Things Always Look Different from the Mountaintops

I can't even explain how surreal I feel right now.

Three days before I graduated, I had an interview at a middle school. It was my first interview ever, and I thought I did pretty well. I loved interacting with my potential colleagues, and I felt pretty good after I left. I graduated, returned home, and vegged for a while.

No call came. Upset but not defeated, I prepared myself for other job opportunities, which actually meant trying to find application paperwork and then sitting around waiting for my teaching certificate to be processed.

Then the call. "We have one more interview, but we wanted you to know that you're in the top two. If you're still interested--" Of course I was. I told him that my parents and I had been discussing some logistical things, but I was definitely still interested. My father told me he was certain this principal would offer me the position, so I hoped, but I kept the thought in mind that I could still walk out of this jobless.

Then the principal called again with the final answer: "We decided to go with the other applicant."

Oh. Heartbroken, I listened to him commend me for my excellent interview and abilities, heard him say any school would be lucky to have me. He mentioned a possible second opening, but he couldn't be sure. If I didn't have set plans for the year after, he would definitely call me again.

Heavy-hearted, I told my father, we grieved (he was even more emotionally invested than I was, I think, hahaha), and then we jumped into an action plan for my teaching job here at home.

Until today.

When another phone call came.

I panicked, daring to hope. The second position...? I answered with my typical, "Yellow?" which made the principal chuckle (I'd like to think I'm at least as amusing as a new puppy to him). He told me about the second position opening up. "So, is this, like, how I officially accept? Because I would totally officially accept right now if this is the official thing."

It was. "The school board will be contacting you soon..."

God, I cannot even begin to tell You how thrilled I am. Thank You. Thank You that even when You scare me or disappoint me by shutting one door, You always open another one. Thank You for speaking through others when I am anxious and stressed and worried. Thank You for providing peace and prosperity.

Thank You that even in the midst of pain and heartache when a baby brother dies a tragic death, You are there to bring comfort. You are the Healer of hearts and souls and relationships, and You have a plan. Thank You for giving us the chance that we will all meet our beloveds once again. Thank You for death, because without it, we cannot have life. Thank You that one day balances such as those between life and death can be cast aside when we celebrate new adventures with You, when we reunite our souls with Yours. Thank You that despite our curse, we can find healing and redemption and life anew. Thank You. Continue to bring Your peace and Your healing to us all, especially in these times of anxiety and tragedy and grief.

Let it Snow, I Say, for the First Time Ever

I keep hoping for a snow day tomorrow because I really just want to take the day to cry and scream and get all this emotional crap out of my system.

My emotions have been rampant this week, and I'm sure part of the reason is Alexis' passing and my inability to brace myself and tear off scabs. Some kids acted up in class yesterday and today, and I just--I haven't felt so enraged for some time, fire in my blood, sharp on the outside but not overly so--that quiet, level rage breaking forth. Writing that referral felt good. But I know it doesn't mean a damn thing to him. I wasn't even embarrassed by his noncompliance--I just felt justified.

Then the teacher's been out for days and I just want to know what we're doing with my unit with the seniors so I can accommodate whatever he needs, but I get the feeling the students don't even care about what I have to say. This disrespect inflames me. I couldn't care less if they liked me--I just want their respect. But I'm a newbie, a temp, so I guess I can't really expect it. So I keep asking myself if I'm giving it to them. I wonder if everyone has different ideas of what respect looks like. I wonder if I'm not meeting their needs.

Two more solid weeks. Then a four-day week. Then another two solid weeks. God, give me patience and strength and creativity and adaptability and flexibility and understanding and authority and everything else. And please heal my teacher but give us the timing we need to work together over logistics and discussions and teachings.

And please let it snow and ice and hail so school's closed. Don't let anyone get hurt though.

I Lift Mine Eyes Up to the Hills

Strange how one text can shatter your world, yet denial keeps the fractures perfectly shielded as you blink and wonder what in the hell is wrong with Autocorrect or T9 and then--

"Alexis Monasterio is dead..."

Blank stares.
Tossing and turning.
Sleep is far,
Rise and read for yourself.

Some dickhead makes some comment about jaywalkers
So you go to bed again, this time pissed.
Two hours in and you're at stage two.

Two phone calls.
Explaining, voice fairly strong,
Twice
What's happened. (Yet, strangely, your parents haven't called.)

Miss a third phone call.
Wake up to a friend
Trying to hold it together
As she asks you what went down.

Jump into stage Depression
But try to wipe it from your face.
Still a student notices,
Asks why you're so glum.

Maybe you should've cracked,
Just told them.
But your throat doesn't work
The words too lumpy, sticky,
Burning in your gullet.

Back to denial.
Keep it at arm's length.

Then you lip-scream to a favorite song
And the cold and the lyrics and the moment
Make tears prick your eyelids.

But you have seminar
So you suck it up.
For now.

Prayers are already hard--
Now they seem impossible.
But He knows your spirit,
Knows your words
Their intentions.

So you give Him your nothingness,
Pray He makes miracles out of your chaos.

Smile because you know
You'll see her smile again.
And her cakes will taste even better
With all that nectar and ambrosia.

Where does my help come from?
My [hope] comes from the Lord--
The Maker
Of heaven and earth.

Musings in the Shadow of the Valley

I don't think I'll be remembered.

And I'm perfectly okay with that.

Seems to me like our society is big on individuals becoming legends and leaving a legacy. I thought I could have that when I left my high school, but now that I'm a teacher, I realize that no one up and coming remembers or even knows those that have left, nevermind who they were or how they acted or what they did.

Tonight I wondered where this counter-culture feeling in me started. When my friend from middle school always talked about how we'd be friends forever, I knew we wouldn't. I knew that wasn't how life worked. I knew we'd drift apart (an ominous foreshadowing of our falling out). I just...I had a realistic view of the future, I guess. And part of me was certain she'd go on to be famous and forget all about me.

I wondered if I'd ever had any thoughts like that sooner in my life, before meeting her. Not that I'm aware of.

By now some of you probably think I'm fishing for compliments or being falsely modest, but unless I'm deluding myself--which is entirely possible--I really don't put stock into being remembered. Sure, I'll be considered briefly, maybe thought about fondly, but I'm not going to impact anyone so deeply that my name will forever live on. Maybe my ideas, my thoughts, will but they'll be free-floating in this stream of consciousness that is humanity without my name or identity attached.

And I'm okay with that.

I find it difficult to believe that anyone could be radically changed by something I did. I don't believe that's possible. I think a lot of other factors come into play, and I just happen to be one of them. I'm not significant. And that's okay. 

But then I wonder if this means I'm not confident in anything I do.

A student's parent replied to a mass email I sent out, saying her daughter sang my praises. I was dumbfounded. Then I rationalized, based on the context of the email and the student and her relationship with Mr. Smith, that this girl probably already flourishes in every English class (maybe every class regardless of subject) with ease. I didn't have anything to do with it.

I listened to an hour long conversation between my roommate and her former roommate. I didn't reply, didn't say anything. Just sat there and listened. I learned much, but I realized my roommate must not have respect for me because I am light years beneath her. We've never talked like that, and she's never understood me like she understood her old roommate. Those two were on the same level of eloquence, of intellect, that I didn't even dare to utter a sound for fear of revealing how utterly poor I am. I always receive, but I can never seem to give back. Instead I concede in order to learn. How can I expect to teach?

My students don't respect me, don't respect themselves. I don't know how to reach them, to find them, to make them see. I'm not like the sub that could just chat with them about anything. "All about building relationships," he said. That's just...not me. I live in a closed-off way because I know that I will only disappoint and be disappointed. By never offering myself, I never have to let that disappointment crush me.

I keep thinking about how my teaching career should energize me and excite me, but it doesn't. I feel lost. What scares me the most is the fact that I can't back out--I have nothing to fall back on. This is all I know, all I have, and I'm so close to finishing.

But I suck at this. I'm not educated enough, not smart enough to teach, to help kids learn. I hate myself for hating this job, for fearing this job.

