new location

i moved to blogger…you can check it out here. it’s just more convenient, since i already use google reader, gmail, docs, groups, etc. i figure having a google blog will mean i’ll be able to update it a little more often.

So farewell, wordpress. you were a good host. i’d recommend it to any of my non-blogging readers.

oh these sweet whispers, they are too loud for me

i can’t bear the silence. i feel you move quietly, your muffled words are wind against my face but i just can’t quite seem to catch them. Why is everything out reach, dangled over my head, glinting on the horizon, promised on the dawn? Why does it take so long for you to deliver like you always do? Our clocks obviously don’t match up. Conform to MY standards, you stupid -

creator.

Of the universe.

Maybe I’m wrong.

Maybe you’re the one I should be listening to. Maybe my cries aren’t as important as your screams. If I can’t hear you, whose fault is that?

Mine.

I know. I know. I know more than I want to. Sometimes sweet ignorance blesses me, then people’s voices i don’t understand, advice, reprimands, and the worst, silence. 

God. 

God, you’re cryptic and quiet and stealthy and are you laughing behind my back, or is it a trick of the light?

Are you waiting for me, or have you already left? 

I know I’m taking my own sweet time, lazing over this life I must decide. Which way, how, how soon? 

How soon, my love? 

How soon?

Preview for novel in progress

hey guys, this is a little teaser trailer for the book I’m currently writing. Yes, it’s rough. Yes, it’s weird. Get over it. I’m having a ball writing it, so what else matters?

But I’ve remembered – If you do not understand what dreams are, I am sorry. Perhaps I should explain them a little more. I have just realized that this history might find itself in the hands of outlanders.
Any dream ever dreamt flew straight to the golden Bank, because dreams are attracted to gold. They were caught and stored in paper files inlaid with gold leaf to keep the dream inside. Each person in Calorath had a vault in the bank, and each vault had but one key belonging to the dreamer. People made trips to take out their dreams and look at them. Some sighed, and asked the clerk to put it back. Some slept with it under their pillows for safekeeping. Some hid their dreams, or left them to collect dust.
And some rare few took them home and decided to follow them.

My hand flew to the little golden key, dangling from a chain. I felt the number. 44921. Along side it was Ma’s, number 44923. I wondered if Da’s was 44922. I would have loved to see his dreams, but I did not have his key.
It took me a while to follow the little road until it merged with a greater one. I followed this across the valley and through Calorath’s capitol, Tasca, which was a nice enough city full of assorted apartments, shops, and other such things.
Calorath was a country still following the old way of things, and we liked it that way. We stubbornly stuck with horses and wells when everyone else decided to build mechanical carts and water pumps. That was the Calor way.
One could see this in Tasca, which perfectly embodied our merging of new systems and old customs. Buildings cast shadows over the road and stretched at least six stories high. Neighbors high above me called greetings to fellows across the street; babies rode on the backs of nurses on the way to the market; men stumbled glassy-eyed from pub doorways; scholars clutched scrolls close to their chests as they stepped carefully over puddles; monks walked in packs of four and six on their way to the temple, singing low, beautiful music; and I was not the only traveler wearily finding their way through the city. It was a perfect town.
The road ended at the bank, which glowed white and gold. It was a huge domed building, as if a god had decided to take the sun down from the sky and plant it in the middle of our town. There were marble archways leading up to the solid gold steps. I followed them through the wide-open golden door into a huge hall – the kind of room that, if I had been younger, I would have called, ‘echo!’ and listened for my voice bounce off the gilded walls.
There was a line of about fifteen people at the far end of the room, waiting for their turn with the wizened vault clerk manning the huge golden desk labeled WITHDRAWLS. I took a place in line and looked around.

To my left and right were doors, one labeled VIEWING ROOMS and the other OFFICES in a very bold type. There was also a big golden machine with one little slot in it labeled DESTROYER: For Shredding Nightmares. Some people traveled for weeks just to rid one nightmare from their head. In front of me was the desk and the clerk. I observed how the withdrawal system worked: the person in line would hand him a key and a copper for his trouble; he would open a golden door behind him and emerge minutes later carrying a stack of dreams. This was a long process if you multiply it by fifteen, however, and it was an hour before I was finally seen.

