EEP! A Mouse!

So my Mama has seen a mouse in the house in the corner of her eye since Tuesday night, and last night while my family was watching Net Flix it made its grand appearance before us all. It seemed like it wanted to get out, so we opened the sliding glass door, and we tried to shoo it out, but it didn’t “shoo” so Papa set up the traps and this morning when I got up the traps were gone, and so was the mouse, now however Papa’s pretty sure he saw another one go into my little brother’s room. So (eww) it’s the only thing that’s (gross) on my (icky) mind right now.

  I got a job with Avon, so joy.

Oceanside Murder

  A body with several bullet wounds was found by Mr. Grayson on the morning off November 14 2009. After he discovered the body, he immediately called the police who arrived twenty minutes later. The body was removed from the site after the scene had thought to have been properly documented and recorded.

Mr. Grayson was questioned and allowed to leave. During the autopsy several finger prints were found on the body, and the police were able to make a positive identification three hours after the body was found and ten hours after the murder was estimated to have been committed. The victim was one Kent Portly, and local auto shop repairman.

  Five hours after the police found the finger prints, they matched one William Ferdinand, an ex-con and known friend of the victim. Ferdinand was arrested three days after the discovery of the body. Ferdinand admitted having met the deceased down at the beach the night before the body was found, and that they had an argument in which Ferdinand seized Portly, but according to Ferdinand, they did not exchange blows, nor did he kill Portly. He claims they had parted sometime after seven o’clock, still angry at each other, but Portly was still alive and very much in good health.  Ferdinand then claims to have returned home and remained there the rest of the night.

  Ferdinand was held on trial and found guilty of the murder, though he continued to deny it. He was sentenced to death six months after the murder. A case which seemed very straight forward, is now believed to be one of the biggest botch up jobs by law enforcement in the last eighty years, find out why, tonight at seven.

Belief

I remember when I was much younger and my family went to church, I didn’t realize for the longest time that people actually believed the stories in the Bible. It was a gradual realization, there wasn’t really a specific moment in time that it struck me that people took those stories seriously and as actual documented events. Like the Ancient Greek stories that my Mama told me, I thought they were good moral stories to learn from, and that church was just a place where people who had a particular connection with those stories gathered (which I found kind of odd, because I found the tales a little hard to understand because of the way they were written, but they were adults, sometimes adults did things that didn’t make sense to me because I’m the kid. It would all make sense once I was grown up, which in my mind was around fourteen or so). I remember not wanting to accept that adults believed these stories, and having to keep on reminding myself that they thought it was all real so I wouldn’t make a comment that might offend them.

  At one point I tried to think it was all true, I even said it out loud, but it rang false in my ears. The statement made me feel dirty, because I didn’t believe, I just wanted to, really badly, I wanted to, but I didn’t like the feeling that the Lord’s Prayer gave me when I recited it, it was the same feeling I got when I was trying to lie to someone.

  So for years I discouraged my family going to church. When my parents asked if I wanted to go, I would just say I didn’t like getting up early, and they would leave it at that and let me sleep. One year on Easter Papa was feeling some pressure from his boss to go to this Easter play his boss’s church was putting on. I tried to pass the “too early” excuse, but it was an evening show. So we went, and I remember feeling some surprise after the show was over and everyone was invited to come up to the alter and be forgiven all of their sins, and neither of my parents budged. Later, our parents bought us some shakes for behaving so well, even though none of us had wanted to go. As we slurped they explained that sometimes in the work world you had to do things that you wouldn’t normally do, and in this case it was either Papa would have to spend hours on his boss’s boat to go fishing, or go to this play; and that if he didn’t do either, it would have been very awkward. We asked what they thought of the Easter story; the most that they would commit to was that if Jesus was a real person, it didn’t really affect us because it was so long ago. I felt a rush of relief, because I felt that way too, though I wouldn’t have been able to put it to words. It wasn’t until years later that I found out that my parents never stated their own beliefs because they wanted my brothers and I to find our own way, and not be influenced by their opinions when we were too young to make our own, and no matter what conclusions we reached, they would accept it and love us no matter what.

  In my late teens whenever I made a statement about beliefs or religion in general, Mama would present the opposite side of the arguments, which baffled me, then she told me she just wanted me to have my arguments down to the letter, so my opinions would be complete, like a house with four walls, a door and a roof (I’m paraphrasing, she didn’t say this exactly.) As I became more observant and I just saw more of the world in general, I learned that there were people out there who had their opinions, and stood by them, even though their “house” was very incomplete, the one thing that they had finished was a closed and padlocked door to keep all other options and opinions out. So because of my parent’s unique and wise way of upbringing, I feel confident in my house, and that I try to keep all doors and windows open, and I’m not afraid of remodel as circumstances change in my life.

