(and this poem is waste. Well okay, maybe if I actually spent time on it, it wouldn't totally suck, but, well, I didn't, and I don't know if I will. So this is a sample of the truly raw, unedited crap that comes out of my head. Enjoy...? Oh yeah, and I'm not sure if I like the title either, hahaha)
You were...
You were my colour
bringing the greys to life --
crimson roses and inky skies,
rich brown chocolate ice cream
rainbow sprinkles.
My tears fall, colourless,
onto the white tissues.
You were my lifeline
bringing vibrancy to life --
the rhythm of the beat in my heart,
the warmth inside my soul,
the chills down my spine.
I sit motionless on the couch,
even breath seems difficult, painful.
It is cold in this bleak existence,
no colour in my black and white world.
30 septembre 2007
27 septembre 2007
I write openings a lot
(I like to write the opening scenes for stories and then abandon them. This one, however, I actually do have ideas for development... we shall see...)
I was too strung up to sleep. I used to feel this way sometimes when I was a Freedom user. Coming off the high was always so jittery -- that's how it felt after your death. I paced the streets, flicking the lid on my lighter. Open, close, open, close, forming a counter beat to my footsteps. It was dark that night, more than usual, as though nature were also mourning your death. And the streets seemed emptier… but I noticed people were also avoiding me. They had heard about your death -- maybe they knew I was ready to kill, that they would die if they interfered with this particular nighttime walk. I had no planned route, no goal destination when I set out, but I hit the spots we used to frequent and then I finally ended up at your grave. It was good of your parents to give you a funeral. I know there was tension, but they both cried and your dad shook my hand, and your mum kissed me on the cheek and hugged me. She held me so tightly that it was painful, not physically, just emotionally. I know I tried to say something consoling, but all I could do was lamely hug her back. I wore a dress for your funeral, I hope you know that.
I sat at your grave for a long time. I traced your name over and over, refusing to cry. Touching your grave gave me a sense of calm, but taking away my hand I felt highly strung again. I gripped your headstone as though maybe if I squeezed it hard enough it would spur your rebirth. And then I knew. A wave of calm came over me and I knew exactly what I needed to do. I kissed the cold stone, it would be the last time.
I was too strung up to sleep. I used to feel this way sometimes when I was a Freedom user. Coming off the high was always so jittery -- that's how it felt after your death. I paced the streets, flicking the lid on my lighter. Open, close, open, close, forming a counter beat to my footsteps. It was dark that night, more than usual, as though nature were also mourning your death. And the streets seemed emptier… but I noticed people were also avoiding me. They had heard about your death -- maybe they knew I was ready to kill, that they would die if they interfered with this particular nighttime walk. I had no planned route, no goal destination when I set out, but I hit the spots we used to frequent and then I finally ended up at your grave. It was good of your parents to give you a funeral. I know there was tension, but they both cried and your dad shook my hand, and your mum kissed me on the cheek and hugged me. She held me so tightly that it was painful, not physically, just emotionally. I know I tried to say something consoling, but all I could do was lamely hug her back. I wore a dress for your funeral, I hope you know that.
I sat at your grave for a long time. I traced your name over and over, refusing to cry. Touching your grave gave me a sense of calm, but taking away my hand I felt highly strung again. I gripped your headstone as though maybe if I squeezed it hard enough it would spur your rebirth. And then I knew. A wave of calm came over me and I knew exactly what I needed to do. I kissed the cold stone, it would be the last time.
25 septembre 2007
Still lesser?
(so, last time I was all "I promise something better soon" but since the Master's application has claimed its stake on my life and soul until 1 oct, I haven't really written anything great. So here's this little prose piece, it's sort of... lame? I dunno, I was trying to convey something, but I don't think I did a very good job. I may try again some other time)
Pumpkin Guts
It was raining outside when I drove to the store. I picked out the perfect pumpkin -- small, it would definitely be sweet. I drove home and the music on the radio made me feel weird -- I couldn't tell if I was happy or sad. I plopped the pumpkin on the counter and cut a hexagon around the stem. Normally I would cut it in half, but this time I felt it would be more gratifying to leave the pumpkin whole. I glanced at the melon baller on the counter, but instead plunged my hand inside the pumpkin and began pulling out handfuls of pumpkin guts. The goopy, stringy texture it left on my hand gave me creepy chills. Handful upon handful, pretty soon I started to laugh. I pulled out more of the stringy stuff and began to cry as well. And I stood there, crying and laughing and pulling out handfuls of orange goop until I was out of tears and laughter and the pumpkin guts were all out. I was empty and so was my pumpkin. I went outside to sit in the rain -- the pie could wait.
