Friday, November 27, 2009
Revival
Hmm. Maybe I should revive this blog and actually use it for something other than my old English class.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Desert Child
My nieces moved to Texas just before I came up to school. I wanted to write them an arizonan Lullabye, but I couldn't quite get it right. Here is what I have. If anyone has thoughts...Help!
Oh desert child, the lonesome flower,
blooming like the stars up above
chereish these, the midnight hour.
It sings to you with love.
Warm winds blow the rain to you
and fill the desert with it's song
and sweet like sounds of deseret
It will keep you all night long.
Oh desert flower, oh precious little one
born to an endless sky,
The colors of the western sun
willsing to you a lullaby.
The cricketts and the citrus tress
the honey suckle vine
the creotes and all their melodies
all of these things are thine.
So child then rest easily
in your little room.
All treasures there are meant for thee
Sweet little desert bloom.
Oh desert child, the lonesome flower,
blooming like the stars up above
chereish these, the midnight hour.
It sings to you with love.
Warm winds blow the rain to you
and fill the desert with it's song
and sweet like sounds of deseret
It will keep you all night long.
Oh desert flower, oh precious little one
born to an endless sky,
The colors of the western sun
willsing to you a lullaby.
The cricketts and the citrus tress
the honey suckle vine
the creotes and all their melodies
all of these things are thine.
So child then rest easily
in your little room.
All treasures there are meant for thee
Sweet little desert bloom.
A brief thought on the world
I think I was in one of those meloncholy moods when I wrote this. It wouldn't surprise me, but here is a poetic thought on the world.
Anyone whoever said silliness and poppycock never changed the world has obviously never cried. They have never had a good day, they have never been in a good mood and have obviously never been a child. Silliness does a great deal to change the world. It makes the serious moments what they are and brings to light a startling perspective on our world. Too much of one or the other is just that, too much. Take a moment in your day to just be odd and have fun. In fact, take several. Without solemnity there is no laughter. The same rule applies in reverse.
Anyone whoever said silliness and poppycock never changed the world has obviously never cried. They have never had a good day, they have never been in a good mood and have obviously never been a child. Silliness does a great deal to change the world. It makes the serious moments what they are and brings to light a startling perspective on our world. Too much of one or the other is just that, too much. Take a moment in your day to just be odd and have fun. In fact, take several. Without solemnity there is no laughter. The same rule applies in reverse.
I Am
This is a piece that floated up to my brain a little while back. It's really experimental, so I'm not sure about it. It's all about being remembered and remembering others.
There are two types of moments in this world. The kind that you remember, and the kind that you forget. Now, you can sub categorize these areas all you like. You can say there are the good moments, the bad moments, the odd moments, the moments that really don’t mean anything, and the moments that you try to forget. But when it comes down to it, there are still only two types of moments.
The kind you remember.
The kind you forget.
And with these moments there are three ways to live.
With the kind you remember.
Without the kind you forget.
And someplace in between.
You might think that these all lead to the same solution. Of course you have what you remember, and everyone forgets. Don’t we already live in between? But consider, every moment of everyday has an influence on us. Our minds, our souls and especially our bodies are subjective to the time that we pass in existence.
The average person lives somewhere between the good and bad experiences, disregarding the parts they don’t remember, and always looking to the future.
But, what if there were someone who’s life existed solely in moments. Other people’s moments, other people’s memories. Slipping in and out of the conscious mind. What if that person were you? Your future, depending on someone else’s past. Who would you be, to be created tomorrow. What would you say to go into the next day? What would you do…to stay remembered?
Steven was no one. He wasn’t not, and he wasn’t someone. He wasn’t that guy over there or Joe somebody, or even John Doe. In point of fact, Steven was indeed no one. That is, Steven was no one, until he met Tillie. Then he became a someone. In point of fact, Steven became someone. Steven became Steven.
Tillie, is a nine year old girl with long blonde hair and great big blue eyes. Her favorite outfit is a pink sweater with a large sparkly kitty and butterfly print pants from one of those sweater set outfits parents make their children wear. It was perfect to wear on a crisp, clear blue sky day.
We do not know what Steven’s favorite outfit was, because until that time, Steven simply did not exist. As we all know, finding a favorite outfit takes time. You cannot expect a person to exist at one moment and decide their favorite outfit in the next. That would be unreasonable.
