My lover’s eyes are nothing like the sea,
His lips, poutier than mine, appear brass
He isn’t stacked, my man is more like a tree.
His hair sticks up like a field full of grass.
Some men have skin like dark wood, but not he.
Truly, paler than snow is his cheek’s hue.
His mouth has the taste of sour coffee,
Thinly disguised by an Altoid or two.
Not rich and deep is his voice, but if loud,
He goes high, like a mosquito whining.
He doesn’t walk regally, tall and proud,
Rather, his gait is hunched, from hours typing.
I may laugh at him when he struts his stuff,
But his love for me is sexy enough.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Monday, March 19, 2007
Conversation with my Main Character
I'm sorry, my darling. It's been four chapters and I've yet to name you. To be frank, your name wouldn't change your behavior thus far, but it will determine your choices in the future. But this is why you don't have a name. I know how important it is. If I didn't care about it, I'd just call you "Sarah" like all the other authors who wanted a special character with a bland name. You are special, but you have been overlooked throughout your life. People overlook bland names. But I do want you to be unique, so I can't choose a worn-out, bland name. I've tried several, but none fit you. You are just as picky as I am. You have horrible spelling, by the way.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Wind in the Trees
So, quick exercise. Wave your hand at your face, like you're fanning yourself on a hot day. Question: is your hand moving the air, or is the air flowing past your hand and making it wave? You've answered the question, whether aloud or to yourself, and you've given the text a weird look because you think the answer's obvious. Question 2: When you see the wind moving through the trees, is the wind flowing past the trees and making them wave, or are the trees pushing the air? And you stubbornly give the opposite answer because you KNOW that the wind is made by hot air moving up and cold air moving down. Let me ask you another question: When was the last time you felt wind moving either up or down? I mean, down near the ground, not miles up in the air, wind seems to go in a side to side motion, right? Just, allow for the fact that air can circulate up and down in the atmosphere, AND there may be another reason why wind moves side to side down on the ground. Forget what you KNOW and answer this question: is your hand moving the air, or is the air moving your hand?
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Oim A Faerie!
 | You scored as Faerie. Faerie: Aren't you a cute little flying person? Faeries are earth spirits. They live among each element completely hidden. They have cousins called Pixies. Pixies however, are very mischevious. They enjoy tormenting other creatures for fun. Little pranksters.. I hope you never meet one. Pixies have a bad reputation for finding a creature and clinging to them until death. Faeries can be somewhat close to a Pixie, but mostly they are loving, playful, and carry with them a child-like enthusiasm for life. Hide among the pedals of a Daisy, you are a Faerie.
What Mythological Creature are you? (Cool Pics!) created with QuizFarm.com |
Monday, January 22, 2007
Daddy
Daddy? Are you there? Daddy?
Daddy, remember how I asked to go abroad for a semester,
But I needed you to help me with my homework?
Well, my GPA’s still too low. I can’t go.
It’s okay, Daddy, maybe it’d be too hard for me.
Maybe something would happen overseas and I’d get hurt.
I know you’re looking out for me, but, Daddy, are you?
I cussed at my sister the other day, did you know?
Mom heard me and told me to stop.
She said that what was worse than hearing those words
Was hearing them come out of my mouth.
My angel’s mouth. But I haven’t had an angel’s mouth
Since I learned how to talk. Remember?
Daddy, I’ve seen you spank others when they sin,
And then they give you a hug. They know you care.
I can’t remember the last time you punished me.
I lust after boys, have you noticed?
I’m angry on the inside, do you care?
I speed, I’m impatient with people, I hate, I’m selfish and lazy.
Thank you for this beautiful day, but, Daddy,
You make the sun shine on the good and the wicked.
What will it take for you to pay attention to me?
What do I need to do?
Daddy, remember how I asked to go abroad for a semester,
But I needed you to help me with my homework?
Well, my GPA’s still too low. I can’t go.
It’s okay, Daddy, maybe it’d be too hard for me.
Maybe something would happen overseas and I’d get hurt.
I know you’re looking out for me, but, Daddy, are you?
I cussed at my sister the other day, did you know?
Mom heard me and told me to stop.
