People say that time flies faster the older you get.  But who knew 8 years could actually only last 7 months?  Illyria must have a hand in this evil-doing.

Here's the latest in defining moments in my life: Haley and I finished 7 seasons of Buffy The Vampire Slayer and 5 seasons of Angel yesterday afternoon.  Buffy was complete in April, so we really flew through Angel; and oh, those last three episodes went so fast!  I am a changed woman.  The shows were truly spectacular: the depth of character development, the twisted plotlines, the analysis of morality, the deals made, the souls won (And lost. And won again. Then lost for a night and then willing given up... err....), the evils ended, the questions raised, the loved and lovelorn... really, I cannot praise the genius of this show enough.

And no, this isn't a case of rabid fangirlieness.  Sure, that badass Spike makes me grin, and Angel... good heavens, he was the reason I watched the first 3 seasons of Buffy, I'll admit.  Mysterious David Boreanaz, with that broody glance, that slightly tanned vamp skin, those pecs---derr, yeah, the character of Angel definitely helped me forget the doubts I had when the show started.  Season one was overwhelmed by formulaic episodes, cheesy looking demons, a lack of narrative depth. Haley's unending praise of the show began to quiet.  But we persevered.

When did it get better?  December 31st, 2008.  PJ-clad Haley and I welcomed the new year with the final episodes of Season 2.  I remember pulling the red couch away from the window in the old apartment and angling it beside Haley's fish couch (HA - Haley, do you realize we've watched EVERY single episode since then in the same setup?!).  We never noticed the fireworks in the distance as Acathla tried to... and Buffy with Angel... the sword and the soul... I'll skip the spoilers, but let's just say, there was much crying out in frustration.  I swore then that these were the worst episodes ever and checked the clock to find we'd made it a few minutes into 2009.  We HAD to watch another episode.  I've called a few episodes terrible since then, gone to bed angered many a time, but I have I meant it as much as I did then?  And in my swearing of how wretched that final episode was, I was really admitting how heartbroken I was, how affected I'd become by the show.  Joss hasn't lost me since then (except for the start of Angel, but by then I knew I'd watch every blasted episode out of unending curiosity).

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More than anything, I love both shows because they've had me thinking.  I could never just enjoy the shows, just numbly watch and forget them later.  And I bloody LOVE that.  I can't stop thinking about the shows because there is SO MUCH to think about.  I've been so dull since college; nothing has made my mental engines rev so much since, since, Edith Wharton's Ethan Frome!    I want others to know the joy of thought!  This is what entertainment should do for us: give us a moving picture both to enjoy and to contemplate.  We praise books and speak of their eternal, canonical goodness and impact on humanity; why do we not always expect this from digital texts?  We can get together as average humans and throw about philosophy, religion, politics, all that realistic blabber.  Make ourselves feel smart, feel like we have a hold on life.  Grand.  But those aren't the conversations that keep us in touch with our humanity.  There's a certain awakening before a TV or movie when your dulled eyes become alight with awareness: I've been in that situation.  I've known that kind of girl.  I was excited, too!  God, that pain won't leave me either.

My eyes feel opened.  I can go to Bible studies and Christian groups and discuss the details of the gospels.  But it doesn't bring nearly the awareness of Joy, awareness of my blessing of knowing Christ as I feel when I see my God in the world around me.  I just finished Televised Morality, a Christian writer's case study of Buffy through a biblical worldview.  He doesn't stretch the truth or try to pass the show as Godly beauty.  Instead, he takes an open and honest approach to the overarching motifs of violence, morality, sex, community, etc.  How can I deny the glory of God when I SEE HIM on the screen!  Humanity cannot doubt him as he proves a force in the lives created by an atheist writer's imagination.  He is Great!  The beauty of Buffy is that it isn't a show about fighting demons; it's a show about fighting the travails of life, where demons just happen to pop up and mess with the reality.

