Gossip

Living on the words of another,
The time so fast, the layers fall
each morning when you turn your head
and you aren't you at all.

Your own sad noise adds to the din,
Fighting its own hard right;
Adding thorns to what was said
and giving your days to night.

Beating that pest within yourself,
Who said your guard had eyes?
For him, her, whoever you chose
your ears to cruel surmise?

One day, you must have woke
to become the words you fear:
From he, she, someone, no one,
For it's only they I hear.

Style

Find something that looks too real-
Draw, fill in the blanks
For a memory that fits-
In the space set aside.

Catalogue the pages-
Same shapes in different places,
Same colors landing in different ways-
Until they all get along.

It was always yours-
But you actually want it now
Because you spent more than money-
More so than the time you took.

The Painting

This is someone else's eye
That plants the orchid,
Watering it long ago.

It would be dry and folded away,
But the bloom was young
And time was slow.

I will look, and others
Add a rooted memory,
Breathe out the gentle sky.

In this way, there are seasons,
Long winded as they may be,
But reasons
To keep asking why.

A Morning Away

My thoughts were lost to the open sea
As I set them on the sand.
New ones, I wove through a heart of rocks
Where the veins of the waves coax land.

Out, my words tumbled when the tide came in.
In, as I went to the lonely, barren shore.
How my mind came to me in tricking lace,
Hooked to the horizon, tied to the sea floor.

So much is lost in this unending land
Where the "where" becomes the "why".
Restraint is spilled, but easily a fool
When the land knows more than the eye.

Stream of Consciousness

Inspired by a post I read...

I don't know what to say, because I've never done this before. I usually think a lot before I write. It's as if I'm afraid that the words will kill me once they come out and I'll never be able to swallow life again unless I make the medicine myself. Lemon heads are good, even if it's kind of late at night to be eating candy. I wish I had my zune right now. I ordered it back in March, and I know that it will be coming in sometime around June. Of course, I know better than to wait for things that I don't need, because they always come. It's strange how I feel like such a different person right now. Last year, I was never so wanting of material things and asking for so much. Now, I wonder about my brain and whether I'm normal or not, even if the other half of me accepts the fact that I'm obviously weird and I love being weird because uniqueness is one of the greatest assets one can have. One would think that I would use both sides of my head to do this, but I'm actually only using one side. There's this really hot Korean guy that I saw today at the mall, but obviously I don't know his name. Still, I always tend to fall for the guys that no one else finds very hot, and I always have a soft spot for people who wear glasses. Most people wear glasses these days. My dad's calling me to go drink soup. I think I'll go very soon. That's what I always tell him. It's as if I respect my parents in every way except in reality, in which I'm always throwing my own selfish little needs before things that are infinitely more important. I'm so selfish and wanting, it crushes me when I think about it. Just now I remembered that I should be doing chores right now. Oh, shoot! Bye!

Utopia vs Dystopia

Can the two be interchanged in one situation? I'm sure it's fairly obvious which is which when there is an intention behind the creation and existence of the utopia/dystopia, but what if that isn't even the foucs of the story? What if the intention was that the world of reality simply did not make room or give enough creative license for a story, and a created world was needed? Then I guess the nature of the world wouldn't matter anyway. Still, if one were to identify a dystopia or a utopia described in a bit of fiction, could there still be ambiguity?

That's just something that pertains to what I'm writing. As you can see, it's a horrible hour to be thinking deeply. There's such a strong intrusion of dreams into my stream of consciousness. Othwerise, I enjoy the night/early morning very much. I am a night owl, after all.

Correction

It was really too harsh of me to say that I assume that no one is reading this blog when I write it. I know people are reading it, so why should I assume otherwise when I hold nothing against those people?

It seems that idleness is not rest, but work in a cruelly hidden form. You may ask, how can doing nothing be work? Well, it is. It's the act of restraining oneself from doing anything, whether it be something fun or something necessary, or even something boring. Who honestly wants to do nothing? Humans cannot function doing nothing. I mean that in the sense that we would not be truly human if we desired to be idle, nor would we really be functioning at all.

I am confused now, in my analysis of this subject, that being idle has so many different meanings in our world. I could be reading mindless books and playing video games, and I could still be called idle in a loose sense because of lack of visible and tangible productivity and benefit to the world. However, I am not idle in the sense that I'm doing nothing. My brain is still working. I may still be thinking and dreaming, even if I may not be thinking and dreaming about the suggested topics.

I may be laying on a bed, drawing something in my mind that might generate tangible resuts later on, and on the surface I seem to be closer to "true idleness" than ever. Yet, I'm not idle. Can it truly be lazy if I'm taking the time to think things through, and then act on them and make them work in the physical sense? Isn't that just being particularly careful?

Indeed, if you're able to make yourself idle in the most literal sense while still keeping your brain intact to use in later times, I find you fascinating.

