Sunday, December 9, 2012


is taking a cup of tea
and holding it in your hands
and breathing in its scent
and letting it warm your face
and as it washes across your lips
somewhere, someone who is two thousand miles away
can taste it

Monday, December 3, 2012


Everything seems so fragile.
We could fall so easily. But take my hand. Hold tight to these frail fingers and the blue veins through my porcelain skin and hold so, so tight.
We could fall, and fall so easily.
It’s a long drop, but another step and we’ll be past the edge.  We’ll be so far out we can’t go back.
But I want to try.
Do you want to try? (In spite of the fact we might fall, in spite of the fact the drop is so far, in spite of the fact both of our hearts are pounding with so much fear we can’t hardly think.)
(Step out with me.)
Do you want to try?
(We could do it, you know. It’s not even about proving them wrong anymore.)
Everything is so fragile.  You need so much courage for this. (I need so much courage for this.)
And slowly your icy fearful shaking hand reaches out, and your strong but oh so weak fingers entwine with mine.
One step.
One step and we’ll be past the edge.
Take it with me.
My hands can’t warm yours up, because I’m frozen as you. But if you think about it, the question isn’t if we want to go or not.
It’s if we’re all right with staying where we are.
There’s nothing but huge, undaunting courage before us and all that pain and sorrow and frozen wasteland behind us.
(Oh, do it. Oh, take that step.
(what I fear most is that everything depends on it)).
Just one more breath, and we could make it--just don’t look down--please-- let’s go past that edge--
As long as you hesitate so will I.
(What you fear most is that every little thing depends on it.)
And then, daring, we pick up our feet.
The next moments will the ones that prove our mad courage absolutely perfect or terrifically foolish.
What will it be, darling? Did we make the right decision?

Saturday, December 1, 2012

My Dreams Are My Only Obstacle

Someone needs to convince me I won’t be internet famous if I make a youtube channel and start weekly videos.
I mean, I think I’d be good at it. But at the same time, and in the words of Peter Metalhead Lalush who has tried to de-convince me, “Exposure is dang impossible.”
And I think if I could convince myself that I wouldn’t be the next Charlieissocoollike or Danisnotonfire, I might decide that I oughtn’t try.
After all, I tried to convince myself I’d be a video game character concept artist for Sonic Team at Sega and that dream expired a few years back.
And I tried to convince myself I would be fluent in Japanese by the time I finished high school and that dream died with Junior year.
And I tried to convince myself I would be a Photoshop queen and got a graphics tablet and that dream is currently collecting dust in a desk drawer.
So I don’t know if I’m just trying to convince myself that I could be an amazing “YouTuber” so that when I get my Canon S6 and a video editor or whatever I can stick that one in the deepest recesses of the internet and forget about it too.
You see, the problem with my dreams is that they’re expensive. I want to learn Japanese. Rosetta Stone Japanese is about $400, kids.  I want to be a graphics designer, and a graphics tablet is about $350 or so, or at least when I got mine it was. 
Cameras aren’t cheap. And I know nothing about video editors. I don’t even know if I can really do quality video editing without a mac ((but that might just be because I’m rather surrounded by Apple fangirls), and those are even more than a quality camera if I’m not mistaken.
But can you justify the amount of money spent on a venture if you get an experience out of it?
My no-consequences, impressionistic, idealistic artist side is saying yes.
But the rest of my brain is saying no.
And yes I could sell the Japanese and tablet for this youtube thing but—
That gives me pause. I’d still love to learn Japanese, though I know I won’t (ever. Probably.). I’d still love to hold onto the graphics tablet, although that’s kind of like that Aesop’s fable where the dog sat on the hay so the horses couldn’t eat it.
And what if I did get a camera and a video editor? What if I just shelve that dream?
I pursue far too many things, I fear.  I’m interested in so much, I feel like there’s not any time for me to actually do what I want.
That doesn’t even make sense. My dreams inhibit my ability to pursue my dreams. They are my only obstacle.
Anyway. Thought I’d do a kind of blog-posty blog post instead of just posting random thoughts and things on this blog, because I haven’t in a while. I’m doing well, currently drowning in finals that professors made up purposefully to drain the life out of me. I haven’t been good at keeping up with other blogs lately, though I’ve been trying (not too hard. Finals.).
Yep that’s about it.
Much love,
Christina Icarus

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

only a few months it's been

Here I am,
In that place I told you I wouldn't be.

The stars were aligned but as soon as I followed them they fell off the map;

And no sooner than I open my mouth do all the words flee,
And so I've adapted to living with that mouth closed.


I'm not going anywhere anytime soon.

Progress is just an illusion
And all those lovely dreams are just dreams in the end
(when you've drifted away from them).

