Weblog
Sunday, July 20, 2008
-
Currently Reading: When Invisible Children Sing 6902007081520
...the bird on your shoulder...
to catch you when you fall.
you awake the dreams...
that await in my arms.
it's another miracle...
the bird flying high in the sky,
when I'm with you.
-little bird
Today is all that makes me. There is no history - I am what I am today. The girl sitting here...Old Navy gaucho's, A&F summer styled tank, with my silver dark sharp flip cell, sitting at my light silver laptop (Dell), window of YouTube playing me melody's, showing me clips. Materialistically I am all I need to be. I've got money in my debit card, and I can take my Mama out for Spot's Java. I have a couple thousand dollar investment in a costly instrument of a harp, that sits in my room, when I get mid-night inspiration. And another instrument the same sitting next to the family black baby grand - music has created much of me. Two dulcimers, one my own, sit in the corner, and played when I want to have fun without the technical effort I give to other music. Hours have been invested - lesson costs amount to much more than that of either of my harps. There's much more invested into my mind than there is in the instruments. I pass it on - toss the notes back at students, give the gift of music to those walking down wedding isles, for a price costly. My bed is comfortable, and while there are issues with it, my wheels get me where I need to go. Wireless connection makes easy access, and when at work, there's mobile on my cell. Unlimited texting, and gigs of pictures. Two, on that really tiny micro sd chip. Let's see, there are those late nights, after work, after the mall, after youth group, after movies, with sisters or friends spent at Chili's or Starbucks. And Sunday morning coffee with my younger teenage brother. What do I need, that isn't provided?
When I get stressed, I cut the grass...[as if I don't do enough of it when I'm working job #1]...Oh, already this season I have 214 hours on my newest machine. The one I claimed, and have beautified with a right upper wheel decently sized dent - now reversed and operating under my command once more. Vipergoddess. There's authority under my name, and the company number on either door of the truck I drive. The customers recognize me as in-charge, and other crew members know my face. They wave. A lot. There's not a gas station around that the employee's employed don't know me - they do. They know I buy the orange Gatorade. Orginial. Not the A.M, not the Rain, nor the other varities, aways Orange original. Someday we get a $9.99 eight-piece pizza with sweet sauce. They know I order it, and come back to pick it up after cutting another lawn...They are the ones who denied me the purchase of a lighter two years ago, for being seventeen. They know that now I am legal - they know I prefer the company brown uniformed shirt over the orange or red ones. They know I wear hoodies into June, and I've told them how many mph I can make my machines go. They've heard the stories of when I started my machine on fire - for disabling the safety's and running it too hard. I know the construction crews, and which guys have habit to hit on me.
Life is scattered - I have aspects of it that contradict who I am, that create the human I've become. Take today, cause my only history from the moment just after the clock struck 12, for the first sixty seconds this morning. All I know are these moments, all I am I create in this afternoon. Tomorrow I'll wake to mere a day of existence. Not life erased.... But pretend with me here - pretend that today is all there is, today is the start of history, and tomorrow starts your life. Starts life for me... Memories forsaken, experiences renounced, love returned, and reputation of only one day. Today. The history of my parents, my siblings...my family unknown will only be of today. There won't be knowns of births, or airport meeting of my first two adopted sisters...and the trip to Liberia, when my father had to emergency rush home...when I, a minor, customed five other adopted siblings home...and the trip when my last adopted sibling, Jordan, came back with us. That was the trip I met a boy, who's words took my breath away. And the memories of cat fights with my sisters, those are gone - and the silences between parents and myself, and the brokenness of church experiences...and friendships that ended because...of why? And the rainbows, that have shown over my house, and the sunsets that I've seen from the middle of cornfields, and marijuana fields*, and the faerie dancing...that took place the past few years on the golfcourse across the road from me...in the dark, and in the light, in the law-breaking, those are gone too. That's why I'm writing this. For the sake of being reminded? For the feelings of all my life holds? Why? For the mark of history? I'm really not sure, in all honesty.
Empty cans sit around my room. Adrenaline, Rush, Monster, Shark and AMP, Jolt and Nos. There's a glass bottle of VOSS (my mother mistook it as shampoo), and numerous Pepsi's. Caffeine highs have taken rule, as after work hours are spent in thought over my desk, reading, writing - tapping my fingers on desktop...Thinking...Remembering...Desiring...
I want to hear invisible children sing... This I swear, if only to my own. But not only for now.
Okay - today isn't alone. Tomorrow will have more history than today provides.
*green bean field - inside joke
Saturday, June 28, 2008
-
Currently Reading: I Know You Really Love Me: A Psychiatrist's Account of Stalking and Obsessive Love ...iron, casting its coldness. And wind...
There is iron, casting its coldness. And wind...that is felt, yet unseen. Why?
