Tuesday, December 27, 2011

...but once a year.

I had a lovely Christmas and am sad it's over. The world looks a bleaker place without bright lights continually promising cheery respite from real life.


Something happened a few days before Christmas that, while is most likely for the eventual (and even present) best, has caused much sorrow between myself and my mother.
Ever since it happened I've had trouble getting my brain to focus and get things done. I am really not sure why. Perhaps because the air is full of disrupted dust from memories that I had let settle in a dark corner a while ago.

Not to be histrionic, but I don't really want to talk about it. I don't really want to talk about anything, really.

I'm not uninspired, just terribly unsettled. So I'm writing snippets of stories, eating entirely too many sweet things, falling in love with Nina Nastasia's album, Dogs [a Christmas present from Younger Brother #1], and waiting to see what will happen next.

(The aforementioned Nina Nastasia album with a penguin puppet Younger Brother #2 gave to me since I have quite a thing for penguins. He joked that he regretted getting it for me since I was having waaay to much fun with it Christmas morning. I haven't decided what to name her yet... I know it must be a her since the rest of the penguins in my collection are boys.)

This is not much of a post, but I haven't posted for almost 3 weeks which is uncharacteristic of me. I wanted to let you know I am still here, as alive as I ever was.

I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas. ♥

{'Dear Rose' by Nina Nastasia - the opening track of Dogs. Hmm, I'm noticing a trend of me putting music at the ends of my posts these days. What can I say? Music is good.}

Friday, December 9, 2011

the mental quiet

Quiet: the dearest of friends,
not a foe.

It was perturbing, at first,
to have silence inside and out;
only silence spinning a web in the eaves.

But the absence of a heartbeat,
no more creaking bones became
the most tranquil way of existence.

My mind let out a whir, infrequently:
a sound akin to raindrops
brushing past
the outspread fingers of the trees.

(Sleep on,
sleep on:
never dream aloud.

Bite back those thoughts.
Any sound might
melt this trance.)

Wishes slipping,
visions tripping:
the eventual souring of sleep.
I wake in a soaked, black-scribble bed.

And it haunts me the only reason I pray is
to remember you to God.

For now my soul has been opened, eroded
by the aggression of tears.


How long until
I don't care again?


This piece is a strange combination of poetic license and a mélange of reality. I suppose that's hardly atypical, but I felt the need to mention it for some reason. The poem (as I suppose it is) was greatly inspired by the fact I've not been writing for the past... three weeks, I think? At first, I didn't really care; but finally it started eating me up inside, just eating me up. Yet I didn't want to force the issue, and the few thoughts that gleamed in the distance never felt worth pursuing. (The line between laziness and weariness often becomes saddeningly blurred for me. *sigh*) Scary things happened in vulnerable moments; I'd think, "Why do I bother writing?" or "I've had it with struggling with my music." Several mornings in a row, I nearly fell to pieces while trying to decide what to wear that day; I was that tired of having to get up every morning and live. But the Carole King song 'Beautiful' kept getting in my head: "You've got to get up every morning / with a smile on your face / and show the world / all the love in your heart..."
I've kept that song in mind, and, thanks to the fact my writing drought has ended, I'm trying to be more positive. While I haven't got the smile down yet, I get up every morning with a lighter heart, at least. And I'm extensively relieved to finally be writing again. I'm trying to make sure I never lose sight of my dreams again by remembering that, while writing is hard at times, especially as a possible career, ultimately it's what I love most. Haven't felt brave enough to work on songwriting again, but we're getting there.

Now I'm just hoping to be hit by some Christmas spirit... :) Maybe if the warm-ish weather would go away that would help. Please?

{Song is 'Beautiful' by Carole King and the painting is In Bed by Federico Zandomeneghi.}

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Nyro November

As Christmas lights twinkle at me from neighbouring windows, I must accept that November's candle has nearly burned to the end.

This is not neccesarily a bad thing, though. I journaled a lot during the month of November and looking back, I realize how bemusing it was...

--We took a day trip down to see our paternal grandparents. It was my first time seeing my grandfather since he's been diagnosed with cancer. [This next bit is copied from my journal] He's undergone half of his treatments and I was shocked... because he looks no different! I would never even suspect he had cancer. I almost feel guilty, because I have been relatively untouched by tragedy & now that it has come... it's a nonentity. So far, that is. I should be giving thanks to God but I'm just sitting here wondering what the catch is. Sad, n'est-ce pas?

--Less importantly, I found out I have "misophonia" which is a form of decreased sound tolerance. From wikipedia: "People who have misophonia are most commonly annoyed, or even enraged, by the sound of other people eating, breathing, coughing, or other ordinary sounds." My whole life makes sense now! Or at least the past couple years do. :P

--On November 21 my "baby" brother had his 13th birthday! I could have sworn he was still 6, I really could've. As often as he drives me crazy, I love that boy so much. This one's for you, love muffin! ;)

--And most shockingly, my older sister has a boyfriend. Her first. Our whole family’s first, really. Let me put this in context: she's never had a boyfriend because her convictions do not include dating for dating's sake or transient relationships. This relationship is a serious one: one with the goal of possible marriage someday.

*excuse me while I scream inside*

I feel... a tumult of emotions. This all came on so fast - I almost feel threatened. My sister and I are close and she's already away so much; I wasn't prepared to lose her to a guy so soon! We all finally met him today. He seems nice and a little bit shy. Still... this is shaking my world. I'll get used to it, though... eventually.
As I've watched this whole thing unfold, (the talking, the texting, the praying, the texting, the texting) all I can think is Aww...! [I don't want this for myself. I don't want this; I don't want this.] Perhaps it's my young age, but the knowledge that I am not expected to stay single my whole life makes me sick. But this is a bewildering topic I could wax on for hours. Let us drop it for now.

November has been strange for me, emotionally speaking. One day I'll feel driven and inspired; I write/bake cookies/paint with my brother; and then the next day all I want to do is crawl into a hole where there are no people and I can cry in peace.
These past couple weeks, I've developed an ennui: the grey, sticky kind that's so hard to wash from the folds of the sky. I thought it was circumstantial, temporary; I thought I could keep it at arm's length until "that time" ended. Apparently not. It's still here.

November has sounded like a Laura Nyro song.

Practically all I listened to the month of November was her album New York Tendaberry, and (starting this past week) Eli and the Thirteenth Confession. On good days and bad, her music remained the only thing I didn't weary of. But those aren't the only reasons why I say November has sounded like one of her songs. Her changing tempos, the soaring flight; then landing; then soaring again of her songs has mirrored the carousel rhythm of my emotions. Except, I lack the passion she sings with; I don't seem to feel anything deeply anymore.

Today in church, though... I felt inspired. I can pull my act together this week, I thought. I can pull my whole life together!
Sitting in church seems to be the place where I make my best (and oft most random) resolves. Sermon-listening doesn't always happen, but that's just how it goes sometimes.

My ennui has not made a peep all day, and I am hoping this week will be better. That is one thing we must always cling to: surely tomorrow will be better. If we didn’t believe that, I’m not sure many of us would choose to wake up ever again.

So, though November has been an altogether bone-rattling month, I face the beginning of my favourite season with careworn hopes dug out from under the bed and grasped in my hands again. I’m not sure they will help, but I need to hold them and try to seek the truth again. I'm tired of being lost.

