To close with an inadvertant rhyme. (I tend to do that all the time.)

There comes a time in every woman’s life when she needs to just take a vacation to Berkeley, California. So that is what I’m doing, starting tomorrow. I know you will miss my daily-posts, densely infused with wit and insight simultaneously… what’s that? Oh, I have barely been writing a single post every other week? My, but the gig, how it is up. This next part I’m about to say is totally serious though: when I return I would like to make more of an effort to get back to good blogging habits. Perhaps a goal such as, “Ten minutes a day, it doesn’t matter what you write,” and maybe down the road it would become, “Ten minutes a day and it better be worthy of the New Yorker!” or whatever stuffy publication is supposedly good. And then you know what? One day? It will be thousands of New Yorker journalists who will be tugging at their hair in frustration and muttering to themselves, “Ten minutes a day, and it better be worthy of Wear Four Thwart!!”

So for now it’s a so long of the fondest register (and for some readers it is actually a “see you soon!”) and I’ll be back in June!

Synapse, blessed syntax. Sin, Tense, sentence.

Her body is rejecting the Year 2007, as wonderful as it has been. Now five months into the year and she still catches herself writing the date as 2006, or, more commonly, as 2008. In many things she has a predilection toward odds, but not so, apparently, with dates.

And to the families who live in houses alongside traffic lights: as the glow outside your windows changes incessantly from green to yellow to red, do you go slowly and quietly insane?

And finally, are we living in a society which is weeding plurals from our garden of identity?

No, the finally is this: what have I done to deserve any of this current reality? (So said with a smile on her face.)

**Because the new rule in blogging is that posts need only make sense to the blogger. So saith the she!**

Orange Butt?

Today I was meditating for a few moments on the color orange. Well, actually, I was meditating on the word. And I thought to myself, Orange. Or-an-ge. Or. And. Ge? Shouldn’t that last part be “but”? Are you following? The word orange is made up of 67 percent of our common English conjunctions! Or, And, but there is no But. I propose one of two changes:

1. We change the name of the popular citrus fruit to Oranbut. Would you like a glass of oranbut juice? John broke my oranbut crayon! Oranbut you glad I didn’t say banana?

2. We change the popular conjunction “but” (and maybe also “butt”) to the new word, “ge” (pronounced “Jeh,” or sometimes Geh”). I was going to go to the movie, ge my mom decided I was grounded. I was going to wear my orange trousers, ge my sister had set them on fire. What a pain in the ge!


Or. And. Ge.

Okay, who’s with me???

It’s a beautiful day for a neighbor.

I am sorry about the extremeness of yesterday’s post, I don’t know what came over me. What I meant to write about was this:

Yesterday at lunch I borrowed a magazine from the reception area at work and I read about the 32 students and teachers who had been murdered at Virginia Tech. As I read the brief eulogies printed there I became very sad, because each person sounded so precious. If he hadn’t been on a blind rampage it would seem that the killer had methodically picked out a selection of people who were diverse, yet collectively irreplaceable. I was sad because I would never have the chance to meet these people, to get to know them.

But it occurred to me–assuming the killer’s list of victims was completely haphazard and those 32 were only chosen to die for their unfortunate vicinity to a madman–it could have been anyone’s eulogy printed there in Newsweek. And how many people do I encounter every day whose presense I take for granted–not just friends and family, but acquaintences, strangers, passers-by. And many of them I will never get to know until their life has been pared down to a few sentences said in memorial. But I’m not trying to be morbid! If anything this is a call to take notice of the lives around you, not simply as a mass of people without faces, but as individuals with stories and experiences and dreams unique to them and irreplaceable in the human network.

How important to break through the statistics when we hear about an injustice. A number rolls off of us, unaffected. But to see the faces, to know the real void left by any one person, it is then that we cannot ignore it. These people are like us. We’re not so uncommon. We empathize. And meanwhile there are still so many people who come daily into our lives, and we begin to apperciate. Stranger. Neighbor. Brother. Maybe?

Whatevs. My teeth hurt.

Remember when I wrote a post about how Influenza was such a beautiful word? How it rolls sweetly off the tongue and all that tosh? Well guess what? I was WRONG! It’s an ugly, expensive word, and maybe I should also tell you that somewhere out there a wealthy doctor is just waiting to charge you $400 just to tell you that you have it. Influenza that is. And not even fix you, just tell you. $400. What is wrong with this picture?


I really think I might be turning into a socialist. If I weren’t so Christian… although, I don’t understand the necessary correlation between socialism and atheism. After all, wasn’t Jesus a bit of a socialist himself? And anyway, who cares if the cost of gasoline is skyrocketing when we can all ride our bicycles around and get into better shape and kill two birds with a single stone? Which reminds me to remind you, the reader, to boycott the gas pumps on May 15th and stick it to big oil!!!

Apparently the boycott–just another in a long string of unsuccessful millions of gas boycotts–is being spread around via Myspace, which might just be the most effective vehicle for activism these days. But anyway, I heard about this particular boycott during an acidental viewing of the local “news” (any viewing of the local “news” can only be explained as an accident. No offense to the local “news.”) and the guy reporting the story was named Owen Jensen and I can’t believe I’m writing this, but he was a breath of fresh air in the world of stiflingly formulaic reporting. It seemed like he just threw the script out the window and spoke to the TV audience like we were his friends. And maybe it was just because he shares the first name, but he reminded me more than a little bit of Owen Wilson, minus the broken nose and the cowboy hat.

And speaking of original reporting, I forgot to mention that my band (The Art Table) and my art were featured in a news story by the independent online news site Green Bay Confidential. The story is here: We’re on the second video clip, starting about halfway through.

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    Breena Wiederhoeft
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