30.6.05

I'm all googly-eyed

Quick update:
As of this post, I officially haven't slept in three days. I believe this is a record for me and now that I'm experiencing it -- not one I want to set again. The meetings are wrapping up, the 100 or so people are slowly dwindling to a smattering, music is playing from the live band in the background creating "mood" while people eat beans, sausage and tortillas off polyester plates under our giant gazebo.
I'm walking about "mingling" like a zombie; eyes firmly wide, I'm swinging my cheesy grin around randomly and I'm probably drooling a little by now. Again, I hope no one notices this.
I'll tell dirty details later. Right now I need to find a bathroom to sleep in.

28.6.05

Newsy Bidtits.

Birthday parties are great. Except when you haven't slept in two days and you fall asleep in your cereal the next morning.
Happy Birthday Zoey.

There's a 3 day seminar going on, which brings a WHOLE LOT of people. Ahhh...the music is Great though. It's also convenient to have a GIGANTIC house where you can hide out in bathrooms to avoid socializing (I hope no here reads this and discovers my secret). Thweet.

I'm officially the most accident prone person in the world. While slicing lettuce I chopped off the tip of my left forefinger, piece of fingernail and all.
Devastating.
I'm trying to explain to this woman who speaks only spanish that it's NOT JUST A CUT and you can't "squeeze it together and put a butterfly on it". Gesturing to each other frantically while trying to make her understand in my limited spanish and keep from passing out. I've never felt so helpless.

I'm going to be moving back up to the states in the next couple of weeks. I'm not sure where yet. But keep me in your prayers as I uproot my weary little self yet again and trudge the lonesome and dusty paths. (sounds good, no?)
Oh yea, and if you'd like me to come stay with you...just let me know. That'd be grrreat.

ACK! I've been discovered and am now being forced to mingle.
*drops dramatically to the floor and plays dead*

BustER: Liz, you're not fooling anyone. Get downstairs.

BustEE: *tries to keep her eyes from twitching*

p.s. I feel I should stress again. PART OF MY FINGER IS MISSING! (well I know where it is, it's in the lettuce. hahaha) It feels wierd not having it. I'm very sad.

24.6.05

muse muse muse

What I like is the moments Right after a sunset. Sure, the pinks and purples and oranges are swell and eyecatching but the real treat is looking for the aftershades. Blue-grey, purple-grey, grey-grey. Anyone can make a gorgeous painting from bright colors but
I think it takes skill to blend greys.
I think it describes a good comedown.

So yesterday, I climbed up to the roof of the band room house. It's pretty much the best spot in the whole property I guess because it's quiet and you can watch everyone and everything and no one sees you. Just you, sitting up there, watching, legs hanging down and chilling.

The second best thing about that spot is that no one misses you. Some places you go, you're always missed. Like if you're in the bathroom, or slacking off in one of the rooms.
On the roof, suddenly, you become useless. In a good way.

That's what I do when I need to think and I hadn't had a good think in many days. So I grabbed some beer and my notebook (in case something clever popped into my head) and sat there and looked up at the greys and greygreens. It's so quiet you can hear the leaves pulsing sap through their veins. A lot of clever thoughts came to me. In fact, I'd venture to say I had an epiphany. I wrote it down and then slipped back unnoticed into the house.

23.6.05

kickin back

We spent last Sunday over at the next home over. Those guys know how to have a good time, I'll tell you.

First, in the evening we had an asado of sorts. Marquiqui cooked some kind of sausage, cheese tortilla thingy which was awesome and of course, there was beer to wash it down..


We sang a "Las Mananitas" (which is really a happy birthday song) to the fathers and then chilled and played a couple games of pool.
Some even broke out the latin dancing...



The next morning..


we went out to a little taco joint, and yea. had tacos. spicy things.
You know, I actually really don't like Mexican food. I don't like tacos, especially those corn ones. I guess it's an aquired taste though because recently I've found myself actually getting a kick out of eating them. Hmm..yikes, I wonder if that means I'm getting Mexicanized.

Then we stopped by a friend's place to pick up tanks, masks and paintball paraphanalia -- traipsed back home to have a roaring paintball fight up in the mountains behind the house.


Back down, Marquiqui and I went to an open field to shoot his bow. Haha, what a rush.
Our target was an water filled soda bottle we found on the side of the road. I hit it, although since I wasn't using a arm guard I now have a nasty bruise the length of my forearm.

But that's not all my friends, no. Juan, Ange and Marquiqui surprised me by taking me out to a seafood restaurant. Man, was that good. Stuffed shrimp, with bacon and cheese. Too good.