('The Man Who Sends Me Home' by Laura Nyro. I realize her music is not to everyone's liking, but I think she's pretty darn amazing, so I dinna care.)

{1st picture is text from the book I Am Half-Sick of Shadows by Alan Bradley and the 2nd picture is of Laura Nyro.}

Thursday, November 17, 2011

the wanderer

tranquil roaming, wind knocking against my soul.
the spaces 'neath my eyes look kissed by the lavender wings of the moths that would fly up against the stars on summer nights.
summer nights--oh, strange they should come up again, just when the scar wrapped around me became another irrelevant story. twas you! your doing. you had me in your jaws; caused me cringes in the ringing silence between clock strikes.

you made a wanderer out of me.

domesticity is no way to live when one's hands are too raw to even pick up the truth. you were too, too anchored to your reality. what call could i answer but that of transiency?
now a wanderlust beats where cowardice once lay. power in every step, though my bones have magnified and delirious perseverance is my main emotion.

it is autumn & i know i will fall with the rest.

as the leaves flame & break away, i watch: drifting to my knees, admiration on the tip of my tongue. beautiful, i sigh. beautiful.
i reach a hand up to catch their whispery caresses. things are so beautiful when they are dying, i murmur.
the earth reaches to hold me; a rustle under my head, a last rustle of my heart.
beautiful! i am beautiful!

{I don't know what this is, really. It was written one recent midnight, and I was so happy to actually have a story to tell. I think while writing, I unconsciously had in mind conversations I'd had with my friend Jessica about autumn and transiency and such.
The picture is by me, and was taken on our back porch on a lovely, lonely rainy autumn afternoon. Those are my fat feet, yes. :P}

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Re-watching movies.

My writing is torturing me this week, both my past words and present. (The quantity of the former and the quality of the latter.) But I am trying to stay positive, or at least focus on other things. Such as... films I love!

Because I read anywhere from 6-10 books a week, I don't watch many movies. I prefer reading! Getting me to watch a full-length movie can be a struggle, just ask my family. It's not that I don't like to watch movies, but sometimes I find the thought of being tied to the screen for that long daunting. I couldn't explain the reason why; it's beyond quixotic of me since I often sit that long at my computer screen. And some times I am more than willing to watch. It's very weird.
Come to think of it, I believe it has something to do with the fact that I can't walk away any time I want to if I'm watching with other people; I like my time to be flexible for doing whatever strikes my fancy. (Bad characteristic!)
What I should do is re-watch movies by myself, on my laptop because there are many movies I utterly love, but haven't watched in a while. I need to start making time to sit and watch them, if only in increments. In lieu of that, I started thinking about movies I want to re-watch and this is the list I came up with...

Les Parapluies de Cherbourg - A favourite I'm always in the mood for! For those of you unfamiliar with this beautiful film, all the dialogue is sung... in French (of course)! Some people find this strange - ah, but they have never actually watched it!

Alice in the Cities (AKA Alice in den Städten) - This is like the non-perverted version of Lolita. It's an obscure German film, and I only ran across it because Sibylle Baier appears briefly in a scene. (Thank goodness for YouTube!)

The Monkees: Head - I am a big fan of the Monkees, both their show and their music. Their movie Head, which was made in 1968, was basically meant to shatter the image that had been created for them. That being said, it's a rather disturbing and random film, but I love it... in a strange sort of way.

Little Dorrit - My favourite Dickens next to Our Mutual Friend! I read the book the other month which only increased my desire to watch this lovely mini-series. I remember watching it when it first aired on PBS and having to wait a week in between installments. Quite aggravating!

The Thin Man - This movie is slated for a remake and I am so miffed about it! All I can say is, why remake perfection? No one else could capture the hilarious couple of Nick and Nora like Myrna Loy and William Powell did. *shakes head* What is the world coming to?

My Man Godfrey - Oh, look at that... another movie starring William Powell. Ha! Ha! You'd think I had a thing for him or something.....
This movie is crazy in the way only 1940's comedies can be. In my opinion, many of the best movies come from this era.

Meet Me in St. Louis - A sweet, nostalgic musical starring Judy Garland! Need I say more? (I just love her - what a voice! *dreamy sigh*)

The Shop Around the Corner - I just adore this film! Of course, it's James Stewart; you can't go wrong with him! This movie has been remade a couple times. Most importantly into...

You've Got Mail - Essentially The Shop Around the Corner with emails instead of letters! ...But not really. They have enough differences that it doesn't feel like you're watching the same film. I don't prefer either one; they're both so wonderful and funny.

Muppets Take Manhattan - Probably my favourite Muppet movie! I can quote it forwards and back, but it never gets old. (I have to admit, I am not excited about the new Muppet movie that has been made... It just doesn't look like it has the feel of the classic Muppet movies. Or the show, for that matter. I'm an incorrigible purist, sorry.)

Before Sunset -The second half of the greatest pairing of films! (The first being Before Sunrise.)If you like a lot of intelligent conversation and ponderings, these movies are a must. However, if ambiguous endings drive you crazy, don't watch these!

Well, that's all I can think of, though there are undoubtedly more. What about you all? Any movies you want to re-watch right now?

(...Now, which should I start watching first?)

{All pictures found on tumblr, except the first one which is one of my own screenshots.}

Sunday, October 30, 2011

moon susurrations

Moon susurrations:
embroidery of the night;
soaking through the
somnolent surface of the lake
and your eyes.

Stars never become obsolete,
though die they must.
But I believe they
go on singing
a diamond-song
in our souls.

And those who mourn
the holes left in the sky
can find what they seek
by knowing me, by
knowing you.

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

The inspiration for this poem came to me in an interesting form: desperation.
I've been babysitting my next door neighbour twice a week for the past two months; I'm done now and am beyond relieved since I'm not fond of babysitting. He's an easy kid to babysit, thank goodness, but he has an annoying habit of watching my least favourite cartoons repeatedly. One afternoon while watching an inane cartoon, I could feel my IQ slowly dwindling; I knew I had to do something... and fast. I pulled out my phone, opened a new text and, with little thought beforehand, wrote this poem. I attribute the fact I used several big words to an attempt at deflecting the stupidity blaring from the television. I'd say that's the best use I've ever gotten out of my phone! (I just don't have that inseparable bond with my phone that most of my generation has.)

This poem gave me hope that I still have some inspiration rattling around inside somewhere, and who knows what will trigger it!

In other news, it's almost November! Is anyone participating in National November Writing Month (AKA NaNoWriMo)? I've been planning to do it ever since I found out about it too late last year, but sadly, it's not to be... Not this year, at least.

First of all, I'm already working with serious intent on this novel, and secondly, I've been asked by a family friend to write a script combining Louisa May Alcott's book Eight Cousins and its sequel Rose in Bloom. I was completely gobsmacked when she asked. Such a thing never crossed my mind! I had to consider it a while before giving an answer; but I admit, I knew all along I would say yes.
So far, I've only been re-reading the books, writing notes, and also struggling with the fear it will turn out horribly. I've been in enough plays over the years to know a lot about scripts. But writing one? Scary!
Still, this is my first real comission and if it turns out well, I will not only get paid for it, but also, in all likelihood, get to see it performed! (This family friend has directed several plays as a part of the theater organization I'm a part of.)

