Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Date A Girl Who Reads
"Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.
She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.
Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries.
If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.
Or better yet, date a girl who writes."
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.
She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.
Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries.
If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.
Or better yet, date a girl who writes."
Saturday, November 6, 2010
The Rhythm of Time
The Rhythm of Time
Bobby Sands
There's an inner thing in every man,
Do you know this thing my friend?
It has withstood the blows of a million years,
And will do so to the end.
It was born when time did not exist,
And it grew up out of life,
It cut down evil's strangling vines,
Like a slashing searing knife.
It lit fires when fires were not,
And burnt the mind of man,
Tempering leandened hearts to steel,
From the time that time began.
It wept by the waters of Babylon,
And when all men were a loss,
It screeched in writhing agony,
And it hung bleeding from the Cross.
It died in Rome by lion and sword,
And in defiant cruel array,
When the deathly word was 'Spartacus'
Along with Appian Way.
It marched with Wat the Tyler's poor,
And frightened lord and king,
And it was emblazoned in their deathly stare,
As e'er a living thing.
It smiled in holy innocence,
Before conquistadors of old,
So meek and tame and unaware,
Of the deathly power of gold.
It burst forth through pitiful Paris streets,
And stormed the old Bastille,
And marched upon the serpent's head,
And crushed it 'neath its heel.
It died in blood on Buffalo Plains,
And starved by moons of rain,
Its heart was buried in Wounded Knee,
But it will come to rise again.
It screamed aloud by Kerry lakes,
As it was knelt upon the ground,
And it died in great defiance,
As they coldly shot it down.
It is found in every light of hope,
It knows no bounds nor space
It has risen in red and black and white,
It is there in every race.
It lies in the hearts of heroes dead,
It screams in tyrants' eyes,
It has reached the peak of mountains high,
It comes searing 'cross the skies.
It lights the dark of this prison cell,
It thunders forth its might,
It is 'the undauntable thought', my friend,
That thought that says 'I'm right! '
Bobby Sands
There's an inner thing in every man,
Do you know this thing my friend?
It has withstood the blows of a million years,
And will do so to the end.
It was born when time did not exist,
And it grew up out of life,
It cut down evil's strangling vines,
Like a slashing searing knife.
It lit fires when fires were not,
And burnt the mind of man,
Tempering leandened hearts to steel,
From the time that time began.
It wept by the waters of Babylon,
And when all men were a loss,
It screeched in writhing agony,
And it hung bleeding from the Cross.
It died in Rome by lion and sword,
And in defiant cruel array,
When the deathly word was 'Spartacus'
Along with Appian Way.
It marched with Wat the Tyler's poor,
And frightened lord and king,
And it was emblazoned in their deathly stare,
As e'er a living thing.
It smiled in holy innocence,
Before conquistadors of old,
So meek and tame and unaware,
Of the deathly power of gold.
It burst forth through pitiful Paris streets,
And stormed the old Bastille,
And marched upon the serpent's head,
And crushed it 'neath its heel.
It died in blood on Buffalo Plains,
And starved by moons of rain,
Its heart was buried in Wounded Knee,
But it will come to rise again.
It screamed aloud by Kerry lakes,
As it was knelt upon the ground,
And it died in great defiance,
As they coldly shot it down.
It is found in every light of hope,
It knows no bounds nor space
It has risen in red and black and white,
It is there in every race.
It lies in the hearts of heroes dead,
It screams in tyrants' eyes,
It has reached the peak of mountains high,
It comes searing 'cross the skies.
It lights the dark of this prison cell,
It thunders forth its might,
It is 'the undauntable thought', my friend,
That thought that says 'I'm right! '
A Spot of Ireland.
So in case you didn't know, part of my last summer was spent in Ireland. It was such an amazing experience and I wanted to share a little of what happened. Here's part of a letter that I wrote back home while I was there:
SO here we are in Ireland. We have this house in a town called Sneem in the South of Ireland. No joke. Sneem. Go ahead. Say it out loud. You'll laugh. We spent the whole way down saying SNEEEEEEEMMMM in really nasally voices out of our open windows of the car. But to get there we had a three hour drive across England. Then a four hour ferry ride. Then a six hour drive again across Ireland. I really could not feel my butt. All of the houses here are really Eastery colored. Like pink and lime green. That's kind of gross. Our house is on this TINY TINY road that our small British car barely fits through and yet there still is a sign there to remind us "No Passing". Our house is gorgeous. It's made of stone and is set on this rivery lake thing. We each get a room to ourselves. I have one of the less cool rooms cause I was being a gentleman and let the others get the good rooms... I figured I'm only sleeping in there right? Our view is a river/lake which is absolutely breathtaking -- complete with swan (Named Waldo. We spend the whole vacation going "Where's Waldo, guys!?") I took loads of pictures with Joshua (my camera). To top it off, a dog from next door who wasn't allowed inside, is constantly there. He's a Collie named Max and he plays fetch and stuff with us.
You can walk into town from our house too. I say town, but really it's a village. It has three stores to buy things in so I find myself just coming back into the same ones with an awkward "Hi, again," thrown at the person behind the counter coupled with an embarrassed smile.
On the way to town I pass a few houses on the small road. One of them has two dogs -- this little devil terrier and this really really old Grey hound that had a few tumors on it. The poor grey hound looks as if it were in prime shape about the time the dinosaurs walked the earth. Like a puff of wind would cause it to shatter and disappear. The terrier looked as if it had human expressions -- and the expression was pissed off. So whenever I pass the house, the grey hound looks mournfully at me through sunken eyes and the devil dog barks ferociously lunging for my neck but only making my upper thigh.