Broken Words ~ Finger Eleven

I found this song last week and I wrote a note so that I would remember to share it with you, it's so lovely.

Rebecca

Standing by the edge of hope

Of the precipice divine

We two walk a tight rope

For love so hard to define.

 

My Becky grasps my hand

Through the ridicules that measures in hours

Never alone shall I stand

No one can break this love of ours.

 

They say we are unnatural

They declare us unclean

God’s word is factual

What we are is obscene.

 

Within my heart there lies

The ever growing truth

If this feeling for Becky I must despise

Than pardon me, for being uncouth,

 

But I’d rather be crucified

Then walk away from her

For there would be no way to justify

Walking away from her.

 

We’re not the true issue of your debate

I don’t think we’re that different

We feel pain, fear, and hate

All the joys of Earth we too appreciate,

 

So what is your hate in us

What is it that you fear?

If you’re reasons are true and just

You may speak plainly here.

 

You have no new answer?

No reason behind your claim

Well then my dear pastor

Who is it I should put the blame

 

Of all the stones thrown

And taunts yelled

For the feelings that are my own?

Who has taught all others that we shall be repelled?

 

Return the subject back to God

The unseen Father we must adore,

I do not believe it is the will of God

To give me this love, so I maybe hurt more.

Now my life is filled with sorrow

No epitaph shall cover the feelings abound

That I feel at never seeing Becky on the morrow

For she, a love so sweet, never another be found.

 

My heartaches for my Becky

To see her smile once more

None felt the pain, more than my Becky

Every shout and cry left her feeling sore.

 

Until the grief was too great

And she lost her sweet smile

The ill words left her in such a state

Yet she hid it from me all the while.

 

No one will tell me how she died

They say it’s not my business

For many an hour I have cried

For wondering how Becky called for Death’s kiss.

 

No one informed me of the funeral

I discovered it alone

So now I stand before you all

Here I stand alone

 

No one will take my hand

No one will dry my tears

Here alone I stand

As I will for coming years.

Storytelling

The more I think about it the more I realize that everything that I enjoy doing involves storytelling. Think about it: acting and watching others act is a way to physically show and recite a story; writing is of course storytelling in its roughest form, no colors, no pretty decorations, it’s just wholly dependent upon the writer’s ability to portray an idea, and the readers ability to process and envision that idea and understand it; music is an emotional story whether it is wordless, in a foreign tongue or otherwise, whether you are the composer of the story or the listener, you are portraying an idea or tale through sounds; dancing is another way of acting out a story; so is a painting and drawing, these pieces of art each tell its own tale in a still form. In this respect, the arts themselves are just a way to communicate ideas, feelings and stories to those who have the ability to understand them.

Working on Enthusiasm

Sometimes writing on a particular project is not unlike pulling out your own teeth. One of my newer projects “Chloe’s Diary” has been on chapter two for entirely too long now. Spitting out the prologue and first chapter was relatively painless. I don’t know what happened, after the first scene in chapter two was typed out, all my drive and enthusiasm evaporated and I have been unable to sit down and get on a roll for a while now. When I first began to have trouble writing things down, I thought I would set it aside and I would pick it up when it was ready. So I waited…then I waited some more, then I forgot about it for about a month. When I came across the file on my computer, I remembered that it existed and I opened it up. I read and edited the prologue and first chapter, by the time I reached the second chapter I was getting excited about where it was going and as I began to recall some of the ideas that I had about what was going to happen next, then something interrupted me, I don’t recall what it was, and I was forced to leave the story, when I returned and finished editing, all my prior excitement was gone. Not about to let it sit going nowhere all over again, I decided to try a different tactic and keep it where I would see it and I would make myself open it up and write something, even if it was only a sentence every time I had a moment to spare and maybe, just maybe I would get on a roll and I might get the second chapter done. So far it hasn’t worked, but at least I’m working on it while I’m waiting for the writing adrenaline to come along. It makes me feel like I’m not an utter failure as a writer.

You Were Mine ~ Dixie Chicks

I have always loved the Dixie Chicks, and I grew up listening to this song, so I figured it was about time I posted it!