I want to start actually writing it soon, and since I'm already working on my novel, spending the month of November writing an entirely new work seems like a bad idea. As much as I want to do it, I know it could only end with me pulling my hair out. (And I rather love my hair, so you can see why this would be tragic. :P)

Next year, though! Next year!

{Painting is 'Sisters of the Fertile Moon' by Cyn McCurry.}

Monday, October 17, 2011

Attempting to seize the day.

I've been playing a game of tag with Time lately and I'm always "it".

I have good intentions, I start my mornings and/or Mondays saying, "Today/this week will be better! I won't waste time!"

Almost without fail, though, something unexpected happens: an event I have to attend or an unexpected visit I have to be a part of. Too often (practically always), it makes me throw up my hands. Sigh, "My good intentions were thwarted! What's the point now?" And like that, my vim is gone; I allow myself to slip back down to inefficient placidity.

I had such a day today. One where I wanted to get things accomplished, as a precursor to the rest of the week, and, of course, the day was essentially a bust.

But, I refuse to give up; I have things to do, and I will get them done, regardless of the extraneous tasks and commitments clamouring for my attention.

I will make progress on my book, I will catch up in my Grammar course, I will respond to correspondences, I will journal, I will clean my room, I will finish that song, and I will do everything else that is slipping my mind at the moment.

...Apparently, inspiration and a can-do attitude fill me tonight. I'm glad! A little leery, but glad.

I will try my hardest to catch and hold every hour that comes my way, if not second.

It's on. *nods*

(P.S. This blog post was completely unplanned till it started writing itself about 30 minutes ago. For some reason, my desire to blog is very strong right now. Of course, the time when I feel I have nothing to say! My mind is very perverse.)

{Screenshot from the film "Before Sunset", and was found on tumblr, undoubtedly.}

Friday, October 14, 2011

sleep patterns

I was staring out the window listening to this song:

Wind holding leaves, then letting them fall; the song weaving a haze around me.
It's easy to pretend that all this, that I am merely a dream-figment.

Then, the vacuum cleaner whined to life in the other room.

(I could cry, I really could.)

Monday, October 10, 2011

"Dark, dark is all I find for metaphor..."

Inert, my Muse and I sit on opposite ends of the couch; a marriage gone sour.
Why don't you love me? I want to ask her.
It's not that we've never fought before; we have and reconciliation was always waiting in the wings. But this time, it's different... We haven't made-up, but I haven't stopped writing. That's the problem; the words still flow and I am shocked by their mediocrity.

My words have reached a staleness that perturbs me. For a while now, I've been unable to shake the feeling that my repertoire is 3 songs long and I just sing them over and over, unable to learn a new melody. I'm surprised those around me don't clap their hands over their ears and run out of hearing range.

The only beauty I can find, as of late, is laced in the words of others, famous or otherwise. And then further endeavouring seems so pointless: why bother when everything has already been expressed so eloquently?

I've felt my abilities dwindling the past few months, and I can no longer ignore their vanishings. I look my ramblings squarely in the face and deem them 'passable'.
Oh! I just so desperately want to write something and to feel that deep, tranquil, satisfying feeling that it is good. I haven't felt that way in a distressingly long time.

Please don't think I'm posting this merely to get attention and your assurances to the contrary. I write what I feel... and this is what I'm feeling now.

It is what it is.

I borrowed Rainer Maria Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet/The Possibility of Being from the library today. So far, it is full of beauty and wisdom. I don't know if it will help my blue funk, but I think it will offer some solace, at least.

{The title of this post is a line from the poem 'Interim' by Edna St. Vincent Millay. The 1st picture is by and of me, and what I'm leaning against is my poster which is the entire play of 'Hamlet'. The 2nd picture is also by me and is the text of the Rainer Maria Rilke poem, 'Autumn', though I'm not sure who the translation is by.}

Tuesday, October 4, 2011


I miss his voice speaking in the distance as I wandered through the shelves of worlds waiting to be discovered. (As was I.)

I played hide and seek with my heart in the aisles. I hid from confronting what I really wanted: him.

As October approaches again, my thoughts drift like dead leaves into a pile at one place: his feet.

(I wish...
Why didn't I...
It's better...
this way

It's just October sweeping through me with an incisive wind of near-sadness & almost-regret; bringing to the surface all I let drop.
Soon I will be able to let these things fall into the opaque waters again; but first I must remember, I must embrace each recollection: the barbed and the sweet. (Each one has been gilded with a sheen of significance they do not deserve.)
I let the words of old diaries pour over my cheeks, I try on those secret smiles again. (They still fit.) But more often than not they wrinkle into winces and I remove them with a sigh.

These things: I want to remember them because Common Sense is standing nearby and soon she will shake her head, tell me to put them--to put him--out of my mind again.
Bravely, I'll uncurl my fingers, let these cherished things sink and nestle in the arms of the depths. (All the while knowing perfectly well I will fish them out again. Perhaps too soon...)

...Definitely too soon. Already I've retrieved one or two: just my favourites! Please allow me those! I dry them off and place them in a box. A mahogany box that keeps secrets as well as my own heart; they're safe here, yet accessible. I am content.

(I just ignore the arrows Common Sense aims at my head. Their blows have grown as soft as sighs over the years, anyway. For she knows I don't care, and any effort will be wasted. She keeps on trying, though, and I admire that. Still, I will not forget for her; I cannot just yet.)


Been feeling nostalgic lately, for it was October last year that signaled the beginning of a strange and horrible year that would turn me into a girl I didn't recognize. (A girl that still sneers at me when I look closely at my reflection.)
Of course, this piece focuses on one of the highlights of the year, though one that caused as much stress as joy (a stranger who happened to be perfect). Here's hoping this next year heals instead of harms...

I am happy, though, for it finally feels and smells like autumn! My mother asked me the other week what autumn smells like. I said the first thing that came to mind:
Dead leaves and blooming hopes.
Though it was random at the time, I now realize: my hopes are blooming. All sorts of wonderful things feel possible in the autumn. Which is a sentiment I expressed during spring, I believe. It's true for both seasons, though! No wonder they're my favourites.

{1st image found here, 2nd image is my favourite painting, 'Eleven AM' by Edward Hopper.}

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

A Musical Writing Exercise

This is something I saw on Marian's Tulgeywood blog that sparked my interest. She encouraged me to try it, and this afternoon, with excitement and trepidation, I did.

Here are the rules, or "guidelines" as I like to say:

1. Take a Technological Purveyor of Music (such as an iPod) and set it to shuffle.

2. As soon as the first song starts playing, start writing. Don't put too much thought into the process, and don't bother trying to force the writing to the song -- just let the music carry your pen along.

3. When the song stops playing, stop writing. Don't edit anything.

And now I will tell you how I veered from the rules! I believe this was originally intended for fanfiction, but fanfic is something I've only done once to my memory. It was just a short piece, a one time thing; not to mention I did it two years ago.
So, I decided I would just pull settings and characters out of thin air.
...Let me just say, I now know why doing fanfic was suggested because pulling stories out of thin air is difficult. Overall though, I think I preferred it this way.

