Dream Post #1: Drinking, Pocket Watches, and The Bear.

Time to do what I do best: copy other people. I had a pretty crazy dream last night, as detailed below.

I'm getting a ride back from musical rehearsal. Since, of course, my house is on the other end of the universe, we have been in the car for two hours when the car breaks down somewhere in Seattle. We are in a neighborhood that is a "bad" neighborhood. I do not know where this neighborhood is actually located, nor do I know if it actually exists, but for the sake of my dream, there was a "bad" neighborhood, with "bad" houses, and sketchy looking people walking around.

For some reason, I was not scared by the "bad" neighborhood, and also for unknown reasons, it was assumed that we would have to spend the night in said neighborhood, because there was no way we could get like, a cab or anything. We walked into the house that the car had broken down in front of. It just so happened that the people in this house got a lot of situations like this, and they were perfectly happy to rent out a room to us for the night, provided that we could pay for it. I opened up my wallet and gave them money. I think it ended up being $1000 dollars for one night, but the money was all made out of toothpicks, so it was okay.

We went upstairs to our room. This is the point where who "we" are becomes unclear, because at some point it ended up being only me. I'm not quite sure who "we" were to start with, but there was definitely some other person in the car with me, because even in dreams, I don't have my license. When I got to the room, there was one girl sitting in the corner. She was around 12 or so, and she had in iPod headphones. I didn't want to disturb her, so I looked around. There were two more girls on the bed, who were around my age. They were making out. It didn't occur to me in the dream to be awkward, so I just observed them for a few seconds and then sat on the edge of the bed.

At some point, they asked me if I wanted to join them. This was still not awkward, so I started making out with one of them (the hotter one), and the other one looked a little lost. Then there was a knock on the door, so we stopped making out, and the door opened to reveal a large woman. They called her mom, even though she was black and they were white, and I'm pretty sure she wasn't their actual mom. This was intuition--they didn't tell me so, but I just knew. I also knew that she was not to know about us making out, so I kept my mouth shut. She yelled at them about something, and then she left.

Eventually, it became dark, and we decided that it would be really fun if we ordered some drinks. For some reason, there was some kind of liquor delivery service, like pizza delivery, so we called them and ordered a lot of vodka and rum and other such things. We were very much underage, but the person on the phone didn't bother to check. Finally, the doorbell rang, but the girls' "mom" answered the door. She got very angry at us, because we were not supposed to be drinking. At this point, she suddenly became my mom too. She started saying things like "what would your father say?", etc, and it was gathered that my father (and theirs) was dead. We all were looking for a pocket watch that he had supposedly left behind, since this pocket watch was the key to all knowledge or something.

Finally we opened a safe where they had stored all his belongings, and found many cool things, like a miniature christmas tree. At the very back of the safe was a pocket watch. We all rejoiced. Then, we walked out the front door of the house.

When we walked outside, we realized that we were in Red Square. Suddenly, the people I was with were gone, and it was just me in Red Square. I realized it was time for math class. I went into Allen-Gates and sat down in the classroom (which was actually the OChem classroom). Mr. Kresser came in and looked at some faceless boy and asked him for his homework. He gave it to him. I was worried, because I hadn't done the homework, having been on a quest to find a pocket watch. However, he didn't collect any more homework, and instead started reviewing a problem on the board. I was very curious about how to do this problem, since I hadn't understood it on the homework (that I had suddenly attempted). He was in the middle of his explanation when, alas, I was awoken by my father, informing me that it was noon.

Curses! I guess we shall never find out the answer to the problem, nor shall we get to drink the liquor we ordered or finish our make out session. Or get home from rehearsal, for that matter...

I'd love to...get to know you.

Let's do a measurement of how much college is screwing me right now.

This is how much I would be screwed anyways:
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This is how much I'm screwed when college is added:
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Woooooooo!

I hate this. A lot.

Not going to talk about it anymore.

If anyone is curious, I finished the tune for that last song I posted (so exciting!).

Also I saw Avatar. It was great. It was like a massive drug trip...IN 3-D!!

Why did I start this post? I don't really have anything to talk about. I'm going to take some random quizzes on blogthings so that I can procrastinate a little bit more, and then post the results here.

What Kind of Beauty Are You?
Answer: You are a natural beauty!
(This is code for: you are no kind of beauty)

How Evil Are You?
Answer: You are 40% evil.
(This is code for: you pretend. A lot.)

What Hairstyle Are You?
Answer: You are dreads.
(This is code for: LOL)

What Age Do You Act?
Answer: You act like you are 22 years old.
(This is code for: you are entirely average in every way. Don't worry 'bout it.)

What Kind of Art Are You?
Answer: You are a drawing.
(This is code for: see above.)

Well, that was fun. What have information have we gleaned about me? We now know that I am completely average in every way. This is a great thing to find out while trying to describe (sell) yourself to college.

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Now let us look at this article:
http://flavorwire.com/57909/stereotyping-people-by-their-favorite-indie-bands

From this article, we can learn even more about me! Here is what we now know describes me:

Bros vaguely interested in listening to music and very interested in having sex with their girlfriend.

Hopelessly patchy beard growers.

People who think that world hunger could be assuaged with four part harmonies.

Gorilla Vs. Bear readers.

People with self-esteem issues and probably hate Ben Gibbard.

Frequent transcendental experience havers.

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Okay, now what do we know about me? That I am a stoner, that I have a beard, that I am interested in solving world hunger, that I hate Ben Gibbard, that I have self-esteem issues (truth), that I am vaguely interested in listening to music, that I am a bro, that I am very interested in having sex with my girlfriend (maybe truth).

The process of writing this post has been an educational experience. I now feel better equipped to describe myself to college. See the above paragraph. That is what I will say.

OH MAN

OH MAN GUYS. I wrote a song. This song has actual music for the chorus. This is super exciting. I am choosing to ignore the fact that it will hardly be a minute in length. Whatever. Repeating verses is always an option. Here is my song:

Clever fingers meet your eyes,
At the crinkled corners just inside
We’ll hold your hands away, yeah

Black lines are drawn across your arm
The children are inside, the children are inside
Clearly marked with thrilling charm
The children stay inside, inside, inside

Clear away your classic songs
From the table where they remain
Remove them from my shaking arms
My blank eyes are to blame
My eyes take all the blame

Clever fingers meet your eyes
At the hardened corners just inside
Stay on the floor where I belong
You cleared away your classic songs

Multi-colored lights are shown
Above the trees, where grass is grown
I’ll lie awake on every night
Wondering where you’ve gone
Since you took all your songs

Cradled head in icy arms
Hold your head in breaking arms
Hold your head in silent arms
My eyes take all the blame

Yeah, that's my song. The temporary title is "Classic Songs", which may need to be changed. Also what may need to be changed is the verse beginning with "multi-colored lights", because I don't like it. It sounds like it was written by 10-year-old-me. Overall, this is not great, but it is not bad. Right? Right? And yes, I did write this song when I was supposed to be doing something else. That's okay. Right? Right guys?

