pen and ink: the persimmon journals

thorns

2011-11-16T15:16:00.000-08:00

I know haven't posted in forever. If any of you care, you're totally welcome to come after me with pitchforks. I'll try to change my ways. And post more often.

Sorry about that.

This won't be long, it won't be tedious, it won't be short, it won't be pathetic. It'll just be.

briar rose

love.
it’s the strangest thing.
the strangest,
funniest,
most incomprehensible,
beautiful,
terrible
wonderful
thing.

everyone writes about it,
and talks about it,
and pretends to know about it,
but really,
everyone has no idea what it is—
even when they're part of it,
or part of some bigger picture
that they don’t know about.

and it hurts
so much
when its not right.

i know i’ve said this
a million times before,
but why am I not allowed
to say it again?

touché.

again.

because i can’t devise a plan
for my own path.
it’s been trodden down so many times
in hopes of finding a clue—
anything—
to help me find the way.

there are little sticks and stones
thorn bushes, sometimes,
breaking me,
and even once or twice,
there’s been a tree
right in the middle
and I have to walk around it
into the briar
and the poison
and the ivy.
and i’m all alone.
the path split off from everyone else’s,
and we’re all alone.

but sometimes,

we see roses

blooming between the thorns
and briar
and ivy.

sometimes,
our paths cross
for just a little while,
or we see each other through the leaves
and smile.

and in that one glance,
worlds are exchanged.

and we walk along each other’s paths sometimes
just to get a feel for things
because we can’t make our own decisions
anymore.

sometimes, too,
i meet up with other people
whose paths connect with mine
or walk right along side it.

and it is in that moment
when everything clicks.

just clicks.

so loudly, you can hear it—
so loudly, you can hear me smiling
from miles away.

that’s love.

right then, when everything clicks,
and something so cliché and beautiful
happens.

a robin sings,
or the rain molds itself into a rainbow.

and for the first time, you can see that rainbow.

you can see the vibrant hues,
and it all feels perfect.
because your life was in black and white
and now it’s in color.

but the funny thing about love
is that you never noticed your life was in black and white
because you never even knew that color existed.

it’s like you’re a child again
and everything is perfect,
analyzed in microscopic detail.

you’re seeing the world from a whole new perspective,
and it’s like
you’ve discovered gold.
except it’s better than that.
it’s like you’ve discovered the sky
it’s been blue
over you
for so long,
but you never knew it was there.

you’ve forgotten your path;
you don’t care about it anymore,
because who would care
about fate
or destiny
or whatever doesn’t exist
when the sky
and your hand in mine
is a million times
more beautiful.

it’s all so beautiful

that it hurts
to look

at you.

Thank you, friends. For everything.

I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you.

first but not least

2011-10-09T15:13:00.000-07:00

I know I've been promising a story for a long time. But I just haven't posted.
I've posted poetry, and I've posted photos.
But no stories.

So here you go, a late entry to the Merry Fates contest prompted by Frederic Burton's "The Turret Stairs".

The Turret Stairs

The first step is easy, simple, but pricks like a thorn. There is some trace of disappointment hanging in the air like rot, enveloping you. But this is not so hard as you believe, you can tell, and the disappointment is but your own. You take another step.

Anger fills you, rage beyond any you have known—and for some petty, insignificant reason. You should be happy; all this is easy. You will climb with no hindrance, no more annoyance. There is no need to feel such things—you are fortune’s fool. You urge yourself on.

Nothing, nothing—not all the endurance in the world—would have been able to prepare you for this third step. Within you agony erupts like a volcano, bursting and spitting. It burns you, scars you, and wrenches your mind from your body, your heart from your soul, lets life out. There are no words to describe your anguish.
For a moment after is begins to subside—only barely—you lean against the wall and breathe, slowly, then drag yourself to your feet and step once more.

This is something new, something different, something strange and sad. It cocoons you, wrapping invisible threads around you and pulling them tight. Your anger, your annoyance, your pain, it is all nothing. You don’t even try to care anymore. You have lost hope and there is no way you will be able to go on. You forget why you have come, forget what you have left behind, forget everything, as the fog wraps itself around you.
Tears begin to fall, soft and silent and fast, no friendly drop of happiness—even of pain. Pain would be welcome now. Instead there is nothing but you and the sadness, the misery, the emptiness.
Somewhere beneath the fog, though, is a bit of desperation to go on, to finish, to believe.

You are hit, as if from a speeding train, trampled by the hope. You barely have time to right yourself before you begin to believe, begin to know, that this is futile. Why bother with hope? It will not help you. Hope is like new snow on a raven’s back—seemingly beautiful and sparkling, but gloomy and dark when truly analyzed. You are a coward.
Hope is the only thing keeping you alive—hope, a weak, ignorant thing. You once thought you were brave, thought you were the bravest of all. Now you know this is another tree planted by hope. Weak, cowardly hope.
You were a fool to come here. You will not be able to finish. But because there is no turning back, you might as well go on.

There is no relief from the weakness and hopelessness you feel; if anything, all it does is increase, seeping through your every thought until you are consumed with the desolation of it all. And the shame. It overwhelms even your pitiful feeling of existence, and soundly, too. You have no right to be here. Why did you even come? There is no use for it. If you could turn back, if you could turn back and erase the memory, the guilt, the humiliation at your easy defeat, you would.
You cannot.

Somewhere, someone screams. Maybe it is you. You cannot tell. The next step is so empty, covered almost as if by a cloud, white and soft. You are reminded of your childhood and your home—a warm, soft place—but you cannot understand what you are seeing.
You begin to turn around, but stop, and sink to the floor. Tears prick your eyes as you try to recall what you have forgotten, try to let the memories surface. Nothing comes. You are alone. You try, too, to remember your name, but it is woe and despair.
Slowly, you stand and let your tears mingle with the mist. You take another step, but not before everything can come flooding back to you.

Guilt, raw and aching. Not remorse—not quite—but guilt, as the memories flood through you. Guilt for losing your hope, guilt for berating yourself, guilt for knowing you cannot go on. And then guilt for the things in the past, things you can only just remember. For those you loved. All the pain you’ve caused. All the people you’ve killed.
It is guilt, shame, disgrace, that you feel. But not remorse.
You are not sorry for anything you’ve done, really. You are just ashamed of it. If you could relive those moments, you would have done the same. You are not sorry for why you have come. Therefore you will stay yet, and you will go on.

Others would not hesitate. There are many braver than you who would not hesitate but once on these stairs. Their courage is like flame, buried and woven into their feet. They would not stop. They have loved ones to care about, families to remember, homes to come back to.
       They would take this step with bravery shining like a beacon in their eyes. They would not be afraid of what they feel.
       You are afraid.
       Because you are not like them.
       And you never will be.
       They would not cry, as you have. They would rise and stand, and be courageous and brave and you cannot. Maybe you are not quite a coward any longer, but you will never be like them. You will never have that foot of flame, that sweetheart to cherish, that home to spend your life in. You will always be alone.
       So you might as well be alone here.

It doesn’t matter that you know you are alone. It doesn’t matter that you know you will never be loved, cherished, revered like those who have blazing steps and eyes like lanterns. The tenth step fills you with an odd feeling of desire, of want. Maybe of need.
       The craving burrows under your skin like a bug, prickling and itching and begging you to scratch. And though you try, the nuisance is to far below the surface. You cannot reach it.
       All alone on the stairs you ache to be one of the lucky ones, long to be loved, yearn to have a home and a family.
        You will ignore this itch. It is just an itch, after all. You may not be the bravest—but you will be brave enough to survive without love. Besides, what must be shall be, and you will change nothing by wanting. You take a step and try not to scratch.

You begin to cry. Not with pain—not even with sadness, really—but with something deeper than the physical, deeper than the emotional. It is bright and windy, stormy. Rain makes tears fall from your eyes, lightly. Then heavier and heavier until you they will not stop.
        No one loves you.
        It is such a simple statement, so often writ or spoken in children’s books, so well known in stories. Yet it puts out your thought and your wit, and burrows deep, deep down, making tears fall like rain. Because it is true. You are alone. No one loves you. You do not even want anymore. You despair and you cry and you cry.
    And then you stop.
    And you try to take a step.

Stumbling lightly, you are overcome with less than despair, but more than want. It is a nagging, painful wound, the loneliness of these stairs and your life. You are simply, utterly alone with no one to care for and no one to care for you.
You are alone, but you will not let the loneliness get in your way. It is a minor thing, and you can take the next step.
Besides, if all else fails, you yourself have power to die.

Fear me not, something whispers to you. Fear me not. Do not be afraid. You cannot tell if this voice is part of the test or merely in your own mind.
        But either way, you are afraid. This thought is budding within you, and—as if on queue—your heart begins to pound and your hands start sweating. You shake, fast and hard, and your breath comes in quick little gasps.
    Afraid. So afraid.
    You think back to the previous steps and sink to your knees, still trembling with fear. Fear that you will be alone forever. That you will fail and die on these steps. That you will never be loved—or love. You are afraid of yourself and what you can do.
    So terribly afraid.
    Fear me not, you whisper to yourself. You will believe it, for the time being. But your hand will not stop shaking and your heart will not start pounding.
    The next step comes and you are still afraid. So afraid.

Blood is everywhere. The people you have killed lay before you, and your choice to climb these stairs haunts you and haunts you.
        And you are sorry.
        This time, you are sorry. It is not guilt you feel, but regret. Remorse. Ruefulness. You see to children, palm to palm, dancing. You watch yourself leave without saying goodbye. You are sorry for leaving. And you are ashamed.
        Maybe you will not be able to reach the top. Or the bottom. Or wherever you are climbing. You are not sure anymore.
        But you know, now, that you are sorry. You shouldn’t have come, but at least you are sorry. And at least you will go on.

    The moment you have what you wished for, you wish you had never come.
        You are loved. Now, you are loved. You hear screams and tears and yells. You feel pain and hurt and loss. It is no good thing to be loved. It is too rough, too boisterous, to painful. You breathe in the scent of love, and cough it up, choking on it.
        You want to defy the stars and run and run and run from love. To think you once wanted this. To think you needed love.
        Love is pain and fear and hurt.
        Maybe you can withstand the stairs, but you will not be able to withstand love.
        And here, at the top or the bottom or the end, you know, with a certainty you have never possessed, that there are still so many more steps to take.

And, to follow along with the theme of writing too many short stories but not posting them, here's another one. A sad one. But a good one.

Falling

Light reflects off of dull, once-painted metal covered in blood in a very specific way. I’ve never seen anything like it.
    And believe me, I should know. I’ve seen more than my share of strange things.
    It’s almost red—the light—or maybe orange, watered down by sunlight. It casts a red splotch on the sky, and the people, darker in some places where the blood is thicker, and lighter in spots where the ooze has dripped down, down, down, pulled by gravity to pool on the luscious green of the new grass below. Pulled by gravity to wait for someone to come and find it, to scream, to run, to faint. To stand and stare, a single tear falling gently, unbeknownst to the crier, down their cheek.
    When I first saw the red shadow in the sky, I swear it looked like roses. Red, scarlet roses. Beautiful roses.
    Then I looked up at the merry-go-round.
    And I didn’t think the blood looked like roses anymore.

***

“Gem? Hey, Gem! Mama says to come down!”
    I don’t want to answer. Why should I bother answering? Why should I bother to care?
    So I don’t. I stay locked, glued to her bed, my head in the precise spot she used to sleep in. It’s still dented from her tiny, beautiful head of curls.
    “Peili,” I whisper so quietly I can barely hear it, “where did you go?”
    I am choking on the effort of holding so many unshed tears inside.

***

Her favorite color was bright yellow. Most little girls like pink and purple—or maybe even blue or something.
She liked yellow.
“It’s banana yellow!” she used say sternly, her little crimson mouth puckering up in a bossy expression, her green eyes shining. She would puff up her cheeks when she was angry, and purse her lips like that. Then her tiny fingers would begin frantically twisting and groping around her tight, thick reddish-blonde curls, and she would tremble all over.
No one could comfort her but Mama or me, and when she began crying, only I could convince her everything would be okay.
But it wasn’t.
Oh, God. What have I done?

***

I don’t remember being little. Why don’t I remember being little? Did my parents brainwash me or something? Or am I just abnormal?
    All my friends can remember first grade, and third grade, and that random time we did a horrible group book report and how Trisha punched Janet on the last day of second grade.
    I don’t remember it.
    I used to, when I had Peili around—Peili jumping on the bed, Peili tossing her curls, Peili wearing some new ridiculous princess outfit.
    Now, I don’t remember being little.
    Peili would have answered, “Gemmy! Of course you do! You just have to try to remember, okay? You have to want to remember!”
    But maybe I don’t.
    Maybe I can’t.

***

I squash my face into her pillow so hard I think the bone in my nose splinters—or maybe not. I can’t really feel it anymore.
    Or anything else.
    I’m numb all over, and not that sort of tingly numb you get when your foot falls asleep, or even when your injected with that big, fat needle and your skin gets all puffy.
    I don’t feel anything
    but guilt.
    It was all my fault.
    Everything.

***

If I knew where Peili is, I’d write her a letter. She’d be able to read it—she always told me that she learned to read my handwriting before real letters.
    But you know where she is.
    So tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I should have been watching.
    Tell her I can’t forgive myself. I’ll never forget this. Tell her it’s okay if she hates me for it.
    Tell her she doesn’t have to forgive me.
    Tell her I think about her every single night and every single day and every single second.
    Tell her I hate myself.
    Tell her I can’t forgive myself.
    No, don’t tell her that. It’ll just worry her. She always played mom with me. Tell her I’m fine. And I’ll be okay. Really. Please?
    Maybe I won’t be, but—
    God, I can’t lie to Peili. Tell her everything I said, if you want. It’s your choice.
    Just, please, please, please tell her I’m sorry.
    And tell her I miss her.
    Tell her I really do.

***

“Gem, please stop. I forgive you. It wasn’t your fault.”
    “It was. You know it. I wasn’t watching you.”
    “But I was the one who fell.”
    “Oh, Peili! Don’t say that! It wasn’t your fault!”
    “Well, it wasn’t yours, either…It wasn’t anyone’s.”
    “Peili, wait! Where are you going? Stay, please!”
    “I love you.”
    “Peili!”

    “I love you, too.”

***

“Gemma, darling, come and have something to eat.” My mother’s voice seeps through the wood like wet—penetrating and sticky.
    “I’m not hungry,” I answer, but I don’t know if she can hear it. My face is still stuffed into the pillow.
    “Sweetie, please!” Her voice breaks and I think I hear thick, fat tears. “It wasn’t your fault—it wasn’t anyone’s. You know that. You need to come and eat, please. You need to forgive.”
    I turn away.
    That is exactly what Peili told me.
    My eyes are on fire.
    I’m not crying.
    I won’t cry.
    I don’t answer and I don’t come down.

***

I want to dream again. I wonder if Peili was really there.
    But I think it was just a dream.
    I curl up on the bed, my arms hugging my chest too hard. My head is bent down to my knees and I hurt all over.
    Golden flames twist and leap in my eyes, sparkling and gulping, swallowing. Their teeth gnash against my pupils, their tongues flick into the whites of my eyes and eat me, burn me, melt me into a thousand tiny droplets of fire. Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly.
    I will not cry. I will not cry.

***

I am asleep again. Peili is not there. I hear no voice, see no strawberry curls. Everything is
black and hollow. The darkness is swallowing me, suffocating me, pressing in on me and
folding and crushing and killing. I cannot breathe.
    Little bits of red flit before my eyes. Red stains populate the sky.
    Everything is spinning and spinning, too fast to see anything but red and black and dark.
    I am holding onto metal and my hands are bloody.
    And then I am falling into darkness, forever. Falling, falling, falling. Falling. Falling.

***

My eyes snap open audibly. I can hear my eyelids pop and crackle like breakfast cereal.
    My eyelashes are dry.
    I see red. And flaxen curls.
    I squash my face into the pillow again and try not to breathe.

***

“Remember how, when I was sad, only you could comfort me?”
    “Yes. I don’t like where this is going, Peili.”
    “You have to comfort yourself right now.”
    “I don’t deserve comfort.”
    “I have to go.”
    “I’ll miss you. Please come back. I love you.”
    “Gemmy?”
    “Peili.”
    “Remember.”

***

She is gone.
    My room is dark—night has crept in through the cracks in the windows, and the stars are choking with clouds. There is no moon tonight.
    I curl up again and hurt. My eyes are glowing and my body is hot.
    I will not cry.
    But Peili is gone. And I am all alone.
    I fall asleep gently, my eyelids fluttering open at every sound. When the darkness finally envelops me and I am no longer in that in-between state where your body is asleep but your mind roams the corridors of your thoughts, I toss and turn restlessly, dreamlessly, and stay quietly asleep, listening to the deafening pounding of my heart and Peili’s labored breaths.

***

It was so blue, everywhere. Turquoise seeped into the grass and stained it dark aquamarine, and the sky was so deep I couldn’t quite breathe right.
    The playground was alive with sound and shape and color—a surge of beauty and innocence. Children screamed and laughed, leaping off swings, pouring down slides in torrents, running everywhere.
    We walked quietly, smiling, laughing a little. Enjoying the stunning day. We were heading for the merry-go-round spinning in the breeze, empty of children.
    Peili danced her way there. Her reddish, golden swirls and ringlets of hair flew around her, dancing along.
    I followed slowly, walking carefully, smiling after Peili.
    She jumped up onto the merry-go-round, swung her leg over one side of a bar, sat down. Her face curled into an expectant grin not unlike her dancing tresses.
“Gemmy!” she yelled, “Push me! Pushmepushmepushme!”
I was smiling big goofy smiles and she was laughing and everything was perfect.
It was sunny and beautifully windy—the breeze whipped my hair as I took hold of one of the merry-go-round’s rungs and began to run, gaining speed as Peili shrieked with delight.
Everything was so perfect, so ordinary.
And then I saw Wynn, standing so forlorn on one side of the playground. I waved to him, beckoned him to come over. He loved Peili.
But Wynn didn’t see my flapping hand, and so I let go of the merry-go-round for a brief second, knowing Peili would be fine. She would be—
And I didn’t see her fall. I was running to Wynn, smiling, yelling, and I didn’t think to look back. I didn’t think in a million years she’d fall. I didn’t think she could.
But she did.
And I wasn’t even there to watch her die.