More than desire. There is part of me undiscovered.
In a realm consecrated, omitted visibility, wonderment simplicity, there is a mind. That has, more than once, spoken in malice and soothing tones all in the same flutter of a fraction.
God, tomorrow I want to live now. And yesterday I in my hands all over again. Reverse my days, and set me straight. Hand me my future, erase those regretted lived-out-days. Restless and disturbed I turn from today; in my mind, not in according to the clock. Spin the minute hand counter, hold the hour hand secure. Throw it out the window, watch it fly. Set me to fire, to burn away my apathy. Stomple out the rage of desire, give it back to me when I'm stronger. Give me a perfect world, all I want, all I think I need. When I want them. Find me friends to cry with, when the saddness takes over. Return a smiling figure, when the rainbows are over. Dance with me, when my feet have the grace, and bury me, from my mounds of mistakes. Make me a perfect world, no, wait...Give me a love, send me a heart, trigger at me what you desire...What you want for me, in your perfect timing. Make me surrender. Show me armour, when I'm in my battles. Know I'm alone, know you're my shelter. Undiscovered. Only notes are my mark, yet...they are undiscovered. With a twist and a severe, and the coldness takes over. Controlled by the wind, that moves and I wonder...How does it do that? Where does it go? And I wonder "where am I now?" There's not a here, or there, and there's not a conclusion for my dismay. Not a reason to convulse, but there is more...There's a curiousity, and an unwanted agony. Too much knowing, not enough believing. More heart closing, too little heart with vulnerability. There stands a born reality...God, I am nothing...I am nothing - without you.
Monday, April 28, 2008
-
Currently Reading: In the Belly of the Beast: Letters From Prison In The Belly of the Beast.
Leave me alone. Don't cross my line. Dismiss yourself from my presence. Or I'll screw you... Damning all of me.
- all may be lost, what else coud I expect?
Blame written across the forehead...
Anger scarring the chest...
Regret shaming my hands...
Pain searing nerves,
Pride tangling everything together.
Fallen humanity.
My mirror says all I reject, the feelings I'd set away are brought forth... To see them...and allow feeling back...expressions were lost, but they're back to seeking me out. They want me. Ghosts of my life, worming their way back into everything I disengaged them from. With a heart that wishes it could be reformed into stone, rejection to cold and isolation slander my contradicting thoughts.
This life with emotions...ouch. Involute, ephermeral. As known, death is but a heartbeat away... Life is here now, the other yet to come. I am not afraid, no, not of death, rather it is life that I detest. That [I am have had myself convinced of] hated me.
But what about truth? What about existence of purpose? Don't tell me purpose is beyond, is lost...is unattainable..don't. Don't say that to me, my limp coherency may take it into deeper consideration than it ought, than I have the command of strength strong enough to reason with. Don't tell me purpose is wasted...but if it is true, I need it... Don't tell me that there is more joy than trials, I want that reality, but it isn't mine - what is truth? Don't speak of beauty, when ashes are all that is left of me... Is that true to be said? Which? Neither? Stuck inbetween? That I fear the most, the unknowing standard...the feeling of remaining. Lingering throughout the passing hours, watching the passing turn of the hands on my twelve face, another day cannot pass in this action! Action? My revolting brain scoffs at its' own self. The figment.
Not life...not increasing or dying, but of stagnatisism. Of the feeling of dust choking the air out, slower than necessary, prolonged for reasons of detering breath. Give me something - something flat and black - something full and white, something to recognize for what it is; give me a truth! No, do not give it to me - make me come to it, force it from the wall of longing inside of me. Make me discover it...draw me closer, keep me in pursuit.
Why is it I thirst for the dream of each world?
What is outside of truth? Is that all I know...the distortions? The unrealistics and ideals.
There's more...somewhere, don't ask me to point direction. I'm addlepated with so-spoken reason.
What decipher, to my mangled thoughts? No code, no tab outlet to spread out in front and crack the line behind all this. More than a password, that access could be ready to with hacking - I've done that. Broken locks, hacked accounts, screwed data, accessed lock protected info and places by rules of breaking. Used knives, cards...played with passwords just to prove that I could break in. Just to demonstrate that I could...
The title of a book, that I've captured as the title of what I've claimed here, in the belly of the beast. It is a self written assessment, experience. It is of a man, prisoned for life, the point of debate is not what I wish to address, but the feeling - the entanglement of being in prison - of knowing no outlet - of having time against, as it is all that remains...time of nothingness becomes life. Damned. Chained. Situations deferring, yet there is something similar, something chaining all that I hunger for. Kept in quiet solitude. I'm making an escape - no one may force me back. I'm giving my life for this, forfeiting past, embracing something more.
But now it comes to something vehement. Something nearing desperation. Something I feel hopeless to endorse. Ah, a buck to come against - to do more than prove. I must know. Must know??
