The Hither Shore

So cried the golden sands in taunt
To ocean deep and strong –
“You think yourself all-powerful!
In that I’ll prove you wrong.”

To mighty height rose ocean
In annoyance, and replied
Dismissively, “I’ll ruin thee!
So witless grows your pride.”

And with a howl of potent rage
Sea crashed into the land,
And long they warred while earthbound poured
Rain-torrents ‘pon the sand.

Then thunder clashed, and lightning flashed,
And sun came out again,
The waves withdrew, land raged anew,
For neither could be slain.

And still they fight, though any hate
Has long since worn away;
For ocean rises and recedes,
And Fate leads not astray.

And though the waves may pound and writhe
Upon the hither shore,
So fair and yet so steadfast
It will stand forevermore.

For Anger's Sake

I punch the wall. The pain is jarring, but I just keep punching. My skin is exploding, chafing, sliding. The blood is surfacing, slipping, melting. I just keep going. I couldn't stop if I wanted to. Why would I? It feels so good, so good for the anger to be transferred from my broken mouth. The mouth from which I ground my teeth until the molars became flat, the teeth I clamped until they splintered into miserly pieces. Then my tendons snapped. Like taut strings they were slung back into my hand as tiny elastic balls. My fists involuntarily unfurled. I could not move my fingers. They were dead to me. Dead as the pain I should have known; dead as the weight inside my head. Dead as the creature I'd succumbed to.

I hate the anger. I want to keep going. I want to keep punching, but now my hands won't form a fist. My mind won't form the arguments. My intellect lacks the refutability for the altercations. But the spite just keeps coming. I can't stop it. I just can't fucking stop it.

I can't punch anymore so I turn around and start slamming my elbow into the wall...

Instigate Endorphins

Saturday was special. I remember the conversation, it was swell, but the mood was more important to me. I'm a sentimental person, as those of you who avidly read my blog know. I don't like formality unless it's absolutely necessary, and it felt great to be with a group of people who were so in touch with their individuality. The table was littered with paper cup debris and I felt content to remain stolid as the discussion drifted over various interesting topics, which was slightly out of character for me but it felt right at the time. I didn't think about it Saturday night, but you know I spent my last couple hours of the early dawn with two people I hadn't even met before that evening? You could say I'm naïve. I wasn't concerned for my safety. I had every right to be, especially when we got into the car, but I didn't. I didn't falter or hesitate once. It's difficult to distrust people you feel such an affinity towards.

It was great rolling in the crisp snow, fretting over the hole in Andrew's lip, and anticipating the sunrise while enjoying the calm but impassionate company. The mauve light melted through the clouds. Andrew claimed that he was feigning sleep, but his bobbing head and steady breathing failed to wholly convince me. I anticipate spending another night not unlike the aforementioned. The show was wonderful; the atmosphere afterwards was akin to a gentle drug, and nothing could ever convince me that the night wasn't worthwhile.

I admit had it been summer I probably would've felt more adventurous, but be it as it may... winter isn't at all bad when you have good company to wile away the hours with.

You guys make Arwen happy and write sappy things, for shame.

Heart, heart, heart.

Song of the moment: 'Put on a Happy Face' by Blossom Dearie.

Mind of a Madman

Inside the mind of a madman,
Everything makes sense.
The clouds are dense,
There is a picket fence,
And the pasture is as blue as the sky.

Slightly Sour

I love you and everything you do. I don't expect anything from you, be all you are and I'll be satisfied. Lick your finger, touch my lips, close your eyes and lock your hand with mine. We'll stay up all night; watch the moon wane when the sun flusters the sky. Our discourse is laughter, our memories are liquid honey. Don't hesitate. But go ahead and stumble, I'll catch you before you hit the floor. Your arms, my arms, entangled forever. Your lips, mine, ensnared evermore. I'm invigorated by your passion. You're energized by my smile.

I love everything about you. Take the sheets outside; we'll sleep in the dew. Roll in the grass with me. At four we'll slip out the window and sprawl on the sun-sparkled shingles. The bright will shimmy across the texture. It'll slip across your face. We'll be in a pastel painting inside a hardbound novel marked by a soft blue bookmark. Our older audience disapproves. Our younger audience feels envy or denial thereof. Our peer group feels an adoring affinity.

Your whisper reverberates in my ear. I'm lulled to sleep. My neck is stiff when I awaken but I daren't stir. Your breath is slightly sour but I don't care.

I love you and everything you do.

William, Clara &co.

This was just too neat to keep to myself. This picture, ladies and gentlemen, is a picture taken of my great-great-great grandfather and his wife with their three girls. My great-great grandfather isn't in the picture because he wasn't born yet. But hey guys, it's my great-great-great grand parents! In England! How cool is that eh!? I think I have something of intellectual value to write, but I'm too distracted tonight. So here's some eye candy to keep you diverted. ENJOI.

Amen, Mister Proverb

"When I do good they don't remember,
When I do bad they can't forget."

The story of my forsaken life.

Uncelebrated Perfectionism

I wanted to show you my file-burdened desktop, but Hello/Picasa are proving to be stupid in their lack of workingness. THUS. All I have for you today is some more writing. No pictures :( just two pages of child's play. Remember to re-read the introduction, I've added/removed/changed a few things. I'm never satisfied.

Read on, my resplendent fellows.

Intro:

The day was long and dull. Irene, sprawled in somber fashion, let her spindle-thin arm drape over the edge of the hammock. The back of her fingers rolled across the gritty, dry soil. The chores had been completed, they being few and simple to complete; there was nothing left to do that sweltering summer day other than let your mind wander adrift while coddling the precious shade that flickered when the wind shook the leaves. Irene's eyes fell to the ground, a dusty index finger driven to frustrate an idle daddy long-legged spider as it tried to evade her. But Irene was diligent and refused to give it leave to wander at will. Even as the sound of little feet running through the powder-soft dirt pattered into her ears she didn't lift her gaze. It was a lazy day, and at the sound of the little feet Irene knew for certain it wouldn't be someone who warranted her attention.

