oh, little bird
all caged in
a cage is no nest, is it?
oh, little bird
they lied to you, didn't they
only they didn't mean it to be a lie
though they sounded so right
when the cage seemed safe
and it is safe
it's very safe
from all of the danger and the hunger and the cold and the aching and the sore wings
but somehow the sadness lingers
and little bird
you gaze out of the window
into the cradling arms of yonder sturdy tree
at the little nest all laid out there
and you wonder what it would be like
to curl up inside
the crevices of that cozy little nest
with the protective wings
of that lovely bird that silently
chirps at you hopefully each morning
wrapped around you gently
and even though you are all caged in
you still fantasize about the days
when once you flew freely
little wings beating against the vacant sky
feeling as though you belonged
knowing you belonged
oh, little bird
you don't belong here
you don't belong in a cage
only someone has lost the key
and if they can admire you
all caged in
why should they be in such a hurry to find it
and let you fly?
oh, poor little bird
all caged in...
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Stuck
You chose this
No, I didn’t
I never wanted to before
And then opportunity opened another door
And a light shone through
I walked towards it in hope
And now
Again
I’m stuck.
Every moment
I feel scrutinized
She’ll remember this later
When I’ve done it again
And there are so many things to get used to
This isn’t my life, this has never been my life!
Of course I hate it!
But I wouldn’t ask you to change it
Because this is your life
I’m the one intruding
And yet I feel like your eyes
That burn into me all the time like fiery embers
See me as ungrateful, as difficult
I don’t talk
I hate to talk
I will adjust and I will grow
But I won’t change who I am
And so
I’m stuck.
I feel like a visitor in a hotel
With all of the predestined art around me
Blankets already laid out for me
My few items spread about to make it feel like home
But it’s not
If you only you knew how homeless I feel
And I feel so homesick for something
I can never go back to
For a home
I don’t even have
I wouldn’t take back the fighting
I wouldn’t take back the neglect
I wouldn’t take back the heartache
But it feels as if all of that
Was just as bad as the way I feel now
Trapped and stuck
And the light is so far in the distance that
I sometimes wonder if it was just an illusion
To convince me to do what is right
Though what is right hurts just as much
As staying with what was wrong.
No one understands, really
No one can quite comprehend how it feels
To have to keep your identity inside yourself
Every moment
And so I feel just as if I were in a dream
And someone was chasing me and
I screamed and screamed and screamed
And no sound came out
No sound comes ever comes out
So I just cry and cry and cry
As silently as I can
So that my pain can be a part of the life
I live inside of me each day
And the rest of me can fit into the life
You lay out for me each day
And I feel like
Again
I’m stuck.
No, I didn’t
I never wanted to before
And then opportunity opened another door
And a light shone through
I walked towards it in hope
And now
Again
I’m stuck.
Every moment
I feel scrutinized
She’ll remember this later
When I’ve done it again
And there are so many things to get used to
This isn’t my life, this has never been my life!
Of course I hate it!
But I wouldn’t ask you to change it
Because this is your life
I’m the one intruding
And yet I feel like your eyes
That burn into me all the time like fiery embers
See me as ungrateful, as difficult
I don’t talk
I hate to talk
I will adjust and I will grow
But I won’t change who I am
And so
I’m stuck.
I feel like a visitor in a hotel
With all of the predestined art around me
Blankets already laid out for me
My few items spread about to make it feel like home
But it’s not
If you only you knew how homeless I feel
And I feel so homesick for something
I can never go back to
For a home
I don’t even have
I wouldn’t take back the fighting
I wouldn’t take back the neglect
I wouldn’t take back the heartache
But it feels as if all of that
Was just as bad as the way I feel now
Trapped and stuck
And the light is so far in the distance that
I sometimes wonder if it was just an illusion
To convince me to do what is right
Though what is right hurts just as much
As staying with what was wrong.
No one understands, really
No one can quite comprehend how it feels
To have to keep your identity inside yourself
Every moment
And so I feel just as if I were in a dream
And someone was chasing me and
I screamed and screamed and screamed
And no sound came out
No sound comes ever comes out
So I just cry and cry and cry
As silently as I can
So that my pain can be a part of the life
I live inside of me each day
And the rest of me can fit into the life
You lay out for me each day
And I feel like
Again
I’m stuck.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The train is like a mother.
The train is like a mother. She sweeps across the city and at every stop she opens her doors like loving arms to the pretty, the ugly, the hardworking, the smelly, the poor, the rumpled, the scared. With a beep her doors announce their coming and, from rain and wind, they pile into her warm clutches, settling against her bedraggled bosom. When I sit in a seat facing backwards and the train sails down a hillside, I sink into the seat as though I am settling into a loving embrace. The world rushes around me but I find the seat beneath my comfortingly stationary. Sometimes I hate the train. Sometimes she smells so bad, disgusting me as I wipe the proverbial dust from my index finger. Sometimes her people disgust me, all going places with no purpose, probably mostly having paid nothing for her embrace and yet she carries them along faithfully, like a good priest feeding a thief. Sometimes I hate her crudeness, her coarseness. And yet I have hated similar characteristics in my own mother, so I know I still love the train.
I am friends with some of her children, though not all of them know it. One man sits in the front car as I do every morning. His dress is somewhat formal, though his shoes are not very shiny and his shirt always rather rumpled. He has about him a very awkward, blundering air and he carries a faded, threadbare backpack with him to a very business-like place each morning. He listens to an mp3 player with awkward earphones on large, red ears and his enormous facial features are plain and yet kind. I wonder what he listens to. Once, I sat across from him and he let me rest my viola against his seat while I looked for my phone. Another day he sat in front of me. His player fell on the ground and I found it for him. I told him to have a nice day, but I’m not sure that he heard me. I know what stop he’ll get off at each morning. He’s my friend, but he doesn’t really know it.
A woman takes the light rail somewhere further than where I go every morning. She looks as though she is slightly older than her years and has a very slight, fragile frame. Her brown hair is always pulled into a bun or tail of some sort that is tight and bouncy enough to have attitude. She wears large, designer sunglasses on her head and she is always dressed as though she is going somewhere very professional. Her face is not lovely. It is very plain. Her cheekbones are heavily articulated, her cheeks sallow and slightly lined. She always has large bags under her eyes. Every morning when I get on the train, she has just taken out a large travel bag full of makeup. First, she puts on lipstick and lip liner and lip gloss in dark, elegant colors. She spends a great deal of time on her lips, painting over every faded spot carefully, like an artist. When she is through, they look more full and lively, but more like a painting than a human. She applies foundation, concealer, eyeshadow, mascara, eyeliner. I noticed one day a slightly pink, bumpy arc above her eyes where she has plucked her eyebrows clean off and simply draws them on with a light brown eyebrow pencil. A card in her makeup bag says that she works for the California Department of Insurance and sometimes she reads a book about selling insurance to people. I also see a picture in her bag of her with a man. Her hair is down and he makeup looks much lighter. She is wearing a casual pink sweater. They look happy. I wonder who the man is. When she finishes putting on the makeup, she looks like someone else. She then puts the sunglasses over her eyes, even though it is only seven in the morning and she does not need them. I don’t think we’re friends, really.
An old lady takes the light rail each morning as well. She always has one of those utility carts with her and the light rail drivers always know what her stop is and open the door before she has even stood up. They always cast a fond glance at her and she smiles at them with a wide smile that is still somehow slight. She has very dark, black skin and her hair is in a few braids that are tucked under a black baseball cap she wears backwards. She reads a book that always looks rather crude. Her high, rounded cheekbones give her face a knowing look, a distant gaze of wisdom. She never stares at anything, but seems to be gazing back over the things she has known. Her clothes are faded and worn, but always clean. She is always clean. I wonder what has happened to her to make her so wise.
The train is like a mother. She sweeps across the city and at every stop she opens her doors to the awkward, the faded, the aged, the hidden, the wise. Every day, they return out of necessity. But it is more than necessity that keeps the train driving onwards. The train is like a mother. Her children need her.