I was walking down town the other day by myself and the devil dog came running up to me screaming its head off. Really annoyed, I was about to aim a well earned kick in its direction when this AMAZINGLY ATTRACTIVE guy comes out of the house and is all, "Good morning! I see you've met Fluffy. He seems to like you. He doesn't usually go up to strangers like that" In this gorgeous Irish accent. I like immediately drop to my knees and start petting the dog. I'm like "Oh. Uh, hi. He's a lovely dog." The dog is practically on my knees and slobbering on me but I just kind of pat him on the head while I talk to this guy. It was pretty much really awkward. Everyone seemed to think it was really cool that I was from the states which was weird but nice I guess. Finally I said I had to go so he kind of smiled and was like okay. I got up to go and the fucking terrier bites my fucking shoe and won't let go. I mean C'MON! Trying to be nice, I was like, "Uh. That's my shoe." The dog growled in agreement. I look at the guy expecting him to help but he's just merrily chuckling at my pain. What the hell? I was being eaten alive by his dog!! Basically I dragged the dog down the street a little before the guy stopped laughing enough to call the devil dog off me. Jesus Christ, man.
But really, everyone is super nice. My dad needed batteries one day for the flashlight, but he only needed two. The guy in the store looked everywhere but the smallest pack he had was a four pack. My dad was like, oh it's okay I'll just get that one. But the man has horrified and was like But you only need two! So he cut the package in half and sold him two for half price.
We toured around Ireland a bit. Our code that we didn't like something was either, "Do you hear thunder?" or "This is crap."
Well, that was a little window into my experience in Ireland. Go and visit there sometime. :) It's amazing.
SO here we are in Ireland. We have this house in a town called Sneem in the South of Ireland. No joke. Sneem. Go ahead. Say it out loud. You'll laugh. We spent the whole way down saying SNEEEEEEEMMMM in really nasally voices out of our open windows of the car. But to get there we had a three hour drive across England. Then a four hour ferry ride. Then a six hour drive again across Ireland. I really could not feel my butt. All of the houses here are really Eastery colored. Like pink and lime green. That's kind of gross. Our house is on this TINY TINY road that our small British car barely fits through and yet there still is a sign there to remind us "No Passing". Our house is gorgeous. It's made of stone and is set on this rivery lake thing. We each get a room to ourselves. I have one of the less cool rooms cause I was being a gentleman and let the others get the good rooms... I figured I'm only sleeping in there right? Our view is a river/lake which is absolutely breathtaking -- complete with swan (Named Waldo. We spend the whole vacation going "Where's Waldo, guys!?") I took loads of pictures with Joshua (my camera). To top it off, a dog from next door who wasn't allowed inside, is constantly there. He's a Collie named Max and he plays fetch and stuff with us.
You can walk into town from our house too. I say town, but really it's a village. It has three stores to buy things in so I find myself just coming back into the same ones with an awkward "Hi, again," thrown at the person behind the counter coupled with an embarrassed smile.
On the way to town I pass a few houses on the small road. One of them has two dogs -- this little devil terrier and this really really old Grey hound that had a few tumors on it. The poor grey hound looks as if it were in prime shape about the time the dinosaurs walked the earth. Like a puff of wind would cause it to shatter and disappear. The terrier looked as if it had human expressions -- and the expression was pissed off. So whenever I pass the house, the grey hound looks mournfully at me through sunken eyes and the devil dog barks ferociously lunging for my neck but only making my upper thigh.
I was walking down town the other day by myself and the devil dog came running up to me screaming its head off. Really annoyed, I was about to aim a well earned kick in its direction when this AMAZINGLY ATTRACTIVE guy comes out of the house and is all, "Good morning! I see you've met Fluffy. He seems to like you. He doesn't usually go up to strangers like that" In this gorgeous Irish accent. I like immediately drop to my knees and start petting the dog. I'm like "Oh. Uh, hi. He's a lovely dog." The dog is practically on my knees and slobbering on me but I just kind of pat him on the head while I talk to this guy. It was pretty much really awkward. Everyone seemed to think it was really cool that I was from the states which was weird but nice I guess. Finally I said I had to go so he kind of smiled and was like okay. I got up to go and the fucking terrier bites my fucking shoe and won't let go. I mean C'MON! Trying to be nice, I was like, "Uh. That's my shoe." The dog growled in agreement. I look at the guy expecting him to help but he's just merrily chuckling at my pain. What the hell? I was being eaten alive by his dog!! Basically I dragged the dog down the street a little before the guy stopped laughing enough to call the devil dog off me. Jesus Christ, man.
But really, everyone is super nice. My dad needed batteries one day for the flashlight, but he only needed two. The guy in the store looked everywhere but the smallest pack he had was a four pack. My dad was like, oh it's okay I'll just get that one. But the man has horrified and was like But you only need two! So he cut the package in half and sold him two for half price.
We toured around Ireland a bit. Our code that we didn't like something was either, "Do you hear thunder?" or "This is crap."
Well, that was a little window into my experience in Ireland. Go and visit there sometime. :) It's amazing.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
That Moment.