She said that what was worse than hearing those words
Was hearing them come out of my mouth.
My angel’s mouth. But I haven’t had an angel’s mouth
Since I learned how to talk. Remember?
Daddy, I’ve seen you spank others when they sin,
And then they give you a hug. They know you care.
I can’t remember the last time you punished me.
I lust after boys, have you noticed?
I’m angry on the inside, do you care?
I speed, I’m impatient with people, I hate, I’m selfish and lazy.
Thank you for this beautiful day, but, Daddy,
You make the sun shine on the good and the wicked.
What will it take for you to pay attention to me?
What do I need to do?
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Journal 11.8
This past year I've been trying to figure out what it means to be an adult. I thought that 18 was the line, but apparently you're still a teenager. Then I thought 20 was the difference, but I didn't feel anything. Next comes 21 and alcohol. Is that what makes us adult? Being able to make bad decisions and get shitfaced? And what about those that "grew up too fast"? Or those that "never grew up"? Is responsibility the deciding factor?
What is responsibility? The ability to be responsible? To follow through with your promises? To be able to look out for yourself? I've been mostly on my own for three years. I've paid rent, I've kept the same job, I've gone grocery shopping, I've done the dishes and cleaned the bathroom. Does that make me responsible? Does that make me an adult? I don't feel like I deserve the title.
I never wanted to grow up. Never. People say that they look back and wish they'd taken advantage of their childhood... I knew what I had when I had it. I'd be playing hide and seek, and I'd think, "in a couple years, I won't fit back here anymore." I enjoyed the fact that my parents made dinner and all I had to do was put five plates on the table. I knew that back then, it didn't really matter if I did my homework right after school or if I stayed up late doing it, I could go outside and play. I knew that my parents weren't happy with their jobs, and that I probably wouldn't be either. But I didn't have to worry about that. The most on my mind was the cute boy two desks down. Whether I could get to the swingset before they were full. Whether I wanted the nacho lunch or the corndogs for lunch. I knew what I had, and I didn't want to leave it.
Based on what actions give me guilt, and which actions give me a bitter satisfaction, I think that adults weigh what they want to do against what they need to do, and set aside their desires. This past semester, I've been regressing. Almost to the point of jeopardizing my grades. I've made orange juice popsicles, I got a hold of sippy cup tops, I've been watching movies when I should be doing homework, I even sucked my thumb to remember what it was like to have a self-comfort system. And I know that these things are not adult. That an adult would let them go and fulfill their responsibilities. I'm not ready. I never wanted to grow up, and I certainly don't want to now. But I have no choice. It's either this path of dissatisfaction and denial, or the street. Because that's where I'll end up if I let go of everything. And don't try to tell me that there's a balance. Children don't want balance. They want black and white. Either what I want, or what I don't.
What is responsibility? The ability to be responsible? To follow through with your promises? To be able to look out for yourself? I've been mostly on my own for three years. I've paid rent, I've kept the same job, I've gone grocery shopping, I've done the dishes and cleaned the bathroom. Does that make me responsible? Does that make me an adult? I don't feel like I deserve the title.
I never wanted to grow up. Never. People say that they look back and wish they'd taken advantage of their childhood... I knew what I had when I had it. I'd be playing hide and seek, and I'd think, "in a couple years, I won't fit back here anymore." I enjoyed the fact that my parents made dinner and all I had to do was put five plates on the table. I knew that back then, it didn't really matter if I did my homework right after school or if I stayed up late doing it, I could go outside and play. I knew that my parents weren't happy with their jobs, and that I probably wouldn't be either. But I didn't have to worry about that. The most on my mind was the cute boy two desks down. Whether I could get to the swingset before they were full. Whether I wanted the nacho lunch or the corndogs for lunch. I knew what I had, and I didn't want to leave it.
