http://www.givesmehope.com
I urge everyone to go and read the entries on this site. I started reading them at work today and had to stop because I was starting to cry because of the sheer beauty of the entries and the things people do to help others. It gives me hope in humanity.
P.S. Since I forgot to mention, Mike and I tested for our next belt level in Hap Ki Do on Saturday and we both passed.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Scar Tissue
We all have scars
Some are shallow, mars of the flesh
Some are deeper, scratches on the soul
And some are both
An outward symbol of the pain we keep hidden
Why do you do it?
Is it an outlet?
Are you screaming for answers?
Do you want the world to see?
Or are you just trying to escape?
Can you explain it to me?
I don’t understand.
Pain to destroy pain?
Self infliction that won’t fade
It’s twisted
Convoluted
But sense doesn’t seem to exist at times
Not when sanity is gasping for breath
Not when depression’s hands are squeezing
I wish I understood
How blood sooths hurt
How wounds could possibly heal turmoil
But I don’t
A/N: There are people in my life who suffer a great amount, they have to deal with things I wouldn't dare dream of on a daily basis. And yet sometimes I find myself wanting to yell at them, to scream at them to see that what they are doing is only hurting themselves more. But I haven't been there, I don't understand so how can I judge? How can I tell them to stop when I don't know what it feels like? When I have never been in that place when pain is the only thing that offers relief? What am I supposed to do? To say?
I wish I understood
but I don't
Some are shallow, mars of the flesh
Some are deeper, scratches on the soul
And some are both
An outward symbol of the pain we keep hidden
Why do you do it?
Is it an outlet?
Are you screaming for answers?
Do you want the world to see?
Or are you just trying to escape?
Can you explain it to me?
I don’t understand.
Pain to destroy pain?
Self infliction that won’t fade
It’s twisted
Convoluted
But sense doesn’t seem to exist at times
Not when sanity is gasping for breath
Not when depression’s hands are squeezing
I wish I understood
How blood sooths hurt
How wounds could possibly heal turmoil
But I don’t
A/N: There are people in my life who suffer a great amount, they have to deal with things I wouldn't dare dream of on a daily basis. And yet sometimes I find myself wanting to yell at them, to scream at them to see that what they are doing is only hurting themselves more. But I haven't been there, I don't understand so how can I judge? How can I tell them to stop when I don't know what it feels like? When I have never been in that place when pain is the only thing that offers relief? What am I supposed to do? To say?
I wish I understood
but I don't
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
The Porcelain Doll
I’m not what you think I am
I’m not perfect
I bleed
I hurt
I’m insecure with childish fears that haunt me like monsters deep in the dark
I can’t do the things you want, my voice won’t speak, my throat won’t scream
I’m afraid of the dark but I can’t leave the shadows
I want to be free, light and careless but my heart won’t beat, my soul is leashed
I’m not who you think I am
Makeup to hide flaws
Cracked porcelain painted white
Lips stained vermillion
Is there anything underneath?
Or is it just stuffing
Molded with years, shredded with misuse
A rotten core
I’m not
A/N: I feel funky, I think it was the sashimi I ate for lunch. Don't worry though, I'm not all emo or depressive... just amusing my muses for a while. I don't even know what this means or where it comes from or anything...
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Bad Food and Good Music
I have to say, food poisoning is not a lot of fun. After spending most of the day in the bathroom yesterday, curled up on the bottom of the tub or bent over the porcelain idol, I am quite happy I have managed to keep my few crackers and cream of wheat down today. (And no, for all those wishful mothers and siblings out there, I am not pregnant, keep on wishing. It's not happening for a while).
In other news, I really hope I start to feel 100% again soon since I have my next belt test for Hap Ki Do on saturday and am rather nervous. I have a lot of practicing to do before then! But this time I will at least get to practice with Mike again which makes me happy.
At least my favorite band came out with a new PV (promotional video) today so that cheered me up quite a bit.
And that is all...
In other news, I really hope I start to feel 100% again soon since I have my next belt test for Hap Ki Do on saturday and am rather nervous. I have a lot of practicing to do before then! But this time I will at least get to practice with Mike again which makes me happy.
At least my favorite band came out with a new PV (promotional video) today so that cheered me up quite a bit.
And that is all...
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Disjointed Thought
I can’t catch a thought
Words spinning and whirling through my brain
Dancing a tuneless jig on my sanity
There are sentences to be written
Words meant to be strung together
Letters joined until they give birth to a world unknown
But I can’t catch a thought
And all that comes out is this
Its meaningless
Words spinning and whirling through my brain
Dancing a tuneless jig on my sanity
There are sentences to be written
Words meant to be strung together
Letters joined until they give birth to a world unknown
But I can’t catch a thought
And all that comes out is this
Its meaningless
A Good Day
Starting off early I 'Pigged' with Mylan (I know that won't make sense to anyone but its an online 'community' sort of thing in Japan. It really is quite adorable and we love to go online together and run around causing mischief. Here is a picture of us, apparently I had a ghost so there are two of me in the room.
