Monday, September 21, 2009
Urge
I want to write. I need to write. I can't write right now. There's too much and if it all comes out at once, it might break me. I didn't even know it was here.
Friday, September 18, 2009
It brings to me to my knees out of desperation to hold it forever
Baby, believe me, you could never, not even for a second, be too far down the road of broken fantasis and stand-still heartbeats for me to stop loving you.
And the reactions you give me...just the response in your eyes is enough to prove that you carry no sign of emotional emptiness, but hold something much deeper, harbor something greater, more powerful, and overall beautiful.
It's love, Baby. Honest, true right down to the way you tie your shoes love.
And it's pure.
You're special, Baby.
Even when you're pissed off at the world and just can't fathom any longer the idea of purity in a human heart, you hold onto it.
It drives you, Baby. And my God, you know what they say about nothing that's gold ever being able to stay. Once again, the world you were born into has challenged you to prove it wrong, and you do, Baby.
You do it every day.
Just by living. Just by thinking compassionately. You are the angel of hope for the rest of world: a blessing-to everyone, but mostly...a blessing to me.
So stay gold, Baby and shimmer as intensley as the as the angel wings gentley outlined around your back.
I can see them, Baby. I know they're there.
So just be, Baby. And please...
never stop loving me.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
It's good for the soul.
So today was one of those go, go, go days. I had a class this morning until 10:40 and then had to leave for work by 11:30 so I could punch in at noon. Mind you, this rush-around feeling wouldn't have been so bad if I didn't have to start the day with Theatre. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy theatre. I was part of a community league for ten years and definately enjoy my fair share of musicals, plays, ballets, etc. But my God, this class just sucks the fun out of all of it. Not only is it an hour and a half long, but we just go on and on about how "brilliant" this one word in this one line in this really old Shakespearean play was, and how our lives should be drastically changed simply because we were blessed enough to read it.
But that's only the start of things. Maybe I could actually try and enjoy what the teacher has to say if I wasn't surrounded by a bunch of freshman theatre majors who do nothing but talk shit and brag about what a good job they did in Cinderella their junior year of high school.
Well guess what, kids. You're in college now. Gossip is no longer the "cool" thing to be a part of, and nobody cares about what you did in high school. It no longer matters. It did not prepare you for the real world of the theatre business and you are not an atristic genius. I just wait for the day when the notorious Professor Ames gets his hands on them. Ames will not and does not hesitate to let you know how absolutely terrible you are, and even if you're slightly decent, he'll still tell you that you're awful because that's how you get better.
Ah, I can hear their cries now.
Anyway...work went pretty well. I was graced with the opportunity to work in the Henrietta Detail Shop for the first time. Grantedf, it's not going to happen all the time, but it was a nice break from the usual. Besides, it was great working with Isaac again. We had a lot of fun. He apparently has a lot of plans for Henrietta's renovation, including putting his foot down about cell phone usage on location. It's ridiculous how bad it is over there. He even wants to paint the outside of the Detail Shop office, which is actually just this giant booth in the middle of a parking lot. It does, however, come with air condition and the smell reminds me of a properly perfumed public restroom.
Other than that it was just the usual wipe cars really fast and hope the rush dies down before 9p.m. sort of day. I realized, though, that I had better buck up for winter, because if I thought tonight was cold, then I am certainly not going to be ready for the subzero temperatures wearing only a turtleneck and a windbreaker. But hey, every winter season working outside starts off as a shock. I mean, the coldest part of your body is usually hands because it's too difficult to work while wearing gloves, but once your knuckles have gotten a couple of cases of frostbite under their skin, they start to toughen up. I'm not worried. I'm actually pretty excited. That job owns me.
But...I suppose it's time for me to think about going to bed. I've already written far too much about things no one else really cares to hear about, so I should stop while I'm ahead. Goodnight, world and always remember: Love is all you need.
But that's only the start of things. Maybe I could actually try and enjoy what the teacher has to say if I wasn't surrounded by a bunch of freshman theatre majors who do nothing but talk shit and brag about what a good job they did in Cinderella their junior year of high school.
Well guess what, kids. You're in college now. Gossip is no longer the "cool" thing to be a part of, and nobody cares about what you did in high school. It no longer matters. It did not prepare you for the real world of the theatre business and you are not an atristic genius. I just wait for the day when the notorious Professor Ames gets his hands on them. Ames will not and does not hesitate to let you know how absolutely terrible you are, and even if you're slightly decent, he'll still tell you that you're awful because that's how you get better.
Ah, I can hear their cries now.
Anyway...work went pretty well. I was graced with the opportunity to work in the Henrietta Detail Shop for the first time. Grantedf, it's not going to happen all the time, but it was a nice break from the usual. Besides, it was great working with Isaac again. We had a lot of fun. He apparently has a lot of plans for Henrietta's renovation, including putting his foot down about cell phone usage on location. It's ridiculous how bad it is over there. He even wants to paint the outside of the Detail Shop office, which is actually just this giant booth in the middle of a parking lot. It does, however, come with air condition and the smell reminds me of a properly perfumed public restroom.
Other than that it was just the usual wipe cars really fast and hope the rush dies down before 9p.m. sort of day. I realized, though, that I had better buck up for winter, because if I thought tonight was cold, then I am certainly not going to be ready for the subzero temperatures wearing only a turtleneck and a windbreaker. But hey, every winter season working outside starts off as a shock. I mean, the coldest part of your body is usually hands because it's too difficult to work while wearing gloves, but once your knuckles have gotten a couple of cases of frostbite under their skin, they start to toughen up. I'm not worried. I'm actually pretty excited. That job owns me.