I am friends with some of her children, though not all of them know it. One man sits in the front car as I do every morning. His dress is somewhat formal, though his shoes are not very shiny and his shirt always rather rumpled. He has about him a very awkward, blundering air and he carries a faded, threadbare backpack with him to a very business-like place each morning. He listens to an mp3 player with awkward earphones on large, red ears and his enormous facial features are plain and yet kind. I wonder what he listens to. Once, I sat across from him and he let me rest my viola against his seat while I looked for my phone. Another day he sat in front of me. His player fell on the ground and I found it for him. I told him to have a nice day, but I’m not sure that he heard me. I know what stop he’ll get off at each morning. He’s my friend, but he doesn’t really know it.
A woman takes the light rail somewhere further than where I go every morning. She looks as though she is slightly older than her years and has a very slight, fragile frame. Her brown hair is always pulled into a bun or tail of some sort that is tight and bouncy enough to have attitude. She wears large, designer sunglasses on her head and she is always dressed as though she is going somewhere very professional. Her face is not lovely. It is very plain. Her cheekbones are heavily articulated, her cheeks sallow and slightly lined. She always has large bags under her eyes. Every morning when I get on the train, she has just taken out a large travel bag full of makeup. First, she puts on lipstick and lip liner and lip gloss in dark, elegant colors. She spends a great deal of time on her lips, painting over every faded spot carefully, like an artist. When she is through, they look more full and lively, but more like a painting than a human. She applies foundation, concealer, eyeshadow, mascara, eyeliner. I noticed one day a slightly pink, bumpy arc above her eyes where she has plucked her eyebrows clean off and simply draws them on with a light brown eyebrow pencil. A card in her makeup bag says that she works for the California Department of Insurance and sometimes she reads a book about selling insurance to people. I also see a picture in her bag of her with a man. Her hair is down and he makeup looks much lighter. She is wearing a casual pink sweater. They look happy. I wonder who the man is. When she finishes putting on the makeup, she looks like someone else. She then puts the sunglasses over her eyes, even though it is only seven in the morning and she does not need them. I don’t think we’re friends, really.
An old lady takes the light rail each morning as well. She always has one of those utility carts with her and the light rail drivers always know what her stop is and open the door before she has even stood up. They always cast a fond glance at her and she smiles at them with a wide smile that is still somehow slight. She has very dark, black skin and her hair is in a few braids that are tucked under a black baseball cap she wears backwards. She reads a book that always looks rather crude. Her high, rounded cheekbones give her face a knowing look, a distant gaze of wisdom. She never stares at anything, but seems to be gazing back over the things she has known. Her clothes are faded and worn, but always clean. She is always clean. I wonder what has happened to her to make her so wise.
The train is like a mother. She sweeps across the city and at every stop she opens her doors to the awkward, the faded, the aged, the hidden, the wise. Every day, they return out of necessity. But it is more than necessity that keeps the train driving onwards. The train is like a mother. Her children need her.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Strong
http://www.mediafire.com/?tyztjxynjly
I am strong.
Things I've done in the past few days:
-Auditioned for open mic at school
-Took the light rail to school (granted, my dad was with me, but it was still supa scary)
-Wrote a poem in German
-Explained my feelings about a really big decision. Honestly.
-Blended into a family I am constantly struggling with
-Auditioned for soprano choral scholar
-Sang a solo in choir
-Did a seating audition for Premiere orchestra
-Wrote German letter to a Swiss person. (and am really scared of him reading all of my mistakes!)
-Made a new friend
-Spent four hours on one homework project. Eep!
-Finished a book
-Sang for strangers at an awkward dinner party
-Wrote a new song that I have a strong emotional connection to the singing of, and finally felt like I'm a good songwriter
-Learned to play a bunch of Beatles songs
-Planned and seriously talked about college and the future
-Began a new chapter of my life.
I am strong.
Things I've done in the past few days:
-Auditioned for open mic at school
-Took the light rail to school (granted, my dad was with me, but it was still supa scary)
-Wrote a poem in German
-Explained my feelings about a really big decision. Honestly.
-Blended into a family I am constantly struggling with
-Auditioned for soprano choral scholar
-Sang a solo in choir
-Did a seating audition for Premiere orchestra
-Wrote German letter to a Swiss person. (and am really scared of him reading all of my mistakes!)
-Made a new friend
-Spent four hours on one homework project. Eep!
-Finished a book
-Sang for strangers at an awkward dinner party
-Wrote a new song that I have a strong emotional connection to the singing of, and finally felt like I'm a good songwriter
-Learned to play a bunch of Beatles songs
-Planned and seriously talked about college and the future
-Began a new chapter of my life.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
No Ground Rules
Note: This blog may not be for everyone. Try it on for size anyway.
As I continue to experience the perpetual terror of paranoia involving accusations of debauchery any time I commit an act of physical affection towards my darling fellow, I have begun to realize how skewed and confusing the adult perception of modesty is. There don’t seem to be any ground rules. I mean, any fool can gather that the basic theme of all these rules is the standard: DON’T HAVE SEX. That’s quite obvious. But what about all of the in-between business? All of the things you can do that will not result in pregnancy? To many teenagers, these seem like freebies. But at what point do these little non-impregnating actions become offensive? And at what age do they become allowed? I still haven’t gathered a basic consensus, save for the main idea that I should never, under any circumstance, let an adult catch me in the act of committing one.
Even one adult can’t seem to give ground rules. They might say that they expect you’ll be curious about each other. They tell you that they’d certainly expect you to have been naked together, naturally, and that this is perfectly fine. But then they also mention that, if they should need to access you, they’d rather you didn’t need to hurriedly throw on your clothes at the last moment as they opened the door (which must, naturally, be left open so, in case you get more “curious” than is appropriate, it will be visible for all to see). Well, then I think that, with this openness to curiosity declared, I should feel less fear in admitting which non-impregnating but, in grandmotherly standards, generally inappropriate acts I have committed, so as to establish an understanding and not feel the daily guilt of having concealed a part of my life from an adult I respect, when I never do so in any other area and honestly feel that I really have done nothing compromising to my modesty, reputation, or womb. Except that, shortly after this relieving sense of security, a wave of reality washes over me as I realize that there is a fine line between curiosity and an actual desire to pleasure oneself, which seems terribly inappropriate but really seems silly to scoff at when ninety-nine percent of teenagers masturbate regularly anyhow.
I sincerely wish that all parents and adults who watch over their rabbit-like youngsters would be forced to sit down at an opportune moment in their lives and write a detailed manual declaring what is and is not allowed, what should and should not be confessed in the privacy of a teen’s own home, and which acts will be considered natural and which acts will result in the teenager being placed in solitary confinement after having her ovaries removed.
I quite understand the desire of a parent to ensure that their child is not involving themselves in acts compromising to their mental health or sense of morals. If a girl were engaging in these non-impregnating acts with every boy she went out with for a week, it would naturally be the parent’s duty to maintain some set of boundaries. But if two young people are very in love and respect each other and aren’t mating like rabbits on every street corner, certainly some level of trust deserves to exist. If two such people happened to engage in such non-impregnating acts, certainly a relationship with such depth would serve as a grand foundation for a young person to learn about physical passion and pleasure, and not prove to be a cause of later regret.
I think the whole affair of parents and their hormonal teenagers is quite an overblown and silly affair. Frankly, with all of the education teenagers receive on sex and pregnancy, if a girl with parents who care that much still manages to get herself knocked up, it’s her own damn fault and she can deal with the consequences. And yes, I know that everyone says you can get caught in the heat of the moment, but if it’s really that steamy, you’d think a blowjob would suffice if you stopped for one moment to consider the wreckage of one’s life as a result of having a baby at sixteen. Contrary to Hollywood’s portrayal, it’s not like you can even just dive into sex at the exact moment the decision is made. Zippers do not, unfortunately, dissolve into thin air and magically reappear within the afterglow. You have to get situated, find a good position, confirm your partner’s gender etc., which is certainly adequate time to realize that no, now would not be a good time to have a “baby on board” when my current main concern is the fact that I’m failing Geometry.
With that said, I think parents should encourage their children to engage in and become comfortable with non-impregnating acts such as oral sex, because when things get really steamy, remember: There are better things you can do! Most teenagers just don’t get that creative because that sort of education just isn’t appropriate.
