peace & boeing 787

Tell me this morning isn't the most extraordinary morning. The luminous white snow, the liftoff of the beautiful seal-faced Boeing 787, the early bit of coffee, and my skin smelling like a rose and I don't know why. I am extremely content.

I am doing good, living with the grandparents, settled in and enjoying the television (my parents didn't have a tv in their house.) I watch Fox News because that's what my grandparents watch, and I like it except for the fact that they are prejudiced against Obama. But I agree with much they say.

I have been reading some of my old "funny stories"... hilarious little unrealistic stories that I would write for my siblings and usually read aloud at dinner time (to the annoyance of my mother, who said it disrupted the meal.) Now as I go back to read them, I find them even funnier than before, and my grandparents wonder why I'm laughing so loud.

They do make me a little sad, though, because I'm not living with my siblings anymore and therefore am not able to make them laugh like I used to. I got so much joy from that.

Ok, it is lunch time. Turkey meat on a sandwich. I shall melt swiss cheese on it. Then off to my auntie's house.

I shall leave you with a quote by Fred Hollywell from A Christmas Carol:

"I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round, as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: a time when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts. And therefore, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good; and I say, God bless it!"

Merry Christmas!!
Peace & Love!
And God bless us all, every one!

chocolate

Dad and I shared a Symphony bar last night... delicious caramellyness flavored chocolate.

I find myself thinking, philosophically, too much for my own good. Then it's hard for me to keep my mouth shut because I want to share all my discoveries with others.

I am very surprised about the immaturity of many Christians; they act as though Christianity is about what clothes you wear and what movies you watch and what words you don't say... I think if that's what you base the "strength" of your Christianity off of, then something is seriously and dangerously wrong. I see a lot of this in the conservative Christian homeschooling movement, where things like modesty become very legalistic, and by our clothing we judge others! Yes, it is very easy to take things like that and make them a cult, where instead we are worshipping little idolatrous doctrines instead of the Father.

Yes, this is something I am very adamant about, I must admit. As you can probably tell. :)

I have a feeling that many of the people I know would not like the direction I am taking this; however, it is not for me to hold back my thoughts simply because I know I might lose respect from others. If I do lose respect, it is respect from people who I do not care to hold respect with.

Esh, time runs short. I must get my coffee and start warming up my voice. A local musician is coming over to jam and see if we can put together some jazz songs, with him as the guitarist and I as the singer.

Happy Thanksgiving you all!!

sang christmas songs in a parking lot tonight.

I accidentally drew a picture of a guy in driver's ed class today. Well, I did not draw it on accident, but he saw it on accident. "Is... is that me?" he asked, and at first I was concerned that he hated it. But no, his face was flushed and he was very, very pleased. He said, "You drew that?"

"Yes," I said brightly. "You can keep it."

He did, and showed it to all his guy friends. They all want me to draw pictures of them now, which I plan to do before & after driver's ed, as well as during break time.

I found this quote the other day, which I love because I greatly admire Martin Luther King Jr., and I consider him so brave and steadfast and modern.

"If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well."

(Look at that mouth! Big and sassy and rebellious. My mouth is that way, my mother tells me. I am proud. I hope to change the world like Mr. King.)

jolly as ever

Truly Friday was a good day--no, no occasion was celebrated (for that is often more likely to be an awful day than a good one), just a lovely rainy day spent cavorting about town with Tara.

I was dropped off at River Park Square for about an hour and a half to peruse the shops while Tara and Wade had lunch at Clinkerdagger's. (They're married now, remember? They can have lunch at Clinkerdagger's.) I had never been to River Park Square Mall before, and what a world it was! It is situated in downtown Spokane, near the bus depot--a tall 5-story building with the mall on the first three floors and the AMC motion-pictures theatre above. It is filled with the most intriguing stores: Nordstrom, The Banana Republic, Abercrombie & Fitch; stores in which I've never been before.

I walked through wide-eyed, touching everything, oohing and ahhing, talking to myself about the lushness of a 30's velvet hat or the allure of a long-slung sweater. But oh! the prices! Quite often it was $60 for a hat, $60 for a top, $90 for a sweater, and many hundreds for a coat or dress. This was too expensive for me! But it was good enough to look and feel.

Tara had warned me not to go into The Banana Republic ("it's a gay men's store!") but I went in anyway (and most likely for the stated reason.)

Can you tell that I am quite modern and sassy?

The clothes were fine and expensive, but on the boring side, so I contented myself to wander among the clothing racks in both the men's and women's sections, watching people and brushing up on my writer's labeling skills. It was quite entertaining.

