reflections, reflections, and ow my head hurts a TON.

so.
half skinned steer.
i didn't even finish reading it.
i can't do it, it's too hardddddd. because it just doesn't make no sense, and emus is bad for claws. (no seriously, i know what that means, but it's just so bad.)

also, if you are following my blog, i apologize for flooding your blogwatch with just a bazillion posts a day. i just realized that this is probably the case for all of y'alls and it's probably a bit ridiculous (and because i just have nothing better to do with my time, apparently).

also, a headache. ouch. pain. like since i got home (around 6ish) and i just took advil and pain. D:

additionally, for anyone who really cared slash noticed, my naming options was the one that wasn't read in class today for obvious reasons (being the fact that we are in high school and apparently we cannot ever ever ever mention booze or sex or drugs or what. seriously.) but i really really think that one of the names sounded super legit! the first one, cognac city, sure, not too classy. but it still does give an air of sophistication. and the second one, lagerton, sounded super legit. like seriously. but, of course, since lager is a type of booze, it can't be there. so, sadface.

ep:convoluted phonecalls.

tonight. confusing me a lot. mainly just me confusing myself.

ep:
my phone vibrates. i have a small inkling of who is calling me, and the phone screen confirms my suspicion. my heart and mind both begin to race as i try to decide whether to pick up or not. on one hand, i want to pick up because i know we have to talk things out. we really do. or... at least you think we do. i just want you to take back what you said, because it sure does make it hard to talk to you ever ever ever. but then, on the other hand, i don't even know what to say. we need to talk? i guess. maybe. and then the topic would get deflected to something mundane (which wouldn't bother me, monday night was great) and things would still not get addressed. i spend about 20 minutes afterwards fretting to a friend, who says that it shouldn't be a big deal. it's just dependent on how much you need me, she says. so, i ask, how much do you need me? on second thought, don't answer that. i'm not sure i could stand the answer.

pss:start, i don't want to live. stop, i don't want to die. (limbo)

another one.

this one i think is very applicable to teenagers--sometimes we just fall into a rut but we're too scared to take any definite action. if any of y'all need someone to talk to, please know that i am here for you.

pss:alternate title:limbo
drake wasn't sure about anything, ever. he was one of the most indecisive of people. his hair was cut strangely because he decided halfway through his haircut that no, he didn't want his hair cut like that. people don't cut him any slack for it, especially since the "people" are just every day high school students. the shirts he wears are always draped over his shoulders haphazardly--a strong wind could shake them off. he walks slowly in his tight jeans, head down and not really taking in any information. his right shoe is black, the other is orange, simply because he can't decide which pair he wants to wear. but they're both the same size, so he just puts one of each on. people make fun of him for that too.

drake doesn't have any headphones to drown out all of the outside noise. he just shuffles around, eyes staring holes in the ground, and always by himself. he never lets anyone get too close, because drake has a secret (or so he thinks): he's going to commit suicide one of these days. he doesn't want to hurt anyone, so he doesn't talk to a single soul for fear of pressing the stop button on his plans.

but drake can't really ever fully go through with his plan--he always chickens out. each night, as he stands facing his lopsided reflection in his dirty mirror, he takes the pills out of his cabinet. he's pressed the start button, and it's just such a habit. he takes out double the dose recommended (they're painkillers) and the small milky orange-red pills spill into his hand. he's about to down them all when his hand involuntarily slaps the stop button repeatedly. it's almost as if he's just spelling out a message for himself: i don't want to die, i don't want to die, i DON'T WANT TO DIE. it's cryptic and it's scary, and the little bits of death fly out of his hand onto the floor. he collapses in a tearful heap on the tiled bathroom floor to be heard by nobody. his mother has long since left his family, and his father is never home.

i don't want to live, he always says to himself. but i don't want to die, either.

muse:breathe

wow, this is the first muse in a while. oops? inspired by breathe by taylor swift.

muse:
i really never intended to ever break up with him. ever. so naturally it shocked both of us when saturday found us standing in the rain saying our tearful goodbyes.

i don't even remember what i was thinking. i just remember what we did. that's about all i can remember. i recall stepping into his arms, and we just stood there for a while and we were both crying. we couldn't really tell though because there was just too much rain, but we were. in retrospect, it's kinda ironic that we ended this way--it's full circle. we had gotten together during a dance in the rain, now we break up in the rain.

but here we are.
i'm standing in my jeans, getting totally soaking wet and i'm trying not to look him entirely in the eyes. he's doing the same. instinctively i reach for his hand, and because we've just been together so long he doesn't pull away. i want things to stay like this forever. when we finally separate, i find that i can't breathe. the air is caught in my throat. the rain is coursing down my face in rivers, but i can't really tell if it's rain or tears. as i walk back into his arms, i rest my forehead on his shoulder. i can breathe again. he murmurs my name, and i whisper his, and we step apart again. and my breath is gone again. i can tell it's almost the same for him. his face is contorted into a tortured mask. but we have to leave. we have to walk away from each other. i mouth a goodbye and start to walk away.

each step gets harder and harder. my black canvas shoes are getting my socks just soaking. stepping in puddles isn't really helping the situation either. there's no inviting glow off the pavement tonight, just dull throbbing darkness. i turn around, and see him walking slowly towards his car. i nearly say his name, but catch myself.

i've gotta learn how to breathe on my own.

my hair is really wet. it feels like i'm in the coldest shower ever, but i'm getting nowhere near clean. the rhythm of the rain splashing on the pavement is almost muttering, turn around, go back, you're right for each other.

but we aren't, i almost answer. almost. 'cuz i still can't breathe without him. facing my car is now the hardest thing i've ever done. with each step i take, living gets gradually harder. but once i swing the door of my car open and sit down on the comfortable chair, breathing gets slightly easier. maybe i'll get through this. i slam the door shut, start the car, and turn on the windshield wipers. and then i get a glimpse of him, and air is just all gone. i close my eyes, rubbing them.

i've gotta learn how to breathe on my own.

i open my eyes, grasp the firm steering wheel, and pull onto the street. he's in his car and driving away too. as we pass each other, we both drive extremely slowly, not wanting to move forward and away from this moment. but surprisingly, it's me that accelerates away first.

i've gotta learn how to breathe on my own.