I hope you’re not offended, because I feel much better. I think I’ll go have an utterly decent, modest, door-wide-open, fully-clothed make-out session with my dearest, darling teenaged partner now.
As I continue to experience the perpetual terror of paranoia involving accusations of debauchery any time I commit an act of physical affection towards my darling fellow, I have begun to realize how skewed and confusing the adult perception of modesty is. There don’t seem to be any ground rules. I mean, any fool can gather that the basic theme of all these rules is the standard: DON’T HAVE SEX. That’s quite obvious. But what about all of the in-between business? All of the things you can do that will not result in pregnancy? To many teenagers, these seem like freebies. But at what point do these little non-impregnating actions become offensive? And at what age do they become allowed? I still haven’t gathered a basic consensus, save for the main idea that I should never, under any circumstance, let an adult catch me in the act of committing one.
Even one adult can’t seem to give ground rules. They might say that they expect you’ll be curious about each other. They tell you that they’d certainly expect you to have been naked together, naturally, and that this is perfectly fine. But then they also mention that, if they should need to access you, they’d rather you didn’t need to hurriedly throw on your clothes at the last moment as they opened the door (which must, naturally, be left open so, in case you get more “curious” than is appropriate, it will be visible for all to see). Well, then I think that, with this openness to curiosity declared, I should feel less fear in admitting which non-impregnating but, in grandmotherly standards, generally inappropriate acts I have committed, so as to establish an understanding and not feel the daily guilt of having concealed a part of my life from an adult I respect, when I never do so in any other area and honestly feel that I really have done nothing compromising to my modesty, reputation, or womb. Except that, shortly after this relieving sense of security, a wave of reality washes over me as I realize that there is a fine line between curiosity and an actual desire to pleasure oneself, which seems terribly inappropriate but really seems silly to scoff at when ninety-nine percent of teenagers masturbate regularly anyhow.
I sincerely wish that all parents and adults who watch over their rabbit-like youngsters would be forced to sit down at an opportune moment in their lives and write a detailed manual declaring what is and is not allowed, what should and should not be confessed in the privacy of a teen’s own home, and which acts will be considered natural and which acts will result in the teenager being placed in solitary confinement after having her ovaries removed.
I quite understand the desire of a parent to ensure that their child is not involving themselves in acts compromising to their mental health or sense of morals. If a girl were engaging in these non-impregnating acts with every boy she went out with for a week, it would naturally be the parent’s duty to maintain some set of boundaries. But if two young people are very in love and respect each other and aren’t mating like rabbits on every street corner, certainly some level of trust deserves to exist. If two such people happened to engage in such non-impregnating acts, certainly a relationship with such depth would serve as a grand foundation for a young person to learn about physical passion and pleasure, and not prove to be a cause of later regret.
I think the whole affair of parents and their hormonal teenagers is quite an overblown and silly affair. Frankly, with all of the education teenagers receive on sex and pregnancy, if a girl with parents who care that much still manages to get herself knocked up, it’s her own damn fault and she can deal with the consequences. And yes, I know that everyone says you can get caught in the heat of the moment, but if it’s really that steamy, you’d think a blowjob would suffice if you stopped for one moment to consider the wreckage of one’s life as a result of having a baby at sixteen. Contrary to Hollywood’s portrayal, it’s not like you can even just dive into sex at the exact moment the decision is made. Zippers do not, unfortunately, dissolve into thin air and magically reappear within the afterglow. You have to get situated, find a good position, confirm your partner’s gender etc., which is certainly adequate time to realize that no, now would not be a good time to have a “baby on board” when my current main concern is the fact that I’m failing Geometry.
With that said, I think parents should encourage their children to engage in and become comfortable with non-impregnating acts such as oral sex, because when things get really steamy, remember: There are better things you can do! Most teenagers just don’t get that creative because that sort of education just isn’t appropriate.
I hope you’re not offended, because I feel much better. I think I’ll go have an utterly decent, modest, door-wide-open, fully-clothed make-out session with my dearest, darling teenaged partner now.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Ordinary
“Fate doesn't hang on a wrong or right choice
Fortune depends on the tone of your voice
So sing while you still can
While the sun hangs high up above
Wonderful songs of love.”
-Ben Folds
A few weeks ago, I saw the movie “Up” with my best friend. I was expecting it to be cute, heartwarming, nice…But it was much more than that. This film is a film that will ring most deeply with adults because there is so much meaning behind all of the things that seem only surface-deep to a young mind.
I could write forever about what I loved about this movie. I always appreciate the small things in life and this movie really stressed the importance of breaking from the ordinary and appreciating all of the beauties of this crazy life. Sure, it’s not too realistic that a bunch of balloons could carry a house to South America, but isn’t that what makes life so beautiful? We can dream things up and make anything happen, whether or not these things happen before our eyes. I was delighted by the unexpected rainbow bird, the battle between stiff-backed old men, the army of talking dogs, and the chubby, obnoxious, but determined young boy. The people in this movie are all people you know, only they’re going on adventures we’re all far too sensible to go on ourselves.
One part that really stuck with me, however, was when the boy, Russell, is talking about how he and his dad used to sit on the curb eating ice cream and pointing out all of the blue cars and the red cars. He says, “I know it might sound boring, but I kinda think it’s the boring stuff I remember most.” I really liked this. There are so many moments in our lives that seem completely ordinary and not that special, but, when things get too scary, the ordinary, mundane things are the safe home we long for most. And when other people tell us about their boring stuff, we can’t help but think, “Oh, that’s so nice!” even though it’s nothing more than another ordinary moment. It meant something to them. We read books about other people and their ordinary moments and we bury ourselves in them, even though we have enough of our own ordinary moments to fill a whole book. Because we see ourselves in these stories, where ice cream and curbs and maybe a storybook or a sit with a long-gone parent are the prime gifts of life. I love a book where I’m reading and I suddenly say, “I thought I was the only one who cared about that!” But it’s true that, whatever we outwardly express, it’s the seemingly unimportant things that end up being the most important.
What boring things am I madly in love with? Hmm…Pillows! What is more comforting than laying your head back on a nice, cushy pillow? Or two or three? And shaven legs. I love the feeling when my legs are just shaven and I’m sitting in my bed or at my desk chair and I pull my knees to my chest and my legs are all soft and smooth. What else? The rare occasion when my dad and I go get food after choir practice. I always feel privileged because I’m his buddy and we’re on an adventure together and, even though it’s not that important of an adventure, it’s still something I remember. I love the rare, special times my dad and I have together, whether they’re big or small, because he’s so cool. And I love a clean vagina! Go ahead and gasp, but this is my blog and I can say what I want, Madame Propriety-Pants. You know you feel just as good when your nether regions have been sweating and suffocating and leaking fluids and stinkin’ up inside your underwear all day and you finally clean it all out. I love it when I’ve just shaved my bikini line and I trim up and lotion up and the whole “situation” is squeaky clean. You know you agree. What else…Swingsets! I love swinging on the swings and listening to my iPod and singing and annoying everyone and scaring all the little children. Sprinklers! I LOVE RUNNING THROUGH SPRINKLERS. Especially big ones. Singing in the shower. Singing at all! My mother, unfortunately (for her), can attest to this. Making stuff. I love feeling like I’ve done something productive with my day! In fact, I believe I’ll work on one of my creative projects tonight. I also really love meeting a nice person on World of Warcraft. I know it’s just a silly game, but the nice thing about WoW is that there are no previous judgments over appearance, name, gender, or age. You can get into that stuff if you really connect with something, but, from the start, it’s just a conversation, empty of anything but friendliness.
I could go on for days about the little things I love in life. But I think my point is made.
I know this blog isn’t a whopper, but the message is simple:
Fortune depends on the tone of your voice
So sing while you still can
While the sun hangs high up above
Wonderful songs of love.”
-Ben Folds
A few weeks ago, I saw the movie “Up” with my best friend. I was expecting it to be cute, heartwarming, nice…But it was much more than that. This film is a film that will ring most deeply with adults because there is so much meaning behind all of the things that seem only surface-deep to a young mind.