Based on what actions give me guilt, and which actions give me a bitter satisfaction, I think that adults weigh what they want to do against what they need to do, and set aside their desires. This past semester, I've been regressing. Almost to the point of jeopardizing my grades. I've made orange juice popsicles, I got a hold of sippy cup tops, I've been watching movies when I should be doing homework, I even sucked my thumb to remember what it was like to have a self-comfort system. And I know that these things are not adult. That an adult would let them go and fulfill their responsibilities. I'm not ready. I never wanted to grow up, and I certainly don't want to now. But I have no choice. It's either this path of dissatisfaction and denial, or the street. Because that's where I'll end up if I let go of everything. And don't try to tell me that there's a balance. Children don't want balance. They want black and white. Either what I want, or what I don't.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Journal 10.30
My word, that was harder than I thought. The three janitor pieces are all attempts to communicate the single, same idea. The thought entered my mind and I tried to describe it and flesh it out a bit. Hense I. Though it went in a different direction than I wanted. In it, the shrink came to the house. I meant to show that we left our junk in their office, so I tried again. But I couldn't shake the cooperative cleaning. So finally, after a third attempt, which is also the shortest, I think I finally came as close as I'm going to on this. Bon apetite.
Psychologists are the janitors of our minds III
I walk in, loaded down with crap. Everything I’ve been collecting
Since my childhood. Slowly, I separate my self from my issues.
They become a pile on the carpet next to my chair. Afterward,
I feel light, clean, and I think I smiled. I left my crap where it fell.
Since my childhood. Slowly, I separate my self from my issues.
They become a pile on the carpet next to my chair. Afterward,
I feel light, clean, and I think I smiled. I left my crap where it fell.
Psychologists are the janitors of our minds II
Psychologists are the janitors of our mind.
We enter their offices covered in angst, despair, depression,
Hatred, pity, loathing, sadness, stress, issues, and family.
They pull out the fire hose and rinse us off.
Then they grab the soap and industrial gloves and get to work.
These problems won’t solve themselves. That’s why they
Have solution. Together we remove all those nasty things
That have been festering for years, just drop them on the carpet.
We leave smiling, squeaky and sparkly. We leave our problems
In their office. They’re the janitors. It’s their job to clean up
After us.
We enter their offices covered in angst, despair, depression,
Hatred, pity, loathing, sadness, stress, issues, and family.
They pull out the fire hose and rinse us off.
Then they grab the soap and industrial gloves and get to work.
These problems won’t solve themselves. That’s why they
Have solution. Together we remove all those nasty things
That have been festering for years, just drop them on the carpet.
We leave smiling, squeaky and sparkly. We leave our problems
In their office. They’re the janitors. It’s their job to clean up
After us.
Psychologists are the janitors of our mind I
Psychologists are the janitors of our mind.
They knock gently and wait for us to let them in.
Going from room to room, they point out the tough stains.
“How long has this been here?” They wonder.
“Don’t you know that you’re supposed to throw this out?”
We sit back and try to relax, while they walk around our psyche
With a vacuum cleaner, but every time the machine catches on
Something large, we flinch and show that we really were paying attention.
Then they pull out the dust cloth, and we really start to sweat.
“You don’t need to go in there.” We tell them.
But with persistence, or perhaps when they’re done with everything else,
They make their way back into the corners that have been mildewing
For years, and with their Freudian carpet cleaner, they attack the nastiest spots.
Finally they pack up their gear, hand us the bill, and walk out with a whistle.
We shut the door, marveling at the fee. Then we stand uncomfortable,
Unfamiliar with this space that was once our own.
And despite the knowledge that eventually we’d have to call them back,
We can’t stand the white and the stench of cleaning solution,
So we spill our coffee onto the carpet.
They knock gently and wait for us to let them in.
Going from room to room, they point out the tough stains.
“How long has this been here?” They wonder.
“Don’t you know that you’re supposed to throw this out?”
We sit back and try to relax, while they walk around our psyche
With a vacuum cleaner, but every time the machine catches on
Something large, we flinch and show that we really were paying attention.
Then they pull out the dust cloth, and we really start to sweat.
“You don’t need to go in there.” We tell them.
But with persistence, or perhaps when they’re done with everything else,
They make their way back into the corners that have been mildewing
For years, and with their Freudian carpet cleaner, they attack the nastiest spots.
Finally they pack up their gear, hand us the bill, and walk out with a whistle.
