well folks this one can definitely be filed in the randomness section.

dear ones sometimes I make ramen noodle stir fry at 10:30 even though I'm exhausted because gosh dang it I am hungry.
 sometimes I get really melodramatic and everything makes me want to cry especially when I'm talking on the phone with the people I miss.
sometimes I get really excited about tiny things like snails or ice cream or foreign languages.
sometimes I see the sky and I just don't even know what to do it's just way too much it's just too beautiful and there are people that I want to just show it to right then but I'm driving home from something and it's just me and my truck and 9.09 fm krcl and I certainly can't cry out to the apathetic-sounding dj that no way those clouds are just too beautiful I'm overcome aren't you.
sometimes I feel that conventional english grammar and punctuation just get in the way of me and my attempts to convey my thoughts because I swear I really do think in mostly lowercase run-on sentences.

I don't know.

but here I sit, typing and loving the way the words can just spew out of my fingers to the keys to the screen.

It's cathartic.

the pickpocket.

I am not a wordsmith, someone who carefully crafts their own terms and ideas under the pressure of heat with the anvil and hammer. Rather, I am a pickpocket.

I see words and fascinating thoughts everywhere: In the thick yet crisp morning air as people mutter and begin the arduous process of waking up. In the static and white noise of phone conversation. In the cracked cement and aspens of my neighborhood.

In more conventional and obvious places, on transformed trees sandwiched in a binding, or the ones brought to life by the clickity-clack of hands doomed to arthritic tendency as a result of hours spent.

I see the words and defty pluck them out. Carefully pinching through the dense chill, pulling away from the sandpaper friction of interaction without a face, and simply pilfering in broad daylight whatever catches my fancy.

You see, I am the raven, the crow, the magpie.

My eyes, ears, heart, and mind come together to form an organ intangible and inexplicable that lends itself a driving desire and attention to words that is rivaled only by the greedy birds’ impulse towards all that glitters. I differ from the fowls in that I do not limit myself to the shiny alone, but also the heartbreaking, the exhilarating, the terrifying, the abnormal, the miniscule, and the downright oceanic in proportion.

I weave my way through, carefully maneuvering undetected (or so I hope), collecting them.

I take my choices home, and with a rough needle and thread I sew a pseudo-patchwork quilt.

My coverings are not the most beautiful or finely crafted, but they’re eclectic, warm, and true.

I am the pickpocket.

I am the magpie.

I am the maker of patchwork quilts.

passageways.

As the younger and oftentimes different versions of ourselves, most of us read books.

Most of us read books with adventure. And mystery.
And as anyone and everyone knows, if you want a halfway decent story with any sort of suspense, you absolutely MUST have a secret passageway. Multiple trap doors, hidden stairways, and faux bookcases are preferable. We stared at the cream-colored pages and watched in awe as nancy (once again), found the suspiciously large painting covering a tunnel, and as the magician's nephew discovered gateways in the attic. When all was resolved we sighed contentedly. But 'twas not a fully contented sigh. For, of course, it was all very well and good for our heroes and heroines to have their underground explorations, but we needed more. We needed secrets of our own. So for the next few days or so, we re-explored our houses. We checked meticulously for any of the 'tell-tale signs' (for we were most certainly experts by now), but it was to no avail. Our house was just a place we lived. Not a mystery-ridden dwelling for 'les aventures dangereuses'. We accepted our fate (some with more speed than others), but resolved to make sure, that when we grew up, we would (without a doubt) buy or build a place to live in with secrets. With corridors that no one else knew of, and false walls, and hopefully one of those dumbwaiter things in the kitchen.

So why do so many of our kind forget the passageways?
Because we slowly let them fade out of memory and prioritize other things. Not that there aren't more important and even more exciting things in life than secret passageways. But the ideal home (for many) becomes a brown house among other brown houses in a brown neighborhood with green and manicured yards and 2.5 children. And none of those things are wrong, or bad. But they seem to be the symptoms of something not... good. I fear that losing sight of the tunnels hidden from sight betrays something else - Losing sight of adventure. And adventure is important. Adventure will look different for each person, but it's the spirit of the thing, yes? Adventure seeks for the new, beautiful, dangerous, and glorious. Without a spirit that looks for adventure, I think it's possible to lose joy and hope.  And losing sight of those things can kinda make us start to lose sight of the God who is the ultimate source of them. The God who created the beauty for us to enjoy, the beauty that causes us to find joy in Him.

So, my dearest reader, hold fast to the secret passage.

brain. who. hats. jazz. productive. audiobot. gentlemen. strutting.

How my brain feels sometimes.
Cold War Kids – Miracle Mile

How my brain feels other times.
Mates of State – Now

How my brain feels most of the time.
Imagine Dragons – Cha-Ching (Till We Grow Older)

and, on rare, strange, and scary ( to others) days.
a-ha – Take On Me

How does your brain feel?

 I love:
Doctor Who.
I don't love:
waiting for season 7 of Doctor Who to be available on Netflix.


Hats are quite possibly the best thing ever.
Proof...

I mean, you could jazz up your cranium with something resembling a dead animal, or not.
I feel like the correct choice is pretty obvious.


I love:
imagining the very productive, focused day I will have tomorrow.
I don't love at all:
getting up for said day.


Okay, so maybe Justin Bieber's not the epitome of musical brilliance and maybe hearing these sort of lyrics from a dude who's set for life financially isn't ideal but oh gosh this remix.  Dearest Kids, please put your biases away for a bit and appreciate a (in my opinion) really good mix.

Justin Bieber – As Long As You Love Me - Audiobot Remix



Best song for awkward dancing:
Vampire Weekend – A-Punk
...as shown by these dear gentlemen.

...or these adorable kids

Btw friends, I'd love to make a video like this ( the one with the dudes, not the kids). If you want to dance with me to vampire weekend, please let me know.  I've got lots of hats if you don't own a good one for dancing.


This song is great.
Two Door Cinema Club – Sun
Why?
They're Irish.
The lead singer's voice.
The bass line in the chorus.
That nice gritty guitar.
The horns. Oh kids, the horns.
The absolute perfect tempo for strutting.  Oh please, you know perfectly well what I'm talking about.
This song is perfect for this:

On that fabulous note,
Thanks for reading/listening/staring at the screen with your head tilted to the side with a confused expression upon your face.

- Maeve

enjoy. please. :)

thanks. for enjoying. ;)