:::Post comment for admittance:::

Umglrhmphmer--I'm tired. The thing about staying nearly two straight weeks with my boyfriend and my son, is that it only equals about three hours of sleep per night. Mind out of the gutter pervs. Josh and I spend hours staying up just (mostly ;D) talking. If we lay down at five, Cainen will be up by eight, and I, just want to collapse by mid afternoon. Now apply this to happening for DAYS, and that would equal yours truly in a bit of a spot. Ugh. Good times though.

Never been better, actually.

And, even after sweating our way through a concert, we still look great, though not even a quarter as happy as we actually are. (aww!) <3

so.sleepy.



So now, for some updateage-ness?

Remember my last post? Sure you do! :D

I intentionally mislead a few people here on planet real life, just to see what would happen. The fact is, I wouldn't have wasted my time on drama queens, parasites, or anything of the sort. Not worth my time. But this guy...Well, I got him. He didn't reply to my post, (oh no) he called me at home. Heh. But that's neither here nor there. I think we're finally about as good as two people who loathe eachother ever will be, so for me, that's something to smile about. I'm glad I did it, and would do it again if I had to.

Now--on with the good shit.

I never do this kind of thing, but I HAVE to show this off. Ah yes. My new phone. How should I best describe it? Nice. Very nice.

Extremely i-love-it-and-i'm-gonna-wet-myself-EVERYTIMEISEEIT?

OK, no. I'll just say it's the sex, and leave it at that. Not good pics, but still... Lookie, lookie:)






Me and my be'be' went to see a little band called Sevendust this past Thursday. We met them, and not only was the show amazing, but they were hella nice. I was shocked at how completely courteous these guys were. We weren't allowed to get too close to them, so getting pics together was out of the question...We did however get some OF them, and I also managed to get a good pic of our tickets, which they signed. If you will notice, mine has a tiny heart next to the singers (illegible) name:) w00t.






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Apparently on Saturday, our fucktard of a President came to the area, and shut down about half of Louisville, just for the sake of passing through. Imagine my surprise when I looked out of our bedroom window and saw this...




Most of you know me well enough to know that the song Big Man with a Gun was just raging through my mind. Call it a "Dawnism" if you will:)

I have (lots) more super sweet, and/or entertaining photographs to post, but they will probably go into a Friends Only entry, or quite possibly into the gallery, but that's up for question. As for now, and as for me, I'm tired. I'm off to go to sleep now--or at best, make a healthy attempt at it. xo

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My head is a hole.

And I've filled it

with an empty space.

Reinserted on 3-23-07 for viewing availability.

Long, I`ve Been Running away for far too long
Afraid of what
Afraid of what I know is soon to come
I may not be much of an example right now
But I can give you all of my knowledge on how
to get along in this place
Right now all I can say...

Is that I will do the best that I can
to be a good example of man
I know one day that You`ll understand
You deserve the best that I am
You deserve the best that I am



It`s so hard
So hard to think about when I was child
So angry at life
I blamed the world for such a long long time
But Things happened so quickly
Some people just go
I needed answers to heal me
I wanted to know how to get by
and now its my turn to say...

That I will do the best that I can
to be a good example of man
I know one day that You`ll understand
You deserve the best that I am
You deserve the best that I am

This is all for you

Everything in this world
Everything in my world
Everything in your world

Things wont always go right in this life
Theres always changes
We`ll make it

We're leaving for Chicago within the hour.

Fear Factory awaits us.

Pictures will be posted next week, oh yes.

My younger sister Stephanie graduated high school last weekend. It was hot, and boring, but I still went of course. There's not a lot to say about it really. I'm sure you've all been to one, so you know the deal. I went to the same school, so I took a few random extras.

( Pictures )

Courtesy AGVR

At what point in a child's development does rational consciousness begin? We all have read stories whose narrative opens with the phrase "my earliest childhood memory was________", generally framed in an understanding applied in retrospect from an adult perspective: memories of a beloved stuffed animal, or a parent, perhaps an accident resulting in skinned knees from a tricycle collision: the association with an event stored in a child's mind and recalled years later. Simple, natural. Not always a comforting thing, but memory is most certainly not always comforting. I raise this question because I would like to pursue a line of discussion that many will not agree with, either because of beliefs religious or intellectual, but that others will certainly support. I have always wondered if we come back after we have died.

What is a ghost? Is it a conscious entity, trying to attract our attention and communicate some knowledge from the other side? Is it like a recording, energy trapped in space and repeating on an endless loop, specific to some trigger? I'd like to comment on this second thought because I think it is something we can all identify with. How many times have you walked into a room and used the expression "the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife" even if a single word had not been said? We can pick up on tension and anger, sadness and irritability…and if we are sensitive to these sensations, is it a far leap to say that we might be sensitive to other, different impressions? People generally attribute a haunting to some dire event that transpired in a distinct location: a woman was murdered in this room, a man hung himself from that tree, a young girl died in an accident on this road. Stories spring from these events, and from that time on the woman will appear to sleeping visitors, a specter will materialize near the tree, the girl will appear to motorists on the road. If the tension of a fight can hang in the air, then surely the trauma of a violent or premature death can do the same thing, energy caught in time and then replayed to those people whose antennas are appropriately tuned to receive them. We call those people "psychic", or better, "sensitive". I must say that I don't hold much stock in shows like "Crossing Over" where that shyster puts his hand to his ear like he has a newscaster's wire, and says "I'm getting something from a woman named….Myra? Myrna?" and "she's trying to contact someone named….it's starting with a "J"….is there anyone here whose name starts with "J"?…". I find that ridiculous, and also very sad, because like nineteenth century spiritualists he seems only to be taking advantage of someone's grief. Putting myself in their place, even a year ago, what things would I have been capable of believing if someone told me they had a message for me from Adam? What would I have wanted to believe? However, I will not entirely discount the possibility of something being communicated to us, in some way. I just don't think it very likely that it could happen on cue on a soundstage and then be neatly edited to fit a thirty-minute timeslot on the Sci-Fi network.