Some Whinging

Why do some people spell the word "whining" as "whinging"? Is it a typo? Why have I seen it so many times?

Today I was angry. Why, you ask? Why are you angry, Marvelous Narvel? I just asked myself that question, and then I answered myself.

I don't know. I don't know why I'm in a bad mood. I don't know why I feel like punching everyone in the face. Maybe it's because everyone just needs to be punched in the face. It's more likely that I just need to be punched in the face.

I think I am having a mid-life crisis. If this was my mid-life, it would be pathetic, but I am suffering from all of the symptoms of a mid-life crisis. NOTHING INTERESTS ME ANYMORE. IT ANGERS ME. EVERYTHING ANGERS ME. Anger Bear, that's me.

Because I made the above statement (the mid-life crisis one) with almost no justification or knowledge of what the actual symptoms were, I looked them up. Thanks Google! Turns out I actually do suffer from many of the symptoms. I want to change direction. I desire free-flowing movement. I suffer from irritability and anger. I want to run away from everything. I have a desire to get in shape. I excessively look back to my childhood. A sidenote: what are they defining as childhood? Am I still a child? Aren't these supposed to be my "best years"? That sucks, it really does. All it tells me is that all the other years are worse.

WORSE? IS IT POSSIBLE?

Yeah, it probably is. When I have to be financially independent, and people realize that I actually have no real skills in anything except pretending to do work, and I don't have a job because of this, and all I really want to do is be Gabe's intern, and then be Gabe, that will probably be worse. I could never be Gabe. I'm only average (read: bad) at humor, and Gabe is definitely Above Average. Too bad, one career path down the drain.

Maybe I could be an actress, and meet people like Bradley James and make him fall in love with me. But I'm only average (read: really bad) at seduction, and probably love in general, even though I've never tried it. I probably never will try it, because I will be incapable of making anyone love me back. Whoops! Problemo! That's okay though. I think I can resign myself to a fate of admiring people from afar and never marrying anyone and being a whore. What? I didn't actually just say that.

Maybe I could be a writer. Then I could move to England and buy a country manor and write novels and meet Mr. Knightley. This would be Ideal Option Number One. It's a possibility, right? (insert laugh track here)

I just re-read this post. It made no sense and had no overall idea. It was mostly random mutterings. This is the part where I pat myself on the back for being successfully incoherent.

Hey. Hey guys. So remember that thing? Called commenting? We should start that again...that was cool...

Your Mom Got a Blog

No, my mom got a blog.

Oh dear. Oh dear. Why mom? First Facebook, now Blog?? What next, TWITTER? Will I soon be reading tweets from MY MOM?

This is...not as big of a deal as it seems. Let me blow it out of proportion for you.

My MOM is now on blogspot, blogging away about things like...ME. She is blogging about ME. No, I do not know this to be true, because she has only written one post and it is not about me, it is about Tiger Woods. I can only assume, however, that somewhere in the not-so-distant future she will be writing about things that annoy her, and that will consist of ME.

Also, I found this: www.mylifeistwilight.com
This is a travesty. This is the travesty of travesties. WHO HAS DONE THIS?? WHO HAD THE GUTS TO PROFESS THEIR DISGUSTING INSANITY AND RABIDNESS IN SUCH A WAY??

Okay, this blog clearly is not really about my writing anymore. Not my fault. The last thing I wrote was a college essay.

A Play.

Hey guys,

A quick promo on my part. I wrote a play for the YPP (Young Playwright's Program), and will be submitting it on Tuesday. The YPP is a program run through the ACT theater, and if my play is chosen, it will either be published or performed at a local theater.

I'd really appreciate it if you all could read my play, and your comments are super helpful to me. The play is posted on my Fictionpress account. It is called For the Justice. Link below:
http://www.fictionpress.com/s/2743642/1/For_the_Justice

You can either comment on Fictionpress or right here on this post.
Thanks!

EDIT:
A clarifying note, since I have gotten a few comments on this. Chris and Taylor are not hipsters. I am aware of that. The description was merely intended to describe how they are dressed, but I can see that it would be confusing. I have changed the descriptions to include exactly what they are wearing instead of saying "hipster". Also, they talk like that because they are stoned. Also, another thing that I think may be confusing if you don't understand why I did it (aka if you can't read my mind), Chris and Taylor are actually quite intelligent and well-read, as seen by knowing about Joyce, etc. However, they are also complete stoners--something that is true about a lot of today's youth (what do you know? Culture criticism is present in this play after all!).

Another clarifying note: they are talking about the particular bands that they are because those are the bands I happened to be listening to while writing most of this play. Hopefully that clears up some confusion...

In case you were wondering...

It strikes me as strange that almost none of my friends have heard me sing before. Well, no, you have heard me sing probably, but you haven't heard me sing Hindustani, which is something I actually consider a huge part of myself. It's also one of my few talents, dare I call it one.

In fact, many of you don't even know what Hindustani music is. So let me enlighten you.

http://www.kuow.org/program.php?id=18776

You should click on the link in the sidebar that says "Listen to KUOW Presents" to listen to the recording.

This is an excellent piece that was on the radio today. It's about 13 minutes long, and it is a good explanation of Hindustani music, along with some of the music itself played in the background. They are interviewing a local artist, who is actually a friend of our family's.

Someday I may post a recording of my own singing here, but today is not the day. Honestly, I'd rather you heard it live, because in my opinion my voice sounds way better like that, and there tends to be less scrutiny of a live performance.

In which I reveal deep-rooted hatred.

No, not racism. Hatred.

A quote:
Ingrid: "I realized that I actually hate a lot of my friends."

Me too, Ingrid, me too. Why is this? Maybe I'm too nice of a person. Maybe if I was meaner, people would get the hint that I really don't like them/talking to them, and they would leave me alone, leaving me to wallow with those few people I do like.

Warning: The rest of this post is confusing, because I keep mixing up my tenses and pronouns and am too tired and lazy to fix it or write properly.

In my mind, there are two categories of hate for friends/people.
1. You hate them always.
This is the kind of hatred that is self explanatory. You cannot stand this person. You hate being around them at any time. They insist on following you around. You wish they would leave you alone. They can NEVER take a hint. You really hate this person.

2. You hate them sometimes.
This kind of hatred is more subtle, and difficult to deal with. There are certain people in my life whom I hate at seemingly random intervals. These intervals are not random, if you happen to be one of the people on the receiving end of this hatred, and have noticed it. This is the person that is sometimes amusing and fun to be around, but more often than not, they are more annoying than amusing. This is unfortunate. Why can't this person just be better? Then you feel bad about hating them, because really, they just remind you of yourself.

Those are the two main categories. There is a third, somewhat related category, and it is called jealousy.

