For the dreamers.

I am not a leader and I have never been much of a follower.
What does that make me then?

I am... a dreamer! Yes, I am a dreamer; I make my own world and demand no one join me there. A leader would want subjects; I am not a leader.
I am not a follower. True, I am unassuming but I will not languish in waiting for someone else to do something I may not even like. Quietly, I will disappear and travel to the beatings of my own thoughts.
I am not a rebel. Well, I am really. Dreamers are gentle, starry-eyed rebels. We care not for mundanitites and rules. Our rebellion is not loud or brazen, but filled with sounds of raindrops and rose-whispers. Our respectful defiance is misunderstood as rebellions must be.

Those who are not dreamers find us exasperating. They look in scorn at our flushed faces from dancing in the meadows. They regard our snowflake stained eyes with suspicion.
"Why??" they ask. They don't know how much it helps.
With annoyance, they survey our bare toes. Knowing we have been dabbling them in a pool of fairy tales, they are afraid we might drip on their spotless carpet.

But we try not to care what the ignorant people think. We are introspective but not self-centered. For we find the company of other dreamers to be invaluable... we need to be understood as well!

If you are reading this, I feel sure you must be a dreamer. This blogging world feels like a secret society of dreamers and I am so glad I stumbled upon it. I love you all. {Just so you know.}



{Photograph by Rodney Smith.}

December

{The Charlie Brown Christmas tree in our foyer. ♥ }

December
At first it was doubt. Feeling that there was something horribly wrong with me. Nearly having a breakdown, crying sobs that threatened to consume me. {I haven't had a cry this ravaging in so long...}
Baking my melancholy, my disappointments into batches of Christmas cookies and half-heartedly harmonizing in church to the familiar carols.
I was afraid my favourite season would finish before I could get out of my blue funk...

Then, one morning: an unforeseen coating of snow and the scent of cinnamon rolls.

{I love our back yard when it snows. The snow-covered branches turn it into a veritable winter wonderland.}

After that... somehow... December was beautiful.

~A party I was loath to attend turning out lovely in one of the most unexpected ways possible.

~Watching White Christmas for the first time with some of my very favourite people. {The weather forecast has informed us that we may experience a "white Christmas" of our own...!}

~Being swept away by the beauty of song in the annual concert of the girl's ensemble I sing in.
This was possibly one of the most wonderful things of all. Why?
Well, I love singing in the ensemble but lately I've been frustrated and unable to enjoy it because of the relatively small dissonances around me. We are undoubtedly amateurs and I could feel the discrepancies dragging me down. I couldn't appreciate the other parts around me nor the important story {of Jesus' birth} that our words were telling.
But at the concert it all seemed to come together. {It helps that we have the most amazing, loving director ever.}
So what if the girl on my left was off-key at times and singing the soprano part instead of the second soprano?
So what if the girl on my right doesn't know the meaning of the word "pianissimo"?
I was able to sing with absolute joy in my voice! With happiness tinging every note. There is something so thrilling about harmony and being a part of a choir. I'm glad I could be reminded.

Now I bake my content and my joy into Christmas cookies. I made the cookies pictured above last week. They were supposed to be gingersnaps but I did something wrong and they ended up being more like gingerbread. {We suspect I put in too much flour.} But they tasted incredible. That is one mistake I would not mind repeating.

So, yes. I am enjoying this season. Even though I am "grown-up" I still get twinges of the all-consuming, childish anticipation. This quote sum it up pretty well:

"Christmas Eve was a night of song that wrapped itself about you like a shawl. But it warmed more than your body. It warmed your heart... filled it, too, with a melody that would last forever. Even though you grew up and found you could never quite bring back the magic feeling of this night, the melody would stay in your heart always - a song for all the years."
-Excerpt from Song of Years by Bess Streeter Aldrich


And with that, I just want to wish everyone the merriest of Christmases! I hope you all are having a lovely December and Christmas season?


{P.S. - I'm sorry I'm so longwinded all of the time! I try to restrain my train of thought but it goes chugging on, regardless.}

the steadfast tin soldier & other meanderings

Imagine what it must be like to be a music box ballerina. They must live for the time when thoughtless hands open their cages and set their souls free. They can dance! Only for a little while, though… What a terrible fate! I wish a steadfast tin soldier for every one of them.

I would like you to be my steadfast tin soldier. What is a delicate, paper castle to me when I could have someone who understands?
But what will be left of our love in the end? A spangle {burned} and a lump of tin {heart-shaped}, lying a pile of ash. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? But beautiful does not mean happily-ever-after. Sadness is beautiful. {I know that boy agrees with me. I once remarked that “sadness is beautiful” and he agreed. A girl protested. But it’s alright… she just doesn’t know. Don’t you think sadness is beautiful?}


Lately, I have found myself, expressing joy through an impulsive but meaningful medley of songs. I let my voice canter unrestrained as I run around and drape myself across banisters. {As if I was starring in my own musical improvisation.} No one has made me feel this giddy in a long time. It’s all because of you. I wonder if you’ll ever know what you've done to me.

So quickly, it seems, my devotion changed. I am not capricious - not in the least! I am the steadfast, tin soldier to my feather-friends. You will find that loyalty runs steadily through my veins, mixing completely with my blood. But it was time. Time to let go. Time to wake-up from my dream of who that boy is and finally see his reality. I shook his dream from my shoulders and it slithered to the floor like a velvety cape. I hadn’t realized how old and worn the fabric was. I know now. And I haven't felt this free, this content in a long time. This story made have a sad ending, but for now I don't care. Even if all that remains will be...

{1st picture found here, 2nd & 3rd picture taken by me from my book of The Steadfast Tin Soldier by Hans Christian Andersen with illustrations by Angela Barrett. The nail-bitten fingers belong to me...}

this is our house.

On the mouldering façade of the house, the once intricate tracings of ivy have grown into a thick fur.
But even those resilient green tendrils have begun to wither away...

This is our house.
This is where we make a semblance of life.
This is where the atmosphere integrates decaying, whispered confidences with a shivering solitude.
This is where gravestones grow overnight, quietly and effortlessly like ghoulish mushrooms.

We might as well deliberately cultivate weeds in our garden since all that grows there is a poisonous regret that chokes anything else that tries to develop.
{Vindictive thorn pricks with no rose to alleviate the sting.}

The sun shines everywhere but never seems to penetrate the haze we linger in.
All we see of the sunbeams are the shadowed bruises that trail behind them.
{For all our inner fog we might as well live in darkness.}

Ghosts inhabit these walls, to be sure.
We live in a wary submission to the company of these in a phantasmal beings.
{Often I wonder which will crumble first, this house or this family.
And if we were gone... would the ghosts cease to be?}

This is our house.
We live here because we must.
We live here because we cannot forget.

{Picture found here.}

My Favourite Place

"This," she told her little brother, "is a treasure map!"
Her little brother eyed the tattered piece of paper doubtfully and complacently continued playing with his toy cars.
Unruffled by his disinterest, she continued. "At the end of this map you will find a door... a door that leads to all of my favourite places!
How would you like to go through a wardrobe to a beautiful land where animals talk! We could take Fritz with us and he could tell us what he is thinking!"
By now, her brother had abandoned his toys and was regarding the paper she held with curiosity.
"We could step through a looking glass, even! And be pieces on a giant game of chess! Or we could go to Dictionopolis and eat the very words we say. If we get too full we could go to Digitopolis and eat subtraction stew which makes you hungry instead of full!"
Her little brother's face broke into a smile that was parenthesised by two dimples.
"Oh! Wait," she gasped, "I know where we could go first! A place called Neverland! You get there by flying and you can never get older there, never ever. They have pirates there and indians and fairies and everything! Oh, yes! Let's go there first!" She almost shrieked, hopping up and down with exuberance. "Do you want to?" She asked earnestly peering into the little boy's widened eyes. He nodded vigorously.
"Well, then, off we go!!" She slipped her hand in his and swinging their arms they set off together down that well-worn path... the path that leads to the library.

