A Short Story to the tune of Otis Redding, coffee by side, dusk in the skyline (with planes flying in-and-out overhead.)

"Dear God, what is that?" Dr. Donald Drummond exclaimed. His assistant peered at it through the binoculars.

"It appears to be a goat, sir. A mountain goat, Capra aegagrus hircus to be precise, sir."

Dr. Drummond appeared crestfallen, or at least as crestfallen as one can appear when his or her face is mostly obscured by a thick, wool-lined collar of a coat. "You don't suppose its our Yeti playing mind tricks on you? They might be such tricky fellows, you know."

"I don't believe so, sir," the assistant replied in a deadpan.

"Oh... well, It's rather cold out here, isn't it?" Dr. Drummond said quickly, peering up at the sky.

"It usually is in the mountains, sir. The elevation, you know. Warm air. Cools as it rises and all that. Sir."

"I'm not a damned army general, so stop calling me 'sir,' will you?" Dr. Drummond snapped. Then he forgot why he was there for a moment, and amused himself by watching the puffs of breath spurt forth from his chilled lips, and as he did so he wished for a hot drink in front of the fireplace; and over the edge of the fire would hang a lovely picture of he and a Yeti, and perhaps there would be a disappointed goat in the background.

"Of course, sir," replied the assistant. Dr. Drummond didn't mind the slip, and the assistant knew that. "Sir? The animal appears to be headed in our direction. Should we retreat? It might not approve of our encroachment of it's territory."

"What if this mountain goat of yours was actually a Shape-Shifting Yeti? Wouldn't that make for a brilliant discovery? I can see the headlines now, by God! 'Yeti Revealed: Biological Evidence Proves Genetic Mapping Like that of the Chameleon.' ...No, that doesn't have the correct ring to it. Ah well, best to leave it up to the journalists. They know what they're doing." Dr. Drummond chucked to himself, then took out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.

"I don't think the goat liked that much, sir. He appears to be angry."

"And well he should, for he doesn't have a silken handkerchief to blow his Yeti nose with! Do you think I should offer him mine?"

"But you've just used it, sir," said the assistant. And indeed, it was not the first time Dr. Drummond had blown his prominent and red nose with said handkerchief.

"I do believe there is a clean one in the pack. Fetch it out, will you?"

"I don't think there will be time for that, Sir. The goat appears to be charging!"

"And well he should! I daresay he's in want of our food stuffs. Vegetation is rather spare in these parts, as you can see. The high and rocky crags are not the best growing locations, nor is the tundra environment-- and of course the snow puts a bit of a cramp on the sprouting of greenery as well." Dr. Drummond said this to his assistant's back, as the assistant had already began running in the opposite direction of the goat. "See here! Where are you going, boy?" Dr. Drummond challenged. He did so with his back to the animal, so of course he did not see the goat charging, but perhaps it was better that he was got in the backside rather than the front. The force of the goat threw him forwards, face-first, into a thin layer of fresh cold snow, and he blacked out much to his own disappointment.

When Dr. Drummond came to moments later, however, the shaggy white beast was rooting through his coat pockets-- and, much to Dr. Drummond's delight-- had found the pipe tobacco hidden there. The goat commenced to eat it.

"And you may have it, good sir Yeti in disguise," Dr. Drummond remarked happily, but quietly, as not to scare the animal off. "Whatever you want, sir, you may take!"

The goat lost interest in the Doctor's coat then, and began to chew on the Doctor's pack straps on the backpack that had been catapulted three feet to the right. Dr. Drummond, with much effort, managed to roll himself upright so that he may better observe.

As the pack was not the one which held the foodstuff, the shaggy goat soon lost interest in it and started to wander off, a bit erratically as a matter of fact because of the tobacco it had ingested.

"No, Dear Beast! Do come back, and reveal your true form to me!" Dr. Drummond lamented, but the goat paid no attention to him and instead disappeared behind a large crap a little off in the distance.

"Are you all right, sir?" The assistant asked timidly, emerging from behind the rock he'd managed to secure himself behind. Dr. Drummond whirled around.

"You! Where have you been when I needed you?"

The assistant was quiet for a moment, and then he held up his camera. "I managed some wonderful shots-- one just as he butted you, and another while he was searching your pockets. Quite an experience, wasn't it, sir?" The assistant timidly half-grinned while searching The Doctor's face for emotion.

Dr. Drummond calmed himself and dusted the snow off of his coat. "I suppose it was," the Doctor replied, while attempting to dignify his attire. "Oh look! Perhaps that is our Yeti, instead?" Doctor Drummond then asked, pointing over the assistant's shoulder.

The assistant turned to look, and then sighed. "Sir, are you aware that the Yeti is rumored to live in the Himalayan Mountains and not here in Canada? I do believe its only another mountain goat."

In this world where fairytales no longer exist, it is my charge to create for myself the most miraculous happily-ever-after.

Midnight found me all alone on the front porch yesterday, smoking a cigarette and reading in my red Winter coat and pajama pants. I don't know why--but for whatever reason--my head was full of thoughts of the far-away future. And yet, in retrospect I see that it was really fear of thinking of the past that was the catalyst for these thoughts.

The stars and moon were out last night; even a few fireflies had come to bob about in the garden darkness to keep me company in my loneliness. I can still hear the porch boards squeak faintly with each soft movement that I made; they were old and had know worry like mine before; they sympathized.

The passage that I had just read in my novel resonated sharply in my brain.

"You got something eating at you! Something gnawing at your guts! Something so bitter is simmers in your eyes and grits your teeth together! I know your kind. You ruin everyone who touches your life and God help the next person who loves you enough to be ruined!"

Many, many thoughts coursed through my head as the result of this passage.

The thoughts continued until my cigarette needed to be put out. It was then that I regained my focus upon reality.

Reality, however, only lead to a new and entertaining thought-stream: why was the difficulty of my life to determine how I--a cock-eyed optimist who was impatient for success--  to best handle, in any given moment, a profusion of random and often conflicting thoughts? Where was the harmony and delicate balance that I was constantly looking for in life?

Then I started to get angry. Would it always be like this? Would my thoughts never be synthesised into a rounded whole for me? Would perpetual inconsistency and indecision be the result of my constant need of mental simulation and entertainment?  Damn my habit of wavering from one idea to the next!

It was then that I realized that finding harmony in a world full of ebb and flow, tensions and strains, was never to be an easy task for me.  While sitting on my porch last night, pondering why I couldn't live a life full of relaxed and easy decisions, why day-to-day living conflicts and discomforts me, and why my logic intrinsically fails to guide me, I realized something important about myself.  It was then that I realized that I didn't want harmony. It was then that, by some divine revelation, I came to understand that the only true state of non-conflict is inertia. And I knew I didn't want that.

I then smiled to myself and reveled in all the chaos that my life had produced up until this point.

Unexpectedly, my thoughts  were interrupted by a late night dog-walker pacing his way down the street.

It was then that some enigmatic, invisible cloak dropped down to warp me from my beguiled state back into the cool, aloof, sanguine poise that is my norm. And then, before ascending the stairs and going to bed, I laughed aloud at all the chaos that was to come in my life. And I knew all would be as it was suppose to be.

Your Everyday Assortment Herein

^Ha! A superficial but noteworthy contemplation: I fancy myself clever with anagrams.