3. Jealousy
This is not truly hatred, but sometimes you really wish you were this person, so painfully that you end up disliking their presence somewhat, because they remind you of how much you suck. Then they do something majorly awesome, making you want to be around them all the time. Then you are worried about whether you are annoying or not, and in the process end up being even more annoying. This person probably hates you. You are probably the second type of hated person on their list. Maybe even the first (if you're lucky!).

When reading this post, you may have been thinking, whose blog is this? Am I in the wrong place? No, dear reader, you are not in the wrong place. I am simply revealing that in reality, I am in fact not a nice person at all. On the contrary, I can be quite a vile and repulsive person if I put my head to it. Why have I revealed this? Do I want you to hate me too? No, I just want validation that I am not the only person who hates people, and more validation that people read this blog. Maybe. Sometimes.

Some Trips for You

Oh hey guys, remember how I used to post things that weren't school related? Lies. Now I can only write trippy essays that have everything and nothing to do with Modernism. Here is my latest "short" (aka miniscule) essay: some tripping on freedom.

I may have been free all of my life, yet I can only see myself in captivity. What is freedom in the end? Not a soul on this earth may be truly free, for they will always see themselves in the cage of someone else. One may suggest that I was free when I pulled on the coat that I decided to wear today, and yet it was not entirely my decision. My father paid for the coat, therefore it is his. My mother likes the coat, therefore it is hers. The weather is cold today, requiring me to wear the coat, therefore the coat belongs to the weather as well. Finally the decision I made in putting my arms through the sleeves of said coat was only fractionally my choice, only in part a decision made by me—and therefore how can I be free?

Yet, there may have been one time in my life when I was free; a time when the decision I made was influenced by my thoughts, and only mine. There may have been a decision I have made in my life that was completely mine, belonging to me and nobody else. When was this time that I was free? Certainly not now, when my life’s every movement is determined by the forces and wills of my parents, my teachers, whatever colleges I may be applying to. Even this, what college I will go to, is not determined by me, when in reality it should be entirely my choice, for it is I who will go there. And yet, I must consider where my parents want me to go, I must consider which colleges will accept me, and I must consider above all else, what people will think of me. A constant consideration in every decision I make—what will everyone else say?

This suggests that perhaps the only time I did not worry about this was when I was only a child, who knew nothing of the world, and nothing of the thoughts of others. There is only one time in one’s life when one is truly free, and that is when one has just entered into life, into being—this is the only freedom I know of. When I opened my eyes into the bright lights of a universe tangential to what I had known previously, and yet somehow completely different, then I may have been free.

When I was brought into the world by a nurse in a hospital, somewhere on the earth, in the moment just after I entered consciousness and the moment just before I was placed into the arms of my mother, I was free. For just before this, I was in the captivity of another being who was feeding me, allowing me to live, in fact granting life to me, and as soon as I was put into my mother’s arms, I was entirely dependent on her. I was dependent for food, for water, for anything that was not immediately on my being. But in that exact moment between the two, I belonged to no one but myself, I knew of nothing but myself, and that was freedom enough for me.

A/N: Unsure what to think of this essay (WOAH, THAT'S NEW!). Thoughts? Good? Bad? Disgusting? Offensive? You don't care? Too bad, leave a comment anyway.

"I wish I had a boyfriend...": A response to Ingrid

This is your boyfriend:























This is your boyfriend:























This is MY boyfriend:

You Thought Wrong.

Yeah, so I lied when I said I wouldn't post soon, because I found this video. This is incredible. Ignore the awful narration on this, and just look at this guy. It's legitimately ridiculous.



It's things like this that make me feel bad about myself. Do I have any skills like this? No, and yet I will probably end up more successful (at least financially) than most of these autistic people who have amazing skills like this, only because I am considered "normal" and can communicate better. Most autistic people are amazing at something like this, but rarely do they get this kind of recognition.

You thought photographic memories weren't real. You were wrong.

Aww Yeah, Pt. 3 (Finale)

Apparently nobody wants to comment on the second part, so hopefully I'll get some comments (hint hint) on this before turning it in. This is the last installment of the story. I still think I like the first part the best, because I feel like it was the most successful at portraying Joyce's style of writing. This is a bit (a lot) shorter than the other two.

Upon reaching, he slid his way between tables, inconspicuously making his way towards his corner table, at which no single other person dared to sit. Upon seeing his face, a tall glass of ale was immediately delivered to the table, as if he were a respected member of the community, rather than himself, Donovan, who spent his time polishing silver and limping along with no aid. He allowed himself a few extra minutes at the pub that day, taking his time with the drink that soothed and burned its way into his familiar system. Tipping the last drops of ale into his awaiting mouth, he gathered himself up, sucking in his drooping cheeks, rubbing his hands together, and leaving a penny on the table. He slowly turned the lapels of his coat the correct direction, and stepped back onto the frostbitten path towards his house.

Loosened by drink, he slid about, uncaring, on the icy streets. Night had crept upon him, casting sinister shadows over everything in sight. Upon reaching his door, his walk having been uninterrupted by any passerby, he fumbled for his key for some time. Finally, he managed to ease his way into the home, and crumpled into his rocking chair, suddenly breathing heavily. The small of his back stood slightly away from the surface of the chair, although the rest of his body sagged towards the comfort of a seat. He closed his eyes. Immediately against his lids he could see the bearded figure that he had scorned so. The face of the man was not unknown to him. It was the face of a visitor at the pub. No, it was the face of a man whom he had known years ago. No, it was the face of his son.

He opened his eyes and padded over to the window, not bothering to remove his mustard socks. The background glowed a blue-black shade. In that moment, he felt that if he stood still for long enough, unseen and unheard, he might simply dissolve into his surroundings, hopefully never to be seen again.


Yeah, so I think this is collectively pretty much the best story I've ever written, because it had some semblance of plot in it, and it got finished (gasp!). Hopefully you liked it too. Comments and criticism welcome and...yeah, I'm dying for comments, guys. With that thought, goodbye for now. Don't expect posts for a while, I'm really busy. Early Decision is due in 3 weeks guys! Good luck!

Awww Yeah, Pt. 2

So, I'm not really sure what I think of this part. It's a little repetitive, I know, but it's hard to convey exactly how long this walk was for Donovan without being repetitive. As in, it was not a long walk in terms of distance, but for him it is a really long walk. This is probably the worst of the three parts of the story right now, so you have been warned. Also, thanks for the comments guys. Apparently I have a huge problem with the passive voice, aka I can't actually ever use anything else. Should probably fix that before I am murdered via English teacher. Also, there is some confusing switching of tenses going on in this story. The first part is in present tense, even though it's describing his past, and the rest is in past tense, even though that is what is happening in the story. It's intentional, but let me know if it's bullshit.

