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EnduringSpirit
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Name: Courtney
Country: United States
State: Wisconsin
Gender: Female
Interests: Spending time with those that I love; listening to music- The Decemberists, Bright Eyes, Neutral Milk Hotel, Something Corporate, Straylight Run Ben Folds, Jack Johnson, Damien Rice, Deathcab for Cutie, Counting Crows, Dave Matthews Band, Blessid Union, David Gray, Fooled By April, Alter Bridge, etc, looking for the beautiful things in life, staying up late, writing, pursuing life and love with reckless abandon, watching a good movie while wrapped up in a warm blanket, painting drawing and creating something out of a white piece of paper, singing along to the radio, painting, kissing, climbing, camping, taking pictures, playing the quiet observer. You know, the really important things...
Expertise: I will never claim to be an expert at anything.
Occupation: Student
Industry: Art
Message: message meEmail: email me
AIM:  CortiKay
Member Since:
12/1/2004
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| I heard one of your favorite songs on the radio today, and took up the chorus along with the drummer. My vocal chords sung along before I remembered that they were your favorite.
I am thinking that I am finally beginning to grow into my life. It's refreshing and contentifying. It allows me to make up words, travel without being afraid, and move on from thoughts that make me nothing but sad. I never truly realized how large the world really was. I lived within a very thin set of walls, peering through drywall knowing all the time that the sky was blue on the other side of the world. But it wasn't the same as feeling the sunshine.
Now, I know. My life has become a dream of curiosity and contentment. It is amazing how much we notice when we allow ourselves to believe that everything is new. Europe, centuries old, has been a fresh haven for me. Winding cobblestones offer new surfaces that, with only a tad of caution, I brush my feet across a thousand shades lighter than they once were. There are nights in which we never sleep. The very vibrato of new voices sustain us, as we share stories and lives and ideas and perspectives. And sometimes kisses. My hair has turned a deeper shade of red, my belly full of culture and exotic tastes, and my eyes have peered out of so many windows. Some of them old, shells of windows that once were. Windows that looked out over invading forces, stained geometries turning flashing swords into deep greens and rubies. Windows that smell of fresh paint and sharp glass. Windows covered in the dust of the countryside as the trains cut their way through the heart of the soil. So many windows.
Soon enough I will be looking down from the plane, over the windows and rooftops of Europe once again. I cannot wait to return. And even though the once familiar songs no longer remind me of you, it is nice to know that the lyrics and the view will be new. | | |
| I am amazed sometimes, by the inability for some people to connect with other people. I find it a pleasant surprise when, for instance, there seems to be a connection between two people that exists without having to say much, or even having to speak the same language. On other occasions, no matter how much communication is being exerted, talking doesn't necessarily mean that something is being said.
I feel like, the last couple months of my life, I have constantly struggled to connect with someone who I was never going to. It is interesting that, when everything is said and done, we spend so much time trying to create something out of nothing. The thing is, I am the one to blame. I knew the whole time. It's amazing how we can trick ourselves for so long. Maybe it was never a trick; perhaps it is the infiltration of despondency.
But from my chest, a weight has lifted. I feel more free than I ever have, so I can do nothing but be thankful for it. Now, completely devoid of the burden of consistently failed attempts, I can leave behind the frigid and unaffectionate for something warmer and lovelier. Something that can hold me more than the strength of empty arms. | | |
| Reincarnation on the Train to PragueThe countryside blurs past my temples,
One of which rests on the glass
In an attempt to regain strength through sleep.
My eyes open, and close, and open again,
Remaining that way as they try to burn everything,
Village and church steeple,
Into an already overloaded memory cache.
Leaves are green,
The rolling hills paint pictures
As perfectly framed as the unwritten and patient postcards
Resting underneath these exhausted fingertips.
I haven’t found words for moments experienced;
There is never enough room on postcard pulp
To write something sufficient anyway.
The platforms of train stations roll out,
Beckoning me to disembark and explore
Hidden alleyways and open second story balconies.
Their signs and lights reflect on glass,
Making sure you are aware of them twice over
As the train slows in their shadow,
Causing eyes to open and souls to awaken.
