Purposelessly Hyperinflated Individuality

2012-01-19T19:32:00.000-08:00

What is it to dream? Is it any more than to breathe?
What is it to hope? Is it any more than to open one's eyes in the morning and to see the world in our view?
What is it to live? It is to hope. To dream. To be the everything that our hearts could long to be.
--Not only by conscious thought or firm direction, but by desire and longing and passion to be.

2011-10-16T13:58:00.001-07:00

What has happened to the beauty in the world? The soft spoken words and the continuous smiles on the faces of the children? Where are all the hopes and the dreams and the desires? Not illusions of grandeur, but the simple joy that is brought in the hope of a tomorrow which has not yet failed to be? Bring the beauty back to my life of a slow laugh, a soft rain or a beautiful song. Bring to me the love of another, the desire of a heart and the hope of a promise that tomorrow life will be mine.

2011-05-26T21:24:00.000-07:00

And just for a minute
there is silence;
suspending the tension's
thick fog
in the air.
Though peace is left only
in memory's grasp,
and comfort
is left wanting,
still for a moment I
can enjoy
the calm.
How long has it been
since I last inhaled?
Was it when I traded
dream for dream?

Musings

2011-03-04T21:49:00.001-08:00

We fight so hard for the complacency of a bureaucratic democracy. But what happens when the institution fails us?

Wound in my soul are the gutter marks of insanity.

Is there a limit to human suffering or peace?

I worry about the darkness in the world, forgetting that others have tasted it.

Can you love without caring?

Perhaps my tears are not for sadness or discomfort...perhaps my tears are my heart's desire to reach out and feel something more.

It is not the idea of foreign agents that worries me. It's the neighboring heart.

What is it about the human heart that sighs for contentment but ribs at its mark?

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2010-09-23T16:20:00.000-07:00

Speak once of lightening,
soft on clouds of grey.
Hear not of thunder's
might beyond the sea.
Sunlight's rays do
brace the standard of
pure and rare
while windows break
beyond the beating rains
of soul's despair.

2010-09-23T16:16:00.001-07:00

Would you love me still if today meant forever? When the edge of what is and what could have been are resolved into what is good enough? There I find you--my broken dream. These places in my mind, do they exist as more than mere fancy or illusion's call? I was so afraid to be alone, and with my fear I pushed you far aside. So I wait for you in the night, my broken heart, to cut through my silenced dreams with the strength of hope emboldened within your form.

2010-09-23T16:12:00.000-07:00

What do we do in those moments when words abandon us? What do we do when we are left not with comfort and surety, but the complex presence of thought unrealized?

What do you do with the unspoken idea? That which you hold to be good and true and real but which is interrupted by our own being?

Passion

2010-07-30T22:44:00.000-07:00

True Passion does not end with a climax or begin with a suggestion. True Passion is alive always within one's soul.

2010-07-28T00:31:00.000-07:00

Beauty is but the preference that the mind speaks to the soul and to which the soul returns with an answer.

2010-07-28T00:29:00.000-07:00

I make the promise to always return to the other side of the mountain. Eternally, I cross to the far river bank. But to which side of the river and to which mountain valley will my promise remain unfilled?

2010-07-28T00:28:00.001-07:00

Who is the master
of such paint and plaster
and who settles his seige
by his worth?

For wisdom and laughter
don't always come after
the artist has envisioned
new birth.

2010-07-28T00:26:00.001-07:00

My love is not a game.
It is a lullaby
that rings sweetly in your ear
the meanings that my heart has wish to fulfill.
I don't know what I don't know.
But I don't fear anything.
I don't know what I don't know.
But I can't face that now.

2010-07-10T09:22:00.000-07:00

What happens
when breathing stops
for a day?
When the intoxicating
sweetness of life
without air
clears your head
for the first time?
By holding my
breath I know I
must die.
Quell the existence
that I have always known.
But what would I
want to live for
if I can't have this
moment forever?
Walk with me for
a second.
Dream with me
for a year.
Stay with me
for an instant
before I breathe again.

Dragon

2010-06-05T08:47:00.000-07:00

Is this how the dragon feels? Contained within her cage? And when she leaves her lair she becomes the black dot moving throughout the land?
Is this how the dragon feels? Cut off from her home. Not daring to go out for misery's disgrace amongst the once familiar land?
Is this how the dragon feels? At once completely whole, now a part onto herself, only in her mind.
Is this how the dragon feels? The frustrated passion for life quelched under a misunderstanding both personal and trivial, aware that if clarity could only be known then the world would again turn into the fields of sun covered dew?
This is how I feel. I feel as the dragon feels.
When I wake up in the morning, will the world be set right? Will the vision be whole? Or will I find myself again in my cave of damp and dark? Will I find myself again as I am today?

2010-05-17T19:42:00.000-07:00

Why, says the butterfly to the flower, do you taunt me so?
Why do you use your beauty and your grace against me
only to help you grow?
Why should you use my graceful legs and fluttering wings
to further your intentions?
Why should your beauty only be used
to further your own aspirations?

And so responded the flower:
Does the earth ask the sun why all it does is give?
Do the fish ask the stream if in it they can live?
If all the world did just one thing--to look out for itself,
Then what of beauty, glory and goodness would be for us that's left?

I am

2010-05-17T00:47:00.000-07:00

While you are a polished amethyst, I am an uncut diamond.
While you are a farmer's fresh plowed field, I am the open hills.
While you are a river and a lush, green bank, I am the ocean and her embracing beach.

So while you fit perfectly into the life that you have chosen--while you may look to all the world to have the answers--the peace and serenity of a choice existence, just remember that life is more complex than that and the potential that I have within me is far greater than any facet can shine, any field can reap or any stream can travel. Though my edges may be unhewn, my terrain rocky and my waves may crash, of me there is no counterfeit to be made, no fence to bind and no dam to stop.