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Roots Where You're Planted

If only my nightlight
was a sky light
instead of this godforsaken night life

But no matter how far you flee, you can’t outrun this state of mind
and no matter how hard you try, this is something that you can’t wish away

If only my sky was lighter
the ground flatter
Instead of recurring mountains

but what if the problem isn’t where you are
but a hunger inside you

If only I could get out of this hellhole of a town
If only I could get on a plane, go up, come down
in a place I’d never been, with people I’ve never seen

If only you could escape this horrid frame of mind
and hop the borders to contentment
You’d be happy wherever your foot falls

If only

But all I want to do is leave
and search for something bigger, greater
Something that isn’t here

All you want to do is leave

Thursday, October 18, 2012

sorry to interrupt but...

For some reason Blogger freaked out on me and deleted all the blogs I was following?
Also I don't remember what all of those blogs were. owo

Monday, October 8, 2012

October Air

The air is cold now.
It must be fifty degrees, but it feels like it’s thirty after the long hot summer we had.  Now the only sweat I feel is the tiny strip of skin pressed against my knitted hat, where my hair is all smashed beneath it.  The trees are all empty, with all the leaves fallen and raked up, bagged and sitting on the side of the dingy concrete roads with the trash.
The trees, standing against the yellow and blue sky, are what stick out in my mind the best. They look so tragic, like they didn’t ask for the winter to come but it did, just like it always did, and it took away all of the leaves without reason, without purpose.  And yet, the trees didn’t seem sad about it; and that is the most tragic thing of all. There isn’t anything sad about it, to the trees.  They haven’t even realized that their majesty is gone, probably, sitting by the side of the road to be carted off to the dump and burned away.
They don’t care. That’s what’s tragic about them.
Your screen door slams behind you and your feet tromp twice before you sit on the cold pavement steps beside me.  I’m still looking at those awfully depressing trees, but you immediately pipe up and say hi, ask me what was up.  I wish you could be quiet. Not because I don’t want to hear you, but just because it’s nice, every once in a while, just to look at the trees and be a little melancholy.
I try to get you to feel the October inside of you.  “The trees,” I mumble, keeping my eyes fixed on them.  “It’s fall.”
You laugh, and it sounds too fast, too nervous, like you don’t want there to be silence. “Yeah, it is,” you say.
“But look at them,” I say quietly, not wanting to disturb the feeling of autumn inside of my chest.
You do, and the rustling scrape of a few neglected leaves across the pavement is the only sound. 
“Look at them. I have them inside of me,” I try to explain.  “Inside of my head.”
You give me a weird look, and I think about backtracking.  But I’ve already said it, it’s already out there.  I admitted that I have fall inside me.  I feel the season inside of my head, in my lungs, in my rib cage where my heart should be.
“You have dead trees. In your head,” you state, still looking at me with one eyebrow raised.
I just shake my head. “No,” I give up. “That’s not what I meant.”
The sun is setting now, so the air is just going to get chillier for every second we sit here.  You stand, and so do I.  “Where do you want to go?” you ask.
“Let’s go to the hay maze,” I say, still conscious of the trees out of the corner of my eye and the rich feeling in my chest.
We trek down the road to McAllistar’s Apple Orchard, the wind swishing past our faces and forcing our hands deep into our pockets.  When we get there, Mr. McAllistar is locking the door to the admission shack, about to leave for the evening.  We can see his son framed by yellow light inside the orchard store playing checkers against himself.  Mr. McAllistar says we can walk the maze for free today. It’s probably because my mother baked his son cupcakes on his birthday right after Mrs. McAllistar died. His son is kind of simple, and he thought the cupcakes were from the angels, sent from his mother in heaven. They were good cupcakes. Mr. McAllistar thinks I don’t remember it because it was so long ago, but I do.
Once we’re inside of the hay maze the wind isn’t as biting and you take off your earmuffs.  The sun is going down faster now and I can tell it’s going to be dark soon. We’ve both forgotten flashlights, but that’s all right. We don’t talk about it.
All the crickets of the summer are gone so we crunch along and swing our hands in silence.
The allspice and dead leaf emotion is so thick in my blood. The maze isn’t too hard to work out; Mrs. McAllistar was the one who came up with the designs for them, and Mr. McAllistar just put them up, but since she’s been gone he’s just reused the old ones over a few times.  We first walked this one in third grade, and then again in ninth, so we both know the way. 
When we get near the end of the maze, we check to make sure the sweep of the McAllistar truck’s headlights are gone and climb up to sit on some of the higher haybales.  The wind is really blowing now, and the sky is prickled with early stars. Our thighs are brushing so we both keep warm.
And this time, you don’t say anything. You’re all right with the quiet cold, just me and you sitting here side by side like nothing will ever change.  I know it will, one day and eventually, but for now, this is right.  This is what fall is supposed to be like.  This is forever.