***

“Shhh,” she whispers so quietly, so gently. “Shh, Gemmy.”
    “Peili? Oh, Peili. Peili. Peili, I—I remembered. I’m so sorry.”
    “I know. But you don’t need to be. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
    “Peili, of course I did. You remember, too. I didn’t watch you. And—and you fell.” I am crying now, finally crying, so fast and hard and terrible I don’t think I will ever stop. The tears sting and burn more than holding them in ever did. Breaths catch in my throat and I gasp.
    “Gem. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault.”
    “I—I—” I falter, breaking off, and give another wrenching sob so deep in my chest that it must be buried under mountains. I try to breathe, try to breathe, try—
    “I know,” I murmur.
    I can feel Peili smile, and I feel her letting go, and, in the one brief second before the sickening crash, for once in my life, I am flying. Peili is at my side, and we are flying, flying, flying. I am flying.

And there you are.

Falling into the leaves as they trickle from their branches, stained ochre, and drop to the ground.

I love autumn.

gossip street

2011-09-22T09:28:00.000-07:00

Gossip Street
There’s an alley
Between Happiness Road
And Judgment Lane
That’s bright
And fluffy
And crawling with shadows
They seem to seep
Into the bricks and cobblestones
Trickling
Oozing
Secrets
But in the doorways
And idling in shops
Are tiny floating
Soapy
Bubbles
Kind of shiny
And too clean
Inside, the houses are a little grimy
And a little run down
And a little cheap
Fake
Plastic chandeliers
And underpaid butlers
But who cares, right?
When it looks so good?
No one bothers to think
About the people living on the streets
Sleeping in elegant
Faux-marble doorways
And whispering to each other
How counterfeit
Everything looks
They laugh
About the artificial lives
Built up
Inside shiny, squeaky
Bubbles
And they smile
Thinking of how
Real their own lives are
They would rather live
In between the lines
Sleeping on the cracks
And ripping them open
Letting out more shadows
One by one
And more lies
Two by two
More rumors and hurt
And synthetic love
Three by three by three
And the people
Living these ersatz lives
Turn their heads
From the realities
They see living in their doorways
Letting out the shadows
These spurious
Stupid people
Look away
And close their eyes
Hide their faces
With cupped palms
Calling out to fellow ersatz lives
Carving out their spiderwebs
Traps
Dipped with dew and hidden
Behind a wall of jewels
They whisper to the people
They call friends
Rumors they have heard
Things they don’t believe
Tales about the people
Sleeping on the cracks
Letting out more shadows
Onto Gossip Street

More to come. I promise.

summer tidbit

2011-08-04T09:11:00.000-07:00

It's been so long, and there's so much that's happened, and there's no time to talk about any of it, really. So I'm not going to. Though I do have all the time in the world, I'm not really using it. It's summer, and that's all it is.
I'm going to keep it while it lasts.

But read this—as a little bit of my summer. I've been acting in and reading Shakespeare's plays for over six years, and only this year, performing As You Like It, did I learn that Shakespeare wrote to the heart. I mean, I must have known it somehow, but to really hear that Shakespeare's words were composed to the rhythm of the human heart sort of changed my life as a poet and a writer. It's so incredibly...incredible. Then, seeing Romeo and Juliet—I'm going to say here that it was the best production of that show I've ever seen—at my local Shakespeare playhouse, I realized that it's true. Shakespeare wrote to the human heart, and to our hearts, to every single one.

And read this, as some more of my little summer.

Skyway
It's the little things in life  
that make me happy.
 Not the obvious ones— 
I mean, of course those
 make me happy too— 
but not as much. 
Nowhere near as much. 
Each little thing,
to me,
is like a tap on the shoulder,
 the flutter of little butterfly wings,
 like the gentlest of kisses across your eyelids, 
and the sun shining down
 on an open heart. 
It's the little things that make me happy, 
things like wishful smiles
 and lying down with kittens beside you
 and a good book, 
just ready to dream. 
It's the little things that I hold onto,
 the setting of the sun 
over you
 and the way it reflects
 to me. 
Little things 
like the opening of a book,
 the perfect tinkling of laughter, 
four little words  
that tell me exactly what I need to hear.
 It's the little things  
that fill me up
 like a helium balloon
 and let me go  
let me fly in the open skyway.
 Full of the stars  
that we never see 
or the things
 we've never dreamed of
 that materialize out of the darkness
 and take form
 to give little truths to our world.
 It's the laughter that makes me happy,
 the times that I will never forget
 as we swayed back and forth
 and you told me
 words I can't remember anymore— 
or, at least, can't say 
out loud. 
It's the dreaming that makes me happy, 
combined with the moments 
when you look at the sky,
 and even though all hope is lost
 and you know you will never be the same again 
in any way,
 you are happy
 anyway.  
It's the little things like that,
 the little laughs, 
the little dreams, 
the little hopes and fears 
and turns
 of the fate
 that I don't believe in.  
It's the little things like that
 that fill me up and let me go
 let me fly 
into the open skyway 
to you
 and your coming embrace. 
At least, that’s how it goes 
in my dreams.
 But truly,  
that's what happiness is, 
no matter what they say, 
that's what happiness is. 
The little moments
 and gestures
 that we can't see 
anywhere 
but the open skyway.

And listen to this. This—and poetry, and Shakespeare, and friends, and laughter, and sunshine, and family, and cats, and rivers, and warmth, and books, and photos, and music—this is my summer.

I know I promised a story soon, and I will post one.
Soon. Seriously. Just wait a little longer. Wait, and write a song, and listen to music, and breathe, and dream, and read, and watch a play, and do whatever else you want. But wait. And enjoy this summer while you have it.

Then comment. ;)

spread the word, please!

2011-07-05T10:37:00.000-07:00

Hello to you all!
Yes, I know I just posted at midnight last night, but today I heard through the grapevine that some incredibly amazing authors are touring in the South! I, unfortunately, live nowhere near there, but those of you who do—my recommendation is to check them out, because from reading at least a little of their writing, or hearing about them, I know all three of these women are some incredible writers.
So, please, go check out Beth Revis's blog post (it's also on my list of blogs by the side...of this blog...) and hopefully go see them!
Maybe you can even write a short post about them and possibly win some prizes...
That is NOT what I'm doing here!! Okay, okay, it is—but I also do want to tell you about these wonderful authors, and some more I know I've told you about before, because it's not every day that authors like these write the kind of books they do.
And now, off to the beach! But sadly, not Ash to Nash.......

tired

2011-07-04T20:17:00.000-07:00

Even though I'm tired of trying, your teasing ain't enough. Fed up of biding your time when I don't get nothing back. And for what, and for what, and for what when I don't get nothing back? Boy, I'm tired.

— ADELE

I'm definitely going to agree with ADELE here. Very, very tired. Of trying, of working...obviously of posting. But for that I am sorry. I've been really busy, what with the end of school. And the beginning of summer. And trips to sort-of-faraway places. And life. You know, the usual.

But I did get time for roses.
And for photos.
And for a little poetry.

Thus with a Kiss
Someday
Seems so far away
Like forever
Just might be tomorrow
And today
I think
Is a thousand years away
But for now
Just this moment
Living here
Writing a little poetry
And remembering
Inside jokes
Fireworks
Stories
Red
Red
Remembering
Heat
Music
Hope
Purple
Blue
Being a little patriotic, sure
Being a little angry
And wandering off
Into the shallows
And the cold
And the dark
Wandering
Off the deep end
Where I can’t touch the bottom anymore
And I’m floating
In an endless realm
Of black
In the space beneath my eyelids
Glowing
And slowly
Slowly
Fading
Because today
Not today, exactly
Maybe before
Maybe a million years away
But now
For now
I’m content without a photograph
Of your sunlight
I’m content without a photograph
Of sunlight
For now
I’ll stick with flowers
Unchanging, constant
And I’ll swear by the changing inconstant moon
Rather than my gracious self
The god of someone’s
No one’s
My
Idolatry
Or, I will not swear at all
And give thou mine before thou didst request it
Because
For now
Being a little Shakespearean
Being a little tired
I’m letting you go
Out into the deep end
I will defy you, stars
And wade into the water
With a dram of poison
To kiss the lips I love
O, give me my sin again
Palm to palm
Our holy palmer’s kiss
And thus
With your kiss
Will I die
And be born again
From the rushing water
Starting anew
And letting you go
Wading out of the shallows
And into the muck
Of fair Verona
The love
The tragedy
Of fair Verona
And my little heart
For never was a story of more woe
Than that of this Juliet
And her Romeo
And I had time, while staying up all night with some certain friends, to do a little writing. (Another reason I'm very, very tired, along with the barbequing and swimming and whatever else I did today that I just can't remember...)

It's called Saying Red and this is a little teaser that I am posting without the permission of my friends, but I think they'll be okay. I hope. Anyway, here's the mini teaser you've all been waiting for:

Water: the last thing I saw before I jumped. The same water I had lived in for almost my entire life. I remember seeing it stand so still, so calm, before I dived in. It was bright blue and it shimmered, symmetrical to the sky above it.

And then I leapt.
Happy Fourth of July, for those of you in the U.S.! (Although it's technically the fifth now...since it's just after midnight. But whatever...)

a single night

2011-06-11T16:09:00.000-07:00

Why is it always one single night that inspires me, either in anticipation,

Maybe I Am
I feel jealous when I’m not supposed to
But I’m happy for her, anyway
I mean, why shouldn’t I be?
But I hate her
For all her glory
And for the pride
She just won’t take in it
I wish I could have that kind of luck
That kind of life
And the song
I used to sing
Is over now
Drifting in the wind
With the useless
Heart-rending wishes
I used to make
On those perfect
Shining dandelion seeds
That now look at me with sneers
Telling me they knew I never
Truly believed in them
And I think
That as they are teasing me
They might know
But maybe
Probably
They just think me a fool
And that is what I am
I see the way you look at her
And wish that someday
Someday
Any day
Sometime soon
You will look at me
With that same intense gaze
Where I think I would see myself
Reflected in your eyes
Will you ask her?
Is she leaving
With someone else
Or with you?
Why do I even bother asking
That was rhetorical
Just so you know
But you don’t
You have no idea
And I hate it
Hate the way you are so oblivious
To them
To their little add-ons
And I hate the way they look at me
Like I am a fool
Maybe I am
And I am
I am
I am
I am
I know I am
But the horrible catch is
I really don’t care
And I try to care
I did for a day
I remember
And then I stopped
Because it hurt too much
And you were right there
Whispering the words that I could hear
And they were behind me
Plotting to say words I already knew
And I hate the way
You look at me
Like maybe you could
Think of me
But no
Not at all
And she just doesn’t care
Because maybe I’m hurt
And maybe I’m scared
And maybe I’m sad
And maybe I will never get over this
This thing
But she has no idea
And I hate
Hate
How she thinks she does
How they all think they do
Because I have tried
For too long
And you
You wont even react
But of course he will
Of course he has to
Because her life
Is just this close to perfect
It’s like a river
Her tears and her drama and all she makes
Out of absolutely nothing
She thinks it’s something
But she has no idea
Again and again and again
No idea
She can’t even try
And I hope
I try to hope
And I can’t tell them
Can’t tell anyone
And that’s the hardest part
That someday I will be yours
But I never will be
I don’t think
But maybe
As I like to hope
Behind their backs
Behind my own
Hiding it from everyone
But me
Maybe
Just maybe
I am
Or maybe someday
I will be
or in reality?

Broken Little Heart
I never thought
That so much work
Could be broken
With a single moment
A single glance
A single uncaring turn
And a truce
Telling me you’ll walk away
If I stay where I am
Lonely
Waiting for the one
But that’s all a fantasy
They told me not to get my hopes up
Because I would be crushed
But I couldn’t help it
How could I help hoping
And dreaming
And wishing
For you?
And this was all in my head
I know
Sure
We were here
Twice
But apparently twice
Just wasn’t enough
And sure
You told me things I can't repeat
And you told me things I'll always know
That’s what I heard
And that’s what I believed
But I see the way you look at her
See the way you don’t even bother
To turn your head
And maybe
Just maybe
Gaze at me for only a second
I don’t care if you say there wasn’t enough time
I don’t care if you say you’re sorry
The truth is
You’re not
Because I believed you
So much
That now
My heart is crushed into little
Tiny
Fragmented
Pieces
That I will never be able
To glue together
You are my heart
Every fiber
Every sinew
As the blood pumps through my veins
It tells me that you're mine
But with all my heart
I want to walk away
I want to leave you standing there
I want not to care
I just wish I could
And every time I close my eyes
I tell myself that I don’t see your face
But I do
And it tears
What’s left of my heart
Apart
Until the broken pieces
Scatter on the floor
And collect dust
As they hide in corners
And I can’t find them
I don’t think I ever will
They’re lost and gone forever
Along with all the broken toys
Floating out to sea
And that’s all my heart was to you,
Wasn’t it?
Just a little broken toy
And that’s what I’ve become
Just a little broken toy
It’s not so bad that you’ve broken my heart,
Exactly,
Just that you came back
For more and more
And left me hoping
For the things I didn’t have
And then you broke my heart again
And over and over
I die each time I see you
Every single day
And that
That is what you did wrong
And the worst part
The worst part of all of this is
You didn’t even know
Or
For better
Or maybe for worse
You knew
But you didn’t even care
You broke my heart
Into a million tiny little pieces
And you swept them up
Like useless broken toys
Into the corners and crevices of your soul
So I would never dream
Of looking
Because I should never dream
Of looking there
But I do
I do
I do
I do
I do
Forever
For better
For worse
It's not what you think
At all
It’s that I thought so many things
And I thought you told me so many things
But I guess,
As they all like to say,
I guess I just heard it wrong
I guess my dreams were built on nothingness
And because of that,
They have fallen all the easier
I took so long to build
You in my heart
To sew you into the cracks
And curves
Of my soul
I built you up in my mind
A perfect picture
And I thought that when I saw you
The real you
You were my perfection
But as you turn away
No, no turn away exactly,
Just don’t bother
In the slightest
You don’t even try
And there
Here
Now
Then
I don’t even know
That was when the little pictures of you
All sewn into my heart
Ripped apart
And tore me into little broken fragments
And the tower I took
So incredibly long to build
Fell into the nothingness
The emptiness
The dreaming
That used to be its foundation
And here,
I almost want to thanks you
For tearing me apart,
Almost
But not quite
Because I can’t forgive you
For the way you just didn’t care
And I can’t forgive myself
For the way I did
I did
I did
I did
And you
The broken record
Running through my veins
You didn’t respond
And that
That was when
You broke my heart in two
And the pieces crawled away
Into the meandering bends
The bends I know so well
Or thought I knew
The meandering bends
Of your broken little heart
That
For this one time
Match the thousands of fragments
Of mine
I know that you won't understand this. Even if you do, don't bother answering, because I've closed the shutters and changed the sign to closed for a little while. Not even the most beautiful of wishes made on dandelions could change my life for the better right now, for just this moment. It's over and done, and there's no going back to change it. I'm trying to think that it'll be okay, and I know now that someday it will be. But just give me a single wish. Give me one moment to cry, to believe that this will never, ever stop.
Because now, I feel as if it never will. I try to fight it, try to stop the pain, but all that's left are the thousands and thousands of pieces of my heart that you ripped apart, the thousands of pieces you swept up into the dark corners of your broken little heart.
Just give me my one single wish.
Just let me cry over you for a single night.
A single night, one of love and truth, not pain and sorrow.
That's all I ask of love. And that's all I ever will.
And here, don't ask me to explain, because I can't. But I will say that nothing is what you think it is. It's all just a fantasy I built up in my head, but we got no farther than that.
Did I mention in all this mess that I'm thirteen?
Life—maturity, knowledge, whatever you want to call it—life comes with a price.
And I've paid the rent more than my share.
But that's what we do here, isn't it? We work and work and work and then it all falls down like a child's game. We pay the dues, we pay the rent, and the bills just keep coming.
Sometimes, though, there are times when we don't care about the money, times when the blocks fall down but we don't notice, because love is there, holding our hands and hugging us and telling us all will be okay. And for that moment, love is all we have, all we care about, until that moment flees our grasp, and we just don't.
We're left floating in an open sea, churning in the stormy waves, and still waiting for life to start.

distraction, dandelions, and sunlight

2011-05-25T17:28:00.000-07:00

I honestly need a little distraction from my life right now, which is not going very well in many different ways.
Okay, that was, like, the understatement of the year.
Let's just say, for now, life sucks. In many indescribable ways.
So, last night, for a little break and a little distraction, I went for a walk, and took some photos...about two hundred photos. Which I have spent the last half hour editing and deleting and making awesomer (that's not a word, but whatever... :D).
And here they are, the shortened versions, for you.

