No One, eh?

Right now the disposal of my mind is backed up, slowly regurgitating the disposable fragments of my day back into view. I don't have anything else to do so I'm staring at each thing I thought I could throw away today, and now I will make a garbage creation, a finite masterpiece, a forgettable symphony melted into a frosted window with the warm tip of my finger.

Except...words make a thing without end.

Perhaps you, stedfast reader, have noticed that I don't swear in my writings. At least I haven't here on my blog except for maybe once or twice, and that was the word ass, which beastfully interpreted, is no swear at all. Right now I think I have a special lack of sympathetic emotion that one might have when one desires to swear. But I'm not going to. There are more clever words to employ for now. Get to work, then.

Anonymous commented on my last post. He addressed me with "hey lady", which for obvious reasons is applicable, but, coming from an anonymous sender, is unacceptable.

"No one reads your blog."

Strike two. And in my game you're out. Don't bury your talentless corpse under anonymity so you feel free to extend a hand of flattery only to slap unobservant criticism in my face.

Your anonymity bores me.

Dull. That's a word to describe my humor at present. Not because I'm uninteresting. Not so. Clearly.

Dull because I already fell from the uncaring branches of reality, to a hard, failing, infertile ground. And when I got up and left that place, it is dull, unimaginative and tasteless now to be presented with a twig and a sack of dirt. Been. Done.

What? I stopped feeling when I fell. I'm not going to return to a grave whose inhabitant left me once already. You can bring the girl to the grave, but you can't engrave the girl any deeper. That doesn't make sense really. See, I'm trying to be more poetic than these feelings deserve.

Do you remember the first lie you were told? I just thought that. I don't remember. I doubt anyone can. I remember the latest lie I was told. And why do they call it "my word"? As in, "you have my word" or "I give you my word"? You don't have words. No one has words.

No one reads my blog. Surely No one is a fan of words then.

If I promised you my word, you would get my word. If I give it to you, it becomes yours and you have it. Sooner than later it would become a lie because you would still think it was mine, and you would think it was obligated to do something for you, but you forget: it's yours now. I am not compelled.

Dull becomes me. What does that mean? I don't even know. I'm not editing this line even when I wanted to from the start. I want to delete it entirely. It doesn't deserve eternity.

"no vacancy in an empty heart motel." That line regurgitated from my journal. That's where I write from my pure self. Where I'm writing from now? That part that knows No one will read these words.

Oh, here's a big piece resurrecting from the disposal grave.

"We're shutting this motel down, Lady."
"Wait, why? Every room is open? Why close a motel that is so . . . open?"
"Because No one comes here, that's why."
"Actually, No one is here! No one is my friend. I'll take you to his room. Suivez-moi."
"..."
"'Follow me.'"
Leader, follower.
knock-nuh-knock
"No one, hey, it's Lady."
Nothing.
"Come on, man. The boss man is here. He's going to shut us down because he thinks No one stays here, which when I told him I knew No one was, he looked confused, and now we're both confused I think, but if you come out, he will see indeed that No one is staying here and we can both stay. Right, boss man?"
"Wrong. This is ridiculous, Lady. I think you may have lost your mind. No one is in there."
"...?"
"No one. Is in. There."
"That's what I'm telling you. No one is in there. I know him! He reads my blog!"
"That's it."
Boss man sashays away, Lady loiters, No one comes out of the room.

(because sashay is a cool word)

So now, it's over. You've experienced it. Except, it didn't do anything to you because it wasn't sharp, neither piercing. It won't do anything for you, don't expect it, because these are no longer my words.

Sorry if you were thirsty since all I did just now was open the soda right in front of you and dispose the pop tab into your palm. Which you shall not use to slap with.

And now I am flipping the switch and dumping the soda down the digesting disposal; it needs liquid to drain.

Keep the tab. That's what I really want to give you. Really want it. For you.

Pointless now that the can is open. Dull.

A Christmas Day

I didn't dream of a Silly String Christmas, but I got one....