I hate myself in general. I keep trying to lose weight and get healthy, but I eat and eat and god then I--my roommate called me on it the other day, just joking around about how I'd be eating ever since I got back. That had been an hour ago. As soon as she said it, I hated myself and chucked my food. Then I went to bed. Because when I'm sleeping, I'm not eating, not blowing up into this fat ugly ogre that I actually am, not trying to fix that overeating with other bad habits. So I slept.

I hate how ugly I am, how unhealthy I am--mind, body, spirit--Oh, Abba, my spirit. I don't have words for You anymore, Abba. I don't know what to pray anymore.

I know this is just another valley, another low tide in the ever fluctuating ebb-and-flow of life. I know I'll climb a mountain again and rest on another plateau and inevitably return here and begin again. I know that. So I'll keep climbing, keep trying, keep hoping. Because what else am I going to do?

This is Why I Can't Ship Anything

Ok.

I need help.

I'm re-obsessed with Malec.

And I haven't read City of Lost Souls yet.

Even though I know what happens.

And I know.

That once I hit page 511.

I'm going to keel over.

So for now.

I'm going to punish myself.

By reliving all of their beautiful moments.

And finding made up ones.

Just so I can obsess some more.

And fall to my knees sobbing.

Upon reading that fateful page.

Heavenly Fire.

Better bring good tidings.



Or I'm going after Clare.

Our eyes met

Our eyes met across the crowded room,
And I saw you like I always do.
So how did we end up like this,
A tangled, breathing mess?

You're hers, not mine.
I thought you shared a love
No one could define.

You told her
and she told me.
Our friends stared on
With apathy.
Confusion never seemed so cold.

Somehow she forgave me,
Forced away my portion of blame,
Even when you silenced her,
Saying you wanted me instead.

You argued she called your relationship
A broken toy,
But she still deserved to find joy
With some other boy.

So we're together now
Because I don't know how
To say no.

~*~

Based on a dream I had last night which rather perturbed me in the light of day, though I think I can point to the reasons why my subconscious threw this one together.

Deep Gnawing On My Flesh; Hear My Prayer

That old familiar emptiness again. That uncertainty of the future. That deep seated annoyance with pity or false encouragement. I'm not sure why I'm so bummed. I'm not leaving anything or anyone behind; I'll be back soon. Maybe because I don't have much to go to out there; friends gone or out of sight, last semester, graduation. I will never see these people again. Maybe I'm bummed that my parents won't be there when I take the stage. Which really isn't a big deal in light of the whole picture: 500 kids, each taking .5 seconds to cross the stage, shake the president's hand, and take a diploma. Maybe this is the first of many lasts, so already I am emotional.

Lonely. Maybe that's it. I'm lonely. How embarrassing. Why do I feel this way? I have friends, I have parents, I have comrades--all of whom care about me. I know that. So why...?

Papa? I need you. I love you. 

It nears 5:30 as I write this portion now. At midnight, I tried sleeping, only to turn and turn and turn to find a position comfortable enough to fall asleep in, to no avail. My mind is relatively empty, fearing and worrying over only general, vague concerns--the barren future that I cannot see, most immediately this semester until the end of my education where my career begins.

I know You have all this covered, that worrying does not add a single hour to my life; so why then does my stomach turn?

My thoughts turn now to random musings. Consequences. Will those begin now? How long shall I await Your justice for destroying one of your daughters, for violating the sacredness meant between married lovers? This loneliness cannot be a punishment; I cannot sow in the physical and reap in the emotional. I am frightened, but I know punishment is deserved.

Papa, why am I so empty? I keep looking for You, I know, but instead I write and pretend because I don't know love for myself--that earth-moving love that only You are capable of giving us, the one I write about so intimately though I can never know it for myself.

Is that my consequence? To never know that love? No, that is a lie. I know You; I will give Your love away as you continue to shower me with it, though I am deeply undeserving. But I keep myself sealed away, emotionally distanced from You, from Your children--why?

I need Your peace, my Father, my God, my King. I am lowly, capable only of prostrating myself before Your grandness. Will you grant this peasant her wish? To let go. To be happy. To be free.

I love You. As superficial and worthless that love may be. Still, You love me too. Thank You, my God.

G-dawg

So there's this gorgeous 74-year-old woman who lives across the street from me--been livin' there longer than my parents and I have been livin' in this house, and every time I come home, I make the effort to go talk to her. I always dread it at first because, well, I'm a sucky conversationalist (which doesn't even matter because our conversations are always great) and I hate phoning her (which is stupid because she always picks up and always tells me "Yeah, come on over!" or "Yeah, I'll be ready for you in 20!"). But of course, everything works out in the end.

Every time I finish a conversation with her, I learn something new and I smile. She's always telling me to count my blessings: I have loving parents who are still together (and I should always always always show them my gratitude), I wasn't born out of wedlock, and I have a relationship with Papa. Our conversations also almost always include knowing my relationship to Father because without that, I can't do anything. Now, I'm a Christian and Mrs. G's a Mormon, but our ideologies match fairly well. This time around, she reminded me to "La ti da"--whatever happens, happens--Hakuna Matata. Using humor in my future classroom (especially the much too near future for student teaching) and that adaptability will make my life so much easier.

Also, apparently I can buy really pretty cards at some place called Papyrus. Some of which are $20.

Anyways, another conversation, another lesson learned. Thanks again, Mrs. G. Love you!

