pieces of me
BY MAGGIE MILLIGAN
ONE
Who am I, really? The girl with excess baggage. Obsessed with perfecting her flawed handwriting. Proud of her looks. Sometimes.
My hair…some days, glossy locks that smell like beauty, cascading over my evenly spaced shoulders like a chocolate waterfall laced with maple syrup. Some days it seems to wrap itself around my slender musician’s fingers without my help. Tying the thin strands of my face-frame into those special knots I’d taught my self one day when I was bored. Over and through, keeping the loop, finally allowing the remnant tail to seal it. “Don’t cut your hair,” They would tell me. “Don’t dye it.” I like it how it is. Your hair looks nice.”
Funny how I used to want it to be blonde…long golden ripples like all the fairy-princesses in my stories...girls with freckle-less, even faces and water-blue eyes. Girls with pink, sugar-stained smiles and cheery, fragile voices. Like Mandy Moore.
And the Evil Ones. Dark. Pale. Who always wore purple. Usually harboring a wart or mole, depending on the age-level of her audience.
I told myself I was an Evil One. That I would remain ugly until I cleansed my outward appearance of darkness. Made my dark hair the color of sunshine. My dark eyes the color of sky-blue crayons. The countless number of attempts I made at trying to persuade my mother to let me become beautiful like the girls in my story books and video tapes…
“Please Mother; make me into a Barbie so I can be pretty, too.”
But then there were days when I told myself I could be tough like Astrid Magnussen. Annihilate years of careful work in hacking, sawing, tactless movements with the dull blade of a pocketknife. Make it as choppy, as edgy, as contemporary as possible. Dye it black. Not blonde.
Change my woodland eyes to ice blue. Like a Welsh princess. My skin like moist pine. Supple. Dotted with moles and beauty marks. Like Amelia Stickney…
TWO
My ice age.
My 6-year-old mentality had picked up skateboarding and had pulled a 180 complemented by an easy mute-grab. I wanted everything to be dark.
Florescent lights hurt my eyes. Turn off the sun, please. I take only candlelight and I prefer my clothes black, thankyouverymuch. Starbucks is the root of all evil. Maybe that’s why we like it so much. Borders, too. I prefer snowboarding to skiing. Never mind that I’m terrible at it. I’ll learn.
Stupid giggly blonde girls with their teen magazines and their pink make-up kits that they bought from Mary Kay, just like I have hidden away in drawers. No, I don’t believe in nail varnish. Posers. Sell-outs. Wannabes. My kind of music is best. How can you be so judgmental and say only yours is good? Mine is obviously better. Why? Because it is. I hate people who judge. Hypocrites. No, I take my coffee black, thank you. No cream and sugar for me. Never mind that I’m not drinking it.
I don’t care what people think. I am my own person. Independent. Individual. The rest of you make me sad.
…but what was it they said about me, again? In more detail this time, please.
THREE
Some days I close my eyes and imagine I smell like camping in Napa Valley. Majestic redwoods…the damp ground cloaked with forgotten leaves and moss the color of frogs. Thin and graceful. Intelligent-looking…
Like Catie Yost.
Taking in her elegant yet down-to-earth way of dressing…her eloquent tongue. The way everyone admired her…I felt awkward, lumbering, cumbersome...blemished. My 27-inch size 8 waist too driveling and immature to be allowed. Even though I’m already thinner than the average my-age girl. I have always wanted to be petite. Like European girls with thin, precise handwriting and breath that always smells fresh.
Never stale. Never cliché.
As often as I compare myself to others, more so, even, perhaps, I scold my thoughts for being so restless…unnerving like a haunting desert wind.
I will spend secret hours gazing into my own too-small eyes in the bathroom mirror. My highly trained gaze searching for imperfections at which to frown. My battle-field-modified-English nose with its forest of despicable blackheads and gentle upward curve.
My lips, which I like. Except for the thin layer of black hair on my upper-lip that no one but me notices. No, I do not pluck my eyebrows. Can’t you see that heinously conspicuous uni-brow glaring at you? The thousand extra chins rippling out from under my jawbone…can’t you see them? Haha, how funny I look.
FOUR
I used to think I was smart, like the people in my books. I wanted to believe that I was Stargirl. Or Cyd Charisse. But mostly Astrid. That I saw things differently…read peoples’ minds.
I used to think I could manipulate words. I am a good poet. I used to think. I can open my eyes and see the way most people can’t. But lately I feel more like Astrid…that all the words have been stolen and there are no more left for me.
FIVE
I have fantasies of hospital beds. “You have cancer,” I could hear them almost whispering…as though I were a delicate antique teacup that might shatter if they spoke too loud. “You have 3 months to live.” And then everyone would feel sorry for me. People would regret the mean things they’d said…wished they’d cared more while I was still healthy. They would bring me flowers and new age CD’s because they really were listening when I said that I liked that kind of music. They only pretended not to care. And how sorry they were that I was sick. A thousand men would visit my bedside, confessing their undying love for me, how they would die for me if they could…each more sincere than the last.
But I'm a Taurus. I'll leave Cancer to people born in June.
SIX
I’m the kind of girl who gets a natural high from shopping and delights in luxury. “But I’m not materialistic.” I constantly assure people before they can ask. The kind of girl who has a “signature brand” and a “signature scent.” Or least wishes she had one.
But I buy my clothes from thrift stores more often than not.
My real “luxury items” are bath and body products with soothing scents, relaxing colors, and seductive packaging.
First I was into ocean-inspired scents. Then musk. Then girlie floral. But none of them was really, “me.”
But part of the problem, I think, is that I don’t yet know who I am. “Yes, I’d like 12 ounces of Eau d’Apathy, please.”
I’m the kind of girl who arranges her bath products in the corners of her tub by color. Reds and pinks in the front left. Yellow and orange in the back right. Blue and green: front right. And purple? Back left, of course.
SEVEN
And then there were Jackie and Rhoda. Faint shadows of beauty and intelligence, but prominent, nonetheless. Funny as hell and extremely dedicated to their singing. Rhoda can hit a low C, but her bra size is bigger.
Jackie joked about her voice teacher and complained that she made her sing high when she wanted to sing low. She always had shiny red lips, and her black hair, turned out at the ends, was equally as glossy.
Their confidence kept people in check…intimidating some, mesmerizing others…And still others turned up their noses and sneered, calling them stuck up, bitchy. Whatever.
It was hard to imagine these girls walking the halls of that school.
And yet, they came each week. Sometimes alluding to people at school. Laughing at the dorky things they did. Acting tough, but mostly to make people laugh…
They were Rhoda and Jackie. Jackie and Rhoda, an interesting duo, to say the least.
EIGHT
When I was little, they were always driving dreams. Always my dad’s car. Always the highway. The key was to make it look like I knew what I was doing. The hitch-there was always a hitch-was that I’d left the e-brake on or didn’t know how to drive a standard. My palms moist with fresh perspiration, there was always a police car behind me. I felt drunk. Like I was playing one of those racing arcade games where there was no power steering it was too easy to just slip off the road.
Maybe some good stories don’t have a happy ending, I thought to myself as I cruised down I-25 going 90. Maybe some things in life come without a warranty. Without a honey-sweet moral. Maybe life really is an acid trip that lasted too long. My thoughts felt like tentative brush strokes bearing a loudly colored pigment. My tires barely skimming the dull pavement as I drove faster and faster, finally reaching 40 miles over the speed limit wondering how I could sweat so much with my fingers so icy.
My mouth tasted like copper and sour milk.
I was light-headed. Shaky. Dizzy, even though I promised my mother I wasn’t. I wondered how someone as weak and feeble as myself could be so hard and cruel. I depended on everyone else to get me through life, and yet I found myself choking on splintering waves of ingratitude and irritability.
Inside you’re ugly, just like the rest of the liars and hypocrites. You’re no different from those people you so despise. And I know I am not lying to myself. For once.