2010-05-12T23:03:00.000-07:00

Does tomorrow shine
with the promise of today?
Or does a promise
lack the truth which
would prove the
rising of the sun
in the west rather than
its eastern round?
What is promise but words
of intention which may
or may not
be found in reality's base?
What are words but meaning?
And what is meaning but
intent to be?
Which word will be found worthy
and true
and form intent
into being?

2010-05-04T19:43:00.000-07:00

Hope is
for another day
the treasure of tomorrow.
Take me back
to the place
where poetry ruled
my life.
Where music played
and my heart knew
only warm sun.
Take me back
to that time
before clarity dawned.
Before the leaves
turned cold
and Mother Earth insisted
on her continuous change.
Speak to me
once
of love
and of life.
Whisper these words today.
For today
I wait
in wondering awe
waiting for the dawn
to cede grey.

2010-04-16T22:04:00.000-07:00

Hiding behind glass panels
as you speak the words
of hidden irony--
The meanings of which
wish could turn to truth.
You find yourself wishing
for the self that you are in that
instant when the sun
hits the glass and you see your
brightened expression
illuminated by its rays
before darkness leaves you
again in the solitary openness of
your blindness--
the beauty so close and yet
untouchable.

2010-04-06T18:46:00.000-07:00

A dream that's spent
On Sunset's morrow
Is forever lost in time.
For words and thoughts
Are Life's flesh arts
But action is divine.

2010-02-10T18:08:00.000-08:00

Friendship is when you choose to live your life alongside someone else. It is when your life is no longer independent of others and you agree to merge your interests with theirs.

2010-01-23T02:05:00.001-08:00

What will I fight for,
if not another day with you?
When the tides roll in
And strength is gone
I make my final stand.
Make it known
to the world
That to this course
I am true.
For what will I fight for,
if not another day with you?

2010-01-19T13:52:00.001-08:00

And when you're in those quiet moments by yourself, who are you? When silence is your companion and you're left to think, to be, what is it that you become? What is it that you think? Are you the person that you believe yourself to be? Would you recognize you?

2009-12-30T01:19:00.000-08:00

I look not away from my captor.
Though in a shadow of men he lay.
I live my life in semi-light.
Seeing through the pith of grey
Shadows fall across my face
No battle do I do.
A constant thought, just one idea
shifts light from One to Two.

2009-11-30T20:14:00.000-08:00

The breath is drawn for nighttime
The curtain closed for morn
The eye first left and then right
As the costume guise is shorn

2009-11-26T01:24:00.000-08:00

Like a flame, Thought licks the fibers of Idea
Burning and changing Knowledge and Understanding
into their new forms.
Sputtering and spitting
pop pop POP
the essential gasses and toxins leach into other areas of Consciousness
as the warm, musky smell of smoke clings to a winter coat.
Thought changes at once not only its current vision,
but that of those surrounding it as well.

2009-11-09T00:44:00.001-08:00

Hey everyone! Quick update--I started a new blog--simplificationinitiative.blogspot.com. The new one is just going to be the random thoughts that I have in my head, whenever they happen to pop in. The less "refined and eloquent" (or so I'd like to think some things are) thoughts...just me thinking as me. I hope you all check it out and follow it! New postings soon to come!!!

2009-10-19T14:14:00.000-07:00

Wiped clear of intention, the pedigree sat to fill a space that character lacked. Imagery could not be used to properly describe the players whose names were formed by the letters on the paper, neither could numbers lend meaning to their age. They simply were and had been forever just as the wind is or dreams are.
It is as such that I found them--that I left them--that I wished I could be one of them. But some beings only touch you for an instant, before they are gone, covered in the life-preserving amber of Memory's embrace.

2009-09-27T00:37:00.000-07:00

This is what I live for:
Waking up to crisp morning air, speckled with the smell of rain.
The feeling of a warm sweater straight from the dryer.
A shower and a fresh bar of soap.
the moon and her halo of stars.
The color green.
Belly laughter.
A text from a friend.
Driving fast.
Homemade bread.
Waking up smiling.
Walking on the coast.
My little sister as she runs up to me, hugs me tight and refuses to let go.
Playing card games late at night during the holidays.

2009-09-14T20:17:00.000-07:00

Stop. Don't speak. Words cheapen the meaning of this moment. The air's gentle breeze that pushes life from one reality to the next lays softly on my skin. Don't rob me of this moment of comfort, of solitude, of warmth by asking for a deeper meaning.
Nothing is me, but me.
Reality is found in perception's grasp.
It is as it is. It is in who I am.
Stop. Don't ask "why".

2009-09-05T00:25:00.000-07:00

How oft do I look at another and say, "Oh, that I were you!"? I see the life, I see their fancy and I want it for my own. Their sparkles and glitz, their loved ones around.
"I would trade you. Yours for mine." I say.
But what is theirs to mine? Yes, the woman walking past is beautiful. But she kind? Yes. The family walking past seems happy...but what happens behind those closed doors? Yes. I...maybe they would trade me, too? Maybe in the changing and the rearranging of our identities we would discover our own discomfort of others, and our own love of self.
Would I change me? Do I wish that I were someone else?

2009-08-25T00:51:00.000-07:00

Flighty mind be harnessed.
By the power of my will.
Obey my orders grandly.
My every wish fulfill.
Let down thy guard
for a moment.
Play this game with me.
for then, if in that moment only
all mine, you'll finally be.