There is a moment while riding a horse. As far as I know it is a well known -- as well as well dreaded -- moment for most equestrians. Let me lead you up to it:
You are approaching a jump, the horse drumming out a cool, steady beat below you. You can count the strides: One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four -- and you even hum a song in your head, perhaps to the rhythm of the hoof beats. Your eyes are fix at a point above and beyond the jump, your hands brushing at the whithers as you tighten your grip on the leather reins. You push your heels even further toward the ground speeding away beneath you, stretching your calf muscles longer and longer. The jump comes closer. You want to hold your breath, but practice keeps you breathing steadily in and out through your nose, your mouth curling into the smallest of smiles. Here it comes. The moment that should be the release, the freedom you get when your horse rears back and gracefully clears the obstacle in the way and you are disconnected with the earth, leaving your problems behind in the dust...
But that's not the moment I'm talking about.
The moment I'm talking about occurs exactly at the second when you think the flying will happen, but it doesn't. You press your heels down, throw your hands forward to give the horses head room and begin to lean forward -- but the horse has other ideas.
So as you steed veers suddenly to the left, shying away from some unseen terror, you continue to sail over the jump... alone.
They say you really have never ridden a horse until you fall off. I remember my first fall was on a pony when I swung my leg up a little too enthusiastically to mount and plonked on my butt on the other side of the pony, my eyes wide with surprise. That doesn't really count, I guess. But not all falls are as comical. I've once fallen over the top of my horses neck at a jump, my hands twisted in the reins. I landed on my feet, only to tilt my head back and look to see a frightened rearing horse inches from my face, my trapped hand making sure that I could not move away. I've had so many falls that I can't give you a number, or tell all of the stories.
But I don't believe that is what makes me a rider. It's not the falling off the horse that is important... it's the getting back on.
Now in the "the moment" of falling some very unwanted feelings begin to bubble up under your skin: Anger, fear, betrayal... all of the feelings and instincts that tell you to never get on a horse again. See that, the falling, does not, and never will, make you a rider.
No, it's the moment when you pick yourself up, dust off your jeans, straighten your back and walk over to your unrepentant horse, give her a pat on the shoulder, and hoist yourself back up into the saddle to try again... That's the moment that you officially have ridden a horse.
This is how I try to go through my life. I believe that you have not really lived until you fail at something and then pick yourself up, stick up your chin, and try again.
So go on. Go fail epically at something. It's good for the soul. It's even better when you come back and kick ass at it the second time round.
You are approaching a jump, the horse drumming out a cool, steady beat below you. You can count the strides: One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four -- and you even hum a song in your head, perhaps to the rhythm of the hoof beats. Your eyes are fix at a point above and beyond the jump, your hands brushing at the whithers as you tighten your grip on the leather reins. You push your heels even further toward the ground speeding away beneath you, stretching your calf muscles longer and longer. The jump comes closer. You want to hold your breath, but practice keeps you breathing steadily in and out through your nose, your mouth curling into the smallest of smiles. Here it comes. The moment that should be the release, the freedom you get when your horse rears back and gracefully clears the obstacle in the way and you are disconnected with the earth, leaving your problems behind in the dust...
But that's not the moment I'm talking about.
The moment I'm talking about occurs exactly at the second when you think the flying will happen, but it doesn't. You press your heels down, throw your hands forward to give the horses head room and begin to lean forward -- but the horse has other ideas.
So as you steed veers suddenly to the left, shying away from some unseen terror, you continue to sail over the jump... alone.
They say you really have never ridden a horse until you fall off. I remember my first fall was on a pony when I swung my leg up a little too enthusiastically to mount and plonked on my butt on the other side of the pony, my eyes wide with surprise. That doesn't really count, I guess. But not all falls are as comical. I've once fallen over the top of my horses neck at a jump, my hands twisted in the reins. I landed on my feet, only to tilt my head back and look to see a frightened rearing horse inches from my face, my trapped hand making sure that I could not move away. I've had so many falls that I can't give you a number, or tell all of the stories.
But I don't believe that is what makes me a rider. It's not the falling off the horse that is important... it's the getting back on.
Now in the "the moment" of falling some very unwanted feelings begin to bubble up under your skin: Anger, fear, betrayal... all of the feelings and instincts that tell you to never get on a horse again. See that, the falling, does not, and never will, make you a rider.
No, it's the moment when you pick yourself up, dust off your jeans, straighten your back and walk over to your unrepentant horse, give her a pat on the shoulder, and hoist yourself back up into the saddle to try again... That's the moment that you officially have ridden a horse.
This is how I try to go through my life. I believe that you have not really lived until you fail at something and then pick yourself up, stick up your chin, and try again.
So go on. Go fail epically at something. It's good for the soul. It's even better when you come back and kick ass at it the second time round.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Melody
So, I've been sitting here, staring at the seashells on my desk, and thinking quite passionately about toes ... when it occurred to me.
Woah. Music.
I mean, let me tell you, this was a pretty huge then-it-occurred-to-me moment, cause I managed to completely forget about toes. See, my iTunes is constantly playing in my room. Never is there a moment of silence or emptiness. Whether it is Mozart (yes I have him on my iPod. Don't judge, it makes you smarter.) or alternative or blues or punk or rock ... all different kinds of sounds and notes swirling playfully around my room, squeezing into every crack and corner, caressing every living or nonliving being in reach with its quick invisible hands.
I listen to all different kinds of music. It all depends on what mood I'm in. Sometimes the best choice, though, is a song without any words. Like, for instance, just strings, or piano, or a score from a movie you liked. When you take the lyric out of a piece of music, instead of lessening its value, you only purify it. You force the song to tell its story without the aid of the spoken word. In listening to this kind of music, I have become quite fluent in a language that is unknowingly used in every corner of this world.