I could write forever about what I loved about this movie. I always appreciate the small things in life and this movie really stressed the importance of breaking from the ordinary and appreciating all of the beauties of this crazy life. Sure, it’s not too realistic that a bunch of balloons could carry a house to South America, but isn’t that what makes life so beautiful? We can dream things up and make anything happen, whether or not these things happen before our eyes. I was delighted by the unexpected rainbow bird, the battle between stiff-backed old men, the army of talking dogs, and the chubby, obnoxious, but determined young boy. The people in this movie are all people you know, only they’re going on adventures we’re all far too sensible to go on ourselves.
One part that really stuck with me, however, was when the boy, Russell, is talking about how he and his dad used to sit on the curb eating ice cream and pointing out all of the blue cars and the red cars. He says, “I know it might sound boring, but I kinda think it’s the boring stuff I remember most.” I really liked this. There are so many moments in our lives that seem completely ordinary and not that special, but, when things get too scary, the ordinary, mundane things are the safe home we long for most. And when other people tell us about their boring stuff, we can’t help but think, “Oh, that’s so nice!” even though it’s nothing more than another ordinary moment. It meant something to them. We read books about other people and their ordinary moments and we bury ourselves in them, even though we have enough of our own ordinary moments to fill a whole book. Because we see ourselves in these stories, where ice cream and curbs and maybe a storybook or a sit with a long-gone parent are the prime gifts of life. I love a book where I’m reading and I suddenly say, “I thought I was the only one who cared about that!” But it’s true that, whatever we outwardly express, it’s the seemingly unimportant things that end up being the most important.
What boring things am I madly in love with? Hmm…Pillows! What is more comforting than laying your head back on a nice, cushy pillow? Or two or three? And shaven legs. I love the feeling when my legs are just shaven and I’m sitting in my bed or at my desk chair and I pull my knees to my chest and my legs are all soft and smooth. What else? The rare occasion when my dad and I go get food after choir practice. I always feel privileged because I’m his buddy and we’re on an adventure together and, even though it’s not that important of an adventure, it’s still something I remember. I love the rare, special times my dad and I have together, whether they’re big or small, because he’s so cool. And I love a clean vagina! Go ahead and gasp, but this is my blog and I can say what I want, Madame Propriety-Pants. You know you feel just as good when your nether regions have been sweating and suffocating and leaking fluids and stinkin’ up inside your underwear all day and you finally clean it all out. I love it when I’ve just shaved my bikini line and I trim up and lotion up and the whole “situation” is squeaky clean. You know you agree. What else…Swingsets! I love swinging on the swings and listening to my iPod and singing and annoying everyone and scaring all the little children. Sprinklers! I LOVE RUNNING THROUGH SPRINKLERS. Especially big ones. Singing in the shower. Singing at all! My mother, unfortunately (for her), can attest to this. Making stuff. I love feeling like I’ve done something productive with my day! In fact, I believe I’ll work on one of my creative projects tonight. I also really love meeting a nice person on World of Warcraft. I know it’s just a silly game, but the nice thing about WoW is that there are no previous judgments over appearance, name, gender, or age. You can get into that stuff if you really connect with something, but, from the start, it’s just a conversation, empty of anything but friendliness.
I could go on for days about the little things I love in life. But I think my point is made.
I know this blog isn’t a whopper, but the message is simple:
- See “Up” as soon as you possibly can and take everyone you love with you.
- Think about what you love in life. Recognize it, appreciate it, and realize that you don’t have to fly your house to South America to realize that life is an adventure, whether or not it’s immediately apparent.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Highlights
“What are you reading this week?” my grandma asked me. I told her I had yet to start a new book and she told me that I then needed to read her Grandmother Hawthorne’s book. It was a compilation of her telling of the “highlights” of her life and of her short stories and poems. “You would have gotten along so well with her.” She told me this because my Great-Great-Grandmother Hawthorne was a writer and I am a writer and that would have made us good friends. She told me I needed to read all of the family stories, but this was the one I should start with.
She gave me this book, which is the size of a children’s book, tall and wide, and is bound with a light brown hardback cover. On the front, in gold lettering, is engraved Blanche Campbell Saylor Hawthorne. The pages are a faded white and, on the first page, a picture has been pasted. It is in yellowing black and white and a woman with a soft face, round glasses, distant, smiling eyes, and peaceful, thinly set lips stares at a point just beyond the camera. Her hair is combed in neat, thin waves and one curl is draped sweepingly across her forehead. There are lines around her eyes and mouth and one can see in her very face that she has lived a full life. Her glasses and high, laced collar on a dark, matronly dress hint at her grandmotherhood.
The next two pages, are dedications from her grandchildren, who preserved the book for future generations. The fourth page has quotes from the story that follows, describing the most important parts of her. The first tells of the various inventions she used when they were introduced for the first time, such as the airplane, automobile, phonograph, radio, television, and the telephone. What I found most fascinating on this page, however, were quotes that reminded me so much of my own grandmother.
My grandmother will be 81 years old in August and she is involved in everything and with everyone. She is in incredibly good health and has so much fire and life in her that one could never picture her anywhere near death, as she is always so alive. She holds our family together and looks after every child and grandchild. And even besides this, she looks after every member of her community and church congregation. Northminster Presybterian Church will be crippled when she leaves. She was, for so long, the pastor’s wife and she has devotes so much of her time to continually doing God’s work, even though her husband is not around to preach His word by her side. This brings me to another remarkable trait about my grandmother. At every possible moment, she is thankful to God for the life she has been given and for all of her many blessings. When she sees a lovely day, she thanks God. When she’s with her family, she thanks God. When she has a good meal, she thanks God. She appreciates everything with such undying gratitude and it’s something I’ve always admired. We don’t always take the time to do that.
So, looking at her grandmother’s book, I was caught by quotes from her story. At the age of 84, she writes “I am going to Disneyland tomorrow, and when anyone says go, I go. I really enjoy life and am so very grateful for it all.” She also says “I keep up with my church work, teach a Bible class, attend all meetings, help with luncheons and dinners. Also do babysitting with my great grandchildren.” And all of this at the age of 84. And the last quote which really struck me made me realize how similar this strange, long-ago woman was to the grandmother I admire today. “If I should say ‘THANK YOU GOD’ every minute of every hour of every day, it would not be enough to express how grateful I am.” To me, my grandmother has always just been my grandmother. But now I begin to realize that, perhaps, all of these amazing traits I admire so in her now were not purely natural to her character, but learned from the amazing women who came before her. And I wonder if, after this fashion, I will someday have learned enough from my grandmother to become the next generation of fully alive, active, faithful, grateful women who so influences those who come after me.
I began to read this story without considering how many generations ago Blanche Hawthorne was born and was immediately embarrassed when my jaw involuntarily dropped after reading her birthdate of December 31st, 1882. It hadn’t occurred to me that she would have been born so long ago, but then I considered that this was, in fact, four generations ago. I then also began to realize how many important events this woman had lived through. In her early life, she talks about her father, who was a captain for the Union Army during the Civil War and who was bitter enemies with his “rebel” brother. She doesn’t much describe World War I, but does describe the Spanish Influenza in detail, a subject I researched during the eighth grade for a paper for History Day. She also talks about her business endeavors during World War II and about caring for mental patients in a hospital during the war. She talks about earthquakes and hurricanes and traveling on old trains. Her story is like an interesting version of a history textbook and is chock full of the most interesting things there are to read about.
While reading this, I begin to think of what the “highlights” of my life would be. She can talk about all of these amazing inventions and back in the days when there were no cars or phones or planes or internet etc. But what can I talk about? When computers went from black and white to color? When television went from antennae to entirely cable? Honestly, how important are these things, really? I know I have many years left before my highlights will be full enough to write, but, so far, my story is fairly bland in comparison to hers. Sure, I’ve had plenty of drama, but what is a divorce and a few remarriages in comparison to moving from farm to farm, losing your father, having to live in separate places from your mother and siblings because you can’t afford to live together? What is being in the hospital for pneumonia in comparison to being quarantined for weeks because of scarlet fever or smallpox or diptheria? As life has gotten easier and safer, it seems to have become more boring. We still have our tragedies, but they are minor in comparison to those of the past.