The clerk smiled genially as I slid the coin across the gold desk. “And just what can I do for you, girl?”
“Please sir, could you check my Ma’s vault? Bring all her dreams out. I need to find a special one.”
“Don’t we all. But first I need proof you are her daughter before I can let you see her dreams.”
I showed him my own key and Ma’s, gave him my name, and he looked it up in a humongous book. Running his finger down the line of registrations, he mumbled “yes, yes, yes. I see. You are who you say you are.” He took the key I offered him, Ma’s key. An eternity passed, then -
The clerk came back with nothing but the key, which he handed back to me with a pitying smile. “I’m sorry, little girl, but there’s nothing in there.”
“What? But Ma said it would be here. You don’t understand. See, I must find this dream – “
“Sorry; there’s nothing.” He thought for a second. “Would you like to see your vault? Sometimes there are mix-ups with families’ vaults.”
“I suppose.” I gave him my key.
He came back five minutes later with a large stack of files. “Aren’t we quite the impressive dreamer.” I could tell he was amazed by the amount of dreams I had.
“Is it odd for me to dream so much?”
“Not odd, just…very uncommon.” He peered at me again. “What was your name?”
“Gwynivere. My vault’s 44921.” I watched as he made a little note by my name. “What’s that for?”
“We like to know who our most impressive dreamers are, just in case.” He pushed the files forward, distracting me from asking, ‘just in case of what?’ “Why don’t you go take a seat over there, little missy, and look through them.”

I thanked him and sat on a chair on the side of the hall. The first file was the most common dream I had. I smiled as I recalled it. A very foolish one, but interesting nonetheless. There were a few others like it, and then a nightmare. I shuddered and threw it into the destroyer, and I heard a ghastly sound of ripping paper being reduced to confetti along with the faintest sound of that thing. I went along like this for quite some time, but could not find any dream I was not acquainted with. However, I did have a lovely time recalling all those dreams I had had. Some felt like premonitions or visions, whereas some were purely fantastical. I reached the end of the stack and gave it back to him, along with my key. “Please put them back. I don’t understand, though. She told me it would be here!”
He looked at me differently this time, almost sadly. “If they aren’t there, I don’t know what happened. Dreams never disappear, you know. They always live on somewhere.” He paused and shook his head. “I’m awfully sorry, but there isn’t anything I can do.”
“Thank you anyways.”
“Good-bye. Next!” he shouted to the little lady behind me. He took her key and locked my dreams back up in the vault somewhere in the darkness behind him.

Copyright Joanna Rutter 2008 (c)

sea of voices

Oh Lord

Oh God

It’s here again

Shaking, can’t hear my heart

Screaming over the sound of the

Throbbing in my ears

 

Stop

Don’t

Want to go back there don’t

Want to sink again don’t

Want to hear you say

No child, don’t

Want you to stop me but

I do.

 

Answer, would it

Kill you to take this fear and

Kill my weakness

Bind up my hands and dress my

Wounds and take me out of this battle I can’t

Fight much longer

 

Stop up my ears and stop these

Voices can’t hear your

voice in all these

Sounds I claw my way through

Nothingness

And in turn find

Nothing

 

I am in hell. You are God and yet

You are here with me I can

Feel you but I can’t see you

Yet.

I need a sign a

Something to show me you haven’t

Left me

Here in this sea of voices

 

You understand, friend, the only

Way I can drown them out is this

Death of mine I’ve found

Can you smile and nod and

Care

 

I’m waterlogged in this sea of

Voices won’t take much longer to

Finally drown them out

one

last

time

 

and yet.

Yet we both know that’s a

Lie Lord take this

Desire take this

Death take these voices

So I can hear yours again

 

I’m halfway

Gone

drowning in a sea of

voices

untitled…i did this a couple months ago

Wind swept up and down the plains. I hid in the tall grasses, letting them swish and sway around me. I think I might have been freezing; everything was too cold, piercing, digging tiny holes into my skin.

I liked it that way.

 

The sky was the dull gray of an oncoming storm. Black clouds bordered the horizon. The sounds of wheat and weeds tangling themselves in each other were rustling in my ears. My hair whipped at my face, and my arms were spread out. I breathed the moist air. I could just barely smell the dirt, just barely feel the rough cloth against my body, just barely feel the cold wind eating at my fingertips. Just barely. But even the tiniest bit of sensation was not enough. I wanted more. I wanted to be screaming with cold.

