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.}
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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.



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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.}

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?

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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.}

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.}

"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.}

Inconvenient Inspiration

Oh, my inconvenient inspiration;
always tapping at my window at the
worst possible time

{-"How much school did you get done this morning?"
-"Er, well, none... But! I wrote a story! Four pages long!"}

Ah, my incorrigible inspiration;
wanting to sit on my bed and talk
into the wee hours of the morning

{-"How late did you stay up last night?"
-"Um, 2 AM. I finally figured out how to write the next chapter of my novel, though!"}

Ugh, my impatient inspiration;
pulling my hand, my clothes, my hair
till I give it enough attention

{-"Have you finished filling in those charts yet?"
-"Almost!" *hides post-it note with poem-in-progress*}


Is my muse malicious or merely oblivious
to the things I have to do?
I would turn it away... but how can I?
It is everything to me.


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The funny thing is, the idea for this came literally as I was stepping into the shower. So the whole time I was showering I was writing this in my head, hoping it wouldn't go away before I could write it down. Inconvenient Inspiration strikes again! :P

In other news, I had all of my wisdom teeth out yesterday, as did my sister. I feel horrible... because I'm not in pain and she is. I've done remarkably well, apparently. I have had some pain but it's not been that bad especially compared to my sister. My main problem has been with my holes/wounds seeping bIood. I woke up this morning looking a bit like a vampire, heh.