Tara then took me over to the Northtown Mall so I could return that hoppin' 80's grey sweater I got from American Eagle. I had decided that it was not worth the money I had paid for it--it was not even warm or cozy. Shouldn't sweaters that are not warm and cozy be illegal? At least they should not be called sweaters. I got $42.50 on an eagle-imprinted gift card.

The rest of the day, and onward, went as follows:

Friday night: Dinner at Tara's and oil-painting. Copying a van Gogh painting of an almond sprig. I mixed titanium white, payne's grey, burnt sienna and a little bit of brilliant red to make a warm grey wall. Very pretty.

Late Friday night: Could not sleep. I wrote.

Saturday morning: Driving with Dad. Did not crash. Did quite well, actually, considering I almost drove off a cliff.

Saturday afternoon: Finished reading "Leave it to Psmith" by Wodehouse. Talked Wodehousian for the rest of the day. It was mollifying to others.

Saturday night: Nothing. Hungry. Very hungry for a cheese stick.

Sunday morning: God rocks. God has always rocked, God still rocks, God never will not rock. GOD ROCKS!

Now: I'm writing on my long-neglected blog. I love Sundays. My eyes itch.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

And I'm still as jolly a girl you can find.

my saffron robe

My tea is sour and hot. Maybe I like it that way. I feel like a Buddhist master, sitting and drinking his sour and hot Oolong tea, contemplating human misery. It's a fine feeling, to sit here and pretend I'm wearing a saffron robe.

But really, I am wearing a long grey pajama top and black leggings and no shoes, and I am sitting on a stool in the kitchen drinking Oolong tea that I tried to sweeten. I'm contemplating nothing but how I could make my tea seem more romantic, when it's truly sour and makes my jaw ache.

I will sweeten it some more. Maybe Aunt Janel's sugar isn't as sweet as ours.

--Alas! This struggle with my tea! I put in a spoonful of sugar, which sweetens it a little, but it is still sour. More sugar. But Oolong is hopeless. So before my aching jaw gives me a headache, I dive into the fridge, pull out French Vanilla coffee creamer, and glug it into the tea till the liquid is pale.

And now it simply tastes like coffee. Oh, Americans. Oh, Italians. Oh, you French. Save me from the Chinese.

celine

I take this 3/4 way earth-turn into myself and wring the beauty from it into my soul. I curl in my cozy short grey sweater and drink coffee and tea and apple cider. The Finch Arboretum is probably getting ready for its fall festival.

My blue-veined hands and the surface folds of my mind contradict each other with my writing.

A million words, I've probably written, all in preparation for the novel I will someday write. I've found my brother-in-words: Brock Cole, father of Celine, my favourite book in the world. I love every sentence, I love every new paragraph. It makes me run and jump. It makes me want to write about how the kittie brings gutty mouse-presents to the door when I'm wearing white jeans and white shoes.

Oh, and I must save my little cousin from the female zombie. I thought I had her locked up in the closet nice and fine, but it seems she has gotten out.

kissing a fool

There's this song, Kissing a Fool by Michael Buble. I've started tying and connecting songs to my relationships and my life and the people in it, in an attempt to symbolicly tag my life with not only writing but other arts.

Kissing a Fool. I love this song. I loved it before it came true. It should not have come true, especially in this certain relationship, but it did. Everytime I hear it now I am filled with a great sense of wistfulness, and not only that, but both sadness and happiness. I am listening to it softly wisp out of the speakers as I write.

I need to know it.

Another one I relate to my life is Questions by Jack Johnson. It's sweetly romantic in its naive wordings, something I often do in my little love relationships. That's how I feel about my loves. They are worth me being a child again in my love. Simply trusting, beautifully concerned, honest and unafraid.

Will you try?

last night, i found in my closet

a great clay mask of great proportions, screaming out at me like Edward Munch's painting; the eyes were hollow and the ochre paint was flaked. It seemed to me very ancient in manner, almost gargoylish, or perhaps even Aztecian. Would it speak to me, I wondered. It did not, I put it back in the closet after ooh-ing and ahh-ing over it for a half hour.

It is not there anymore.

I don't even have a closet.

I made that all up.

Actually last night, after drinking too much caffeine with Fabi down at the Forza Cafe, I came home and wrote and wrote and wrote. Then I tried to sleep. A moth kept fluttering against the window and the paper on the unfinished wall. Sleeping wasn't working, so I turned on the light just in time to see a massive Hobo spider, spatulate, dark brown and horribly frightening (way more so than the fake mask) standing in the corner next to a toy, facing my bed, probably waiting until I was asleep so it could crawl it's swarming hairy legs up and onto the bed and over the lump in the covers, and onto my pillow, and down the front of my pajamas to BITE ME! Possibly also calling an army of Hobo spiders to swarm over the bed and eat my skin.