2009-08-25T00:49:00.000-07:00

The silence feeds me.
It teaches me.
It listens to me.
The soft echos that you
can hear on the wind
speak of the emotion,
the excitement,
in the world.
And when they are gone
and only silence remains
it leaves the residue of
a different emotion
deeper--clearer.
the emotion I feel
for once
is my own.

2009-08-25T00:41:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I feel as though I am on the edge of a break through. Some great discovery about life. The wind pushes my hair from my face and birds cry in the distance. Somewhere a ways off the water laps against the rocks of the river and the peace starts to swell...and then it is gone. It was only an instant. And that peace leaves me more confused and aware of my blindness.
But am I the one pulling away from the peace? Does it scare me to know because then, maybe, I'd have to rely on it? Would I rather follow blindly than walk with my eyes open? Or am I really just not ready yet for what that peace--those answers--would mean?

Rocks and Sand

2009-08-25T00:36:00.000-07:00

Do the rocks feel themselves being worn slowly by the waves? Do they understand that wearing down? Can they feel it? As each grain of sand is lost, do they resist the change? Or are they happy? Content to know their change is good. Content to know that while the waves whip wildly about them that what they are becoming will no longer be independent and breakable--but part of a greater whole? Can I understand the significance of that change?

Little rock, did you used to be a mountain?
Did you cause man kind to shutter and shake?
Little rock did you used to be a wonder?
Snow capped peaks or an icy lake?
Little rock, can I hold you forever?
And this be for me to move more?
Little rock, you can be my mountain.
Because I know what you were before.

2009-08-08T22:33:00.000-07:00

My greatest desire is simplicity...but simplicity can only be afforded by the Great.

In my mind.

2009-08-05T22:10:00.000-07:00

My heart dreams bigger dreams than myself.
It sees the trees and says, "I am Tree."
It sees the mountains and says, "I am Mountain."
It sees the sky and says, "I am Sky."

"No," I tell my dreams. "You are mist."
"No," I tell my dreams. "You are air."
"No," I tell my dreams. "You are a thought."

"Then I surround the trees." My dreams persist.
"Then the oceans are my mother, the skies my friend and I fly higher than the mountains."

"No," I tell my dreams. "You are just imagination."

"Then I am Ideal. Then I am Desire. Then I am Hope

"No," I tell my dreams. "You're not."

"Yes. I am."

Prayer for my sister

2009-07-17T01:17:00.000-07:00

What happens when you look into the eyes of a child?
My heart breaks for the sweet innocence that I see before me, which all too soon shall flower and bloom...and then die. My heart rejoices for the joy of living. the freedom of movement, the excitement of life's true pleasures.
But then my heart feels bitter again against the sins of my past. The time that has been wasted pursuing that which is now lost.
What wouldn't I do to spare a child of that? What wouldn't I do to keep her form still in the peace and serenity that it has found in sleeping.
An image of myself I see reflected. The same blood we share. The same heart. the same mind. The same will. The same passion. What will those eyes grow to see? What smells will encrust her hair and become her stamp?
God bless her please to live a good life. To learn. To grow. And to know how truly lovely she is. God bless her to keep her innocence and her joy.

2009-07-14T23:41:00.000-07:00

I dream of the life that I
thought I once had.
The life that I lost.
That I gave away.
And yet it was not my life
at all--only a dream.
Therefore I have
lost nothing.
Given away nothing.
These hopes and wishes
in my head of the life
that I could have had
That I should have had
That I have lost
are only of the before stated
dream.
And yet their presence is as
real to me as the blankets I
sleep with. The sky that I see.
The arms of friendship that
surrounded me.
That held me.
That I left behind.
That I gave up.
Does hope turn forward
During these times of duress?
As I lay in my bed unsure
Of what tomorrow will bring?
Boredom and dependency?
Or the beginning of my new life?
Yes.
Hope looks forward.
Yes.
Hope sees into tomorrow.
And dreams will come again
of a different tenor.
A different color.
And even if I, again,
long for the things of
before,
Then I know hope will
survive through the night.
And, again--tomorrow--
I will dream.

2009-07-08T22:41:00.000-07:00

What happens when life crowds out the dreams of tomorrow and heaven's tears weep for the forgotten yesterday? What hope do I hold on to? To what sunshine does my face raise? What fragment of thought do I hold most dearly to as my tender fingers massage my aching mind. Sleep, dear soul--for tomorrow's promise shall rise again.

Steep Cliffs and Red and Blue Lights

2009-07-07T22:04:00.000-07:00

The coast was cold. Much colder than we expected it to be. A heavy fog rolled in from the sea, consuming waves and trees and sun. The little nook that my family occupied was behind a smart cropping of rocks, against a cliff that rose some 50 feet into the air--the last 15 being a straight drop to the sand. Between the two fixtures of rock we were well protected from the wind, and able to insulate what heat we had.
A cry startled us, as we saw three young kids sliding recklessly down the cliff. At first, they screamed in sheer delight. Quickly, however, that delight turned to fear as a boy, aged about 10 years old, toppled head over heels down, down, down. He caught hisself at the edge of the sheer drop. His sister and cousin, approx. ages 7 and 8 followed sliding on their backs and bottoms, now also screaming in fear.
Rocks began to tumble. Sand poured from the fissures they were creating with their falls. The first boy dangled on the cliff, trying to get down...and then he jumped, landing in the sand below with a soft thud, but twisting his ankle.
The other two clung desperately to the rocks, screaming, scared.
We run up. They won't listen to our instructions. Just then the girl's father, the boy's uncle, runs up. He climbs the rocks and we all create a chain to hand the frightened children down. They are safe.
We continue on with our merriment. The fog rolls away. The sun comes out. We splash and play in the cold ocean, the water chilling our bones, the sand encrusting our legs as we build a sand helicopter. A beautiful day--the dread and the scare from the morning's ordeal gone.