The Proposal

Kelton paced back and forth, his light elfin feet didn’t so much as bend any of the virid undergrowth. He was waiting for Yastley to meet him. Elfin folk of the West were always punctual, following the clock of the sun, Yastley however was of the East, and they tended to be a more free flowing people, saying that “they’d get there when they get there and if the appointment was important enough to make, than it was important enough to wait for everyone one (namely themselves) to show up.”
Yastley scampered into the small clearing, her long carrot colored hair streaming behind her. As she came to a gentle stop, the only thing that kept her long locks from falling around her face was the fact that it was tied in the back with two ties as was the way of the East.
“You wished to speak to me Kelton?” Yastley asked, not bothering with a salutation to get straight to the point.
Kelton resisted a small smile, Yastley was so much like the rest of her brand of elf in so many ways: her comparatively tall stature, red hair, almond shaped green eyes, abundant freckles, and a proneness for being tardy, but at the same time she was unlike them too. Her somber tone and face Kelton had never at anytime seen on any other Easterner. Her manor was abrupt in a way that could be taken as rude, regular Easterners are known for being overly hospitable. Most of all, Easterners were reputed with the ability to empathize with anyone at anytime, while Yastley became disgruntled and uncomfortable whenever anyone came to her with their emotional woes.
“Yes, I did,” Kelton replied, “I wanted to ask you something.”
“If you need advice on your love life, you’d be better off with a Northerner.” She said bluntly, her body language changed ever so subtly as she leaned away from Kelton, ready to leave. (Northern elves were all involved with their work, and were the least social of all the elves, rarely did they ever leave their beloved mountains for any gathering of any kind, even during times of trouble. They found the “soul searching” of the Easterners a complete waste of time. Suffice it to say the North and East never truly saw eye to eye, though the East never considered themselves to be any one’s foe, they merely looked upon the North as the estranged cousin who was difficult to understand.)
“I’m not here for advice,” Kelton said, he tried to swallow down his nervousness. His emotions had been twisting inside of him like a wild horse, refusing to be broken.
“Oh?” She inquired, her eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch; obviously his inner strife had made itself apparent across his face.
“Yes, I would like to court you Yastley,” it was utterly unromantic and must have been an embarrassment to the Romanics of the East, but his prepared speech which he had been reciting while he paced had left him the moment Yastley stepped into the clearing.
“This is highly irregular,” she said after a barely noticeable pause. In which her face had turned to what would have been the perfect poker face, if it weren’t for the slight darkening of the naturally pink color of her cheeks.
“Yes, I know,” he tried to rush into some sort of explanation, but lost the words in his hurry and she cut him off before he could begin again.
“We would need permission from both councils, and not to mention, you would need to approach my father, and invite me to meet your parents. This is so unusual a notion that we will have to do everything to protocol to avoid a scandal.”
Kelton couldn’t believe his ears.
“You mean to say,” Kelton said “that you are willing to entertain the idea of a courtship between…you and I?”
“Yes, of course, though I must say you went about it the wrong way.” Yastley said calmly, though her blush deepened.
“I thought there wasn’t a wrong way to begin to love,” Kelton replied, he was quoting the Eastern representative in the West court.
“Only fools who don’t mind their lives ending in tragedy and the more tragic the more romantic the tale. I have no intention of taking part in a relationship that will end in banishment, do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now the first thing to do is for each of us to see our local councilman and get an approval, now you go to mine and I’ll go to yours, and don’t you dare leave until you get it in writing.” Yastley paused. “What are you waiting for, go.”
“Don’t I need to make an appointment?” Kelton asked.
“He’s an Easterner Kelton; you just need to find him.”
“Alright,” he turned to leave the clearing. This wasn’t going the way he had planned, but at least, she hadn’t said no.
“Oh, wait, I almost forgot.” She caught his sleeve as he walked by her. He turned and she put her arms around him and kissed him full on the mouth.
Clanging bells went off in Kelton’s head, and his ears were still ringing when the two of them parted.
“There, now my mother can stop worrying about me,” Yastley said, evidently proud of herself.
“What?” he asked confused.
“I’ve finally kissed a boy, now maybe she’ll let me get some peace and quiet. Bye-bye,” she said before running out of the clearing, “see you back here later.” She called over her shoulder before she vanished between the trees.
Kelton headed out of the clearing and towards Easterner’s home by the ocean. Once he cleared his head he started to laugh quietly to himself. If this was any sign on how the relationship was going to go, then he was glad he asked.

My Apologies - Makeup

First off I want to say I’m sorry for the tardiness of this post. Tuesday just got away from me somehow. It seemed for a moment it was there then the next thing I knew it was midnight: too late to post, so I figured since it was already Wednesday, it couldn’t hurt to wait a few more hours and get some sleep…

  My Post

 So my Mama and I finally got eyeliner, I’m glad because now I have my own and my Mama’s glad that I’ll no longer be “stealing” hers anymore. A while later, I began to reflect on my attitude towards makeup over the years, when I was a little girl I loved makeup, it meant that I looked more like one of the big girls. I got my first mini makeup kit when I was four on my birthday, and that Christmas I got my first acrylic nails, they were light pink with dark pink ballerina slippers on them; they didn’t last through the morning. Also when I was five I got my ears pierced and my first bottle of sparkly blue Bon-Bon nail polish, (which I might add turned out much better than the acrylic nail attempt.) I was eight when I got my first bottle of perfume, it was sparkly blue too, and it was around that time that I finally got through my first makeup kit. After that I got some Cover Girl eye makeup, but I mostly stuck to lip-gloss, and only when my lips were actually chapping.

