Only when I realize
that our time together
is finite
is when I feel the pain
of losing you
all over again.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
New Laptop!
I finally got my new laptop yesterday. This is the most I've ever typed on it. Right now. Anyway, since I'm moving soon, most of my room is pretty much in boxes (such an inconvenience -__-" ), including all of my idea books and stories that I started. I can be such an idiot sometimes :/ oh well, that's life. Maybe when I have a bad writing bug I'll dig one out and start writing.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Blank Verse
Floating with the sand below, with the waves
swishing, swooshing, sweeping beside my glass.
My rigid body sways with the movement
around me. Corked top and full of letters.
Letters of love, letters of longing and
loneliness. His questions beg for her to
answer. She shows them to her lover. They
share a long laugh and throw the letters in
the hearth. His heart aches because he knows that
he will not get a reply in return.
Before he set me free into the cold
sea, he sealed me with a kiss between my cork and
glass. A tear slides down my curved body as he
places me in the water, praying that
I reach the one he loves. But I never do.
Tanka
Darkness lies within.
Sun cannot see beyond this depth.
The mysteries She
hides inspired fables of the
awe and fear of her unknown
Cinquain
The shards
of broken shells
are scattered across the
shore. A crab makes his home beneath
debris.
Shoreline
I am
the shoreline. The
low tide exposes a
myriad of broken shell shards.
The waves
return with vigor;
burying my secret shards
once more.
Pushing them
farther and farther
within me. The calloused parts
lost in between the
cool foam, swaying seaweed, and
the jagged mineral bits.
Where Do I Live....
On a blank canvas.
I live on the tightly woven fabric, smeared with a thick
layer of gesso, stretched to cover the four bare connected planks. Stapled
edges to keep it all together.
I live with my friends. The twisted, gnarled, leftover,
empty tubes of my best friends mock me. They never stay long, but what can I
say? When they are here I squeeze the living daylights out of them. I do enjoy
the time we are together but it’s never, never long enough. My other friends,
hmph, they couldn’t leave if I paid them. Sure we shake hand once in a while
but it’s nothing like the time spent with my besties. Their plump figure pushes
my starving favorites to a dark corner.
Don’t get me wrong, we get along quite well. We all use
our different strengths and weaknesses to create something beautiful. Along
with my family, (I don’t mention them much. They are known for their amazing hair but they are a tad stiff in
their movements. Definitely not as fluid and free as my friends.) We work
together. With my friends and family blending their different spirits and
spreading their essence across my willing body. The beginning mess is quite
atrocious but what ends up on that aforementioned dried gesso of mine is
magnificent. Almost as great as my family’s hair, almost.
Friday, July 12, 2013
Under Construction
Hello Everyone!
I still have a lot of things that I would like to post. I'm just trying to fix up my page first before I post everything. Plus, I don't have a computer of mine own at the moment. And posting from a cell phone is a pain in the ass. Hopefully, I'm settled in by next Friday, posting regularly. But until then please be patient with me about the constant changes.
:) Aly
I still have a lot of things that I would like to post. I'm just trying to fix up my page first before I post everything. Plus, I don't have a computer of mine own at the moment. And posting from a cell phone is a pain in the ass. Hopefully, I'm settled in by next Friday, posting regularly. But until then please be patient with me about the constant changes.
:) Aly
The Little Things
Sitting in the backseat of a cramped pick-up truck, my right cheek is firmly pressed against the window. The rolling green hills and winding roads of wherever we are slide by as I attempt to drown out, with my iPod, “Da Funk” that my grandmother and great-grandmother were currently enjoying. We are on our way to a church. A tiny church nestled somewhere in Valdosta. Why this church is any different from the plethora of small churches in Lake City is beyond my comprehension.
In all honesty, I’m just here for the free food at a Chinese buffet after the service.
“Oh, would you look at that, Mo? They blah blahed the blah blah!”
“Oh you mean the old blah that blah blah blah?”
“The same one.”
"Well blah diddy blah blah….”
This is the typical conversation between them. Peppered with what they used to do and when they used to do them. I turn my iPod up.
“Lysie, you’re gonna be deaf if you keep listening to that music so loud!”
I return the volume to a lower setting. “Well we are almost there.” My grandmother cheers. Thank God, I think as we transcend the barren grassland and enter an area with shops and buildings. She turns left and right aimlessly down narrow neighborhood streets until we reach a white wooden structure with a steeple towards the clouds. She now hunts for a nice parking spot under a shady tree. The white oak in the far right corner of the lot beckons at her attention so she decides to park there. When we finally halt, the keys are ripped out of the ignition and the truck sputters its last breath while we exit our respective doors.
I see middle-aged women coming towards us wearing over-sized hats and three piece dresses of all vivid colors. My grandmother and her mom recognized them instantly and waved them over. I decided that this would be a good time to practice my gnarled-root balancing routine while they caught up on the events in each other’s lives. While teetering on a particularly slim branch, I hear my introduction to the conversation. “That’s my granddaughter, Lyssa.” (Really? Why do I even have that first “A” in my name? Everyone drops it off anyway.) Fortunately, I have a planned course of action for these situations. I wave at the women and tell them my life story. “I’m 17, I’m a senior in high school, and I have no idea what I’m doing after I graduate.” The ladies coo at my sentence forming abilities before returning to my grandmother’s conversational grasp. This meet-and-greet process continues with different people throughout the arduous journey to the church’s front doors.
We enter the building, the cooling hum of the air conditioner helps us forget that we are in humid Georgia on a warm, August morning. The dingy beige walls that housed a collection of cobwebs met the dull dark hardwood floors. Rows of uncomfortable wooden pews lead up to the altar, the only decorated area of the church. It was blanketed with royal blue, gold, and white ribbons with coordinating flower arrangements, and even that had a fine coat of dust on them. While managing to keep her conversation going with yet another old lady that she used to know, my grandmother points to the pew that we will be seated in. I scramble to the end of the long, cold bench to snag a window seat.
The window was very peculiar; the top half was a stained glass mosaic of Jesus and his sheep while the bottom half looked more like the windows in someone’s home. The contrast between styles bewildered me momentarily as I studied it. Continuing the unkempt look, the window sill held lovely dead insects mixed with lint and dust on its wooden shelf. The view on the outside of the glass is just as exciting – parked cars and a few saplings.
The service started without me. I didn't even realize it until an exceptionally passionate part from the pastor snapped me to attention. He kept me concentrated on his words for a solid half hour before I saw something fluttering in my periphery. A poor fly was tapping the window repeatedly. I watched him intensely as he rams his head forcefully into the glass. His movements are like a pendulum, he’d back up before flying forward into the unyielding glass.
The fly is now picking up speed. His rhythmic pecking became erratic and more violent almost to the point that I believed the whole congregation could hear the vigorous tapping. The longer this act went on, the stranger it became. The fly isn't flying straight with a head-on collision anymore. He was now striking the glass with whatever body part would touch it first, be it his leg, or wing, or whatever. His rapidness was almost immeasurable now. The wings flapped faster than a hummingbird as he sporadically pelts the window with his body as he struggled in vain to enter the building. Without warning…
He stops.
The incessant tapping ends as his body drops from mid-flight. He crashes on the strip of wood under the window outside and finally rest.
I waited.
And I waited.
And I waited.
But there was no movement. The fly was dead. His demise was quite unexpected. Did he realize that he was dying and wanted to join his petrified brethren? Or maybe he wanted to confess his fly sins so that his fly soul can go to fly heaven?
The members of the church all stood up in unison for a prayer. I felt that it was best for me to pray for the recently departed fly. Hopefully his soul is freed from this earth, just like I hope to be freed from this church and eating some lo mein.
In all honesty, I’m just here for the free food at a Chinese buffet after the service.
“Oh, would you look at that, Mo? They blah blahed the blah blah!”