So I got my journal out and wrote and wrote and wrote, not about spiders, but about some sad things that happened lately, then I drew a map of consciousness, being completely and totally honest about what my subconscious was thinking about OTHER than that nasty creepidy thing on the floor.

Then, when the paper was full and my throat still twisty and dry from even the thought of that spider, I lay down and pulled the covers over my head and curled against the extra pillow, and I pretended that I was all safe in my bed with my husband (the extra pillow) there. And my husband will never let spiders get to me.

And I hid there until I fell asleep.

That is what happened. No mask, just me and a spider.

I think I was very brave.

THE END.

this morning

I woke and had the odd feeling that I didn't like my blog very much, until I looked over it and decided that I do like it very much. I only need to buy some oil paints, paint some art, scan it into the computer and then quite confidently put it on here. Even if you do not like my art, I will like it, and why will I let someone get in the way of what I like to do?

Grandpa and I snapped dry twigs today. I was sad when we got to the bottom of the pile.

I am dying from the disease of Hating Pulp Fiction. It's quite everywhere. I'm also dying from How Did The Inheritance Series Ever Become a Bestseller? My thoughtful answer to that disease? -Americans don't know good fiction anymore. Nobody will read Ray Bradbury anymore, which makes me sad, and nobody will read the good classics unless there is a movie to go along with it.

I don't die from no comments. I don't get very many comments on this blog (probably because I'm such a bad commenter myself) but it's alright, as long as people read it. Usually if they don't comment it is because they don't like it or they don't like me or they find what I write hard to make sense of. That happens often. Not to mention I'm such a strange little feline myself. Some people might simply be weirded-out.

It's hard not to be when you're around someone strange.

Van Gogh was mentally instable and went around with a knife trying to kill his art teacher. I like him. He was handsome. Most artists are. Ray Bradbury is handsome, even though he's old. If I like someone's art they usually become automatically attractive, in my eyes... in that good old artisty way. Even Rembrandt looked nice. Does this make sense?

Scott, you're handsome but I knew that before I even read your work.

Bumper, you're handsome too but I knew that before I even knew your name.

So sometimes I'll just think someone's handsome anyway, but then when I see what they do or what they are like, and if they're good and amazing, then they get bumped up like 50,000 notches. And if they're handsome in the first place and then they're a jerk, I gag every time I see their face.

I get varying responses when it comes to what I look like.

life is here

...to be lived, not to be dragged out dully from day to day in some soggy mass where you can only think about the next meal or the next appointment or the next time your favorite movie star gets interviewed. No, you should creatively fill your time between those "special events" so your life is filled.

The secret of patience: do something else in the meantime.

Do it.

Do things.

Don't laze about all day obsessing over pointless things.

Now, by lazy, I don't mean idle. Being "idly creative" is often the best thing you can do. I love being idle... physically. What's important is not that I'm being still, but the fact that while my body is idle I am filling myself up with sensory experiences, I am thinking absently and allowing my brain (in more technical, horrible terms) to drift into alpha wave mode where big, slow, creative thoughts dwell. Also known as daydreaming. Creative daydreaming, not daydreaming about things that will never happen, like marrying your celebrity idol.

When you are normally going about your day, you are not in alpha wave mode. You are in beta wave mode. Not cool. You are running about, thinking about this and that. Slow down. Close your eyes... imagine your brain waves slowing with your breath. And then, carefully, sweetly, drift into absent-minded thinking, letting your Muse go where she wishes.

Live life artfully, not going from activity to activity. If you watch a movie, don't just do it to waste time. Enjoy it idly, and then go to the Page and write all about it and what you could learn from it, and why this scene means so much to you, and why that scene seemed crooked, and blah blah, this and that, all of it. Then once you have exhausted yourself of that movie, dwell on it no longer.

Dwell on your life. Idly.

GOD JAR

You ought to make one too, I have just had the idea to start mine. I shall find a great beautiful vase or jar, or perhaps even buy one, and I shall put things in it like written prayers and songs and stories to God and drawings for him and whatnot, and it shall be special, just between me and God.

Perhaps you think I'm pagan for doing so, but I don't think so. I've had many, many people call me pagan since I started doing special things to feel closer to God, like lying out on the grass and whispering to him, and creating things for him, and now, this jar. I'm making him special in my life this way. I'm using the creativity he gave me while I'm at it. He can't be mad at me for it.

I'm learning to drive. I'll be creative at that too, unfortunately, because I can't help but mess with everything creatively.