It's a few nights later. We're at home, in bed. The sound of running on pebbles reaches my parents bedroom. My dad bolts up, pulls his clothes on, and runs out the door. There are cops everywhere. Someone has run into our back yard. Run away from the cops he fears.
My dad tells the police of the sighting. They acknowledge it, and tell him to go back in. They bring in the dogs to find the perpetrator.
We sit stiff in the house. My mom tells me about it, warns me to stay quiet--they're trying to listen to find out what is going on. They stand by the open windows and doors. My blood runs cold as I see the object in my dad's hands--a gun. He means to protect us no matter what the cost.
I'm frightened--not of the assailant, but of what might happen if my father thinks it is necessary to use the object in his hand. Few things are so certain, so scary, so devoid of forgiveness and shooting a gun and hitting a mark. What if it were to go off accidentally--hit one of us? What if it causes bullets to fly unnecessarily from our unknown visitor? What if he's forced to use it, and we have to live without him? I would melt it if I could. Melt it, destroy it, and forbid it's like from ever entering the house or touching his hand.
He puts it away. He knows I am mad that he got it out to begin with. I didn't keep it a secret.
We sit, silent. I'm in mine and my sister's room. She's laying on the floor in her makeshift bed of feather mattresses and comforters, snoring softly. Moonlight illuminates her pale face and body from the open window. So serene. So calm. So unassuming of the dangers that this world offers.
The lights turn off suddenly. The dogs bay one more time, and then there is silence. One by one we hear cars pulling away.
"Did you get him?" My dad asks through the front door to the police officer in our front yard, just getting into her car.
"He's in custody." Is the reply. And then they are gone.
We sleep in what peace we can salvage from the night.

2009-07-03T22:55:00.000-07:00

And though the listening shadow cries
Sing sing sing
What does your heart say?
If you do not wish to
Sing, then dance.
If you do not wish to
Dance, then play.
If you do not wish to
Play, then sit in Silence
So that you may then
Better understand
What it is to live.

The Grey Puddle

2009-07-03T22:12:00.000-07:00

We drove up to the house after 10 long, hot hours in the car. Finally, the trip was over and we could rest.
The house looked much the same and as I entered, it smelled the same. There were papers and toys and cups on the coffee table in the front room. The piano was cluttered with papers and trinkets from music to be played in Primary the next week and sea shells from the beach. The same green couches lined the walls with the same lighthouse pictures on the wall in sequential order as a wave crashed around it. Finally, after the long, hot drive that transformed me from one stage of life to the next, I was home.
I write this memoir not as I remember it--but as it happens. I write so that I may better understand my life. So that I may confide it not only to those who are not here but mostly to myself. I need to write the things that are happening to me. I need to feel them as they happen. Otherwise I risk not realizing them as they do. I risk missing my life as it happens to me.
I sit on the floor in what was not long ago the dining area; the table having been given away so as to make room for my arrival. This is the coolest room in the house. The water is unseasonably warm for Oregon, and the humidity hangs like an oppressive feeling in the air. My hair curls despite my best attempts with the straightener.
I shower at night to wash the grime of the day away, to relax and to cool down. Another transition. Yesterday, I washed my body, my hair, my feet three times. Still, the water pooled in grey around the tub's drain.
Today I colored my hair. Dark. In the shower tonight it did the same. The grey pool. The grime from my yesterday, gone.
Do I want to wash myself of it? Do I want to be done and move on? Tomorrow, will there still be grey? Some perverse part of me wants there to be. Wants that subtle reminder that I still carry with myself a little piece of that yesterday. It clings to me--as part of me--and as part of who I am. What will I do when the water runs clear and I no more look for that puddle?

2009-07-03T11:16:00.000-07:00

Why is it that I find these amazing, beautiful things to say...and then I actually get to the computer and whoosh! They're gone out of my head? I just want to remember the beauty of the language!!

2009-06-24T19:20:00.000-07:00

Is mimicry art or deception?

Belief

2009-06-24T18:59:00.000-07:00

What is it that makes two people, with thoughts equal and departing down the same road, deviate so far from each other? There are two possibilities: Either they hold hands tight, and though they pull their bodies away, there will always be the at connection of communication and consistency between them?
Or there is the other possibility: That of no connection--nothing to hold on to. Their paths vary ever so slightly and, when they look back, they see that they never really were on the same path at all.
So why the difference? Why is it that these thoughts of unsurity in my mind force me to reevaluate who I am and what I believe--and I think in the end bring me closer to a truth that I have known for a very long time.
Is my truth someone else's also? Or are there multitudes of truth? Does truth matter?
All the time we hear people speaking of what they know and of what they believe. But what is it to know? How can you know? What if, really, there is only faith? And truth is the elusive element? What is the difference of faith for a believer than a non believer? Are faith and doubt really that far apart? Or do they have that constant hand hold--and each has just been assigned a different name to match their direction?
And what is right? How can I say that what is right for me is right for everyone--even when I know with a firm conviction that it is?
I doubt...but I also have faith. It is the doubting that makes us stronger, and while no one can at all say that if you are unsure that you should hide that and truth will come (rather, you should seek out the root of your doubt, educate yourself and follow where the evidence points) are the two really different? What is truth but truth's own propaganda?
Faith. Believing in something which is not seen which is TRUE. Truth. What is truth? And how can you prove it? Maybe the truth is that you can't.