Willy Wonka (1971)

I didn't feel like I was watching a movie at all! It felt like a literary masterpiece that the camera swallowed, then threw up along with some of the guts of the producers and the screen-writers! Of course, unlike the more recent adaptations of some of my favorite books (hem hem...HARRY POTTER...HEM HEM...) no one bothered to clean the mess. No one tried to make it "family friendly". It was still PG-rated, but that didn't mean that was pretty! Instead, like good old Professor Flitwick after the Weasley twins escaped, they preserved a corner of the putrid magic for all to see. Indeed, it was rough around the edges! Yet, it was PERFECT!

I'm so glad that my English teacher alluded to it. Some of the other movies of the same period did a bad job with the style, but it all seemed to fit this particular movie quite well. I was properly horrified, properly amused, and positively giggling at the wit of the script. If I should write a script, this should be my model. If not, then I'll keep my graphic novel anyway.

Making myself at home

I must convince myself that no one is reading this as to "make myself at home". Perhaps the intent of this post is empty, except for preserving the purpose and "value" of this blog. I've had so many blogs. Why, I have commmited "Xanga-cide" so many times, or otherwise abandoned something into which I had poured my thoughts. Yet, I found that none of things was really worth saving until I molded that thought and shaped that thought so that someone else other than I could understand.

Perhaps that is easy for some. Perhaps there exists an easy way to blog without the explicit intention of dabbing one's ink in the trove of human experience that everyone shares, and yet find that one's fingers are guilty with the stains of that particular vault. It's hardly true that each person shares little or nothing with the person next to him or her. It's hardly true that each of our experiences is so distinctly different that each one is a discovery for all to marvel upon.

Perhaps that's what differentiates a good blog from a substandard blog, and what differentiates a rant from an intelligent path of thought. Intelligence in this dispensing of information is finding moderation that does not provoke simple sympathy, but learning and adding the color and the struggle (for lack of a better word) of the situation to one's knowledge of something that merely came up as a simple black and white image before the perusing of this intelligent entry.

It's always useful to rant. I can't deny that. One may look back and shake one's head for the spectacle and the wasted time, but it vents emotion and clears one's mind for the moment. It allows one to communicate without inflicting one's ideas on someone else. A rant may even border on intelligent, because the act of ranting usually provokes me to slow down and rethink my anger. Stil, it solves nothing. It expresses the frame of mind that existed for a particular moment, which can change so quickly.

I hate that I'm so used to being read and critiqued that I actually refrain from saying certain things until they burst into flame within my mind. Overly dramatic, I know. To argue, I must say that I've been trying to refrain from using metaphors, of late. I'm sure my history teacher is quite tired of crossing them out whenever she grades my essays.

I should be finishing up my homework right about now. Hopefully I'll remember to do another blog tomorrow.

No One Is Reading This

Of course, I know that someone is reading this, but I no longer take in mind who, when, where, or why. I think this is just a good release for whatever I have to say, without any restraint as to who might judge me as a malcontent or some sort of rebel without a cause. Perhaps I am neither, or perhaps I am both. Who am I to impose this simple decision?

I've found that script writing is much more challenging than noveling or poetry. Of course, poetry produces less content in more time, but script writing seems to be the axiom for which I reach when I write. My dialogue needs to be clever, easy to understand, believable, and yet still thought provoking and distinctly my own.

I long the day when I will write for the world, and yet answer only to myself.

Love

It's so strange how there are two areas of my life to which my heart heads when one or the other becomes too unbearable. It's as if I'm walking on a tightrope. On one end, there is a safe, but noisy and chaotic room that never seems to end in its tipping, clanging scales and understated cabarets. The other side is a room with an unending masquerade ball, in which the masks only come off when one believes too deeply. Everyone seems to look so majestic in their ball gowns and airs, while I'm still in my tight-rope walking, practical clothing desperately trying to draw on a good mask to hide the vulnerabilities and frailties.

At the moment, I'm loving the rowdy informal room a lot more. The drama that supposedly happens in show choir hasn't caught up to me until now. Of course, it's fairly mild, but that doesn't mean that it's not making me feel more vulnerable. Ironically, these buzzing rumors have helped me fit in! Still, the tight rope hasn't quite stopped wobbling. At some points, I feel as if I'm barely hanging on.

All these disappointments that I feel mix with the soap opera that runs through my head whenever I grow bored of reality. I was going to write a script about it, but I don't feel comfortable doing that. It seems to lack the artistic element that I love in poetry and that I highly tolerate and admire in novels and especially in short stories. I think I'm going to give up Script Frenzy. Maybe I'd be more commited to it if I had the time. Yet, I don't have the time or the motivation for it. Right now I'm wishing for the next noveling challenge. Apparently the Labor Day challenge had an entrance fee, so I don't think I'm going to do it. It would be fun, but I'm not sure fifty dollars is worth it. Maybe I'll just do it for my own sake and not be an official participant.