Pumpkin Guts
It was raining outside when I drove to the store. I picked out the perfect pumpkin -- small, it would definitely be sweet. I drove home and the music on the radio made me feel weird -- I couldn't tell if I was happy or sad. I plopped the pumpkin on the counter and cut a hexagon around the stem. Normally I would cut it in half, but this time I felt it would be more gratifying to leave the pumpkin whole. I glanced at the melon baller on the counter, but instead plunged my hand inside the pumpkin and began pulling out handfuls of pumpkin guts. The goopy, stringy texture it left on my hand gave me creepy chills. Handful upon handful, pretty soon I started to laugh. I pulled out more of the stringy stuff and began to cry as well. And I stood there, crying and laughing and pulling out handfuls of orange goop until I was out of tears and laughter and the pumpkin guts were all out. I was empty and so was my pumpkin. I went outside to sit in the rain -- the pie could wait.
20 septembre 2007
Lesser works
(I'm afraid I've been really busy trying to get everything done for my grad school application and have thus not had a chance to write anything new, so for now I'm giving you a lesser prose chunk and a poem I wrote my French class that is very forced because I made it rhyme. Since I rarely even rhyme English poetry, it was an interesting exercise. Anyway, I promise to write something better soon)
Chance Encounter in the Supermarket
"You don't want that."
"Excuse me?" I turned around to see a man my age looking concerned. Concerned about what, I wondered. I failed to see how my choices in the produce section bore any impact on his life.
"That particular zucchini squash."
"Oh? And why is that exactly?"
"Because I picked a better one before you arrived."
I looked at him trying to derive some meaning from what he was saying.
"If you come over tonight, I'll show you how to make an amazing zucchini squash dish."
"Is this some sort of joke?" I couldn't tell if he was trying to make a really bad pick up or if perhaps he had just wandered away from his institution.
"It's not a joke. I need to practise, and I get tired of trying to rate my own food. Plus the professors like when we can turn in feedback pertaining to our outside work."
"Rate your own food?"
"Yeah. It's hard for me to judge my own dishes. I mean, I want to like them, because I made them. At the same time, I can pretty much always sit there and think of way I could have, would have, should have tweaked the recipe and pretty soon I convince myself that it was a terrible dish. My professors say this is not an uncommon phenomenon."
"Professors?" I was sort of feeling like a demented parrot.
"I'm going to a culinary arts school. I actually moved here just for that reason."
I understood what he was saying, and I was able to relate that I knew about our culinary arts school -- best in the nation -- but I kept up the parrot routine. "Just moved here?"
"Yep, maybe a month ago, if that."
"Wow." Sometimes I amaze myself with the degree of insight in my statements.
Printemps
Le printemps – une renaissance :
une fête des fleurs,
un mélange d’odeurs ;
la beauté en abondance.
Écoutez au rouge-gorge qui pépie,
son chanson, après le silence longue,
est sucré comme une mangue,
et il m’assoupie.
Les petites fleurs, vraiment précaires,
s’efforcent contre la neige,
le soleil aident et déneiges,
la nature extraordinaire.
Encore, la froideur des nuits,
nous couvrit comme un manteau,
mais cette saison d’amour nouveau,
elle brille, elle reluit.
Chance Encounter in the Supermarket
"You don't want that."
"Excuse me?" I turned around to see a man my age looking concerned. Concerned about what, I wondered. I failed to see how my choices in the produce section bore any impact on his life.
"That particular zucchini squash."
"Oh? And why is that exactly?"
"Because I picked a better one before you arrived."
I looked at him trying to derive some meaning from what he was saying.
"If you come over tonight, I'll show you how to make an amazing zucchini squash dish."
"Is this some sort of joke?" I couldn't tell if he was trying to make a really bad pick up or if perhaps he had just wandered away from his institution.
"It's not a joke. I need to practise, and I get tired of trying to rate my own food. Plus the professors like when we can turn in feedback pertaining to our outside work."
"Rate your own food?"