{Painting: The Land of Enchantment by Norman Rockwell.}

An E.J.B. Poem

 











She dried her tears and they did smile
To see her cheeks' returning glow
How little dreaming all the while
That full heart throbbed to overflow

With that sweet look and lively tone
And bright eye shining all the day
They could not guess at midnight lone
How she would weep the time away 

~Emily Jane Brontë

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
{I have been writing a lot this week. More than I have in a long time. I stayed up till 1 AM last night working on one of my stories. It is rather strange that I have had such an outpouring of thoughts since I'm also being plagued by self-doubts. They rear their ugly heads every now and then. Oh, how I wish I knew a spell to oust them! So, consequently, nothing I write seems to measure up to some obscure standard I've set. I can never decide if self-imposed standards are beneficiary or just stifling...}
{Picture by and of me.}

Thanks & Nostalgia

It’s hard to remember to be thankful when my grandparent’s house suddenly feels shrunk by the influx of relatives.
The air is thick with boisterous laughter and stories. Some funny, some unnecessary.
The floor is littered with spoken, inexorable opinions. (Forgotten for now but they will undoubtedly be picked up and shown around again.)
All I want to do is hide. (And I do, for a while, with my fellow hermit brothers.)

It’s hard to remember to be thankful when I think that this time next year this house that my grandparents have lived in the past 50 years will be sold and they will have moved to be closer to their only daughter (my mother). I’m going to miss this house so much; it is the place I love most next to my own home. Though I am glad they're moving closer...
It troubles me to see how much my grandfather has aged. How slow his movements are… how hunched he stands. (My grandmother seems the same as ever, gentle and full of helpful energy. But still, she's aging too.) I hate how old everyone is getting! Including myself.

It wasn’t until I lay in bed Thanksgiving night that I finally gave thanks to God for His many blessings. I think this year I am thankful for the memories most of all. I cannot contemplate a life without memories. Right now, especially, since remembrances of my grandparent's house are filling my head....

Watching shows like The Brady Bunch and Leave it to Beaver on cable. (Quite a treat for us!)

Anticipating Christmas in the basement with the cousins. (Wondering why the adults upstairs keep talking and drinking coffee while we can’t keep our eyes off the tree and the presents underneath it.)

Playing the ancient piano in the basement that hasn’t been in tune for several decades, at least.

Swinging on the swing on the slope (aka 'hill') in their backyard. Closing my eyes and pretending I was flying. Arguing with siblings and cousins whose turn it was. Sadness when most of us grew too big for it.

Blowing out the gas flame in the fireplace with fellow curly-haired mischievous cousin… The confession when the basement started to smell of gas. (No harm done, thankfully. We weren’t the first ones to do that, either. The constant blue flame proved too great a temptation for quite a few of our predecessors and successors.)

Laughter in the teeny kitchen, crazy games in the basement with my siblings… the list goes on.

My older-younger brother and I used to say that we would buy this house someday and live in it. That thought makes me sad now.

Moving on is bittersweet, I am truly realizing that now. Overall though, I am thankful for the wonderful times I had here and glad I can remember them with such happiness.

(I found this picture in my grandparent’s basement. It’s me, around 4 years old or so, on the aforementioned swing.)


{Sorry if this post isn't very coherent. I'm overflowing with contradictory emotions, reminiscences and tiredness. Oi.}

Perfect Stranger

Across a room that teems with faces
Is your face. A stranger's face.
You're a perfect stranger,
My perfect stranger.
I've never seen a stranger as perfect as you!
So perfect for me!

I hate missed connections and
This threatens to be one.
So, let's meet
Quickly! Before it's too late
And we leave on separate paths.
Divided without ever being whole,
Without knowing our perfect strangers.
For I hope that I am your perfect stranger too?

Some day, I think, we will be strangers
No more.
A little strange? Admittedly.
Estranged? Never!
Perfect for each other? Always.

{Picture from the film Amélie.}

Appreciation for the familiar.

"When you talked earlier about, after a few years, how a couple would begin to hate each other by anticipating their reactions or getting tired of their mannerisms… I think it would be the opposite for me… I think I can really fall in love when I know everything about someone. The way he’s going to part his hair, which shirt he’s going to wear that day… knowing the exact story he’d tell in a given situation.
I’m sure that’s when I’d know I’m really in love."

~Céline, Before Sunrise~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Do you feel that way? I do. Sometimes I think there is nothing so comforting as the familiar. Sure, experiencing new things is great; the thrill of the unknown is unparalleled! But at the end of the day I just want to be reassured by something predictable. Though I am not one for daily rituals that must be performed. Just being in a familiar place with the people I love and know is enough for me.
{...Though this is probably because I'm a major homebody.}

The burgeoning story.

I've been carrying around a story in my head for a while now.
Not a short story, as in a few pages and it's done. No... this is much longer than that. It's patiently been humming in the back of my brain. I've been ignoring it. But now its kicking against the bars of my mind.
I can't neglect it much longer. It's burning a hole in my pocket. I can feel it tingling on the tips of my fingers.
It wants to be told!

It's like carrying around a mouthful of water. I know I shall either have to spit it out or swallow it. Swallowing it would be the coward's way out. I know I'm going to have to spit it out. Soon. And it will be so relieving!

But till then, I am holding it close to me, not wanting to let it go yet. Why, I wonder? I think because I am afraid it shall disappoint me. I am afraid that it will cheapen and lose its lustre in the harsh light of reality.
Also, I'm in the midst of two other stories. One I am at a standstill with. The second I have been nursing for about a year. They are both technically on back burners already...

Hm... I think this story is about to get its long deserved turn at front and center in my literary efforts.

la marionnette.

Brittle bones that can barely hold the weight of my inadequacy.
Lungs filled with glass, vocal chords that only speak carefully chosen words.
Strings attached to my meaningless limbs, a tawdry frock whose garishness I detest.
A painted smile, a mask I cannot, dare not crack.

I am a marionette.
My master is a harsh one.
"Dance, dance!" she cries.
All I want is to sleep.
Sometimes I think I'd rather be dead, than alive through her maneuverings.

{Distorted carnival sounds;
Bright and coloured lights that whirl.
A carousel that never stops,
A ferris wheel stuck at the top.}

"Dance, my puppet! Danse, ma poupée!"

On the stage with the blinding lights, the insincere music never ceases.
My dance of my deceit never ends.
All in hopes to please the audience that I'm afraid to look at now.

The hands that fashioned me were gentle,
I remember them faintly, faintly.
My creator made me with a purpose!
I remember his kind voice told me.
He put something of himself in my heart.
I can still feel it pulsing, pumping his life into me those times when I want death.

I wish I could have stayed with him,
directed by his wise hands
But someone... someone thought they knew better than my creator.
That someone thought they could control me better than he ever could.

