MarlalaLynn's Xanga

Tuesday, October 02, 2007

Tue, 02 Oct 2007 12:53:09 GMT

I cried for the world today, she said.

(it's really weird when you get that feeling of thinking about the whole world at one time, yet each individual too.)

& they both decided that each person was full of unfathomable humanity

I never killed anybody and I never developed an intense level of hatred for the the enemy. Because my war ended before I ever put on a uniform; I was on active duty all my time at school; I killed my enemy there.
Only Phineas never was afraid, only Phineas never hated anyone. Other people experienced this fearful shock somewhere, this sighting of the enemy, and so began an obsessive labor of defense, began to parry the menace they saw facing them by developing a particular frame of mind,
'You see,' their behavior toward everything and everyone proclaimed,
'I am a humble ant, I am nothing, I am not worthy of this menace,'
or else, like Mr. Ludsbury,
'How dare this threaten me, I am much to good for this sort of handling, I shall rise above this,'
or else, like Quackenbush, strike out at it always and everywhere, or else, like Brinker develop a careless general resentment against it, or else, like Leper, emerge from a protective cloud of vagueness only to meet it, the horror, face to face, just as he had always feared, and so give up the struggle absolutely.
All of them, all except Phineas, constructed at infinite cost to themselves these Maginot Lines against the enemy they thought they saw across the frontier, this enemy who never attacked that way- if he ever attacked at all; if he was indeed the enemy.

I think the enemy is our own nature- the dark part of it- that's what we're all scared of.
That's what we have to fight against.
I think that's the reason why the world should be wept over.

(most people don't consider either their own internal enemy or the world at large)

"They don't want to think.

They want to do and be
instead of understand and become."

The most frequent impediment to men's turning the mind inward upon themselves
is that they are afraid of what they shall find there.
There is an aching hollowness in the bosom, a dark cold speck at the heart,
an obscure and boding sense of something that must be kept out of sight of the conscience;
some secret lodger, whom they can neither resolve to reject not retain.

And how empty you went through the world
like a wheat-colored jar
without air, without sound, without substance!

but, my words like silent raindrops

F
    E
        L
            L

Sunday, September 30, 2007

Sun, 30 Sep 2007 23:28:27 GMT

God made her heart like a rose shaped bowl,
and rain was his ink to write her soul.
Is that why she's so solemn?
Her soul turns right and left- tries to find
should she stay here, or go lose her mind
Is this where that look came from?

Her mind runs barefoot through a garden of thoughts
it's often caught but never lost.
    Is that why she can't know them?
Her body rages; the storm will pass
waiting for heart and mind and soul to grasp...
and so she flings her head
she runs and falls, and finds her bed.

The disaster of concession.
             BUT
She will not stay here forever
her heart will turn to laughter
her soul won't wait till after
her mind will race on faster
and she will be there singing
sing the sounds of rushing water

    La
La
       La
             (Listen to my whisper)
             If you close your eyes:
               You can see her.

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

Wed, 05 Sep 2007 13:11:31 GMT

Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.

What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been

Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.

But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.

Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.

There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.

There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool

Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.

Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.

Tuesday, July 03, 2007

Tue, 03 Jul 2007 21:24:27 GMT

Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man

I've begun to learn that you can listen to silence and learn from it. It has a quality and a dimension all its own. It talks to me sometimes. I feel myself alive in it. It talks. And I can hear it.

You have to want to listen to it, and then you can hear it. It has a strange, beautiful texture. It doesn't always talk. Sometimes- sometimes it cries, and you can hear the pain of the world in it. It hurts to listen to it then. But you have to.

You'd notice that there seemed to be some heavenly support beneath his shoulder blades that lifted his feet from the ground in ecstatic suspension, as if he secretly enjoyed the ability to fly but was walking as a compromise to convention.

A spider had spun a web across the corner of the upper rail, and there was a housefly trapped in it now, its wings spread-eagled, glued to the strands of web, its legs flaying the air frantically. I saw its black body arching wildly, and then it managed to get its wings free, and there was the buzzing sound again as the wings struggled to free the body to which they were attached. Then the wings were trapped again by the filmy, almost invisible strands of the web, and the black legs kicked the air. I saw the spider, a small, gray, furry-looking spider, with long, wispy legs and black eyes, move across the web toward the fly. I rose from the chair and went over to the web. The fly's tiny black legs flayed the air fiercely, then its wings were free again, buzzing noisily, but its body remained glued fast. I bent and blew hard against the web. It swayed, but remained intact. I blew again, harder now, and the strands seemed suddenly to melt. The fly fell on its back to the wooden floor of the porch, righted itself, then flew off, buzzing loudly. The spider tumbled from the broken web, hung by a single strand a few inches above the floor, then swiftly climbed the strand, scrambled across the top front rail of the porch, and disappeared. I went back to the lounged chair, sat down, and continued to stare at the sunlight on the ailanthus.