Donovan rose slowly from the rocking chair, and made his way over to the mantel. He observed his spoons, and noted a small spot on one of them. Picking up a square gray cloth, he polished the spoon until the spot was gone, and then placed it carefully back onto the mantel. He slowly limped over to the door, stopping to pull on thick yellow socks, the color of mustard. In the dim light of his home, he can barely find his shoes in the closet, but finally pulled out a clunking pair of leathers, and eased his feet into them. Pulling open the door, he stepped outside, hearing the brittle cracking of frost under his feet, and inhaling the bitter air.

He was going back to the pub, though he had been twice in that day already. Thinking of Ellen always made him thirst for cheap ale, or perhaps some whiskey to feel the burning in the back of his throat. The sun was just behind a passing cloud, and he could look directly at a faint orange sphere as it was setting, casting blood rays over his home. He scarcely glanced at it, walking on as firmly as he could, leaning towards one side slightly. The road to the pub was slippery, and he was at a disadvantage with his legs, and no cane. He brought his hand to his mouth, gnawing on raw cuticles with his chipped and yellowing teeth. If he slipped and fell, he knew it would mean many days at home, and he couldn’t do without his daily ale. He stepped carefully over small chunks of ice, cast aside in snowball fights, and a grimace pulled at his cheeks as he remembered his sons flinging bits of snow and rock at each other, and his wife, with her cheeks red and puffed, holding the boys apart from each other, her voice raising octaves in seconds.

--Ah, Ellen, if you could see me now, he muttered to himself, you would look in disdain at my very being, feeble and helpless as I am, the very embodiment of everything you scorned.

The pub was not far, but the streets were beginning to empty of people as they went to their homes for hot suppers. Donovan much preferred an empty street to a full one, and so he walked on, considerably faster and more cheerfully at the thought of being so close to his drink. So quickly, in fact, that he hardly noticed his foot as it landed only a sliver away from a hand that was resting on the icy ground. He only glanced down when the hand raised towards him, and the man to whom it belonged whispered coarsely, but fiercely--A penny sir, for a helpless man like me. Donovan felt the rage begin to rise up into his stomach, the bile in his throat. It was the word helpless--perhaps if the man had used a different word, a penny would have fallen into his hand, but Donovan looked at the man whose beard almost covered his face, whose squinting eyes blinked quickly and looked at him hopefully, and scornfully turned away and walked still more quickly to the pub.

Comments and criticism welcome and encouraged (I'm on my hands and knees). Part 3, the final part of this saga, will be posted soon. Also, if you haven't recognized it yet, this is based on one of our beloved English teacher's own life stories.

Aww Yeah...

So, we are writing essays for Modernism right now. One of the possible prompts is to write a short story. This prompt made my cry and jump for joy at the same time, for two reasons--one reason for each reaction. I jumped for joy because I enjoy writing fiction much more than writing analytical essays, and we have already written a shorter essay about James Joyce. Oh yeah, did I mention this was all about James Joyce? I cried because I am really bad at writing fiction. Ah well, I said to myself, screw it all, I'll just write a short story anyway. And so I did. Because the short story is fairly long for something I write, I am going to post it in parts. Also, this way I can get feedback on smaller sections before submitting the actual thing (aren't I cruel?). In case you didn't notice/infer by the way, this story is supposed to be imitating the style of James Joyce. Story is so far untitled, open to suggestions.

Part 1:

He is an embittered man, one who bides his time staring at his mantel, which holds a collection of silver spoons, and rocking back and forth in his chair. One of his legs is shorter than the other, and he has never bothered to buy a cane, nor could he afford it. Pennies of pension are spent in the local pub, where he drinks cold beer, sipping at the despised white foam that has formed, and clenching his throat against the tides of guilt that beat against the back of his mouth.

Donovan’s face was once cherubic, but his apple cheeks have hollowed and sagged into pouches with yellowed spots of skin and a windburnt complexion. His stiff white mustache seems to constantly be bristling with anger, or quivering with sorrow. He wonders sometimes if it would have been better to simply die alongside his wife, young and full of life, but here he is, unbeautiful and defeated, polishing his silver spoons and thirsting his days away.

He has two sons. They have moved away now, but he thinks of them every day with a passionate rage, working himself into vexations by thinking of how they have abandoned him in his rocking chair, vicariously living through them, without ever knowing what they are truly doing. Perhaps they are married now, and he contemplates their families that he has established in his mind. One of them works as a printer down the road, this much he knows, and the other is a tavern brat who associates with the basest of men. He is embarrassed by this, and he clearly sees in his mind his son—no, himself—coming home at late hours of the night, having successfully wasted away what little money he had made that day, his bristling mustache dripping with stale drink and fury. He remembers dropping into his rocking chair, the same one, and putting his feet rudely and defiantly up onto the table, waiting and shouting for his wife to put something in his belly to nullify the sour pitcher of drink resting there.

She was a wonderful woman, his poor late Ellen. She hadn’t a lovely face, for otherwise she shouldn’t have married a man like himself, but she was sweet, with her blue eyes and wispy hair, and a slightly upturned nose. She had raised his two sons with a firm hand, and he used to quite enjoy watching her shout at them when she was in a most foul temper. They would cower in fear and he would feel such pride at having found himself a woman who could instill such cowardice in two young boys.

End of part 1. Comments and criticism welcome and begged for, hopefully before I post part 2, which will be in a few days or so.

Chirality

I curse these possibilities
Of wandering from this side of the line
To the other
And all to find an answer
Within myself

Blessed is the man who may
Be a fool for all his life
Never questioned
Never burned
Never believed
Never spurned

The catastrophes have befallen us today
In that chemical reaction
That added acid to acid
That turned water to wine

Your falsities have changed me
Your chirality belying only the slightest possibility
Of a truth
I envy you, your ability to so quickly spin these tales
I envy you, your ability to release them into the air
Not holding, not grasping, not reaching for redemption
Just smiling and waving, smiling and braving

A/N: So, I think this one's meaning is a bit more obvious than some of my other recent works...and it was inspired by chemistry, of all things. And my love for the word "chirality", for no apparent reason. Unsure about the quality...there are parts I like, and parts I want to remove, but I never change my poetry, which is a really bad habit.

Tin Soldiers

There is a time when the others come out to play
Silvery eyeshadow over long lashes, sprinkling into
Rouge-red cheeks, and lips in various shades of orange.

They dance under nights of no moons, new moons, their moons. They dance as they own the world for that brief period of time, in which they can pop blackberries into their mouths and wonder.

There is a night when the others come out to dance
They never cease their imitations of the greats,
Moonwalking their way all the way up to the orb itself,
in a beam of light that comes to receive them.
That is all they could want in that moment, all they could need,
In a descending staircase of spiraling shadowlight.

Some legends suggest that the others are those of blue blood, who never minded a few stares, a few glances, a few gaping mouths in their direction, because they were only maniacs that didn’t belong in this world, and they never needed to.

There are other legends,
With the excessive explanations that most lies have,
When colors of stories aren’t enough to tell them,
When rusty red romances cannot satisfy anymore,
When beauty is seen only in the embracing of brazen cowards
Who can twirl the night away, only to realize that
They never observed the sun.