Rummaging through the filing cabinet in my mind I can find nothing worthwhile. All my thoughts sift through my fingers…thinner than the translucent power all the make-up addicts use to keep their painted façade in place. Reeking of a hackneyed cliché.
Mediocre, just like the rest of my life.
NINE
I must confess I am afraid that my life seems dull to observers: something best kept in the background. A sun-bleached blouse too faded to think of giving a second look. Who else do I know who can write so many words without truly saying anything at all?
I always use more words than everyone else. How is that my meaning cowers in comparison to a tear-soaked napkin?
When the desire to break free of this prison burns the hottest within my I find my muscles weaker, my health failing, and my spirit crushed liked trampled roses given by a sadly hopeful admirer, spat on by a spoiled bratty princess who cannot see past his overbite and bad skin.
Too often I find my shoulders surrendering to despair and slumping forward in that way I hate…too exhausted to find the perfect word with which to complete the phrase.
TEN
Weakling, I can hear the faceless voices sneering. You’ll never make it on your own. We own you.
The voices. Occasionally kind, but cruel more often than not. No, not cruel, just honest. I like it better that way. I’d rather be a scarred and corrupt body than a brainwashed ignorant fool.
They try to spoon-feed me their version of the truth. Their words smell like fish sticks…like a cold sweat that lingers all day and keeps you feeling drained and empty. Forcing you to become abandoned tea dregs left in a chipped mug by the already full sink. Leave your own thoughts behind to rot.
ELEVEN
I am more like my dog than my mother will ever realize. But she’s the psychologist around here; she should recognize this problem. Instead she just shakes her head at Flower and assumes that Ramón and I have spilt up.
You don’t know me at all, mother.
We are both prisoners, Flower and I. She craves the juices of the human body. Mucus from wadded-up tissues, blood from used tampons. If anyone in this house were sexually active I’m sure she would slurp up the semen in the condoms as well. She shreds the sheets of paper in the rubbish as a rabid cheese grater might.
But no one sees her do it. She is too careful, too crafty. She waits until we leave the house. Eventually boredom seizes her depressed, sleepy-eyed body and she returns, once more, to her scavenging ways.
We are both prisoners, Flower and I. Some days I wake up and desperately comb my mind for a reason-any reason-to get out of bed. Some days menacing visions of the cruel sneers escaping the lips of my classmates dominate my thought process and I wish I could fall asleep and wake up in a different reality. This one is too grotesque to be called real.
Some days I wake up and wonder if people will remember my name once I’m dead. If I’ll die of rabies, cold and alone in a ditch, like the author of my Bible. If, after a few years, someone will discover my rejected manuscripts and call them genius. Just like him.
That’s a nice thought.
TWELVE
Today I did not speak (with the exception of 3 or 4 slip-ups). When people asked why, I showed them a slip of paper that said this:
April 21, 2004 - Day of Silence
Please understand my reasons for not speaking today. I am participating in the Day of Silence, a national youth movement protesting the silence faced by lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people and their allies. My deliberate silence echoes that silence, which is caused by harassment, prejudice, and discrimination. I believe that ending the silence is the first step toward fighting these injustices. Think about the voices you are not hearing today.
What are you going to do to end the silence?
For someone who usually talks as much as I do, being silent for a day was a big deal. This cause is something I feel very strongly about, and it was interesting to see the different reactions I got from different people. Most were supportive. I got several thumbs up signs. But there were a few who didn't know how to respond. Like Mr. Ficke and most of the boys in my religion class.
Observing in silence trained me to pay closer attention to the things going on around me. Because I wasn't busy focusing on myself, I noticed things about other people I hadn't seen before: How long this or that person could hold eye contact before he or she became uncomfortable, nervous habits, the nature of smiles...
But perhaps the most glaring things I noticed were within myself.
Today I realized, as I struggled to communicate my thoughts with a pen and paper, how many meaningless phrases I run through each day, how many after thoughts I utter under my breath, how many coincidences I feel the need to point out...
Essentially, there are a lot of surplus ideas plucking at my vocal chords at any given time...I've come to realize how truly meaningless words can be.
THIRTEEN
There are two kinds of books at my church: hymnals and prayer books. The hymnals are blue and the prayer books are typically red, save one.
There is a prayer book on the rolling shelf in the sanctuary that is not red; it's black. When the members of our congregation file in, they make a stop by these books on this shelf. Each person takes one of each: a prayer book and a hymnal. And every Sunday, without fail, the eager churchgoers carefully avoid the black book. Even the other prayer books, the red ones, it seems, shy away from that single black book. Eventually, that menacing black prayer book begins to look mighty lonely on that shelf, all by itself. So every Sunday, without fail, I pick up this offending book and take it with me to my usual seat in the back. This book, with its conspicuous black cover, has been a good companion during the services over the last few weeks; it knows my hands well. Each Sunday I walk in expecting to find it sitting there, and each Sunday, there it is, expecting me to pluck it from its isolated spot among the red ones.
Every Sunday, that is, except for last Sunday. Easter Sunday. Instinctively, my brother picked it up before I walked in.
Maybe we're more alike than I thought, my brother and I. We stand out. Each of us has some quality that intimidates others and "sets us apart from the crowd." I only wish I'd spent more time with him growing up.
And furthermore, if Christopher and I have these quirky likenesses, I wonder if the same is true for Patrick and I...
Though, it may take me a while to find an answer to that question.
FOURTEEN
Let go. Just let me go. Right now I'm an amorphous nothingness. But that won't be forever. Just let me be. Let me change the way I will, whether people want to let me or not. Step back. I'm falling. Falling like Alice in through the looking glass. Falling falling falling and trying to grasp at something that's not there. Only nothingness. And more nothingness. Until my fingers finally grasp something solid but slip away because I'm falling so fast. I want to sit cross-legged like Sidartha in my fire place sipping java and expose my delicate, porcelain, un-tortured skin to hungry, angry, raging flames. And sit there unmoving laughing hysterically as my body is consumed by flame. And I will laugh and laugh and laugh until there is nothing left but black ash. Dull, dead, silent, black, like a crow. Floating, sailing, sleeping on top of the silent water like a docked sail boat on a calm day. Claimed by death's icy hands. And then they'll place my ashes in a jar. Porcelain, like my delicate, un-tortured skin once was. This jar will go into to the ground. Deep beneath the dark, damp soil, with only worms for company. But I won't mind. I won't mind because this is what I wanted. To leave my body. To finally find release. Achieve nirvana and moksha both. At the same time. To be everything and nothing all at once. To let go of earthly habits and restricting thought. That is what I wanted.
FIFTEEN
Setting aside all the clichés and disgustingly predictable storylines, I think fairytales have an important lesson to teach. Though I'm almost certain the strongest message is never the most obvious one.
Today I needed something. Though I didn't know what it was until I found it. I came home, slid on a princess-cut lavender top, and decided the cut of my shirt wasn't the only princess I needed to relate to. Still rather aimlessly, I wondered into the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea, eventually proceeding into the living room where I found what I was looking for.
Taking advantage of my most-welcome lack of homework, I made up my mind to settle into the big brown chair in front of the television and indulge in a DVD.
I picked The Princess Dairies.
This film always plucks a heartstring somewhere within me, evoking a greater number of tears each time I watch it--this being no exception to my rule. But on this particular occasion, I realized why such a sugary-sweet fairytale means so much to me.
The answer is simple: compassion. In this and a select few of the same sort, such as Drew Barrymore's Ever After, the audience is first presented with a genuine yet somewhat flawed protagonist. The next revelation in such films is society's general cruelty toward this person. The filmmakers thrust their heriones' pain and passion into the hearts of their audiences, affecting some more than others, but in most all situations affecting each viewer in some way. More often than not, drawing out a more sympathetic side than the viewer is accustomed to showing.
And then the screenwriters melt our softened hearts, like chocolate, with the overwhelming and tear-drawing waves of compassion. Spilling out of these characters that, at one point, seemed so ridged and stiff...to observe the transition from sullen to sweet is something truly phenomenal.