So, do we then simply rely on the hope that life will have become even more boring by the time our highlights come to pass? Will my great-children be cemented into electric lawn chairs by the time they read my highlights from an electronic reader, while drinking lemonade through an invisible tube attached to their arm? Will pneumonia be a thing of the past and my minor, unimportant dance with it a thrilling, crazy story of the old days? Will divorces be unheard of by then because people simply don’t marry anymore due to the financial impartibility of it all? Will suicide be an unimportant event by then because the amount of actual living being done will have become so minimal that the only people who ever cared for life will have killed themselves by then and the suicide rate will have made it the norm? Will my story be outdated and a look into history? Or will it be as bland as it now seems, as normal as it is now?
Or perhaps, as time changes, the events that count as “highlights” of our lives change as well. Perhaps I’m not meant to write about finances and farms and wars and inventions. They were the primary flavors in Blanche Hawthorne’s life. But, as life has gotten easier, though we live a little less strenuously than people once did, we have more aspects of our life to enjoy and absorb. Perhaps the idea of writing our highlights now is the act of making new things important that once were not. In my highlights, I will write about playing in youth symphony and singing in choir and going on trips and playing/singing in exciting places. Instead of describing the invention of Disneyland, I will describe playing my viola in Disneyland. In Grandmother Hawthorne’s day, women didn’t even play in symphonies. I will describe the election of our first African-American president. Grandmother Hawthorne, at one point, describes having to look for a new house because “colored people moved into their neighborhood.”
But, most importantly, I will write about hiking and camping and walking and swimming and WRITING and singing and of traditions from my childhood and traditions I begin with my own children and I will write of all of the wonderful things that this “easy life” has given me the opportunity to appreciate, so that my great-grandchildren and their children shan’t forget to be thankful. For, even if I’m not a clucking hen at the age of 84, I am similar to my grandmother and my great-great-grandmother in that I never cease to be thankful for all of the blessings and beauties of the world I was given as a gift at birth. And I am so thankful that, because I am not worrying about a farm or a World War or an influenza and because I have all of these easy things, like the internet and the telephone and the automobile, I can, instead, stop and smell the flowers, enjoy a lovely blue sky, or sit and watch a sunset without worrying about the day it marks the end of. So, I suppose that the most important goal of the highlights of my life, if I should decide to write them someday, would be to ensure that my future generations should realize how much they have to be thankful for and never cease to recognize that we are all blessed.
She gave me this book, which is the size of a children’s book, tall and wide, and is bound with a light brown hardback cover. On the front, in gold lettering, is engraved Blanche Campbell Saylor Hawthorne. The pages are a faded white and, on the first page, a picture has been pasted. It is in yellowing black and white and a woman with a soft face, round glasses, distant, smiling eyes, and peaceful, thinly set lips stares at a point just beyond the camera. Her hair is combed in neat, thin waves and one curl is draped sweepingly across her forehead. There are lines around her eyes and mouth and one can see in her very face that she has lived a full life. Her glasses and high, laced collar on a dark, matronly dress hint at her grandmotherhood.
The next two pages, are dedications from her grandchildren, who preserved the book for future generations. The fourth page has quotes from the story that follows, describing the most important parts of her. The first tells of the various inventions she used when they were introduced for the first time, such as the airplane, automobile, phonograph, radio, television, and the telephone. What I found most fascinating on this page, however, were quotes that reminded me so much of my own grandmother.
My grandmother will be 81 years old in August and she is involved in everything and with everyone. She is in incredibly good health and has so much fire and life in her that one could never picture her anywhere near death, as she is always so alive. She holds our family together and looks after every child and grandchild. And even besides this, she looks after every member of her community and church congregation. Northminster Presybterian Church will be crippled when she leaves. She was, for so long, the pastor’s wife and she has devotes so much of her time to continually doing God’s work, even though her husband is not around to preach His word by her side. This brings me to another remarkable trait about my grandmother. At every possible moment, she is thankful to God for the life she has been given and for all of her many blessings. When she sees a lovely day, she thanks God. When she’s with her family, she thanks God. When she has a good meal, she thanks God. She appreciates everything with such undying gratitude and it’s something I’ve always admired. We don’t always take the time to do that.
So, looking at her grandmother’s book, I was caught by quotes from her story. At the age of 84, she writes “I am going to Disneyland tomorrow, and when anyone says go, I go. I really enjoy life and am so very grateful for it all.” She also says “I keep up with my church work, teach a Bible class, attend all meetings, help with luncheons and dinners. Also do babysitting with my great grandchildren.” And all of this at the age of 84. And the last quote which really struck me made me realize how similar this strange, long-ago woman was to the grandmother I admire today. “If I should say ‘THANK YOU GOD’ every minute of every hour of every day, it would not be enough to express how grateful I am.” To me, my grandmother has always just been my grandmother. But now I begin to realize that, perhaps, all of these amazing traits I admire so in her now were not purely natural to her character, but learned from the amazing women who came before her. And I wonder if, after this fashion, I will someday have learned enough from my grandmother to become the next generation of fully alive, active, faithful, grateful women who so influences those who come after me.
I began to read this story without considering how many generations ago Blanche Hawthorne was born and was immediately embarrassed when my jaw involuntarily dropped after reading her birthdate of December 31st, 1882. It hadn’t occurred to me that she would have been born so long ago, but then I considered that this was, in fact, four generations ago. I then also began to realize how many important events this woman had lived through. In her early life, she talks about her father, who was a captain for the Union Army during the Civil War and who was bitter enemies with his “rebel” brother. She doesn’t much describe World War I, but does describe the Spanish Influenza in detail, a subject I researched during the eighth grade for a paper for History Day. She also talks about her business endeavors during World War II and about caring for mental patients in a hospital during the war. She talks about earthquakes and hurricanes and traveling on old trains. Her story is like an interesting version of a history textbook and is chock full of the most interesting things there are to read about.
While reading this, I begin to think of what the “highlights” of my life would be. She can talk about all of these amazing inventions and back in the days when there were no cars or phones or planes or internet etc. But what can I talk about? When computers went from black and white to color? When television went from antennae to entirely cable? Honestly, how important are these things, really? I know I have many years left before my highlights will be full enough to write, but, so far, my story is fairly bland in comparison to hers. Sure, I’ve had plenty of drama, but what is a divorce and a few remarriages in comparison to moving from farm to farm, losing your father, having to live in separate places from your mother and siblings because you can’t afford to live together? What is being in the hospital for pneumonia in comparison to being quarantined for weeks because of scarlet fever or smallpox or diptheria? As life has gotten easier and safer, it seems to have become more boring. We still have our tragedies, but they are minor in comparison to those of the past.
So, do we then simply rely on the hope that life will have become even more boring by the time our highlights come to pass? Will my great-children be cemented into electric lawn chairs by the time they read my highlights from an electronic reader, while drinking lemonade through an invisible tube attached to their arm? Will pneumonia be a thing of the past and my minor, unimportant dance with it a thrilling, crazy story of the old days? Will divorces be unheard of by then because people simply don’t marry anymore due to the financial impartibility of it all? Will suicide be an unimportant event by then because the amount of actual living being done will have become so minimal that the only people who ever cared for life will have killed themselves by then and the suicide rate will have made it the norm? Will my story be outdated and a look into history? Or will it be as bland as it now seems, as normal as it is now?
Or perhaps, as time changes, the events that count as “highlights” of our lives change as well. Perhaps I’m not meant to write about finances and farms and wars and inventions. They were the primary flavors in Blanche Hawthorne’s life. But, as life has gotten easier, though we live a little less strenuously than people once did, we have more aspects of our life to enjoy and absorb. Perhaps the idea of writing our highlights now is the act of making new things important that once were not. In my highlights, I will write about playing in youth symphony and singing in choir and going on trips and playing/singing in exciting places. Instead of describing the invention of Disneyland, I will describe playing my viola in Disneyland. In Grandmother Hawthorne’s day, women didn’t even play in symphonies. I will describe the election of our first African-American president. Grandmother Hawthorne, at one point, describes having to look for a new house because “colored people moved into their neighborhood.”