It was one of those "five happy things" a day desk calendars; full of sundry lists that bespoke of carb-laden, cliche` joys: hot french bread, clothes fresh out of the dryer, raindrops on roses, your favourite song on the radio, and bubble baths. That sort of stuff. Only it wasn't on the right page. Todays isn't the seventh. I guess he just needed to borrow a couple tomorrows worth of happinesses to get through today.

As you grow older you will discover that the most important things that will happen to you will often come as a result of silly things, as you call them- 'ordinary things' is a better expression. That is the way the world is.

In the Jingle Jangle Morning I'll come following you.

Saturday, June 30, 2007

Sat, 30 Jun 2007 12:29:19 GMT

You
Bcm

It takes a l o n g time.

That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily,
or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully
Kp .

Generally, by the time you are real, most of your hair has been
loved off, and your eyes drop out, and you get loose in the
joints and very shabby.
But these things don't matter at all, because once you are
a

you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.

Monday, June 25, 2007

Mon, 25 Jun 2007 12:02:50 GMT

I have closed my book of fading harmonies,
(The shadows fell across me in the park)
And my soul was sad with violins and trees,
And I was sick for dark,
When suddenly it hastened by me, bringing
Thousands of lights, a haunting breeze,
And a night of streets and singing . . . .

Faint violins where lovely ladies dine,
The brushing of skirts, the voices of the night
And all the lure of friendly eyes . . . . Ah there
We'll drift like summer sounds upon the summer air . . . .

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Thu, 21 Jun 2007 11:43:06 GMT

Feels like some kind of ride,
but it's turning out to be just life.
Going absolutely perfectly.

In those days, we finally chose to walk like giants
& hold the world in arms grown strong with love
& there may be many things we forget
in the days to come
but this will not be one of them

I've always thought I was taller than I looked, she said.
But that belief is not without difficulties.

In my dream, the angel shrugged & said,

If we fail this time, it will be a failure of

i m a g i n a t i o n

& and then she gently placed the world in the palm of my hand

I spent a long time trying to find my center
Until I looked closely one night & found
it had wheels
& moved easily in the slightest breeze,
So now I spend less time sitting
and more time sailing

She left pieces of her life behind her everywhere she went.
It's easier to feel the sunlight without them, she said.

She said she usually cried at least once a day
not because she was sad,
But because the world was so beautiful
and life was so short.

Victory would go to whoever was the strongest in body & heart.
This was the only conflict he had ever believed in.

[it's all happening]

I told you I was on the cusp of something, didn't I? I mean, I didn't know quite what sort of thing it was, but I just knew that stuff was about to happen.
And it has.

These past two weeks are going to go down on the record as my best week(s) ever. And, since I'm still in utter disbelief that all of this is happening to... me. I feel the need to make a list of all the cool stuff:

A 2007 1st place Lincoln Douglas Debate trophy displayed quite proudly, albeit un-aesthetically, on my bookcase.
A ticket stub from a Yankees vs. Rockies game sitting on my dresser.
Avril making a song that I actually love. It's pretty, and sad, and sweet (and it's in my header, so take a listen). I'm proud of that girl.
The best secret ever.
Getting a call from the American Red Cross asking me to start training Ambassadors for them (because I guess they like the way I do it, or something).
Finding a letter from the Brighton Municipal Court asking me to participate in a Teen Court Demonstration for the Kiwanis Club.
Shakespeare play tonight with my mom.
A bazillion emails and wall-posts that made me smile.
Three good hair days in a row.
My sister teaching me how to say "bye" in french. They pronounce it ByEEEEE. You can't say that without grinning.
There have been lots of miller moths flying around, but not a single one has ended up in my room.
Bonnie (my supervisor at the Hospital) getting me a 5 dollar gift card for coffee. Just because she thinks I'm all that.
CFC Summer-plans.
A big, blue van.
Deb loaning me her ipod for all of nationals.

(Oh, world! I cannot hold thee close enough)

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Tue, 19 Jun 2007 22:02:06 GMT

Once there was a big sister and a little sister.

The big sister always took care.

Even when she was jumping rope, she took care that her little sister stayed on the sidewalk.

When she roade her bike, she gave her little sister a ride.