So what are the sounds that I hear in my own home? What is it I believe I see? These are not purely subjective occurrences: me reporting to others that "I heard this or I heard that", because the phenomenon precedes my presence in the house by decades, and were actually shared with me when I bought the house . Of course I know that in an old house there are sounds, I've mentioned them before: wood floors expand and contract, copper pipes warm and cool with the flow of water and shudder inside the walls, the house itself literally breathes with the passage of the day. This is rational. This is to be expected—but what of the other things? Lights come on. Is it the wiring? Door-locks click…the wind? Whispers in the distance…perhaps it is the air conditioning moving through the vents. There are any number of rational, logical explanations. But as they say in the south, "come sit a spell", and I wager you'll think differently.

Separate from the objective, those observations made by people who have lived and worked in my home, by visitors, and by myself, there is another dimension to impression: not of what one hears, but of what one feels. Many of you have asked about my third floor, and I'll come back to that area at some point in the future because I do think it is significant, but there are other places, that for the moment, I find more greatly warrant my mention. Go back to the photo of my home taken from the rear garden and you will see the white-brick and clapboard structure at the end of the wing which houses my kitchen and various utility rooms. It is two stories with finished attic space as well, and was the original, separate kitchen building dating to the time when for fear of fire and because of the heat, kitchens were not connected to the main house. The second floor and attic are only accessible from a staircase off the kitchen itself, and I will tell you, I do not go up into those rooms. They are innocuous enough in appearance: wood floors, white walls, simple light fixtures, unused fireplaces that are closed up—but in those times when I had occasion to be in those rooms, I wanted nothing more than to leave. I'm not sure I can put my finger on it any more specifically than that. Do not imagine hundreds of flies hitting the windows and a disembodied voice saying "get out"…nothing so theatrical—but what I have felt, in an almost palpable manner, is the sensation of being watched, observed. Not a sensation of anger or malevolence, the evil boogey-man invisible and skirting the walls, but simply of an awareness…I might even say an acknowledgement, as if I know something is there, and that the something is also aware of me. Indifferent, but aware. It was this very feeling that I was alluding to when I wrote that I had the house, and the house had me.

A friend recently wrote a piece called (link removed), and although she was not discussing literal manifestations, reading her piece inspired me to the impression of how it is that we can haunt ourselves, of how our memories can haunt us. Keeping this in mind, I will tell you that the ballroom of my home, the very large room where my grandmother's concert-grand piano resides, is also not a room that I prefer to spend a great amount of time in, because the sensation I experience in it is grief. Whatever loss someone else at one time through the history of this house experienced and left imprinted in this space, it is added to by my own—because if anyone ever asked me "who do you think is haunting this room?" I would tell you that it was me, that it was my ghost, my sense of loss that pervades the space. I love that piano. I have a visceral connection to it, but in those days and then weeks and months that followed Adam's death, I would sit away from it at a distance, like a concert-goer a few rows back, and I don't even think that I had to close my eyes to see him sitting there playing it, so real was his ghost to me; that maybe in my grief I was hallucinating, and that for hours I would sit there, staring, listening. Hearing. Sometimes I saw myself there, leaning against it as I used to, watching his fingers on the keys. Sometimes, I would be carried back to occasions when he would accompany me as I played Mozart's Concerto for flute in G (his favorite), or the Concerto in D, gymnopedes by Satie, suites by Bach transcribed for flute. I would be transfixed, freezing and hollow-eyed, starving myself, until Minna showed up to clean or to do my laundry, made me tea and tried to lead me from the room, often threatening and having to resort to calling my mother to stir me to any action. I am still haunting that room. The time for healing in that place has not yet come. One day, when I am ready, I imagine it will.

My earliest recollection was awakening in the night to the sound of boots marching on pavement, as if half in a dream. I know I was in a crib, because I can see the railings of it still in my minds eye, and I asked my mother at what age I would have been and still have been sleeping in a crib. She told me she put me in a trundle about the time I was sixteen months old, so I know it would have been before this. I was lying on my stomach and could hear the echo of my heartbeat through the mattress, amplified. The sound of my heart beating morphed and became the sound of the marching boots, of jackboots, and with certainty, I knew what they were. I had heard them before. The comprehension I have of this now is the same comprehension I had then, no different, diminished in no part. There was a man standing in my room, half hidden by shadow, half exposed by moonlight from the window, reaching towards me, and I knew then how it could be possible to be haunted by yourself, by a remainder of what once, you were.

When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. 1st Corinthians 13:11-12