abp#4:constructing vodkaville. :)

winesburg ohio.
so a sufficient parallel should be vodkaville, wyoming. why wyoming i have no idea. but somewhere out in the states somewhere. or... vodkaville could be in russia. that would be great.

one side of town has a quiet tea parlor run by the most modest of owners. the old man also hosts secret karate lessons in the back of the shop. but across the river on the wilder, party-oriented side of town is a bar: the hammered nail. the owner had started small, purchasing a quaint building and installing several small booths along with the signature bar. however, as more patrons started frequenting the establishment, it had to expand. the new  building is a slick, chic place. thick, corrugated, steel walls rise from the ground, creating the single story of the bar. the roof is placed almost crookedly, begging a stylistic question. the parking lot circles the place, almost locking it into some sort of almost demonic pentacle (which is rather fitting, considering what happens inside).

in the building, there are many booths, several stand-alone tables with barstools, and a bar. the bar counter is made of slippery, smooth plastic--perfect for sliding drinks across. anyone who takes a job as bartender there is trained for several days on end in the way of perfect drink sliding. musicians and traveling performers visit the bar often. there is never really a night without any live entertainment. the place is always hopping with activity. in the wee hours of the night though, things get funky and the smoke machines start to work their magic. the patrons are hazily pushed out of the bar by almost ethereal hands of vapor, leaving the night crew to clean up any drunken mess anyone has left. and by the next morning, things are spotless, and the hammered nail is ready for hammering again.

pss that i want to write... someone do it?

ok, i swear this is the last post from me today. 
maybe.
i'll try? 


i want to do a pss for this, but... yeah. that'll be for tomorrow. or something. 
someone can take it if they want?

pss (postsecret story): when i make clothes for my mom, i hide secret messages in the seams.

this is because someone said on their blog that it would be fun to make stories from postsecret. so, for that person, here is my attempt.

pss:
linda was just an ordinary seamstress at an ordinary textile factory. her short brown hair was always up in a neat little bun, tucked under the hairnet that protocol ordered each worker wear. her big blue eyes had long since dulled. the only time that they really got their liveliness back was when she was making clothing. and not just any clothing, but clothing for her mother. this didn't happen often. it was only when linda was the last of the workers left in the factory for the day.the floor supervisor always left at around 3, and the women all left shortly after. if anyone walked by linda's floor, they would have just seen a single, small stout lady working diligently on a small piece of clothing.

that particular monday, linda was working on a blouse for her mother. the ladies had all left, and linda's eyes were excitedly lit up. she pulled a length of lime green cloth from the roll, humming as the fabric extended itself over her work station. eyeing the material, she drums her left hand on the table. bopbopbopbopCLANK. bopbopbopbopCLANK. the thimble voices its protest loudly as her thumb meets the table. tossing the fabric away, she rotates the cloth rack. the huge machine rumbles, turning and groaning as if trying to resist being awoken from its hour-long nap. linda quietly stops the machine, selecting a roll of lime green material. it's almost the same as the other material she had before, but this one is just perfect. she smiles and giggles, using her petite scissors to snip some material off the roll. the seamstress starts whistling now, quickly piecing together the cloth into the familiar shape of a blouse. she's so happy that she even adds some ruffles in the front. but before she sews the parts together, she takes a small piece of felt and attaches it to where the seam places itself. in her small, slanty seamstress handwriting, she writes several messages, one for each seam.

hi mom, it's linda!

the bodice goes together as the sewing machines whirs.

i really hope you like this blouse--i made it when thinking of you today at work.

the right sleeve is on now.

the ruffle is something special. i know that you love to wear clothing with ruffles, so... i know you'll like it.


the left sleeve attaches itself.

i hope that we can talk eventually...


the fancy side-to-side ruffles are on now. the sewing machine is making the squeaking sound it does when it's right about to shut off. linda wipes her brow, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth. she squints her eyes, writes a final message, and packs the blouse into a box.

i miss you. love you. -linda


as she walks out the doorway, the lights shut themselves off. her footsteps echo in the empty hallway. she pushes the huge metal door open, cringing as she hears the loud metallic screech. she places the box tenderly into the passenger seat of her car before buckling herself in. turning the key, she starts the car, switches into reverse, and pulls out of the parking lot.

a temporary matter (of life and death?)

wow.
that's all i have to say about this story. (in case you can't hear my tone of voice through the typed characters, i like this story.)
lahiri is so talented at crafting settings, it's a little ridiculous. now i couldn't picture the characters, but that's not the focus of the story. until baltimore was mentioned, i pictured shukumar and shoba living somewhere in new york city, in more of the suburb-ish areas in a house just like the one from the stuart little movie. i could picture it all, and it was thanks to all the tiny details and nuances of setting that lahiri chose to include. it was pretty freaking amazing.

also, lahiri did a really good job at describing her characters--the way shoba sleeps, the way that shukumar knows how his wife looks like even in the dark... it was done extremely well. i'm thinking that one of the reasons why i liked all these details so much is because that's what i want in a significant other (which makes perfect sense)--i want someone who can tell how i'm feeling not by what i say but by my eyes, i want someone who just knows me inside and out (don't go places with that comment).

the darkness in the story was used so well to just show secrecy... and even when the lights went back on, shukumar and shoba still felt the need to confide to each other their final secrets in the dark. and i guess sometimes we need that separation, whether it's over the internet, through the phone, or just sitting together in the dark.

assigned cs/abp3: big john bosh and that cali-girl white trash

cs:
time passes slowly in rural alabama. extremely slowly if you're retired. and that's what big john bosh is. a widower soldier, he spends most of his time in his hand-made rocking chair that sits lonely on his cabin porch. the single light bulb installed in the roof above his head has long since gone out. all he relies on to see now is daylight and his single oil lamp. visitors trip their way past his cabin sometimes, and he has dinner guests at least twice a week. other than the occasional visitors, it's just him, his rocking chair, and the birds. big john had retired from the military some time ago, sick of the rigid order of the whole establishment. he was struck by how free birds seemed to be, how they pinned their hopes somewhere in the sky and flew up to find them every day. the small breezes created by their wings throw waves of cool air over his nearly-bald head, barely protected by a decrepit straw hat. but strangely enough, he's not lonely all by himself in the alabama wilderness. the visitors and the birds are enough. his wife used to yell at him for staring too long at the feathered creatures. he runs his fingers over his worn, plaid, button-up shirt, remembering her before sighing again. a good riddance. he couldn't remember why he had married her in the first place--all they had done was fight about how seemingly lazy he was. but in the time that he spent watching birds, big john had honed several of his senses. he could hear things from almost a mile away, literally. he could tell when he was going to have company by the way the bushes moved, from the snap of a tree branch. which was very useful, so he would have enough time to sprint down to the nearest general store (only a 5-minute run), grab some extra cans of food, race back, and make something halfway decent. and each morning when the strangers leave his house, thanking him for warm food and shelter, he sees them off with a wistful smile. sure, he doesn't get lonely often, but sometimes, it'd be nice to have someone to watch the birds with.

