The horoscope tells me to take advantage of the Day.
It's a 7 after all...
I'm 'powerful, inventive and can heal old wounds.
If it were the end,
old stuff wouldn't matter.'
7 be Damned.
My wounds must hurt more, like a bullet buried in the bone.
Emotional surgery can sever the tie.
Without drugs.
The pain is so much more when hearts are out of tune.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
My First Sonnet
I stepped onto the bus, unnoticed
as throngs of goers freely step without
worry. He sits like every other.
I notice the unforgiving beauty:
brown displaced hair, angular eyes piercing the air,
slender cheeks so defined, and lips permanently
smiling.
He leaves and I follow.
Surpassing in strides as my heart beats faster
with vigorous footfalls.
He follows...not noticing,
'til I've found my chai, warm and spicy.
We sit across from each other. He reads.
I watch as he leaves. Hopeless.
as throngs of goers freely step without
worry. He sits like every other.
I notice the unforgiving beauty:
brown displaced hair, angular eyes piercing the air,
slender cheeks so defined, and lips permanently
smiling.
He leaves and I follow.
Surpassing in strides as my heart beats faster
with vigorous footfalls.
He follows...not noticing,
'til I've found my chai, warm and spicy.
We sit across from each other. He reads.
I watch as he leaves. Hopeless.
Structured Poem
For my Introductory Poetry Workshop on campus, my teacher, who I'll have to describe another time because he'll simply take up a whole blog of his own, has started the class off with a structured poem. It has very strict guidelines, which you would think would make the poem even harder to write. I found that it was much easier to write given the formula.
Here are the requirements (so you can see what I had to work with, and so you can make one of your own):
Write an 11 line poem.
Line 1: A narrative action that includes an image or two.
Line 2: Ask a question without using 'I'.
Line 3: Make a statement without using 'I'.
Line 4: Now say 'I' in another statement.
Line 5: Use a fragment.
Line 6: Narrative action again with one of the same images from line 1.
Line 7: Ask a question using 'I'.
Line 8: Use a fragment.
Line 9: Now say I and include one of the same images from line 1 or line 6.
Line 10: Answer your first question (question from line 2) but with fragment.
Line 11: Answer your second question (question from line 7) with a statement but don't reiterate the language of the question.
With these requirements, I wrote this poem in about thirty minutes. I'm sorry if the formatting on blogger makes it look like there are more lines. Punctuation actually ends the lines.
The heart beats tremulously, as if breaking under reality.
Is desire the driving force behind the past's decisions at present?
Carefully chosen pretexts mask the pounding mallet;
I hold that mallet and attempt softening the blows
timid strokes, even with unending love --
But reality can be hidden, even from the heart for comfort's sake.
Am I so broken that moratorium fractures a strong personality?
fantasy like rose thorns, tarnished blood; fear --
Honest thoughts tremble my heart and I cannot yet speak:
Only the forgotten desires;
Only decisions for the self can cause such standstills, and can release them.
In a way having such a strict structure to follow made it infinitely easier to write the poem. Is that strange? I dunno... You all should try to write a poem given these guidelines and share it with the world. And then let me know how you felt about the focused writing!
Here are the requirements (so you can see what I had to work with, and so you can make one of your own):
Write an 11 line poem.
Line 1: A narrative action that includes an image or two.
Line 2: Ask a question without using 'I'.
Line 3: Make a statement without using 'I'.
Line 4: Now say 'I' in another statement.
Line 5: Use a fragment.
Line 6: Narrative action again with one of the same images from line 1.
Line 7: Ask a question using 'I'.
Line 8: Use a fragment.
Line 9: Now say I and include one of the same images from line 1 or line 6.
Line 10: Answer your first question (question from line 2) but with fragment.
Line 11: Answer your second question (question from line 7) with a statement but don't reiterate the language of the question.
With these requirements, I wrote this poem in about thirty minutes. I'm sorry if the formatting on blogger makes it look like there are more lines. Punctuation actually ends the lines.