"Yeah. It's hard for me to judge my own dishes. I mean, I want to like them, because I made them. At the same time, I can pretty much always sit there and think of way I could have, would have, should have tweaked the recipe and pretty soon I convince myself that it was a terrible dish. My professors say this is not an uncommon phenomenon."
"Professors?" I was sort of feeling like a demented parrot.
"I'm going to a culinary arts school. I actually moved here just for that reason."
I understood what he was saying, and I was able to relate that I knew about our culinary arts school -- best in the nation -- but I kept up the parrot routine. "Just moved here?"
"Yep, maybe a month ago, if that."
"Wow." Sometimes I amaze myself with the degree of insight in my statements.
Printemps
Le printemps – une renaissance :
une fête des fleurs,
un mélange d’odeurs ;
la beauté en abondance.
Écoutez au rouge-gorge qui pépie,
son chanson, après le silence longue,
est sucré comme une mangue,
et il m’assoupie.
Les petites fleurs, vraiment précaires,
s’efforcent contre la neige,
le soleil aident et déneiges,
la nature extraordinaire.
Encore, la froideur des nuits,
nous couvrit comme un manteau,
mais cette saison d’amour nouveau,
elle brille, elle reluit.
15 septembre 2007
La Conduite
(this was for my French lit class - the easy one - if you can't read it but would like to, please do not internet translate it. Just leave a comment and I'll post an English version.)
Je conduis dans le noir,
des flaques d’illumination,
des lampes s’alignent dans la rue.
Au milieu, dans l’obscurité
je t’imagine dans le siège
à côté de moi.
Nous conduisons en silence.
Dans la lumière
mes fantaisies se brisent –
je sais que je suis seule.
Ici, il n’y a que la confusion,
mes pensées tourbillonnent, agitées.
J’allume la radio,
le son de la basse secoue la voiture.
J’ai des élancements dans la tête,
le rythme de la chanson.
Je frappe le bouton
et il n’y a que le son de la pluie.
J’essaie de me rappeler ton visage,
je t’imagine avec un air tendre
Mais, ma vision subit une mutation
tu souris d’un air narquois.
Ici, il n’y a que la confusion,
Mes pensées tourbillonnent, agitées.
Je n’ai pas prêté l’attention,
J’ai presque tombé de la rue.
C’était capiteux,
Et je suis distraite de mes pensées [de toi].
Si je plongeais de la route,
Pleurerais-tu pour moi ?
Tu rends-tu compte que
t'avais tort ?
Saurais-tu que
tu me hantes pendant cette conduite ?
Ici, il n’y a que la confusion,
Mes pensées tourbillonnent, agitées.
Je conduis dans le noir,
des flaques d’illumination,
des lampes s’alignent dans la rue.
Au milieu, dans l’obscurité
je t’imagine dans le siège
à côté de moi.
Nous conduisons en silence.
Dans la lumière
mes fantaisies se brisent –
je sais que je suis seule.
Ici, il n’y a que la confusion,
mes pensées tourbillonnent, agitées.
J’allume la radio,
le son de la basse secoue la voiture.
J’ai des élancements dans la tête,
le rythme de la chanson.
Je frappe le bouton
et il n’y a que le son de la pluie.
J’essaie de me rappeler ton visage,
je t’imagine avec un air tendre
Mais, ma vision subit une mutation
tu souris d’un air narquois.
Ici, il n’y a que la confusion,
Mes pensées tourbillonnent, agitées.
Je n’ai pas prêté l’attention,
J’ai presque tombé de la rue.
C’était capiteux,
Et je suis distraite de mes pensées [de toi].
Si je plongeais de la route,
Pleurerais-tu pour moi ?
Tu rends-tu compte que
t'avais tort ?
Saurais-tu que
tu me hantes pendant cette conduite ?
Ici, il n’y a que la confusion,
Mes pensées tourbillonnent, agitées.
07 septembre 2007
Another Poetry and (very short) Prose
(So, the prose is actually longer, it's about 3 paragraphs, but I don't know that I like what I added. That's how my prose always are... I never know where to go next. I'd really like to do something with this other story where I have the opening, and a few random scenes that would follow (but not in order) but I have no actual plot, nor any idea where I want it to go. So anyway, here are a few sentences of a prose, and then a really random "poem" that I wrote)
Bikes
They rode around the estate on their bikes -- he with his wide-tire road bike and she with her street bike and basket on the handlebars. Occasionally, he would detour towards a tree to pluck a blossom and throw it in her basket. She laughed every time.