Lastly, we ate oreo ice-cream around the deck table and told bad spanish jokes.

Went home, had a beer and felt contented.

22.6.05

tengue, tengue y TENGUE.

This was the first day in my two months in Mexico I went out, LEADING an expedition. Pause for effect.

Me and my pal, Summer, headed out on an "exploration venture". Of course there were ulterior motives but, we went.

Dropped off in the middle of Monterrey we wandered, walking, talking, gesturing. See-- my knowledge of how to say "Tengue, Tengue y TENGUE" (spank it, spank it and SPANK IT) has no practical use whatsoever when you're trying to discover which bus leads to home.

It was hot and humid (temperatures reach upwards of 104 degrees)and I think I have a scalp burn. Just in a straight line where my hair parts.

Boy, we did well. You know, I was under the false assumption that Mexican Mexicans where no where near American Mexicans. Yeah, I heard the Mexicans only whistle, snort, wheeze, and declare "I fucking love you, sexy baby making machine" and offer you their gonads for money in the United States of Freedom.
How wrong I was.
Let me tell you. I think it's an establishment of their masculinity to shout out, clear and proud, the fact that they find you to be the epitome of everything they've envision as "sexy" in their 60 years of gnarled life. To be embarassed before the whole world (if you don't already stick out enough because you're a blue-eyed albino in a brown and browner world)is something that is neither flattering or exciting.
For the record.

We made it home by bus. I swear that thing had no suspensions and I'm suspicious if it even had wheels. It sure felt like concrete on metal but that might have just been because I had to stand up the whole time gripping the overhead.

I wonder if it would help if I grew a mustache. How cool would that be?

21.6.05

you look so tired and happy.

I'm over my dread disease. A good friend, upon hearing I was sick, sent over a bottle of wine. Thanks man! I'm telling you. That'll cure whatever ails ya.

A year or so past, on a New Years, I was sick as a dog. 103 degree fever, sweating, sleeping, feeling miserable. Another good friend of mine pops over for a visit, bringing with her another good friend "Smirnoff Vodka". (Don't try this at home, kids.) While I'm closing my eyes, unsuspectingly, she sneaks in with her bottle and deposits a healthy sum in my bedside cup of cranberry juice.

I awake, thirsty like a camel in the Gobi, and chug the cup to the glass bottom. Only then does the spike hit me. Not to worry, all things work together for good. Within the hour, I was healed. Sure I was sweaty, wet and a little reeling but now I'm one of 'dem who'd recommend vodka when you're coming down with sumpin' suspicious.
ie. "Honey, you look a little pale -- have some vodka."
"That wart is just getting worse, better soak it in vodka."
"What is that!?? Hang on, let me get the vodka."

All in reason of course, but reason is as reason does.
But all that to say, I'm right as rain and back in force.

16.6.05

The sound of the underground.

The vision is JESUS – obsessively, dangerously, undeniably Jesus.

The vision is an army of young people. You see bones? I see an army.

And they are free from materialism. They laugh at 9-5 little prisons. They could eat caviar on Monday and crusts on Tuesday. The wouldn’t even notice.

They are mobile like the wind, they belong to the nations. They need no passport. People write their addresses in pencil and wonder at their strange existence. They are free yet they are slaves of the hurting, dirty and dying.

What is the vision?

The vision is holiness that hurts the eyes. It makes children laugh and adults angry. It gave up the game of minimum integrity long ago to reach for the stars. It scorns the good and strains for the best. It is dangerously pure. Light flickers from every secret motive, every private conversation. It loves people away from their suicide leaps, their Satan games.

This is an army that will lay down it’s life for the cause. A million times a day its soldiers choose to lose that they might one day win the Great ‘Well done’ of faithful soldiers. Such heroes are as radical on Monday morning as Sunday night. It is for the few, not the many. They don’t need fame from names. Instead they grin quietly upwards and hear the crowds chanting again and again: ‘COME ON!”

AND THIS IS THE SOUND OF THE UNDERGROUND. The whisper of history in the making. Foundations shaking. Revolutionaries dreaming once again. Mystery is scheming in whispers. Conspiracy is breathing. This is the sound of the underground.

And the army discipl(in)ed. Young people who beat their bodies into submission. Every soldier would take a bullet for his comrade at arms. The tattoo on their back boasts “For me to live is Christ and to die is gain!” Sacrifice fuels the fire of victory in their upward eyes.

Winners.

Martyrs.

Who can stop them? Can hormones hold them back? Can failure succeed? Can fear scare them or death kill them?