I usually consider myself a very materialistic person. Buying nice things makes me happy. Kyle used to love to take me shopping because it put me in such a good mood. But after sitting through this particular film on this particular occasion, I was overcome by a state of bliss that stimulated a feeling of contentment so whole, so complete, that not even the thought of the $122 I just spend ordering various items online could deepen; material objects really do lose their importance.
So I take a closer look at why exactly this film is able to touch me so, and something dawns on me. This frosted-sugar-cookie-sweetness makes me teary eyed because I am no longer my own sort of Matilda. I no longer envy the people in these stories whose lives seem so livable and enjoyable. I no longer covet the compassion that seems to drift toward everyone but me.
Why? Because somewhere along the way, I realized that my life is just as wonderful as the fairytale princesses', and so much more, too. I do have friends who care. I am loved. There is no questioning that. And it's the little things that keep this realization alive in me. When Ramón smiles from his soul outward and tells me I'm real...when I place a phone call and all of my present friends jump for the chance to get a word in without my having to even ask to speak to them...when someone I hardly know assures me that I matter with his eyes...
But even further, my life is better. It is beyond those of the fairy princesses' simply because it is not perfect. Real people have really lives and real problems. We all have our quirks (me probably more than anyone else). But what I failed to see, at first, is that it is our imperfections that make us beautiful. Without faults, each person would be indistinguishable from the next...identity would no longer exist, and the concept of beauty would inevitable crumble and become a meaningless void.
I have learned to embrace my imperfections. Cherish the fact that my life is as scarred and blemished as my own personality. I look not on my quirks as an ugly inkblot in the middle of a seamlessly penned page, but as the chance to explore something new. It is the journey of self-betterment that keeps me interested in living.
Without flaw, there would be no art.
A life without difficulty is gumbo made of just rice and water. It is the spices, the unexpected, which makes it flavorful. Half the beauty of Shakespeare is the struggle to understand his words. Try taking a different approach to life, choose the Road Not Taken, you may be pleasantly surprised.
SIXTEEN
Springtime. The season of Spring Fever. As well as hay fever. The latter being the constant in my life. This is the time of year coupling is most noticeable. And it is also the time of year when several single blog owners will take note of this and proclaim their loneliness.
But I am definitely not lonely. Nor am I single for that matter. And although I am quite content with the relationship I have right now, I realize that it has not been my style to publicize the way I feel. My blog isn't like Adam's. I don't go on and on for eternities about the extent of my love for Ramón.
But that doesn't mean I don't love him. I can't explain why I don't feel that gushing about my relationships in an online journal has never appealed to me. Perhaps it seems too impersonal. To public...
But then I'm not one known for writing about rapture. My best writing is inspired by despair...loneliness...cold...death. When I write about the blessings in my life I come off sounding disgustingly cliché. Warm, like fuzzy white rabbits and pink frosting on sugar cookies. And I babble on about the extent of my gratitude...
I'm allergic to rabbits. Mine was white. But he's dead now.
This used to bother me. I would worry that I was bitter, incapable of appreciating life's goodness to its full extreme...
But then something occurred to me: I am good with words, yes. Most of the time, I am very proud of the things I write. It's a gift. But I am also gifted in other just as expressive ways...I am a musician. When I understand a piece, it moves me like nothing else can. I feel music. I am music.
But when I play, I'm expressing ideas that the composer had first...not my own.
And then I remembered my other gift: relationships. I am good at relating to people, being close to them, helping them...and in that, no words are needed to describe the ecstasy. I feel it the way I feel music, but I express it from my own heart.
That's why I cannot use words to describe joy...I don't observe it. I don't experience it with words...I feel it. Like vibrations...
SEVENTEEN
The unmistakable sounds of militant gym teachers showing no mercy, the stale, tasteless air weighing heavily on my shoulders...
I forgot to put on real shoes. No. I didn't forget. I didn't have time. So I reached for the black thongs with plastic rhinestones. It was snowing outside.
You know it's bad when you have to write down every thought whose tide passes through your mind, for fear of losing it.
This nazi school has stamped out the last shards of creativity in all of us, forced our developing minds to conform. The harder I try to fight it, the more desperate I become...the need for freedom growing to a greater magnitude every second of every minute of ever hour of every day.
It's amazing how influential one person can be. Whether the manner is positive or negative, it doesn't matter. How a handful of sincere words from obscure lips can change everything. In some ways as significant as FDR and his New Deals...simple kindness that will keep me beaming all day. One glance. One smile. Just to know that some people do still care keeps me wanting to live.
And if nothing else, that matters.
EIGHTEEN
A dark and lurid alley...shadowed nighttime fog tinged with a poisonous looking blue...lingering cold that exhausts from the inside out...consumed by an ominous hush...
gradually, the shape of a sign-bearing nazi emerges from the abyss. The sign is in German: "verrätervorsicht.”
"Traitors beware." inside his cloak the uniformed man clasps a loaded revolver. As he moves silent and ghost-like through the streets another figure materializes out of the fog: a betrench-coated man donning a fradora shatters the apparitional obscurity with shouted English words, shrouded in an obvious American accent: "I will never surrender to the nazis! They are the traitors!"
A gunshot marks the beginning of a different sort of calm: more eerie and bizarre than even before. The American chap lay on the floor of the cobble-stoned alley clutching the leaking bullet wound in his stomach as his pursuer approaches...still soundless...still toxic...
the squirming man writhes on the floor like a wounded swan for a number of seconds before going limp...listless...like a used latex glove, laying forgotten a few feet away from the rubbish.
The attacker, standing over the dying man, massacres his prey, inflicting a violent tier of blows upon the American, extracting an agonized groan, barely audible, from the near-dead man's lips.
Minutes tick by. The anonymous adversary persists, relenting only when the man's lips, blacker than tar, protrude from a chalky white face. Deflated as if at one time they might have been a pair of swollen balloons.
The street is devoid of all life, save the killer. The accomplished assassin contents himself with rolling the bleeding, blackened corpse into the center of the street.
In a final motion of purpose, the unorthodox murderer drives the sake of his sign through the dead man's heart. And leaves him. A gruesome, daunting message at which passerby should take notice; a warning to all opposition...a silence, which would scream louder than the women who observed: "traitors, beware..."
NINETEEN
Let's have a vocabulary lesson.
Hyp´o · crite (--krit´) n. 1: a person who puts on a false appearance of value or religion 2: a person who acts in contradiction to his or her stated beliefs or feelings.
Thank you, Merriam-Webster.
Ok, so let me get up on my soapbox for a minute and talk to you about St. Michael's High School. We are a Catholic school. Some of our teachers are Brothers. We have mass fairly regularly. We wear uniforms. We pray before class. Choosing to accept these standards was our choice. We came into this environment willingly. Knowing that we would be expected to abide by the rules.
But what we did not agree to, however, was giving up our Constitutional rights as American citizens. The first 10 amendments of the Constitution are known as the Bill of Rights, a condition that several persistent Americans insisted upon including before the Constitution could be ratified. These rights include, but are not limited to, freedom of speech, freedom of press, and freedom of religion.
And yet, one of my fellow students was expelled from St. Mike's because of a picture to which the administration took offense. A drawing, mind you, for which the faculty had to search her backpack to prove it existed.
This same student was suspended for saying, "I wake up in the morning and wonder what I can wear that Dr. Greer will find appropriate."
Freedom of speech? Sound Vaguely familiar? I can't publish this article under my real name because I would be suspended, or even expelled, simply for exercising the right to express myself.
America was a country founded for the sake of freedom, liberty, and righteousness for its people. But today in this country, the "American dream" has become a lie. Especially, I have come to find, at St. Michael's High School. The thought of how many rights are being revoked from the students here makes me physically sick. I cannot say the Pledge of Allegiance without feeling guilty, so I opt not to.
We are living a lie.