First off, there were lots of dandelions on which I blew and blew and blew until—finally!—I blew it all off in one breath. And I made my wish. Somehow, though, I have a feeling it just won't come true.
On to a happier note, the dandelions looked really great with the dying sunlight, too.
The sunlight was gorgeous also, as you can tell, but here it is without the beautiful dandelions, just there and raw and glowing. Kind of like my heart, in a way.
And, of course, there were purple flowers and Rosie all the way, smiling at me the whole time.
Sometimes, I swear that it's people like Rosie who light up our lives, not the sun.
They certainly light up mine.

rave

2011-05-18T17:51:00.000-07:00

Alright, here we go!
For once, for once for once for once, this will not be a poetry blog. Or a photo blog. Or a story blog. Or whatever-else-you-call-this-blog blog.
This will me a music blog.
Or, more specifically, a really good music blog.
And, even more specifically, a short post about three

amazing

artists.

A.k.a., ADELE and The Civil Wars.

First off, ADELE is a British singer/songwriter gifted with an unearthly, raw voice that, personally, has melted my heart and made me this close to crying on the school bus. On the school bus!!?? How close to crying can you get when you are sitting on a smelly, leathery, loud bus? The answer: ADELE. Confident in herself and what she does, ADELE is my new favorite, I must say. There is just something to her voice that pulls me in and makes me want to listen, something that touches parts of my heart I thought were long buried in a funeral that was never properly honored, something that worms its way into my mind and sticks, grabbing hold and never letting go, telling me over and over again to go back to my iPod and just listen. Just feel the pulse and rhythm of her music, the fervent power of her voice, and the heartbroken memory of her songs. And the one more thing I can say is: just listen. Just listen.

So, of course, I go and research ADELE, and I find her website, and her blog. And then, on the latest post there, I find more music. More amazing, wonderful, heartrendingly stupendous music. The Civil Wars, a couple (do not get confused; they are not, I repeat, not husband/wife, partners, or anything like that) without any backup band. It's just them, a guitar and a piano, and their voices. Joy Williams, the woman, consists of a striking beauty and an even more breathtaking voice, rich and husky with an undertone of silk, and love, and pain. The other member of the band, John Paul White, is the same, complete with Johnny Depp looks and a spectacular, throaty and heartfelt voice that astounds my ears—they make such a gorgeous, poignant pair that it just blows me away. But now, I'll stop rambling and let you see what the critics have been raving about.

ADELE's "Rolling in the Deep" from her latest album, 21:

And another of ADELE's songs, "Someone Like You", also from 21, starting with a little interview with the artist herself:

Next, "Poison and Wine", The Civil Wars' best song (in my opinion) with beautiful cinematography and a wonderful video-plot:

"C'est la Mort", The Civil Wars' french, beautiful love song filmed live to give you a taste of their hilarious performances:

Happy? Good, I thought so. So am I. I mean, how much happier can you get when you've got music...music like this?
Answer: not much happier than this.

poll

2011-05-10T17:43:00.001-07:00

I have one, single, crazy, apparently incomprehensible word for you:

V-O-T-E

a.k.a. vote. On the poll. On the right side of the blog. Below my ipod. There have so far been two voters. The others don't count because one of them was me and the other was a joke. So please, I want your feedback. Should I post or should I not post?

Vote. Comment. Email. Do whatever you want. But get that opinion to me.

And now, I'll leave, and you can go ahead and vote.

Seriously.

Vote.

discover: a story in pictures

2011-05-05T12:26:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, your nieces' friends come over. And your dad and you take a little walk to the river behind your house—as an escape. But as you begin...well, let's just say you end up with everyone tagging along. That's you, your dad, and four grumpy little girls.
And of course, you notice that it's beautiful outside. And that your camera is at home. In your room. So of course you have to go get it. And once you're back to where you left everyone else, they're already long gone.
And of course, you end up running all the way down to the river, about a 20-minute walk.
But when you get there, it all pays off. You roll up your pant legs, turn on your camera, and begin.
It's beautiful, and sunny, and warm, and the water is ice-cold and wonderfully refreshing.
So is the mud.
Especially smeared all over your legs.
And your arms.
And your face.
Of course.
But not when you had to wash it off. In the ice-cold river.
Or when you were walking up, your feet squishing noisily in your shoes and your clothes caked and dirty.
Especially when your aunt—or your friends' aunt—is too busy taking self-centered pictures of herself for you to notice.
But her dad notices.
Of course.
And you walk up the hill. And into your house. And you sit on your bed, and change your clothes, and eat your dinner, and live.
But you're smiling,
because all the while,
all the insane, hilarious, beautiful, heartbreaking while,
you have been discovering
spring.

summer dreams

2011-04-26T18:32:00.000-07:00

Songes d'Été

I heard somewhere that if you run fast enough,
your troubles and hardships can’t follow you.

I wonder if it works the other way around.

I wonder if you run fast enough,
you can catch up to your dreams.

letter to you

2011-04-15T14:08:00.000-07:00

Dear you,
All you readers,
Thank you.

Last Dance
He is here
There
Here
Tonight

Am I here
There
Here
Tonight

This is life
Dance
Love
Tonight

Keeping time
Beat
Pound
Tonight

Music blares
Slow
Loud
Tonight

Twisted tongue
Words
Speak
Tonight

Speak of us
Them
Us
Tonight

Hands in mine
Waist
Heart
Tonight

To and fro
Sway
Love
Tonight

Verses bloom
Now
No
Tonight

He said no
Her
Me
Tonight

He said yes
Me
Him
Tonight

The last dance
Yes
Yes
Tonight

Never dreamed
Like
This
Tonight

Now I know
Love
Truth
Tonight

Is it over
Strength
Speak
Tonight

Is it true
Love
Us
Tonight

Little Incidental Acts of Will:
Part One
Dear you,
My friend,
My solace,
My only hope,

Life
Is an incidental act of will:
A note written on the back of my hand
In neon sharpie,
Chinese calligraphy
That means what I don’t want to hear—
And what I will never stop dreaming about.
Dreaming,
Dreaming,
Heart pounding,
Hoping that,
To the end of my days,
I will find solace
With someone or other.
Solace,
A place of safety,
A life,
Not a nightmare.
An incidental act of will,
That I, incidentally, will never forgive you for—
But always thank you,
Forever and ever.
Never.

Love,
Me.

Postscript:
Thank you.
Forever.

Little Incidental Acts of Will:
Part Two
Dear you,
My solace,
My friend,
My Solus,

Love
Is another
Incidental
Act of will—
That I refused,
And you agreed to.
You said yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
When I asked,
When you asked:
Yes,
Yes,
Yes.
A single word repeating in my mind,
A broken record that I could listen to
For eternity;
A copy of
The fine print the back of my hand,
Illegible:
A hope,
And a wish
That I will find solace—
An incidental homonym.
A secret-keeper.
A life.
A love.
A wish that I will find solace,
But Solus, too.
What’s the difference
Between a secret of a secret
A secret
And the truth?

Love,
Me.

Postscript:
The difference is easy:
It’s simply life,
Simply love,
Simply what I choose to say,
What you choose to hear,
And what we both choose to interpret,
To take away from this life,
From tonight.
And I can’t help but wonder,
Do you dream of me, too?
I dream,
I hope,
Forever and ever.
Forever.
For solace,
For Solace,
For Solus,
For you.

It's amazing how many poems can come out of a single night.

Heart on My Hand
Neon
Orange
Bright, aching heart
On my sleeve
On my hand
Dripping blood and dripping life
Don’t know what to do
Don’t know what to say
How to leave you and never dream again
Hoping that I can still dream
Can still live
With my heart on my hand
Holding it
Covering it
For the reasons they all think are wrong
Yes
They’re right
In some ways
In some minuscule, accidental ways
And they’re wrong
Wrong
Wrong
Wrong
Like the bells
Rusted
Clanging
Aching like my heart
That pounds too fast for life
A hummingbird in a garden of clocks
Ticking away
Too slowly
I wish
I wish
I wish
I dream
I hope
I wear my heart on my hand
My life on my hand
And I protect it
For your sake
To give you solace
And love
Holding you there
Giving life
Giving love
Giving death away
Too keep you
Neon sharpie
Orange and blazing like the fire in my heart
The flames within me
That burn and burn and burn
With the hope
The hope
That threatens to make me dance
Around the school gym
Legs flying
Arms swaying
Not caring who cares
But you
Dark
Purple
Black
The hope
The wish
The dream
The neon sharpie
The heart
My heart
Drawn on my hand
And the hope
That threatens
To make
Me burst

And I know some of you won't understand, it isn't that what poetry is? A metaphor for the things you don't want to voice? To speak? The things that are your secret fears and loves and hearts? And a million things that you don't ever want to say? It doesn't matter if the words are wrong, the beat is wrong, the rhyme is wrong. It doesn't matter if nobody understands it but you. Because poetry is one single thing:
solace for the life you lost. And for the life you live.
Jeez, I'm writing another poem.

Metaphor for Life (A Million Questions)
I know some of you won't understand,
And I know some of you will never understand,
Never even want to understand,
But isn't that what poetry is?
A metaphor for the things you don't want to voice?
To speak?
The things that are your secret fears
And loves
And hearts?
And a million things
You don't ever want to say?
It doesn't matter if nobody understand it but you,
If the words are wrong,
If the beat is wrong,
The rhyme is wrong.
It doesn't matter,
Because poetry is one single thing:
Solace
For the life you lost,
And for the life you live.
Jeez, I wrote another poem.

P.S. Sorry, I didn't have time for any photos. Just be content with the words.
Love,
Maia.

memoirs of computer class—and just a tad more

2011-04-15T09:36:00.000-07:00

Say hello to the big, huge, crazy world out there. Wow, so much can happen it such a short time, can't it? Yes it can. Yes it totally, freakishly, creepily, amazingly can.
In short, a lot of things happened to me. Including my first school semi and slow dance, my first roller skating fail, the-almost-finishing of my first finished story, and, even though this happened a long time ago, I moved from nowhere to somewhere, somewhere to nowhere.
In short, life happened.
And I'm here in computer class, stuck staring at a blinking, dizzying, blurring screen, while I should be outside in the sunshine. But, alas, I'm not. So I have to be content with this.

Inspire
Life walks
It whispers
And shimmies in and out of shadows
Like silk through the slipknot of a silver ring
My life Is a river
The waterfall trickles over stones
Green
River
Jutting out foam and bubbles
Stones clinking
Mud drifting
Swaying like fog and life and sweet and love
And love and love and love
Speak
Of this time
Whisper
Of this night
That night
Forever memories
Never forgetting
I won't
I refuse to
Refuse to give up
Refuse to live the life I said I'd never live
And I lived it I live it
Forever
In my mind
And body
And life
I don't even know what I'm writing here
Just needed to write
Needed to write a poem
The blue water
Blue sky reflecting me
A mirror of me
The only thing that reflects me
As me
Without the extra things
The words and memories
Dreams and hopes
Wishes
The whistle of an acorn
The whisper of the leaves in the wind
The pound of my feet against the grass
Inspire me

Technically, these.

Last Dance
He is here
There
Here
Tonight

Am I here
There
Here
Tonight?

This is life
Dance
Love
Tonight

Saying no
Held
Yes
Tonight

Keeping time
Beat
Pound
Tonight

Music blares
Soft
Loud
Tonight

And the bell rings...
To be continued.

zip

2011-03-27T16:13:00.000-07:00

Look, I know it's been a long time. And I know a lot has happened. At least to me it has. And I'll tell you soon. Oh, believe me, I will tell you so much soon.
But for now, I just want to check in. To ask how you are. To see how you've been. And to give you a poem.

Furious, Just a Little
Bubbling
Hot
Cold
Fire
Burning like the sun
Frigid like the snow that falls so regularly
So perfectly
So routinely
This is not normal
Though it is
A part of my life
Just as the snow is
Just as the sun is
But it still hurts too much
Burns so cold
So hot
Too hard to describe in words
Even metaphor
But like is a metaphor
A ballad for what we have lost
And what is still to come
Things mystify me
Rambling on about future and past and whenever and wherever
But not now
Not ever, ever now
We need now
And here
Forget them and then and when and where
Just now
No
Stop
Stop
Forget
Forgive
No
Hurting
Burning
Bubbling
Too many verbs to conjugate
Too many nouns to describe
What I think about
The sentences I form in my mind
Furious
Just a little
Like someone said
Like someone said in some stupid, stupid poem
That hurts more and more
As time wears on
They say the hurt lessens
It goes away
But they’re wrong
It just gets worse and worse
Because there’s hope
Hope is there to overtake me
Hope is there to threaten to kill me with it
Hope
Hope
Hope
Impossibility
I try not to care
Try to ignore
I try so hard
So incredibly hard
But sometimes I break
Everyone does
A shattered window
Me
We are the same thing
The same argument
The same talents
But different predicaments
I can only understand
Don’t lie
I can tell it’s not the truth
So just go
Leave
Forever
Never
I don’t know
I don’t care
I try not to, at least
Hello?
Are you there?
Hey
A phone call
A text message
An online chat
Broken
Shattered
Gone
The thoughts that go through my mind when I am angry
They break me
My anger doesn’t
At least, I hope not.

a couple of things

2011-02-23T12:54:00.000-08:00

So, people, I have—as the title says—a couple of things to tell you...
One. I probably won't be posting for a little while because I am—wait for it—moving! Yup, I am leaving the house that I have literally lived in since I was born and going to the city...well, town, really. Of Great Barrington. Today I walked around the farm that I live on and sort of said my winter goodbyes while listening to my latest obsession, American Idiot (the musical, duh!). I'm not ashamed to say I cried, but I also had quite a few moments. It sort of felt like the music was in tune with my mood, in beat with my step, and switched songs at exactly the right time. But maybe it was the other way around...I don't know. Anyway, Alana has a couple of pictures, a couple of posts, that will elaborate for me what I can't say here due to over-vacation homework. But just wanted to alert you and tell you that I'm kind of scared, really excited, pretty freaked out, extremely happy, and very sad. Wow, that's gonna make a good poem...
Simply Music
Something seems perfect
Too right to be real
And yet it is
All here
And all in my mind
Voices
Words
Music
Tuned into me
My actions
My feelings
Walking
Running
Dancing
Singing with the music pounding in my head
Cold and unbearably happy
Sad
Afraid
Too many emotions bottled up at once
Too many things on my mind
Too many things to do
Too much too soon
As they say
As I say now
As I sing
Perfect
Here in the moment
The moment when I say goodbye
And let go of all I’ve ever known
How am I supposed to do this?
Is there something I should say
Or feel?
I certainly feel too much
Too soon
Letterbombs and holidays
I walk down an empty road
All alone
Corresponding
Registering
So ear splittingly perfect
Quiet
Known only to me
Something so intimate
Private
And eternally special
I don’t know how to say it
What to do
Where to go
How should I know?
I’m new at this
And all but a baby
And yet
As I sing
And fall
And dance
And leap
And run
And cry
And think
And smile
And wonder
And remember
And laugh
And twirl
And do things I never thought I’d do
But I did them
I remembered
I sang
I danced
And most importantly, I lived
Lived what I lived here to the fullest
Never looked back
And I’ll never look back
Though I will remember
And grieve
But I will always come back
And never stop
There are so many things going through my mind
And I can’t describe them all
This will make people give me looks
But I’ve had too many before to count
So what will it matter?
It won’t
And that’s exactly my point
I’m thanking you
Not you yourself
And not you either
But whoever you are
Wherever you are
Thanks for this
But I don’t want to thank you
I can thank you
But what I need to thank
Need to remember
Need to grieve
Need to mourn
Need to love
And am never able to live without
Is the music
No matter what it is
No matter what you are
I’m thanking you now
Because there is nothing I could ever do without you
Nothing to say
Nothing to feel
Too much
Too soon
Too little
Too late
It’s not over
It will never be over
Because you’ve shown me music
And I can never thank you enough
For the rhythm
The rhyme
The beat
The tune
The lyrics
The poetry
The instruments
Everything
My life is made up of you
Of music
I can’t turn back time
Forgetting you but not the time
And I’ll never forget you
Never
I don’t want this to sound like a thank-you card
I know it does
Leave me be
I’ll miss you
Forever
Even though you’re still here
You were here with me today
And I thank you for that
For whatever you’ve done
Whatever you haven’t
Just thank you
For the music
That compels me to become the girl I am today
This girl
This music
I can’t be me without you
And all because of one simple word
One simple phrase
One lyric
One beat
One rhyme
One rhythm
One love
One music
Music
Simply music
Hey, I guess it did make a pretty awesome poem.
And this—randomly but not so randomly—below, is my awesomely orange kitchen! Check out more here.

And two. Look out for my next few posts, because they will contain Little Rays of Sunlight which I am currently one or two chapters away from finishing! My first, actual, serious, finished, short story! I can't even begin to tell you how excited I am...

"There is nothing left to analyze...Now don't look back...It's not over 'till you're underground, it's not over before it's too late. This city's burning, it's not my burden. Wake up!" -Letterbomb, from American Idiot, currently playing on my computer and causing me to "leave you tonight..."
Ciao!
Okay, that was totally a lame ending, so I will end it again...
With a picture. Because that's what life is made up of, isn't it? Pictures and snow and stars and music and blogs and flowers and sunshine and books and don't make me finish this list because it will never end. There are just that many moments in life and the best ones are the ones that we can't describe, so I won't even try.

this shadow

2011-02-18T16:22:00.000-08:00

This is a quick, tired, I-really-need-to-go-to-bed-but-I-am-still-here-writing post, so brace yourself to get tired...or rather, un-tired.
This is an insomniac post. And this also is a creepy post...but then again, what isn't?
This is a poem. I think it's about my slight, not-really-here-anymore insomnia. I'm not really sure. Maybe this is about more. Or less. I don't know.

