tumblez?

http://heartstringsandsubtlethings.tumblr.com/

i have gone to the dark side.. kinda
i just like being more connected. But i will still post things here. And  i will try to keep both blogs pretty much similar


Hmm EDIT: I have deleted the two newest posts on this blog because i decided to keep this site cleaner than the tumblr. Tumblrs are messy things. Mine shall be the dumping pit; this should stay relatively neat and cool... from now on. Hopefully.

Golden Days

                The grass was long, and the broken stems of it scratched the back of her neck and tickled the backs of her knees. It had once been a wheat field, but now golden bushels of wheat grew in camaraderie with wild, thorny flowers and thick blades of grass with miniscule hairs.

                She lay with her hands clasped behind her head, elbows to the sky, blonde hair blending into golden stalks with her feet crossed at her ankles. The sunlight was warm, but not brazen. She was a bit thirsty; she felt the tickle of it at the back of her throat, but such was the way of that early summer.

                Her dress was maroon and plainly floral, stretching to the middle of her thigh and tying in straps on her shoulders. Her shoes were grey and old; practical slippers for running, falling, and exploring.

                She was sure he would come back soon, like he said. The river was not that far away. When the shadow of an overhanging wheat stalk stretched to cross her abdomen, she began to wonder.

                What if darkness fell, and still he had not come? What if he had never been there at all? If he had been erased, a figment of her fantasy that she must leave behind but never forget. Would she realize this and return home along the dirt path or catch cold waiting for him, accompanied only by Orion’s belt and her dear Luna? Or would she continue where the dirt path succumbed to the wheat field and walk away from the house?

                If he was naught but a dream, then she could create her own dream once more. She would find a new town, a new life, a new name. She would rely on the kindness of strangers but pay them back in ways that she could offer. They would take her in, in the cover of cleansing darkness, and they would be intrigued by her amiable languor. They would come to need her, and she would take them in. she could invent this life for herself, she could make a new––

––she heard crunching underfoot in the grass beyond her vision. Her eyes were closed; she subsisted upon the essence of his approach, the aura of his presence and the warmth in her breast accompanied by the goose bumps on her skin. His shadow fell across her face as he lay down beside her and held her. She opened her eyes.

Portrait of the Artist

In English class we are supposed to make a 6-word version of our own "portrait", just as a little exercise and reflection after reading James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

I'm not feeling too particularly happy at the moment. That is a blatant understatement.
I feel inspired, though, as all tortured artists must be. It turned into more of a 6 line at a time poem.

Heartstrings pulled her until she choked.
She thought she could handle the hurt.
She leaves us with art unfinished.
The moon will be alone tonight.
They always feed on her heart.

But I can't say that in English class. I'll probably say something like:
5 foot tall bottle of sunshine!
I only make pies and enemies.




At last, she slipped and fell.

Pangea

I was thinking of the stories I have written in the past and talking to some other writers when I noticed an interesting trend.
I am an amateur writer. I do not pretend to be an expert or a "novelist", I just write for the sheer joy of it.
One of the marks of an amateur writer is, when the setting is a world that is not the one we live in, the use of Pangea-esque settings. I admit, I tend to do this. Scratch that, I always do this when I don't use the Earth.
When you write a story, you sometimes have to incorporate the mixing of cultures. We can portray this by drawing boundaries and border lines; by making countries, dialects, accents, and nations. However, adding an "overseas" element adds a whole new challenge. Suddenly you have to think about how much globalization has occurred in your setting, how much the cultures differ, what reluctance they might have for mixing, and..... watch out... the fact that they have developed entirely separately from each other depending on which continent they originated from before things like boats and airplanes were invented, if they HAVE been invented in your story.
>:( *brain hurts*
No thanks. Not ready for that yet. I admire it when writers are, though.
I realized through this that one of my favorite authors, Maria V. Snyder (READ POISON STUDY, YOU WON'T REGRET IT), uses a pangea-esque world that just has some borders and two country names.
I STILL LOVE YOU, MARIAAAA!
oh hey...Boyfriend is here :] I'm gunna go

Survey Time

It's time for a girly survey. (Or anyone who likes guys :P )

http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/TK3LWTW

Knowledge

The mental universe is a dark labyrinth.
Every field of study is a new corridor of the labyrinth.
When you learn, you light the way through these corridors with candles.
Most of the candles stay lit, and you can revisit the lit caves that you have illuminated before.
Sometimes, a candle will burn out, and you will have to restudy it -- relight the candle.

