Hate to break it to y'all, but here's a bit of not-so-great to break up what's hopefully a wonderful holiday season:
As of now, there will be no new writer on Southern Ineloquence.
As much as I wanted to mix it up with someone fresh and interesting, I didn't get any applications that were anything close to what I was looking for.
Yep, I know - the disappointment is nearly crushing.
But before you let the elephant that's come to perch on your chest crush all the air out of your lungs (not to mention break your ribs, yeesh), here's some good news to restore your holiday cheer:
Because I have yet to receive an application with the potential to set off your warm fuzzies, I'm extending the deadline indefinitely.
That's right. If you think you've got the stuff, send it in. I'll be waiting, and so will all the other readers. Come be a part of something you really enjoy.
12/25/11
12/21/11
A Memory
I walk down the street with my head held high, gliding in high heels and perfect make up. I wear a serene half-smile on my face, making little nods and curtsies to passerby I may or may not know. A young man leaning against a wall cracks a joke in my direction, flicking the ash from the end of his cigarette.
"Where you goin' lookin' so pretty, girl?"
I turn and walk backwards for a moment, laughing as I reply, arms stretched wide in an invitation to the world: "Why, anywhere and everywhere I can go, good sir!"
He grins back at me and nods. "You alright, girl, you alright."
I continue along my way, feeling expansive and connected to everyone I pass, touching lives with my high-heeled glide and half-smile.
But I am fundamentally, painfully, alone.
It is not, I think, that I do not play well with others. To the contrary, my boss when I worked at a small short-order restaurant praised me for my ability to train new employees and my coworkers often commented to each other about how much "the customers love her!"
Rather, I believe this isolation to be a result of the transience of the connections I forge. While I may exchange jovial snark with the young man smoking at the edge of the sidewalk, I will never get his phone number. I will not see him again.
I do not dig into the abundance of small ways I influence others. I do not try to pull them into the broader scope of my life. I continue down the sidewalk, sassy, sweet, and solitary.
In many ways, I am little more than a bright, shiny, memory.
"Where you goin' lookin' so pretty, girl?"
I turn and walk backwards for a moment, laughing as I reply, arms stretched wide in an invitation to the world: "Why, anywhere and everywhere I can go, good sir!"
He grins back at me and nods. "You alright, girl, you alright."
I continue along my way, feeling expansive and connected to everyone I pass, touching lives with my high-heeled glide and half-smile.
But I am fundamentally, painfully, alone.
It is not, I think, that I do not play well with others. To the contrary, my boss when I worked at a small short-order restaurant praised me for my ability to train new employees and my coworkers often commented to each other about how much "the customers love her!"
Rather, I believe this isolation to be a result of the transience of the connections I forge. While I may exchange jovial snark with the young man smoking at the edge of the sidewalk, I will never get his phone number. I will not see him again.
I do not dig into the abundance of small ways I influence others. I do not try to pull them into the broader scope of my life. I continue down the sidewalk, sassy, sweet, and solitary.
In many ways, I am little more than a bright, shiny, memory.
12/12/11
Change for the Better
I paint my face in the colors of pretend, claiming this isn't the beginning; this is the end. I am unfortunate enough to make that reality, because we manifest what we believe.
I gave myself almost completely only once - just once, and that was because I knew I had to leave. Truth is, I'm scared that I'll be alone always, and when I walk in the streets, all the passers-by will see. So I paint on the mask and I keep a safe distance, so I won't lose control and be devastated when no one shows up for tea.
The irony is that I want to reach out and dance with the people, laugh with them and be glad we're alive. The only thing stopping me is really quite silly; I want me to stop sabotaging me. I want to scrape all the paint off and close the distance, forget my control and my fears. I'll be alone always if I can't learn to let the beginning begin and the end be elsewhere entirely.
So, help me wash my face with the waters of reality, give myself completely, stride through the streets, forget about distance, and not care who shows up for tea. I want to reach out and dance with you, laugh with you and be glad we're alive. I want you to be different from all the others before - I want to change for the better for you.
I gave myself almost completely only once - just once, and that was because I knew I had to leave. Truth is, I'm scared that I'll be alone always, and when I walk in the streets, all the passers-by will see. So I paint on the mask and I keep a safe distance, so I won't lose control and be devastated when no one shows up for tea.
The irony is that I want to reach out and dance with the people, laugh with them and be glad we're alive. The only thing stopping me is really quite silly; I want me to stop sabotaging me. I want to scrape all the paint off and close the distance, forget my control and my fears. I'll be alone always if I can't learn to let the beginning begin and the end be elsewhere entirely.
So, help me wash my face with the waters of reality, give myself completely, stride through the streets, forget about distance, and not care who shows up for tea. I want to reach out and dance with you, laugh with you and be glad we're alive. I want you to be different from all the others before - I want to change for the better for you.
12/5/11
From Beneath You
Sometimes you fall down the rabbit hole. No real reason for it - logic just crumbles from underneath you and then you're tumbling, blue silk skirt over your head, into the maw of emotion. From beneath you, it devours.
I am strange. I know it. I always have. I've never really been moved to change it.
I am alone. I know it. I always have, no matter how I sometimes wish that I didn't know, or that I could change it.
Sometimes you fall down the rabbit hole. It doesn't make any sense, but that's the nature of the beast. One moment, you're perfectly normal, wearing a pretty blue silk skirt, laughing and talking with everyone else at the party. The next moment, everything you relied on is inexplicably gone, leaving you blind, with no idea what's happening or why, only aware that you're falling and must eventually land.
From beneath you, it devours.
I am strange. I know it. I always have. I've never really been moved to change it.
I am alone. I know it. I always have, no matter how I sometimes wish that I didn't know, or that I could change it.
Sometimes you fall down the rabbit hole. It doesn't make any sense, but that's the nature of the beast. One moment, you're perfectly normal, wearing a pretty blue silk skirt, laughing and talking with everyone else at the party. The next moment, everything you relied on is inexplicably gone, leaving you blind, with no idea what's happening or why, only aware that you're falling and must eventually land.
From beneath you, it devours.
11/20/11
The Belters
There are some artists, usually female and robust, that I buy exclusively so that I can sing along to their music while driving in my car.
The attraction is not that I particularly care for their lyrics. And the attraction is not that I like their sound. Usually, I find the subject matter insipid and the instrumental backing to be washed out and uninspired. (Oh no! He broke my heart and I had to leave him to the sound of righteous piano and gentle guitars! And if he ever comes near me again, we might have to get some bass in this piece!)
No, the attraction is that I am quite jealous of these singers' vocal abilities and wish to improve my own by seeing if I can hit the same notes and sustain them for the same unholy number of beats and make it sound somewhat passable.
Of course, it probably sounds more like I'm repeatedly stabbing a cat with a sharpened shard of bone than like I'm the next Sara Bareilles, but back off. I have the right to sound awful while driving in my car, regardless of whoever else is with me!
Over the past years, I have accumulated quite a few musical selections by these "Belters." My iPod, in addition to my beloved Anberlin and Fall Out Boy, now contains albums by divas whose main selling points are their high notes, such as Kelly Clarkson, Adele, Colbie Caillat, and Brandi Carlile. Indeed, my library is inundated with throaty voices and subjects I just don't care about.
But that's okay. It's not like I'm actually repeatedly shanking a helpless kitten. It's only my passengers' ears.
The attraction is not that I particularly care for their lyrics. And the attraction is not that I like their sound. Usually, I find the subject matter insipid and the instrumental backing to be washed out and uninspired. (Oh no! He broke my heart and I had to leave him to the sound of righteous piano and gentle guitars! And if he ever comes near me again, we might have to get some bass in this piece!)
No, the attraction is that I am quite jealous of these singers' vocal abilities and wish to improve my own by seeing if I can hit the same notes and sustain them for the same unholy number of beats and make it sound somewhat passable.
Of course, it probably sounds more like I'm repeatedly stabbing a cat with a sharpened shard of bone than like I'm the next Sara Bareilles, but back off. I have the right to sound awful while driving in my car, regardless of whoever else is with me!
Over the past years, I have accumulated quite a few musical selections by these "Belters." My iPod, in addition to my beloved Anberlin and Fall Out Boy, now contains albums by divas whose main selling points are their high notes, such as Kelly Clarkson, Adele, Colbie Caillat, and Brandi Carlile. Indeed, my library is inundated with throaty voices and subjects I just don't care about.
But that's okay. It's not like I'm actually repeatedly shanking a helpless kitten. It's only my passengers' ears.
11/12/11
In the World of SD....
Good news! Steward House finally saw fit to post the contest winnings for September, and "Reparamus" was the winning (only) piece. I am proud of it, although I am utterly ambivalent about the review it received.
Furthermore, Keayva Mitchell continues to astound me (and Steward House) with her literary prowess. That girl's voice is one of the most entertaining I've had the pleasure of reading lately, and considering how much I read (incorrigible book slut, that's me), that's not a compliment to discount. Check out her latest winnings (yes, plural) here. Warning: Keayva is not for those who don't care to think. Then again, I'm not for people who don't care to think either, so I suppose you're in the right place.
Ordinary news! Due to the fact that my body is disintegrating around my mind, I am having difficulty keeping my creative juices flowing as they have been this past year. I simply do not have enough mind to spare to deal with school, dance, blog posts, poetry, Pluck the Petals From a Daisy, and the Never Ending Migraine (like the Never Ending Story, but less entertaining). Therefore, I will be directing any creativity toward my beloved Carnelia Bellis. That is not to say that I will not be posting at all; I will simply not be posting frequently. However, Carnelia Bellis sends her greetings from my flashdrive, and hopes to be greeting you from bookstore shelves within the next three years. Wish her luck.
However, I am looking to expand this blog. I want you (my adored readers) to have something new, different, and entertaining to read. In short, I am looking for another writer to post here. If you write, and think that your prose pieces are any combination of witty, philosophical, beautiful, clever, lyrical, sassy, sardonic, and entertaining, and if you are willing to post here for (limited) recognition, my (oven-fresh cookie caliber) gratitude, my (relatively meaningless) endorsement of your work, and your own satisfaction, here's what you need to do:
As I receive applications, I will respond to them with an "I might be interested and here's why; let's talk about the possibilities" or an "I'm not interested and here's why; thank you so much for applying." At a minimum, you will get some detailed feedback on your work and some love for being a writer.
I will stop accepting applications on Dec. 20, 2011. I will announce the new writer (or writers, who knows?) on Dec. 25, 2011, and Southern Ineloquence will ring in 2012 with a new addition.
Oh, and you need not be southern to apply. ;)
I look forward to hearing from y'all.
Furthermore, Keayva Mitchell continues to astound me (and Steward House) with her literary prowess. That girl's voice is one of the most entertaining I've had the pleasure of reading lately, and considering how much I read (incorrigible book slut, that's me), that's not a compliment to discount. Check out her latest winnings (yes, plural) here. Warning: Keayva is not for those who don't care to think. Then again, I'm not for people who don't care to think either, so I suppose you're in the right place.
Ordinary news! Due to the fact that my body is disintegrating around my mind, I am having difficulty keeping my creative juices flowing as they have been this past year. I simply do not have enough mind to spare to deal with school, dance, blog posts, poetry, Pluck the Petals From a Daisy, and the Never Ending Migraine (like the Never Ending Story, but less entertaining). Therefore, I will be directing any creativity toward my beloved Carnelia Bellis. That is not to say that I will not be posting at all; I will simply not be posting frequently. However, Carnelia Bellis sends her greetings from my flashdrive, and hopes to be greeting you from bookstore shelves within the next three years. Wish her luck.
However, I am looking to expand this blog. I want you (my adored readers) to have something new, different, and entertaining to read. In short, I am looking for another writer to post here. If you write, and think that your prose pieces are any combination of witty, philosophical, beautiful, clever, lyrical, sassy, sardonic, and entertaining, and if you are willing to post here for (limited) recognition, my (oven-fresh cookie caliber) gratitude, my (relatively meaningless) endorsement of your work, and your own satisfaction, here's what you need to do:
- Choose a poetic vignette, a philosophical rambling, a brief essay, or a review of a literary work.
- Choose a short story.
- Choose a clever moniker (eg, Southern Darling) that you would want to post under.
As I receive applications, I will respond to them with an "I might be interested and here's why; let's talk about the possibilities" or an "I'm not interested and here's why; thank you so much for applying." At a minimum, you will get some detailed feedback on your work and some love for being a writer.
I will stop accepting applications on Dec. 20, 2011. I will announce the new writer (or writers, who knows?) on Dec. 25, 2011, and Southern Ineloquence will ring in 2012 with a new addition.
Oh, and you need not be southern to apply. ;)
I look forward to hearing from y'all.
11/5/11
Interlude
I hope you can feel how much I want you right now.
Yes, you're far away, probably distracted, more concerned with thoughts of your studies than with thoughts of me.
All the same, I hope you can feel the dangerous tilt to my head, the slight arch to my back, and the lazy, predatory caress of my gaze through the miles that separate us. I am deadly and vulnerable and you - beautiful and strong as you are -
You are mine.
So put down your pencil. Turn away from your desk. Sit back in your chair.
Bury your hands in my hair as I wrap one hand around the back of your neck and pull you into an entangling, branding, devouring, beseeching, exposing kiss.
Realize that I am not really there, although I still want you, still think of you, still miss you.
Turn back to your desk.
Carry on.
Yes, you're far away, probably distracted, more concerned with thoughts of your studies than with thoughts of me.
All the same, I hope you can feel the dangerous tilt to my head, the slight arch to my back, and the lazy, predatory caress of my gaze through the miles that separate us. I am deadly and vulnerable and you - beautiful and strong as you are -
You are mine.
So put down your pencil. Turn away from your desk. Sit back in your chair.
Bury your hands in my hair as I wrap one hand around the back of your neck and pull you into an entangling, branding, devouring, beseeching, exposing kiss.
Realize that I am not really there, although I still want you, still think of you, still miss you.
Turn back to your desk.
Carry on.
10/24/11
Quantification
How does one quantify the human spirit?
I assure you that our lack of success cannot be contributed, as many other things can be, to a lack of effort. We've number-crunched through months of dark, fluorescent nights and a good few sunny afternoons, and we've yet to come up with a defined number.
Hell, not so much as the mythical 42. We'd settle for that silliness at this point, so long as we arrived at that conclusion through legal mathematical means.
But, worry not, fellow Rationalists! We will not cease until we've figured it out, eradicated the mysteries of life and humanity, and put a number on that which has no relation to numerals.
I assure you that our lack of success cannot be contributed, as many other things can be, to a lack of effort. We've number-crunched through months of dark, fluorescent nights and a good few sunny afternoons, and we've yet to come up with a defined number.
Hell, not so much as the mythical 42. We'd settle for that silliness at this point, so long as we arrived at that conclusion through legal mathematical means.
But, worry not, fellow Rationalists! We will not cease until we've figured it out, eradicated the mysteries of life and humanity, and put a number on that which has no relation to numerals.
10/20/11
The Powers That Be
Our machinations make us deities - or at least are designed with that purpose in mind. We research, we notate, we synthesize, and, ultimately, we create.
But once it's all there, a plan on paper, we realize, once again, that while the creation is indubitably magnificent (or maybe just a piece of crap that we're slightly embarrassed of), we, the creators, are only human. The day has been long, and we are tired and spent.
We abandon our creation, our plan, our machination, leaving the paper fluttering against the grainy faux-wood of the table, and throw ourselves, exhausted, into bed. We are not omniscient, for all we know, as our heads sink into the pillow, is that a moment (of some variety) has passed.
Our eyes flutter closed, eyelashes resting, like the pull-tabs of blinds, against the sills of our cheeks. From there, we sleep.
