laughing to the point of forgetting how to breathe while your entire body contorts in exploding mirth
the soft, frangrant top of an infant’s head that seems to be forever calling for a kiss as he sleeps soundly on your breast, his warm, small body comforting you
the thrill of coquettishly dialoguing with some nameless crush, feeling him reciprocate as you play the admittedly ridiculous, yet nevertheless incredibly amusing game of flirtation
pink sunsets, when the sun just perfectly reflects its blazing bronzes off a set of delicately parted clouds so that it sends the entire sky into fireworks – a masterpeice that seems to appear expressly for asthetes like yourself, as you drink in the wayward sacrament.
someone you truly care for requiting your sentiments and suddenly the world drops away, and it is only you two, alone in a universe set apart from all else
when the wind whistles euphonious harmonies through the leaves of a browning tree and you sit watching the leaves dance, tapping a rhythm to the melody
a neice that’s adored you for the past 7 years, who every time she sees you screams “Katie” and throws herself at you, as you just remember back to the time when you were seven and would run at her father and throw yourself at him in delight whenever you saw him, and it makes you happy that you can do this for her now that he’s not here to do it anymore for you
a wrinkled hand slipping around your waist and you’re tall enough now to put your arm over your mother’s shoulder with ease as you just stand, enjoying one another
a good fight: one that starts with righteous anger, follows with that quick, witty, perfect retort, and ends with tears and forgiving (even though all along you know you were right and the triumph really belongs to you)
an aunt running into the room with your disgusting beyond belief pie in her hand pretending to find it absolutely amazing as you sit on your grandma’s couch in utter humiliated misery
the feeling of placing your head upon the warm, familiar, fragrant pillow as you go to bed. slipping your cold feet underneath warm blankets. awaiting what dreams may come…
first of all, is it entirely necessary to postpone the writing of one's paper until the early afternoon the morning before said paper is due?
furthermore, is it entirely necessary to take hour breaks in between half hours of work while writing the already procrastinated upon paper?
'procrastinated upon' sounds vulgar, or perhaps it's the free association between procrastinated paper writing and bullshit combined with the assonance between the words defecate and procrastinate.
instructions: type "(your first name) is" in the google search engine and see what fun things come up
Katherine is active in Canada's writing community.
Katherine is featured in most polymer clay forums and web sites
Katherine is the centre of a large region covering cattle country, farmlands and national parks
Katherine is FINE I think most people will agree with me, but KH is one FINE woman
Katherine is praying about continuing her missionary work in Cambodia.
Katherine is a natural, very powerful renowned Clairvoyant and Psychic Consultant with an International reputation and has appeared on Television
Katherine is one of the most 'Up and Coming' actresses of the decade
Katherine is now the sedate wife of a Santa Fe Judge, and hard to picture as an early stunt flyer
Katherine is one of the most visible spokespersons of the art in this country, helping introduce Feng Shui into mainstream western culture
Katherine is the widow of his brother, which makes the marriage one step removed from incest
Katherine is freaking out
Katherine is inexperienced when it comes to social and sexual relationships
Katherine is something of a figure in Sewanee
Katherine is noisy
Katherine is not responsible for the content of any site that uses her web design images.
Katherine is overwhelmed by his size and power
Katherine is not prepared for the passionate and magical encounter that will haunt her for the years to come
Katherine is disgusted
Katherine is dead
Katherine is not wearing a wig, but Ryan is: in order to look like a poverty-stricken
person, she wears make-up that looks like it's not make-up
Katherine is a freak and she delights in such an adjective, to be sure.
Katherine is a neo-phile, technophile, fringe-phile, xenophile, creative artist,
philosopher and aspires someday to becoming a Discordian saint.
Katherine is attractive, successful, witty, and educated. She also can't find a husband.
Katherine is given her first bath (this time I get to watch!),
Katherine is both a convert and a "revert" to the Catholic Faith.
i feel much better now, there's no need for that old post. katherine 8:57 PM
Thursday, November 14, 2002
Love is....
everyone, namely lilia and joann, seems to be blogging about that nebulous term 'love'
so i, conquering my immediate urge to vomit, decided to hop on the bandwagon. having never really experienced anything other than nepotic love, my definition of course is somewhat limited. yet, if it were anything, it think it would be...
My toes and fingers exist in a constant state of below freezing temperatures. at bedtime i curl my fingers and shove my hands under my pillow while cradling my feet in a massive cushion of blankets in order to avoid frostbite. yet inevitably, every night, my fingers somehow uncurl and escape from under the pillow, and my feet somehow lose their cushion of warmth - if i wake in the middle of the night i undoubtedly have lost feeling in both extremities. being easily awakened, say, for example, by an ant crawling across the floor of the room two doors down, this feeling of numbess in the night is not an uncommon occurrence.
two confessions: 1. i have always been and still am terrified of the dark. 2. as a child (up until about high school0 i generally spent about one third of the night sleeping in my parent's bed.
once awake, lying in my room in the darkness it usually took about five minutes until i was crawilng into bed next to my mother. immediately my toes would shoot out, like heat seeking missiles, searching for my mother's warm legs. instead of cringing away or shoving me out of the bed, my mother would always, in a state of half consciousness, take hold of both of my freezing hands and cradle them within her warm hands while wrapping her warm legs around my freezing feet and whisper, half asleep, "my poor baby, is that better honey?"
Where has the horse gone? Where is the young warrior... Where are the joys of the hall? How that time has gone, vanished beneath night's cover, just as if it never had been!" the wanderer
was going to change my template and then post something my friend from 11th grade wrote in my yearbook:
Don't be afraid of change Katie, sometimes its our only friend
At the time i thought it a wonderfully poignant and original rebuttal to the cliche "don't ever change" passages that showed up several times on everyone's yearbook pages...
then i thought how terribly fond i am of this shade of green... and how i've in part defined my blog by its appearences...
thankfully i remembered that later on that day, looking again at my yearbook, i turned the page and read from another friend don't be afraid to change, sometimes its the only thing we can do sure enough, the phrase turned up in everyone's yearbook about every other page that year. katherine 3:53 PM
