i just have to say

i just have to say that it takes a strong person to sit inside this very day and write a paper comparing research articles when you have a father that is willing and wanting to teach you the tricks to being a good repair man, a mother who is gathering eggs in her own beautiful back yard, dogs that are so ready to cuddle and play, a beautiful old piano that is so grand and is just waiting to be heard, and two very long legs that are wanting to stretch and tap all around this beautiful home.

and I just have to say that I am not a strong person today.

Banjo jamming for the win!

Ok, so I'm trying my hardest to get it all done, and for some reason, I think putting my poorly-made banjo video on my blog is more important than my Nursing Research class study objectives. (Doesn't that just sound boring...well it is.)
Oddly enough, when I try to look this video up on youtube, I can't find it. Other people can, strangers in fact, and I know this because one actually posted a very nice comment. Go figure.

So for all my fans (hi Mom, May, Hank, and maybe Lily (although she's busy at the hospital right now), here it is...

You Got the Devil in Your Eyes (when you play the banjo) Case and Point-

I've been playing Liz's banjo almost every day. I take it off the wall when I get tired of reading a textbook, which unfortunately happens almost instantaneously. I take turns with all the instruments, like they are each a child of mine, but I admit that the mandolin and guitar would be a bit jealous of old Banjo these days if they could be.

I'm writing a tune that I really like to play, which never fails to amuse and amaze me. I mean, how can I be a creator of these rhythms and notes that sound so good and feel so wonderful to play? I really don't understand it, and that's probably the magic in music. But anyway, there are no words to this tune yet, and I don't know if there will ever be. Maybe I can get someone else to write them for me. I feel like my lyrics are always kind of, well, bad. Nothing poetic about them, and if I try to make them that way, one can tell they are forced or just really sappy.

Ever since I've had my MacBook, I've used the imovie program with the built-in microphone and camera to record myself playing. I now have 74 clips, and a total of about six hours of just me and an instrument. (Actually, there might be a couple clips of me dancing, and if anyone ever stole my computer I would be more worried about them watching those clips than them stealing my identity and ruining my credit- I guess they're kind of embarrassing.) But I love my music clips so much. The majority of these clips are nothing special, but than sometimes I will go back and watch them and it will be a song that I really like, or some little tune that I fiddled around with for a couple of days back at the start of college. I'm kind of thinking that it would be fun to share them, for anyone that was at all interested. But like I said, I've made them to help me remember songs that I make up, or when I just need a distraction from something.

So, if I figure it out, I will put up a clip of the new banjo song I'm working on... we shall see.
I also want to start recording songs for Owen and Billy and Shayla's baby to listen to. That would make me so happy. Problem for me is I don't have a lot of extra time and since I ain't a professional musician, nor do I have a good way to record myself, I think it will take quite a long time. But I'm not giving up on the idea.
No no, never!

Chicken Update from the Child

My parents chickens are doing really well. They are growing up fast, and when Mama and Daddy look into their baby chick pen when they return from their trip to Cozumel, they're going to think we replaced them with real chickens. Don't get me wrong, they totally miss my parents. My siblings and I are doing are darnedest to keep them cleaned and watered and feed, but I know they miss my Mama's sweetness and heartfelt songs of praise.
When I go into their pen they run away from me. Not so with Mama. They swarm around her, knowing their mother hen is there to take care of them. I can just look at their little bead eyes and hear them thinking,
"Jesus lady, what's your problem? You throw hay at us. You don't place the watermelon down like Mom does, you throw it to us like we're some kind of animals. Where's our fresh fruit salad? Our veggie tray? What did you do with our real parents?"
Well, chickens, they're coming home soon, and I'm sorry, but I'm doing my best, I swear.

Everything else is going swell. I'm about to go to town to help Lily move today, since I am the only one legally allowed to drive Dad's big-kid cars. But I don't mind. I love being with my big sister. It's oddly comforting, even though it was only five years ago that we would get into real, physical fights over things like me wanting to read her Seventeen magazine. Oh how things change.

Jamaica! And Happy Birthday Mama!

I don't know exactly why it's taking me so long to write about my Jamaica trip. It's difficult to talk about something that was everything.