Tillie met Steven at precisely 11:02 am on a Saturday afternoon in September at a park in Seattle. Near the swing set, across from the teeter totters and catty corner to the merry-go-round. This was of course no where near the jungle gym. Tillie does not like the jungle gym. She swallowed her gum there after stubbing her toe. Tillie would never have met Stephen by the jungle gym; she simply would not have allowed it.
At 11:01 Tillie decided that she wanted to meet a new friend. She wanted his name to be Steven. So right that next moment, at 11:02 am precisely, she did. Tillie and Steven shook hand. “I’m Tillie,” she said.
“I’m Steven,” said Steven.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” said Tillie.
“Likewise,” said Steven.
By the time this conversation had passed, it was 11:03 am. At 11:03 am, Steven realized he had entered the world. That’s where all the trouble began.
There are two types of moments in this world. The kind that you remember, and the kind that you forget. Now, you can sub categorize these areas all you like. You can say there are the good moments, the bad moments, the odd moments, the moments that really don’t mean anything, and the moments that you try to forget. But when it comes down to it, there are still only two types of moments.
The kind you remember.
The kind you forget.
And with these moments there are three ways to live.
With the kind you remember.
Without the kind you forget.
And someplace in between.
You might think that these all lead to the same solution. Of course you have what you remember, and everyone forgets. Don’t we already live in between? But consider, every moment of everyday has an influence on us. Our minds, our souls and especially our bodies are subjective to the time that we pass in existence.
The average person lives somewhere between the good and bad experiences, disregarding the parts they don’t remember, and always looking to the future.
But, what if there were someone who’s life existed solely in moments. Other people’s moments, other people’s memories. Slipping in and out of the conscious mind. What if that person were you? Your future, depending on someone else’s past. Who would you be, to be created tomorrow. What would you say to go into the next day? What would you do…to stay remembered?
Steven was no one. He wasn’t not, and he wasn’t someone. He wasn’t that guy over there or Joe somebody, or even John Doe. In point of fact, Steven was indeed no one. That is, Steven was no one, until he met Tillie. Then he became a someone. In point of fact, Steven became someone. Steven became Steven.
Tillie, is a nine year old girl with long blonde hair and great big blue eyes. Her favorite outfit is a pink sweater with a large sparkly kitty and butterfly print pants from one of those sweater set outfits parents make their children wear. It was perfect to wear on a crisp, clear blue sky day.
We do not know what Steven’s favorite outfit was, because until that time, Steven simply did not exist. As we all know, finding a favorite outfit takes time. You cannot expect a person to exist at one moment and decide their favorite outfit in the next. That would be unreasonable.
Tillie met Steven at precisely 11:02 am on a Saturday afternoon in September at a park in Seattle. Near the swing set, across from the teeter totters and catty corner to the merry-go-round. This was of course no where near the jungle gym. Tillie does not like the jungle gym. She swallowed her gum there after stubbing her toe. Tillie would never have met Stephen by the jungle gym; she simply would not have allowed it.
At 11:01 Tillie decided that she wanted to meet a new friend. She wanted his name to be Steven. So right that next moment, at 11:02 am precisely, she did. Tillie and Steven shook hand. “I’m Tillie,” she said.
“I’m Steven,” said Steven.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” said Tillie.
“Likewise,” said Steven.
By the time this conversation had passed, it was 11:03 am. At 11:03 am, Steven realized he had entered the world. That’s where all the trouble began.
What Women Really Want 2
So, I already posted this essay, but I recently revised it and I thought that it was different enough that it deserved a second post. I focussed a lot more on Jane Austen and her affect on out lives. Enjoy.
WHAT WOMEN REALLY WANT
Every woman has a dream man.
Let me rephrase that. Every straight woman has a dream man. Whether they are willing to admit it or not, in the deep recesses of the mind where all fantasies live, each woman has created their perfect guy.
It’s a rather humiliating thing to admit, one’s dream man. But, let’s fact it, we’ve all got one. And every reasonable woman has had one, wives, Mothers, and sisters alike. The dream man changes with time and may vary from girl to girl, but he’s always there.