Dark Blue by Melody Carlson

~~~~~~SPOILERS (AND JUMBLED CONFUSION) BELOW.~~~~~~

Dark Blue revolves around Kara, who's been BFFLs with this chick Jordan since kindergarten. All the sudden, sophomore year, Jordan becomes a cheerleader and leaves Kara in the dust for her new popular crowd. The book deals with Kara's struggle of feeling so hopelessly lonely after losing her best friend.

Twenty pages into Dark Blue, I felt like I was reliving my high school years, and more personally, my struggle with severing a friendship--a sisterhood like Kara's. I kept finding parts of Kara's narrative that absolutely hit home for me. The one I remember most vividly was Kara's crying over realizing that her relationship with Jordan was over. Holy beejeebus, that was me. Totally, completely, awfully. Another time, Kara walked out of school one day, went back to her house, and crawled under her covers; I remember calling my mom to come pick me up one day because I couldn't stand how god-awful I felt and then I went to bed.

Luckily, like me, Kara ends up connecting with some other people and realizes that her codependent relationship, her utter obsession with Jordan, was unhealthy--a way to fill the gap. I remember that obsession, all of those frightening moments where she and I would try to avoid each other and hate ourselves for caring about what the other thought or didn't do. I still remember when she ran out of church because she couldn't handle seeing me; I still remember craving to see her, even though seeing her scared the crap out of me. But it beat the utter numbness, the complete loneliness I felt.

Anyways, Melody Carlson is a Christian author, so of course Jesus references abound, but I gotta say...I cried when Kara did, so touched by a message that she felt was just for her; I cried when Kara accepted the message, when she realized that her obsession was just to fill the gap we all have because we all crave our Savior to fill that hole. Basically, I cried a lot in this book--one chapter after another near the end. I don't really know if I cried because I knew Kara's feelings or because I was so happy to find out that Kara was going to find happiness.

Which kind of helped me realize that I'm not totally heartless or callous or hardened. Which is both nice and confusing. Nevertheless, after the desert I've been crawling through--or maybe the gorge I've been stuck in--and despite some water to drink--or brief glimpses of the sky--those tearful experiences reminded me that I can still hear You, still feel You.

On another note, I gotta say, I always fall for the dudes in books. They're always so dang cute, and this one was no exception: Edgar wins my heart this round, though if he and Ian from Identical showed up before me, I have no idea who I'd choose. Edgar wasn't even a love interest in this book, but he was so dang adorable--and heartbreaking. Dude, ya made me sob. I hope you make a random appearance in the next book.

The book has a nice conclusion where Kara and Jordan hang out again because Jordan's basically been ostracized, or on the verge of being so, from her cool kid crew. Kara, now with Jesus as her BFFL, doesn't have this overwhelming need to latch back onto Jordan. In fact, she kinda feels bad for Jordan, but she's not gonna go crawling back. To which I say, "Cheers, Brah!" So they're cool again, just like in my experience, but all the codependency is broken, also like my experience.

The next one, which is kind of a sequel and kind of not, is about Jordan. Apparently she "stole" one of her cheerleader friends' boyfriends. Which always begs the question for me--why the heck do girls always go after each other instead of the dude? Ain't nobody got "stole"; brotha made his choice to be a jerk.

Jezebel by Jacquelin Thomas

So I just read this book (see title) and despite some weird content-edit issues, it was rather good. Basically a modern day version of Jezebel from 1 and 2 Kings, Jessie Belle (clever name, right?) marries a pastor and uses her beauty to dominate and manipulate every relationship in her life, as well as those relationships' relationships. She's flat out awful, and I had to slam the book down and mutter angrily several times before I could pick the book back up again and continue reading. Then bad things happened (which I already knew about because before I actually read the book, I flipped through and skimmed every couple of pages, plus the last page) and at first I cheered. Then I cried. Out of freakin' nowhere.

The book is interesting in its portrayal of Jessie Belle, specifically because she dominates and controls everything for the sake of her husband, whom I think she really does love, but she just sucks at loving him like 1 Corinthians 13 commands, as well as her constant connection to her church background. She frequently prays and tosses up thanksgivings, but obviously she is not living in connection with the true and living God.

I think the most powerful thing about this book is the question that loomed over me while I read it: am I possessed by the spirit of Jezebel? The author notes that this spirit is one of greed and dissatisfaction, as well as manipulation in order to achieve more more more.

I wonder if I'm like Jessie Belle--manipulative and luke-warm in my reverence for God. Although she perceived quite a bit as if gifted with the spirit of knowledge, she clearly took those perceptions into her own hands to make them happen. Which, for me, begs the question: how far is too far? I think I relate to her dual nature, a nature that she's not even aware of, and that makes her a powerful character. She is contradictory in nature, but that's what makes her compelling: she is just like us.

A fuller review may come, but I always need time to digest before writing anything definitive. Whether I do or not, I'll be on the lookout for more of Thomas' books, particularly the newest one about a modern day Vasthi.

Ana and Mia--Dangerous, Diabolical, Disorders

And then Ana and Mia come stalking around, and the eating disorder lioness won't release her claws from your flesh. Reminds me of Skinny by Ibi Kaslik

I posted this on Pinterest a long time ago because it scared me. I don't totally get eating disorders, but I know they can move me to tears.

Especially when they touch people close to me, and I'm too chicken-shit to point it out in them. When I know the signs but I don't know quite enough to make that judgment call. Instead I rationalize it, write it off.

I hate myself. 

I just found a friend's Tumblr about her amazing weight loss journey. She inspired me, helped me lead a healthier life. Turns out she has been struggling with anorexic. And I was too fucking stupid to realize that during my time with her last year.

God, why am I so damn stupid? I knew it. I knew she wasn't eating enough, that she was getting obsessive. I knew that, knew it knew it knew it, shared a damn room with her for two nights on trip. Why didn't I see it, call her out on it?

She confided part of herself to me. That she worried about how obsessive she was getting. We talked about eating disorders. Talked about my potential dive into that world. 

Why didn't I see it? Why didn't I stop it?

Regardless, she is seeking help. Looking for guidance. I pray, Father, that she returns to You, that You take this cup from her. Does Setting Captives Free have a program for anorexia? I know they have one for over-eating/weight loss.

Thank You, Papa, for opening her eyes even when I blinded mine. Thank You, God, for Your power and Your wisdom and Your mercy.

Learning and Growing in Writing and Performing

Read again at the coffeehouse tonight--the scene where Audric finds out that Nora is supposedly in love with him. Not so happy with this read-through. I think the last one worked because it was more of a personal narrative, but this one had dialogue, narrative, and so on, so I had trouble distinguishing those forms for the audience.

As a side note, I'm supposed to do this research paper on performance theory, which is a criticism that asserts no literature can really be understood until it is performed. To be honest, I felt that last time with Nora's monologue. I felt like I knew her, like I was her. This time, however, I didn't use many ways to separate dialogue from narration, nor did I inflect or express the right tones. I was not Audric.

I did get one compliment, though, on my dialogue from a fellow writer who is rather brilliant. Looking back, I chuckled a bit because the dialogue is mostly Nora being a total jerk.

Anyways, here's to next time. Supposedly our theme is horror, so I might write a new piece featuring other characters--characters that I love simply because they're diabolical and psychotic.

Unspoken Promises (Snipets and Tidbits)

Darkness. So much darkness that I forgot what light looked like, what it felt like. When I saw sunlight again, I hated it, hated how it felt when it tore at my flesh, how it stabbed my eye sockets, until I was raw. I vowed to kill all light so that I would never burn again.

I owe my childhood survival to two people, and two people only. My mother. She nursed me to health when she finally found me, locked away in the palace dungeons, surviving on the water that leaked over the stones and seeped into the prison floor.

And Marie. A servant girl. She hid me in cabinets, away from my father and his assassins and their prying eyes. Sneaked me food, half of her own meals. She serves me now, and I wonder if she remembers those nights when she brought me blankets (never enough to assuage my freezing skin) or stayed awake with me when nightmares plagued me.

Did I ever thank her?

~*~

When she barged into his study drunk, Siegfried felt hot irritation clench his jaw. "What are you doing?" he snapped. "Have you no self-control?" In the back of his mind, he already knew the answer.

With a wide grin she answered, "Sometimes I'm so cold that I have to drink. I think I might freeze otherwise."

"You know, of course, that alcohol only constricts blood ways. It doesn't actually warm the body; in fact, it just makes you colder." He didn't know why he bothered telling her this, for she just giggled and talked about something utterly insignificant. He buried himself in some work until he noticed her sudden silence.