So, I jerk and bob to the unrelenting commands;
Too broken to make things right.
Forever to be haunted by this knowledge:
The someone who holds my strings,
the someone who controls my actions.... is no one but myself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

{I wrote this yesterday when I was supposed to be doing school, hehe. A lot of my writing seems to get done when I'm supposed to be doing other things... like sleeping! Ah well.
And while, yes, this is allegorical, it is not a representation of how I'm feeling right now. I just don't want anyone to worry about me; I'm fine! Admittedly though, I have felt this way in the past.}


{Image found here.}

Letters never sent.

Dear Library,
I love you. Even though you don't always have the books I want.
<3

Your Devoted Friend,

Me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Young Man Who Works at My Library,
Why, yes. I was afraid to approach the front desk where you were stationed and ask you if any of my holds were in the back. It's nothing against you personally, I have a slight apprehension of almost all young men. {Don't ask.}
And - I really can form a sentence that doesn't contain the word 'um'; I was nervous!

Sheepishly yours,

Me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Onion I Chopped for Dinner the Other Night,
Well, I'm glad to know my tear ducts are still in perfect working order.
But, was being that pungent really necessary??

Tearfully yours,

Me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Very-Pregnant Woman Who Goes to Our New-ish Church,
The first time I saw you, I greatly admired your extremely long, blonde hair.
Why, oh, why did you cut it short and dye it red?

With regret,

Me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Little Boy Who Sat in Front of Me at the Theater,
I must say, I liked your hat an awful lot! That style is usually worn by old men, but it complemented your 5 year old self quite adorably. {I don't really know your age, of course. But you can't be much older than 5.}

Your Secret Admirer,

Me

Some of the beautiful things.

Just when her life was the most sodden with disappointments that it had ever been...
When she felt the only thing she wanted to do was slip into a fading nothingness; an anonymous grave....
Just when she had forgotten there is hope...
Then, she discovered it: the preservation of the things that made her happiest.
She collected empty bottles & jars and in them stored her treasures.

{Extract of sunshine; spice of the wind on an autumn noon.}

She set these containers on a shelf in an alcove in her kitchen, labeling them with a meticulous hand.

{Salt tasting of ocean breezes; essence of a feathery kiss.}

Pride welled in her heart when she surveyed the neat lines of her assorted riches. Lovingly, she would run her fingers along their varied surfaces. Some warm, some cool.

{Decanters full of intoxicating moonlight-infused water, gathered from a lake at midnight.}

With a careful reverence, she dusted them every day.

{A jar full of the fog that seems to creep from the forests and settle in the roads.}

Every day her collection grew, for now her senses were opened and she found beautiful things everywhere she went.

{Bottle upon bottle filled full of the infectious giggles of the little boy who lived down the street.}

All these years, she had mechanically fed her body but starved that thing inside her. The thing inside everyone that is sustained by the abstract & beautiful things of life.
She had forgotten you need more than physical sustenance to keep one's soul alive.
But, now she has remembered... and her life has never been more dear to her.

confessions of a girl who loves to sing.

She stands on a stage in front of her audience, wearing the dress she only wears for them.
Hands by her side, smiling that secret smile; she sings with the confidence she only feels around them.
They adore her. They hang onto her every note, mesmerized by her music
Before them, she can sing out loud and unrestrained.
She holds out her arms, giving them things she gives to no one else.
Holding her hands wide open, she receives what they alone can give her.
When she curtsies they clap loud and unrestrained.
"More!" they cry. "Encore!" they beg.
She's never been known to turn them down.
They understand. They understand the songs she sings for them.
Her performances for them are unparalleled.

So clearly she feels their respectful presence,
is it any wonder that she forgets she's just a girl...
standing on a chair in her high-ceilinged kitchen.
All alone except for the echo of her own voice.



{Picture of: St. Vincent.}

Winter... or summer?

My favourite season is upon us!!!

As much as I love the carefree flavor of summer, I prefer autumn. And yes, even winter is preferable to summer. {Spring is marvelous too but it only lasts for about three days here!}
I don't know why, I love the crisp autumn months and the frosty days of winter. I feel that there are so many delicious opportunities to feel cosy when it is chilly out. Cold days mean hot cocoa & soup, dancing fires, and snuggling into blankets with a favourite book.
Though, my cynical self is saying it also means school, winter doldrums and frozen fingers & toes. {My cynical self likes to put a damper on things! I try to ignore her.}
In my opinion, summer is too hot. I have always thought it is much easier to make yourself warm when you are cold then to make yourself cold when you are too warm.
I was delighted to find that my favourite author, Bess Streeter Aldrich, believed this to be true as well. In a book of her short stories called Journey into Christmas, she shares a few of her memories in the last chapter, aptly entitled 'I Remember'. This is one of them:

'...And in a higher grade there was the first experience in debating. The procedure was explained, including the new words "affirmative" and "negative". The question to be debated was: Resolved, that winter is better than summer. I was affirmative. And what's more the leader of the affirmative. Came the great day and I went to the front of the room. "Ladies and gentlemen," I began, at which there was a faint titter proving that my appellation had been chosen unwisely. But I was firm with them. "Ladies and gentleman," I repeated. "You can always get yourself warm on a cold winter day, but you can't never get yourself cool on a hot summer day." Maybe my earnest glibness caused the outburst, or maybe it was their pent-up emotion, but everyone broke into laughter. And the teacher said: "Sit down. This wasn't meant to be funny. If you can't think of good reasons, don't give any." I sat down. Funny? I had no more intention of being funny than Douglas did when he debated with Lincoln. Through all the years - at least until air conditioning became known - I have never changed my mind that you could always get yourself warm on a cold winter day but could never get yourself cool on a hot summer day.'


It's always so nice to know the authors we love share similar thoughts and ideas with us. {Looking back, I realize, I may have mentioned Bess Streeter Aldrich an inordinate amount of times... What can I say, she is my favourite author!}



{Painting: "Stapleton Park near Pontefract" by John Atkinson Grimshaw}

And speaking of poetry...

I had to write a poem for school this week. I much prefer reading it to writing it. {I suspect a lot of people do.}
The poem was supposed to be a dramatization. But, I found out that I am not very good at dramatizations at all. Happily though, I was allowed to write infree verse! Which, to me, is preferable over trying to rhyme and fit everything into a meter.
I spent most of the week wondering what in the world I was going to write about, and finally last night I penned this:

My mind
and this piece of paper
are kindred spirits
undeniably.
We lay and think
blank thoughts. Both with
wrinkled brows.
Eyes wide open;
neither blinking nor seeing.

So I sit. I stare and
the paper stares right back.
Who will win this contest? I wonder
if he or I will cave in first.
Who will crack, showing signs
of life and lose
this
uninspired
staring
game.

Not a dramatization, but thankfully my "teacher" is laid-back. {Goodness, I love homeschooling!}
My littler brother's only comment after reading it was: "Why doesn't it rhyme?!?"
Obviously he did not appreciate my attempt at imitating such poets as Carl Sandburg and William Carlos Williams. Ah, well. :P

Poetry and Me!

I used to think that I hated poetry.
I mean, everyone else hated poetry! What was up with this whole analyzation thing? And I had read a volume of Robert Frost's poems for school that I didn't enjoy. Sooo... I must hate poetry.

