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".}

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. :)

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.)

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. :)

of 100th posts and stitches.

I just realized yesterday night that my last post was my 100th. I wish I could think of something exciting and different to do to celebrate that fact, but nothing is coming. (Funnily enough, I reached my 100th post on my music blog in December. I actually did do something different there which you can go listen to if you want to be tortured.)

What I will do, though is tell you about a strange even that happened last week! Last Wednesday, I was putting a dish in the refrigerator and it slipped and essentially broke in my hands. Long story short, I got a horrible gash in my pinky and had to get seven stitches. But I was very brave, according to my mother, and she bought me coffee afterwards (which I suppose is the adult equivalent of a lollipop). ;)
I have to wear a finger brace because I'm not supposed to bend it til this Saturday. I can't write by hand very well. I also can't play the piano. *sigh* Well, I can... kind of, but only select songs, and still not very well. I've finally mastered buttering toast/English muffins, though! Overall, it's been much more inconvenient than painful, thankfully.

Ah, yes - c'est moi modeling my lovely metal finger for you all. It's going to be the latest fashion, let me tell you. As is wearing the old nightgowns of one's mother, as I am in this picture. :P

This debacle has screwed with my brain, though. I had just gotten out of vacation mode, and then this this whole thing came along and left me in invalid mode, which is quite similar to vacation mode.
So, I'm not entirely sure if I'm out of the funk I was in at the time of my last post... I am still lacking passion about any number of things, but I have been feeling less at a loss with my writing, which is excellent.

So... yes. This is just a little update.

Carry on, then!

"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.}

(i'm not even sure what's wrong)

I am so lost right now.

(Surely I'm capable of being a better person than this?)



Ignore me: I just need to step out of my bones for a moment, and let my shell fall to the floor in a crumbled heap of skin and blood and the vapor of long-held hopes.

I can't try to be strong anymore, I can no longer offer balm to others when my soul is a diseased, shriveled thing.

But at the same time, I can't stop hoping I can help someone else, even if I can't help myself.

and the years keep coming...

I am 18 today.
It has been a lovely day; low-key and quiet. And I am happy to have reached this milestone birthday.
But these past few days there has been an apprehension and fear: this year I will not change. For the better, that is.

If I could write a letter to the myself of a year ago and tell her about the upcoming year, what would I say? I have been pondering this. There are just... no words. Myself a year ago could never understand the me of today. This past year I have done things I never thought I was capable of. They weren't good things either.
I have come out of this year scarred {literally} but I don't know if I'm any stronger. I am still so weak and that frightens me.
Last night, I sought heartease in God's word and found the peace I needed. We have been given such hope. And isn't that a beautiful thing to have at the bottom of the Pandora's box we call life? If I keep my eyes heavenward this year will be different; I will be changed for the better.

Also, this year has not been all bad! On the contrary, there have been many bright moments to offset the dark ones.
I'd just like to thank you, dear readers, for bringing so many bright moments my way this year. You all never fail to bring smiles to my face with your comments and you fill my heart with the beautiful words you write. I love you all so much!


I don't feel 18 in the least, I could've sworn I was still 12. The song 'I Won't Grow Up' from the musical Peter Pan used to be my theme song. Now I no longer fight the years that are slowly accumulating around my feet and piling up to my shins, but concentrate on keeping my heart young. To me, being young at heart means you know how to behave like an adult and do... but can morph into your inner child at the snap of a finger.

And yes, that definitely entails wearing train conductor hats if one pleases. ;)
















{This hat used to be at my grandmother's house and somehow it ended up at our house during the move. I found it the other day and adopted it. I figured it was appropriate since I am the "train conductor" of the "midnight train of thought". Hehe. :P}

to myself:

wake-up, wake-up!
can you hear me?

you've fallen asleep and let everything topple around you.
you don't care.

locks are rusted; the key is buried deep in your heart and you won't wake-up ever again.
i need you to care, i need you.

the piles of regret on the floor are knee-deep. everywhere i go i'm wading through heartache and nostalgia that stain my feet with blood.
i sharpen these words and run their blade down your body. i leave red footprints in your snow white skin. but you don't feel anything except the sleep.

the sheets are stained with your tears that i cry for you.
i want to love you again as i once loved you when we were the same person.
you were a part of me,
now you are apart from me.

come back. wake-up.
(please! don't leave me alone.
i am fading away now that you don't care.)

I need to clean my room. In short, it looks like a filing cabinet sneezed all over my floor. It also looks like my chest of drawers vomited....
I told my brother my messy room was symbolic of my life. It was a joke and it was the truth. So, yes. life has been messy and full of large doses of apathy and a sadness I can't quite shake. But, I really have been feeling better. The words above were written in memory of how I used to feel in the not-so-distant past. Waking-up has been an excruciating, slow process. The arrival of warmer weather has helped, though. It's as if Spring has helped thaw my heart. (Rather cheesy, non?)
I'm heading into a busy weekend and week. We are moving my grandparents into their new home tomorrow. I also have all-day rehearsal for Alice in Wonderland which I'll have to miss part of. (I don't really mind, though.) Next weekend is the play so I am heading into production week. (If I'm not around much, that's why.) I feel so weary and unprepared. But you know what? It's okay. God is good. And as much I seem to have trouble remembering that, at the end of the day that's all that matters, really.
And after life calms down, you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to clean my room.

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.}

The Stranger?