But once it's all there, a plan on paper, we realize, once again, that while the creation is indubitably magnificent (or maybe just a piece of crap that we're slightly embarrassed of), we, the creators, are only human. The day has been long, and we are tired and spent.
We abandon our creation, our plan, our machination, leaving the paper fluttering against the grainy faux-wood of the table, and throw ourselves, exhausted, into bed. We are not omniscient, for all we know, as our heads sink into the pillow, is that a moment (of some variety) has passed.
Our eyes flutter closed, eyelashes resting, like the pull-tabs of blinds, against the sills of our cheeks. From there, we sleep.
10/8/11
Fake It for the Crickets
I can't guarantee that I'll go anywhere, but I can guarantee that I look the part. My clothes scream style, my shoes whisper sex, and my make up exudes sparkle. I'm a star, baby!
(The label on my silver lipstick says so.)
Oh, yes - I can fake it endlessly, idling along until I make it. (I'm sure that'll be some day soon.)
So what, I'm sitting in a corner, in the dark, all alone, scribbling instead of socializing? I look amazing, so I'm sure the situation will rectify itself. (I do self-delusion almost as well as I do sarcasm.)
I'm not going anywhere beyond this bench. Not tonight. Damn straight, I look about six times sexier than your average club bunny, but that does me no good in this silent, secluded park.
(Whoops, I forgot about the crickets.)
(The label on my silver lipstick says so.)
Oh, yes - I can fake it endlessly, idling along until I make it. (I'm sure that'll be some day soon.)
So what, I'm sitting in a corner, in the dark, all alone, scribbling instead of socializing? I look amazing, so I'm sure the situation will rectify itself. (I do self-delusion almost as well as I do sarcasm.)
I'm not going anywhere beyond this bench. Not tonight. Damn straight, I look about six times sexier than your average club bunny, but that does me no good in this silent, secluded park.
(Whoops, I forgot about the crickets.)
10/6/11
A Tribute to Irony
Irony is cruel, but she's all I've got, not least because she's jealous. She's the voice narrating life in the back of my head, insisting upon pointing out the flaws in anything that's said. ("If P then Q, but isn't it funny how it applies to you?") Everything runs in loops and she likes to trace them on my skin - even if I could forgive, she makes it impossible to forget.
She's pain and pleasure all at once, and she likes few facts better. Duality is her best friend; Contradiction is just her mother.
Irony is cruel, and I'm repeating myself, but she's as amusing as any I know. I might very well cry when she cracks a joke, but I'll wind up laughing after. Irony's the voice in the back of my head, mingling pain and pleasure.
She's pain and pleasure all at once, and she likes few facts better. Duality is her best friend; Contradiction is just her mother.
Irony is cruel, and I'm repeating myself, but she's as amusing as any I know. I might very well cry when she cracks a joke, but I'll wind up laughing after. Irony's the voice in the back of my head, mingling pain and pleasure.
Snow Patrol, You, and I
I could be happy, and you wouldn't know. It's crazy to think, but it's still so. You were never mine, so I had to go. And now that I'm happy, you'll never know.
Let's drift in silence: I've cut the line. I miss you, but that's just fine. I know for certain that I read the signs. It's for the best; you were never mine.
Life goes on and it gets so crazy. I intentionally make memories of you hazy. The future without you will be amazing. I'm better without you - breathtakingly extraordinary.
I am happy, I want you to know. In a way, yes, I'm thumbing my nose. As time has gone on, the petals fell off our rose. But I am happy, and now you know.
Let's drift in silence: I've cut the line. I miss you, but that's just fine. I know for certain that I read the signs. It's for the best; you were never mine.
Life goes on and it gets so crazy. I intentionally make memories of you hazy. The future without you will be amazing. I'm better without you - breathtakingly extraordinary.
I am happy, I want you to know. In a way, yes, I'm thumbing my nose. As time has gone on, the petals fell off our rose. But I am happy, and now you know.
10/3/11
The Woman in Red
You were beautiful - every feature that of the femme fatale. Magickal green eyes peered beyond sooty lashes, and lips gleamed in the strobe lights, parting to show teeth that could no doubt bite - draw scarlet and sensuality simultaneously.
You were erotic - so certain of your power. You swayed slowly past in candy-red heels, absolutely unshakable. You smiled at me and other strangers with a lazy aplomb that acknowledged that everyone wanted to know you - biblically, or just your name to whisper, prayer-like, into a bundle of red silk and black lace.
More than anything else, you were strong.
On any other woman, the red would be too much, drowning her in sex and rendering her blushing, scarlet and scared. But lust cannot own you as it would own any other woman. You stand too tall and leash it too firmly to your purposes - you make lust a dealer in human flesh that simperingly offers you willing slaves wherever you go. You let others be weak, and wear your red like a hawk wears her feathers.
You were erotic - so certain of your power. You swayed slowly past in candy-red heels, absolutely unshakable. You smiled at me and other strangers with a lazy aplomb that acknowledged that everyone wanted to know you - biblically, or just your name to whisper, prayer-like, into a bundle of red silk and black lace.
More than anything else, you were strong.
On any other woman, the red would be too much, drowning her in sex and rendering her blushing, scarlet and scared. But lust cannot own you as it would own any other woman. You stand too tall and leash it too firmly to your purposes - you make lust a dealer in human flesh that simperingly offers you willing slaves wherever you go. You let others be weak, and wear your red like a hawk wears her feathers.
10/1/11
The Joke
The joke, ultimately, is on you.
The music pulses through my body, and I know that with every spark of the strobe light that someone sees me. I am beautiful and dangerous, a series of orange sparkles draped in red silk and black lace.
As I stride deeper into the club, I move as much in time with my sensuality as with the bass-line.
Oh, the joke's on you, alright.
I barely have time to set my purse on a table before a hand is extended in front of my face, the palm up in an offering.
I do not so much as glance at the man's face before settling my hand in his, accepting his silent proposition to dance. It does not matter whom he is.
The beat belongs to a meringue, and I quickly lose myself in the motion of hips, knees, chest, feet. In the custom of club dancers who have nothing in common beyond location and tempo, my partner and I dance neck to neck, nearly joined together at the hips, but facing opposite directions in a bid to avoid intimacy. Never mind that we move together, breathe together, blend together - the first dance is not meant for intensity.
The crowd ebbs and flows around me, tides to the moon of the music's pulse. With the intricacy of currents, people move in and out of each other, momentarily dominating through the force of flashy tricks or through sheer personality. The strobe lights provide temporary spotlights for all, showing off the skill and sass of those on the dance floor. I glory in the mass of living, in the anonymity and in the sparkling, evanescent fame.
I am dancing with a man without a name and only the shadow of a face, buoyed by the beat and by the dance, and the joke is on you.
The meringue is almost over when I catch sight of him. What alerts me to his presence is a motion, like so many others in the crowd - a simple adaptation of a salsa 360 to the meringue beat. It's strong, short, and sparkly, sending his partner whirling into earthbound flight.
What holds my attention is his attitude. Tonight, I am a bundle of orange sparkles swathed with the sensuality of red silk and the danger of black lace. Tonight, he is a solid streak of blue emanating yellow light. We are both burning hot, near to igniting.
His eyes meet mine in a pulse of strobe light. Heat flares across the floor, a promise. The next measure turns us away from each other, but I know that I am marked.
We will dance together tonight, with all the intricacy, intimacy, and intensity that this first dance is denied. We will burst into flame in an ocean of anonymous dark.
The joke is cruel, and it is on you.
I smile grimly to myself, feeling the implied points to my teeth as the song fades into another and I disengage my inconsequential partner, moving with all the sexual power of my personality across the room. I glitter darkly as this new man presses a kiss to the back of my hand.
"A pleasure," he says, pulling me into closed position so that he can pour his voice into my ear.
My face is next to his, and I do not turn away, letting eye-contact burn between us, striking sparks into the darkened club.
"Enchantée," I purr back.
After that, there was no need to say more, the crackle of flames consuming the scene.
(The joke, you see, is on you.)
The music pulses through my body, and I know that with every spark of the strobe light that someone sees me. I am beautiful and dangerous, a series of orange sparkles draped in red silk and black lace.
As I stride deeper into the club, I move as much in time with my sensuality as with the bass-line.
Oh, the joke's on you, alright.
I barely have time to set my purse on a table before a hand is extended in front of my face, the palm up in an offering.
I do not so much as glance at the man's face before settling my hand in his, accepting his silent proposition to dance. It does not matter whom he is.
The beat belongs to a meringue, and I quickly lose myself in the motion of hips, knees, chest, feet. In the custom of club dancers who have nothing in common beyond location and tempo, my partner and I dance neck to neck, nearly joined together at the hips, but facing opposite directions in a bid to avoid intimacy. Never mind that we move together, breathe together, blend together - the first dance is not meant for intensity.
The crowd ebbs and flows around me, tides to the moon of the music's pulse. With the intricacy of currents, people move in and out of each other, momentarily dominating through the force of flashy tricks or through sheer personality. The strobe lights provide temporary spotlights for all, showing off the skill and sass of those on the dance floor. I glory in the mass of living, in the anonymity and in the sparkling, evanescent fame.
I am dancing with a man without a name and only the shadow of a face, buoyed by the beat and by the dance, and the joke is on you.
The meringue is almost over when I catch sight of him. What alerts me to his presence is a motion, like so many others in the crowd - a simple adaptation of a salsa 360 to the meringue beat. It's strong, short, and sparkly, sending his partner whirling into earthbound flight.
What holds my attention is his attitude. Tonight, I am a bundle of orange sparkles swathed with the sensuality of red silk and the danger of black lace. Tonight, he is a solid streak of blue emanating yellow light. We are both burning hot, near to igniting.
His eyes meet mine in a pulse of strobe light. Heat flares across the floor, a promise. The next measure turns us away from each other, but I know that I am marked.
We will dance together tonight, with all the intricacy, intimacy, and intensity that this first dance is denied. We will burst into flame in an ocean of anonymous dark.
The joke is cruel, and it is on you.
I smile grimly to myself, feeling the implied points to my teeth as the song fades into another and I disengage my inconsequential partner, moving with all the sexual power of my personality across the room. I glitter darkly as this new man presses a kiss to the back of my hand.
"A pleasure," he says, pulling me into closed position so that he can pour his voice into my ear.
My face is next to his, and I do not turn away, letting eye-contact burn between us, striking sparks into the darkened club.
"Enchantée," I purr back.
After that, there was no need to say more, the crackle of flames consuming the scene.
(The joke, you see, is on you.)
9/28/11
Drives
My drive to write is far stronger than my subject matter. Irony is not a great device for recounting days filled with nothing. The practice of making the ordinary seem interesting is an art form I practice only sporadically.
What do you say when it all seems the same?
I cut myself emotionally every time I look back, undermining my drive to move on. I have to accept that the past will not change, and the present will only ever offer up possibilities that I make for myself. So, new rule: no more looking back. I am tired of bleeding.
It's not all the same, however much it may sometimes seem like it. We talk of circles as though they're inescapable (and maybe that's true), but it doesn't mean we can't introduce something new. The ordinary is as interesting as I decide it should be, and infinity fills my days. (The greatest irony of all is that nothing and everything are the same.)
No more looking back. My drive to write and my drive to move on prove that I am strong.
What do you say when it all seems the same?
I cut myself emotionally every time I look back, undermining my drive to move on. I have to accept that the past will not change, and the present will only ever offer up possibilities that I make for myself. So, new rule: no more looking back. I am tired of bleeding.
It's not all the same, however much it may sometimes seem like it. We talk of circles as though they're inescapable (and maybe that's true), but it doesn't mean we can't introduce something new. The ordinary is as interesting as I decide it should be, and infinity fills my days. (The greatest irony of all is that nothing and everything are the same.)
No more looking back. My drive to write and my drive to move on prove that I am strong.
9/22/11
"Progress"
Caution is the catchphrase, but that does not mean that there should be no progress. I want things to move forward, albeit with all eyes open. I like to have things happen. I find it exciting. Movement is growth, what life is all about.
I guess what I really want is a romance. Nothing I've done before - this flirtation should be fresh.
Am I really the sort of girl who plays with hearts for her entertainment? Evidently so.
It's not fair to play with his heart, then. I have no wish to break either of us, or anyone else. And that's what it would come to - a whole bunch of drama.
It's interesting to note that one of my reasons for writing this is to feel as though something's happening. This is to create the illusion of progress.
Getting anywhere?
I guess what I really want is a romance. Nothing I've done before - this flirtation should be fresh.
Am I really the sort of girl who plays with hearts for her entertainment? Evidently so.
It's not fair to play with his heart, then. I have no wish to break either of us, or anyone else. And that's what it would come to - a whole bunch of drama.
It's interesting to note that one of my reasons for writing this is to feel as though something's happening. This is to create the illusion of progress.
Getting anywhere?
9/19/11
The Lines
I have long been cognizant of the fact that I will never be her, no matter how some may compare us. I do not compete with her - I refuse. What is hers is hers and what is mine is mine.
We do not cross those lines.
She will never be me. Please be cognizant of where we've drawn the lines, and leave what is hers as hers.
If something is to be mine, then you had better make damn sure that it was only ever mine.
We do not cross those lines.
She will never be me. Please be cognizant of where we've drawn the lines, and leave what is hers as hers.
If something is to be mine, then you had better make damn sure that it was only ever mine.
9/18/11
Forward
I could write the both of us backwards trying to explain the world to you, and never get much further than "woah." It's an exercise in futility.
So I won't try to explain the world, and the both of us can keep going forward.
I'm not perfect. That's easy enough to conceive. I hate playing this game, even as I admire how beautifully the rules are structured. I laugh in the face of the consequences of circumventing convention, but secret myself away in the security offered by silly social norms.
The world is the game, an intricate institution that has so many ins-and-outs, they glisten like an ice maze in the early morning sunlight. I can't explain it without turning us away from it. I fear it, but I ultimately embrace it.
Let's go forward.
So I won't try to explain the world, and the both of us can keep going forward.
I'm not perfect. That's easy enough to conceive. I hate playing this game, even as I admire how beautifully the rules are structured. I laugh in the face of the consequences of circumventing convention, but secret myself away in the security offered by silly social norms.
The world is the game, an intricate institution that has so many ins-and-outs, they glisten like an ice maze in the early morning sunlight. I can't explain it without turning us away from it. I fear it, but I ultimately embrace it.
Let's go forward.
9/13/11
Don't Step In It
All these squabbles? All this petty bitchiness, groundless disappointment, and down-turning spinning of life's wheel?
It's short term.
Most of the crap we stress about every day, like who likes who and who gets invited to what parties, isn't going to matter 20, 50, 100, 1000 years down the path.
The crap we deal with day to day is merely a series of challenges that we step carefully over and ultimately forget. But we have to step over all that crap in order to make the journey.
Yes, the squabbles, the petty bitchiness, the groundless disappointment, and the down-turning spinning of life's wheel have significance.
But crap is nothing that anyone wants on the bottom of one's shoes, so (in general) (as a rule) (for the best) -
Don't step in it.
It's short term.
Most of the crap we stress about every day, like who likes who and who gets invited to what parties, isn't going to matter 20, 50, 100, 1000 years down the path.
The crap we deal with day to day is merely a series of challenges that we step carefully over and ultimately forget. But we have to step over all that crap in order to make the journey.
Yes, the squabbles, the petty bitchiness, the groundless disappointment, and the down-turning spinning of life's wheel have significance.
But crap is nothing that anyone wants on the bottom of one's shoes, so (in general) (as a rule) (for the best) -
Don't step in it.
9/8/11
Foreign Language
You don't get it.
You don't have to.