When I first tried doing this exercise my brain literally froze. I felt strangely nervous and couldn't write a single word.
I stopped and tried again and it got easier and easier as I kept going. I ended up doing about 12 songs. But! I did not just go with my ipod's consecutive shuffle. I skipped some songs, like a 45 second one (There was no way I was attempting that...) and other songs which for some reason didn't offer any inspiration (Sorry, Buddy Holly). I also restarted the shuffle several times, because I like doing that rather than going into high digits... *shrugs*

I did do a minimum of editing. I edited whilst I was writing (...wait, that probably doesn't count, on second thought). And afterwards, I corrected some punctuation, deleted a redundancy or two, and added something at the end of one; I put it in brackets though, so it would feel less like cheating, I guess. :P It's really quite torturous to not do more editing than that and not add more to the snippets of stories, but I restrained myself for whatever reason. For now, that is.

I'm only posting half of the ones I did; the ones I like best, of course. They all turned out better than I thought they were going too, though! Admittedly, I did have pretty low expectations, heh.


-'When I Go' by Slow Club-

My knees were scraped pretty bad. Darn! I thought, relishing the word my mother frowned upon. As if my knobby knees weren’t ugly enough.

“You okay?” Gene was standing above me looking concerned.

“Yeah,” I said with pretend disinterest.

He offered a hand and pulled me up.

I winced. “Uh, Gene...” I muttered


“I think I’m just going to go home now. We can roller-skate tomorrow.”

Or next month. I thought silently.

He shrugged, “Okay, if that’s what you want.”

Oh trust me, it is. I thought.

Aloud I said nothing, just shrugged and turned around.


-'Dance Until Tomorrow' by Lavender Diamond-

“You realize we’re going to be here for a while.”

Claire’s eyes were shining, her heart and skirt whirling and twirling as she danced on the arm of her fine young man.

“Yes, I know,” I sighed.

“Do you want me to get you any refreshment?”

“Yes, some punch would be welcome.”

I hadn’t actually wanted anything, but I needed to be alone for a minute. Well, alone as one ever is in these crowded ballrooms.

I followed his path with my eyes, then looked away toward Claire who was still joyously dancing.

I was past the age of a desirable partner. The only person who had tapped on my shoulder and asked to dance was Memory. In my mind, we waltzed now.

I tripped several times though the steps were familiar. Usually it went a lot smoother than this. I clung to Memory, hoping he was strong and would hold me up. But he let go, kissed my hand and left the room.

I found myself gazing dully into space. I snapped to attention, as James made his way back with my punch.

“Thank you,” I murmured. “Just what I needed.”


-'Shadows' by Au Revoir Simone-

I lay curled on the mattress and watched her through half-closed eyes.

I lay in a daze, intoxicated by her dark tangles against the white of her back.

She slipped the familiar blue shirt on.

“Why do you always sleep in that shirt?” I mumbled through the film of sleep over my lips.

“Because,” she murmured.


She gathered up her hair into a ponytail.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” she teased.

“I’m as old now as I’ll ever be,” I sighed and fell asleep.

My closed eyes couldn’t see her regarding me gravely and lovingly before she turned off the naked light bulb and lay down beside me [on the equally bare mattress].


-'Avant la haine' by Romain Duris and Joana Preiss, from the film "Dans Paris." (Which I've never seen, I just love the song.)-

“I’m an idiot,” she moaned, digging her hands deep into the damp soil.

No one except a bird or three heard her and they did not understand.

“I wonder sometimes if I should be allowed near living things,” she sighed, regarding her dilapidated garden.

“I can’t handle this,” she said in a sad monotone.

“I can’t handle this!” she screeched at the sky, standing up and brandishing a trowel.

The birds, the only ones who could hear, flew away.

“Of course. Yes.” She knelt down again.

“I’m an idiot,” she whimpered.


-'Sunshine' by Smoke Fairies-

She hadn’t realized how far down the city would be.

Are you sure you’ve done this before? She wanted to ask the stolid, silent man standing beside her. She didn’t dare.

She held out a foot in front of her. Five toes. An average foot belonging to an average girl.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” she thought as she put her foot on the unnervingly meager looking rope.

Simultaneously she felt her faith soaring and plunging.

She wavered. His hand suddenly gripped her arm.

She didn’t dare look at it. But she could feel each finger digging into her arm, strong and strangely reassuring. Five fingers. An average man.

She took a step forward and felt him let go of her arm.

Another step. And another.


-'Movin' Out (Anthony’s Song)' by Billy Joel-

He kicked a nearby garbage can.

I’d never seen him so filled with anger; it sparked in his eyes.

“Tell me he’s not lying to me,” he said in a fierce undertone.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” I cried. “What did he tell you?”

“Said there was nothing between you. That true?”

“Yes, yes. Of course! There was nothing.”

Nothing that could ever be perceived. Only years of me pushing desire to the back of the mind.

“There was nothing,” I repeated numbly.

Nothing but dreams. In his world that was nothing; in mine... everything.


Anyone reading, feel free to do this yourself! I'd love to read what you all write. You can do as many or as few as you like and follow the rules as loosely as you desire. :)

Monday, September 12, 2011

A sudden barrage.

As I drove, scents and sounds flew in the open windows. With them, they carried keys. Keys to open the bureaus and chests where my memories sleep, folded and tucked away. Suddenly, the lids of these safeholds were thrust open, causing memories to scatter all over the streets behind and beside me. The air became foggy with remembrances. Memory after memory sped through my mind. Memories of houses belonging to great-aunts and uncles; of the rows of shops in Chincoteague; of playing with Lily on summer twilights; of gravel driveways leading to exciting places.
Numbly I sat and my hands automatically kept up their cradle-rocking motion on the steering wheel. I felt blind, a blanket of reminisces over my head, a Janis Ian song playing on a loop in my mind. {Lover, am I coming home again?} In turning every corner, new memories would spill out. The most random of remembrances: that time of Sunday wandering with my brothers and father; countless dinners out when the grandparents were in town; exploring a green expanse of grass with my sister.
As I neared home, they quieted down. They've dissipated by the time I've pulled into the driveway. My father who sat next to me was unaffected; he felt, heard, saw nothing. But it was all I could do not to stumble up the porch steps; weary, yet wishing the memories would come back in all their intensity. But everything was locked up again... except for one sole memory lingering centerstage. It was a new one, with a polished sheen and beguiling gleam in its eye. Twas the memory of this car ride and the not unwelcome evocation of feelings and experiences I’d nearly forgotten. I hung the shiny new memory where I could see it, not willing to put it away just yet. I wanted to ponder it for a while longer...

(This strange incident happened to me yesterday. I almost feel like I imagined it all, it was so out of the blue. It always amazes me how short the line connecting memories to scents and sounds (&c.) is. Such as, whenever I hear the sound of a large/long zipper being zipped, bam! I'm miles away, camping and lying in a tent listening to a member of the family opening the zippered door. Or I'll smell something and find myself cast years into the past. The mind and our five senses are wondrous things. Do you, dear readers, have any sound/smell associations?)

Thursday, September 1, 2011

all the lonely people

Playing piano in a darkened room:
'Eleanor Rigby' (because I need to know
where all the lonely people belong)

I was playing
and the keys
gleamed like phantoms;
tender ghosts that glowed with solace
and sustenance

the hours and weeks before
had been full of voiceless screams,
of sighs and trembling

the ghosts and the
bittersweet darkness
of their ebony threads
were the sole thing that could
bind these tatters of mine

they filled me, stopped the disintegration
(I'm a grey colour now, but still here)

And my fingers keep on pacing,
always looking for their songs

(for this is the only way
I know how to speak.
This is the only way
I can communicate.

know me.