Onto much more pressing matters (procrastinating for Communication Ethics). As such, I feel that a free write is in order:

I sit by the computer, a string of Italian vignettes in my hand, my purse by my side, my hair a mess, an old black jacket thrown over a hidden hoodie, ill-fitting jeans stretched on too-tall legs (splayed forward in an appropriately nonchalant manner.)

What a mess I must seem to the students walking by with books in their arms, the reference librarians in the afterglow of a day's hard work, and the custodial staff with their hurried demeanor and disgruntled faces.

The scene seems, to me, to be straight from a painting.

I feel an unexplained emptiness--best described as a strange lulling tugging at the corners of my heart (assuming my heart has more than one corner), and I am left with a feeling that can only be described as a sensation of feeling both hot and cold simultaneously.

A stale taste of idleness sits impatiently in my mouth, and I am once again reminded that I am on the outside looking in. Perhaps it is the droning of the vacuum cleaner that puts me in reverie, or perhaps it is the little boy, no younger than four, no older than eight, who sits beside me, twiddling his thumbs in anticipation of Monday night television and Spaghetti -O's.

These days I find the hours bleeding into days with a slow and congealing drip. And my tears, they blend quickly into watercolor. And they often make me wonder where my glass slipper has gone.

Not to be contradictory-- for I’m still a romantic... albeit a tragic, bruised one.

If there were one thing that I could be doing right now at this very instant, it would be painting. I would find an easel and paint freckled shirts, and would set my materials down in an exceptionally gorgeous scene and reproduce it for years to come so that people could see things the way that I see them. It would serve to allow people to feel what I feel, and the only problem that I would run into would be that there is not enough time to paint my whole world.

...The lulling in my chest has not yet subsided. When I feel this feeling, I write. It helps me to understand last semester’s impasse with myself. I am not wrong, I simply am. That’s my motto. I know that whatever happens in life will happen for a reason, and the beauty is not knowing. Although not knowing what to expect certainly makes it all the more difficult to muster resources to aid my courage.

It occurs to me that as one gets older, the scope of one’s portraits narrow to nothing more than a pitiful existence one has etched out from shattered dreams.

This thought has been playing in my head like a broken record recently. Not only that, but imagine now that the very calling God has placed on you is to do nothing more than ignite a spark in someone so that the ability to make dreams into a reality is not outside of that one person's scope anymore. An interesting concept; to exist to inspire.

As I get older, I don’t view myself as wiser simple because I’ve let go of my childish dreams. Rather, I see myself traveling on this road called life, having not stopped to smell the roses, instead settling for mediocrity though I was destined to be a roadside vendor. As a result, my spirit is restless, and no form of mental trickery can convince me of my satisfaction. Lately I’ve been feeling that there is so little time…

At the very least, this semester has taught me who I am. I am Elaine. I am a poet, an artist, a danger, a pillar, a friend, and a lover. I am a teacher, a student, an observer, a little girl, a business woman, and a dreamer. My soul is unbreakable. I’m no longer turned off by the behavior of others- I think only to myself in terms of dissatisfaction. Forgiveness is superlative ingredient in my recipe for virtue. I have considered this fact: If you spot it, you’ve got it. I no longer focus on the deficits of other people, but rather, I look to where I am falling short. This is how I best serve myself-- how else am I to have a clue to the success or failure of my future? The Bible comforts me these days and reinforces my newfound logic. Case and point (in relation to my former assertion), the words of Psalms 118:8: “[It is] better to trust in the LORD than to put confidence in man.”

I have begun to piece my independence back together one stitch at a time. Once this tapestry is completed, I will take care of my other unfinished business.

Because I can do this.

... I'm feeling that a poem is in order--to wrap up this much-delayed blog post:

Bloom Where You Are Planted

By: E

I am dancing in the
dandelions, and I am late for class.

Again.

But sometimes, dandelions are more
important than learning about
language acquisition, the indirect
style of French, and the subtleties of
O'Connor. And I know this.

I pluck one (a dandelion, I mean), and
close my eyes so tightly that I see
a thousand tiny suns behind my
eyelids, and it is so beautiful
I almost forget to blow the petals
and make my wish.

Almost.

And then I blow so hard that every single
seedling flies off, haloed by the sun,
tilting the windmills of my psyche,
carrying my dream to its destination.

It is then that I hope that they all live and grow
to be beautiful, one for each of all the other little girls
who will wish upon them, and love and dance with them.

I am dancing in the dandelions,
and I am late for class.

Again.

I am not even dressed, and my eyes are puffy
and sore, and it probably makes them
smaller than they already are, but I don't
even stop to think about that.

There are so
many dandelions and so many wishes
to be made, but not for me.
For I am late for class.

Again.

And so I leave plenty enough dandelions
for other people to wish on
and love
and dance in.

And I dance away from the
dandelions. And I am
late for class.

Again.

Ah, that was a refreshing free write. Helped me to clear some thoughts out. I apologize, readers, for my delay in posting. Things have been busy lately. And now, Cinderella must leave at midnight (or 5pm in this case) before her riches are returned to rags.

Take care, my friends, and do not let today's clouds shield you from tomorrow's world.

"I ain't going home because it is raining on my tiramasu. There ain't no friggin' way." ---Fabio, Top Chef New York Contestant

Journal Entry, 3:30pm, Monday, January 26th, 2009

Did you know that there's a nerve in the arm that runs posterior to the humerus and behind the media epicondyle? It comes from the lower part of the brachial plexus and, when hit, emits a slight pain and tingling all at once. Approximately two hours post-hit, a contusion appears when blood vessels under the area of impact are damaged. Trapped blood from the vessels then congeal near the skin's surface, causing the tissues underneath the contusion to appear blue, black, or purple in color.

I know this because I have to. Because at the end of the day, they say, self-knowledge will be all that really matters.

^What's all this fra-fra about?!

Let me explain.

This morning, at approximately 12:45pm in my Experimental Methods class, for the first time in a long while, I was really, truly scared. It was only for a moment, though. A quick, sharp moment when the needle pricks your finger and you realize what happened only during the passing seconds. But after the fear came a loneliness like the ones I used to feel, and after the loneliness came a helplessness and a hopelessness I did not care for.

I thought about what could have caused this fear. Life in general, perhaps? The vagueness of societal pleasantries? The emptiness of the frigid morning? The preventable deaths of millions at the hands of power? Maybe it was the loss of spacial serenity because of my biophysical yearning? Or maybe I slept wrong last night? Or was this the beginning of the infamous omnipresent feeling of 'losing in the end' that I had managed to sidetrack my entire life?

Boosh emotions!

Then I took a deep breath, and rational thought came to me.

...No. None of those reasons were it. I was feeling afraid of myself this afternoon, that's what it was. In those passing seconds, I was feeling afraid of myself, and I thought myself very much like Steinbeck's George.

The feeling- it was like I had the potential to betray someone. Something. Everyone. It was as if for those two seconds, to get what I want, I would give up my sense of ethics (and subsequently, well-being), to be what I had to be. To throw morality down the proverbial trash-disposal with its sister indulgences. To be the King on the Mountain of societal Darwinism.

Why did I have to feel this way?

Then, it hit me. Who cares how I felt. Its how I acted and thought upon that feeling that really matters. And at least I can acknowledge my feelings out loud, which is more than some people can say.

And then my mind started up in a whirlwind; and you came into my brain.

I was so pissed at myself for thinking of you. At some point, last week, I had managed to forget you in that way. But there you were- clear as day in my brain, after I had thought you were gone for good.