I love colour. My favorite one is purple, but I have a deep respect for every colour on the wheel. A couple years ago my parents bought me an expensive set of Prismacolour pencils, elegantly surrounded by a wooden case. I have been opening it up more than ever now, just to "smell" the colours. They do smell, nice and wooden and waxy. I haven't used them just yet but I am looking forward to it.

Content and lazy.

my blog isn't scary

There's ocean and seaweed and surf. Greyness and blueness and wet sandness. And foam rushing forward from the water, up and up the beach. I run away from it, screaming and laughing and grabbing the hem of my blue shorts like it's the only thing that will save me.

Those were memories. I was six or so, at the Oregon Coast. I really, really want to go back. I have pictures of it too, of me running away from the surf.

I keep up my writing on my Morning Pages. It takes a lot of emotional and physical and mental energy, working through all the drama that's going on, longhand. But I'm glad I'm writing them because it helps me figure things out.

Leanne read Twilight and really liked it. I'm still not sure if I'm going to read it. Eddie and Bellie are weirdos. I like vampires though, I love vampires, at least Scott's vampires. (Yay Scott! You could totally take down Stephanie Meyer!) Especially because they drink coffee instead of blood. I know the feeling... sometimes I wonder if deep down I am a vampire too and don't know it. Me + Espresso = GRRAWRR.

I am very happy, and my blog is not scary.

Love,
me.

do you mind if i'm a geek?

off to the wedding!

Off to the wedding today but must finish my morning pages first. If I don't finish my morning pages, no wedding. If I don't finish my espresso, no wedding. So I must hold up under the ginormous pressure and finish my two necessary arts.

I will see you all...

later.

Love,
me

(Oh, did I mention that it is my sister Tara's wedding and not mine?)

rehearsal

Wearing my grey scoop-neck AE shirt (the silky, artsy one with the eagle on it), my skinny jeans, light purple nail polish, and bare feet!

In trouble because I didn't write my morning pages yet, and because I want to do the tango but I don't know how to do it or who to do it with.

I love frogs.

I love little lumps of clover in the grass.

I love angel clouds.

I love my bare feet.

Love,
me.

new post

I got a little kittie! In my dream. The kittie wasn't black but he was a grey tabby and his name was Little Sausage (of course...) I got to carry him all the way home curled up against my chest. He was purring.

Writing my resume to drop off at the little expresso stands around town.

Also sticking up little post-it notes on the wall above my desk. Each little postie has a quote about creativity written on it. I'm going to go through The Artist's Way today and copy out some more quotes.

One of the exercises in the book is to choose five different occupations you'd like to lead in five different imaginary lives. You could do anything. Then you choose one that you want to "live out" this week. I chose to be a famous chef.

Like Anatole.

kittie kittie

I got to hold a little kitten tonight.

Makes me remember how much I want a kittie of my own,

which is very badly.

I would like a pure black one,

with soft fur,

that has many kittens;

many kittens that I can hide in my valet's bed.

(Because my valet will not like kittens so much;

his name will be Jeeves.)

the sound of paper

Last night, through exercises in "The Sound of Paper" by Ms. Julia Cameron, I made a list of what I thought of God in my childhood, and what kind of God I would like. I was not doing this in any sort of blasphemous way at all. Here is what I wrote, longhand, in my notebook, honest as myself:

Childhood God:
1. Wrathful
2. Cranky
3. Jealous
4. Up in the Sky
5. Demanding Obedience
6. Judgmental
7. Boring
8. Strict
9. Stuck "way back then"
10. Picky

God I Would Like:
1. Modern
2. Forgiving
3. Creative
4. Charismatic
5. Extravagant
6. Down here with me
7. Encouraging me in my pursuits
8. Willing to share secrets
9. Stylish
10. Knows me totally and likes me

Like I said, don't get mad at me for being "blasphemous"... I needed to know what false misconceptions I have about God, and I find that so many are wrong! I still have such a hard time shaking those. I want the God that King David had, not a God that is stereotypically "middle-class American Christian". I want a Spiritual God, not a Stern, Male God.

HE MADE ME CREATIVE.
HE LIKES ME CREATIVE.
I LIKE MYSELF CREATIVE.
I LIKE HIM.
HE LIKES ME.
HE HAS CREATED ME IN HIS IMAGE,
TO WRITE.
WRITING, THEREFORE,
IS A SPIRITUAL ACT,
THE ACT OF PUTTING YOUR SPIRITUAL BEING,
WITH ALL IT'S BELIEFS,
ON PAPER.

picture of my purple piece of art...

yes, a shirt. Art.