The heart beats tremulously, as if breaking under reality.
Is desire the driving force behind the past's decisions at present?
Carefully chosen pretexts mask the pounding mallet;
I hold that mallet and attempt softening the blows
timid strokes, even with unending love --
But reality can be hidden, even from the heart for comfort's sake.
Am I so broken that moratorium fractures a strong personality?
fantasy like rose thorns, tarnished blood; fear --
Honest thoughts tremble my heart and I cannot yet speak:
Only the forgotten desires;
Only decisions for the self can cause such standstills, and can release them.
In a way having such a strict structure to follow made it infinitely easier to write the poem. Is that strange? I dunno... You all should try to write a poem given these guidelines and share it with the world. And then let me know how you felt about the focused writing!
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Sunrise
I watched the sunrise on the mountains.
The frost-blue snow of the night awoke:
First the peaks bloomed in roses, soft
petals drifting with the rotation down
jagged Irons stil veiled in white
until just before the Life Bringer crests.
The pink skinned barrier of the West,
bearded in laden pine, premiered
Dawn's echoing shout as its resonance shadowed
twilight's armamants. A beacon crests
the highest peak, safely hearkening timid
sights beginning new impossible heaps.
Moments pass unhindered by the cold.
The night hides behind rock and wood,
stealing treasured vestiges of its obstreperous quiet
from snow and air; the Sun prevails in reflection:
red begets gold, gold reveals white, white is circular.
I watched the sunrise on the mountain.
The frost-blue snow of the night awoke:
First the peaks bloomed in roses, soft
petals drifting with the rotation down
jagged Irons stil veiled in white
until just before the Life Bringer crests.
The pink skinned barrier of the West,
bearded in laden pine, premiered
Dawn's echoing shout as its resonance shadowed
twilight's armamants. A beacon crests
the highest peak, safely hearkening timid
sights beginning new impossible heaps.
Moments pass unhindered by the cold.
The night hides behind rock and wood,
stealing treasured vestiges of its obstreperous quiet
from snow and air; the Sun prevails in reflection:
red begets gold, gold reveals white, white is circular.
I watched the sunrise on the mountain.
Alone in the Museum on Campus
The voice echos from beyond the wall.
"They use the cowpies, which they saved through the summer, to fuel the fire to heat the kiln."
A dead anthropologist works with the oldest living civilization. He attempts mastering an ancient art form; but they don't make art...
"They use the cowpies, which they saved through the summer, to fuel the fire to heat the kiln."
A dead anthropologist works with the oldest living civilization. He attempts mastering an ancient art form; but they don't make art...
Timing.
We are only ever looking into the past, however recent, with our eyes.
Light travels.
It is not instantaneous.
Only the blind see the Now.
Light travels.
It is not instantaneous.
Only the blind see the Now.
Me.
I=EF , assuming general laws apply everywhere in the Verse: atoms behave the same everywhere, gravity acts everywhere, and the Verse exists.
Sorry
"I'm Sorry!!" he shouts,
waving an arm faster than humming birds' wings,
eyes white as the sky, cheeks taut,
legs flying across the snow with gusts of wind.
"I'm sorry," I've whispered,
clinging to the tiniest bridge as it crumbles underfoot,
eyes sodden with words, cheeks blanched,
legs numbing from reverent pleas to a love.
"I'm sorry," she states,
clawing her respectless daughter's arm like a black hole,
eyes reaching for help, cheeks red,
legs storming with fiery passion to flee.
waving an arm faster than humming birds' wings,
eyes white as the sky, cheeks taut,
legs flying across the snow with gusts of wind.
"I'm sorry," I've whispered,
clinging to the tiniest bridge as it crumbles underfoot,
eyes sodden with words, cheeks blanched,
legs numbing from reverent pleas to a love.