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In the end, Haley and I split, as usual: Haley preferes Angel; me, Buffy.  Why?  I love the moral ambiguity and plot intensity of Angel.  But Angel, which was meant to reflect adult life and how we persevere despite our pasts, always felt devoid of an anchor.  Angel always found himself back at Good, but he didn't have the solid community Buffy had the entire time.  The show was hopeless.  But Buffy, even up to the final, apocalyptic moments, knew she had Xander, Willow and Giles behind her.  They might all fall screaming into Hell, but they'd all fall together.  Angel had no saving grace; Buffy's community was her constant saviour. And is not the church our own God-given community?  The commentary never ceases.

I've been thinking about this Xanga lately.  I miss blogging, but I don't fancy posting Notes on Facebook; they don't feel appropriate for nonchalant musings.  I've considered starting up a new blog but then, what would I write about?  What a question...

I'm a writer now, professionally.  Did you ever think you'd really have a job like that?  Today, I literally have no work as I'm between fact-checking and going back to the IHG Meetings team.  A morning off...

I've been contemplative about my old writing, wondering if I can pick up the pen again.  I'm enjoying passionate, vivid dreams every night that give me a craving to write and reflect and be creative the next day.  The passion reminds me of that old flame to be a storyteller, so I decided to step back into the past this morning...

I opened the green Rubbermaid tub in my closet, that heafty home of all things meaningful that don't belong to me anymore but I can't find a way to get rid of.  Inside I find my green portfolio, my old companion.  It's covered in AP ID stickers, business cards for the lit mag, old grade sheets, and--worst of all--my writing...

I began at the back and started flipping forward.  I'd pulled the notebook out so I could find my only copy of "Quest for Destiny"--the peak of my passionate writing--though I'd forgotten about all the other short stories harbored inside.  I pulled out the stack of pages, pages I haven't touched since high school, still smeared with the penciled criticisms of professors long since forgotten.  Since my laptop first crashed in Nov 2005, these are the only hard copies I have left of my Writer Persona.  The only proof that I ever had that talent.

I am crying.  I did not expect this response.  I scan the titles, the first lines, and I begin to weep in remembrance.  This was me.  I was known for my writing.  I see "Tainted" and think of how silly it was to try to be modern and dramatic; "Easily Forgotten" reminds me of the "ahhs" and astounded praise that always ended with "this will make a great novel!  Please write more"; and "The Green Car," my first and pinnacle piece, the one that stamped me freshman year as a future great.

I touch the pages and they cut me within.  It's like finding a profile on my former life, locked away in a CIA closet, the Cause of Death section scribble through and illegible.  I know me, I am me, but I'm clueless on how and why I ever changed.  I'm not reading the short stories yet, and I'm not about to touch the even thicker Poetry section.  You were mediocre, don't let anyone else see these, some voice cackles in my head.  Leave them in the past.

I pull the 23 pages of "Quest for Destiny" from their plastic sleeve and all the notes--pages ripped from journals, paragraphs written on frog-shaped papers, notes taken on colored index cards--scatter to the floor.  It's the one piece I've come back to through the years, pulled out for nostalgia's sake, but never re-read.  I remember it's beauty; I was very proud of this piece, enjoyed writing it, felt I had a masterpiece at my finger tips, but never shared it with a single soul.  I spent over year working on it and am sad to know that the one printed copy I have is missing the last few months of work.  I still have notes on a hard drive somewhere (should I find that next?).  I keep picking it up, reading a section, and setting it down with a laugh; nothing of the poetic grandeur I imagined was ever there, but this piece makes me happy nevertheless.  Why is that?  What more could I have created if my computer had never crashed...

I'm not going to blame anything or anyone for my talent's disappearing act.  In fact, I think I'll do what I've been doing for years now: forget about it.  I'm going to lie in bed and laugh at "Quest for Destiny" and remember the good times and forget the loss.  The memories: these are my only consolation.