Emily Dickinson

Yes, this is me. And I'm writing a post on Emily Dickinson when I know so little about her that I thought her name was spelled Dickensen until my conscience (which must be better educated than I am) pricked me. But I didn't write the following words, they are from a man named Donald Miller and his book Blue Like Jazz. He is writing about a lonely time in his life, and what he did to amuse himself.

"I would read the poetry of Emily Dickinson out loud and pretend to have conversations with her. I asked her what she meant by "zero at the bone." Emily Dickinson was the most interesting person I'd ever met. She was lovely, really, sort of quiet like a scared dog, but she engaged fine when she warmed up to me.

I had been living in that apartment for two years when I decided to cross the country to visit Amherst, Massachusetts, where Emily lived and died. Back then I imagined her as the perfect women, so quietly brilliant all those years, wrapping her poems neatly in bundles of paper and rope. I confess I daydreamed about living in her Amherst, in her century, befriending her during her days at Holyoke Seminary, walking with her through those summer hills she spoke so wonderfully of, the hills that, in the morning, untied their bonnets. My friend Laura at Reed tells me that half the guys she knows have had crushes on Emily Dickinson. She says it is was because Emily and yet not threatening, having lived under the thumb of her father so long. She thinks the reason guys get crushes on Emily Dickinson is because Emily is an intellectual submissive, and intellectual men fear the domination of women. I don't care why we get crushes of Emily Dickinson. It is a rite of passage for any thinking man. Any thinking American man.

I circled Amherst College and stopped at the Jones Library where some handwritten notes from Emily are kept, scribbles mostly, gentle pencil on a yellowed sheet within a glass case. It was like magic looking at them. I felt ashamed because I knew I had been reading her for only a year, and yet I felt as though I knew her, as though we were dear friends, what with her living in the apartment in Oregon with me and all.

The man at Jones Library told me where to find the homestead, not much of a place, he said, and indeed I had passed it on the way into town without knowing it. I thought I would have felt it in my chest or sensed it to my right. I thought it would have been largely marked. I followed the man's instructions from the library down along the shops back toward Boston a mile. Her house is not very much like you would think. Though it is big it is not grand, and there is a large tree in front that takes the view. A side door is greeted by concrete steps, the cheap sort, and the driveway has been paved. There is a historical marker, but it is small, and so the first thing a young man realizes when he visits the home of Emily Dickinson is that the world is, in fact, not as in love with her than he is. I wanted to gather the leaves, you know clean up the place. And I was looking all about the house, before making my approach, when I saw this thing that was not her but only in my mind was her, swing open the side door and set a foot quickly on the step.

I wrote in my journal that evening:
'I saw Emily Dickinson step out of a screen door and look at me with dark eyes, those endless dark eyes like the mouth of a cave, like pitch night set so lovely twice beneath her furrowed brow, her pale white skin gathering at the red of her lips, her long thin neck coming perfectly to her white dress flowing so gently and clean around her waist, down around her knees then slipping a tickle across her ankles. And then she went back into the house and it scared me to walk around the place.'



Penny says it is when they are in their twenties that people lose their minds.

I stopped imagining Emily immediately.

She Fought the Good Fight, She Finished the Race,She Kept the Faith

Today I said goodbye to a friend.

Private First Class Amy Duerkson, Radio Operating Technician, was shot in the chest last week in Iraq, and died on Monday. She was nineteen. One of my best friends, always quiet and encouraging, Amy constantly thought of others before herself. She was always sweet, ready to listen, serving unnoticed in the background. She loved her country, her family and her friends.

She was given full military honors. They gave roll call as part of the ceremony, calling her name three times, but she didn't answer. That was the hard part. Amy is in heaven at the feet of her Lord and Savior, but it is very hard for the people like me that she left behind to say goodbye.

I love you Amy.

Help!?!

If anyone has any suggestions for a girl with a cold and a sprained ankle, without a car or a chauffeaur or a job or anything, who has to miss Emily-soon-to-be-Mrs.-Palmer's wedding, let me know, because that stark raving mad girl is me.

The Woman, the Cat, and the Loophole

Once there were five children whose names were Rebecca, Kathryn, Caroline, Julia, and John Eric. This story is about something that happened to them when they went to Austin to get a new cat. They were sent to the house of a cat lady who lived on the edge of the city. She had a husband, and lived in a very strange house with a dog and an estimated ten cats. The children weren't quite sure of how many cats, because they moved so quickly, and yowled so loudly, and hid so thoroughly, dashing out at your feet when least expected. (The cats had insipid names like Squealer, Fuzzy, and O.C., but they come into this story more than should be expected.)

When the five children and their two parents, (naturally) entered the house, they were greeted by the Cat-woman. And also the sight of her very strange house. It was so odd-looking that John-Eric (who was the youngest) noticed nothing strange at all, because he himself was odd, and Julia on up wanted to laugh and had to keep coughing into their hands to hide it. Scratching posts stood every five feet. Cat toys lay strewn about the room. But she herself was oddest. (The grammer of the last sentence is off, I think, but if it is, the Queen will catch it.)

The Cat-lady kept the family there for an hour and a half, talking with the kitten the children were going to keep, telling it how to behave; telling us how to behave; "what kind of litter do you use?...Oh, the worst kind; if he seems restless you should take him to the vet ASAP; he enjoys Blue Mountain yogurt, but only the low or no-fat kind; he should get his wet food only between ten-thiry and eleven;" And I know that that was an incomplete run-on sentence, but so was she. We also had to sign a contract that said we would keep the cat in total isolation for two weeks, even though our current cat and dog have a clean bill of health.

After last night where the restless cat refused to stop walking on my parents until five-thirty, I was determined to find a loophold for the last commandment. And find it I did. Numbers 30:3-8 talks about vows of women, and says that if a women takes a vow and her husband disallows it, the the vow is no longer binding. So that nuisance is taken care of. Woo, and again I say, hoo!

(Some of the grammatical structure and rhetoric was borrowed from C.S. Lewis, especially in the first two paragraphs.)

Jots and Tittles

-So, I was a clumsy idiot and severely sprained my ankle, but I'll tell you about that at Boot Camp.

-So I visited an incredible college in Jackson, Mississippi, (I love that word!), but I'll tell you about that at Boot Camp.

-So I have to leave Boot Camp early because I have to, but I'll tell you about that at Boot Camp.


There is nothing in my life so urgent that it must needs be told right away, and everything I have to tell can wait until Boot Camp because, after all, these things are better told in person where teenage italics can be ever so much more effective than in print, wouldn't you agree?
(I love run-on sentences in moderation!)

So until I see all you lovelies and uglies....