When he looked up, he started at the indifference in her face as she stared past him. No, not indifference. Something-- "They're getting married," she whispered so brokenly that Siegfried winced and had to look away. Of course. That was why. He couldn't bear to see her grief. When he looked back at her to apologize, she'd collapsed into a chair and hunched over with her face in her hands. "And they're taking William." After some time she lifted her face, and the red in her eyes came into focus, the sallowness of her face--skin stretched too thinly, too tightly, for too long.

He wanted to die.

Then her face grew serious, darkened, hollowed. "I hate light," she spat, the growling of which raked his spine with chills. "What good is seeing anything by it if what you see only drives knives into your soul?"

Several seconds passed. "You could tell them," he said, not answering her question. "How you feel."

Even her smirk looked hollow, dark, like a scar ripped over her face. "Why? The king." And she had no more to say, needed not to say anything else.

Yes, Siegfried lamented. He'd be better off dead than to watch her porcelain soul chip, crack, shatter under every weathered blow it withstood, rather than watch what light glowed beneath her skin be snuffed out by every hardship.

They were all damned, and they deserved it for killing innocence and hope. Siegfried vowed never to forgive himself nor anyone else for their disgusting, animalistic actions. Humanity was diseased, and no number of doctors would be able to fix it.

~*~

Marie and heavy silences didn't get along; she'd learned this about herself early on. So she broke the silence, knowing she'd be prying when she asked, "How do you feel about marrying Her Highness?" Secretly, of course, she wanted him to hate the idea, balk at it, at least tell her what she and about a hundred people already knew.

Instead he didn't say anything. Confused, Marie straightened and turned back to look at him. He sat, staring across the room, lost in thought. Light slipped through his curtains, highlighting the gold accents in his shirt. "Audric?" He'd told her a long time ago that 'sir' was entirely too formal. "You heard me, didn't you?"

Reality flickered back into his face as he turned a bit to look at her, as if suddenly realizing she were even there. After clearing his throat, he said, "I am," he hesitated and Marie waited. Say it. Say it. Please. "Honored." No, you dummy, not that.

Hiding her frustration, she pressed, "Oh, I'm sure. Any man would be. But are you happy about the arrangement?" Instead he repeated himself, much to her annoyance. A new tactic then. "So you mean to say that you love Her Highness, and you've been hoping for this?"

"I do love Princess Ether. All of us do." She had half a mind to punch him, shake him around a bit until he stopped evading her. She'd have to settle for starching his clothes too heavily next time.

Speaking of laundry, Marie almost let her smirk cover her face as she slipped the garment into his drawer. His sudden sternness caught her off guard. "Marie, that's not mine, and you know it." How had he--?

Turning to apologize with a heated face, she faltered upon seeing his. Not looking quite her way, Audric appeared...defeated. Sullen. His face grew longer and heavier with every passing moment and his shoulders sunk. Either he was a god-awful liar or he didn't care that she saw because he repeated, very softly, "Not mine," before sinking farther into his chair. "I think I need some time alone. I'm sorry."

Heavy-hearted, Marie nodded, picked up her basket, and retreated. On her way out the door, she couldn't help tearing up when she caught him slip his hands over his face and exhale shakily. She almost vowed to leave them be.

When she tried the same in her mistress' room, Nora just handed it back to her, looking away and whispering, "Please stop this," before shutting her door in Marie's face. Stomach rolling, Marie tried not to cry until she returned to her own room.

Even more desperate, Marie tried praying. Even if she knew how to pray or who to, she didn't know what gods would hear her--a servant, a maid--on behalf of a cursed woman, but Marie couldn't fathom enduring the emptiness that love might've left Nora with.

Would this blow be too much? Nora could survive any number of physical tortures, but could she survive one that left her so raw inside?

~*~

Darkness and hatred go together for me. I will always have both, even when I have nothing else. That's why this place is perfect. Perpetual darkness. Everlasting hatred. Suspended between nothing in this place between worlds.

Sometimes I wish I were in hell; other times I remember that I am, in fact, there as I gaze upon the dusty bones of decrepit saints. Good people. Dead.

Because I don't know how not to kill. Doesn't matter how much I vow to live, to save. I am cursed.

The body drops into the pyre, and I feel all light leave my soul.

Addictions Part 2

You remind me of darkness,
                         of moonlight and stars.
    Hair and skin so pale, almost silver.
            Scars amid softness, heat in the midst of cold -
                      your skin.

With feather light touches
You call me closer.
       How can I not obey you, goddess of night, of moon and stars?

I'm not sure why people fear night, fear darkness,
for the two are for quiet meetings between lovers.
     Secluded by trees, hedged by silence
        Only us. Only our breath breaks the barrier.

Delicate,
Divine.
     A flower blooming beneath soft moonlight.
Gorgeous.
     Stripped of facades and favorite disguises.
But never fragile; not frail.
Lovely.
      Peeling away layers to reveal truth.
Gentle. Kind. Loving.

But also fierce. Wild.
Untamable.
          Who could ever hope to tame you? Who should ever want to?

You remind me of fire,
                      bright, beautiful fire.
      Hair and skin so white, hot to the touch,
              Yet I can't recoil away.
              Hungering need to be consumed by your flames.

Because I'm Addicted

My mind is filled with thoughts of you. 

                          Oh, how I love you so dearly. 

I can’t fathom the depths of your love for me, 

                                              
                                                 so I’ll keep sinking

                                                                      sinking

                                                                           sinking in this ocean of beauty.

Audric. My Audric. Forever mine. 

Just the sound of that makes me blush, makes my heart flutter.

Take me in your arms for the rest of our lives. 

Oh, to interwine myself with you—

                                                     all of me: body, mind, heart, soul.

The sound

             of your heartbeat.

                               Nor-uh. Nor-uh. Nor-uh. My love. My love. My love.

How do I tell you

                      just how much I love you?

I think you already know.

~*~

To my beloved,

Nyx, goddess of the night. Selene, goddess of the moon.

My queen, my goddess,

     More lovely than darkness

                               (Meant for intimate exchanges between lovers.

                   

               Perfect for us. For quiet nights with soft moonlight

                                                                   With softer skin and paler hair.

               Only our breath breaking barriers of silence,

                             Shivers, hums. Tickles and whispers.

                             The beating of our hearts, mine skipping, lurching. Tender kisses.)

More beautiful than Helen, 

                               than Aphrodite. Too lovely for words.

         (You know that's why you're cursed, don't you? 

                          Because your beauty incites jealous rage?)

My heart aches without your touch. My lungs crumble without your breath.

Your embrace is sweeter than honey, 

                              warmer than the afternoon sun.

I could lie here for hours, floating upon your love, 

     Feeling your laughter against my back, 

                         your kisses along my neck, 

                                 your fingers across my chest.

Sometimes We Just Jump

Can I just say how ridiculously validating it is to have other people tell you how great your writing is? At our first Epiphany Coffeehouse of the semester (tonight), I wrote up a narrative that kind of recaps Nora, Audric, and William's story--narrated by Nora when she's much older.

Nora overtook me while I read (which I love), and she's still so cock-sure and funny but also very willing to be vulnerable. Her voice shook when she recounted her life.

But I think one of my favorite parts was when, after she talks a bit about her sudden feelings for Audric, she said, "And then he [Audric] marries my sister." The whole room recoiled in outrage, which made us laugh. Of course she amended to "Well, almost."

One of my favorite comments of the evening was from one of my professors. The theme of the night was mythology--perfect for the fantasy backstory--and he asked if she was an Amazonian. Suddenly I realized that Nora could in fact be an Amazonian, and he listed several reasons why: how fierce she is, her fighting style, the horse, having a son, being a daughter of the king. I think some part of me channeled that race to build Nora's persona. Awesome. Thank you Oyola for that connection.

Another comment was from someone incredibly intelligent in my class. His poems were fantastic, and he told me I should look into publishing my work. He gave me some information on where to go. I should do that now, actually. (On a side note, in theory I shouldn't be publishing on my blog. Oops. I'll have to look into that.)

Another friend, whose work I also admire, called me a tease for reading something from a prequel of a main series that I haven't even published yet. Hahaha, love her.

Another girl noted who the main character of the main series would be. Ten points for her observation. He just doesn't become a main character until about midway through.

Someone else called me brilliant and told me she loved it.

My friend, who does amazing art and writes great entries on her blog Whatever Your Heart Desires (as well as other writings, though I haven't seen many), also complemented me, saying she wanted to read more.