The St. Mike's administration lives in fear. And our so-called "leader," it seems, is afraid of us. She stands there in the halls with her arms crossed glaring at us with a hyper-critical eye because she is afraid to talk to her own students.
Christianity preaches about compassion. Jesus was a role model who taught people about love. It seems to me that the Catholic Church has warped this message making "The Love of Jesus" an exclusive society that only baptized Catholics can take part in. Whatever happened to loving everyone?
What makes our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters any less human? We are all people. Jesus partied with the sinners. He may not have approved of the things they did, but he loved them anyway. That was his message. That is what Christianity should be about.
But it's all a lie. The Church has become corrupt. And this school, as a representative of Catholicism, is the epitome of that same judgmental exclusiveness.
What's more depressing are the alternatives. In Santa Fe, high school students have three options. To get a poor, but free, education, to be born into a wealthy family and attend a prestigious private school, or the Middle Way, which may prove to be the most uproarious. To succumb to unreasonable standards and a judgmental eye, while still receiving a good education.
If things at St. Mike's stay the way they are now, this school will become an anarchical mad-house...Our own Lord of the Flies within these windowless walls. Maybe I set my standards too high. What more could I expect from a school that throws its students out in the cold at 3:15 when they lock the doors? But of course, that's justifiable. Because heaven forbid we might actually have fun in the hallways after hours.
TWENTY
Little Johnny arrives at school one day and decides he wants a peanut butter sandwich. The more he thinks of eating this sandwich, the more anxious for the clock to strike noon and lunchtime to come. He can think of nothing else. Unable to bear the anticipation, Little Johnny rips open his lunch pale looking for the sandwich he craves. But alas, he is met with bologna.
Frustrated and unbelievably devastated at the inferior deli meat, Little Johnny sits down by the stairs and begins to cry. Various students walk by, tossing out insults like "cry baby!" or "mamma's boy!"
"All I wanted," he wailed, "was a peanut butter sandwich!" A moment later, Little Suzy, a classmate of Little Johnny, just happens to venture by and stops to see what the matter is with her friend.
"What's wrong?" she asks sweetly, sounding concerned.
"All I wanted was a peanut butter sandwich for lunch, and my mom gave me b-b-ba-balogna!" he sobbed.
Little Suzy smiled and said, "Here, you can have my peanut butter sandwich. I can go buy my lunch."
Little Johnny takes the sandwich from her petite hands, too shaken to utter a "thank you." As Little Suzy walks away, he carefully unwraps the sandwich to reveal peanut butter on whole wheat bread. Little Johnny's heart sinks. "I wanted white bread," he says to himself, "not this yucky whole wheat stuff." Disgusted, he crams the imposter sandwich into his little mouth and begins to chew with a forlorn look on his face.
Several minutes later, Little Johnny again begins to cry because he has no milk with which to wash down the all-wrong peanut butter sandwich. Eventually, Little Petey, Little Suzy's twin brother, walks by and offers Johnny his milk. Johnny takes it, again without saying thank you, and Little Petey walks away.
Little Johnny looks down at the label and is appalled to discover that the milk is skim, not whole.
At this point, poor, deprived, neglected Little Johnny feels so dejected that he cannot bring himself to drink the peon milk, and throws it across the hall, spattering the freshly-mopped titles with white liquid.
At the end of the day, Little Johnny walks home to eat dinner with his family, which, again, disappoints him. Meatloaf, yuck.
The next day at school, he noticed that Little Suzy and Little Petey are not there. Probably on vacation in Majorca dining on peanut butter sandwiches on whole wheat bread and skim milk, he thinks to himself.
But a few moments later, Johnny's teacher makes a grave announcement: "Unfortunately, children, Suzette and Peter Brown will not be with us in this class, or at this school any longer. It seems that Mr. Brown passed away last night and Mrs. Brown will have to send the children to live with their uncle in order to pay the bills. The children were given the last of the food for lunch yesterday."
Stunned, Little Johnny raises his hand. "Yes, Johnny?" his teacher asks.
"Miss Willow, if you don't mind my asking, what kind of food did they have?"
She sighed and answered, "All they had left was peanut butter on whole wheat bread and a few ounces of skim milk."
TWENTY-ONE
Have you ever found yourself wrapped up in a moment so delicious that every existing noun that you're thankful for pops into your head at once and you just can't wipe that smile from your face?
Every so often I find one of these said moments--or rather, they find me--and I am allowed a brief space of contentment with myself and with my life. I forget all the drama. All my problems.
I reach a point where I am actually able to escape my constant state of worrying and remember "all things bright and beautiful."
It's during times like these that I realize I do enjoy being alive. Very much.
And it's moments like this that make the worst of times worth it. A.chance.to.let.go. A chance...to relax.
A chance to smile…a chance to live.
TWENTY-TWO
The Christmas concert for the Youth Symphony was on December 14. It was a Sunday. That morning, before the performance, the choir had its final dress rehearsal. I arrived 5 minutes early so I would have time to stash my clarinets down stairs in the instrument room (the place where they're supposed to go). But when I went back to set up after the choral portion of the concert, they were not where I had left them. (Cue panic-mode). So of course I had to find them and make sure they were safe before I went to lunch. All of my friends left to go eat…I was too distracted to hear where. All, that is, except Nate. Ramón wasn't speaking to me. Nate stayed with me throughout the entire break instead of going home like he'd wanted to. "I didn't want you to have to be alone" he said. So we finally found my clarinets (someone had moved them onto the table surrounded by a bunch of other cases and music junk) and all was ok again. Well, almost. When Shoshie left to go eat shed taken my lunch and my money with her, so I had no way of eating unless I found her. It turns out they'd gone to the Burrito Company, but we never found them. Nate and I went to Starbucks instead. He bought me coffee and wouldn't let me pay him back. Then we went to Haagen-Dazs to sit down. We had a nice chat and I got to know a very interesting person a little better.
People don't usually do things like that for me, so I very much appreciated that Nate cared enough to stay with me. Of course I don't blame the rest of my friends for going off on their own. Not at all. But I was happy to have a friend stay with me.
TWENTY-THREE
Why did I give up dancing? Why? Toe shoes make feet look so graceful...so elegant…so…perfect…
Of course, the irony in toe shoes is the fact that they are masks for feet. Inside those delicate slippers is evidence of hard work. Each dancer must endure pain to produce the beauty behind the dance… Each dancer has a pair of blistered, bloody, ugly feet that hind behind masks of poised satin…
TWENTY-FOUR
I guess you could say Donnie Darko made me think. I mean, I've always been curious about life and death and all of the theories behind them, but this movie took me further outside of my isolating humanity-box and led to the formation of even more questions. I reconsidered things I'd just taken for granted as fact before. For example: "This world exists." Well, sure, this world exists, we're all here and we can see ourselves. But wait, what if we exist in a negative dimension? What I mean is, what if all positive charges in our plane of existence are just negative charges that are positive to us because our perception?
And furthermore, what if Dr. Seuss was right? What if the reason we haven't discovered intelligent life elsewhere is because we are looking for answers, not in the wrong places, but in the wrong way? In Horton Hears a Who, an elephant named Horton hears a cry for help from a tiny dust speck, eventually discovering a whole tiny world of Whos. Even though the other animals in the jungle think he's crazy, over and over again Horton says, "a person is a person, no matter how small." Now of course, the term "person," in Horton's case refers not only to human beings (of which there are none in Dr. Seuss's tales), but also to every form of "intelligent life."
Ok, so now let's consider, what is "intelligent life?" Well, as with all ideas, that is a matter of opinion on which many would disagree. When scientists search for "intelligent life" on other planets, they set their views and their experiments hoping to find human-like creatures. But here's something those scientists haven't thought of. Intelligent life, as we know it, possesses only 5 senses. What if other forms of life are undetectable to us because they have different senses? I think, in this case, Vicky Austin's little brother Rob asks the question most eloquently in Disney's video version of A Ring of Endless Light:
"Do you think there could be a planet somewhere where nobody has any eyes? Well, if nobody had any eyes, they'd get along alright without them, wouldn't they? But they wouldn't know what anything looked like...When the people on the planet with no eyes die, [maybe they] turn to planets where there are eyes. So maybe when we die, we'll get something new too--something as important as being able to see. But since we don't know what it is, nobody could tell us about it now anymore than we could explain seeing to the people on the planet with no eyes."