"I'm sorry," she states,
clawing her respectless daughter's arm like a black hole,
eyes reaching for help, cheeks red,
legs storming with fiery passion to flee.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Keep an Open Mind
After a long night amongst strangers speaking a foreign tongue, my brain feels a little rattled. For claiming to understand French, which I do understand it quite well, I can no longer say I'm near fluent. Let's face it: after seven years of disuse, my foreign vocal skills have become stale. Dealing with this realization won't be hard, but it does make me desire to take up French once more!
This eve started with a long drive to the middle of nowhere. Carpooling made it far less fearful to adventure down the darkened outskirts of the Denver Metro Area, but the three of us were all a little apprehensive of the route, I could tell. The women in the car laid their confidence in my abilities of direction and memory to get us to our destination. Luckily technology has come quite a long way. The darkness allowed a sense of self-reflection as I drove, while my 'passengers' practiced their skills with each other. I wandered the musty corridors of my French comprehension and imagined the multitude of French books accumulating in my room. I was pleased with my accomplishments: five years of high school French, the entire Harry Potter series in French, two French poetry books, a French sci-fi novella, the Larousse French Dictionary, and my many French textbooks, not to mention my tourist guides to France. Even with the preparedness I felt, nerves rose slightly as we neared the unknown turns to get to the house. I should have been paying better attention to the two women speaking French in the car.
We arrived at the quaint contemporary house in a village that sprung up during the economic and housing boom several years ago. The complex showed the signs of the recession as it was surrounded by undeveloped fields near a highway connecting more populated portions of the Metro Area. Silence permeated the cool, clear night and our feet hurried toward the door. Once inside, the atmosphere of friendly banter and enthusiastic anticipation flowed through the house. Everyone was in the kitchen, eagerly waiting for the food to be served and the comfortable, leisurely conversations to begin. As soon as people started introducing themselves to me, I suddenly understood how deficient I truly am.
Hi. It's a pleasure to meet you. What do you do?
I clearly understood the question. Answering, however, turned out to be the more difficult task. Franglais... here we go!
Even with my halted French and obvious minimal vocabulary, the faces of the men and women with whom I conversed waited patiently for my tale, prompting me with proper forms of speech and continuing on with the conversation as if my deficiency was either normal or unnoticed. They all understood and seemed appreciative of my willingness and desire to speak with them and be a part of their group. Dinner was served nonchalantly and consumed with high praise. We fawned over the stewed pork and mushrooms, salivated over the exotic French cheeses, devoured warm polenta, and died with chocolate mousse and swiss cookies. While we consumed the delectable delicacies, my brain syphoned through the words spoken so naturally, so quickly, so fluently. I started to feel stretched like too little l'Epoisses over too much bread. It was fantastic and tiring all at the same time; however usual the feeling tends to be.
And then the night ended, rather abruptly but not unexpectedly. After all, there might have only been two or three people under thirty years old, myself included. As we left, one of my passengers asked me, in the car about to turn onto the long, dark road back home, "I noticed you were listening a lot; and did you understand? Did you comprehend what was said?"
"Yes. I understood a lot more than what I could say," I stumble, trying to think about what I was saying and therefore translate it in my head for next time. The translating wasn't going so well.
"Ah, yes. Well, soon you will find yourself speaking. It takes a lot of passive listening, and a lot of work; but if you keep an open mind you will get it faster!"
The rest of my journey home recycled her words over and over again. Perhaps it's truly time to pick up my books, go online and watch French movies, turn on TV5 Monde and listen to the pure French, and pick up my old textbooks and start revisiting the unfamiliar. Essentially, feeling like a fool, though not completely unintelligent, ignited the passion for linguistics and foreign languages.
Je parlerai français bien la prochaine fois que je vais au dîner français.
This eve started with a long drive to the middle of nowhere. Carpooling made it far less fearful to adventure down the darkened outskirts of the Denver Metro Area, but the three of us were all a little apprehensive of the route, I could tell. The women in the car laid their confidence in my abilities of direction and memory to get us to our destination. Luckily technology has come quite a long way. The darkness allowed a sense of self-reflection as I drove, while my 'passengers' practiced their skills with each other. I wandered the musty corridors of my French comprehension and imagined the multitude of French books accumulating in my room. I was pleased with my accomplishments: five years of high school French, the entire Harry Potter series in French, two French poetry books, a French sci-fi novella, the Larousse French Dictionary, and my many French textbooks, not to mention my tourist guides to France. Even with the preparedness I felt, nerves rose slightly as we neared the unknown turns to get to the house. I should have been paying better attention to the two women speaking French in the car.