My roommate even liked it. Just...aww shucks.

So...validation acquired. Thank You, God. I pray I may keep writing because it is truly humbling. Thank You.

I Like That Number

1000 Page Views :D Thanks so much friends!

Pinterest plus Love equals a Fire to My Obsession

Saw this image on Pinterest, reminded me of a character and her boo, and spawned the thing below this image.

I'm the boy who wants to give you the whole garden--every flower, every bud, roses included. I'm the boy who wants to stay in with you any night of the week or go out to see stars and sunsets and sunrises. I'm the boy who would wait on you hand and foot because I'd do anything and everything for you. Your happiness, your eyes, your laughter make my heart flutter. I'm the boy who loves movie nights with you because we can cuddle under our blankets. I love fancy nights out, too, because your beauty inspires me to dress better, so the general public can at least kind of see why you would even bother with some guy like me. I'm the boy who closes his eyes just so your voice can touch him and locks all your secrets in his heart. I'm the boy who stammers under your touch, blushes at your nearness, but adores holding you or anything of yours just to say he's priviledged, honored to do so. No, I love you more than anyone can understand, and I will stay here, day after day, just to see you smile.

They think I'm crazy, and they're right: I'm crazy about you, and I can't wait until the day you recover and live again.

Ten years I have loved you, and I'll love you for a hundred more, even if you won't take me when you wake up.

Counteracting Wild Desperation with Explosive Affectation

I have some days where I love you so recklessly, with such abandon, that I can't even express this love in my heart with mere words. Strangely, I don't think I could express this love at all--in any way. For out of the abundance of the heart, my mouth overfloweth. But my lips cannot form the words to tell you how I feel. My mind cannot fathom the words, and when it tries to communicate, all I say pales in comparison to the love I cannot put into words. I don't even think sex could communicate to you the way I feel, the love I have. I could make love to you in a thousand ways for a thousand days and still we would fail to know this love in its entirety.

You are the purest, clearest, loveliest soul I could ever bind myself to. In all the world, you and you alone are the strongest, the toughest, the bravest, the most courageous human being. And you love me. You love me with this same ridiculous, overwhelming, inspiring love.

I see it in your eyes. You feel it in my touches. And our hearts know. We know without a doubt that we will protect. I will protect your honor, your integrity with a fierceness only a knight against a dragon could know. And you will protect me in kind. Our vulnerabilities, revealed only to each other, can never be exploited behind this strong tower, this fortress, this wall that conceals our love.

And I love that I can love with this intensity, this fire. And I love that you can finally let yourself love me the same way. I have forgiven you, forgiven myself, and you have forgiven me, forgiven yourself. So we lie here and sob and laugh and embrace. Because we know. We know that nothing will ever compare to this explosive affection, this extensive admiration.

I am safe in your arms under our covers and this closeness anchors us from the clouds, the stars above our heads. I don't think I can ever look you in the eye in the same way. Now I know you and you know me in the most intimate of ways, soul to soul, and I like that. Don't let go of me tonight. I will hold you against my heart for the rest of time.

But for now, rest in my embrace. I won't even say the obvious as our eyes shut for the night.

To Know Depth, We Must Know Worth

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=igCj3jsbcqs#

Janette..ikz is a gifted spoken-word poet. This particular poem is about waiting, dating, navigating, and instigating relationships-all in the name of finding "the one." Beautifully told and expressed with verses from the Word, this poem is a fantastic reminder to be in the One before we can find the one.

 

 

Thank you, Janette...ikz, for your lovely inspirational words. You got me through a tough time in my life, many a month ago, and now I can look back and smile at my Lover.

 

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0KQ9xG3yWfw&feature=relmfu#

 

 

Janette...ikz shares her testimony about being molested as a child. An insanely, deeply moving piece of spoken word. Thank You, God, for Your words.

These Three I See, Be Within Me

Every time I encounter this trio and their parents, my stomach sinks. I get nervous and jittery and I can't really explain why. I just want them to stop fighting and bickering. I know; your lives have been difficult. But please, just for one day--I know, I know, you've tried on so many other days. Please, Lord, just once.

The oldest intimidates me. I just want him to come out and say that I'm stupid and weird and ugly. I feel like that would take a lot of the weight off me. I don't think he even sees me. I just take up space in his car, and then I'm out of his life. I know he's a jerk, but I don't hate him anymore. To be honest, I'd always had a one-sided love-hate relationship with him. He permeates my brain and every little thing he does I take as a personal insult. I don't know why. Now I love him as a brother, but I still think he's a jerk. And I can think that now without bitterness or malice or resentment. He's just a jerk like me. Maybe that's why he fascinates me so: he is the boldness, the confidence, I can never be.

The middle is beautiful. She is one of my dearest friends. But I worry about her. I just want her to know that I'm here, that she can be herself, that I'm not going to hurt her. Deep inside, though, I fear myself, my reactions, my advice. I don't know how to help her, and I don't know if I do hurt her without realizing. That's one of my biggest fears--shattering her in a variety of tiny, insignificant ways that eventually build up to crush her. I worry that I'm really no help at all.

The youngest...God, my whole life I've wanted to reach out to him, but my self-consciousness binds me. Nowadays, I think this might be easier, to actually hold a decent conversation with him, but we are never around each other. Now I think I'm too late. I want to tell him all kinds of things, like love isn't what he thinks it is, and sex is just another way to get hurt at our age, and it's okay if you don't know what you want to do in life. But I'm such a coward. I don't know how to tell him all of this without frightening him further away. I can't just bear my soul to this boy because we are nowhere near close enough for that social practice. I just want him to know that I love him, even though I can't really explain why.

I love all of them, and I have no reasons. I just...I just wish I could be vulnerable enough to tell them all this without experiencing the incredible pain of their rejection. I know they would reject my feelings--maybe not outright, but in small ways, in little words like "Okay," "Oh," "Whatever," and "So like I was saying..."

I just want them to be okay. To be happy. Whole. Healthy. God of gods, please, hear my cry. I know I am but dust from this wide wide earth. Nevertheless, please, Father, hear my words. Unite this family and hold them close to You. Please, God, make Yourself known among the little things, the small actions, the baby gestures. Please, Papa, for I can do nothing despite my love--Your love--for these Your children. I can only sit here and cry in my room, and my tears will never be known, nor will they ever have an impact like You can.

Amen.

Snipets and Tidbits From the Memoirs of a Dimension Runner

~*~

Sobs rack his body, but no one sees as he slides down the wall across from her cell. He will forever hate himself, despite the king's insisting that all has been forgiven--it hasn't, it can't be, because I'm still alive, and I'm still so useless, he thinks. I should be in there, locked in this asylum, because I'm the one who did this, me and me alone, because I stood by and did nothing.

Every night he is here, crying, because she is tortured and he can't save her. The demon, the darkness, the evil inside her...sometimes its words are like silk, and he can't tell if it's the one speaking or if it's his beloved. And not being able to tell the difference kills him.

Nothing, even after ten years, has changed.

---

Inside she is thrashing against her restraints, crying and shouting and hating--all of that evil, corroding her from the inside, destroying her beautiful naivety. The worse part is that she is still here, inside herself, watching through her eyes as this rage, this stranger, overcomes her, tells the man she loves all these terrible, hurtful, disgusting things. Why is he still here? Why hasn't he just given up?

You told me once that love, like pain, is regenerative, she thinks. So why is this taking so long? The love should have overcome the hate, the evil, by now.

But her love has never been strong enough. That's why she couldn't keep her parents from divorcing, couldn't keep her brother home, couldn't keep her other brother from suffering, couldn't keep her friend from leaving, couldn't do anything. That's why she had to watch her friends die, had to watch her brother stab their youngest brother in the arm and laugh, had to withstand the crippling pain that everyone was relieved to unload on her.

But no one knew that was what was killing her. No one except...

When I get out of here, she thinks, when I am whole and healthy and alive again, I will marry you. I will spend the rest of my life with you because you are the only one who has endured with me. I will make this up to you. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I love you. Though I have no right to ask this of you, please...please hang on.

---

I will take this pain, she thinks, watching the girl in the asylum. After all, you've groomed me for it. Tell the man I love that I will find him again. And tell them that I'll be back for their wedding.

They deserve this happy ending.

---