Which is idiotic logic. {Especially since I loved Shakespeare's plays and had read all his sonnets. *rolls eyes* I also loved various humourous poetry, such as Lewis Carroll and Shel Silverstein.}

I realized later, you can't just read one poet's work and decide you don't like poetry. That would be like reading a book, not liking it, and saying "I hate all books!" No, you just don't like that author.

So, there I was. Convinced I hated poetry. My brother, who also hates poetry, was complaining about this book of poetry he had to read for school. He especially disliked one poet in particular, Carl Sandburg.


I don't remember exactly how this came about but I ended up reading one of his poems titled I Sang:

I sang to you and the moon
But only the moon remembers.
I sang
O reckless free-hearted
free-throated rythms,
Even the moon remembers them
And is kind to me.

Being an offbeat kind of girl, I liked the fact that it didn't rhyme or follow a strong meter. {Obviously, I was not familiar with the term "free verse".}
"Hey, I like this!" I said joyfully to my brother.
He just rolled his eyes and said, "You would."

Since then, I have kept an open heart to poetry. I have discovered many new poets I love and enjoy. {Though you still won't find me analyzing poetry!! I am content to see in it what I want to see in it. Overanalyzation gets ridiculous!}

Now, I am saddened when I hear people say they hate poetry. Obviously, they haven't found the right poet for them. They have no idea what a wonderful thing they're missing!

Stream of consciousness.

It is the sad songs that make me think of you, which is strange since you make me so happy.*


That was a {true} thought that occurred to me as I sat on my couch listening to sad songs. I typed it into a blank blogspot post so I wouldn't forget it, which is something I often do. And I meant to save it as a draft but... accidentally hit "publish post". I quickly tried to get rid of it, but the damage had been done. *sighs* Sometimes, I worry about myself.

So, I thought, why not just make a blogpost telling everyone how absentminded I can be?

I didn't know why not, so here I am.

How is everyone? I could just be talking to empty air, but I sincerely hope not.

I don't know why I don't do conversational posts more often. Of course, I'm not sure why people would want to hear me rambling... but rambling is something I excel at! And well, it is good to use our talents. :P

I watched You've Got Mail last night. Oh goodness, I love that movie so much! {"Don't you love New York in the fall? It makes me want to buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address."}

I am reading a book called Miss Buncle's Book by D. E. Stevenson. It's about a middle-aged spinster who decides to write a book about the people she knows in her small village. It's shaping up to be very good!

And, at the moment, I am listening to Miranda Lee Richards since I recently bought her album Light of X. {Love this song!}


So, anyhow, I shall stop now. But first, what have you been watching/reading/listening to?



*n.b. - this was not a sappy Taylor Swift-esque inspired thought. It was actually inspired by a dear friend of mine. :)

the boy with the camera.

To them I am "the boy with the camera" .
Goodnaturedly, they laugh and tease -
Asking me if I 'ever part with it? Do I take it off when I sleep?'

I shrug and smile at their jokes cause I know they wouldn't understand,
that I'm happier viewing their world through my camera lens.

I need my camera to hide behind so no one sees the real me.
And the simple shades of black, white, and grey put me at my ease.

Many people pose for me, I forget them after a while.
Except that girl with the laughing eyes and tantalizing smile!
I wish she wouldn't haunt my dreams every single night
With long black hair, smart grey dress and skin so very white...



{My note: I have no idea what inspired me to write this. Also, it wasn't supposed to be a poem but it kind of worked out that way, hehe. So, please pardon the shaky rhymes.}


{Photo of: Ringo Starr, From: A Hard Day's Night.}

Porcelain Love

As a young girl, I had many dolls that were made up of different things... cloth, plastic, vinyl, porcelain... I loved them all. Even my porcelain dolls who always seemed so indifferent. When I held them close, their skin was so cool against mine.
No matter how many childish kisses and caresses I lavished upon them, they never warmed up. A blank, glassy stare would be the only reward for my efforts.

O, you, my love, must be made of porcelain!
It is so clear to me now...
This is why you never let your emotions show; why you never seem to really see me...

I never stopped loving my porcelain dolls, in hopes that someday they might respond to my gentle touch.

Just know, I shall do the same for you, my darling, porcelain love.
Someday your hard exterior will crack and I know a responsive human flesh must lie underneath.
Maybe then, you will love me back?


{Picture by me, of me and one of my porcelain dolls, Emily.}

I am a writer... and I can't help it.

I was reading quotes on some random quote site the other week, and I ran across this quote by Rainer Maria Rilke:
"Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depth of your heart; confess to yourself you would have to die if you were forbidden to write."

I didn't really think much about it after reading it, I just moved on. But later, I was thinking... would I die if I were forbidden to write? To be sure, dying seems, well, melodramatic... Yet, I somehow feel if I could never write another word of my dreams, fancies and stories - something in me would die.
No more would I run on a mad dash to find a pencil and paper when I need to capture a thought or a phrase.
No more would I stay up late poring over the thesaurus looking for the right word to use.
No more would I get out of bed in the middle of the night and scribble an idea down by the dim light of my ipod.
No more would I get that feeling of absolute content after finishing writing something that I think is good.
My life would be almost pleasure-less!

Thankfully, I do not think there is anyone who is going to forbid me to write, so - write I will!
And so, even on those days when I am in despair, feeling as if everything I write is inane and I will never be any good, I remember... I have to write. Even if nothing ever comes of it. It has spread its roots into the very depth of my heart.










~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
But you don't know what's ahead of you--the stony hills--the steep ascents--the buffets--the discouragements. Stay in the valley if you're wise. Emily, why do you want to write? Give me your reason."
"I want to be famous and rich," said Emily coolly.
"Everybody does. Is that all?"
"No. I just love to write."
"A better reason--but not enough--not enough. Tell me this--if you knew you would be poor as a church mouse all your life--if you knew you'd never have a line published--would you still go on writing--would you?"
"Of course I would," said Emily disdainfully. "Why, I have to write--I can't help it at times--I've just got to."
"Oh--then I'd waste my breath giving advice at all. If it's in you to climb you must--there are those who must lift their eyes to the hills--they can't breathe properly in the valleys. God help them if there's some weakness in them that prevents their climbing. You don't understand a word I'm saying--yet. But go on--climb!

-Excerpt from Emily of New Moon by L. M. Montgomery


{Picture taken by me.}

The Old Man

“My eyes are lonely,” the old man said,
“They have no one to wink at.”
I looked at him and his wrinkled face held more beauty than my own.
His hand was cold, his lips were dry
He didn’t shed a tear.

The stories he told the children who once revered him as hero
are now laughed at by the same children, who think they have grown up.

“Smile lass, for me, one more time. The tide is going out.”
Reassuringly, I squeezed his hand,
though I was not sure I’d be able to do it…
But somehow I managed one smile;
My last one for the day.
It was shaky and watery, but still a smile.
He smiled back and closed his eyes.

I sat and listened to his rasping breath,
feeling futile, so very helpless.
Just watching and waiting for the sad, but natural, inevitable.
All, the sudden, his still-bright eyes were open,
looking into mine.
“Having you here is all I need, lass.”
He said, simply and then slowly closed his eyes.

(How had he always understood me so well?)

A few more raspy breaths…
Quiet.

For an hour more, I held his hand
Not wanting to let him go
Just gazing, for the last time, upon his wrinkled face,
Wistfully imagining he looked content.
Already I missed the funny, gruff way he had of expressing his emotions…
And I thought about how much he meant to me –
The old man, who was no relation,
but was more near to me than any flesh and blood could ever be.