Friday, October 5, 2012


a poem

I need to go faster.
I need to be doing more.
I’m not doing enough I’m not doing enough I’m not doing enough I’m not doing enough

I can’t go fast enough
I can’t run hard enough
I can’t accomplish as much as I need to
I can’t
I can’t

I need to
I can’t

Help me Help me Help me

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

You Know Who You Are

You make me want to write.
That’s right—you make me want to pick up that black pen (the one that has ink as smooth as the soft back of any cat’s ear, and the color so intense I could just drown in it if I think too hard about it) and grab a small maroon notebook with off-white pages and constant grey wire lines and just go to town.  You make me want to explore every feeling I’ve ever felt, and turn them all into pictures and people and circumstances and places and give them to all of humanity in stolid black letters trucking across the smooth snowy pages of whatever book you cause me to write.  You make me want to throw all hesitation out of the window and hole myself up in a beautiful cabin somewhere starry with just fruit to survive on and chewing gum for thinking until I’ve emerged with some fragment of a gem to polish up and give to you to inset in the crown you don’t have but oh-so-definitely deserve.
I don’t know what it is but knowing that you’re proud of me makes me want to strive to do the very best with any ounce of talent I have in my body and make something worth being proud of.  Simply knowing that you love me makes me want to sing for you in the only voice I have: that of typewriter fonts and coffee stains on post-it notes and late nights and random thoughts and fragmented sentences and beauty that makes me cry.
I don’t deserve to have someone believe in me (but you do); and since you do, I want to give you a reason to believe. I want to give you the books and books you said you could see on your bookshelf one day.  I want to move you to tears, break your heart and convince you that happily ever after doesn’t depend on circumstance but what we make it and hopefully I’ve made it very good, because you told me I could.  I want to take your breath away and reconsider the way that the ocean smells and make you look at the clouds differently. I want to prove you right.
Someday I’m going to prove you right.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012


"I hate people," I'll grumble as I glare at the entire population behind my too-long chocolate bangs
"Oh, you love people and you know it," someone will always reply, teasing and genuine
And the thing about it
is that everything said was true

Saturday, August 11, 2012

An evening in the commune

The evening is just starting to melt into a hazy dusk, turning the blues into greyish greens and heady midnights, looking fuzzy and far-off.  The air is cool, cooler than usual, cooler than it ought to be this time of year in such a hot climate but it is dry, so it's not too extraordinary.  Breezes whisk lightly through the alleys.  The murmurs of human life are just that, quieter than a usual dusk.  The curfew seemed to come earlier and earlier with every passing day of summer, the sun lingering in the sky, tantalizing all who wished to stay out and about against royal decrees.
The dallying sun is sinking fast and faster now, the night's colors creeping in behind it.  Soon it will be completely dark.
It is a good thing for the figure leaning in a shaded doorway.  The cover of darkness is her only partner. She must wait for it before she can achieve anything.

Mrrp. Just some bored drabbling. My laptop is currently screwed up and I don't have much to do. Could read (I was reading earlier, John Knowles, a bit of a true love of mine) but I decided to take a break.

Life's kind of getting to me lately. I need a great big vacation (and perhaps a little asprin. :] ).

Lots of love to you all~ Have a marvelous time with it,

Christina Kuri

Friday, July 27, 2012

Waiting, waiting, always waiting...

True worth is in being, not seeming,— 
In doing, each day that goes by, 
Some little good—not in dreaming
Of great things to do by and by. 

Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.

We cannot make bargains for blisses,
Nor catch them like fishes in nets; 
And sometimes the thing our life misses
Helps more than the thing which it gets.

I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.

For good lieth not in pursuing,
Nor gaining of great nor of small, 
But just in the doing, and doing
As we would be done by, is all.

What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it hath sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.

Through envy, through malice, through hating,
Against the world, ,early and late.
No jot of our courage abating
Our part is to work and to wait.

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
...Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son! 

Sunday, July 22, 2012

La di dah...

Hey there.

Sorry about not blogging for a while.  There hasn't really been much to talk about (that's a blatant lie, there's a million things to talk about but I've been preoccupied).

Well, I guess I start off by saying that I went to Summit again.

Absolutely incredible.  I met a million new people and all of them were precious and I learned so much more than last year (which is saying something because I learned SO MUCH last year).  I got to meet my lovely internet friend Eri whom I love more than life itself and I can say that she's the cutest person IN THE WHOLE UNIVERSE oh my goodness.  Seriously.

Struggling right now with how to turn my convictions into action because I'm the laziest most unproductive person in the whole world and I'm the queen of wasted time.

I'm going to college, though.  A Bible college, for a degree in biblical counselling. Orientation is the 23rd.

Look at me, all grown up.

I go from excited to apprehensive, from terrified to apathetic.

I am truly a beast of many emotions.

Speaking of emotions, I saw The Amazing Spiderman.

I cried more than 6 times.




Haven't seen Batman yet.  I was going to threaten you if you spoil it before I see it but there should be no jokes about violence and that film ever again.

Oh, the depths of human depravity.

There were babies in that theatre.  Little babies, little kids, precious impressionable human being, being subjected to watch a fellow human being reduce their friends, their families, the man in front of them into nothing but bleeding bodies, completely empty of all the glorious life we have within us.  Little babies, watching this violence.  Little babies, being shot.


My heart is heavy right now.