The Shadowed Place
Dreaming
Sweet, cold
Teeming
With wishes and life and love
With the silent whispers of the crooning doves

Hoping
Someday
Coping
With the hardship no one faces
Lying frozen in forgotten shadowed places

Knowing
Never
Slowing
Down and always running from the things
You cannot see with blackened gaping wings

For sleep is a forgotten corridor
Lines with polished mirrors
With starless twisted doors
The night is only a moonlit scene
Glimmering on silver grass
Devoid of its every tinge of green

There is never a way to know
To dream of what is lost
And the price you’ve paid
Every coin and every cost

It is over
It is done
I lay in shadows
And wait for the sleep to come
This is when I say goodbye and close my eyes and wait for sleep to come.
This is when it snows and gets warm again.
And this is where I actually go...

willing hands

2011-02-06T16:04:00.000-08:00

The End
The beginning begins
And the ending ends
Plots weave
Twist
Turning unexpectedly
And exactly as predicted
Crisp
Clean pages
That seem worn from love
And soft from overuse
Perfect overuse
Breathless
Leaving open mouths
Drying tears
Questions invading minds
Anger
Sadness
Joy
Too many emotions for one simple day
And yet there is no end to the words
Though the cover may shut
The sun may set
The light may be switched off
There will always be words
There will always be some little bit of sun
Some light from the glowing lamp
Because, no matter what happens
Who lives or dies
Who falls too deep into love
And deeper still
There will always be words
There will always be a story
Life ends
Covers close
The spinning world comes to a stop
But we go on
And the story will always
Always
Be in our hearts
Carried along by our love and joy and faithfulness
To pass along to willing hands
For, honestly
A story never truly ends
I've always been a reader—that goes without saying, because I write. And what writers don't read? And what readers do or don't write? All of them. None of them. I don't know. (Those were confuzzling statements...)
Any moose—anyway, any whoose, whatever you want to say—I love to read, and I really always have. Though I have fallen in love with millions of books, I have never had a favorite one. And lately, I've fallen in love with a whole lot of books. I mean, a lot of books. *Sigh*
This post will be quick, since I have to go do homework and be infected with cabin fever and read read read read read more, but I want to spread the word about some absolutely fantasmigorical (that's the second time I'm using a completely brain-bewildering word...) authors and their utterly fabulous books:

Maggie Stiefvater
Andrea Cremer
Cassandra Clare
Ally Condie
Kristen Cashore
Gayle Forman
Jackson Pearce
Tamora Pierce
Kirsten Miller
Jodi Picoult
Suzanne Collins
And those are just a few. Comment and tell me which authors you like. I need more books. See, being me, I read way too fast...

And now I have three orders for you people out there. One, get off the computer. Two, get a book by one of these authors. And three, READ. As a little bird told me, every page will leave you breathless...So please, go ahead and read. Then you'll see what I mean.

are we there yet

2011-01-23T12:23:00.000-08:00

Are we there yet? No, we're not. I have something to tell you.

I've been doing a little songwriting lately. Yeah...previously my fingers have played the piano and my voice has sung its songs, but I've never actually put them together—until now.

In Your Dreams

Verse One:
There’s a little bit of sunlight
Creeping through your window every night
And there’s a little bit of moonbeam
While you’re sleeping
That’s in your dreams
In your dreams
In your dreams
Every day I’m walking down the street
With all its sunshine and its summer heat
But all I’m thinkin’ ‘bout is you
And you’re saying

Chorus:
It’s gonna be alright
It’s gonna be okay
I’m gonna get through this
Someday

Verse Two:
People flash by in the clouds
With faces grim and faces proud
Everyone is everywhere
And I can’t breathe
In the air
In the air
In the air
Fires burning bright and tall
Every bit of my life is much too small
And I don’t know what to say
So I’m singing

Chorus

Bridge:
I’m thinking, I’m hopin’
My arms are
Wide open
And my eyes are full of tears
I’ve been hit by your spears
By your spears
By your spirit
I hear it
Your voice in my ear

Chorus

Ending:
Someday
Someday
Someday
Someday
Ooo
Ooo
Ooo
There’s a little bit of sunlight
Creeping through your window every night
Am I in your dreams?
In your dreams?
You’re in mine
Ooo-ooo

I don't have a video or a recording or anything...now I feel pretty idiotic. Of course I post the lyrics to my song but don't have the music. That's me.
But maybe I can make up for that. See, there's this singer/songwriter whose fault it is that I'm writing songs. And there's this other singer/songwriter whose fault it is that I'm actually finishing the songs. Their names are Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson, and I find it a coincidence that they recorded a song together. So maybe to make up for the songs that you can't hear I'll give you some that you can.

Sara Barielles. Ingrid Michaelson. Wow.

Oh, and it's snowing, which I find pretty awesome. I mean, what's winter without snow?

Are we there yet? I think so. I hope so. And for now, that's all I'm going to do: hope.

preview

2011-01-05T14:19:00.000-08:00

Need I say more than "preview"?
Actually, I must say more. Since this post is a preview to a short story that I'm writing that is not done yet but will be soon, I have to give you a little information. (This sounds like some sort of movie review...)

Robin Luce plays the cello. She wears funky clothes. She's on the track team. She can't dance to save her life. She's twelve years old and likes a boy named Solus Greine. Robin is just an ordinary seventh-grade girl caught up in an ordinary seventh-grade crush. But when Robin learns a secret that seems like she is destined for Solus, when they are dancing partners in gym class, when he starts sitting at her friends' table, and when he searches for her in the hallways, Robin begins to suspect that her first crush is more than ordinary. She knows that she is the heroine of a fairytale, until something unexpected happens between her and Solus. But Robin must learn that no matter what happens, there will always be sunlight streaming through the windows.

And here's a few samples, also like the movie preview:

Robin looked around at all of her friends’ faces, some concerned, some smiling, some annoyed, some anxious. On Robin’s right was Scarlet Caxon, her friend and the only other girl at the table who knew her secret. The secret about Solus. And there was Robin Luce herself, with her face a sprinkling of freckles and her red-brown wavy hair, looking sad and changed and happy all at once. She took a deep breath, set down her fork, licked her lips, and began. She told the story from the beginning.
A tall boy with dark hair whipped past Robin.
“Hey,” he said, slowing down. His face was long and his eyes were so dark, Robin was sure she would fall into them. His straight brown hair had a way of flopping into his eyes that made Robin’s heart beat faster. She didn’t know why.
“You’re Solus Greine, right?” Robin asked. Solus nodded. Though he had been in Robin’s school for a long time, at least since fourth grade, Robin had never quite made contact with him. Sure, there had been a few “hellos” here and there, but the two had never exactly talked.
“Well, um, I guess I’ll see you around, yeah?” Solus inquired.
“Yeah. Sure.” Robin answered.
Later that day, while Robin was in the back seat of her car, her thoughts turned to the tall boy she had met in gym class, and who she had seen again in two other classes. Solus. She liked that name. It had a sort of dark, secretive ring to it. And though the sky was as white as a pearl and there wasn't a trace of the sun, she was sure that she felt the warm, yellow rays on her face. Robin was flying.

And now I'll leave you to wonder. Wait! What do you think? Comment!!!!
Okay, now you can wonder.

Wait! Wait! I haven't told you the most important part! Forgetful Maia. Any moose, the title is Little Rays of Sunlight. Okay, now you can go. And now you can comment, which I'm sure you've been absolutely dying to do...I hope...

a little melancholy christmas poem

2010-12-28T13:25:00.000-08:00

The Shattered Ornament
Days are dark
Snow
Piled up to my shoulders
And higher
Pine needles
Littering floors
Happy faces
Shining lights
Flickering candles
Lit up behind frosted windows
And I think I'm trying to hide
From those trees
And the lights
And the ornaments
It must be true
Because I can't face the frosted windows
The shimmering candles
There is fire
In shining blue eyes
And ice in soft brown irises
Somehow I don't what to think
As winter comes
Songs and friends and family and love
Love
Love
And now my heart is broken and crushed
Hurting just like the ice
That coats my fingertips
I should be happy
With the simple pleasures that are mine
But nothing is left
I thought that I was smart
I thought that I knew
And Mother said I would cry
But here I am
And the tears are frozen within my heart
Within my shattered heart
I am the ornament that plummets to the ground
I am showered with pine needles
And whatever else I need
But none of them know
No one can know
But me
And yet so many people
Know just the same thing
So many are frozen and broken
So many shatter
I will not cry
Although I'm better as I do
But I refuse to shatter
For I am strong
Strong enough to live with this
So I will
And for now
Maybe just for now
I could try to be content with dreaming
And I will try
I am him
He is me
And I know nothing
I step in uncharted territory
But it is all wishes and dreams and fantasies
I am me
And only me
So I will take the truth in stride
And stay the girl that I am today
Today
Happy Holidays!

the reality of cavemen

2010-11-27T07:01:00.000-08:00

UPDATE: [The actual post is below.] Sorry...I guess I can't make any promises about posting regularly. I think I got into the habit of not doing a lot of posting over the summer, and now I don't do a lot of posting, even though it's basically winter. Well, again, sorry, because this blog is definitely getting kind of boring without any new posts, so...I think we need a new one!
What do you know about "cavemen"? Well, I can tell you that they don't exist. Seriously, cavemen are figments of humanoid imagination. But at least they are based on something: Homo habilis, Homo erectus, Homo heidelbergenisis, Neanderthals, Cro-Magnons, us, Homo sapiens, and many more (although Homo sapiens is currently the only human species). You're probably thinking, why is she talking about early humans? The answer is that, in my school, we studied them. But when I studied Homo habilis for a school project, I took the studying a couple of steps further...But first, you need to learn a little bit about the life of Homo habilis, and how they set the stage for our lives today. and then I can show you my couple of steps furthers.

Homo habilis was the first to invent tools, so they used primitive technology (see next paragraph for more). They did not hunt, but scavenged abandoned carcasses for meat, and gethered wild plants. This meant that Homo habilis was not at the top of the food chain. In fact, they were a staple in the diet of some animals. Homo habilis didn't have good shelter either, and rain or wind could blow their unstable "huts" down. But Homo habilis did not need to solve the problems we face today. They could look up into a perfectly clear sky and think, I am not worried, but utterly happy every night--as long as they had enough food. This would be what the reality, the life, of Homo habilis was like.
Homo habilis needed tools to cut roots, plants, and grasses, to scavenge for meat, and more. So they invented primitive stone tools made by pounding two stones together and breaking off bits of sharp flint. This flint, as well was the sharpened stone, was used for tools. The method of creating tools was called flint knapping, and today those primitive stone tools are called Oldowan tools. Homo habilis also made the first buildings, small, unstable huts made of branches that were kept in place by stones. These two giants steps forward set the stage of where our lives are today, and led us on the path to civilization. All we needed was a little bit of technology. We still use technology and we still live in buildings, all because of Homo habilis, handy human.
Now that you know about Homo habilis, you're ready for the further steps...
Step #1: The story of Melune. Melune is a story about a girl who was supposed to be a Homo heidelbergenisis, but is a little too advanced for that, so I like to think of her as a Cro-Magnon who lives in a Homo heidelbergenisis village. It was originally a school assignment, to write a short story, but I think, as mine is four pages, I took at least a few steps forward there.

Melune:
The Story of a Girl, a Hunt, and a People

I pace the dirt floor of the small hut. It is hot and the air smells sweet and damp, because it is summer, and I should be happy. But today is the day Manit goes on his hunt. His first hunt. Alone. And I can’t feel happy. My mouth is turned down and my eyes are sad as questions keep tumbling around in my mind. What if he can’t even kill a deer? What if he is killed himself? Will he earn his right to be a man?
Manit, my older brother, is going on his first hunt today. This will not truly be his first hunt, but this time he goes alone, and he must kill a full-grown deer, at least. If he fails to do this he will never be a man. If he fails to do this, he and my family, and me, will live in shame. And I am so afraid for Manit. How can he survive this? That is a question I do not wish to think about.
But I do not have to think about it, as I must keep busy. No woman, not even on her brother’s first hunt, is allowed to sit idle. All work here, all the time. Sometimes, I am so frustrated with it, that I want to run away and hunt my own deer and make my own fire. But I cannot. This is my life, and all we do is work, work, work.
So, I work. First, I pick up my crudely woven basket by the door of the hut that I share with my and five other families, and then I walk out the door. Today, I will gather herbs and fruits and nuts. I might even find quail eggs, but I will leave the fishing to the other women. I hate the texture of the dead, scaly thing. Still, we will feast tonight. If Manit makes it out alive, I think. But I can’t wonder about that now.
Stepping out of the damp hut into the sunshine, I have to blink a moment. My home is much darker than the world outside. I catch my bearings and start walking in the direction of the river, which not very far. Along the way, I bend and pick flowers and dandelion leaves. When I reach the edge of the river, I head to a small bush that I know to be full of red, sweet berries. All this I place in different corners of my basket, so as not to mix them. As I leave the thicket, I realize that my dark, somewhat hairy hands are stained red from the juice. But what does that matter? Still, I run to the river and wash them.
The day is gorgeous, with some clouds in the blue sky, so it is not too hot, and the lush green grass teeming with life and food. It is my favorite season: summer.
I dangle my bare feet in the cool water and lean back on the soft moss, basking in the sunlight. Puffy white clouds sit in the light blue sky above me. I make out the shape of a buffalo, and my heart wrenches. I think again and again of Manit and the hunt.
That brings me into a sitting position and I remember that I should be honoring Manit, and helping prepare the celebration. I slowly and sullenly pull my feet out of the water. I do not understand why I am so sad. I should be happy for Manit. He will be a man. And I will not, that rebellious part of my brain thinks. Of course I do not want to be male, but I do want to prove that women can be as much of a part of the tribe as men can. But I cannot. The responsibility of hunting and running the tribe falls to the men. I must be content with being the backbone of my people, and caring for them. I am not, though. I am not.
This thought creeps into my mind along with my fears for Manit as I search for quail eggs, almonds, figs, and more herbs. Finally, I am finished, and I walk back to my current living spot, here, in Terra Amata. The thought keeps nagging at me, and I become even more grumpy and resentful.
I do have one moment of happiness when I present my day’s work to the women who are cooking our meal. They already have mashed wheat and water together in a hollowed out stone bowl to make the beginnings of a rice-like, thick stew. Fish that have been cut are sizzling in the fire in the middle of the hut in which these women work. More women cut oysters and shellfish with sharp stones, and I give them my eggs. I turn to the women making stew and give them herbs and nuts. I then walk over to the other end of the tent and I give the women there the berries and figs that I gathered. Finally, I bestow the women who cut the meat with my prize find: a turtle that I found by the river and killed with a thorny stick from the berry bush. They smile and give me approving glances.
“Yes,” the three women say together. Although we can form long, descriptive sentences in our heads, we have a primitive spoken language, and no written one. Basically, our talk consists of ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘man’, ‘food’, ‘fire’, and our names. Thinking of speech and the fact that we have no word for woman, my face darkens. I give a non-convincing smile and leave the hut.
I run into our own hut and bury my face into my buffalo skin pelt. When I bring it away and touch my cheek, I am surprised to find that I am crying. That makes me feel worse, as I never cry, and, despite the warmth, I curl up in the fur by the fire and sleep. My dreams are full of wolves and burning huts and dead buffalos.

****

When I wake, I can see the sun setting through my doorframe. The light is diminishing, and it is evening. Manit will be back soon. For him, I smile. And for him, I leave my bed and walk into the center of the huts, where my people are gathered around a fire and the feast.
I can see Ittik, one of the men, gesturing toward the fire, and explaining in hand motions how it came to be. But he needn’t tell the story—we all know that some man found out that if you put two sticks together and rub them, there you go, fire. But since it is my last night here (we move from place to place, and since summer will end soon, we will follow the game south), I sit down at the fire and wait. And wait. And wait.
The flames keep flickering on and on as I stare into them, the light reflected in the dull black eyes of the people around me. Now the fire is the only source of light we have, and with a cool night wind blowing on our faces, we all huddle closer to fire and sit in silence. Still Manit doesn’t come.
Finally, my mother, Rella, walks over to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. She knows how close I am with my brother. “Melune,” she whispers, “no.” And even with those two words I understand her meaning: go to bed, sleep, and do not worry about Manit. He will come before we leave. He will come, and he will be alive. Obediently, like a drained dungo, I walk into our hut and sit on my pelt. But I do not sleep. Instead, I go inside myself, and form a plan.
I wait until almost all of us are asleep, and then I tiptoe from my pelt to my father’s, and silently pick up his sharp stone spear. Going back to my pelt, I pick it up, and wrap it around me for warmth. Then I step out the doorway and stay in the shadows so I am not seen. Luck is with me, and no one even turns my way as I slowly start running into the fields to find my brother.
Using the pale light of the moon, I search the fields, desperate to find Manit, and desperate to get back. We follow the buffalo in the morning, and no one will care if they leave Manit and I behind. I think my parents will care about Manit, but only a little. Community does not matter to most of us.
Tall grasses block some of my view, and I don’t know where to turn to next. I have to find him. Have to. I decide to just keep going forward into the dark.
As I step, there is a squish beneath my feet. I look down to see the entrails of a huge male buffalo, and beyond it, the carcass. I suddenly think of dragging the carcass back to Terra Amata and becoming a “man” myself, or at least with all the honor of a man. Manit can find his own way home, I think cruelly. But when I have reached the buffalo, I get an even bigger surprise—Manit’s body sleeping next to it! I almost scream with glee. Here he is, and he has killed a buffalo! We will get it back by morning if we work together. Oh, how happy I feel, to have Manit again. And to know that he is safe. I wake him up and shake him by the shoulders. Manit grunts slightly, then opens his eyes. He sees me and smiles, and then stands up. I hold the carcass and he understands my meaning. Immediately we both get to work hauling.
Then, when we are almost all the way back, I see a deer sleeping in the grass. Smiling and motioning for Manit to stop, I creep up on the sleeping animal, and kill it with one, swift stab. Now both my dreams will come true, I will be a man, and have Manit back. I can’t stop smiling.
We reach the center of the huts, where the fire burns, and find our father waiting. He first frowns at me, then hugs Manit, then me when I show him my kill. He brings us both to where Ittik sleeps, and Ittik acknowledges us, then gets up and motions for my brother and I to wake the rest of the people. The snow falls, the buffalo leave, and we follow them.
There is nothing much to pack, but we haul food and baskets along, babies on the mothers’ hips. My brother and me, arm in arm, walk nest to each other, fellow men now. Before the noonday sun is in our eyes, we have caught up with the buffalo, and are on our way to a new life.
Step #2: Music. My piano teacher and I were caught up in my studying of Homo habilis, and we decided to perform and improvisation about the life of Homo habilis, so we did, and here is is.
That is me taking a couple steps further, and a couple steps out of the realms of school...
And here is me again, saying goodbye and hoping that you all had a great Thanksgiving...

stories

2010-10-09T13:59:00.000-07:00

What is this blog? Something that just sits there halfheartedly, lonely and post-free? Well, no more. I'm back, and I'm back to stay...I hope. :)
On to and earlier subject, what is this blog? A blog for my writing and photography. There's been lots of poetry and pictures lately, yes, but we need a story. And we need it fast. But first, read this. Then this. Then this.