People today so easily assume that if we can't see or hear or smell or taste or touch something, it doesn't exist. Ok, so consider this. Everything is relative. By our definition, something may not exist because our senses can't detect it, and we may not "exist" to that same thing because its senses can't detect us. But consider objects or ideas of faith. We can't see, hear, smell, taste, or touch God, but doesn't that mean God doesn't exist? Some would say yes, some would say no.
So my proposition is as follows...
Different beings exist on different planes of existence, and can only detect other objects on that same plane. But think about it mathematically. Just because two points in the same plane can only be connected a line in that same plane, doesn't mean other planes can't exist. Subsequently, the human perception must become "coplanar" before we can begin to comprehend and detect this so-called "intelligent life" we seek.
I'm not saying that our world and everything we know and love do not exist, I'm merely suggesting that our plane of existence may be a dimension that is as incomprehensible to other "beings" on other planes of existence as theirs may be to us.
TWENTY-FIVE
So here I sit. Here I sit with static-y hair and a stomachache listening to the Asian Dance in the Nutcracker. That piece is my only regret for quitting dance. I will never get to dance to Tchaikovsky masterpiece. But then I remember that dancing is only half of a ballet. I didn't quit music. I still play clarinet. Maybe someday I'll be in an orchestra that plays for the dancers. And that will make me happy.
But I still wish I could have danced.
Every year when we play that CD my feet won't hold still. I leap about the house like a fool who thinks she knows what she's doing. I suppose with the Nutcracker I have to feel the music to listen to it, and I do that by dancing.
A funny story...I was sitting at the keyboard in church today as everyone was gathered outside of the sanctuary enjoying their coffee hour, stuffing their faces with cream puffs and cheese, and I began to play Christmas music. It was appropriate, sure, but it felt so mechanical...I couldn't get any of the chords to sound the way I wanted them to. So I moved on to a circus march, laughing as I played. Eventually, after playing with the various instrumental sounds of that keyboard, deciding the organ was the most fun, I pushed the piano button and struck a jazz chord. Now, I'm not much of piano player to begin with, and jazz is something I have even less experience with on piano. But the chord came out all the same. Intrigued, I turned that chord into a jazzed-up version of “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” (mellow jazz, of course). As I struggled with the chords, the clouds covered the sun and I thought to myself, “it will rain.” Moving on to an improvised experimental bit of jazz, I remembered why it was that jazz had always been so soothing to me. I remembered how glad I was when Nate played for me after rehearsal that Tuesday. I remembered the poem entitled “Jazz Piano” that I had written last year. I remembered my speech presentation on jazz and how I made everyone interested in something that represented me, even if just for 10 minutes.
I remembered that it was the holidays.
And I realized for the first time, that I had no cause for worry anymore. I mean, sure, I’m worried about Jan, and I’m worried about getting into college, but for really the first time all year, I realized that I wasn’t neglecting to do something important.
I realized this and I smiled. I smiled because for the first time in several weeks I could truly call myself happy.
TWENTY-SIX
Somewhere between standing naked in the August rain and my parents' "whisper whisper" about how I should be better I began to comprehend the value of independent thinking. I hate it when people stare at me like I'm Hannibal Lector when they question my sanity. I hate it that tragic and morbid writings are considered taboo. Somewhere between doing laundry for the first time and getting shrieked at by my mother for "not driving right" I began to realize that I am not a child anymore. Then why do I feel so small, so clumsily UN-adult? Everyday is a game. I'm not good at most games, why should this be any different? Why do haunting, menacing, sneering faces stalk me incessantly? Each person is painted like a porcelain doll, afraid to show his or her true self...hiding behind a glass mask. Why do my superiors treat me like an incompetent fool? Is it selfish to revel in being adored? As much as I try not to base my actions on society's model, as much as I tell myself other people don't matter, the human race is corrupt, I realize that I love to make people happy. Still, I do not conform to what is expected of me. I will be who I am and no one can rob me of that privilege. Sure, morbidity makes me happy? So what? I'm still a happy person. Leave me to wallow in my stale solitude. The human voice is an umbrage when undesired. Petulant as an 8-year-old...the unglamorous age. Don't try to make me Lauren Shipman. Don't try to make me Emily Pepin. I'm just me.
.............................................................................
QUOTES
…I should measure my life out in coffee spoons.
…
Sally is the girl with eyes like Egypt and nylons the color of smoke. The boys at school think she's beautiful because her hair is shiny black like raven feathers and when she laughs, she flicks her hair back like a satin shawl over her shoulders and laughs...I like your black coat and those shoes you wear, where did you get them? My mother says to wear black so young is dangerous, but I want to buy shoes just like yours, like your black ones made out of suede. Just like those.
…
I have to go pick the raisins out of my Raisin Bran!
…
There's no need for justice when there's gum on my f*ing knee!
…
Let the rain fall down
And wake my dreams
Let it wash away
My sanity
‘Cause I wanna feel the thunder
I wanna scream
Let the rain fall down...
…
What happen?
--Someone set us up the bomb.
Hello, gentlemen. All your base are belong to us.
…
Loneliness is the human condition. So get used to it.
…
Just play it cool boy…
…
What kind of girl is afraid of the light?...
One who is afraid of facing the truth.
…
I wanna soak up the sun, I wanna tell everyone to lighten up...
POETRY…
On Model UN
Traveling in circles
Never reaching the top
Everything looks the same
Beige marble and brass letters
And the constant oppressive heat
Zippers cutting into my forearm
Waves of confusion and anxiety
Make my head float
But my body is held down
by gravity
For once in my life
I'd rather be alone
But the anesthetic murmur
Of people by the hundred
Surrounds me
like a mosquito
Cold
Seeping in like adamant poisonous gasses
with a single lethal purpose
cold consumes my senses
like ten thousand hideously cackling demons
attacking my body
with points of varying sharpness
The lonely sound of a solitary blatant note
piercing the silence like a cruel, swift spear
A lingering dampness
that never dries
Too exhausted
even to tremble, I am left with no choice
but to surrender
Cloud Without Rain
Outside
The starless sky
Is grey as my charcoal heart.
One night I prayed
And asked for rain
Instead a cruel and empty wind
Enveloped my world.
Like an argument that never ends
My thoughts race and collide
Like rabid freight trains.
Some days I wonder
Why my body fails to crumble
And materialize into slipp’ry grey ash;
My heart is halfway there already.
When even pointlessness becomes pointless,
And the sun makes me said,
The wind is my purgatory.
I am not deaf.
Even so, I listen to music with vibrations.
But it is not music
That makes my body tremble.
Maybe I’m not meant to understand.
Desolate and undefined,
My emotions are not the seven dwarves
But rather seven silent screams.
I am a schizophrenic mime;
My prison: my own body
And my purpose yet unknown;
A cloud without rain.
When it becomes a struggle
To find a meaning in anything
And I welcome pain
Because it gives me something to feel.
What happened to the passion I once had?
My heart’s fire had dwindled
And my once deft mind
Has become defunct.
Light me a match
Or stomp the languid embers;
The dim glowing coals
Suffocate me like molasses.
I am a cloud without rain.
Untitled
Glistening scarlet liquid
Like pomegranate juice
Sliding down my face
Staining the white curtain.
A shrieking silence
Deafens the night.
Like an old black and white film:
Unheard cries
Of burning ecstasy.
...Innocence dripping away
Like candle wax
Suffocating the weak flame.
Let it rain down daggers
Spatter the ground with blood
Oozing over chipped pavement
Enveloping life.
No Words
My thoughts are like half-buried shards of glass
Laying forgotten in the frigid desert
My only comfort: the lonely barren wind...