And music has been -- and will, no doubt, always be -- a part of every culture ever made. Whether it be crickets chirping, or banging on old trash cans, or a more sophisticated form of instrument used, music has been a means of telling stories in a way that gives the listener no doubt of the meaning and raw emotion this is conveyed through a melody.
I mean even the word 'melody' sounds like a song. Go on. Say it out loud to yourself right now. Gah! I love those words that let your tongue just hug the word before it lays it out before you. It's one of those cool words that looks and sounds like its meaning, like voluptuous. Or guffaw. (Go ahead. Look the words up if you need to.)
My favorite types of instruments are the strings. Oh, there is nothing more gorgeous than a string quartet. They literally make me melt into a puddle of mush inside. The way that they can pull off the note in just one quivering pull of their hand. You know, the note. That one note that just leaves you leaning forward, your heart having skipped a beat and your lungs forgetting to breath. The note that seems to take a warm fuzzy blanket and lay it all around the world and tuck it in safely. I love that note. When that note hits my ear drums it seems like everything in the entire world is suddenly okay.
The instrument that I am most able to utilize however, is my voice. Yes, this does count as an instrument. You must warm up, and cool down. You must practice all the time to keep it in tune. You're whole body is your instrument when you sing. Me? I sing all the time. Not just like, in the shower or when I'm alone in my room holding a hair brush to my mouth like a microphone. No. I sing all the time. Making breakfast, doing the barn chores, riding the horse, doing my hair, waiting for the bus, walking down the street, watching TV.... If I'm not eating, sleeping, reading, talking, or pondering the meaning of life quietly to myself, I'm probably singing. Does it get on peoples nerves? Yeah. I mean, I don't think of myself as an excellent singer. I think that I can carry a note sure, but really above all, I just really enjoy it. Because it means that I can tell a story through a melody too. It brings me as much pleasure as acting. Singing is just another form of acting really.
Anyway. What I really meant to say was, I really enjoy music. Who doesn't right? But just letting it know how much it means to me. Peace Out.
I'm off to listen to Liszt. (Go ahead. Look him up if you need to.)
Woah. Music.
I mean, let me tell you, this was a pretty huge then-it-occurred-to-me moment, cause I managed to completely forget about toes. See, my iTunes is constantly playing in my room. Never is there a moment of silence or emptiness. Whether it is Mozart (yes I have him on my iPod. Don't judge, it makes you smarter.) or alternative or blues or punk or rock ... all different kinds of sounds and notes swirling playfully around my room, squeezing into every crack and corner, caressing every living or nonliving being in reach with its quick invisible hands.
I listen to all different kinds of music. It all depends on what mood I'm in. Sometimes the best choice, though, is a song without any words. Like, for instance, just strings, or piano, or a score from a movie you liked. When you take the lyric out of a piece of music, instead of lessening its value, you only purify it. You force the song to tell its story without the aid of the spoken word. In listening to this kind of music, I have become quite fluent in a language that is unknowingly used in every corner of this world.
And music has been -- and will, no doubt, always be -- a part of every culture ever made. Whether it be crickets chirping, or banging on old trash cans, or a more sophisticated form of instrument used, music has been a means of telling stories in a way that gives the listener no doubt of the meaning and raw emotion this is conveyed through a melody.
I mean even the word 'melody' sounds like a song. Go on. Say it out loud to yourself right now. Gah! I love those words that let your tongue just hug the word before it lays it out before you. It's one of those cool words that looks and sounds like its meaning, like voluptuous. Or guffaw. (Go ahead. Look the words up if you need to.)
My favorite types of instruments are the strings. Oh, there is nothing more gorgeous than a string quartet. They literally make me melt into a puddle of mush inside. The way that they can pull off the note in just one quivering pull of their hand. You know, the note. That one note that just leaves you leaning forward, your heart having skipped a beat and your lungs forgetting to breath. The note that seems to take a warm fuzzy blanket and lay it all around the world and tuck it in safely. I love that note. When that note hits my ear drums it seems like everything in the entire world is suddenly okay.
The instrument that I am most able to utilize however, is my voice. Yes, this does count as an instrument. You must warm up, and cool down. You must practice all the time to keep it in tune. You're whole body is your instrument when you sing. Me? I sing all the time. Not just like, in the shower or when I'm alone in my room holding a hair brush to my mouth like a microphone. No. I sing all the time. Making breakfast, doing the barn chores, riding the horse, doing my hair, waiting for the bus, walking down the street, watching TV.... If I'm not eating, sleeping, reading, talking, or pondering the meaning of life quietly to myself, I'm probably singing. Does it get on peoples nerves? Yeah. I mean, I don't think of myself as an excellent singer. I think that I can carry a note sure, but really above all, I just really enjoy it. Because it means that I can tell a story through a melody too. It brings me as much pleasure as acting. Singing is just another form of acting really.
Anyway. What I really meant to say was, I really enjoy music. Who doesn't right? But just letting it know how much it means to me. Peace Out.
I'm off to listen to Liszt. (Go ahead. Look him up if you need to.)
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
My Future House
Hey! This is me being really bored this summer and creating my future house. That comes from my head. With assistance from Google Images and StumbleUpon
Enjoy!!
Here, below is the house itself. Nice, huh? Very Hobbit-esq. I'm thinking this will take place in either Scotland or Ireland.