We arrived at the quaint contemporary house in a village that sprung up during the economic and housing boom several years ago. The complex showed the signs of the recession as it was surrounded by undeveloped fields near a highway connecting more populated portions of the Metro Area. Silence permeated the cool, clear night and our feet hurried toward the door. Once inside, the atmosphere of friendly banter and enthusiastic anticipation flowed through the house. Everyone was in the kitchen, eagerly waiting for the food to be served and the comfortable, leisurely conversations to begin. As soon as people started introducing themselves to me, I suddenly understood how deficient I truly am.
Hi. It's a pleasure to meet you. What do you do?
I clearly understood the question. Answering, however, turned out to be the more difficult task. Franglais... here we go!
Even with my halted French and obvious minimal vocabulary, the faces of the men and women with whom I conversed waited patiently for my tale, prompting me with proper forms of speech and continuing on with the conversation as if my deficiency was either normal or unnoticed. They all understood and seemed appreciative of my willingness and desire to speak with them and be a part of their group. Dinner was served nonchalantly and consumed with high praise. We fawned over the stewed pork and mushrooms, salivated over the exotic French cheeses, devoured warm polenta, and died with chocolate mousse and swiss cookies. While we consumed the delectable delicacies, my brain syphoned through the words spoken so naturally, so quickly, so fluently. I started to feel stretched like too little l'Epoisses over too much bread. It was fantastic and tiring all at the same time; however usual the feeling tends to be.
And then the night ended, rather abruptly but not unexpectedly. After all, there might have only been two or three people under thirty years old, myself included. As we left, one of my passengers asked me, in the car about to turn onto the long, dark road back home, "I noticed you were listening a lot; and did you understand? Did you comprehend what was said?"
"Yes. I understood a lot more than what I could say," I stumble, trying to think about what I was saying and therefore translate it in my head for next time. The translating wasn't going so well.
"Ah, yes. Well, soon you will find yourself speaking. It takes a lot of passive listening, and a lot of work; but if you keep an open mind you will get it faster!"
The rest of my journey home recycled her words over and over again. Perhaps it's truly time to pick up my books, go online and watch French movies, turn on TV5 Monde and listen to the pure French, and pick up my old textbooks and start revisiting the unfamiliar. Essentially, feeling like a fool, though not completely unintelligent, ignited the passion for linguistics and foreign languages.
Je parlerai français bien la prochaine fois que je vais au dîner français.
Response to Nocuous Accusations
Hurtful.
Me? Backpedal over a compliment. It's not my fault the perceptions of the aforementioned, once viewed through a lens built of obvious preconceived notions, appear to be a stabbing pain of traumatic juxtaposed images. Perhaps I should simply desist from giving compliments. Forget reading about how to give a decent compliment; if you don't like them, forget them as soon as they leave my mouth.
Let me rewind.
I love Bones. It's an amazing movie based (however loosely) on the life of Kathy Reichs. The characters on Bones are beautifully played and wonderfully written to emphasize the dynamics of the relationships within a work place where everyone has a different field (personality wise and career wise). It's truly amazing.
Now... one of my favorite characters, though not my favorite overall, is Jack Hodgins (the bug and slime guy). To me, he's attractive, smart, charming, funny, and a little broken (which is explained throughout the series). I compared a great friend of mine to this lovely character, because my friend is a very lovely person as well and deserves the compliment of being compared to a one Jack Hodgins. Apparently, this came off as being quite insulting. I do not apologize for giving this compliment of juxtaposition. It just happens that the comparison was thus marked because both Hodgins and my friend work in very similar fields which made the leap that much easier; and perhaps a little bit of his attitude is easily compared as well. This isn't to say that my friend has an anger management problem and has trouble dealing with stupidity around him, but to me they are both very witty and fun!