2009-06-07T23:27:00.000-07:00

To My Readers, though you be few:
It is often said in literature that love conquers all--love is the eternal purpose of life--love is what makes a person's soul sing. But some decisions must put aside love, must scorn it and detach from it--disentangle completely. Some decisions are wholly for the good of the individual, for self, for future.
A quote in church the other week read, "Sometimes in order to have hope for a happier future, we have to give up hope of having a happier past." And so that is what I am doing.
The hardest thing for me in life is to leave the things I love behind. The feeling of abandoning love goes against everything that I believe in every corner of my heart.
But I KNOW that it is right.
How can something that is right hurt so much?
I want that happy future. I want to put aside everything that I think I'm entitled to, everything that has hurt me, everything that I have dreamed of--and start fresh. I want to go into my life with no expectations but happiness...and I want to achieve that happiness...I will achieve that happiness. But it takes time.
Dear Reader, I'll miss you. This is a turning point. I'm turning my back on that past and looking to the new with no expectations. No preconceived notion of how I want things to turn out.
This is the new. This will be the new format of my life. One day at a time.
All my love and hope for the future,
H.

Questions

2009-06-07T00:54:00.001-07:00

What is it about the lives we live that make us who we are?
What is perception?
How do I see things? --Life? --Beauty? --anything?
Do I see things?
We care. Why is that?
If you don't care, then what is the point?
What is my distinction?
Do we deny things in the world because we are afraid of what we will discover about ourselves?
Do we keep information from ourselves to uphold an idea or to protect an ideal?
What conclusion does my evidence allow me to draw?
Why is it that I believe what I do?
Where is the common ground?
What makes us the same?
Why do we argue for thigns that we don't know?
How can I claim to know the situation, when I will never be in it?
How can I pretend to know the world when I have only seen a little corner of it?
To what dreams will I give up my life?
What sacrifices will I make for the good?
What dreams do I have that are only of the moment?
Where is the inertia taking me?
Where next will I go?
How much of what we do can we blame on those in charge, and how much is our personal incentive?
Why do we seek to continually blame everybody else for our problems when we are the only logical solution for them?
What can I do?
Where does "their" part end and mine begin?
Is there a line or just grey?
Logic and emotion: Which am I more of today?
Who can stop another from dreaming when their hearts truly desire it?
Why?

2009-06-07T00:52:00.000-07:00

How can I better
Express myself than
Through my words and my voice?

How can I ever hope
To have a voice in
This world if I am
Unwilling to open my
Mouth and Speak?

And so I open my
Mouth to speak the words
Of my heart, my mind, my being.
I speak the words of truth and reality
To the world

Saving that hope for another day.

2009-04-23T00:02:00.000-07:00

Oh, to go back to that dream before the much awaited reality awakens. Oh to live life completely in those moments when clarity blinds itself and you are nothing but blissfully happy and unaware. Such moments happen far too rarely and pass all too quickly, if even they have existed at all.
So little left to hold on to, and yet so much to lose. Do I let it slip out of my fingers, content that the end is come? Or do I hold on--just for one second more...and one second more--in expectation of Hope's salvation? Where is the dream from my past life?
Losing that hope, 'til another day.
Which, Mr. Frost, is the road less traveled? The road that I should take? Which one will lead me home?

Thoughts from a past life...again!

2009-04-06T17:29:00.001-07:00

When I lived in Oregon, I worked in the Sporting Goods/Fitness section of Sears...looking back, that was probably the best job I ever had. It was little bit boring...I had a ton of time to just sit and think and write.
Today, I was going through my trunk, looking for something (okay, okay, it was wart remover...) and I came across this piece of paper, written on the back of a Lawn and Garden rebate form. In case anyone was wondering, I wrote this while standing on a Proform A something something treadmill...it cost about $799 and was my favorite spot to stand in the whole department. I could lean against the hand rails and watch everyone in the L&G and Tools departments....good times...even if I didn't know it then.

It is the image that becomes the biggest chore. Overcoming the enigma of life and breaking through to the core of the situation. It's getting to the intuition; the feeling; the heart. I often think that it isn't the situation that matters so much--the who, the what, the when, the where, the why--but the voice that follows it. The name will be reused. The spot recycled--the words twisted and turned in memory's eye. But the feeling will be unique. The feeling that come in the dream was so real--so comforting--so much its own feeling...and yet, it was only a dream. Dreams come and go--intangible--an image which becomes a chore to overcome. Because a dream is not simply a whisper. It's the reality of unique feeling breaking through to life's most deviating, most changing surface--the conscience.

__________

But what of the brave?
What of the lowly of heart?
Dust to dust and
Ashes to ashes--
Their hearts remain.
Enduring through the
Centuries they are more
than just words in stories--
they are the encompassment
of life.

_________

We all have a past--eventually it catches up with us in this game of cat and mouse. In those moments we become our worst enemies are the moments when it is displayed before the world.

2009-04-04T17:23:00.001-07:00

Midnight's fingers massage my mind, stroke my ego and enlarge my heart while sunlight's arm protects my conscience, quickens my feet and gives my soul relief.

2009-04-03T20:49:00.000-07:00

In a world where grey is bright
And birds sound their metallic cries
Against the harsh, mechanical elements
I lay my troubled head
And wait for stillness to roll its waves of
Silk donned silence and comfort.
Where voices that need no ears to hear
and songs that melody robs
Ensnare my life's flame
As their ever-lasting captive
And coon the luxury of sleep and peace.
Until once again silence is cheated its contentment
And frustrated with the strange reality that is life.
Here I find my comfort.
Here I find my rest.

2009-03-24T22:10:00.000-07:00

The blue eyes
that burn
with the tears that
won't come.
That can't come.
The tears that
will come
exactly when
they shouldn't.

The heart that
breaks with
pressure's despair
That squeezes
and groans
when it doesn't know
the song that
it should sing

The sodden mind
that wanders
between worlds
flitting from reality
to reality
Never quite knowing
where to settle.