It was then that I couldn't help but ponder, once again, if I had done the right thing throughout this entire situation. Would karma and God reward me for my deep-thought actions, I asked myself? Will everyone turn out for the better because of my actions? Will she, you, and I be happy in the end?

To tell the truth, its really hard for me not having closure about things. I make it a point to maintain peace and harmony in my social spheres, and the fact that I'm no where near knowing the answer to how things will turn out frightens me.

I suppose this is a test placed before me to test the integrity of my patience and courage.

If you read this, you should stop reading right now. It will hurt you to know that I am feeling tremendous amount of pain about you. And not just the physical kind, but the kind that tears your soul in two and makes you want to vanish into your bedspread. I hope my self-doubt is atonement enough for the wrongs I have done to you.

If you'd talk with me, I'd tell you about how I've died once already. And I would tell you that I am sorry that I ever had the audacity to hurt you and myself. But that old self- she died, in case you weren't aware. I suppose that wouldn't make much sense to you, though. But it does to me, but only because I'm the one experiencing it.

I want you to know I've seen too much death (my own included) this year, and I'm ready to live again. As much as I might deny it, I let myself die last November. And although I'm allowing you to affect me now, I am vivified to experience the type of hurt that regenerates the soul.

Oh yes-you would be proud of me. Guess what I did? I called my father last night. He lives in Wisconsin now. Did you know that my mother died too, many times because of him, and she still can't answer me when I ask her how she genuinely feels about him now? She loves him for his passion, but hates him for his indifference. It's all so contradictory to me.

I've thought it through and I keep getting caught up in the semantics of it all. The purest beauty is, by classical definition, simple. And love is beautiful. But love certainly isn't simple. As a matter of fact, as I write this, I can't help but wonder if love is irony in itself; if, in fact, any of us who attempt to define what we feel as love actually know what we're talking about.

Did you know that there's a nerve in the arm that runs posterior to the humerus and behind the media epicondyle? It comes from the lower part of the brachial plexus and, when hit, emits a slight pain and tingling all at once. Approximately two-hours post-hit, a contusion appears when blood vessels under the area of impact are damaged. Trapped blood from the vessels then congeal near the skin's surface, causing the tissues underneath the contusion to appear blue, black, or purple in color.

Did you know that the bruises gradually disappear over a number of days without your needing to do anything? Just remember that however ugly and painful they are at the time, bruises will all disappear in a few days or a week.

The nerve is called the funnybone, even though there's nothing funny about it, but I call it something like love.

A poem of little substance because I need to update my blog. Oh yes, and I have a website now!

I once found Jesus on the internet
while shopping for pins
not for my hair but for my friend's
bag, and he was in between
Don't Mess Wit' Texas and
Boys Are Stupid--Throw Rocks At Them
in a size 1 3/4 inch
round, of course, and he was etched
in black on white for
67 cents exactly--
sans shipping
sans tax, and I was, in fact,
at a friends, and I exclaimed,
"Look! It's Jesus!" and my friend
came over and had a peek and
told me that it was not Jesus
but rather a man named
John Lennon,
and oh, you can imagine
my embarrassment.

Also, I'M OFFICIALLY ON DEVIANTART.COM! This means I can do commissions for money!

My entire portfolio isn't uploaded yet, but I do have a lot on the site. So check it out:
My website

I understand what makes the Van Gogh.

In an attempt to rediscover a part of me that was lost a while ago, I am experimenting with sketching and illustration techniques.

Here are some examples:

This is a Christmas present for my friends Adam and Miguel. They came to visit me in Cedar Rapids yesterday, and I had such a great time spending the evening with them. I love them both very much.



Here is the reference I used for the above picture.



This is a really random print idea that I came up with last week...



Marker and ink drawing inspired by my mother. Her face is suppose to be all over the place. It goes with the whole theme of the piece, which I would classify as "emotional ambiguity."



This is a portrait inspired by a friend of mine, Jared Latore. I consider it an "imprint" of how I think of him in my head. I call it Sentimental Dancer.



This is a piece of work inspired by a memory of mine. I had just been swimming in a Kirksville pond with a few friends of mine, and as we were trekking back to civilization we got lost. So we gazed at the stars for a while. I couldn't find Orion's Belt, so my friend put his left hand over my shoulder and said, "follow my fingers." It was really dark, so the outline of the trees in the backround were rather whimsical-looking to me... and I guess it made an impression. I call this work "Follow My Fingers," for obvious reasons.



I just finished the Twilight Series by Stephanie Meyer. And I created a www.deviantart.com account. So I made a requisit "fan art" submission from the novels of The Olympic Coven (as I see them). I realize this makes me a huge nerd. But I honestly enjoyed reading the books, and I had some free time last weekend. Besides, this portrait gave me the oppertunity to explore comic-style.manga drawing, which was exciting. The discoloration in the middle of the work is because I had to scan two different sides of the image because my scanner was too small to fit the entire page.

That's all for now- more to come later!

Hail C(^2)aesar of the Kingdom of Pythagorean.

Two Trees Touching At The Tips

Sometimes when I cross campus lost in solitary thought,
I use properties of triangles to find the most express
routes to where I want to go from where I begin,
and despite my affinity for physics, and fervid
weakness for stimulation, it still takes me forever
to get anywhere at all. And, for no particular reason,
I always end at the same pair of tangled trees--
the ones whose tree-tops touch at their pinnacles, like
they are forging a secret nature-bond. I pretend
they're telling secrets in tree-speak, secrets about all the
people below and how the one girl's boots are dainty
and did you see how amiable that boy was, picking up
her books for her. Underneath those trees, masses of
people often linger, like a soup that congeals and
hardens, under the membrane of innumerable legions of
leafs. Sometimes then, I often pretend it is just me
and the two trees, touching at the tips, telling secrets,
while I pretend not to listen, and for some reason,
knowing that I'll not know makes me feel earthly
and blissful in my ignorance.

There is a common view that poetry gives a person fufilment and nurishment. I think people confuse it with the Salvation Army.

I Cannot Tell You Stories

If you ask me, I cannot tell you
whose face peeks behind those sepia-soaked
bushes, although I seem to have his same nose
and shape, but five inches smaller.
I also cannot tell you who is settled
by his side, with hands as slender and
delicate as my own, with the same smile
lines and shifting eyes that I scrutinize
each morning from the silver looking glass.

I cannot tell you stories because they,
they never told me stories, but I can tell you
their ages, approximate weights, heights and
perhaps even medical conditions, and maybe, if
I'm lucky, I could guess their favorite colors, too.

Blue, red, or brown for the man,
and I can deduce that the woman
would choose purple in a blink, but I cannot tell
you the former and the latter from memory,
much less entertain your simple question.

I do know for a fact that they do not
believe in anything, especially vows,
and although they might stand side-by-side
in a beige and chestnut candid, their eyes
no longer meet nor do their voices
croon the lyrics to my nightly lullaby.

And I do not know whether to blame love
or responsibility; to claim that she had it all
planned, or to know if he thought the
spooning of her belly three-and-a-half
years in was headline news. I do not even
know if they ever read the newspaper,
in which case I do not know who planted
this fondness for words and confession.

And when my children point and ask who
are those figures standing in the khaki-colored
thicket, I will tell them what I see and think,
and maybe I will pretend to know the truth.
I only hope that they may turn to another bookshelf,
and see albums upon albums filled with multi-
colored pigments, and I will smile as they smile
at their Father's stories, and savor the atonement.