With this all said... I do happen to remember a little conversation in which the badgering of a certain aspect of my soccer attire convulsed into a verbal bashing which ended with declaring my appearing overweight. Yes... I said that in a very convoluted way... TO EMPHASIZE! I know I'm not fat... but my yellow (yes yellow) soccer cleats do NOT make my legs look fat... If anything does, it's my shin guards, which are required... and that's a good thing too. Hurt, right here, in my heart. (Perhaps I'm fishing for a compliment here myself). And this paining transpired on the same day as the aforementioned compliment. (Which is funny that my other friend, who also committed the atrocious accolade, was not mentioned)
As I have stated clearly in a few posts back my New Years Resolution of highest priority is to be completely honest with everything in my life. Here I work forward from there: I stand by my compliment. There is no need to backpedal because where the compliment comes from is a sincere, genuine, and loving place. To be compared to a beloved icon is an honor. I seem to remember a sincere comparison of me to a psychopathic, transgendered murderer... repeatedly compared... as a compliment... And I took little offense, though I found it strange; but have since embraced it.
Anywho... I think I've said my share... Love you C!
Me? Backpedal over a compliment. It's not my fault the perceptions of the aforementioned, once viewed through a lens built of obvious preconceived notions, appear to be a stabbing pain of traumatic juxtaposed images. Perhaps I should simply desist from giving compliments. Forget reading about how to give a decent compliment; if you don't like them, forget them as soon as they leave my mouth.
Let me rewind.
I love Bones. It's an amazing movie based (however loosely) on the life of Kathy Reichs. The characters on Bones are beautifully played and wonderfully written to emphasize the dynamics of the relationships within a work place where everyone has a different field (personality wise and career wise). It's truly amazing.
Now... one of my favorite characters, though not my favorite overall, is Jack Hodgins (the bug and slime guy). To me, he's attractive, smart, charming, funny, and a little broken (which is explained throughout the series). I compared a great friend of mine to this lovely character, because my friend is a very lovely person as well and deserves the compliment of being compared to a one Jack Hodgins. Apparently, this came off as being quite insulting. I do not apologize for giving this compliment of juxtaposition. It just happens that the comparison was thus marked because both Hodgins and my friend work in very similar fields which made the leap that much easier; and perhaps a little bit of his attitude is easily compared as well. This isn't to say that my friend has an anger management problem and has trouble dealing with stupidity around him, but to me they are both very witty and fun!
With this all said... I do happen to remember a little conversation in which the badgering of a certain aspect of my soccer attire convulsed into a verbal bashing which ended with declaring my appearing overweight. Yes... I said that in a very convoluted way... TO EMPHASIZE! I know I'm not fat... but my yellow (yes yellow) soccer cleats do NOT make my legs look fat... If anything does, it's my shin guards, which are required... and that's a good thing too. Hurt, right here, in my heart. (Perhaps I'm fishing for a compliment here myself). And this paining transpired on the same day as the aforementioned compliment. (Which is funny that my other friend, who also committed the atrocious accolade, was not mentioned)
As I have stated clearly in a few posts back my New Years Resolution of highest priority is to be completely honest with everything in my life. Here I work forward from there: I stand by my compliment. There is no need to backpedal because where the compliment comes from is a sincere, genuine, and loving place. To be compared to a beloved icon is an honor. I seem to remember a sincere comparison of me to a psychopathic, transgendered murderer... repeatedly compared... as a compliment... And I took little offense, though I found it strange; but have since embraced it.
Anywho... I think I've said my share... Love you C!
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
My Own Heart-to-Heart
I spoke with myself today.
The words were strange, the intercourse was abstract; but the ideas were simple and pure.