Why can't clothing be art?

tazo zen tea

it is quite late, say 12:00 in the... morning. Well I'm sorry about that mistake, I meant it is quite early. You see I wanted to stay up because I found a little green packet of Tazo Zen tea in my bedroom, which I have such a heart-tug for, even though I've never tried it before tonight. I think my friend Amy sent it to me. And I drink tea sip by sip, very slowly, so it has taken me a long time since I made it an hour ago. I am about halfway done with the cup.

I am considering staying up the entire evening, to see the sunrise and write of it. There is something so special about staying up, waiting and waiting for the sun to rise. Unfortunately it is difficult for a person such as me. So I may fall asleep on the living room couch if I cannot make it.

Dr. Greene said I'm trying to live a 26-hour day, which I think is so funny. He also said he is not concerned about my caffeine intake, which is "only" four shots a day. I am relieved.

I can see the moon from here, behind a pine tree, and it is white.

Great book, by Ms. Julia Cameron... "The Artist's Way". Yes, go get it from your library, it is very popular and you should be able to find it. I am going through the 12-week course. It is these kind of books--the open, dreamy ones--that really get my heart pumping to write. And they are the only ones that actually encourage me to write better, and in my own way.

Nothing is more important than that. If you don't write like yourself, you'll never be original. Think Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Stephen King, James Joyce, Ray Bradbury. Completely different styles. What if Fitzgerald wanted to write just like Hemingway? or Stephen King wanted to write just like Ray Bradbury? You would just have books flat and dull and untrue stocking the bookshelves. Not that there aren't already millions of books like that out there, but we would really miss the true gems. The long, waltzing, fantastic sentences of Ray Bradbury... the bold starkness of Hemingway.

And,
to leave you with something of Ray Bradbury's to chew on,
from his incredible book "Zen in the Art of Writing: Essays on Creativity",

"You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you."

"Don't think. Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It's self-conscious and anything self-conscious is lousy. You can't try to do things. You simply must do things."

"Go to the edge of the cliff and jump off. Build your wings on the way down."

asked out to coffee...

by a gentleman today. Quite the surprise. We met online, and he's in the military, though he's back in Spokane now. He is also 5'8", which makes me three inches taller than him. Of course I said no. (Not just because of the height, and it's not because he's ugly; he's actually quite the dashing figure.) After going through the regular little marching men order of subtle questions like "Do you have to stay in tonight?" "You doing anything fun tonight?"... he asked me if I, perhaps, "would like to go out for some coffee?"

I said right off, "'Tis a busy time for me, with my sister's wedding coming up." (For I like to make up excuses, they are fun. You get a lot more life and spontenaety out of them--more writing material.)

"You're busy right this moment?" he asked.

"Oh yes. I promised myself a couple hours of creative time tonight. And my artist dates are not to be broken."

It took him a while to respond, and he finally said, a little stiffly, "Um... yeah. Have fun with that."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Right."

"Don't be angry," I pleaded. "I'm not saying no because I don't want a coffee! In fact, I want a coffee right now... very badly..."

And he did not reply.

You see, men are quite jealous of girls dating anyone else, even if it is their inner artist, their poetic genius. But writing takes priority over this Mr. Man. Until I am engaged, I don't think anyone is qualified to interrupt my artist dates. Hopefully my husband (if it ever comes to that) will be willing to give me alone time with the page.

P.S. I would not have said yes anyway.

apologies

I apologize very much for my use of a controversial word in my previous post--one that begins with D. I forgot that not everyone thinks that using that word is okay, and to anyone who thinks that, I'm very very sorry... and don't worry, I'm still a Christian, albeit one who is trying to decide what she believes about God and legalism and such. I did not mean to disturb or offend anyone, and as you can tell I was in a very distressed state of mind yesterday.

Take my apologies, and anyone who can, I need you to pray for a 15-year-old girl named Sara who is in a very bad situation with her dad. He beats her and threatens to kill her. She tried to shoot herself today. I am in contact with her over the internet and trying to make her get help, but she is too weak and scared. Please pray for her... pray that she will get help somewhere, and that her dad will be thrown in jail as he deserves.

phoenix from the ashes

I hate to say it but this morning I was obsessed with dying the death of F. Scott Fitzgerald, a man whose writing I greatly admire, and yet a man I have sympathy for because of his van-Gogh-like death. You know, the hurting, sick alcoholic, struggling to turn out typewrit page after typewrit page; alone after dozens of failed relationships and many affairs... yes, this morning I woke up and it felt like someone had prophesied my life to be like that. It was a weird, not very comfortable feeling.

However hard my life is right now, I feel as though I am rising up through it all. I'm writing like mad, accomplishing dozens and dozens of things in a day, scraping away at papers that fly about me; I am doing more work and chores than ever, and drinking more espresso than ever. I have started to take Vitamin B halfway throughout the day, just so I can get through without falling asleep.

