In the Hot Summer

My summer in a picture? Well, almost. (Pictured: the '97 cast of Byker Grove; me and my stupid long, dirty hair which still hasn't been cut; a stack of books [not from the library though - but bought on vacation]; and Freddie Mercury. ♥)

My Summer in Fragments:

Long hair always crowding me. Vegetating on a couch of apathy.

(When I'm left alone, I sing; but I'm not left alone very often.)

Staying up til 2 AM doing nothing: such bleary-eyed decadence.

A vacation, most of which I want to erase from my memory.

Listening to Queen: Freddie woos me with his voice and I let myself become utterly seduced.

Byker Grove: watched alone at first, then in marathons with my brother.

(He's an amused witness my squeals and frustrations. Yes, I am crazy.)

Letters and other correspondences: my spotty communication skills becoming more threadbare by the second.

A stack of library books that eventually becomes an Everest I've lost my vim to climb.

Clean Cups; Rowan and Martin's Laugh In; getting lost in my car; Bunheads; gif-making; Fleetwood Mac; emotional breakdowns; Ant and Dec (always).

Inspiration that leads nowhere; despairing at my ineptitude; feeling empty as I chatter to those I love.

But... perhaps overall... a lazy contentment?

-------------------------------------------

CAN SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME HOW TO MOTIVATE MYSELF, PLEASE?

In our house, summer has been over for about two weeks and I can't accomplish anything. I still have no further direction for my life, so again I'm not furthering my education except by continuing my copyediting course.

I really need to write because that's the only thing I can do, but I can't concentrate. I can't discipline myself.

I'm not suffering from writer's block. What is the problem?

Oh, life is so terribly unappealing.

(I hope someday that I will be glad I was born.)

ANYHOW.

My post title came from the song 'In the Hot Summer' by Catherine Howe. It just seemed appropriate, as the first line is: "In the hot summer / I lost my way..." Not sure she meant it the way I'm applying it, but it's a lovely song, at any rate.

How was your summer? I hope it was groovy and all that. :)

Rien.

 ----------------------


I seem to have lost the art of communication
somewhere in the time between riding this ghost-ridden carousel
and standing at the top of the Leaning Tower of Me.

And somewhere between the folds of my dirty sheets,
lies my heart, which must have slipped out while I was sleeping.
I keep the window shut, so it can't have gone anywhere else.

Oh, no matter how much you hum to yourself, it can't sate your craving of song.

And no matter how hard you search,
you won't be able to find what I really want to say
between these silly lines.

----------------------

This is lame. But I feel rather lame these days; it's reflecting in these meanderings.

I feel like I've not had a real conversation with anyone in weeks. I've built a wall of chatter around me, and I throw loaves of drivel over it to satisfy those who may want to come in.

I'm tired of talking about my pain, since it just makes me feel worse. I prefer to let myself slip into that familiar emotional monotone. I'm very tired of it all. But even writing this has made me feel bad. Ugh. Let's move on to something happier....


Want to hear me singing a cappella?

Okay, well maybe that's not something happier, but I have all these recordings rotting on my computer, so why not?

This was recorded a few weeks ago, when everyone was out to dinner, but I stayed home, because I had eaten out with them the night before and that was enough for me. Not that I don't love my family, but I'm not a big fan of restaurants. (The grandparents were in town; we don't generally eat out that often. :P)

Here's me singing part of 'Hey, Who Really Cares' by Linda Perhacs.




Me, I am mediocre - but the song is wonderful, as is its writer.

Tonight I feel alright. Content, even? What is the secret to making these feelings last, pray tell?

 (P.S. I have recently come out of the closet to the general public about my real name. It begins with "Beth" and ends with "any". :P I don't care if you call me that, or if you call me Melee. I will continue to write under this dear pseudonym, though.)



{The text at the top was scanned from The Moviegoer by Walker Percy.}

the cusp of wondering

I keep your chair warm with my loneliness.
(The fire burned out so long ago
that the flames have turned to ash
even in my memory.)

The grandfather clock still ticks,
but never proclaims the right time.
The flowers in the vase have created their own autumn
of brown petals on the table.

The tea is always cold here.
Bookmarks become cramped,
always stifled between the same pages.

Everything bears the stains of waiting:

the yellowing piano keys,

the lamps and surfaces now grey with dust,

and most stained of all: the demilunes under my eyes.
They are a shade of purple that can only be achieved by combining
the blue of sadness and the cranberry of wistful patience,
stirring gently,
and thinning with a handful of watery sighs.