We shut the door, marveling at the fee. Then we stand uncomfortable,
Unfamiliar with this space that was once our own.
And despite the knowledge that eventually we’d have to call them back,
We can’t stand the white and the stench of cleaning solution,
So we spill our coffee onto the carpet.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
I am not the lost sheep
I am not the lost sheep,
I am not the prodigal son.
I obediently stayed at home,
I am with the other 98.
I envy the lost sheep,
I am jealous of the prodigal son.
My father killed not the calf for me,
My shepherd has not carried me home.
I stumble within the herd,
I falter in my work,
But my father is watching for my brother,
My shepherd is out searching for the lamb.
I stare at the pit,
I know where to find sin.
I know that a rebuke is still attention,
That to be dragged by the neck is still to be touched.
But the shepherd sees my mind,
My father’s disapproving eyes make me consider.
So I return home, untouched,
I back away from the pit.
I hide in the center of the herd,
I work the fields with the servants.
But he left the party to talk,
And he reached out his staff
To tap my head.
He cares for me.
I am not the prodigal son.
I obediently stayed at home,
I am with the other 98.
I envy the lost sheep,
I am jealous of the prodigal son.
My father killed not the calf for me,
My shepherd has not carried me home.
I stumble within the herd,
I falter in my work,
But my father is watching for my brother,
My shepherd is out searching for the lamb.
I stare at the pit,
I know where to find sin.
I know that a rebuke is still attention,
That to be dragged by the neck is still to be touched.
But the shepherd sees my mind,
My father’s disapproving eyes make me consider.
So I return home, untouched,
I back away from the pit.
I hide in the center of the herd,
I work the fields with the servants.
But he left the party to talk,
And he reached out his staff
To tap my head.
He cares for me.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
To All Literary Professors
My professor is a valiant knight
protecting the fortress of her convictions.
It has taken her a lifetime to build,
using bricks of books and cemented with historical perspective.
We lay seige to her castle
attempting to tear it down.
To exploit her holes, her seeming weak structure,
to build our own upon her rubble.
Her one goal is to defend her fortress.
To prove her stance, and win us to her cause.
Sometimes she cheats.
But then, sometimes she has to.
protecting the fortress of her convictions.
It has taken her a lifetime to build,
using bricks of books and cemented with historical perspective.
We lay seige to her castle
attempting to tear it down.
To exploit her holes, her seeming weak structure,
to build our own upon her rubble.
Her one goal is to defend her fortress.
To prove her stance, and win us to her cause.
Sometimes she cheats.
But then, sometimes she has to.
Present Life Lesson: Humility
There are times in my life when God needs to apply a 2x4 to my head. These, I am sure, are times when the gentle nudges were unnoticed, and are the final resort of a Teacher needing to impart a lesson. The current lesson is: (check the title) Humility. The acknowledgement that alone, I can not do anything. Or at least, anything good or worthy. So far, it's been a rather gentle 2x4 experience, no nails yet. He started with a definition of humility in a sermon.
Humility is: acknowledging that we need God to help us. One of my friends told me once that she saw God as a crutch. Yes, to a healthy person, a crutch slows us down, gets in our way, and weakens us. But ask a person with a broken leg who can't put weight on it without excruciating pain how they feel about a crutch. Guess what? Our legs are broken. We need a crutch in order to function. And if we can't acknowledge that, God will break our legs.
Yes, that seems ruthless, and mean, but it is necessary. In order to prove to us how much we need Him, He will take away His crutch, and let us fall. He will bring us low in order to raise us up again. But the point in raising us is that He actively does it to us, we don't pick ourselves up.
I used to not (and still don't, as I am in the process of learning my lesson) understand how we needed God for every little aspect of our life. Why I should be in constant communication with Him throughout my day. Surely I can handle most of my life on my own, I only need help with the tough stuff. I see ungodly people prospering, and so my logic is: if they can do that well on their own, without God, then surely, I can go as far without Him, and He'll supplement for me in my life what they don't have. But that is one definition of pride. "I can do this on my own. I am self-sufficient. I don't need you." Or even, "surely God has more important things to deal with, why would He care about these little details?"