  By the time I was in my early and mid-teens I felt makeup was unnecessary, vain and utterly pointless. Though Mama did collect some free sample lipstick and lotions for me. She also continued to get me new nail polish (even when I asked her not to) when I was about fourteen she started giving me some of her old nail polish and lipsticks that were “too young” for her now, (at the time I didn’t really understand what she meant by that, even after she explained it to me.)

  It wasn’t until I was fifteen that I put on lipstick and the Cover Girl eye makeup (which I applied to my cheeks as well as my eyes, not realizing that eye makeup, is only supposed to be used on my eyelids,) and purple nail polish, then I changed my mind to blue nail polish, which I just put over the purple polish, which wasn't really done drying yet. (After that of course it took all night for the polish to finally harden.) The occasion that I did all of this for was a Halloween party and I had felt significantly underdressed after I had seen my Mama and decided that a little makeup wouldn’t hurt.

  Once the party was over, I came to the conclusion that makeup was alright, under the right circumstances. I didn’t suddenly start putting on makeup every time I preformed the piano, or made a public presentation. Just every once in a while it would cross my mind that it “wouldn’t hurt” if I added a little bit of makeup to my face. I can actually list all of the occasions and what exactly I used and in the original draft of this blog I actually did make a list. However, now I think that’s a little silly and you’re just going to have to take my word for it.

  Today

I received an email earlier today from my Mama suggesting that I might sell Avon as a first job, and I think I just might. In my early teens I wouldn’t even have considered it, I guess it just goes to show that you can only go so far in one direction before your life just brings you at full circle.

Be Free ~ Papa Roach

Bitter

Tearing, biting

My skin is fraying

Tingling, stabbing, no feeling:

This is what I think of Freezing.

Melting, stinking

My skin is dripping

Boiling, rippling, no thinking:

This is what I think of Over-heating.

Graying, aching

My skin is wrinkling

Slowing, bowing, moaning:

This is what I think of aging.

Hurting, cursing

My skin is stretching

Damning, wasting, pacing:

This is what I think of growing.

Writing Parasites

There are real writers, and then…there are phonies. I came to realize that real writers all admit to being a little kooky, and usually we don’t fight it. If we can find a group of us, unless you have an exclusive membership you will enviably get some wannabe writers. There are far too many of those carbon copies out here, all they do is take a popular story and change a few things so that they can’t get sued. Their excuse being that every idea has been already thought of by somebody else, that no one can write a new idea, because everything has already be thought of already in some form, and I don’t really buy that, but okay, I’m not going to argue with it either. Supposing that is true, there people are taking ideas deliberately, and that’s far from writing something then realizing that some parts of your sci-fi story has remarkable similarities to this older fantasy story which you only read after you had written your story. These people are plagiarizers and rip-offs, going to writer’s groups stealing the other writer’s time and ideas when they chose to suggest or help them out. I don’t know if you can pick up on the agitation in my tone of my writing, but it’s because I have had the misfortune of having such a parasite in a writing group I participated in once, and it bothers me.

Friday Report and Comforting Quotes

I just got the email from the agent that contacted me last week and long story short she is not going to represent my manuscript. So, while I’m disappointed, I’m ready to get back to sending out query letters again, and I came to the realization that whoever said that writers are fools, masochists, and crazies was right. Now, I was unable to find the right quote because I have no idea who said it, but I did find these, so enjoy!

Writer's were supposed to be a little crazy." ~S.E. Hinton

He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.” ~ Oscar Wilde

Perhaps I wasn't going crazy after all. Perhaps I was just becoming a writer." ~ Janette Rallison (Just One Wish)

"Are writers reporters, prophets, crazies, entertainers, preachers, judges, what?" ~Wallace Stegner (Crossing to Safety)

"I have great faith in fools - my friends call it self-confidence." ~ Edgar Allan Poe

"Every writer, without exception, is a masochist, a sadist, a peeping Tom, an exhibitionist, a narcissist, an 'injustice collector' and a depressed person constantly haunted by fears of unproductively." ~ Edmund Bergler

"The writer is both a sadist and a masochist. We create people we love, and then we torture them. The more we love them, and the more cleverly we torture them along the lines of their greatest vulnerability and fear, the better the story. Sometimes we try to protect them from getting booboos that are too big. Don’t. This is your protagonist, not your kid." ~ Janet Fitch