I miss the forests of ink in your mind,
I miss your fingers sailing the tangled sea of my hair.
But most of all, I miss not being forever on the cusp of wondering:
forever waiting, frozen for something
that may never return.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

I don't have much to say about this piece, except I wrote it a couple weeks ago and it's one of the better things I've written in the past 6 months. The self-portrait is about 2 years old. In fact, another photo from that 'session' can be found somewhere on this blog. I figured out how to blur parts of the picture, so of course I went for my face. ;)

I stayed up past 3 AM listening to my demons nattering, and have been in a proper foul mood today. But I am now in possession of a flapper dress (vintage, though not from the 20s), a new bio of Freddie Mercury is coming in for me at the library, and I found free sheet music for Fleetwood Mac's 'Songbird', so perhaps today won’t be a total wash after all.

('Songbird' is one of my favourite songs at the moment.)

"And it hurts to be here..."

As much as I may wish it, life cannot simply put on hold for those days, weeks, months, (years?) I can't get a grip. I must carry on, all the while feeling that everything is slipping past and my mind is stuffed with cotton. I see everything through a trance, but that trance is godsent, for when it clears that is when the guilt and sadness set in. It always seems to clear at night.


The past month or three, more nights than not have found me lying on my bed, wanting to disappear. Wanting it so hard, it aches.


"And it hurts to be here
I don't want to be here
And it hurts to be here
Tonight..."
-Polly Scattergood, Untitled 27




Though a bad idea, I've done my best to put life on hold, but (unsurprisingly) it's fallen on top of me, and I'm suffocating.
 
It's just gotten really difficult, not knowing what I want, and not having the self-discipline to pull myself together.

I don't know what to say. I have no words.

(And Marjorie, my inner muse, has been giving me the cold shoulder. But since I wasn't even noticing, she decided to give me two stories in one day [really crappy stories, mind] to make me realize that she had essentially deserted me. That vixen!)

My days...

My days have been full of...

Going to the library, and getting more books than I have the time or inclination to read,

cleaning (which is, I confess, enjoyable),

listening to Polly Scattergood,

and trying to beat the record for amount of Byker Grove episodes watched in one day.

(I started watching the show because it features a certain pair [see below] as young 'uns. But I'm really enjoying the show in its own right too. I'm actually kind of obsessed with The Grove and its occupants... The whole series is currently on dailymotion.com, since it's not on DVD, annoyingly enough.)

Actually, Byker Grove is the show Ant and Dec met on!!! And the rest is history...

This past week, I actually thought things were starting to get better.

In some ways, they have. Two certain fab girls have brought so much light and joy to my life recently. Life is beautiful, life is hilarious with them on the other side of the screen. ♥

I want to get out of the place I'm in, but I don't know how. I am so weak. I've never been this weak before, not even when I was harming myself.

I don't know, I just don't know. I am sorry.

(Just know, I love you all. I don't know how I got so lucky to have such wonderful people in my life.)

Perhaps I will post something less pathetic in the week(s) to come.



{First picture is "Jove decadent" by Ramon Casas, and second picture was probably found here.}

a letter to no one and everyone

I Apologise
For I have been distant:
a whisper at the end of the telephone line,
quaffing my bathtub gin in a lonesome fog filled room.

I've been etching letters to you on my arm--
Did you never receive them?
You must remember how I like my tea:
with two lumps of longing
and enough milk to match the clouds in my eyes.

The rumours of my life
have been greatly exaggerated, I fear;
I've not been living for 3 months, at least.
But let us not dwell on that; we should never dwell for long
(but still should take care to not envy the mayflies,
as tempting as it may be).

Constantly, I am at a loss for words,
and so many things make me sad.

My spirit may forever be broken,
but the bones of my fingers are still intact,
still able to play me heart-dirges on this untuned piano.

I am satisfied, really.
(And you may come and listen any time.)

--------------------------------------------------

This piece is a conglomeration of poetic license and my life lately. I think it's mainly for you, my readers. Don't worry - while I am not happy, I'm generally content.

(Huh. I just used the word 'conglomeration' without even thinking about it. Where the heck did I learn that word? It's pretty awesome, I must say. But wherever did I pick it up? Haha.)

Anyway...

Guess what!

My family was gone on Saturday (my sister was with her boyfriend and everyone else was playing/watching baseball), so I had the house to myself. At my mother's suggestion, I found out there is a sound recorder on my father's laptop, so I finally got some recording done!
The recorder is persnickety, though; you can stand in a different room from it and sigh and the recorder will pick it up, but it doesn't like full and loud sounds... like the piano. It records all tinny and icky, so I had to use my keyboard. On my keyboard there's setting that records the notes you play on the keyboard, so what I did was record the song and then play it back while singing to it. Kind of a pain, though it was nice to only have the possibility of messing up one thing at a time.