As with any adventure, the first candles you are given excite you, and you begin to look into many different corridors, back away, choose another, until you run out of candles and have to take a break.
But there will come a time when you know you have gone deeply enough into the labyrinth that you will have to decide once and for all which corridor to travel down.

Well, that was my analogy for the insurmountable obstacle that is choosing a major and a particular field of study in a time when you feel so curious about every area of knowledge that making a choice seems absurd.

Valentine's Tower

'we were a little puddle of vitality and young love in a big empty place. i dont know, it was an odd feeling'


Boyfriend and I were having an odd day. I was sad for no reason, crying my eyes out for some subconscious BLUGH that I was feeling. Boyfriend came over late, but he got there. He took me away, through an eerie black sunset, under a sliver of moon and one bright star, to a cozy cafe in the mountains.
He coaxed out my smile, and we decided that we were in for quite a lovey, romantic evening. The thin lady of a youngish, indeterminable age and tattoos let us stay past closing time.
We were called by his acquaintance, an older woman, telling us that she needed a ride to the hospital. We ditched our plans of watching Black Stallion and trying champagne (Just to make sure we still don't like the taste). He drove like a mad man through the dark and the fog, down out of the mountains.
We waited in the ER lobby, the ER room, the hallway, the OR waiting room. When we got there, the place was bustling with headachey, feverish people and children with confused, tired expressions at having been woken in the night. I felt confused and small. We waited in the ER room as the woman became unconscious, and we shared the tiny brown chair in the corner by the sink.
People came and went, patients checked in and were then checked up on, and checked out. People watched us watching them as they passed by, first worried, then relieved. An old couple was taking a disoriented old man home when the husband walked towards us. He had a little plastic tub with a sandwich in it that reminded me of how starving we were. His plaid scarf delightfully mismatched his plaid jockey cap and slippers. Poking his head in a bit through the curtains, he said that he thought it was really good that we were comforting mom, and comforting each other.
That was really nice of him, I told Boyfriend.
The moral of today's story, he said, is that the system is stupid and slow, and people are too busy to listen.
I thought about that for a bit. Then i responded, I think the moral of today is that even though life can throw some nasty turns at you, you can still find compassion and humanity in people. Like the lady who owned the cafe and that old man. And all the people on staff here are stretched thin, but they are trying their best to make a difference.
We were questioned over and over, we were ushered from chair to chair, we were left in a big room full of single seat chairs that gave our spines a strict talking to. The only other man, an old man named Henry, was staring with a loose jaw at a television, seeming not to comprehend anything that was on the screen.
The hospital was deserted now. We were the only two people waiting, and we hardly saw any of the staff walking around. Once Henry had been called away, we turned off the horridly loud TV and tried to turn some chairs to make an odd, gap-ridden bench bed. We talked the entire time. Boyfriend and I have never been bored by each other. I think that's amazing. We talked about the cafe we want to own, and how I want to have a house with a Tardis mailbox, a horse named Beans, and an outhouse made of one-way mirrors in the middle of a garden.
The halls were far from silent, because the elevator would ding and open, without anyone getting in or getting out, and then close and move on. The little intercoms would buzz. There was a constant buzzing in the air. Boyfriend and I talked about how we are going to have to decide whether to stay together when I go to college or not. It was bittersweet: we love each other so much that we are okay with either of us doing whatever we really need to do in life. That just makes it harder; it makes me want to stay with him forever. If we have to split up, we know that we will horribly, selfishly wish that the other person misses us to death. But all the feelings are mutual. I don't know what will happen.

I felt young, I felt powerless, I felt oddly free.