"A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom. He has no master except his own soul, and that, I am sure, is why he does it." ~ Ronald Dahl

"I'm all in favor of keeping dangerous weapons out of the hands of fools…Let's start with typewriters." ~ Solomon Short

Preparation

It’s been almost a week since I got an email from an agent saying she was interested in see my book A Slice of Life Death. My jubilation has finally begun to wear off, and I have begun to prepare myself for the worst-case-scenario: a rejection. She told me to put sending out my query letters to other agents on hold for at least a month to give her enough time to read it and then come to a decision. At the time I thought a month would be no big deal. Now I’m wondering if I’ll be able to keep my sanity for that long! Just to give you a peek into my head right now it sounds something like this: “What if I wait all of this time just to get a rejection? Then all this time I spent waiting is wasted and I could be working on finding some other agent who wants my work.” “But then” another part of me says “if there is someone else would will want my book it doesn’t really matter when I send it, they will still be a interested in it now as they will be later.” “But what if I wait on a query and I catch them in the wrong mood? What if they need to see it now in order to like it?” “In that case I won’t ever know about it now will I?” “Exactly!!”
So, you see my problem? If you don’t, then just keep in mind that these inner conversations are ten times louder and faster than you can read them, and in the background there’s voice just screaming. Then there’s another voice that is telling the other voices to be quiet, and let me write!
Until I get the yes, or no from the agent, I’m going to do my best to distract myself with writing on my various other projects, getting a job, getting my driver’s license and cleaning the house. Let’s hope it’s enough.

The House Cleaner

Heather’s knees clicked as she finally stood up, she had been on her knees for far too long as she polished the legs to the wooden furniture in the Willis’s house. In her eagerness to got off the floor, she stood up too quickly and got a head rush, or a freebee as her friend Cathy would say. Once the dots had faded she surveyed her work. The room was sparsely furnished, there were no pictures on the walls, and the mantelpiece was dedicated to the diplomas belonging to the master of the house. Heather knew that he had a wife and kids, but you wouldn’t know it looking at this room. It was too phony, too much like a picture in a magazine, even more so since she had just finished whipping away the dust that had gathered since she had cleaned it last week.
Heather gathered up all of her cleaning tools and placed them in their closet next to the laundry room. The brand new chrome washing machine and matching dryer sparkled without so much as a scratch or smudge on the surface. Heather knew from speaking with the housekeeper that neither of these machines was ever employed, since all of the Willis’s clothes were dry cleaned in town.
After she put all the cleaning items away, Heather used the backstairs up to the nursery where the nanny would be keeping an eye on the Willis kids and Heather’s check since the housekeeper was out.
Knocking discretely at the door Heather needed only to wait a few seconds before the disgruntled nanny stepped out of the room, check in hand; she did not invite Heather in, nor greet her in anyway. So Heather let her self-introduction awkwardly fade off as she took the check the nanny offered her before ducking her disheveled head back into the nursery in response to a loud thump and muffled yelp from within the nursery.
Heather checked the amount on the check, which was written out in perfect script with a fountain pen. She tromped down the stairs and out the backdoor as she exited the Stepford house she sighed with relief, some things were just too perfect to be true, she didn’t know what kind of a price Mr. Willis and his family had to pay everyday for their apparently perfect lives, but it had to be a dozy.

Texting is a Life Sucker

So I just got back from Disneyland, hence the late blog, and I got back a bit earlier than I anticipated. After the sunset, the temperature started to drop, and I didn’t bring a sweater, so I decided it would be best to leave the Happiest Place on Earth on search of warmth. In leaving when I did, I had in my possession two fast passes for the Indiana Jones ride that were not ready yet, so instead of letting them go to waste, it was decided that they were to be given to the first couple seen. The first couple I saw near Adventure land was texting separately on their phones and walking at the same time, and it proved that attempting to hail them was futile, even when standing right next to the girl and practically speaking in her ear. Not too long after this a second couple was found and the tickets were given away. Upon reflection I couldn’t help but wonder that if the couple texting had the good common sense of participating in the real world, as opposed to the cyber world, then they would undoubtedly have had a fuller experience at Disneyland, and perhaps even a better life in general, but we and they will probably never know.

The Wedding

The event in this video happened after one of my longest standing friends, Abby just got married. After the ceremony we, the guests were told to stand on the patio, shortest in front, tallest in back for a picture, and we more or less listened. The bride and groom came outside and we and the bride were surprised when the groom left the bride on the patio and started to dance along with the bridesmaids and groomsmen and others. Abby is a dancer, so this was the best surprise for her.
  At 2:50 you can see me to the far right. I'm wearing a floppy white hat and I'm behind and between the guy with the tuxedo and glasses, and the woman with a dark patterned dress and sunglasses.