Then at 10 o'clock PM, I have an espresso in my bedroom, so I can stay up till midnight and write. Oh, writing. What I would do to write. It is my life, it is the very cord that connects me to my sanity. Or perhaps insanity, depending on your viewpoint. It opens me up. I must admit though, that true writing is very painful, oh damn it is. It hurts like hell. But if it does not hurt, there is no truth in it, there is no meaning and no self in it... it is all fluff, nothing worth keeping, nothing worth publishing. You might as well have been doing cleaning or such.

Oh tut! I'm starting to sound like Brenda Ueland. (Though that may not be such a very bad thing.)

NYC

I need New York City. I need my own flat, and I need the milkman to deliver bottles of milk to my front door once a week. I need to fill my flat with art and hold writer's groups there and meet people like Natalie Goldberg and Stephen King. Most of all, I need to get away for awhile and start a new life with new people and fresh opportunities and no stigmas attached to me like a price label.

numb

there is such cruelty in life.

i find myself numb.

i used to have such dreams

but my accomplishments mean nothing

i can't accomplish love.

Last Night's Three Rants in my Little Purple Notebook

(I must have been half asleep.)

1. Piece like a dang and getting cold feet. Wondering if I am or am not crazy, possibly schitzophrenic and praying for K---, whom I love like a brother, with hugs hadded too. Today I am blue nail polish (to stop biting) and five cheese stick wrappers in ten minutes while reading a book about writer's losing weight. Skinny legs and jeans size 0, come quick.

2. Careful buckets of happiness not to be tipped and late nights with the fan running for to cool the house down, sounding like air pressure inside a car, and the bamboo plant, it's in the bathroom--probably waiting and thirsty! Gave Leanne that book she needs to read and Isaiah. He makes me laugh, hot and handsome with a fedora, I told him. Green sleeping bag slips off me in the night; heating pad all pilled up turns off and I am cold and in a stumble grope in the dark, reaching and then pulling too far.

3. And a yellow post-it tacked to my wall, sleeping now on a velvety dark green pillow that is beautiful and to hope I don't drool on it, the pretty purple dots are my current favorite color, and green, so to go shopping and find a purple top would be perfect with my new jeans. Goodnight, sleep seducing, goodnight.

Go on with the Show!

Tonight is my big singing show. I've practiced five hours every day for the last four days, and finally all that work is coming to a climax. With sixteen other people, we are putting on a show with wonderful choreography and beautiful voices, and some of the best directors and teachers in the city.

The show starts at 7:30PM. I have to get down to the recital hall at 3:30PM for a dress rehearsal.

But bah humbug, I need to go get my espresso and some more Sobe flavored water. And I think I'll eat a few string cheese sticks in the process.

Love,
me

Liquid Story Binder (and a Not-So-Sore Throat)

Throat much better! Singing is still impaired. I cannot sing. I warble, squeak, growl... and yet I know that by Monday I will be good enough to go the the Singer's Performance Week. =)

Been using this program called "Liquid Story Binder XE" for story plotting and character development. It costs $45 or something, but I'm using it for free for thirty days. Sweet, huh? And though at first I was detrimentally confused, I have come to half-way understand the program and I like it! Gets me in this serious mood about writing. Like, "I AM GOING TO GET THIS DONE!"

lol.

Gahh, it's 12:21. I'd better be getting to bed. I was going to talk to Kyle tonight (another friend of mine, he lives in Los Angeles) but I guess his phone is dead. Ah well. Perhaps tomorrow.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight!

(Is that how it goes?)

Sore Throat

Yep, I have one. I went to bed with a mild scratch in my throat and woke up with a full-blown earache and throat ache. Now, I would be okay with this except for the fact that starting on Monday is my Singer's Performance Week.

And I CAN'T SING!

I can't even do a simple exercise like "zi-a-zi-a-zi" without squeaking on the middle notes. There's no way I'm going to be able to reach a G note above pasaggio now. God, this is where you come in. Because there's no way I can sing like this. >.<

Other than that, I have kept myself busy with writing like never before. Is this the work of Prozac? I hate to give the credit to a drug but I think it may be true. Ever since I was put on Prozac I have had an incredible urge to work on the novel that I've never written.

Also I've been planning on getting my hair cut short, you know since I've had trichotillomania. (I hate how weird that word looks, lol.) Even if I have to wear a hat for awhile because I don't like the cut, it would be very freeing. Then I'd let it grow out long again. Anyway, it would be fun to mess with having a "bob" for awhile, don't you think? Hahaha.