“Oh you mean the old blah that blah blah blah?”
“The same one.”
"Well blah diddy blah blah….”
This is the typical conversation between them. Peppered with what they used to do and when they used to do them. I turn my iPod up.
“Lysie, you’re gonna be deaf if you keep listening to that music so loud!”
I return the volume to a lower setting. “Well we are almost there.” My grandmother cheers. Thank God, I think as we transcend the barren grassland and enter an area with shops and buildings. She turns left and right aimlessly down narrow neighborhood streets until we reach a white wooden structure with a steeple towards the clouds. She now hunts for a nice parking spot under a shady tree. The white oak in the far right corner of the lot beckons at her attention so she decides to park there. When we finally halt, the keys are ripped out of the ignition and the truck sputters its last breath while we exit our respective doors.
I see middle-aged women coming towards us wearing over-sized hats and three piece dresses of all vivid colors. My grandmother and her mom recognized them instantly and waved them over. I decided that this would be a good time to practice my gnarled-root balancing routine while they caught up on the events in each other’s lives. While teetering on a particularly slim branch, I hear my introduction to the conversation. “That’s my granddaughter, Lyssa.” (Really? Why do I even have that first “A” in my name? Everyone drops it off anyway.) Fortunately, I have a planned course of action for these situations. I wave at the women and tell them my life story. “I’m 17, I’m a senior in high school, and I have no idea what I’m doing after I graduate.” The ladies coo at my sentence forming abilities before returning to my grandmother’s conversational grasp. This meet-and-greet process continues with different people throughout the arduous journey to the church’s front doors.
We enter the building, the cooling hum of the air conditioner helps us forget that we are in humid Georgia on a warm, August morning. The dingy beige walls that housed a collection of cobwebs met the dull dark hardwood floors. Rows of uncomfortable wooden pews lead up to the altar, the only decorated area of the church. It was blanketed with royal blue, gold, and white ribbons with coordinating flower arrangements, and even that had a fine coat of dust on them. While managing to keep her conversation going with yet another old lady that she used to know, my grandmother points to the pew that we will be seated in. I scramble to the end of the long, cold bench to snag a window seat.
The window was very peculiar; the top half was a stained glass mosaic of Jesus and his sheep while the bottom half looked more like the windows in someone’s home. The contrast between styles bewildered me momentarily as I studied it. Continuing the unkempt look, the window sill held lovely dead insects mixed with lint and dust on its wooden shelf. The view on the outside of the glass is just as exciting – parked cars and a few saplings.
The service started without me. I didn't even realize it until an exceptionally passionate part from the pastor snapped me to attention. He kept me concentrated on his words for a solid half hour before I saw something fluttering in my periphery. A poor fly was tapping the window repeatedly. I watched him intensely as he rams his head forcefully into the glass. His movements are like a pendulum, he’d back up before flying forward into the unyielding glass.
The fly is now picking up speed. His rhythmic pecking became erratic and more violent almost to the point that I believed the whole congregation could hear the vigorous tapping. The longer this act went on, the stranger it became. The fly isn't flying straight with a head-on collision anymore. He was now striking the glass with whatever body part would touch it first, be it his leg, or wing, or whatever. His rapidness was almost immeasurable now. The wings flapped faster than a hummingbird as he sporadically pelts the window with his body as he struggled in vain to enter the building. Without warning…
He stops.
The incessant tapping ends as his body drops from mid-flight. He crashes on the strip of wood under the window outside and finally rest.
I waited.
And I waited.
And I waited.
But there was no movement. The fly was dead. His demise was quite unexpected. Did he realize that he was dying and wanted to join his petrified brethren? Or maybe he wanted to confess his fly sins so that his fly soul can go to fly heaven?
The members of the church all stood up in unison for a prayer. I felt that it was best for me to pray for the recently departed fly. Hopefully his soul is freed from this earth, just like I hope to be freed from this church and eating some lo mein.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)