And I can listen to Cher Lloyd and pretend like everything is okay and laugh and poke fun at all my friends but the fact is, people died, and people die every day, and it's not okay.

It's just not okay with me.

Apologies.  Like I said, my heart is just heavy right now.

How far heaven is from this poor, decrepit world!

Christina Kuri

Wednesday, June 27, 2012


I sit in the luscious room, the heavy curtains drawn back to let the summer sun shine in across the stone floor.  The bed is soft, the blankets thick and detailed.  My clothing is pressed, washed, and smells of lavender.  Once, I would be completely lost in a room like this, but now it is natural to me.
I stand, stop by the large glass panes separating me from the outside world.  I softly unlatch the window and open it slightly, looking out and down at the bustle of people.  They clatter and clamour below me but I’m not listening to them.  Once, I would be completely overwhelmed, but now they are natural to me.
I look across the feet of air between me and the cobbles beneath me.  I wonder what would happen if I were to hurl myself from my window right now.  I wonder if they would come running from the castle opposite.  I wonder if they would know who I was.  This, however—this is most natural to me.  The wondering.  The questions.
I wonder if she would cry.
And though I ask myself this, inside, I think I know the answer.  But I can’t accept it and so I wonder.  I toy with the possibilities.  I know, deep inside, what would happen.  I know.
But if I have any ability to change it, I will.
I straighten my tunic, run a hand through my hair.  I’ll go to the castle, try to see her, but before I go I close the window.  I turn away.  I wouldn’t ever jump.
But that doesn’t keep me from wondering if they would miss me.
Or if they would even remember my name.

That's Hero's most distinctive trait:  wondering, at everything, all of the time.
And I can't help but think most of the time he just knows that things don't turn out right, and maybe that's the reason that he's always playing out scenarios in his head.  And maybe he always knew that things wouldn't turn out, but no matter what he tries to do to change that, nothing he does really changes anything for the better.
And maybe he knew that everything would fall in the end anyway.


This post is actually rather funny because I don't really know how many of you know anything about this story at all, but I'm in a musing mood about it lately and I've got to process it somehow, yes?

Christina Kuri

Sunday, June 17, 2012

But I'd rather speak honestly, because redemption is here

I haven't been here in a while.

My fingers move, creaky and slowly through the dust.  The smell of a faint guilt and heavy negligence hangs in the air.  It's unfamiliar and yet it feels right.  I start slowly, like getting on a bike after 5 years of having my feet planted firmly on the ground, but when I start to pedal it goes a little easier and a little faster and much better than I might have expected if only I don't fall for then I shall never touch the contraption again.

Falling has that effect on me.

I have decided that I feel and reveal too much.  I have determined that sometimes I ought to step back and say Rhett-Butler style that frankly my dear I don't give a damn.  I have concluded that my heart gets involved in things where my hands and brain do not.  I have discovered that I invest myself when I oughtn't.  I have learned that I over analyze and over exaggerate and sometimes I overtly think. Oftentimes, really.

I regret that.

But at the same time, I'll never regret it.  Because it's who I am, and it's what I do, and though it gets me into trouble sometimes often times it doesn't and if I don't feel things then how do I know that I'm still a functional human being and how could I go on and how could I ever find words to describe anything if

if I don't actually break my heart over silly things every once in a while?  If I don't weep over small losses or let myself feel the sting of another's words or laugh at every little thing that I can or love so deeply that it's too much to bear when people let me down?

And I really do care, even when I want to pull a Rhett Butler.  I might not be able to control other people but I can of course control myself and I shall feel with every fiber of my being every emotion that I can to the fullest and I shall not hide my tattered heart on my sleeve and I shall not hide my tears in public and I shall not repent of speaking the way that I feel because it is honest and I shall not speak anything but truth all the days that I live (or at least I shall try very hard to)

Sometimes it's unbearable.

But I shan't apologize for that.

Because everything is, sometimes.

I don't know what I'm trying to say.  I don't know.

I'm only responsible for me, I'm discovering.  And I don't always know what to do and sometimes I make the wrong decisions.

But I'm not going to hate myself for it.

And I hope that when I make mistakes, you can learn to forgive me for it.

Christina Kuri Icarus

Saturday, April 14, 2012

&oh, look, it's april 14th

So if you guys would please pray. I just wrote a letter to a girl I know asking her not to commit suicide and explaining the gospel to her.
Also right now I'm on my lovely friend Jodi's computer . . . the same one she uses to write her blog posts. Hi, Jodi! I hope you're having a wonderful time at dinner.
As an update to my life, I'd just like to say that I thought I had a plan for next year and now everything's all cattywampus and I am being asked to choose between two very different paths.  Woohoo, growing up is super fun. *sarcasm hand*
I'm trying to find a job so that I can pay my way to Summit this summer.
I get to play an austere British woman in a play here in a few weeks.
And I'm about to graduate high school forever.
And that's about it.
Toodle pip~
Christina Icarus