Then I realized that it was already 10am and I had to shower and be at my sisters at 11am for my nephew's Birthday. We made it on time though, and had yummy food and talked for a while. I have the cutest nephews Ever.
Sadly we had to leave the party before cake (though I got to take a sneak peak at it and my sister is amazing. It was a dumptruck and very well done! I wish I could have tasted it!)
Mike however had a Jiu Jitsu tournament that started at 1pm so we had to rush over to our club (Brazillian Jiu Jitsu Fight Club) so he could change and get ready. He was pretty nervous as this was his very first Jiu Jitsu tournament but it ended up going really well. He was paired up against a 4 stripe white belt the first fight, and lost. But his second fight was against a different 4 stripe white belt and he won that one to get third place. He is only a white belt, no stripes yet, so that was very impressive. I was insanely proud of him.
Later we went out to Coral Springs where our friend Rodiel lives and has access to the community's private lake. It was a beautiul day and we swam for over an hour.
After that we all went out for dinner (Mike, Rodiel, Sumeet, Charmane and I) and it was absolutely delicious. Then headed back to Rodiel's house for a night of candy, beer and RockBand. It was lots of fun until about 1:30am when we all crashed and went home.
It was a good day
And that is all.
It was a good day
And that is all.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Beauty
I want to show you how beautiful you are.
I want to to get in your head and you in mine so you could see through my eyes and my thoughts and see what I see.
I know it doesn't change anything.
I know words are pretty and hard to believe.
But you are beautiful.
Inside, you glow.
You are strong.
You are kind.
You are hurting.
Outside you shine.
You are stunning.
You are vibrant.
Your scars are perfect flaws, signs of your life and who you are.
I wish I could make you believe but I know its not that easy.
But I promised I'd always be honest.
And I am telling the truth exactly how I see it.
No one is perfect.
Everyone has flaws.
We aren't all skinny
We aren't all curvy.
But I think that you are perfect for me.
Just being you.
I want to to get in your head and you in mine so you could see through my eyes and my thoughts and see what I see.
I know it doesn't change anything.
I know words are pretty and hard to believe.
But you are beautiful.
Inside, you glow.
You are strong.
You are kind.
You are hurting.
Outside you shine.
You are stunning.
You are vibrant.
Your scars are perfect flaws, signs of your life and who you are.
I wish I could make you believe but I know its not that easy.
But I promised I'd always be honest.
And I am telling the truth exactly how I see it.
No one is perfect.
Everyone has flaws.
We aren't all skinny
We aren't all curvy.
But I think that you are perfect for me.
Just being you.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Things I Never Told You
There are things I never told you, things I never will. They aren’t lies, merely an avoidance of the truth.
You could call me a coward, but then you’d have to call yourself one too. I am not the only one with shadowed eyes. I am not the only one tired of our games, our lives, our past, our future.
And yet, it never changes. We are stuck in a limbo because it’s safe and it’s comforting even if it aches. You still call when you are in town, still show up at my tiny little apartment and make yourself at home. Sometimes we sit on the floor, backs pressed against the paint chipped walls, the only sounds our breathing and the rustle of clothes as we shift at random intervals. Words never seemed all that necessary between us.
I don’t know what I am to you. I don’t know what you are to me; a shoulder to lean on perhaps, someone who I’ve never had to spill words to, ungainly sentences to fill empty space, simply because you always understood the unspoken.
Then there are the times where sitting isn’t what you need, and stillness seems to suffocate me. I can hear those moments in your clipped words over a short phone call, see it in your eyes the moment you shut the battered door behind you. Those are the moments I rise from my chair or uncurl from the bed in the corner, book left open, tea left cooling.
You’ve been rough and you’ve been gentle. Sometimes you leave, kissing my bruises in a silent apology as you go. Other times I am the one pressing chapped lips to your bloody scratches.
Why don’t we speak? Is it because you don’t want to know about the mundane moments of my insignificant life? Would the ins and outs of the average person, working in an office cubicle, staring at a screen that shows your face more often than not, depress you? Or is it me that doesn’t want to know? Would you tell me about your life, the one that looks shiny and sparkly from the outside, and make me see how dark it really is underneath?
I see enough in the smudges beneath your eyes, the darkness that seeps into your veins after a long absence and the weariness that weakens your bones and makes you slouch in pain. Those are your secrets, the ones I try to heal without my tongue trying to twist the emotion I’d like to convey.
You see enough in the faded colors on the wall, the chipped floor and worn tablecloth that supports cheap beer. You don’t need to ask and you never will and I don’t want you to. I have my pride just as you have yours. And you still come to me and offer me your warmth.
There are things I’ll never say to you. I’ll never pull at your hand and beg you to stay, I won’t tell you I love you, I won’t ask your reasons for picking me… a simple nobody to all your somebody. I won’t give you a reason to feel guilty or hold you back because you are meant to be free.