Must believe. I'm making an escape.
Monday, March 03, 2008
-
Currently Reading: Some Wildflower in My Heart 6900302081429
The computer starts at the slightest command of my pressing of a button...the screen lights, and everything is before me. Audio accompanies the turn on of my machine. And various media player short-cuts are on my desktop.
Life is too easy.
I just dismissed a book, one that is too heavy for me to read for long periods of time, before my emotions and mental factors require me to stop...tears start to muss up my green eye makeup, and I can't stand it. Well, the green and black tears are of no loss...it is the story that carries me to a hidden part of my own heart that I cannot stand being discovered. My heart stands hidden. No, my heart has been probed, and for a season I even recognized it as the coming of life.
No longer. No longer can I feel the probes - whether they are there or not, that is not for me to say, for there is so much ignorance that haunts what I want to feel.
Can debris be reassembled into beauty?
But what of the debris? It was trucked in, dumped by mass yards in my youth...and the spirit of it all, is buried beneath the ruble. Hidden from everyone, but suffocating what I was...what potential was in me.
The book Some Wildflower in My Heart speaks all alone for me. For what I would say, had I the willpower. If I knew it would not do more damage than what I already have, what I am uncertain that I can reverse under.
"But I seek no pity, there is security in having known the worst"
Perhaps that should become my motto. This I think in a state of mind stalling me out...
Someday, I pray, my wildflower will become all it was meant to be. But in the meantime, pray for me.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
-
6900203080820
It is Sunday morning. Just past eight o' clock. I am out of bed, go figure.
Already been out for coffee with my fourteen year old brother - traditional. Steady and reliable Sunday adventure. And how much more exciting can it be, not only is it an "always" for us; but you have me...the wreck-less driver, under the instructions of my young teenage brother. Every coffee joint within a thirty minute drive has been tried and we've counseled together over the excellence or grounds of each. I forgive Spot - their espresso's addict me. Tim Horton's...well, they work for days like today, when we're out of the house by seven, only to realize in sore disappointment that they (Horton's) is the only place open.
We listen to Toronto radio - not by my choosing, but his. Canadian radio...Canadian ANYTHING - Not cool, not in my book. Maybe their overall drinking age...I mean, hey - I'd be legal in less then two weeks...but, ah, what's the two years?
Yesterday I found myself feeling very sophisticated, it ran a chill down my spine! As I sat at Kleinhans (Music Hall) with near a dozen other harpist and a few spectators and learned from Paris' Emmanuel Ceysson. As he sat down and pulled, with such familiarity, the instrument to his shoulder, I listened to the music knowing it was something my hands, my intellect, couldn't yet bring together...perhaps never?
Devotion.
Respect.
Discipline.
Motivation.
Accomplishing.
Freedom.
Burning.
Concentration.
Anger.
Precision.
Rebellion.
Validation.
Patience.
Acceptance.
Will.
Openness.
Consecration.
Sincerity.
Words with their ever present French accent that seated themselves firmly on a platform in my mind. Won't allow themselves to leave...such inspiration! Such dedication such a musician must devote himself to - but at what cost?
That has been a turmoiling thought of mine. At what cost, what risk will I open myself over to, for what pain, for how much time, for what meaning, for what aftermath, for what cause, for who's well fare? Do I work at any cost for myself? Or do I also work for another...perhaps for others. Yet, could that also be only for my own selfishness? At what cost does a person dedicate him/herself?
If, while it is still a possibility, though it would take everything imaginable possible to bring to actuality, I, as a still learning and tentative player, decided to dedicate my life to the harp, and with the hopes of one day myself going into orchestral performances or perhaps composition, or even therapeutic resolve, at what cost would I devote myself? Would I give every morning, afternoon and evening over to the instrument - to have it on my shoulder, cradled against myself with my fingers searching and burning with its strings...managing the expressions that are such vital aspects...and mastering the run around of fingerings, the exactness in time and key signatures, application of pedal changes and posture, so not to end up wasting half of my life as well as that of a could-be-one-day therapists' life in an office being worked upon, just to be capable of performing necessary amounts. Would I give 4 hours a week to musical training, besides that of intensive, intricate musical mastery training and degree under a professor - ah, it would be like unto working full time with the practice alone at 60 hours a week, while being a full time student...oh, and that wouldn't include orchestra practice or performance.
What I do whatever it took to gain myself the degree and recognization that takes me to the top? For, well - as it appears, that is the life and world of a musician. Being a normal, yet highly educated musician, you piddle when it comes to being recognized, yet you slave to keep it as a hobby...I study under a harpist who has been with the Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra for 52 years now...who has played for 67 years...She is well known in the Buffalo area, been seen at nearly every musical happening at the Hall for fifty two years...yet, that's it - a devotion to the instrument, to the orchestra, and a known name in the surrounding area, but...but...Unlike this master at the harp, Emmanuel, she isn't known universally when it comes to music awards - though she has given her whole life for this one thing...He, at twenty four, is recognized as an accomplished touring performer, and instructor. It is, it has been his complete years.