I'll be fine.

I cried bitter, self-centered tears because I didn't posses the entrancing ability to write beautifully incomparable things.
I cried pathetic tears because I couldn't find another soul like mine to be my friend.
But at least I have you!

I just wish the selfish thoughts would go away...

{I want you to myself, I don't want to share you with a crowd of admirers so thick they can't be parted.
I don't care if you are more beautiful and talented than I! For then, I can feel pride that you are my friend when others praise you.}

Just know, I'll keep trying to craft delicate missives to send to you.

Though you and the gleaming, spellbinding words that pour out of you could do it better...

I'm trying to be strong and protect you. Your whimsical heart, which deeply feels mysteries others wish to know, has been wounded with harsh realities of a place you've never been.

These wounds run deep. So deep that you and your poet's soul have been fumbling in a darkness that quietly smothers dreams.
And I can only hold your hand and look into your wailing eyes and think, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

But I am certain you will recover, for you were woven with strong fibres. It would take more than this pain to break you.

Me and my cynical soul sit with you as my insecurities cruelly weigh on my mind, leaving deep furrows on my brow.

I don't think I deserve the trusting adoration you give me.
I'm not really worthy of your admiration...
I wish I could be the wonderful person you say I am.



{Photo by: Tony Bonacci. Photo of: Azure Ray.}

Insatiable Sea

{This is a short story I wrote a couple of months ago. I have never really written anything like this before. I would like to think it is good, but I highly doubt it is.}
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don’t know how long I stood there gazing out into the cold, uncaring sea. A bitter taste lingered in the air and in my mouth. The wind roughly pulled my hair & skirts about. I was frozen to the bone. To the heart as well. I didn’t think I could ever move from that spot again. I would just stand there forever - too stiff to feel.
I wanted to throw myself into the ocean, that insatiable monster.
“Take me as well! How many do you need until you’re appeased?” My mind was screaming… but I couldn’t make my mouth from the words.
I wondered how long I could gaze upon this thing I‘m so afraid of. I felt I could brazenly face the most terrible of monsters or disasters… but I always felt a gnawing fear when near this smothering expanse of water. Always I had feared the worst. And now…. It had come….
I closed my eyes trying to shut out everything.
“Ma’am?”
I inwardly jumped and opened my eyes, slowly turning towards the tentative voice. I stared at the man who stood there in nervous expectancy. I didn’t care what he had to say. It wouldn’t change anything.“Er, th-they have everything ready,” he stuttered. I read sympathy on his face but I didn’t want his, or anyone’s, sympathy.
We slowly walked down the hill; away from my overlook and away from the sea. But my sadness followed us down. We approached the crowd of silent men, weeping women and children. I knew they felt the same pain as I but, I bitterly reflected, I had no baby to hold to my breast, no child clinging to my skirts giving me a purpose for my future.
Sheets hid the recovered bodies. The sea, though she took the life from these men, couldn’t keep what remained. Not a fair trade, but the sea has never been just.
I heard myself speaking, “I want to see his body.”The men who stood nearby exchanged glances, all of them avoided meeting my gaze.
One uneasily cleared his throat. “Are you sure?” he ventured.
I lifted my head higher. “Yes. I am sure.”
The man reluctantly went to one of the covered bodies and pulled away the sheet. No one wanted to watch, they all turned away. The man respectfully left me alone.
I knelt down and stared into the face of my husband. He was so pale, so cold. This couldn’t be my husband. My husband was always so warm, so full of joy. I remembered how gaily he had sung his favourite, rowdy sea songs while whirling me around in a breathless, happy dance. We would always end up collapsing, doubled over with laughter.
When I was sad, he would tenderly wipe away my tears. His fingers were rough from his life at sea, but they could be so gentle. He never failed to make me feel better. Even my fear of the sea seemed silly when he was near me. Whenever he left on voyages, I was never completely happy until he was home with me, safe. Brutally, the thought occurred to me that nevermore would I have to worry about him…
Then, I could no longer hold back the tears, I started to cry. Not the loud sobs of the other women, but a silent flow of sorrow. Each tear that fell hurt like a dagger in my heart.
Accursed sea! Insatiable horror! You had no right to him. He was mine.
I softly brushed his cheek with a finger. “You were mine,” I whispered, hardly realizing what I was saying. Forlornly, I knelt there for a while till, with blurred vision, I moved the sheet back over him.
Rising, I heard murmurs of conversation. Plans for “cremation… the scattering of ashes in the sea. Seems natural… these men were some of the greatest sailors in the world....”
An iron hand seemed to clutch my throat in a tight hold.
“No,” I said. My voice sounded harsh. “I will have a proper burial for my husband.
"Knowing my wish would be obeyed, I felt I had no reason to stay longer. I swept away leaving all looking after me, pitying me, I was sure.
Quickly, I walked to the house that had been our home . My sadness still pursued me. I fumed to myself. “Scattering my husband’s ashes in the ocean, my enemy, would be like surrendering to her cruel ways – telling her she had won.”
“No,” I thought, “I must bury him as far from the ocean as I can. Somewhere where I can visit… because even though he is gone, he is still mine.” I felt almost defiant towards the sea. “He is still mine… and he will be forever.”

'I am Christina Rossetti.'

I am back from vacation! I had a lovely time, reading, writing, canoeing, wading, walking, admiring nature, and braving no air-conditioning. ;)

Anyhow, as you should know from my last post, I brought some books of poetry along with me. One of these was The Complete Poems of Christina Rossetti {Only Volume I, as I found out later!} I had never read much, if any, Christina Rossetti but now I would consider her as being one of my favourite poets.
My interest in Christina Rossetti was aroused after a recent re-reading of one of my favourite books: The Tattooed Potato and other clues by Ellen Raskin. This humorous book is about a girl named Dickory Dock who becomes the apprentice to a mysterious, eccentric painter named Garson.
In this excerpt, Dickory is upset because of her ridiculous name and Garson tells her an interesting story about Christina Rossetti.

"You know, Chief Quinn was right about {your name} being a happy name. Besides, a name is just a label; it can stand for whatever a person makes of it." He left off painting to look at his sulking apprentice. "Have you ever heard of Christina Rossetti?"
"No, and that's not a funny name or a happy name." Dickory was screwing and unscrewing the same cap on the same tube of paint.
"I'm talking about names being symbols for who and what you are," Garson said, returning to his canvas. "Christina Rossetti was a poet, a wonderful poet. She was also a bit loony, but that's not the point."
Dickory set down the paint tube and listened.
"Christina Rossetti was a shy, very shy creature, who had difficulty speaking to anyone but her family and a few intimate friends. Well, one evening, somehow or other, she found herself at a party. No one noticed her: small, retiring, dressed in black, she sat like a shadow against the wall while the fashionable people flirted, and flaunted their ignorance, and chattered their silly chatter. Then the subject turned to poetry. You can imagine what was said: 'No one had time to read poetry anymore,' or 'All the good poets are dead,' or 'I don't know much about poetry, but I know what I like." Whatever was said was shallow and stupid, so shallow and stupid that our timid poet stood up and walked to the center of the room. Suddenly all was quiet. All eyes were on this small nervous woman in dull black. Can you guess what she said, Dickory?"
"What?"