There are things you’ll never say to me. You’ll never ask me home, you’ve only ever come to me. You’ll never introduce me to your friends or parents, or offer to give me more than just you. I don’t want it because however convoluted and twisted this is, whatever we are, you let me be me, and I let you be you.
In here you aren’t who the world sees. In here I’m not just another ordinary. In here we are together, hidden hearts in a room of flaking drywall. Promises hidden down so deep they will never find the courage to climb free.
We are cowards.
But when we lie on the floor, smoke curling from forgotten cigarettes and dancing in the light from cracked curtains, we are brave because we don’t need words to see the truth. Naked and bare our souls know each other through all the traps and defenses we’ve put around us to shut out the world. In those moments, I am strong because you are and you are strong because I am.
This is why I’ll never tell you the things my head doesn’t want to admit, and why you’ll never ask. Why complicate something so simple with words that are so meaningless to others?
I don’t want your promises.
I don’t want your lies.
I don’t want your secrets.
I just want the silent moments frozen in time, locked in memories to keep my veins warm on cold evenings. That’s all you have to give. And it aches. And it comforts.
NOTES:
Read into this as you wish.
You could call me a coward, but then you’d have to call yourself one too. I am not the only one with shadowed eyes. I am not the only one tired of our games, our lives, our past, our future.
And yet, it never changes. We are stuck in a limbo because it’s safe and it’s comforting even if it aches. You still call when you are in town, still show up at my tiny little apartment and make yourself at home. Sometimes we sit on the floor, backs pressed against the paint chipped walls, the only sounds our breathing and the rustle of clothes as we shift at random intervals. Words never seemed all that necessary between us.
I don’t know what I am to you. I don’t know what you are to me; a shoulder to lean on perhaps, someone who I’ve never had to spill words to, ungainly sentences to fill empty space, simply because you always understood the unspoken.
Then there are the times where sitting isn’t what you need, and stillness seems to suffocate me. I can hear those moments in your clipped words over a short phone call, see it in your eyes the moment you shut the battered door behind you. Those are the moments I rise from my chair or uncurl from the bed in the corner, book left open, tea left cooling.
You’ve been rough and you’ve been gentle. Sometimes you leave, kissing my bruises in a silent apology as you go. Other times I am the one pressing chapped lips to your bloody scratches.
Why don’t we speak? Is it because you don’t want to know about the mundane moments of my insignificant life? Would the ins and outs of the average person, working in an office cubicle, staring at a screen that shows your face more often than not, depress you? Or is it me that doesn’t want to know? Would you tell me about your life, the one that looks shiny and sparkly from the outside, and make me see how dark it really is underneath?
I see enough in the smudges beneath your eyes, the darkness that seeps into your veins after a long absence and the weariness that weakens your bones and makes you slouch in pain. Those are your secrets, the ones I try to heal without my tongue trying to twist the emotion I’d like to convey.
You see enough in the faded colors on the wall, the chipped floor and worn tablecloth that supports cheap beer. You don’t need to ask and you never will and I don’t want you to. I have my pride just as you have yours. And you still come to me and offer me your warmth.
There are things I’ll never say to you. I’ll never pull at your hand and beg you to stay, I won’t tell you I love you, I won’t ask your reasons for picking me… a simple nobody to all your somebody. I won’t give you a reason to feel guilty or hold you back because you are meant to be free.
There are things you’ll never say to me. You’ll never ask me home, you’ve only ever come to me. You’ll never introduce me to your friends or parents, or offer to give me more than just you. I don’t want it because however convoluted and twisted this is, whatever we are, you let me be me, and I let you be you.
In here you aren’t who the world sees. In here I’m not just another ordinary. In here we are together, hidden hearts in a room of flaking drywall. Promises hidden down so deep they will never find the courage to climb free.
We are cowards.
But when we lie on the floor, smoke curling from forgotten cigarettes and dancing in the light from cracked curtains, we are brave because we don’t need words to see the truth. Naked and bare our souls know each other through all the traps and defenses we’ve put around us to shut out the world. In those moments, I am strong because you are and you are strong because I am.
This is why I’ll never tell you the things my head doesn’t want to admit, and why you’ll never ask. Why complicate something so simple with words that are so meaningless to others?
I don’t want your promises.
I don’t want your lies.
I don’t want your secrets.
I just want the silent moments frozen in time, locked in memories to keep my veins warm on cold evenings. That’s all you have to give. And it aches. And it comforts.
NOTES:
Read into this as you wish.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Nights, Fights and Photoshoots
Another busy busy weekend, I seem to experience those a lot.
Friday afternoon my co-worker Kerri and I went for a couple beers at the end of work to celebrate the almost end of the Stampede. There she convinced me that I should go out that night with her because I never have. All in all it ended up being a bit of a disaster complete with spending two hours in the cold trying to hail down a cab so I could get to my car and drive home (I don't drink when I am out with friends).