It was beautiful, tropical, mountainous, beachy, surprising, familiar, loving, scary, sad, grateful, giving, taking, spiritual, and as refreshing as the baths I took in the river each morning. I saw more dark, beautiful people than I've ever seen, more skinny dogs, higher blood pressure and diabetes, more skin fungi, more ancient blue-eyed men and women look me in the eyes with pure gratuity for just taking there blood pressure and asking them, "so why are you here today, what's bothering you Maa?"

They call the women all "Maa", and I caught on to it quickly. Calling them Maa made me feel like we were all related. I felt so close to the older Jamaicans. Maybe it also had to do with when we first got to the infirmary we were told to talk to the people, to touch them, to hold there hands, which I did. At first I was kind of scared to be this close, I didn't know if these people would shy away from my strange touch , but then when I would walk by they would hold out their old, withered hands and smile when I asked how they were. That feeling became much more familiar and comfortable.

This was also the most upsetting part of the trip for me. The infirmary in Jamaica is where the old and the poor, the physically and mentally challenged folks are left by relatives to die. Some of the men and women were completely gone mentally, but then some of them were leading conversations with us about the war in Iraq and were completely aware of the world, probably more so than I will ever be. This part of the trip was intense, to say the least. I will never forget it, nor will I forget the smallest, sweetest, juiciest mango that I picked up off the ground at the infirmary- the best I have ever tasted.

I must continue with Jamaica later. Somehow it is now 1 in the morning and yet I have hardly begun. I'm going to have to get somebody (Mom, Hank?) to show me how to upload pictures because the way I know how really sucks and I just know there is an easier way to do it. So more to come.



Oh wait...
Today was my Mama's birthday, (even though all day long I was thinking that it was tomorrow), and I just have to say that I am so very grateful that she was born and made into the mama I know and love so freaking much. She really is the best. Hope you are having the time of your life in Cozumel, Mama! You deserve it all a million times over. (Oh, and for your birthday I cleaned house. I even washed the hallway walls free of its mildew. Of course by the time you are home again it will probably all have grown back and the floors will be dirty again and the rugs full of chicken poop, dirt, and dog hair. But just know it was clean at one point while you were away.)

From Chigger Bites to Scared of Life

I have two lovely chigger bites on my left ass cheek. They itch and it is inappropriate to scratch my behind in public. My MRI on my right knee shows that my knee is full of tears and three different kinds of cysts- Baker's, synoptic, and meniscus. I don't feel like looking all of these things up right now. I mean, I have lived with them for almost three years (or who knows, maybe longer) and I don't feel like it is a big deal. I just can't bend them all the way, and they hurt once in a while and I feel like I won't be able to have babies without extreme knee pain, and I get jealous of old people and young people alike who can squat and sit with their knees bent. OK, so maybe it is a big deal in my life, but it shouldn't be. Everyone I talk to has knee pain, it's just a way of life. Right? All I can do is wait and see. I've got an appointment with the Orthopedist two days after I get back from Jamaica, and hopefully it will all get better.

Speaking of Jamaica- I am leaving on Friday and it all feels so weird to me. I've never been out of the country and I know it's going to be good. But right now I am a bit anxious. I still haven't conquered taking blood pressure properly. Which ties into my entrance into the Nursing School. Today, one of the many things I did was go to Helen's Uniform shop to order the things FSU told me to buy. It was kind of fun. I felt like Harry Potter going to Diagon Ally to get all his Hogwarts' school supplies. There were three other girls from FSU getting fitted and asking the same questions I had in my head.

Do my shoes have to be bought from this store, can they be Reebok?... How many polo shirts do I really need to buy. If I have to wear them to class ever day I should at least buy two since I know I will get dark chocolate stains on it... Should I buy a new stethoscope that costs $118 compared to the $15 one that I bought... When will I get my freaking patches to put on my scrubs?

Actually, those were mostly my questions, but I couldn't help but wonder about what the future holds for me and those three other starry-eyed, scared shit-less, girls. Maybe the one with her mom and two younger sisters will become my best friend; we will study together and cry together, or maybe she will become my arch competitor. It is all very exciting and extremely scary for me.

I feel like I have a million and one things to say, nothing poetic or interesting really, but I figured it was time to write some words for the cyberspace world. I think I have been hiding from any sort of work or thinking. That is why my summer has been filled with reading Twilight, watching Heroes and True Blood, spending more money than ever necessary, and working a pretty straight forward job. It feels nice, other than the fact it makes me feel guilty to be using up my time not accomplishing anything. It's a break. I was tired of school and being alone, and now I am still tired of something, I just haven't figured it out yet.