You'd be surprised, he thinks to himself--talking to her, even though she's lifestreams away--to see them now. He and her brother are getting along. Well, as well as the two of them can get along.

We are anxiously awaiting your return. But I know he misses you most of all.

We are all hoping that you two, too, will have your happy ending, even though you both say you do not deserve it. Hell, I never thought about a happy ending until it came up from behind. Maybe the same will happen for you.

Thank you for uniting them. They told me that they are forever in your debt.

~*~

Musing: A Response for the Middle Spectrum

Horribly profane/vulgar/offensive ramblings follow. Edits likely.

On most days, you're just struggling to be you.

I've taken to trying to dress better, mostly for professional reasons, and partly because someone very dear to me inspired me to try to look better as a sign that I respect myself. Sometimes, though, I wear sweats both to be comfortable and to irritate her.

Apparently a spectrum exists for women--dress like a slut for attention or dress like a hobo to avoid attention. Surprisingly, some of us have not been on either side of this spectrum--either actively seeking sexuality or genuinely avoiding it. If you're like us, then you've never been called beautiful (or hot, sexy, anything really) by any man, not even the ones you respect enough to call your friends. Sure, maybe jokingly you call each other sexy and gorgeous, but on the inside, you hope to God that he's serious, even if he's not serious about, well, I guess having you as a life partner or whatever. You know you'd never date him, but still, he's your friend, right?

I've heard it said that guys are only friends with girls because guys think they can hook-up/start a relationship with that girl. In that case, those of us who aren't on this spectrum should feel a little better. Except that these guys are clearly interested in other women since they never hit on you or at least call you pretty. You try to make yourself feel better by calling them immature or blind or unable to reach your level. ("You're the apple at the top of the tree!" God, if I had a nickel...)

What's that movie title? Maybe he's just not into you--not like that anyways.

Then you dress in these stunning gowns, maybe a plunging neckline or a tight fit over the hips and you look hot. You know it, your friends know it, but your guys friends / date-who-is-just-a-friend doesn't say anything about your physical radiance. Not even a "you look great!" Which you know in your right mind shouldn't bother you, because, in your right mind, you'd never date these weirdos you call friends.

Truth be told, I can think of maybe one time in my life when a man's called me beautiful. I've been to several formals, dressed nicely for several events, hoped-dared-dreamed to be called beautiful, stunning, gorgeous, lovely. And, truth be told, I have been: by women.

I do, however, remember my "other half," as sexual as he is (and truth be told, so am I; that's why we work so well together and why we're so dangerous together) calling me good-looking (maybe he even said beautiful). I was suddenly very grateful for our friendship, despite our lack of time together since he's often with his girlfriend. I wasn't just grateful because he validated me (though after all my years, it was about damn time). I was grateful because he's a man who's at least confident enough to tell every woman in the world that she's gorgeous. And, surprisingly, that doesn't make me feel less special because I know he means it. I think we need more Evans in the world.

But the point is, if you're like us, you probably have escaped under the radar.

Granted, no man's ever been lecherous or creepy or cat-called--which is a great thing!--but at the same time, you kind of feel like that means you're not even cute enough to earn some attention. Maybe you kinda feel good about the cat-calls when you're biking or walking until you realize that those creeps are really only checking out your hot friend. As disgusted as she is, and as disgusted as you are when you're in your right mind, still you kind of wonder...

Am I really not attractive? Like, even a little bit?

Most days I am grateful that I have never been the victim of a sicko hitting on me or that I have never needed to give a fake phone number or anything like that. Yet some days, I wonder if I went to a party, a club, a somewhere where nobody knows me and I don't know anybody, if I just made out with a guy, would he need booze to get it on? You're not ugly, but you're not hot enough to get his blood pumping.

At least you're not ugly? Is that some sort of sick consolation prize?

As horrible as this is, I've often wondered why some women have boyfriends because those women are just not pretty. I know, I know, I'm a bitch, and I'm terrible, and damn it, God knows every daughter of His is beautiful, but some days, I'm just so confused. Sometimes I think to myself that I'm three times smaller than she is, I have better boobs than she does, my legs are sexier than hers, at least my teeth are straight, so why the hell don't I have just one guy who's at least interested in me?

I know! I suck, I'm awful, but whatever, at least I admit it. Lord, forgive me for my inner ugliness.

That's another thing. You're always told that you're beautiful on the inside. But no one ever outright says that you're pretty outwardly, too (except, maybe, your parents). And they say you're inwardly pretty like it's the best thing ever. In your right mind, you know it is (beauty is fleeting, we know). Still you caught what went unsaid.

Then there're those creepy guys in your class that like almost every girl in the class. I've had a couple of those. They have these weird crushes on you, and you know, in your right mind, that they're creepy. Yet these guys, as you've probably heard, have a pecking order. Well, you're about third or fourth on the list. For a second, that hurts--a lot. Why aren't you first? Why aren't you the prettiest? Obviously these guys could never catch a hot girl like you...but couldn't they at least settle for you? In a way, I suppose, they would settle for you, but you're not particularly fond of being second, third, whatever choice.

Then you panic a little because if the grossest guy in your class doesn't even think you're hot enough...who the hell will? What if even he didn't find you attractive enough to place you third?

Then there are those stupid comments, albeit made with good intentions (but the road to hell is paved with these intentions), about how one day you'll find a guy who thinks you're the most beautiful girl in the world. And I'd bet $100 that the person who told you this either has or has had a boo thang or two. So, really, you'd wish they'd shut up and go be happy with their significant other so you can be alone to fight with God about why you're not pretty.

Then you feel ungrateful because a lot of beautiful women in the world have been hurt because of their attractiveness, and you feel like a bitch for bitching about how you're not as pretty as they are, and they're bitching because you've never had to deal with some sicko peeving under your skirt, checking down your shirt, touching you, soliciting you.

You just want to be pretty--no, damn it, you deserve it, BEAUTIFUL--and you want men to be men and fucking tell you that you're so damn beautiful that they want to cry and protect you like a damn princess in a tower because DAMN IT that's what you are! But no one's manning up because men have been stomped on like pussies because the men in their lives have been just as dick-shit-awful as they're being, and it's a vicious cycle.

So you're invisible. And your hot friends are taken advantage of by these lame-ass "knights" who just want to hit the pub and whores without fighting the dragons and taking a beat down. (Speaking of whores, you kinda feel bad for them, but obviously they're hot to someone, too. But you know they're damaged, even if they don't all realize that, and you don't really know what to say to them. Then you start to wonder if being beautiful is all it's cracked up to be.)

No more. I don't know how we stop flying under the radar, but it sure as hell isn't by dressing like we don't respect ourselves--because, let's be real, our body show-offs are hurtful to every knight, even if you want him and he wants you. Now you're just a piece of ass, but hey, at least you're hot.

No. Shut up. Now you're just fucking yourself over. And him. And no, I don't mean it like that. Now you're spitting all over what should be beautiful and pure and fan-fuckin'-tastic in the name of sex. Because you want to feel pretty.

And no, it's not by covering up so much that we look like we're suffocating in the hottest summer in the history of the world. You just don't want to take a risk on anything, and everyone else can tell.

Is it a balance? Yeah, I guess so. I mean, if we wanna wear sweats, do it. If we wanna wear dresses, do it. I think we can look just as hot in sweats as we can in a prom gown. But we have to watch that line: go too far, and the knights we want to call us beautiful--who, let's be real, are trying their damnedest to figure out what they're supposed to be doing just as much as we are--only see pantie lines, bra straps, and everything that those things contain. (Dudes don't think like chicks. We see bra straps and don't give a fuck. Dudes? Ask my other, and he'd probably tell you he just wants to rip it off you. And that's a general consensus.)  Go too little, and well, now you don't look like yourself.

I think that those of us that fly under the radar, that sit in the middle of this spectrum, need to cut our losses yet keep on keeping on. I think each of us needs to find our own balance because we're all different. Here's our guidelines: don't look too much and don't look too little. That's a lot of in between space.

Basically, don't be a stumbling block for those bumbling knights (though, as my other might tell you, some men will still struggle, but that's their beef with God), and be you. If you like dresses, dress up. If you like blazers, blaze out. If you like makeup, make up that pretty face. We have to experiment with a lot of things to see what we like based on body types, shapes, color palettes, and so on.