And my sister Leanne says that once I get my hair cut short we're going to play with hair colors. I want to try a dark, rich auburn. Or even a blonde kinda like yours, Earwen. What do you think?

La la la-la-la

Music. If there was anything I don't think I could give up, music would be it. I would even give up writing before music.

Been listening to Michael Buble, Norah Jones, Jack Johnson. You know, the soft syncopated jazz with gentle vocals, almost bluesy in style. I listen at Pandora.com, a free customizable radio site. Really makes me want to listen to the rawkin' black gospel songs. Mmhmm, those are my favorites for worship music.

Still been plotting. I think I need to jack up the characters a little, you know, make them memorable, different. Not necessarily quirky, if you know what I mean. Give them all their own motives, their own goals, and watch them interplay with other characters' dreams. I need some contradictions in my story.

More friction.

>.< Anyway, Nathan left today to work at Quincy. He'll be there for a month. It won't make much of a difference because it's not like I really got to see him often while he was here in Spokane, but it noticably lessens my feelings of comfort and safety, you know? When he's in Spokane I always know I can go over to his place if I need to. But when he's three hours away it's different. I find myself feeling a little vulnerable. :(

My brief working set of characters

Characters:
JENNA, 18-year-old girl
COLIN, Jenna's best friend
SCOTT, Jenna's cousin and friend
SYLVIA, Jenna's great aunt and bookshop owner
VANESSA, Jenna's attractive and popular older sister
RYAN, Jenna's crush
GLORIA, Colin's ex-girlfriend

Story planning!

Am currently filling out a single-page Story Planner, complete with little boxes for characters and events and such. I learned never to get too detailed in planning. You can find the page here, if you are interested.

It's bothersome filling these things out, but at least it's easier than actually writing it. I'm horrible at the writing part, which makes it difficult to be a writer. I tend on the perfectionist side, so I write really slowly and have to have everything just right before going on. >.<

An Overall Summery Day :D

Today I went outside in the sunshine and played ultimate frisbee, freeze tag, and crack-the-whip with Conrad right before he left. Then Leanne and I washed the 15-passenger white van. And then we're going to eat a chicken-and-rice-pilaf dinner, and I'm going to sit outside and write while waving away the blood-thirsty mosquitoes.

Doesn't that sound like a perfect summer day? I wish you were all here to enjoy it with me. :)

Living in a fairy tale mindset??

I, personally, am very annoyed at those who act as though they are living in a fairy tale. For a four-year-old, maybe it's okay. But any child over ten should realize that this is real life, not some Cinderella story.

I mean, even just the basics of a fairy tale will be damaging if you believe them.

You're going to have to work for your Prince Charming, dear. He's not going to come riding out of the hills and sweep your new, shiny, without-a-fingerprint self up into his arms, riding off into the sunset. No, he's going to come up and be searching for a girl he can share his life with, a girl who is not afraid of the world, a girl who knows how to do things and is willing to do them. He may need to look around a little before he notices you. You may actually need to work for his attention. I know how bad that sounds, but it's true.

Just like you need to work for true love. True love doesn't find you, you have to find someone who you truly want to love with all your being, and then learn how to do it together. It's not easy, from what I've heard.

And then don't expect everything to end happily ever after! This is real life.

I'm sure you know what I mean. I don't mean to say that it's not okay to talk about Prince Charming, and I don't want to say that something in a fairy tale will never happen. I'm just saying that when you believe your life will be a fairy tale, it will hurt more than help.

I know, because I used to believe my life would be just like a romantic fairy tale. Now I've come to see that it can be just as romantic, but in a different way, a real life way, where I have to work to make my life better and to make myself a stronger person.

Tired

I'm always either tired and happy or tired and sad. Does that make sense? Maybe it's the Prozac, but I've turned into a sleepyhead all over the house... in my sisters' bedrooms, on the living room couch, even in the back concrete stairwell (which, unfortunately, is filled with earwigs).

I'm also sufficiently troubled at this moment.

Troubled and tired.

Train Station, Here We Come!

A really quick note because it's midnight over here... in a few minutes we're taking my sister Shanna to the train station so she can get over to Montana for a job she's taking. She will be babysitting some of our relatives' kids.

I will miss her tremendously! And things will be very different, as I will now be the oldest girl at home since Tara moved out.

Shanna will be staying there for a month, and then she'll be back.

I hope the days go fast!

Okay, goodnight everyone, and sweet dreams. :)

P.S. I love train stations; they're so nostalgic.

A Thinking Day

I tried hard to write a lot today, but mostly what I did was simply think about writing. I did get a thousand or so words in on "Write or Die" (see previous post), but other than that I failed horribly. lol. Most of the day was spent outside.