And the generation prays like a dying man with groans beyond talking, with warrior cries, with sulfuric tears and with great barrow loads of laughter! Waiting. Watching. 24-7. Whatever it takes, they will give.
Breaking the rules. Shaking the mediocrity from it’s cozy little hide. Laying down their rights and their precious little wrongs, laughing at labels, fasting essentials.

The advertisers cannot mould them. Peer-pressure is powerless to shake their resolve. They are incredibly cool, dangerously attractive on the inside. On the outside? They hardly care. They wear clothes like costumes to communicate and celebrate but never to hide.

Would they surrender their image or their popularity? They would lay down their very lives – swap seats with the man on death row – guilty as hell. A throne for an electric chair. With blood and sweat and many tears, with sleepless nights and fruitless days, they pray as if it all depends on God and live as if it all depends on them.

Their DNA chooses JESUS. (He breathes out, they breathe in.) Their subconscious sings. Their words make demons scream in shopping centers. Don’t you hear them coming? Herald the wierdos! Summon the losers and the freaks. Here come the frightened and forgotten with fire in their eyes.

They walk tall and trees applaud, skyscrapers bow, mountains are dwarfed by these children of another dimension. Their prayers summon the hounds of heaven and invoke the ancient dream of Eden.

And this vision WILL be. It WILL come to pass; it WILL come easily; it WILL come soon.

How do I know? Because this is the longing of creation itself, the groaning of the Spirit, the very dream of God. My tomorrow is His today. My distant hope is His 3-D. And my feeble, whispered, faithless prayer invokes a thunderous, resounding, bone-shaking great ‘Amen!’ from countless angels, from hero’s of the faith, from Christ Himself.
And He is the ORIGINAL DREAMER, the ULTIMATE WINNER.

And that, my friends, is guaranteed.
Guaranteed.

14.6.05

I've been pois'ned.

I inadvertantly drank some of this confounded Mexican water and I've come down with the shakes. Probably diptheria, dissentery, Dengue fever, Mexican Killer Virus or similiar.

I have no desire to lay around in bed groaning. So I trudge around the house, hollow-eyed, wrapped in my trusty black and white chequered blanket. One day, someone will notice...haha.

And this evening we're having a bible class in our house that I'm supposed to help out with the guitar playing..
At least, if I time each shake to a hand stroke, my strum should be pretty good.

10.6.05

I've always wondered..

1. fo' shizzle my nizzle
Originated in medival England in the 15th century, this phrase has changed in meaning completely, from the orignal shorthand denotation of "Alas! An adversary has come upon us! To the battlements!" to the modern definition of "Please grease up my penis."
Old: Bartholomew, the dastardly barbarians are attacking! Foe Shizle mine nizle!

2. fo' shizzle my nizzle
"fo shizzle ma nizzle" is a bastardization of "fo' sheezy mah neezy" which is a bastardization of "for sure mah nigga" which is a bastardization of "I concur with you whole heartedly my African American brother"

Food 4EVA

A few weeks past, some friends invited me to an annual Food Festival in Santiago. They had been invited by the mayor and it was quite a prestigious affair. We made a merry group of about 15.

Basically, it was over 100 of the best restaurants from the Monterrey area setting up around the town's center plaza and having a giant buffet.
It was good from every angle. Mild weather, good friends, stimulating conversation, lots of beer and most of all:
Roast Goat. (see below)

THIS is something that you see quite a bit of in Mexico and frankly, it tickles my fancy.

My overactive imagination kicks in and I fancy feasting in the yo'ho days, trencher full of stewed eel and naturally, roast goat. Frothing mug of dark ale in reach.
Obviously, since I'm a chick, I'd have to be the twin sister of the young rebel lord. Fiesty and sought-after.

As we sit feasting and singing bawdry tavern tunes...
my suitors killing each other for my favor, I lean to my brother and inquire as to the fate of the knave, Max.

The evening waxes and wanes and as our entourage leaves I'm confronted by a drunk man who babbles in a strange language that I look like some wench, "Nicole Kidman". I grimace inwardly but ettiquette demands I smile and nod politely. We disappear into the night, while Drunken Buffoon yells "Nicole! Nicole!" after my retreating form.
He is put to death shortly following.

All in all t'was a heap of fun, my belly was full and the memory will last 4EVA.

9.6.05

wieners and wounds

..in that order.

We got an army sufficing amount of, will-most-certainly-cause-cancer, probably-not-even-pork-but-pigeon, pre-processed hotdogs from some friendly local business. So generally, the Fearless Kitchen Leader leaves me to come up with inventive ways to use them for breakfast, lunch, dinner and often, even snacks...WHILE cleverly trying to disguise their true identity. (ie. freeze them and tell kids: "I SWEAR they're lollipops!")

