I like not knowing whether or not people read this. I like the idea that I'll never know how many visits anyone ever makes to my blog of idiocy. It's a nice kind of anonymity.
Anyway, just before I leave for school, thought I'd mention, I didn't get to bed until 2. But I found inspiration to write another poem. So, lose-win situation, I suppose.
So, gotta go, then.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Evasion is a sweet pastime.
I can't seem to want to go to sleep right now. It's nearing midnight, and I'm tired, and I'm a little hungry. But all I'm doing is writing. I've decided I don't like posting stuff on my poetry blog for the time being, so I'm just going to post this poem here. I just copied it from my notebook, and edited it a bit, and found I like it more than I thought. So, read on, if you wish.
My Heart's Exposé
I set to writing down my heart
And all the fact surrounding it
With a view to polishing
My shiny, lead-stained fingertips
In the crystal universe encrusted
With the film of Fortune’s kiss.
But a latte in the morning kills my spirit,
And a pinch of salt across the shoulder
(When I drop the lid and spill the can)
Is the only luck I can account for.
Sweet nothingness now holds me
In its stern and pitying grasp.
And all can see that, in my words,
All can tell within my thoughts.
You wrapped my heart in foil – pressed and
Boiled, poker-faced, until it was lobster-red,
Scrapped for the piglets in the yard:
(You glorified the meal) I was
“A wealthy feast for the health of swine.”
Is this what you had tried to say?
Worth nothing more than a rotten feast
Nothing more than slaughter food
Trampled to lumpy, dull red mush
With nothing more to beat for.
My Heart's Exposé
I set to writing down my heart
And all the fact surrounding it
With a view to polishing
My shiny, lead-stained fingertips
In the crystal universe encrusted
With the film of Fortune’s kiss.
But a latte in the morning kills my spirit,
And a pinch of salt across the shoulder
(When I drop the lid and spill the can)
Is the only luck I can account for.
Sweet nothingness now holds me
In its stern and pitying grasp.
And all can see that, in my words,
All can tell within my thoughts.
You wrapped my heart in foil – pressed and
Boiled, poker-faced, until it was lobster-red,
Scrapped for the piglets in the yard:
(You glorified the meal) I was
“A wealthy feast for the health of swine.”
Is this what you had tried to say?
Worth nothing more than a rotten feast
Nothing more than slaughter food
Trampled to lumpy, dull red mush
With nothing more to beat for.
An old letter.
I was browsing through my old notebooks this afternoon, looking for old notes I made for my book, and stumbled over this, quite unexpectedly. This is a letter I wrote once, a while ago. It was supposed to be for C., but I just felt like I had intruded on his life enough, so I never sent it. Then again, I think I just wrote this letter for myself, my kind of closure to a nonexistant era of my life. We're brief friends now, though. So, I suppose, I finally let go of that little delusion of mine. :) Anyway, I always wanted to share it, if not with him, then with someone. So, here goes.
...
I am insignificant, I see this now.
A drop of water in the ocean, a snowflake in the depths of winter, a fallen leaf in the midst of autumn.
Insigificant.
And I bounce, intermittently, between finally persuading myself of the truth, and unable to believe it.
So it is the same with you.
I know all of what you've written has never been with me in mind, yet I still manage to convince myself that it is, at times.
Not only frustrating to you, but frustrating to me as well.
I've always placed my heart in my poems, and simply assumed others did the same. I've always imagnined life like that.
I also know, once you've read this, you will probably sigh or growl in frustration, fingers itching to correct me. You've always been quick to retaliate. Will you be this time as well?
No. I'm certain you will not, because you will just delete the email, erase the poem, forget for once and all this fading memory. As you should, as you must.
Like I said: insignificant.
A drop of water evaporates, a snowflake melts and dissolves, an autumn leaf crumbles.
We all fade, in time. That is the natural cycle, the pattern that cannot be broken.
...
Anyway, I'm trying to find a sort of occupation for the rest of my day. It doesn't feel like seven o'clock, at the moment. The sun lingers too long for comfort, I suppose. Read, a bit of homework, a bit of housework, a bit of pretending like I'm not affected by anything. Just five weeks left, though. Hm.
