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.

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
clinging.
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.}

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}

the colour green

Have I mentioned how much I love the colour green?
When asked what my favourite colour is I never reply "green" since my favourite colour is actually blue. But still, I love green.
I think I forget that, though. Because saying "I like green" is so flat. It doesn't convey the vitality of green that I love, the spectrum of shades that emblazon nature.
I love the profusion of green from trees in our backyard;
they almost blot out everything else.
I love the bucolic green of fields or freshly-mown lawns
stretching out like neatly-made beds.
I love the darker green of forests when we're driving down the road whose density seems to drench the air in green so it almost feels like being submerged in an ocean.
And I love the light, almost aquatic green of his eyes whose hue I cannot find in nature...
The list goes on.

{This picture is crummy but it kind of shows the effect of the green density I was talking about above. I am reading Tender Is the Night and Fitzgerald mentions the trees making a "green twilight". I could only sit there and mentally curse F. Scott for being able to casually put into words what I had found ineffable. I suppose that's why he's legendary and I'm not. ;)}


Speaking of green, one of my absolute most favourite albums is Colour Green by Sibylle Baier and this time last year I was listening to it a lot.
Colour Green is an album of understated beauty and it's one of those albums I know like the back of my hand. (Aren't those the best?) Also, it has an interesting story behind it which, in a nutshell, is this: armed with her guitar and a renewal of a sense of life's beauty after a period of depression, Sibylle Baier wrote and recorded the songs on Colour Green secretly in the early 70's. Years later, thanks to her son and Orange Twin records, people all around the world can enjoy the quiet beauty of her album. {You can read a longer post I wrote last year about it on my music blog, if you want.}

Not only do I love Sibylle's music, but a picture of her had a very important impact on me...

{I love this picture. I love how her face is out-of-focus but you can still see how beautiful she is. I love how you can see in the mirror what would normally be hidden. I just love it.}

In this instance, a picture is worth much more than a thousand words. For once, when looking at this photo, I found myself wondering who the person you could see taking the picture was. All the sudden, I found myself giving birth to a story. I decided the person holding the camera was, indeed, a man and the story I was writing became his memoir, of sorts. A memoir full of memories of the girl he loved (who I based on Sibylle).
I also drew a little bit of inspiration from her lyrics. Especially from the first song on the album, 'Tonight'. I knew he was the man she mentions in the lyrics, who she dedicates her song to.

{You can listen to the song, 'Tonight', if you'd like! Though, the first time I heard her music I thought I didn't like it, heh.}




I've been writing this story/book/novel/whatever it is on and off for about a year and a half now. There have been times I've set it aside, sadly frustrated at my incompetence. Even now I think it is no good, really and rather boring. Not to mention way past my youthful knowledge. I'm writing about subjects that are so difficult to pinpoint: depression, the sanctity of marriage, what it means to love someone... And, to top it off, it's narrated by a man! I'm not sure I'm sufficiently able to get into a man's brain! (Which sounds... really strange. :P)
Since most of the story is handwritten or typed on my typewriter, the narrative will break off every now and then to the anguished author (moi) typing or writing things like "OH, THIS STORY WILL NEVER BE ANY GOOD." With notes under that saying things such as, "Ignore the author, please. She is crazed." (As you can see, writing with me is a rather schizophrenic affair!)
But even as I am wracked with insecurities, I have, for the most part, greatly enjoyed writing this story. It is nowhere near being done but originally it was just supposed to be a short story!
I know nothing will probably ever come of it. But I've loved telling their story and I guess that's all that matters. :)



Alright, I don't even know why I am rambling on about all this. Terribly sorry if it's not very interesting. I almost considered not posting this but I spent too much time on it for that. *deep sigh* (Pardon, I'm feeling kind of frustrated today and unable to cope with/accomplish anything. On a happier note though, I vanquished Mt. Chaos yesterday!)