I love this.  It reminds me of something my dad would write.  Only, his would be more eloquent, and his lines would be perfectly straight, and his cursive is far more crisp.  I was telling Megs the other night how I think I'm ruined because I can't not believe in the most romantic of men... because I grew up with one.  How can I believe that men forget special dates, don't think of staring at the stars, don't love long drives, walks in the fall, sharing thoughts over coffee, and just stand and watch as you wash your face... I know too well that some in fact do.  They remember your exact words that you wrote, and tell you that they're beautiful.  They can get furious with you, and then a few minutes later apologize and hug it all away.  They write dozens and dozens of letters and send them home to their young love.  And they remember all the important dates.  They return to the spot they first met their wife, on the day, with their three daughters as well.  They forgive.  They fight.  They work hard for 40+ years at the same job, providing for their family.  They go to all your games.  And they genuinely believe you are the best one out there.  They scream at you from the sidelines.  They make you your favorite breakfast.  They sneak out to movies at the last second, in the middle of the night.  They believe in love and good men, even when their little girls start to doubt or fear.  They count shooting stars.  They drive down the coast with you, music and conversation floating out the open windows.  They think of what you'd like.  They put you first.  They write you cards, leave surprises for you, tell you that they miss you.  Tell you that a man is going to be blessed by you and unbelievably in love with you.  They make sure you lock the doors.  Know where you're going, have your cell phone.  They care - and they don't care if you know it.  I have to believe in these men.  I've watched my dad love my mom for the past 25 years.  I've heard them recount their love, crazy and messy as it's been at times.  And I've felt my dad's tangible love for me and my sisters, and many others who have needed a dad to hold them, and encourage them, and remind them that life is beautiful, and they are among the most beautiful in it.  I know, I know, and you just thought he was a grumpy old fellow, didn't you?  Well, that's what he wants you to think.  It's a lot of work loving so well.

I found a box on my desk when I got home late Saturday night. I knew what it was and decided to save it for the next day. I have gone online to buy this book (and cyber stalk my favorite UCLA professor) several times. Finally, the week before taking off on vacation, I took the leap. I've read most of this journal, several of the articles (those written by Maniquis) multiple times over. This was in fact the primary source for my senior thesis. Robert Maniquis was the only scholar/ professor I could find applying the imagery of terror and violence to the cultural crisis of the French Revolution. My thesis dealt with the imagery of childbirth and it's power in times of cultural crisis. In France and England, the Romantics, affected by the Revolution, created birth imagery of terror with hinted abortions, horror, and sons murdered by their fathers. In the Apartheid in South Africa, Serote paralleled birth imagery with the war in the skies, heavens, blood, and graves. And in the end, it meant hope. Maybe none of this makes any sense, I'm doing my best to describe a 20 page essay in a few sentences. I bought the book because I know that regardless of grad school or marriage or the state I end up in, I'll be writing something more on this. It was that moment where I finally realized in school "This is why I'm here." Don't get me wrong, I've always known why I was at college, why I was in the Literature program, why I was training. And that was the first moment when the answer to those questions was actually touching the tip of my toes and my fingers tapping the keys made a bigger sound in my heart than in anyone's ears. I went to school because of a book I'm going to write, though I don't know exactly what it will say - but it surrounds the power of birth and birth imagery in literature during times of cultural crisis - such as now. When the Revolutionaries lost hope, they felt aborted by their fathers and they created pictures where they lost their children too. It was tied to terror, childbirth and generations was wrapped up in its very cultural core of disappointment and political suffering. When the South-African's began to fight back for their rights, their poets penned hope into the hearts of the people, hope through birth as a sort of war, as victory.

I didn't mean to pour all that out at you, I only meant to tell you all I'm excited to finally own this book, the only one I've read that touches on a specific passion in my heart. One I don't know how or where it will work itself out, so somehow owning this book feels like holding onto that spot where my toes touch calling.

Secondly, would you travel half way around the world to find the guy you danced the night away with and haven't been able to get out of your head since? Anonymous
Kat: How much money do I have? How nice were his hands?

Shawn: If it was a girl…yes, yes I would.

Kat: Really?

Shawn: Absolutely.

Kat: I would be terrified.

Shawn: Shadows terrify you.

Kat: No, scary movies with scary shadows terrify me. But really, I would have to have had one hell of a night to even consider traveling around the world.

Shawn: I’m one of those angry romantic types and I’m in love with taking chances on small hopes.


[Came across this Q&A banter on one of the blogs I check out from time to time. I loved the friend's response at the end/ final comment here. I think you're cool, Shawn. I just might start following your friend's blog because of your occassional quotes included on it.]