And now I am tired of my emo thoughts. I think I will crank up the music and start packing now.

I'm adding pictures that I have recently taken with my new camera.

Just Some Words

It's been too long since I've taken the time to write on my blog. And now that I actually should be studying for every class, and finishing up lab reports, and revising my poetry, and writing a biography about Billy Collins, and working on my song that I'm writing for guitar class, I figure it is a perfect time to write. No? Well, "Too freaking bad!" I say to myself.

It's odd how my mind works, because when I have all these things that I must get done, I crave so badly to stop everything and be one with the earth, whatever that means. Like right now, all I really want to do is go home and watch the chicks grow and help Daddy build that beautiful home for those babies. But no, I am stuck inside the FSU library, sitting next to a middle-aged woman who is listening to loud eighties pop rock (Journey perhaps) through her ear buds. Once in a while she starts a short conversation with herself, unless she is actually on a hidden phone, which I must add, I am always tricked out by.

But I feel good at the moment (despite the poor music choices being made around me). I think I might go get some Pitaria and look over my notes for Anatomy. Thankfully we are learning about my favorite subject- the reproductive system! Although I must admit that I still have the hardest time completely understanding the freaking stages of meiosis and how all our chromosomes converge and split and do it all over again. Maybe I should have a sit down with my professor and chat about how babies are made. He is pretty cool. In our notes he compared the Punnett Square to the game Battleship. Can't beat that humor!

Hope everyone is doing good. And just know that Miss. Honeyluna is wishing she was with you, whatever you may be up to.

When Mama Walks

Mama’s feet are desert beauty.
Cracked like the Grand Canyon,
Worked over by long ago rivers
That once flowed through her,
Leaving prints embedded in her
Heals. Her arches stand so proud,
Ballerinas have tried to steal them
Right from under her ankles.

They are dancing feet, bouncing
Babies-feet on the cool, hardwood
Floors of sleepless nights.
I know they’re sweet, because
Each time she works in the garden,
The ants go snacking one by one
To those beautiful red-nail toes,
Leaving venomous puss-filled pox,
Where they bit into her tasty flesh.

Mama’s feet have walked far
Distances, along all types of paths-
Gravel roads, rocky river banks,
Red roads, sandy beaches, burning
Tar roads, and the oil-dirt grounds
Where we live in Lloyd, Florida. I look
At my Mama’s feet and see it all- the
Hardships, the dreams, four babies,
The men, the dancing, the music,
And, Lord has mercy, the love.

Gardenia petal tops, rough and callused,
Dirt in the cracks, red chipped nails,
Can you see it? Just look at those gems
In the rough and admire their desert beauty.

Ben Sollee Stealing my Soul

I wept tonight in a very public place. All eyes were not on me, thank God, and it was in dark in the club, so I was not embarrassed. It started the moment this young, fair skinned man walked onto the the empty stage carrying a very good friend of his, the cello, in his arms. I don't know what it is, but music can make me cry, weep, laugh, and move like the crazy woman I was destined to be. Anyway, this time wasn't any different, only more so.
I decided to see this man, Ben Sollee, because it was free and I had looked him up on youtube and I seemed to like his soulful voice and cello playing. I guess it didn't hurt that he was majorly cute and smiled a beautiful smile when he played.

There were so few people at the show that we each had more than enough space in our personal bubble, which feels weird at a club, and a little wrong. I felt like I had to take up more room than normal; I didn't want the performers to feel bad. So I stood strong and I clapped loud and I whoo hooooed all night long.

But the boo hooooing happened when he played this song about change and about becoming a daddy (he told us that his wife was pregnant with their second baby, and at age 24 and being a touring musician, he told us that people usually have a lot to think and say about that). But his song, oh lord help me, it got me. From the moment it started until he stopped bowing that great stringed instrument, I was taken over. I bet it's the same feeling people get when they go to church and they feel the heavenly spirit upon them. What I felt was the love pouring from this young man's heart, down his arms, into those strong hands and gentle fingers, through his mouth, and out for the world to hear. And I felt so blessed to be one of the ones that could witness and feel this.