 

But the numbness came again, licking up the last of any sensation and leaving me in a state of nothingness. I could see and hear, but I could not feel, neither in sensation nor soul. Any emotions I had had were locked up, licked up, hidden, eaten. There was no way for the emotions to come out. I could not feel again.

 

If the grasses clung to my clothes and slapped my face, I did not know. My fingers pushed away stalks that might not have even been there. I couldn’t tell. I began wandering again.

 

There was a tall white house hiding between two trees. It looked like a mansion. Pillars rose from a beautiful porch to support the gleaming white roof above. Silver handles shone from their place on the gigantic front door. I did not know how, but a second later I was standing nose to nose with a cherubic door knocker.

“Very well then.” I grabbed a wing and let the silver thump against the wooden door.

 

A blonde girl answered, a bright smile on her face. “Greetings, traveler. You are welcome here.”

She took my coat and led me into a perfect room with perfect decorations. Elaborate drapes made colorful shadows on the polished furniture. The girl led me to a gigantic couch.

“Are you hungry?”

“I don’t remember.”

She smiled sympathetically. I wanted her to frown. “Cake, then.”

She brought out an assortment of twenty of thirty different pastries, all perfectly decorated, with my name glazed in various forms of lacy script on each perfectly iced treat.

“Have one.”

I thanked her, randomly chose a chocolate one, and tried it. I could taste nothing but ate it all to be polite.

“How did you come so far from the main city?” she asked.

“I got lost.”

Still smiling beatifically, she regarded me over the mound of sweets. “I see.”

I sat squirming under her shiny grin until I could think of something to say. “Who are you?”

“I am Leona, the keeper of the Last House.”

“So you keep travelers?”

“Yes, I let them stay for a while and rest, then give them directions back.” Her smile hurt my eyes. “Just as I shall help you.”

“Thank you.”

I must have fallen asleep on the chair, becuase I was wakened by a taller woman with the features as Leona.

“Leona?”

“That is another of my names. Come,” she said, and I did. She brought me to a refreshingly plain room and served me tea. I watched her sip the drink cautiously, and pretended to do the same, but was in reality gulping it down, hoping to burn my tongue or throat. She began talking to me, and I asked no questions of her. I cannot understand why it was so easy to talk to the nameless woman, but it just was.

“Why were you standing outside yesterday? What were you trying to do?”

How could I make her understand? “I cannot feel anything most of the time. I am a half-person. To be able to live, I must do very crazy things.”

“Like standing outside in the middle of a thunderstorm.”

“Yes.” I told her of the mountains I had climbed just to feel taller than my incompetence, the rivers I had traveled down, swimming from the staleness that was so eager to catch me and stifle me again, and the seas I had crossed to run away from dreams and chase my self-created reality. I told her of the feasts I had avoided just to feel that gnawing in my stomach, reminding me I was still human and could feel hunger and pain. I did these things just to feel, to be able to know I was still alive.

She did not offer advice or comfort, only nodded her head, because she understood my numbness.

“I will solve your problem,” she said.

“How?”

“I know how. It is enough for you to know that.”

She left me in the room – I cannot remember how she left – but I was alone. I fell asleep again, and when I woke I was by the front door. I stood up on the porch and surveyed the prairie before me. There was a roiling storm in the sky, twisting and turning and churning. I could see a little black speck in the grasses but couldn’t make out what it was. There were brilliant lightening flashes, directed at the little speck. Then a crack of sound, and a huge explosion.

Then all the sudden there was peace. The storm was gone. Clouds vanished; rain ceased; the sun came out and everything was blue and yellow again.

I ran to the spot the lightening had struck, and was not surprised to find my nameless woman lying there dead. Suddenly I realized I was a little cold. Just a little. So I took her cloak and wrapped it around myself and walked back to the house.

I made a fire and watched it flickering, waiting for something in front of me.

After a few hours it began to die, so I fed it the only kindling I had – the cloak.

I watched it curl up into nothing, watched it shrivel into a little speck and then vanish, watched the sparks fly up and disappear. I whispered, “Thank you.”

And I could just barely feel the warmth of the fire on my face.

Just barely.