My emotional hurricane has calmed to a rainstorm. It's much easier to live with, but I'm tired of being anywhere from damp to soaked all the time; I just want to be dry!

On a happier note, I started a new journal yesterday! I don't know why, but I love starting a new journal (though finishing the old one is somewhat bittersweet). Through the years, especially when I was younger, I've kept various diaries... but it is only my journal(s) that I have stayed faithful to.
I kept my first journal from December 2000 to January 2009. My second journal I kept from February 2009 to, well, August 2011! (As you can see, my writing habits have greatly spiked in the last few years.)
The journal I have just started was given to me for Christmas by my brother.

I love it so much since I'm a Beatles fan of astronomical proportions and Abbey Road is one of my favourite albums. It has been lying around my room tempting me for around 8 months, so I'm excited to finally be writing in it!

Eh, it's the little things in life, isn't it?

{Both photos by me.}

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

life's unmerry-go-round

Do you know how many histrionic posts I have saved in my blogger drafts?
A lot.
Generally, I sleep on them before posting so they never see the light of day.
I should have done that last night.
I could delete that post and pretend I never felt that way. But, on the other hand... maybe I shouldn't always be swallowing these roiling emotions and should be letting them out sometimes. I know I can err on the side of being overly buttoned-up.

I stayed up late last night submerging myself in this beautifully written book:

It eased my heart's pain a little.

I do feel better, but nothing has changed. My issues and fears (which have nothing to do with anyone but myself) are still there and I know it's just a matter of time before they bring me down again. I'm still lost, but now I'm lying on the floor of the maze and looking up at the sky. Its gentle billowing is keeping me stable for the present.

On another note, I've never updated my blog this many times in one week. Next thing you know, I'll be one of those people who updates their Facebook status every 10 minutes!

Not really. :P

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

(i'm not even sure what's wrong)

I am so lost right now.

(Surely I'm capable of being a better person than this?)

Ignore me: I just need to step out of my bones for a moment, and let my shell fall to the floor in a crumbled heap of skin and blood and the vapor of long-held hopes.

I can't try to be strong anymore, I can no longer offer balm to others when my soul is a diseased, shriveled thing.

But at the same time, I can't stop hoping I can help someone else, even if I can't help myself.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Dear You

(A post via Heather.)

Dear You,
It always make me sad to think of our friendship which was cut off so suddenly. You were gone before I even knew you were going.
It was all out of your control, though. Which makes me feel better and at the same time worse.
I miss you; do you remember me?
I'm sure you do though this all happened two (or was it three?) years ago. It frustrates me that I can google your name and come up with your prestigious family tree, but have no way of contacting you. Probably ever again.
That's the beauty and sorrow of online friendships: they're like signaling with a lantern across a dark abyss and receiving a reply glimmering back at you. Then one day you signal in vain, the only reply is a continued darkness.
Maybe I'm just living in the past but kindred spirits are not a dime a dozen, you know. I miss our messages back and forth, our jokes, our intangible bonding.
Dare I wish for the impossible? I will! I hope our paths cross again someday.
(If I ever make it to France, don't be surprised if I come knocking on your door.)

Much love from your friend,

Now to pass it on - Jade, Kim, Shopgirl, and Ever, I ask you to write a letter to whoever about whatever. It must begin with "Dear you" and you can only use pronouns.
(And any other reader who would like to do this... do it, please! I know I always say that, but gosh... I always feel like I'm probably missing the person who really wanted to do it. Just let me be content in my paranoia, thank you! :P)

Funnily enough, a few days before this tag was passed on to me, I found an unfinished "Dear You" letter I had written a few months earlier. It got lost in a pile of papers (a typical fate!), so I finished it and decided I might as well post it now, along with the other letter.

Dear You,
Whenever I write, I always feel the need to address myself to you.
You, you! It's so ambiguous. You could be male or female. You could be my mother, you could be the dog next door.
Sometimes I'm not even sure who you are. You are my lover, you are my enemy. You are a sonnet, you are prose. You are sufficient; you will never be enough.
But you know... you always know. I can tell you those things I always wanted. Whoever you are, I need you. Because, in writing to you, I feel a little less lonely: you're reading along.
Thank you.

Ever and Ever,

{Painting is 'Woman Writing at a Table' by Thomas Pollock Anshutz.}

Thursday, August 11, 2011

And in the moonlight your hands were cold.

{Though both can stand alone, I thought I'd mention that this story is a sequel to a piece I wrote a while ago called "this is our house". When I first started writing this story, I didn't realize it was a sequel-of-sorts. But eventually I became aware of the fact that I was writing from the perspective of the same narrator, even though the two pieces of writing have two very different feels and little in common. Funnily enough, I wrote this story around its first sentence [and title]. The sentence was a random phrase I picked for the name of a playlist and I liked it so much that, after ruminating for quite a while, birthed a story from it.}

And in the moonlight your hands were cold.
Nothing felt so fragile and so strong as the bond of our hands.
I saw a familiar crowd of fears and dreams reflected in your dark, dark eyes. I couldn’t stop staring into these windows and looking at your midnight-coloured soul.
Your hold on my hands spoke of life, yet I look over your shoulder and know you’ve had ghosts too.
Still, I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you. I want your cold hands to hold mine for... how long? Forever. That sounds about right.

The tower of silence stacked above our heads was toppled by footsteps walking down the stony path.
(hearts quickening, cheeks warming, sudden inches between us)

Now I make my way back to the house which continues to stand in hunched, withered obstinacy.
Ducking through the hallways where the ghosts meet, I find my thoughts have stayed with you though I’ve walked away.
I open the door to the library where the silt of wraith-words lingers on every surface. I whisper to the books, soothing them as I run my fingers lightly over their spines; searching, searching.
I locate the book I seek and smile: tonight it is not merely a book, it is a message. A message for you, a reply to your question.

There is a murmuring near the fireplace. I don’t even look over. Tis the ghosts. They have not lessened since your arrival but I forget about them more frequently.
I found a lonely, little ghost wandering in my room last week; it had a familiar face. What could I do but offer my bed? We shared our sleep that night. A phantom makes a quiet bedfellow at least.
I never minded their presence, like dusty cobwebs haunting the corner of every room. But now, you have sparked a flame in me, a desire to no longer sit holding the tattered quilt of what once was in my lap.

With timid footsteps and a yearning heart, I leave the book outside your door. I kiss its dilapidated, burgundy cover once, twice. Soft and staccato like eyelashes fluttering. (Even I am not quite sure why I did this. Sometimes doing silly, pointless things feels necessary.)

Later, I lie on my bed, wide awake and listen to the nocturnal medley of my family...
A cough.
A sleepy snort.
The creaking of a rocking chair.

At last, your tread on the stairs! Your feet walking the floor above me, your footsteps pattering up my spine.

Then, the quiet midnight void.

My eyes won’t close. They want to stare into the dark and think of cold hands and warm, dark eyes that promise “Life can breathe anew.”

I worry that you didn’t find my message. Or perhaps you didn’t understand the response the book was conveying. I chew over these sticky doubts for a while, wishing I could spit them out.