Woke up saturday morning to go to jiu jitsu, but then I ate breakfast and realized the flu decided to visit me again in full force. Ended up sleeping most of the day until about 5pm when I had to get up so we could go to the grocery store and get steak for the UFC party at Jay and Kelly's house.
That was actually a really fun time and I started to feel better after I got some food in me. The fights were really good and everyone who I wanted to win actually won. Except for Frank Miur who lost to Brock Lesnar which really made me sad because I find Lesnar to be a very disrespectful fighter with no discipline. He just throws his weight around and is rude and uncouth.
Sunday afternoon I gave Sil a call and asked her randomly if she wanted to have a photoshoot. She agreed and was over within about an hour. Mike was kind enough to come with us to Nose Hill Park to take pictures (albeit I had to bribe him with a dinner at the Cactus Club to do so).
And thats all...
Friday afternoon my co-worker Kerri and I went for a couple beers at the end of work to celebrate the almost end of the Stampede. There she convinced me that I should go out that night with her because I never have. All in all it ended up being a bit of a disaster complete with spending two hours in the cold trying to hail down a cab so I could get to my car and drive home (I don't drink when I am out with friends).
Woke up saturday morning to go to jiu jitsu, but then I ate breakfast and realized the flu decided to visit me again in full force. Ended up sleeping most of the day until about 5pm when I had to get up so we could go to the grocery store and get steak for the UFC party at Jay and Kelly's house.
That was actually a really fun time and I started to feel better after I got some food in me. The fights were really good and everyone who I wanted to win actually won. Except for Frank Miur who lost to Brock Lesnar which really made me sad because I find Lesnar to be a very disrespectful fighter with no discipline. He just throws his weight around and is rude and uncouth.
Sunday afternoon I gave Sil a call and asked her randomly if she wanted to have a photoshoot. She agreed and was over within about an hour. Mike was kind enough to come with us to Nose Hill Park to take pictures (albeit I had to bribe him with a dinner at the Cactus Club to do so).
And thats all...
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Moods & Music
Ignore the ramblings of an overtly happy girl. I don't know what I had today to put me in such a good mood this afternoon but I am at the stage where everything is ridiculously funny, even things that shouldn't be.
I am actually going to put the blame for this on the band Alice Nine. I wish I could explain to all of you who don't understand my fetish for japanese rock music how great they really are. But I don't think I can. I really do wish that American artists had the same outlook on music that they did though, they are warm hearted, dorky, talented and just open with who they are and how they look at music.
I was reading an translated interview today and one of the guitarist of the band said the following:
"I compose songs with earnesty. I don't want to lie to myself. I definitely wouldn't be able to compose songs for the sake of becoming famous. Well, although I think that everyone who does music has the same feelings in that they wouldn't be doing music if they could lie to themselves, but it's really because we don't want to lie. Because I entrust Shou-kun with the lyrics, I won't interfere. It's because I want to concentrate on the sounds. I entrust to the sounds what I want to communicate. I think that music can't lie. Can't you lie with words? But music definitely cannot lie...
What I think about when I compose music is just the moment when you listen to the music, but usually things will happen, so I would like the music to be something that helps you escape and pass the times when there are bad or painful things. I think that is something that I pursue in music. The songs that I want to compose are the kinds of songs I want to listen to during such times, so I think that if people are close to such times and they choose to listen to my music then it would be the best. Aren't there songs that you want to listen to when you're troubled. I think it would be great if I could compose such songs. What I think is amazing is within that, I want to believe in the things that originally motivated me. I never want to forget the reasons that made me join a band or the reasons why I started composing music. In the Visual Kei scene there are lots of female fans, and it is thought that that is our aim, to have lots of business, but I don't want it to be like that. It doesn't mean that we don't want fans, though people might not understand our make-up, our outfits, our entertainment, ours lives or our music, it's not a question of whether which is the most relevant, it's a combination of those, I want to be in a band that creates new things and keeps challenging themselves, I want to be a guitarist. This might be probing too much or turn into a discussion about the meaning of my life, but I don't want to have the same "If we do it, it should be alright" sense that is floating around. I think that because we can be here, and because of all the people that listen to our music are here, the five of us have this daredevil spirit. Therefore I really don't want to forget everything from now on too.
For some reason I really respect his honesty there and his outlook on music in general and that is just a short bit of one interview. I could quote them all many times over because I appreciate so much how they look at life and their desire to better themselves. That and they never fail to cheer me up or make me laugh. Call me weird for liking a band that speaks another language, or wear make-up as part of their stage costumes... guys that most people say look like girls. But its a different culture and its not up to me to judge, I will just enjoy the music they release.
And that is all....
I am actually going to put the blame for this on the band Alice Nine. I wish I could explain to all of you who don't understand my fetish for japanese rock music how great they really are. But I don't think I can. I really do wish that American artists had the same outlook on music that they did though, they are warm hearted, dorky, talented and just open with who they are and how they look at music.