---

A/N: This was inspired by the story "Blackberry Nights", which is actually on Fictionpress, if you would like to look it up. I'm not sure what I think of it yet, I can't decide if it's edging towards a topic that is too cliche, or if it is incoherent enough to be different. Anyways, a (slightly belated) birthday present from me to you...

Blessing in Disguise

On a night like this
I can’t stay inside, so I run outdoors for
Hours at a time. Did you see the sunset last night?
In a haze of golden-orange-lovely glow, there is some meaning
In my words, as I whisper this loving message into your ear
And you turn to me and I see your blank eyes.
In that moment you are dead to me.

I saw a lily blossom, with rusty powder-dust falling from its petals, staining my fingers, and I didn’t know what to do with myself anymore.

There is a twinkling in the sky, but it is not the stars.
I look up, and I see your smiling face and mischievous eyes sparkling at me.
Where I saw only darkness before.
Where have you gone?

There is a beating, a tapping sound that is produced by melancholy faces staring, teeth chattering, they are looking at my face through hollowed cheeks and empty eyes.

For a moment I hear the whistle of the band leader
The twirl of the flag-twirlers
In the next moment I can only hear your scream.

---

A/N: Wow, I'm definitely on a roll here. As you can probably tell, I'm trying out a different style of writing here, and I think I really enjoy it. It pretty much ends up being wordblurt, but that's okay, because believe it or not, this poem does have some other meaning. Guess what it is! Also, if you thought this, you are correct, there is, in fact, a reference to a certain teacher in this poem...

Bye.

Flights of Fancy

Look at me when he is speaking to you
Masquerading as the follies of three dozen men
Lies you.

Where did you go last night? Were you on the pillow
Of another milkman, you shouldn’t listen to them
When they say
Run away with me.

I collect cards, and build fragile houses that you can
Blow over when you whistle
I could never whistle, didn’t you know?
Ace of diamonds is my favorite card
Perfectly symmetrical in the way that
Synchronized swimmers are.

I quote, unquote, famous men have said better things
Famous women have said worse things.
I sing, melodies enchanted, chirping crickets as accompaniment
I always liked them better than
Cockroaches anyways.

I had a dream once that there were a million cockroaches scurrying
Across my floor, and I couldn’t get out of bed.
I opened my eyes, and got up for some water.
There was a brittle crunch underneath my feet.

Beautiful fingers dance pirouettes across black and white
There are some people who are born without hands.
Perhaps they have very capable feet.

I spin sugar castles in the air by day, and eat them in the night
There are people hiding in the dark, with whom I share
These flights of fancy that mean so much.

A/N: Experimentation with a different style. Don't know what it means. Does it matter what it means?

Outrage of the Silent

Finally, a new poem:

There is a silence in the thickness of the air
It surrounds me, it envelopes me, it compresses me into
My very own puddle of, wait, where am I?
I can’t breathe.
Breathe.

(pause)
(rest)

There is a silence in the thickness of the sound
That surrounds
That pounds
That drowns

(pause)
(beat)

There is a silence in the clouds
Clouds of dragonflies that flutter and connect
To each other and to me
Unfurl my wings, their wings, your wings/there is silence again.

There is a sound.
There is an echo.
There is a shot.
There is a crack.
There is a break.

There is a silence in my heart
My soul
My arms
My legs
You are the silence in my chest
You are the silence in my stomach
My feet
My breast.

(pause)
(end)

A/N: This poem...I guess I kind of like it. When I read it again though, it seems like I am beating the reader over the head with its meaning. It's like...oh man, it's SO OBVIOUS. But it was also kind of experimental, so we'll see how it goes...

Harvesting Two Wheat...s

So, since I so obviously don't even have time to do everything on my to-do list, I am going to kill two birds with one stone. My guide to India post and my "Why India is better" post will now be magically condensed into one mega-post! Here you are...

------------------------------------------------------

Upon traveling to India, I have discovered many things. First and foremost, India is simply better than the United States. I must admit, I didn't really ever understand what was so great about India, why everyone wanted to go there, etc. I think this is the first trip of mine where I've realized that, more than anything, it's the people there that make it what it is. How is it possible that the same people who just yelled at 3 different taxi drivers about their incapabilities can, two minutes later, show some of the most hospitable behavior that has ever been exhibited across the world? And this, this is what really makes India what it is. The hospitality of the people there. So, you want to survive in India long enough to experience this hospitality I speak of? Just follow these rules.

1. Crossing the Street
This is probably where you are most likely to get killed. Make sure when you are crossing the street that you do not stop moving, no matter the circumstances. Even if there is an auto-rickshaw (auto) approaching you at high speed, they will (most likely) turn away at the last section, so keep moving. Otherwise, you are sure to get run over by a motorbike/car/auto/cow.

2. Honking
If you are planning to drive in India--I don't recommend it--it is important to know the rules of honking. Here are situations in which you can honk:

• Someone cuts you off
• Someone walks directly in front of you
• There is a cow in the middle of the road
• The person in front of you is not moving
• The person in front of you did not move for at least .0005 milliseconds
• There is a red light
• You see somebody you know
• You see a store you wish to stop at, but can't
• You feel like it

Remember these rules, and you will not be immediately identified as a tourist, unless you are white, in which case you will be identified within seconds and surrounded by a mob of prospective taxi drivers or people trying to sell you things, pretending you can speak a variety of Indian languages.

3. Rules of Eating
There are very specific rules to eating in people's homes in India. If you are visiting somebody, you must, and I mean must, stay for at least one meal in their home. They will cook an elaborate meal for you, and then say that they were just making it anyways. You must at least try every dish that is prepared, unless you are allergic, in which case they will shake their head sadly at you in a very Indian way. If you are willing to try eating with your hands, then always use your right hand. Never ever touch food with your left hand. When you are finished eating, they will always try to offer you more food, and you must accept more until they cease to bring out more dishes, in which case you are in the clear. You must then sit with them and drink coffee and chat until it has turned an unearthly hour, at which point they will offer their home for you to sleep in. Unless the person is a relative, you must refuse, and call a taxi to their home to take you back to wherever you happen to be staying.

4. Dress Code
You may have seen in Bollywood movies the wonder of scantily clad women being sniffed by Sharukh Khan. If you have not, I strongly recommend seeing at least one Bollywood movie before traveling. However, nobody in India actually dresses like this. Under no circumstances should you bare any part of your body other than your face, arms, and occasionally the bottom half of your leg. NEVER attempt to leave the house in a spaghetti strap tanktop, or low cut top. Modesty is extremely valued in India, and although nobody will say anything, they will all be calling you names behind your back.

5. Leaving
I can almost guarantee that you will not want to leave at the end of your trip. This is a common feeling, and I can also almost guarantee that when you get home, you will be exhausted, and relieved to see your own home again. But, the trip will leave you with extremely fond memories of India, and you will gain a new sense of thankfulness, loyalty, and gratitude towards the people you met there.

