the storyteller

inside a sand-grain, perceptions of worlds
time stood still and I grasped the measure
of immeasurable things.
I am the storyteller, said she
and to weave the spirit's tapestry
is my ethereal purpose
as i sing of
silver inlays in stone, craftsmanship
of the ages
mist, dappled light, revealing and hiding
the trees, branches, reaching
standing still.
moving, swirling words
sounds come together,
formed
by a child's block lettering
the impossible may take shape
and disappear
without being seen.
breathe it in,
slowly,
like peering through key-holes,
softly, hidden, secret,
revealing,
longing.

waterlily

suffused sunlight spills over the road
arc of gentility
dappled
innocent.
the light dances, slowly, turning, wheeling
watch and learn as
the most fragile wings
fan out imperceptibly
upon a quickened
newborn
summer
evening

imperceptible

i touch the past
with one
long
light
feather
through the ages;
across the pages
withered and yellow
fresh and new:

a child's small finger
gently
touches
that which is gone
and is still here.

time

the winding dirt path
has been for centuries
good earth, with green
stems coming up
past and present
i know those who first traversed it
long ago
but not so far away:
friends.
kind
strangers
reach out their hands
from the byways
and the meadows
just beyond the
wandering picket fence.

newness

I can't believe that spring is coming. I'm immeasurably excited. I always get so incredibly excited upon every changing of the seasons: the prospect of a new season is miraculous; thoughts and images of what the new season will hold dance about and weave all sorts of brilliant plans and imaginings.

Today feels like a spring marsh. On the bus ride home, I reread the Spring chapter of Walden. The imagery sent me gallavanting in springlike fantasies and excitement about the coming new season. And it also made me want to go back to Walden, which is one of my paradises-on-earth, one of the places all over that I love to go to and dream about when I'm not there.

In other news, the junior retreat is next week. I'm going on April 6th and 7th... I don't really want to go. Roommates? -_- I'll probably get stuck with someone I don't know and be shut up in that room trying to think of something to say and failing; not fun. I know I'm really supposed to use this blog as an outlet for writing and not a means of communication with friends (:P), but those who actually read this, which day are you retreating?

I chickened out when it came to reading in class today. I had an excerpt from Waverly, Eliza's introduction, sitting on my lap. I thought maybe I'd read it. But I didn't. It's a page and a half long. I was afraid people would get bored and stop paying attention. I'm such a chicken. I need to stop and have more great moments instead. Maybe, tomorrow, I will read that excerpt from Waverly. Or a poem. Ethereal? Or, Flutter-Rush Thrushes? (that one was weird, but I like it. The last stanza is a little weak, I admit, but. I like it.) I like Ethereal too. I don't know if I'm brave enough to read Ethereal. It's because of the Elizabethan. Would it sound weird? And I'd have to explain about Endymion to anybody who doesn't know. Not so hard really, but. Oh. I just get too nervous, like I choke up, and it's like in one instant when the teacher asks if anyone else has anything to read, I can feel the blood rushing, and I feel like I'm frozen, in an instant having to make a decision, and what if I said I do have something to read? I'd be trapped. But I have to get over it.

I should also write more poems and things, but no idea has struck me today for a poem, and I need some words to come and inspire me before I write a poem.

about waverly

I haven't written in a little while. I had a shindig (best friend's birthday party) on Friday night and was exhausted on Saturday - I got home at 3 PM and slept from then until 10 o'clock at night, when I woke up and was very surprised that it was nighttime.

Then, yesterday was Easter! I got a wombat. Yes, a wombat. And a bunny too. (Stuffed animal ones, I mean.) I love Easter. It's so bright and happy and joyful. Palm Sunday and Easter are the only days out of the whole year that my mom and I go to church (my dad doesn't like to go). We go to the small church that my mom went to when she was a little kid. It's very cheerful in there, which is how I think religion should be. It - religion, I mean - is too often all doom-and-gloom and frightens people into believing instead of really making them want to believe. This wee church isn't like that and that's why I like it.