So, here is my version of the song 'Tea & Sympathy' by Janis Ian. *insert self-deprecation here*



The lyrics: [There's a second verse I skipped, because I didn't want to make the song too long.]

I don't want to ride the milk train anymore
I'll go to bed at nine and waken with the dawn
And lunch at half past noon and dinner prompt at five
The comfort of a few old friends long past their prime

Pass the tea and sympathy for the good old days long gone
We'll drink a toast to those who most believe in what they've won
It's a long, long time 'til morning plays wasted on the dawn
And I'll not write another line, for my true love is gone

When I have no dreams to give you anymore
I'll light a blazing fire and stand within the door
And throw my life away, "I wonder why?" they all will say
And now I lay me down to sleep, forever and a day

Pass the tea and sympathy, for the good old days are dead
Let's drink a toast to those who best survived the life they've led
It's a long, long time 'til morning, so build your fires high
Now I lay me down to sleep, forever by your side

(If the soundcloud player doesn't work for you, you can try listening to it on divshare here.)



I hope everyone had a lovely Easter. :)

I'll Cry Out From My Grave

{First of all, I know one shouldn't do this, but I apologize for the quality of this story. (SORRY. I can't help the self-deprecation.) I've been really worried lately, as I only seem to be writing self-indulgent crap that no one would want to read except me. But it's been forever since I've posted a story here, and I thought you all might like to know what I've been working on. Or I can't think of anyone I'd rather share it with anyway. :) I'll share some of the inspiration behind this story at the bottom.}
-------------------------------------------------------------------



I hadn't requested that the radio be put on; if it had been up to me I would have let silence reign. But someone had turned it on during lunch, and it continued to play in the background during the after-meal conversation. It didn’t bother me. I was living in a haze anyway, and was indifferent to most everything. My dull eyes were screened by a large pair of sunglasses. My whole body felt like it was encased in clay, and I was slowly being hardened by the sun. This was due to post-lunch torpor combined with the other crap in my system.
My languor was interrupted by Neil's cry of "Hey! This must be from Thorin’s new record!" and his turning up the volume of the familiar voice that was singing. I didn’t mind too much. It's not that I’d wanted to hear one of his songs, but Rowe Thorin was a famous singer, and I’d long ago accepted the fact I’d come across his music, possibly quite frequently. I stared vacantly over the lake, as the rest of the table listened intently. Then the chorus began:

"God, I'm sorry for what I've done to her
Suzanne, I'm sorry for what I've done to you..."

Those lines slammed against my chest and my shell shattered. Playfully shocked cries rang out all over the table. "Suzanne, you minx!" "Well, no need to ask about your past, Sue babe." The chatter continued long enough to drown out the whole song. I laughed and offered a flippant remark or two, carefully skirting the truth. I wasn't sure whether they thought this whole thing was coincidence, or if they thought Rowe Thorin truly had done something awful to me (or if not that, at least knew me to some extent). I was curious, but the last thing I wanted was to ask and find out.
I only lasted for fifteen minutes longer at the table, and offered a headache as an excuse to leave. I did feel ill, but in case you haven’t guessed, it wasn't my head that hurt.
I went to the room I was staying in, drew the curtains, and lay down on the smooth, white covers. With an arm laid over my eyes, I tried to calm my racing brain. I was too thoroughly upset, though. I had been shaken; I knew the only thing that was going to cure that was time.
Frustrated, I sat up. I had to listen to the whole song. I decided that rather than gluing myself to the radio, I would venture out to a record shop.
I left the villa without being interrupted by anyone, as everyone had gone out on the lake. The nearby town was small, but they had a record shop I’d passed several times, which I now located with ease.
As if I had no right to be there, I entered tentatively, eyes hidden again by dark frames. It was empty except for the bald man who seemed to run the place. Gathering my scattered spirits, I walked up to him. "Good afternoon. Do you have Rowe Thorin’s newest record?" I used my most polite voice, but he still looked at me as if I was diseased. He grunted in what I assumed to be the affirmative, and then located the album without a glimpse of any emotion. I paid for it and surreptitiously walked back to the villa.

The only record player was in the large, open living room, but I figured the house should stay empty long enough to listen to one song. I sat on the settee next to the record player and studied the album cover. It was a distorted photograph of Rowe with his guitar, and the title, The Creaking Floorboards, in the bottom right corner. I flipped over the record cover and skimmed the list of songs. I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but when the penultimate track caught my eye, I knew it had to be the one. Side B, Song #4 -- 'I'll Cry Out From My Grave (God I'm Sorry)'. I gently set the record in place and released the needle.

