Don't Fix My Smile, Life Is Long Enough

Lo and behold, Trent Walker is an amazing writer. Despite knowing him for quite some time, he managed to keep this fact hidden from me. However, he sent me something that he wrote, and I just have to post it here. Read it as an introduction or first chapter in a book.

It's like an itch on the bottom of your foot that you can't scratch because your tennis shoe won't allow it. Your in a public place so all you can do is wiggle your foot around allowing the sole to gently rub against your sock causing a slight abrasion to your skin, soothing the itch to a minimal level of satisfaction. Five minutes later, it's back. All you want to do is sit down, in the middle of wherever you are, rip off your shoe and scratch. Scratch until the itch is gone, then put the shoe back on and happily go about your business. But this would cause people to stare, wondering why you're sitting on the floor without shoes on, touching your feet. This is a problem. When does it itch so badly that you begin to not care? I suppose its up to each individual's personality, self esteem or social concerns. Well, what if that itch were something less simple and the people watching were more important? The people watching could be your family, friends or anyone whose view was significant to you. Say, for instance, that itch was one of adventure, boredom, philosophy or passion. At what point does someone say, "Screw it, it itches too much." I'll tell you, that point changes throughout our lives. There is a critical period for freedom, for adventure. Just like the critical period for learning. We all know what that is. They say your mind is a sponge when you are a toddler and its the best time to learn how to speak, read, or write. Well, I suggest that there is a point of no return for our sense of freedom. I'll give it a number just for throwing around's sake. We will call it 18. That's a good number. If you don't take your shoe off and itch your damn foot before you are 18 then your chances of ever itching your foot exponentially decrease from that point onward. Now, I will admit, that is a bold claim based loosely on hardly any facts at all, but hey, how old are you? If you are young enough to wait around for facts then by all means, do so. Just keep wiggling your foot around if you have the time. Not all of us have that luxury. There's a deadline for adventure. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not telling you to snort the next line or you're dead. Don't let this little theory affect your drug usage. That's not my goal here. My goal is to tell you my story. My story of adventure is, I hope, an inspiring one. This is an experiment and you are a patient. In a few years, the results will be published. The Times will read something like "Critical Period for Adventure Theory Proven, Author a Genius!" or "Crack Pot Theorist Scams America into Buying Book and Running Off." Either way, you are going to have an adventure. Get ready. Have you ever seen the bored loser spin a globe, stop it with his finger, and go on vacation to wherever it landed? Screw that. What if his finger landed somewhere boring? No. That is dumb. Where do you want to go. I'll tell you where I wanted to go.

Do the Panic

I was going through my messages to Ellee and found this one. It made me smile, so I thought I'd post it. It was written in the last month or so of school.

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Sweet Ellee, Sweet Ellee!

How I love you so much. 

Oh Ellee, Sweet Ellee. Gosh, I'm growing up. I spent so much time running, hurling forward and now it's that time where I pause and step back. Turn around, take a glance, what will I miss? Slowly my steps are faltering, I'm second guessing my pace. Maybe I should sit back and enjoy this a little more.

It's funny how God has people work in my life. Just as you helped me adjust to being here, in this red-coated, Mustang-loving, strange little nook, you're helping me leave it, move on and enter a whole new stage of being.

I can't decide who I want to be in college, if I had to decide now. I think a little more of me, give or take a few things. I'll take myself less seriously, but trust my gut more. I want to give out love the way an unhygienic 4-year-old passes out germs. I want to cook more, judge less and be able to sing. I know, I know, it's not for me to know or decide. But I can't help but wonder, who will Lana be in a year?

Gah here I am again. These questions, no answers. All that I know is that every decision I make now affects Lana in a year. So, that makes me wonder, what are my decisions like now? Maybe I shouldn't've talked so angrily to my mom, to Holly, to the lady at Kroger... But I'm happy for my studying, my loving, my helping. Gosh, I've got a little bit of this, a little bit of that. Good grief, who knows what's going on, I'M SUCH A PERMANENT MESS.

Love,

Lana

No One Does It Like You

It's an average summer afternoon. The temperature is the average much too hot, I'm an average amount of bored and my stomach is hurting at an average level due to the sickening piles of junk food I've been consuming at an ungodly rate.

Usually, at about this time, I open up my friends' blogs, thinking I'd read some average things. After reading about Molly's fancy-pants new job, Claire's witty tales of Europe, and Danika's creative art adventures (just to name a few), I smiled to myself as one of the greatest feelings came over me:

I'm so excited to have the coolest friends ever.

If....Why?

I saw this sign. I loved it. I took a picture!

Sail

The Archipelago Of Kisses by Jeffrey McDaniel

We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don't
grow on trees, like in the old days. So where

does one find love? When you're sixteen it's easy, 

like being unleashed with a credit card

in a department store of kisses. There's the first kiss.

The sloppy kiss. The peck.

The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The we

shouldn't be doing this kiss. The but your lips

taste so good kiss. The bury me in an avalanche of tingles kiss.

The I wish you'd quit smoking kiss.

The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad

sometimes kiss. The I know

your tongue like the back of my hand kiss. As you get

older, kisses become scarce. You'll be driving

home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road, 

with its purple thumb out. If you

were younger, you'd pull over, slide open the mouth's

red door just to see how it fits. Oh where

does one find love? If you rub two glances, you get a smile.

Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling.

Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss. 

Now what? Don't invite the kiss over

and answer the door in your underwear. It'll get suspicious

and stare at your toes. Don't water the kiss with whiskey. 

It'll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters, 

but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out of

your body without saying good-bye, 

and you'll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left

on the inside of your mouth. You must

nurture the kiss. Turn out the lights. Notice how it

illuminates the room. Hold it to your chest

and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses comes from a

special beach. Place it on the tongue's pillow, 

then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia: beneath

a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C.

But one kiss levitates above all the others. The

intersection of function and desire. The I do kiss.

The I'll love you through a brick wall kiss. 

Even when I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth, 

like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.