But! I hear quiet movement from upstairs, steps that come nearer.


A family member?

A ghost?

There’s a knock on my door. My heartbeat pounds at a speed it’s never reached before. I leap from my bed and open the door to reveal your tall, reassuring form. You almost look surprised for a moment, then you smile. I smile back; there is no need to speak.

I grab my suitcase which lies near the door and step out into the hall. Your cold hand joins my warm one and together we walk; down the hall, past the ghosts. Down the stairs, past the dull eyes of family portraits. We walk out of the house, I softly stomp my feet on the threshold to shake the house’s bony grip off my ankles.

I don’t even look back.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

A Millay Sonnet

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
who told me that time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him in the shrinking of the tide;
the old snows melt from every mountainside;
and last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
heaped in my heart, and old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
to go--so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
where never fell his boot or shone his face
I say "There is no memory of him here."
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

{One of my favourite poems by one of my favourite poets, Edna St. Vincent Millay. The photograph is of her and was found on wikipedia.}

Thursday, July 28, 2011

out of sorts

I've been feeling out of sorts, as of late.
I've been wishing I could tear myself into thousands of tiny, insignificant pieces.
Or I wish I could shatter my heart like a china plate and make mosaics with the shards; even if I can't make something beautiful at least it would be different.

I just need something new to look at, that's all.

"I know what you mean about wishing that somebody wasn't there, though. It's usually, it's myself that I wish I could get away from. Seriously, think about this: I have never been anywhere that I haven't been. I've never had a kiss when I wasn't one of the kissers. Y'know, I've never gone to the movies, when I wasn't there in the audience. I've never been out bowling, if I wasn't there, y'know, making some stupid joke. I think that's why so many people hate themselves. Seriously, it's just they are sick to death of being around themselves."

~Jesse, Before Sunrise

My worn out, green-flecked emotions have been flaring up again. Mix in a pinch of apathy, a good dose of loneliness and a tumult of hormones and you have the mess known as me.

While some things have gotten better, some have just gotten worse. Though I'm no longer the unstable mess I was this winter, I've grown complacent. Change is something that needs to be worked at, even after it's already happened. I suspect we never truly finish changing, or growing rather. I need to pay more attention to myself, my emotional and spiritual well-being seems to slip under my radar too often. That needs to stop...

-'It All Got Worse' by Destry-
(my current favourite song)

Sorry, this post is rather moany. But what are blogs for, right? I almost disabled comments on this which is something I've considered doing many times but never actually done. I don't want anyone feel they have to or should respond to my pathetic complaints, but at the same time, I thrive on hearing from my blogging friends. Maybe I'm over-thinking this... (But I just may do a post without comments one of these old days, just you wait and see! :P)

{Picture taken from the text of the book "Home" by Marilynne Robinson.}

Monday, July 18, 2011

The Past

I've been thinking a lot about the past again. My family's past, specifically, as I've been making friends with my grandmother's "Heritage Scrapbook".

There is an entry in my journal that sums up the emotions I've been feeling lately, so I'm posting it, with a couple revisions and clarifications. (This entry was written last September when we were in KY for the first time in forever, to go to the Creation Museum and visit family also since a lot of my father's family comes from there.)

"We are in Kentucky. [...] We went to the annual [family] reunion. The highlight of this was seeing great-aunt D- (my grandfather's oldest sister). We set on her porch for a while, the porch of the house her (late) husband built! (Though, as she said, there have been improvements made.)
And as I sat there on the porch swing, I started thinking about old people & how many stories & memories they have & how they are our tie with the past. And once they die all their stories & memories die with them. One more tie with the past is severed.
It makes me wish I could just spend time with people like Aunt D- & my grandparents & ask them to tell me stories of their life.
Where are we without the past? I say I hate history [as a subject in school] - I don't. I hate textbook history. I don't just want to know about impersonal, large battles. I don't want to know about dreams of the nation. I want to know about the individual battles of every day. I want to know the personal dreams that the generations before me held. I don't want to lose our connection with them."

Does anyone else ever feel that way? It makes me wish I had a stronger inclination to be a biographer or something. Now I always make sure to pay close attention when my grandparents start telling a story. I don't think I remember often enough how blessed I am to still have all my grandparents alive.

As I mentioned, I've been looking a lot at my (maternal) grandmother's "Heritage Scrapbook" lately. My brothers and I spent the night at her and my grandfather's house yesterday because my parents and older sister were both gone. I adopted the scrapbook for the night so I could spend more time with it, hehe. I took some pictures of some of the photos and thought I'd share a few. (Sorry the quality isn't the greatest.)

This is my favourite picture in the album. It's my great-grandmother (or my mother's mother's mother :P) in the 1920's when she was dating my great-grandfather (the man next to her, obviously). The funny thing is, nobody remembers who the little girl on the right is. My grandmother asked my great-grandmother when she was still alive and she didn't remember either.
Still, I love this picture; it just screams 1920's and I love that era.

This is my great-grandfather's family. Yep, he had 11 siblings. I'm not sure when it's from... late 1910's or 1920's is my guess. He's in the back row, in the middle (he's the same fellow in the picture above).

And this is a picture of my grandmother and grandfather in the 1950's before they were married!

They were so cute. :)

Anyway, I hope everyone is having a lovely summer and has a great new week!

Friday, July 8, 2011

a missed connection of minds

He put down the stack of my photographs he'd been flipping through. "I didn't know you were such a good photographer."

I still wouldn't look at him. "That's because you don't know anything about me."

"I know that you are a lonely person."

I look up startled, wondering if my loneliness glistens from my eyes.

He taps the stack of pictures he just put down. "Most of your pictures are of nature. The only photos that contain people are self-portraits or crowd scenes where no one is distinguishable."

Heat sears through me, heat of the indignation that he, of all people, bared the truth so effortlessly.

"You should have been a detective," I snap.

Oh! What makes this way? I never wanted to be a porcupine-heart.

Just leave. I plead in my mind. It's not that I mind his presence so much, though my heart is beating uncomfortably fast, and my limbs feel twice as gangly. I'm just afraid any moment I will burst into tears. I don't want him to see me cry. (Though maybe my heated tears will melt this lump of ice in my throat.)

She must hate me. She wants me to leave, I can tell.

Her discomfort is practically radiating from her, maybe that's why I feel so warm.

I shouldn't have stayed. I should have left the moment I saw she was the only person in the empty art room. My mother has always said that I don't know when to give up. That may be true sometimes, but I do know I should give up now.

She's right, I don't know her. But I've never wanted to know someone so much, and to be known. Then I could tell her the something that desperately wants to be said:

"Yes, I surround myself with people and parties. Yes, every moment of my life is stretched to the maximum with gaiety and noise made by myself and other people. And I'm not a photographer so there is no evidence to support this, but... I'm lonely too."

I can hear him heading for the door.

(I turn the knob and look back at her taciturn figure.)

I can feel his eyes boring a hole through me. Go on - go on with your wonderful life, leave me and my pathetic self alone.

(Her face is obscured by her dark hair. Perhaps I should...? But I'm just a coward and I open the door.)

The shutting of the door sounds like a soft apology, a sigh of lost opportunity.