But, most importantly, I will write about hiking and camping and walking and swimming and WRITING and singing and of traditions from my childhood and traditions I begin with my own children and I will write of all of the wonderful things that this “easy life” has given me the opportunity to appreciate, so that my great-grandchildren and their children shan’t forget to be thankful. For, even if I’m not a clucking hen at the age of 84, I am similar to my grandmother and my great-great-grandmother in that I never cease to be thankful for all of the blessings and beauties of the world I was given as a gift at birth. And I am so thankful that, because I am not worrying about a farm or a World War or an influenza and because I have all of these easy things, like the internet and the telephone and the automobile, I can, instead, stop and smell the flowers, enjoy a lovely blue sky, or sit and watch a sunset without worrying about the day it marks the end of. So, I suppose that the most important goal of the highlights of my life, if I should decide to write them someday, would be to ensure that my future generations should realize how much they have to be thankful for and never cease to recognize that we are all blessed.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
An About Me that fits.
My About Me won't fit in 1200 characters and I can't shave myself down to that, so I'm making this post to link in my profile. Here is unnecessary information about me:
My name is Abagail Grayce and I'm mostly a very peculiar young lady. However, people seem to like me, either for or in spite of these pecularities.
Music is quite dear to my heart and I have a peculiar taste in it. Though I like some good obnoxious rock, as most teenagers do, I tend to like obscure stuff no one has ever heard of by artists on independent, obscure labels. Besides these, I love classical music, opera, and musicals. I am almost always singing, whether I'm belting out Phantom of the Opera in the shower or humming something under my breath, and I'm sure everyone who has met me has wished, at one point or another, that I would just keep my music to myself.
I read quite a bit but, once again, have a very peculiar taste in books for a girl my age. My mother raised me to love books and I have always valued challenging reads. My favorite book in the entire universe is Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. I am constantly chomping my way through the classics and other favorites include Anna Karenina, Gone with the Wind, Jane Eyre, and Wuthering Heights.
I love to adventure, taking long walks around town with iPod in hand and notebook at the ready. For a book nerd, I have a rather peculiar love for the outdoors and love to hike, camp, and backpack with my dad, who is my primary hiking buddy.
I am in a rather peculiar relationship with a rather peculiar boy is extremely wonderful. This relationship is peculiar because we both live on the complete opposite ends of the country from one another. But, since we're both romantics, we've made it through almost a year and half together (though being mature about the relationship can also be quite helpful).
My primary focus in life is to soak in all of the radiant things. While making long-term goals and making a good life for myself are the most important parts to enabling this, there are multitudes of little things I can do along the way to keep myself light-hearted. I take every opportunity to walk barefoot, try never to leave a sprinkler un-run-through, and, despite my crippling shynesss, always make an effort to strike up a conversation with my bus driver, lunch lady, or Kwik-E-Mart cashier.
That's enough of my ranting about my peculiarities. Go find someone normal to talk to! Or read my blog if you don't care for normality and would prefer to chew on a handful of slightly luminescent ideas.
(P.S. My original music list was much longer, so I have granted you the abridged version. You're welcome.)
Love,
Abagail
My name is Abagail Grayce and I'm mostly a very peculiar young lady. However, people seem to like me, either for or in spite of these pecularities.
Music is quite dear to my heart and I have a peculiar taste in it. Though I like some good obnoxious rock, as most teenagers do, I tend to like obscure stuff no one has ever heard of by artists on independent, obscure labels. Besides these, I love classical music, opera, and musicals. I am almost always singing, whether I'm belting out Phantom of the Opera in the shower or humming something under my breath, and I'm sure everyone who has met me has wished, at one point or another, that I would just keep my music to myself.
I read quite a bit but, once again, have a very peculiar taste in books for a girl my age. My mother raised me to love books and I have always valued challenging reads. My favorite book in the entire universe is Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. I am constantly chomping my way through the classics and other favorites include Anna Karenina, Gone with the Wind, Jane Eyre, and Wuthering Heights.
I love to adventure, taking long walks around town with iPod in hand and notebook at the ready. For a book nerd, I have a rather peculiar love for the outdoors and love to hike, camp, and backpack with my dad, who is my primary hiking buddy.
I am in a rather peculiar relationship with a rather peculiar boy is extremely wonderful. This relationship is peculiar because we both live on the complete opposite ends of the country from one another. But, since we're both romantics, we've made it through almost a year and half together (though being mature about the relationship can also be quite helpful).
My primary focus in life is to soak in all of the radiant things. While making long-term goals and making a good life for myself are the most important parts to enabling this, there are multitudes of little things I can do along the way to keep myself light-hearted. I take every opportunity to walk barefoot, try never to leave a sprinkler un-run-through, and, despite my crippling shynesss, always make an effort to strike up a conversation with my bus driver, lunch lady, or Kwik-E-Mart cashier.
That's enough of my ranting about my peculiarities. Go find someone normal to talk to! Or read my blog if you don't care for normality and would prefer to chew on a handful of slightly luminescent ideas.
(P.S. My original music list was much longer, so I have granted you the abridged version. You're welcome.)
Love,
Abagail
Thursday, May 28, 2009
She is curled up
She is curled up on her bed with her legs all willy-nilly in a T-shirt that’s comfortably too large and shorts that are barely shorts and she hugs her knees to her chest and thinks and it isn’t really the sad kind of thinking but just the thinking and the wondering over how she became this thing that she is now and she clutches her Molly doll to her chest and remembers when she cradled her and dressed her and even bathed her and called her a baby and it’s so strange how, now, people are afraid she’ll make babies simply because she’s in love and how is it that her rosy little girl cheeks turned into this tired little pizza face and what is this aching in her breasts that plagues her for two weeks out of the month when it feels like someone has been pinching and twisting and beating her nipples and what is this aching and throbbing in her once little body that now has her doubled over, whimpering and moaning and what are all of these strange feelings and why must it all hurt so much? what are these tests she keeps failing and these expectations she disappoints when once every step seemed to be success and with every failure the people who now wag their fingers at her once would pick her up and dust her off and tell her she was only learning but she’s learned now and she should know better and there’s no excuse for her failures and how has it become this way? staring at the ceiling and whimpering as her breasts ache and her abdomen sears and tears apart inside of her and her face is itchy and feels like a disease and all of these raging hormones have her being watched like a criminal because any move she makes could end in pregnancy and where have the days gone? where have the days gone when boys and girls could be friends without point or expectation and where have the days gone when playing was playing and school was school and there was time for both and where have the days gone when we talked about what we wanted to be when we grew up and everyone told us we didn’t need to know yet and it was okay and it didn’t matter when now that they tell us failure to plan is a plan to fail and now we’re all doomed because we had too high of hopes and now we find we can’t reach them to figure out what they were from the start because we’ve forgotten everything so perfectly, forgotten what it was like to be pure and now I’m dirty with these strange new feelings and pains and greases and hormones all mixed up in this strange-smelling stew that is so very, very confusing and not so much upsetting as puzzling and maybe it’s a little sad to realize what we’ve lost but it’s more a matter of not understanding how we’ve become who we’ve become and I keep wondering and wondering and wondering how I became this and I say this not because I’m a thing or a beast or a mysterious creature but I’m not sure anymore if I’m a girl or a woman because I’m trapped in this strange middle phase between girl and woman and I’m too big now to be the first just like you can’t fit in one of those silly kiddy rides where your knees get all scrunched up but at the same time if I tried to fit into a woman’s pants they’d be those pants that sunk to my ankles and made everyone giggle behind their hands at my brightly colored underwear because I like to feel the slightest bit exciting beneath my clothes and I don’t want life to be that way where the excitement is all hidden under being old and grown up and nice looking I want wear my panties on the outside and my shirt under my bra and be irregular because I feel so irregular now so maybe if I’m extra irregular I can find some sort of normal to get me less confused. I never expected growing up to be like this. hmm.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Are you writing from the heart?
“Even in his heart the devil has to know the water level. Are you writing from the heart?”