Perhaps the voice I heard wasn't my own. It might have belonged to the crazed; or my loneliness got the better of me. However bizarre the situation appeared from outside it felt completely normal to me. I know everyone talks to themselves in one fashion or another. Mine happens to remain inside my head, though my eyes certainly showed the expressiveness of my queries in my head. I think, loudly, and pursue the harsh subjects I dare not discuss with the world.
One significant discussion circled the status of love and its forebears: lust, admiration, respect, obsession, etc. What interested me most of this dialogue with myself (perhaps a monologue though I would very much like to think of the other voice as Reason, Logic, Honesty... as apposed to my emotion filled diagnosis of many situations at hand) concerned the appearance of the downfall of the many faces of love. Where the words took me startled even my most logical progression of thoughts: do I love anything right now? My answer was yes (as it remains yes even now) but it was a struggle to admit that the 'yes' was a sound and secure foundation to go up from.
I started with: "What do I love?"
Many things... Life, and more specifically My Life. Words, Language, and Conversation. Inspiration, Creativity, and Imagination. My Friends and Family. My Abilities. My Spirituality.
I wanted to get more specific, but my heart told me not to. This was when I shuttered, and I knew a truth was on the brink of existence. It's such a truth that even I could not readily admit it, nor could my body, my mind, or my heart. Several Loves in my life have fallen. Several places I held dear have waned. One, in particular, has shifted so dramatically that action must be taken to properly address the new understanding. However... the action contradicts the emotion. The action belies the truth. The action isn't what belongs.
And thus I'm left in moratorium. This has surprisingly worked out well because the surrounding circumstances have left me with little time for action; and the comfort of my darkened home, the beautiful lights of the television and computer, and the warmth of my bed have all held me close while I reassess... and reassess... and reassess the same thoughts again and again. They all reveal the same solutions, unfortunately. With much luck, moratorium remains.
But the dialogue tells me of the woe of this state. Reason shows me the detrimental outcomes of inaction, even if comfort and joy can be wrought from its presence. My feet desire to move. My voice desires to speak. My head desires release from this tormenting cage it built for itself with bars of comforting deceit and quiet truths.
Light spills from the balcony on high: virtuous, bright, painful. No fallacy can shadow that which comes from a deeper sense of honesty. Perhaps this intercourse has led me back to myself, where the world has led me away. Now is the time for my words to revel in glorious revelations, and those who love shall understand (we hope) of the courses I take.
But first... Outward words must draw together the forces of love, admiration, respect, and truth, and the world must come asunder and be fastened back together again.
The words were strange, the intercourse was abstract; but the ideas were simple and pure.
Perhaps the voice I heard wasn't my own. It might have belonged to the crazed; or my loneliness got the better of me. However bizarre the situation appeared from outside it felt completely normal to me. I know everyone talks to themselves in one fashion or another. Mine happens to remain inside my head, though my eyes certainly showed the expressiveness of my queries in my head. I think, loudly, and pursue the harsh subjects I dare not discuss with the world.
One significant discussion circled the status of love and its forebears: lust, admiration, respect, obsession, etc. What interested me most of this dialogue with myself (perhaps a monologue though I would very much like to think of the other voice as Reason, Logic, Honesty... as apposed to my emotion filled diagnosis of many situations at hand) concerned the appearance of the downfall of the many faces of love. Where the words took me startled even my most logical progression of thoughts: do I love anything right now? My answer was yes (as it remains yes even now) but it was a struggle to admit that the 'yes' was a sound and secure foundation to go up from.
I started with: "What do I love?"
Many things... Life, and more specifically My Life. Words, Language, and Conversation. Inspiration, Creativity, and Imagination. My Friends and Family. My Abilities. My Spirituality.
I wanted to get more specific, but my heart told me not to. This was when I shuttered, and I knew a truth was on the brink of existence. It's such a truth that even I could not readily admit it, nor could my body, my mind, or my heart. Several Loves in my life have fallen. Several places I held dear have waned. One, in particular, has shifted so dramatically that action must be taken to properly address the new understanding. However... the action contradicts the emotion. The action belies the truth. The action isn't what belongs.