To Do List

Posts to write for blog:

• Why India is better than the US
• Narvel's guide to India
• My problems with college applications

General things to do:

• Record singing for application to Utsav (by July 15th)
• Record singing for application to Calif. TV show (by unknown date)
• Write at least three college essays
• Play some tennis before being required to coach
• See Public Enemies, even if my dad says it wasn't amazing
• Organize Holi party

Things for others to do:

• Comment on the last post (that's right, do it now)
• For THE FAIL - practice some songs so when I get back we can do them
• Update your own blogs
  

A dream is a wish your heart makes....

So remember that poem I wrote about animal rights or whatever a while ago? Remember how I was asked to write it for a website? Yeah, so I was asked to write another poem for this website. The prompt was "Dreams". Could you please be a little more vague? Anyways, I'm definitely learning something from this experience, which is that it is really difficult to write from prompts. Especially broad prompts. Anyways, since the topic was dreams, I decided to play around with some surrealism in my poem, since I've never really tried that before. Here is the result:

Dreams are for the dreamers
It is possible that in a day
Or in a week
There will be a dreamer in me

The cityscape is melting
Into a round puddle of light
That reflects off its surface
The horizons of three worlds

It is possible
That in a day
Or in a year or a few years
There will be a dreamer in you

Diamond rise, diamond fall
In a kingdom where diamonds rule
Queens of hearts are meaningless
They sit in the corners of courts
With scepters crafted of fool’s gold

It is possible that in a day
Or in a hour
Or in this very moment
There will be a dreamer in me

I'm not sure how much I liked this poem, but my mother seemed to like it a lot. I think the parts I like are the repetitive "chorus", if you will, and the verse about diamonds/cards. Let me know what you think...

Potential?

Okay fine. So I wrote a song. I wasn't going to post it, but now I will, because I have nothing else to post, and I'm a total comment whore. So kill me. Anyways, hopefully this song will evolve into having a tune as well as lyrics, but right now it only has lyrics. Like every other song I've ever written. Woohoo. So, I'm hoping that once this has a tune, the FAIL can use it, because we really need an original song. Without further ado...

She’s walking in front of me
She’s wearing a scarf
A red, red scarf in the sun

It’s shimmering now
Shimmering and reflecting the light
Of my flashlight
My flashlight shines in the sun

They die now
They’re dying and rotting and sweating
Sweating and swelling in the sun

This is what the world is for
Shimmering and walking
And swelling and smelling
This is the world now, in the sun

She’s slipping away from me
She’s wearing a scarf
A red, red scarf in the sun

It’s vanishing now
Shimmering and vanishing
In the light of the sun

They’re falling now
Falling on their arms and legs
Breaking and falling
Falling in the sun

This is what the world is for
Shimmering and vanishing
And breaking and falling
This is the world now, in the sun

She’s running away from me
She’s wearing a scarf
A red, red scarf in the sun

It’s floating now
Floating and sweeping away
The grins of her enemies
Her enemies die now, in the sun
In the sun, her enemies die
Sweating and swelling and dying
All in the sun

This is what the world is for
This is what the world is for
Running and floating
Sweating and swelling
Falling and dying
All in the sun


Yeah, so don't ask me what this song means. I don't know. It just exists. Anyways, I also realized that the picture I put as my profile pic on this blog looks really warped here, even though it doesn't anywhere else. I don't know what's going on there. Alright, I'm peacing out now. Bye.

Mediocrity

I have an unending admiration for poets who can avoid cliches at all costs. I think the problem with me is that I have only a few topics to write about, never having suffered much in life. But here is an example of a poet who has taken a topic that is so cliche and that every poet has written about at least once, and has incorporated it into her poem in a completely original and profound way. In her poem, "Wanting to Die", Anne Sexton describes suicide, a completely overused topic, in a way that really made me think about it. She says:

But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.

I'm going to take a risk here and assume that all of you who read this blog either already know this about me, or don't care, but as someone who has in the past struggled with depression and suicidal thoughts, I can relate to Anne Sexton so much here. She described beautifully the exact struggle that people who are contemplating suicide go through. It's never about why, it's about how, where, when. But I could never have described this feeling in such an achingly simple way that causes the reader to have a brief glimpse into Sexton's manic-depressive mind. In case you don't know, she did commit suicide a few years later. So obviously it does help that these were actually her thoughts.

But here is another example on the same topic. Sylvia Plath (who incidentally also committed suicide, soon after writing the following poem) wrote a poem called Lady Lazarus. There isn't a particular line that strikes me, it's more the whole poem. You can read it here:
http://www.palace.net/~llama/poetry/ladylaz

It may help to know when reading this poem that she wrote this before her third (successful) attempt at suicide, so that is what she is referring to with the numbers in the poem.

Anyways, I love the way that she uses rythm (sp?) in this poem to lull the reader into a kind of nursery-rhyme like feeling, even though the meaning of the poem is actually quite disturbing. Again, I love the simplicity and complexity of this poem. The meaning is hidden behind complex metaphors, but the poem is not flowery or pretentious.

I think that's really the key to being a successful poet, and it's what I haven't learned yet: how to truly write about the self, but at the same time make it about someone else, and how to avoid cliches like the plague. As much as I try, I can't help falling between the cracks of those dreaded cliches sometimes. I suppose it's because I don't have so much life experience, so I try to draw upon other people's. Probably has something to do with my age, but I'm too stubborn to admit it.

Monologue

So I wrote a monologue. Not for fun, but for English, because I no longer have time to write for fun. Yes, it's a sad world we live in. Or I live in. Whatever. Anyways, obviously I like this better when it's performed, but as I don't actually want to post a video of myself performing it, I'm giving you the text. We were supposed to write about a controversy, which I didn't quite do, but I'm pretty happy with the result. Obviously there's a lot of things in here that I put in to convey that it was a believable character speaking, but it looks really annoying in writing, so ignore the "like"'s and the "you know"'s. Without further ado, here it is...

You know that famous poet? Kabir? Yeah, he inspired me a lot. He’s Indian, I think, but there’s a lot of different stories about how he was born, and where he was born and stuff. Some people think he was Muslim, but other people think he was like, rejected from Islam or something. Anyways, he says in one of his poems, something like “The Self forgets itself.” That really hits me, you know? I feel like he really knew what he was talking about. Like, we keep wandering around like we’re the most important people ever, but in reality, we don’t matter at all. Like, people halfway across the world couldn’t care less about us, you know what I’m saying? But we forget that. “The Self forgets itself.” Yeah, he knew.

And what really gets me, you know, is that everything he said, it’s true. And that’s not really the amazing part. What’s amazing is that it’s true after all this time. Isn’t that kinda crazy? Like, how did he know all the way back then, that the world would still have the same problems now? And this guy was like, back in the 15th century or something! I’m telling you, it’s incredible stuff.