the meeting:
big john bosh's small, dinky cabin is far from any highway, but he knows a broke-ass car when he hears one. the clunking of the dying car along with the cursing of a young girl reach  his ears. he blinks as he hears the rustling of bushes in the distance. mentally perusing his pantry, he verifies that he has enough food for two. the bushes shake, and out jumps a young girl with the greasiest brown hair.

"hey old man!" she yells coarsely. "you got any tools in this hick-town?"

he nods dumbly. he's had nice, genteel hikers stop by his place but never someone like her. even he knows that she's cali-girl white trash.

"sure," he says softly, lifting himself off the wooden rocker. "what's your name?"

"kings. rochelle kings. yours?" she spits, swaggering after him.

"john bosh. but you can call me big john, if you'd like rochelle."

she smiles toothily, showing some of her missing teeth as he opens the door to his shed.

"thanks hon, but all i need is a couple of tools. i don't need none of yo' flirtin' with this girl here."

big john blinks at her in confusion a little bit before pulling the tools out of his old, rusty red toolbox.

"crescent wrench, monkey wrench, car jack, screwdriver, anything you need here."

rochelle stares at the toolbox with a somewhat angry expression on her face before snatching it all up.

"thanks big john," she says, sighing quietly. she smiles again, but this time it seems slightly more genuine. he nearly misses what she says next. "it's been a long time since anyone's been this nice to me."

muse:return

inspired by the ending of the bones premiere. who knew such a graphic crime drama could be so sappy? slash emotional slash whatever.

muse:
people stream into the doors, many celebrating the return for their final year. i'm one of the few, seeing my graduating class year scrawled in paint on the softball cage. a small smile graces my lips. the instant i walk into my first classroom, i'm overcome by a wave of happiness. the phrase "i'm so glad to see you" just becomes my mantra for the morning.

at the end of the day, everyone heads for home.
everyone except you and me. the hallways are silent, the lights are beginning to turn off. the janitors sweep the lonely hallways clearing them of trash. i, of course, have to wait until later to return home. for some reason you're with me too. and you're right about to leave when i call you out.

"yes?"

i'm quiet, my face is burning, my heart is pounding. i stutter in a small voice how much i've missed you. how much i want to go back to the way things were before.

"yes?"

and it's then that i realize that i haven't said anything. i turn away and mouth a soft "goodbye," watching you slip out of the building. the lights go out.

emotionpile (ep):forgiveness

you've told me about yourself.
you've risked yourself, and put yourself on the line, telling me these things.
you've also told me about me.

i know you've taken some things back.
you've denied some.
but there's that one you haven't taken back that keeps itself buried in my heart. like a dagger.

someone said to forgive you.
and i can't tell you enough.
i forgive you.
i do, i do, i do.

please, just come back and make things right.
i miss you.

two kinds (of cheese?)

so. amy tan. the instant i saw that, i was like this is guaranteed to be good. which it was. i've read this story by her before (in 7th grade) and i remember the general gist of the story. but it was fun to read it again.

the narrator's yearnings change throughout the story. she starts off wanting the same thing as her mother: prodigy-dom. (that's so not a word.) she tries with her whole heart only to find that she cannot succeed in the shirley temple fashion. as her mother continues to pull this prodigy out of her, her yearnings change. she wants her mother to accept her as she is. this leads to a bitter argument, although things are slightly reconciled before the narrator's mother dies.

as for my personal connection to the story, i found it resonating a lot with me.
there are many times that i just want to scream at my parents "i'm this way because of you!" when they rag on me for something. i also want to yell "sorry that you can't have that perfect child you were expecting" because... quite frankly, i feel like i'm always striving to do what is "best" in their eyes. when things don't go according to their plan, they fuss. it's annoying. i'm not good enough for my mom, because apparently i don't "talk about the right things" with my friends. the "right things" being "where are you going to college?" or "what did you get on the sat/act?" or "what are you doing over the summer?" those things, while some are okay to ask, i feel are off limits. some people just don't like others finding out what they're doing as it is some sort of invasion of privacy. which would explain why i don't really know anybody very well, i just know lots of people at a superficial level. and to my dad, i never do anything right. driving, it's "you parked horribly!" or "that turn was way too sharp!" schoolwork, it's slightly less but more "why didn't you get an a? do we have to go in to talk to your teacher?" or "why don't you get this? i could do this in like 10 minutes!" (and then he goes and takes forever on it.) i think i'm slightly able to be more myself at school. i let loose my craziness (although it's slightly less now) and people see me for who i (kinda) really am. whew. that was a rant. definitely.

those three we had to read over the weekend?

i never did a reflection post on them! although... maybe that's 'cuz i didn't really like/get/whatever any of them. MAYBE. or i just slacked. that too.

a good scent from a strange mountain:
this story was... rather interesting. butler ties the smell of sugar on ho's hands throughout the story to weave a semi-consistent motif (if you will) kinda showing the fluidity of time in the narrator's mind. in relation to yearning... hrm. dao (the narrator) yearned for unity in his family while ho yearned for unity in his country. the line that really sticks with me is the very ending, where dao finally realizes that ho came maybe not only to say goodbye, but to understand him as well. dao knew that "you had to understand everything or you would be incomplete forever." i addressed this point in class, but i'm not so sure how well it got across. so... here we go. life is a giant kitchen. everything you come in contact with is one of the smells. dao came in contact with ho. he "got" him for awhile, but after they parted ways, not so much. ho became one of the smells dao no longer understood, and he was incomplete. before dao passed away, ho appeared to try and understand their time apart and their time together, thereby making the ho-smell (um... that didn't come out well) understandable to dao. since he was finally complete, he was able to pass away. but that's my perspective?