"Got the freedom of this song
To tell how sad I’ve been so long
Gilded words can’t help replace
The love I’ve taken and disgraced..."

Yes, this was the one. The song progressed too quickly, and the chorus arrived before I was quite ready.

"...This song is here to help me say
God, I’m sorry for what I’ve done to her
Suzanne, I’m sorry for what I’ve done to you..."

I suspected half of the UK and US would have this refrain circling their heads for weeks, but I knew it was a dragon that would circle my heart for years.
The lyrics and his voice were full of regret, and by the end, my heart was too. What did he want? Just to apologize? Did he want me back, or was I just a convenient muse? I didn’t know what to think, so I sat and wept. Great, ugly sobs came from a place deep inside me, yet they still felt too shallow to ever help. Their sound drowned out the last song and the hum of the machine as the needle resumed its resting position. Teardrop stains dotted my skirt, and I helplessly watched them multiply.
I heard a door slam downstairs, and not wanting to be caught at the scene of my composure’s murder, I gathered the record and fled the room.
I put the album in the back of the wardrobe, miserably aware that no matter how dusty the corner was where I stuffed the record away, it wouldn't succeed in suffocating the memories that were even now coming forth to be recognized.



-------------------------------------------------------------------

So, yeah. This is the beginning of a story I'm writing right now. It's set in the midst/at the end of the 1960s. (An era I've had a passion for for many years.) At the moment, I have no idea how long the story will be; I'm just writing and hoping for the best.
Actually, what I've just shared didn't start as the beginning. At first, the story began around when Suzanne, the main character, first really talks to Rowe Thorin, a singer/songwriter who eventually, in case you hadn't guessed, becomes her lover. But then I wrote a new beginning, and decided the story would be told (for lack of better word) in a flashback.

The story came to me while I was reading Marianne Faithfull's biography (who is the girl in the pictures). That being said, it's not the most innocent of stories. There are drugs and such things. (Not represented in a glorified way, though.) In fact, it's the most un-innocent thing I've ever written. I'm going to have to tame the original beginning, because as it is now, I wouldn't let anyone read it.

The lyrics included in my story weren't written by me; they're from an actual song. When I first started writing this story, I was living deep within it, and to keep the mood, I mainly listened to Volume I of the Soft Sounds for Gentle People compilations. (These compilations are basically collections of obscure sunshine pop from the 60s. I talked about them some on my music blog once.) I hadn't listened to this compilation much before the past few weeks, but very quickly the song 'I'll Cry Out From My Grave (God I'm Sorry)' by a band called Brigadune became one of my favourites off the album. When the time came to pick a name for my character, I picked Suzanne, inspired by the song. Then I thought, "Hang on - why not incorporate the song into my story?" So I did. And at the moment, the story's title is the same as the song's.

In my head, the arrangement, speed, and vocals sound different, so this isn't "the version" that Rowe Thorin is supposedly singing, but have a listen to the song, if you like!



Well, I'm off to read in bed. I hope everyone is well!


{Both photos are of Marianne Faithfull, and I don't have the sources.}

...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.

But...

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.}

the mental quiet

 
Quiet: the dearest of friends,
not a foe.
Never.

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.

But...

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.}

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.}

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.)

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

“Yah?”

“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.

“Hmm...”

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. :)

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.}

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!)

Silence is priceless.

I've been try to weave a tent of words to hide in... but the softest wind topples it to the ground.
Why can I never be alone? Their abrasive voices always find me.
I would so love to be alone...
Because when people are nearby making noise, I am reminded of their presence.
Even if it's just a sniffing or a rustling... it ties me to the real world.
The sounds they make are ropes, binding me to the things I want to escape.
Silence is much more precious than gold.
Silence is priceless.
I wish people would stop referring to silences as awkward.
Why can't we embrace the quiet?

If I have to fill my silence it will be with the sounds of my favourite musicians.

I've been listening to the girl with the lemonade voice again. The songs from the days when it was just her and a guitar and a boy and a guitar.
I've missed them.
I've been missing the place they sing about.
And I don't even know where it is...

Ah, my lovelies. This past week there has been an inexplicable sadness trailing behind me. It's nothing serious - I hope it is just the winter settling in my ventricles. But I am unable to concentrate. Probably why I have been endeavouring to find silence; in hopes it will give me what I can't hold.
So, I've been holing up in my room, re-reading books like Miss Bishop and I Capture the Castle. And listening to The Finches, remembering summer days swinging in the backyard with my ipod. Back when sunlight barely pierced the canopy of leaves.
I have felt rather absurd in my quest for quiet and solitude. Indeed, it has wreaked havoc on my affability. But still... I desire it more than anything at the moment.