Today, in contrast to yesterday, is grey and rainy and blustery out. A real Wuthering Heights day. I really do think that days feel like books. These types of grey and windy days, when the rain makes the winter-turning-to-spring, not-yet-thriving grass damp and low to the ground, make one feel as though she is wandering desolate among the heath-covered moors, clutching her drenched cloak tight around her while calling for her lover; named Heathcliff or not, 'tis up to you to decide. I'm really more of an Edward Rochester girl myself; but it is not a Jane Eyre day (those are days like tea-biscuits, winter-cheery.)

I'm looking through my writings for something to read tomorrow in Creative Writing. I'm inspired to read something aloud after having read The Lamp-post the other day and only wavering a couple of times; turning bright-red, but, oh well. I think I'm going to read something from the novel I want to write (because I always am trying to write a novel), called Waverly: a description of the seaside town of Waverly. I have so many ideas for that novel and I really, really love the main character, Eliza, who is like me except even more so. The main idea that I get excited about is how Waverly is really rather the landscape of Eliza's mind, or something like that. It's hard to explain. And how Eliza is obsessive-compulsive and the imagery associated with that is really wild and - how she is trying to heal herself is a main thing of the book. It's got three parts, and is actually centered around a - someone - named Chalie, who is really, theoretically, the daughter of Father Time and Mother Earth (not literally, though); in the three parts she appears successively as maiden, matron, and old crone, a trinity taken from Celtic mythology... The concept of the trinity is also another main theme. Yeah. The funny thing is, all this just happened. It wasn't planned. ANOTHER really cool thing is that I randomly named Chalie because I liked the sound of the name. Then I later found out that there is a Celtic name, Chaeli, which means: "Who is like God?" And that is the concept of the character Chalie.

Wow tangent. I realize that that story must sound really weird. But I hope it works out. Maybe I can write it and write it for a long time and revise it lots and lots and get it published some day. I'm very ambitious about that.

Anyway, I think I'm going to read that passage from Waverly about the description of the town of Waverly. It's about four paragraphs, but pretty long ones. I like a lot of passages from Waverly but most of them require much backstory. This one doesn't, really. It just mentions the characters very, very briefly. Really.

suggestion

You know what would be really, really cool? If Prout had a literary magazine. Students could submit articles about issues, academic and non-, about which they are passionate. And they could submit short stories, or poems. The artsy people could get involved too by submitting drawings and paintings and things to be included in the magazine, or as supplements to the writing. The Graphic Design classes could design the layout of the magazine. It would be the coolest thing ever because it would give the students - not just the student council - more of a voice in the school; they could speak out about what concerns them, and express themselves in writing. I mean, the theatre people are obviously represented at Prout. So are the artsy ones, in the art shows and such. But what about the writers? I know a lot of people at school who love to write and there would probably be a lot of submissions. And I know a lot of people at school who have a lot of opinions on a lot of things, but who never get listened to. [And it wouldn't be a place for whining, but for real, thought-out pieces about things, issues, and whatnot. In addition to being a creative outlet for the students.] It could come out each quarter, maybe, or each month, or every other month, or something! I would like to suggest this to someone with... authority... but to whom would one suggest such a thing, and how? I know it would cost money, and there would be, er, printing equipment involved [forgive me, i don't know anything about costs of things, or anything about printing equipment]. But it would be really, really great if such a thing existed.

statement of purpose

I've always deeply admired the exuberant people. You know, the joyful people, incredibly happy to be alive and showing it at every moment; the ones who feel everything deeply and experience everything deeply. The outlandish ones, with bright-colored, creative outfits, wide-brimmed hats, and sparkling eyes. The ones who will suggest to take a chance; the inspiring ones.

I've always wanted to be like them. Unafraid to be expressive and to spread joy. Unlike them, however, I've always been very afraid of very many things. I worry a lot. I always have these fears, mainly one, and a lot of the time manage to push them back and ignore them for a while, but then something makes me remember them, and they take over again, and I feel dark and shuddering and sad and doomed and frantic. Needless to say, it's not fun.

Getting over fears has been quite hard for me. My main fear is one that I have had since I was very, very small; since I was at an age when children don't usually think about those things. The fear is called fear of death, fear of the unknown. I know it's not uncommon. But it's haunted me for almost as long as I can remember; though, I can probably pinpoint the time when it came into being, when my grandfather and great-aunt died when I was around seven. Ever since I knew what death was have I been mortally terrified of it.