One day you'll find me dead:
Drowned in an ocean of ink or
Buried under an avalanche of paper.

Then those closest to me will clean out my room and find my secrets
scattered across the floor.

By the book shelf, my fears about becoming frozen and devoid of emotion.
In front of my bedside table, an acknowledgement of how much I cared.
Beside the rocking chair my honest thoughts and views about love.
At the foot of my bed, declarations of love to...?
And at the other end of my bed,
the journals where I recorded many of my darkest moments.
They are confessions of my worst feelings and failures,
Disconsolate prayers to God,
A true look at how far into the depths of despair I have plunged.


And those who loved me most will sit on my floor surrounded by the papers covered in my handwriting and wonder,
"Did we know her? Did we really know her at all?"
I am afraid no one knows me.
I am merely a stranger to them... and to myself.

Well, we all have a face / That we hide away forever / And we take them out and show ourselves / When everyone has gone / Some are satin some are steel / Some are silk and some are leather / They're the faces of the stranger / But we love to try them on
-'The Stranger' lyrics by Billy Joel (from the album I'm holding in the picture)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sorry for the somewhat morbid post. The first stanza was inspired by my messy room which always seems to have piles of paper littered everywhere... but then I started thinking what would I happen if someone read all these papers? I realized how startled they would be by the many secrets and hidden thoughts I hold that I've never even given hint of. So, it went downhill from then on. Also, these past few days I have been worried about myself. I've been feeling things, doing things, thinking things that I just don't want to believe is who I am. But I just don't know...

On a happier note, my friend Ever has started a blog called Intractable Whispers. It is a blog to better connect the lovely people of this blogging world. She has asked me to extend the invitation for you all to join. It is a place to share your writings and things that inspire you. If you would like to join go here. I would greatly encourage you to do so, even if you don't know Ever. It would be simply lovely if you did, but no pressure at all. :)

An E.J.B. Poem

 











She dried her tears and they did smile
To see her cheeks' returning glow
How little dreaming all the while
That full heart throbbed to overflow

With that sweet look and lively tone
And bright eye shining all the day
They could not guess at midnight lone
How she would weep the time away 

~Emily Jane Brontë

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
{I have been writing a lot this week. More than I have in a long time. I stayed up till 1 AM last night working on one of my stories. It is rather strange that I have had such an outpouring of thoughts since I'm also being plagued by self-doubts. They rear their ugly heads every now and then. Oh, how I wish I knew a spell to oust them! So, consequently, nothing I write seems to measure up to some obscure standard I've set. I can never decide if self-imposed standards are beneficiary or just stifling...}
{Picture by and of me.}

Porcelain Love

As a young girl, I had many dolls that were made up of different things... cloth, plastic, vinyl, porcelain... I loved them all. Even my porcelain dolls who always seemed so indifferent. When I held them close, their skin was so cool against mine.
No matter how many childish kisses and caresses I lavished upon them, they never warmed up. A blank, glassy stare would be the only reward for my efforts.

O, you, my love, must be made of porcelain!
It is so clear to me now...
This is why you never let your emotions show; why you never seem to really see me...

I never stopped loving my porcelain dolls, in hopes that someday they might respond to my gentle touch.

Just know, I shall do the same for you, my darling, porcelain love.
Someday your hard exterior will crack and I know a responsive human flesh must lie underneath.
Maybe then, you will love me back?


{Picture by me, of me and one of my porcelain dolls, Emily.}

I am a writer... and I can't help it.

I was reading quotes on some random quote site the other week, and I ran across this quote by Rainer Maria Rilke:
"Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depth of your heart; confess to yourself you would have to die if you were forbidden to write."

I didn't really think much about it after reading it, I just moved on. But later, I was thinking... would I die if I were forbidden to write? To be sure, dying seems, well, melodramatic... Yet, I somehow feel if I could never write another word of my dreams, fancies and stories - something in me would die.
No more would I run on a mad dash to find a pencil and paper when I need to capture a thought or a phrase.
No more would I stay up late poring over the thesaurus looking for the right word to use.
No more would I get out of bed in the middle of the night and scribble an idea down by the dim light of my ipod.
No more would I get that feeling of absolute content after finishing writing something that I think is good.
My life would be almost pleasure-less!

Thankfully, I do not think there is anyone who is going to forbid me to write, so - write I will!
And so, even on those days when I am in despair, feeling as if everything I write is inane and I will never be any good, I remember... I have to write. Even if nothing ever comes of it. It has spread its roots into the very depth of my heart.










~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
But you don't know what's ahead of you--the stony hills--the steep ascents--the buffets--the discouragements. Stay in the valley if you're wise. Emily, why do you want to write? Give me your reason."
"I want to be famous and rich," said Emily coolly.
"Everybody does. Is that all?"
"No. I just love to write."
"A better reason--but not enough--not enough. Tell me this--if you knew you would be poor as a church mouse all your life--if you knew you'd never have a line published--would you still go on writing--would you?"
"Of course I would," said Emily disdainfully. "Why, I have to write--I can't help it at times--I've just got to."
"Oh--then I'd waste my breath giving advice at all. If it's in you to climb you must--there are those who must lift their eyes to the hills--they can't breathe properly in the valleys. God help them if there's some weakness in them that prevents their climbing. You don't understand a word I'm saying--yet. But go on--climb!

-Excerpt from Emily of New Moon by L. M. Montgomery


{Picture taken by me.}