*Except for the 'Jesus' element to this song, I really like it. I was going to just quote it, but found there were too many lines I liked, so I've posted the entire thing instead.*
...
I am insignificant, I see this now.
A drop of water in the ocean, a snowflake in the depths of winter, a fallen leaf in the midst of autumn.
Insigificant.
And I bounce, intermittently, between finally persuading myself of the truth, and unable to believe it.
So it is the same with you.
I know all of what you've written has never been with me in mind, yet I still manage to convince myself that it is, at times.
Not only frustrating to you, but frustrating to me as well.
I've always placed my heart in my poems, and simply assumed others did the same. I've always imagnined life like that.
I also know, once you've read this, you will probably sigh or growl in frustration, fingers itching to correct me. You've always been quick to retaliate. Will you be this time as well?
No. I'm certain you will not, because you will just delete the email, erase the poem, forget for once and all this fading memory. As you should, as you must.
Like I said: insignificant.
A drop of water evaporates, a snowflake melts and dissolves, an autumn leaf crumbles.
We all fade, in time. That is the natural cycle, the pattern that cannot be broken.
...
Anyway, I'm trying to find a sort of occupation for the rest of my day. It doesn't feel like seven o'clock, at the moment. The sun lingers too long for comfort, I suppose. Read, a bit of homework, a bit of housework, a bit of pretending like I'm not affected by anything. Just five weeks left, though. Hm.
*Except for the 'Jesus' element to this song, I really like it. I was going to just quote it, but found there were too many lines I liked, so I've posted the entire thing instead.*
Editing.
Wow. I feel like a camel at an oasis in the middle of the Sahara. I've drunk so much water today it's almost astonishing. You know Nalgene bottles? 32 ounces each. I'm on my third. Well, I guess if I'm thirsty . . .
So I've started editing my book now. I've found that it is much easier to edit on paper, so I printed off the prologue, and found there is much more that I want to change than I had originally thought. But that's okay. I wrote the beginning so long ago. . . god, it must have been March of my sophomore year that I first began this entire thing. Damn. *pauses a moment*
It's been quite a while since I wrote the beginning of my book, and my writing has changed and (hopefully) improved quite a bit since then. So, I need to update that part, and edit it and make it sound better. I think there's a lot missing from the prologue that should be there, especially since I've figured out some plot-lines since then that change some things drastically and mean I need to take notice of other things more. Character personalities, for instance, and the ever-present foreshadowing that hint at something that definitely comes up in the epilogue. I'm excited, but still, this is very daunting.
One step at a time though, one at a time.
I need to do some chores, now, then. I guess I truly ought to, it'll improve my mother's mood at least a little if I do. Lol. I ought to try, at the very least. So, goodbye for the day, or the moment.
Pleasant musings. ;)
So I've started editing my book now. I've found that it is much easier to edit on paper, so I printed off the prologue, and found there is much more that I want to change than I had originally thought. But that's okay. I wrote the beginning so long ago. . . god, it must have been March of my sophomore year that I first began this entire thing. Damn. *pauses a moment*
It's been quite a while since I wrote the beginning of my book, and my writing has changed and (hopefully) improved quite a bit since then. So, I need to update that part, and edit it and make it sound better. I think there's a lot missing from the prologue that should be there, especially since I've figured out some plot-lines since then that change some things drastically and mean I need to take notice of other things more. Character personalities, for instance, and the ever-present foreshadowing that hint at something that definitely comes up in the epilogue. I'm excited, but still, this is very daunting.
One step at a time though, one at a time.
I need to do some chores, now, then. I guess I truly ought to, it'll improve my mother's mood at least a little if I do. Lol. I ought to try, at the very least. So, goodbye for the day, or the moment.
Pleasant musings. ;)
Saturday, April 18, 2009
But why did you? That's all I want to know. Why?
Relaxing morning. I love Saturday mornings when I wake up to the sun filtering in through my bedroom window, diffusing the room with a soft whiteness, far better than the harsh yellow glow of a lightbulb. It produces the sort of calm in me that I relish. The kind of calm I can think peacefully in.