The insides of the house look something like this:
Then! We proceed to the basement:
My modest little library. The attic is similar! Looking something like this:
The bathroom is also quite lovely. If you step through some doors here and follow this staircase up:
It takes you to the bathroom:
Cute, small, with rocks. Nice :)
The kitchen is also quite nice:
Oh and who could forget the bedroom!
And then of course the near by village
And last but most certainly not least, the pool!
What? What was that your thinking? Cost? Not important. Money will cease to matter in my future. All of this will simply, uh, appear. Yes. That's right. Hmmm? You think that my real future house will look something like this??
.....
......
I really don't want to talk to you right now.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Ten Rules
Below are the 10 rules for being human.
- You will receive a body. You may like it or hate it, but you're stuck with it for the entire extent of your life. You can change the shape of it, the color of it, but it will, for better or for worse, be yours.
- You will learn lessons. As soon as you let our your first charming wail as you are pushed into this world, you are enrolled in a full-time public school called, "life".
- There are no mistakes, only lessons. Growth is a process of trial and error, of experimentation.
- Lessons are repeated until they are learned. A lesson will show itself in many forms until it is learned. Only then can you move on to the next lesson.
- Learning lessons never ends. There is no part of life that does not have lessons in it. If you are currently breathing, that means that there are still lessons to learn.
- Other people are just mirrors of you. You can't love or hate something about another person unless if reflects to you something you like or don't about yourself.
- What you make of life is up to you. You have all the tools and things you need. The choice of what you do with these tools is up to you.
- All answers lie within you. The answers to all life's questions (42, btw) are all there for you to discover.
- Life is a journey and the little issues that are encountered do not shape the whole picture. Things must always be kept in perspective.
- You will forget all of this.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Books.
Today, like ALL of today, was spent in the barn. Literally 6.5 hours of cleaning out the barn. OH MY GOD. I can't really feel my feet and I have blisters in places that I didn't know existed. Now the whole left side of the barn, the goats paddock, the tack room and all of the water troughs are CLEAN.
I'm slowly figuring out that I have a mild case of OCD. For instance, I cannot do any work if my room is not clean. If I get a new book I need to clean out and rearrange my whole book shelf (Windex included). Today in the barn, I couldn't stop -- like could not stop -- until everything was swept!! I just... like things tidy, is all. And it's not a bad thing! Things are much more organized that way and it's easy to find things... but it can get in the way sometimes....
BUT no fear. My slaving away in the barn was not in vain. Because in payment for my efforts I was rewarded with a gift! Mum got 'Alice' for me. You know, the SyFy version of Alice in Wonderland? It happens to be my new favorite movie. Ever. For the time being anyway.
I went to the library with my sister today and got a hard back book in great shape for a buck. *All Hail Used Book Prices* Another thing about me. I collect books. Like ALL THE TIME. Whenever I pass a book shop I need to buy SOMETHING. Anything really. My sister is opposite. If she sees a book that she likes, she will return home and put it on hold in the library. This saves room and money.
But I don't know... I could never do that. I'm too in love with the books. Not just the story but the actual book. I love the look printed pages, the smell, the broken spine of a loved book. I love having a space just for that book on my shelf. And I love the fact that I can go to countless different worlds without leaving my room. Cheesy and overused line, I know, but seriously, that really is the main attraction for books for me. The more I have, the more escapes I have.
Plus, whenever I open up one of my books, I can remember exactly the place where I first read it, and bought it. I can never have enough books. And everyone of them has a small 'SM' in the cover just so I know which ones are mine and which are my sisters. We have an equal love for books, but just like everything we do, we show our love in different ways.
She's the one that got me into books in the first place. As a kid, I could never figure out why she enjoyed them so much. She was always in her room reading and instead of rock music, she had book tapes blaring out of her speakers at top volume. Being more of an outdoorsy child, I spent more time swinging and singing at the top of my lungs, and playing with my trains outside than reading.
Then one day I decided to see what all the fuss was about. I went to her room and asked for a book (please). She took her time choosing, brushing a book with her finger, looking at me with shrewed eyes, then moving on the the next. I was getting very impatient but I kept that all inside. Finally (finally) she slipped a book out from her book shelf. It was thin, with a huge dragon on the front. She gave it to me, only after making me cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die that nothing, nothing, would ever happen to this book. Ever. I solemnly swore that the book would be taken the utmost care of.
And... I fell in love.
It wasn't a particularly good read. It had a girl, and a dragon, and the dragon turned into a guy in the end and the writing was really so so. But it was the sheer impossibility and wonder of the fantasy that got to me. The whole new world being laid out before me in a labyrinth of letters and words.
I have a very visual mind, and whenever I read a book, it plays out like a movie in my mind. The book I was reading then was no exception. Soon, I became overly obsessed with the Harry Potter series, then more and more books came tumbling into my radar until the person that I am now was flung out on the other side, like in one of those water slides at a park. Now instead of me yelling at my sister to turn down her book tape because it was annoying me, it was because I couldn't hear my own.
I actually could not fall asleep unless I had Jim Dale speaking Harry Potter into my ear (to the distress of my friends at sleepovers). Hell, it was from those countless nights that I listened to Harry Potter that I got all of the vocabulary that I use now.
So it's really thanks to my sister that I have the ever growing library of books and that I'm never caught without one. Thanks to her that whenever someone is looking for a book to read I have at least 4 books on the tip of my toungue. Thanks to her that life sometimes just doesn't live up to my expectations. Thanks to her that I daydream about being in some other world.
So thanks, sister.
....
I'm going to go rearrange my bookshelf.