 

finally, some more confused spiritual ramblings

Word of advice: it’s very complicated to be someone’s friend if you hate their guts. I could list off five or so people who I really wouldn’t mind being shipped off to some faraway country. Problem is, they’d also find themselves on my list of closest friends. How I’ve managed to get myself into this? I guess that’s the problem with surface friendships – once they start getting deep and you see someone for who they really are, it either strengthens a relationship or adds stress to it. If friends give you bad advice, insult you repeatedly, burden you with their problems to make themselves feel better, or shout/curse at you, I think you can’t really call them friends. Or can you? Those 5 or so people are people that are very hard to love. And yet…I can still look them in the face and say, I love you. I’m not saying it doesn’t hurt to say those three words and think of all the times you wished you could pull away. I’m not saying it doesn’t hurt to never hear them say it back. But I keep at it. Problem is, it’s tearing me apart. It’s taking a lot out of me. The times I have the most fun are when I’m around people I love, but the times I feel most complete and comfortable are when I’m completely alone, when nobody’s taking chunks out of my heart just because it’s convenient or whatever.

My good buddy Caitlin said something today, and I’ve completely forgotten what it is now, but I’ve come to realize I have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA WHO I AM. I know the teen years are all about discovering who you are, but c’mon! I must be at least five different people. Every person I’m in contact with knows a different one. The people that know my serious side (which is actually my only real side, fyi) are weirded out when I go crazy, the people that know my bitter slash romantic slash boyish side are surprised to hear me wax eloquent about Jane Eyre and kayaking. you get the idea. It’s like the wheel of fortune, where the contestants spin the wheel and get a different answer every time. And lately I’ve been feeling more serious and like…when I’m writing or staring out the window talking to God or whatever, I feel more like myself than when I’m just being silly. I don’t know, honestly. I wish I could introduce everyone to the Joanna I’d rather be. I just don’t even know if it’s the real one. Reader, you have no idea how confused I am.

God is preparing my heart. I thought the past couple of weeks were insane. God’s been saying that I have nooooo idea how crazy next year will be. He’s been telling me a lot of incredible things, making me promises I know He’ll keep, which is nice, seeing as it drowns out the sounds of the demons.

This post in itself is enough to show you just know sad and confused and excited and worried and stretched I feel. And I really can’t think of anything else to talk about. Peace.

the endearing complications of love.

I hate weakness and vulnerability. Being a girl, I’m already told I’m weaker than men. I’m more emotional, more loving, more open, more…vulnerable. I’m seriously already asking for it. And although loving somebody can be fun and weird and beautiful, it leaves me feeling like an idiot. like…i’m setting myself up for a letdown. Every time I realize I care for somebody, romantically or not, I see how I’ve taken my heart and laid it out on a table for people to play with. So sometimes I bury it further, like i did for the past….three years. And now that I’m learning to love, it feels incredibly strange. And that’s all I can say! Pretty pitiful.

This is what happens when most of your friends are blonde.

This is the product of me rereading old Arthurian legends. Couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if Gwynivere was born in the 21st century. Enjoy!

Dear Diary,
Oh. My. Gosh. I have like THE weirdest boyfriend EVER. So we were walking down to get coffee and we passed that really dumb store with all the costumes in it. So then he sees a shield in the window and he’s all like “omg I so have to get that shield!” Except he didn’t say it that way b/c he’s always talking so formal like he’s a prince or something. He said something like “verily I much fetch yonder shield” and he sounded really dumb I laughed at him. I don’t really understand him half the time. Well I let him get the shield and he was geeking out over it. I was like WHATEVER! Just a shield arty! And he’s like don’t call me arty my names Arthur Pendragon. Like I care!
But he’s really a sweetie even if he is really weird. Plus hes like MAD hot so its ok. <3

Dear Diary,
Is Gwen Pendragon a weird name? Lol

Dear Diary,
Ok at school today we had a fencing instructer come to P.E. and show is the regular stuff like how to fence. Then he gave the sword to Arty and omg he ALMOST KiLLED the guy. Arty totally kicked his butt it was so cool. Lol it was so funny, the look on the instructers face. He was like HOLY CRAP KID and Arty’s like yeah I know right? He’s really popular now which is good for me too but he still talks confusing. Oh well he’ll get used to it. I know its probably like really hard for him cuz he just moved here from that town called Camelot. And like I never heard of Camelot but he says its somewhere in England. I guess he has an axent but idk sometimes. I guess maybe everybody in Camelot talks like they jumped out an old movie.