What, if that did happen to be my passion, would I surrender to become such a musician? Everything, so that only musician I am known for?
No, I love my harps...love being able to cradle my body against their sound boards and lay my right arm against the side and unconsciously life my left away from it; as does every harpist - part of the technique. Like every other harpist, I play and end up with blistered fingertips, more on the side towards my thumb than on the middle, but...I also have the education enough to take even a complicated composition and transfer through my mind, through the hands...and let it, eventually, come through the sound board. But no - I don't have the zeal enough to dedicate my whole life to one set of strings.
I find solace in their differences, but will not, cannot, spend everything, all of me, for them alone.
So then, what will I? Now, and for always devote myself over to?
Not to a job, though I could...though long to do more than what I've ever been able to...I could not give everything either for a career. I would do much for an education beyond what I currently possess, but could I defy all else? Perhaps I could. Easier could I devote myself to a job such as one I desire rather than to give everything for music...but still...
There is more. More to life than hobbies and jobs. More than fantasy and money. 'Tis strange...they're a part of the cooperating life. They add into life...one person, they cannot possess all, can't have everything. What is too much to ask, what is not enough to work for?
I live in extremes. Such is always said of me...and every time I hear it, my teeth clench. Why can't I more invisible to my actions? Am I that transparent? Wait; am I seeing it skewed?
I give everything. I hold back everything. Give it to me, or loss it all. I take it and I give it - but don't play tug of war for long. I will surrender - or I will tear apart all else to get what is on the other side.
What about life? Will I...as presently I have the opportunity, give every breathe of me to pursue till the top of the apparent impossible mountain ahead of me? Will I tumble, and not have the courage to flex what might remain of my strength? How will I know there is, or isn't, strength, unless I hold in my heart the courage and faith to try.
There are things...promises more specifically...that I believe in. That I know to be true...but when they feel far...then, then I don't know if I want to test the last speck of courage inside of me to see if there is strength left. Yet - I must! Sometimes belief in something is stronger than the personal strength a person has inside of their being.
But, without personal strength...without breathe in their own lungs, are they able to believe and attain cooperatively?
I have fallen to not wanting to test the courage; but had to for beliefs sake. Belief...that isn't strong enough sometimes - not without courage to keep on the track. How to restore components that I want with such earnestly! So that, for a lifetime, I may have the courage mingled with strength to walk again.
Can they, I wonder, courage and strength, one of another, compensate for each other as they flail?
I know I do not desire to have a musicians life. Yet I look at the depression Beethoven used to create despite his deafness to compose masterful pieces...can a pain in life lead to something memorable?
Within sight and feeling are my own pains. How easy, how tempting...to feel them, and want to throw them into something...whether it be music, where they can ring out their own mysterious tones that intrigue others; though they cannot possible interpret them - let alone to their fullest. Or...or the want to throw them aside and shove them under the carpet and immerse myself into something consuming...something like unto work, something that would require my concentration and forbid me to work my hurt thoroughly. That leaves...that leaves life. Leaves faith. Remains a relationship with me and my Savior...but will I allow it to be enough? Enough to wait, and to trust. Will I be able to not be in control? The very persons I long to give part of my life to help, I am one of the same. Perhaps I want to give of myself, because of myself I possess an understanding.
We are all the same person that we despise. We as everyone, are what all the other nobody's long to be...yet everyone is made up of nobody's. It is a maddening cycle, that I view...that I am a wheel to.
My paper Tim Horton's coffee cup holds residue from now an hour ago. I've just resided myself to an hour of writing...an hour of concentration on who the world in itself is. I could walk on by today with ignorance to all of the everybody's. I could give myself the perspective that I am stronger, because I know how weak I lie, but nobody else has to know...and if nobody else know, why shouldn't I let them assume I'm who they want to be! How easy...how cowardly.
I am a failure, not to depress myself, but to face honesty. I've held myself closed...I've held cowards in high esteem...I've been deceived, and wallowed in pity.
Today my mountain climb is feeling a vertical straight. Today I squeeze my eyes shut, and I crack my knuckles. Outward cringing to reveal the cringing and pulling back of scabs on my heart.
No, not my heart. It's been surrendered. Defiance. Rebellion formed against my fleshly will.
I will give everything to know who I am, to know what I was purposed for. I will give everything for promises that feel far sometimes...because promises are lifelong, and I cannot resume.
For breaking though it needs, I do have a heart.
- browse entries:
- older »
Chatboard (1)