And thus I'm left in moratorium. This has surprisingly worked out well because the surrounding circumstances have left me with little time for action; and the comfort of my darkened home, the beautiful lights of the television and computer, and the warmth of my bed have all held me close while I reassess... and reassess... and reassess the same thoughts again and again. They all reveal the same solutions, unfortunately. With much luck, moratorium remains.
But the dialogue tells me of the woe of this state. Reason shows me the detrimental outcomes of inaction, even if comfort and joy can be wrought from its presence. My feet desire to move. My voice desires to speak. My head desires release from this tormenting cage it built for itself with bars of comforting deceit and quiet truths.
Light spills from the balcony on high: virtuous, bright, painful. No fallacy can shadow that which comes from a deeper sense of honesty. Perhaps this intercourse has led me back to myself, where the world has led me away. Now is the time for my words to revel in glorious revelations, and those who love shall understand (we hope) of the courses I take.
But first... Outward words must draw together the forces of love, admiration, respect, and truth, and the world must come asunder and be fastened back together again.
Silence of the Dying
Silence.
Endeavor the wake.
Believe in shoulders carrying the undeniable.
It’s a new space, time, continuum
where Jealous thoughts
Underlie the casual.
Herein.
Speak truth of the self.
Ignore the biting beat of tremulous courage.
No time exists without bearing
some Honorable exercise
Breaking down walls.
Twilight.
Both mourns and sets.
Moving from East to West distinctly.
Covering enigmatic distances
like Scavengers of reliable
Words echoing inside.
Phoenix.
Release into virtue.
Dawning at night without reason.
Continuing with righteous
Understanding of love
Even in death.
Endeavor the wake.
Believe in shoulders carrying the undeniable.
It’s a new space, time, continuum
where Jealous thoughts
Underlie the casual.
Herein.
Speak truth of the self.
Ignore the biting beat of tremulous courage.
No time exists without bearing
some Honorable exercise
Breaking down walls.
Twilight.
Both mourns and sets.
Moving from East to West distinctly.
Covering enigmatic distances
like Scavengers of reliable
Words echoing inside.
Phoenix.
Release into virtue.
Dawning at night without reason.
Continuing with righteous
Understanding of love
Even in death.
To Lots of Ladybugs (2011)
It’s a simple phrase from a beautiful movie which resonates so intensely with my life. This saying comes from Under the Tuscan Sun (which I haven’t read yet... but apparently it’s a fairly good book as well). Let me explain the meaning quickly and then I’ll show you how it relates to my life. Ladybugs, in the movie, represents a desire, a want, an aspiration which seemed extremely unattainable. Several ladies in the movie were in pursuit of ‘ladybugs,’ which seemed to be progressively avoiding their eager aims. Once these ladies simply stopped trying to acquire their ‘ladybugs,’ they came in plentiful droves.
Alright... it seems fairly easy to equate this to my life. For the past two years, my New Years Resolution has always been “To Lots of Ladybugs,” and this year is no different. However, there has been a shift in my understanding of what this means. I have always taken this saying as a motivator toward inaction, in a way. This isn’t to say that I didn’t do anything toward getting what I wanted. I’ve taken many actions; however, they were minor steps in a grand scheme. So this year, I’m addressing my outlook towards “Lots of Ladybugs” and assessing the effectiveness of the laid back tendencies I’ve gone towards. Thus, here are my resolutions for 2011 (though I'd rather call them commitments because resolutions, though it stands as a firm decision, still has a connotation of being a little wishy-washy).
1) Be completely honest. We can all thank Temperance Brennan from the show Bones for this commitment. Her attitude toward complete honesty without judgement has inspired me to do the same... well, to do similarly. I still don't think I have it in me to be so brutally honest without some sort of filter; but the intent remains that my honesty will be without reservation. Most of all... I have to be honest with myself. I've been denying the essence of honesty for myself for a very long time: happiness, desires, spirituality, etc. So many barriers have been built to deny me true happiness, all built because society instructed me to have these restraints.