Dear Diary,
Arty is so cute when he gets romantic. He called me “milady.” And when I get upset or mad he calls me his “damsel in distress” and says he has to “save me.” ITS SOOOOO CUTE. <3 omg hes so dumb sometimes tho. Like ok get this in Camelot they didn’t have electricity or phones isnt that crazy!!!! So I had to teach him how to use the phone lol. So I talked to him last night and I didn’t understand half of what he said. He kept on talking about dumb stuff like steeds and jousts. And im like ENGLISH PLEASE. Whatever. He’s taking me to a Ren fair,and hes gonna kick some more butt I think they sword fight and stuff there. One of his geek friends was sitting at our table today and they wouldnt shut up about it. Anyways I get to buy a pretty dress and thats all that matters right?

Dear Diary,
Ok so Arty got on a horse it was wearing like some weird costume and he called himself a knight and I was thinking he was getting really carried away. There was this dude named the black knight and omg arty really didn’t like him. I guess the dude was from Camelot too cause he talked that way too. Anyways arty whacked him off his hourse with a big stick which is SOOOO DUMB but I just sat there and it was really hot and they had weird food and I was like HELLOOO IM ON A DIET HERE. Whatever. Arty gave me some flowers and said it was my nosegay and I had to hold im like THIS DOESN’T LOOK LIKE A NOSE AND FLOWERS CANT BE GAY ANYWAYS but he didn’t listen he just walked around and talked weird to everybody. Oh wait im late for ballet ill write more later.

Ok then there was this sword that some idiot guy in big robes got stuck in a stone and idk how anybody could even do something soooooo dumb but he said that only the true king of England could pull it out which is weird because like wouldn’t it be the strongest guy that would pull it out? Idk. So Arty pulled it out…I mean like no big deal right? But he made it like SUCH A BIG DEAL and every bowed down and called him King Arthur and it was soooo weird. Turns out the winner of the contest gets to go on vacay to England and gets to bring one person, of course hes bringing me. Now he calls me his queen and I got a little crown and everything and he says he’ll get to show me around Camelot and stuff. So im gonna have like the totally bestest summer like EVER!

*cue swirly music*

I’ve been floating around in a bubble of summer haziness still! You know when the music on TV shows goes all travel-back-in-time-y and the screen starts to swirl? I feel like I’m in that constant state of swirlyness, waiting for the pixelated rainbow to dump me at some arrival place. I guess the problem is that I don’t exactly know where I’m headed.

Needless to say, technicolor vortexes are not God’s preferred mode of emotional transportation, buuuuuut I’m usually the exception….in most cases. slash, all cases. In fact, this very post is proof to my almost druggie-like state of mind and body. Soul? Getting there.

I’m very disappointed with this blog. I have a few regular readers (love you guys) which is great….i don’t think this would last as a gigantor thing. It’s my writing that disappoints me. I’m not even sure what a blog is supposed to look like. I have random spurts of intelligence, then the rest of my posts make me look like I’m on something, a yuppie, or both. Well, I’m glad to entertain, but still….

WOW I’m going to stop wasting my life and yours. I suggest everybody read the post under this one. It sounds very intelligent and composed.  

Emerson, stars, and scapegoats

In Ralph Waldo Emerson’s “Nature,” he says that stars are all the more sublime because they are always there but never reachable. What should normally drive us insane instead just puts the world into perspective: the vastness of the sky, and the smallness of our own selves.

I think that can be applied in a lot of ways; that is, seeing what we know we cannot understand, and accepting that, only to observe in awed silence. In one way that’s a sort of worship, that simple kind of admiration that a mouse that lives in a giant palace might have. The universe gives us a little sliver of an idea of how large God really is. I’ve been thinking that just as we are a reflection or image of God (or in the words of C.S. Lewis, the “statue,” or copy, or the artist himself), the universe is a cheaper copy of another of God’s many facets. I could see how some people would want to worship the earth, as it does remind us of God a lot, but that’s just as silly as deifying man or beast. That’s only because both man and earth are from the same “artist,” the same creator. It’s only a shoddy reflection we see in the stars, although a pretty one.