The arms that
reach to a love
that they don't hold.
That they
can't hold.
That they won't
hold until it's
too late.

The indecisive,
unknowingly weak
spirit that lets it
all happen.

2009-02-22T22:01:00.000-08:00

Is it a lie to say I know myself? Decite to say I'm sure? Who is the child behind these sad, dull eyes? I used to know her well--when spring was more than a fantasy and life a cause to smile. What is it about her now that causes such self destruction? Why the facade to hide the monster? Why the monster to hide the chill? Why the chill to soothe the bleeding heart? When it thaws, will I die?--Be found bleeding for all to see? Vulnerable? Or will I once again be able to say that I know myself for sure? Is that what it takes to make the lie a truth?
Perhaps the child behind the eyes is only a memory, and what has replaced her is Now's reality. Perhaps Now sees her only as a tool to keep me motivated.
Can you trick the present? Can you get to the past? What if I find her again? Will she be mine? Will she be me? How will I know?

Doors.

2009-02-01T22:13:00.000-08:00

Doors are an interesting thought.
They open. They close.
They mark the beginning and the end--they are a transition.
They are a barrier against a storm or a portal to the day.
They hide our most private selves and open up our deepest imaginations.
By closing a door you section off an existance. By opening, you share that state with the world.

Clarity

2009-02-01T22:08:00.000-08:00

I wonder why we don't always see the world with clarity. I try. I'll look around, study an object, feel a surface, strain against its fibers and tissues and being--but sometimes the beauty and the poetry of it really just isn't there. Does a heart which is afraid to created a connection cause this? Is it an illusion? Or is the poetry really just lost sometimes?
Perhaps the blurr is a defense mechanism? But what am I defending myself from? Is defense needed from colors and textures? Will the sharp edges of vision's majesty cut through my soul? Or will it break through the bondage that I am in? Will it finally release me from this space in which I find myself trapped? What if clarity is a view into a completely new and separate world? How can I open that door?
My moment of most clarity came to me today as I was cutting potatoes. The knife in my right hand, the potato in the left. Maybe that's it? Perhaps clarity comes at a point of change--a point when one object--a whole potato--becomes something else--dinner. :)

2009-01-18T22:48:00.001-08:00

Don't be a lazy egg...or a crazy egg either. In fact, stay away from the eggs and be a duck!

2009-01-04T23:30:00.000-08:00

Occasionally, in life, there are a few moments of extreme mental clarity. The wood becomes more than a swirl of knots and a brush of texture and the carpet under your feet screams the story that thousands of feet have trod into each fiber. Colors scream in your minds eye with vavacity and are surreal instead of their typical opaque insubstance.

Sleep

2008-12-22T20:35:00.000-08:00

When sleep presses upon my eyes, I battle. It is for stubborn independence's sake--one part of me against another--that I fight for my mind's control over body. In the morning, my body wins But nighttime is thoughts' playground, and thought will not be cheated its game.

Words

2008-12-22T01:41:00.000-08:00

How many words are there in a language? Untapped recorces lay at my fingers even now, if I would attempt to express them. And yet why does it take more than the few to echo the songs of my heart, now, where more articulation would fail me? Few words rightly hold the meanings they govern when used losely on the tongues of many.

So perhaps words are not the answer, but a deeper knowing and understanding within one's self which even words cannot tap or express without ruining and cheapening for meaning.

How else to communicate that knowing if not with words? Perhaps that, too, is in knowing.

2008-12-17T18:15:00.001-08:00

This is the life
I have chosen.
Some day, when
my heart is ready
I shall move to the next.
But for now, this is the life
I live.
Why mourn the path that
my feet trod?
Why belittle the things
I see and am.
this is the life I have chosen.
When choice reaches to my
heart again, I will
perhaps chose another.
But for now, this is
my existance, not to
bawlk at or seeth for
pitty.
Cause this is the life
that I have chosen.
Until the next path sees
my fate.

2008-12-15T21:08:00.001-08:00

So much of humor is in context. So much of love is without.

Page One of what is going to be a very short but long-winded account.

2008-12-15T20:53:00.000-08:00

Here you go chicas. The beginning of my masterpiece, just for you, jeanette and dianna. Enjoy. ;)

What would it be like to live in my own world--to have fantasy as my beckoning call and reality only as the subtle foundation on points such as gravity and photosynthesis? I suppose some may know. Those who answer the call of the voices that repeat over and over in the corners of the mind, begging for escape. But I don’t have such an outlet. As I lay my back on the hard, warm concrete, reality becomes all the more oppressive and substantial to my mind.
Sweet, hot air pours over me as while I lay still, listening to the meows of the neighborhood stray and the ever present swoosh, swoosh, swoosh of the cars on the nearby Interstate-15. The garage has become my reprieve in the recent months as the heat and pressure become heavier both inside and outside the one-story rambler that I’ve grown up in.
Summers are always hot in this part of the country. You learn during the summer time to love the color brown—for it means that there must be some sort of consistency in life when comparing it to the less impressive tan of the winter season. But as the time goes on you learn to look past the brown and see varying shades in the rainbow. The dusky, the sour and the palest of sage mingle their way in with the copper, sienna and umber.
I’ve lived in the same blue-painted brick house for my entire life. My mother’s uncle built it in the early fifties and it has been modified exactly once in that time—three years ago when we added shag carpet to the before hardwood floors and painted the walls a pale shade of sea foam green from the former egg shell. Every floor board creaks and occasionally, despite Mother’s best efforts for upkeep, we have a friendly mouse skitter its way across our kitchen floor looking for a morsel to sate its gnawing pangs of hunger. Out here, only the fittest survive.
The garage is the one place where I can feel like my own person. The bare beams of the ceiling seem ageless. I imagine myself a mountain man in the old west honing and stripping beams from giant trees to build a house for my family. I imagine yellow-stained door that leads into the fenced back yard as the tent to a teepee leading into the forest of a mythical Native American story. Reality shows that it leads to more concrete and a half-hearted attempt at a rock garden—my mother’s latest attempts at feng shui and water conservation. The car under an old grey tarp could be Ford’s original prototype and I the apprentice to the master.

