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 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!)

The rabbit and the tornado.

Well, the play is over! All three shows went extremely well. I was a little nervous after the less-than-perfect dress rehearsal but certain boys finally remembered their lines which helped greatly. We had excellent audiences too which is always mahvelous.
Here is a picture of me onstage in all my rabbit glory! (I look concerned because I am undoubtedly worrying what important date I am late for. :P)



You can't really see my pants but they were white, fluffy, and oh so warm. Combined with my long sleeve shirt, vest, coat, and hood I was an exceptionally overheated bunny. I'm pretty sure I sweated my own weight in water this weekend. Also, I couldn't itch my nose because of the face paint. Funny how my nose never felt itchy till the paint was applied... o_O


After the last show (which was yesterday), I experienced a disconcerting thing for the first time; a lockdown because of a tornado warning. First, let me assure you, there was no tornado, just conditions conducive for forming one.

The show had been over for a while so there were only a couple of audience members left. We were all in the midst of striking (theater talk for taking down the sets, loading props &c.) when we were gathered, told the news, and filed into a couple of rooms that had no windows to the outside. Most of the kids were in one room and the adults mainly in another (for no particular reason.)
Maybe everyone just hid their fear well, but the general atmosphere in the room I was in was lighthearted with a possible slight tinge of annoyance at the inconvenience. I could tell, though, by their stiff demeanor and the tight line of their lips, that some were more freaked out than others. One of the cast member's little sister would sporadically and inquisitively ask if we were going to die as she sought laps to sit on.
At first, I had a stone of apprehension lying at the bottom of my stomach but was relatively fine after a few minutes. I mainly regretted that I hadn't grabbed my book (and my friend obsessed the whole time that she hadn't grabbed her Cheez-its!) But I was with my best friend (who is almost always calm) and the aforementioned friend so it was good and we sat, laughing and chatting. We were about to start singing to see how many people would join in when someone came to say it was safe to leave.
Overall it only lasted 20 minutes or so, I think. I wasn't near a clock. But no tornado formed and the warning ended - thank God. And I don't think it was even an issue on the side of town I live in.

In less exciting news, I have started cleaning my room! I've only made a small dent in Mt. Chaos since I am still exhausted. But I am happily re-acquainting myself with my carpet.
While cleaning, I found an old writing folder which contains a story I started writing when I was around 13 1/2. I meant to finish it but never did. Currently it has four parts (which sounds very grand but it only equals six handwritten pages). Originally it was a random story I started telling my two little brothers one day and they urged me to write it down. Reading it again, I laugh at what a quirky little girl I was and how much it reeks of Lewis Carroll who I can tell was a major influence. I want to complete the story but it is so imaginative and random I am afraid I will ruin it. Most of it I don't even remember writing. But, we shall see.

So, yes. That was my uncharacteristically significant weekend. How was yours? :)

Thoughts of Spring!

I am going through a barren spell, at the moment. I didn't even notice till the other day I realized I have been writing next to nothing. It's alright, though. I know the words will come back. With a vengeance, undoubtedly, in copious, overwhelming amounts. I have been writing in my journal, though. I thought I'd post this journal entry I wrote last week. It was written on a day that felt like spring. My mother had opened all the windows and I sat on the floor in front of mine and wrote this entry. (It was penned over a period of 20 minutes or so with quite a few pauses in between to revel in the inspiring atmosphere. So, it is a little choppy. Especially since I copied it verbatim from my journal... with a few punctuation and spelling corrections, of course. :P)

{My window! Taken from my seated position on the floor.}

Feb. 28, 2011

I love Spring. I can see why people (stereotypically?) fall in love during springtime. There is something in the air that is most inspiring. An intoxicating scent that makes one feel like doing foolish or impossible things.
Just after I wrote that I impetuously decided to put on a skirt I have worn only once before when I was home alone. It is what I call a "regrettable shade of pink". It is also a rather shocking shade. But there is Spring in the air and I don't care.
I am sitting in front of my window which is open. I was reading "I Capture the Castle" but was captured myself by the bewitching breeze.
It is only 2:09 but it feels hours later. I don't know what the sun is doing but its presence is somewhat lacking.
Bright, sunny days are shallow things, anyway.
The breeze, that temptress, just caressed my cheek & whispered thoughts of rain in my ears.
I have just leaned up against the windowsill to get closer to the intoxicating air. I can hear sounds like raindrops hitting the pavement but I do not see any... Perhaps it is the leftover autumn leaves playing with the breeze.
I wish I could stick my hand out the window but I cannot. Darn window screens!
Ah! It is raining! I couldn't tell by looking at the street or our driveway but I can tell from our neighbour's driveway.

The rain song & scent have become very noticeable now. Though I still cannot see the rain. I can see the effects of it, though. The workmen across the street have stopped working & I just saw someone with an umbrella.
I still want to feel it, though.

My mind is made up:
I'm going outside!
Love, ineffable me

{A corner of my journal and my "regrettable pink" skirt.}

In case you were wondering, I did indeed go outside! I stood on the back porch for a minute or two and got speckled by the raindrops.
Ah, I am remembering how much I love spring. Especially since it feels like winter again here. :(
I cannot decide which I love more, spring or autumn. I seem to love each one most while it is happening. How quixotic of me! Or perhaps I am just forgetful. ;)


What is your favourite season?

the steadfast tin soldier & other meanderings

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

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


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

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

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