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