Played frisbee with Conrad. I'm horrible at aiming. I try to fling it to him, but it ends up like 25 degrees to the right or left. And I thought singing was hard! Ah well, I'll learn. :)

Lately I've been trying not to stay up too late, because when I do I get to thinking, and then I get sad and start crying. It's hard not to when you think about your life. I try so hard at living my best and I always fall short. I try to be nice, but nobody notices. I try to write well, but it comes out clunky and ugly. I love people and they don't always love me back.

Those kind of thoughts are my weaknesses. They never fail to make me feel worthless. However, they do make me promise to do better next time, and I am making progress in my thoughts as well as my actions. And hey, if I keep getting better and better, who knows? Someday I may be to the point where I can look at myself and just be happy. :)

Well, I'd better go clean my room... my magic kleenexs are all over the floor now!

Write or Die

Okay, writers... check this out. This is my "writing day" so I will be using this gadget profusely to get drafting done. It works wonders, especially for slow, perfectionist writers like me! Mwahaha.

Write or Die : Dr Wicked's Writing Lab

Bah Prozac!

Mom took me to the doctor today to see if I could get on an anti-depressant. Mr. Doctor-Dude said I didn't need one particularly, but he said I could try it and it might help. So I'm now on Prozac. (Makes me think of the one guy from "The Sons of Provo", hah!)

And I just realized...

For years and years, probably from eleven on or so, I've wished my life to be "interesting." My journals are filled with, "I wish my life was interesting!!" (Boy was I whiny!) Well, you know what? I think it is. I got what I wished for. Now I will view this difficulty differently. It is, as you might say, writing material. For my memoir!

I shall make the best of it.

I shall treat these problems in a way that later I will be proud of.

After all... it is going in my memoir. :)

Family life...

is

bad

again.

Me...

is

sad

again.

:'(

"I hate quotations." (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

"I can write better than anybody who can write faster, and I can write faster than anybody who can write better."- A. J. Liebling (1904-1963)

"The longer I live the more I see that I am never wrong about anything, and that all the pains that I have so humbly taken to verify my notions have only wasted my time."- George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950)

"How can I lose to such an idiot?"- Aaron Nimzovich (1886-1935), Chessmaster

"Some editors are failed writers, but so are most writers."- T. S. Eliot (1888-1965)

"I think there is a world market for maybe five computers."- Thomas Watson (1874-1956), Chairman of IBM, in 1943

"640K ought to be enough for anybody."- Bill Gates (1955-), in 1981

"We don’t like their sound, and guitar music is on the way out."- Decca Recording Company, rejecting the Beatles, in 1962

"I don't know the key to success but I know the key to failure is trying to please everybody."- Bill Cosby (1937-)

Shredding

Life seems to be a downward spiral. I won't say exactly what is going on, but "family shredding apart" seems to be explanation enough. I only know one thing: I don't like my parents fighting.

Coincidentally, the beginning of my most recent story starts with Jenna's parents arguing.

I'm really annoyed with God. Really annoyed. Sometimes I just want to turn my back on him, cross my arms, and say, "Well, that's what you did to me." But I'm refraining from that. For the last few days, however, I've had nothing to do with him--no praying, no reading, no thinking. I need distance for a while.

For any of you who pray, I need it.

On a better note:

... Went shopping and bought a pretty pair of gray pajamas, as well as a flowered t-shirt from AE.

... Took a walk in the woods today and talked to a red-tailed hawk the whole time, as he was perched on top of a pine tree and screeching at me. I've known him for about 2 years. Him and I are good friends, despite his irritability at my presence.

... I've actually picked up storywriting again.

... I have sisters and friends who love me.

... I have decided that I am a STRONG person.

Who said the GED was hard?

...I think it's stupid!

My scores so far on the GED are as follows:

Writing: N/A
Reading: N/A
Math: 530
Science: 600-somthin'
Social Studies: 700-somethin'

The minimum score is 200, the maximum is 800. You need a score of 410 to pass.

That's like 30%! (You can tell my math is bad because I can't even figure out what percentage it actually is.)

Blah. What's this whole "study for the GED" thing? I did none of that. I guess people get scared and the major book companies decide they can get a lot of money selling you a $30 book telling you everything you don't need to know.

Grr.

I'll let you know when I pass.

Throwing in the towel...

...at least on that method of blogging. I don't think I was cut out to write devotionals (unlike my extremely talented friend Earwen).

Well it comes down to the fact that this blog is just A Blog. Whatever I want it to be, whenever I want it to be. That's what A Blog is, right? Kinda like a journal. I like that idea. =)

Now, as long as you all expect the unexpected (or the just plain boring), I can continue.