I was reading an translated interview today and one of the guitarist of the band said the following:
"I compose songs with earnesty. I don't want to lie to myself. I definitely wouldn't be able to compose songs for the sake of becoming famous. Well, although I think that everyone who does music has the same feelings in that they wouldn't be doing music if they could lie to themselves, but it's really because we don't want to lie. Because I entrust Shou-kun with the lyrics, I won't interfere. It's because I want to concentrate on the sounds. I entrust to the sounds what I want to communicate. I think that music can't lie. Can't you lie with words? But music definitely cannot lie...
What I think about when I compose music is just the moment when you listen to the music, but usually things will happen, so I would like the music to be something that helps you escape and pass the times when there are bad or painful things. I think that is something that I pursue in music. The songs that I want to compose are the kinds of songs I want to listen to during such times, so I think that if people are close to such times and they choose to listen to my music then it would be the best. Aren't there songs that you want to listen to when you're troubled. I think it would be great if I could compose such songs. What I think is amazing is within that, I want to believe in the things that originally motivated me. I never want to forget the reasons that made me join a band or the reasons why I started composing music. In the Visual Kei scene there are lots of female fans, and it is thought that that is our aim, to have lots of business, but I don't want it to be like that. It doesn't mean that we don't want fans, though people might not understand our make-up, our outfits, our entertainment, ours lives or our music, it's not a question of whether which is the most relevant, it's a combination of those, I want to be in a band that creates new things and keeps challenging themselves, I want to be a guitarist. This might be probing too much or turn into a discussion about the meaning of my life, but I don't want to have the same "If we do it, it should be alright" sense that is floating around. I think that because we can be here, and because of all the people that listen to our music are here, the five of us have this daredevil spirit. Therefore I really don't want to forget everything from now on too.
For some reason I really respect his honesty there and his outlook on music in general and that is just a short bit of one interview. I could quote them all many times over because I appreciate so much how they look at life and their desire to better themselves. That and they never fail to cheer me up or make me laugh. Call me weird for liking a band that speaks another language, or wear make-up as part of their stage costumes... guys that most people say look like girls. But its a different culture and its not up to me to judge, I will just enjoy the music they release.
And that is all....
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
On inspiration and muses
I wish I could explain the things I write or where my muses come from but most of the time they don’t make sense to even me. I’ve written stories novel length that have stemmed from hearing a single word, seen a simple object and suddenly my heart will ache because in my mind there is an entire story connected to something as simple as a swing set or a half-eaten apple core. Those clouds you just saw and thought of as boring old clouds with maybe a duck thrown in? I saw a complete new world with mystical creatures made of mist and light that no one has ever heard of. That’s just how my brain works.
There are things I have written that I would never dare show anyone in my family or the people I have grown up with. Things that go against the morals I have been taught and what the world deems right and wrong. There is light and dark in the world, morbidity and mystery and both intrigue me in ways I can’t explain. Sometimes there are scenes in my mind that cause me to shiver in disgust and frighten me but regardless of where they come from, and I usually don’t know, they are still there and the only way to get them out of my head is to put them down on paper. I have a hard time thinking that it is wrong to write such things then, I didn’t ask for them to visit me, those scenes, but they did anyway and I need to get them out in some way.
I once read the following and fell in love; “Create. Not because you want to or because the mood grabs you or just because you happen to feel like it. Create because you need to. Because it feels like if you don't, you might die."
They really hit me, not because I feel like I will die if I don’t sit down at try to organize my thoughts in the form of a story or pick up a paintbrush and capture the images on canvas… but because sometimes I am afraid that I will go insane if I don’t. It is frustrating to have a story, a world, a scene, trapped inside your skull with nowhere to go. They simply run around in circles until I take time out to sort through them and put them in some semblance of order.
In the end I guess I am what you would call the epitome of a dreamer… only unlike some I don’t dream about the future. Instead my mind is in places others could never imagine because they are my creations.
Then some days I am terrified that one day my ideas will run out and what will I be left with? An empty space for a head? Blank areas in my mind that have nothing to occupy themselves with? It is one of my greatest fears.
This is me…
There are things I have written that I would never dare show anyone in my family or the people I have grown up with. Things that go against the morals I have been taught and what the world deems right and wrong. There is light and dark in the world, morbidity and mystery and both intrigue me in ways I can’t explain. Sometimes there are scenes in my mind that cause me to shiver in disgust and frighten me but regardless of where they come from, and I usually don’t know, they are still there and the only way to get them out of my head is to put them down on paper. I have a hard time thinking that it is wrong to write such things then, I didn’t ask for them to visit me, those scenes, but they did anyway and I need to get them out in some way.
I once read the following and fell in love; “Create. Not because you want to or because the mood grabs you or just because you happen to feel like it. Create because you need to. Because it feels like if you don't, you might die."