"Head held high, she stood tall as she could in the middle of those frightening people and said:
'I am Christina Rossetti.' Then she turned and sat down.
"That's all?"
"That's everything. 'I am Christina Rossetti,' she said, which meant: 'I am a poet, a very good poet.' Those in the room who recognized her name realized they had been speaking rubbish; and those who did not understand were silenced by their ignorance. 'I am Christina Rossetti' was all she need have said. Do you understand what I'm saying, Dickory Dock? Worry less about your name, and more about who you are and who you want to be, and what Dickory Dock will stand for."

And that is what got me interested in Christina Rossetti. For some reason, I love that story. {Also Garson gave an excellent piece of advice, I think.}

{Christina Rossetti as painted by her brother, Dante Gabriel Rossetti.}

Do you have any favourite poets?

ta ta for now!

The other day, my father was going out and he agreed to pick up some books at the library for me. {I had put a hold on quite a few books but I thought only a couple had come in.}
Turns out, all 11 of my books were in. Plus one that my sister had put a hold on. Hahaha!
He called to complain that we hadn't told him that he would need a furniture dolly. XD


{From top to bottom: Selected Poems of Carl Sandburg, Selected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay, Madam, Will You Talk? by Mary Stewart, Miss Clare Remembers by Miss Read, The Goose Girl by Shannon Hale, My Own Two Feet and A Girl From Yamhill both by Beverly Cleary, Bloomability by Sharon Creech, The Fairacre Festival by Miss Read, The Complete Poems of Christina Rossetti, and The Complete Poems of e. e. cummings.}

Anyhow, my family and I are leaving for vacation tomorrow. We're going to stay in a chalet by a lake! I'm very excited because it's my favourite kind of vacation: a relaxing kind where you don't have to go running all over looking at the sights. So, I'm planning on reading a lot, in case you hadn't guessed. I'm also hoping to write and, of course, hang out with my awesome family!
I'll be back in about a week. A bientôt!! :)

{the night of my grandmother's party}

Silently, I sat at the table.
My left-hand neighbor had gone. My right-hand neighbor chatted gaily to her right-hand neighbor about places I'd never been.
The people across from me were happily engaged in a conversation that I could have joined but I had no desire to.
I looked around the capacious tent that held all the people talking and laughing. So many people... I wished they would all go home so I could have peace.
I sat dully, listening to the chatter.
Darkness enclosed the tent. It seemed like a friendly dark... a dark that was beckoning me...!
Without a second thought I stood up, with one object in mind: to escape.
Doubting anyone would notice me leave or give much thought to it, I made my way outside.

I looked back at the lighted tent, happy with the knowledge no one would miss me.
I stepped further into the darkness. Childishly, I jumped through the tree that was divided in the middle so that its shape resembled a giant "Y".

Down the garden path I walked. The ground was cold and damp beneath my bare feet. {I had abandoned my shoes long ago.}
I walked to the garden's edge where trees, bushes, and vines formed a thick bramble. There I stopped.
Though still in view of the lighted tent, no one could see me.
Staring up into the dark sky, which was punctuated by a full moon, I felt a pleasing sense of solitude slip over me.
The beauty of the night, the joy of seclusion, and the romance of the outdoors intoxicated me. An inspirational emotion washed over me... filling me with the need to write or sing!
Since I had neither pen nor paper, I started to softly sing.
The songs were sad but I sang them because I was happy.
Only the trees heard me and the night hid me from prosaic eyes.

Eventually, I knew I had to go back.
With a regretful sigh, I gathered my skirts and made my way back to the noise and brightness.{Making sure to jump through the "Y" tree again.}
Quietly, I resumed my seat at the table. But I felt different. I felt exhilarated after my impulsive excursion. I even successfully made conversational efforts. I smiled and talked late into the night.
Though in the back of my mind, I still was blissfully singing in the darkness, immeasurable happy.


{Painting: "The Girl Under the Magic Moon" by Darren Daz Cox.}

the pearls

"Abbie, I want ye to have the pearls. I'm savin' the fan for Mary. Janet has the breast-pin, you know, and Belle the shawl. {...} And the pearls are fer you. Ye'll ne'er starve as long as ye have 'em." She opened the little hairy-skinned chest and took out a small velvet box and from it the pearls themselves. She twined them through her short stubby fingers, their creamy shimmers incongruous in the plump peasant hand.
{...}
There were tears in Abbie's brown eyes when she took them. {...} She held the pearls up to the wine-colored merino and looked in the small oblong glass.{...}Then she turned to her mother. Her face was flushed and tender. "Thank you Mother... so much,... I'll keep them always. But with the dark dress and the high neck,... I'll just not wear them tonight. After awhile when Will and I are wealthy, I'll wear them. And {...} maybe we'll have a daughter some day and she can wear them on her wedding night,... in white satin...and all the things that go with it..."
Abbie swept across the dingy loft room, {...} She knelt down by her mother's chair, {...}, and laid her head against the older woman's.

"And besides, Mother, you understand, don't you... when you follow your heart you don't need pearls to make you happy?"

-Excerpt from A Lantern in Her Hand by Bess Streeter Aldrich
(the {...}'s represent edits I made for brevity's sake)

{Pictures taken by me.}

Unspoken annoyance.

"You look beautiful tonight."
"It's lovely to see you."
"I love you, dearest. Be mine!"
Would all have been acceptable things to say to me tonight.
Instead you are staring... at me, I presume. Though perhaps you are just blanking out.

I know you haven't lost your voice, please don't act as though you have.
Pardon me, if I bore you why don't you go find someone else to dance with? I'm sure you have scores of girls simply waiting for you to fling them a crumb. Heaven knows, I am not such a puppy.
Do I detect a hint of one of your superior, amused smirks?
It's not as if we've never met before. Remember me? I've known you since we were children!
This song seems to drag on forever.
Please say something. I'm nervously chattering on like a loon! I'm sure I'm living up you your expectation of me.
Finally! The dance is ending. Now I shall awkwardly pull myself away; mumbling inconsequential things and tripping over my feet.
Ah well, I suppose it could have been worse... But I wouldn't bet on it.

{Picture: "An Elegant Soiree" by Victor Gilbert.}

I don't know, really.

The cracks in my ceiling are the cracks in your floor.
Am I just imagining the bloodstain spreading across your shirt?
I could just pretend I don’t see your paling face, your desperate blue eyes that I can’t look into.
I stare out the window at the tempestuous landscape. The wind whips the trees into a frenzied dance. Shutters clap against the house applauding the apocalyptic show.

I don’t want you to hold my hands, because then you’d know how clammy they are. I am filled with silence. A throbbing silence that wants to speak… which might be the wrong thing to do.
I don’t think I’m imaging the way you look at me. But I could be misinterpreting what it’s saying.

I wish, I wish… so many things. I wish you would stroke my hair and tell me things I don’t know.
But sometimes, I wish I could gather up my hair… Gather up all my thick, moody hair and cut it off. With a resounding snip! Would it be like killing part of me, though?

I used to love the rain and the dark clouds. Now dark, gloomy days bring dark, gloomy thoughts and not one glimpse of you. Why does it always come back to you?
You’re standing right here looking at me. I can’t look at you. It wouldn’t be… fair?
You sigh a sigh that melts my heart, but not my resolve. I close my eyes.
Silence.
Then I hear you leave. Was this the last time?
I can only watch your retreating back through the window’s rain-soaked glass. Through the glass you look blurred, like you’re in a Monet painting. But the surrounding colours are too depressing to be a Monet...