Being in college, I have had a lot of encounters of hearing women’s requests in a man. Perhaps I should market my experience and make a fortune selling these ideas on the internet to lonely young men. It wouldn’t be hard because we all want the same three things: Personality, looks, and security.
Almost every girl I have spoken to wants a man with a great sense of humor and a romantic streak. Most want good looks and big arms. Lots of girls are very big into eyes, windows to the soul and all. Money and good health are very important. As my roommate puts it: It goes back to cavemen times when you wanted a man who could bring down a mastodon.
This same roommate also introduced me to the very entertaining game “Marry, Kiss, Push off a Cliff.” In this game the participating girls are given three choices in men. For instance, Princes from Disney films. Take Prince Phillip from Sleeping Beauty, Prince Charming from Cinderella, and Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid. The girls would then have to decide who they would marry, who they would kiss and who they would push off of a cliff. Hence the name of the game “Marry, Kiss, Push off a Cliff”. Charming, no?
But what’s most fun about the game is not who they pick, so much as why. Every girl has a different reason. I’d marry Prince Eric and push Prince Charming. My roommate would also marry Eric, but for her, Phillip would have to go.
It was through many rounds of this game that I started to see a trend among the single, female, part of the species: Sensitivity, security, and sex appeal are a must. My recipe is a prime example of this. It took some thought to discover all of the appropriate ingredients. Take one part Robin Hood, one part Mr. Knightley, and one part MacGyver. Add a little JD Dorian, a heaping helping of Daniel Jackson and a dash of Han Solo, for flavor. That’s right; my fictional man is comprised completely of fictional men. Surprise, surprise.
I dream of a man who can teach me skills, has a sense of humor, and is fun to argue with. He would be appropriately sensitive, intelligent, knowledgeable, clever, British if he can possibly help it (accents are hot), and handy to have around in a tough situation. On top of all this he should be able to sing, ballroom dance, own a really nice long coat, and be able to gain the approval of my brothers. Meaning he’ll have to like sports and have impeccable taste in movies. And he must be willing to tell me that I am a wonderful, worthwhile individual.
No wonder I’m single.
I was told about a t-shirt being sold at a Jane Austen fan website. The shirt said “I blame Jane, and I’m sure she blames herself”. Meaning, it’s her fault that we are expecting a Mr. Darcy to turn up. As most girls know, Jane Austen created some of the very best fantasy men of all time. Every time Pride and Prejudice is watched in our household, it takes days to get out of the “lack of regency hero” slump.
Our favorite rounds of “Marry, Kiss, Push off a Cliff” often have to do with Austen men. “Who would you pick? 6 hour Mr. Darcy, Book Mr. Darcy, or Mr. Darcy from the new movie?” one of us will ask. We all choose. But it’s funny; we can’t seem to throw a Darcy off a cliff without providing a way for him to be fine. “I’ll throw new Darcy off the cliff, but it’s okay, there’s a giant pillow there.”
We have divvied up the different characters, just in case realities cross and Mr. Knightley and Mr. Darcy should show up on our door step. About half of us would choose Knightley, and the other half of us would choose Darcy. If, you know, for some reason or another we had a choice. None of us would object to a Mr. Bingley.
“Where are the Darcys?” we cry. “I’ve had my fill of all the Collins and Wickhams!” To be fair, when you start noticing that the villains in your own life have a stinking resemblance to those you’ve watched and read about, how can one help hoping that a Bingley or a Darcy will come along?
But, we can’t blame fiction for all our fantasy woes. When it comes down to it, women spend a lot of time dreaming about their fantasy man. We know what we want. When it comes to that, we’ve got ideas in spades.
Reality check! Perfect isn’t all it’s cracked up to be when you’re lacking perfection yourself. We should be looking for what’s right for us, not the ideal of all womankind. I could go into a deep philosophical discussion about how finding the perfect man is about becoming perfect and valuing the qualities within ourselves but, I’ll forgo that dialogue for now.
Instead I will say this: If we spend our lives looking for perfection, we aren’t going to find it. I’m not saying that we should stop dreaming, and I’m certainly not saying that we should settle. But we don’t have to find Mr. Darcy to be perfectly content, even blissful, at times. If we look for what feels right- in any situation- we are going to be happy.