robert kennedy saved from drowning:
i personally didn't like this story. i know it shows bits and pieces of the main character through many different situations, but... i think i like a character that is gradually revealed to me (not like this though?). when it's bits and pieces, i have to do the hard work of piecing them together to get the whole picture. like i said before, i'm a big-picture guy, fitting together many little pictures doesn't work so well for me.

fiesta, 1980:
this one, although it was by junot diaz (finally realized i was spelling his name wrong, ops) i liked this one. it wasn't quite as coarse as nilda, and also we saw a return of some of the same characters (i love it when that happens!), letting us see another facet of them. in nilda, we saw rafa as just kind of this dude who got the chicks, was compassionate in his own way, and then... that was it. i felt like i liked the characters better in this short than in nilda. i'm not exactly sure what the main character yearned for... maybe a stronger stomach?

abp#2: pulling myself from between the letters.

lemme say in short that i tend not to pay a large amount of attention to people.
i'm a big-picture guy, and the little details (unless hilariously creepy or just utterly funny) don't stand out to me. i know people's mannerisms, but only slightly. if someone were to do something, i could probably say, "i knew that they'd do that." and now you want me to answer this about my skills at recognizing styles? um.... it doesn't get any better. i can pick out diaz's style, only because it's so unique--he never really uses quotations, he italicizes, he has his own individual voice (which i like, i think) and... that's all i can really think of. to phrase it badly, "i know it when i see it." butler's style is harder--i don't think i know how to pick it out as well. i would feel safe saying that i probably don't even know how to pull it out from between the letters.

as for my writing... i myself cannot distinguish a certain pattern. ask more little-picture people about my writing, and maybe i'll say, "yeah, that sounds about right." i know that mostly in my muses, it's been a sad portraiture of my inner landscape, and maybe that's my style. i never seem to be able to write well when i'm happy--just in the midst of sadness or heartbreak, that's when the ink flows. well... that or when i'm feeling creative enough. when that is, i don't really have any idea. also, adding on to my big-picture-ness, if you've read any of my muses, you'll notice that there's no exact setting--i'm horrible at constructing a setting. make me an architect of a dream, and you'll just find yourself in a generic somewhere generated from a memory of mine (sorry, the connection had to be made). i miss small details of the setting, i give just barely enough to get by. why i do this, i don't really know. my signature, i guess, is... that's a good question, actually. what do you think?

guilt and motivations.

so, this falls into a rather miscellaneous pile of posts. don't even know.

today, my dad guilted me into doing something, namely clean the car because i accidentally dented it while driving it out of the garage (oops). i already felt horrible about doing that, and he guilted me into doing it again. come to think of it, lots of what my parents want me to do comes from guilting me into it. guilt is a great feeling for helping to expedite the apology process and whatnot, but using it to manipulate people into doing what you want them to? that's just outright horrible. maybe that's why i'm constantly doing things that get me and my parents into shouting matches. maybe that's why i'm so eager to go out of state--to get away from all of that.

some things that they've guilted me into  i don't regret--coming to interlake for instance. i've met some truly amazing people, made so many memories... i don't want to leave this time. but as we move forward, i find myself wanting to run away more--to be free.

muse:connections

it's been a long day.

muse:
my room is chaotically organized--books on the floor, a backpack in the corner. clothes are everywhere, some systematically and logically in a laundry basket, others just haphazardly hanging off my bed. the covers themselves, though, are neatly organized. my phone sits, lonely on the nightstand. it's accompanied by my glinting, leering ipod, its mate (the coiled headphones), and my black wallet. they rest in slightly uncomfortable companionship. a shirt, gently kissed by the sky lays hastily strewn on my bed. it's the same thing you wore, i can recall. you wore a shirt exactly this blue. my heart jumps a little, thinking that you've been here. but the feeling leaves as swiftly as it came, as i realize that it's only my shirt. i step slowly towards it, and take the sleeve quietly in my hand. raising it to my nose, i inhale deeply and close my eyes. i don't exactly know what i'm expecting--it doesn't really smell like anything. but then again, i can't smell my own scent (was i hoping for yours?) in the ocean of the odorless musk of me.

cs3

this one is based off the fact that today at youth group, my cousin said i looked "very seductive" with my blue button-down shirt open. which made me crack up. honest opinions? seductive with the shirt open?

cs:
he walks in to the building confidently, a slight bounce in his step. his swagger although self-assured, shows a hint of humility. some of the girls there already turn and look at him. they blush when his smile flashes there way. his dark-washed bootcut jeans loosely constrict his legs, showing an ipod in his right pocket and a cellphone in his left. he tosses his head, running his hands through his hair. he has an earbud in, his open hand tapping against his thigh in rhythm to the current song playing. his white shirt hugs his torso, revealing a somewhat slim build. the navy blue button-down is left completely open, blowing slightly behind him as he walks. he greets his friend easily, waving in a small manner and grinning slightly. his face flushes as the friend comments on his shirt, fidgeting with his headphone wires nervously. he answers slowly, cautiously, and then waggles his eyebrows. it's the friend's turn to blush and chuckle. he claps his friend on the back, and saunters on over to the ladies.

cs2

well, why not do another one. to practice details.

she brushes brusquely into the classroom, her serious demeanor betraying nothing but the sentiment of, "let's get down to business." (whether she wants to defeat the huns or not is another question.) her stern steps have a slight bounce to them, giving her a confident swagger. she pushes her hair back behind her ear with a small, careful hand before sitting down. she greets her friend, a smile lighting itself on her lips. it's contagious, and spreads to her friend's mouth as well. the teacher starts class of with a joke, and she throws her head back and laughs without restriction. but below the surface, she squirms. the joke pokes fun at people in relationships. fresh out of one, she's a little uncomfortable with it. she tries to hide it with her beautiful smile. her phone buzzes, indicating a text message from a friend. she looks at the message--it's one of her best friends.

u alrite? u didn't look so great yesterday.


her smile falls, and for an instant, the world is only her. she enters her response into the phone quickly, avoiding the teacher's sight.

i guess so... long story tho, can i tell you latr?