But the thing is, not only is He powerful enough to help us handle the little details in our lives as well as everything else going on in the universe, but He already does. He cares about the little things that matter to us, and He's already involved, it's just that we don't recognize Him. That's part of humility. Recognizing what He does, and giving Him the credit. If we don't, He'll remove his crutch until we do. And it's not being mean. For all the blessings He gives us, for even just being Him, the fact that He is what He is, He deserves our praise and acknowledgement. It's not too much for Him to expect from us. And if we're dense enough to need a rough wake up call, and that's what it takes, then we deserve it.
I said that this particular lesson was more gentle than usual, for me. Instead of dropping me to the ground, He showed me an obstacle in my path, and pointed out to me that with my broken leg, I COULD NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT GETTING ACROSS. Together, tonight, we have taken the first step through this obstacle. Time, humility, and patience will show me whether or not God will bring me through this obstacle unscathed. But even if I do get hurt, it will be nothing compared to the absolute disaster I would have brought upon myself, if I had tried it alone.
Humility is: acknowledging that we need God to help us. One of my friends told me once that she saw God as a crutch. Yes, to a healthy person, a crutch slows us down, gets in our way, and weakens us. But ask a person with a broken leg who can't put weight on it without excruciating pain how they feel about a crutch. Guess what? Our legs are broken. We need a crutch in order to function. And if we can't acknowledge that, God will break our legs.
Yes, that seems ruthless, and mean, but it is necessary. In order to prove to us how much we need Him, He will take away His crutch, and let us fall. He will bring us low in order to raise us up again. But the point in raising us is that He actively does it to us, we don't pick ourselves up.
I used to not (and still don't, as I am in the process of learning my lesson) understand how we needed God for every little aspect of our life. Why I should be in constant communication with Him throughout my day. Surely I can handle most of my life on my own, I only need help with the tough stuff. I see ungodly people prospering, and so my logic is: if they can do that well on their own, without God, then surely, I can go as far without Him, and He'll supplement for me in my life what they don't have. But that is one definition of pride. "I can do this on my own. I am self-sufficient. I don't need you." Or even, "surely God has more important things to deal with, why would He care about these little details?"
But the thing is, not only is He powerful enough to help us handle the little details in our lives as well as everything else going on in the universe, but He already does. He cares about the little things that matter to us, and He's already involved, it's just that we don't recognize Him. That's part of humility. Recognizing what He does, and giving Him the credit. If we don't, He'll remove his crutch until we do. And it's not being mean. For all the blessings He gives us, for even just being Him, the fact that He is what He is, He deserves our praise and acknowledgement. It's not too much for Him to expect from us. And if we're dense enough to need a rough wake up call, and that's what it takes, then we deserve it.
I said that this particular lesson was more gentle than usual, for me. Instead of dropping me to the ground, He showed me an obstacle in my path, and pointed out to me that with my broken leg, I COULD NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT GETTING ACROSS. Together, tonight, we have taken the first step through this obstacle. Time, humility, and patience will show me whether or not God will bring me through this obstacle unscathed. But even if I do get hurt, it will be nothing compared to the absolute disaster I would have brought upon myself, if I had tried it alone.
Labeling Forever
Shivering, shuffling, scooting down the hall,
Pushing, pulling, kicking the stupid flat.
Searching, seeking for my predecessor's place,
Finding, feeling, taking and opening.
Groaning, grumbling, shutting mine eyes,
Picking, placing, covering, stamping.
Replacing, removing, endlessly repeating,
Impractical, impossible, a feat a decade long.
Bending, breaking under the Hunt's lash,
One day I'll shove this label right up his
Pushing, pulling, kicking the stupid flat.
Searching, seeking for my predecessor's place,
Finding, feeling, taking and opening.
Groaning, grumbling, shutting mine eyes,
Picking, placing, covering, stamping.
Replacing, removing, endlessly repeating,
Impractical, impossible, a feat a decade long.
Bending, breaking under the Hunt's lash,
One day I'll shove this label right up his
Monday, October 09, 2006
Journal 10.9
I won't go into why I was thinking of this, but anyway, when I was five I got my ears pierced, and from then until I was ten I wore earrings on and off, and after ten, I stopped. Now, my lobes didn't really close up. Cartiledge grew back in, but it was a thin layer, easily punched through for special occasions.