It really bugs me, this whole thing about everyone thinking they’re so important. It’s like, shut up, you know? You aren’t important, I’m not important, nobody cares about us, so stop being so full of yourself! They do these experiments, you know, called stuff like “Six Degrees of Separation”. But it isn’t true. I mean, sure, it might be true that we all know each other through six degrees of separation, but who cares?

In the long run, who cares if we are connected to someone through someone else? We’re just so full of ourselves that we don’t get that the world isn’t about us, you know? Like, it’s like the way we’re seeing it is: (draws a circle in the air) here’s the world, (points to self), and here’s ourselves. That’s the ratio in our heads. That’s how small the world is to us. But everyone else’s lives don’t revolve around how they’re connected to us…

I didn’t used to think this, you know. It didn’t used to bother me that I only thought of myself, because at one point in time, it was every man for himself. But I hate that now. I realized, you know? I realized that it doesn’t work. Because I care about other people, you care about other people, we all care, and if we didn’t, well damn, that would suck. I tried to follow that, every man for himself, but it didn’t work out all that well.

(chokes a little on the words) Because you know, when my grandma died, I cared. I couldn’t help it, I cared. It wasn’t some sob story, like she got cancer, or had a heart attack. It was just old age. And I wasn’t someone who couldn’t let it go, or couldn’t ever be happy again, but I cared. And it showed me something, because people change, you know?

So I never would have realized that it wasn’t about the self, and it wasn’t about me, and it wasn’t about someone else either. I mean, people are gonna cringe when I say this, but what it’s about, what it’s really about, is all of us. Can you imagine if I had just kept on being my cold, heartless old self, who only cared about my own success, my own failure? But people change. And thank God for that, that people change.

Update

That's right, I did it. I revamped the blog. Just wanted to let you know (for no apparent reason). There is another, more meaningful post in the works, but I dont have the time to write it right now. Adios, until later...

Revampirization

This post is not about Twilight. That's right, I finally figured out that Twilight is a foolish pastime created for preteen girls who don't have a life and are desperate for some kind of lovin'. Actually, this pretty much describes me, except I am well into my teens.

This post was going to be about how I was thinking of revamping my blog, because the colors kind of make it hard to read, but I am too lazy and/or can't think of any colors to make it, and/or don't wnat to redo the header. Because it's purdy. To me.

However, I finally concluded that what needs revamping the most is actually just my life. Seriously. I need to become a completely different person, place myself in completely different circumstances, and do completely different things. Chances are, I would still be unhappy, but at least I would know that I just have problems, and that isn't going to change.

The fact of the matter is, although some days I may be happy, and some times of days are better than others, what I pretty much look forward to most in every day is...sleeping. And I recognize that this is pathetic, but I can't actually change it. We all (us juniors) have turned into some kind of robot species that goes to school, goes to sports practice (possibly), and does homework. And eats (sometimes), and sleeps (sometimes). It's really depressing, actually.

Now recognize when I say this that I am not actually depressed. That's right folks, ignore the emo colors of this blog and the fact that I write depressing poetry. At this exact moment in time, I am not depressed. However, my situation, and the situation of all of us (who read this blog regularly, maybe) is depressing. It is bleak, and the light at the end of the tunnel doesn't actually exist. I actually live my life knowing that I think it's bad now, but it can always get worse. And it will, next year. And next year isn't as bad as the year after that. And so on...

So, comment and tell me what you recommend I do, other than kill myself, because I have already deemed that it is not practical for me to do that at this particular time. Maybe I'm the only one who thinks that I lead a pathetic life, but chances are that's not true...it would, in a somewhat perverse way, make me feel better to know that others feel the same way.

Loves to all of you....

The Way Home

This is a story I wrote for Englilsh, for our short story assignment. I don't really like it, because I didn't really know where to go with it, but there are parts of it that I do like, mostly the parts that aren't really to do with the plot. Even though there isn't really a plot. I don't really like the topic I chose either, because I think it's been kind of exhausted, but I couldn't come up with anything, so whatever. Anyways, read and enjoy (and comment)!

The Way Home

There are many ways to think of the way home. There is the bus ride towards your abode during which you can take notice of the arpeggios of your iTunes library, or the separated, filtered rays of the sunlight of Seattle. There is perhaps a mile long walk towards your neighborhood, which you travel daily without fail to step on each crack in the sidewalk and appreciate the leaves from trees you do not know the name of, or wishing for the comfort of a vehicle when the weather turns against you and there is snow melting through your canvas shoes. There is the travel of an plane that returns you to the country from whence you came, and in return for a small fortune you can enjoy the same B-rated movie as many times as the 18-hour journey allows you to. And perhaps when you reach your destination you can enjoy forcing your body to conform to the opposite of what it has been doing, eating and sleeping 12 hours in advance.

This is not the story of a bus ride, nor does it tell of me walking the mile towards my house. This story involves an 18-hour plane ride, but it is not the story of the plane. It is not the story told by the B-movies that I have seen 6 times in a row. This is the story of a homecoming, of the realization of a homeland, and of a culture that seeped its way into a body like the wet seeps into canvas shoes. There is some question as to what is a culture, so perhaps I should define what I mean. For me, my culture is defined by tradition, ritual, religion, family, country, and everything else that is a part of where you come from. In a melting pot country as America, culture is perhaps lost in the larger scheme of things, or maybe molded into a larger culture that has many smaller parts of culture from the many countries of contribution.

On a plane ride towards a country you have heard stories of, but never seen, the mind cannot help but jump to conclusions. I first saw in my mind the India of Bollywood films, with mansions the size of palaces and people in rich, brightly colored clothing dancing in the street. Then, I saw the India of foreign portrayal, of children with swollen stomachs begging for paise, and simply more people than the country could hold. In between showings of Hidalgo, I imagined myself being confronted by my large extended family at the Bangalore airport, all waving madly and giving me the famous sideways Indian head nod that makes it impossible for the inexperienced individual to distinguish yes and no. I could see myself not understanding the rapid language that I had not heard around me since I was four or five. To put it simply, the concept of India was large, foreign, and frightening, with all the pull of a magnet drawn to its opposite charge.

Walking through the streets of the country I had never seen, which was one and the same as the country that had given me my life, I found what a homeland meant. It meant not being different from those around you, not being a foreigner or an immigrant, not looking like you don’t belong. I also found what my homeland was. It was not the India of Bollywood movies, nor was it the India of Slumdog Millionaire, it was India as I chose to see it, and that made all the difference. I had created myself a country in my mind, and now the country was responsible for breaking those barriers that had been formed between us.

Regardless of the fact that I didn’t know what to expect, the minute I stepped off of the plane that had been my home for two days, I felt a warmth inside of me, a knowing feeling that said this is it. There is a time when everyone recognizes themselves, and for me, it was when I saw 13 members of my extended family grinning madly at me from beyond the security checkpoint. It was the moment that I knew that there was no hiding place from a country that had been tattooed into the insides of my body, that exudes from my very being as a scent, a feel, a look. It was a realization that there really was no barriers between me and my homeland, only illusions that had been created by expectations and fears.