The Moon

A little crown of the moon

Shall rise again soon

I watch it fade away

To return another day.

While the leaves will brown and die

Long will the moon hang high

in the sky

Like the green shall return by and by.

Little jasmine reaching towards

The window boards

Shaped like stars, the petals

Their meaning is truly the moon, the petals

My goddess watches over all

Her enchanted crystal ball

Shines mistily

Upon the darkest mystery.

My moon watches over all

In the shape of a ball

Shining mistily

Through darkest mystery.

A Picture Book

I am currently working on a story about a goat, who does not want to be named Billy. It is so simplistic I am seriously considering modifying it into a picture book. Since I’m not sure what the word count is for a picture book I’m going to need to do a little bit of research on the subject. I’m sorry this blog came so late and that it is so short, the entire day was dedicated to getting ready for a friend’s wedding…and then getting there…and then getting back home. It was cute though, I’m glad I went, though I am tired now. Night, night.

Agent, First Contact!

As a new writer, I view agents as elusive creatures, and nearly impossible to please. Yes, I said “nearly” today, I finally intrigued somebody! An agent from Pippin Properties Inc, who wishes to see my A Slice of Life Death book no less! She asked if it were possible for me to hold off on sending queries to other agents for a month to give her time to receive the manuscript and read it before coming to a decision on whether or not she will want to be my agent. I am so excited! Finally a personal response! The last time an agent took the time to personally email me, it was to critique my query letter! I messaged her back saying I would gladly postpone sending out more queries as she requested, and was more than willing to send her the manuscript. I enquired in what form would be best to send the work, and I am presently waiting for a reply. This is so exciting! That is my entire report for the week; I figured that's more than enough suspense for one blog.

Sanity

“I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.” Edgar Allan Poe. 

The first time I read the above quote I did not understand what it meant. Now I know exactly what Mr. Poe meant. Upon reflecting the time in which I first read the quote, I was happy. The world made sense to me, even if everything wasn’t right, it made sense. Now that my world has completely turned around, I came to the realization (yesterday in fact) that if I was the one that was crazy and not the entire world, it would be so much easier to accept the world as it was, rather then I and a handful of individuals are sane, and the rest of the people are completely lost. After a quick examination of what insanity and sanity is, which was a rather long one, so I decided against writing it all out, since I figured people of “average intelligence” wouldn’t understand anyways. The conclusion I was brought to after my research was that if sanity is the “normal and acceptable” state of mind that our society accepts, such as the act of paying to watch commercials on TV, deliberately poisoning one’s self with alcohol to fit in is sane…I’d rather be abnormal in my thought process. While this thought doesn’t help me out very much, it does make sense of the quote, which is becoming my motto.

Keeping on subject I figured I’d close with a song I’ve been listening to entirely too much lately: “Psycho” by Puddle of Mudd.

Test of Time

  Rupert started walking down the concrete, he didn’t have a destination. His girlfriend had just broken up with him, and he needed some time to himself to sort through his emotions. He felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. That’d be Eddie, no doubt the news had reached him by now and he’d want to hang out, then they’d grab some beers until Rupert couldn’t remember why he was so upset.

  He wasn’t quite ready for that step in the “getting over it” process. After his phone signaled that there was a new voice message, he took it out of his pocket and turned it off. As he continued to walk his shoe caught in one of the cracks and nearly fell to the ground, the phone wasn’t as lucky. He didn’t bother to pick up the pieces as he continued his walk.

He looked at the fissure in the sidewalk and wondered how long it would be before it too had grass growing through it like many of the other cracks in the sidewalk. He wondered if there was anything in this entire world that would stand the test of time. Little things might make it through, but, nothing is going to look the way it did right now.

  He supposed the Earth would still be here, even through concrete it had found a way to live. He guessed he could do that, struggle to live, and he’d win a little at a time.

Flaws are Original

I try to remind myself whenever I’m making something, whether it is a quilt, a house ornament, or a drawing, or painting, that the mistakes and the flaws are what make it unique and make it my own. No one came make my flaws exactly the same way I did.

Take this picture of a flag for example. My mom took it and when she looked at it she didn’t like the fact that the flash from the camera was reflected on the glass, and was going to delete it off her camera, but I told her not to, because I wanted to keep it. The flash makes it look like there’s a star on the woman’s vest, and I think it’s really cool. No one else will ever be able to duplicate that exactly, and that’s what makes it special.

I'm Looking Through You ~ The Beatles

I think it's about time I posted a song by the greatest band of all time. Enjoy!

Stand in the Rain

A poet friend mine was asked the question:

Why do you use the rain?