A Herbaceous Memory-Producing Plant of the Genus Musa; or My Running Commentary is an Overripe Banana, Solid on the Outside, Squishy on the Inside

It started with the peeling of a banana, and

friends telling me it was upside down, and I said
No, it wasn't, Inebriates, That's how bananas look in
all the pictures in all the magazines I've ever seen.
And then out of no where there was you, in my brain.
There you were, sitting in the driver's seat, that damn
Oldsmobile, with the windows down and the sub woofer
booming so loud it shook my seat, my hand, my heart.
Turn it down I'm scared shitless, and feeling the
cold wind streaming all around me like pouring rain,
I lift my leg from the sticky leather seats, my hair's a
mess, and I think of the supposed to's and should of's,
and the Chinese fire-drills and crusin' The Ave, and
what it would mean to see the pyramids. I thought
of the last time I saw you, which will always be
the last, and it is this last one that reminds me
of the peeling of a banana, and how it is not upside
down, and how it looks in all the pictures I've seen.
Like the picture on the 99 bananas bottle. I know once
I take that first bite, once I focus on its subtle-sweet,
then your memory will be lost, and everything will
be the same as before, no sub woofer booming or cold
air around my face, and it will not matter which end
of the banana I've pried open, or what my fellow sots
think of the proper form for decorticating. Because
either way, I know the bananas will taste delicious.

This is correct:

This is incorrect:

See Also: How to Peel a Banana

The Time I Kidnapped My Friends And Put Them in Phrases and Meter; or, How to Party Like Edgar Allen Poe

A Young Lady Spied Upon the Sea Shore

White by the moon, the seething shores rise--
shifting stars for two eyes of blue.
Ocean in motion, mirroring night skies,
as a Lady enters Babe's view.

The moon lingers, black and blank above--
midst click-clanking of good -night shoes.
Eyes tinkling tired, thinking thereof,
as Lady bequeaths parting dues.

White by the moon, babe hides in a blink;
To the shore, the Lady does fly.
Cold and brisk winds shade the Babe's ears pink.
Lo' the Autumn frosts of July!

Lady then leans before white water--
supplying her face a wet wash.
Not a Mother, surely a Daughter,
the Lady, now one with sea-slosh.

The ocean that--though in sky--reflects,
a picture for the Babe to see,
shows expression and facial effects--
rolling eyes 'long side angered plea.

Then Lady adjusts her composure--
stomach constricted and tightened.
Readying wits to face exposure,
her stance is forcibly lightened.

As Lady treads away from the shore--
a child's mind is left to thrive.
Shown, she was, how to cope from one's core,
to react else feel half-alive.


A Boat, a Boat, a Lonely Boat

Far far away, see the torrent wave--
a fretted wall of silver concave.
Crash crash with wild weed overgrown
upon shooting cliff and crumbled stone.

But right to the right, see the ripples still.
In waste wood, a boat; by its own free will.
The loneliest lonely, a boat afloat.
In water of wild, a boat remote.

No mast, no sails, and nothing atop--
not even a paddle or oar.
Seemingly anchored beneath water's top;
no one and nothing to explore.

A boat, a boat, a lonely boat,
it moves but it can never moveth on.
It welters like a human thing--
wants to sail, but is still in the dawn.


A Warning For You Who Will

Shh! Listen carefully, you who will.
The cold wind blows like wolves on a hill.

See there! Look carefully, you who will.
The ivory trees have been frozen still.

Ahh-hah! Yell carefully, you who will.
Snow leopards listen for their next kill.

Brr-brr! Touch carefully, you who will.
Glistening ice will give you a chill.

Beware of the Winter, you who will.
It brings discontent and makes one ill.


The Picture of An Hour, Fixed In A Frame

A single grain, fixed in a frame, falls though the hourglass--
Till by a billion others it is swallowed.
Grain by grain, the sand shimmers and shines as it makes its pass;
picture of an hour, no others followed.


About The Poems:

A Young Lady Spied Upon the Sea Shore, A Boat, a Boat, a Lonely Boat, A Warning For You Who Will, and The Picture of An Hour, Fixed in A Frame are all original compositions of mine written during the my Spring 2008 semester of my senior year at Truman State University.

A Young Lady Spied Upon the Sea Shore is a poem that was inspired by the unfettered spirit of a near-and-dear friend of mine at Truman State University. In fact, I'm sure that her shrewd understanding of civility coupled with her passion for theatrics is something will continue to delight and inspire me for years to come. The setting for the poem is a place from my childhood; a vast ocean-like shore on the banks of Lake Rhinelander in Wisconsin.

A Boat, a Boat, a Lonely Boat is a somber poem about depression, loneliness, and apathy. I was inspired to write it after failing desperately to help a friend of mine through his or her healing process with depression, using knowledge from my own experience. The ship bobbing on the water is representative of the human heart beat, and the poem suggests that one must look to their own heart in order to brave life's turbulent waters.

A Warning For You Who Will is simply a whimsical poem that I wrote in an attempt to author my dislike of the winter season using various senses.

The Picture of An Hour, Fixed in A Frame is a poem that I started when I was in high school, but didn't finish until college. I have a natural curiosity about physics and time, and as such, own a small collection of odd time-measuring devices. I would give myself exactly one hour of free time each day in high school to do whatever I wanted. Most of the time this was writing, reading, or drawing. I used an antique hour glass that my father gave me to keep me on time. One day I decided to write a poem about the object that I spent an hour with each afternoon.

"Intellectual purging" according to Elaine; Hybrow Syndrome according to Dove.

Some spur-of-the-moment free-writing because I need to update my blog:

Today it was suggested--for the second time this semester--that I have the tendency to "care too much about what people think."

I am aware of the caprices and idiosyncrasies that I maintain which advocate for what others may see as over-sensitivity (although if they believe this, they obviously subscribe to superficial postulations.)

I've ruminated about this coping mechanism of mine (because of its resurfacing in my social circle,) and I remain firm in my original assertion. After reflecting, I still deduce that that my desire to understand the motives of others (via the means of showing my genuine care and concern for their likes and dislikes) is a positive attribute.

Not to sound bull-headed about the matter, but I honestly believe that self-actualized individuals are nourished from the roots of objectivity in one's perception.

I've spent many years attempting to improve my emotional intelligence; it has, in fact, been one of my life's greatest struggles. I think that I was born with a brain that has a tendency to rely heavily upon intellect and logic rather than instinct and feeling. I, like most humans, have a sense for both, but I sometimes don't trust my instincts and feelings because I can understand their flaws. Ergo, increasing the breadth of my emotional intelligence has been a goal which I have exercised a great amount of effort towards. I truly believe it has been instrumental to my growth and maturity.

The older I become, the more I realize the whole spectrum of objectivity. By attempting to eliminate my individual perceptive observability (or by playing "Devil's Advocate" in my mind, if you will) my cognitive processes certainly uphold a great deal of indecision and changeability at times (which could undoubtedly be considered by society as two personal vices.) And when I'm not making a concerted effort to be more balanced I certainly fall prey to the consequences of these negative extremes. Despite this, I am firm in my advocation for objectivity, because it serves as a check when one's emotions and instincts threaten to lure his or her rationale and intellect into a bear-trap of ignorant subjectivity (which inherently masks one's personal desires as fundamental needs rather than personal wants.) Sure, one must understand when and where to trust their instincts. But I think, in general, that the rationalization of feelings is a worthy path to tread. Besides, I would rather have a balanced critical faculty and possess the ability to stand back and look impartially upon matters which call for impartial judgment than torture myself all the time with subjective guilt and/or criticism.