Fear holds me back from being one of the exuberant, inspiring people whom I so admire and love. They seem unafraid; they seem stronger than fear. Is joy then stronger than fear? When I've been truly joyful, I have not felt fear; it was, in those moments, as if fear were gone, just a memory. But then it has always come back.

The knawing fear has held me back from the thing that saves most people from fear: faith. I've had such trouble having faith, because always is the haunting, painful doubt: what if I am wrong? What if I were to believe in something with all of my heart... all for nothing? What if I delude myself and devote myself to an illusion? But I know that these things are false. In my heart, I really do have belief. Name something mystical and I'll probably believe in it; everything from fairies to spirits to God and heaven. I'll at least acknowledge the possibility, because I believe that nothing is impossible.

But still, there is doubt. Nagging, knawing, biting, possessing, frenzied doubt. I do not like it; it is not a friend; and yet through the years I've almost made it a home, unwillingly. It feeds on compulsions and it perpetuates insecurity, something I've also felt for a long time.

But I musn't give it too many characteristics, for I know that it is not real. The doubt it what is really an illusion, not the belief. They are like two conflicting forces, and one does not know which is an illusion and which is reality. That is the scariest part. But the sight of newborn spring and the suffusion of dappled sunlight coming through the tree-branches, with the voices of children in the background, affirm faith. All things in nature affirm faith, and they all teach a lesson. I've found nature to be the greatest teacher.

I should abandon doubt, cast it off as an old, worn-out cloak: spring is come and one does not need the burden of a dark weight like that. I do love to learn such lessons, and would love to be unafraid. I just fear, in the end, having been wrong.

ethereal

Endymion in the shadows
Thy lover is far from Latmus;
Ere long she shall to thee lend
The truest reality, hidden in shade.
For which truth is the one that is real?
Levy the tolls of the world;
Tolls and toils ere long shall be spent.
Eternity's thieves know nothing
Whereas reality's dreams know truth.
Endymion in the shadows
Thy myth shall soon be spent.
Ere long now comes the shadowed sky
Tracing surreal tales told many times.
Tell here what is real:
Easter's shades of purple, blue
Enter into inconstant, ever-true dawn
Lent to the ether for a moment of time.
Hear envinced the reality of newness;
Elderberries in the thicket.
Endymion in the shadows.
Ere long she will kiss thy lips
Ere long is lent effervescence
To thy still frame, alone, lowly,
Ere long, ere reality is known,
Time will not leave thee alone.



Footnote: So the whole purpose of this poem was [another experiment, heheh] to ... evoke the word "ethereal" by repeating the basic sounds of the word over and over again throughout the poem. Again, I don't know if it was successful or not. And I only edited it a couple of times so it can probably be better.

Why Endymion? I don't know. First "E" name that came to me. And then the poem about "ethereal" took shape around his myth.

The "thee"s and "thy"s were put in for the extra "th" sound. They may or may not be annoying. :P I'm not sure which version is better, with the thees or with the yous. For the Elizabethan-less version, go thou hence and see.

half-hour a day: begin!

So I'm supposed to write in here every day. I figure, I will. I thought it had to be specific things written in here, like poems, short stories, or memoirs and things but then I realized that I can actually just write anything as long as it is creative writing and all. I write usually in another journal, a paper one and a secret online one, but I shall write in here also. Eloquent, eh?

A half hour a day is how long we're supposed to write. I wasn't doing it really for a while, just writing sporadically like I usually do. And then I started worrying; I mean, a low grade in a Creative Writing class certainly wouldn't encourage the Emerson admissions people to let me into their college to major in writing! But then, also, I don't want to be one of those people who just worries about grades but never really learns anything. Truth be told, I would like to share my writings in class and to comment on others' writings too and be a part of my favorite class instead of just an observer, but I worry that my own writings will stink and be recieved with blank silence. And when I hear someone else read their writing, then I definitely have a feeling about it, but it takes me a really long time to get a clear thought-in-words together.

Sometimes, I feel like writing an essay-memoir-type-of-thing, but then I think of what to write about, and think, well, I've already written about many of the important things in my life, the great times, and such, and memoirs. And the not-so-great times, well, I'm not about to share those on a public blog... Unless they're disguised as happening to someone else in a short story, or as cryptic metaphors in a poem.