I'm slowly figuring out that I have a mild case of OCD. For instance, I cannot do any work if my room is not clean. If I get a new book I need to clean out and rearrange my whole book shelf (Windex included). Today in the barn, I couldn't stop -- like could not stop -- until everything was swept!! I just... like things tidy, is all. And it's not a bad thing! Things are much more organized that way and it's easy to find things... but it can get in the way sometimes....
BUT no fear. My slaving away in the barn was not in vain. Because in payment for my efforts I was rewarded with a gift! Mum got 'Alice' for me. You know, the SyFy version of Alice in Wonderland? It happens to be my new favorite movie. Ever. For the time being anyway.
I went to the library with my sister today and got a hard back book in great shape for a buck. *All Hail Used Book Prices* Another thing about me. I collect books. Like ALL THE TIME. Whenever I pass a book shop I need to buy SOMETHING. Anything really. My sister is opposite. If she sees a book that she likes, she will return home and put it on hold in the library. This saves room and money.
But I don't know... I could never do that. I'm too in love with the books. Not just the story but the actual book. I love the look printed pages, the smell, the broken spine of a loved book. I love having a space just for that book on my shelf. And I love the fact that I can go to countless different worlds without leaving my room. Cheesy and overused line, I know, but seriously, that really is the main attraction for books for me. The more I have, the more escapes I have.
Plus, whenever I open up one of my books, I can remember exactly the place where I first read it, and bought it. I can never have enough books. And everyone of them has a small 'SM' in the cover just so I know which ones are mine and which are my sisters. We have an equal love for books, but just like everything we do, we show our love in different ways.
She's the one that got me into books in the first place. As a kid, I could never figure out why she enjoyed them so much. She was always in her room reading and instead of rock music, she had book tapes blaring out of her speakers at top volume. Being more of an outdoorsy child, I spent more time swinging and singing at the top of my lungs, and playing with my trains outside than reading.
Then one day I decided to see what all the fuss was about. I went to her room and asked for a book (please). She took her time choosing, brushing a book with her finger, looking at me with shrewed eyes, then moving on the the next. I was getting very impatient but I kept that all inside. Finally (finally) she slipped a book out from her book shelf. It was thin, with a huge dragon on the front. She gave it to me, only after making me cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die that nothing, nothing, would ever happen to this book. Ever. I solemnly swore that the book would be taken the utmost care of.
And... I fell in love.
It wasn't a particularly good read. It had a girl, and a dragon, and the dragon turned into a guy in the end and the writing was really so so. But it was the sheer impossibility and wonder of the fantasy that got to me. The whole new world being laid out before me in a labyrinth of letters and words.
I have a very visual mind, and whenever I read a book, it plays out like a movie in my mind. The book I was reading then was no exception. Soon, I became overly obsessed with the Harry Potter series, then more and more books came tumbling into my radar until the person that I am now was flung out on the other side, like in one of those water slides at a park. Now instead of me yelling at my sister to turn down her book tape because it was annoying me, it was because I couldn't hear my own.
I actually could not fall asleep unless I had Jim Dale speaking Harry Potter into my ear (to the distress of my friends at sleepovers). Hell, it was from those countless nights that I listened to Harry Potter that I got all of the vocabulary that I use now.
So it's really thanks to my sister that I have the ever growing library of books and that I'm never caught without one. Thanks to her that whenever someone is looking for a book to read I have at least 4 books on the tip of my toungue. Thanks to her that life sometimes just doesn't live up to my expectations. Thanks to her that I daydream about being in some other world.
So thanks, sister.
....
I'm going to go rearrange my bookshelf.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Stories about Toys
Toy Story 3 is definitely one of the best movies I've ever seen EVER. It was SO. GOOD. Those movies never seem to tire me. It totally didn't matter that my family and I were at least 10 years older than the target audience and still were gasping and crying and laughing. Yeah, crying. I don't want to talk about it.
But seriously, us older people have been waiting 11 years for the next Toy Story!! I mean really!
Never will I throw away a toy again.
ps.
There was a commercial for Smurfs *In 3D* and my dad was like, "Hey look guys, Avatar!"
Haha.
Avatar.
Funny.
But seriously, us older people have been waiting 11 years for the next Toy Story!! I mean really!
Never will I throw away a toy again.
ps.
There was a commercial for Smurfs *In 3D* and my dad was like, "Hey look guys, Avatar!"
Haha.
Avatar.
Funny.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Green Grass
At last! Summer has graced us with its presence! After weeks and months of count down, billions of daydreams during tests and lectures, and hundreds of hours procrastinating, it has, at last, arrived. Summer is an amazing time for us students. A time to be looked forward to. A time to enjoy and relax in. A time to see friends and go to the zoo and visit random countries and far away relatives. This is the time that seems to come slower the more you think about it during the school year.
...But then why does it not feel like summer at all right now? Ugh. Weather in this here state simply does NOT like to cooperate. It's kind of ridiculous. I mean, here we are: school is over, the pressure of finals is abruptly lifted, but I still feel like I'm having a three day weekend in March.
It's true that summer represents more than just a lack of school and an abundance of free time. The sun plays a huge part of it. It's funny, though. Whenever it's rainy and cold, I dream about it being sunny. But after a few days of sweltering heat, I'm fed up with the sun and am dying for it to begin raining. It seems the grass truly is greener on the other side of the fence. All you can really do is try to enjoy what you have as much as possible.
For example, I can look out my window and see unhappy clouds and rain and gross icky wetness.
Or...