she closes her coffee-colored eyes and sighs softly. the vibrating of her mobile makes her jump. not noticeably though. her seat in the back of the classroom hides her enough from the attention of others that she doesn't have to worry about the teacher calling her out in the middle of class. not that he would, anyway.

sure. i'm here for you--call if you need me. <3 ya


the corners of her mouth turn slightly upwards. best friends rule.

an addendum to gravity: weightless

hey look, a happy one? :)

addendum:
sometimes, i guess, you want to dig me out of that hole. you explain yourself, cast away any doubt of misunderstandings. suddenly, your actions make sense, and a burden is lifted off my chest. i can get close again without burning myself.

the hole in the ground pushes me up back to level ground. it's been too long. you wrinkle your nose at me, make some snide comment in a playful manner, making me pout. but, i'm flying up in the clouds. i'm back, we're back, and things are gonna be just fine.

muse:gravity

oh, life. ): inspired by gravity by sara bareilles.

muse:
you've been on my mind for awhile now.
you've been there since the beginning of last year. with your serious demeanor and childish heart, just making-or-breaking my day, depending on how much you pay attention to me. i never really expected to be distanced so far, though. i've been burned enough--so why do i keep coming back so close?

please, let me go. let go of me (though you hold me with nothing, no words, no chains, nothing), let my heart free. but maybe, maybe that's what you're telling me without any words, without anything. just that stoic, silent face. maybe that's what you're saying.

but how can i? i've dug myself so deep into this hole--and your name is written on the walls. i can't bear to think of life without you--even though you refuse to be a part of mine. i sit down here, and i call your name. i think you hear, but you never respond. maybe that's you saying, "leave me be. i love you enough to let you find someone better. please, please."

but i can't ever find my way out--i've fallen in headfirst. so i'm lying here, dazed, heartbroken, and just missing you. and, as if you can sense that i'm trying to get your attention like a little kid, you ignore me. it crushes me, and you refuse to hear my cries. but to me, you're neither friend nor foe--i just can't seem to let you go. you've been the only thing on my mind--you push away everything else. you write your name, claim your space--yes, the entire space--and walk right out. you leave me quiet, broken, and seeking you--your gravity is just too strong.

reflections on jealous husband the parrot, and muse:fallen

so. this is also another one of my favorite stories that we've read so far! mainly because i could imagine the bird doing all of these things, and it brings back bittersweet memories.

butler did an amazing job of putting things into the bird's point of view--and now it makes me want to write a story from the point of view of a pet. it'd be really interesting to do, as well as just plain fun.

favorite lines:

• "i flap my wings and i squawk and i fluff up and i slick down and i throw seed and i attack that dangly toy as if it was the guy's balls, but it does no good." (i can just picture a parrot doing this. and while we would think that the parrot was only restless and wanting to play, this gives insight on what might've been going on in the animal's mind. it's quite funny, actually. the throwing seed part made me laugh because i remember one time we tried to feed my bird lettuce. he kicked it.)
• "even though i know there is something between me and that place where i can be free of all these feelings, i will fly. i will throw myself again and again there. pretty bird. bad bird. good night." (this was my favorite but not in like a happy way or anything! it just made me heartbroken that the narrator could do nothing really to express his love for his wife. additionally, i can relate to this because sometimes life just hurts too much and i just want things to just go away so i can live in peace. or die in peace. whichever one, really.)

muse:

he had decided that morning that everything he did would be to impress her, the girl of his dreams. he could explain math problems to her, share insight in english class, the list went on and on. and last of all, before she left, she would see him getting into his car and drive away like the cool, mature person that he was. 

he didn't expect it to all backfire. the insight-she had seen it already. she didn't even pay attention when he opened his mouth, letting loose the new knowledge that he thought was so revolutionary. but it didn't stop there. math problems-he couldn't even begin to explain them. he knew the concept, but he didn't really know it. so when questions arose for her, all he could do was blink in frustration at feeling so helpless. after school had brought about even more failures-he couldn't even catch her eye, summon the courage to talk, walk the same direction as her, look in her direction without feeling failure. and as he swung the car door shut in the parking lot, he didn't see her waiting on the sidewalk as she usually did. he slumped in his seat. his hopes were dashed, he was crestfallen. but tomorrow was another day, another try, another time to just build up that courage to talk to her. just to fix things up.

brownies, cookies, and muse:tgif

so.
i must say that this story has been my favorite so far. in a few words: they're ridiculous little kids, allowed to pass the harshest of judgments while suffering almost nothing. i think that was probably one of the points that drew me in to this story. it was the story of the stereotypical gang of girls. there were the leaders (arnetta and octavia), the reject (janice), the quiet one (daphne), the goodie-two-shoes (laurel, or snot). it was just so hilarious to read this story and just picture this group of small, rowdy girls thinking i'm gonna beat them up! and it just made me laugh a bunch.
favorite lines:

• "...looking all around them like tourists determined to be dazzled." ("dazzle" is just a hilarious word to me simply because stephmeyer has made it so.)
• "...and often these belts would become nature lessons in and of themselves. 'see... this one's made entirely from the feathers of baby pigeons.'" (great only because i thought she was trying to be hippie-like... but then realized that she wasn't. what kind of hippie would wear a belt made of baby pigeons?!)
• "...all we ever do with Nature is find some twigs and say something like, 'wow, this fell from a tree.'" (this just sounds so little kid! i love it! i can also just picture her saying this. i'm pretty sure i'd be that snarky.)
• "...and octavia would hotly whisper, 'mama,' in a way that meant: please don't talk about our problems in front of everyone please shut up." (why are they so snarky? why do i love them so much?!)
• "...but everyone except me hated the song so much that they sang it like a maudlin record..." (don't even know what a maudlin record is, but knowing how kids can sing unenthusiastically, this is just hilarious.)
• "'i'll brush my teeth two times if i don't have to sing 'the doughnut-'" (it just shows how much they don't want to sing it! oh little kids. you are so hilarious, snarky, and just overall hilarious. why can't you be like that in real life.)

and now a muse. :) inspired by last friday night (tgif) by katy perry. don't worry, it's not trashy. really.