I realize today that I forgot to tell you if he wrote back. Do I honestly need to? Isn't it that obvious? I predicted it on the spot, and even before I mailed it anyway. He hasn't, he didn't, he won't. Should I, really, be surprised? No. But it still hurts, even if I already knew the truth, even if I already knew what he would do (or rather, wouldn't do).
...
Daddy dearest, daddy dearest, did you run away from me?
Yes I did, spawn of Satan, for that's all you'll ever be.
...
I still want to show up at his house one day in the summer, and see what he does. I am even, insanely, imagining spending a month there, like they do in movies, a month where I can pretend like this is just a vacation amongst strangers, and he can do whatever he likes. Silly, I know. I won't do it, but I won't be able to avoid imagining it. For instance, I even imagine that, while down there, I would get in the research I've been wanting, and finish my book, and ride my bike all over town, etc. The possibilities of what I might do are endless. The reality of what I will do is also predictable. But I don't need to get into that, it's too obvious. He just makes it impossible to forget about him when all I ever hear is nothing, when all I ever get is silence. He walks away - repeatedly, and then expects me not to follow. I can't stand silence, though. I truly cannot. I'll be grasping for something forever until I get the true confirmation of why he won't talk to me, of why he ignores. I know why, but I can't stop until he tells me. I can't stop until I hear it from him, and not my mother, not my stepdad, but him. I need to know why, or I'll never stop, I don't think.
Anyway, I'll leave off of this subject, and listen to this song instead. It's remarkably calming, and has a nice memory attached. A very nice memory, regardless of the actual subject of the song. I especially love the guitar at the beginning, and when Mayer sings so quietly, it blends into perfection, leaves rustling on the wind, a creek gurgling down - away. It just works, is all.
I realize today that I forgot to tell you if he wrote back. Do I honestly need to? Isn't it that obvious? I predicted it on the spot, and even before I mailed it anyway. He hasn't, he didn't, he won't. Should I, really, be surprised? No. But it still hurts, even if I already knew the truth, even if I already knew what he would do (or rather, wouldn't do).
...
Daddy dearest, daddy dearest, did you run away from me?
Yes I did, spawn of Satan, for that's all you'll ever be.
...
I still want to show up at his house one day in the summer, and see what he does. I am even, insanely, imagining spending a month there, like they do in movies, a month where I can pretend like this is just a vacation amongst strangers, and he can do whatever he likes. Silly, I know. I won't do it, but I won't be able to avoid imagining it. For instance, I even imagine that, while down there, I would get in the research I've been wanting, and finish my book, and ride my bike all over town, etc. The possibilities of what I might do are endless. The reality of what I will do is also predictable. But I don't need to get into that, it's too obvious. He just makes it impossible to forget about him when all I ever hear is nothing, when all I ever get is silence. He walks away - repeatedly, and then expects me not to follow. I can't stand silence, though. I truly cannot. I'll be grasping for something forever until I get the true confirmation of why he won't talk to me, of why he ignores. I know why, but I can't stop until he tells me. I can't stop until I hear it from him, and not my mother, not my stepdad, but him. I need to know why, or I'll never stop, I don't think.
Anyway, I'll leave off of this subject, and listen to this song instead. It's remarkably calming, and has a nice memory attached. A very nice memory, regardless of the actual subject of the song. I especially love the guitar at the beginning, and when Mayer sings so quietly, it blends into perfection, leaves rustling on the wind, a creek gurgling down - away. It just works, is all.
Friday, April 17, 2009
A poem - among other things.
So here I am, again, wondering what it is I ought to do. Should I try to force out a poem that actually sounds good to me? I feel like I haven't written in a month or more, which is not what I do. Writing is a constancy in my life, how could I have abandoned it so healthily?
*sighs* The words just don't seem to want to come to me, I suppose.
Dinner went great, though my sister and I got stuck in a traffic jam on the way, so it took us an extra thirty minutes. By 8 o'clock everyone, except my grandmother, was yawning. I think the cold temperature was making us just that much more sleepy. Then again, I only got . . . what, four hours of sleep? Yeah. Not good. Which is why, on the cusp of my potentially brilliantly relaxing weekend, I intend to sleep to the fullest in the time I am provided with. My shoulders and neck would thank me, I am sure. Ah, if only I could get some sort of neck massage. I've never had one - I wonder if it would work . . . ?
So sleepy. But I don't want to go to sleep, for some reason. I don't want to go to bed. It appeals, and yet, something is keeping me from it, I can't puzzle out what. Perhaps because, if I sleep, my weekend will be that much shorter, will seem cut off in the middle and sped up to the end. I don't want that.
I could type up some Jane Eyre, but . . . eh, that deserves its own post. A poem? Hm. I could type one of my more recent ones. I think I wrote this last week, or so. This poem will be the end of this post, I've written quite enough for tonight, though I still want to ramble on. Dilemma, but nevertheless - read on.
FOG
Did he need to be so secluded?
So isolated he forgot that the sun
Had never disappeared.
Trapped in his own despair,
He lowered the clouds from the heavens
Surrounded himself with sorrow
So willingly, so freely.
He exiled himself in a cloudy day
And forgot.
The world, the love that he needed
Manifested when he closed his eyes
When he ignored, when he forgot.
The sun shone brighter on his soul
Trying to dissipate the fog.
It lost the struggle, faded
In the depression of his will -
Fell on empty thoughts
And forgot itself, the reason, and
The hope behind
His shaded eyes.
He exiled himself to cloudier days
To forget about the heart
He left behind,
To ignore his fracture world
In the clouds he willed to come
Below the sky, and fill
His empty night,
His empty world,
His empty life and emptier heart,
With fog.
*sighs* The words just don't seem to want to come to me, I suppose.
Dinner went great, though my sister and I got stuck in a traffic jam on the way, so it took us an extra thirty minutes. By 8 o'clock everyone, except my grandmother, was yawning. I think the cold temperature was making us just that much more sleepy. Then again, I only got . . . what, four hours of sleep? Yeah. Not good. Which is why, on the cusp of my potentially brilliantly relaxing weekend, I intend to sleep to the fullest in the time I am provided with. My shoulders and neck would thank me, I am sure. Ah, if only I could get some sort of neck massage. I've never had one - I wonder if it would work . . . ?
So sleepy. But I don't want to go to sleep, for some reason. I don't want to go to bed. It appeals, and yet, something is keeping me from it, I can't puzzle out what. Perhaps because, if I sleep, my weekend will be that much shorter, will seem cut off in the middle and sped up to the end. I don't want that.
I could type up some Jane Eyre, but . . . eh, that deserves its own post. A poem? Hm. I could type one of my more recent ones. I think I wrote this last week, or so. This poem will be the end of this post, I've written quite enough for tonight, though I still want to ramble on. Dilemma, but nevertheless - read on.
FOG
Did he need to be so secluded?
So isolated he forgot that the sun
Had never disappeared.
Trapped in his own despair,
He lowered the clouds from the heavens
Surrounded himself with sorrow
So willingly, so freely.
He exiled himself in a cloudy day
And forgot.
The world, the love that he needed
Manifested when he closed his eyes
When he ignored, when he forgot.
The sun shone brighter on his soul
Trying to dissipate the fog.
It lost the struggle, faded
In the depression of his will -
Fell on empty thoughts
And forgot itself, the reason, and
The hope behind
His shaded eyes.
He exiled himself to cloudier days
To forget about the heart
He left behind,
To ignore his fracture world
In the clouds he willed to come
Below the sky, and fill
His empty night,
His empty world,
His empty life and emptier heart,
With fog.
M. Is he, do I?
I can't believe how easy it was to study for my Latin test. That was a relief.
Yesterday was a frenzy of activity. I actually cleaned the house a little. Took out the garbage, folded my clothes. It was nice. I haven't had that sort of "do and get done" kind of mind-set in ages. I like that. My room isn't as cluttered anymore, which helps and translates over to my mind. I could see that in how I was able to actually (finally) understand my math today, two periods before the test. I could see it in how, even though I went to bed after midnight, got less than (or around) four hours of sleep, I wasn't tired and was actually getting more things done.