And there ends my creativity for a couple of years...until I get antsy again. This particular fountain pen perhaps has run dry...

Starting, but how to proceed?

2008-12-13T23:05:00.000-08:00

The mind blots like ink from a fountain pen charged with too much substance. When nothingness finds itself shaken, I'm faced suddenly with a tidal wave and a gush of thought unable to be stoppered. I fear reinforcing action as a habit while at the same time find myself unable to repress the hunger to create.

On Art

2008-12-09T20:47:00.000-08:00

Scarce a dream, the repreive from life that art brings. There is an escape to be found in that world. As the music drifts on the sun-filled beams the music becomes alive with it. Each spec of dust in the air holds a microcosm of the music that surrounds it.
When you step into a room with art, be it a play, a gallery or a symphony, the world stops. You are swollowed whole, enveloped in the sensation that is creativity. You're allowed to believe in something that is better than yourself. For half an hour, an hour, two, you become lost in a world that all together different than the one you're in. This world is full of plot, action, ending and begining. Even in the simple glance of a picture a whole world is contained--a story in a portrait made of oil and pigment that depicts hardship, social status, hopes, fears and the captivity of the soul therein.
What would life be like, to never leave that room of art? To be that painting, living within the frame? To live in the world of a dance? The angle, the movement, the line--the emotion all more than mere expression. All previews into another world--another life--another existance.
That stop is what my heart cries for. The leap from reality to reality. A taste of it makes you hunger for the next, and fasting makes you more impatient rather than tolerant of the lack.
To lose yourself to the world of artistic creativity would be to lose yourself forever. For who would want to surface from such a existance? A form of insanity that is limited only by your own creativity and desire to pursue.

From the Life I Now Live

2008-12-03T21:35:00.000-08:00

Mostly poetry now. Snippets of thoughts. But this should catch us up from the end of my Rexburg time to present.

And the Library burns
And the ashes rise
From the ghosts of each
Slip of paper--
Simply words,
Not meaning lost
In the suffocating
Vapor.

The green, the black and
The red-spined novel
Simply products of
The game--
Such Precious Knowledge,
Such Humble papers
Gone up with the
Golden flame.

But though they be lost
For the minds of new
A slate: grey, cold and clean--
The ashes hold the
Knowledge still,
They show what those
Books mean.

__________

The pathway of grey
Has memory’s shadow altered.
The shadow sees the sun
Beyond stupefied gaze.

But lo, what happens to memory
When shadows are gone
And color returns
To that directionless mind.

The path to color
Has no memory
But only existences found,
And yet to be known.

__________

A blade of grass
changes from one day to the next
The first day it is thin
short and small
The next day
Due to light and life
it grows and changes
no longer thin
no longer small
It now is a part of the whole

__________

People expect you to have a good story. When pen is put to paper they expect magic. They expect to be moved. They expect miracles. When they read a book, a story, a poem, they expect an effect. No one reads to have a refresher course on their ABCs.
But what happens when the author runs dry? What happens when there is nothing left in the wrinkled soul to fill the space between the lines? The pictures and childish fantasies escape in the paragraph break.
A journalist is taught early in her career to be frank, concise and to the point. Straying from the main focus to relate one’s own personal views is not desired by the readers of USA Today or Time. Facts. That is what is necessary. That is what sells papers. Hard, cold and impersonal. That’s what you become with a story.
When conducting an interview you must be witty but benign. Captivating, but only as a supporting detail in the background.
I have nothing. But I’m expected to have everything. This is what I’ve been taught. But, alas, I’m captured by my own monotonous living. How can I expect to escape? How can I expect to move beyond this dreaded phase of boredom… and, in the process, move others?

___________

I am but a pawn
In the game of life—
But can a pawn win
The prize as well as the queen?
Is destiny something of
My control, or of the other players’?
A pawn’s true virtue shines in his moment
Of glory.
And yet, I find myself pushed around by other’s
Influence.
For I am but a pawn
In this game of life.

__________

Look not to be remembered, but to make a memory.
Look not to be heared but to listen.
Look not to be seen but to view.
There you will find the contented desires of your heart.

__________

I think that sometimes we work too hard to remember the grievances against us that we forget to see the recompense which is boiling to the surface. We see the injustices and the problems in the world without having the thought of it being our responsibility, because of notice, to answer with the solution.

____________

Not so much in
Reading but in Superstition.
Not so much in
Superstition but in Love.

____________

I don't know which would be the worst: To be oversimplified and prejudiced or to be mollified and coerced?

____________

It's funny how the people we meet in this life influence us. Each contact in our life leaves a bit of a flavor--a slight residue. The people who we surround ourselves with make up the bar for which we are willing or unwilling to overcome.

More Thoughts From a Past Life

2008-12-03T21:13:00.000-08:00

This time, it's thoughts from my time in Rexburg. Mostly written while in the Spori art gallery--my favorite place on BYU-I campus and one I frequented almost daily.

To what dream do I lean on in this world? to what reality? The face not beautiful but real speaks to me. I wish to reach out--to feel the texture of the work. I wish to bask in the eyes that remind me of my own.
But to touch--to feel--to experience is forbidden. Fruit only for the eyes--too rich for the soul --shall escape the taste once more.

