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THREE DRABBLES


I. TRUTH

The Jeffersonian at one in the morning is a beautiful place. Objectively, she knows it is the dimmed lights (installed for energy saving two years ago), the absence of human cacophony, the world reduced to the honesty of fibulae and vertebrae. She does not speak to herself. There is no need for speech.

Words can be twisted, and hers to Booth rush back, "so you told them something that wasnapos;t true to make them feel better." "Yes." How many times have people done the same? From donapos;t worry, theyapos;ll like you to so you canapos;t say with complete certainty, Dr. Brennan to youapos;ll get over it. Before her, the wordless testimony of a WWII soldierapos;s cranium presents itself.

She only needs to speak for the dead. Their bones do not lie.


II. FAITH

It is the absence of hope that Booth finds saddest about Bones, when heapos;s a little drunk and more honest with himself than he cares to be. Itapos;s not the loss of her parents. Itapos;s not how she sometimes says exactly the wrong thing, this beautiful, brilliant woman who has more walls than anyone heapos;s ever met.

He carefully avoids thinking about Tessaapos;s last words to him, as she left without even taking her toothbrush back with her. It doesnapos;t matter, I can leave my stuff there, I can move into your routine and your house but Iapos;m not really in your life, am I?

Booth doesnapos;t need stuff. He supposes he once loved to collect things like all boys--rocks, comic books (and Bones wonapos;t ever let him live that down) but he got used to the comfort of a life compressed into a single rucksack. Gun, boots, Bible; everything you needed for this life and the next. He supposes that he didnapos;t even need the Bible; he lost it thirty miles west of the Peruvian capital, but it was good to have it when he still had it.

There are no atheists in foxholes. There are no presents for Bones under the Christmas tree. There is no Christmas, because Bones would rather not believe in anything that might leave her. Booth feels the weight of Godapos;s presence in him, as weighty as his own bones. But this is something that cannot be measured, and he canapos;t help but feel that her stubbornness to disbelief is, in its own perverse way, a kind of faith in and of itself.


III. STRENGTH

He holds her hand, slightly bloody across the knuckles. Harvey Welk will be sporting a broken nose for a few months. Janie, his foster daughter...Booth doesnapos;t want to think about how many years sheapos;ll carry the fear with her, if sheapos;ll ever learn to bring down the walls that barricade her old-woman eyes. No child should have eyes that old.

"Abrasions of the epidermis, possible a slight contusion." Her voice is clipped, the same she uses on her official autopsy tapes. It is very different from the voice she uses for her bones, the ones that donapos;t come with casefiles. "No permanent harm to the metacarpals or phalanges."

Her voice softens a little. "Booth, itapos;s just soft tissue damage." She obviously doesnapos;t understand his fuss over her hand. He wonders how much soft tissue has given way to hard, invisible scars over the years, like the knots he feels in his feet when it rains.

How can people think of her as hard? Booth has seen hard people before, gone so brittle they crack right down the middle when life pushes at them. Guys he knew, before, who thought they could handle whatever shit was handed to them because theyapos;d killed without flinching, and who broke when maybe a routine mission suddenly went wrong. They go blank behind the eyes, some terrible silence that those whoapos;d gone through hell could read, easily as day.

They lose the ability to bleed. They lose the ability to heal.

"Yeah. Okay." He lets go of her hand, although neither of them makes a move to get up. "Are you okay? I know cases with...you know, kids like Janie...you feel a real connection with."

"I...think so."

Her eyes are shadowed but not shuttered. Booth counts it as a victory. Just a year ago, she wouldnapos;t have allowed him to ask. Dr. Brennan would never have hit Welk. Bones did, tough, resilient Bones with her bloody hand and triumphant, pained smile.

He allows himself to grin back, gets up, and offers her his hand. She takes it, pulls herself up.

"Wong Fooapos;s, Bones?"

"That sounds ideal. Donapos;t call me Bones."




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It has come to my attention lately that itapos;s time to start rethinking the things I thought I knew. I thought I understood love and relationships, or rather, that I had come to believe they donapos;t really exist in healthy ways. But Iapos;m starting to remember how I used to believe that love was out there for me somewhere. I miss that feeling, the poetic nature of yearning for a Someone Else. And other people are showing me that it does exist, the Real Thing. So maybe I have written it off too soon.

The past 10 years have been about transition, from high school to college to work, back to school, and now back to work. Iapos;ve spent a lot of time floating, building an easily transportable life. But now Iapos;m older, and the next step is not a different job or a new apartment. Iapos;m working in smaller increments now. I am home, where Iapos;ve wanted to be for years. The Next Big Thing is here. If Iapos;m seeking a home, I canapos;t wait for the next move. Home is here, and I have to make it here. The big career moves are farther in the future. I have to get better at this job before I can move on to the next one.