When she was walking to school, she took the little sister's hand and helped her cross the street.

When they were playing in the fields, she made sure little sister didn't get lost.

When they were sewing, she made sure little sister's needle was threaded
and that little sister held the scissors the right way.

Big sister took care of everything, and little sister thought there was nothing that big sister couldn't do.

Little sister would sometimes cry, but big sister always made her stop.
First she'd put her arm around her, then she'd hold out her handkerchief and say
"Here, blow"

Big sister knew everything.
"Don't do it like that," She'd say

"Do it this way."

And little sister did.

... From that day on little sister and big sister both took care of each other,
because little sister had learned from big sister
and now they both knew how.

("we're like... equals, now!")

Friday, June 01, 2007

Fri, 01 Jun 2007 01:51:53 GMT

All the people there were intensely real, wildly alive
and totally meaningful, and I alone was in a dream,
a figment which had never really touched anything.
I felt that I was not, never had been, and never
would be a living part of this overpoweringly solid
and deeply meaningful world around me.

The old phrase about "if these walls could only speak" occurred to me
and I felt it more deeply than anyone has ever felt it, I felt that the stadium
could not only speak, but that its words could hold me spellbound. In fact,
the stadium did speak powerfully and at all times, including this moment.
But I could not hear, and that was because I did not exist.

I feel as though I am on the cusp of something...
"cusp"
seemed like such a perfect word, but I just googled it,
and what appears to be its most popular meaning is:
"Pointed or rounded eminence on or near the masticating surface of a tooth."

Not quite the idea I was going for, to say the least. Anyway, what I'm
trying to say is that I'm starting to feel like things will be coming together
in a very big sort of way. You know how sometimes you can see all the
little things in your life mushing together into something harmonious? Well,
I can see it, and (oh, man) it's pretty cool looking. I want to give all of it
one great big shove so that it hurries up and becomes something, but so far
I haven't.
Or can't.
Or don't know how.

To be terribly frank, I am currently a mess. This includes my: room, desk,
bathroom counter, debate notebook, apologetics box, sock drawer,
scheduling, school, and most significantly- my brain. Yes, it's sort of cluttered.
I keep thinking about the the crucible and John Proctor letting himself die to
save some sort of honor, but thinking that Arthur Miller didn't really know how
to tell the story, because he didn't even know what sin is, really. And, I keep
thinking about Jim, Laura, Amanda, and Tom and how they all wanted to be like
the unicorn in the menagerie, but all of their dreams shattered like the glass horn,
turning them into ordinary horses. And, then there's Finny and Gene, and how
they didn't want to grow up so they lost thier identities, and they fell.
(so, so hard.)

But, that's just my literary-inner-contemplations. I also have big-world-ideas
which are sort of turning into actions. Like the two Red Cross presentations I have
coming up. And, the application I sent to the Junior Miss America Pageant people.
And, how my speeches are turning out to be sort of cool, and my debate cases and
I are in utter agreement.

There are still so many little details I have yet to pull through. There's so much to
practice and think about, but I feel like people just want me to go. Jump in. Do it!
But, Marla is not ready. Really, ask before you want her to just "be"
Normally, I feel like nationals is this far, far away thing that never comes fast enough.
Now, I just want it to go away. Give me more time. If only I had more time for
everything. Then, I could be spectacular (you would be amazed, I promise). More
time to memorize things and learn more. More time to become nice, and to love
God properly. More time to become old, and mature, and pretty, and good.
Oh!
Why does everyone want things now. I'm not ready yet. Not at all.
I am not yet capable of just "becoming."

But, then again, I suppose I never will be ready [or, (feel) ready].
so, this is one of those many times when Marla needs to step back,
sit down, and say "okay. I can't. Take it, and do something grand."
Backing down is hard, though. I don't think I will ever learn how to
properly, and initially do it. So, I guess I will have to make myself
over and over again choose to do it. Choose to let Him have it.
[even if I want to do it all myself](I really, really do)

To make a mountain of you life, is just a choice.

ever feel alive?

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Wed, 23 May 2007 15:40:34 GMT

Everyone has a moment in history which belongs particularly to him.
It is the moment when his emotions achieve their most powerful
sway over him, and afterward when you say to this person
"the world today" or
"life" or
"reality"
he will assume you mean this moment, even if it is 50 years past.
The world, through his unleashed emotions, imprinted upon him,
and he carries the stamp of that passing moment forever.

(I should have told you then that you were my best friend also,
and rounded off what you had said.
But something held me back.
Perhaps I was stopped by that level of feeling,
deeper than thought, which contains truth.)