What is it about our pain

And renaissance that is the same?

At some suggestion,

I was referred to for an answer

Though I sensed my answer

Would bring me either fame or disaster

Throwing caution to the wind, I replied

To go through agony

We must have an epiphany

To move on and not let hurt

Reduce our growing gardens to dirt.

We can’t wash away the past

Though we sometimes try.

Life time lessons can’t be cast

To the road and driven by

The rain is not to wash away

The price of life we pay

It is to help us grow

And moving on with what we know

So you see,

It is not the poet who uses the rain

It is the rain that gives us the power

To write about the life.

Totem Poles

James stood on his tiptoes in order to see the third face on the totem pole. He liked this one the most, it depicted a face with round eyes and mouth with a bulbous nose, it reminded him of an English teacher he had back in junior high. Even back then, James had been known for his tenacious nature, it was this trait that got him to graduate a year early in high school, and wrap up a degree in Archeology in just under five semesters. Now here he was in the dense jungles of South America, fulfilling his dream of studying newly found tribal grounds that had long been deserted. The only things remaining were hundreds of totem poles; it was probably a religious sight. Many of these poles were remarkably preserved.

  There had been some minor setbacks, well major setbacks; several members of his team had gone missing since the team had arrived three days ago. This left James alone with two other members: Daphne and Tim, both of whom he had known for nearly two years now. This was longer than he had ever known anybody.

  “Professor East?” Tim asked, from behind him.

  “What is it now?” James asked, kneeling down to scribble some notes in his journal.

  “Have you seen Daphne?”

  “Do I look like I’ve seen Daphne?” James replied taking a few steps back to take a better look at the pole.

  “No, you look like you have you head shoved up your own ass.”

  “Excuse me?” James asked, looking up. Tim was a quiet person by nature, and not prone to out breaks.

  “Daphne is missing.”

  “How would you know that?” James asked.

  “Because I can’t find her.”

  “Exactly, you can’t find her, don’t let us jump to conclusions.” James made another note.

  “No, let’s just pretend everything is alright and that every member of this team isn’t disappearing without a trace.”

  “Nothing disappears ‘without a trace’ Tim, except in the moves.” James looked at him, “Honestly and you call yourself a scientist. ‘Without a trace,' indeed.”

Tim walked away in a huff.

  James shrugged and returned to his notes.

  Later that night James returned to camp and Tim was nowhere in sight.

  He must have returned to collecting water samples from the river. James thought. Good, that’ll calm his mind.

  Several hours went by and James finished making dinner and Tim did not return. James took out a flashlight and headed to river.

  “Tim!” James called out as he neared the river. “Are you close to a breakthrough on that mystery mineral in the water? Either way you’re going to have to call it a day: it is dinner time.”

  Silence.

  “Tim,” James pointed his flashlight beam up and down the bank there was no sight of his companion. Raising the light to look across the bank he saw a figure just beyond the opposite river bank.

  “Did you find something?” James asked, thinking it was Tim.

  When there wasn’t an answer, James guessed the noise of the river was drowning his voice. Finding a shallow place, he crossed the river. Upon approaching the figure, he found it wasn’t Tim, but another totem pole. Directing the light at the face that was at his height he thought it looked a lot like Daphne.   As the light shined higher and higher on the pole, to James’ horror, he realized that all of the faces resembled his fellow professors and scientists. When he brought the light back down to the very bottom face, which looked the newest, it looked precisely like Tim. James tried to scream but he couldn’t, open his mouth. He watched in terrified as the hand holding the flashlight turned, not into stone, but wood.

The Book I've been Reading

“Edgar Allan Poe Complete Tales and Poems” is what I’ve been reading lately. Another eighteenth birthday gift it contains 73 short stories and 48 poems. So far I’ve read four of the short stories so I’ve barely managed to scratch the surface, but I think it’s a must have: Edgar Allen Poe is a great writer and he writes on a variety of subjects, and has a vast vocabulary, it keeps me thinking and I do love it. So: “Edgar Allan Poe Complete Tales and Poems” not for the simpleminded or the bigheaded: you have to be selfless enough to go and pick up a dictionary.

