To say I am tearful at the moment is an understatement. The tears seem to be in a hurry to escape me: they are in such a hurry that they stream in unison from each eye, making butterfly symmetry on my cheeks.
I give people too many chances, I am told. I am really feeling that now. I have a research paper to do tonight, but I doubt that that will get done.
I am afraid to lose you, my darlings. Though you who are so close to my heart are so few in number. I would give you endless chances, if I could. I am afraid that one day I will not be able to support you or put on this mask any longer.
I love you, my darling.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
Where I'm From
We had an assignment in English: to use the structure of a poem we were looking at to tell where we are from.
I'm from spiky oak leaves that stick in your heel.
From acorn and caterpillar season, from Robins in the redberry bush and daffodils we planted ourselves before we could spell, that bloom through earthquakes and bulldozers.
I'm from torn, springless, bucket-seat couches with tacky buttons and sinking orange foam.
I'm from Christmas trees reaching toward a twenty-five foot sloping ceiling, from mother's homemade centerpieces and cider, and Grandma's sugar cookies.
My childhood hangs in the purple moon on the Christmas tree.
The rest of my childhood lurks under thin dusty films in prominent corners of my room and mind
in the Tinker Toy orange stick that fell off of the back deck, in the soulless ceramic horses that wait in the shadows to be given life.
I am from abstract and impressionist paintings. The Monk Knocks Twice. From hand me down pianos, from the coffee table that holds pictures of faces lost to time and love letters in a feverish scrawl.
My heart lies in journals, sketchbooks, and Australian pop CDs,
in doors of spiraling wood and Purple Passion comforters.
It is the reflection of a cat's eye in the dark and the patter of rain on a tent tarp.
the plaintive wail of a train and the setting of a vibrant sun.
I'm from spiky oak leaves that stick in your heel.
From acorn and caterpillar season, from Robins in the redberry bush and daffodils we planted ourselves before we could spell, that bloom through earthquakes and bulldozers.
I'm from torn, springless, bucket-seat couches with tacky buttons and sinking orange foam.
I'm from Christmas trees reaching toward a twenty-five foot sloping ceiling, from mother's homemade centerpieces and cider, and Grandma's sugar cookies.
My childhood hangs in the purple moon on the Christmas tree.
The rest of my childhood lurks under thin dusty films in prominent corners of my room and mind
in the Tinker Toy orange stick that fell off of the back deck, in the soulless ceramic horses that wait in the shadows to be given life.
I am from abstract and impressionist paintings. The Monk Knocks Twice. From hand me down pianos, from the coffee table that holds pictures of faces lost to time and love letters in a feverish scrawl.
My heart lies in journals, sketchbooks, and Australian pop CDs,
in doors of spiraling wood and Purple Passion comforters.
It is the reflection of a cat's eye in the dark and the patter of rain on a tent tarp.
the plaintive wail of a train and the setting of a vibrant sun.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
i should i should i should
I should be doing homework. I should be doing homework. I should be doing homework. God, the echo is like the beating of drums in my head; like the Master in Doctor Who hears tap-tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap-tap, so I hear the cacophony of my conscience warning me not to log on to my blog, not to open my notebook, not to write anything but my essay for Comparative Government on global statistics (the most vague prompt ever).
Do you actually know what I should be doing? I should be utilizing the scant inspiration that I can oh-so-rarely scrape together these days and pouring it onto a page. I should let colors fill my mind, and music resonate in my ears. I can't, I can't, I can't. I must endure.
Do you actually know what I should be doing? I should be utilizing the scant inspiration that I can oh-so-rarely scrape together these days and pouring it onto a page. I should let colors fill my mind, and music resonate in my ears. I can't, I can't, I can't. I must endure.
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