After all, you're far away, in your own separate reality, and if I didn't know that it isn't possible, I'd say that you've forgotten about me. But it isn't possible, so I know you've merely made a choice. I speak in rhythm, but you just lie.
So, I'll pretend to understand. In a way, I actually do. Because you're far away, and I'm here, all alone. I may as well speak a foreign language, because you don't get what I'm saying.
I guess you just don't have to.
You don't have to.
After all, you're far away, in your own separate reality, and if I didn't know that it isn't possible, I'd say that you've forgotten about me. But it isn't possible, so I know you've merely made a choice. I speak in rhythm, but you just lie.
So, I'll pretend to understand. In a way, I actually do. Because you're far away, and I'm here, all alone. I may as well speak a foreign language, because you don't get what I'm saying.
I guess you just don't have to.
9/6/11
Life Gets Hard
So what?
When life gets hard, you get over it. You paste a cheesy grin on your face, and you move on. There's nothing to be gained by just letting life be hard, sitting passively and doing nothing about it.
Moving on.
When life gets hard, you get over it. You paste a cheesy grin on your face, and you move on. There's nothing to be gained by just letting life be hard, sitting passively and doing nothing about it.
Moving on.
Dud of a Daydream
Sometimes, I daydream about having absolute control over my emotions. I daydream about being a less pathetic version of Athama.
In a lot of ways, I've come to resemble the girl I once depicted.
"I am a cold, hard bitch," I warn people. (But there's the whole axiom where the more often someone feels the need to make a statement, the more one should question the veracity of that statement.)
I don't have absolute control over my emotions. I never will. And, as much as I may occasionally daydream about becoming a less pathetic version of Athama, it is a fantasy I will never actively pursue.
In a lot of ways, I've come to resemble the girl I once depicted.
"I am a cold, hard bitch," I warn people. (But there's the whole axiom where the more often someone feels the need to make a statement, the more one should question the veracity of that statement.)
I don't have absolute control over my emotions. I never will. And, as much as I may occasionally daydream about becoming a less pathetic version of Athama, it is a fantasy I will never actively pursue.
9/5/11
Where We Live
This is where we live - somewhere between the place where heartache ends and genuine joy begins, never fully entering one realm or the other. This is where our hearts beat; this is where our hearts bleed.
This is the land of melodrama, but also the land of attempted truths. We are nothing apart from what we are, and we are anything we think to be. We have no roots, but find we are rooted too deeply. Moving on would be easy if we didn't always pace.
Welcome to this tiny town, where almost everyone seems to live. Located just down from heartache and just up from genuine joy, this is where our hearts bleed; this is where our hearts beat.
This is the land of melodrama, but also the land of attempted truths. We are nothing apart from what we are, and we are anything we think to be. We have no roots, but find we are rooted too deeply. Moving on would be easy if we didn't always pace.
Welcome to this tiny town, where almost everyone seems to live. Located just down from heartache and just up from genuine joy, this is where our hearts bleed; this is where our hearts beat.
Impossible Loves
You have to understand that I just can't do this anymore. Sure, it's all good to romanticize Romeo and Juliet, but I'd like to point out that they both DIE in the end. Overcome those obstacles, rah-rah! But sometimes the end of the course is not worth all the trouble of reaching it.
So, this is it. I'm not doing this anymore. Not this you and me thing, not this me and him thing - none of it.
I am finished with impossible loves.
So, this is it. I'm not doing this anymore. Not this you and me thing, not this me and him thing - none of it.
I am finished with impossible loves.
9/1/11
Some Points about "Reparamus"
Reparamus - the first person plural present conjugation of the latin reparo. This can be translated as any of the following:
- We recover
- We retrieve
- We renew
- We restore
- We repair
- We refresh
- We revive
While this story was inspired by true events, such as a bracelet that has a lot of meaning for me, if you are reading it as a literal recounting of events, you are missing the point entirely.
8/31/11
I Do Love a Good Intrigue
My palms itch with the desire to move, to manipulate, to create. What doesn't make sense is beautiful, awkward - intriguing.
Tell me stories about all the lies you constantly tell; expect me to believe every last syllable. (But then I suppose that my belief is the best part of the whole situation, due to the delightful irony that it's what I desperately want.)
More than anything, I miss being touched. (Mind out of gutter, now.) So much as the casual brush of fingertips when passing over a pencil or a cup of tea can be enough to reassure a person that one is liked. (No one wants to be in that lowest of low castes.) Will you remind me of everything that I know myself to be?
It's beautiful in its awkwardness, so I let my palms itch with desire and I observe. I can gather information until the outcome is obvious, and in the meantime, remind myself that if I believe your lies, my conclusions will be skewed. (Never mind what I want to be true.)
Tell me stories about all the lies you constantly tell; expect me to believe every last syllable. (But then I suppose that my belief is the best part of the whole situation, due to the delightful irony that it's what I desperately want.)
More than anything, I miss being touched. (Mind out of gutter, now.) So much as the casual brush of fingertips when passing over a pencil or a cup of tea can be enough to reassure a person that one is liked. (No one wants to be in that lowest of low castes.) Will you remind me of everything that I know myself to be?
It's beautiful in its awkwardness, so I let my palms itch with desire and I observe. I can gather information until the outcome is obvious, and in the meantime, remind myself that if I believe your lies, my conclusions will be skewed. (Never mind what I want to be true.)
Daily Grind
There are days when I wish I could see the grand scheme of the world, even though the doing-so would probably make me insane.
On those days, I try a little harder to know things.
Today was not such a day, though I wanted it to be.
I want to know what all this back and forth, in and out, daily grind means.
On those days, I try a little harder to know things.
Today was not such a day, though I wanted it to be.
I want to know what all this back and forth, in and out, daily grind means.
8/29/11
Reparamus
He gave her a bracelet with a heart-shaped box, and filled it with a promise she knew wouldn't be kept. But she smiled, and wore it on her sleeve, just because hope is a beautiful thing.
Before too long, the heart had a broken clasp, and the box swung open, spilling his un-retainable promise on a random spit of unidentifiable ground. Her empty, broken heart dangled for all to see.
But still she wore it, day and night, treasuring it with the naivete that dictates that mourning can sometimes fix things. She got to the point where she no longer noticed it, and behaved as though it were perfectly normal to have a broken heart, hollow and gaping like a wound, showing just beyond her sleeve.
However, there were times she'd catch sight of it, and remember him and his long-gone promise that neither he nor she could keep. She would stop, and stare, eyes glazing over as they bored holes into the not-so-distant past.
One day, she found there were more holes than memories, and she snapped.
She plucked her broken heart from her sleeve, crumpling the empty box into the bracelet, stuffing all the holes in the past with his missing promise, and threw it all against the wall. She swallowed back tears, and she let the damnable mess lay, all tangled up in complications, where it had fallen.
It was not she who picked up the pieces, but a boy.
He knelt on the floor, and extricated the broken heart from all that threatened to choke it, consume it, drown it, make it as un-retainable as the promise that once filled it. He took it to his workbench, and with a small smile and a pair of pliers, fixed the clasp.
Then, face serious, he offered her back her heart, no longer whole, but now unbroken.
With a look of wonder and a whispered expression of gratitude, she accepted the bracelet.
She wears her empty heart on her sleeve.
(The next promise she receives, she'll keep.)
Before too long, the heart had a broken clasp, and the box swung open, spilling his un-retainable promise on a random spit of unidentifiable ground. Her empty, broken heart dangled for all to see.
But still she wore it, day and night, treasuring it with the naivete that dictates that mourning can sometimes fix things. She got to the point where she no longer noticed it, and behaved as though it were perfectly normal to have a broken heart, hollow and gaping like a wound, showing just beyond her sleeve.
However, there were times she'd catch sight of it, and remember him and his long-gone promise that neither he nor she could keep. She would stop, and stare, eyes glazing over as they bored holes into the not-so-distant past.
One day, she found there were more holes than memories, and she snapped.
She plucked her broken heart from her sleeve, crumpling the empty box into the bracelet, stuffing all the holes in the past with his missing promise, and threw it all against the wall. She swallowed back tears, and she let the damnable mess lay, all tangled up in complications, where it had fallen.
It was not she who picked up the pieces, but a boy.
He knelt on the floor, and extricated the broken heart from all that threatened to choke it, consume it, drown it, make it as un-retainable as the promise that once filled it. He took it to his workbench, and with a small smile and a pair of pliers, fixed the clasp.
Then, face serious, he offered her back her heart, no longer whole, but now unbroken.
With a look of wonder and a whispered expression of gratitude, she accepted the bracelet.
She wears her empty heart on her sleeve.
(The next promise she receives, she'll keep.)
8/8/11
Hey, Lover -
Hush. Just listen.
You make me wish I wrote love songs, and remind me that my iPod is inadequate, because there's not a single song on there that fits us just right.
You steal my breath with the softest of kisses, and leave me staring after you, smoky-eyed with wonder, a tiny ember of pure happiness warming me from my stomach. You draw up champagne from a well of acid, distilling it to something enviable with the slow slide of your tongue along my lower lip.
You sound like Pachelbel's Canon, ska-style.
Burning cotton candy sunsets remind me of the two of us together: crazy, gorgeous, passionate, and sweet to the point of being cannibalistic-carnival scary. Every time the sky bursts into flame, I move to be closer to you, because that's how we are and how we're meant to be.
You hold me like I'm so special that you might break if I were to slide out of your arms. It makes me want to cling to you and promise that you'll never be broken again, but I don't say the words because I can't stay in your arms for too much longer, regardless of how much I want to. All I can promise is that, even broken, you'll always be beautiful, the imperfect repairs showing off your strength.
You don't hear me say "I love you" often, because those three words never seem to cover it. This is more intricate than a simple three-word phrase, more heart-achingly universal and cosmic than the pedestrian expression. I think we know that, but we don't have the time to describe forever to each other, so "I love you," inadequate as it is, will have to do.
Hey, Lover -
I love you.
You make me wish I wrote love songs, and remind me that my iPod is inadequate, because there's not a single song on there that fits us just right.
You steal my breath with the softest of kisses, and leave me staring after you, smoky-eyed with wonder, a tiny ember of pure happiness warming me from my stomach. You draw up champagne from a well of acid, distilling it to something enviable with the slow slide of your tongue along my lower lip.
You sound like Pachelbel's Canon, ska-style.
Burning cotton candy sunsets remind me of the two of us together: crazy, gorgeous, passionate, and sweet to the point of being cannibalistic-carnival scary. Every time the sky bursts into flame, I move to be closer to you, because that's how we are and how we're meant to be.
You hold me like I'm so special that you might break if I were to slide out of your arms. It makes me want to cling to you and promise that you'll never be broken again, but I don't say the words because I can't stay in your arms for too much longer, regardless of how much I want to. All I can promise is that, even broken, you'll always be beautiful, the imperfect repairs showing off your strength.
You don't hear me say "I love you" often, because those three words never seem to cover it. This is more intricate than a simple three-word phrase, more heart-achingly universal and cosmic than the pedestrian expression. I think we know that, but we don't have the time to describe forever to each other, so "I love you," inadequate as it is, will have to do.
Hey, Lover -
I love you.
8/2/11
The Pretty Lies
These days, I imagine sleeping next to him, because I know that being held by you is an exercise in being so close and yet so far away.
I wonder if that's what holding me is for him.
Either way, is it worth it?
We all want to believe the pretty lies, that this is less or more than it really is. But we don't. We almost have ourselves convinced by them, and can even spend days confident that those pretty lies are the truth.
Then we have those moments of awful clarity when the lies shine transparently in the dark. We know, for moments at a time, that this is neither more nor less.
The moments pass, and we can go back to almost convincing ourselves, because things can change at any time. But we remember seeing through the pretty lies, and fear that they'll become transparent again, shining in the dark like the falsehoods they really are.
So that's all the pretty lies ever can be.
It doesn't matter whom I imagine sleeping next to me from night to night. One is more and the other less, but all either one ever really is is a pretty lie.
I wonder if that's what holding me is for him.
Either way, is it worth it?
We all want to believe the pretty lies, that this is less or more than it really is. But we don't. We almost have ourselves convinced by them, and can even spend days confident that those pretty lies are the truth.
Then we have those moments of awful clarity when the lies shine transparently in the dark. We know, for moments at a time, that this is neither more nor less.
The moments pass, and we can go back to almost convincing ourselves, because things can change at any time. But we remember seeing through the pretty lies, and fear that they'll become transparent again, shining in the dark like the falsehoods they really are.
So that's all the pretty lies ever can be.
It doesn't matter whom I imagine sleeping next to me from night to night. One is more and the other less, but all either one ever really is is a pretty lie.
An Accident of Wyrd Returns
... with a winning contest placement.
I've been working off and on with "An Accident of Wyrd" for almost three years. A couple weeks back, I finally decided that it was something and submitted the final version of the piece.
Apparently I'm not the only one who likes it.
I hope it's becoming second nature to you to check out the other winning pieces when you go to read mine, because Keayva Mitchell's "To the One that Fell Away" is also amazing. It's kind of reminiscent of "A Drum Set and a Cymbal," if on the opposite side of the equation.
I'm thinking Keayva Mitchell needs her own little tag for this blog.
I've been working off and on with "An Accident of Wyrd" for almost three years. A couple weeks back, I finally decided that it was something and submitted the final version of the piece.
Apparently I'm not the only one who likes it.
I hope it's becoming second nature to you to check out the other winning pieces when you go to read mine, because Keayva Mitchell's "To the One that Fell Away" is also amazing. It's kind of reminiscent of "A Drum Set and a Cymbal," if on the opposite side of the equation.
I'm thinking Keayva Mitchell needs her own little tag for this blog.
8/1/11
A Bird
I check my phone for the text I know you haven't sent, finding his instead.
"Thinking of you. ;)"
I lie to myself, and force a smile. A bird in hand and all that.
"You too, babe."
If my reply is lacking, he's polite enough not to say. He will not ask questions to which he does not desire an answer.
You were great about asking questions; you just never wanted answers at all.
My phone buzzes again, and I automatically look for it to display your name.
But it never does.
It's always his.
"Thinking of you. ;)"
I lie to myself, and force a smile. A bird in hand and all that.
"You too, babe."
If my reply is lacking, he's polite enough not to say. He will not ask questions to which he does not desire an answer.
You were great about asking questions; you just never wanted answers at all.
My phone buzzes again, and I automatically look for it to display your name.
But it never does.
It's always his.
7/30/11
Don't Pretend
Don't pretend you ever forget about me. I know better than to believe it, and while you're good at lying to yourself, you're not that good.
Don't pretend you ever forget about me, but don't delude yourself about the reasons I'm unforgettable, either. Exaggeration doesn't do us any favors.
Actually, cut all the bullshit. Quit pretending, and just let it be what it is: two people tangled up in each other, inexplicably inextricably, half-hating it, but unable to get enough of the experience.
Don't pretend you love me, but don't you dare pretend you ever forget about me. I will keep you honest, and I will call you on it.
Don't pretend you ever forget about me, but don't delude yourself about the reasons I'm unforgettable, either. Exaggeration doesn't do us any favors.
Actually, cut all the bullshit. Quit pretending, and just let it be what it is: two people tangled up in each other, inexplicably inextricably, half-hating it, but unable to get enough of the experience.
Don't pretend you love me, but don't you dare pretend you ever forget about me. I will keep you honest, and I will call you on it.
7/29/11
Weightless
I felt as though my heart would break, it was so swollen with joy.
"What was that laugh for?" he asked, gazing at me curiously.
"Sheer delight," I replied.
There is nothing quite like the weightless exhilaration of flight.
As long as I have myself, I can do anything, even have my heart shatter into a whole or reach out to caress a star.
"What was that laugh for?" he asked, gazing at me curiously.
