"It's not Our House. It's our home."

I am, by nature, a talker. I talk a lot. Three probable causes of this (all working together, no doubt): my dad is a talker, filled with detailed answers and elaborate stories; I was not very talkative prior to college, for reasons that could be jokingly filed under "emo," and college was the breakout; and the obvious English degree. Whatever the reasons are, I know that I often say more than I need to, that I go on tangents for the sake of adding more color to what I'm saying, that I tell overly elaborate stories, and that my tendency to speak too much occasionally leads to me being totally inept at actually saying what I want to say. These facts have led me to have a reputation among my friends of being long-winded.

I should probably be embarrassed at the fact that I have this reputation. When I first learned about it, I was, because that's not exactly flattering. But in the words of that great American hero Popeye the Sailor, "I yam whad I yam," and since I can't really shut myself up, I've come to accept it. No one has stopped being my friend over it, and in spite of this blog's wordy tendencies, people still read it, so I'm not going to stress about what all of you assholes say behind my back (just kidding, I love you all).

Because of my long-winded tendencies, it's uncommon for me to be totally silent. Usually when my mouth is shut for extended periods, it's because I am preoccupied with a dilemma that has my mind working too much for me to engage the outside world or feeling far too unnerved and awkward by my surroundings to contribute. It often leads to the usual "are you ok's" and "is something wrong's." Bless the souls of the individuals who realize my silence is atypical enough to warrant concern.

This past weekend beheld a new kind of silent beast. Sitting in Allison's kitchen with over a dozen friends eating breakfast, I found myself without anything to say. Not that I was perturbed by something, or that I felt unable to add anything to the conversation, but that there was nothing that needed to be said. Being surrounded by these people, there was a palpable feeling of camaraderie, community, and dare I say family*. In that moment, seeing all these people that I have a tremendous amount of love for sharing eggs, bagels, hashbrowns, joy, smiles, and laughter, there was nothing for me to say. I just had to sit there and bask in how perfect the moment was.


*I hesitate to say family because of its gross misuse by my peers. Too often I see large groups of friends call themselves a "family" only to see it fall apart once the binding factor of being in the same place at the same time removed. There's always a core group of friends who stay in close contact, but that idealized "we're so close we'll never part" feeling never lasts. I also hesitate to call us the exception, for fear of sounding arrogant, but this weekend provides a pretty good case for it. When you have 20+ people all meeting in the same place for a reunion and carrying on like we never left a year ago, I think it's fair to say that you've got something true there.

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A couple of my friends from high school are in a band called The Reflectacles. They just recorded a new EP, and it's very good. Inspired by rock and folk bands from decades ago. They've got a guy who plays the banjo Willie Nelson's son is their drummer. You should check it out, because I wouldn't promote them if I didn't think it was good music. "Bessie Says" is a jam.

http://www.myspace.com/thereflectacles

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When I first started this blog, I would visit One Word daily, write for the word, and then post it. I did it 2 days ago for the first time in over half a year.

Today's word: Century

"the century stumbled on the tips of umbrellas, rolling off the dome to the puddles of leaves and girls. cars spray years on the sidewalk, careless of pedestrians who walk too close to the edge."