The whole time I was listening to him, I was trying to come up with what I was going to say to him after the show, because I had to somehow express how much his music meant to me that night. But when I did met him, it was as weird as it always is when I meet someone who has just blown my world but wouldn't recognize one hair on my body, let alone know such personal things as I know about them. All I could say was, "thank you, that was just awesome", and in my head I think "stop sounding like a crazy girl that doesn't know anything, of course he knows that was awesome" But he asked if I played, and I said "yes mandolin", and he said something about frets and having a map to the instrument...and I was gone after that. Too much going on that I just shut down. I know I said something that was stupid, but I'm not going to let it ruin my experience. I just wish I knew how to express myself better sometimes. It would make life a lot easier, and I think I'd have more friends. Really awesome, cute, cello playing friends.


Oh, I just found this picture that I had to share. Look at him and tell me you don't love him. Notice the earrings, the t-shirt, and his little boy in his arms... at the beach I might add. Now I know this man could be totally not what I think, but in my mind he is pretty cool, and I bet you, he's that way in real life too.

Ok, well that's it. Check out his music is you want. Now I just need to buy one of his cds...

Sorry, but it's another poem.

This is the latest of the class poems. I think it's a little silly, and not so good, but I enjoy it, and that counts for something, yeah? I feel a bit strange posting up each of my poems, because I know that all who read this probably write at least three poems a day, each better than my own, but I'm okay with that. Hasn't stopped me from embarrassing myself before, so why start now?

Now the problem is I have to revise them all, making them significantly better than before. (Actually, that shouldn't be much trouble. Heh.)

So here you are...



My Genes

I wish I didn’t have the genes for stretch marks,
And spider veins. They both creep on my body as I age;
I’m only nineteen.

I’m glad I got the music-making genes, even though
Neither of my parents know where that came from.
(It came from them both.)

I don’t like how I have the anti-social, awkwardness gene
Which makes me feel lonely, even when my world is encircled
By so many beautiful people.

I like how I got the gene to feel rhythm and not be afraid
To move wherever I am, even if it gets me strange stares and makes my
(Once) boyfriend call me a dork.

I hate my gene that makes me hate. I love my gene that makes me love.
I don’t know if I like the gene which makes me second-guess myself,
I just don’t know…

I like my jeans that hug my ass and make me walk proud.
I don’t like the jeans that are too short for my long legs and make me
Feel self-conscious.

I like learning about genes, about babies, about life. I hope to one day
Find a genome that I really love, and swirl mine with his, and see
What that creation looks like, what genes
She or he will love and hate.

Her name is Chloe.

She is our new apartment puppy, but her real mommy is Amanda. Right now she is tucked between my boobies, feeling my heart beat and absorbing some heat. She's half dachshund, half chihuahua and as cute as a button.
This is her first day with us, so of course I had to create a sling out of a long-sleeved shirt and pretend that she is my baby. So far I have discovered that she likes to sleep a lot, she is not afraid of big stuffed animals, she pees in little amounts (but quite frequently), she likes to follow you real close, and she yelps real loud when you accidentally kick her as you're walking (sorry girl).




She's precious, and she makes me happy.
What do you think?

My mandolin and Mamacita

My Mandolin

When I
Play my
Mandolin,
I feel it
Transform from
A small, wooden
Box with strings
To a living creature
Fondled at my breast.
I love feeling its heart
Beating, it’s soul tumbling
And singing. It brings me close
To God. Makes me feel like I’m living.

Ode to Mama

Mamacita, Mamacita.
She brought me
Soup and Bread.
Dark chocolate
and Sudafed to cure
My bruised heart
And stuffy head.

Emotional Rant- You've been warned.

How can someone break your heart when you weren't even in love with him?
I don't understand, but it probably wouldn't help if I did anyways.

When I saw him in the room full of people I love, my heart started pumping so fast and hard, I think it was trying to spring out of my chest so it could beat him up.
"Let me at 'em", my heart was saying to me. "Let me show him what he did to us."

I'm not mad that I saw him tonight; it had to happen sooner or later. In fact, I secretly have been wishing to see him, but it definitely did not do for me what I wanted it too. The last time I was with him we were still a couple and I kissed him goodbye. That must be why tonight was so difficult for me. He didn't even say hello to me when I walked in, he looked at me once the whole night, and I know this because I couldn't help but stare at him. He looked a bit haggard and I wonder if I had something to do with that, or if it was just too much partying the night before. Selfishly, I hope it was me.