Saturday, March 31, 2012

it's really wild, but i just don't have any words any more and no one seems to realize just how insane it's been driving me

if you want me to be honest

Sunday, March 25, 2012

Selling thoughts, buying worlds

"They're just words from someone's brain."  Those words ring in my brain now, words that my father said last Thursday afternoon, driving me home from a class.  It's Sunday now, but they won't leave my head.
"I'll never think of books the same way, since you wrote Islander."
How do you mean? I asked, glancing away from the window for just an instant, the wind pushing my hair into my face as it sweeps by the car.
"I mean-- that's all books are.  They're just words from someone's brain."
It's true, that's all they are.  Just words-- and everyone has words-- that someone's thought up and transposed and is giving to you as part of their brain and part of their thought.  Anyone can write down words on paper and give them to anyone else, words to be absorbed into our own heads and considered and contemplated and enjoyed.
The rub comes in when you have to make your words good enough-- good enough that people want to take your thoughts and think them themselves.  You have to advance them to a place where people want them.  To get people to desire your words and crave your thoughts.
I have plenty of words.  Everyone does.  You just have to get them good enough so that people desire them.  Refine them.  Arrange them.  Force and prod and whip them into submission if you have to but your words have to be desireable -- you have to be good-- or what are you but a person with words in her head and sores on her hands from holding her pencil wrong for hours by candlelight?
Make people
crave your words
[and then you are a force to be reckoned with]

Thursday, March 1, 2012

In Regards to the Future

Come and listen, come to the water's edge, all you who know and fear the Lord.
Come and listen, come to the water's edge all you who are thirsty, come.

February 24th.  A crazy day at my house-- full and insane and busy, so, so busy.  I was a bundle of anticipation, stress, nerves, terror, uncertainty.  I was a walking distaster, a ticking time bomb on a proverbial dam holding back countless future worries and the terribly dark waters of the unknown.

Let me tell you what He has done for me.
Let me tell you what He has done for me,
He has done for you,
He has done for us.

It was nap time.  Everything was quiet, my mom preparing for a trip with some girlfriends, my dad and brother at work.  I slunk up to the black formica countertop where she was working, looking sullen and despondant.  It only took one comment-- "I'm sorry you're having such a bad day"-- and I collapsed with my head in my hands. 
"I have no direction!"  I wailed, the tears filling my eyes.  "I'm a complete failure.  My life has just been one missed deadline after the other.  I missed the deadline for the March SAT, it's the end of February and I haven't filled out my FASFA, it's my final year of high school and I don't know where I'm even going to college, much less what for, and I have no idea and I'm still missing credits and I can't even function with this hanging over my head and I can't do this anymore!  I just can't do this!"
I was a mess.
"No, you're in a good place,"  my mom said, her voice comforting, just like I was a little kid again who had lost her hairbow to the vacuum cleaner, or had skinned her knee for the umpteenth time.  "You're where God wants you, relying on Him.  And you might not know what you want to do but that's okay, that's good.  It's good that you're waiting on Him."  She went on, but I was barely listening, too busy seeking out tissues with my hand like a blind person.
"Besides, maybe God doesn't want you to go to college. Maybe He has a wonderful young man waiting for you in the wings, or maybe He's planning something totally different that doesn't have anything to do with college . . ." She went on, and slowly my tears stopped.
But those words didn't leave my mind.

Come and listen,
come and listen to what He's done.
Come and listen,
come and listen to what He's done.

That night a dear friend came over and spent the night.  We lay in the spare bedroom, staring up at the dark ceiling, hardly lit by the small lamp we had turned on so we could see one another.  I was recounting the day, telling her my stress about the next year had peaked that day and I'd had a breakdown.

Praise our God for He is good.
Praise our God for He is good.
Praise our God for He is good.
Praise our God for He is good.

It was probably two in the morning.  And as we sat, she shared that she didn't want to follow the American dream.  To graduate high school, head to college, mold in a classroom for four years for a piece of paper, then get a good job, get married, have a few kids in the house with the picket fence, raise them, send them off, have grandkids, grow old, die.
"My mom's best friend graduated high school, and right after she moved to Hawaii with two friends, they all got jobs, and they lived there for a year.  And they just hardly got by but they had an experience and it was worth it.  They came back and went to college.  That's what I want-- an experience. I don't want the American dream, I want an experience. I don't want college.  I don't feel called there."
"I think that's great," I said, just listening.
"Wouldn't it be great to just move somewhere, get involved in some churches, and just minister to people?  Maybe I'd be poor, but I'd be living and it would be worth it.  I'd be living.  And you'd get an experience, the same as if you'd be going to college, it would just be a different experience.  I wouldn't be wasting anything."  She was thinking, really pondering this.  "It would be different. I'd remember it for the rest of my life."
"Yeah," I agreed.  "And it's not like you can't learn outside of college, anyway."
We lay there, talking for a while longer, and eventually turned off the clip lamp and went to sleep.  But the words I had said didn't leave my mind.  Learning outside of college.  I had forgotten you could.  Actually doing instead of being spoonfed secondhand.  Making things yourself instead of learning from someone who did.  Learning, really learning, by absorption and action instead of notes and cards.
The words couldn't leave my mind.