They really hit me, not because I feel like I will die if I don’t sit down at try to organize my thoughts in the form of a story or pick up a paintbrush and capture the images on canvas… but because sometimes I am afraid that I will go insane if I don’t. It is frustrating to have a story, a world, a scene, trapped inside your skull with nowhere to go. They simply run around in circles until I take time out to sort through them and put them in some semblance of order.
In the end I guess I am what you would call the epitome of a dreamer… only unlike some I don’t dream about the future. Instead my mind is in places others could never imagine because they are my creations.
Then some days I am terrified that one day my ideas will run out and what will I be left with? An empty space for a head? Blank areas in my mind that have nothing to occupy themselves with? It is one of my greatest fears.
This is me…
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Pictures in the Sky
The first time he saw her she was painting pictures in the sky, invisible paintbrush in hand, dripping imaginary ink. Her lips were curved into a smile and he wondered what she could possibly see that was beautiful on the dark, dank street that she stood upon.
He watched with silent fascination as she focused on her task, broad sweeping strokes and small flicks of wrists. The longer he watched the more he noticed. Small things, like the fact it was late autumn, the air crisp with the hint of snow in the night sky, and yet she only wore a thin sweater. Or that her hands were shaking slightly, the fingers turning an unhealthy looking blue the longer she held them in the air.
His bus came and went and yet he didn’t move. His feet were riveted in their footholds, his back glued firmly to where he rested against the bus stop sign. The next bus would come soon enough and he sensed that she wasn’t finished her masterpiece yet. For some odd reason it seemed imperative that he wait until it was complete.
Finally her hands stopped moving and were tucked under armpits to warm. Watching her he was shocked to find her glance over shyly and ask, “Do you like it?”
“I do,” he answered, surprised to find he meant the words that dribbled from his mouth.
She cocked her head and looked at him, her gaze surprisingly sharp and lucid. “What do you see?” she asked quietly.
He paused, trying to think of the right words to explain her phenomenon. “I see dreams,” he finally answered, “dreams and hopes and fantasy all rolled into a world so magical it can only be seen through the artist’s eye.”
Bright lights danced in her eyes as she clapped her hands, the sound hollow and muffled against the whirr of traffic and blare of horns on the street behind them. Her smile however outshone the soft glow of streetlights and the silver moon hanging low through the skyscrapers. “You must be an artist then,” she reasoned.
He nodded absentmindedly, his gaze focused on her hands. Artist fingers - calloused and stained but cracked dry from the chilly weather. A frown formed between his brows and he brought one of his own hands up to his lips, biting the fabric of his mitts as he used his teeth to tug the garment off. Once one hand was free it was easy to remove the other and grasp her hands.
Surprisingly she said not a word as he slid the warm gloves over her cold fingers then rubbed them between his palms, warming them. “Artist hands are special,” he mused softly as he let them go and took a step back. “With them we can create worlds to hide in and be free. They should never be damaged.”
“What about yours?” she asked softly, eyes bright with gratefulness as she inspected the wool covering her fingers.
He shrugged in a nonchalant manner, “I’ll find another pair. Right now I think you need them more than I do.”
His bus arrived then, the last one of the night and he knew he had to go, away from the girl with bold dreams painted in dreary alleys, the girl with the sallow cheeks and un-kept hair who was surprisingly beautiful under the skin. He nodded his head at her as the doors of his ride swished open and he put a foot onto its yellow lined steps. And as the door shut behind him, ensconcing him in warmth he heard her say, “I was painting a fire to keep me warm, but now I have dreams and mitts to curl up into.”
It was the best gift he’d ever received.
Notes:
Weird muses going at it again, I think this one was born from the Sermon on Sunday. I wrote it in about 15 minutes or less so I am sorry if there are any mistakes, I feel rather sick and my brain hurts to much to try editing it.
He watched with silent fascination as she focused on her task, broad sweeping strokes and small flicks of wrists. The longer he watched the more he noticed. Small things, like the fact it was late autumn, the air crisp with the hint of snow in the night sky, and yet she only wore a thin sweater. Or that her hands were shaking slightly, the fingers turning an unhealthy looking blue the longer she held them in the air.
His bus came and went and yet he didn’t move. His feet were riveted in their footholds, his back glued firmly to where he rested against the bus stop sign. The next bus would come soon enough and he sensed that she wasn’t finished her masterpiece yet. For some odd reason it seemed imperative that he wait until it was complete.
Finally her hands stopped moving and were tucked under armpits to warm. Watching her he was shocked to find her glance over shyly and ask, “Do you like it?”
“I do,” he answered, surprised to find he meant the words that dribbled from his mouth.
She cocked her head and looked at him, her gaze surprisingly sharp and lucid. “What do you see?” she asked quietly.
He paused, trying to think of the right words to explain her phenomenon. “I see dreams,” he finally answered, “dreams and hopes and fantasy all rolled into a world so magical it can only be seen through the artist’s eye.”
