Weeds

"...I have not written anything to-day worth a sou. I have passed the day in a kind of idleness. Why? Does it take so long to begin again? Is it my old weakness of will? Oh, I must not yield! I must this evening, after my supper, get something done. It's not so terribly hard after all. And how shall I live my good life if I am content to pass even one day in idleness? It won't do. Control -- of all kinds. How easy it is to lack control in little things! And once one does lack it the small bad habits--tiny perhaps--spring up like weeds and choke one's will."

-The Journal of Katherine Mansfield

Ah, Katherine. Indeed. I've got quite the garden full of weeds. What is my excuse? I'm not even battling a fatal illness.

I lack control in several areas of my life. But I've been trying to work on it. I've been taking walks almost every day (which is a habit I lost over the summer and never regained and consequently gained quite a few pounds). When I make to-do lists, I actually try and accomplish everything on them. I try to be more organized. (My organization probably looks like chaos to truly organized people, but shhh...)

And... hm, I don't really know specifically. I'm just trying to choke all these tiny weeds I've let grow.

It's been a while since I've last posted. Not much has happened. Let's see... um, I've watched a lot of movies, atypically enough. (Usually I just watch TV shows or British youtubers.) That's really the only interesting thing I've done. Oh, and I got to be a dental assistant for like two hours the other week. (Funny things can happen whilst volunteering at a medical clinic...)

I've been happier at work, lately. (Work as in my cleaning job, not volunteering.) My hours have lessened greatly and I haven't been to the grocery store in a month. (By myself, that is. I've been shopping with my mother, though. It snowed the other week and we walked to the grocery store, which was hilarious. But that's another story.)


Also, in the time I've been away my sister has gotten engaged. She's getting married in May. I've a myriad of feelings about that, to be sure. Quite stereotypical ones. I won't bother writing about them. Plus, it doesn't feel real. Very little does, though.


I feel lost and irrelevant in my life. I've forgotten so much. I don't even know exactly what I mean by this, I just feel it's true.

Maybe it's just the arsenic of winter building up in my veins.

I want to write again.

I mean, I still write, but the magic isn't there. I read things I've written in the past, and I am amazed. I don't remember writing these words; I don't know how I came up with these sentences that show promise of talent.

You can tell me I still have the talent, but I won't believe you

 "I didn't care that I wasn't writing because I didn't care about anything. That was similar to what I'd felt during various depressions -- words always out of reach. Words on a shelf too high for my lazy, faithless arms; words blurred and smeared around the sides of the errant crucible that was my mind; words a thing I had been smitten with now betraying me with their dullness."

-Frances & Bernard by Carlene Bauer

I need to stop hiding my words. It wasn't done on purpose, but I haven't shared a legitimate piece of writing since summer. I hope next time I post I'll have a piece of writing to share. And I hope my next post isn't almost 4 months in the making.


{Picture is by and of me. It's from an incredibly old "photoshoot" that has already popped up a couple times on this blog over the years. It's just the best picture I could find to convey the words "lost and irrelevant".}

tea and misery?

{photo by anna morosini}

The Past has started to shine with such a bright haze it is painful to look upon. These Autumn and Almost-Winter months have brought a haunting nostalgia upon me. More than anything, I want to go to my grandparent's house. But it was sold a year and a half ago, and while I am happy that its occupants are still with us and close by, I still mourn the house that was a second home. (It's because we're nearing the holiday season, I think. Holidays, autumn leaves, winter coats, certain books - all these things seem to make me want to go to my grandparent's. And perhaps to be a child again. I'm going to stop before I start crying.)

Since I've last updated I got my hair cut (finally) to about shoulder-length; I finished the 18th and last (sigh) series of Byker Grove; and I (somehow) got work twice a week cleaning someone's house. Huzzah for earning money for something I enjoy doing, which also involves minimum interaction with people!

I've been well and content, for the most part. Now that I am not obsessively trying to finish Byker Grove, I will (hopefully) be devoting more time to writing. I've not felt like writing the past couple months, but I feel more open to it these days. November I shall hopefully be working on my 1960s story and another story which I've never mentioned before.

Ugh, I am freezing cold today. I'm already wondering how I'll make it through the winter. All I want to do is hide under the covers and eat, which is bad. Really bad. I'm seeing a long winter full of tea and misery ahead. :P


Would anyone care to come hibernate with me?

