Outside. Look up at the stars.
See them.
Hear them.
Go. Be. Act.
Become.
31 October 2010
30 October 2010
Insomniatic Rambling.
The waves crash.
It's like the night. Echoes, in my ears, in my heart.
My soul responds with all it's joy and outrage at this bitter cold beautifully warm world that i have been cast into.
What part of me *belongs* here? I feel so torn, sometimes. I love the world for it's vibrance and love and passion and vivid colors. I despise it for it's hatred and envy, it's bigotry, it's greys and blacks and puces.
With each footfall on my lifepath I try to remember:
This is a pilgrimage to a higher place.
I struggle to accept that, and all that in entails.
I fail.
I get up and i fall, and i fall.
I have bruises on my shins, and scratches on my arms, and my eyes are sodden.
When will this journey be finished?
I struggle for my destination and find it forever out of reach. Forever shining bright upon the hill where i can see it's light, but can not feel it's warmth.
What am I supposed to learn?
I over analyze everything. Life is full of meaning that i can not understand.
And so i embrace it all.
I open my heart to the wonder of living, and try to remember that is the reason I am here. To accept that I can not. To learn that I am only myself.
There is so much to love about this world, and so much to despise.
I try not to let the darkness envelope, but sometimes, it does.
But there is always light again.
There is rain, and there are trees. And fresh cut grass. There are books, and parks, and dogs and cats and there are smiles, and there is laughter, and there is friendship.
The moon, the stars, and the immense universe that we have only begun to fathom. There is the deepest ocean. There are sandy beaches, and phosphorescent nightwaves cresting.
There is romance, and heartache, and pleasure and pain, and i want to enjoy every minute of it, and be grateful for every last breath that i take.
Is it wrong to want to enjoy the world, when my faith declares i am not to be *of* it?
Is the world it declares the world I love? Or a different world that spins away from me?
It is hard to live.
But, that, perhaps, is why i love it so much.
It seems that everything you must struggle for is, once you have crested the pain and the difficulty, beautiful.
It's like the night. Echoes, in my ears, in my heart.
My soul responds with all it's joy and outrage at this bitter cold beautifully warm world that i have been cast into.
What part of me *belongs* here? I feel so torn, sometimes. I love the world for it's vibrance and love and passion and vivid colors. I despise it for it's hatred and envy, it's bigotry, it's greys and blacks and puces.
With each footfall on my lifepath I try to remember:
This is a pilgrimage to a higher place.
I struggle to accept that, and all that in entails.
I fail.
I get up and i fall, and i fall.
I have bruises on my shins, and scratches on my arms, and my eyes are sodden.
When will this journey be finished?
I struggle for my destination and find it forever out of reach. Forever shining bright upon the hill where i can see it's light, but can not feel it's warmth.
What am I supposed to learn?
I over analyze everything. Life is full of meaning that i can not understand.
And so i embrace it all.
I open my heart to the wonder of living, and try to remember that is the reason I am here. To accept that I can not. To learn that I am only myself.
There is so much to love about this world, and so much to despise.
I try not to let the darkness envelope, but sometimes, it does.
But there is always light again.
There is rain, and there are trees. And fresh cut grass. There are books, and parks, and dogs and cats and there are smiles, and there is laughter, and there is friendship.
The moon, the stars, and the immense universe that we have only begun to fathom. There is the deepest ocean. There are sandy beaches, and phosphorescent nightwaves cresting.
There is romance, and heartache, and pleasure and pain, and i want to enjoy every minute of it, and be grateful for every last breath that i take.
Is it wrong to want to enjoy the world, when my faith declares i am not to be *of* it?
Is the world it declares the world I love? Or a different world that spins away from me?
It is hard to live.
But, that, perhaps, is why i love it so much.
It seems that everything you must struggle for is, once you have crested the pain and the difficulty, beautiful.
28 October 2010
Emerge.
A call into the night
echoes back,
like fading strands of
moss in the water of
my soul.
They waver against the hope that delivers,
enduring.
They waver and
snap
and break off against
the legs of swimmers who
hesitate and then
deny the existence of any doubt,
continue swimming into
the cool dark black
of the deepest water.
Swimmers who ponder the meaning of the heavens
as the stars reflect in the dark water of the pool.