The nice weather, though, that really helps. It's starting to feel like spring. The best part of all of it is that, when I wake up in the morning and take a shower, I can hear the birds whispering outside, busy bodies that they are. It reminds me of when I was a kid, when I used to live at this one place in Texas, where we had an owl in one of the trees just outside our house. It's very nice, calming.
It's odd. This week, M. has . . . well, seemed more mature to me. Perhaps it's because of the new arrangement in Latin. We got those long tables now, instead of our old desks, and so when we have to translate it's all more face-to-face instead of at a distance. I don't know. I'm being silly. I don't like him, I just think I do because I'm an oddity in itself. Sure, people change, but can they change that much? Could he have? *pauses, deep breath* Well. It makes no matter. There's nothing there, and the past has proven that, though at times he really does seem to sort of draw me in for some reason. He intrigues me at times, and more frequently than before. That's all. At times I sometimes wonder if he still likes me, though. Latin is very entertaining, nowadays, in any case.
Well. I don't know. I can't think right now. All I can see is a weekend, a spring weekend, without snow (at last). Reminds me of what my English teacher said today, random comment about "fake Global Warming." She said, "Well, yeah, I believe in it. But - I mean, come on, where's the hot weather?!" It keeps snowing, ridiculous valley. It's laughable, but frustrating. Winter has held on most stubbornly, not that I mind. Next to autumn, it's one of my favorite seasons.
Anyway, I have to go. Time to visit my grandparents. Should be fun, unless my 9 year old cousin enlists me to color on the floor with her. Bad for the knees, though I shouldn't be so stubborn about it. She hardly ever gets to see me, and apparently I'm her favorite (because I'm the only one who ever plays with her). Thank goodness she's over the Barbie phase. ;)
Ta!
Yesterday was a frenzy of activity. I actually cleaned the house a little. Took out the garbage, folded my clothes. It was nice. I haven't had that sort of "do and get done" kind of mind-set in ages. I like that. My room isn't as cluttered anymore, which helps and translates over to my mind. I could see that in how I was able to actually (finally) understand my math today, two periods before the test. I could see it in how, even though I went to bed after midnight, got less than (or around) four hours of sleep, I wasn't tired and was actually getting more things done.
The nice weather, though, that really helps. It's starting to feel like spring. The best part of all of it is that, when I wake up in the morning and take a shower, I can hear the birds whispering outside, busy bodies that they are. It reminds me of when I was a kid, when I used to live at this one place in Texas, where we had an owl in one of the trees just outside our house. It's very nice, calming.
It's odd. This week, M. has . . . well, seemed more mature to me. Perhaps it's because of the new arrangement in Latin. We got those long tables now, instead of our old desks, and so when we have to translate it's all more face-to-face instead of at a distance. I don't know. I'm being silly. I don't like him, I just think I do because I'm an oddity in itself. Sure, people change, but can they change that much? Could he have? *pauses, deep breath* Well. It makes no matter. There's nothing there, and the past has proven that, though at times he really does seem to sort of draw me in for some reason. He intrigues me at times, and more frequently than before. That's all. At times I sometimes wonder if he still likes me, though. Latin is very entertaining, nowadays, in any case.
Well. I don't know. I can't think right now. All I can see is a weekend, a spring weekend, without snow (at last). Reminds me of what my English teacher said today, random comment about "fake Global Warming." She said, "Well, yeah, I believe in it. But - I mean, come on, where's the hot weather?!" It keeps snowing, ridiculous valley. It's laughable, but frustrating. Winter has held on most stubbornly, not that I mind. Next to autumn, it's one of my favorite seasons.
Anyway, I have to go. Time to visit my grandparents. Should be fun, unless my 9 year old cousin enlists me to color on the floor with her. Bad for the knees, though I shouldn't be so stubborn about it. She hardly ever gets to see me, and apparently I'm her favorite (because I'm the only one who ever plays with her). Thank goodness she's over the Barbie phase. ;)
Ta!
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