I can see gorgeous green trees with new, fresh leaves sprouting out a lighter shade than the older ones behind them. I can see the little birdhouse attached to the ancient wood shed as a little bird sticks her little head out for less than a second before flicking back in. I can see Winnifred, the robin who taps furiously on my window in an attempt to kill the devilishly handsome bird that is trying to steal his territory (a.k.a. his reflection.) I see a sky that is soft and forgiving. I can see the rain, falling not as a punishment, but as a blessing. Cleaning the air of all the pollutants that our darling species has kindly spread around our earth.
If the grass is greener on the other side of the fence, it must be because it rains a lot on the other side. I mean, if it was always sunny on the other side, the grass would definitely be brown and gross and, well, dead.
So chew on this for a while. Just know that as you are longingly staring over that imaginary white picket fence that separates you from what you desire, someone is looking right back over that fence at your side.
Hey. Since it's raining all the time over here, maybe I'm on the side with the greener grass. Grass needs rain to be green. Just like in order to be truly happy, you gotta have the unhappiness bundled along in that package. Without the sadness, how do you know what happiness is? Sorry. Random tangent.
I'm going to go roll around in my green grass and then take down a picket fence. Who needs it anyway.
Happy summer
...But then why does it not feel like summer at all right now? Ugh. Weather in this here state simply does NOT like to cooperate. It's kind of ridiculous. I mean, here we are: school is over, the pressure of finals is abruptly lifted, but I still feel like I'm having a three day weekend in March.
It's true that summer represents more than just a lack of school and an abundance of free time. The sun plays a huge part of it. It's funny, though. Whenever it's rainy and cold, I dream about it being sunny. But after a few days of sweltering heat, I'm fed up with the sun and am dying for it to begin raining. It seems the grass truly is greener on the other side of the fence. All you can really do is try to enjoy what you have as much as possible.
For example, I can look out my window and see unhappy clouds and rain and gross icky wetness.
Or...
I can see gorgeous green trees with new, fresh leaves sprouting out a lighter shade than the older ones behind them. I can see the little birdhouse attached to the ancient wood shed as a little bird sticks her little head out for less than a second before flicking back in. I can see Winnifred, the robin who taps furiously on my window in an attempt to kill the devilishly handsome bird that is trying to steal his territory (a.k.a. his reflection.) I see a sky that is soft and forgiving. I can see the rain, falling not as a punishment, but as a blessing. Cleaning the air of all the pollutants that our darling species has kindly spread around our earth.
If the grass is greener on the other side of the fence, it must be because it rains a lot on the other side. I mean, if it was always sunny on the other side, the grass would definitely be brown and gross and, well, dead.
So chew on this for a while. Just know that as you are longingly staring over that imaginary white picket fence that separates you from what you desire, someone is looking right back over that fence at your side.
Hey. Since it's raining all the time over here, maybe I'm on the side with the greener grass. Grass needs rain to be green. Just like in order to be truly happy, you gotta have the unhappiness bundled along in that package. Without the sadness, how do you know what happiness is? Sorry. Random tangent.
I'm going to go roll around in my green grass and then take down a picket fence. Who needs it anyway.
Happy summer
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Ode To A Book
A forgotten treasure
In an abandoned corner.
Tucked away.
Hidden.
I brush dust away
And reach forward
Until my hand finally rests
On smooth satin
Liquid and solid
At the same time
Like a stone beat
By a roaring river,
It’s beauty only increases as
It gets battered
By the harsh hands of time.
A faded worn red
Rests calmly in my hands.
The cover obediently opens
And the flawless scent,
The perfume of books
Around the world,
Fills my senses.
Untouched dusty pages
Resolutely hold
Their purpose,
Refusing to let it
Fade with time.
As I turn the first page
A whisper snakes it’s way
Through the dust
To reach my ear.
I bend closer
To hear this unheard story.
Like a lonely old man
Searching for a friendly ear,
The book I hold so carefully
Reveals to me a tale
As only books can do.
The words weave
A colorful world
Swirling around me.
I sink,
Falling into the familiar
Excitement of the
Unknown
In an abandoned corner.
Tucked away.
Hidden.
I brush dust away
And reach forward
Until my hand finally rests
On smooth satin
Liquid and solid
At the same time
Like a stone beat
By a roaring river,
It’s beauty only increases as
It gets battered
By the harsh hands of time.
A faded worn red
Rests calmly in my hands.
The cover obediently opens
And the flawless scent,
The perfume of books
Around the world,
Fills my senses.
Untouched dusty pages
Resolutely hold
Their purpose,
Refusing to let it
Fade with time.
As I turn the first page
A whisper snakes it’s way
Through the dust
To reach my ear.
I bend closer
To hear this unheard story.
Like a lonely old man
Searching for a friendly ear,
The book I hold so carefully
Reveals to me a tale
As only books can do.
The words weave
A colorful world
Swirling around me.
I sink,
Falling into the familiar
Excitement of the
Unknown
Saturday, June 5, 2010
I, too, sing America
I am the student.
The bright eyed observer.
My eyes reflect
The future generation.
I walk down halls, streets,
A rhythm to my stride.
Restless eyes wandering.
Seeing the roads
Others have taken.
Watching for ways
To improve my own.
Tomorrow,
My stride slows and shortens
Wrinkles line my face,
Mapping out past smiles and tears.
But my eyes are unchanged.
I still remain the student,
My eyes reflecting
The future generation.
I, too, am America.
I am the student.
The bright eyed observer.
My eyes reflect
The future generation.