Words

When he woke, the sun was in Jade’s eyes. The skin over the door of the hut was flipped up, letting in all the light of the morning. His parents were outside, and so were the rest of the travelers. Apparently Jade had slept in until nine or so. When he realized that, and where he was, Jade leaped out of bed as fast as he could. He checked all over his body for bugs and bites, and, happily, found none. Jade rubbed his eyes groggily and walked out of the dwelling and into the daylight. The village was so tiny. Jade barely even remembered it from last night, so it was like he was experiencing it again, for the first time. There were about nine of the little huts, all clustered together around the center of the village, where Jade’s parents and the others were. It reminded Jade of the little villages in movies about jungles. It’s like I went into a book, he thought. Jade ambled over to the center and his parents. Along the way all the villagers turned their heads and stared at him. It made Jade feel like he was in some sort of spotlight. In other words, he thought, I’m embarrassed. “Jade, there you are!” Jade’s mother smiled and waved him over. “We’ve just been talking to Janou, our guide. He’ll take us to the river after you eat some breakfast. Then we can set up our new home!” She said this so enthusiastically that Jade was almost nauseated. He didn’t want to go live in the middle of the jungle. He just wanted to be back in his kitchen in California, reading the comics and eating pancakes. But he was here, in the little village and was going to be there, in the jungle. At that moment, Jade wished that something, anything would happen to take him away from the little hut-filled, dirty village. And that he would never have to even think about jungles again. His parents owed him. After they had eaten a bowl of little tart, dark purple berries that Janou called, ‘acai’, Jade and his parents gathered their things and followed their guide. As Jade turned to look back at the villagers, he saw that they were waving, even the little naked children had gathered around to say goodbye. Tentatively, Jade turned back and waved a little himself. Then he picked up his bags, and walked quickly away, following Janou and his parents to a little canoe, feeling worse and worse with every step.

Twigs snapped and bent as the dark girl and her sister ran. The older one, who was named an indigo-colored flower that she could not name with words, but could picture in her mind, ran faster than her younger sister. The younger girl looked almost exactly like her sister, like a miniature version of her: dark skin and eyes, long, black hair, skinny, and tall. As they ran, the older girl thought of the picture her sister had just sent her. It had consisted of what she knew to be their village—even though she could not call it that. The focus in the message had been on one hut, especially on the dwellers, both of who were lying in their bed, coughing up mucus and shivering. The girl knew just what was wrong, and how to treat it. That was why her sister had been sent for her, because she was a healer. Finally, after almost ten minutes of hard running, the two girls reached the edge of their village, breathless and sweating.

I still think we need more story. So here is more story. More new story.

The Phoenix Feather
A Companion to Silk and Sins
One
The Letter on the Doorstep

The envelope was crisp, white, and firm. There was obviously a long letter inside it, and that was strange. People didn’t usually send long letters. It wasn’t an ordinary envelope, either, but was held together with a red wax seal, on which was printed what seemed to be a company or school. On the back of the envelope, in a loopy script, was written a name and address. The envelope did look quite odd, but the strangest thing about it was the fact that it was carried in the beak of an owl. The large, white bird flapped her wings, and soared toward the large houses on Victoria Crescent, finally landing on the roof of 112. She hooted, dropped the letter in front of the door, and took off into the dawn. The house and the street stayed still, dark, and quiet for another hour, but the sun slowly rose higher and higher, until the residents of Victoria Crescent had to wake up and start their day.
This particular late August weekend was quiet. There wasn’t anything happening in the city, and many people were off work on a weekend or summer holiday. Therefore, many people were vacationing and had left their houses. So when two girls burst out of the door of 112, the only ones disturbed were the birds in their garden.
“El! You said you’d let me get the mail today!” screamed a young but insistent voice at the door.
“It doesn’t matter. You can get it tomorrow. I’m already out here, Tess, so why waste time?” This voice was older and more mature. It belonged to a tall, skinny girl of eleven with bright green eyes and light coppery brown hair. She had sharp features and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. The girl was arguing with her younger sister as she fetched the Saturday post and mail in her pajamas.
“But tomorrow’s Sunday, Ellie. There’s no mail!” yelled Tessa, the younger girl. She looked very different from her older sister, with very dark brown hair, hazel eyes, and no freckles.
“Well, then you can get the paper. I really don’t care,” Ellie said sarcastically. “Look, there’s a letter for me!” She pulled the letter out from under the newspaper and the other mail: two magazines, a bill, and a letter for her mother.
“What is it?” asked Tessa curiously.
“I don’t know,” answered Ellie. “
Well, open it!”
“No.” Ellie walked into the house with Tessa pouting behind her, but she was excited; she didn’t get letters often. She slipped through the door, into the hall-way, and stepped into the kitchen with a grin on her face. Ellie’s mother was sitting at the table, drinking coffee from a painted mug. Her father was at the stove, cooking omelets for their breakfast. Ellie turned him and opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Tessa shouted out her news.
“Ellie’s got a letter! Ellie’s got a letter!”
Ellie scowled. Sometimes seven-year-olds could be so annoying. But rather than dwell on the ruin of a surprise, Ellie turned to her parents, smiling.
“Well, let’s see,” said her father. Ellie handed him the letter. He looked it over, quizzical and smiling, then handed it back to Ellie. “Ellie, open it. I want to see what it says.”
“Okay,” she answered, then turned down to the letter. There was a red wax seal, with the words, ‘Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry’ printed on it. On the back of the envelope was her name, Eleanor Olivia Harris, and her address, 112 Queen’s Hill Crescent, Newport, England. The handwriting was unfamiliar. And what was with Harry Potter’s school, Hogwarts?
“Dad, this is Harry Potter’s school. You know, the books by J.K. Rowling.” Frowning, Ellie flipped it over and broke the seal. She pulled out a letter as white and foreign looking as the envelope and read it aloud.
“’Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Headmaster: Minerva McGonagall. Dear Miss Harris, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins September 1st. Yours sincerely, Corren Daire, Deputy Headmaster.’ Hogwarts? Minerva McGonagall? This is all real?” Ellie asked. “It can’t be! That’s a fantasy book.”
“Most likely this is a prank of your friends’ work, honey,” Ellie’s mother answered. “But that would be so cool!” Tessa mused. “I mean, imagine broomsticks and moving pictures and robes and wands! Real wands!”
Ellie was shocked. Her friends knew how much she loved magic and how much she wished she could be in Harry Potter’s world. They knew that she had to get her hands on any book to do with magic. None of them would be his rude. It made no sense. But Ellie had this growing sense that it was real. And maybe J.K. Rowling was a witch herself, who wanted to live in the Muggle world and tell the story of the boy who defeated Voldemort. Ellie wasn’t sure of anything, now.
“Mom, can we go to London?” she asked suddenly.
“Why?”
“I want to go.”
“El, Harry Potter doesn’t exist. You know that.”
“Mom, I just want to go to London. I want to look,” Ellie said pleadingly. “Please?” she added for effect.
“Well—“
But Ellie’s father cut her mother off. “Let her go to London, Grace. You can go with her, and I’ll take Tess for the day,” he said turning to Ellie. “What do you say, and girl’s day out? Tomorrow?”
Ellie nodded vigorously. She would get to find out for herself if it existed. As her father and sister talked about what they would do the next day, Ellie’s thoughts turned to magic. And to the wizarding world. She knew, knew deep down her bones, that it was real.

Sunlight crept slowly into the room of the sleeping girl. It shone on her red hair and made her green eyes sparkle. Her left hand was clutched around a crumpled envelope, and the letter that obviously used to be in it was lying, a creamy white sheet, on her bedside table.
Ellie stirred and slowly woke up into a bright Sunday morning. Remembering the events of yesterday’s morning, Ellie was sure it had been a dream. But then she saw the squashed envelope with its curly green script in her hand, and she smiled. “Harry, I just want to tell you…” she whispered faintly, “you’re my hero.”
Ever since she had opened the first book, Ellie was sure that somehow, somewhere, there was magic. And now, well, she was right.
Suddenly wide awake and bursting with joy, Ellie jumped out of bed and bounded into her parents’ room. “Mom! Mom! Get uuuup! We’re going to London today, remember?” Her father groaned and turned over, and her mother slightly opened her eyes, only to close them again and drift back to sleep. Ellie wanted to avoid anything bad, so she tiptoed out of the room, but not before reminding her mother one final time about their trip, by whispering it in her ear.
Ahh. That's better. Now we have had stories. All is well.

okay, okay, i'm back

2010-09-26T09:12:00.000-07:00

It's me...after too long. Again, there's just so much to do when you have nothing to do. You know what I mean?
Any moose, I have some pretty crazy stuff going on...I'm going to the Harry Potter midnight premier with some friends...I'm reading the Hunger Games series (LOVE THEM!!!!)...um, I went to a Taylor Mali workshop...started school...and lots of crazy otherness.
I don't know what to write. But there's a solution for that: whenever I can't write...I write.
Poems.

Happy Ending
Once upon a time
We were friends
You and I
Once upon a time
There was love
Laughter
Light
And you
And me
Once upon a time
There was you and I
And then the story ended
Just ended
And there was nothing
The myth of a happy ending was gone
Is gone
And will never come back
It was a once upon a time
A you and I
Then a you
And an I
We are alone now
At least, we were
But today, I think
Today
There will be a pen lying in wait for me
And under it a piece of paper
So I will write
And let go
Let go of the myth of happy endings:
Everything will end right
But it won’t
Not at all
It will only end right if you make that choice
And I choose to say
We didn’t
The Word Perfect
A word is a word.
It is said,
And unsaid.
Sworn,
And promised.
Uttered quietly under our breath.
But really,
We use words too much.
A bit of silence is all we need.
Just a little time to be who we are,
The part of us
That’s in silence.
And there is one word,
One, single word,
That should not be spoken.
And yet, it should.
It is not a curse,
Not a blessing,
But, in a way, it is both.
The word
Perfect.
No fancy of looks,
Or sound,
Sight,
Sense.
The word is just untrue.
Untrue and true.
There is a fact,
A fact that we all know,
Deep down:
Everyone has a little of both sides,
A little light and dark.
Everything does.
And perfect,
Well, perfect.
Perfect is just that.
I'd say this post was a perfect welcome back...

check

2010-08-19T13:29:00.000-07:00

I haven't written in forever. And I feel like I should be writing now...but I'm not. I just--I don't know, maybe I'm not in the mood. But for me that's so weird: I always want to write. Who knows?

Anyway, since I can't write for you, I'll show you in pictures. No captions, just pictures.

summer and what comes with it

2010-07-18T18:08:00.000-07:00

Well, hello there! It's been so long, I feel like I don't know what a blog is anymore. But hey, that's summer, isn't it? When somehow you're busier than you are during the rest of the year, even though you seemingly have less going on. When there's always something to do, somewhere to go, and you have no time to think about what you usually do. Your routine is wrenched apart, and when that happens, you know summer has begun.
Summer. Summer. Summer...Summer.
Summer.
Summer.
Summer
Gardens burst
Berries ripen
Birds sing
Flowers bloom
The light filters through the leaves on the trees
Like moonlight on water
Soft breezes caress your cheek
Velvet
This is all summer
But so is the icy water in the burning sun
Doing nothing
And not knowing whether you are bored
Or just happy
Being where you are
Normal life is broken
Shattered
But is that really so bad?
Is that too much to pay for summer?
I think not
So therefore I go on with summer
With no schedule
And nothing in my way
I survive
And thrive
In the summer wind

Well, that's my little 'hello' to you. I'll post when I can, but like I said, there seems to be nothing to do...when there always is. Or something like that.

waves

2010-07-01T10:23:00.000-07:00

On June 29th, I went sailing.
In my area, there is this beautiful watershed, called Lake Garfield. There's a little beach full of soft, white sand and then the lake: two docks, and a square of blue and white buoys roping in the area that younger kids can swim unsupervised. I had never actually been around the whole lake, not until I went sailing.
This was, technically, my first time. The real first time I went sailing, the wind level was force zero. Zip. There was enough wind to get us out to the middle of the lake, and we had to row back. Yeah, row back on a sailboat. Pathetic!
Anyway, this time, when my mom, dad, and our close friend (who owned the boat) went out to sail, there was real wind blowing us along. We got on the lake at around 7:00, and stayed out for the sunset, and way after. By 9:15, we had left the lake after zig-zagging around the perimeter, the wind sometimes almost tipping the whole boat over!
But I still had something left to do. Before we jumped into the boat, I was running around in the water, my pants rolled up to my thighs, because it was so warm. The water was almost hot. Yes, hot. The air was cool, especially with so much wind blowing, and that made the water all the warmer.
So, it was 9:15, and I was going for a moonlit swim. It was freezing as I plunged in, but after the initial shock, the water was warm again. Lovely. I swam for as long as I could, and as my parents started going back into the car, I jumped out and grabbed the towel, running to join them.
And that was only a brief overview of my night. But to be more detailed I'm going to tell you in, guess what? A poem! Actually, two...Okay, okay, I always use a poem to describe an event. Deal with it. I like poetry. And, I think I'm pretty good at it...(that means: comment!)

Pulled Taut
On the edge of the dock
A little boat sits in the water
Swaying in the wind
I step into it
And it rocks and tips
But I stay steady
Ready for anything
The fierce winds
The responsibility
This is an adventure

The two flapping sails
Are pulled taut against the wind
And my smile
Pulled taut across my face
Full of joy

We float
The boat carrying us
To the center of the lake
To the edges and the shadows
Traveling the world
With me
The director
Holding the tiller
Telling the boat where to go
How to fly into the sunset

The two flapping sails
Are pulled taut against the wind
And my smile
Pulled taut across my face
Full of joy

Again the boat tips
All of us sitting on one side
To keep the little vessel from
Falling
Into the waves
And still I tell myself to stay steady
My father’s hand helping me guide the boat
The strong wind obeys us
Laughing
We sail on

The two flapping sails
Are pulled taut against the wind
And my smile
Pulled taut across my face
Full of joy

Finally
We pull up to the little dock again
Tying the boat
Splashing in the warm water
And I know
It's not quite over
The two sails may lie still now
But my smile is still pulled taut across my face
Full of joy
This adventure will never end
The Ripple
I had to swim
Had to feel the warmth slide over my body
But the problem tugged at me
I ignored it
And swam
The moon was up
Shining over the surface of the water
As it swirled and swished
Freezing
I dove in
Instantly feeling warm
Warmer than I was in the cool night air
And by the light of the moon
An adventure began
My white
Shining body
Twirled and danced
Beneath the surface of the waves
The water curling over me
The moon lighting my face as I dashed out
Happy
I was so happy
Like the rippling water
I danced as the water did
I was the water
The splash
The ripple

Footnote: I was quite mad that I had left my camera at home--but then again I probably would have dropped it in the water as we flew over the lake, so...I didn't take it. But the above photo is of Lake Garfield, frozen over: just a little fact.

bluez-ified

2010-06-21T16:18:00.000-07:00

**WARNING** I'm having writer's block at the moment, so this post won't be great...but at least watch the video and read the poem. Thanks. Now to the post!
I like the color blue. It's not my favorite, but I like the color. Today, I'm wearing blue. I'm feeling blue. And my music is blue. Literally. I play the blues, or as I like to call it, the bluez.
I improvise, and when I play the bluez, something happens. I guess I just really like it. I feel like I'm breaking rules. But at the same time I'm "little-goody-two-shoes", and perfect. The bluez gives me something. I feel powerful and creative and proud. I guess I can't really explain it. Or maybe I can tell you in a poem...
My Blue
Laying my fingers over the white keys
I slither to the black notes
And let gravity take over
Pulling my fingers down
To punch out music
Weaving pattern of blue silk into the air
I play
And let myself go
Getting a sense of flying
Yes, flying
My fingers tingle and I have wings
Lifting me into the air
Dancing in the blue sky
Pulsing through clouds and swerving past birds
My other self
Sitting at the piano
Grows still
Except for my fingers
My flying fingers
And as my wings carry me to the ground
These fingers grow still
The last note played
They finally come to a stop
And my wings disappear
It’s over
But it can’t be
Not yet
So I close my eyes and remember the blue sky
Remember the rush of air
And I smile
A wide open smile
Thinking of only the blue
My blue
And this is my blue, in action.

Bluez-ified!

yours

2010-06-06T08:45:00.000-07:00

Today, I have a challenge for you. This one isn't from the book. It's just a little...me.
I wrote this poem.
Bidding Farewell
Follow the sun
Stop the coming of the night
And as the moon fights for a place on stage
Your world falls silent
The moon soothes them
Lulls them to sleep like a mother
Rocking her child
But my friend is the sun
The rising, bright, sweet sun
That tells the world that day has come again
There is no need to sleep anymore
But I don’t, anyway
I stay awake
Alert for the trace when I can embrace her once more
And old friend
So I sit at my window
Waiting
Waiting
Lost and lonely
The moon is a lovely thing
But sometimes all I want
Is for the sun to rise up over the hills
To greet my cheerful, smiling face
I jump up and leap outside
Bidding farewell to the moon
And saying, “Hello,” to the sun
And my challenge for you is to write a poem about the night. Not just, 'the night', but how you feel as you drift off to sleep. If you have trouble sleeping, if you sleep as your head hits the pillow, if you wander outside in the warm summer air with the stars above you. What do you do? How do you feel? Pay attention tonight. If you want to, maybe even take pictures of the sunset, or the stars.
Then write a poem.

No, you don't have to be a writer to write a poem. Just type, scribble, six or seven lines. It's a poem. And they don't have to make sense, poetry is something that doesn't. It's a metaphor, and that's what's beautiful about it.
I only have a couple...regulations...for you. The poem must:
• be about night.
• be at least seven lines long.
• include the words silent, mother, window, and cheerful.
Otherwise, make this yours!

As you can see, this isn't one of my long posts, but I'm counting on you to make it longer. Seriously...this post isn't just me, it's you. Email me at
aiamaysv@gmail.com
with your poems. I want this to really work, so please email me within a week. When I get a poem, I'll post it up here, and the world can read your work!
Come on, do it. Don't be afraid.
Untitled
The shining full moon
above my window
bids me good night
a mother
to the stars
glistening in the pitch-colored sky
above my window

My silent bedroom
lets me think
of cheerful things
of sad things
of the day gone by
as
slowly
slowly
I drift off to sleep.
-Claire

bloom

2010-06-01T17:12:00.000-07:00

Lately, there have been funny times and sad times. Times to run through the sprinkler and scream, and times to lie down in bed and go over thoughts. Every day has been a choice and a resolution. A problem with an ending. But it is all getting mixed up into something else. And I feel like I'm playing some kind of stream-of-consciousness game. I say random words that mean nothing.
And lately, people have come up to me and said, "Hey, are you fifteen?" I'm not. Lately people have been thinking that I'm so much older and more mature than I was. I'm more mature than I used to be, but I'm still me, still a kid. And there, I'm burdening you with my troubles. But since I started, I might as well finish.
So on Sunday, Sadie and Rosie were here. And somehow, a little farmer girl found her way to the house,
along with her granny.
And somehow, a princess got into all the mess.
Then on Monday, I went to a friend's for Memorial Day. And we screamed and laughed and danced and teased. There were boys and dances and growing up. But there was dancing, and laughing, and hosing each other. There was cartwheels and spins and singing and swinging. So we grew up, but we stayed young. And that was the part I liked.
I guess my point here is that...maybe I'm not ready to grow up. I may feel twelve and say I'm twelve, but really, I'm only eleven. And I'll be twelve on Thursday. I think that's what's bringing this around. But whether I turn 20, or 12, or 82, I don't think I'm ready. Not for that responsibility.
So will you help me through this? Will you give me feedback on my stories and poems? Will you tell others about me? Will you just...help me? That's all I need.

And today is a pause. But I have to give you a poem and photos, because they are just so beautiful, that they take my mind off everything.
The flowers blow me away.
Bloom
I feel as if I’m falling
Abyss below me
Sky above me
Nothing to grab, to see
Just the endless blue
But maybe that is enough
For like a flower
It blooms
Blossoms
Blows
The sky twists and reflects
And so do I
I may be falling
But I am growing
Finding a ledge
And I think that I’m slipping
The rock is crumbling beneath my feet
So I save myself
I think of the times I will have
Older
Wiser
Stronger
But then I fall again
And remember the young
The constant laughs
Budding blossoms
As we were
But as we will never be again
So I turn to the flowers
With an endless cycle
They are never young
Nor old
And yet they are always in my heart
They will always be that ledge that I climb on as I fall
And they will always, always bloom
And grow
And change
While staying innocent and young
As I will
Help me with this. And bloom.

too tired to talk

2010-05-23T17:36:00.000-07:00

Right now, I'm really tired. I just loaded on 200 photos to my computer and deleted 130 of them. Then I finished all my homework, practiced a very hard song with an out of tune piano, and now I'm here, writing.
Earlier today I went to a little party to celebrate my sister. I practically followed Sadie and Rosie around, everywhere, clicking away on my camera. I ended up with 334 photos. Not kidding. I spent about 45 minutes deleting 100 of them, then an hour deleting more.
And on Friday I had a dance recital, and I'm still tired from that. Really tired.
So I guess what I'm trying to say here is that I don't really want to talk right now. I'll post a couple pictures, and, of course, words. No, Words. Capital 'w'. As I said before, I don't want to talk, so, here goes...

Words

The plane did land on that tiny strip of something that Jade couldn’t exactly call a runway, or even a road, for that matter. It was more like a dirt road. One of those back ‘roads’ that you see all the time in the country, Jade thought.
The runway-thing was somewhat, well, soggy. That was the best word Jade had for it. The somewhat paved (more dirt than anything else) road was wet with rain and—soggy. Jade could feel the small puddle-jumper that he was in sink into the ground as it landed on the packed, gravelly road.
Rain much around here? Jade thought. But the announcer was telling them all to gather their carry-on luggage and get ready to unboard the plane, and he didn’t answer his sarcastic question. Instead, Jade looked at his dad skeptically. ‘Unboard’ was not a word.
Ignoring the captain’s bad grammar, the passengers of the small plane collected all their belongings and tensed in their seats, ready to stand up and leave the tiny, claustrophobic space.
Jade got up slowly. He wasn’t eager to get of the small plane. He wanted to stay there. If he got off that meant he would have to live in the Amazon. It would mean it was really true.
So he decided to wait for a while, and let his mind go blank, for once. All he wanted to do was sit there, and never to get off the plane.
But his dad got up and tapped Jade’s shoulder. Jade suddenly felt a rope in his stomach that was tying itself into giant knots that would never be untangled, never. And his Adam’s apple was suddenly the size of a baseball in his throat. He choked on it, and felt his eyes go hot.
He tried to push away the tears, but it didn’t work. Little drops of liquid fire burned down his cheeks. Jade felt like the whole plane was watching him cry, and his face turned pink.
“Honey, are you okay?”
That was his dad. Jade couldn’t say anything, but he nodded, even though it wasn’t true.
Jade didn’t know exactly why he was crying. He knew that he missed his home and his friends and his pets terribly. He knew that he wouldn’t go back there for a long time. He knew that he would be living in the Amazon for that long time.
But most of all, Jade was disappointed at his parents for letting this happen. He had at least thought that when they were confronted with something like this, they would consider his opinion, but they didn’t even do that. He was angry with them, that was it. And he didn’t want to live in the Amazon Jungle, but now he had no choice.
Trying to stop the stinging flow, Jade lifted his arm with effort and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his sweatshirt and stared ahead. He bent down and took hold of his backpack. Then, straightening his shoulders, Jade turned briskly and walked out of the plane onto the mud. His feet squelched and sunk in it, and he fought to stop more tears.
He looked out at his surroundings. Wet. More wet. And still more wet. It was all humid and hot and wet. There was a forest about six or seven miles away—visible only in the distance, if he squinted—and even that was insanely wet.
Focusing on the forest, Jade realized that it was his nightmare: the Amazon, with a thick branch of the Amazon River running through it, and through the mud and a small village close to the runway.
Jade sighed and mumbled, quietly reassuring himself that it would all be okay. But he knew it wouldn’t be.

He was jostled as the small amount of people bumped into him, trying to get onto the ground. They acted like they wanted to want to bruise and batter him, just to tell him that he would never leave. Maybe all they wanted to do was give him a welcome present—the best thing he would get on this journey.
“Come on, Jaybird, this’ll be fun!” his dad said, trying to convince Jade of something that, in Jade’s mind, couldn’t be changed. Jade only scowled at the use of his babyish nick-name, and said nothing.
They walked for what seemed hours through the vines on a small dirt path, but it was probably only Jade who thought it took that long. The walkway leading to the village was long and skinny, but the twelve or thirteen of the passengers endured. Jade looked down at his sluggish feet and sighed.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Um…somewhere near Manaus, going toward a village called, hmm, I’m not very sure…” his mom answered.
“Mom! You don’t even know where we are?” Jade yelled.
“We’re in the Amazon Basin, okay?” Jade’s dad inerrupted, cutting off the fight. “Look, Jade, remember when we landed in a city to switch planes and stretch?”
Jade nodded. “Was that Man-ows?” he asked, mispronouncing the name.
“Yes, Jade, and right now we are going to a little village, Mura,” he said, looking at Jade’s mother, “near there.”
“Then we’ll find a guide and go into the rainforest via the river. He’ll help us set up a jungle home!” his mom said excitedly. “Oh, what an adventure it will be!”
Jade wholeheartedly disagreed.
About half an hour later, the party came to a village, Mura. It was very small, only seven tiny huts clustered together. Grubby children played with sticks in the dirt, while dark-skinned women were making some kind of meal. It looked more like gruel than anything else to Jade.
They all moved closer to the village, looking around as it started to get tropically hot. Jade was sweating profusely and had to take off his sweatshirt. As they walked, the villagers stopped what they were doing and turned toward their visitors.
In some Portuguese dialect, a tall man with feathers in his hair and only a loincloth covering him said something like ‘hello’. Jade thought it sounded a lot like the gibberish games he had played in his acting classes back home.
But his father, not even looking over the half-naked man, said, “Hello,” except it was in Portuguese or something, so that the man who seemed to be the head of this Mura place might under-stand him. Then Aden and the chief had a fast-moving conversation consisting mainly of words Jade didn’t know. Once they stopped, the headman smiled and welcomed the visitors with a wave of his hand.
The tall man motioned them to a hut made of bamboo reeds lashed with vines from the jungle. The roof was made of giant leaves that seemed to be somehow sewn together. There was a small opening in the front of the dwelling, which was covered with a skin of some sort. Jade wondered if it was jaguar skin.
Jade’s father, obviously the only one who knew Portu-guese, asked if they should sleep inside. The tall man nodded and motioned to the sun. Jade could see that it was getting dark. But he was apprehensive about sleeping in some weird hut in the middle of a weird gibberish-speaking village in the middle of the Amazon Jungle.
“Mom,” Jade whispered at his mother, “how are we going to eat?” He was looking over at the children and women and other men, who were eating the gruel-like mixture rudely with their hands.
“When in Rome, do what the Romans do, honey,” his mom whispered back. She motioned to the leader of the village and made eating signs with her hands, pointing to the other members of the village.
Something was exchanged between them, and then suddenly the whole group was shuffling toward the bowl. Jade took one look and decided to be hungry for the night. He told his father he was tired and not feeling wonderful. He wanted to go to sleep. Jade’s father nodded and told him to go lie down, the humidity was probably getting to him.
Jade slowly and carefully wandered over to the hut. He really didn’t want to be bit by something poisonous tonight, but if he did, it would all be his parents’ fault.
The hut was dark and small, but there were skins on the floor of it, and they were soft. Jade quietly took off his boots, then put them back on again. What if the bug found him through his socks?
He lay down on the makeshift bed and tried to go to sleep. Darkness comes early here, Jade thought. It must be the trees. Then he mentally kicked himself for thinking about such stupid things. He was going to sleep in some dirty hut in the Amazon Jungle, and he would be leaving on the Amazon River tomorrow, and he had no idea what would happen next.
Again Jade went over in his mind why he was even there. His parents hadn’t told him yet, and he was pretty sure they wouldn’t for a long time. Well, I guess there’s no use in thinking about it, because I have no idea, and I’ve wondered about it too much, Jade thought.
Finally, with pictures of spiders and bugs that would kill him overnight, Jade fell into a restless, dreamless slumber.

And that's all. Good night. Oh, and I hope that poisonous bugs don't kill you overnight, because they might to Jade......

inside me

2010-05-10T12:31:00.000-07:00

Sorry I haven't posted in so long...busy week. Too much to do and to much to think about.
But I'm here today. For once I have no homework and nothing to do, except listen to 'In the Heights', my new obsession. So I took some pictures of lilacs.
They're so...lilac-y.
And now I'm writing. And I have no idea what to write. No idea at all.
Are there ever times when you feel like your brain is fighting a battle over what you know and what you should be doing? That's me right now. This reminds me of a tiime when I was in fourth grade, I think. Anyway, we were supposed to write in our notebooks, and I didn't know what to write--like now! But I wrote a story about the battle in my brain. It was pretty cool.
This moment also reminds me of a poem I wrote.

Filled with Something
Empty
It is empty
Hollow
Filled with nothing
No inspiration
Blank
A white, crisp sheet of paper
Waiting to be written on
But my pencil is dull
My pen out of ink
I have nothing to write with
Nothing to say
I am empty
Yet perfectly full of something
Something immense
Immeasurable
And I don’t know what it is
Somehow
I am empty
And full
Nothing
And something
And I must have inspiration
Since I am writing this now
So I must be filled with something
Something that I will imagine
And create in my hand
Like a chick
Hatching from its egg
My ideas will punch their way through this empty barrier
I am the director
The author
The actor
The characters
I am all
And every little bit
Of every thing I write
Must be filled
With everything I do
It must be filled
With something

So right now, I must be filled with something. Some kind of...something. I'm not empty, I know that, and I'm happy about it.
Of what I'm filled with, though, I have no idea...

jump

2010-05-02T17:58:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I went canoeing. Yesterday, there were pictures of the water to take and snowflake-like flowers to smell. Reflections stood out to me like a bright pink sun in the middle of a clear blue sky. I needed to photograph them. Yesterday the hot weather was enough to make me jump into literally melted ice water and almost have a heart attack...But I was alright.
Yes, yesterday will hold memories for me. Lying down in the heat of a summer night and watching the International Space Station fly overhead. Finding a steep path by the pond I was canoeing in and discovering a secret place, complete with a river and a big waterfall from a dam. Yesterday makes me think of tall, blue people with tails as I watched Avatar for the second time. Yesterday was having breakfast with friends at a brook. Yesterday was seaweed rippling in dark water and yesterday was eating an apple as I sat in a canoe, shivering under a towel. Yesterday was. It just was.
And the days go by so fast that you don't even know they're gone. They just whiz over the treetops like a plane while you barely even have a chance to board them. You go to sleep in the dead of winter and wake up when the flowers are blooming and the weather is rising in temperature. You know nothing about what happened the day before or how old you are or even the month.
But there are the memories that hold you and how you hold the memories. There are those little seemingly insignificant moments that make up life. One sunset. The way your best friend looks at you after a fight. Finishing a story. Hugging someone. Watching something or someone slowly grow until you have to let them go.
You can never undo these moments or redo them. They are things that twirl around and stop in front of your nose for one second, then spin away to the wind. They never end up the same twice.
These seconds, these moments, these little memories are what makes you who you are. So don't try to forget them. The sad times and the good ones. We can't forget.
There are steps we have to take and roads we have to cross. People we must let go of and friends that we will never see again. There are choices that we have to make and things that we must keep in our hearts because they will never be the same again.
Which reminds me, I have a little poem about choices that I have to show you.

Anchor

Dig down deep
Think
Hesitate
Wonder, don’t just go
It will get you into trouble
So stop yourself
Before you judge
Get evidence
No one is the same on the outside
But on the inside, we all are

So build an anchor
Dig down deep
And when the ship leaves harbor
Leaving one trunk
One passenger behind
You are wrong
Build an anchor
And think before hoisting it

When you are asked a question
That you’re not sure of
Stick to your anchor
The rocking of the waves
Check your belongings
And answer
Follow what you know to be true
You can’t turn around
What you choose stays with you
Always

So build an anchor
Dig down deep
And when the ship leaves harbor
Leaving one trunk
One passenger behind
You are wrong
Build an anchor
And think before hoisting it

No uncertainty of your choice
Just bury your body in the sand
Form a barrier from lies
And paths that take you
The wrong way
You know in your heart
And your mind
That you must do nothing but dig
Dig down deep
And build an anchor

Memories are something that happen only once in a lifetime. Sometimes all you do is hold on to the slightest thing that gives you joy. Anything. And sometimes all you can do is take a chance, and jump.

over the west side

2010-04-25T11:51:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday, I was in New York City. At 1:45, I was in the Palace Theater. At 2:00, the curtain went up.
My family and I had planned to see Billy Elliot, but...that didn't work out. Whenever we go to Broadway, we stand on the TKTS line, to get discount tickets. Billy Elliot sold fast, and when we got there, there were two options. One, get $90, high-up, and partial view tickets, or two, $300 orchestra seats. Neither one was going to work.
While we were on line, we had three choices. So right then, we went to our second choice, and chose to see the revival of 'West Side Story'.
That was probably one of the best choices I've ever made.