So, ladies in the middle, I say we be ourselves, take wisdom from our beautiful sisters who have faced a lot of hurt, and guard our hearts. We might be desperate for the attention we don't get, so when we get it, because we will, we can't let that desperation turn us into women that we're not. We might look smokin' on the outside, but that doesn't mean we should change who we are inside--not for any man, anyways, unless He's THE Man.

Take comfort: you are beautiful. Now go out and show it.

Surprisingly Sullen

Ran into someone today while on a bike ride. The encounter left me feeling...I don't know how to explain. Not sad, per say, nor ashamed, nor angry. Mostly somber, I suppose. All of your talking talking talking and imposing imposing imposing. They work hard, so they need sleep. Let them be.

My poor boy. My poor girl. I know I shouldn't pity you, but yours reminds me to be deeply grateful for my own mother. I don't really know if I pity you. Pity is so...ech.

I wish I knew what to do for you.

So then I wandered, watched, waited

It's been awhile since I've been alone with my thoughts. I must say, everything's moving so...quickly. Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe, but then I wonder if I just want an excuse to be lazy. Somehow, even if I'm not doing anything at all, I still feel that dreaded hurry sickness, that rushing that never ceases, even now as I type, like I just need to get this over with.

Who knows?

On the plus side, I keep marvelling at how each time I return here, I become more...myself. Some days, though, I still can't speak my thoughts, and that bothers me. My body shakes, my voice wavers, and I...stay silent. I force my thoughts back down my throat. Another day, I tell myself, despite knowing that I'm only lying.

I've been thinking more about myself as myself lately. Usually I'm thinking of my stories, the ones that I can't quite write because I'm so worried about if they're actually meant to be written. If I ever think of myself, I'm thinking of the future me, the one in the classroom or the one who knows all of the right things to say, to wear, to do. Recently I've caught glimpses of myself so clearly that I falter.

I'm worried about my practicum this summer. I'm worried that my contacts will fall through, that I won't be able to get around, that I won't be doing all of the things my teachers require of me. I simply can't comprehend how I'm supposed to teach English to a room of students who don't even speak it. How do I communicate? Pictures can only do so much, I fear. I know, I know--You have it taken of, but I...I fear my own inadequacies.

I fear for my brother, my other me, my alter ego. I love him very dearly, but I think I rely too much on him. I placed too much stock in his opinions. I should have realized that I would not see him nearly as often as I'd imagined. Then I fear for his addictions, his hang-ups. I can only skim the surface, but surely the depths of his sins are only stirred up by my responses. Oh, Lord...what can I do?

I haven't written anything decent, or anything at all really, for such a long time. I know only that which I observe, which I experience. What, then, to say?

I feel like I keep striving for something, but I don't know what. I keep counting down the seconds, the events, waiting for...something. What? As soon as this month is over, as soon as my summer practicum is over, as soon as work is over...but then what? What am I striving for?

Sigh. Maybe I just want time to create. To watch my favorite shows. To listen to my favorite music. To play video games. Maybe I just want to be free, for a couple of days, of all obligations. Is this an option? Is it ever? I suppose I can only wait before I find out.

Unsettled, Unresolved, and Unspeakable

A heaviness crushes my heart.

This room is so empty without her. I know, however, that God has her safely in hand. Thank You, God, for that. Bless her, Father; guide her and counsel her, Holy Spirit. Thank You for all of your blessings and for all that You have worked out in her favor.

My heart is so despairing for her, knowing that cancer corrodes her chest. Lord, do not allow it to spread. Please. You did not answer my cry to restore my roommate to our home, but I beg that You honor this request. Do not allow it to advance past Stage 2, my God, my King, my Healer. May these treatments be painless, inexpensive, require the least amount of work, reciprocate the fewest number of side effects, and ultimately heal my boss' body. I pray for Your divine touch, Your hand guiding the surgeon's and the chemo's courses, as well as the radiation afterwards.

These words are so meaningless. Lord, although she has asked me back into her life, I feel that we can never be close again. Perhaps that is a good thing to prevent us from returning like dogs to our vomit. She refuses to open her heart, and I suppose I should remember that that is my fault. I ripped her bleeding heart from her gaping chest, and now my pleading words fail to reach her. I know I will never be on her list of confidants or priorities, but I pray that if she needs someone but will not turn to You, I pray she may turn to me so that I may return her to You.

Random Update

I wish I had my stinkin' camera here to take pictures of my new work. I finished "Don't Rain on My Parade" some time ago, "TRUTH" didn't work out so well, and my former English teacher's Tennessee Williams collage now has said collage waiting in her classroom. Before I leave, I want to try the Pinterest crayon melting art project. I have the crayons and canvas, but I still need to glue all the crayons and blast them with the hair dryer.

Sad news: I found out my roomie might not return this semester. I'm praying that the financial situation changes. So please keep her in prayer as well. Ultimately, I know God's in control and has a plan for her, wherever she goes. As much as I like having a room to myself, I don't think I can suddenly go back to that now that I've had such a pleasant roommate experience.

Plus news: Hanging with some buddies tomorrow. I think. Every time (okay, 9 out of the 10 times) I try hanging out with one of them, something comes up. Ah well, that's really old news that I've since gotten used to.

Hmm, what else? Oh, I'm debating between a Nook or a Kindle. The more I hear and read about e-readers, the more I like the thought of having one.

I want to write...but I'm just not sure what to write. I have general narrative ideas for two stories I'm working with, but I don't want to write those until I can figure out the plots. Ah well.

Falling from Grace or from Sight?

Do you see me?
Do you see me?

I am sincerely stunned by the reverence some people give me. Then I am terrified because I know this pedestal: I've lived on it and I've fallen from it. I'm not keen about doing so again, not when it cost so much, hurt her so dearly to watch my plummet. Because, you see, I took her with me; I watched her bleed and I laughed at her wounds, thinking them false or weakly inflicted.

Because the real me is terrifying. My ideal self is the one that looks like she's got it all together, yet she doesn't care; she's adaptable, sarcastic, hilarious, calm, patient, harsh when called for--authentic.

Ironic, then, that my real self is not at all authentic when all painted up for another's vision.

Don't Rain on My Parade and TRUTH in progress

Two of the many art pieces that I've been ignoring are in progress! Actually, they're almost completed. I used a couple new techniques that I picked up off of Pinterest.com (killer site to get the creative juices flowing). I'll probably end up redoing the pieces now that I kind of know what I'm doing. I think I'm most excited about Don't Rain on My Parade because I didn't absolutely hate the girl that I painted last year while I was home. Usually I look back on my stuff and I want to rip it to shreds.

I think I'd like a portfolio for my stuff, but I have no idea what to get. Hmmm, good thing Christmas is just around the corner!

It's about time I finally got back to my art stuff. I haven't done anything paint-y for some time. I also need to work on a Tennessee Williams collage for a teacher, and I haven't done mixed media for the entire semester either.

Time to root through the craft box and get busy!

Pencil thin lines

Well, we had a coffeehouse event this weekend, and for the coffeehouse, I decided to read a piece I'd revised earlier in the week. It's based on a real event, and the Lord provided all of the imagery and words; He knows I haven't written anything in who knows how long.

So here it is.

_______________________________________________________________

Pencil- thin- lines

            Inside your forearms, on your shoulders

I play them like a xylophone until

You shiver and shrink away

            I’d forgotten in that instant—your story.

Not branches, scratching or clawing, because of your work.

No.

Razorrrrsss

Hissing one- after- the other

How couldn’t I have noticed this ‘til now?

These faint, distinct battle scars

            Each telling a new story of blood

                                                            Terror

                                                                 Self-hatred

A hatred so strong

    You scrub against your skin until you’re raw, until you rip apart, and you’re nothing again.

But you don’t see what I see.

Mirrors- on your wrists-

    Revealing nails instead of blades.

Shamed no more,

    But redeemed.

So I’ll play the xylophone until your beautiful music plays,

And you wear your heart—instead of your hate—on your sleeve.

A Beautiful Mind, A Beautiful Love

Haven't posted in a while. Guess it's appropriate that my resurrection post is on a topic that is rather dear to my heart--love.

Now, don't get me wrong:  I am not at all lovey dovey (though I will admit that A Walk to Remember did make me cry because that was legitimately love, not crappy infatuation like The Notebook or Titanic), I don't have a dream wedding planned, and I am not at college to find "the one"; I have a very strict view of love which is why I'm so harsh on people about their so called relationships.