I walk down halls, streets,
A rhythm to my stride.
Restless eyes wandering.
Seeing the roads
Others have taken.
Watching for ways
To improve my own.
Tomorrow,
My stride slows and shortens
Wrinkles line my face,
Mapping out past smiles and tears.
But my eyes are unchanged.
I still remain the student,
My eyes reflecting
The future generation.
I, too, am America.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Cookie Story
I was on StumbleUpon and I came across this... enjoy
A young lady was waiting for her flight in a boarding room of a big airport.
As she should need to wait many hours, she decided to buy a book to spend her time. She also bought a pack of cookies.
She sat down in an armchair, in the VIP room of the airport, to rest and read in peace.
Beside the armchair where the packet of cookies lay, a man sat down in the next seat, opened his magazine and started reading.
When she took out the first cookie, the man took one also.
She felt irritated but said nothing.
She just thought, "What the nerve! If I was in the mood, I would punch him for daring!"
For each cookie she took, the man took one too...
This was infuriating her but she didn't want to cause a scene.
When only one cookie remained, she thought:
"Ah... what this abusive man do now?"
Then, the man taking the last cookie, divided it into half, giving her one half.
Ah! That's too much!
She was too much angry now!
In a huff, she took her book, her things and stormed to the boarding place.
When she sat down in her seat inside the plane, she looked into her purse to take her eyeglasses... and to her surprise... her packet of cookies was there, untouched... unopened!
She felt so ashamed!!!
She realized that she was wrong...
She forgotten that her cookies were kept in her purse.
The man had divided his cookies with her, without feeling angered or bitter...
while she had been very angry, thinking that she was dividing his cookies with him.
And now, there are no chance to explain or apologize...
***
THERE ARE FOUR THINGS THAT YOU CANNOT RECOVER:
The stone... after the throw.
The word... after it's said.
The occasion... after the loss.
The time... after its gone.
A young lady was waiting for her flight in a boarding room of a big airport.
As she should need to wait many hours, she decided to buy a book to spend her time. She also bought a pack of cookies.
She sat down in an armchair, in the VIP room of the airport, to rest and read in peace.
Beside the armchair where the packet of cookies lay, a man sat down in the next seat, opened his magazine and started reading.
When she took out the first cookie, the man took one also.
She felt irritated but said nothing.
She just thought, "What the nerve! If I was in the mood, I would punch him for daring!"
For each cookie she took, the man took one too...
This was infuriating her but she didn't want to cause a scene.
When only one cookie remained, she thought:
"Ah... what this abusive man do now?"
Then, the man taking the last cookie, divided it into half, giving her one half.
Ah! That's too much!
She was too much angry now!
In a huff, she took her book, her things and stormed to the boarding place.
When she sat down in her seat inside the plane, she looked into her purse to take her eyeglasses... and to her surprise... her packet of cookies was there, untouched... unopened!
She felt so ashamed!!!
She realized that she was wrong...
She forgotten that her cookies were kept in her purse.
The man had divided his cookies with her, without feeling angered or bitter...
while she had been very angry, thinking that she was dividing his cookies with him.
And now, there are no chance to explain or apologize...
***
THERE ARE FOUR THINGS THAT YOU CANNOT RECOVER:
The stone... after the throw.
The word... after it's said.
The occasion... after the loss.
The time... after its gone.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Night: A Found Poem
Hey! So I found this old poem from Freshman year... consequently it happens to be a Found Poem that I found. Haha. It's from Elie Weisel's Night. I read it and it's really not half bad... here you go:
Night: A loss of faith
Sophia Mirashrafi
Three gallows
Three black crows
Three victims in chains
One of them a young boy
The little servant
The sad-eyed angel
Sentenced to death
A merciless selection
A young boy in front of thousands
All eyes on the child
Lividly pale, almost calm
Gallows throw its shadow over him
The child is silent
Where is God?
Total silence.
Chairs tip over
We are weeping
Where is God?
Sun is setting
Struggling between life and death
Where is God?
Dying in slow agony
Where is God?
His tongue red
His eyes not yet glazed
Where is God?
He is hanging on the gallows
That night the soup tasted of corpses
Night: A loss of faith
Sophia Mirashrafi
Three gallows
Three black crows
Three victims in chains
One of them a young boy
The little servant
The sad-eyed angel
Sentenced to death
A merciless selection
A young boy in front of thousands
All eyes on the child
Lividly pale, almost calm
Gallows throw its shadow over him
The child is silent
Where is God?
Total silence.
Chairs tip over
We are weeping
Where is God?
Sun is setting
Struggling between life and death
Where is God?
Dying in slow agony
Where is God?
His tongue red
His eyes not yet glazed
Where is God?
He is hanging on the gallows
That night the soup tasted of corpses
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Pet Peeves
Hey sooo new background! Yay. Trees were cool but it was all so very green.
To counter my last list, I've decided to share the things that absolutely just get on my nerves. You know, like pet peeves. Why they are called this I have no idea. Never made sense to me. Some people tend to say that EVERYTHING gets on their nerves. And that can't be true! Not everything is bad. I mean, I'm not perfect. Far from it. There are somethings that, I don't know, just get under my skin. Let's list 25 shall we, to balance the happy things.
They are as follows:
Any more pet peeves? Let me know
To counter my last list, I've decided to share the things that absolutely just get on my nerves. You know, like pet peeves. Why they are called this I have no idea. Never made sense to me. Some people tend to say that EVERYTHING gets on their nerves. And that can't be true! