Holy Ridvan, it's been a long past few days. In addition to the long past few days before that. That makes about 2 weeks worth of long days. And it ain't over yet!

I still feel like there are little weights attatched to my eyelids, dragging them down, down, down into deep (wonderful, amazing, lovely) sleep. But I wouldn't trade the past few days for anything.

The 93rd US Baha'i National Convention was probably one of the most amazing things I've seen and experienced since I've been in Chicago. I could never imagine that standing (because I was so excited I couldn't sit) through hours of consultation (each) on children and youth, community development, education, and the Five Year Plan could be so fascinating, but it was. Convention gave me a whole new sense of pride for who I work for and with, and I want to do my job better now as a result. My boss, Ken Bowers (now former secretary of the National Teaching Committee), was elected to the National Spiritual Assembly. This leaves us all a bit awestruck, because we are all wondering exactly what will happen next; who will take his place for the National Teaching Committee, who will run our office, where will he go and what will he do? But the American Baha'is were heard, and he was elected, and now we sit up straighter and hold our heads a little higher and fully reflect that we are truly created noble.

I'm going crazy. I am so so so busy this week. My attention is being diverted into so many different directions, I can't focus on what is where. Not to mention it's freakin' spring and all I want to do is put on my Nikes and run to the beach.

Baha'i National Convention starts tonight, which means delegates from all over the US are going to be converging on our lovely city and Baha'i Temple to elect the new National Spiritual Assembly and participate in consultations relating to the American Baha'i community. I won some kind of a lottery here at the National Center, and I am going to be able to sit in on these very exciting consultations! Woohoo!

To some of you, this might not sound very interesting. Acutally, most of you have probably stopped reading this entry by now. Heh.

Monday is a Holy Day (the 9th day of Ridvan...there is an observance at the Temple on Sunday which should be lovely if you are in the area), so hopefully I'll get some sleep by then...or perhaps I'll have to wait until then to sleep. Anyways; get out, enjoy the weather, and if you're in Chicago, take a run on the beach for me, please.

Texas. Beautiful weather, wonderful people, good timing. Yeah.

And in the wake of Thursday's entry, I can say that justice was served. I can only hope that, like the comments were so tactfully and rightly suggesting, that the person will make efforts to quelch this kind of prejudice in their heart. It's like an equation: problem + action = justice = action + x, where x has to equal the other person's problem. I guess the problem isn't fully solved until they do their part of the equation.

Through my mind, over and over, I hear this:

"O SON OF SPIRIT! The best beloved of all things in My sight is Justice; turn not away therefrom if thou desirest Me, and neglect it not that I may confide in thee. By its aid thou shalt see with thine own eyes and not through the eyes of others, and shalt know of thine own knowledge and not through the knowledge of thy neighbor. Ponder this in thy heart; how it behooveth thee to be. Verily justice is My gift to thee and the sign of My loving-kindness. Set it then before thine eyes."
(Baha'u'llah: Arabic Hidden Words, Page: 2)

Well said, eh?

I'm going to Texas for the weekend. Be back on Monday.

I encourage anyone reading this site to discuss the story below. I could write a novel about what happened next.

I've never been much of a fan for getting personal on this site. About the most personal you'll see me get most of the time is the pictures of myself you see here. Lately, I've been doing some really personal writing which I would *like* to share, but I don't want to make people uncomfortable or even risk my friends' speculation of who or what I'm talking about. Sometimes I make up stuff...like the death story. Lately, I have been writing things which seem to have more truth inherent...and for some reason this makes me nervous about posting.

I say all of this because I've recently had to accuse someone I know of sexual harassment. It comes at a very ironic time, because I just wrote an article earlier this week about how as a culture, we have become desensitized to blatant sexism and sexist apathy. I always thought things like this happened in very obvious ways--someone very obviously making sexual remarks, or touching you--but I was wrong. The "innocent banter" counts, too. I never appreciated this person's remarks, but I brushed it aside because I thought this person just didn't know any better.

Needless to say, after months of offend-and-apologize, I decided after a particularly offensive circumstance, that I'd had enough. I left this person a voice mail demanding an apology, which I didn't get. I got angrier and angrier and really, I felt helpless and disgusted at what happened. After mulling it over very seriously all night last night, I took action, and it is now out of my hands.

I know this person is harmless. I know they didn't know any better. But I can't shake this anger. I can't just get over it. I want justice because the thought of them makes me want to wring their neck. How dare someone think they can say such offensive things and get away with it based on the fact that they consider it a joke?! No way. Not with me.

I'm writing this in a public way right now because I think it can help other people, and for no reason other than that. I don't want you to ask me who it is because I won't tell you. I want you all to think about what you say to each other every day, and in saying that, here's a particularly relevant excerpt from the Baha'i Writings:

"He must never seek to exalt himself above any one, must wash away from the tablet of his heart every trace of pride and vain-glory, must cling unto patience and resignation, observe silence and refrain from idle talk. For the tongue is a smoldering fire, and excess of speech a deadly poison. Material fire consumeth the body, whereas the fire of the tongue devoureth both heart and soul. The force of the former lasteth but for a time, whilst the effects of the latter endureth a century."
(Baha'u'llah: Gleanings, Pages: 264-265)

Link of the day: despair.com. I describe it as an excellent use of stock photography.

Today in Chicago:

In case you were wondering, I'm addicted to The Pixies. Namely, Surfer Rosa (namely2, "Broken Face") and if you haven't done it yet, go get the Detatchment Kit mp3 from Silent Uproar. If you like the Pixies, you'll like d-kit.

I'm also painfully addicted to letting Remy Zero fade into Michelle Branch in iTunes, and have subsequently memorized all the words to The Spirit Room. Oh good grief.

As for the weekend, I found I was doing everything in twos and threes. Saw 2 arty flicks: Run Lola Run and Memento. All my purchases were in twos and threes even: 3 boxes strawberries, 2 containers of Body Butter from The Body Shop, 2 Stila items, 4 hosiery items from Nordstrom (hey, multiple of 2), 2 loaves of bread (which will take me a year to get through), 2 bags chips, 2 boxes grape tomatoes, an embarassing number of yogurt items (but a multiple of 2); the list just goes on and on and on. I know you all find this terribly interesting, but I'm hoping for 2-3 nice days of weather (uhm...80s in Chicago today? Chicago where?), 2-3 productive days out of the week, and then I'm off to Texas for the weekend (work-related venture).

I have imagined my death happening a thousand times. I think I've imagined so many ridiculous ways to perish, I should probably start recording them.

Tonight's random act of homicide happened when I was walking back from the train. It was just past sunset, and I was very ready to get back to my apartment in order that I could break my day's fast. It had been a long, sleepy day, where I fought fatigue from the time I rolled out of bed until I checked out of the office. Sitting at my desk is becoming somewhat of a drain these days, I can't wait until I am in my own cube. But I digress.

I was walking the 3 blocks back from the train, and as I approached the intersection of Lunt and Ashland, I watched the crosswalk sign across the street in the direction opposite where I was going, blink blink blink 6 times, then turn into a solid red hand, indicating to me, that it was almost my turn to cross over Ashland and go the extra 1/2 block to my apartment. I approached the corner as the white-illuminated walking man flicked on, saying it was safe to cross. I put one foot in the street, just in time to turn my head left as an SUV raced to run the red light, or maybe not noticing their signal to stop at all. So there I am, about to get hit by a swerving, ignorant SUV, and all I can think is, "it's dusk, they should have their lights on." Just then, the swerve turns into a screech, but not soon enough: they hit me. They practically snap me in half, as I unconciously get pummeled into the intersection. This is death instance #23087b: the SUV hit and run.

It should only be fitting that I die by the evil frame of an SUV. As if the cars themselves aren't ridiculous enough, I find the drivers of said evil vehicles to be particularly thick headed. Not all, mind you, but most. I just imagine hair-flicking, Oakley-wearing fair skinned sorority girls at Georgia, driving and laughing and occasionally smoking, their little greek stickers placed in a centered fashion to the back windshield. Their car cost more than two state school educations, I bet. Thanks mom and dad! And we cannot forget about the cell phone usage, and how it must escalate once you sit behind the driver's seat of an SUV because hey, the first thing I want to do in a huge vehicle is have my attention diverted. The person who killed me? Yeah they were on the phone. Nothing important either, just shooting the breeze, hitting pedestrians all the way home.

I will hopefully be recording my deaths in this journal. I do not want to seem morbid, or preoccupied with death, rather I would like to classify this in a more ironic chapter in life's book; fate.

Whoever designed women's bathrooms obviously was *not* a woman because they do not understand the definition of privacy. I do not consider a "stall" (a word also used to describe the living quarters of horses and other such farm animals) private by any means, not with the gaping 1.5 foot open area at the bottom of the "walls." I mean, anyone could look to see who's in there (frequently, children do, and this is horrible). I want to disappear when I go into a ladies room. I want to be alone. It's a brief moment of quiet in a torrent of activity. I think the world owes me the right to have a quiet moment to pee, don't you?