I am curious... what do you, my dearest readers, want at this moment?

{Both pictures were taken by me. I messed with the contrast on the first one. It kind of looks like I have red hair. I don't really, the light was shining on my hair and I have [natural!] red highlights.}

Dangling My Legs Off the Moon

I am going to do something radical today.
Something that I may regret.

....Are you ready? ;)

Okay. Last summer I wrote a poem-of-sorts that I call "Dangling My Legs Off the Moon". I wrote it after going to one of the Planetarium shows at the Creation Museum in KY.
I have always been rather creeped out by outer space but this show was just so amazing. It took you on an in depth tour through the solar system and... wow. It was absolutely incredible. (It definitely served as a reminder of how small we are and how big God is!) The show was also very calming and it made me feel that I was sitting on the moon and observing the galaxy. (Hence the poem.)

And now for the part I may regret...
I turned my poem (Dangling My Legs Off the Moon) into a song. I've only written a handful of songs though I've improvised many instrumental pieces on the piano. But I forget them as soon as the last note dies away. (A fact which causes me more than a little bit of sorrow.)
Sometimes, though, I will take one of my poems and sit down at the piano with a blank piece of sheet music and a pencil expressly with the purpose of writing a song. One song can take months though, since I'm only comfortable doing it when I am home alone which rarely happens these days.

I have been debating for quite some time whether or not to post this song. I vacillated, arguing that "no one wants to hear my stupid little song" and "couldn't I just post the poem without the recording?"
"No," I chided myself, "the poem and the melody now belong together and you cannot separate them."
So, today I am finally throwing caution to the winds and posting it. I may be filled with regret since I have grave insecurities about the whole thing... but if I do not post my little song, which I am rather fond of, it will languish on my hard drive. What a terrible fate!


But first I must apologize for all the things wrong with the recording.
1. The sound isn't great. I use a microphone that's in my laptop and I just place the laptop on top of the piano. So it's very poor sound quality, to say the least.
2. My vocals aren't great either (not to mention my enunciation!). Sitting down isn't the best position to sing from. And while I no longer cringe when I hear my voice in recordings I find no beauty in it so, yeah....
3. In the second to last stanza I sing the word "And" when it should have been the word "But". (I can't even get my own lyrics right! Sheesh! :P) I make other mistakes as well, in my piano playing but I won't go into those right now.

Alright... enough self-deprecation. Here we go.




Dangling my legs off the side of the moon
I am dangling my legs off the side…

I've never known a silence as quiet as this
I've never known such misty intensity

Against a purple velvet sky stars group together
In sequined clusters twinkling, twinkling
They’re not so little as we sing

I’m infinitely small
In these galactic realms
And I don’t feel hollow or alone
As I thought I would

Lighthearted and free
I sit and I swing
My dangling legs off the moon




{Aren't nebulae so stunning? I realized that's what I was describing in the 2nd and 3rd stanza of my poem.}



{Picture found here.}

running away, not going anywhere

let's not leave the house today…

shall we be rebellious for once?
you laugh at that – i'm serious!
say you'll stay in with me.
we could snuggle into the eiderdown's warm embrace,
open a recipe book at random and make the first thing we see.
proclaim our favourite poems to each other!
waltz to the melodies we sing, forgetting words and tripping over each other.
we could compose a song of love in a minor key
(for of course i love you!
i would not be willing to break the rules with just any old person, you know).
we'll be renegades together!
traitors to the mundane existence!
outcasts of society! i must say it sounds awfully fun…
so please, forget your job. forget your life.
forget everything except me and what we will do today.
we may never want to go back again…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wrote this a couple months ago. But lately I've been wishing I really could run away from life. It's not that I am terribly unhappy it's just... life can just be a drag sometimes, you know?
Also, I've been wishing that I actually had someone that I'd want to "escape reality" with. That person is little more than an illusion I dreamed in the darkness to make loneliness seem less permanent.


{This is a minuscule playlist I made. These two songs reminded me of this post's concept so I thought, why not include them? Especially since they're by two of my most favourite artists. The first is 'Gold in the Air of Summer' by Kings of Convenience and the second is 'Our Day Trip' by Nina Nastasia. The lyrics can be found here and here.}

If you could run away, or rather, retreat from the real world where would you go? What would you do?

{Photo by me and made possible by my typewriter Donovan.}

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.}

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.}

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