I’ve only just begun reading Emerson’s works, but he sounds awfully Godless and Pocohontas-y to me. He was also talking about how Nature (capital N, apparently) was designed [or created itself] to include all its own answers, and that science was only the process of finding those answers hidden in Nature. I think thats a bit silly, since God’s kept a few things mysterious just so we wouldn’t think too much of ourselves saying, “Oh look at me! I know all the answers!” And looking back at history, every time a man gets that into his head he gets rather Narcissistic and thinks quite highly of himself. So God’s tried to keep us out of trouble that way. Then of course we get mad at God for hiding things from us. Every time we come across something we don’t understand, and know we never will understand, we blame God. He is our ultimate scapegoat. It’s a nasty habit we’ve all fallen into that we should stop. It’s as naive as you can get.

More later.

Zambonizambonizamboni.

I really like that word, and was rolling it around in my head and then i got an idea. It sort of has to do with my childhood. I’m going to just go with it, so forgive me if I ramble. What else are blogs for, anyway?

I fumbled with my gloves. The grey sky looked ominous – not that the people of New York City ever seemed to care about the weather. One drop of rain and they’ll whip out their mini-umbrellas from their designer purses and breifcases. Hint at snow, and they’ve already got their overcoats on. It was all part of the city mentality: be completely paranoid and prepared, but never let on that you are. Pretend to go with the flow, that way, when something crazy did happen, it was all part of the smoothness that was your life.

Well, those are the city people. I was from the Boroughs – not good enough for the city, but cool enough to walk around without looking like a FOB, or worse, a tourist. The key is to look at the ground. That’s how you can tell who belongs and who doesn’t. The regulars, the city folk, stare at the ground, careful not to ruin their shoes in dog doo and avoiding litter and hobos. If you look up, you can’t see those things. The tourists stare all the way up at the sky, marvelling at the skyscrapers. The New Yorker’s motto is “whatever.” Don’t care too much. Just look cool.

I guess I’m in between. I like looking at the ground; I try not to look too amazed at the buildings and billboards. But what I like looking at most are faces. You can tell a lot from peoples’ faces – what they won’t or don’t say out loud. Call me an artist if you like.

I have my camera in hand as I carefully step down the slick steps down to the skating rink in Rockerfeller Center. Skaters always have great faces- faces twisted in agony from the cold, contorted by anger or confusion, curled in happy smiles and babyish pouts. They don’t know I can see them better than they see themselves.

I snap one of the gigantic golden statue looming above the skaters, then stare at faces for inspiration. The face that stands out isn’t one of the skaters, but in the shadows: one of the personnel, mopping up a spilled cocoa. He looks deep in thought, like he’s rubbing out mysteries in the rubber. Then he hears someone call him – he sets the mop aside and starts talking to the person addressing him. It’s like I can read his face. His eyes shift away – I guess he doesn’t like the person he’s talking to. He’s Spanish, or Colombian. Then the person says something and his eyes light up like a kid on Christmas morning. He says something back and goes to another part of the skating rink.

I step down the stairs and come to the edge of the rink, watching the little drama play out. A crackly voice comes over the loudspeaker: “Will all skaters please leave the rink for fifteen minutes, we’re going to clean it up.”

My are still following my subject, who walks over and mounts the zamboni. His fingers grip the wheel and he revs the engine. I can tell he waits for this every day. This is his moment.

Everyone steps off, surrounding the rink. They watch impatiently, wanting back on the ice. He drives the zamboni onto the ice, and it’s like he becomes an ice dancer, a fingure skater – almost. He twirls the machine around, erasing everyone’s mistakes, the handprints here, the buttprint there. All the little scratches and indentations that marred this beautiful, shining slab are disappearing under his gentle touch.

I know I only can see this. Children’s eyes follow the zamboni, eager to get back on the ice. I realize he is erasing everything and letting his children, the skaters, begin again. The zamboni dance is invisible to everyone but me. His eyes glimmer, his hands twiddle with the steering wheel and turning the zamboni artfully, erasing everything and leaving the ice like glass. Then he pulls the zamboni out of the rink – it seems to me like a bow would be more appropriate – and he sinks back into the shadows.

The crowds pour onto the rink and start skating again and the Christmas music blares again. I walk back home, thinking, with the bloody remains of thousands of little stories on my hands, in my mind.

The snow falls again, and the city people already have their gloves and scarves and boots on before anyone notices. Except me. I notice. I’ve always noticed.

Adventures in La-La Land

Nothing like a lazy Saturday morning to clear your head and instigate laziness. I woke up late, made a gigantic breakfast with my mom, and pretty much lazed around, read, took retarded pictures of myself, and procrastinated. It was beautiful. I think there’s something to be said for just doing nothing. Even though I do like doing things, there’s a certain theraputic quality to letting your brain relax after a week of school and let it turn to mush for a few hours. That is the magic of Saturday. And I haven’t really appreciated it until now. This doesn’t even mean anything. It’s just another extension of my laziness. Now if you’ll excuse me, this is hurting my brain too much.

Recall

When my thoughts disappear, I do not think they are hidden somewhere in my brain. I think they are licked up and recycled. If my forgotten dreams are good enough, they are pushed into the brains of dying people, so that the last things they see are the things I forgot – those towering, glistening hidden things I knew once and lost. The faint touch and smeel of them is still on my hands, the punguent evergreen and forest water trickling over ancient rocks. The people will hear the music of rustling leaves, they will watch seeds of beauty grow into curling plants that sing in time with the moon. As the people die, they will chase rainbows in their minds. Because I forget everything, and have nothing, I do the only thing I can do. I give.

The Misunderstanding

They twist their fingers, weaving language and paint into twisted patterns that clothe those who understand. Their melody makes the waters sing again, even though it is but for a moment. If I sang along my throat would burn.

They spin the melody on golden wheels, name it “Art,” and send it flurrying into the heavens. It flies out of my reach. But if I touched it my fingers would burn.

The melody – “Art,” they say – soars higher and must break, shattering into pieces that fall into new earth. I reach out my hand hesitantly to catch some of the glittering shards. I bleed and I know.

They look at the shining ashes, smile sadly and walk back into darkness.

All I can do is pretend to see.

Pondering on my nonexistent memories

I have a really bad memory, so I can convince myself that things never happen.
Or my subconscious does the job for me. I have a really active
imagination, too, so sometimes when I look back on memories and share
them with people I had them with, they have to tell me it never
happened and it was all in my head. It’s also creepy because my
hearing’s not the best either, and I can hear people the wrong way or
not at all, so I have to construct what they might have said in my
head. Sometimes I wonder if things in my life ever happened at
all…and there are huge gaps in memory just of the past year or two.
I can convince myself that the past never really happened sometimes,
and it makes me feel really peaceful. Like, I know that would sound
weird, but whatever happened in the past made me who I am now, and I
can’t ever go back. It’s also convenient because it’s hard to stay mad
or hold a grudge when I don’t even remember what the problem was. It
gets annoying when I have to try and remember lines for a play or an
important message and I can’t. My head’s full of stupid trivia and
book plots, though, and though I can’t remember geometry definitions I
can remember that I saw an armadillo in Texas 5 years ago….or maybe
I didn’t…

Hooboy.

Well, after a crazy couple of days, I’ve decided to write again. The problem is, sometimes you have the motivation and nothing to say. Which is kind of funny, seeing as I’m a girl and there’s usually no shortage of things to say. Well, let’s see. I went to a youth leader’s seminar…I had some other leaders pray over me and I feel God leading me to write a hardcore devotional for girls, because all the devotionals I’ve managed to get my hands on are shallow, stupid, girly, shallow, unrealistic, and shallow. Usually a little too much about true love and popularity and not enough about temptation and real-life issues. I wanted something that would get girls’ heads out of the clouds and back into the Word. So I’ll have a lot of journal questions, scripture references, literary parallels, etc., including some slightly opinionated* advice from yours truly. So I’m excited about that…one of those things where you have to bite your lip to keep from screaming, “God is finally using me!” It’s a very lovely feeling, purpose, and now I kind of feel like the veil has been drawn back for a second and I can see the future…not “see” as in “know,” just as in being able to trust God and let go of the past. Again, it’s very lovely.

The best thing about my relationship with my mother is that what starts out as an arguement ends up as a comfortable conversation. So last night I stayed up just…talking with her…which is something I haven’t done with her in a while. I’m very worried about all the weird things that keep happening in my church, and one of my friends is affected very much by some insider information she has heard. This being said, I’m affected by her affectedness (?!) , and by the pressure I have from other people to give information that I do not have. It’s very weird how when I lie, people believe me (which is annoying because I’m trying to stop lying, and they only encourage me) and the times I do tell the truth, nobody believes me. Sometimes I wish there wasn’t such a thing as getting hurt and insulted…that way everyone could just be open with everyone, and even if people get mad at you, you wouldn’t be affected. I guess that’s the danger of a turtle shell, a cocoon, a hideout…you can get so adjusted to how comfortable that is it hurts even more when you finally get the courage to come out. And every time the world and the people in it scare you as soon as you come out, the further back you’ll crawl, the quieter you’ll become, until you realize: there is nobody left in your shell. You have become your shell, and there is nothing left.