Friday, July 1, 2011

Letters never sent. (Vol. II)

{~Vol. I can be read here, if you're so inclined!~}

Dear Filing Cabinets at the Clinic Where I Volunteer,
You scare me.
Especially the shelves containing SA-ZI.
I don't think you can handle many more files.
If you ever get angry, please do not spill them all on my head.

With apprehension,

Dear S-- (or the lady who works at the back desk of the aforementioned clinic),
You have the most soothing telephone voice I have ever heard.
Seriously; it's beautiful.

Your admirer,

Dear Chocolate and Peanut Butter,
You are truly a match made in heaven and your deliciousness is dangerous to me.

Hungrily yours,

Dear Library,
It's been over 2 months now...
I miss you.
I don't think you really need to be "renovated";
I love you just the way you are!
Don't worry, the other library will never replace you in my heart:
you will always be my Library.
See you next year...

With sadness,

Dear Perfect Stranger,
I miss you,
or at least the intrigue you brought to my life.
I don't suppose I shall ever know your name now.
It hardly seems fair since you know all three of mine.
Ah, well.

Quixotically yours,

Dear Muse (AKA "Marjorie"),
Well, I am happy that you have returned, and bearing such lovely gifts too.
It's weeks like these that make me regret how often I express my dislike of you.
I apologize for calling you a "fickle fribbler" the other day,
I meant it in the most affectionate way possible, I assure you.....

Your Dearest Frenemy,

Darlingest Blog Readers,
This is just to say I am going on vacation this weekend, starting tonight.
Actually, my dad has no vacation time (new job!!!) so it's a staycation. Meaning, we will be at home for the most part or doing fun things nearby.
But my sister advocated no computer usage (which is a good idea, despite my reluctant participation), so I won't be on here commenting &c. till Tuesday maybe.
Try not to miss me, hehe!

All my love and a little extra,


P.S. I'm not sure you all have any idea how much I love and appreciate each and every one of you! <3

Monday, June 20, 2011

his absent presence

It is my regrettable habit to come here and remember.
Every morning before mother wakes up, wanting my company and her breakfast, I come to this field that lies a short distance from the house I fear I'll live in forever. There is nothing outstanding-looking about this field. One needs to have past memories to see the extraordinariness of such an ordinary place. The field's plethora of clover holds no lucky four-leafs that anyone has ever found, but rather memories in soothing, green abundance. The sharpest eye on earth couldn't spot the two entwined souls that once lay in the clover; they're only a remembrance now.
Even the lone tree in the upper right corner of the field holds no man-made scars, outward crude initials on its bark; the backs that together leaned against its trunk left no imprint.
There are birds, ever present, though not always noticed. Sometimes I hear echoes of past conversations as if the birds were parrots and mynas instead of robins and wrens.
"Many don't come back." I hear him say.
He said it so many times and my mind repeated it back. Sometimes I think it was just a lesson I memorized to mindlessly drone in reply to those who asked what my knowledge amounted to. Yet at the same time, I did know it and feel it and taste it. It felt like a punch, tasted like blood in my mouth.
Still, it did not prepare me for this outcome. I expected black or white... not this disconcerting grey.

Every time I go to see him echoes from the field follow.
"I will love you forever."
I look into his eyes and search for that forever in their blue blankness. Nothing is there.
"It is okay to move on when... if I am gone." His voice in my mind says.
I look down at his pale hand I grasp. "Why didn't we ever define the word 'gone'?" I ask, though he never notices or responds. "Your body is here, but your mind has folded into itself as if it never existed. If I should lay my head upon your chest your heartbeat would pound underneath my searching ear. Does your heart still function in ways besides its task of pumping blood?
I prepared myself to love you without an arm or a leg; I don’t know what to do with someone who has lost everything except their outward appendages. I was ready to love whatever havoc guns and army life would wreak on you. Without second thought, I would have stayed by your side always, stopped the nights from tearing you apart with unseen claws.
You were mine, that was enough. Now I don't know who you belong to. You're lost in a land they tell me you will never return from."

Whether I cry these things aloud or just think them makes no difference; he doesn't hear either way.

Somehow my remembering of the past and how we once were always turns into an inventory of my present. I must go in soon and get mother her breakfast. My skirt is damp from the dew-stained clover. Mother will look at my soggy skirts disapprovingly, as she does every day. Perhaps she knows the field is where I keep my memories and each morning I sit among them as they roam around me. She thinks I need to move on, she and her friends plot together and introduce me to men deemed suitable who are all wrong. (They aren't him.)
She doesn't understand. For now I must, I must keep coming here. But I feel... and am more than reluctant to admit that there may come a time when I won't come anymore; I will have moved on and will want to forget. Though I admit this, it still frightens me; I don't want to become someone who wants to forget.
I almost get up to leave, but I decide to surrender. I lie down in the clover and stare into the blank sky. I shut my eyes and let the memories close in on me. Mother's breakfast will have to wait.

(This story was inspired by a character in the Maisie Dobbs mysteries by Jacqueline Winspear. A character "...whose terrible injuries in the Great War had rendered him incapacitated in body and mind." [from the third book in the series "Pardonable Lies".])

{Painting is 'Girl in Field' by Eric Hu.}

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Ravings of a Bibliophile

You know what makes me sad?
When people (kids and teens in particular) tell me they don't like to read.
It makes me want to hide in the back of a dark, dark closet and mutter curses against our current society. Of course, I'd take a flashlight in the closet with me so I could read in between tears and anguished cries.

I mean, how sad would it be to not like to read?
How tragic is it that some consider reading to be something one is forced to do for school? (I am related to some of these people too! *shudders*)

Books mean the world to me. I cannot remember a time when reading was not something I enjoyed. This past year I have started taking trips twice a week to the library. Like one diseased, I search online for interesting and new-to-me books to read. (Which reminds me, got a recommendation? Leave it in the comments!)
This winter, especially, books have been invaluable. Books were my drug. When life got too stressful, too sad, too lonely, I lost myself in an inky world. According to goodreads.com I have read 175 books so far in 2011 (only a handful of which are re-reads since I don't usually log my re-reads.) Yes, I read a disgusting amount these days. It wasn't always like this, believe me. But I figure I probably won't have this kind of time later on in life so I am taking advantage of it now.

If you are reading this and don't like to read, I'm sorry. Sorry for for my vehement opinions or sorry for your incomplete existence, you may wonder. Well, I'm... not going to answer that. :P

Some of my favourite book quotes I have collected in my readings:

"I closed my eyes, put my right hand on top of the book, and passed it lightly across the cover. It was cool and smooth like a stone from the bottom of the brook, and it stilled me. A whole other world is inside there, I thought to myself, and that's where I want to be."
-From Ida B. by Katherine Hannigan

"Literature is a source of pleasure, he said, it is one of the rare inexhaustible joys in life, but it's not only that. It must not be disassociated from reality. Everything is there. That is why I never use the word fiction. Every subtlety in life is material for a book. He insisted on the fact. Have you noticed, he'd say, that I'm talking about novels? Novels don't contain only exceptional situations, life or death choices, or major ordeals; there are also everyday difficulties, temptations, ordinary disappointments; and, in response, every human attitude, every type of behavior, from the finest to the most wretched. There are books where, as you read, you wonder: What would I have done? It's a question you have to ask yourself. Listen carefully: it is a way to learn to live. There are grown-ups who would say no, that literature is not life, that novels teach you nothing. They are wrong. Literature performs, instructs, it prepares you for life."
-from A Novel Bookstore by Laurence Cossé

"As I stood outside in Cow Lane, it occurred to me that Heaven must be a place where the library is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

No ... eight days a week."
-From The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley

"When you sell a man a book you don't sell just twelve ounces of paper and ink and glue - you sell him a whole new life. Love and friendship and humour and ships at sea by night - there's all heaven and earth in a book, a real book."
-From The Haunted Bookshop by Christopher Morley

"I feel, holding books, accommodating their weight and breathing their dust, an abiding love. I trust them, in a way that I can't trust my computer, though I couldn't do without it. Books are matter. My books matter. What would I have done through these years without the library and all its lovely books?"
-From The Girls by Lori Lansens

(A few of my very favourite books.)