It's mournful howl.
The promise of a thousand identical tomorrows
Each emptier than the last.
Dream-beings sift through my reality
Like oat flour
Whilst reality threatens to haunt my dreams...
A menacing hypocrisy.
Trading a lie for the truth
When the only constant
Is dishonesty.
The sky around us begins to wilt
Arid and parched.
Dead.
Plastic-looking ash
Jutting out boldly against the blur of needles.
Erupting from the frozen earth;
Arteries,
The branches liked tangled veins
Struggling to grasp at the hollow air.
"title goes here"
When my most original thoughts
Come from someone else’s head
I know it must be time
To pick up another pencil
Open my tired eyes
One more time
Find a clean page in this tattered legal pad
And write more poetry
That sounds like prose
Today I dressed like a doll.
“A child’s play-thing.”
Shrouded in a red cardigan,
Once belonging to now dead grandmother,
And a matching satin ribbon
For my hair.
And the shoes…
Those dollhouse shoes,
Concluded with white socks
I can almost hear that plastic sound within my eyelashes
With each passing blink
Mocking my hypocrisy
And yet I remain proud
Somehow
How easily I can fill countless pages with words
But when will they mean something?
Not enough words left to describe
The way the sun’s light peals through those leaves
Like lace…
The forest within my tired mind…
Janet Finch loved to say
Dappled
But surely
I must have saved an ounce of originality
Somewhere
Untitled
I want to wear
the color purple
Humming
to the light of a
l
o
n
e
l
y
candle
Bathe me in lavender milk
Supple fingers
Infinitely smoother than
paper
t
o
o
h
o
t
No more clothes
to cast off
Even daffodil radiance
has
f
a
d
d
e
d
Hair plagued with fatigue
d
r
i
p
p
i
n
g
bleak
despair
A Captured Moment
A solitary girl.
Red dress, red shoes.
A worn park bench
Beneath a friendly oak.
Tranquil thoughts,
Far away dreams;
A lone balloon.
A captured moment
Day to Day
Day to day,
New knowledge is acquired,
New wisdom gained.
Day to day,
I learn life's lessons,
And go through new experiences.
Day to day,
I meet new people,
Take in new faces.
Day to day,
I appreciate all that I have,
And carry on,
With a smile.
Epiphany
Let the day be my sanity
And the night my epiphany.
Consumed by a wave of dazzling darkness,
Understanding filters through me;
Wisdom is gained.
Statues made of fresh marble
Seem to smile
As footprints of passersby
Are laid down
Surrounding their stationary world.
You are never alone
And yet, at the same time,
You are always alone.
Each person aware of themselves
And still so unaware.
First smile. Then cry. Now remember.
Remember that day
One year ago.
The day the world ended
And came together all at once.
Two towers fell;
One right after the other.
Two friends
Crumbled from the spite
Of mad-men.
Today, United we stand
With faith in one other
Believing in our one nation
Under GOD;
Indivisible…Indestructible.
We, ourselves, are only human
But hate never solved a crisis.
Find it within yourself
To forgive
And to stand by your neighbor.
Today tell someone you love them.
Go out of your way
To make another smile,
Because in truth
We are all one.
First smile. Then cry. Now remember.
Remember today
One year
From the day the world ended
And came together all at once.
Peace be with you all,
I love you so very much.
Expression
A thousand flames of
Glowing blue candles
Laugh like beaming children
And kindle my smile.
More joyous am I
Than the expanse of sky
On a cloudless day.
Thunderclouds will be my camera
And project your image
Into a star-scattered sky.
Surrounded by oak trees
That whisper your name,
I cannot forget
All that may have been.
I’ll tell you a story
Of a dream had long ago.
A shattered memory
With fragile pieces remaining still.
A girl I once knew,
Searching for adventure,
Stumbled across a cemetery
Embracing her past;
Long dead.
But remember, she did,
Each tear shed,
Each word spoken,
Each person loved.
As she sat there reminiscing,
New wisdom dawned,
And fresh strength was born.
Gathering her history,
Head held high,
That girl I once knew marched forth
Into her future
Carrying with her
All that she had known and loved
Before,
Now,
And ever after.
Indescribable
Trying to describe
The indescribable truth.
My own security becomes a prison.
The silence, once comforting
Is suffocating me slowly.
My shelter crumbles
And I find myself alone.
But events go by
The past is meshed together
To form a tapestry of memories.
I look upon it amorously;
Remembering every second,
Savoring every spoken word,
And regretting those unspoken.
But I smile and move on.
The future lays before me,
Options swim through my mind.
But still
My focus lays in the present
Where more fond memories can be made
To cherish.
Joy Is
The way each star is unique
Yet vastly innumerable.
The way daisies seem to smile
As lovers pass them by.
The way fresh ribbon curls
When a gift is lovingly wrapped.
The way a daughter loves her mother.
The way dolphins leap
From their souls into the sky.
The way you can laugh
And cry at the same time.
The way the earth smells
After a good, soaking rain.
The way a sapphire flickers majestically
Amongst a sea of diamonds.
The way a good friend
Can change your life forever.
The way the sun
Embraces the moon each day.
But above all things,
Joy is.
Lost Originality
When my most original thoughts
Come from someone else’s head
I know it must be time
To pick up another pencil
Open my tired eyes
One more time
Find a clean page in this tattered legal pad
And write more poetry
That sounds like prose
Today I dressed like a doll.
"A child’s play-thing."
Shrouded in a red cardigan,
Once belonging to now dead grandmother,
And a matching satin ribbon
For my hair.
And the shoes…
Those dollhouse shoes,
Concluded with white socks
I can almost hear that plastic sound within my eyelashes
With each passing blink
Mocking my hypocrisy
And yet I remain proud
Somehow
How easily I can fill countless pages with words
But when will they mean something?
Not enough words left to describe
The way the sun’s light peals through those leaves
Like lace…
The forest within my tired mind…
Janet Finch loved to say
Dappled
But surely
I must have saved an ounce of originality
Somewhere
Pain
The lights have gone out.
The door was slammed shut.
I am left here
Alone
In the cold.
A rotting corpse
With a crushed spirit.
A thousand knives pierce my flesh
But the pain is numbed
By that which strangles my heart.
A melancholy, lonely wind
Extinguishes candles of hope.
Their merry flames
Cease to dance.
Laughing faces turn to stone.
The world is desolate and grey.
And it is cold
So cold...
Once upon a time
You melted my heart
But it is now frozen and black.
The slips behind the horizon
And you are lost.
Au revoir, mon ami... Je t'aime.
Serenity
"Ah, listen"
Whispers the wind.
Hot sticky wax drips
Off the lip of the candle
Just as the drizzling rain
Gathers in glistening pools.
The aged drooping house
Heaves a somber sigh
As the storm seethes without.
Tired trees scratching at the walls
Sound like sluggish mice.
"Ah, listen"
Whispers the wind.
Monotonous incessant ticking
Of the kitchen clock
Feels as out of place
As a politician at a music store.
The rain against the glass
Falls in to rhythm
With the refrigerator’s hum.
Lazy and without ambition,
The cat purrs like a meager waterfall.
"Ah, listen"
Whispers the wind
"This is true serenity."
Summer
A rhythm like a pirate’s tune;
Voice that whispers ocean waves.
Soft white curtains blown by smoky winds
Console in mysterious ways.
Telling hidden secrets
Of those who pass
Day after day.
Like a hound dog’s sorrowful song
The robin guards her nest
In a melancholy fashion.
The smell of tomato leaves graces the air.
Faded memories dance
Through my ever-wondering mind.
And heartbeat is lighter.
Smile.
Complications melt
Into a blissful simplicity.
The 8 Days Of Hanukkah
On the (1st-8th)
day of Hanukkah
my mommy gave
to me:
A brand new Brittany Spears CD
Pairs of shoes
Sweater vests
Curling irons
Golden earrings
Barbies® swimming
Care Bears® dancing
Dirty dancers
The Bride's Smile
It was New Years Eve;
I was cold.