muse:

it had been the wildest party in the history of wild parties. they had pulled up, loud and rowdy in front of a friend's house, ready for loud music, dancing, all sorts of teenage happenings. they weren't disappointed. some flailed their arms wildly, others danced like their lives depended on it. the world was them, and nothing but them. moving as a collective group, they had danced their hearts out into the early hours of the morning. then, they had run to the park just to relish the freedom of the open air, the softness of the grass beneath their feet, the silvery touch of the moonlight, the splash of water. and as the frenzy faded, they found themselves laying beneath the stars, watching as an occasional cloud would block out the beautiful mess of sparkling sugar sprinkled all across the heavens. it was friday, the end of the week, the end of another day, the start of the weekend, the start of something new. homework was a distant obstacle to be faced sunday night. it was friday, it was friends, it was. tgif.

muse:not like the movies

based off of katy perry's song, "not like the movies" from teenage dream. listen to it while you read if you'd like? for extra angst power, here we go!

muse:
that night had been amazing, beautiful, perfect, romantic, and all other sorts of adjectives with good connotations. she had never been expecting that dance--the dance with her crush, to her favorite song, relatively alone on the marble dance floor. their footsteps had echoed silently throughout the hall as the song had unfolded. he had been a bit awkward at first, just offering a hand and asking hesitantly, "can i have this dance?"

she had fallen so hard. for him.

she remembers her cheeks coloring, biting her lip nervously, raising her hand slowly with her mind racing to catch up with her body, speeding at zillions of miles an hour just to get to that moment: "yes." and in the world created by the feminine voice along with the chiming of piano chords and a rather chivalrous saxophone, they had danced. it felt like more than four minutes, of course. they had started off far apart, her feet moving slowly with trepidation following his even more unsure footsteps. gradually though, the heat radiating from his body drew her in like a magnet, and she took her hands from his and looped them around his neck, bringing both of them close. his strong arms had encircled her hips, and his head rested on hers. it was all the best moments she'd had so far all rolled into one instant--her first concert, her first birthday party, her first, her first, her first. her first. that's what this was. and it was worthy of a blue ribbon, gold medal, trophy cup, all the stars in the sky.

but that was then.

in the weeks afterwards, he didn't even acknowledge her presence. they passed in the hallways and eventually the pain of looking at him drove her to find different paths. she drowned herself in music, trying to recreate that moment with the perfect song, the perfect voice, the perfect blend of everything. and then he had walked out of her life. broken her heart. just one look, and she knew that it wouldn't be like the movies. she wouldn't walk into his arms, the world wouldn't stop spinning, and the camera wouldn't slowly pan up to the stars.

she had cried. for hours, for what seemed like unspeakable periods of time. people had come in and out of her life, offering support, offering to replace what she had lost. but she had just cried, drowning everyone else in the flood of her tears.somehow, though, she picked up her broken pieces and moved on. but he still had that piece of her heart, he had taken it, she had willingly parted with it, and the pang had never really gone away.

a year later found her staring at the photos of that wonderful night, trying to remember everything she had felt and put in on paper for him. because even though it's not like the movies, we can still try to make things work. i've heard third time's the charm... please, i love you, i love you, i love you.

reflections on nilda, and muse:up against

nilda was a very interesting story. it was a rather interesting perspective of the author's brother's past relationship with the title character. juniot diaz has such a unique style. he insists on not using quotation marks, period, and he keeps the full sense of his coarse childhood intact. which, while i was trying not to cringe at the overly used obscenities every other second word, just drew me in and made the story that much truer. i really think that if diaz had censored all of that out, it wouldn't have been truth to him--and then would have been less of a story for the reader. life is uncensored, so why shouldn't writing, right?

additionally, diaz's memory seems a bit abridged. it's implied that his brother passes away, but it's never explicitly said. which leaves some holes for the reader, and i personally was wondering what happened to all the characters.

now, stepping out of those shoes, time for real life. kinda.
it seems that a year's worth of drama has been squeezed into the first two weeks of school, culminating in a fight that ended in angry words and tears. i was quick to respond, and was surprised that nobody else did. okay, i agree that we shouldn't get involved too heavily in people's problems, but if someone is crying is it too much to ask to comfort them?

muse:
it had been relatively silent, before. just a few laughs breaking the quiet of the library. but tensions began to rise, and everyone could feel it in the air. the giggles began to spread further apart, the quiet began to take over, and voices began to grow louder and louder, arguing about the proper role of leaders and who should take what role, culminating in a tearful exclamation.

he had noticed and jumped down from his perch on a bookshelf to comfort her. that seemed his job, to make people laugh, and to pick up broken pieces. he seemed to have the infinite caring capacity that every mother hen envied, as he raced towards his friend. he took her in his arms, creating a shelter. angry words continued to fly, and he tried to take the shots for her. anything to keep her safe, to keep her fragility from showing. suddenly, he became aware of the overwhelming silence along with the stunning amount of indifference from the bystanders. some sat huddled in a corner, others sat at their computers staring blankly at the screens. she cried out again, her voice breaking. the arguers stopped, looking at her. the boy's face betrayed a sliver of something, and he instantly gave in to her wishes. the girl, angrier, stared coldly at her opponent before shrugging off the burden. he murmured reassurances, and withdrew his arms. she looked up, quietly thanking him. and just like that, as he turned around, order was restored. the strangling quality of the air was gone, replaced by something lighter. but as he walked away, he felt that same choke-hold on his heart. he stopped in his tracks and collapsed.

muse:invisible

so, thanks to my counselor (who is right now very very incompetent because she can't even remember who she is supposed to e-mail), i am feeling quite horrid right now. thanks, world. have this back.

muse:
would it be too much to notice?
the crowd bustles around him and people bump into him as if he doesn't exist. they look up, startled to have run into nothing, apologize brusquely, and continue on their way. some people take notice of him, pick him out of the  sea of people, and walk with him for a while. but in the end, it's the same result. he's always gradually forced back in, unable to seen once again. sometimes, he thinks he's visible to authority figures. he does his best to stand out and shine, but it seems all in vain. futile. their vision all pass over him, their gaze fixated on others who outperform and outshine his small light. some who he thought would help make him seen abandon him by the side of the road, cold and dark. he calls after them, pleading and begging.
would it be too much to notice me? would it be too much to help me be seen? would it be too much? where are you going? why are you leaving me? 

cs reflected, and what should have been my assignment.

cs reflected.
the teacher's comment sends the classroom into a hysterical roll of laughter. his laugh, of course, is the loudest. as the class gradually settles down, he glances across the desks to his friend on the other side. his vision is met with a waggle of fingers. he stifles his laugh and smiles instead, his already-small eyes crinkling to make the smile that much more genuine. he turns his focus back to the assignment at hand, but finds that he's unable to focus. he settles for looking in his brightly colored planner instead. he skims the week, as if looking for some form of entertainment, even a surprise. the bell rings, and he's shaken out of his reverie. he tosses his hair, brushing it to the left, exactly how it's already styled. he gives a small sigh and looks at his friend again, who is still focused on the paper on his desk. he gets a mischievous smile, and sneaks around to behind his friend's chair. his snug jacket makes his slight shoulders seem a little broader. with each tiptoed step, his green shoelace races across the floor, leaving streaks of a neon glow in its wake. his faded blue jeans hide nothing about him, showing the legs of a fencer--large, but mostly muscle. he holds himself confidently and almost with a child-like arrogance. as he says his friend's name, he rests his black-clad arms gently on his head. he smiles widely and laughs, throwing his head back. his friend gives him a slight glare, but he can tell that there's a twinkle of amusement in them. he lifts his arms, stretching and says something about hurrying up and meeting him out near his locker. he skips out of the classroom. as he opens his locker, his eyes catch something written on the side, and his face falls. the instant someone walks by, his face switches back on the fake smile, almost a reflex. he sighs, reaching into his locker and grabbing his lunch.

guess who it is! it was really hard to do that cs, actually.

what should have been my assignment.
(maybe i motivated the assigned blog post? haha. oops.)

For him, it was always a race against the clock. He only had a short time to make the most out of things, create as many memories as possible, and then leave.

Some were struck by the way he could sweep in with a smile, and leave as fast as he came. Others couldn’t stand him. But only the few who knew him well were aware of the toll it took. They were aware of the reason for his quick entrances and exits. But what they also knew was that he would never find exactly what he was looking for.

To a special few, he would divulge his secrets and invite them in to his personal labyrinth. Some were intimidated by the task at hand and fled. Others tried to brave its corridors, only to run when ghastly beasts crossed their paths. Most people he encountered, though, only saw the golden gates of the entrance. They wanted in, but he kept his careful distance.

But, there was an even more exclusive group composed of two people. One who survived the maze, and one who shattered it.

The survivor was the sole adventurer who found the exit, but chose to retrace her steps. She herself let loose her personal demons in the maze, giving the creatures companions. Each turn afterwards led her to even darker places, yet the walls continued to shine the way to the finish. But in that final stretch leading to the goal, she turned around and walked back out. Bidding him goodbye she told of her obligations to others, others slightly more in need of her. The secrets etched in the ramparts of the center fortress she kept, promising that she would return.

It was in this state that the final visitor found the labyrinth. Desolate, cold, and even more overridden with horrific beings that defied imagination. Yet, he accepted the invitation and strode bravely in. Unlike the previous adventurers, he kept to himself, arousing the curiosity of the demons. Slowly, they turned to him for answers and he tamed them. The creatures transformed and followed the traveler, guarding him. But as he reached the final gates, he found he could go no further. Following the precedent, he took something with him as he left. Unlike the last adventurer, however, he took the key to the gates. With each footfall, the maze walls crumbled around him. Venturing out through the rubble, he fled, looking over his shoulder once only to see no retaliation, just the maze slowly reconstructing itself.

The key is what the memory maker seeks. Sweeping in, he plants his temporary roots looking deeply into each person’s eyes. When he doesn’t find a part of himself with them, he runs, leaving only a cloud of memories. It is with this reckless abandon he searches, not caring about hearts he tramples and love he misses. All that matters is finding what he’s lost. All that matters is that one person who shattered his walls and left him searching.

assigned blog post #1: the truth, and nothing but.

“I should fictionalize it more, I should conceal myself.”  ~rick moody

to some point, i totally agree with this quote. the writer shouldn't be evident. a certain style can be, but never the writer themselves. in this way, we have a rather detached piece of art instead of one that the artist is especially involved in. but looking at my muses (most of them... 2/3?) and the writing piece that i was going to submit for the prompt "looking for something lost," i find that it is this personal touch that endears the writing to the author. as one saying goes, "all lies are based in a kernel of truth. finding that kernel in the lie is the hard part." since that kernel is so hard to find, we should all feel safe to write what we feel, and let think ink flow from our hearts, through our fingertips, and out onto the page be it electronic or paper. if you look back at previous posts from me in the muses (except for disgusting), you'll find a bit of me hiding there. now, what part of me is lurking behind the words is up to you (and if you get it right, congrats, you've got a window into my mind). so as the semester goes on, i hope with all my heart that we will not be afraid of sharing our truths with each other. we all are friends here, and we deserve nothing less. additionally, it is the stories that have truth for us that resonate the loudest with us--those that shake us to our core are the ones that are the most successful. those are the stories that inspire us to change our lives, and ultimately change the world.

cs1

cs: character sketch!
today's activity was really fun. i really enjoyed it (and wish that prof cross had read mine... it was about andrea. i turned her into a celebrity, someone at a rodeo, a businesswoman, and yeah. i really wish she did.) and it was lots of fun picking up on the details about someone you already knew. let's see if i can do it for a created character. based off of someone? you'll have to guess. ;) jk, it might not be imaginary. based off a memory, how 'bout that.

cs:
he smiles, chirps something in a childish, petulant manner and returns to his work. a more serious matter arises and he responds in a low, gravelly voice. his smile is replaced by a stone face of stoicism. his dark eyes focus intently on the matter at hand. he catches his friend's eye from across the room and wiggles his fingers, eliciting a stifled giggle before returning his vision to the paper. his concentration is evident as a slight furrow appears in his brow. maybe he's looking at elaborate plans for a building, a complex equation, maybe a child's drawing. whatever it is, it holds his gaze for a while. he pulls his name-brand jacket closer around his body, adjusting the hood to hide his unruly hair. the tight jeans hide powerful legs, capable of bounding over long distances in seconds. perhaps in a past life he was the alpha male in a herd of deer or a pack of wolves. probably more likely a wolf, as he prefers to hover on the edge of the rest of our socializing. he watches intently, trying to make observations but never comes close, circling endlessly. the bell rings, but he takes no notice as the rest of his companions start to gather their belongings. at the sound of his name, he looks up to be greeted by arms on his head. his friend laughs lightly, contrasting the gravitas of his glare. as he carefully packs his books into his bag, his friend calls out for him again. he nods, and the friend flits out the door. he slips his backpack on and strides out of the room.

