fall insomnia

It's cold and dark. I have an essay exam on Sister Carrie at 8:30 AM. Otherwise I'd be all right with the casual passage of time that counts down the minutes I will sleep. Maybe I can get six hours in.

Children's literature works through the nightmare, according to Ross. I lie in bed and create the nightmare. I can do this because I can trust it will be dispelled. There is waking, as I tread over the creaking wood in a pink house of a tired town.

I trust. I trust. I trust.

...

Flipping Tsuks, blueberry pie, completing a story, conversing with those I love, sunlight, short shorts, rolling our eyes, laughing, living -- I love good days!

karma comes back around

Decisions, DECISIONS!

rhythm is a dancer

((Title has no correlation to post other than that those lyrics are running through her mind.))

Even in the classroom, it's difficult to fathom. Three thousand stars visible in this hemisphere to the naked eye. How many more? Placed by God, swore all the early astronomers. Yet that thought seems more manageable indoors.

"They're imaginary," he says of the constellations. "But aren't they beautiful?"
Like you, I think.

Stars overhead in the deep blue celestial sphere. I haven't a clue where Polaris is (though I get to search for it as homework -- Kelsey, next summer we can truly find constellations on your front step!). How can sense be made? They seem scattered so randomly, everywhere, everywhere. Harvest moon holds steady. So close tonight. Clear, austere grey and white. Amazing.

Placed by God, indeed.

I glance for cracks in the sidewalk, but my soul's on the stars.

spirit manifest as "she"

Short story. Short story. Stort shory.

You can see I'm quite inspired for that assignment.

We speak for hours each day, literally. The "speaking," perhaps, is more literary than literal. I can't handle the phone for too long. It won't allow me to multitask as easily as I wish.

I want to be creative. I watch a boy run around the corner of the house, across the small and tidy green yard. It was the same boy I'd seen another day, engaged in intense plastic gun stalking with another little boy. I'd admired the latter's boldness to seek out his vice.

The sun yet hints of summer as it eases down. Something long and blue is raised in the boy's hand. He turns to the side yard. A blond girl bounces up, red lightsaber in hand. Without shouts or words exchange, plastic hits plastic. They begin to duel.

I watch and, somehow, feel real.

My scientific conclusion for the evening is that getting drunk is likely a good thing for someone as prone to stressing herself out on a daily basis.

But no matter what, I find that I keep missing you.

I also, however, find that I miss cars coming towards me on the road. Not all missing, you see, is negative!

Blurred green hills above leaning, crowded roofs. Beautiful sunsets that I evidently keep missing due to class and meeting obligations. Screw obligations. Real people -- adults, children, grandparents who perhaps have nothing to do with this place besides their coincidental location. A weirdly comforting glow of streetlights on cracked sidewalks, chipped paint, and chattering drunks, perhaps because I have company. But I'd be all right solo.

Here.

One word,

...thanks for deleting it all, Blogger!

::slap::

I should

be researching "Coyuca" to discuss tomorrow in Spanish Peninsular Civilization at 8am, get ready for bed, maybe shower (hmm...can that be postponed?), do work for every class, sleep, write things that are far more interesting to read about than my stream of consciousness, stop thinking about chocolate cookies, be more sociable like a "typical" college student, brush my hair/teeth, move stuff off of my bed so perhaps I can lay me down in it when I'm done writing, plot meals that I can actually cook and move away from sandwiches/salads/pasta with vegetables, de-stress, and end this blog.

But you know what? I enjoy writing more than any of these things. Besides, perhaps, those cookies.

cool, grey days

(because "grey" is much more romantic than "gray," and I support romance) are good for either inspiration or no motivation. As it happened, I was tired much of the day but wrote a poem inspired by my lunch. Evidently, I have some form of food fixation. Hey, if it works, I'll take it.

After an outpouring of writing, I take a step back. I let it rest and look at it the next day. It's easier to chop away then. Other times, I'm surprised to see that I like what I read.