Bright lights danced in her eyes as she clapped her hands, the sound hollow and muffled against the whirr of traffic and blare of horns on the street behind them. Her smile however outshone the soft glow of streetlights and the silver moon hanging low through the skyscrapers. “You must be an artist then,” she reasoned.
He nodded absentmindedly, his gaze focused on her hands. Artist fingers - calloused and stained but cracked dry from the chilly weather. A frown formed between his brows and he brought one of his own hands up to his lips, biting the fabric of his mitts as he used his teeth to tug the garment off. Once one hand was free it was easy to remove the other and grasp her hands.
Surprisingly she said not a word as he slid the warm gloves over her cold fingers then rubbed them between his palms, warming them. “Artist hands are special,” he mused softly as he let them go and took a step back. “With them we can create worlds to hide in and be free. They should never be damaged.”
“What about yours?” she asked softly, eyes bright with gratefulness as she inspected the wool covering her fingers.
He shrugged in a nonchalant manner, “I’ll find another pair. Right now I think you need them more than I do.”
His bus arrived then, the last one of the night and he knew he had to go, away from the girl with bold dreams painted in dreary alleys, the girl with the sallow cheeks and un-kept hair who was surprisingly beautiful under the skin. He nodded his head at her as the doors of his ride swished open and he put a foot onto its yellow lined steps. And as the door shut behind him, ensconcing him in warmth he heard her say, “I was painting a fire to keep me warm, but now I have dreams and mitts to curl up into.”
It was the best gift he’d ever received.
Notes:
Weird muses going at it again, I think this one was born from the Sermon on Sunday. I wrote it in about 15 minutes or less so I am sorry if there are any mistakes, I feel rather sick and my brain hurts to much to try editing it.
Sick
Mike is sick, and I think I might be getting there as well. It sounds like the flu or maybe food poisoning but we ate the same thing last night so I should have gotten it around the same time as him.
I accidentally yelled at him this morning though because he was sitting on the edge of the tub with the shower on and water was pouring all over the floor. Apparently he didnt want to move because it was comfortable so I sort of lost my temper. OOPS. Sorry hun.
And that is all...
I accidentally yelled at him this morning though because he was sitting on the edge of the tub with the shower on and water was pouring all over the floor. Apparently he didnt want to move because it was comfortable so I sort of lost my temper. OOPS. Sorry hun.
And that is all...
Monday, July 6, 2009
Intoxicating Sin
There wasn’t any emotionalreason in what they did or why they kept on doing it. Nothing good would come from their actions but that in itself was nothing new. Their past was littered with intentionalmistakes, a history of overdrinking and overstepping boundaries.
Wandering fingers trail over sweat damp skin, creeping under clothing and caressing in all the rightwrong places. A common transgression, one that would be deemed unforgivable come morning. But now, in the dark with alcohol to blame, it was an offense that was welcomed whole-heartedly.
This wasn’t the first time self-respect had fallen to the floor along with booze stained shirts and torn jeans. It wouldn’t be the last. Virtue wasn’t a word that belonged in this place. This room, with its red walls, was the witness to their sin. No one else knew. No other had ever bore testament the pleasurepain they derived from each others bodies.
Swollen lips open in a needy gasp as teeth sink into pliant flesh. “No marks,” the commandplead tumbles forth and the other complies. They aren’t intoxicated enough for the unspoken rules to be broken. Bruises cause questions, scratches trigger recollections.
Night was the time for remembering. Remembering the way skin was roughsoft beneath palms. It was meant for evoking pleas and whimpers and begs of stopmore. It was the time taken to recall just how one liked to be touched, how thighs screamed and hummed at the slightest brush against sensitive muscle. How a devilishlyangelic tongue could cause curses to be whispered like prayers.
Neither wanted to think about the morning. Instead they focused on the now. On the shiveringheat of a body against body. On the slickfriction they felt as they moved languidly then faster. Slowfast, inout, shallowdeep. Limbs shake and tremble from the desire to holdbackletgo. The end was near but neither wanted it to stop.
He couldn’t have said when it began. She didn’t want to reminisce. The past was dark, future shadowy. The light had no place in their lives. To the outside they were beautiful, pure, incapable of the sins they committed. Inside, togetheralone, deep down in the drunk dark of night they were perfectlyflawed under the skin.
Morning was for forgetting. Forgetting the way he felt straining awaycloser. It was meant for disregarding the desire for more. It was the time they took to purposefully overlook the way their bodies moved so meticulouslycareless together like each stroke of an impressionists brush; sloppy at first but perfect in its finality. It was the time he dressed and snuck out while she put their hazy dreams into yet another jar to be left on the shelf and forgotten.
Until the next time. The next time a bottle was taken from the fridge or a drink accepted in a club.
Red lips would eventually curl around a glass with a smirk and it would start over.