They swim through-
i swim through-
the heavens
and feel the tingle
trust,
stardust from the sky
glittering down onto the water
and enveloping.
I am lost in the belief that
tomorrow is tomorrow
and it will come with the dawn
and the dawn will recall
all that was lost.
The sun will emerge,
victorious,
having slain the nightqueen
moon,
and with her blood
he will paint the sky.
He will burn bright,
'til not one eye remains dry
amongst the stars - sisters, friends -
who mourn her,
and I,
I will bath in the light,
weeping,
knowing that all that was lost is
regained,
by the blood of the moon.
echoes back,
like fading strands of
moss in the water of
my soul.
They waver against the hope that delivers,
enduring.
They waver and
snap
and break off against
the legs of swimmers who
hesitate and then
deny the existence of any doubt,
continue swimming into
the cool dark black
of the deepest water.
Swimmers who ponder the meaning of the heavens
as the stars reflect in the dark water of the pool.
They swim through-
i swim through-
the heavens
and feel the tingle
trust,
stardust from the sky
glittering down onto the water
and enveloping.
I am lost in the belief that
tomorrow is tomorrow
and it will come with the dawn
and the dawn will recall
all that was lost.
The sun will emerge,
victorious,
having slain the nightqueen
moon,
and with her blood
he will paint the sky.
He will burn bright,
'til not one eye remains dry
amongst the stars - sisters, friends -
who mourn her,
and I,
I will bath in the light,
weeping,
knowing that all that was lost is
regained,
by the blood of the moon.
23 October 2010
Survivors
The sound of music
ceases from the air.
My ears are aching for it,
speaking to the
synapses within.
the sudden silence
reminds me of someone i have yet to meet.
Does he exist,
beyond the pale?
Fighting against the norms that keep us all
maintained?
I will rise up to meet him,
from the ashes,
and we will dance
on the dust of civilazation
and laugh at our good fortune,
to have found each other
and survived.
or, perhaps,
just to have survived.
Brittle gunfire
will be our wedding toll,
and cold concrete our bed.
We will exist in the moment,
fighting
to survive.
And the moon will shine bright upon the sea
as we fall into it
bitter with thirst.
And the sun will burn hot upon the sand,
as we traverse,
wander,
survive.
And after all of this,
alone in the dark,
we will confide,
the last of these few.
Survivors.
ceases from the air.
My ears are aching for it,
speaking to the
synapses within.
the sudden silence
reminds me of someone i have yet to meet.
Does he exist,
beyond the pale?
Fighting against the norms that keep us all
maintained?
I will rise up to meet him,
from the ashes,
and we will dance
on the dust of civilazation
and laugh at our good fortune,
to have found each other
and survived.
or, perhaps,
just to have survived.
Brittle gunfire
will be our wedding toll,
and cold concrete our bed.
We will exist in the moment,
fighting
to survive.
And the moon will shine bright upon the sea
as we fall into it
bitter with thirst.
And the sun will burn hot upon the sand,
as we traverse,
wander,
survive.
And after all of this,
alone in the dark,
we will confide,
the last of these few.
Survivors.
21 October 2010
22 MARCH 2008 – DON’T HOLD BACK
Something i wrote a long time ago.
Night time.
I awake gasping, shuddering.
This is not the first time, and i am used to the flickering fear.
I don’t close my eyes, i know what is behind them.
This time it is blood and tears, screams that won’t sound in my throat.
"Write truth." a voice in my head whispers, "don’t hold back."
Delicate finger lacing through my mind, like traces of smoke from the last cigarette i smoked, months ago.
I hear his voice like the memory is not so distant.
"Tell me your secrets..."
I almost close my eyes to clarify the sound, sharpen it even more, but remember the soundless void of the unheard screams in my nightmare and stop.
I stumble from my bed, flip open my phone, but no one has called.
No one calls at this hour, and i have no one to call to comfort me back to sleep.
I would call him...but fear the ache when the phone simply rings and no one answers and i am alone in the dark with my dreams.
My floor is hazardous, my room an outward projection of my mind, i trip over a pile of clothes, step on something sharp and bang my elbow on the wall on my way into the hallway.
The light is off, but i know my way, down the stairs, my father doesn’t notice my passing, immersed as he is in his video game world of guns and grenades.