The wedding was beautiful;
The reception was exceptional.
But in the midst of laughter and joy
I was alone.
It was New Years Eve;
I was cold.
Athi said she liked the people;
My father liked them too.
I was the photographer's assistant: set apart.
It was New Year's Eve;
I was cold.
But then the bride turned,
Her gaze fixed on me.
She winked.
And then she smiled.
My spirits brightened;
Prospects changed.
I was no longer alone.
But I was set apart,
Humility slapping me in the face.
Trying to be inconspicuous,
To be invisible, and out of the way.
Ignored.
It was New Years Eve;
I was cold.
I said goodnight to Athi,
And returned home
Again.
And here I sit
With a smile on my face.
It is New Years Day;
I am not cold
Anymore.
The Complex Simplicity of Life
Extracted from the womb,
Curious and Feeble.
The first breath:
The intake of life.
Childhood.
One learns to share
In this expansive, exciting new world.
The teen era.
Innocence is lost.
One is slowly molded by society.
Superficiality dominates.
Foolishness is abundant
As eager young minds
Sculpted by an unstable society
Morph into ignorant adults.
As one reaches this point
In life
All hope is lost.
Unless you remember
That you have to designate your own path,
Dare to dream your own dreams,
Be brave be bold;
Be indifferent to all else.
And never forget how
To smile,
To laugh,
To marvel at the complex simplicity of life.
As you wither away in old age
Glance back at your childhood,
Good times forgotten,
And remember these words:
You were unique.
You broke the grotesque cycle
That so many souls have suffered in.
You dared to be different
And you have won this battle called life
By being yourself.
You may now leave this world in peace.
Go forth unto heaven and be free.
Unity
Like a song drawn from the depth of thine eyes
Gentle-strung words doth settle my soul.
Unblemished beauties from wells within linger still.
Forbidden fruit of virtue thou dost keep well hidden
Hangs atop the canopy of forests unbeguiled.
Ponder not thy hesitance and be but thyself.
Be not ordered as a doll on gilded sheets;
Abideth by thine own rule.
‘Tis thyself my heart yearns for with unyielding adoration,
Not a puppet strung by stings of another Lordship.
Blossoming azaleas compliment thine image
And whisper secrets th’ stars reveal by night.
Slender fingers of fate intertwine with joy in th’ moon’s serenade.
Shimmering feathers of hope dance upon th’ fragrant winds of spring
While a gossiping brook be th’ deliverer to twittering birds.
In faraway lands whence child-like daisies laugh,
Nigh, yet desolate as haunting abyss.
Haply th’ o’ergrown foot of a tree wilst unveil truths untold.
O dawning revelation! State thy purpose!
Why dost thou taunt me with promises ne’ermore?
This heaven on Earth, pierced by lightening of hate,
Torn by the cause of death, do lovers part
And settle into infinite years of loneliness and want.
One longs for the other
Then joined again, merry again, through tragedy of death;
Find bliss in unity once more.
Untitled
In my mind there is a place
I think of all the time:
A worn and aged library
With books on reason and rhyme.
And in each corner
There is a chair
Each holding stories kept
Of people who have danced and laughed,
And even some who wept.
Books on topic this or that,
Great mysteries and fables.
Books on treasure and tabby cats,
On queens and gentlemen, able.
But the ones I find
I like the best
Are all of the above,
My favorite books are poetry,
And that is what I love.
I read and write this poetry,
Of that you can be sure,
All I need is my library
To be a sufficient cure.
But it’s a place I’ve never been,
Not physically anyway,
But that library belongs to me,
So, when found, I’ll be sure to stay.
Verses for a nameless girl
I.
Whisp'ring champagne hair:
Gushing springtime waterfall
Spilling over her back.
II.
Startling blue-green eyes
Slice through my soul of fine cheese
More intense than a gunshot.
III.
Clever lips like Venus
Always and never smiling.
Smooth. Like a pancake.
IV.
High and resilient,
Pronounced cheekbones cradle smiles;
Hills, which direct tears.
The Ultimate Song List
1.) Fallen For the First Time .......... Barenaked Ladies
2.) All-Star .......... Smash Mouth
3.) Wonderful .......... Everclear
4.) Wherever You Will Go .......... The Calling
5.) Jezebel .......... Cheryl Wright
6.) Everywhere .......... Michelle Branch
7.) The Shape Of My Heart ........... BSB
8.) A Thousand Miles .......... Vanessa Carlton
9.) Come Away With Me .......... Norah Jones
10.) Bent .......... Matchbox 20
11.) The Holiness .......... Mars Lasar
12.) 18 Wheeler.......... Pink
13. The Distance .......... Cake
14.) Crash Into Me .......... DMB
15.) Grace is Gone .......... DMB
16.) Sympathy .......... Goo Goo Dolls
17.) Lithium .......... Nirvana
18.) Come What May .......... Moulin Rouge
19.) Kiss Me .......... Sixpence None The Richer
20.) One Day I'll Fly Away .......... Nicole Kidman
21.) Meet Me In The Red Room .......... Amiel
22.) One Girl Revolution .......... Superchick
23.) The First Cut is the Deepest .......... Sheryl Crowe
24.) Black Balloon .......... Goo Goo Dolls
25.) Brain Stew .......... Green Day
26.) 2nd Movement from "Concierto de Aranjuez fÜr Gitarre und Orchester" .......... Joaquin Rodrigo
27.) Waltz in the 4th Dimension .......... From "Donnie Darko"
28.) It Don't Mean a Thing (If it Ain't Got That Swing) .......... Duke Ellington
29.) Slave 4 U .......... Britney Spears
30.) One .......... Metallica
31.) Angel of Music from Phantom of the Opera .......... Andrew Lloyd Webber
32.) This Kiss .......... Faith Hill
33.) Screaming Infidelities .......... Dashboard Confessional
34.) The Way You Look Tonight.......... Frank Sinatra
35.) Down in the River to Pray .......... Alison Krauss
36.) L-O-V-E .......... Nat King Cole
37.) Down With Love .......... From "Down With Love"
38.) Anthem .......... Good Charlotte
39.) Super Hero Girl .......... Eve6
40.) Boadicea .......... Enya
41.) Why Don't You Get a Job .......... The Offspring
42.) Fly .......... Sugar Ray
43.) Zoot Suit Riot .......... The Cherry-Poppin Daddies
44.) Wannabe .......... Spice Girls
45.) Chop Suey! .......... System of a Down
46.) Lose Yourself .......... Eminem
47.) Flagpole Sitta .......... Harvey Danger
48.) One Week .......... Barenaked Ladies
49.) Like Father Like Son .......... Chris Thomas King
50.) Schism .......... Tool
51.) Aerials .......... System of a Down
52.) Pink Panther theme song .......... from the Pink Panther
53.) Concerning Hobbits .......... from "Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring"
54.) Penny Lane .......... The Beatles
55.) Material Girl .......... Madonna
56.) Devil Went Down to Georgia .......... Charlie Daniels Band
57.) 3 A.M. .......... Matchbox 20
58.) Fly Me to the Moon .......... Astrud Gilberto
59.) Come Clean .......... Hilary Duff
60.) And All That Jazz .......... From Chicago
61.). Bigger Than My Body .......... John Mayer
62.) Mmmbop .......... Hanson
63.) Bridges .......... Dispatch
64.) Girls Just Wanna Have Fun .......... Leslie Gore
65.) Sickness .......... Disturbed
66. The Wrong Way .......... Sublime
67.) Feeling This .......... Blink 182
68.) Smooth Criminal .......... Alien Ant Farm
69.) The Bad Touch .......... The Bloodhound Gang
