new backyard.

From the moment I get home from work, until the time it is either too dark or too cold, I spend my time on the back porch at Kirkridge. Above is a photo taken at dusk -- I'll try to get a nicer morning shot tomorrow.

Olivia Hubert-Allen

tearful trajectory.

I've never been the type of person to cry about happy things. My tears have always been silent, and reserved for only the most tragic of moments. Even my own mother's soft smile and warm tears during the moments when she has been most proud of me are beyond comprehension.

Until recently.

Perhaps it is a part of growing older, reaching emotional maturity or just being OK about being a sap, but the past year or so of my life has been riddled with happy cries. There was the "unexpected opportunity" cry -- complete with a sinking to the floor and gripping the carpet of my living room. There was the "maternal moment" cry, when I realized that my brother -- despite my requests -- will continue to grow up without my watchful eye. And, a classic this one, the "wedding" cry -- which is characterized by an internal melting and hopefulness.

Now all this talk about crying brings me to my experience today.

As I ascended above the clouds on a Southwest flight from Bowling Green, Kentucky to Columbus, Ohio, I was struck with a profound feeling of calm. Something about looking down at the world below makes life's mistakes, embarrassments, humiliations and shortcomings seem distant and unimportant in the context of space.

I examined my earth, freckled by the shadows of over passing clouds. I was not sad. I was not happy. I was just ... aware.

And then for some reason, my throat tightened and eyes watered. Unblinking, I felt a well of water build beneath my lower eye. I looked up -- hoping for some evaporation -- if a tear doesn't fall you're not really crying, right? I took a deep breath, sat back in my seat and watched the man next to me flip through SkyMall.

Reclining Chairs. Gardening Gizmos. Massage wands. Golf ball carriers. Monogrammed Towels.

In less than a minute, the moment had passed.

Nothing like worthless retail to destroy an emotion.

Olivia Hubert-Allen

power.

I got into journalism and politics so I could change the world. But the more and more that I am venturing into this craft, I am figuring that I should probably have gotten into business instead. Since the end of the Cold War, the world is being run more and more by money and less and less by governments. Whatever is a journalist to do?

Proper update coming soon, I promise. I'm a fair-weather blogger, I'll admit it.

apostro-no.

tisk tisk New York. Improper use of an apostrophe.

The journalism never stops.

online paper.

I just have to share because I'm really excited about this!

I rigged up some magic tonight so The Pendulum's print version is now viewable online.

Check it out and be impressed.

I love the Internet.

sounds of silence.

I grew up on music. Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, Crosby Stills Nash & Young, The Who, The Beatles. Dinner time was often accompanied by the kind of music that could start a revolution. I heard lyrics about the Vietnam war, social injustice, poverty, drugs and sex. By the age of eight I had a pretty clear idea about the state of the world. And not just because my parents told me so -- everything I learned, I learned from Dylan.

But then, after the fall of Napster somewhere around 8th grade, my life filled with silence. I didn't buy albums for years. I couldn't be bothered to spend $15 on a CD. The iTunes era was yet to find its way to light, Rap and R&B ruled the airwaves and I was just ... bored with it all. I liked the idea of music, but was too apathetic to find anything to truly suit my evolving tastes. I flirted briefly with punk, because that's what all the other kids were doing, but it just felt too manufactured, a tad to whiny, nothing that reflected who I was.

Then finally, sometime this past summer, the music started again. On a seven hour solo car ride from North Carolina to Pennsylvania I had nobody to talk to, and nothing to do, but explore the depths of my iPod. Suddenly, in an instant, it was like music made me feel alive again. I danced -- or since I was in my car it was more of a wiggling bottom with arm flourishments. I sang. I laughed. I tapped my breaks. I opened my sunroof and let the wind tease my hair into giant afro of fuzz. The music was so loud that I missed 10 phone calls. The moment was one I won't forget.

Ever since I've had an insatiable appetite for music. I keep a little piece of paper wadded up in my purse with fractions of lyrics from songs I hear, and like, and google, then download.

This all brings me to the tragedy that occurred last week. After 6 years of good service my mp3 player died. I tried to revive it with that "restore" setting -- but no -- now it only loads A-M of my artists and then decides it's had enough.

The silence is beginning to creep back into my life. Oh horrors! Refurbished OLD edition iPods still come at $150 a pop. Ooph! Note to parents: if you're reading a "congratulations, you're an amazing daughter!" present would be OK with me right about now... ;)

decompressing europe.

There is so much to say since I last wrote that it almost seems hopeless to try and catch up.

I finally made my trip east of the Atlantic and had an absolutely phenomenal time.

London was red wine, warm smiles and wet ankles.
Lake Garda was mozzarella and rocket pizza.
Lugano was Italian conversations, friends, fondue and chocolate.
Milan was birds - lots of really nasty birds.
Bergamo was salami, cheese and ants.
Brussels was orgasmic pastries and leprechauns.
Maastrict was bicycles, bars, boys kissing and raw fish.
London the second time was old friends, odd friends, old habits, odd feelings.

It is impossible to sum up my trip in any sort of blog post. I did record it all in page after page of my travel journal -- now stained with red ink where blank sheets once laid. With every bit more ink, a little bit more life lived ... a little bit more to remember.

Somehow going back to placed I had been before brought about a closure that I have been missing. It helped me to realize that a quarter of the way around the globe really isn't that far away. Knowing that at any moment, given a bit of room in my bank account and a week off work, I can take to the skies and be in a different life within 8 hours -- it's utterly liberating.

I sometimes wonder if my love of travel means I am discontent with the life I am living now. Am I so excited and enamored with getting away because it releases me from being stuck in the hum-drum of my current existence? I thought about this a lot on my trip. About my overall state of happiness really. I think I may have gotten to the bottom of it: change.

Ever since I was a child, I have loved change. The changing from classroom to classroom, a new outfit, a quirky haircut. In fact, for many years of my life I would rearrange the furniture of my room every month or so. I've since stopped -- but not because my desire has dwindled, it's more of a time issue these days. I think that travel eases my itching for change. If only for a week or two, I get to try on a different life. How fantastic!

I also think that I'm still searching for something. I'm not really sure what it is -- maybe the perfect career, maybe the perfect house, maybe the perfect pastrami sandwich... but somehow I just feel like I'm missing something. So perhaps my love of travel is just one bit treasure hunt -- without a map.

Or an x in the sand for that matter.


Keep your eyes posted, I'll get a photo slideshow up eventually...