I walk into the kitchen, cold tile a welcome distraction against my feet.
I peer into the refrigerator, for nothing, as a distraction.
I climb the stairs again, eyes blearing, i forgot to put on my glasses, or perhaps it was a conscious choice, i don’t remember, try not to remember anything but his voice. "Of course..."
I leave the light off in the bathroom; catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror from the corner of my eye.
It’s a shock, the person i see.
Wild tangle of dark curls about a pretty face, a face i don’t know. And thin. When was i ever so thin? one of my sweater’s shoulders has slipped off mine, leaving it bare. I look so different at this hour, in the darkness, in my reflection, without my glasses, and with that odd half smile, half frown on my face.
When was i ever pretty? Who is this person in the mirror i see, as though for the first time?
I file away the feeling, the emotion, the image of the girl i see now, flesh hand touching glass hand, flesh eyes peering into glass eyes, i file it away for a day i look in the mirror and see only the bad things, the hideousness that is always around me.
I file it away for tomorrow, when i’ll need to remember seeing myself like this.
Half awake, half alive, half forgotten, half loved, half cherished, half desired.
I stumble back to my bed, sit with my back against the wall, remember not to close my eyes.
There is a box on my floor, under my desk, across the room. It is metal and it is cold, and it is locked. It has a combination, and i know it without even thinking the exact numbers. If i cross the room and open the box i will smell the sharp spices within it. The salt, the cinnamon, the pepper, the clove. There are cigarettes in the box. There are candles in the box. And matches, and needles and thread. And there are razor blades in the box, locked away and hidden at the bottom.
I haven’t opened the box in months. I haven’t wanted to in months. Now i close my eyes and shudder, silently screaming.
It is dark in my room, but not silent.
I hear the sound of cats purring, snoring. There is the sound of the cars down the road. The sound of cars never stops here.
I hear the sound of the wind.
I hear the moonlight, too. A symphony of it surrounds me, where i huddle, in the corner of my bed, with my back against the wall, trying desperately not to cry, knowing this will pass with the light of the sun on my face and my skin.
I take comfort in this borrowed sunlight, this gift of the sun’s paramour, the moon. My sister, my shelter, my strength.
I had forgotten.
I close my eyes and let the moonlight wash, blue and cool, across my bare parts, my covered parts.
Across the wild tangle of dark curls that frame a suddenly pretty face.
I won’t open the box, i won’t dial the number.
I won’t cry.
Soon it will be morning.
And i will be me again.
Night time.
I awake gasping, shuddering.
This is not the first time, and i am used to the flickering fear.
I don’t close my eyes, i know what is behind them.
This time it is blood and tears, screams that won’t sound in my throat.
"Write truth." a voice in my head whispers, "don’t hold back."
Delicate finger lacing through my mind, like traces of smoke from the last cigarette i smoked, months ago.
I hear his voice like the memory is not so distant.
"Tell me your secrets..."
I almost close my eyes to clarify the sound, sharpen it even more, but remember the soundless void of the unheard screams in my nightmare and stop.
I stumble from my bed, flip open my phone, but no one has called.
No one calls at this hour, and i have no one to call to comfort me back to sleep.
I would call him...but fear the ache when the phone simply rings and no one answers and i am alone in the dark with my dreams.
My floor is hazardous, my room an outward projection of my mind, i trip over a pile of clothes, step on something sharp and bang my elbow on the wall on my way into the hallway.
The light is off, but i know my way, down the stairs, my father doesn’t notice my passing, immersed as he is in his video game world of guns and grenades.
I walk into the kitchen, cold tile a welcome distraction against my feet.
I peer into the refrigerator, for nothing, as a distraction.
I climb the stairs again, eyes blearing, i forgot to put on my glasses, or perhaps it was a conscious choice, i don’t remember, try not to remember anything but his voice. "Of course..."
I leave the light off in the bathroom; catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror from the corner of my eye.
It’s a shock, the person i see.
Wild tangle of dark curls about a pretty face, a face i don’t know. And thin. When was i ever so thin? one of my sweater’s shoulders has slipped off mine, leaving it bare. I look so different at this hour, in the darkness, in my reflection, without my glasses, and with that odd half smile, half frown on my face.
When was i ever pretty? Who is this person in the mirror i see, as though for the first time?
