a parking lot and can use a book.
I didn’t get very far, because this book is so much better than that. This is not a book to be picked up for the lenght of a current top-40 song and then put aside for something else.
So, this afternoon, I put aside time to read this book. I walked down to my favourite local coffeeshop, and sat down.
I didn’t get up until I had finished it.
This book is the kind of literature I want to go swimming in. I want do dive into the pages and luxuriate in the lyracism of the prose.
It’s a story told through the sky.
One of the most amazing people I’ve ever met – he used to say “The sky is always beautiful. It’s just that most people forget to look.”
It’s…sort of like that.
For the past two years I’ve been on a nationally qualifying poetry slam team. Slam teams have a distinct tendency to gravitate towards a Coffee Shop of Choice.
The local coffee shop is lovely. They have the most amazing loose-leaf tea. My drink of choice is an Earl Grey latte with a shot of vanilla syrup, (also known as a London Fog).
I thought it seemed like a brilliant opportunity to cross an item off my bucket list. Specifically “Become a Regular at a coffee shop.” I explained this one evening to my favourite ginger barista. He then explained to me that this coffee shop has punch cards, and once you go there enough, they’ll just keep your punch card in a box kept by the register.
That became my goal: Get my card In The Box.
(He refused to be the one to put me in the box, as he knew my goal, and thought he’d lost objectivity. I had probably an entire month of carrying around punch cards when I could have been In The Box. *pout*)
I spent countless hours there, on countless evenings. The instructions for my drink are now posted on the wall behind the coffee bean dispensers. (This is mostly because virtually every person who made it had a different way to charge it, so I never had correct change, and I truly feel like correct change is part of the experience of being a Regular. It’s the person behind the counter knowing exactly what you want, and you knowing exactly how much they charge.)
New baristas were hired and they knew me before I knew them. I was “the Bucket List Girl.”
It was like having a *really small* class or something. I’d run into a member of the staff at the grocery store and we’d stop and talk. I saw them almost every day. It was absolutely everything I could have wanted.
I had once been there at the shop late one evening, when someone walking home from the bar down the street threw up all over the cement outside the coffee shop. Rank was pulled, and the New Guy had to go clean it up. In retaliation, when he was finished he coated his hands in the soup of the day (a conveniently matching shade of tomato-basil), and came running at the girl behind the counter.
We were all fairly certain it was the most unhygienic thing in the entire world, until he licked his palms.
It was brilliant.
I returned to this coffee shop yesterday afternoon, and who was there, but one of my favourite baristas. It was seeing an old friend, and it was absolutely the highlight of my day. She gave me hug and my regular on the house, for old times sake.
It was one of those moments of external affirmation. My life is so full of beautiful people and wonderful things.
There’s something deeply restful about contentment. Last night I found myself on a couch with my two most favourite boys in the entire world. I was on my computer, they were battling it out as Kirby.
We made brownies and a kind of terrible stir-fry…thing…
It’s so easy to be happy when the people around are those that you love and trust; those you don’t have anything to prove to, the ones who know your flaws and choose to like you in spite of them.
It’s refreshing, and, perhaps, incredibly freaking necessary. Aside from all that though, it’s just really, really nice, to spend time with friends.
Russia had a division of of women who flew night-strikes into Nazi Germany. They were the most highly decorated female company within the Soviet Air Force. They flew two-person biplanes that were originally designed to be crop-dusters.The old planes had loud, noisy engines, that would were known to fail mid-flight. When an engine would go down, one of the women flying the plane would then climb out onto the wing and restart the prop, by hand, mid-flight.
This skill was also the technique they would use for dropping their payload. The Night Witches had planes that were loud enough that the German towns could hear their approach and prepare anti-aircraft retaliation. The simplest way to prevent detection? Easy. They cut their engines and would glide in over their target, and drop their bombs. After they had finished the drop, someone would climb out onto the wing, restart the engine, and they would return to their base.
They were apparently given the name “Night Witches” because it was imagined that the silent gliding of their aircraft was similar to the silence of a witch on a broom.
adjective \ˌpi-kə-ˈresk, ˌpē-\
I refuse to make a decision based on fear.
I’m not willing for my reasons of action or inaction to be some intangible thing that may or may not happen.
There’s a difference between an evaluation of priorities (e.g. financial stability Vs. freedom of mobility) and fear.
Fear is just the “Oh, what if something happens? What will you do if things don’t work out?”
If something happens, I’ll deal with it. If something doesn’t work out, I’ll deal with it.
I’m not willing to put my life in a cage built of “what if’s”.
Especially when my foundation “Why Not” has so far given me everything I’ve ever wanted – and a great many things I didn’t know how to ask for.