Thus, I postulate that "caring about what people think of me" isn't really a negative attribute, but rather, a stepping-stone on the path to progressivism (which is a historically positive ideology--despite its synonimity to political liberalism.) It's the catalyst for self-improvement, which is the ideology behind self-sustainability and societal evolution. And I don't feel silly arguing this, either, as I believe the world to be fundamentally dynamic; a versatile, breathable, permanently elastic fabric in the tapestry of human existence.

I would go as far to say that I regard my sensitivity in a positive light. I tend to think it more of a gift than a curse. It is, after all, what allows me to meet the needs of my companions with my own type of innate optimism. And who doesn't deserve to feel good about themselves?

^I really do believe that.

As such: I can deal with having my personal wants put on hold for the greater good. I don't mind exercising patience in that way. In fact, I actively do my best to cooperate and compromise with all that I encounter for that purpose. I can tolerate interpersonal failings... to a fault, actually. In fact I sometimes struggle rhetorically with how to be assertive with my personal views while still remaining mannerly. I am the type of person that despises cruelty, viciousness, and vulgarity. And I detest conflict between people (because I actively try to objectify my perception and hence enhance my abilities to empathize with other's pain. So, for lack of a more humble phrase, I feel your pain.) Subjective afflictions in abundance are no good, I do declare!

I realize that this post makes me come across as a self-important perfectionist who is more-than-a-little insecure. And maybe I even look perpetually bull-headed, for I can see how it might appear to readers that I am hasty with my conclusions and tend to see them as self-evident... (And sometimes this is true-- in fact it is the cause for my impatience with people. Sigh.) Please forgive me if these assertions come across that way. Alas, perhaps I lack the eloquence to author my inner monologue effectively? But at least I am satisfied in my knowledge that if I do come across this way, it is a superficial quality produced by my ego that is correctable with time. And it comforts me to know that the people worth knowing won't care about those things. To quote a friend, the people who you want to know "look past people's veneers."

These thoughts make me wonder if perhaps my cast of mind is actually more artistic than logical? Or maybe I'm just a walking contradiction; a teeter-totter of emotions and intellect...

But then again I'm too moderate to be considered avante garde in any artist endeavor (much to my disdain!) and too chaotic in my thought process to be considered analytical. Sigh. At least I've got integrity-- that's the result of being able to rationalize my subjective perceptions and compare them with the efforts of others. And because of this, I can certainly say that my close friendships are unions of true minds and true hearts.

I personally think empathy mollifies hurt and smooths over tiffs. And that, folks, is one of the many values of compassion and Truth that has to be experienced to understand. Well, what I mean by that is that experience leads to knowledge. And knowledge is power, they always say. Lest we not forget the old proverb that compassion (and therefore, empathy,) is a worthy endeavor.

I've just re-read this and I think that perhaps I tend to over-think things. Yes, that is certainly an honest justification for all of this loquacious mumbo-jumbo.

That reminds me. The other day I received the best advice of my life. It was from a Dove chocolate wrapper. It said, "don't think about it too much."

Point taken. I'm going to go ahead and check the la tee dah now.

...Hail the profound wisdom of the Chocolate-Sage.

Mini-Markers of Adulthood

Today's big plan, besides procrastinating on a short story for creative writing, was to correct my credit report with Transunion and fix the tabs option on my US Bank online account. Prompted by the advice of a close older friend, the moment that I became eligible for free annual credit reports, I set up an schedule to check out all three. And not just check them but check them carefully, one report at a time, spread out at four-month intervals.

Dang. I was on top of things. I was focused. I was proud.

But chaos theory has, once again, conquered my personage, and when I went to check my meticulously-planned credit report last night, I found out that Transunion has me living in my home town, going to school in Chicago, and working in Kirksville. And to top it off they have my birth year wrong, which means I'm younger in some circles. It also means that I can't simply file the corrected information online; I have to fill out forms and send hard copies of vital documents.

Well.

I am resolved to be optimistic- so I've done some contemplation on the matter, and I think that I've managed to find the humanity of it all. I postulate that this experience is one of those weird little markers of adulthood.

I know it seems silly, but prior to this realization, this incident really did affect me. What can I say, I'm impressionable sometimes.

Anyways, these "markers" always catch me by surprise because I like to consider myself a perpetually free-spirited adolescent-- someone who would never take pleasure in possessions over feeling. Or pay attention to FICO scores, for that matter.

All I'm saying is that these little experiences that used to remind me of what I consider adult and inhumane (and therefore alien) have now become part of, well, who I am.

Are these little moments true epiphanies? That seems to be such a self-important word for such small pauses of adjustment.

Let's hope not. Goodness knows I'd much rather concern myself with the likes of more Bohemian-centered ideals when considering life-changing forces.

I suspect, though, that everyone at this age is starting to have these small, idiosyncratic moments that prompt thoughts such as:"huh, that was a very adult thing to do" or "wonder what that means?" And in some ways, I can see how these realizations might be considered supremely important because they help us define our adulthood, our individual goals and values, and how they differ from what we've been told adulthood should be.

Interesting.

Ergo, rather than pay attention in class today (because I felt like I've been told and retold the same academic material for the past four years of my life) I scribbled a list of idiosyncrasies.

So, without further ado, I present:

Mini-Markers of Adulthood
--I realized today that I can't remember the last time I ran out of toilet paper (or hand soap, for that matter.)
--I took my first "vacation" alone this summer. And by vacation I mean my first solo trip (a preliminary interview with F&H in Chicago) -solely for business- and not pleasure. I did not go see the Field Museum. This was the first time that have ever consciously allowed that to happen.
--During a recent fight in a friendship that was going really badly, I said "No, I don't think we should be friends," rather than over-analyzing, torturing myself, and going through the expected social script of forgiveness and redemption.
--I wrote down questions for my doctor and chose my own treatment for scar tissue in my colon, rather than letting the doctor dominate. That also had to do with the fact that I was being treated in Kirksville. But still.
--Every day I'm closer to paying off all my credit-card debt. Albeit by working in a bar. But hey- money's money.
--I've downloaded and re-watched the first five seasons of Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. For pleasure. And I usually knit when doing so.
--Yesterday I chose one piece of Vosges chocolate over a big bag of M&Ms.
--I've become a CNN junkie rather than a MTV/VH1 junkie. And not just because of the election.
--I called in sick to work two weeks ago because I was actually sick. And then I preceded to soak my feet in a milk bath and eat chicken soup offered by a good friend.
--I paid for a pet-sitter. By choice. And Viola was groomed. I'm sure she liked it, too.
--In Chicago, while eating by myself at a fancy restaurant this summer, I tactfully sent back food without regret and without feeling a need to over-tip the wait staff.
--On Friday I scrubbed the floors of my bathroom on my hands & knees, and yes, used a toothbrush.

I'm not bitter about any of these, par say. "Out to sea" is a better way of putting it.

I'm sure that there will be many more to come as the year progresses.

Obligatory and Long-Winded Back-In-Kirksville Update

Here it is, approaching the twelfth hour of my return to Kirksville, and things aren't settling like I want and/or need them to. Not to be ungrateful, but I returned home yesterday, changed from the experience of profound loss, with a semblance of hope that perhaps those who had regarded me with suspicion because of my lack of self-disclosure before leaving would perhaps be different after several days of reflection and contemplation about the matter.

Wrong.