I had a super fun day. We made a yummy breakfast and then went to the movies, saw Sherlock Holmes which was simply awesome, and when lunch/dinner was all prepared and in the oven we opened presents. Two-year-old Caleb did most of the ripping of everyone's wrapping and it was fun to make a merry mess with family. Dinner was soon mostly on the table and we played "Lefty Righty" which involved brown paper sacks and a story and every time mom the narrator said left or right, we passed the sacks left or right, respectively. Caleb was in the middle and grabbed and passed sacks at random very excitedly. When the story was over we got to open the sack we ended up with. Among other things, each sack contained a can of silly string. Mine was actually the first open as I tried to help Caleb spray some people with it. But then his mother, Autumn, unleashed the entire contents of her can and everyone was quick to join in and if not protect themselves, thoroughly revenge themselves. I was strung pretty, well, silly-ly, wouldn't you say? Right. Then we had dinner. Yum! The sweet potatoes had had some buttermilk coconut syrup added to them instead of just brown sugar and butter. Wow so so good! I made a butternut squash sweet casserole that was super good too. Then there was the usual ham, turkey, scalloped potatoes and rolls. And I helped everyone wash it down with egg nog cheesecake. So a lovely, full day. I slept well. I feel like sleeping well again tonight. I love Christmas break.

Sure Win

You won't trust anyone.
Me,
as long as you kept your heart out of it,
you could whole-heartedly trust.
I'd carve a statue of you, made of words, for the world to ever esteem you, and the monument would crumble before your trust in me could ever fall to pieces.
And words cannot crumble.
And I won't fall to pieces.
I won't fall to pieces.
So
Nothing is more securely placed in me than trust.
The heart is nothing if not everything.
Which is why I tell you, remove first the heart.
Because then
I won't let you down;
I can't if I'm always above you, never beside you.

See, I trust myself about as much as you love yourself, or hate yourself, depending on which is more endless in depth.

ReRotation

One Sunday, toward the end of June,
the world stopped spinning.

In Jerusalem, high noon stretched down;
tassels of sun held duties dangling
suspended in time
paused.

In New York where no one was sleeping
the tall buildings appeared to sway
and people held on to poles,
parking meters, each other -- perfect strangers.

The stars down under seemed to pitch
and the kiwis rolled and bounced
around like forgotten fruit
in the back of a truck.

And the halt made everyone's stomach
and eyes and heart and brain
start spinning within
whether moving, whether still.

But then slowly, oh so slowly
(no one had ever noticed how slowly),
the world began to spin again
from setting sun to rising sun
from east to west to west to east,
and looking down the clocks began
to twitch and stutter backwards.
Each right turn turned to the left
and left turns wheeled around again
and Earth seemed so confused that
cyclones twisted back from Texas
and twisters wound back to the sky
and rivers crept a mirrored course
of the one they'd run before.

Right and left of me, people thought
aloud, "So will I go to work tomorrow
Or will it be Saturday?"
Important riddle.

But little confused was I when I
felt my heart beat join the wobble.
It was all the same
sound and pulse and rhythm
of the moment when
you told me it was over.

My world turned west to east that day.

Earth's heart, her core, must have
this day
been broken down the middle.


(hmm, what do you think of this one?)

Stuff

Do you ever get an idea that expands farther than your mind contains space? It's like when you choose full screen and the extreme edges of the movie get cropped from view. I was free writing the other day, a marvelous mess of emotion. A few days later I envisioned a fantastic way of polishing it, and straightaway it intimidated me. I had written the first draft, but if you know me at all, I'm not patient with revisions, so that simply remarkable idea seems in my mind at a distance so far away. As far as Egypt, actually. Egypt would be way neat to behold, but the getting there....not likely. If there was a great storm heading over Provo just now, destination Egypt, I would be more likely to hook my umbrella in its cloudy weave and drift to Egypt than to ever really get myself to Egypt. But, I have enough of that original emotion with which the first free written draft was composed, that I think I will be able to bridge over the revision gap. Funny how verily feeling is the burner for inspiration. And revision risks exposure to so many different temperatures, the original idea can often evaporate unawares. Which is sometimes preferable, and other times tragic.

But anyway, lately the inside of my nose freezes while I get my bus started in the morning, and I don't enjoy it. I enjoy it equal to or less than having to scrape ice off the outside and inside of my windshield. When it's so cold out, the devil rejoices, I'm sure. He gratefully slips out of his burning chambers and vigilantly nips at my fingers and toes. If that biting feeling is what the entire physical being is confined to in the devil's company, I so desire not to join him.

I'm supposed to be writing three papers right now. I think I may only write just two. Both document windows are open, waiting patiently, uncomplaining, happy just to be entitled.docx. Having been brought into existence through my awesome creative powers, their measly purpose amounts to little more than fulfilling a grade requirement. But they'll do as they're told, nothing more, nothing less. Wouldn't it be neat if saved and stored computer files started collecting digital dust the longer they went unopened?

I thought there was something wrong with my car. Every time I slowed down and turned to the right it made a whimpering noise like a failed arcade game level. My mechanic friend Jay drove around with me and said pensively, "I thought I'd heard it all . . . that sounds like rubber . . ." When we got back to the house from our diagnostic drive he looked at the tires and laughed, mostly at me, and for good reason. He kicked at my tires and ordered me to try the drive again, betting me dinner it was just ice & rubber making the bizarre noise. I was probably going to make him dinner at any rate, but now I owe it. But, on the plus side, nothing's wrong with my car! It really was a sweet noise. I enjoyed it. Makes me want to go to an arcade.

I had a thought today about snowmen. And I'll write about that en suite. The thought is still rolling together its mass of creativity, not quite ready to build on itself. So stay tuned; flurries of inspiration keep drifting in.

Aaaaand, school ending and finals are making me fat. Well, not fat, neither plump; not quite chunky; a little less than chubby. But it's uncomfortable. I'm expending money for knowledge and my laziness is paying me in blubber. I need laze-osuction.

I took that picture of the kid handprint on the iced window this morning, by the way.

For now, the end.

entirely unique

At times my thoughts wander around the world, strolling at a casual pace, thinking:
"It is easy to say truthfully, 'somewhere in the world there are always at least two people:
drinking.'
talking on a cell phone.'
sneezing.'
driving.'
kissing.'
dying.'
staring out a window.'
going to the bathroom.'
stretching.'
bending over.'
making a new person.'
learning something new.'
eating.'
getting wet unexpectedly.'
-----------------------in the very moment that I think of it."
And every time I think of at least two people in the world sneezing I further imagine that that's what makes the world go 'round.
That if everyone stopped sneezing, the world would stop spinning; hence the seasonal allergies, for assured rotation year 'round.
And, every time I hear someone sneeze, I think of the world spinning
without me remembering that it's spinning,
and my thoughts begin to stroll at its remembered spinning:
mind inhaling passing thoughts,
(the world moves me while I'm sitting still)
like recollected air passing into lungs.

Then I think, "It's not easy to say truthfully, 'somewhere in the world there are always at least two people:
thinking of you.'
thinking of me.'
driving a school bus in 9 degree bitterness while 3 high school band members talk much too loudly for the morning hour and temperature.'
receiving an unwanted phone call from their disapproving roommate about rent money.'
making chicken curry for a third date meal.'
tired of Utah and wanting to move to New York to be a nanny for two three-year-old french twins.'
-----------------------in that very moment that I think of it."
Then my thinking catches back up to my doing and off I go.
Until someone sneezes again.

Giving Thanks

I have posted a few lists of my favorite and least favorite things, but never have I posted a list of things for which I am most grateful. Probably because when I've started lists like that before in other journals it's been very very lengthy. So....since it's the 26th day of this month, I'll limit my list tonight to 26 things.

1. God and all things that under Him fall.
Oh, that could take care of everything, huh? But I mean all those godly things: Jesus, the atonement, forgiveness, the Bible, revelation, temples, prophets, the Book of Mormon, testimony, faith, love, patience, learning, gospel clarity, understanding, etc. See.....
2. Mom, Dad, Shawna, Aaron, Autumn, Brian, Caleb, Cameron, Heather, Jason, Breanne, Grandmas, Grandpa, Aunts, Uncles, cousins.
3. Friends
4. Health
5. A job
6. Food
7. Talents
8. Internet and countless modern conveniences
9. School
10. Books and writing
11. Deep thinking and people watching
12. Lessons learned
13. Showers and soap and stuff
14. Clothes
15. Many fulfilled wants
16. Imagination and inspiration
17. Compliments
18. Humor and laughter
19. Opportunities and adventure
20. Meeting people
21. Being easily pleased and entertained
22. Vacation
23. Exercise
24. Freedoms
25. Passing Math
26. Things to smile about

Sooo much to give thanks for. And to whom? I give it to number 1. He's the Man...well, sorta. He's more the God. But you get what I mean. I feel I don't deserve it all, when I see what others have not... Give thanks and give.