Once safely past the mob of potential taxi drivers and the drive home at breakneck speed amidst parking-lot-traffic, there was finally enough time to contemplate this country that had captured my heart, and yet I felt so strange in. There was a mood of casual disregard that was present in the faces and the actions of every native of India, the open friendliness and innocence that I could see everywhere I turned touched my heart, and gave me the feeling of pride I needed. It was a prize that had been given to me by my country. The generosity and welcome that I found in the Indian people made me know them, made them my countrymen, and gave me the knowledge that I was where I belonged.

The conflict that I had known all my life was resolved, the world righted itself to a position in which I could see how it was possible to belong to two different places. One was a house, and the other was home. One was the product of a bus ride or walk towards a neighborhood in which I reside, the other was a country with a pull so powerful that it brought me halfway across the world but made me feel at home. A culture that had wound its way around me and felt like an embrace, not a restriction, was now simply a part of my being, and the ties that bound me to my country were not to be severed. I had found the way home.

Kaleidoscope

I writed a story! Finally! It's not a very long story, but nonetheless, a story it is. I just realized that the word nonetheless is actually none the less. Wow, I'm cool. I'm also high, apparently. Read my story, it's about being high!

***

He meets her outside the lair in which she resides, blowing smoke rings and seeing upside-down kaleidoscopes. She has created a world for herself, from imagining things where they are not, where they should not be, and hearing only the inhale, exhale of the variety of take-me-away’s she has concocted for herself.

It is the imagination cocktail, and he didn’t care what he was selling to her until she doesn’t come to the door of her den, and so he knocks, and the door opens, and he enters. What else can you do?

She is spread across three beanbags, the only furniture in the room, and if her chest wasn’t consistently rising and falling, in a serene way that reminds him of the beach, he would swear that her glazed-over eyes are a surefire way to tell that she’s dead.

He approaches her and waves a hand back and forth in front of her face, until the world turns sideways and he finds himself on the ground, with hands clutching his throat and a girl straddling him, still blowing green-blue smoke into his face.

He coughs and sputters until she lets go. When he can stand up, he runs. That’s what he should have done. Instead he waits, leaning against the wall, until she is sitting in one of the three beanbags, waiting for him.

He takes out the package, with her name on it, and offers it to her. She holds out her hand, but he shakes his head and silently asks for money. It is over. She has none. She grabs for the package but he has already returned it to the lining of his coat. For a second, he looks into her tired and finished eyes, and almost feels sorry enough to allow herself to return to her created world, but he turns away and comforts himself. It’s better for her this way.

Of course he knows the pain she will suffer for the next few days. It is the pain of losing your life source, losing your sanity, and really, it feels like you are losing everything. He knows, he has felt it, until he was weak enough to return to begging for life, and that’s what brought him here. He needs this money, because he needs his life.

Halfway out the door, he feels sorry again. Really, it isn’t her fault. Maybe it used to be, but it isn’t now. He thinks about the money, and he thinks of what else he needs.

A few gasping shudders and bruising caresses later, she is panting heavily on the beanbag with purple sprouting up along her neck, and he is tugging up the zipper on his jeans. He nods, leaves the package on another beanbag, and suddenly feels the compressing tightness, a need to escape the smoke filled room and the girl with the glazed eyes.

She returns to her world, and forgets about the incident of the boy who came to deliver the package and left with something more. But later, many years later, he is sorry.

A Pillow Book

Since I cross-advertise for myself on all my different accounts, here is the deal. I have started a pillow book on fictionpress.

def. Pillow book: A collection of random musings and observations, kind of like a diary/journal except less structured. Basically, it translates from a book that one would keep under their pillow to record their thoughts.

Clearly, I don't keep my laptop under my pillow, so this isn't a true pillow book. But, it is a pillow book all the same. It's a lot more personal for me to write, because there are no lies in my pillow book. It isn't a story, it's really my thoughts, without hiding behind any kind of character.

Since it's basically a collection of little blurbs, with no true skill involved in the writing, I am not going to post my pillow book here on my blog, mostly because it will be updated almost every day, and none of you want to read my thoughts every single day. Seriously, you might think you do, but you don't.

BUT, if you are interested, there is a link (clicky clicky) right next to this post to my fictionpress page, where you can read my pillow book. You can leave reviews there as well, I don't think you have to have an account to do it. If you do, and don't want to get one, feel free to comment here.

Last but not least, in case you are blind/don't read summaries the pillow book is titled "may lightning strike me". Enjoy!

I was asked by somebody to write a poem for their website about animal rights. I put it off for as long as possible, because it's not a very poetry-inspiring topic, if you know what I mean. But anyways, eventually I felt bad enough that I just gave up and wrote it. It's not one of my favorites, but I guess it isn't as bad as it could be.

White horse runs before his legs are broken
And he falls, with crooked hooves that are put into
Your gummy bears for your pleasure, sir
Please bite the heads off slowly so that you can
Get your full satisfaction, as white horse falls.

You are savage, animalistic, unnatural but only
Nature knows that you were not meant for this
For tear-free products in your eyes, but they don’t work
Because the tears are there, you can feel them.

Please enjoy your filet mignon, as long as you can
Pronounce the name that to me still means dead,
Not elegance, rich, expensive, or any of those other
Descriptions, code words, disguisers that only tell
You that you are dead meat.

As a side note, the first stanza or whatever refers to how some types of gelatin are made from hooves of various animals (doesn't that make you feel great?). Obviously it's kind of a one-sided, angry poem, but whatever, I'm vegetarian, get over it. Basically, I posted it here half because I post almost everything I write here (except for fanfiction), and half because when I showed it to my mom, she said "What?". Which was extremely discouraging as a writer, and is much of the reason why I don't show her most of the stuff I write, along with the fact that most of things I write involve copious amounts of swearing, references to sexuality, and references to suicide, which would freak her out. But it kind of made me mad that she couldn't understand the fact that it was a POEM, not like, prose or something that would be insanely clear and easy to understand. It's abstract, okay? It's not supposed to be like, "Oh, I want to get this message across and so here it is." No, that's why we write poetry, because we express ourselves in ways that don't have to be understood. Okay, I'm done ranting now.

Insecurity

Written as somewhat of a sequel to Supernova...doesn't really make sense, but whatever.

We are the learners, we are the forgetters, we are the forgotten. We are the paradox, the read between the lines, the confused, the confusing. We are the strivers, we are the achievers, we are the imperfect. But most of all, we are the uncertain. Insecurity is a trick played on us by our own eyes, we trust no one, but we trust ourselves, and this was the one mistake. This was the apple that Eve saw, that she bit, that she dropped, she fell. This was the curse, this is our curse, and trust is a multi-faceted craze of passion that ends in nothingness.