Helter Skelter
Helter skelter
your words swirl around me.
They float away from each other,
losing meaning with distance.
I debate grasping at them,
but there are so many of them,
and it might be a bit obvious…
I focus on your face, instead,
and hope your features will stay put
better than your words.
Close my eyes,
I cannot recall the details of you --
two eyes, one nose, one mouth
that seems to speak sans cesse.
If only you would actually SAY something.
Bikes
They rode around the estate on their bikes -- he with his wide-tire road bike and she with her street bike and basket on the handlebars. Occasionally, he would detour towards a tree to pluck a blossom and throw it in her basket. She laughed every time.
Helter Skelter
Helter skelter
your words swirl around me.
They float away from each other,
losing meaning with distance.
I debate grasping at them,
but there are so many of them,
and it might be a bit obvious…
I focus on your face, instead,
and hope your features will stay put
better than your words.
Close my eyes,
I cannot recall the details of you --
two eyes, one nose, one mouth
that seems to speak sans cesse.
If only you would actually SAY something.
05 septembre 2007
Poetry and Prose in one posting!
(neither are exercises, I just wrote them, both are works in progress I think)
Grey Moods
Flat grey mists
crowd out the sun on my back
Manic depressive I thrive
on high highs and
the lowest lows
What to do with this in between…
this grey.
Tea at Her House
I failed a test once when I was in primary school. I remember walking home trying to figure out how I would tell my mother. I believe I said something to the effect of experiencing a need for revisionary practises. I thought it sounded pretty good, especially since I was six years old. But she saw right through me and I wasn't allowed any comics for two weeks. I was kind of feeling a similar apprehension as I walked up the steps to the house. As though I were about to be reviewed and found lacking -- failing. I rang the bell and could hear soft footsteps. She appeared in the doorway, her hair still damp, looking fresh in her sundress and no shoes. She smiled and opened the door to gesture me in. I wandered into the sun room and saw a pitcher of iced tea on the table.
"Please, sit, help yourself to a glass. I just need to put the fruit on a platter."
I sat and watched her move around the kitchen with a certain grace to her motions. She finally came back to the table with a platter of varying fruits.
"The mango and iced tea I think are a strange combination, but the strawberries seem to blend nicely with the taste."
"Mmm." I reached for a strawberry while she poured herself a glass of the tea. She sipped at it and watched me for a moment.
"So…"
"Yeah." I wanted to say something to help the conversation, but I never feel like I can quite get my brain together when I'm around her.
"I'm leaving tomorrow."
"Oh?" I chewed harder on my strawberry. Leaving?
"Yeah… for South America."
I began to choke. I'm pretty sure I swallowed strawberry into my lung. She sipped her tea and stared out the window.
Grey Moods
Flat grey mists
crowd out the sun on my back
Manic depressive I thrive
on high highs and
the lowest lows
What to do with this in between…
this grey.
Tea at Her House
I failed a test once when I was in primary school. I remember walking home trying to figure out how I would tell my mother. I believe I said something to the effect of experiencing a need for revisionary practises. I thought it sounded pretty good, especially since I was six years old. But she saw right through me and I wasn't allowed any comics for two weeks. I was kind of feeling a similar apprehension as I walked up the steps to the house. As though I were about to be reviewed and found lacking -- failing. I rang the bell and could hear soft footsteps. She appeared in the doorway, her hair still damp, looking fresh in her sundress and no shoes. She smiled and opened the door to gesture me in. I wandered into the sun room and saw a pitcher of iced tea on the table.
"Please, sit, help yourself to a glass. I just need to put the fruit on a platter."
I sat and watched her move around the kitchen with a certain grace to her motions. She finally came back to the table with a platter of varying fruits.
"The mango and iced tea I think are a strange combination, but the strawberries seem to blend nicely with the taste."
"Mmm." I reached for a strawberry while she poured herself a glass of the tea. She sipped at it and watched me for a moment.
"So…"
"Yeah." I wanted to say something to help the conversation, but I never feel like I can quite get my brain together when I'm around her.
"I'm leaving tomorrow."
"Oh?" I chewed harder on my strawberry. Leaving?
"Yeah… for South America."
I began to choke. I'm pretty sure I swallowed strawberry into my lung. She sipped her tea and stared out the window.
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