I file away the feeling, the emotion, the image of the girl i see now, flesh hand touching glass hand, flesh eyes peering into glass eyes, i file it away for a day i look in the mirror and see only the bad things, the hideousness that is always around me.
I file it away for tomorrow, when i’ll need to remember seeing myself like this.
Half awake, half alive, half forgotten, half loved, half cherished, half desired.
I stumble back to my bed, sit with my back against the wall, remember not to close my eyes.
There is a box on my floor, under my desk, across the room. It is metal and it is cold, and it is locked. It has a combination, and i know it without even thinking the exact numbers. If i cross the room and open the box i will smell the sharp spices within it. The salt, the cinnamon, the pepper, the clove. There are cigarettes in the box. There are candles in the box. And matches, and needles and thread. And there are razor blades in the box, locked away and hidden at the bottom.
I haven’t opened the box in months. I haven’t wanted to in months. Now i close my eyes and shudder, silently screaming.
It is dark in my room, but not silent.
I hear the sound of cats purring, snoring. There is the sound of the cars down the road. The sound of cars never stops here.
I hear the sound of the wind.
I hear the moonlight, too. A symphony of it surrounds me, where i huddle, in the corner of my bed, with my back against the wall, trying desperately not to cry, knowing this will pass with the light of the sun on my face and my skin.
I take comfort in this borrowed sunlight, this gift of the sun’s paramour, the moon. My sister, my shelter, my strength.
I had forgotten.
I close my eyes and let the moonlight wash, blue and cool, across my bare parts, my covered parts.
Across the wild tangle of dark curls that frame a suddenly pretty face.
I won’t open the box, i won’t dial the number.
I won’t cry.
Soon it will be morning.
And i will be me again.
20 October 2010
Music and it's effect on the sleep deprived (or: the music i breathe by.)
Current Lit: Bag of Bones - Stephen King
Current Music: Plain White T's
Next Up Lit: No Idea
Next Up Music: The Spill CanvasI'm half asleep, half awake.
That's what insomnia does to you, it leaves you in a twilit state. I don't mind.
I'm listening to the Plain White T's, who I grabbed off of my best friend's external HDD the other day.
Before tonight, I'd only heard a couple songs by them. The ubiquitous "Hey There Delilah" and "1,2,3,4." I like the latter of the two songs better , but as i listen my way through this playlist, i have to admit to myself, and to you, whoever you are, that i am becoming addicted to this band.
Now, it's not like that is anything new, I become addicted to new bands and artists pretty frequently. Music is one of the only things i think is truly universal. I must say in my defense that once i become addicted i hardly ever lose that loyalty, I'm avid in my musical passion.
Also, i semi-stole this blog idea from my friend Adri, who's blog you can read here.
Past Bands/Artists That I Have Been Addicted To Include:
Kinda emo and dark, but not whiney or screamy.
If you have never heard this band, i recommend the songs:
1. Self- Conclusion - One Fell Swoop
2. This is For Keeps - One Fell Swoop
3.The Night Will Go as Follows - Sunsets and Car Crashes
4. Himerus and Eros - One Fell Swoop
5. Low Fidelity - No Really, I'm Fine
He has so many awesome songs, i don't even know where to begin. But the songs that got me addicted were:
1. I'm Yours - We Sing. We Dance. We Steal Things.
2. Geek in the Pink - Mr. A-Z
3. Mr. Curiosity - Mr. A-Z
4. Remedy (I Won't Worry) - Waiting for my Rocket to Come
When this album came out I listened to her as a stand alone artist, which is pretty rare for me. I tend to listen to mix playlists, and not to any one artist for an extended time.
1. Wreck of the Day -Wreck of the Day
2. In the Rough - Wreck of theDay
3. Catalyst -Wreck of the Day
Ben Jelen.
I just heart him. I dont remember for sure where i first hear dhim, but i think it was on a mix CD my friend made for me when we were graduating from highschool.