I stand and gaze out the window. Half-wishing you would appear again. After a while, I turn away. Then I notice… a piece of paper on the floor. Anxious but eager, I pounce on it. Your handwriting greets me like an old friend. The message it contains brings tears of hope to my eyes. It says simply, “Wait for me. I will return.”

My parents!

I was looking for a recipe the other day in a big binder full of recipes that my mum has printed off the internet throughout the years. I couldn't find what I was looking for so I just started looking at all the different recipes. And, in the midst of all these recipes, I found a printed-off email from my dad's {work} email address to my mum's. It was dated April 3, 2000.
And this is what it said:

"There is someone I dearly love
And ought to tell her so
And so I wrote this poem
In hopes that she would know
There is no line of clever verse
To show what’s in my mind –
A better friend, a stronger love
I never need to find
I hope someday I’ll be the things
I want to be for her
But she accepts me as I am
And i like that, fer sure

I love you."

I just thought that was so sweet! I love my parents so much. {And I hope to be as talented a writer as my dad someday.}
My parents anniversary is today. They've been married for 23 years!
God has blessed me so much with this family. :)

To someone whose company I've grown to detest.

I feel like every time we talk we have the same conversation…
Did it ever occur to you that you could be wrong?
You stand there and tell me things as fact. You will hear no one who wishes to disagree with what you “know”.
But, my simple research took your “facts” and stripped them down to what they really were: fables.
I hope someday you’ll learn that fact and opinion are not the same thing. You say you know that… which proves how wrong you can be.
You think of yourself as a mature, logical person. Then why won’t you listen to what I’m saying? Don’t you think a mature, logical person would look at both viewpoints? And realize that perhaps the other person just might know what they’re talking about? Or is that just too incomprehensible for you?
I should have known you would never admit defeat. Foolishly, I dreamed you’d realize your errors. How can you be so sure, so self-complacent in your own knowledge? And you wonder why I’m so irked with you… you just don’t have a clue, do you?
The asininity of you makes me want to scream! You’re wrong. Do you hear me? Wrong.
You can choose to listen or not. I know the truth. It’s a poor comfort but it’s better than nothing.
You are far too opinionated for your own good.

{And I wish I could tell you that...}


{Photo of Sibylle Baier}

I wish I could make you understand...

I want to make you feel what I'm feeling,
See what I'm seeing.
But my emotions can't be expressed.
I try to tell you things but my words seem to trip over each other in the excitement to tell of their joy.
Sometimes they falter and shrink back when I reach for them.
In desperation I try to capture my elusive thoughts of the intangible things around me.
Only to have the beautiful things I want to say evade me.
I can merely articulate vaguely and hope you'll understand.
Do you understand?
I want you to understand more than anything
I dream that you may someday know what's in my mind,
See the wheels that are turning,
Feel life in what I say.
Making the connection is hard... I won't stop trying though.
There's a beauty in this endeavor,
Even I don't fully understand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I always wished I could write. I have, too... lots of things. But they're not like I want them. I feel them all in my heart... beautiful things that sing. But when I want to put them down on paper, it seems they're like little wild things... they're gone."
-Excerpt from The Rim of the Prairie by Bess Streeter Aldrich

The place only I can go.

When those people hurt me I don't want them to know.

But it affects me...

I shrink from their speeches which are like prodding fingers.
I try to block out their mocking words.
I become aloof on the outside;
On the inside I've run away.
I've run away from reality to a place only I can go.
It's quiet here. I can lean against time & think for a while.
My exterior is frozen. My interior is alive.
You can't follow me here. No one can.
I pity those cruel people. Their perception of beauty is clouded

They don't have a place like mine.
They could though.
But they're too busy... Busy in their miserable world.

{Photo: Anna Brønsted of Our Broken Garden. Taken by: Gina Zacharias.}

Embrace Life Ad

I saw this seat belt advocacy ad the other day when a friend posted it on Facebook. I thought it was just so sweet and beautiful that I had to share. :)

{I know Blogger cuts off the video's edge which can be rather irksome, so to watch it on youtube click here.}



{Always wear your seat belt. Always.}

Whispered Words

“Words taste better when they’re whispered.”
You tell me, almost confidingly, as we lay on the bed.
A book lays open in front of you… waiting.
I smile in anticipation and then you begin.
Each sentence you speak is like a secret that hangs in the air or tickles in my ear.
Letters form a trickle down your lips and fall into a puddle of ideas and thoughts.
Your voice gets softer; it slowly caresses every word then lets it free.
I close my eyes and lie in the sound of the spell you weave.
Your whispers are so quiet now I’m sure each murmur will be your last.
Your reading is never uneven or stilted, but smooth;
Silky ribbons that wrap around me,
A ship that is gently rocking…..
When your voice fades away I am not aware.
Nor do I see your smile as you carefully wrap your arms around me; the sleeping form that lies beside you…who was lulled to sleep by your whispered words.

My Generation

Sometimes I wonder if it would really be too much effort for my generation to type normally.

insted of, u kno... lik dis?? lol :p

I seriously worry about these people. *shakes head*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On another note, I got an award from Shades of Green and Grey! Thanks, dear!! :)

Hope everyone has a good Monday! {Said more in hope than expectation. ;)}


{Random note: yesterday I accidentally deleted my first post on this blog so I re-created it. Just in case anyone was wondering why it was popping up on their feed again. Haha... ;)}

Distractions and a spoonful of sugar.

I've been trying to write a post for a few days now, but I've just been so distracted! Every time I turn around there are new distractions popping up... graduations & parties to attend, shoe-shopping {Eeek!}, school that has no intention of ending, dog-sitting, and just constant noise! And even in moments of quiet I find myself lacking the focus to do what needs to be done. I'm not really sure why... Maybe I'm just ready for summer. Yeah. I'm going to blame it on that. :P


On a happier note: Quite recently I've noticed that sugar makes a sound as it slides off the spoon into my morning coffee. It's kind of like a sigh of relief or maybe a shuddering sigh... I don't really know, but it makes me happy! So now I always listen for it. As do my mum & littler brother, ever since I pointed it out. It's the simple things in life, right? :)

The Train's Cry

Some nights as I lie in bed, my thoughts wandering around, I hear it: an unexpected train’s whistle in the distance.
When I hear its faint wail in the night I feel inspired… it makes me want to write beautiful things. It makes me want to sing!
It may seem ridiculous but it’s just such a wonderful, inexplicable feeling when I hear the train’s cry. It’s like a slight snatch of a ghost story, a call of loneliness, a beckoning of adventure, part of a love story that’s waiting to be finished.
If hearing this whistle were a frequent thing, I think it would lose all of its magic. But the rarity of it is one of the most delicious parts.

Though it’s true modern trains have little romance. They have become cargo-haulers. Graffiti-bearers. But from far away, all alone in the darkness, it could be an old-fashioned steam train… for all I know.
It makes me give a happy sigh in the darkness.


{Also, I think this is a subconscious reason why I named this blog “The Midnight Train of Thought”. If I could, I would marry a train conductor. Definitely. :)}



{Photo found here.}

Your Ring

You bought me a ring once. It was a pretty ring, but cheap I suspected. Not that I cared.
You told me the ring symbolized your love for me. You told me many pretty, cheap things like that.
Well, y'know what I've realized? The ring you bought to "symbolize your love for me" is too big for my ring finger. It strays from where it's supposed to be... It flew off one day and I almost lost it... It gets twisted around and screwed up so it's facing the wrong way....
Yes... I'd say that's a pretty accurate description of your love for me.

