I heard this great song on the radio and I wanted to share:
I am now in love with the band, BarlowGirl, and will spend some time and money acquiring their music. Who knew there was a talented Christian rock group out there?
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Collin says...
that my recent Random Tamra posts have been weird.
Which means I am now officially weird.
Not that I wasn't weird before. But now it's official.
... I was thinking about what to write about. I've had conflicting feelings about my writings. (I say "writings" like they're important.) I have an idea that's been floating in my head for about 2 years, and I haven't written it up. I should. I write positive things about motherhood and life in general, and I like that. I write up what I've done and what my family does, and that's useful (to me and my family, if to no one else). I write just for fun, just cause I like to write, just cause something inside me drives me to do it.
And yet, with everything I write, I feel like it's somehow lacking. Like I'm not quite writing something really important. Like all my writings are just skirting around something much better. Like my writings are slipping. Not what I want them to be. Which makes little sense, because they've never had a ton of direction anyway, and that's something I've done on purpose (this blog is called Random Tamra for a reason).
I DID think the other day about something I could write, something negative. It was funny, it was sharp, it was perceptive and to the point. And it was offensive. And I knew, right then, that I had some sort of obligation not to write it. Even though deep down in the "I'm negative and I like it" section of my soul, I enjoyed the idea of writing it, at least.
Bah. I've half-decided that I should just be silent for a while. And instead of writing all the time, I should start listening. Listening for ... something. Or maybe for nothing. But the listening part seems important.
Clearly, I'm doing a very good job at being silent. (Perhaps being silent and listening are two different ideas.)
Which means I am now officially weird.
Not that I wasn't weird before. But now it's official.
... I was thinking about what to write about. I've had conflicting feelings about my writings. (I say "writings" like they're important.) I have an idea that's been floating in my head for about 2 years, and I haven't written it up. I should. I write positive things about motherhood and life in general, and I like that. I write up what I've done and what my family does, and that's useful (to me and my family, if to no one else). I write just for fun, just cause I like to write, just cause something inside me drives me to do it.
And yet, with everything I write, I feel like it's somehow lacking. Like I'm not quite writing something really important. Like all my writings are just skirting around something much better. Like my writings are slipping. Not what I want them to be. Which makes little sense, because they've never had a ton of direction anyway, and that's something I've done on purpose (this blog is called Random Tamra for a reason).
I DID think the other day about something I could write, something negative. It was funny, it was sharp, it was perceptive and to the point. And it was offensive. And I knew, right then, that I had some sort of obligation not to write it. Even though deep down in the "I'm negative and I like it" section of my soul, I enjoyed the idea of writing it, at least.
Bah. I've half-decided that I should just be silent for a while. And instead of writing all the time, I should start listening. Listening for ... something. Or maybe for nothing. But the listening part seems important.
Clearly, I'm doing a very good job at being silent. (Perhaps being silent and listening are two different ideas.)
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Demons Getting Drunk
Once a month I think I'm crazy and then I realize that once a month I think I'm crazy. And that makes me feel a little better.
Only it doesn't really.
And then I think about my demons. I don't have big scary demons. Just little annoying ones that dance around a fire getting drunk late at night. And I know I should hate these demons.
Only I don't really.
Sometimes I really like them. I invite them in and feed them dinner and laugh at their jokes, like they're proper house guests.
Only they're not really. And I know it.
Some people have REAL demons that they struggle with. They spend years working hard, sweating without time to wipe their foreheads, to get rid of their deadly demons. My demons fortunately aren't hurting anyone.
Only I know that's not really true.
And the demons will dance on my grave in a drunken stupor. And everyone will say, "I knew it."
Only they didn't.
Only it doesn't really.
And then I think about my demons. I don't have big scary demons. Just little annoying ones that dance around a fire getting drunk late at night. And I know I should hate these demons.
Only I don't really.
Sometimes I really like them. I invite them in and feed them dinner and laugh at their jokes, like they're proper house guests.
Only they're not really. And I know it.
Some people have REAL demons that they struggle with. They spend years working hard, sweating without time to wipe their foreheads, to get rid of their deadly demons. My demons fortunately aren't hurting anyone.
Only I know that's not really true.
And the demons will dance on my grave in a drunken stupor. And everyone will say, "I knew it."
Only they didn't.
California Passages
Why, hello, Tamra's blog. How have you been?
While in California I "wrote" a few passages in my head.
Nostalgic moments where the fog rolled in over the mountain forests and I thought about Steinbeck and walks along Cannery Row.
Remembering moments of hikes up to Fremont Peak, talking with friends in the dark, when the park is closed, dreaming of the future, wishing it were already here but glad we still had time to dream.
Frustrating moments on a golf course, losing my dad's golf club head in a nasty pond, and all the crap that went on that day (in fact, I'm not sure why I haven't written that day up already. It was hilarious and frustrating and amazing).
Moments in the present, where my kids whined at me and I drifted away, not caring.
Cute moments with Elijah sitting on my bed in the middle of the night, asking for a song.
And then moments in the present that brought me back to the way I used to be: staying up so late that I wouldn't have to think about anything as I fell asleep, cause it was easier that way. I have no reason to do this any more, it was just pleasant for the beauty of the memory.
And yet I wrote up none of those moments. For no reason other than they were somehow more beautiful in my mind than they would be in words, on paper or in print. And I wondered, for a moment, if someday someone will say: Tamra could have done something with her life. She had talent. She had ability. And she squandered it.
And I wondered, even if someone did say that, would I care?
While in California I "wrote" a few passages in my head.
Nostalgic moments where the fog rolled in over the mountain forests and I thought about Steinbeck and walks along Cannery Row.
Remembering moments of hikes up to Fremont Peak, talking with friends in the dark, when the park is closed, dreaming of the future, wishing it were already here but glad we still had time to dream.
Frustrating moments on a golf course, losing my dad's golf club head in a nasty pond, and all the crap that went on that day (in fact, I'm not sure why I haven't written that day up already. It was hilarious and frustrating and amazing).
Moments in the present, where my kids whined at me and I drifted away, not caring.
Cute moments with Elijah sitting on my bed in the middle of the night, asking for a song.
And then moments in the present that brought me back to the way I used to be: staying up so late that I wouldn't have to think about anything as I fell asleep, cause it was easier that way. I have no reason to do this any more, it was just pleasant for the beauty of the memory.
And yet I wrote up none of those moments. For no reason other than they were somehow more beautiful in my mind than they would be in words, on paper or in print. And I wondered, for a moment, if someday someone will say: Tamra could have done something with her life. She had talent. She had ability. And she squandered it.
And I wondered, even if someone did say that, would I care?
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