Men aren’t perfect; That’s what makes them men. Women aren’t perfect; that is what makes them think they are going to find that perfect man. When it comes down to it, we are all just people.
Fantasies provide a valuable service and they shouldn’t be looked down upon. They give hope in times of loneliness and teach us what qualities we most value. The problem comes when we can’t step outside of them. Really the search for the perfect man should be the quest for perfect love. Perfection doesn’t exist. But love does. And, I hear, when everything works out, every person has the chance to become someone’s fantasy.
Until that time comes though, I am perfectly happy to dream the dream with the glad hope of waking to a more worthwhile reality. So, to Jane and all the other dreamers out there, I say: here’s to you.
WHAT WOMEN REALLY WANT
Every woman has a dream man.
Let me rephrase that. Every straight woman has a dream man. Whether they are willing to admit it or not, in the deep recesses of the mind where all fantasies live, each woman has created their perfect guy.
It’s a rather humiliating thing to admit, one’s dream man. But, let’s fact it, we’ve all got one. And every reasonable woman has had one, wives, Mothers, and sisters alike. The dream man changes with time and may vary from girl to girl, but he’s always there.
Being in college, I have had a lot of encounters of hearing women’s requests in a man. Perhaps I should market my experience and make a fortune selling these ideas on the internet to lonely young men. It wouldn’t be hard because we all want the same three things: Personality, looks, and security.
Almost every girl I have spoken to wants a man with a great sense of humor and a romantic streak. Most want good looks and big arms. Lots of girls are very big into eyes, windows to the soul and all. Money and good health are very important. As my roommate puts it: It goes back to cavemen times when you wanted a man who could bring down a mastodon.
This same roommate also introduced me to the very entertaining game “Marry, Kiss, Push off a Cliff.” In this game the participating girls are given three choices in men. For instance, Princes from Disney films. Take Prince Phillip from Sleeping Beauty, Prince Charming from Cinderella, and Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid. The girls would then have to decide who they would marry, who they would kiss and who they would push off of a cliff. Hence the name of the game “Marry, Kiss, Push off a Cliff”. Charming, no?
But what’s most fun about the game is not who they pick, so much as why. Every girl has a different reason. I’d marry Prince Eric and push Prince Charming. My roommate would also marry Eric, but for her, Phillip would have to go.
It was through many rounds of this game that I started to see a trend among the single, female, part of the species: Sensitivity, security, and sex appeal are a must. My recipe is a prime example of this. It took some thought to discover all of the appropriate ingredients. Take one part Robin Hood, one part Mr. Knightley, and one part MacGyver. Add a little JD Dorian, a heaping helping of Daniel Jackson and a dash of Han Solo, for flavor. That’s right; my fictional man is comprised completely of fictional men. Surprise, surprise.
I dream of a man who can teach me skills, has a sense of humor, and is fun to argue with. He would be appropriately sensitive, intelligent, knowledgeable, clever, British if he can possibly help it (accents are hot), and handy to have around in a tough situation. On top of all this he should be able to sing, ballroom dance, own a really nice long coat, and be able to gain the approval of my brothers. Meaning he’ll have to like sports and have impeccable taste in movies. And he must be willing to tell me that I am a wonderful, worthwhile individual.
No wonder I’m single.
I was told about a t-shirt being sold at a Jane Austen fan website. The shirt said “I blame Jane, and I’m sure she blames herself”. Meaning, it’s her fault that we are expecting a Mr. Darcy to turn up. As most girls know, Jane Austen created some of the very best fantasy men of all time. Every time Pride and Prejudice is watched in our household, it takes days to get out of the “lack of regency hero” slump.
Our favorite rounds of “Marry, Kiss, Push off a Cliff” often have to do with Austen men. “Who would you pick? 6 hour Mr. Darcy, Book Mr. Darcy, or Mr. Darcy from the new movie?” one of us will ask. We all choose. But it’s funny; we can’t seem to throw a Darcy off a cliff without providing a way for him to be fine. “I’ll throw new Darcy off the cliff, but it’s okay, there’s a giant pillow there.”
We have divvied up the different characters, just in case realities cross and Mr. Knightley and Mr. Darcy should show up on our door step. About half of us would choose Knightley, and the other half of us would choose Darcy. If, you know, for some reason or another we had a choice. None of us would object to a Mr. Bingley.
“Where are the Darcys?” we cry. “I’ve had my fill of all the Collins and Wickhams!” To be fair, when you start noticing that the villains in your own life have a stinking resemblance to those you’ve watched and read about, how can one help hoping that a Bingley or a Darcy will come along?
But, we can’t blame fiction for all our fantasy woes. When it comes down to it, women spend a lot of time dreaming about their fantasy man. We know what we want. When it comes to that, we’ve got ideas in spades.
Reality check! Perfect isn’t all it’s cracked up to be when you’re lacking perfection yourself. We should be looking for what’s right for us, not the ideal of all womankind. I could go into a deep philosophical discussion about how finding the perfect man is about becoming perfect and valuing the qualities within ourselves but, I’ll forgo that dialogue for now.
Instead I will say this: If we spend our lives looking for perfection, we aren’t going to find it. I’m not saying that we should stop dreaming, and I’m certainly not saying that we should settle. But we don’t have to find Mr. Darcy to be perfectly content, even blissful, at times. If we look for what feels right- in any situation- we are going to be happy.
Men aren’t perfect; That’s what makes them men. Women aren’t perfect; that is what makes them think they are going to find that perfect man. When it comes down to it, we are all just people.
Fantasies provide a valuable service and they shouldn’t be looked down upon. They give hope in times of loneliness and teach us what qualities we most value. The problem comes when we can’t step outside of them. Really the search for the perfect man should be the quest for perfect love. Perfection doesn’t exist. But love does. And, I hear, when everything works out, every person has the chance to become someone’s fantasy.
Until that time comes though, I am perfectly happy to dream the dream with the glad hope of waking to a more worthwhile reality. So, to Jane and all the other dreamers out there, I say: here’s to you.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Nano section
Alright, so, I really didn't want to post any of my Novel until it was finished, but I've been working on this scene that I'm just not sure how to end. Maybe seeing it in a different medium will help me. Also, I'm just not quite sure how to do this. I want to have dialogue between people who are having a conversation and people who are eeves dropping at the same time. So this is it.
Sargeant Sacker was suddenly aware of himself. He felt a little spacy. He blinked and looked around the parkinglit. It was deserted. Had something happened? Sacker didn’t recall any trouble. He shook his head, trying to clear it deciding he must have spaced off. It wasn’t surprising, everything considered. It was, after all, getting hard to keep track of everything.
“What’s going on?” Stone asked.
“He hasn’t arrived yet,” Adine said. “Quiet, we need to listed.”
Stone sat in the back seat of the spy’s car. Blue Mage and Adine sat in the front. Blue Mage was listening with Sacker’s right ear, and Adine his left.
They heared Sacker’s footsteps going down the hallway.
Eventually they heard the sound of a door opening.
“You’re late,” a voice said.
Blue Mage perked up.
“That’s Scalopus,” he mouthed. Adine nodded and they continued to listen. Sacker continued speaking.
“Yes, sorry about that. It seems to be one of those days. Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
“Sure,” said Scalopus distastefully. “And lets do so as fast as possible.” There was clearly no love lost between the two men.
“So, what’s the buzz?” Sacker asked.
“We appear to be running into a lot of problems. Most of which are coming from your little private-eye, Miss Quinn,” he said with a sneer.
“I thought that Tyr had taken care of that.”
“She’s alive. One of my agents kept rescuing her. And it’s a good thing too. We need her alive. She has Ingraham’s object.”
“What? She looked my right in the eye and lied. I should have known.”
“No, she didn’t even know she had it,” Scalopus said. “It was in the mail.”
“We didn’t check her mail?” Sacker asked.
“We couldn’t get into the mailbox without causing a much larger scene than was necessary. Her doorman is very attentive. It would have turned attention on Charlotte Quinn herself, not just the case she was working on. She’s a lot of trouble.”
“Well, she’s good at her job. People who are good at their job are usually a lot of trouble.”
“Like I said, it’s a good thing that Tyr didn’t kill her. Ingraham’s object only works when it is freely given.”
“Well, Charlotte’s not likely to do that,” Sacker said. “Charlotte is an unearthly kind of stubborn.”