"Sheer delight," I replied.
There is nothing quite like the weightless exhilaration of flight.
As long as I have myself, I can do anything, even have my heart shatter into a whole or reach out to caress a star.
7/28/11
A Drum Set
A drum set and a cymbal fall off a cliff, a cosmic joke. But what happens if only the drum set falls? Does that make it funnier? Or simply less cosmic?
What sound does a falling drum set make?
I am sore with stress, and you will never cease it.
The drum set can never push the cymbal off the cliff. It simply doesn't work that way. The universe thinks it better that the cymbal not fall - funnier because the punch line doesn't come after all.
It's amusing to leave the drum set hanging in the terrifyingly exhilarating suspension called free fall.
(Ba-BOOM....)
What sound does a falling drum set make?
I am sore with stress, and you will never cease it.
The drum set can never push the cymbal off the cliff. It simply doesn't work that way. The universe thinks it better that the cymbal not fall - funnier because the punch line doesn't come after all.
It's amusing to leave the drum set hanging in the terrifyingly exhilarating suspension called free fall.
(Ba-BOOM....)
7/23/11
Ice Rink
Life is like an ice rink. Think about it. It's the same thing over and over, going around in a rough approximation of a circle. It should be boring. But it's not.
Because as much as it's the same, it's also very different. Each turn brings you something new - a different obstacle (a little kid or candy on the ice) or a different triumph (mastering cross-overs or sliding through a particularly narrow gap). An ice rink is monotonous in its overall pattern (around and around) but variable in its details. Like life.
That's not where the resemblance ends, however. You can zoom around the rink, or cautiously clutch the sides. You smile, you laugh, you fly, you fall, you crash. You hurt, you cry, you pretend it doesn't matter, and clamber to stand. Your skates are sometimes too loose, or you just can't feel your feet - but other times it's perfect and you can do anything.
There are the assholes who ignore you, or push you to the ground, and then the good Samaritans who stop to help you up. There are those who just stay out of your way, and those you feel sorry for, and want to succeed.
There's everything at an ice rink. It's just going around in circles; it should be boring. But it's not.
Because as much as it's the same, it's also very different. Each turn brings you something new - a different obstacle (a little kid or candy on the ice) or a different triumph (mastering cross-overs or sliding through a particularly narrow gap). An ice rink is monotonous in its overall pattern (around and around) but variable in its details. Like life.
That's not where the resemblance ends, however. You can zoom around the rink, or cautiously clutch the sides. You smile, you laugh, you fly, you fall, you crash. You hurt, you cry, you pretend it doesn't matter, and clamber to stand. Your skates are sometimes too loose, or you just can't feel your feet - but other times it's perfect and you can do anything.
There are the assholes who ignore you, or push you to the ground, and then the good Samaritans who stop to help you up. There are those who just stay out of your way, and those you feel sorry for, and want to succeed.
There's everything at an ice rink. It's just going around in circles; it should be boring. But it's not.
7/11/11
Nothing
I don't think I'm quite in my right mind at the moment.
That's okay. I've come to find that one must mine confusion in order to come up with clarity.
This is not beautiful. This is not poetic.
That's okay, too. Beauty and poetry are my safety nets - or maybe just the chains that hold me to the ground. And I believe now is the time for me to fly.
It's so hard to imagine open space - or even simply not being confined. (Nothing is the only thing in the universe accurately defined by what it is not.)
I've felt trapped for a long time. I'm sure there's some sort of irony in that, but there's always some sort of irony in everything. I don't know why I so frequently point it out.
I hate who I was. No, that's not true.
I hated who everyone seemed to think I was. (Quiet, strange, smart girl; wears skirts, reads books, is a bitch, possibly a lesbian.)
There was a time when I'd have given anything but myself to be thought of as someone else. What I couldn't see was that it never really mattered.
I will not try to list who I am. That would be pointless - just another way of locking on chains.
When I read back over this, I won't like it. It is not beautiful; it is not poetic.
Neither, however, is it unfettered.
If only I could bring myself to be everything - to walk away from all the things that hold me trapped. I'd leave behind my past, all the people I once thought I knew, and all the expectations and limitations, drop them in the places I'd long decided would have no meaning to me later, and let them spiral on - without me.
But then who would I be?
(Nothing is the only thing in the universe accurately defined by what it is not.)
I'm vacillating between past, present, and future, knowing that the last is the only thing I can really change.
I don't want to revisit my past. I already told you that I hated who everyone seemed to think I was.
I laugh, because this piece seems to be about a question I refuse to answer, and nothing is the only thing in the universe accurately defined by what it is not.
Nothing, everything.... I'm beginning to suspect that they are the same.
And that all that makes me - makes us - is a trap.
This is not beautiful. This is not poetic.
This is everything.
(This is nothing.)
That's okay. I've come to find that one must mine confusion in order to come up with clarity.
This is not beautiful. This is not poetic.
That's okay, too. Beauty and poetry are my safety nets - or maybe just the chains that hold me to the ground. And I believe now is the time for me to fly.
It's so hard to imagine open space - or even simply not being confined. (Nothing is the only thing in the universe accurately defined by what it is not.)
I've felt trapped for a long time. I'm sure there's some sort of irony in that, but there's always some sort of irony in everything. I don't know why I so frequently point it out.
I hate who I was. No, that's not true.
I hated who everyone seemed to think I was. (Quiet, strange, smart girl; wears skirts, reads books, is a bitch, possibly a lesbian.)
There was a time when I'd have given anything but myself to be thought of as someone else. What I couldn't see was that it never really mattered.
I will not try to list who I am. That would be pointless - just another way of locking on chains.
When I read back over this, I won't like it. It is not beautiful; it is not poetic.
Neither, however, is it unfettered.
If only I could bring myself to be everything - to walk away from all the things that hold me trapped. I'd leave behind my past, all the people I once thought I knew, and all the expectations and limitations, drop them in the places I'd long decided would have no meaning to me later, and let them spiral on - without me.
But then who would I be?
(Nothing is the only thing in the universe accurately defined by what it is not.)
I'm vacillating between past, present, and future, knowing that the last is the only thing I can really change.
I don't want to revisit my past. I already told you that I hated who everyone seemed to think I was.
I laugh, because this piece seems to be about a question I refuse to answer, and nothing is the only thing in the universe accurately defined by what it is not.
Nothing, everything.... I'm beginning to suspect that they are the same.
And that all that makes me - makes us - is a trap.
This is not beautiful. This is not poetic.
This is everything.
(This is nothing.)
7/9/11
Further Winnings
On June 24, 2011, "Parting Laments" won first place.
For someone who doesn't like to write poetry all that much, I write an awful lot of it and I write it rather well. If you really want to read more of said poetry, it can be found at my All Poetry page.
BTW, Keayva Mitchell's "Push," the second place that week, is a remarkable short fiction vignette. It is, as Steward House points out, a "lyrical" snapshot that entices the reader to fill in the backstory. In short, a piece after my own heart.
What are you still reading this blog post for? Go read those pieces!
XD
For someone who doesn't like to write poetry all that much, I write an awful lot of it and I write it rather well. If you really want to read more of said poetry, it can be found at my All Poetry page.
BTW, Keayva Mitchell's "Push," the second place that week, is a remarkable short fiction vignette. It is, as Steward House points out, a "lyrical" snapshot that entices the reader to fill in the backstory. In short, a piece after my own heart.
What are you still reading this blog post for? Go read those pieces!
XD
7/6/11
Darkness
I wish I knew the words to fully convey both the endless possibility and the endless futility of this world. But all I can do is saunter from room to room with a gait that challenges for promises and finds only disappointment.
Everything ends - it's dark.
But who knows what the darkness conceals?
Everything ends - it's dark.
But who knows what the darkness conceals?
7/2/11
Smile With Me
Will you smile with me, love? I'm exhausted, desperately clinging to the memory of how I feel when I'm with you and have forgotten how everything else is. It nearly escapes me when you fade behind my mental curtain.
Please, smile with me and make me recall the sound of your heartbeat and the rumble of your voice. Smile, and help me misplace that minor melody composed of everything that's wrong. (As often as I hear it, I don't particularly care for the song.)
No! I don't want to hear it anymore!
Smile, love, please, just smile. I will beg for your bliss, because that's the closest I can get to glimpsing my own. Smile for me, and I will follow you, if a bit behind. (Only the oblivious forge blindly ahead.)
But you're concealed behind the curtain now, and I can only see your shadow. I'm exhausted, deafened by that minor melody that screams how everything else is, and slowly forgetting how it feels to be with you. Even if you smiled for me, it couldn't be with me, because I wouldn't know. (I could beg and be obliged, but I will never know.)
Please, smile with me and make me recall the sound of your heartbeat and the rumble of your voice. Smile, and help me misplace that minor melody composed of everything that's wrong. (As often as I hear it, I don't particularly care for the song.)
No! I don't want to hear it anymore!
Smile, love, please, just smile. I will beg for your bliss, because that's the closest I can get to glimpsing my own. Smile for me, and I will follow you, if a bit behind. (Only the oblivious forge blindly ahead.)
But you're concealed behind the curtain now, and I can only see your shadow. I'm exhausted, deafened by that minor melody that screams how everything else is, and slowly forgetting how it feels to be with you. Even if you smiled for me, it couldn't be with me, because I wouldn't know. (I could beg and be obliged, but I will never know.)
Doll
I'm sitting like a doll on a shelf. Pretty. Still.
Alone.
And you don't spare me so much as a glance.
That's just it, isn't it?
I'm not your ideal. I never will be.
But I am so desperate for your touch, I'm willing to stay where you leave me.
Pretty. Still. Alone.
Unhappy.
Alone.
And you don't spare me so much as a glance.
That's just it, isn't it?
I'm not your ideal. I never will be.
But I am so desperate for your touch, I'm willing to stay where you leave me.
Pretty. Still. Alone.
Unhappy.
Hope and Reason
What are you waiting for?
You always do this, dearling. You note what's wrong and then get stuck in a holding pattern as you wait for those things to change, even knowing that the odds are in favor of the status quo.
What are you waiting for?
Whatever it is, it's not coming. It's not happening.
Don't waste your time. I know the "what if." It's the only thing you live for sometimes.
"What if this problem goes away?"
"What if this is not really how it's going to be?"
"What if this is the way it's supposed to be?"
Yeah, I know the "what if" alright.
The "what if" cannot be answered.
So, what are you waiting for?
(For hope to finally be born out by reason.)
You always do this, dearling. You note what's wrong and then get stuck in a holding pattern as you wait for those things to change, even knowing that the odds are in favor of the status quo.
What are you waiting for?
Whatever it is, it's not coming. It's not happening.
Don't waste your time. I know the "what if." It's the only thing you live for sometimes.
"What if this problem goes away?"
"What if this is not really how it's going to be?"
"What if this is the way it's supposed to be?"
Yeah, I know the "what if" alright.
The "what if" cannot be answered.
So, what are you waiting for?
(For hope to finally be born out by reason.)
6/28/11
Bitch Slaps
Irony is a sadistic bitch. In the past, I've observed that I must therefore have a masochistic sense of humor.
I'm not laughing now.
I'm not laughing at all.
And Irony is at her happiest. (Turnabout's the fairest form of play.)
He says he loves me. He wants to think he does, more than anything, but he doesn't. He's infatuated. I question whether he even cares about me that much, but I'll be generous.
"Why couldn't You send me a nice Christian girl?"
Beseechingly, on his knees, gaze skyward, while I lay crumpled, struggling to breathe, not two feet away.
Later, he said he was sorry, but meant in general, for upsetting me. His sentiment remains. ("Why couldn't You send me a nice Christian girl?")
I know I should take that as my signal, cut my losses and leave. No one who actually loves me could say such a thing.
But Irony is a sadistic bitch.
I love him.
I am far from laughing.
I'm not laughing now.
I'm not laughing at all.
And Irony is at her happiest. (Turnabout's the fairest form of play.)
He says he loves me. He wants to think he does, more than anything, but he doesn't. He's infatuated. I question whether he even cares about me that much, but I'll be generous.
"Why couldn't You send me a nice Christian girl?"
Beseechingly, on his knees, gaze skyward, while I lay crumpled, struggling to breathe, not two feet away.
Later, he said he was sorry, but meant in general, for upsetting me. His sentiment remains. ("Why couldn't You send me a nice Christian girl?")
I know I should take that as my signal, cut my losses and leave. No one who actually loves me could say such a thing.
But Irony is a sadistic bitch.
I love him.
I am far from laughing.
6/27/11
The Essence of Evanescence
I paused at the corner, caught for a moment.
In the growing twilight, the street sign stood out starkly, a 3D figure in an abruptly 2D landscape. A thin ray of sunlight leaked through the storm clouds, making the raindrops over the letter "S" sparkle. The storm was passing, giving way to the summer night.
I don't know if my companion noticed the brief hesitation in my step as the scene, street sign, storm, and summer, arrested me. He may have simply chosen not to comment.
Regardless, I don't think he experienced the same sudden sensation that we were in the midst of a story. The world does not offer up such visuals without some sense of purpose.
He tugged at my hand, our fingers interlaced, and I brought my eyes back to his face.
"Penny for your thoughts?" he offered, his voice as low as the distant purr of thunder.
We turned the corner onto the next street, leaving the sign behind.
"A dollar for your insights," I replied, nearly automatically. A fortune for your desire, I finished silently. I'm just a painter and I'm drawing a blank.
He rolled his eyes at me and drew me closer, his breath rasping over the shell of my ear even as we continued to walk.
"I can't provide insights into what you won't tell me, dear," he murmured.
I shivered, despite the summer heat.
"I know," I whispered drily, aware that his relative position to me would prevent him from catching the words. "I don't have a dollar on me, either, so it's all for the best."
I watched a lightning bug wink in and out of existence over the marker indicating the path to the neighborhood park.
A transitory bug over a transitory spot, in the midst of a transitory moment.
"Hey," I asked at full volume, stepping away from him slightly. "Do you want to go down to the park?'
He blinked at me. Where summer made me sprightly, it merely made him sleepy.
"Uh... sure," he acquiesced.
I grinned, and now I was the one tugging at his hand, our fingers interlaced.
The lightning bug flashed again as we passed, a vibrant strobe among the steam rising off the asphalt trail.
We were immediately encased in the scent of honeysuckle, warm and sweet, and I slowed again, allowing him to draw even with me. The summer would pass soon enough - I should savor it.
"I thought we weren't going to go this far," he commented, a little nervously, but with a thin thread of cautious delight spun through his tone. "The day will be over soon."
I turned and smiled at him, skirting an ant pile at the edge of the path.
"It's summer, sweetheart. It's a good while yet until the clock chimes midnight and your carriage turns into a pumpkin."
He stopped short, yanking me to a halt.
"What?" I demanded, dropping his hand to face him directly.
"Look," he breathed, extending his arm, indicating something beyond me. "It's like a fairy tale."
I shifted to see what he meant, and felt the sensation from the street sign all over again, this time certain that he felt it, too.
Lightning bugs illuminated the growing gloom surrounding the wooden bridge. The sound of the normally sullen creek chimed through the twilight, swollen by the summer storm. The scent of honeysuckle seemed to surge, the source nearly dripping off the bridge's handrails. On the horizon, a thread of blue lightning seized the ground, the resulting thunderclap swallowed by the distance.
"Yes," I said softly, taking his hand again without moving my gaze from the scene. "It's like a fairy tale."
Wordlessly, we advanced to the bridge, stopping in the center. The shadows from the looming trees danced over us, broken by only the flash of fireflies. The water rushed beneath us, but we stood still, suspended in a summer spell.
He released my hand and plucked up a honeysuckle. He held the pale bell-shaped flower between us.