This line is from a really lovely song by Sufjan Stevens. I won’t go into a lengthy interpretation of the song, but it’s basically in two parts. The first half is about the Chicago World’s Fair (the album is about the state of Illinois) and talks about how the inspiration for invention is often a tool of greedy consumerism. The second half is a personal reflection and describes a dream about the Illinois poet Carl Sandburg. I love this quote because it’s basically saying that it is of no consequence as to whether or not what you’re writing is good or evil, light or dark. What matters is that it is from your heart.
Are you writing from the heart? This is such a difficult question to approach with ourselves because it’s so hard to be objective. If words begin to flow with ease and the act of putting them on paper is simple, we may begin to belief that we are saying what we mean. But are these words coming from our brain, so intellectually sterile that it can produce mere thoughts? Or are they coming from our heart, the thing with which we can offer up not just what we mean, but what we feel?
When writers give advice on writing stories or novels, one of the most popular pieces of advice is to “write what you know.” Many people find this useless because if we wrote only what we knew, our stories would be mere autobiographies. The act of writing is to transport yourself into a new pair of shoes, a new life. So why write what you know? Why not write what you want to write? And I think both are okay. Because, in my life, my father has not yet died and I certainly haven’t stopped anyone from committing suicide and I certainly haven’t hated or caused the death of a sibling. These are not things that I know. But I feel that, when writing about these things, I do know. Because, in order to paint a picture of mere events, the most important thing to include is the heart of the matter. My father has never died, but I do know the pain of loss. In describing the event, I can take a certain night that really did occur where something bad really did happen and, rather than writing it exactly, I can fill in the major events with characters and situations. But the details remain the same. The lighting of the room, the sleepless night, the heart dropping rapidly in her chest. This is how to write from the heart, I believe.
It is so very frustrating to write of things I’ve never felt. In the story I’m working on now, I started writing of a little girl who hates. Perhaps, deep down, she doesn’t truly hate. For, in my opinion, hate is the deepest form of dislike and there is amount of common tolerance involved in it. But, at this point, this child is so immersed in her pain and anger that she can find no redemption from her hate. I don’t know her well enough to know her heart for sure yet. With this, I’m not really writing what I know. I’ve never hated anyone. I cannot understand hate. But she does and, in the beginning, that was going to be my whole story. But when I wrote, I found myself writing like a robot, my passion staying put. So I’ve begun to write about her finding life and learning to love. That’s what I can write about from my heart and really mean it. And do you know what? This is the longest story I’ve written and I actually know where I’d like to go with it.
In this story, I felt that I would like to include a mild sexual scene, but was concerned about doing so, since I intend to show the story to adults in my life and feared after their reaction if they should realize that I had created such a scene. However, in my mind, the scene is not just mindless mating, but has real passion and romantic context and is an important part of showing the evolution of the relationship between two people. I felt it would help to bridge a lot of the gap between the beginning of love and the real, trusting relationship that I wanted to see evolve between the two people. But, in the end, all it comes down to is where the story is in my heart. In my brain, I’m afraid to give anyone the opportunity to judge me for what I’ve written. But, in my heart, I know this is a part of the story that needs to be told.
My grandmother and I saw “The Soloist” on Saturday. I know I shouldn’t really discuss it until I’ve read the book, but some thoughts I had about it seem relevant to this, so I’m going for it anyhow. (I’m just going to leap straight into it, so if you don’t know what it’s about, Google is your friend.) Basically, Steve initially seems to see Nathaniel as a simple source of popular interest, someone the masses will be interested in, a prime subject for his column. As an outside observer, I feel that journalists often seem to adopt this mindset. They can write a beautiful piece about a beautiful person because they know people will like it, but are all of these sentimental words and lovely phrases coming from their desire to appeal to an audience, or really coming from their own hearts? Nathaniel would not appear, in person, to many people who probably smiled warmly throughout his column, to be very beautiful. He dresses in all kinds of odds and ends, carries around a grungy shopping cart piled high with junk, and probably doesn’t smell very good. His moods fluctuate rapidly and a normal conversation is hard to come by with him. To a person who had not met him in the flesh, Steve’s lovely little column about this lovely little homeless master cellist would not prepare them for the reality of who he is. Through the movie, Steve continually tries to transform Nathaniel into this functional person so he can become the master musician he was always meant to be, but it doesn’t work because that‘s not who he is. After we left the movie, rather than commenting on the musical aspect of the movie (which I had assumed she would, being the classical music guru that she is), my grandma said “Well, the moral of the story is that you can’t make a person who you want them to be.”
In my opinion, the rules of writing are rules for life. You don’t have to have experienced what another person has in order to offer them your sympathy, but if you can draw the basic feelings they’re having from your heart, then you can connect with them, just as you can connect with a character who is experiencing something you haven’t. Furthermore, sometimes you feel you need to do things that you fear, whether of the possible repercussions or of being judged, but, in the end, it is most important to follow your heart over your head. And, finally (and most importantly), you can’t make writing be something it’s not, or it’s insincere. Then it’s not written from the heart, but simply from a very creative head. Similarly, you can’t make a person into someone they’re not or else they’re fake. Just as you must write from the heart, you must also live from the heart.
This line is from a really lovely song by Sufjan Stevens. I won’t go into a lengthy interpretation of the song, but it’s basically in two parts. The first half is about the Chicago World’s Fair (the album is about the state of Illinois) and talks about how the inspiration for invention is often a tool of greedy consumerism. The second half is a personal reflection and describes a dream about the Illinois poet Carl Sandburg. I love this quote because it’s basically saying that it is of no consequence as to whether or not what you’re writing is good or evil, light or dark. What matters is that it is from your heart.
Are you writing from the heart? This is such a difficult question to approach with ourselves because it’s so hard to be objective. If words begin to flow with ease and the act of putting them on paper is simple, we may begin to belief that we are saying what we mean. But are these words coming from our brain, so intellectually sterile that it can produce mere thoughts? Or are they coming from our heart, the thing with which we can offer up not just what we mean, but what we feel?
When writers give advice on writing stories or novels, one of the most popular pieces of advice is to “write what you know.” Many people find this useless because if we wrote only what we knew, our stories would be mere autobiographies. The act of writing is to transport yourself into a new pair of shoes, a new life. So why write what you know? Why not write what you want to write? And I think both are okay. Because, in my life, my father has not yet died and I certainly haven’t stopped anyone from committing suicide and I certainly haven’t hated or caused the death of a sibling. These are not things that I know. But I feel that, when writing about these things, I do know. Because, in order to paint a picture of mere events, the most important thing to include is the heart of the matter. My father has never died, but I do know the pain of loss. In describing the event, I can take a certain night that really did occur where something bad really did happen and, rather than writing it exactly, I can fill in the major events with characters and situations. But the details remain the same. The lighting of the room, the sleepless night, the heart dropping rapidly in her chest. This is how to write from the heart, I believe.
It is so very frustrating to write of things I’ve never felt. In the story I’m working on now, I started writing of a little girl who hates. Perhaps, deep down, she doesn’t truly hate. For, in my opinion, hate is the deepest form of dislike and there is amount of common tolerance involved in it. But, at this point, this child is so immersed in her pain and anger that she can find no redemption from her hate. I don’t know her well enough to know her heart for sure yet. With this, I’m not really writing what I know. I’ve never hated anyone. I cannot understand hate. But she does and, in the beginning, that was going to be my whole story. But when I wrote, I found myself writing like a robot, my passion staying put. So I’ve begun to write about her finding life and learning to love. That’s what I can write about from my heart and really mean it. And do you know what? This is the longest story I’ve written and I actually know where I’d like to go with it.
In this story, I felt that I would like to include a mild sexual scene, but was concerned about doing so, since I intend to show the story to adults in my life and feared after their reaction if they should realize that I had created such a scene. However, in my mind, the scene is not just mindless mating, but has real passion and romantic context and is an important part of showing the evolution of the relationship between two people. I felt it would help to bridge a lot of the gap between the beginning of love and the real, trusting relationship that I wanted to see evolve between the two people. But, in the end, all it comes down to is where the story is in my heart. In my brain, I’m afraid to give anyone the opportunity to judge me for what I’ve written. But, in my heart, I know this is a part of the story that needs to be told.