We all loved 'West Side Story', but it wasn't one of our favorites. The revival was spectacular, way better than any other version of it that I've seen. It was even partly in Spanish! And it was just amazing. I was hooked for the whole time, and by the end, I was crying. Seriously, it's such a tragedy.
Anyway, it was great. But I can't just blabber on and blabber on, so why don't I show you? Two ways.
One, in words:

This was my day.
Here
Wake
Somewhere strange
A blue bed
More light then usual
A place I don’t know
Then I remember
I am here
Where I should be
At the moment, at least
So I pull the shade up
Letting sunlight stream through the window
Then I jump out
Slip from the door
And in the bathroom
Then back to my unknown room
And into my clothes
I am somewhere different
But this is right
So I keep going
Eat
Walk to the car
Wait
Then walk
And walk
And walk more
Carefully we choose
Make decisions
But the first
Is gone
So we go to plan B
Disappointment
But why be sad
So I push the twinge away
And enjoy this
And that was right
This is right
Days fly
Nowhere
Moments
Go somewhere
But no one knows
So I walk and I choose
And I choose and I walk
There
Here
Where I should be

This was the show.
Story
Red seats
Dark stage
Music
The lights go up on one boy
Then another
And another
They laugh
Then fight
Two groups
One argument
And no way to break it up
Soon there is a dance
Competition
But there are two
One from each side
And they stare
In love
A bridge between the worlds
That night they see each other again
But must part
And a marriage the next night
One hand, one heart
Then there is another fight
Rumble
And he is killed
The right hand man
So the first goes mad
Forgets his love
And kills the other first
He kills the one who killed his friend
He kills his lover’s brother
And she finds out
It seems like they will never forgive themselves
But love takes over
And they dream
Soon her friend comes
A sister to her
And advises her
No
Then there are questions and hardships
Somehow
He gets the message that she has died
But she has not
So he runs
Hysterical
Raving
And he finds her
But not before there is one sound
A sound that shakes us all
The sound of a gun
The sound of a death
And her sobs
Our cries
He is dead
She takes a black veil
And the curtain closes

Two, in videos:

This one is 'America'. We saw Anita's (the main singer in 'America', and Maria's best friend) understudy, and she was amazing as well. This is the...non-understudy.

And this one is probably my favorite song from the show, 'A Boy Like That [Un Hombre Asi, in Spanish]/I Love Him'. The first singer is Anita, played by Karen Olivo in this video, and the second is Maria, played by Josefina Scaglione. Sorry that there isn't the action, but I couldn't find a good video of it.

Go to YouTube to find more.

And she leaves, singing...

quick quiz (post #2)

2010-04-20T11:26:00.000-07:00

This is a quick quiz that I cam up with lately. I didn't want to have a huge, long post (new), so this is post # 2!
If you want to see how much you are like Diana, Larkspur (not-very-introduced character from 'Words'), Niko, Nevada, or Isabelle, then take this cool quiz:

Directions I: Answer each question—a, b, c, d, or e—as well as you can. If the answer is not correct, choose the closest one. Keep track of the letters that you answer. Then follow the directions at the end.

1. What is your personality?
a. Confident in yourself
b. Quiet and different
c. Unknown and shy
d. Sad and calm
e. Funny and curious

2. Where do you live?
a. A big city
b. A forest
c. A town
d. A small town
e. The country

3. How old are you?
a. 15
b. 12
c. 14
d. 16
e. 13

4. What is your favorite color?
a. Indigo
b. Green
c. Light blue
d. Silver
e. Red

5. What color is your hair?
a. Fire-red
b. Brownish black
c. White-blonde
d. Dark, pure black
e. Coppery, brown-red

6. How many siblings/pets do you have?
a. None of either
b. 2 siblings, no pets
c. 1 sibling, no pets
d. No siblings, 2 pets
e. 1 sibling, 1 pet

7. What do you want to be when you grow up?
a. A spy
b. A doctor
c. A baker
d. A singer
e. An actress

8. What is most important to you?
a. Exhilaration
b. The environment
c. Your family
d. Friends
e. Ending discrimination for race, religion, etc.

9. What is your favorite animal?
a. Fish
b. Birds
c. Dogs
d. Cats
e. Horses

10. What is your idea of a good weekend?
a. Traveling or doing something daring
b. Being outside most of the time
c. Reading the whole time
d. Practicing your singing, piano, or music
e. Going to a rally, protest, or march

Directions II: To find out whom you are most like, look below.
- Diana: If you answered mostly A’s, then you are most like the spunky, daring, and confident Diana from ‘Dancing with Thieves’.
- Larkspur: If you answered mainly B’s, that means that you are most like quiet, committed, and intensely different Lark, from ‘Words’.
- Isabelle: Answering mostly C’s means that you are very much like the shy, calm, and unnamed orphan, who calls herself Isabelle, from ‘Identity’.
- Niko: If you are reading this, then that means that you answered more D’s than anything else. You are most like Niko, from 'Songs Left Unsung' [my permanent title for 'Of Notes and Rhythm'] who is quiet, but funny, with big dreams.
- Nevada: If you answered mostly E’s, then you are very much like Nevada, who is a brave and curious young girl from ‘Turn Away’.

I am most like Larkspur...what about you?

new

2010-04-20T11:14:00.000-07:00

I don't have time to talk today. We are getting ready to go to New York. Tomorrow we'll go into the city and...see a Broadway show!!!! I know, I'm very excited, and I'll tell you all about it later.
For now, here's my new story, 'Words':

Words

Prologue

She stepped over the soft moss in the middle of the forest. The girl was clad mostly in skins, and her long, black hair flowed around her small, dark face. Her chocolate-brown eyes darted from side to side, watching the move of every bug and animal in the clearing.
Drawing her sunstep out of a pouch hanging over her shoulder, she set it in the green carpet at her feet and stared up at the sky, hoping that the sun was out. It was there. The twelve-year-old glanced at the shadow that her direction finder made with practiced ease.
Knowing that she was going northeast, the girl quickly packed up her things and looked back up at the sky. It was growing dark. There wouldn’t be much time for her to get back to the village. She had to hurry.
She slung the bag back over her shoulder and started running with her long, brown-skinned legs. Only small, thin moccasins made of jaguar skin covered the girl’s feet. They were made for silence. There were tiny rocks and vines embroidered into them. The girl quickly grabbed a vine from a large tree that she passed and used it to tie up her tangled hair, so it wouldn’t be in the way as she ran.
Suddenly she slowed. There was a small figure running toward her. The younger girl came from the village, and had been sent to make sure her older sister was all right.
The older girl stopped and touched her sister, palm to palm. Closing both their eyes, their hands locked onto each other’s, the two of them silently went into their mental, telepathic communication, the younger girl sending pictures into her sibling’s mind. For, the two girls and their village, had no writing system or spoken language. They had no way to speak. They didn’t use words.

Jade lived in San Francisco. Past tense. Meaning that he used to live there. The last time Jade had moved, he had been five, and they had only moved to another house. It was even in the same town! Now he was twelve, and not happy about the move.
But both of Jade’s parents were etymologists. They had met each other in an etymology workshop or something, where everyone researched the word ‘love’. Sienna, Jade’s mom, and Aden, his dad, had been placed in the same group. Jade was always sure that this was some kind of match-making scheme, especially since the word historians were supposed to research ‘love’.
Because of their job, Sienna and Aden had been studying certain words, and tracing the word’s heritage back thousands of years. But this year, for their long and hard work in etymology, Jade’s parents had been chosen by the Etymologist Society to go to the jungle. The Amazon Jungle.
Jade was pretty sure they hadn’t even protested on going to only the most dangerous jungle in the world, but they had been glad to accept the offer. Not even a hesitation as to what their twelve-year-old son would say about living in a jungle.
So now, because of his parent’s ignorance, Jade was stuck on a plane from California to Brazil, and he didn’t even know why.
The boy pulled his knees up to his chin and stared out the window. Next to him, Jade’s mom was sleeping soundly while to the left of her, his dad was shuffling through papers, his research about ‘gullible’. Seriously, is there a worse word to research than gullible? Jade thought.
The blue sky was too dull. There isn’t even enough blue to make it seem like a real sky, he thought. Jade was used to California skies, always looking like summer, always bright, always cloudless, always bright, piercing blue.
But now he was looking at the sky over his new home. The Amazon. Why, he said to himself for the umpteenth time, why do I, of all people, have to live in the stupid Amazon Jungle?
He went over and over again in his mind what his new home would be like, if there would be other children there, and where they would actually live. Jade envisioned a small, straw hut in a tiny, damp clearing surrounded by towering, vine-draped trees and poisonous bugs. But maybe we’ll live in the city, he thought. Maybe we’ll live in real houses?
But Jade had a hunch that he was wrong about this. He thought that his theory of the little hut in the clearing was right. He didn’t want to be there. He wanted desperately to be back in San Fran, as he and his friends had lovingly called Jade’s old home.
Jade wanted his soft, four-poster bed to sleep on at night. The boy missed his little studio room, where he drew every day and wished for its yellow and blue walls. He wanted his friends and his pets—Kira, the dog, and Aly and Destiny, his two kittens—whom he had to give to his friends with sadness. Jade had also needed to tell his brotherly friends where he was going.
Jade’s best friends, Neal and Liam, had actually been kind of amazed when he told them of his home-to-be.
“The Amazon?” Neal had asked.
Jade had hesitated. “Um…yeah.”
“Wow! Seriously?” Liam had whispered.
Then Jade had nodded and talked about his growing uneasiness. Neal and Liam seemed to care, but Jade didn’t know if they were just being his friends, concealing their excitement when he wasn’t in the least bit excited, or if they were too amazed to really feel sympathy for their best friend.
Thinking back, Jade scowled angrily. That had been his last encounter with his friends. The day before, when he and his family had boarded the plane, Liam and Neal were nowhere to be seen.
“Jade?”
He was startled out of his memories when Jade’s father called to him.
“What?” Jade asked.
“Well, we’re almost there,” his father answered. “I thought you might want to draw something once we’re out of these clouds. Did you know that the word ‘cloud’ came from the—“
“Okay,” said Jade nonchalantly, tuning his father out.
It was a good idea. Jade was an artist, or so his parents said. But he was good at drawing. Unlike most, though, he preferred pencil to paint. Everywhere he went, Jade carried his sketchbook. Jade slipped the sketchbook out just as the captain of the plane announced in an automatic voice, “Please turn off all electronic devices and go back to your seats at this point. We are going toward Manaus, and we will be there soon.”
Smiling, he turned to the window and opened the shutter as far as it would go. Now was the time for him to shine…in his own way.
Jade stared out the window and down to the ground. The tops of buildings, trees, and roads filled his vision. Surprisingly, there was a city down there! Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Using a pencil, he sketched them all out onto a small, blank canvas. His awakening mother leaned over and looked at the drawing, then out the window.
“I can’t tell the difference,” came his mother’s cool, calm voice.
Blushing at the compliment, Jade smiled and said, “It’s not that good!”
“Oh, but it is,” said his father as he watched Jade drawing. “It’s that good.”
Jade laughed and playfully pushed his dad, but he knew it was true. Somehow he had been born an amazing artist, and he didn’t even have to try.
Finishing up his sketch and ignoring his parents’ compliments, Jade looked at his drawing and smiled fiercely. It did look like the ground below them. He smiled and packed up his notebook carefully, he didn’t want to smudge the pencil.
The plane started dropping, and Jade’s ears popped uncomfortably. But they were landing, and he would be able to get out of this plane. Hopefully, since they were at least in a small city, it wouldn’t be so bad. There would be electricity, and he could call Neal and Liam once they touched ground!
“We’ll be able to go to the bathroom and walk around for two hours,” Jade’s mom said. “Where do you want to go?”
Go to the bathroom and walk around for two hours? Jade thought. What? “You mean we’re not going to live here?” he said slowly.
“Of course not, dear, we’re living in the jungle!”
Jade was heartbroken. His fears were true, they would live in a straw hut with jaguars in their backyard. How fun.
But Jade didn’t have any more time to think, because they were all getting off the plane.

***

They were in the air again. After an hour of walking around and an hour of sitting, Jade, his family, and about nine other people boarded a small puddle jumper that would fly them to a village on the edge of the Amazon River.
Jade leaned his head toward the window, keeping his eyes closed. He hoped that he would see a modern village in which they would live. He opened his eyes.
But when he glanced out of his window, Jade didn’t see modern homes. He didn’t really see anything, but for a small road and some thatched huts sitting in the dirt a little ways away. The road looked somewhat like a runway, but not really. Then he felt the plane drop.
I’m landing in the Amazon Jungle, Jade realized. I’m landing in my new home.

Like it? Me too!

challenges

2010-04-13T17:36:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I have a challenge. It comes from The Aspiring Poet's Journal. I did it, so can you.
1. Choose a word.
2. What and whom does this word make you think of? Write them down (along with the word).
3. Play with the letters of the word. Switch them around, see what you can make.
4. Find words that rhyme with it.
5. Write a poem using as many of the words that you came up with as you can.

My word was 'turquoise'.
My poem is 'Jagged Edges'.

Jagged Edges
Shining under the New Mexico sky
The color reflects it
As we reflect each other
Our differences
Are an infinite void
So blue
And so rich
That we seem to notice all
But know nothing
Under our skin
We are just the same
That makes jagged edges
On the outside
But a turquoise gem on the inside
And then there are those un-sanded edges
Still on the surface of the gems
There are little black lines
Cracks and strands
Tiny streaks
That cut and stop who we are
And make us different
But the differences are unique
We all have two sides
Good or bad
Most of us are neither
And we live with that
Live with the chips and the jagged edges
The un-sanded parts
We live under the poised, jeweled sky
We try to understand
And long for lines of black
To make us who we are
Jagged edges and all

Think about that. Notice your jagged edges. Notice the sides that are lopsided. Should they be there, or should you sand them off? Think for a moment, then decide.
Next think of the challenge. Try it. Comment.

words

2010-04-05T16:05:00.000-07:00

We were given five words each. Mine:
• Skin
• Church
• Stoplight
• Plastic bag
• Siren
We each had to use five poetry devices. Mine:
• Metaphor
• Simile
• Onomatopoeia
• Imagery
• Personification
We each had to write a poem at least ten lines long. Mine:

Waiting
Running
Breathing hard
I have to get away from the church
Gasping, I remember
Booms sounded and the world was silent
They heard it
I heard, too
I was there
The roof fell on us
Crushing
But I am away and must stay here
Sirens scream
They seem so distant, like plastic bags in the wind
But I keep running
No more bombings
For the color of our skin
I want to fight
But the peace that holds me down is too great
To defeat
I hate them all the same
I saw her
Before I ran
Her blood was a beacon in the grass
She was my best friend
People screaming and clinging to each other
The sky is so blue
The day so perfect
But it is wrong all the same
The noise
Explosions
Fire so dark and high that it destroyed lives
But not hope
So I run across roads
Passing stoplights and signs
Finally I pause
And throw myself down to earth
To cry
Why anyone would do that I have no idea
I don’t understand
I never will
So I just cry in the Alabama summer mud
Squelching and sobbing
I want to weep until the world takes action
Weep until they see
That we are who were born as
And we can’t change that
There is nothing wrong with skin a different color
From them
I cry and cry
Just waiting
Waiting for hope

We each had to use them to form a poem. Write a story, cutting it down to the raw edges. Making sure there is nothing else to say. There isn't anything left to say. They are expression. You can't talk any more than you can ride a bike as you write. There is nothing to be said. Quietness and writing. Soft. Careful. Still, yet brimming over with unopened emotions, like a bulging letter stuffed to the back of your closet. That letter is so full of something. Something unimaginably beautiful. Something magical. Something I love.

Words.

76 and sunny

2010-04-02T18:45:00.000-07:00

Q & A ~ Maia: Um, is anyone out there? Is anyone even reading this right now? Come on, I need new followers, and I need you to comment, so I can get your feedback. People, hello!
Readers: We are here! We will comment! [Please, please do so!]

Now, back to the blog.