Sometimes, after these bursts, the rest extends. I'm not sure where to go. I started a story in May of 2005, wrote a few pages, and then ceased. For this entire year, however, the main character stayed with me. I watched her shrug off clingy boys and laugh at criticism. I saw her begin to care. I continued her story. It's not nearly done, nor have I any idea of how it will end. But she's going somewhere, somewhere that I didn't anticipate, and I'm willing to follow.

remain true

I've spent a solid two hours writing the second of two "short-shorts," the other written on a whim Tuesday night. I'm not entirely sure if it works (or if either works, for that matter). I linger longest on the conclusions, especially when I did not anticipate such a turn of events. I enjoy that leap, though. The story has life that you were not aware of. Instead of conceiving it, your only choice is to follow it and hopefully remain true.

Bird by Bird, which I began today, makes me realize -- I am not incompetent for staring at the computer hopelessly! That it's difficult to actually sit there and write! That it's okay to feel both helpless and unmotivated! So I took her advice and wrote a bit -- an opening -- a starting point that I may scrap entirely later, but will remind me, at least, of the idea that I want to pursue.

It's been a day of meaningless writing -- the hasty scribble of Spanish words, answering silly questions in "full sentences." The writing progressively runs more carelessly. Perhaps letters will be dropped here and there, too slow to catch on. Sentences turn to a swollen stream of cursive words nearly linked as one. For crying out loud, I don't care anymore! But I will at 8am if this paper is examined by eyes less forgiving than my own were at this hour.

People holler and cheer outside. I write what humor I can to far away friends and boyfriend. No sadness, simply a bit tired. If I could, I would write creatively all day long. But I need those other things -- classes, assignments (regardless of language), practice, bed -- to make me value it more. To channel it effectively, if I can ever get time to let it run.

after an ode to peanut-buttery-goodness

I love seemingly random sources of inspiration, as the title suggests. Any object -- anything at all -- can be elevated to that higher level (or lowered, perhaps, depending on one's perspective/cynicism) of human communion.

let us kill the spirit of gravity - nietzsche

I don't believe that good writing must take itself seriously all of the time.

I dreamt last night of what I'd considered for the short-short. Surfboards, ocean, boy. But this boy was older and the waves grave and choppy on a gray afternoon. They're breaking and I know you'll want to get in. I'm nervous, but I'll try. Then I woke up.

The vision I'd had in mind held glistening waves and too-bright sun. Hope, but perhaps in the end, too much.

a new direction

So now I can use my blog for academic purposes? Sweet.

I'm excited for Creative Writing, in all honesty. I need that motivation to create an ending, to fulfill the character's promise. Perhaps it's because I often find my character's life running alongside mine. The ending to that story, whether good or bad, has yet to be realized. I hope, at the very least, that it's interesting.

rising fog

I must see my friends and family ere I go. I must pack. Really. I must construct artwork/collages to decorate my room with the people mentioned before. I must run. I'd like to write. I will, again, but I don't know if I can now. Not enough time. What pictures? What time? ((If anyone feels they would like to randomly bestow me with a gift, festive, homemade decorations and collages would be very welcome!)) An internship in the city next summer? I'm so attached to wherever I stay for too long. You all give me good reason to hold on, no matter where I go.

Approaching 1:30 am. Fog rises, nestling the streetlights. They glow for me, serenely blurred. The road is clear. I am alone. I am calm.

Down the road, a sudden and silent dense cloud in the black and orange night. I drive. Red lights appear. Without a whisp, clarity returns. I always knew it would.

learning to surf on a calm sea

Sunshine in the day and cool, almost-fall-esque nights with the hint of smoke in the air feel so right. Ice cream fits any season.

It's coming, it's coming...it's passed. I leap to my feet and immediately jump off, laughing all the way down. Real waves sweep other shores today. Still, it's pleasant to paddle under the sun, floating on this fiberglass chunk that slowly becomes more familiar. We balance each other. The swells turn natural instead of unsteadying. Bright sun belies a cool breeze. Our teeth chatter. We float on anyway, determined (and tired).

I ponder not life, love, or lack of sleep, but when my next chance will come. Does it count if I really haven't caught a wave? Because I'll gladly try again another day. Summer, you feel so right.

as i roam,

I believe that if people took the time to walk about a half hour each day -- without rush or destination -- in a peaceful place, their quality of life would improve greatly.