When I was 16, I decided to wear an earring. Just one, because I thought it would be an individual thing. I picked one of my mothers loopy ones, that don't have a rod to stab your neck with, and it happened to have a lot of glass "diamonds" so it was really sparkly.
"I'm thinking about wearing an earring." I said to my friend. "Oh," said she, "only one?" "Yeah, which side do you think it should go?" "Well, if you're gay, you wear it on the left." "Really? On the right it is."
A few months later, I was visiting my dad in another part of the state. We all went over to the neighbor's, and there was a boy about my age there, wearing a single earring on the left. Mentally, I giggled at him. I knew he wasn't gay, but I suspected he didn't know the statement he was making. Anyway, he's laughing with his brother, and then he came over to me.
"So, you're only wearing one earring?" "Yeah." I was thinking, 'so are you.' "And you're wearing it on the right?" "Yeah?" 'You're wearing yours on the left.' He and his eavesdropping brother exchanged knowing smiles and then he walked away. It was about then that I realized that perhaps in different areas, the gay ear may switch. We had been laughing at each other, basically for growing up somewhere else. Unfortunately, I had been more able to conceal my mirth, so he didn't know that he was actually the gay one.
Another thing, people aren't very perceptive. I wore that one earring for a good 9 months, and people didn't realize it. They either thought I didn't wear earrings, or that I had two. I know this because when I'd point it out to them, they'd inspect both sides of my head and agree with me. Then they'd marvel that they hadn't noticed before (Like I said, it was a pretty gaudy earring). They did the same thing when I dyed half my hair candy apple red. I had zigzagged the part, so that I had red streaks on one side, and blonde streaks on the other, and people thought I just had put some red streaks in, or that I had dyed it all red and left some blonde streaks. Apparently people only look at one side or another of my head and assume the other side matches.
When I was 16, I decided to wear an earring. Just one, because I thought it would be an individual thing. I picked one of my mothers loopy ones, that don't have a rod to stab your neck with, and it happened to have a lot of glass "diamonds" so it was really sparkly.
"I'm thinking about wearing an earring." I said to my friend. "Oh," said she, "only one?" "Yeah, which side do you think it should go?" "Well, if you're gay, you wear it on the left." "Really? On the right it is."
A few months later, I was visiting my dad in another part of the state. We all went over to the neighbor's, and there was a boy about my age there, wearing a single earring on the left. Mentally, I giggled at him. I knew he wasn't gay, but I suspected he didn't know the statement he was making. Anyway, he's laughing with his brother, and then he came over to me.
"So, you're only wearing one earring?" "Yeah." I was thinking, 'so are you.' "And you're wearing it on the right?" "Yeah?" 'You're wearing yours on the left.' He and his eavesdropping brother exchanged knowing smiles and then he walked away. It was about then that I realized that perhaps in different areas, the gay ear may switch. We had been laughing at each other, basically for growing up somewhere else. Unfortunately, I had been more able to conceal my mirth, so he didn't know that he was actually the gay one.
Another thing, people aren't very perceptive. I wore that one earring for a good 9 months, and people didn't realize it. They either thought I didn't wear earrings, or that I had two. I know this because when I'd point it out to them, they'd inspect both sides of my head and agree with me. Then they'd marvel that they hadn't noticed before (Like I said, it was a pretty gaudy earring). They did the same thing when I dyed half my hair candy apple red. I had zigzagged the part, so that I had red streaks on one side, and blonde streaks on the other, and people thought I just had put some red streaks in, or that I had dyed it all red and left some blonde streaks. Apparently people only look at one side or another of my head and assume the other side matches.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
I hate names!
I dread them. Yes, they're fun at times. It's always fun to take your name or your friends' names and learn what they mean. And I believe that names are important. I think they have an effect on the personality of the kid they belong to. So when I'm writing, I can't just pick a name out of thin air (like some people I know) and move on. No. I need to find a name that FITS the character. Do you know how hard it is to look up the meanings of names? To think of a single word that MAY embody this character, look up names that match, decide that none of them fit, and then try to think of what OTHER word may also embody my character? Oh, and even worse, after I've found a suitable first name, how the hell am I supposed to come up with a last name? They have meanings too, though they refer to the past generations of the character, while the first name is pertinent only to the present generation. Most name books/sites only care about first names. Who wants to look up last names? Only authors without the ability to name their characters. Normally babies come with last names already, the parents only need a first name, and it is to parents that these sites cater to.
I'm to the point where I don't want to introduce any new characters. I hate it. But it's unavoidable. And I put off the naming for a page or so. My characters frequently have no manners, so they don't bother introducing themselves to each other until later, and then when it becomes absolutely necessary, I realize that I brought in a new character, and before I can write another word, I need to pick a name for them. Urgh!
I need to hire an official name picker. Their sole job would be to research possible names for possible characters, so all I'd have to do is email them with a description: "SWF 5'7", brown hair and eyes, Likes walking on the beach, hates dogs and tequila, and will die a horrible death in chapter 6." and they'll email me back with: "Deadlia Girlio." Okay, well, they'd come up with something good, since that's what their job would be. Obviously, that was a bad example, cause I can't come up with names.
I'm to the point where I don't want to introduce any new characters. I hate it. But it's unavoidable. And I put off the naming for a page or so. My characters frequently have no manners, so they don't bother introducing themselves to each other until later, and then when it becomes absolutely necessary, I realize that I brought in a new character, and before I can write another word, I need to pick a name for them. Urgh!
I need to hire an official name picker. Their sole job would be to research possible names for possible characters, so all I'd have to do is email them with a description: "SWF 5'7", brown hair and eyes, Likes walking on the beach, hates dogs and tequila, and will die a horrible death in chapter 6." and they'll email me back with: "Deadlia Girlio." Okay, well, they'd come up with something good, since that's what their job would be. Obviously, that was a bad example, cause I can't come up with names.
I cry at this part in "Babe"
If I had words to make a day for you,
I'd sing you a morning, golden and new.
I would make this day last for all time,
And give you a night deep in moonshine.
I'd sing you a morning, golden and new.
I would make this day last for all time,
And give you a night deep in moonshine.
To the blonde in my Poetry class
World on a plate,
Men's hearts on strings;
Twiddle your fingers and
Your desire they bring.
If men were free,
That would not do.
Draw out your smile and
Once more their hearts lasso.
Your looks an art,
Your mind you drop,
Unnecessary, for
Duck your head, the world stops.
Men's hearts on strings;
Twiddle your fingers and
Your desire they bring.
If men were free,
That would not do.
Draw out your smile and
Once more their hearts lasso.
Your looks an art,
Your mind you drop,
Unnecessary, for
Duck your head, the world stops.
Monday, September 11, 2006
I am a bitch
And I don't know what to do about it. I don't even know when I'm doing it. My friends assure me that they don't notice it, but if they thought about it, about the very first time they met me, what I said in front of them, how I said it, I'm sure they'd remember that I am a bitch, it's just that after you get to know me, you don't notice it. My family has no problem reminding me that I tend to come across too strong.
And there's another thing. My entire life, my parents have told me how to deal with my siblings. "Well, that's just the way she is, and you have to..." "When he gets like that you need to..." I'll tell you something right now. The reason why they told me how to change and accomodate their personalities is because I can change. Do you think they ever went to her and said, "Jackie just does that. And when she does, you need to do this to keep things calm." No. Because she's got too strong a personality, and she's not about to change.
I fought with her, and during it, I'm noticing, she's the one raising her voice and freaking out. She's twisting my words, shoving fallacies down my throat, and trying to discredit me in order to win. And then when we get home, she brings Mom into it, even though I thought we'd agreed to disagree, but no, apparently she can't settle for a draw. And then Mom is reading into the conversation and taking her side, even though the first thing Mom did was agree with me on the argument. "She's the one freaking out," I say. "Well, you do tend to not pay attention to your tone." "Yeah, it was your tone, I was reacting to your tone." She didn't even think about that until Mom told her. She'd been misrepresenting me in the review of the conversation before that. "She was screaming, 'you're offending me, and my God.'" Which I absolutely did not say.
My tone. Like you can watch your tone. You can watch your volume. But when you're talking, you just say it. Actors sometimes can't use a certain tone even if they're coached on it and told to do it. And I'm supposed to make sure that no one gets put off by my tone. And I don't know when I'm doing it. Like sometimes I think I might have been bitchy, and so I obsess over it, but then there's the little doubt, that maybe I didn't, and I'm obsessing for nothing. Is anyone ever going to walk up to someone I just met and say, "Don't worry about it, that's just the way Jackie is. Once you get to know her, you totally get used to it." No.
Is this keeping people from liking me? No one's asked me on a date in five years. But plenty of guys like me. I swore to myself that I wouldn't pursue guys, but if I lowered myself, I'd go out. Are they afraid to appoach the bitch? Or am I just vain and I think they like me? Is my bitchiness keeping me from making friends? Is this something I need to get rid of in order to be happy, or is this something I need to accept about myself, and screw anyone, including my family, who can't deal with it?
And there's another thing. My entire life, my parents have told me how to deal with my siblings. "Well, that's just the way she is, and you have to..." "When he gets like that you need to..." I'll tell you something right now. The reason why they told me how to change and accomodate their personalities is because I can change. Do you think they ever went to her and said, "Jackie just does that. And when she does, you need to do this to keep things calm." No. Because she's got too strong a personality, and she's not about to change.
I fought with her, and during it, I'm noticing, she's the one raising her voice and freaking out. She's twisting my words, shoving fallacies down my throat, and trying to discredit me in order to win. And then when we get home, she brings Mom into it, even though I thought we'd agreed to disagree, but no, apparently she can't settle for a draw. And then Mom is reading into the conversation and taking her side, even though the first thing Mom did was agree with me on the argument. "She's the one freaking out," I say. "Well, you do tend to not pay attention to your tone." "Yeah, it was your tone, I was reacting to your tone." She didn't even think about that until Mom told her. She'd been misrepresenting me in the review of the conversation before that. "She was screaming, 'you're offending me, and my God.'" Which I absolutely did not say.
My tone. Like you can watch your tone. You can watch your volume. But when you're talking, you just say it. Actors sometimes can't use a certain tone even if they're coached on it and told to do it. And I'm supposed to make sure that no one gets put off by my tone. And I don't know when I'm doing it. Like sometimes I think I might have been bitchy, and so I obsess over it, but then there's the little doubt, that maybe I didn't, and I'm obsessing for nothing. Is anyone ever going to walk up to someone I just met and say, "Don't worry about it, that's just the way Jackie is. Once you get to know her, you totally get used to it." No.
Is this keeping people from liking me? No one's asked me on a date in five years. But plenty of guys like me. I swore to myself that I wouldn't pursue guys, but if I lowered myself, I'd go out. Are they afraid to appoach the bitch? Or am I just vain and I think they like me? Is my bitchiness keeping me from making friends? Is this something I need to get rid of in order to be happy, or is this something I need to accept about myself, and screw anyone, including my family, who can't deal with it?
Thursday, September 07, 2006
To Cassandra
Gently I undress her,
Set her between my thighs,
Lay her against my chest,
And wrap my arms around her.
My Cassandra, how I love
The feel of your neck,
To press my cheek
On your shoulder,
And to run my hand
Down your curves.
Alone, you are silent,
But together,
Beautiful music is made.
Your vibrations resonating
In my bones.
Moving fast, or tantilizingly slow,
Across your body.
Finished, I collapse.
Your love exhausts me.
*Note: Cassandra is the name of my cello.
Set her between my thighs,
Lay her against my chest,
And wrap my arms around her.
My Cassandra, how I love
The feel of your neck,
To press my cheek
On your shoulder,
And to run my hand
Down your curves.
Alone, you are silent,
But together,
Beautiful music is made.
Your vibrations resonating
In my bones.
Moving fast, or tantilizingly slow,
Across your body.
Finished, I collapse.
Your love exhausts me.
*Note: Cassandra is the name of my cello.
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