-EDIT-

I don't know if anyone else cares, but Jenica does and that's all that matters. So here are two pictures of my hair, as it looks today. It's grown a bit since I got it cut, and it's not this curly every day.

The first picture is just my hair hanging loose, but in the second picture I pulled back the less-curly front part to display the glorious curls that live under them. :P Okay, so it really doesn't look that much different. I don't think my hair photographs well. (Also, the bathroom lights really bring out my highlights in the first one...)

snow and sleep (or lack of both)

it had been streaming past
leaving trails on our windows
but at the graveyard
the car slowed
and i saw clearly the airy tufts of ice
suspended
like dust motes shaken from the clouds
too soft, too frail
to make any difference
on the soggy ground
(not that anything would make a difference
to the occupants of the cemetery:
the ghosts and the ersatz flowers)

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

Inspired by observations from the car window, I scribbled this poem on the back of a bulletin on our way home from church. It is still snowing slightly, but it's not leaving much effect. *sigh* Besides some flurries/light snow last Sunday, we've had no other snow this season.

I hate February. I've been distracted and depressed, and, to top it all off, nights haven't been good lately.

I lie down to sleep and my mind won't shut off. It jabbers on and on and I have to lay there and listen to it.

I don't know what the problem is. Actually, I haven't been taking as many walks, which is most likely a contributing factor (Easily rectified, too!) Thankfully, I've remembered what a soporific effect the music of Trespassers William has on me. So many nights this week I've turned to their album Different Stars when I can't stand lying awake in the darkness any longer; it soothes my mind and soon sends me into the streams leading to sleep.


(Anna-Lynne's voice just breaks my heart.)


Also, a lot of you know this already, but I caved and made a tumblr. The world of tumblr still makes me feel slightly like I'm being swallowed whole, but I've loved being closer to certain friends.

Well, that's all, I think. Sorry this post is rather down in the mouth. Winter always gets me in the end.

I hope your Februaries have been more satisfactory than mine.

her spring, his winter

I couldn’t sleep last night.
I could smell the winter on your skin and its dry, bitter scent clogged my mind.

I lay beside you. Felt you so close, so far. I listened to the gentle ocean swell of your breathing, so much deeper than the uneasy waters of mine.
I slowed my breathing, synchronized it with yours. But my heart screamed faster, faster so I sped ahead, leaving you behind.

The air in the room was bland, neither cold nor warm. As if my boiling agitation and your frozen stillness had cancelled each other out.

I could hear thunder clearing its throat in preparation for a debate with lightning. Disentangling myself from the sheets and your smothering frigid-sleep, I opened the window as the raindrops started their patient tapping.
The argument between surly thunder and passionate lightning was fully underway. Through their chaos, a breeze reached its hand in my window. It stroked the skirt of my nightgown and ran its damp fingers through my hair.
It smelled of spring. It said come.

I almost took the offered hand of the breeze. I leaned towards the window, the black night and the rain.
But I looked over to your bed just as the lightning swore an oath that echoed between the bedroom’s narrow walls.
I saw you, in that flash of light. You were awake, watching me.
Only vaguely did I see the paleness of your skin, the purple smudges under your eyes, your half-open lips, the bristly hint of a beard.
Your eyes I saw clearly. They met mine for a second. They looked at me as if I were a ghost, a stranger. Your clouded vision had sharpened and in them I saw a fever. A desperation that belied your stiff exterior.
I felt like a criminal, a thief, a murderer.
I shut the window slowly. It closed with a dull thud, shutting out the elements that had offered a newness, a coming alive. I pulled the curtain over the argument that still droned on and, almost ashamed, slunk back into bed.

You pulled me close to you with your cold hands, laid your lips against mine.
Your kiss tasted of snow.

We lay entwined, your bare branches twisted up with my budding vines.
Soon you drifted into sleep again. I lay, ear pressed against your chest, and listened to your heart, trying to learn its pattern, trying to slow my heartbeat to parallel yours.
I couldn’t.

And I don’t know how long this can last. For there is spring in my soul which I can stifle for no one… No, not even you.
Someday I must break away from your stagnant, icy slumber. I must bloom; I must leave.
But oh, I think I shall always miss you, my other half, my winter-soul.