{1st picture from the film "Les Parapluies de Cherbourg" and 2nd picture taken by me.}

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

mostly true musings on missing

I put my memories of you on the gramophone and played them all night long.
I awoke in the morning, stretched out on the floor like a cadaver.
All I felt was sadness and confusion. Had I awoken from a dream? I don’t remember.
But the sadness and confusion decided to make themselves at home; one nestled in my right pocket, the other in my left.

The rain sang drowsily all morning and dampened the world's colours. I sat at the window and mused how if I should touch any part of the wet world, the colours would come off on my hand.
I contemplated going outside and tracking the grass's green into the worn, grey asphalt. Perhaps I should have run my hands across our blue car and then streaked my fingers across the sky, making it blue again.

I took the poem with the cracked frame off the wall and replaced it with a Monet: vague, colourful, whoami?; it seems to fit my life right now.

Do you know how to say 'I miss you' in French? 'Tu me manques.' That literally translates as 'You are missing to me'. I love that.
The phrase 'I miss you' seems so solitary, as if the missing process only concerned 'I', myself. But 'tu me manques': your presence is evident, you are the subject of the sentence.
Likewise, you do not miss me, I am missing to you. Je te manque. We are a whole that makes no sense apart.

At first, I thought I would be fine. Now I feel as if my subconscious has been dyed the colour of your eyes. Underneath every thought and action it’s there, a wandering, green phantom. I can't wash it out no matter how hard I try. Though perhaps I was hardly trying at all... (It's too wearying to care enough these days.)

It seems to be my fate to miss the times and places that have gone, and the people too. The times and places cannot be helped, but the people... perhaps I am at fault. Maybe there is something I could have said or done, so that I would not be here, feeling lost and dreaming of you. Yet there is a thought that haunts me: I am happier this way, missing you. That I have made you transcendent as an intangible and your reality could never measure up.
For all I know, that could be true. But it has no chance of being proved or amended because... tu me manques (and I fear it will last forever).

{1st picture taken from text of "Miss Bishop" by Bess Streeter Aldrich, 2nd picture taken by me [the painting is, of course, by Monet], 3rd picture is of Paul and Linda McCartney taken from his 'Maybe I'm Amazed' music video.}

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Inconvenient Inspiration

Oh, my inconvenient inspiration;
always tapping at my window at the
worst possible time

{-"How much school did you get done this morning?"
-"Er, well, none... But! I wrote a story! Four pages long!"}

Ah, my incorrigible inspiration;
wanting to sit on my bed and talk
into the wee hours of the morning

{-"How late did you stay up last night?"
-"Um, 2 AM. I finally figured out how to write the next chapter of my novel, though!"}

Ugh, my impatient inspiration;
pulling my hand, my clothes, my hair
till I give it enough attention

{-"Have you finished filling in those charts yet?"
-"Almost!" *hides post-it note with poem-in-progress*}

Is my muse malicious or merely oblivious
to the things I have to do?
I would turn it away... but how can I?
It is everything to me.


The funny thing is, the idea for this came literally as I was stepping into the shower. So the whole time I was showering I was writing this in my head, hoping it wouldn't go away before I could write it down. Inconvenient Inspiration strikes again! :P

In other news, I had all of my wisdom teeth out yesterday, as did my sister. I feel horrible... because I'm not in pain and she is. I've done remarkably well, apparently. I have had some pain but it's not been that bad especially compared to my sister. My main problem has been with my holes/wounds seeping bIood. I woke up this morning looking a bit like a vampire, heh.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

dusty nonentities

My days are gathering a same-ish hue;
they are a collection of dusty nonentities.

We keep driving into the city where the rows
of houses dance cheek-to-cheek.
They aren't right.

None of this is right.
I would prefer a home in the country.
A wallflower house, isolated,
that blends into its surroundings
by donning a gown of ivy.

It seems the ugly things of life
stick to me like spiderwebs.
Though I tear them off with shaking hands
I can still feel their ghost threads
Leave me alone, please.
Everyone just leave me alone.

I feel corseted.
And my words are pounding behind my ribcage
full of life.
But they cannot escape their bony prison
and I don’t know how to set them free.

So my songs go unsung
because right now my lungs barely have
enough air to breathe,
let alone give life to a melody.
Even one that could fill the empty spaces
my life is crowded with.

I've lost my vim.

{It's just been one of those weeks. One where I can't concentrate and nothing gets done. I haven't been sleeping enough, my words stick in my throat, and my emotions are in an uncharacteristic turmoil. WHEE! I think I'm mainly frustrated because I've been home alone quite a few times this week and I haven't taken any advantage of the fact. I usually use my rare alone time to work on my songwriting but I just haven't felt inspired at all, lately, so I don't even try. No wonder Time hates me; I do nothing but waste what he gives me.}

{Both pictures are of Françoise Hardy and I no longer remember where I found them.}

Saturday, May 7, 2011

and the years keep coming...

I am 18 today.
It has been a lovely day; low-key and quiet. And I am happy to have reached this milestone birthday.
But these past few days there has been an apprehension and fear: this year I will not change. For the better, that is.

If I could write a letter to the myself of a year ago and tell her about the upcoming year, what would I say? I have been pondering this. There are just... no words. Myself a year ago could never understand the me of today. This past year I have done things I never thought I was capable of. They weren't good things either.
I have come out of this year scarred {literally} but I don't know if I'm any stronger. I am still so weak and that frightens me.
Last night, I sought heartease in God's word and found the peace I needed. We have been given such hope. And isn't that a beautiful thing to have at the bottom of the Pandora's box we call life? If I keep my eyes heavenward this year will be different; I will be changed for the better.

Also, this year has not been all bad! On the contrary, there have been many bright moments to offset the dark ones.
I'd just like to thank you, dear readers, for bringing so many bright moments my way this year. You all never fail to bring smiles to my face with your comments and you fill my heart with the beautiful words you write. I love you all so much!

I don't feel 18 in the least, I could've sworn I was still 12. The song 'I Won't Grow Up' from the musical Peter Pan used to be my theme song. Now I no longer fight the years that are slowly accumulating around my feet and piling up to my shins, but concentrate on keeping my heart young. To me, being young at heart means you know how to behave like an adult and do... but can morph into your inner child at the snap of a finger.

And yes, that definitely entails wearing train conductor hats if one pleases. ;)

{This hat used to be at my grandmother's house and somehow it ended up at our house during the move. I found it the other day and adopted it. I figured it was appropriate since I am the "train conductor" of the "midnight train of thought". Hehe. :P}