Two shoes came into her line of sight. They were white and hot pink, yellowed with age. There were crinkles near the toe accented with dirt. They pointed in her direction and had come to a preemptive pause, but Irene failed to look head on with the owner of such a pair. Abruptly, the girl squatted and her dark hair shimmied across her face. She briskly tucked the thin delinquents behind her ear as bright eyes stared precariously at the daddy long-legs floundering in the soil. Without hesitation, thick fingers scooped the spider up along with some surrounding earth. Not a word was exchanged until the girl administered Irene with a steady stare. Her fair face was flushed and her impish lip ghoulishly straight.

"You ain't done yet."

I've had quite a few ideas rolling around in my head, potential novel/short story things. I either never get around to writing them or am too lazy to actually make the effort. But I think I'm interested in this one enough to pursue it, so this may be the intro or not. We'll see. But Irene will be the main character. I'm still considering whether I should make the narrator first or third person, but it'll be limited-omniscient. I won't give away the plot yet because it's still wayward and haphazard at best. Besides, I'm not the type to ruin stories. I'll probably post my progress, but I'll cut them off when they get long so you don't have to scroll forever to see other posts.

Vanessa and Tenneal, get your butts in gear and become LlamaBlog members, eh!

Little Raisin-Orange

My cheeks blaze, bright and pink. The room isn't peculiarly warm, but my burning complexion insinuates the lingering heat that toils over my flesh. I drink a caffeinated beverage not for the sake of the cold but because it slakes my craving.

Why is it that I say no, when what I really want to say is yes? It could be my standards and morals, or an unconditional training, which causes the negative sound to be expressed. I burden myself with grief over intangible things, but after waking from a dream I am invigorated and reacquainted with that joy I find so familiar and secure. What should delve me deeper into my rift of woe contradictorily situates me into my seat of passion. I love life and the people I'm able to share it with. The former may be more consistent than the latter, but the flavor isn't delicious unless the two components are combined.

The flavor of my life is contemporary. It's like sex in a pan. They didn't have that in the Old World. There may have been dilapidated cities coddled by disease and decaying flesh. Perhaps there were sailors that swaggered onto shore, they're skin yellow; waxen and wane. With their scurvy and their sunken eyes and woebegone hellish dark circles hanging heavily below. With all these luxuries and they didn't have sex in a pan.

The pitiful tomatoes plucked from our garden have been relinquished to a sorry pile strewn over newspaper beside my computer desk. I've been watching their plodding rotation from apple green to poppy-red. One in particular near the back of the group is still partially green but it's turning white with rot. I've watched it from the budding moments of decomposition and yet can't bring myself to remove it from its cluster of relations. Not to mention I have a miniscule orange inside my room on the second-last shelf of my bedside stand. It's been sitting in a glass bowl since late July or so. I've been tolerating the occasional fruit fly to see how long it'll last until it dries up like a raisin.

My little raisin-orange.

I'm a gross person and have terrible habits. I should be punished for my atrocious deeds and impertinent stream-of-consciousness writing. Damn you Evan for inspiring this trashy entry.

Bereaved by the Living

When my mind is bereft of him he visits me at night. I see him through unconscious eyes. Sometimes he is apathetic, other times engrossed in me. Either way it's frustrating, because if he's not here he's there. I don't know a terrible lot about him, other than our similarities. I'd like to become better acquainted with our anomalies. I have evidence that he's thought of me when I'm not around, but it must not be enough for him to pick up the telephone. Perhaps I pine because I want what I can't have. But how can that be, when I never questioned his attainability?

If he planned to never call he shouldn't have accepted my proposition. He should have apologized and said he didn't want to get involved. I would have been disappointed but it would at least give me the opportunity to get over my grievance. This way I'm stuck in purgatory; I'm neither in heaven nor hell. If it continues as I apprehend it will, my heart will slowly wither until I can't be sure its there at all. How can I heal when I still anticipate him? I'm always hopeful. It hasn't waned. I will continue to be because that's my way. It's been a month. If I were smart, I'd accept that he probably wouldn't call and stop hugging my cell phone to me everywhere I totter around. But I can't help it. I can't help it at all.

Yes, I am morose. But at least I'm not like this constantly. I promise I won't make posts like this often; in fact this may be the first and the last. But it had to be said anyway. Matt, don't worry: I'm still happy and won't post dribbling sobs all the time. But everyone has his or her moments, and I'm having mine now, darn it all.

And you know the most obtuse part of it all? If he had said no, I wouldn't be mulling over him anymore. It's an evil scheme. He's got me wrapped in his web of lies and like the gullible fly I am I've got myself caught up in it all.

Fear Femininity

Advice of the day: don't mutter something in the same room as someone else if you don't intend on repeating what you've said. It's rude and cruel to say something under your breath and have the other person hear but "not" hear what you're saying, then solemnly acknowledge that whatever you said was too rude to be repeated aloud. It's like being stabbed in the front when you aren't looking. I can handle back stabbing. It hurts a lot, but I can handle it. I can handle you saying nasty things to my face, but saying something in front of me that you're too ashamed to say aloud will make me grit and break my teeth with frustration.

I don't fight. I haven't been able to in the past and I never will. But hell, I can vent like any other female on this planet. Sometimes venting can be just as scary as an inevitable punch in the face.

I am woman. Fear me, damnit.