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.}

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.}

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.)

"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.}

October

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
right?)

Yes.
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.}