I have heard of men actually bonding in the bathroom. We might talk at the sink, but we definetly not bond between stalls. And this whole "spare a square" thing doesn't happen either. Well, maybe if you're desperate it does, but it's just not normal to converse between the wall.

When I become dictator, all women's bathrooms--if they absolutely have to have stalls--will have walls that go all the way to the floor, with doors that go very high. Private rooms. What a concept. And if by some reason or another there must be these metal stalls with the 1.5 foot gaping open area at the bottom, I shall have locks placed on all main bathroom doors, just in case of an emergency need for privacy. To be locked in a quiet bathroom all by yourself sometimes is just priceless.

I just filed my taxes online. I think I liked that it just went one step at a time. That, and there was no human error! Oh yeah, and it was free (for me). Oh yeah, and you can do your state taxes at the same time. Oh yeah, I'm getting a great return too. Yeah.

Laaaaaaaaaaaahhh!! Spring spring spring! I'm wearing short sleeves! I can't wait for open toed shoes and tank tops and the Great Excorcism of all pantyhose. If I had a yard I would ceremoniously burn such things, but as it happens, they are 1. too expensive and 2. I..don't...have a yard..

I thought I was hearing things. I thought it might be just my mind playing tricks on me. But no, it's true: iTunes BLENDS SONGS TOGETHER!!!!!! The transition contends with professionally mixed albums. According to the website, it's the "new Crossfader for smooth transitions between songs."

When Remy Zero turned into Michelle Branch, I nearly fell out of my seat in amazement.

Not because I was listening to Michelle Branch, but because of the transition. The TRANSITION! You people are so judgemental.

Today I discovered the macro feature on my camera. Hah.

Some graphic designer is kicking themselves over this one. At every L stop in Chicago, larger than life: moire patterns as big as your head!

I still have to do my taxes. Sweet, sweet procrastination.

I lose sleep because I'm thinking about the relationship between CSS and tables. Hm.

I would like to take a moment to profess my love for oatmeal. The smell of warm oatmeal reminds me of my mom, though I don't have many memories growing up of eating the stuff, really. What I have discovered is that oatmeal truly is a "comfort food" in that it is comforting just to hold it, to have it, to watch the oats expand in the water. The soupy warm thickness of it feels like my mom is there with her hand on my back. It makes me warm when it is cold. It makes me full when I am not. It makes me think only good thoughts. If I am to ever grow tired of oatmeal, may the next person feel as happy as I do when I prepare this wonderful substance today. Thank you.

I had a dream last night that The Ramones and Aerosmith did a VH1 performance together. I think this all came about because I got The Royal Tenenbaums soundtrack yesterday right after handing over my new issue of Rolling Stone (with a ridiculous spread of Aerosmith inside...I mean, Steven Tyler is probably 50, and he has highlights in his hair) to Dave. Daylight savings got me all messed up.

I'd like to live in a wigwam
Yes I'd like to live in a wigwam
I'd like to live in a wigwam and
Dance round the totem pole

-Cat Stevens, who also wrote a song called "I love my dog"

No, there is no consistency to this site. It will probably not look the same from day to day. 'Salright?

I see inherent in him an old man waiting to happen. I see him in crumbling photographs in 60 years. I know how the lines on his face will fall. I know just where his glasses will rest on his nose, I know just how his hair will thin, and how he won't be smiling in photos, but rather calmly grinning. I see him with peppered hair and a slim build through all these years and how his upper lip becomes thin with time.

I see how his eyes glint at his grandchildren's photographs and how he rests in a chair in the sitting room, next to a window with an ancient book in his lap. He feels too proud to increase the prescription on his glasses, but his eyes are tired now, and he wants to spend his quiet time looking out the window. He wants to enjoy the mahogony tables flanking his chair, the bay window to his right, the thin curtains stretched from top to bottom over the long windows. He feels a satisfaction with his accomplishments in his old age, and regrets little, maybe with the exception of overlooking this or that in his youth.

The only sounds are the deep ticking of a grandfather clock from the corner, and occasionally he hears the hands flick into place. When he gets up from the chair he likes the way his feet sink into the carpet. He smells the pages of the book before he puts it back into the chair with a red ribbon to mark his place. He owns no paperbacks, only these dusty books from a hundred years ago. He admires the principle of a well made hardback book, and reads classics and books on philosophy. He enjoys Melville and Plato and, on a silly day, Aristophanes.