When he spoke, his eyes reached beyond the bloom to me.
"Sweet and gorgeous."
I blushed, but kept enough of my composure to reply.
"But unable to last beyond the summer."
He shrugged, and dropped the flower off the bridge to get caught up in the current.
"Mayhap."
He stepped closer and his arms wrapped around me, his gaze locking with mine.
It was suddenly difficult to breathe, and I stared up at him, eyes wide with my vulnerability. His hands were flash-points of fire on my back, warmer even than the summer, and far more tangible than the ever-deepening twilight. If only summer really were a fairy tale, drawing to a close with a neat Happily-Ever-After bow, a non-ending end.
One hand rose to cup my neck, his palm soft on my skin. He leaned in.
My eyes fluttered closed.
He kissed me like I had always imagined being kissed, soft, sure, and sweet.
And then there was only summer air brushing against my lips.
It wasn't until he stepped away from me that I could bring myself to open my eyes.
Full night had fallen. The wind had picked up, pushing away the scent of honeysuckle along with the storm. The lightning bugs, too, had disappeared, leaving behind only the burbling rush of water beneath the bridge.
"We should go back," he said, holding out his hand for me.
I took it, interlacing our fingers.
Silently, we proceeded up the path, back onto the street, past the street sign.
His voice broke through the rising symphony of crickets and cicadas, summer sounds.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
We turned the corner as I shrugged, not meeting his eyes.
"I'm drawing a blank."
In the growing twilight, the street sign stood out starkly, a 3D figure in an abruptly 2D landscape. A thin ray of sunlight leaked through the storm clouds, making the raindrops over the letter "S" sparkle. The storm was passing, giving way to the summer night.
I don't know if my companion noticed the brief hesitation in my step as the scene, street sign, storm, and summer, arrested me. He may have simply chosen not to comment.
Regardless, I don't think he experienced the same sudden sensation that we were in the midst of a story. The world does not offer up such visuals without some sense of purpose.
He tugged at my hand, our fingers interlaced, and I brought my eyes back to his face.
"Penny for your thoughts?" he offered, his voice as low as the distant purr of thunder.
We turned the corner onto the next street, leaving the sign behind.
"A dollar for your insights," I replied, nearly automatically. A fortune for your desire, I finished silently. I'm just a painter and I'm drawing a blank.
He rolled his eyes at me and drew me closer, his breath rasping over the shell of my ear even as we continued to walk.
"I can't provide insights into what you won't tell me, dear," he murmured.
I shivered, despite the summer heat.
"I know," I whispered drily, aware that his relative position to me would prevent him from catching the words. "I don't have a dollar on me, either, so it's all for the best."
I watched a lightning bug wink in and out of existence over the marker indicating the path to the neighborhood park.
A transitory bug over a transitory spot, in the midst of a transitory moment.
"Hey," I asked at full volume, stepping away from him slightly. "Do you want to go down to the park?'
He blinked at me. Where summer made me sprightly, it merely made him sleepy.
"Uh... sure," he acquiesced.
I grinned, and now I was the one tugging at his hand, our fingers interlaced.
The lightning bug flashed again as we passed, a vibrant strobe among the steam rising off the asphalt trail.
We were immediately encased in the scent of honeysuckle, warm and sweet, and I slowed again, allowing him to draw even with me. The summer would pass soon enough - I should savor it.
"I thought we weren't going to go this far," he commented, a little nervously, but with a thin thread of cautious delight spun through his tone. "The day will be over soon."
I turned and smiled at him, skirting an ant pile at the edge of the path.
"It's summer, sweetheart. It's a good while yet until the clock chimes midnight and your carriage turns into a pumpkin."
He stopped short, yanking me to a halt.
"What?" I demanded, dropping his hand to face him directly.
"Look," he breathed, extending his arm, indicating something beyond me. "It's like a fairy tale."
I shifted to see what he meant, and felt the sensation from the street sign all over again, this time certain that he felt it, too.
Lightning bugs illuminated the growing gloom surrounding the wooden bridge. The sound of the normally sullen creek chimed through the twilight, swollen by the summer storm. The scent of honeysuckle seemed to surge, the source nearly dripping off the bridge's handrails. On the horizon, a thread of blue lightning seized the ground, the resulting thunderclap swallowed by the distance.
"Yes," I said softly, taking his hand again without moving my gaze from the scene. "It's like a fairy tale."
Wordlessly, we advanced to the bridge, stopping in the center. The shadows from the looming trees danced over us, broken by only the flash of fireflies. The water rushed beneath us, but we stood still, suspended in a summer spell.
He released my hand and plucked up a honeysuckle. He held the pale bell-shaped flower between us.
When he spoke, his eyes reached beyond the bloom to me.
"Sweet and gorgeous."
I blushed, but kept enough of my composure to reply.
"But unable to last beyond the summer."
He shrugged, and dropped the flower off the bridge to get caught up in the current.
"Mayhap."
He stepped closer and his arms wrapped around me, his gaze locking with mine.
It was suddenly difficult to breathe, and I stared up at him, eyes wide with my vulnerability. His hands were flash-points of fire on my back, warmer even than the summer, and far more tangible than the ever-deepening twilight. If only summer really were a fairy tale, drawing to a close with a neat Happily-Ever-After bow, a non-ending end.
One hand rose to cup my neck, his palm soft on my skin. He leaned in.
My eyes fluttered closed.
He kissed me like I had always imagined being kissed, soft, sure, and sweet.
And then there was only summer air brushing against my lips.
It wasn't until he stepped away from me that I could bring myself to open my eyes.
Full night had fallen. The wind had picked up, pushing away the scent of honeysuckle along with the storm. The lightning bugs, too, had disappeared, leaving behind only the burbling rush of water beneath the bridge.
"We should go back," he said, holding out his hand for me.
I took it, interlacing our fingers.
Silently, we proceeded up the path, back onto the street, past the street sign.
His voice broke through the rising symphony of crickets and cicadas, summer sounds.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
We turned the corner as I shrugged, not meeting his eyes.
"I'm drawing a blank."
Guess what...
You probably actually can guess. I won something else.
On June 17, "The Essence of Evanescence" won first place in Steward House's weekly contest. The review was highly complimentary, recognizing the poetry in the story. I was actually rather shocked with the placement, considering that I'd literally wrote the piece not two hours before I entered it. I guess I don't always have to edit the ever-loving stuffing out of everything I write.
The story itself will be posted here... eventually. I'm sure.
While you're there, you should also check out Keayva Mitchell's piece, "Ari and Lina's Spectacular Summer of Fun." I swear, I'm beginning to fall in love with that girl's writing, and I sincerely hope that I can tempt you, my lovely readers, into doing the same.
On June 17, "The Essence of Evanescence" won first place in Steward House's weekly contest. The review was highly complimentary, recognizing the poetry in the story. I was actually rather shocked with the placement, considering that I'd literally wrote the piece not two hours before I entered it. I guess I don't always have to edit the ever-loving stuffing out of everything I write.
The story itself will be posted here... eventually. I'm sure.
While you're there, you should also check out Keayva Mitchell's piece, "Ari and Lina's Spectacular Summer of Fun." I swear, I'm beginning to fall in love with that girl's writing, and I sincerely hope that I can tempt you, my lovely readers, into doing the same.
6/24/11
Surf
Sometimes, you have to live on anger, let it roll through you like a wave and push you forward into the world. Sometimes, anger is the only thing keeping you from crumpling in place, head bowed under the weight of what you face, immobile. Anger can spark movement, and movement is almost always a good.
I choose to be furious; I choose to move.
Take your stupid silence and your quiet acceptance and keep them to yourself. Don't bind me up in the immobility of the blind. I rage, I crash, I crackle, I dance, I create, I destroy - I cannot be tamed with simple three-word phrases and complacency. Get off your ass and move with me!
I am as fickle as the tide of anger that currently sustains me. I am arbitrary, and I can't decide if it bothers me more that you do not acknowledge that or that you do not notice it. Perhaps it even pleases me.
Aaaargh! My pen strokes are sharp with my temper, jagged like the teeth of my psyche. Let me bite into life, with all its zillion flavors.
(Behind my fervor is a well-spring of tears that would merrily drown me if only I were to stop moving.)
I choose to be furious; I choose to move.
Take your stupid silence and your quiet acceptance and keep them to yourself. Don't bind me up in the immobility of the blind. I rage, I crash, I crackle, I dance, I create, I destroy - I cannot be tamed with simple three-word phrases and complacency. Get off your ass and move with me!
I am as fickle as the tide of anger that currently sustains me. I am arbitrary, and I can't decide if it bothers me more that you do not acknowledge that or that you do not notice it. Perhaps it even pleases me.
Aaaargh! My pen strokes are sharp with my temper, jagged like the teeth of my psyche. Let me bite into life, with all its zillion flavors.
(Behind my fervor is a well-spring of tears that would merrily drown me if only I were to stop moving.)
6/23/11
Breathing for Bleeding
Leave me breathing because I forgot how to bleed. You are nowhere and everywhere to me, but I suppose both are somewhere. I just don't know how to find you.
I suppose that the distance is a good thing, just a shadow of situations to come. I breathe in the space, feeling my pulse stutter and simmer, stroking the inside of my skin in the hopes of escape.
Without you, everything seems quiet.
But then, I suppose that the aftermath of an explosion is always quiet in comparison.
So I breathe, the desperate sound like silk on satin, the murmur of blood passing through capillaries like the whisper of a creek. I wanted to bleed last night; the explosion scraped me raw. But at some point since meeting you, I forgot how to shed so much as a single ruby seed.
I suppose that the distance is a good thing, just a shadow of situations to come. I breathe in the space, feeling my pulse stutter and simmer, stroking the inside of my skin in the hopes of escape.
Without you, everything seems quiet.
But then, I suppose that the aftermath of an explosion is always quiet in comparison.
So I breathe, the desperate sound like silk on satin, the murmur of blood passing through capillaries like the whisper of a creek. I wanted to bleed last night; the explosion scraped me raw. But at some point since meeting you, I forgot how to shed so much as a single ruby seed.
6/18/11
To Those Who Leave Me Comments -
Although I will not address individual comments directly, I do receive your comments, I do read your comments, and I do appreciate your comments. Be not disheartened by my silence.
Thank you to all my readers for finding my ineloquent insanity interesting.
I love you all. :)
- SD
Thank you to all my readers for finding my ineloquent insanity interesting.
I love you all. :)
- SD
MORE Contest Winnings!
Somehow, typing that fails to get old. XD
On May 27, 2011, "The End" won second place. Steward House says the poem "has some of the best line endings, alliteration, and assonance we've seen in a poem yet." Nice, huh? And they didn't attempt to summarize it, either. I'm verra content. :) (In case all the emoticons didn't give that away.)
As always, you can continue to find more of my poetry, good, bad, and downright awful, at my All Poetry page.
On May 27, 2011, "The End" won second place. Steward House says the poem "has some of the best line endings, alliteration, and assonance we've seen in a poem yet." Nice, huh? And they didn't attempt to summarize it, either. I'm verra content. :) (In case all the emoticons didn't give that away.)
As always, you can continue to find more of my poetry, good, bad, and downright awful, at my All Poetry page.
6/11/11
A Drum Set and a Cymbal
You don't know what you do to me.
Sure, you touch me and send sensations shivering across my skin, soft and sensual, startling me to the precipice of sanity. You know that you do that to me.
But you sit there, shirt inconsequential if not outright abandoned, your skin gleaming in the light, your eyes darkened, and you do so much more than the merely sensual. There's something about that sight, of you half in darkness, half in light, that reaches deep into me, grabs ahold, and twists. It's powerful at a visceral level.
And then we kiss. I swear that even if you aren't really a proper substitute for breathing, that I'd give it up to just keep tasting you. Your kiss feels like there are bubbles in my throat, little gossamer spots of glitter just begging to be released into the world. Your kiss on my lips does something to the universe, not just to me.
And as you trace your fingers down my neck, you have no idea. You are an innocent; you have no way of knowing it, no way of controlling it. I close my eyes to block out the dark and light reality that this is far more than you bargained for. You know you have startled me to the precipice of sanity, but you don't know that you are going to make me fall.
Or that you're going to fall with me.
I close my eyes and kiss your neck; I stop breathing.
You really have no idea what you do to me.
Sure, you touch me and send sensations shivering across my skin, soft and sensual, startling me to the precipice of sanity. You know that you do that to me.
But you sit there, shirt inconsequential if not outright abandoned, your skin gleaming in the light, your eyes darkened, and you do so much more than the merely sensual. There's something about that sight, of you half in darkness, half in light, that reaches deep into me, grabs ahold, and twists. It's powerful at a visceral level.
And then we kiss. I swear that even if you aren't really a proper substitute for breathing, that I'd give it up to just keep tasting you. Your kiss feels like there are bubbles in my throat, little gossamer spots of glitter just begging to be released into the world. Your kiss on my lips does something to the universe, not just to me.
And as you trace your fingers down my neck, you have no idea. You are an innocent; you have no way of knowing it, no way of controlling it. I close my eyes to block out the dark and light reality that this is far more than you bargained for. You know you have startled me to the precipice of sanity, but you don't know that you are going to make me fall.
Or that you're going to fall with me.
I close my eyes and kiss your neck; I stop breathing.
You really have no idea what you do to me.
An Insignificant Moment
Chills rush down my legs, but I welcome them the way I won't welcome tears. Usually, I know from the start how things will turn out, and just don't want to believe it.
What do I say now?
A country song unspools in my head, talking of taking memories. My current playlist is titled "(Substitute) Street Signs & Cell Signal" because I miss civilization. I miss you. (And girls like me don't miss.) The three together should be freaking me out.
I have a long list of "should"s where you're concerned.
And I don't want to pay attention to a single one of them.
I wanted this piece to be beautiful, you know. I wanted it to drip imagery and burst with all the emotions that are whirling through my head like the precursor to a tornado.
But it's just another disjointed, melodramatic blog post, capturing nothing but a moment, and an insignificant one at that.
What do I say now?
A country song unspools in my head, talking of taking memories. My current playlist is titled "(Substitute) Street Signs & Cell Signal" because I miss civilization. I miss you. (And girls like me don't miss.) The three together should be freaking me out.
I have a long list of "should"s where you're concerned.
And I don't want to pay attention to a single one of them.
I wanted this piece to be beautiful, you know. I wanted it to drip imagery and burst with all the emotions that are whirling through my head like the precursor to a tornado.
But it's just another disjointed, melodramatic blog post, capturing nothing but a moment, and an insignificant one at that.
6/5/11
On Fairy Tales
I never quite believed in fairy tales; not the Disney-fied versions that we're familiar with, anyways. I was never that fond of princes, even when I fancied myself a princess, and kisses don't signify a "Happily Ever After."
Yet, the language of fairy tales saturates my writing. I am fascinated by them - by their fallacies. After all, frogs are only ever frogs, and princes tend to be rarefied. Knights (apart from not officially existing in America) don't ride horses, and if they wear armor, it isn't shiny, but made of Kevlar. While some women may be trapped in figurative ivory towers, they usually want to stay there, and aren't worth the rescue at any rate.
But fairy tales have endured. There's a reason that we (and I) continue to use them and allude to them.
We want to believe in their intrinsic truths.
Fairy tales teach that love can transform people, that being kind to down-on-their-luck strangers pays off, that there is something good in everyone, that true love lasts, that the underdog can prevail, that there is always a way out of any bad situation, and (most importantly) that love stories can have happy endings, not ending at all.
Maybe I do believe in fairy tales.