He has done for me,
He has done for you,
He has done for us.

February 25th.  A Saturday.  I had just woken up from a four hour nap after she had gone home.  I was thinking about what I should read in my Bible that day, ignoring my bible study book because it was rehash of a different book by the same author. 

Come and listen,
come and listen to what He's done.

My eyes fell on a piece of paper where I had hastily scrawled a verse in my college-bound mindset.  "And the Lord will guide you continually . . . "
Isaiah 58.  It was as good a place as any.
"Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the straps of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke?
Is it not to share your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover him, and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?Then shall your light break forth like the dawn, and your healing shall spring up speedily; your righteousness shall go before you; the glory of the LORD shall be your rear guard.
Then you shall call, and the LORD will answer; you shall cry, and he will say, 'Here I am.' If you take away the yoke from your midst, the pointing of the finger, and speaking wickedness,
if you pour yourself out for the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted
, then shall your light rise in the darkness and your gloom be as the noonday.
And the LORD will guide you continually and satisfy your desire in scorched places and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters do not fail.And your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt; you shall raise up the foundations of many generations; you shall be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of streets to dwell in.
"If you turn back your foot from the Sabbath, from doing your pleasure on my holy day, and call the Sabbath a delight and the holy day of the LORD honorable; if you honor it, not going your own ways, or seeking your own pleasure, or talking idly;
then you shall take delight in the LORD, and I will make you ride on the heights of the earth;
I will feed you with the heritage of Jacob your father, for the mouth of the LORD has spoken."

Come and listen,
come and listen to what He's done.

God isn't calling me to college.  It isn't necessary.  Do you know what he wants from me?  He wants me to live like a Christian and do what He says.
There aren't any limits.
There just aren't any.
Live like a Christian and do what He says.
Live like a Christian, and you shall take delight in the Lord, and He will make you ride on the heights of the earth.
The very heights of the earth...!

Am I going to waste my life?
Of course not.
I'm going to keep learning.  I'm going to memorize and study and apply myself and write, oh, how I'll write.  And I'll do things, and I'll serve how He calls me to, and I'll hang on one crazy day at a time and I'll make it and He's the only one who knows how and it's glorious.
Because I am a competent person.  And I can't claim any of this myself.
To Him be all glory, and we'll see where it takes us.

Let me tell you what He has done for me.
Let me tell you what He has done for me,
He has done for you,
He has done for us . . .

Christina Kuri Icarus

Sunday, February 26, 2012

College . . . or Not

You don’t have to go to college.
For Jude’s sake, it’s something we all forget. We think we have to go sit in classrooms for another four years.  And if you’re like me, that prospect isn’t exactly unappealing.  I like to learn; I like worksheets and projects and papers and notes.  But we forget that we don’t have to go.  That some of us aren’t called to go.
But did you ever realize—really, really realize-- you can move to Michigan and get a job working for a nonprofit and rent a little apartment and buy clothes at Goodwill and honor God and keep in touch and love your life right out of high school?
Did it ever come to mind that you can live with your parents and save your money and go on a trip following the course of the Civil War and write down every little thing and come home to suburba to write a bestseller?
You know you can fly to England with a friend, get a job at a coffee shop or a museum gift store and start a bible study, being a Christian where you’re at, ministering to people because they’re the only eternal thing on this earth beside God Himself?
“It’s not accredited,” people will warn.
Like you can’t learn if you don’t have something telling you that you did learn something after all. Like I can’t do something without a piece of paper telling you I did do something.
 “It’s a waste of time,” they’ll say.
But it’s not.  It’s my life.

Friday, February 17, 2012

The 101st: An Update

Hey, guys.  So this is a blog where I’m supposed to be writing about writing.  And this is me, not writing.
Cuz that’s what good writers do, amirite?
But the truth is, I have been writing, a little.  Been working on something I’ve let rest for a while.  Been rewriting an old story (an old, old story).  Most of you don't know it.  Some of you know it, but it's got a new opening.  And it starts out like this:
The sun was intolerable.  There wasn’t a breath of wind and I swear I was sweating more than should be humanly possible.  The summer hadn’t been kind—in fact, it had been one of the hottest recorded in this state, and the sun wasn’t letting me forget it as it seared into the back of my neck.  I would have sunburn in no time if I didn’t get into shade soon.
It was bad enough I was even standing here, my dingy green duffel on the dusty ground next to my worn flip-flops, and it was even worse that I had my thumb sticking out.
For the first time in my nineteen years, I was hitchhiking.