Museless.

Muse,
You were. . .amusing.
Sometimes you tickled.
Sometimes you ticked me off.
Other times you reached
so far down my throat
I would gag and
What came out wasn't pretty.
Many times it seemed
You were tangled in my guts.
Somehow you figured you could
steer inspiration from there.
Well anyway, it all worked.
For then.
But now, well . . .
We need to talk.
I want you out,
to be frank.
I need a new Muse
and he's going to rent your space
so you can't be here anymore.
This is the last poem, I hope,
that you will inspire.
Thanks for everything.
We can still be friends.
So . . . Take care.

Tuneless Song

A long time ago I wrote this, while listening to Keane's CD Hopes & Fears. I've been meaning to transcribe it..

Goodbye Kiss

There's a place in my mind
I come to through my heart.
You come there, too. It resides
in your mind as well, this place,
But you won't go often
because in your mind I'll always
be there, a memory to start
That you want to end.

When you see me, I smile.
You don't move your face,
But your eyes trace me.
I move to the blanket you
laid out. I sit and wait.
Here is when you leave
most often. If you sit
you stay.
Only we share this place
and you hate
That you can't erase me
and send me away.

Then why don't you tell me what's wrong?
Tell me, what don't I see?
You pretend that you belong
without me.

Lingering this time
you sit and stay.
I see all the shooting stars;
you look at me like that. . .
I wonder why you don't
just tell me
what's in your heart.
You hold it back and me
at the same time.
I still can't read still lips,
so I lend them a kiss.

This good night's kiss
made you leave.
And I can't change the memory
but this may be the last time
you find me
sitting here when you come,
if you come, again.

So why don't you tell me what's wrong?
Tell me, what don't I see?
You pretend that you belong
without me.

I think you miss me
I think you need me
You know it's true
but you won't tell me.
You will erase me.

But first can you tell me
what's wrong?
Tell me, what don't I see?
You pretend that you belong without me.

Why don't you tell me what's wrong
With you?

Doubt, Dear Lady

I just wrote this poem for my English Literature class. It's based off a line in the novel we just read, Jane Eyre. Here is how I prefaced the poem in my essay:

The story goes, that our heroin, Jane, is returning to a former home and to her, a former life, after having hastily abandoned it a year prior. She sought her old master, Mr. Edward Rochester, whom she loved more than can quite justifiably be explained in a couple words of a sentence. Only reader of the whole story can understand Jane’s devotion and unique connection to this man twenty years her elder.
As she reaches the end of her return journey, entering the town nearest his home, she has the temptation to inquire what has become of Mr. Rochester and what she might expect before walking the last two miles to his home. Suspended in hesitation she rightfully counsels herself thus:
“I so dreaded a reply that would crush me with despair. To prolong doubt was to prolong hope” (490).

Soft the look in thy down-turned eye,
Aye, softer the color in cheek;
Pale is the hope, that would shine
Through thy smooth skin,
Compared to thy will to seek
Thy lover’s gaze once again.

Waiting soon tires of sitting
So pacing the lane you begin;
An embrace would be better fitting
As nourishment for mind
And body, rendered so thin
By worry that has thy brow lined.

From my window I see thee;
Oui, ma cherie, qui tu cherches est là.*
My own gaze impossible to free
From thy soliloquizing form.
Would that thy eyes I could draw
To mine; Calm thy inner storm.

A man approaching upon steed
You recognize not, for sure,
Eyes lowered further indeed
Thy tears to be concealed.
My own servant on horse it were;
To thee, truth could he have revealed.

But to ask would require thought,
To form a question you dare not;
And fear of the answer bought
Thy silence and delayed discovery;
The hope for which thou hast fought,
Suspended, caged, in thy reverie.

Doubt, dear lady, doubt on.
Let no voice but mine
Enter thy tired ear anon;
My touch only convince thee
That for thee as well I pine.
Hold doubt ‘til thy hope I set free.


It was very fun to finally write a poem that directly stemmed from another author's work. Usually I merely inhale floating ideas and run with them, but this one had to be written and I'm glad I got it out...even with a rough rhyme scheme.