Yet, the language of fairy tales saturates my writing. I am fascinated by them - by their fallacies. After all, frogs are only ever frogs, and princes tend to be rarefied. Knights (apart from not officially existing in America) don't ride horses, and if they wear armor, it isn't shiny, but made of Kevlar. While some women may be trapped in figurative ivory towers, they usually want to stay there, and aren't worth the rescue at any rate.
But fairy tales have endured. There's a reason that we (and I) continue to use them and allude to them.
We want to believe in their intrinsic truths.
Fairy tales teach that love can transform people, that being kind to down-on-their-luck strangers pays off, that there is something good in everyone, that true love lasts, that the underdog can prevail, that there is always a way out of any bad situation, and (most importantly) that love stories can have happy endings, not ending at all.
Maybe I do believe in fairy tales.
5/30/11
Paganism as an Alternative to Victorian-ism in Tess of the D'Urbervilles
The Victorian period is generally invoked as an era of strict morals, exaggerated class distinctions, and sexual repression - overall, an epoch of artificiality and appearances. Thomas Hardy, among other authors and artists of the time, objected to the censorship that these strict sensibilities imposed. In his Tess of the D'Urbervilles, Hardy uses elements of paganism as a direct contrast to the unnaturalness of the Victorian rules, values, and morals that are featured in the novel. Throughout the course of the narration, this is obvious in Tess's sexuality and spirituality and in how others perceive her.
Hardy opens the novel by showing the village "club walking," a sort of Christianized version of the pagan holiday Beltane, traditionally a celebration of fertility: "In addition to the distinction of a white frock, every woman and girl carried in her right hand a peeled willow wand and in her left a bunch of white flowers" (8). The white dress symbolizes Tess's innocence, while the flowers and the wand respectively represent the pagan Goddess and God. The ceremony indicates the persistence of the older, more natural religion, and thus sexuality, within and despite the staid confines of Victorian Christianity. However, Tess is unaware of the origins of the festival, much as she is unaware of her own sensuality. When Alec bedecks her with strawberries and flowers (much like a High Priestess would be dressed in elaborate nature costumes for a ceremony), she becomes "aware of the spectacle she presented to their surprised vision" upon returning to the public eye (39). Pamela Jekel writes that Tess's acceptance of Alec's costuming is "the clearest note of Tess's [sexual] ambiguity... obviously a symbol of nature forced before its natural ripening..." (169). The implication is that Tess is not just pagan, but symbolic of nature in and of itself. And what, in an age that valued industrialization and urbanization, was more outside conventions than nature? Even her later rape-seduction at Alec's hands seems to imply the same sort of relationship between she and Alec as the earth and industrialized society- as much as Tess and the earth give, Alec and mankind persist in taking. However, one cannot say that Alec's attraction to Tess is unrequited; Hardy makes numerous references to how flattered Tess is by his attentions and to how captivated she is by his looks. He seems to imply "that the physical attraction that Tess feels toward Alec is natural," urging "exclusion from the sphere of moral judgement. In a less artificial world Tess might have regarded her relationship with Alec as a freely available option" (Ingham 146). This "less artifical world" could be something like the earlier world, when paganism was predominant, or our modern world, where paganism and the sensuality traditionally associated with it are re-emerging.
When Tess returns to Marlott, Hardy emphasizes that she is the one who has been wronged rather than the one in the wrong by exploring her spiritual life. To escape the condemnation of her mother and other neighbors, Tess begins to spend time outside, communing with nature much as a practicing pagan would, where
Hardy opens the novel by showing the village "club walking," a sort of Christianized version of the pagan holiday Beltane, traditionally a celebration of fertility: "In addition to the distinction of a white frock, every woman and girl carried in her right hand a peeled willow wand and in her left a bunch of white flowers" (8). The white dress symbolizes Tess's innocence, while the flowers and the wand respectively represent the pagan Goddess and God. The ceremony indicates the persistence of the older, more natural religion, and thus sexuality, within and despite the staid confines of Victorian Christianity. However, Tess is unaware of the origins of the festival, much as she is unaware of her own sensuality. When Alec bedecks her with strawberries and flowers (much like a High Priestess would be dressed in elaborate nature costumes for a ceremony), she becomes "aware of the spectacle she presented to their surprised vision" upon returning to the public eye (39). Pamela Jekel writes that Tess's acceptance of Alec's costuming is "the clearest note of Tess's [sexual] ambiguity... obviously a symbol of nature forced before its natural ripening..." (169). The implication is that Tess is not just pagan, but symbolic of nature in and of itself. And what, in an age that valued industrialization and urbanization, was more outside conventions than nature? Even her later rape-seduction at Alec's hands seems to imply the same sort of relationship between she and Alec as the earth and industrialized society- as much as Tess and the earth give, Alec and mankind persist in taking. However, one cannot say that Alec's attraction to Tess is unrequited; Hardy makes numerous references to how flattered Tess is by his attentions and to how captivated she is by his looks. He seems to imply "that the physical attraction that Tess feels toward Alec is natural," urging "exclusion from the sphere of moral judgement. In a less artificial world Tess might have regarded her relationship with Alec as a freely available option" (Ingham 146). This "less artifical world" could be something like the earlier world, when paganism was predominant, or our modern world, where paganism and the sensuality traditionally associated with it are re-emerging.
When Tess returns to Marlott, Hardy emphasizes that she is the one who has been wronged rather than the one in the wrong by exploring her spiritual life. To escape the condemnation of her mother and other neighbors, Tess begins to spend time outside, communing with nature much as a practicing pagan would, where
she looked upon herself as a figure of Guilt intruding
into the haunts of Innocence. But all the while, she was
making a distinction where there was no difference.
Feeling herself in antagonism, she was quite in accord.
She had been made to break an accepted social law,
but no law known to the environment in which she
fancied herself such an anomaly. (85)
This clearly expresses that in natural, or pagan, circumstances Tess has committed no crime. Hardy is saying that it is only society, specifically Victorian society, that thinks of sex as wrong or immoral. When her un-baptized son, the aptly named Sorrow, falls ill slightly later in the narrative, Hardy has Tess baptize him herself, a scene which in its spontaneity bears remarkable similarity to a spell a modern-day pagan might perform. "Tess stood erect with the infant on her arm beside the basin... and thus the girl set about baptizing her child... The children gazed up at her with... reverence... She did not look like Sissy to them now, but as a being large, towering and awful - a divine personage..." (94-95). In bypassing the structure of the Church, Tess employs the pagan principle of communing directly with the divine and, in doing so, becomes divine herself. Patricia Ingham makes the additional note that the midnight baptism is not only a reflection on the over-involvement of the clergy of the Anglican Church in personal spiritual matters, but an indictment of the stigma that Victorian morality insisted on attaching to children born out of wedlock. "Hardy is moving towards beliefs subversive of the whole of established society as constructed by the State, the Church, and other institutions" (Ingham 146-147). Before moving on to the next phase of Tess's life, Hardy makes the final commentary, "She became... a woman whom the turbulent experiences of the last year... had quite failed to demoralize. But for the world's opinion those experiences would have been simply a liberal education" (99). In other words, what Tess has done and been through should be viewed far from being as scandalous as Victorian sensibilities would have us consider them; they should be regarded as necessary and beneficial to her development as a human being.
It is important to note how Tess's unflagging positive attitude, especially where Victorian society would have her downtrodden or ashamed, affects the way she is perceived. It is this attitude, this fortitude and persistence of character, which allows the reader to sympathize with Tess rather than detest her. It is not long after her infant's death that Tess, in response to her family's financial needs, departs Marlott to go work at Talbothay's dairy. it is at Talbothay's that Tess meets Angel Clare, a parson's son, who, though a well-read and philosophical man, has chosen to go into agriculture rather than religion. He notes "what a fresh and virginal daughter of nature [Tess] is" (121). In Victorian terms, this is merely ironic, but when regarded through the perspective of paganism, it is one of the most apt statements made about Tess in the course of the novel. She is a virgin in the same way Nature is virginal - her virginity is self-renewing. Although she has been seduced, she is still an innocent, mostly thanks to her positive attitude. Later, when exploring their mutual attraction, Angel perceives her in an even more pagan sense - as a goddess. "She was... a whole sex condensed into one typical form. He called her Artemis, Demeter, and other fanciful names..." (131). The two marry before Tess divulges her previous involvement with Alec. When she comes out with it, Angel, despite his attempts at freethinking and an affair of his own, is disgusted with her. Hardy reveals here one of the double-standards of Victorian society, typified by a divorce law which allowed a man to "divorce his wife for even a single act of adultery; [whereas] a wife needed to prove not only adultery by her husband but also some aggravating factor such as incest, bigamy, sodomy, bestiality, or extreme cruelty" (Ingham 57). He abandons Tess, becoming "the slave to custom and conventionality..." (267). But this only reveals yet another of Tess's pagan qualities: despite Angel's abandonment, her family's financial straits, and her own needs and hardships, she remains loyal to him and continues to work for his betterment, just as nature remains faithful to and continues to work for man. "The essence of goodness that such a devotion implies" serves to reprimand both Angel and the society that approves his actions (Jekel 160). However, Tess is human; faced with her family's homelessness and finally despairing of Angel's return, she allows the still persistent Alec to support her and whisk her off to the city.
Angel eventually rethinks and casts off the fetters of Victorian-ism in favor of more natural pagan standards, much as Hardy would have his readers do. "The old appraisements of morality... wanted readjusting... The beauty or ugliness of a character lay... not among things done, but among things willed" (348). Making Tess, a woman who never set out to offend anyone, above reproach: it is only the unnatural societal standards she is held to that paint her as a villain. Angel returns for her, and the two proceed to spend several days on the run, until Tess is arrested at Stonehenge for Alec's murder, and is summarily hanged. This can be interpreted as poetic justice since she gets what Victorian sensibilities would see as her just desserts - she, a pagan, is 'sacrificed' on a pagan altar - but it also serves as an indictment of a society that, with its unnatural expectations, drives an innocent woman to her death. Yes, Tess is a sacrifice - but it is Victorian sensibilities doing the sacrificing.
Works Cited
- Casey, Ellen Miller. "'Other People's Prudery': Mary Elizabeth Braddon." Literature Resource Center. Vol. 111. Detroit: Gale Group, 2001. web. 7 April 2010.
- Cohen, William A. "Sex, Scandal, and the Novel." The Victorian Web. Duke University, 1996. Web. 7 April 2010.
- Hardy, Thomas. Tess of the D'Urbervilles. New York City, New York: Signet Classic, 1999. Print.
- Ingham, Patricia. Thomas Hardy. New York: Oxford University Press, 2003. Print.
- Jekel, Pamela L. "Tess Durbeyfield." Thomas Hardy's Heroines: A Chorus of Priorities. United States: Pamela Jekel, 1986. 156-177. Print.
Personblem
It's just past two am, and you've been gone for an hour.
All I want is to curl up next to you and forget about the rest of the world, because I know you and I actually could.
I'd say it's indescribably scary, but I suspect you know exactly the feeling I refer to. (More sensation than words, tears cascading down a smile.)
I can't quite sleep for thinking of you. I imagine talking with you as much as being held by you, which is a totally new experience for me. Your mind (located in your skull) is a total turn-on. (Though perhaps turn-on is not quite the word, as it goes far deeper than the merely sexual.)
There's a point to this little ramble, I'm (almost) certain.
Love?
Oh, dear Goddess, I typed the word. There's no taking it back now, so I'm going to proceed to qualify the ever-loving (damnit!) stuffing out of it.
I don't believe in love at first sight. I don't even believe in love at first fuck. Love is a process, not a step: one does not fall in love; one flies into it. It has taken no effort, therefore it cannot be love.
Oh, by all the mistakes I've ever made, I have a problem.
Holy Spirit, do I have a problem.
All I want is to curl up next to you and forget about the rest of the world, because I know you and I actually could.
I'd say it's indescribably scary, but I suspect you know exactly the feeling I refer to. (More sensation than words, tears cascading down a smile.)
I can't quite sleep for thinking of you. I imagine talking with you as much as being held by you, which is a totally new experience for me. Your mind (located in your skull) is a total turn-on. (Though perhaps turn-on is not quite the word, as it goes far deeper than the merely sexual.)
There's a point to this little ramble, I'm (almost) certain.
Love?
Oh, dear Goddess, I typed the word. There's no taking it back now, so I'm going to proceed to qualify the ever-loving (damnit!) stuffing out of it.
I don't believe in love at first sight. I don't even believe in love at first fuck. Love is a process, not a step: one does not fall in love; one flies into it. It has taken no effort, therefore it cannot be love.
Oh, by all the mistakes I've ever made, I have a problem.
Holy Spirit, do I have a problem.
Heroism in Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog
Despite only totaling 45 minutes in length, Joss Whedon's Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog is an exceedingly rich film. One of the many themes explored in the musical is the question of what makes a hero. Three paradigms of heroism are presented in the persons of the "worst villain ever," Dr. Horrible, "Justice's other name," Captain Hammer, and their mutual love interest, Penny.
Although the titular character, Dr. Horrible, is consistently referred to as a villain, his motivations and methods make him less a model of an evil genius than of a revolutionary. The mad scientist figure only wants to "change the world" - and get the cute girl from the laundromat (Penny) to notice him. Unable to overcome his awkwardness to either work within the political system to improve the world he despairs of ("Any dolt with half a brain can see that human kind has gone insane") or to speak to the girl he desperately longs to have a "real, audible connection" with, he turns instead to the building of a trans-matter ray to steal gold bars out of a bank vault and a freeze ray to stop time so he can "find the time to find the words" to talk to Penny. Dr. Horrible represents the extreme but good-intentioned hero, overlooked but powerful in his own right.
In contrast, his nemesis, "Captain Hammer - Captain Hammer, corporate tool," represents the celebrity hero, lauded by the system and motivated less by the opportunity to improve the world than by the fame and women that come attached. In his memorable introductory scene, Captain Hammer foils Dr. Horrible's van heist, announcing "Captain Hammer's here, hair blowing in the breeze - the day needs my saving expertise." This expertise calls for the hero to punch and destroy the device Dr. Horrible is using to control the van, before abandoning the careening vehicle in order to flirt with a cute female bystander, proudly informing her that, "the only doom that's looming is you loving me to death." The viewer's opinion of Captain Hammer and what the city perceives as his heroics only diminishes as he is shown wiping off his hand after being greeted by a homeless man, cruelly mocking Dr. Horrible with his relationship with Penny, and beating up an unarmed Dr. Horrible (pausing so a tourist can get a picture), culminating in his horrifyingly satirical number, "Everyone's a Hero." Set at the dedication of a homeless shelter, the song, sung in lieu of a speech, informs enraptured citizens in the audience that they're all heroes in their own ways as they've "all got villains they must face," and if those villains are not as cool as his then "it's fine to know your place" before assuring them that if they're "not a frigging 'tard" they "will prevail."
The third paradigm of heroism is shown in the the "quiet, nerdy" Penny. Called neither a hero nor a villain, Penny is the Every Man character, dressed in colorful clothes where Dr. Horrible and Captain Hammer wear either black or white. But while the two men spend the duration of the musical squabbling over her, Penny is dedicatedly working with the homeless, making a small but tangible difference in the world when she successfully campaigns to get the city to donate a condemned building as a new homeless shelter. However, Dr. Horrible dismisses her efforts as "treating a symptom while the disease rages on" and Captain Hammer engages in her cause only because he "might just sleep with the same girl twice." Penny represents the sincere, everyday hero, unacknowledged as she works within the political system to improve society, aspiring not to rule the world ala Dr. Horrible or garner fame ala Captain Hammer, but to be "hope." Indeed, the crowning tragedy of the film is that Penny is killed in the midst of Captain Hammer and Dr. Horrible's power struggle, and is summarily ignored by the press as "Whats-Her-Name" and "Heroes Girlfriend, (sic)" representing the ways in which our society overlooks similar heroic figures.