I probably won’t be posting it on here because I just won’t, but if you’re interested in reading shoot me an email and we’ll see what we can do.
Happy February! :]
Christina Kuri Icarus

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

News Flash:

Due to an unexpected valentine from a darling little boy, a NOS, an hour-and-a-half long chat with a friend she doesn't see enough, a cute outfit, psyching her brother out with a 'secret admirer' note devised by herself and written by her friends, her parent's return from their anniversary trip and a pizza-delivery dinner/Audrey Hepburn movie date with a great friend, Christina's Valentine's day was an incredible success.  Also this is her hundredth blog post.  You may return to your business until further notice.  Thank you.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Blogging more, blogging more . . . Kind of.

Someone told me recently that I should blog more because he's always checking it and he's devastated when there are no more of my words online.

I just don't have that much to blog about, really. 

I've discovered a new obsession with some British bands.

My feet are cold and so are my shins and fingers, but my palms are warm because of fingerless gloves.

The sun is glaring off of the tiles just outside the window.

My stomach has been holding back a growl for the past 50 minutes.

I keep forgetting it's February.

Sometimes I can't help but think that it's an author's talent to be able to write when there's nothing to say

but all I can help but think is that now I have a slight headache

and my left eye hurts a little more than my right.

I should probably look up colleges right now

but instead I'm floundering here.

That's really all.

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Happy Light Fluffy Stuff: Tagged~

I have a feeling I got tagged on this thing by Peter “Le Metalhead” Lalush, so here goes nothing. I don't really know why I'm doing this besides the fact it looks fun. :]

The Rules
1) post these rules.
2) post 11 random things about yourself.
3) answer the questions the tagger set for you in their post.
4) create 11 new questions for the people you tag to answer.
5) go to their blog and tell them they've been tagged.
6) no cop-outs in the tagging section like “if you are reading this/follow me,” blah blah blah. you have to legitimately tag people.

11 random things about me
1. I have a jar of  18 lipsmackers to my left.  Flavors include pomegranate, wintermint, Bubble Yum, lemonade, Fanta Pineapple, Blue Raspberry Jolly Rancher, berry smoothie, Peppermint and Vanilla.
2. To my left I have a three-inch-tall Woody figurine.  Yeah, from Toy Story.
3. I just scrapped my plans for after school ends and I’ve got no clue what the future holds.  I’m just gonna stick my hands in the air and hope the safety harness holds me in as the crazy roller-coaster ride that is God’s plan for my life takes off.

Saturday, February 4, 2012

And Free Them

 The Flight of Kings
The Classic Crime

Twenty two years have passed by
As I contemplate
I can recall you getting me out of every scrape
What comes first to my mind
Was the change that I so desperately needed to make
Day and night, frozen silent in blinding violent fear
A song for my fight
Comes spilling the words I so desperately needed to hear

Do you know this song's for you?
My heart goes out to the hurt you feel inside

What hurts more than just dying
Is living barely alive
After all it's easier than falling short every time
I felt the pain and set fire
To the grace that I so desperately needed to take

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Just Stay

There was another little pause.
"Th' reg'ment lost over half th' men yesterday," remarked the friend eventually.  "I thought 'a course they was all dead, but, laws, they kep' a-comin' back last night until it seems, after all, we didn't lose but a few.  They'd been scattered all over, wanderin' around in th' woods, fightin' with other reg'ments, an' everything.  Jest like you done."
"So?" said the youth.

Jest like you done.

I'm a deserter.  I'm a runner.  You open that gate and I take off.  You pull the lid off of the jar and I've flown.

In the Red Badge of Courage, the youth was fleeing from battle.  But I don't flee from battles, for I have no battles.  There is no smoke and gunfire and burning, acrid air-- no comrades and brothers falling beside me and behind me, no danger.

No-- I run, but not from battle.

I run from safety.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012


Winner! in bright, bold orange letters.  Every year can be better than the next.  The vibrating of my cell phone reverberates through the black wood of my desk, reaching even into my wrists on piles and piles of books, and it's comforting because someone loves me enough to want to talk to me.  A jar full of money looks rather imposing until you look closer and realize they're all ones and you're not as rich as you hoped.

This summer, I'm going to climb a mountain and sing a hymn into Colorado air, I'm going to sit on a hill and blow bubbles into the early July air, I'm going to dream of ice cream until I'm standing in front of that little shop and that precious old man who owns it, and I'm going to return to my true love.  I have a  cappuchino candle on my table and it makes the air smell of sophistication.

Stress is a little like a giant elephant standing in a room that I try to avoid until it steps on my toes and I can't help but cry.  Jars of Lipsmackers tell you that even though she was the only girl, she was still a girl.  Jars of pens tell you even though she's the only watercolor rainbow in a world of ROY G BIVs, she was still an artist and would be until the world ended.