I spent a lot of time in my formative years going with the flow. Things came easy and I got lazy. I got comfortable with playing the princess, taking in any old suitor who crossed my path and taking up past times that seemed to stick. But now I realize that if I want things to be better than just Good, I have to approach them with intent. I have to be more conscious with my intentions and my attentions. If I want love, I have to believe in it and I have to seek it. If I want to have a better job, I have to do a better job. If I want to lose weight, I have to think about food differently, which means strategically eating better to eat less. If I want to have a home, I have to make it here. My life can no longer be about just picking up what drifts by. Whatever I want, I have to create it, and I have to be mindful of what Iapos;m doing. Doing well without trying worked when everyone else was mediocre. I have to do better now because my playing field has shifted. Now Iapos;m doomed to mediocrity unless I work harder. So thatapos;s my new goal - to work harder and do better.

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i am loving the summer breeze.
How i can stand outside my house in shorts and singlet and not feel cold.
i am loving the summer breeze.
Itapos;s reminding me of how great i feel every time i stand at the front part of my g-maapos;s house and breathe in genuine warm humid Malaysia, Klang air.
i am loving the summer breeze.
How it reminds me of the fun times shopping in Singapore with Tasha baby.
i am loving the summer breeze.
It reminds me of the young innocent summer times.

Sometimes itapos;s better to dream the impossible.
Because in my dreams anything is possible.
Waiting for the one you know wonapos;t come home.
Seeing things you will never see.
Hear things you will never be able to hear again.
But I guess, dreams will always be dreams.
Who can tell us that these dreams will come true?
Because we know that it will never happen.
But all we can do is just dream.
Dream.
Dreamed.
Dreaming.

Will always keep dreaming.

�

hold your breathe because tonight will be the night i will fall for you over again.
Donapos;t make me change my mind, i wonapos;t live to see another day, i swear itapos;s true.

No more regrets.
No more pain.
No more, of it.

cosmic knights are tired and stressed.
but they have realised they like to roll.

woo.
woo.
woo.
woo.
V, xoxo.
�

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Does anyone know if Borders buys used books?��And if so, does it buy comic books?��I bought The Killing Joke from Barnes and Noble the other day, because I�had heard good things about it and I�just happened to run across it.� I think without a doubt that itapos;s the worst comic that Iapos;ve ever read. X_X�I�went to Armoury Games with it today, but unfortunately they donapos;t buy comic books.� I just want to get some of the money back that I wasted on it, it was pretty expensive

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Lifeapos;s pretty good. Iapos;m not sure what Iapos;m doing right now.�Iapos;m either leaving for UCF in January or Iapos;m going to take a gamble and try to get into New College or UF for the Fall term. Yeah, itapos;s a seven month extension of staying in this shit hole, but it might be worth the gamble. New College seems amazing. Iapos;m doing good in most of my BCC classes. Philosophy is very boring yet fine, Math 1 is simple enough, Creative Writing is a fucking breeze, and the teacher likes me a lot. However, Math 2 is giving me a bit of shit; Iapos;ve skipped way too many days and Iapos;m not doing good on the work. Iapos;ll get through it though. I always do.


The economy fucking sucks. Moneyapos;s tight. Itapos;s a bitch, but Iapos;ll get through it.


I just want to be a lawyer. Iapos;m so sick of all this retarded shit. Itapos;s going to be nice to get out of BCC, and actually be able to study something that I enjoy like Philosophy or Linguistics, or even English. I�canapos;t fucking wait to get on to a university and then to law school. Itapos;s going to be absolutely amazing.

Iapos;ll write some more later. Iapos;m happy right now.

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Evidently, I'm just ornery.

But, you knew that.

Gall bladder- perfect.

liver - perfect.

Pancreas - perfect.

Peritonitis (however far fetched, but still tested for) - Negative.

Pain - check.

Nausea - check.

New meds - check.

Bed - check.

So, we know nothing more, and will "monitor" for now.

Thanks for your encouragement and prayers. We feel them. Mightily.

Bottom line, I'm here for homecoming.

And that, dear frineds, is all that matters :)

Pictures to follow later this weekend

Be blessed.

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If I keep doing this, Iapos;ve got to get somewhere sometime. If I could even say, "Iapos;m getting closer, Iapos;m 40 pages away." But I havenapos;t even written the ending; I donapos;t know how many pages there still are out there. I know what will happen. I know how it will happen. I havenapos;t written it yet.

I had a glass of Baileyapos;s Irish Cream tonight and Iapos;m quite drunk. The room is spinning.

Yesterday the manager at the stable told me sheapos;d intercepted my review. Trying to tack on a little more $$$. So that was nice. Itapos;s always nice to be appreciated. Then later on that evening the parent of one of my students complained to the program manager that her students werenapos;t progressing well enough. Hmm. Perhaps if her daughter could ask her horse to walk on without flapping her reins, pulling back, standing up in the stirrups, and generally doing all kinds of completely inappropriate things, it might make sense to move on to trotting. But she has to control her horse at a walk. And she doesnapos;t have the basic skills down. So that made me very grumpy, that this parent was trying to tell me how to teach. She doesnapos;t even know how to lead a horse, but she thinks sheapos;s qualified to judge how my teaching is going. She also told the program director that there had been no theory lesson for the past three weeks, which Meghan knew was complete B.S., since I WRITE the theory lessons. Again, I was grumpy.
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