I do not believe we are halves of a whole person, only made whole through that soul mate connection. (That's just stupid rationale in my opinion. I mean, why the heck would God create us just to find each other? Dumb.) Heck, I barely believe in soul mates. (I'm of the opinion that God will bring you the exact person that fits your "list" of specifications, but I also believe--thanks to a Bible professor--that we are perfectly able to choose from an exclusive group of people which meet our basic standards.)

I'm not a huge fan of dating, which may contradict my soul mate theory, but I'm not anti-finding-your-chemistry-matches either, though I do believe too much dating creates too much baggage for your final choice in marriage (and sex in those relationships is a GIANT NO for the same devastating reasons).

That's another thing- marriage is permanent. End of discussion. No divorces because of finances, none because "you don't love each other anymore" (total b.s. for the record since love is a choice and action, not just a feeling). There is only one exception which cannot be created or imagined or nitpicked just so you have an excuse to divorce: abuse (which also includes cheating since that could be sexual/emotional abuse). I am a firm believer in therapy, so that will always be my first recommendation. If therapy doesn't work, then it seems to me that you have a legitimate reason to dissolve the marriage.

Which brings me to the actual point I wanted to make in this post.

I watched the movie A Beautiful Mind a couple of hours ago. The movie's about this math whiz who is eventually diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. The big issue is he has been living in illusions for most of his life because of this disorder. The one constant, however, seems to be his wife. Now, I hate love interests. A lot. Because they are never ever interesting or moral or pertinent to the plot. So when I saw the initial interactions between the main dude and his student (yes, he was a college professor, and she was in his class; creepy, I know, but I guess it's not illegal) I rolled my eyes. Their following encounters were super awkward because he is socially awkward, and she seems like a skank to me. Eventually they get married, and he's diagnosed with this mental disorder. He gets medication which makes him unresponsive to any of his wife's advances and unresponsive to his own child. He stops taking the meds which bring the illusions back; one such illusion causes him to shove his wife and child against the wall (he was trying to protect them from the guy who turned out to be an illusion, but the wife tripped out). Flash forward to, what, thirty years later, and this dude has basically conquered his disorder, and he tells his wife he could not have done it without her.

I gave this love interest serious props for staying with him through this degenerative disease, especially since she could almost call her husband's actions abuse (if she were squinting for a loophole to get out of the marriage). Of course, it helps that the main guy finally realized that one of the people he'd been imagining must have been an illusion because she never aged. This realization drives him out to his wife's car just before she takes off down the road, and it convinces her that he wants help.

I don't know if she would've turned the car around had he not had this revelation. All I know is that she did, and she stuck with him. That is the love I'm talking about.

At the same time, something doesn't quite sit right with me. Maybe because their relationship really was flashing red flags for potential abuse, and a lot could've changed, and in that case, I definitely would root for her to get herself and her child the heck out of the house.

I guess I say all this to say that marriage and love are cut and dry, but only you can make the final decision to push through or call it quits when love stops acting and becomes twisted.

Ignorance is...?

I don't think I have ever nor will I ever again experience pain like this one--sucking at my chest, collapsing my lungs, shredding my veins. My voice disappears, and my balance wavers, so I try to hold myself up against the door frame, but I can't look away. It's awful but morbid, so I just keep staring, watching, until my eyes blur with tears.

The man I thought I loved, kissing my best friend.

My mind reels so desperately I can't quite put two and two together, but I force myself to do so because I'm sickly masochistic, and somehow I will find a way to blame myself for this.

Instead of feeling enraged, I despair because I realize neither is at fault- I am. She had no idea we were dating; I didn't tell anyone because I didn't want our relationship to be broadcast to the world and subject to the spotlight. He must've resented me for that, and she's so beautiful and outgoing and their chemistry is pretty outstanding while I'm-

at fault. This is my fault. I'm ugly and boring; how could I have possibly even imagined holding his attention? I'm stupid, even more so for believing such a lie.

For what feels like minutes but must only be seconds, she returns his kiss; neither is aware of my presence in the door way, so I back away quietly, trying to smile, to hold it together. No one has to know that I saw this. I'll casually tell him our relationship isn't going to work out, but then I'll say I bet she'd be interested. I'll pretend like I have no idea about their feelings for each other, like I'm giving chipper advice.

But I'll always remember how I fell for it, how I believed I could ever exceed her. She looks even greater when she's next to me; I'm just her foil, her means of comparison. They should be together; I shouldn't have interfered.

Ok, then. Instead of waiting to break up with him, I'll get it over with now. I stomp back down the stairs, singing, making a lot of noise so they know I'm here. Now they're just talking, but I can see now that their body language is more intimate than they realize. I call him over to speak in private, tell him exactly what I said I'd say.

I walk away, but before I leave I hear, "Well, I guess this was meant to be then, wasn't it?" followed by what I guess is another kiss.

I try to avoid letting the door hit me on the way out.

A Glimpse Into A World Unlike My Own

I keep thinking about how you told me that he was in a knife fight recently. I keep thinking about how incredibly interesting that would have been, whether I was a spectator or another fighter. Then I start wondering why it happened, how often it happens, where do you keep the knife, how many times have you gripped it only to realize you were not in danger, or how many times didn't you swing it fast enough.

And what about you, the girl who spends what seems like hours applying makeup. Don't you know you are beautiful, with or without the makeup? I wonder what your wound is, what you're trying to hide or make up for with glorious shades and blushes.

Fascinating. I hope to meet you both again; I'd like to learn more. My observations may not be keen, in which case I want to ask that you clarify, but these words stick between my teeth, and they refuse to exit my imagination and enter reality.

That Which Was Once Resilent Becomes Softened

First time seeing you again in however many years. (I kept saying four, but I think you're right, maybe it was three. Then again, if I was hittin' up summer college stuff, maybe it was only two.) You're definitely the same. Well, there are some changes, some differences, but our personalities have remained in tact. It was like we picked up right where we left off, something that both surprised me yet didn't.

Yeah, I'll probably come over tomorrow. I'm glad this is working out.

What, February already? Nope, just Summer Flings

The other day, I was watching Lemonade Mouth, one of Disney Channel's original movies, with a friend. There's this one scene with this kid Wen (whom I happened to have in a couple of my classes and thereby am famous by association) and his father; Dad plans to marry Girlfriend Sydney and tells Wen this. Wen isn't happy about this because no one could ever replace his mother, especially not his dad's girlfriend, whom he's come to demonize, but in reality she's perfectly alright (typical kid reaction to potential new parent). When Wen asks why Dad is marrying Sydney, Dad replies, "Because she makes me happy."

...For real? That's your answer? The more I thought about it, the more I realized this is a typical answer for that question.

And it's a pretty stupid answer.

So she makes you happy. I'm assuming your statement means she consistently makes you happy, all day, every day, all the time. She never pisses you off? Ever? Like, you've never gotten into a fight where you've desperately wanted to tear each other's hair out? I call b.s.

So what if she makes you happy? A LOT OF PEOPLE make you happy. Clearly your son does; you're not thinkin' about marrying him too are you? 'Cuz that might get awkward.

That answer needs to be expanded. You can't tell me you're only gonna marry a person because he makes you happy. What does that even mean? HOW does she make you happy? What does he do when you're upset or depressed? There has to be something else, some other reason.

"Well, I love him/her." Um, ok? And? Wait, that's it? Marriage is hardcore; you better be friggin' sure you can handle that mess, that weight, that COMMITMENT. Yeah, I said it- CUH-MIT-MEANT. I'm pretty sure you're in that "in love" stage in which you think this individual is perfect, amazing, and stupendous. Now, is any of that necessarily wrong to think? Of course not. But you must realize that this person is human and therefore
 fails at something at some level at some point; this person probably pisses you off at some point.

What do your arguments reveal about your characters? I'm a firm believer in members of a relationship fighting. Am I talking abuse? Of course not. But words will be said, actions will be taken, and feelings will get hurt. I think that's great for a relationship. It means real issues are surfacing and need to be dealt with accordingly. It gives each member a chance to say, "Wow, can I really handle someone like this?" Then they go at it again to work it out or eventually dissipate the relationship. Fights are a great tool for understanding perspectives and how to correct grievances made against those perspectives.

So for the "love" of all that is sane, please come up with a better excuse than "she makes me happy" unless you want me to go ballistic on your illogical reasoning.

What are your reasons?