My grandmother and I saw “The Soloist” on Saturday. I know I shouldn’t really discuss it until I’ve read the book, but some thoughts I had about it seem relevant to this, so I’m going for it anyhow. (I’m just going to leap straight into it, so if you don’t know what it’s about, Google is your friend.) Basically, Steve initially seems to see Nathaniel as a simple source of popular interest, someone the masses will be interested in, a prime subject for his column. As an outside observer, I feel that journalists often seem to adopt this mindset. They can write a beautiful piece about a beautiful person because they know people will like it, but are all of these sentimental words and lovely phrases coming from their desire to appeal to an audience, or really coming from their own hearts? Nathaniel would not appear, in person, to many people who probably smiled warmly throughout his column, to be very beautiful. He dresses in all kinds of odds and ends, carries around a grungy shopping cart piled high with junk, and probably doesn’t smell very good. His moods fluctuate rapidly and a normal conversation is hard to come by with him. To a person who had not met him in the flesh, Steve’s lovely little column about this lovely little homeless master cellist would not prepare them for the reality of who he is. Through the movie, Steve continually tries to transform Nathaniel into this functional person so he can become the master musician he was always meant to be, but it doesn’t work because that‘s not who he is. After we left the movie, rather than commenting on the musical aspect of the movie (which I had assumed she would, being the classical music guru that she is), my grandma said “Well, the moral of the story is that you can’t make a person who you want them to be.”
In my opinion, the rules of writing are rules for life. You don’t have to have experienced what another person has in order to offer them your sympathy, but if you can draw the basic feelings they’re having from your heart, then you can connect with them, just as you can connect with a character who is experiencing something you haven’t. Furthermore, sometimes you feel you need to do things that you fear, whether of the possible repercussions or of being judged, but, in the end, it is most important to follow your heart over your head. And, finally (and most importantly), you can’t make writing be something it’s not, or it’s insincere. Then it’s not written from the heart, but simply from a very creative head. Similarly, you can’t make a person into someone they’re not or else they’re fake. Just as you must write from the heart, you must also live from the heart.
Friday, May 15, 2009
A Change of Season and a Change of Heart
Through the blinds, I can see the sky, the canvas on which pine branches are splashed in sharp green shades. It is an icy blue, hesitant to glow in this chill early morning. A slight wind blows, bending past the glass window through which I longingly gaze. “Where are you going?” it asks, beckoning me along. Nowhere, I think with a mental sigh. Trapped in a classroom, staring at a dull desk, daring to hope for imminent rescue. “Come along, then!” cry the birds. Oh, how I wish I could…The sunshine, in its radiance, smiles through the blinds. “Look at this beautiful day we’ve made just for you!” Oh, I know, I know! I silently whimper. How I long to enjoy it! What a pity it is to be stuck inside of a classroom, not even doing any work because all of mine is finished, simply itching and suffocating inside! Oh, what is the use? What is the use in desperately forcing a lovely book down the throats of idiots, yelling and scolding away when, outside, the world awaits? The lovely day, it was made just for me. But, oh, how trapped I am.
Winter has always been my favorite season. This was mostly brought about by my love for Christmas. But I also love rainy days, cold weather, hot cocoa, scarves and gloves, cuddling under blankets. I have always been very resistant to the cold weather and it has never much bothered me. But winter was so long this year. The cold weather dragged on, the rainy days soaked my clothes and left me trapped inside for so long. There were no walks to take, no adventures to go on. Just me and winter locked in an icy dream that seemed to go on forever.
I’ve never considered Autumn or Spring potentials for favorite seasons. They’re very nice ideas, but they just get lost in the transitions from season to season. Spring is that season that gets eaten up when winter hands over and, once winter has passed, we simply wait around to see if its hot enough to call it Summer yet. Fall happens, but people hardly notice it because everything is starting again. School, activities, rehearsals, etc. It’s a nice season, but it’s just a waiting period, a gradual til into the next extreme.
All in all, I find myself more and more enamored with Summer these days. It’s lighter later, so I can go on walks alone. I suppose I never factored this in before because I’ve only recently started going around town by myself. I’ll start bothering to do my hair soon, because the wind won’t mess it up. I can lounge in my room in shorts and a bra, simply enjoying the freedom of bare shoulders and shaven legs. I’m less resistant to the cold now and I find that being cold is so exhausting. To be hot is so easy. Simply strip and lay down. There are so many adventures to be had in the summer, so much time to be spent in the warmth of a summer evening. I’m beginning to love more and more that lazy, heavy contentedness that comes with each summer day, lined the buzzing excitement that says “You’re free. You can do anything, go anywhere…” In the summer, the world is at my feet.
Therefore, my dear Winter, do not find yourself disgraced by my infidelity! For I still hold in close affection your sweet, rushing winds and the freshness of the earth beneath your pelting storms. When, next year, you should creep in past your autumn veil to ice the dew once more, I shall be grateful for the change. I shall applaud your entrance, for Summer will have become tiring. But I cannot deny that the thought of Summer now fills me with a joy and excitement I had not felt before. Summer, I feel, is my new desire.
Winter has always been my favorite season. This was mostly brought about by my love for Christmas. But I also love rainy days, cold weather, hot cocoa, scarves and gloves, cuddling under blankets. I have always been very resistant to the cold weather and it has never much bothered me. But winter was so long this year. The cold weather dragged on, the rainy days soaked my clothes and left me trapped inside for so long. There were no walks to take, no adventures to go on. Just me and winter locked in an icy dream that seemed to go on forever.
I’ve never considered Autumn or Spring potentials for favorite seasons. They’re very nice ideas, but they just get lost in the transitions from season to season. Spring is that season that gets eaten up when winter hands over and, once winter has passed, we simply wait around to see if its hot enough to call it Summer yet. Fall happens, but people hardly notice it because everything is starting again. School, activities, rehearsals, etc. It’s a nice season, but it’s just a waiting period, a gradual til into the next extreme.
All in all, I find myself more and more enamored with Summer these days. It’s lighter later, so I can go on walks alone. I suppose I never factored this in before because I’ve only recently started going around town by myself. I’ll start bothering to do my hair soon, because the wind won’t mess it up. I can lounge in my room in shorts and a bra, simply enjoying the freedom of bare shoulders and shaven legs. I’m less resistant to the cold now and I find that being cold is so exhausting. To be hot is so easy. Simply strip and lay down. There are so many adventures to be had in the summer, so much time to be spent in the warmth of a summer evening. I’m beginning to love more and more that lazy, heavy contentedness that comes with each summer day, lined the buzzing excitement that says “You’re free. You can do anything, go anywhere…” In the summer, the world is at my feet.
Therefore, my dear Winter, do not find yourself disgraced by my infidelity! For I still hold in close affection your sweet, rushing winds and the freshness of the earth beneath your pelting storms. When, next year, you should creep in past your autumn veil to ice the dew once more, I shall be grateful for the change. I shall applaud your entrance, for Summer will have become tiring. But I cannot deny that the thought of Summer now fills me with a joy and excitement I had not felt before. Summer, I feel, is my new desire.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Open Book
I usually keep my blogs to MySpace, as it's a private, safe place for my thoughts. However, sometimes I write something less personal and more artistic and reflective that I'd like to share with more people. Example? My mother. However, I wouldn't want her reading half the things on my MySpace blog.
So, that brings us here to this blog. This will be my artistic blog, my blog that isn't wasted on trite, mopey rants about my shitty life. This blog will be reserved for the real thoughts that actually matter and, perhaps, a less important, but mildly amusing rant now and then.
So, without further ado, here is my open, purposeful, public blog. Let's cut the red ribbon so we can eat the damn cake already.
love and all of those sincere-sounding tidings,
blabagail.
So, that brings us here to this blog. This will be my artistic blog, my blog that isn't wasted on trite, mopey rants about my shitty life. This blog will be reserved for the real thoughts that actually matter and, perhaps, a less important, but mildly amusing rant now and then.
So, without further ado, here is my open, purposeful, public blog. Let's cut the red ribbon so we can eat the damn cake already.
love and all of those sincere-sounding tidings,
blabagail.
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