The letters of the signs catch me,
As it rushes quietly past,
The blue in a soft ballet of white,
Clarifying the curve of the S
And the shoulders of the E.
It is simple in design and declaration;
Announcing to all that one has arrived in Dresden.
Here the walls and rituals had been
Thought safe by those who had built them.
The war was never to come, for
Dresden would remain beautiful
As the shells were emptied onto
Skeletal embraces of the horizons.
In towns far away.
One day, they did the things they normally did.
The sun shone into the same niches and corners
Of the streets that had never pondered non-existence.
For things such as linear earth and city limits
Never comprehend their own immortality,
Much less that of the soles that tread upon them.
It was in this that Dresden crumbled,
Vanquishing the pride that had believed it invincible,
Becoming a slaughterhouse of all.
Five upon fives perished underneath the weight
Of metal and mortar, brick and ash,
Making rubble of the surface of the moon.
Today, building tip-tops reveal healing roofs,
And paint covered scabs of wounded plaster;
Proof that limbs can be jointed,
Muscles will one day flex,
And blood can flow once again
Through the avenues of once dead streets.
My fingers drum on the postcards of Berlin
That lie on one knee, intact of sinew,
With pictures of glossy lights and forgotten guilts
Of the suffering immensity of hearts and minds.
They visit what is reborn, with their backs blank,
Stampless and unsent they lament
Over the firestorm of Dresden.
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| We trekked to the middle of nowhere, wine in tow, to the small white farmhouse set amongst the green hills. Dusk was beginning to approach, and the wayward travelers were in need of food and drink. Dinner consisted of vegetables from the garden out back. We cooked them in oil and talked politics as he peppered them. Glasses of wine lay scattered about, only to be forgotten, and remembered, and forgotten again. The kitchen caught the last light of the day through the open windows while the scent and steam radiated from within. My professor and her husband are gone traveling, and we have the farmhouse to ourselves. He is an artist, and the big red barn is full of chalks and paints and oils. Dirty rags adorn the walls, themselves full of mistaken brushstrokes. It creates an art caught unaware of its own rugged appeal. The barn’s immense white ceiling allows for the occasional sun beam to stream in through her expansive windows, shining down on the faces and sinews of his paintings. I run my palms across the canvases, allowing the clumps of paint to leave dimples in the rivets of my fingerprints. It occurs to me that I have done this whenever possible. Walking through the art building on campus, late at night I loved the way the waves of paint washed up against my skin. It is a familiar feeling, one I have missed immensely these past few years. I wonder how many pieces I've touched, and what my hands would look like if the indentations they left on my fingers were permanent. A physical wisdom to remind me of the things that I have seen. We ate on the porch as the wind rustled the wine in our glasses. We picked blueberries and raspberries for dessert, topped them with chocolate, and became content with ourselves. We talked about faith and the journey it takes to find it. He talked of trips to New York and about getting lost along the way. I told stories of hot chocolate mornings and palaces in Spain. One of us is getting married tomorrow, and this seems like the perfect beginning for that journey. Someone brings out their guitar when it gets too dim for us to see one another. Music always has a greater brilliance in the dark. You can faintly make out a set of white teeth hiding underneath contented smiles as we all drift away with the music. The summer night lulls us into oblivion as only summer nights can; disconnecting us from our busy lives. Some of us are reminded of summers that were spent playing nothing but baseball. Another is reminded of family vacations lived from tents and forests. Across from me he sits thinking about when his mother took him to the farmer’s market on early Saturday mornings, recalling the way the flowers were so bright in the morning air. I remember watching the fireworks from the window of his second story, the panes wide and arching above the lit up sky. He perched next to me, playing slow soft notes on the trumpet. The summers have become collections to us, too precious to part with. This moment is strung next to so many others on the beads we wear around our necks. The music fades softly into the night, as do our cares and fears. The glasses of wine are once more forgotten somewhere on one of the many book scattered tables. Much like ourselves for this brief moment in time. | | |
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Nothing like a good vacation... | | |
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