Whereas Dr. Horrible embodies an extreme hero working outside the system and Captain Hammer personifies a hero so integrated into the system he has ceased to be effective, only Penny's brand of heroism, using the system to further her ends, seems to get results, thus answering the question of what makes a hero.
Although the titular character, Dr. Horrible, is consistently referred to as a villain, his motivations and methods make him less a model of an evil genius than of a revolutionary. The mad scientist figure only wants to "change the world" - and get the cute girl from the laundromat (Penny) to notice him. Unable to overcome his awkwardness to either work within the political system to improve the world he despairs of ("Any dolt with half a brain can see that human kind has gone insane") or to speak to the girl he desperately longs to have a "real, audible connection" with, he turns instead to the building of a trans-matter ray to steal gold bars out of a bank vault and a freeze ray to stop time so he can "find the time to find the words" to talk to Penny. Dr. Horrible represents the extreme but good-intentioned hero, overlooked but powerful in his own right.
In contrast, his nemesis, "Captain Hammer - Captain Hammer, corporate tool," represents the celebrity hero, lauded by the system and motivated less by the opportunity to improve the world than by the fame and women that come attached. In his memorable introductory scene, Captain Hammer foils Dr. Horrible's van heist, announcing "Captain Hammer's here, hair blowing in the breeze - the day needs my saving expertise." This expertise calls for the hero to punch and destroy the device Dr. Horrible is using to control the van, before abandoning the careening vehicle in order to flirt with a cute female bystander, proudly informing her that, "the only doom that's looming is you loving me to death." The viewer's opinion of Captain Hammer and what the city perceives as his heroics only diminishes as he is shown wiping off his hand after being greeted by a homeless man, cruelly mocking Dr. Horrible with his relationship with Penny, and beating up an unarmed Dr. Horrible (pausing so a tourist can get a picture), culminating in his horrifyingly satirical number, "Everyone's a Hero." Set at the dedication of a homeless shelter, the song, sung in lieu of a speech, informs enraptured citizens in the audience that they're all heroes in their own ways as they've "all got villains they must face," and if those villains are not as cool as his then "it's fine to know your place" before assuring them that if they're "not a frigging 'tard" they "will prevail."
The third paradigm of heroism is shown in the the "quiet, nerdy" Penny. Called neither a hero nor a villain, Penny is the Every Man character, dressed in colorful clothes where Dr. Horrible and Captain Hammer wear either black or white. But while the two men spend the duration of the musical squabbling over her, Penny is dedicatedly working with the homeless, making a small but tangible difference in the world when she successfully campaigns to get the city to donate a condemned building as a new homeless shelter. However, Dr. Horrible dismisses her efforts as "treating a symptom while the disease rages on" and Captain Hammer engages in her cause only because he "might just sleep with the same girl twice." Penny represents the sincere, everyday hero, unacknowledged as she works within the political system to improve society, aspiring not to rule the world ala Dr. Horrible or garner fame ala Captain Hammer, but to be "hope." Indeed, the crowning tragedy of the film is that Penny is killed in the midst of Captain Hammer and Dr. Horrible's power struggle, and is summarily ignored by the press as "Whats-Her-Name" and "Heroes Girlfriend, (sic)" representing the ways in which our society overlooks similar heroic figures.
Whereas Dr. Horrible embodies an extreme hero working outside the system and Captain Hammer personifies a hero so integrated into the system he has ceased to be effective, only Penny's brand of heroism, using the system to further her ends, seems to get results, thus answering the question of what makes a hero.
5/27/11
Gifts
You burn into me and you change me, leave me wanting and desperate, yet all the more complete for my lack. You push me and you pull me into being better, terrifying me that I'll backslide and become worse. I smile and cry simultaneously, shocked by the beauty of the precipice. (Danger has its own appeal.)
I'm not sure if silence is the eye of the storm or an indication that there is no storm at all. I fill the emptiness with the sounds of forever, only to discover that there's a fair bit of the minor keys in them. Flight is often mistaken for falling and falling identified as taking flight, to the point that I'm not sure anyone knows which is which, or even if there's any difference.
I used to make a point of distinguishing possibilities from promises, of saying that a kiss was just a kiss. I'm no longer sure such distinctions are fair. We have to have indications of where we stand, and words have proven more subject to change than sand. So possibilities are not promises, but they could be. (That's why we call them "possible.")
If you're always leaning back and never leaning forward, eventually the other person will fall out of their seat. From there, they usually walk away. It's all very well to see what you're getting before you give any back, but people stop giving if they're getting nothing for their pains. Make it a process, not a step. (It's rather mercenary, but there you go.)
I'm standing at the edge of the precipice with you burned into me, leaning forward as you lean back. It's a possibility that I might promise you flight, even as silence heralds a storm. I'm wanting something I may never receive, and half of me is okay with that. You've already given me something, already changed me - a kiss has never meant so much.
I'm not sure if silence is the eye of the storm or an indication that there is no storm at all. I fill the emptiness with the sounds of forever, only to discover that there's a fair bit of the minor keys in them. Flight is often mistaken for falling and falling identified as taking flight, to the point that I'm not sure anyone knows which is which, or even if there's any difference.
I used to make a point of distinguishing possibilities from promises, of saying that a kiss was just a kiss. I'm no longer sure such distinctions are fair. We have to have indications of where we stand, and words have proven more subject to change than sand. So possibilities are not promises, but they could be. (That's why we call them "possible.")
If you're always leaning back and never leaning forward, eventually the other person will fall out of their seat. From there, they usually walk away. It's all very well to see what you're getting before you give any back, but people stop giving if they're getting nothing for their pains. Make it a process, not a step. (It's rather mercenary, but there you go.)
I'm standing at the edge of the precipice with you burned into me, leaning forward as you lean back. It's a possibility that I might promise you flight, even as silence heralds a storm. I'm wanting something I may never receive, and half of me is okay with that. You've already given me something, already changed me - a kiss has never meant so much.
5/26/11
What Forever Could Mean
Time seemed not to pass, caught up in sunshine and nature sounds. Silence was only time to think, and conversation fuel for the fire.
When the clock reminded us that we had places to be, we sighed, and shifted reluctantly. At that moment, forever seemed like it would be easy to achieve.
But we yielded to the clock, as we knew we must, swimming ashore into time's grip, passing indoors to society. The lights became fluorescent, and the fire guttered out, the silence as oppressive as a shroud.
Should we glance out the window, however, we would see the edge of what forever could mean.
When the clock reminded us that we had places to be, we sighed, and shifted reluctantly. At that moment, forever seemed like it would be easy to achieve.
But we yielded to the clock, as we knew we must, swimming ashore into time's grip, passing indoors to society. The lights became fluorescent, and the fire guttered out, the silence as oppressive as a shroud.
Should we glance out the window, however, we would see the edge of what forever could mean.
Non-Negotiables
- Honest/Hard-working
- Open-minded/Adventurous
- Sociable
- Artistic/Passionate
- Witty
- Confident
- Articulate
- Curious/Scholarly
Love is just a word until someone gives it meaning, and this is just a checklist that may never mean anything.
5/24/11
Pheonix
It's not always easy to recognize that you are wrong, especially when you've been deceiving yourself all along.
("You confuse the crap out of yourself," he observed.)
But I was wrong, and the realization (late though it is) is a relief. Everything is simplified when one knows what one believes.
("What was I thinking?" I demanded.
"I don't know!" he replied. "You tell me.")
Skip three months ahead, as my best friend laughs. Everything's falling into place. It's simple and scary and it keeps me up at night, smiling into my pillow. (Possibilities are almost as enchanting as promises.)
("You do?!" he exclaimed when I confessed it all. "YES! Gigantic red stamp of approval.")
I've been broken; I've been repaired. I've been angry; I've been hurt. I've been stupid; I've been naive. I've been cynical; I've been charmed. And yes: I've been wrong.
Things end, but I won't regret them: every mistake is merely a lesson.
("You confuse the crap out of yourself," he observed.)
But I was wrong, and the realization (late though it is) is a relief. Everything is simplified when one knows what one believes.
("What was I thinking?" I demanded.
"I don't know!" he replied. "You tell me.")
Skip three months ahead, as my best friend laughs. Everything's falling into place. It's simple and scary and it keeps me up at night, smiling into my pillow. (Possibilities are almost as enchanting as promises.)
("You do?!" he exclaimed when I confessed it all. "YES! Gigantic red stamp of approval.")
I've been broken; I've been repaired. I've been angry; I've been hurt. I've been stupid; I've been naive. I've been cynical; I've been charmed. And yes: I've been wrong.
Things end, but I won't regret them: every mistake is merely a lesson.
I Do Love to Win Things....
On May 6, 2011, "Loves Her...," the opening excerpt from Pluck the Petals from a Daisy won second place in Steward House's weekly contest. However, once more, I feel as though the review completely misses my point. The piece is not about "relentless pursuit," but about desire and inaction. Of course, if you read my recent post about the novel the piece is excerpted from, then you have a fair bit more insight into it than did the editors at Steward House. Nevertheless, a placement is a placement.
By the by, while you're there, you should definitely read Keayva Mitchell's "The Remedy," the first place that week. The poem is absolutely amazing.
By the by, while you're there, you should definitely read Keayva Mitchell's "The Remedy," the first place that week. The poem is absolutely amazing.
5/23/11
Chances & Odds
Can I take a chance on you?
I'm slow to decide, but I won't stop once I've made up my mind.
I think you're probably worth the time, and even mistakes will be a worthy investment.
So, before I gamble, will you tell me the odds?
What are the chances that "happily-some-time-after" is in the cards?
I'm slow to decide, but I won't stop once I've made up my mind.
I think you're probably worth the time, and even mistakes will be a worthy investment.
So, before I gamble, will you tell me the odds?
What are the chances that "happily-some-time-after" is in the cards?
5/22/11
Phase Two
I would rather regret the things I have done than the things I haven't. ("What if"s have proven far too pesky for my palate.)
And thus shall I proceed.
Phase Two:
Implement.
And thus shall I proceed.
Phase Two:
Implement.
5/17/11
Pluck the Petals from a Daisy
I decided on a title for Carnelia's story: Pluck the Petals from a Daisy. This functions on several levels.
First off, Bellis, Carnelia's last name, is the latin name for a daisy. To pluck the petals off a daisy is to pull Carnelia's life away from her - the extent to be assessed by the reader.
Daisies are also associated with innocence, particularly in Victorian flower language. (I'm a huge sucker for the Victorians' everyday use of floral symbolism.) The loss of petals is suggestive of Carnelia's loss of innocence, and, with the association with her name, of her identity.
You are likely familiar with the practice of pulling petals off daisies, saying "(S)he loves me, (s)he loves me not," alternating with each petal. A large portion of the novel concerns Carnelia and Elec guessing at whether or not the other loves them or is capable of love at all. More importantly, it's about Carnelia's uncertainty about whether or not her succubus status means that she has lost the love of the society she was raised in - and of the Christian God that dominates it.
Of course, plucking the petals off a daisy is a very passive way of living one's life, and central to the novel is the necessity of living actively. Does Carnelia take charge of her life? I'll have to finish writing it before you can find out.
First off, Bellis, Carnelia's last name, is the latin name for a daisy. To pluck the petals off a daisy is to pull Carnelia's life away from her - the extent to be assessed by the reader.
Daisies are also associated with innocence, particularly in Victorian flower language. (I'm a huge sucker for the Victorians' everyday use of floral symbolism.) The loss of petals is suggestive of Carnelia's loss of innocence, and, with the association with her name, of her identity.
You are likely familiar with the practice of pulling petals off daisies, saying "(S)he loves me, (s)he loves me not," alternating with each petal. A large portion of the novel concerns Carnelia and Elec guessing at whether or not the other loves them or is capable of love at all. More importantly, it's about Carnelia's uncertainty about whether or not her succubus status means that she has lost the love of the society she was raised in - and of the Christian God that dominates it.
Of course, plucking the petals off a daisy is a very passive way of living one's life, and central to the novel is the necessity of living actively. Does Carnelia take charge of her life? I'll have to finish writing it before you can find out.
~*~
You've probably noticed that in addition to chapter drafts, I've been posting what I've called here "Elec's Excerpts." I felt like the story needed some additional perspective to balance out Carnelia's very opinionated narrative. Although it may be obvious to experienced readers the ways in which Carnelia's story-telling is biased, I want it to be equally obvious to less perceptive readers that they're not getting the whole tale in the chapters. Hence, I've decided to insert excerpts from Elec's notebooks between chapters, although the author will not be named to the readers until far into the story.
The novel's design currently looks something like this:
1. "Loves Her...," presenting the primary themes and some of the title implications.
2. Chapter One, introducing Carnelia and showing the reader how she interacts with her friends.
3. "Identification," suggesting that Carnelia's place in the world is more flexible than Carnelia would like to think.
4. Chapter Two, introducing Elec and giving the reader an idea of their dynamic.
5. "The Post-Modern Narrative," tipping readers off that Carnelia is not the Fountain of Truth, and calling attention to the frequency of Carnelia's insistence that she dislikes Elec.
6. Chapter Three, showing how Carnelia and Elec interact with acquaintances.
7. "A Challenge," revealing how Elec views his relationship with Carnelia. This will most likely be turned into verse.
8. Chapter Four (which will not be up for a long while, although it has been drafted), demonstrating how Carnelia interacts with strangers and broaching her sexuality directly for the first time.
Stay tuned. ;)
A Heart Worth Breaking (draft 4)
"You're one of those people who could get your heart broken and never even notice."
She cringed inwardly, feeling tears gather in her lashes, but her face remained impassive.
"You're a cold, hard bitch, and immoral to boot," he continued, not angry, but as calm as fact. "I don't understand the appeal, personally, but there are plenty of poor saps who fall all over themselves for you."
Her lips twitched violently to one side. But she quickly replaced the facade.
"And you just don't care," he marveled, shaking his head at her. "You go on with your life, collecting hearts, breaking them, then tossing them over your shoulder. And you dance and smile all the while."
His face turned ugly, the plastic smile broken by a sneer.
Anger boiled up to just below her throat, tasting of copper. What did he know?
He leaned over her, and she could smell the acid scent of accusation in his sweat.
"You're the worst kind of girl," he spat.
She sat silent, tears and anger meeting in her vocal chords, muting her as they struggled with each other for control.
There was only so much a girl without a heart worth breaking could do.
She kicked him in the shin, forcing him back. The resulting epithets were ignored; they were nothing new.
With a furious calm, she stood.
"A minor point of correction," she said, her tone mild. "I'm one of those people who could never get my heart broken because I only ever notice."
She cringed inwardly, feeling tears gather in her lashes, but her face remained impassive.
"You're a cold, hard bitch, and immoral to boot," he continued, not angry, but as calm as fact. "I don't understand the appeal, personally, but there are plenty of poor saps who fall all over themselves for you."
Her lips twitched violently to one side. But she quickly replaced the facade.
"And you just don't care," he marveled, shaking his head at her. "You go on with your life, collecting hearts, breaking them, then tossing them over your shoulder. And you dance and smile all the while."
His face turned ugly, the plastic smile broken by a sneer.
Anger boiled up to just below her throat, tasting of copper. What did he know?
He leaned over her, and she could smell the acid scent of accusation in his sweat.
"You're the worst kind of girl," he spat.
She sat silent, tears and anger meeting in her vocal chords, muting her as they struggled with each other for control.
There was only so much a girl without a heart worth breaking could do.
She kicked him in the shin, forcing him back. The resulting epithets were ignored; they were nothing new.
With a furious calm, she stood.
"A minor point of correction," she said, her tone mild. "I'm one of those people who could never get my heart broken because I only ever notice."