muse:collateral

just a muse today.

muse:
the fact that he knew so many people was his downfall. when they were attracted to each other or there was a fight, he was always in the middle. he could never stand up for himself, assert that he was not part of the problem and step out of the way. he hated being in the middle of the conflicts, but there was no real way out. he was collateral damage every time. words flew like bullets, and he would take every single one. and when the dust settled and peace was finally made, he rose from the ashes to perform his duty yet again. he dreaded the next fight, but he knew that ultimately if his role as collateral benefited others, than it was something he had to continue. so regardless of the many times he fell, regardless of how much he never wanted to get up again, he stood. it was for the others, he kept telling himself. all for them, and the sake of their love.

thoughts on "looking for something lost"

so maybe i should try and write the homework later so that i have more people to bounce it off of. the only people i've been able to bounce it off was the blenderlid. he thought that overall the story was good, only a few things that bothered him personally. they bothered me too, so i went through again a couple times to edit. but to me, it seems a little clunky still. maybe, eventually, i can get invisiblepinkink along with nameless to help and add their concrit.

i feel that this should be a kind of "making of" type thing.
the events that have unfolded recently have just left me a little dazed and just utterly broken. essentially, when you give someone a choice, you want them to make a certain one. when they don't, it hurts. but you can't really force that upon them, right? it's a choice. also, in this society, we all put up fronts. we are all hypocrites (in the sense that hypocrite was used in ancient greece, meaning an actor) as we only show the good parts of us. if someone asks "how are you" the default answer is always "good" or "fine." if you say anything but, people freak out. (some a little more than others... and with good reason. sometimes. it's not bad to care about people, is it?) and though we may think that no one else is going through the same thing, everyone is. everyone has their own labyrinth with their own monsters. the only differences are the extent of complexity and ghastliness of the labyrinth and the personal demons. so, in essence, this story is based off of the feeling when someone's gotten in so deep getting to know you, and then pulls out as quickly as they came in. a part of you is lost, and you go looking for that in other people. you put up a stronger front (that someone will eventually be able to break again) and keep on looking. you kind of blind yourself to the feelings of others, because you're searching for that one thing that's missing. and you can't really ever find it.

a&p... how 'bout b&r? and muse:already gone

just finished reading a&p.
this was another thing like hemingway's, making a story out of the mundane. however, updike's story seemed to flow a little bit better to me. the descriptions were very vivid, so the scene unfolded rather smoothly in my mind. going back to our discussion yesterday on who exactly were the characters, it seems that sammy (the narrator), stokesie, lengel, "queenie," and the girls. i consider "big tall goony-goony" (best impromptu name ever) a character even though she didn't talk, as she was part of queenie's group. the girls seemed to not be as much separate characters as much as queenie's minions, so they were very minor characters.
additionally. i shall never view vanilla ice cream the same ever again.

muse:
she had wanted to be with him for the longest time. he was her crush, after all. being a hormonal teenager, the world revolved around him and all he did. she would get flutters in her chest every time he looked at her, smiled that crooked smile and mumbled a shy "hi." every time she hung up after a phone call with him, she would fall into a blissful reverie. so when they finally came together, she thought she would be happy.

she was so wrong.

two days in, and their first fight. it was over something trivial and stupid, but it still broke her heart. that night, there was no phone call, no dreaming, just emptiness. the next day, though, they continued on as if it never happened. from then on, that was how they existed. teasing until tears, lather, rinse, and repeat.
even after their first kiss, the cycle continued. but she was already so deep, she didn't want to get out. so when he finally decided to end things then and there, she refused.

"no," she had argued. "we can make it through. we love each other, we can make it!"
he only shook his head before turning around.
"i love you so much. i love you so much that i want what's best for you. and what's best for you is life without me in it."
and as his footsteps echoed through the empty school hallway, she knew that as he left, so did her heart.

review of belle starr and muse:wrecked

the second day of the class!

reading "the man who knew belle starr" was... kinda painful. i tried to figure out why i disliked the story so much... and i think it was these things that drove me crazy.

• belle starr didn't seem to be a believable character. though she lived for adventure and whatnot, i just couldn't comprehend any of her actions really. our discussion today in class really helped to enlighten me on her behavior. after i figured out why she acted the way she did, i was able to chip in to the conversation.
• i guess the characters themselves seemed rather flat. though mcrae could be considered a dynamic character since he underwent such a dramatic change in the story, i really disliked his characterization. 
• the plot was... mundane, with the little twist of belle starr being who she was. 
• details... bausch did a good job with them. he really did. i was able to picture everything as i read it. i still didn't like the story overall. 
• short clipped dialog. though that's how conversations go actually in real life, it still didn't quite come across that well for me. mcrae was scared, sure, but... i just didn't like it. maybe i don't like western stories?
• the ending. mcrae changed. but how he changed was completely unclear. bausch just made it seem like he just... changed. he wasn't mcrae anymore. but then who was he? and how did he change?

okay! those are all the points.

time for a short. inspired by lake adventures today. :) kinda. ish. along with just life in general. all involved know who they are.

muse:

the first thought through his mind was, "i'm going to die." he'd never thought that anyone could do this to him. he had gathered so many people around him, guarded himself with so many faces to keep the ship afloat. but one by one the masks dissolved, turning the boat into a single plank. and he was left drowning in a deep, cold,  bluish-gray ocean in the middle of nowhere, where no one would find him. "maybe she was right," he thought. "maybe i am just a shipwreck." and with that, the driftwood sank, leaving him to tread water. a few breathless moments later, and the voice continued filling his ears with the memory. "i don't think i have the capacity to deal with you." he covered his ears and let out a cry. he was really going to die. as the waves continued to pound relentlessly against his gradually tiring body, he made up his mind. gathering resolve, he held his breath, closed his eyes, and ducked beneath the waves. "because maybe," he thinks, "maybe she's better off without me."