My note: Just to beat the rumour mill, this isn't based on something that really happened to me, haha. And the picture was taken by me.

An Old Friend

"I'm glad I never had any children," said Cousin Sarah. "If they don't break your heart in one way they do it in another."
"Isn't it better to have your heart broken than to have it wither up?" queried Valancy. "Before it could be broken it must have felt something splendid. That would be worth the pain."

In other words, I just finished reading The Blue Castle by L. M. Montgomery for the umpteenth time. I stayed up late last night reading it. Definitely worth it! It was like visiting an old friend again. I love it more every time I read it. :)

Why are apologies hard?

I jumped down your throat.
I'm sorry; I shouldn't have
And I'd like to make it right...
An apology lingers on my lips,
Remorse lurks in my eyes.
But it's hard to speak the words.
What makes apologizing so hard?
Admitting I was wrong?
Baring my heart for another to see?
Or am I unable to be sincere?
Maybe you've even forgotten the incident by now.
But I haven't... so it really doesn't matter.
Peace won't come easy until I've made it right.
But the courage I need is hard to find
And still... I'm not... sure... why...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I meant to write a happy post about swinging in my backyard... But somehow this wrote itself instead. Maybe I shouldn't say 'somehow' since I know exactly why I chose this subject to write on. *sigh*
But, there's always tomorrow for a happy post!

Tag Thingy!

I've been tagged by the lovely Marian to do this tag thing, if I so desire! Since I do so desire here it goes! :)

Rules:
-Replace any question that you dislike with a new question.
-Tag eight people. Don't refuse to do that. Don't tag who tagged you.

{Hehe, I might ignore that second rule, there....}

What song are you currently addicted to?
Definitely 'Blue and Gold Print' by Mates of State.

What books are you currently reading?
Well... I'm getting over an illness I had for a week. And during the end of that, I got a case of ennui. So I started picking-up books reading a few chapters or more and then I would forget to pick them up again.... So right now, I'm reading Sylvie and Bruno by Lewis Carroll, What Katy Did Next by Susan Coolidge, So Long and Thanks for All the Fish by Douglas Adams, & All Creatures Great and Small by James Herriott. There are probably some more.... but don't worry. I'll finish them all. :P

What's your favourite colour?
Light blues, light purples, silver, & sunset!

What's your favourite hobby?
Finding new music to listen to, playing the piano, singing, and reading.

Sweet or Salty?
Euh... it depends on my mood. Most the time I go for sweet. But I love salty as well!

What's your current fandom/obsession/addiction?
The books series The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart

Cake or ice cream?
Let's be indulgent and say both! ;)

What websites do you always visit when you go online?
Usually google, blogspot, & wikipedia.

What was the last thing you bought?
The album Did You Give the World Some Love Today, Baby? by Doris. {I bought it on emusic.}

What fictional character do you think you're most like?
Marvin from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Or maybe Puddleglum from The Silver Chair. :P
Really, I'm not sure... Oh! On second though, probably Laura Deal from A White Bird Flying!

Favorite toy growing up?
Dolls, my sister and I's dollhouse, stuffed animals. Hm, I was really girly when I was little. When I was a little older, I loved playing Robin Hood with my brothers. Who was Robin Hood? Me of course!

Favorite instrument?
The piano! Because I love the way it sounds and it's the only instrument I can play besides the kazoo.

What was the last meal you ate?
Breakfast. I really need to go eat lunch......

Do you want to learn another language?
Well, I'm learning French... so I guess the answer would be yes.

Five things you really appreciate:
1. Autumn
2. Obscure music
3. The beauty of doing nothing
4. Blank paper waiting to be filled
5. Dental floss

What's one of your favorite quotes?
"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sounds they makes as they fly by." - Douglas Adams

What's something you'd like to say to someone right now?
My, my! You're looking extensively grandiful today. {Everyone else thinks I'm talking to them. But really I'm only talking to YOU!} :)

What are you looking forward to?
My fever disappearing and my computer getting better.

I tag:
Anyone who reads this and wants to do it! Please, feel free!!

Uppercase "I"

One day, I was doing my French homework, and I started thinking about the way I write the letter "I". I write it vertically, without two horizontal lines on each end. Like this: I. And I realized... I didn't used to write it that way! I used to write it with the horizontal lines. I became consumed with curiosity of when this change happened. So, I consulted my faithful journal which I kept from late 2000 to early 2009 and I found out something very interesting...
On January 1, 2006, I was writing my "I's" with the horizontal lines. The next entry, which was January 26, 2006, the horizontal lines were gone!
Strange, non?
I'm wondering now, what in the world happened that made me start writing my "I's" differently? I'm fairly certain it wasn't an intentional change... Was there someone I knew who wrote their "I's" that way and I unknowingly picked it up from them?
It does make me wonder... and I don't think I shall ever know. *sigh*

On a similar note, I forgot how therapeutic writing in my journal is. Today I picked up my journal with the intention of only writing a few lines. I ended up writing a two page entry! It was wonderful. :)

As I play my piano...

When everyone has left, that's when I play.
I play the loneliness I don't want to speak of...
No one is there to judge or praise the way I play my piano.
If there's a song I love I can play it over & over.
No one gets annoyed.
No one tells me to stop.
Hours pass, I play on.
Exhaustion consumes me...
My eyes burn, my back aches
But I stay alive through the familiar notes.
My hands almost move mechanically over the keys,
But it comforts me.

Picture: Catherine Ireton from God Help the Girl

{smile weakly, change the subject}

I have no desire to be thin-skinned… And I usually do have a fully developed sense of humour. It’s just that…

{some days it is so hard to find the strength to laugh at one’s self.}

A younger me

Today we watched old home videos...
Curiously, I watched the three year old me on the screen.
I don't remember her!
We're the same person though.
Watching that curly-headed ragamuffin makes me wish I was a better person.
Have I let down that innocent little girl I was?
Am I anything like I thought I would be?
Did I even think about the future then?
I wish I could read the thoughts of the three year old me... or the seven, the ten... or even the twelve.
Sometimes, I wonder about myself....

Not all clever thoughts are true...

A few years ago, as I would read books, I would write down quotes I liked from them {I still do this, just not as often}. Later, I realized that quite a few of these thoughts didn't express the way that I felt. I wrote them down because they sounded beautiful or whimsical or clever. I duped myself into thinking that they expressed the way I felt about things just because I liked the way they sounded.
I have tried to mend my ways in this area, and examine my true feelings before I decide I like something. ;)
I'm not sure if this makes sense or not. But still, it makes me wonder, has anyone else fallen prey to this?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"What are you reading, Kathie?" [Abbie] called.
"Michael Arlen... nothing but. He's delicious. Everything he says sounds silky. Listen to this, Granny;

'....love is like a hammer....'
'Oh, not a hammer!'
'A hammer, darling. It beats and beats inside him and presently it doesn't beat so regularly, and presently it doesn't beat at all...'

"Doesn't that just melt in your mouth?"
"The words are very clever. But not all clever words are true."
"You said a bookful Granny. And inversely most things that are true are not clever."

-Excerpt from A Lantern in Her Hand by Bess Streeter Aldrich