In fact, way wrong. Those few relationships that were left here, in shambles and frustration, have, to my dismay, remained the same completely. I (for lack of a modern term) bite my thumb at people and their subjectivism! Nay to their selfish attitudes and paths! What's the point?

I'm suppose I'm losing my patience with people. Don't get me wrong, I've met my fair share of Cool Cats at Truman- but for the most part I've found the majority of Truman students to be a critical, harsh, and unforgiving breed. Perhaps my perception is tainted because I'm a transfer student. That's distinctly possible. Reasoning aside, I have to face facts that I am sick to the point of severe anger of having to "explain myself" to them to avoid being judged. Not only that, but the depth of conversation I find myself being thrown into with most of them is shallow at best, on good days. Recent events have opened my mind to a world of new thought, and the obsequious banter about who had sex with whom and who's doing pot now seems to be a waste of my time.

Perhaps I'm on a pretension kick- I don't know. All I know is that when I try to chime in with a new idea that I find interesting, the theme of the conversation always turns to something gossipy and tacky; pointless chitter-chatter in all respects. I'm sick of it all now. I want more than what I personally perceive as a one-dimensional existence.

In recent news: I'm sure everyone knows by this point that my Grandmother passed away on Wednesday. Goodness knows word spread like wildfire at Truman. I went back home on Sunday for the wake, and the funeral was on Monday. I really don't want to talk much about the past few days specifically (for I've decided that those memories are mine to cherish), suffice to say that the whole experience has helped to better define my philosophy and outlook on life.

Example: A few relatives back home told me that they read my blog. Talking with them about some of my poetry, at least for me, helped to strengthen my goal of communicating what I believe; I told them that I believe frank honesty in written form can help everyone to put things into a clearer perspective. They mostly agreed. And most of them at least seemed interested by what I had to say. Except Aunt Jane. "At the very least your blog keeps me entertained," she chimed. Yippie skippy.

^And she can read that too, I don't care anymore.

I'm at a point now where I understand things better than I used to. Death, however, still frustrates me. But only because I don't understand it as much as I'd like to. I know that earthbound personality and ego might bring about the usual problems that we all face on a day to day basis, but just recently I've learned of the higher self which is the storehouse, synthesizer, and guiding light of our being; a beacon, if you will. It decides, within certain universal laws humans have not yet deciphered, what experiences are needed in order to achieve a level of self-actualization. I want to know its role in death.

My grandmother's death also helped me to put things into perspective. I am an optimist, and I believe that we all live a hedonistic path of evolution that we want to make positive. We don't always succeed, though. Those are the moments when life slides backwards, when all hope can seem lost. Case-and-point the last few weeks of my life. But I recognize that the experiences we need, no matter how difficult, are those that will move us along our path. Sometimes we slip, sometimes we fly, right?

Personally, I think that guilt, fear, repressed anger (and all other vices) are the forces that keep us from soaring. That's why, for me, writing about self-knowledge is so important. It's a personal barometer for the flowing, flexible style of my growth.

It's taken me a while, but I am getting better at recognizing that life is not the meaningless, chaotic thing it may seem when I am confused, angry, or depressed. I'm learning to confront my anger and depression, and what's more- I'm building upon knowledge gleaned from these episodes. Life might be a constant challenge- but I understand it to be a gift, none-the-less. Albert Einstein had it right when he said that "God does not play with dice."

I don't mean to say that life is predetermined- au contraire- I believe it is prong on a latter towards something which my feeble brain is unable to comprehend at this time. All I know as of this point is what I have learned (which really isn't much in the scheme of things.)

A most important reflection:
The experience of my Grandmother's death has taught me that love of another consists not of finding the right person, but in becoming the right person.

How profound. And lovely.

Thanks, Grandma.

Sigh. There's still so much I need to get off my chest.

Ah well, I have more time for that.

A Series Of Poems For My Dead Grandmother

Gone Back
By E.

Awakened
On a muggy mid-September night
Awakened
by the on-rush of white light
Light bright in a world of black!

There it called-out in agony:
The moon, lifeless now, spoke
As it reached-out through the oak
That extended a hand mournfully-

It called me from black-rose dreams,
Called for time, called for prayers-
The moon held-hands, white beams
Mirrored in mortal eyes: it cried on pained ears

Awakened
On a muggy mid-September night
Awakened
by the on-rush of white light
Light bright in a world of black!

Then Moon and Daughter touched:
But the Moon is not comforted by it!
Then Moon and Sea embrace:
And life flows-out for roses that sit
Upon the cold tombs
For which grandchildren go back-

Gone back, but not for Holiday;
Gone back to be awakened
By a mid-September's moonrise,
Upon Illinois' black-body sky:
Gone back to be fulfilled
By a mid-September's sunrise.


The Final Act
By E.

From the first slap upon my buttocks,
I started toward death.

A series of stages:
Infancy.
Childhood.
Adolescence.

And then, when the maturation process
has been completed,
I am returned to the soil and, in essence, to
the dust
whence I came.

Throughout these stages we are conscious
of the Final Act.
And the Final Act is conscious of us.

Then the strings are played and the puppets move
back and forth
across these earthen planks.

Bravo,
Bravo.

But no encore.


The Old Oleander
By E.

O Flower, though art wilting!
The invisible aphid
That lurks on slipp'ry earth,
Smelling smoking wind- Earth's rolling pin,
In the fragrant lies of springtime,

Has found out thy sleeping-place
Upon man-trod green grass,
With pearl and crimson finish:
And with stained limbs of bed's departing life
Doth allow your petals to knowingly diminish.

When she leaves us, she'll take her Christmas cookies with her.

I had gone to bed late on Sunday night-- staying up a few extra hours to do preparatory work for Phi Sigma Pi Rush week. Usually, when I go to bed late, I'm knackered by the time my head hits the pillow.

Sunday night/Monday morning was different, though. For some reason, I simply couldn't disengage my brain-cogs-- thoughts were spinning like tops in my head, mulling over the the to-dos and not-to-dos of Rush week. I remember thinking to myself, at some point before I actually fell asleep, that sleep should not have been that hard.

I have no idea when I eventually dozed off, but I did. Probably somewhere in the vicinity of 4:00 am or 5:00 am. I suppose that's irrelevant though, because I was woken up at exactly 6:22 am by a frantic phone call from my Mother.

My only living Grandparent, My Grandmother Margaret Mitchell-- aged 93, had suffered a stroke and had been hospitalized earlier that morning.

The funny thing is that Grandma Marge was, for a 93 year-old, relatively quick-witted and strong as an ox, despite having been diagnosed with Dementia a year ago. So this stroke took us all by surprise; it was completely out of the blue.

The tragedy of it all is that she is still alive. My entire family is waiting by her bedside for her heart to give out. She's physical paralyzed and cognitively vegetative. The Doctors tell my family that the stroke damaged too many brain cells to ever hope to resuscitate her to consciousness- yet her heart beats on.

I'm the only immediate family member who is unable to go and see her before she passes. This is because I don't have a reliable source of transportation to get back to my hometown, and because I am the overseer and planner of Phi Sigma Pi's Rush (which just happens to be this week.) I'd love to simply pass my responsibilities over to another and ask a friend for a ride back home, but the reality of the situation is much more complex than that. As such, my mother and I decided that the best course of action would be for me to stay in Kirksville and occupy myself with planning Rush. As of this point, I'm suppose to stay here until she dies and then go back to Cedar Rapids for her funeral.

It's rough, dealing with all of this.