“We’ll find a way to convince her.” Scalopus sounded confident. “We can’t do away with Charlotte Quinn, but we can eliminate some other of our problems.”
“Like what?”
“More of a who.”“One of my agents has been giving me trouble.
Sargeant Sacker was suddenly aware of himself. He felt a little spacy. He blinked and looked around the parkinglit. It was deserted. Had something happened? Sacker didn’t recall any trouble. He shook his head, trying to clear it deciding he must have spaced off. It wasn’t surprising, everything considered. It was, after all, getting hard to keep track of everything.
“What’s going on?” Stone asked.
“He hasn’t arrived yet,” Adine said. “Quiet, we need to listed.”
Stone sat in the back seat of the spy’s car. Blue Mage and Adine sat in the front. Blue Mage was listening with Sacker’s right ear, and Adine his left.
They heared Sacker’s footsteps going down the hallway.
Eventually they heard the sound of a door opening.
“You’re late,” a voice said.
Blue Mage perked up.
“That’s Scalopus,” he mouthed. Adine nodded and they continued to listen. Sacker continued speaking.
“Yes, sorry about that. It seems to be one of those days. Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
“Sure,” said Scalopus distastefully. “And lets do so as fast as possible.” There was clearly no love lost between the two men.
“So, what’s the buzz?” Sacker asked.
“We appear to be running into a lot of problems. Most of which are coming from your little private-eye, Miss Quinn,” he said with a sneer.
“I thought that Tyr had taken care of that.”
“She’s alive. One of my agents kept rescuing her. And it’s a good thing too. We need her alive. She has Ingraham’s object.”
“What? She looked my right in the eye and lied. I should have known.”
“No, she didn’t even know she had it,” Scalopus said. “It was in the mail.”
“We didn’t check her mail?” Sacker asked.
“We couldn’t get into the mailbox without causing a much larger scene than was necessary. Her doorman is very attentive. It would have turned attention on Charlotte Quinn herself, not just the case she was working on. She’s a lot of trouble.”
“Well, she’s good at her job. People who are good at their job are usually a lot of trouble.”
“Like I said, it’s a good thing that Tyr didn’t kill her. Ingraham’s object only works when it is freely given.”
“Well, Charlotte’s not likely to do that,” Sacker said. “Charlotte is an unearthly kind of stubborn.”
“We’ll find a way to convince her.” Scalopus sounded confident. “We can’t do away with Charlotte Quinn, but we can eliminate some other of our problems.”
“Like what?”
“More of a who.”“One of my agents has been giving me trouble.
Water Flowing Through my Hands
I wrote this in church. I like to keep a notebook with me when I go places.
WATER FLOWING THROUGH MY HANDS
Water flowing through my hands
like sunlight through the rain
Quenching thirst of heart sore lands
and leaving fruit and gain.
If I could move the waterfalls
To spill their glory springing
I’d change the sound that too men calls
And bring the light to ringing.
I am no sure of who I am
At times throughout the day
But I know that through the lamb
My life won’t fade away.
I cannot make the flowing water,
I cannot beam the sun
But I know that I am a daughter
Of God the holy one.
I cannot move the mountains
But I can walk upon this land
And let my lips be fountains
And be the great Lord’s hand.
My God sent a redeemer
To save the light in me
And be you man or dreamer
The Lord can live in thee.
Let my lips, Lord, speak the word
Let sunlight fill my eyes
So all who know me will have heard
Men can live after he dies.
WATER FLOWING THROUGH MY HANDS
Water flowing through my hands
like sunlight through the rain
Quenching thirst of heart sore lands
and leaving fruit and gain.
If I could move the waterfalls
To spill their glory springing
I’d change the sound that too men calls
And bring the light to ringing.
I am no sure of who I am
At times throughout the day
But I know that through the lamb
My life won’t fade away.
I cannot make the flowing water,
I cannot beam the sun
But I know that I am a daughter
Of God the holy one.
I cannot move the mountains
But I can walk upon this land
And let my lips be fountains
And be the great Lord’s hand.
My God sent a redeemer
To save the light in me
And be you man or dreamer
The Lord can live in thee.
Let my lips, Lord, speak the word
Let sunlight fill my eyes
So all who know me will have heard
Men can live after he dies.
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