I'm not really sure what to say here, just that I've been writing a lot. I'm not sure where all this a capella is coming from, but I have a feeling it's from the flowers.
Beautiful. Beautiful. Bee-oo-ti-ful! It was 76°F today. 76°F! I'm just happy. Very, very happy.
And I suspect that you are unhappy because I am blabbering about how happy I am and maybe you don't have weather like this yet, so you are feeling all grouchy about winter and cold. And I suspect that some music (not quite music yet...) will cheer you up. But first, read this. Then this:

Of Notes and Rhythm [the temporary title]
Family

Loud chirps awoke Paige from a peaceful night’s sleep. Peaceful, for once! And those stupid birds had to wake her up at 6:30 in the morning like there was school that day.
Paige lived in a large house with a large family. She had four siblings, two boys and two girls, and two majorly old grandparents. Adding her parents to the mix, the total was nine people in her house. Every morning her grandparents got up at 7:00, exactly, and hollered until someone ran upstairs and told them who they were and where they lived. Her 97-year-old grandmother even forgot her own son---Paige’s dad---and Paige’s mom.
But Paige’s siblings were worse. She had one older brother, Wil, but he was 18, just out of high school, and was searching for a college. He wasn’t that much of a bother, just boring, really boring. The other boy was named Anthony, and he was in fourth grade, the second youngest in the family. Tony was obsessed with every sport he could get his hands on, being with his friends, and teasing the girls that he thought he was old enough to hang out with, even though he was only ten.
Paige’s two sisters were Cassandra and Zoë. Cassandra was in fourth grade, she was Tony’s twin. She was just annoying, convinced that the universe revolved around her, and that she could get anything she wanted. Paige tried to stay away from the annoying Cassandra Adlebird---she wouldn’t be called anything other than that---and her affairs. Zoë was Paige’s favorite sibling.
Paige’s mom and dad had adopted Zoë when she was eight months old. She was born in Indonesia, and looked it. Zoë’s skin was colored a nutmeg brown, with shoulder-length, raven-black hair. Her eyes were black and huge with long eyelashes. Paige’s sister was fourteen and had just started high school this year. She had a bunch of friends, and didn’t need Paige to show her around anymore, but she was still kind and sweet to her older sister.
Paige frowned. Any minute Grandma would be hollering her head off, with Grandpa cowering in their bed, wondering what the heck his wife was doing. She’d best try to be out of the house in time for that.
The girl swung herself out of bed and stepped into the bathroom that she and Zoë shared. She knew it so well that she didn’t need her glasses to see her way into the room. The girl rinsed her face and jumped in the shower, letting the cold water run over her sweaty body. After a second or two, she changed the water to hot, and scrubbed her hair and the rest of her.
In five minutes she was done and hopped out, grabbing her towel. A tall, dark girl was in the room, it was Zoë, at the mirror, brushing her hair.
“Hey, Zo,” Paige said, covering herself with the towel, attempting for it to dry her in seconds.
“Hey,” Zoë answered, clearly not focusing on her sister, but on the huge tangles she was failing at combing out.
Paige just smiled and completed her task. She used her towel to wrap a towering turban over hear head, then scooted in next to Zoë, and brushed her teeth. Without a word, she walked into Zoë’s and her own room. She stepped in front of the closet and opened it, choosing quickly a pair of slightly skinny blue jeans and a skin-tight green striped t-shirt with a v-neck. Paige slipped them on and jabbed her glasses over her nose. She yelled a short goodbye to the exasperated Zoë, threw on her sweatshirt and her sneakers, and ran out the door, grabbing an apple as she tossed off her turban.
When Niko woke up the house was quiet. She was used to getting up at a regular time for school, but she had a week with none. Niko sighed and gently moved her two kittens, Daya [dai-a] and Cedar, out of the way so they wouldn’t be disturbed as she left the bed. They protested by meowing, but Niko ignored them and got out of her bed.
Daya followed Niko to the bathroom as she brushed her teeth. The kitten’s now powerful legs jumped up to the sink and Daya’s soft green eyes followed Niko’s every move. Daya was what most people called gray, but Niko liked to call her shiny coat silver. The female looked very different from her brother, Cedar, as Cedar was a dark ebony cat with bright yellow eyes and one white star on his belly. But, if you looked close enough, you could tell that the two sleek kittens were indeed siblings.
Niko smiled at her companion. Ever since Daya had learned to jump she had been following Niko up to the sink every morning. Cedar, Niko knew, would rather sleep the whole day. He was the mellower of the two, but Daya was as loyal as loyal gets. Once she was done brushing her teeth, Niko combed out her long, dark hair with practiced ease, then slipped off her clothes and groggily stepped in the shower. She wouldn’t wash, but she needed something to wake her up.
Left out, Daya wondered back to Niko’s bedroom. It was big, with a queen-sized bed about eight inches off the ground, a walk-in closet, a desk, a couch in a window seat, connecting bathroom (the one Niko was in now), and even her own mini adjoining room, which Niko used as a library and study place. Her desk was in that room. Including the remaining space, in which Niko did yoga, played with her kittens and more; there was about 80 square feet in her room.
Daya roamed the room for a while, then leaped up onto the couch. Cedar, annoyed by having no warmth next to him, got up, stretched, and ambled over to his sister. He snuggled next to her, and was about to start grooming her, but decided against it and just went to sleep by Daya’s side.
Meanwhile, Niko splashed out of the shower, laughingly awake. She smiled as she rubbed her towel all over her body, drying herself quickly. Without drying her hair she ran into her room and over to her closet. She stepped in and looked around. Warm. Warm and sunny, she thought, smiling.
The girl turned to the side of the closet where she hung her bottoms---skirts, pants, shorts, and dresses---and grabbed a pair of black denim shorts that were cut off at her thighs. Going over to the other side, tops, this time, Niko chose a three-quarter sleeved black shirt with a hood and gold stitching on the edges. Putting everything on, Niko walked to the end of her closet, the part where she kept jewelry and hairpieces, as well as a full-length mirror. She picked out two hanging earrings, black pearls with gold drops falling from them, and added a matching charm to the gold necklace that she always wore around her neck. The necklace brought back memories.
August, her father, had given it to Niko a year before he died. Grimacing, Niko thought, that was ten years ago! I don’t need to remember him now, I’ll just start crying and then Mom will come and ask what’s wrong. I can’t just talk to her about August, I know we both miss him, but I barely knew him. I have to stop thinking. But remembering flooded her anyway. Niko’s father---whom she called August because she had only known him for six years---had died in a car crash when she was six, ten years ago. She had been in the car with her mother, but they had survived. A drunk driver hit them. Niko was pretty sure that he had spent three years in jail, and then gotten into another accident within two months of his freedom. That time he had killed himself.
As Niko went back to the bathroom to blow dry her hair, she couldn’t do anything but think. Think of August.
August Cherry had been born in 1969, and he was 30 years old when he died in 1999. That was years ago. He would have turned 40 this year, Niko thought. He looked nothing like her, from what Niko had seen in old photo albums and what she remembered of him, except for that fact that she had inherited her height from him. Otherwise Niko looked like her mother, Sofia, with her black hair and blue eyes.
One tiny tear trickled down Niko’s cheek. Wishing she had known her father more, she put away the blow dryer and tried to push the thought out of her mind. Braiding her hair into one long rope and tying it with a gold elastic, she slunk out of the bathroom and sat down next to Daya and Cedar. Cedar eagerly started purring when she pet him, and Daya got up and plunked down on her lap. Her brother followed suit, and soon both their motors were running at top speed. Niko smiled contentedly and grabbed her book from the shelf near her window seat.
Settling down to read, Niko forgot all about her close encounter with memories, and was engrossed in her book until she actually fell asleep on the couch; a sleep without dreams.

teary eyes

2010-03-25T18:14:00.000-07:00

Some days we all cry. Sometimes there's no way to stop it. You just cry and cry and cry, not knowing what to do. By the night your eyes are swollen and you're tired and sad. But you got through another day, another night. Tomorrow is just a day. One more. But you only think of now. You know in the back of your mind that there will be something that goes wrong, but you ignore it. All you do on those days is cry.

Knowing
A gentle wet springs up
The kind that burns
No way to sob
To shout
It slides down your cheek
Like fire down a mountain
Burning ash
As they pour
The drops sear your face
And a hiccup
Escapes from your mouth
A thin, quivering line
And you let go
Thinking only of now
Sad
Never the future
Now
Pain
The fire ceases
As you breathe fast and heavy
Lying down
Standing up
Running
Pacing
Thinking
Never knowing what will come next
And you protest
Sure you are right
Seeing only now
And sorrow
It stops all together
Except for the eyes
Shiny
Red
Swollen
They tell everything you know
Everything you’ve been through
Lies and truths
Secrets to tell
And to keep
Songs and laughter
And now
Here
Swollen eyes and shaking chin
You know that you will find some way
To live on
To face fears and problems
Life isn’t always perfect
And the tears show you that
Thinking of here and now
Nothing more to come
Nothing left behind
Silence
Knowing
Crying is understanding
Like a rapid river from the falls
Always rushing
Always moving somewhere
But the little pools on the side
Where the animals drink
Content for the moment
Content for now
Here
Even when you cry
You know it will be all right

Today was one of those days. But I know it will be all right.

grow

2010-03-18T13:57:00.000-07:00

Alana is away, so my dad and I picked up Sadie and Rosie today. We surprised them by stopping by at the Tyringham Playground, with a tire swing, a mini train, slides, and basically everything that a pair of five- and six-year-olds could ask for.

..."Rosie! Come one, let's go to the train!" yelled Sadie, racing down the playground. "Maia, where do we sit?"
"In the back passenger car," I answered as they ran toward it.
"You drive," Rosie ordered. "Chugga-chugga-chugga!!" They both bounced up and down.
"Look, Rosie, look at the slide!" Sadie pointed out the two-person, sliver slide.
"Slide?" Rosie was astonished. "Slide? Yay!"
They slid to the bottom, yelling for me to watch, about seven times. Then Sadie exclaimed that she wanted to swing. But when she ran to the swing set, she noticed the tire swing. "Chris, push me!" she said to my dad. He walked over and pulled the swing way up, then pushed it away from him, spinning it at the same time.
"Weeeeeeee!"
"What's Sadie doing?" Rosie asked.
"She's on the tire swing."
"Tire swing? I wanna go, too!" Rosie yelled.
They spun and spun until they were too dizzy to act normally. But then again, how are two five- and six-year-olds normal? They screamed and laughed, wanting it faster one minute, then protesting that my dad was pushing too fast and they wanted "no more".
When we drove home, they suddenly became somewhat sophisticated and proper. But I could tell they were just tired. Not for long...

That made me think of a poem I wrote about Sadie and Rosie, during a time when they were making a cardboard castle, and Rosie stole Sadie's crayon. They screamed, and—I’ll just show you.

Castle of Changes
Crayons whirring across cardboard
Sisters arguing
Taunts
A stolen crayon
Nothing in my eyes
Something in theirs
Then a return
And a smile
A dance

It was a cardboard castle
The younger sister stole a crayon
The older one threatened
The younger one gave
Only to turn away and find her own
Smiling, happy
The two forget all
They turn and dance and hum
Holding hands

Crayons whirring across cardboard
Sisters arguing
Taunts
A stolen crayon
Nothing in my eyes
Something in theirs
Then a return
And a smile
A dance

If only it was like this
In the real world
Arguments forgotten
Anger gone
Returning
And making your own choice
This is what we need
A way to smile

Crayons whirring across cardboard
Sisters arguing
Taunts
A stolen crayon
Nothing in my eyes
Something in theirs
Then a return
And a smile
A dance

Then we got home, and they went onto the the hill across from my house, and they became little kids again.

Sadie hugged a tree to say hello.
Rosie found a milkweed pod. Fascinating!
And they marched back home.
Somehow, when we got to my door, there were snowdrops growing from the dusty leaves. There was growth everywhere, in the buds on the trees, in the tiny flowers, in the warmth of the sun, and in me, Sadie, and Rosie. They seemed so grown-up, so old. It was hard to believe they are only five and six...almost seven. And it was hard to believe that I will turn 12 so soon.
Even in this season, the season of growing, this afternoon proved that there is always time to slip out of your body and become little again. There is always time to change.

inspiration

2010-03-11T14:41:00.000-08:00

Today I had English in school.

"We had some people absent yesterday. So they're just gonna take the quizzes that we did in Reading, since we have library for Reading class today. So the rest of you, take out your Writer's Notebooks and write for about 10 minutes, alright?" my teacher said.
I sat down at the big window that faces out onto the bus parking lot. But at 8:30 in the morning, there aren't any buses. So that meant I had a clear, but gray (no sun today...) view of the tiny green forest. My first thought was the wind. From my classroom, it seemed as if the breeze was dead. And that I wanted to write a poem. From the point of view of one of the tiny green pine trees at the edge of the tiny green forest.

Dead air swirls around me
Like nothing ever shifted its course
But I know

Know what? Who was talking? I was sure it wasn't a tree. Something didn't seem right in the poem. Something seemed sad. Danger.

The stench of dead
Fear
Sadness
It fills my nostrils like black tendrils of smoke

Okay, so I'm feeling that someone died. A sad poem. Why? My mind takes over. But when I see the tiny black crows on the edge of the tiny green forest, my feelings get their own idea, so my thoughts aren't allowed to do it all.

Dark crows light on trees
Bare of leaves
Of life
They are the lucky ones, those crows
Who fly

They fly. Bo-ring. Flying. Free! Unlike the story-teller...

Who fly without a care in the world
Kings amongst a land of clouds
And a throne burnt from sun
The wind that was still picks up again
Leaving me inside a room of shrieking

Um...what next, what next? More thoughts fighting for the glory. I give in.

For there
On the ground she lies
Nothing more than an empty shell
Open eyes

Creepy. Keep going.

Still heart
She may fly with the crows
And I may kick up pebbles as I walk
Forever stuck on the ground
Never to fly free
Never to soar with the sun
Stuck here as I cry
Without my sister

Woa, woa. Her sister!? I don't know about this. "Just listen!" my thoughts chide. "A few more lines." Okay. Go.

Who is gone
But who forgets
As I wish to forget
Forget
Never paint again in my mind
And she lays unmoving
And I stand unmoving
So her soul runs to the sun
To drink in the rays
And the wind swirls my hair
Dries my tears
I step away
To let go
She is safe
In the Hall of Crows

"Now read," my mind urges. I do.

The Hall of Crows
Dead air swirls around me
Like nothing ever shifted its course
But I know
The stench of dead
Fear 
Sadness 
It fills my nostrils like black tendrils of smoke
Dark crows light on trees
Bare of leaves 
Of life 
They are the lucky ones, those crows
Who fly without a care in the world
Kings amongst a land of clouds 
And a throne burnt from sun 
The wind that was still picks up again
Leaving me inside a room of shrieking
For there 
On the ground she lies 
Nothing more than an empty shell 
Open eyes
Still heart 
She may fly with the crows 
And I may kick up pebbles as I walk 
Forever stuck on the ground 
Never to fly free
Never to soar with the sun 
Stuck here as I cry 
Without my sister
Who is gone 
But who forgets
As I wish to forget
Forget 
Never paint again in my mind 
And she lays unmoving 
And I stand unmoving
So her soul runs to the sun 
To drink in the rays 
And the wind swirls my hair
Dries my tears 
I step away 
To let go
She is safe
In the Hall of Crows

Wow. I wrote that? It's a little extreme isn't it? Oh, well, I have to clean up. Forget it.

And now I remember. So I thought to give you a little taste of how I write. You? Comment? Please? Please? PLEASE????
Thank you.

walking

2010-03-07T13:28:00.000-08:00

I went on a walk today. The light was gorgeous. The air was actually warm-ish and I only had to wear my sweatshirt! But my point is that I went on a walk, because that's what my post is about.
When you walk you think, you take photos, you smile, you frown, it's your time. And when you take steps toward each other, you're braving your fears.
Steps
She lays there and cries.
I cry, too,
So I know how she feels.
I understand her.
I know she understands me, too.
We feel empathy,
We feel pain,
But we feel it together.
This thought is a comfort.
I get up and the bed creaks.
Step,
Sniffle,
Step.
Her head turns,
The bed creaks again,
And she is in front of me.
We lean on each other,
We cry,
We miss the people who seem to be in front of us,
All the time.
We cry.
When you walk, you're trusting yourself and the ones around you.

Paw Prints
The grumble
The growl
Of contentment
Fills my ears
The warmth
The wet
Tiny nose
Then rustle
Then movement
And they reach
They stretch
So the warmth is gone
The cold returns
And they step
Full of quiet
Creeping
Making paw prints on the blanket
Paw prints so soft
They are the breezes during summer
The paw prints come toward me
And they breath
Full of curiosity
Of warmth
And caring
My nose
Touches clouds
Or so it seems
I know who it is
I know when her tongue
Touches my eyelids
Softer than
The stars at dawn
Like a paw print
In my memory
That will stay there
Stay here
With me
And them
Forever
And when you walk, you know that all you are is you. Just you, adding all the regret, anger, love, fear, excitement, and grief. You are you.

depths

2010-02-27T14:37:00.000-08:00

All this snow is still freaking me out. We had a snow day on Wednesday, and yesterday the roads were pretty bad. Plus, it's late winter. In the Berkshires. Yuck! Late winter's just cold and wet and muddy and brown and slushy and slimy and—you get the idea.
But sometimes it's still beautiful, don't you think?

I do.
And I also think that it's time to take a vacation. But since that's not happening, let's imagine.
You're in Puerto Rico, on a beach covered in velvety sand. The perfectly turquoise water seems to stretch out for miles and miles on the horizon. The day is hot, but not stifling, just right. In your bathing suit, you lie on a towel under an umbrella, reading a wonderful book. You close the book, and let the warmth wash over you. Your eyes suddenly feel very heavy, and you drift off into a pleasant dream.
When you awake, the sun is setting in the distance. You slip on your sunglasses and watch it, marveling at the fuchsia and pepper-orange and golden-blue. You walk down to the beach, with your bare feet buried in the soft sand. As you reach the ocean, you have a sudden urge to dive in. You take off your sunglasses and dip your feet into the warm ocean. The water laps at your ankles, and you take a deep breath of comfort.
Suddenly, a submarine surfaces from the depths of the water, and the top opens. You step inside, and it steers itself away into the dark liquid. At first it is to dark to see by, but your eyes adjust and you finally see the wonders of the water, the reefs and fish and swaying seaweed. You sit down in a soft chair and settle into the steady rhythm of the sea.

Submerged
Down, down, down
So far below the shining surface
Of glistening waves
But waves glisten here
They freeze and glide and twist and twirl
My hand presses on the window
Making a mark
My breath fogs up the glass
And I stare
I stare at crabs
Spider-like crabs
Larger than myself
Waving, moving red pillars
Swish across my path
Like worms in dirt they twist
And seem to have no body
They seem to be empty, floating
Space
My eyes lock on these strange creatures
And I feel warmth
A rush, a great burst
Of hot water
I look below the vessel
That carries me
Cracks
Splits the Earth
Far below the surface of our world
Are revealed
Through these cracks
Hot, steaming liquid pours
From below the crust
Warming the oceans
Making life
Possible
Possible even when it is below ground
Where freezing water
Flows and meets
With steaming air
To make this underwater
Museum of every kind of organism
You can imagine
And more
Diving down
My darting, hazel eyes
See ridges
Like the seam of a baseball
Curving and twisting
Hundreds of meters below
Lie mountain ranges
Even larger than those
Above the surface
Sonar pings catch my attention
I pull away from the glass
But turn to catch one glimpse
Of this wonder
This growing, changing wonder
And we fly to the surface
We fly

And even though this has nothing to do with anything, happy birthday, Rosie, my dear. Happy birthday to my five-year-old.