2) To write more. Though I have successfully filled this blog with posts ranging from abstract poetry to an intense short story (which turned into a serial), including some poetic prose and existential thought processes, I feel I can do more. I want to finish a second book. And that shall be my ultimate goal this year.
3) To edit. This includes many facets of my life. I was told that editing is a very spiritual experience. Why shouldn't I then admit this adventure to my life, first in my writing and then letting it expand to other areas.
4) To be myself. I want to be a relaxed and fun individual. Unfortunately, I've felt very uptight and serious this past year. This is mostly due to the intense drive I had to get my Associate of Arts from Front Range Community College and transfer schools; but now I'm committing to enjoying my time at my new college, with my new friends, at my new job, and with my new goals! Life is suppose to be fun, right? Then why shouldn't I get to partake?
5) To strive for the appearance I've longed for. This includes every aspect I've mentioned so far and goes so far as to declare that I will be exercising a lot more. I've already joined a gym. I'm on a soccer team now. I'm not sitting at my computer nearly as much as I was before (though a long for a bit of World of Warcraft every once in a while). This year, so far, has already shifted my expectations for fun-time and I'm enjoying it!
This all seems appropriate to share on the first new moon of the year. It's a new beginning, the new cycle. Today is the first day of change. From here, we shall see the difference in my writing. Just wait! You will all experience my resolution to experiencing "Lots of Ladybugs"!
Alright... it seems fairly easy to equate this to my life. For the past two years, my New Years Resolution has always been “To Lots of Ladybugs,” and this year is no different. However, there has been a shift in my understanding of what this means. I have always taken this saying as a motivator toward inaction, in a way. This isn’t to say that I didn’t do anything toward getting what I wanted. I’ve taken many actions; however, they were minor steps in a grand scheme. So this year, I’m addressing my outlook towards “Lots of Ladybugs” and assessing the effectiveness of the laid back tendencies I’ve gone towards. Thus, here are my resolutions for 2011 (though I'd rather call them commitments because resolutions, though it stands as a firm decision, still has a connotation of being a little wishy-washy).
1) Be completely honest. We can all thank Temperance Brennan from the show Bones for this commitment. Her attitude toward complete honesty without judgement has inspired me to do the same... well, to do similarly. I still don't think I have it in me to be so brutally honest without some sort of filter; but the intent remains that my honesty will be without reservation. Most of all... I have to be honest with myself. I've been denying the essence of honesty for myself for a very long time: happiness, desires, spirituality, etc. So many barriers have been built to deny me true happiness, all built because society instructed me to have these restraints.
2) To write more. Though I have successfully filled this blog with posts ranging from abstract poetry to an intense short story (which turned into a serial), including some poetic prose and existential thought processes, I feel I can do more. I want to finish a second book. And that shall be my ultimate goal this year.
3) To edit. This includes many facets of my life. I was told that editing is a very spiritual experience. Why shouldn't I then admit this adventure to my life, first in my writing and then letting it expand to other areas.
4) To be myself. I want to be a relaxed and fun individual. Unfortunately, I've felt very uptight and serious this past year. This is mostly due to the intense drive I had to get my Associate of Arts from Front Range Community College and transfer schools; but now I'm committing to enjoying my time at my new college, with my new friends, at my new job, and with my new goals! Life is suppose to be fun, right? Then why shouldn't I get to partake?
5) To strive for the appearance I've longed for. This includes every aspect I've mentioned so far and goes so far as to declare that I will be exercising a lot more. I've already joined a gym. I'm on a soccer team now. I'm not sitting at my computer nearly as much as I was before (though a long for a bit of World of Warcraft every once in a while). This year, so far, has already shifted my expectations for fun-time and I'm enjoying it!
This all seems appropriate to share on the first new moon of the year. It's a new beginning, the new cycle. Today is the first day of change. From here, we shall see the difference in my writing. Just wait! You will all experience my resolution to experiencing "Lots of Ladybugs"!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)