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

I didn’t feel you leave my side;
didn’t feel your warmth slip away.
But I awoke.
I saw you, at the window.
Saw you illuminated, your nightgown waving around you.
My little bird, perched for flight.
And I could no longer ignore the fact I’d caged you too long.
I must let you go.

Tonight I am selfish.
Tonight I want you.
I pull you back.
But I know I will set you free,
my dearest sparrow-heart,
before you are forced to escape.

The Icicle

I always feel fragile when I lie in the snow. I get so cold but I love it in a strange sort of way. Sometimes I pretend I am an icicle. I lay there and can feel how transient I am. I taper down to a gentle point; I glisten in the sun. I do not feel threatened by the few drips that slide down me every now and then. I am here for the winter; that is all that matters.

He came across me when I was thus supinely and silently reveling in the snow and dreaming my frozen thoughts. I shot straight upright when I noticed him. He looked confused for a few seconds, then his lips creased into a smile. A knowing smile. As if he knew what had been doing, lying there. I nervously tucked some hair behind my ear. It was caked with snow and some of it dropped back to the ground. He looked as if he was about to say something but I panicked. I turned and ran.

Oh, how silly I am. In my heart of hearts, I am just a woodland creature who can’t understand that all humans do not wish to mistreat me.
Finally, when I had retreated far into the forest, I collapsed in the snow and lay there for a while. But I didn't pretend to be an icicle anymore. Do you know why? For when he looked at me with that smile on his face... I melted.

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

This is an excerpt from a book I am writing. The book is made up of two parts. One part is about a introverted girl who lives for trips to the library and becomes infatuated with one of the librarians. (I admit, it is ridiculously autobiographical.) In the book, the girl is writing a story about a girl who lives in a forest. The chapters about the girl in the forest are interspersed throughout the book and they vaguely tie in with the story of the girl who is "writing them". I am doing a horrible job explaining... It sounds rather stupid and I'm not even sure how well it will work. But I enjoy writing it and I s'pose that's all that matters. :)

(And I'd like to thank you all again for your kind responses to my last post. So far, I am feeling very well. I love you all and you mean the world to me!)

{Picture found here.}

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.}

Winter... or summer?

My favourite season is upon us!!!

As much as I love the carefree flavor of summer, I prefer autumn. And yes, even winter is preferable to summer. {Spring is marvelous too but it only lasts for about three days here!}
I don't know why, I love the crisp autumn months and the frosty days of winter. I feel that there are so many delicious opportunities to feel cosy when it is chilly out. Cold days mean hot cocoa & soup, dancing fires, and snuggling into blankets with a favourite book.
Though, my cynical self is saying it also means school, winter doldrums and frozen fingers & toes. {My cynical self likes to put a damper on things! I try to ignore her.}
In my opinion, summer is too hot. I have always thought it is much easier to make yourself warm when you are cold then to make yourself cold when you are too warm.
I was delighted to find that my favourite author, Bess Streeter Aldrich, believed this to be true as well. In a book of her short stories called Journey into Christmas, she shares a few of her memories in the last chapter, aptly entitled 'I Remember'. This is one of them:

'...And in a higher grade there was the first experience in debating. The procedure was explained, including the new words "affirmative" and "negative". The question to be debated was: Resolved, that winter is better than summer. I was affirmative. And what's more the leader of the affirmative. Came the great day and I went to the front of the room. "Ladies and gentlemen," I began, at which there was a faint titter proving that my appellation had been chosen unwisely. But I was firm with them. "Ladies and gentleman," I repeated. "You can always get yourself warm on a cold winter day, but you can't never get yourself cool on a hot summer day." Maybe my earnest glibness caused the outburst, or maybe it was their pent-up emotion, but everyone broke into laughter. And the teacher said: "Sit down. This wasn't meant to be funny. If you can't think of good reasons, don't give any." I sat down. Funny? I had no more intention of being funny than Douglas did when he debated with Lincoln. Through all the years - at least until air conditioning became known - I have never changed my mind that you could always get yourself warm on a cold winter day but could never get yourself cool on a hot summer day.'


It's always so nice to know the authors we love share similar thoughts and ideas with us. {Looking back, I realize, I may have mentioned Bess Streeter Aldrich an inordinate amount of times... What can I say, she is my favourite author!}



{Painting: "Stapleton Park near Pontefract" by John Atkinson Grimshaw}