This was their intoxicating sin. Them.
NOTES:
Umm... so I hope no one gets mad or is appalled/shocked at me for this... its a little R-rated I realize... you could ask me why I wrote it or where the muses came from and I wouldn't be able to tell you. I write the words that get stuck in my head and this is how they pour out on paper. Since half the purpose of this blog is for me to share my creative side and the crazy things my brain comes up with, I thought I would post it... and maybe its pairing piece.... anyway.
Now... I am going to go run away for daring to put this here where my parents can read it and wonder just what goes through their daughter's brain.
Wandering fingers trail over sweat damp skin, creeping under clothing and caressing in all the rightwrong places. A common transgression, one that would be deemed unforgivable come morning. But now, in the dark with alcohol to blame, it was an offense that was welcomed whole-heartedly.
This wasn’t the first time self-respect had fallen to the floor along with booze stained shirts and torn jeans. It wouldn’t be the last. Virtue wasn’t a word that belonged in this place. This room, with its red walls, was the witness to their sin. No one else knew. No other had ever bore testament the pleasurepain they derived from each others bodies.
Swollen lips open in a needy gasp as teeth sink into pliant flesh. “No marks,” the commandplead tumbles forth and the other complies. They aren’t intoxicated enough for the unspoken rules to be broken. Bruises cause questions, scratches trigger recollections.
Night was the time for remembering. Remembering the way skin was roughsoft beneath palms. It was meant for evoking pleas and whimpers and begs of stopmore. It was the time taken to recall just how one liked to be touched, how thighs screamed and hummed at the slightest brush against sensitive muscle. How a devilishlyangelic tongue could cause curses to be whispered like prayers.
Neither wanted to think about the morning. Instead they focused on the now. On the shiveringheat of a body against body. On the slickfriction they felt as they moved languidly then faster. Slowfast, inout, shallowdeep. Limbs shake and tremble from the desire to holdbackletgo. The end was near but neither wanted it to stop.
He couldn’t have said when it began. She didn’t want to reminisce. The past was dark, future shadowy. The light had no place in their lives. To the outside they were beautiful, pure, incapable of the sins they committed. Inside, togetheralone, deep down in the drunk dark of night they were perfectlyflawed under the skin.
Morning was for forgetting. Forgetting the way he felt straining awaycloser. It was meant for disregarding the desire for more. It was the time they took to purposefully overlook the way their bodies moved so meticulouslycareless together like each stroke of an impressionists brush; sloppy at first but perfect in its finality. It was the time he dressed and snuck out while she put their hazy dreams into yet another jar to be left on the shelf and forgotten.
Until the next time. The next time a bottle was taken from the fridge or a drink accepted in a club.
Red lips would eventually curl around a glass with a smirk and it would start over.
This was their intoxicating sin. Them.
NOTES:
Umm... so I hope no one gets mad or is appalled/shocked at me for this... its a little R-rated I realize... you could ask me why I wrote it or where the muses came from and I wouldn't be able to tell you. I write the words that get stuck in my head and this is how they pour out on paper. Since half the purpose of this blog is for me to share my creative side and the crazy things my brain comes up with, I thought I would post it... and maybe its pairing piece.... anyway.
Now... I am going to go run away for daring to put this here where my parents can read it and wonder just what goes through their daughter's brain.
Speak
God gave us a mouth to talk with and fingers to write with. Use them. Keeping silent when something is wrong only causes things to fester. Speak. Sometimes the truth hurts but its better to hear than to live in the dark.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Makeup
I know I am a bit odd and a grown woman probably shouldn't still like to play dress-up and do their makeup crazy and take photos. Nevertheless, I enjoy it, it is a good way to relax and use some creative energy so last night I did just that.
Here are a couple pictures.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Canada Day
Well I had this idea to go down to Prince's Park and join in the festivities this morning but Mike wasn't up to wandering through crowds and it not quite as fun to go alone. So instead I laid out on the patio a bit and listened to Rentrer En Soi on my ipod and stared at the sky.
Later we took a walk in the sunshine then spent the afternoon just hanging out and being lazy. The plan was to go to Jiu Jitsu then Meg's house after but Jiu Jitsu was closed apparently so we went straight to Meg and Bill's and ate a FANTASTIC dinner (Meg you are amazing).
Once we got home I went down into the basement to take a round at the punching bag and managed to skin all my knuckles on both hands because I was punching for too long and. Whoops. I need bandaids but I have none. *cries*
And that is all...
Later we took a walk in the sunshine then spent the afternoon just hanging out and being lazy. The plan was to go to Jiu Jitsu then Meg's house after but Jiu Jitsu was closed apparently so we went straight to Meg and Bill's and ate a FANTASTIC dinner (Meg you are amazing).
Once we got home I went down into the basement to take a round at the punching bag and managed to skin all my knuckles on both hands because I was punching for too long and. Whoops. I need bandaids but I have none. *cries*
And that is all...
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