__________

How much power do I hold within me?
All of he knowledge of the world came through the human mind.
What power and ability has been endowed to me by God?
What am I capable of?
More strength and wisdom and knowledge is held within my being than libraries or congress.
Oh, the depth!
Oh, the responsibility!

___________

I've discovered that one thing that cannot be replaced or replicated is age. And so time becomes my allie and my enemy. I write for it--waiting for my turn.

____________

How, too, do you handle yourself when you find that another's attraction is greater than your own? Such an alien concept in the mind such as my own becomes suddenly common place when placed in a situation where the ravaging wolves called men are anxious to feed.
However, when given a choice between ravaging beast and adoring puppy would I chose the latter?

_____________

Is it learning to feel that is the problem or learning to feel in the right direction?
For what is a feeling but a moment and a stop? A moment...and a stop.

______________

What is the difference between bullying and independence?
How much of opportunity makes you great?
How much of greatness is purely opportunity?
What is reality?
What, or who, gives you power?

______________

The life wind's gone
In this shattered tale
A Fairy Land under siege.
But who's dreaming state
Awakens now
And for which game's
Minor league.
I will not let the
Fates prevail
In this cold life of mine
For what I do,
I do of me.
The future holds
Only time.

The hardest thing for me is to comprehend all the wasted time.

Thoughts From a Past Life

2008-12-03T20:36:00.000-08:00

The following is a grouping of passages from a time before blogs were common and a paper and a pen were what kept my mind company. From April 2006-March 2007.

It could, more realistically, be titled "A look into the heart of a young, love-sick girl" haha. But it has fond memories.

This written in the Home Fashions and Tools cash wraps of Sears in Provo, when I was a young cashier of 18. haha. The good old days...

(home fashions)
The greatest obstacle I am ever going to encounter in this life will not be to get along and to "play nice"--will not be to forgive and forget. The greatest obstacle and lesson for me to learn in this life will be one of self-acceptance. Easy though it may sound, I know myself. When somebody asks the question, "what was she thinking when...?", only I will know the answer to that mystery.
No amount of validation, consolation or therapy will pull me away from myself. Conceited to the point of being inept, fake, I loathe the love I feel for myself and refuse to accept it as my fate and demise. And what, the casual reader may ask, is the cause of such a cynical temperament? Although I have been warned time and time again against finding excuses for my problems, they all culminate to one giant, earth-shattering, five letter word: males.
Don't for a second think that I am prejudice against the "greater" sex. Quite the opposite, in fact. And therein lies the problem. I cannot claim that their stupidity, naivety and carrying on of false pretenses is entirely their doing, and am entirely willing to take some due credit upon myself. However, one point needs to remain clear: My life has never been a game to me, and I will not be played.
Tying my stream of thoughts back to earlier points, there is something in a man's eyes which, while one second tells you that you are gorgeous, wonderful and perfect, even at the same time causes a depreciation of one's self-worth.
It is in this eye contact which causes the "gentler" sex to act on rash whim or say things which perhaps can attract an undesired consequence.
I am not, as of yet, speaking of love or any other such emotion. Rather, I am speaking of attraction--an often times fatal subspecies of Love. It is attraction which oft-times causes the most damage to one's psyche and which, in cases like my own, creates hostile feelings of self worth.

______

There is, in the wake of attraction's wide breadth, the encouragement--the wink, the smile, the glances and the casual, cheerful greeting while in passing. What, during these times of encouragement, is one in my predicament supposed to do? Either back away with the possibility of missing out--or rise to the occasion. Bur rising means you may also fall.

_______

Rising to the encouragement of attraction means that you may fall--in pain or in love.
The worse?

________

(from tools....)
The plight that a new face has upon one's heart is an interesting matter to behold. Is the fatal attraction simply a matter of convenience?--of fresh serenity, working her way into the gentle, trick-filled chasms of the heart? Or is it an earnest desire to get to know another of similar age and social stature who consequently has the immediate appearance of availability and openness? Oi! The heart!

________

The hungry mind, when gone unfed, starts to feed upon itself with hopeless indulgence. It thinks, dreams and feels what it will, when it will--completely uncaring as to atmosphere or surroundings. It is within this situation that true self-honesty is announced. What is it in those moments that makes you think of the one who you want near? What is it, in those moments, that allows someone to feel for another completely unlike his/her self? Something so self-indulging while at the same time so phenomenally kind, sincere and loving toward an outside element?
And so, with this uncontrollable element, I am forced to wait To wait, to wonder and to see.

_________

After the waiting, when at last the goal has been met, there starts the feeling of inadequacy. Knowing one's self is either an all powerful or an all decrepidating thing. Knowing of my own insecurities makes the situation all the worse. I know my weaknesses and inadvertently bring them into full light and view when attempting to woe the being of my choice. With chance after chance for discovery floating away by the minute. I wonder--can I make it? Will anything happen? Or will this once again be a chance which has slipped away, unaided into the abyss?
Blast these accursed feelings!!!

__________

To wake up from a dream is a harsh reality check. One minute smiles envelop all senses, leaving the body paralyzed to the caressing softness of the mist-filled images the next-it is awoken to the harsh cold that surrounds. This switch--from reality to reality--must be swift in order to be complete. It breaks a bond that the mind holds over the body. It must be clean.

__________

Being fake is what I do best in my life right now. It is much easier to be false--to become the character that is universally accepted than it is to be the one who I really am who, although not universally accepted, is genuine.
How is one to be one's self when surrounded by the idiocy of others' juvenile behaviors. A behavior which, though at first glance may appear non-existent in an individual, is in fact embedded within every soul of the male sex.
Woe to the sickened heart of a girl looking for love.