1. Setting of the Sun - Give It All Away
2. Come On - Give it All Away
3.Rocks - Give it All Away
4. Christine - Give It All Away
Amy Lee/Evanescence.I don't think there is a singe song i DON'T like by the lovely Amy Lee, but i'll try to narrow that list down:
1. Hello - Fallen
2. Call Me When You're Sober - The Open Door
3. Your Star - The Open Door
4. Lacrymosa - The Open Door
5. Lithium - The Open Door
6. Going Under - Fallen
7. Turniquet - Fallen
8.Good Enough - The Open Door
9. The Last Song I'm Wasting On You - The Open Door
10. Imaginary - Fallen
Ingrid Michaelson.She's got a arty/folk sound that i adore, and she probably the closest to my own style of music. (And one of my biggest inspirations, so no surprise there.)
1. Overboard - Boys and Girls
2. The Way I Am - Boys and Girls
3. Giving Up - Be OK
4. You and I - Be OK
5. Be OK - Be OK
6. Soldier - Everybody
7. Locked Up - Everybody
8. So Long - Everybody
Regina Spektor.I once said of her: "Her music is like a meal, compared to that stuff you get on the radio, which is all junk food."
1. Chemo Limo - Soviet Kitsch
2. Ode to Divorce - Soviet Kitsch
3. Samson - Begin to Hope
4. Fidelity - Begin to Hope
5. Better - Begin to Hope
6. Braille - 11:11
7. On the Radio - Begin to Hope
8. Ghost of Corporate Future - Soviet Kitsch
Emiliana Torrini.
Her voice is just magic.
1. To Be Free - Love in a Time of Science
2. Gollum's Song - Lord of the Rings (the two towers)
3. Heartstopper - Fisherman's Woman
4. Fisherman's Woman - Fisherman's Woman
And that, my dear reader, whoever you may be, is all i have to say for tonight.
19 October 2010
Prompt 0005
Discuss a recurring dream that you've had at some point in your life.
http://www.build-creative-writing-ideas.com/free-creative-writing-prompts-sleep.html
In my nightmares, there is a house.
http://www.build-creative-writing-ideas.com/free-creative-writing-prompts-sleep.html
He advanced on her, and she fell back against the stairs, hitting her elbow on the way down. She had barely landed before she started trying to scramble backwards, her feet skidding in their stockings against the carpet. She didn't scream, though she wanted to. She knew it would be pointless. At this point in the nightmare her voice was gone, leaving only a whisper behind. A whimper he would crush out of her as he bled her, laughing at the tears in her eyes. Her feet finally caught against the slick carpeting and she clawed and scrambled herself onto her stomach. She ignored her instinctive terror at turning her back on her Dark pursuer and just ran. She stumbled up the stairs, panting, trying to ignore the stitch that was starting in her left side.
The hallway was long and empty and lines with doors. It was impossibly long and the only door open was, of course, at the very end of the hall. Light spilled out from the room beyond, a beacon of safety.
But she never reaches it, ever. He catches her from behind and drags her into the dark, and her screams go unheard because she can not scream in her nightmares.
The hallway was long and empty and lines with doors. It was impossibly long and the only door open was, of course, at the very end of the hall. Light spilled out from the room beyond, a beacon of safety.
But she never reaches it, ever. He catches her from behind and drags her into the dark, and her screams go unheard because she can not scream in her nightmares.
In my nightmares, there is a house.
It's a huge, sprawling manse, with gardens and a lake, set in front of a dense fog of trees known to me as the Forest of Perpetuity.
It's the kind of house you'd expect in nightmares. Tall and Gothic, with leaded windows that arch at the top and have stained glass panes. The scenes in the glass are all full of pain, the angels and symbology of the catholic church replaced by demon's laughing faces and screaming humans being devoured by night beasts.
The garden has a labyrinth and, though while waking labyrinths calm me and let my thoughts collect, on the nightfields the labyrinth holds only terror and disjointed visions of my pursuer.
It's the labyrinth I'm in tonight, and my pursuer is behind me, identifiable only by the quiet steadiness of his breathing. It's not a dream where my scream won't sound, or where my limbs move only in slow motion. It's a dream of fleeing and searching. I flee from the manse and the labyrinth and into a vast church who's halls and auditoriums all lead in unending circles. My pursuer is dark and vast and inevitable. I flee and search, and never know quite what it is I am searching for. That's the way of dreams. I am crying in a dark room, desperate for relief from the feeling that i must go on, that i must search and flee, flee and search.
A man stand before me. Young and ambiguous. His hair is dark and his eyes are hidden, but he radiates comfort.For a moment I the dual edged sword of emotion driving me stops its piercing.
He smiles and holds out a feather to me. It is royal blue and as long as my forearm and when I take it a surge of hope pours through me, a static crackle of power.
"This is a weapon," he says. His voice is music. "It will protect you."
"Can I have a green one?" My voice trembles as I ask. His smiles glows in the darkness as he begins to dissolve away.
"No," he says. His voice is laughter. "Green is to dangerous for you."
He is gone and i hold the feather in both hands, wondering at it.
Then my Dark pursuer is back, and i again must flee.
But now, the feather glows in the dark beside me.
It's the kind of house you'd expect in nightmares. Tall and Gothic, with leaded windows that arch at the top and have stained glass panes. The scenes in the glass are all full of pain, the angels and symbology of the catholic church replaced by demon's laughing faces and screaming humans being devoured by night beasts.
The garden has a labyrinth and, though while waking labyrinths calm me and let my thoughts collect, on the nightfields the labyrinth holds only terror and disjointed visions of my pursuer.
It's the labyrinth I'm in tonight, and my pursuer is behind me, identifiable only by the quiet steadiness of his breathing. It's not a dream where my scream won't sound, or where my limbs move only in slow motion. It's a dream of fleeing and searching. I flee from the manse and the labyrinth and into a vast church who's halls and auditoriums all lead in unending circles. My pursuer is dark and vast and inevitable. I flee and search, and never know quite what it is I am searching for. That's the way of dreams. I am crying in a dark room, desperate for relief from the feeling that i must go on, that i must search and flee, flee and search.
A man stand before me. Young and ambiguous. His hair is dark and his eyes are hidden, but he radiates comfort.For a moment I the dual edged sword of emotion driving me stops its piercing.
He smiles and holds out a feather to me. It is royal blue and as long as my forearm and when I take it a surge of hope pours through me, a static crackle of power.
"This is a weapon," he says. His voice is music. "It will protect you."
"Can I have a green one?" My voice trembles as I ask. His smiles glows in the darkness as he begins to dissolve away.
"No," he says. His voice is laughter. "Green is to dangerous for you."
He is gone and i hold the feather in both hands, wondering at it.
Then my Dark pursuer is back, and i again must flee.
But now, the feather glows in the dark beside me.
18 October 2010
Well, i clearly fail.
Current Lit: Little Brother - Cory Doctorow
Current Music: Pirates of the Caribbean: At Worlds End (What Shall We Die For?) - Hans Zimmer
Next Up Lit: Not sure, possible some Kerouac. That or i'll re-read Dune. Again.
Next Up Music: Possible more PotC. But probably some Ingrid Michaelson before bed.=)I started this blog to get back into the groove of writing, to get something written everyday. To start a writing habit. And yet, here it is over a year later and this blog has been sitting dormant for over a year.
Gathering little piles of cyber-dust and strings of cyber-cobwebs woven by little malevolent cyber-spiders who laugh at my lack of commitment to the written word.
I'm sitting down and looking over it with a forlorn disgust for myself.
Why can I never take up writing the way i want to?
In highschool I wrote story after story. Sometimes the task shared amongst friends, mostly just by myself in composition books with cardboard covers and college lined paper. I wrote in black ink and always felt a thrill when the ink marked the clean white page with my words and thoughts and dialogue.
OH! Dialogue. I could spend hours trying to get the perfect phrase, and then just have it come to me. I was awash in one liners.
And now?
Now, my prompt a day website lies abandoned and moldering in a dark back alley where no one reads it, and i pretend it doesn't exist.
And why?!
I read with a voraciousness that often astounds. The written word captivates and arouses and denies. It soothes and frightens and amuses. I am utterly enraptured by it. I am drugged, sated, captured, addicted.
So why, when I want so badly to let the stories that tumble around in my head spill out into the actual world where they can provide that same solace to others, can i not?
Fear, i think, is the answer. As it is most times.
I'm terrified that what i pour out of my heart and soul will be substandard, and therefore I will be substandard by association.
I've tried time and again to commit to writing everyday, and failed.
I will not promise again.
However,
I will promise to write here as often as i feel able. To let the words spill out of me, and hopefully become something more than me.
In the end, i think that's all any of us can promise, really.
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