Beauty gained and lost, taller, shorter, thicker, thinner-- people change and they're still the same even though they're completely different in every way, inside and out.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Five Hundred is a Large Number (So is Fifty Thousand)

The frost dances across the windows and the world swirls behind the icy glass as the truck putts along the rough road across the property.  The January air is nippy and presses against the glass, turning my warm breath on the window into a misty layer between me and the wind. I’m bundled up, my hands pressed between my thighs to keep warm in their mittens.
The only sound is the hum of the engine of the old truck.  
It smells of old cigarettes and stale air fresheners and age.  The tattered leather seat is hard beneath me, stuffed too full of stiff foam.  I lean hard against the back as the truck starts up a hill.  Staring out the window, the scenery is white and brisk and wintry in the least inviting manner.
We level out, pull to a stop, and the truck jerks as my uncle presses in the brake and puts it in park.  I pull on the door handle and remember to jiggle the bare metal to get it to catch.  It opens with a rusty creak and the frigid air blasts me.
My uncle is already out, his hands in the pockets of his black wool coat.  He’s thin and looks cold.  His plaid scarf covers his face up to his intellectual black glasses, his expensive shoes covered in soft, crunchy snow.  His eyes are bright as he stares into the white woods.
I mimic him, stuffing my mittens into my pockets as I meander out.  The wind bites right through me, but I don’t complain.  I just hunker down deeper into my own coat, breathing in and feeling the hot breath moisten the collar around my face.  


"Your greatest sin is not the abortion that you've asked forgiveness for, or the adultery, or-- whatever it is in your life, in your past that you're ashamed of, that keeps hounding you.  Your greatest sin is not that; your greatest sin is not believing God's word when God says that you are forgiven! Your greatest sin is your unbelief!  You want to repent of something, friend?  Stop repenting of sins that you've already repented of, and repent of your unbelief." ~ Rich Nathan, as quoted by House of Heroes in Voices

Friday, January 13, 2012

Voices of the Voiceless

I sat with my friend-- her name is Sarah, but we ought to call her the Tormentor, because she's always teasing me about something or other (with ample reciprocation, mind you)-- on a bench at her family's orchard.  We were tying short strips of fabric onto longer, knitted pieces, making rag-tag scarves, fluffy with color. We were doing it for her older sister Elizabeth (affectionately dubbed Zab) and her company, Liz Alig.

Sarah the Tormentor was telling me about a most interesting bet.  Zab had bet Sarah couldn't stand buying only fair trade and recycled clothing, and next time Sarah bought something that wasn't fair trade she would have to buy Zab whatever shirt she wanted, and Sarah said "heck I'll take that bet."

Her family . . . the girls are rather stubborn creatures.

That was about three years ago. (Or four.)

Sarah and Zab are still going strong . . . and not only that, but listening to them talk about the benefits of fair trade really makes me think.

Saturday, January 7, 2012

Young Life

If you could take a moment to pray for a darling little boy named Daniel, I would really appreciate it.  I've known him since he was two, and yesterday he was diagnosed with acute leukemia.  Pray he and his family would feel God's presence even through this.  Pray he would be healed.  Healed fast.

He's going to have to start chemotherapy very soon.

Gosh-- I don't even know what else to say.

Christina Kuri Icarus

Thursday, January 5, 2012

So Do It.

If there's one simple question I've mused over far too often, it's one I think a lot of people muse over a lot.  There are just so many possibilities that it entails.

What do you want to do?

I want to do so much. So, so much.

But what do I want more than anything in the entire world is simple, just like the question.

I just want to make something beautiful.

And yet, inside of that simple sentence, there is so incredibly much.

I want to use words that can reach your heart, for my dreams to be yours, for you to feel what I do, the tragedy, the beauty, the happiness, the million dimensions of the thousand things that go through my brain as I choose--carefully-- every word.  

I want to have a camera that captures the beauty that's all around us all of the time, and not only the outward beauty but the inward.  I want to capture the beauty that I see every day.  The light through the window.  The dandelions in the yard.  The sky-- vibrant and blue and so terrifically alive. I want to share the tiny things.

Sunday, January 1, 2012

Never Forget

I always knew what was right and what was wrong.  It was ingrained into me from as long as I can remember.  Daily I was told by parents and elders what was good, righteous, and told not to do that which I naturally wanted to do; the evil and the bad things were not to be considered.
But things weren’t always right.  I knew what was right and what was wrong and I knew what I should do and I did it.  I did everything I ought.  I worked hard to be the very best that I could, and I was.
But on the inside things weren’t right.  I was acting and pretending and being a good person but I wasn’t and the day that I realized that—that I was a despicable human being for just acting, acting and pretending to be good while on the inside I was seething and hideous and disgusting and hateful—. 
That was when I first sunk the shovel into the heady ground, pulled up the first tuft of scraggly grass, and hurled it aside.
The beginnings of the hole were solitary, far from my parents and those elders.  No one knew that it existed, and at first it was just a small trench, a dent in the earth.  I was the only one who knew it was there.  I was the only one it affected.
But every day I returned and took out a chunk.  Some days it was just an inch of the brown dirt, just a tiny bit of hatred toward the gory, horrifying monster on the inside.  Other days I would flee from those I knew, flee from them congratulating me on my good deeds and my wonderful heart, and I would attack that ground with the ferocity of a burning, guilty soul.  Those days the hole grew deep.