I don't know why, but for some reason, in the middle of it all, I can't stop remembering her hands. I've been thinking about them for two days straight. My grandmother's hands were scrawny and cold, disfigured from arthritis and gnarled by years of hard work. But they were beautiful. They were the hands of my childhood- the hands that held mine when we walked to church on Sunday mornings, the hands that fed me candied apricots and cucumber sandwiches, the hands that guided mine in prayer by my bedside. They were hands that worked so hard and loved so well.

I remember watching those hands once on Christmas Eve. My Grandmother was in the kitchen with me, prattling the recipe for her Peanut Butter No Bake Christmas Cookies. I wasn't paying attention. Instead I was watching her hands, and thinking to myself that I hoped that my hands would someday resemble hers.

How I wish now that I could go back in time and tell her how much I admired her hands. Not only that, but I wish that I would have listened to that recipe that she was generously offering me. It's funny to think that once she passes, that I'll never see those hands or taste those cookies again.

The memory of those cookies are on my tongue as I write now-- and thoughts of my beautiful-handed Grandmother consume my heart and mind.

I know that I don't need a Christmas cookie recipe to keep her memory alive and feel like at least a part of her will always be with me, but it hurts because the memory makes me realize how silly I have been for not spending more time with her.

I realize it's also silly to think that my hands could ever be as distinct as hers were. I should just accept that my hands will never be so beautiful; my life has been much too easy to merit the grace of work-worn hands. I suppose that's what Grandma had worked so hard for, though.

It makes me sick to my stomach to think that I won't be able to thank her for everything she's done for me in person. And it hurts me to know that she might be suffering.

Also, everyone in the family is a mess. Right now we are stuck in the worst kind of waiting game. And dealing with these circumstances is forcing us to contemplate the ephemeral nature of all, much to our disdain. And I feel like it's driving us all crazy in different ways.

Since Monday morning, I have been getting stressed about things I cannot control to the point of breakdowns, and have temporarily given up on how I look and what I eat. Also, I can't think straight, can't remember things, can't focus on anything, and can't make accurate judgments.

Everything is overwhelming right now.

But beware of the dark side. Anger, fear, aggression; the dark side of the Force are they. <--- Shut The Fuck Up, George Lucas.

Get yourself a cup of tea and tuck in- this is a long one.

Where to begin. This one’s been simmering on the back burner for about six weeks. Or maybe my whole life. I don't know. All I know is that as far back as I can remember, I've haven't done the best job of avoiding the things that bind individuals to a one-dimensional existence.

My former life-philosophy: Do not remain emotionally disassociated, do not collect $200.

A former subscriber of the "she is not what she feels" credo, I've recently learned that my emotions are more than passing ships in the nights which come and go as they please. They are comparable, in fact, to the weather that determines the totality of what I am. In lieu of this realization, I'd like to consider myself newly liberated; now my tears are truly genuine, my laughter sprung from the heart, and my anger bona fide. I am whole.

It's been quite a journey. And I still have some tweaking to do here and there.

But this blog is proof positive that I am improving myself for the better. In the past I wished for the courage to say things because they've been occupying space in my thoughts and using up my energy, but I had been scared about what people would think of my opinions. But now, I posit: fuck it. I really do need to get these thoughts out of my head and into the world, for the sake of my mental health. I need to acknowledge them and then let them go, and hopefully find a way to move on. Maybe I'll never be brave enough to write about some of the more ghastly experiences I've endured in a public forum. Who knows. All I know is that I've got to start somewhere:

(But first, a second preface): I’m not going to write about the details of the last few years of my life. The details are things that I know could cause hurt and shame to myself and others, so I won’t do that. But I will write about what these events have left me with. And maybe, if I’m lucky it will give me the rest of the closure that I need to move on.

A new personal challenge: accepting loss and moving on.

This one is so hard for me. I've never really figured out how to deal with losing people that are close to me. I know that people leave for whatever reasons: people die, people change, and people come in and out of your life. They're close, they're distant; they give joy, they spread hate. And all that’s okay.

But what I can’t accept is doing my best-day in day out-to be a good friend, family member, and person (in the face of sometimes less-than-ideal conditions,) and then having my honesty and sincerity trampled on. I'm fucking pissed about it, actually.

I want to sock it like I was a puppeteer in a Punch and Judy.

A musing of which Bruce Banner would approve:

Anger is a natural human emotion, right? I mean we feel love, greed, lust, envy, sadness, happiness- and we feel anger.

At least I certainly am not unaffected by it. In fact I have an enormous problem with unacknowledged, repressed anger. I'm like a dove whose hawk side comes out unexpectedly under stress, usually in the form of pretended concern. Not only that but I often don't even recognize my anger until after the fact. And when I do recognize it, I usually don't know how to express it honestly and constructively.

I mean, none of us are really taught how to deal with anger, are we? We aren't given any ground rules for impulsive emotions; we aren't taught the basics of "integrity fighting." What we do know comes from experience and evolutionary impulsions which result in a "dominance fighting" of sorts. The difference is that the first results in the removal of friction, while the latter increases it by leaving one party victorious, the other humiliated and/or hurt.

Shamantics-Semantics

Also, it pisses me off that people don't call anger by its real name: anger. Instead we say we are "depressed," "hostile," "guilty," "upset," "worried," "selfish," etcetera etcetera. Aren't all of these verbs (particularly "depressed") the result of anger turned inward (never expressed?)

A portrait of Elaine Sokolowski

I've recently realized that I never allow my face to register anger. Instead my primary mode of coping with the emotion is to express it in the guise of loving concern. I "know" that my mother's friend's husband is worried, that my best friend is suffering in an unhappy affair, that my brother has done something wrong. I know-and I pat people on the back and have no problem empathizing. But in doing so I fail to rid myself of my anger. Funny, to think that I am actually projecting it onto others and distorting it into fear, worry, and guilt. Hah! The reality of Pandora's open box, I suppose.

I used to be unaware of my manipulation. I used to disguise it under the excuse that all I wanted to do was avoid hurting others. The formerly prototypical Pollyanna, I have experienced the frustration of denying my anger and the debilitation of doing what was demanded of my "good little girl" image. I know now that the outcome does more harm than good. I've only just recently acknowledged my intrinsic right to my feelings. Feelings are fact, I do declare.

But at the same time, in ironic tribute to my former assertions, I can't help but shake the feeling that anger isn't necessary on this small planet. I mean, it's valuable because it prevents stagnation and stimulates growth, but could we survive without it?

Sigh. Will my thoughts be forever plagued by contradictions?

^Yes. ...Dammit.

Okay. I get it. I am suppose to yield with a smile and command with compassion. If only it were as simple as written words/phrases in blogs.

O Dreamer, Wake Unto Me.

The constance of Thought makes itself hastily-heard
Light hushed over fields; another dawn gently-blurred.
In bold disposition of Tempest the Nightingale cries,
and spurs shut the blues of Beau's golden-thread eyes.

This Author-Lover's soul: a Backward-Bard writing inverse,
She can not sleep for dreaming; tis' Her nightly curse.
With quill and parchment Her rapier and a phalanx-will to write-
She caresses and cuddles close while World turns day from night.

Clickedy-Clanks of Rude World heard in Downtrodden Day,
Lull'd by Cow-Over-Moon-Light have all passed away.
This Noiseless Night drink'eth the Dregs of evening decay-
Permit Authress voyage to Dreams- but keep Starlight at bay!