But...I suppose it's time for me to think about going to bed. I've already written far too much about things no one else really cares to hear about, so I should stop while I'm ahead. Goodnight, world and always remember: Love is all you need.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Don't Stop This Train...
College, as I've come to find out, is definately an inspiring place to spend four crucial years of your life. It took me a year to realize the full potential of an institute of high education, but I'm glad I did.
Recently, made evident by my recent joining of blogspot, I've had the most incredible urge to write. It's uncontrolable and my fingers literally ache to hastily inscribe a quick line or two into a peice of scrap paper before allowing the poem in its entirety to become a part of me. I'm two kinds of writers: a poet and an author of opinionated peices. Both have their advantages, but poetry is really my primary love in the world of us scribes. Poems allow me to get a point across without actually explaining what my point is. They can be subtle, completely confusing, my word choice is usually totally irrelevent to the message I'm trying to convey, and yet somehow...it works. Besides, most people will never aruge a poem. They just accept them for what they are: words that reflect, not only a point I wish to make, but also a unique tone and personality. Words that are sometimes distant—often silent speakers, but subliminally creative, forming a verbal image of the author’s (my own) feelings.
And the best part about all of this, is that I love it. There is no greater feeling to me (other than, perhaps, being loved) than staring at a blank word document and then suddenly becoming overwhelmed with these intricately formed sentences that could have in no way, shape, or form come from myself...and yet, they did. Each time it happens it's almost like I'm being introduced to an innate, genius ability that I never knew I had, that is so hard to spark, but so worth the hours and days of waiting for the perfect line to end the last stanza in a just-about-finished piece of myself. There are no rules, zero limitations, and never any possibilty of mistake. There is only inspiration with room for nothing but a newborn set of words that make their entrance intro our world through mothers like our own. Nourished by observation, fuled by experience, given to the public with a feeling of independence comprable to an eighteen year old's first day of college.
It's a beautiful process, and I could write about it forever. But I'll stop because I know it can never be properly or fully explained, only understood by the artists of our world inspired to live by creation and who live to create.
Love.
Recently, made evident by my recent joining of blogspot, I've had the most incredible urge to write. It's uncontrolable and my fingers literally ache to hastily inscribe a quick line or two into a peice of scrap paper before allowing the poem in its entirety to become a part of me. I'm two kinds of writers: a poet and an author of opinionated peices. Both have their advantages, but poetry is really my primary love in the world of us scribes. Poems allow me to get a point across without actually explaining what my point is. They can be subtle, completely confusing, my word choice is usually totally irrelevent to the message I'm trying to convey, and yet somehow...it works. Besides, most people will never aruge a poem. They just accept them for what they are: words that reflect, not only a point I wish to make, but also a unique tone and personality. Words that are sometimes distant—often silent speakers, but subliminally creative, forming a verbal image of the author’s (my own) feelings.
And the best part about all of this, is that I love it. There is no greater feeling to me (other than, perhaps, being loved) than staring at a blank word document and then suddenly becoming overwhelmed with these intricately formed sentences that could have in no way, shape, or form come from myself...and yet, they did. Each time it happens it's almost like I'm being introduced to an innate, genius ability that I never knew I had, that is so hard to spark, but so worth the hours and days of waiting for the perfect line to end the last stanza in a just-about-finished piece of myself. There are no rules, zero limitations, and never any possibilty of mistake. There is only inspiration with room for nothing but a newborn set of words that make their entrance intro our world through mothers like our own. Nourished by observation, fuled by experience, given to the public with a feeling of independence comprable to an eighteen year old's first day of college.
It's a beautiful process, and I could write about it forever. But I'll stop because I know it can never be properly or fully explained, only understood by the artists of our world inspired to live by creation and who live to create.
Love.
Here We Are Again...
Allow me to introduce myself. I'm an inexperienced blogger who is absolutely no good at keeping tabs on these sort of online mindscapes. Still, I'm giving it a third, or maybe it's the fourth chance. Hopefully I'll actually be able to do it this time as opposed to thinking my usual envious thoughts over others' carefuly decorated and thoughtfully written blogs. If not, then I'm at least hoping the few entries that I will post within the next few days (before the excitement wears off)will probably be a lot more worthwhile to both read and write than what I had to say at thirteen on my precious LiveJournal.
Any followers I manage to collect: be warned. You will be subject to rants about papers I have to write, college professors, my job, drafts of poems (your input is expected), small, heart-felt messages of optimism, and of course, the people that I completely, wholeheartedly love.
If despite the preceeding message, you feel as though reading my mind (which is essentially what you're doing(yeah, that's right, feel special)) is something you would enjoy doing, then by all means, continue reading, but don't say I didn't warn you.
Any followers I manage to collect: be warned. You will be subject to rants about papers I have to write, college professors, my job, drafts of poems (your input is expected), small, heart-felt messages of optimism, and of course, the people that I completely, wholeheartedly love.
If despite the preceeding message, you feel as though reading my mind (which is essentially what you're doing(yeah, that's right, feel special)) is something you would enjoy doing, then by all means, continue reading, but don't say I didn't warn you.
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