His wife pads in behind him and they together look out the window. She smells of dial soap and shampoo and is in the interim between tasks. She comes up behind him and rests her chin on his shoulder; they look out through the curtains together. The faint outline of a cul de sac, of bikes with training wheels and young kids driving cars, and waving goodbye with a car packed for college and then a wedding or two.

His head turns to his wife's on his shoulder and his mouth opens slightly as if to say all these things in a single breath of air. Instead she looks up into his eyes which peer down into hers, and they exhale together. They embrace and walking slowly out of the room together their arms circle each other's waists. This is old age. This is how he always imagined it.

Jittery, wanting lunch, wanting to consume, anything, everything, in order. Wanting to stop the flitting feeling of task to task, of being under the weight of so much to do and then suddenly having that weight removed. I am at that space between which feels more like a rift or chasm or bottomless pit with moths flying in a ring at the top. My flitting thoughts are like those moths with their powdery wings. Perhaps they silently hit each other in this flight, powder floating through the air, a million years later settling at the bottom of that chasm. Perhaps their colorless identities are marked by this absense of powder. Perhaps not.

I pop in Nick Drake hoping for some clarity, for some reason to close the rift and get on with it. My thoughts fall on The Handmaid's Tale. I am thinking about her solitude, and how her thoughts are her best friend and only honest outlet. How if they escape they could end her job, her stability, her life; and none of this by her own will. How these thoughts are like are like those moths being set free over that dark space, the flakes of their wings falling endlessly to the bottom, until there are no more flakes to fall. Then the moth falls too, I suppose.

I have this terrible habit of forgetting some movies the second I leave the theater. Such would have been the case tonight with Panic Room had the theater not been so stuffed I hadn't had to sit in the front row. In short, the plot was thin, the tension was ho-hum, a 12 year old could have written a better script, but something about watching the camera pan through floors, walls, and keyholes from the front row made it really unique and almost enjoyable. My neck crooked at an angle, the tension of the sounds and space of the interior of the house seemed almost larger than life (..ahem). You could really feel in your bones the metallic clang of a sledgehammer hitting steel. Three inches from the big screen can make even watching the grass grow memorable just from the amount of racing back and forth your eyes have to do to keep up with the action.

Speaking of sledgehammers, I have never seen such an inventive way of using such a tool: as a...well, sledgehammer, something used to knock cameras off the walls, something used to knock out ceilings, a crutch, a general fear-inspiring noise-making device, and a head-smashing weapon (in more than one circumstance). The entire movie I was starting to think was some kind of twisted cookbook for using your household sledgehammer. I thought the cool point of the movie was this high-tech place called the panic room? Then why does the mystical element weigh only 30 lbs on one end and get solicited for purposes other than to woo us? For the price of a nighttime show on opening weekend, I want to be wooed. They owe it to me.

Back to the one good thing I found in this movie: the creative use of space. I'm not talking about the house, but the way the camera takes on a kind of brain itself, whooshing its way through walls of steel, floating from a corner, taking you through the handle of a coffee pot and through a lock in a door, letting you be as big or small as you want to be. I have to say the opening credits are extremely unique, using a copperplate font, making it three dimensional, and hanging the words out in space in front of buildings, mimicking sidewalk and street patterns. This is actually the first set of the movie: the credits. The second is the house, and the third is the last minute of the film, in central park. It's like a really long twilight zone episode.

And on the creepiness/scariness front: this movie had that one despicable, hideous, sub-human yet somehow super-human character that everyone hates, that gets all bloody and never seems to want to die no matter how many horrible things happen to him. And oh yeah, he's really, really mean. He doesn't care if the kid dies. He holds the gun, and thinks he holds the power. He has absolutely no function in the film other than to be present and be really, really mean and break the tension with the ridiculous amount of hatred he is capable of. Ironically, to me it was like his character sustained development only in the last scene, which confused me about his random badly-scripted lines in the beginning, and why this guy was given the shining villainous moment at the end when he was the weakest character in the film. In other words, who IS this guy?

In conclusion, this is like Home Alone gone (even more) wrong; more blood, characters are less likeable, worse script; but on the plus side, isn't so bad if you're in the front row. Get the crooked neck , skip dinner before the show, and enjoy the scenery. You can even see where the RGB rosettes mix to get Jodie Foster's freckles. Neato.