On that cheery note, I think I’ll let you guys chew on that…otherwise, peace out. 

*Scripturally opinionated, that is.

I can’t even find a word for this…

This is an excerpt for a book I’m writing. Hope you likee!

I reached up and touched the sword. I acted with a hesitance I did not feel or understand. I gripped it, growing in assurance, until I lifted the sword in front of me. My whole soul screamed to lash out, to run across the sky, to fight and win and kill and live, and still have space in myself enough to take on another hundred emotions just for the sake of it. I wanted to jump – my legs felt turned to jelly but I wanted to kick at something, to soar and never come back until, just maybe, after eternity had spent itself. I felt like exploding into very small pieces, just so I wouldn’t have to contain myself anymore – to spread myself out to soak in life, for if I stayed within myself I might never become…whoever I was supposed to be. Now there is this longing roar building up inside my throat, and what comes out is a beautiful song. It makes sense, this beauty from power. I scream; it is music. I fight; it becomes a dance. It is this essence, this transformation that makes me want to yell: “I AM WOMAN, FEAR ME!” And then I collapse on the ground – not in exhaustion or weakness – but finding utter satisfaction in my incapability, my unworthiness. I am reduced to nothing. I gain everything when I return to the dust I know I always was and will be. And in that, I am fulfilled.

We, The Last Ones

juuuust something that happened upon my french notes today. enjoy!

We are the last. We are the lonely. We who have always been and always will be. We wander this fallen world. We have forgotten.

We have chosen to forget:

There are shadows. But that is only because the light came first.

[This is job job, was our job, and will be our job til the end of the world. To sing truth and dispel myth. To praise.]

They are the lost. They are the only. They who will die and will always be dead. They wander this fallen world. [Purpose comes and goes.]

They have decided to forget:

There are shadows. But that is only because the light came first.

We are abandoning this song, the last song. We close our ears to the cries of the dying and sleep,

So we can make ourselves

forget, again.

*scratches head*

Due to extreme emotional…emotions, lack of inspiration, and lack of caring, I haven’t been on in a while. Sorry. …. Moving on.

Well, I had my first major crappy our-friendship-is-being-taken-to-a-whole-friggin-new-level moment. Well actually it was sort of two or three days that felt like a year. Thanks to one friend being open and the other misunderstanding completely, there was a lotta drama and even more emotions flying around like pigeons in WWI.* And then suddenly everything was OK. And so I’m kind of in this state of WHAT THE HECK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW! if that makes any sense. I mean we’re friends, maybe even better friends because of this, but I have the odd sensation of an empty chest….like I ripped out my heart and now that I can put it back in I’m not sure what to do. I mean I feel very changed…and idk. Just that ight when I was adjusting to everything being confusing, now that life sortofnotreally makes sense, I don’t know what to do with myself! Oh yeah. That’s where God comes in.

 *weirdest and most unsuitable metaphor i have, hands down, EVER come up with.

Reflecting on the comforts of covers

When I was a little kid, covers were protection from monsters and other such evildoers (serial killers, ninjas, neighbor’s dogs…). It didn’t matter what was going on outside, because I had that rumpled assortment of sheets and quilts to hide under. They muffled scary noises and blocked out the trees’ eerie shadows against my window. It was a forcefield protecting me from the world, imagined or real.

When I was a little older, the covers became my hideout. My friends and I discussed everything (and I mean EVERYTHING) under there, the covers our only audience. I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning reading Nancy Drew with my feeble spy flashlight. I took my CD player and sang along to the Newsboys. My covers weren’t protection then, there were shelter.

Now that I’m older, they’re both. But I don’t hide all the way underneath them. There aren’t any monsters [that I know of] out there. My iPod drowns out the weird noises. So I stick my head out to look at the stars. Although I purchase new covers every couple of years, they all seem the same to me, because they share the same mission: giving me what little protection they can offer.

It helps, even if it’s just a little.