I've realized lately what a malcontent I've been at school lately; well, junior year, really. Unless something special and exciting is going on, like a holiday, or a new season, or snow, or something, then at school I'm pretty much just sitting there stewing, rather. Well, in certain classes, I have some fun, when there are friends around. But in many classes I don't have friends around, and just sit there quietly, musing and/or brooding.

In classes I don't like, I sit there in an angry state about how I want the class to be better. For example, I loved, loved, loved English last year, with Mr. StJean. It was so interesting and presented in a way that was interesting. This year's English is one of my least favorite classes. I even like Chemistry better than English this year, which says something because I don't even like science, or working with numbers! In English this year, every time I hear "you must follow the Prout Format", I feel rather like yelling. Among many other things, like how I haven't liked how the books were presented in an uninteresting way (for me), etc.

But this seriously wasn't meant to be a complain-session. For anyone who has read this far, I'm sorry. But that wasn't the point of that tangent about school. The point was how discontented I am there, how I feel lethargic most of the day, and tired and worn, when I know that if I were not at school but instead out doing something I liked like exploring a new place, then I would be absolutely wide-awake.

But now to the root of the problem. I think I am not quite myself at all at school. I mean, I am [myself] with friends, but take them away and I just sit silently and brood over things like I said. I'm really quite a happy and hyper and, um, insane person, and when with my best friends I go crazy and really do act like myself. But school is an environment that I have always found suffocating in a way, and I just choke up.

I think I'm a chicken a lot of the time. Maybe I inherited it from my ancestor, who lived in the South during the Civil War, and hid in his chimney so he wouldn't have to fight for the Confederacy. But then, that's no excuse, because I'm also related to Davy Crockett, and he most certainly was not a chicken. I can be brave occasionally; I guess I'll just have to drum up more "occasionalies".

I can scarcely believe I am posting all this on a public blog that people from my class might read. But hey. Writing it down is easier than saying things out loud for me. Actually, sometimes I worry that school-people think badly of me, for not talking much, or being friendly. Truth be told, I've probably wanted to talk to you. I probably think you're interesting. But I've probably been dreadful shy all my life and it's held me back for just that long.

Hey look, I got me that half hour of writing, and a personal essay-bit in there too, in spite of tangents, and long sentences, and maybe a wee bit of rambling. But, oh well.

flutter-rush thrushes

*Ahem* I give you fair warning, this is rather weird. Style-wise, I mean. No matter how weird it sounds, though, the missing articles, conjunctions, and occasional punctuation marks are purposeful and so is the reorganization of adjectives and nouns and things. In other words the twisting of grammatical rules was on purpose! Eh...heh...*shrug* Kind of experimental, I guess, so if it stinks don't... blame me.




I tell you of
flutter-rush thrushes from bramble-torn lands
Briar-scratch etchings, wisdom of stone, marsh-misted air.
New idolatry rent from semblance of rents –
Old joining new in fluttering fear of unknown.

May I tell you of becks, brooks a-trickling, new-worn stair
Stone-carved through ages and toward the lair
Past new-shorn field, bracken, old churchtower bell–
pattern of tales retold.

May I go back, sheltered by thrush bramble-roofs?
Falling a-twisting down side of thatched roof
Vine thorny weaving stone through misted air.

Sharp edges on tall telling towers, slicing glass
Glints to flash warning fair traveller:
grounded beam, fair sentinel of the city.
May I then find thatched roof strange proof
Journeying backward to land?

I tell you of flutter-time millions of dawns
Belated by coming of one.

the lamp-post

the lamp-post by the corner-stone
soft sepia light and blurring edges –
a wash of antiquity clouds the evening.
colors shift until the lamp is lit
swift young fire raises its head, encased in glass
and bordered all round by black
latticework.
wind like yellow, crinkling pages
stirs the fancy of an old-fashioned man
whose carriage-wheels take him past
the scene.
Once there was a coach over cobbles rumbling,
the yellowed light fading in and out from above.
no moment is left, but for that which has gone
over through sepia streets, away from the city –
the carriage elegant driven by
a ghost both antique and divine.

introduction

Hello! This here blogthing is a log of writings for Creative Writing class. ... Um, so, yeah. That's all. :)

Wait! No, it's not. To view past writings of mine, go here: the fortieth floor. Now that's all.