Lunchtime today, I'm pounding them into pigeon-meat patties, I'm running behind and my mind, being the dependable slacker that it is, is tailing even further off.

That's when I grab a firm hold and heft high a cast-iron pan that's been merrily crackling on the oven for the past hour.

The carnage ensues as the the skin melts off the fingers of my left hand. I squeal in pain and bite back a expletive, choosing instead the more expressive term: Donkey Poop!

Tears fill my eyes but I bite those back too..the tears, that is, not my eyes.

I think I've heard a million home remedies for 10degree burns today. Ice! Vineagar! no! Alcohol! (I think that's a pretty good Idea meself)
Finally, someone slathers honey on my blistering hand, my tender and sensitive fingertips feel as if they've been slowly peeled of flesh and then exposed to acidic compounds.

So here I sit, typing with my one good hand. I've never realized how much I do with ALL 10 fingers.

Though my praise for THAT situation is that I didn't have to do dishes and I got to watch "Animals are Beautiful People" with a Down's Syndrome Kid for the rest of the afternoon.

Keep my left hand in your prayers and well wishes, he's always been the neglected one of the two and I'm afraid he might now get bitter about this.

7.6.05

linking

My intelligence in Romania tells me that the talented Spirit Tree is the next big thing musically over there. I say, Righteous and Rock On my bruthas!
Check them out in the link to the left.

6.6.05

Forever ago..

..there was a girl who loved a boy. He climbed mountains. He was very brave.

Whenever he'd go for many days all alone, she would worry till she was sick and swear to never let him go away again. But there was ever another time.

Always, though, he'd bring her a little stone from the very top of the mountain. She kept them in a little wooden box and would be reminded about how very brave her love was and that he would certainly return.

But one day she left and he didn't come back and everything cried.

So she started walking, and walking. She walked clear up to the top of a high cliff
and carved his name in the mountain.

I miss you, dummy.

5.6.05

tale of two animalitos

Scene: Boxes piled high, filled with every imaginable kind of game, toy, candy, coloring book and sundry knick knacks. Girls hovering around picking, choosing, sniffing, prying, fingering and sorting.

El Ratito/The Little Rat: On the hunt for chocolate, spies a blue square package. Always a good sign. Lunges and resurfaces with booty.
In true rat form, sniffs package suspiciously, discovering not chocolate but SOAP. Throws back in disgust and continues rummaging.

El Puerquito/The Little Piglet: On the hunt for...anything edible, spies a blue square package. Always a good sign. Reads on the wrapping "An Alaskan Tradition for 50 years"

"Whatever THAT means", it thinks dissmissively, ripping off blue packaging and stuffing suspected chocolate between it's hungry teeth.

"SPIT!! Waa...it's SOAP!!"

El Ratito smiles to itself, and feels cunning.

3.6.05

all in a day's work

Because of the 1000degree weather here in Monterrey, it's not possible to sleep at night unless you're soaking yourself in a vat of ice. (I sleep with a bowl of ice water next to me, wet cloths, and spread them over me in fashion of ice blanket).
Already that makes me cranky and not happy to be sitting in a hot room in front of a festering machine trying to be insightful.

Also, I'm very busy helping humanity (haha, no like, really). We've been invaded by a slew (30) young aspiring missionaries from Dallas, hoping to follow in my footsteps (and I follow in God's, por supuesto)

So on this gorgeous, blistering Friday we did a free show for 400-some kids at a school nearby to give these greenhorns something to cut their teeth on.
Here's a photo summary of my day:

The long anticipated photos of the puppet theatre I arduously handpainted. Sitting pretty.


And in detail. 'Castillo del Amor' translates as: "Castle of Love". I thought it sounded a bit raunchy but Mexicans seem to dig it.
(note: I did NOT paint that hideous backdrop, some spanish hippie did it)


We took our russian friend, Gustaf. Total hipster..


..as we drove we felt ashamed for having ever complained about not having air con..


..some even cried.


We arrived and setup our gear. The place actually looked like a prison to me but I didn't say so.


I handled the sound system, the camera, passed out prizes, school and medical supplies and smiled a freakin' lot.


after The Show that Rocked Them, I was mobbed by happy fans, begging for autographs and photos with my person.


I must have written my name about 200 times. I started drawing smiley faces.


At long, hot last the day ended and we returned to our showers and dinner.
I'll admit, I felt good inside.

Just doing my part, brutha, just doing my part.