Failed Connection
If I were to call you, would you answer?
Or would you look at your phone like the caller ID was making a mistake, and click my call over to voicemail?
I suspect the latter.
I suppose I care, otherwise I'd not be writing about it at all.
I don't think I'll call you, though. You might answer, and we'd connect (I'm not sure how I'd feel about that). Or you may ignore the call, leaving me even more pissed off than I was before.
There are few things more frustrating than a failed connection.
Or would you look at your phone like the caller ID was making a mistake, and click my call over to voicemail?
I suspect the latter.
I suppose I care, otherwise I'd not be writing about it at all.
I don't think I'll call you, though. You might answer, and we'd connect (I'm not sure how I'd feel about that). Or you may ignore the call, leaving me even more pissed off than I was before.
There are few things more frustrating than a failed connection.
Night Ride
It's not smart to be awake like this, far into the night with school on the horizon with the sun. But even as the music tugs at my tear ducts like threads of blue lightning, something is bothering me.
It's unusual for my male friends to chime in on my love life, but I feel like I've just heard a glockenspiel symphony. And all in harmony, a major key.
I'm considering (agreeing with) their opinion, even as a part of me knocks on my internal camera lens.
"Hold up," she says, one eyebrow raised, "you don't have enough information."
Which cues a flashback to Tamora, leaning against her desk, laughing.
"If I have enough information, you have enough information."
Right. That settles (nothing) that, then.
The internal me rocks back on her heels and examines her nails, like she's already won out against the glockenspiels, even though her victory is far from assured.
"I don't need victory, witch," she informs me coolly, not glancing up. "I only need to get you to ride your own broomstick."
Her eyes pierce me through the camera, cold and dry, brighter than the dawn.
"Especially through the lightning storm."
It's unusual for my male friends to chime in on my love life, but I feel like I've just heard a glockenspiel symphony. And all in harmony, a major key.
I'm considering (agreeing with) their opinion, even as a part of me knocks on my internal camera lens.
"Hold up," she says, one eyebrow raised, "you don't have enough information."
Which cues a flashback to Tamora, leaning against her desk, laughing.
"If I have enough information, you have enough information."
Right. That settles (nothing) that, then.
The internal me rocks back on her heels and examines her nails, like she's already won out against the glockenspiels, even though her victory is far from assured.
"I don't need victory, witch," she informs me coolly, not glancing up. "I only need to get you to ride your own broomstick."
Her eyes pierce me through the camera, cold and dry, brighter than the dawn.
"Especially through the lightning storm."
5/15/11
A Miracle
'Kay, so I like you.
A lot more than I usually like people whom I haven't known for years. (Usually, I kind of passively like people until that point, almost by default.) And you definitely have not been hanging around that long.
But, for some reason, I actively like you.
It's verra, verra strange, and I'm kind of marveling at it.
To clarify, we're not talking about attraction. That's common, and usually does not take likability into account. Attraction is easy. Likability takes effort.
So, what is it about you? Why do you get to skip the line into my "like" zone? Got any theories?
Can it be so simple and narcissistic as you reminding me of myself? You are a writer, a musician, and interested in various esoterica, outgoing with a thin shell of introversion.
Maybe. But there are other people who answer to your description, and they're still caught in line, being liked by default.
Could it be that you remind me of multiple other people whom I like? You do call to mind several examples, invoking many levels of trust and humor and positive residual vibrations.
Then again, does it really matter why I like you? Mayhap you're just special.
So, congrats, doll. You get to be a miracle.
A lot more than I usually like people whom I haven't known for years. (Usually, I kind of passively like people until that point, almost by default.) And you definitely have not been hanging around that long.
But, for some reason, I actively like you.
It's verra, verra strange, and I'm kind of marveling at it.
To clarify, we're not talking about attraction. That's common, and usually does not take likability into account. Attraction is easy. Likability takes effort.
So, what is it about you? Why do you get to skip the line into my "like" zone? Got any theories?
Can it be so simple and narcissistic as you reminding me of myself? You are a writer, a musician, and interested in various esoterica, outgoing with a thin shell of introversion.
Maybe. But there are other people who answer to your description, and they're still caught in line, being liked by default.
Could it be that you remind me of multiple other people whom I like? You do call to mind several examples, invoking many levels of trust and humor and positive residual vibrations.
Then again, does it really matter why I like you? Mayhap you're just special.
So, congrats, doll. You get to be a miracle.
Prize Fight
I'm confused and I don't like it.
I prefer things to be clear-cut and subject to logic, which pretty much leaves me at a complete disadvantage in the romance arena. (As it has been pointed out to me many times, romance is not rational.)
So, now I undertake the funfortunate task of attempting to beat my heart into submitting to reason, or alternately, choking my brain into submitting to romance. Whichever happens to win out.
Now would be the time to place your bets. (If you're astute, you already know which is the underdog.)
I prefer things to be clear-cut and subject to logic, which pretty much leaves me at a complete disadvantage in the romance arena. (As it has been pointed out to me many times, romance is not rational.)
So, now I undertake the funfortunate task of attempting to beat my heart into submitting to reason, or alternately, choking my brain into submitting to romance. Whichever happens to win out.
Now would be the time to place your bets. (If you're astute, you already know which is the underdog.)
5/13/11
Breaking a Facade
You're not what you say you are.
That's excusable; few people are consistent with their claims.
It bugs the crap out of me, though.
You're a great guy and you don't need to try to convince people that you're awesome. You already are.
You are clearly passionate. You have a rational mindset but are a romantic at heart: you dream about finding that mythical connection. You're considerate, once you forget about what other people might be thinking about you. (You should forget about that far more often.) You view life as an adventure.
There's more that I can't see, that I know is there, that I'm curious about.
Because you are afraid, that connection that you so desperately want is difficult to forge.
You are afraid that you aren't good enough. You are afraid that you aren't bad ass enough. You are afraid that you're not charming enough. You are afraid that you're not interesting enough. You are afraid of failure and rejection and success.
But you are good enough. Being bad ass is over-rated, and charm comes in multiple flavors. You're one of the most interesting people I know. And failure and rejection and success? All just symptoms of living: nothing personal.
So, no, you're not what you say you are.
You're better than that.
That's excusable; few people are consistent with their claims.
It bugs the crap out of me, though.
You're a great guy and you don't need to try to convince people that you're awesome. You already are.
You are clearly passionate. You have a rational mindset but are a romantic at heart: you dream about finding that mythical connection. You're considerate, once you forget about what other people might be thinking about you. (You should forget about that far more often.) You view life as an adventure.
There's more that I can't see, that I know is there, that I'm curious about.
Because you are afraid, that connection that you so desperately want is difficult to forge.
You are afraid that you aren't good enough. You are afraid that you aren't bad ass enough. You are afraid that you're not charming enough. You are afraid that you're not interesting enough. You are afraid of failure and rejection and success.
But you are good enough. Being bad ass is over-rated, and charm comes in multiple flavors. You're one of the most interesting people I know. And failure and rejection and success? All just symptoms of living: nothing personal.
So, no, you're not what you say you are.
You're better than that.
Carnelia Bellis, Chapter Three, Draft 9
Ms. Ferrous talked right up to the bell, leaving us poor students to scramble to get our things in order if we wanted to take advantage of the valuable social time between classes.
I scooped my notebook up as I stood, slinging my messenger bag onto my chair, and calmly squeezed the binder between two others. I left my pen behind my ear. I didn't have that far to go.
"Hey, Carnelia."
I glanced up to see none other than Zachary Hicks standing across the aisle from my desk, thumb hooked beneath one strap of his book-bag.
Hm. Imagine that.
I pulled my bag across my body and straightened.
"How fare thee, Zachary," I said as I began to make my way toward the door. "Were you amputated over the summer?"
"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice coming from just behind my right shoulder.
I sighed and paused as I cleared the classroom door, waiting for him to catch up. I may as well get it over with.
I'd expected him to take far longer than this to approach me: a week, at least.
It took him all of six seconds to draw even with me.
Zachary Hicks stood slightly taller than I did in modest heels, putting him at about 5'10". He kept his brown hair cropped close to his scalp, and was only nominally clean-shaven. He suffered the predominately male affliction of CFTLF (Clothes Far Too Large for the Frame syndrome), making him look smaller than he physically was.
"Your other body," I clarified, gesturing to his hip. "Are you experiencing phantom limb syndrome?"
"Uh...."
I rolled my eyes. Must I say everything?
"Rena. Do you mean to tell me you weren't actually physically attached to her?"
He blushed, shifting from foot to foot. He knocked into a passing sophomore, who gave him a reproachful look as she continued on her way.
He got over both quickly.
"Nah," he drawled, assuming an odd smirk-grimace that I suppose was meant to be a confident smile. "I was never that in to her. She just couldn't keep her hands off of me."
Said the guy who'd all but begged Rena Dalton to go out with him at the end of freshman year and hadn't been seen without her since that minute. It had been scandalous to suggest they actually slept in separate beds, even separate houses.
He read my disbelief in the arch of my left eyebrow.
Well, possibly in the accompanying laughter as well.
He sagged.
"Okay, yeah. We broke up back in June," was the concession. "But," came the recovery, "I'm totally over her now, and I want to take out the most beautiful girl in the school."
I looked left. I looked right.
The halls were almost empty.
Well, there went that hope.
"Awww.... Flattery will get you everywhere you don't want to go," I purred, sweet as poisoned Swedish Fish. "Try a girl who doesn't know all the sordid details of your... performance."
Poor Zachary went pale.
I turned and started down the hall to Ms. Cane's classroom.
"I'll tell Rena you said 'hi,'" I called back. "I'm sure she'll laugh herself silly."
I scooped my notebook up as I stood, slinging my messenger bag onto my chair, and calmly squeezed the binder between two others. I left my pen behind my ear. I didn't have that far to go.
"Hey, Carnelia."
I glanced up to see none other than Zachary Hicks standing across the aisle from my desk, thumb hooked beneath one strap of his book-bag.
Hm. Imagine that.
I pulled my bag across my body and straightened.
"How fare thee, Zachary," I said as I began to make my way toward the door. "Were you amputated over the summer?"
"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice coming from just behind my right shoulder.
I sighed and paused as I cleared the classroom door, waiting for him to catch up. I may as well get it over with.
I'd expected him to take far longer than this to approach me: a week, at least.
It took him all of six seconds to draw even with me.
Zachary Hicks stood slightly taller than I did in modest heels, putting him at about 5'10". He kept his brown hair cropped close to his scalp, and was only nominally clean-shaven. He suffered the predominately male affliction of CFTLF (Clothes Far Too Large for the Frame syndrome), making him look smaller than he physically was.
"Your other body," I clarified, gesturing to his hip. "Are you experiencing phantom limb syndrome?"
"Uh...."
I rolled my eyes. Must I say everything?
"Rena. Do you mean to tell me you weren't actually physically attached to her?"
He blushed, shifting from foot to foot. He knocked into a passing sophomore, who gave him a reproachful look as she continued on her way.
He got over both quickly.
"Nah," he drawled, assuming an odd smirk-grimace that I suppose was meant to be a confident smile. "I was never that in to her. She just couldn't keep her hands off of me."
Said the guy who'd all but begged Rena Dalton to go out with him at the end of freshman year and hadn't been seen without her since that minute. It had been scandalous to suggest they actually slept in separate beds, even separate houses.
He read my disbelief in the arch of my left eyebrow.
Well, possibly in the accompanying laughter as well.
He sagged.
"Okay, yeah. We broke up back in June," was the concession. "But," came the recovery, "I'm totally over her now, and I want to take out the most beautiful girl in the school."
I looked left. I looked right.
The halls were almost empty.
Well, there went that hope.
"Awww.... Flattery will get you everywhere you don't want to go," I purred, sweet as poisoned Swedish Fish. "Try a girl who doesn't know all the sordid details of your... performance."
Poor Zachary went pale.
I turned and started down the hall to Ms. Cane's classroom.
"I'll tell Rena you said 'hi,'" I called back. "I'm sure she'll laugh herself silly."
~*~
Ms. Cane's classroom was unchanged from the previous year. There was the same fluorescent lighting smothered into dimness by the dragon posters that papered the walls, the same area rug reading "Here There Be Dragons" at the center of the room that one should never step on under any circumstances, and the same angular horseshoe of desks surrounding it. Say what you will about Ms. Cane, but you could count on her classroom to be consistent.
Matthew had saved me the seat at the corner of the bottom of the horseshoe, as far away from the Cane's desk as possible while maintaining a view of the board. I deposited my bag and slid into the chair just as the late bell rang.
Matthew pulled off his glasses to polish them and shot me a disapproving look.
Dead-pan, I leaned in conspiratorially.
"'Did anyone ever tell you you're kind of a fuddy duddy?'" I intoned.
My friend paused, but I saw the smile, quickly concealed, begin to grow on his lips.
"'Nobody ever seems to tell me anything else,'" he replied, slipping his glasses back into place.
"'Did anyone ever tell you you're kind of a sexy fuddy duddy?'" I continued.
He couldn't help himself. His smile burst free across his face, making his burnished skin assume a friendly glow.
"'That part usually gets left out,'" he finished the lines from "The Dark Age." "'I can't imagine why.'"
I grinned back at him, and reached out to hug him before he could remember that he didn't approve of smiling, fun, or humanity in a school environment.
"Y'all are so cute," Rena Dalton's sweet Southern voice drawled, causing me to jerk and poor Matthew to sputter when I accidentally choked him. "I'll never understand why y'all don't date."
I settled back into my chair, realizing that, in my haste, I'd overlooked the ash-blonde in the desk kitty-corner to mine.
"Rena," I chided lightly, "for shame. Now you've embarrassed Matthew. He'll never forgive you."
"Doesn't take much to make that one blush," someone muttered darkly.
My eyes darted to Elec in the seat behind Rena.
Great. Stuck near him for another class. Time to ignore him. I didn't hear him; I didn't see him. Right.
"Sorry, Matthew," Rena was saying. Matthew nodded, eyes pretending to be magnets attracted to the North Pole of his desk. "I really just don't understand it, though. Y'all even like the same sort of things." She brushed one silky tendril back behind her ear as she rested her forearms on her desk. "I don't understand half the things y'all say."
Elec leaned forward so the heat of his breath would hit the shell of her ear as he stage-whispered honey to her.
"That's because you're far too genuine to want to spend hours exploring obscure sub-cultures. You're more concerned with understanding regular people."
He kept his position and made eye contact with her when she rotated to look at him, giggling and blushing. I nearly gagged as he held her gaze and smiled slowly, turning Rena's cheeks a deeper shade of pink.
He was so transparent.
Although admittedly good at reading people.
"'Nelia and I aren't suited," Matthew said calmly, opening his notebook as though most of that entire interchange had not taken place. "She would chew me up and spit me out faster than a cannibal would spinach."
Rena's attention snapped back to us, her nose wrinkling.
"Ewww! Thanks so much for that image!" She shuddered.
"SNACKRIFICES!"
The class jumped as one, refocusing on the seemingly innocuous older woman standing, hands folded, in front of the whiteboard.
She smiled ever-so-sweetly once she was sure she had us.
"I hope that none of you have virgin minds or that's what you'll be," she continued at a normal volume. "To get through this course intact, you're going to have to be an enthusiastic and expert learner. Enthusiasm will not make up for a lack of expertise, nor will expertise compensate for a dearth of enthusiasm."
Her smile became sinister.
"I'm Ms. Cane," she turned to the board, her disguise of Sweet Old Lady, so glaringly incongruous with her personality, back in place. "Let's get started."
I grinned as I pulled out my binder.
There was a reason the Cane was my favorite teacher.
I couldn't help but notice that Elec was grinning, too.
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