If I was an angry person, I would be so pissed off at him for showing up to my sister's house, knowing perfectly well that I was probably going to be there, and yet, I'm not angry, just teary-eyed and tired. I feel weak for wishing that he would realize he made a mistake and ask for me back, but since that's not going to happen, I should study some Anatomy and microbiology, because I have those tests on Wednesday and I can't just ignore that part of my life, although I desperately want too right now.

Anyway, I'm quite fine and normal I would say. Just hoping for some lighter days ahead.

On a lighter note, I was watching the news tonight and saw that picture of the world's greatest super hero champion swimmer, Michael Phelps, taking a hit from a bong, and it made me happy. Even the greatest Olympian of the world smokes weed. Let's think about that one for a moment. Aww, the irony of it all.

One of my poems.

I told you I would try to post some of my poems, and here one is. I know it's not perfect, but it's alright for now. I just had to write something about Mr. Spaniel, although I also started writing a poem about Mama's feet. I should finish that one, because I like it too.

This is the first draft of the poem, so any commentary is welcome, even if that includes, "Jessie- just write another poem."

Monster Party

I met him at my brother’s monster party.
Me ironically showing up as a party monster-
Black heels, skin-tight 80s, glittery,
Jazz dance outfit that I found at Goodwill,
Hugging all the sexy and awkward curves
On my body. Feeling naked and silly,
I had nothing to hide. The lampshade
Strapped on my head, along with my giraffe
Legs, brought me close to seven feet tall.

He was a just-got-off-from-waiting-tables
Monster. Plaid shirt, wheat skin,
Intelligent, Dominican head,
And those orange old-school Nikes
Made him just under 5 feet, six inches tall.

Hearts on my fingers,
Hearts in my morning oatmeal,
Hearts on my Anatomy Lab notes-
I started tracing them everywhere.
Somehow I had turned into a Middle-School
Girl with a lovely crush on a boy.

Laughs, kisses, movies, and wet eyes,
I’m still finding his hairs embedded
In my carpet. I wake up knowing the head
(Or chest) from which these hairs came
Is no longer around for me to touch.

I didn’t want it to end,
But with him saying he was afraid
Of being in love (again),
And me saying I just want
To love and be loved,
There was only one lonely answer
We both didn’t want to hear.


So now I’ve learned that I shouldn’t go
For the short monster afraid of love,
And also,
I need to vacuum the carpet more.

This is not a poem.

My first poem for my fancy college poetry class is due tomorrow. Truth be told, the class isn't really fancy, nor does it feel like a college class. My teacher is twenty-four years old, and curses like he's one of my family members. What's up with that? The odd thing is, he's probably going to be one of the best teachers I have at FSU. He's enthusiastic about teaching, he wants to hear what his students have to say, and he gets us involved. What more could I want?
Well, what I would like is some direction is this freaking poem that I have to write and read out load to my fellow classmates tomorrow. I thought it would be quite simple and easy to write a poem about this time last year (or any other year around this time), but when I started writing, I realized that I've never written a poem without a structure outline or rules. That makes me feel a little sad about myself. I've never even finished writing a whole song, even though I've started many. I pretend to be an artist, but not for anybody but myself. The urge to be an artist is there, oh yes it certainly is, but I have never felt very successful.
I know I have my music, and for that I am very grateful, but I don't feel like I own it, if you know what I mean. In my family, I really have the least knowledge about it, it seems to effect me the least, and the truth is, I'm not a good listener. I don't even know the words to songs I've heard millions of times. Sometimes I'll be "singing" along to a song I know, and I realize I have never actually listened to the words. It really makes me sad, but then when I try to listen, I end up forgetting to listen and my mind wanders and I think about other things. And not important things, just stuff like, "What am I going to eat later? Man my lips are chapped. Why is that? I wish I didn't always have chapped lips. I should be thinking about other things. Gosh, I wish I was a deeper person..." And other silly, self-critizing crap.
Anyway, it's late and I really should get some sleep. Not to mention write that poem. Hah. I'm excited about tomorrow morning because I have to get up early for my first microbiology lab-we're going to be working with flames and Escherichia coli! That last statement was ment to be sarcastic, but now that I think about it, I really am kind of interested and excited. I like that hands-on stuff.
Wish me luck! I hope everyone that reads this, (meaning Mama, and maybe Hank and May) are all having very nice days.