Her pillows sway with Rapid Rising of Dreamer's chest;
Rapid Eye Movements, Sweet-sleep, & Innocent Rest.
Feeling Chill of Alone, Authress contemplates re-write,
For His sweet-soft sleep-murmur brings muse and insight.

She observes his Blinking Eyes- holding unspent tears-
hearing Steady-Sleeping Heart mirroring Waking-World fears.
Dreamer's thoughts glad for Night and His mind put to Bed;
Ill-spoken Worry-Words left lovingly unsaid.

She holds Pen in tow and scratches words with brace of shelf:
She criticizes Him only of That which she fears most in Herself.
To give small things large Shadows is consistent to Her person,
She burns bridges often with promise that Love will never worsen.

Her prose begs the question: why pay interest before it's due?
Why dodge the Elephant but not the Fly in Her Womanly rue?
If after a Botticelli's Vision-Fairer He doth' optically embark,
Old Candle must flicker afresh- created by new flint and spark!

O Dreamer, wake unto me and sing me your Lamenting-Song,
Gone are the Worries and Cares of the Waking-World's throng:
This night I write from my heart that which I know to be True-
The time will come when Waking-World Worries will no longer torture You.

Platform 21 and 3/4. Next stop: somewhat closer, but no where distinctly nearer to self-actualization?

I didn't go to classes today.

I decided this morning that I would rather spend the day in my room, rationalizing. I know how dumb and self-indulgent this is, on every level. But I can't help it. Rationalization: It's what I do, when it really comes down to it. As for the choice to stay locked up in my room all day: that's just me feeling sorry for myself.

Last night I made a stupid decision, and the consequences have certainly taught me an important lesson: to be grateful for grace and eager for redemption. The concept seems rudimentary, but I, at least in my life experience's, have found that pride often has a funny way of stupefying one's intellect. Besides, I have this bad tendency to listen to advice, but not take it. Ergo, I have to learn life lessons via show-and-tell. It's so dumb. Ugh. ...Common sense be damned! <----Sigh.

On a serious note, human experience can be a straight-up bitch.

Goodness knows it doesn't help matters that I've been acting like a serious kook lately. And I want you to know that I know that you know, if that makes any sense at all.

... I do have one chipper memory of last night's whole ordeal that is worthy of re-telling: This morning Andrew woke up and checked his e-mail. I was secretly watching. I noticed that his mind is always planning; it is constantly calculating and evaluating for the future. It makes me feel safe. It is wonderful. But at that same time bad; he worries so much. And I'm talking the self-sacrificing worry; i.e. the altruistic variety. Oh Andrew.

Also, I cried in his arms this morning. Raw tears stemmed from my habit of disassociating myself with my emotions. Irrational tears, really. And all he did was hold me and empathize.

Memories like the aforementioned are my live's saving grace; they give me hope for better times.

And there is goes again-my innate optimism. Geez. I used to wish I could turn it off when I was younger. But I realize now that I can't. I've come to accept that it simply is too strong a force to be snuffed. Besides, I'm starting to like my optimism. It's the one thing that separates me from mostly everyone else (or it is my "ego," if you will.) And if I'm going to be proud of something (because goodness knows that personal vice of mine has a will of its own as well,) then it might as well be something beautiful, like optimism.

I get legitimately upset with people when they tell me it is unfounded or "blind." Don't they realize that it stems from shared human experience? At its core, it is a reflection of my personal observations of the people who have come in and out of my life. It is a cheerful frame of mind that demonstrates to my intellectual tea-kettle how to sing despite having hot water up to my nose. Colored by this outlook, I can't help but expect the best for mankind when I can still whole-heartedly observe the True beauty of human experience. Besides, I would imagine that a world without optimism would be a world akin to Hell.

And not only that, but I am 100% sure that the beauty of profound optimism- the kind that motivates people- can only be appreciated fully when one experiences its opposition; profound pessimism. Moral of the story: Don't ever think a "blind" optimist naive.

The key is balance, really. I genuinely believe that a combination of healthy proportions of optimism and pessimism, hopefulness and naivete, and skepticism and realism are the strongest force that people can muster to insinuate social change. I really do believe this.

Sure, you can argue that my optimism is often misplaced. But you live and you learn, right?

Random spur-of-the-moment memory/reflection: When I was a child, the only thing that I couldn't regard with optimism was a pessimist. I see now, however, that pessimism acts a a check for recklessness, and is, therefore, positively attributed. How paradoxical.

^Also, have you noticed how I tend to see life in dualities? I've been thinking a lot about that lately.

Maybe I'm just neurotic.

^That's a distinct possibility.

I suppose there are worse things to be, though.

Analyze this, Sigmund Freud.

I just woke up from a fairly ominous dream. I can't fall back asleep. Naturally, I'm pissed off.

So, with heavy eyelids and a kitty on my lap, I am going to attempt to refocus my negative energy. Perhaps I should write a prose of my dream? Okie dokie artichokie.

The Revenant
By E.

I sit dreaming of old times in my aged wicker chair
when the sound of thunder made me arise with raised hair.
A storm brews outside with with satanic wrath
Shrewd are my plans to be out of its path.

I close my eyes daintily and bow my head,
Hoping to escape my thoughts of overwhelming dread.
So I think of seventh-heaven, sweet-snacks, and love,
I am entombed by waltzing grass with clouds up above.

Then comes a knock, knock, knockidy knock.
The door begins its rattle, dead-bolt and lock.
I bound from my chair as frightened as can be,
who would venture the storm to come visit me?

I timorously tip-toe towards the front door.
Sweat flowing bountifully from every pore.
I reach for the doorknob with timid fingers,
in my body the feeling of dread still lingers.

I gather my poise and yank open the door.
I prepare myself to see a great horror.
But all I see is nothing... Nothing in sight.
Just the trees rustling in the darkness of the night.

I stand in speechless agitation,
then close the door with little hesitation.
I was once told this place was haunted.
Stories, I thought; to make me feel taunted.

They said that one day a man would return,
He looks for She who makes his heart yearn.
Perhaps tonight's episode was caused by this man,
and my trepidation was part of his macabre plan.

The feeling of dread is now gone now, no more do I lack.
But who knows where The Revenant is going, or when He'll be back?

Furor Poeticus. Or maybe just because one is the loneliest number.

I wrote two poems in my creative writing class today. And I like them both.

Perhaps with a bit of revision they might be something that I can be proud of. Here they are:

Netherworld of reflections
By E.

When I am not really looking,
I do truly see:
A mirror,
the puddle,
chrome bumpers,
Her Father's storefront window.
In it a world we can never touch-
and place we can never go.
True to life, or false counterpart?
'Tis the netherworld of reflections.
Where you see and what you see reflected-
are your faces of internal reflection.
Sparkle and shine are the result of the surface-
Superficial and polished sparingly.
Alas we be brought back to reality
where one considers the invariable Truth:
Nothing really but beams of light,
hastily transmitted back into the air.

Erasing Ethnicity
By E.

The mind's vibrant color eclipses Black
and one's everyday flats edge out stiletto heels-
To a place where silk-chiffon-and-ribbon streams of thought
skip-to-their-lou in tourmaline chains.
Where the sweetest flavors of Plum and Berry
are content to be worn on the eyes, cheeks and lips-
and purposefully seek to disguise an age of obscured origins.
Allowing for the soul's mercury to plunge to icy-cold lows
we are lead scantily by multibillion-dollar demons.
Let us hope that a few still be concerned with True hue
and let them be the copper-colored hope of the future.