Weekly Report

Well, this week has been pretty good in my writing world. I got back into the swing of things despite my little break to go up to Sacramento. I tried to look up some agents who are known for dealing specifically with collections of short stories for the purpose of sending out query letters for my “A Slice of Life Death” and found that there really isn’t anyone like that out there, the collections that generally get published are by authors who have already been established in the writing world, in other words, my chances of my first published book being either one of my short story collections are slim to none. However, that is still good to know, even if it’s not good news.
This week I decided to enter a short story into the Orange County Fair, so I put my short story “Fairy Gardens” through a fine-toothed comb, and I am now satisfied that it is as perfect as it can possible be, and it’s all printed out, all nice and pretty and ready to go. For safeties sake, I’m going to be bringing it to The Coffee House Writer’s Group, and see if they have any helpful suggestions.
I’m still editing away at my novel “Survival” and have boosted up the number of chapters. I haven’t been adding information; I’ve just been splitting up the longer chapters up. The last time I blogged, for those of you out there who are keeping track (yea, I should be so lucky to have people that interested in my writing passion) I last said that I had about forty-one chapters, well, now I have forty-six. This might not sound like much of a change, but I’m happy. For some reason, even though I know nothing about the story has actually changed, just the bigger number makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something. Call me silly. I know I am!

Thursday Therapy

  Sometimes you just need to go out and blow stuff up...like these guys did! But only under professional supervision of course! Play safely and have fun!

The Fence

Rachel stood back to examine the picket fence her brother-in-law was building for her. She could see that it was crooked yet, when she tried to tell him so, he just said that getting it straight would be the last thing he did before he painted it. She had shaken her head and said that’s not the way it works, only to be promptly told that she was not the one who did this for a living and should not expect to know anything about it. Rachel had remained silent and went inside. From that point on she was verbally slapped every time she saw her brother-in-law or her sister. If she asked them how their day was, they would reply fine, but they were dealing with some clients who thought they knew everything about building and kept telling them how to do things when they clearly had no idea what they were talking about; or how much they resented the “know it all types”.  

  Rachel bore it all in silence. She couldn’t think of what to say or do. The fence was finally done being built, all that was left to do was paint it and the entire structure was very lopsided. If she brought up how crooked it was, she risked getting another verbal lashing, but if she said nothing, would it ever be fixed? If she hired someone else, her sister and brother-in-law would both be offended and she would never hear the end of it. Every family gathering will be brought around to her failure to help out her family during this tough time in the economy. None of these scenarios were acceptable, so she decided the best thing she could do was pick the most livable of all the evils; and she knew she could not live with that lousy fence.

  Picking up the phone she called a professional fence builder and had him out there that afternoon and he gave her an estimate to fix it. The price wasn’t too bad, so she told him to get to work on it as soon as he could. Once that was scheduled in she felt a tingle of apprehension. How should she tell her brother-in-law? She decided that sooner rather than later was better. Ever since he started building, he had been very unprofessional about his working hours. He just showed up every once in a while, put a few posts in, or nailed a couple of boards then left. Making it abundantly clear to Rachel that her fence was far down on his priority list. She never knew when he’d show up, he could literally drive up any minute now, and then she’d have to take his bawling on how inconsiderate she was not to call him to say she hired someone else, and he had driven with all the stuff up here just for her.
  Snatching up the phone she quickly dialed his cell phone. She, of course got his message machine (did that man ever pick up the phone?) Leaving a message she hung up and dialed her sister, Rachel thought she might be over doing it a little, but she would just feel better once she talked to one of them, she got the feeling that her sister and brother-in-law didn’t listen to her messages on purpose.
  Thankfully Helen picked up.
  “Hello?”
  “Hi Helen, this is Rachel.”
  “Oh, I was expecting someone else.” Helen replied, not bothering to hide her impatience.
 “Then I’ll make it brief, I’m having some people from the office come over for lunch next week – “
  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly come over; my husband and I are booked every day for the next two weeks.”
  “Well, that’s not really why I called.” Rachel said carefully, she felt as if she were walking of hot coals. “I know how busy you are, and I just wanted to let you know that I’ve hired someone else to finish up my fence, because I really would like it to be finished in time for this lunch – “
  “If you had let us know sooner, we could have rescheduled.” Helen said in false sweetness.
  “It was kind of a last minute thing,” Rachel said carefully.
  “Well, I think we could come over and finish it if it’s really that important.” Helen replied, backpedaling.
  “Oh, no you don’t have to do that – “
  “What are sisters for?”
  “You see I’ve already hired someone else, and they have me scheduled in,” Rachel explained.
  There was a pause.
  “Tell your hubby to call me back so I can send you guys a check, ‘kay?” Rachel asked, trying to sound cheerful.
  “Talk to you later,” Helen said coolly.
  “Okay, see you, bye.”
  Helen hung up.
  Rachel hung up with a grimace, she had the feeling she had just released the dragon.
  However, to her surprise, when she talked to her brother-in-law he sounded downright relieved to be let out of the making of the fence. He said the work had been beneath him anyways, and he wished Rachel the best of luck with the next crew, though they couldn’t possibly measure up to himself ,they were going to have to do. She said she hoped they would too and wished him a good day.
  After she hung up, Rachel wondered how two people with C grade averages could have such big egos.