71.) Never Let You Go .......... Third Eye Blind
72.) You and I Both .......... Jason Mraz
73.) Behind Blue Eyes .......... The Who
74.) Why Can't I .......... Liz Phair
75.) Without Me .......... Eminem
76.) Elias .......... Dispatch
77.) Something's Missing .......... John Mayer
78.) Breathe .......... Melissa Etheridge
79.) Summer Girls .......... LFO
80.) Smells Like Teen Spirit .......... Nirvana
81.) Hellagood .......... No Doubt
82.) Mad World .......... from "Donnie Darko"
83.) You're a God .......... Matchbox 20
84.) Voodoo .......... Godsmack
85.) Blurry ..........Puddle of Mudd
86.) Stupid Girl .......... Cold
87.) Toxic .......... Britney Spears
88.) Milkshake .......... Kelis
89.) Get Busy .......... Sean-Paul
90.) Brass Monkey .......... Beastie Boys
91.) Loser .......... Beck
92.) Just a Girl .......... No Doubt
93.) Buddy Holly .......... Weezer
94.) Girls .......... Beastie Boys
95.) U Can't Touch This .......... MC Hammer
96.) Too Sexy .......... Right Said Fred
98.) Acoustic #3 .......... The Goo Goo Dolls
99.) Favorite Mistake .......... Sheryl Crowe
100.) The Middle .......... Jimmy Eat World
101.) I Turn to You .......... Christina Aguilera
102.) "Friends" theme song
103.) Angel of Mine .......... Monika
104.) Nugget .......... Cake
105.) Hashpipe .......... Weezer
106.) My World .......... Avril Lavigne
107.) Hello Hello .......... Sugarbomb
108.) Extra Ordinary .......... Better Than Ezra
109.) Good .......... Better Than Ezra
110.) Ocean Avenue .......... Yellowcard
111.) White Lights .......... Rufio
112.) Hey Hey .......... Dispatch
113.) The Real Slim Shady ......... Eminem
114.) Blue .......... Eiffel 65
115.) The Saddest Song .......... The Ataris
116.) Megalomaniac .......... Incubus
117.) Babylon .......... David Gray
118.) Last Resort .......... Papa Roach
119.) Summertime .......... George Gershwin
120.) Rhapsody in Blue .......... George Gershwin
121.) Everything (acoustic version) .......... Stereo Fuse
122.) Our lives .......... The Calling
123.) Breakfast at Tiffany’s .......... Deep Blue Something
124.) Picture .......... Kid Rock and Sheryl Crowe
125.) Clocks .......... Coldplay
126.) Sunrise .......... Norah Jones
127.) Life Styles of the Rich and Famous .......... Good Charlotte
128.) Calling All Angels .......... Train
129.) 100 Years .......... Five for Fighting
130.) Extraordinary .......... Liz Phair
131.) Closing Time .......... Semisonic
132.) Torn .......... Natalie Imbruglia
133.) Everything .......... Fefe Dobson
134.) This Love .......... Maroon 5
135.) Harder to Breathe .......... Maroon 5
136.) Angel .......... Sarah McLachlan
Every blog title I have ever used
· Because sometimes silence sreams loudest
· This post is a rant.
· The Offbeats
· Banana's in Pajamas are chasing teddy bears
· From Tiffany's Live Journal
· I hate Picasso
· Nine
· Spare me
· Complexities
· *Grumble grumble*
· I am Cake-Maker
· A thought
· Things that make me sad
· Average-everyday sane psycho
· Hidden Message
· Pineapple Juice
· Gershwin and sea salt
· Heavy
· It's like an ocean, but smaller...and with lots of Mormons
· Damn it, I can't see through my milkshake
· Consider a world where there are no secrets
· Eau de Moi
· ...and thus ends my posting binge.
· --Because you saw me when I was invisible.
· Response to Quinn's blog
· I don't know, I lost the little hand
· I like Orbit gum
· Moi, je suis "blah"
· She should have died hereafter...I am Jasmine
· Fragments
· A word from our sponsors...or the Goo Goo Dolls
· A piece of the past
· Today I am enjoying the sunshine
· title goes here
· Hair
· Un coup d'oeil
· Driven
· I don't fool anyone--I'm too transparent.
· Feeling Abandoned
· New poll (of sorts)
· Meow
· Smile, you've got Frenches! (or at least a new post to read...)
· So I lied.
· A Brief Announcement
· Let's Misbehave
· Why Put the Brakes On?
· My Fingers Are Cold
· No Words
· When Even in Dreams You Are Not Safe
· I Know a Place Where No One's Lost
· Blood and Time
· Watching White Oleander should be on everyone's to-do list
· Does This Have to be Reality?
· Because I'm not pathetic enough already
· Been living long?
· From Talented to Totally Worthless: The MJ story
· Wrap the Moon in Cellophane
· ABCD Chicken Noodle Soup
· Cold Fire
· Fragments of worries...pieces of ideas
· P.S., Happy Groundhog Day.
· Sick, Ill, Ailing...
· I'm washing dishes at you!
· Distraught
· Cannibal Convicted of Manslaughter in Grim Trial
· Because some people are assholes by nature
· Missing Summer
· Because some things are cool without explanation
· A word...or several...
· Oops. Sorry. I left the sour cream in the sink.
· ...one of those moments when everything is so clear...
· My Deepest, Darkest, Most Secretest Secret
· Filling in the Gaps
· Listen to 3 A.M. and Think of Me...Note-Worthy Suggestions for Living...
· Commenting for Dummies
· To the one who noticed me when no one else cared:
· Just a Note
· Suffocating
· Life is Like a Key Lime Pie. Wait, No it Isn't.
· And I'm Back to Bulleting, Folks...
· Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble;
· This is a call to the colorblind…this is an I.O.U.
· Amber
· $5 to Anyone Who Can Guess What These Pictures Have in Common
· The Boy Who Bought Me Coffee and Didn't Abandon Me
· I used to eat with big spoons, but now I use small ones
· Q: What causes an itch?
· I Have a Thing For Lighthouses and Ocean Sunsets
· Cold Feet With No Wedding
· fancy that
· Shoes
· am i the only one who thinks tears are beautiful?
· one with many questions
· a ripple
· have you ever...?
· unobtrustively silent...but not inconspicuous
· partly cloudy and DULL
· uncertain...
· a word...or two
· like limp celery
· Do I Perhaps Recall What it Means to Relax?
· No Energy, No Ambition, Just Blah
· Yay!
· Relativity
· Interesting...
· I've Moved
· I Shall Henceforth be Referred to Simply as "MJ"
· Life...Why?
· I Wonder
· Pensive? Or maybe just stupid.
· By the way,
· Selfish Misery
· MORBIDLY APROPOE
· don't hold back
· Today In A Word: Shit--But I'm Still Smiling.
· To the girl who can't deny her soulmate...anymore
· From My Mother
· Pirates, Pizza, and a Lethal Injection
· Independent? Hardly. But trying...
· On Model UN
· From Michael Kosdan
· liquid like ice
· Lauren Shipman brought me pink roses
· Full Circle
· Cough Cough
· Eyes like Egypt and Nylons the Color of Smoke
· So there I was, in the Congo...
· I Wonder...
· Brain Stew
· Hershey Makes a Symphony of Chocolate
· Back From the Dead
· Excommunicated
· Obsession
· Hollow Eyes
· Why Eat An Apple When I Can Grow The Tree?
· Stolen From Kyle's Blog
· Things I Like
· Things I Don't Like
· Insecurity Is A Sign Of Intelligence...wait, what?
· Feedback Isn't Just For Cell Phones
· Good things about today...
· Bad things about today...
· A Psychotic Sanity
· I Could Have Had A Baby By Now
· Back To The Hills
· All's Well That Ends Well
· The Philmont Experience
· The Facts Of Life
· Lest Anyone Not Be Confused...
· Which Is Better, Opium Or Cocaine? Discuss.
· Guys And Balls
· If There Were And Olive-Flavored Mouthwash, I Suppose They Might Call It "Gargoyle"
· Donnie Darko Hits It Home
· I'd like an extra large orgasm with extra cream please, hold the smoke.
· When Harry met Hilary
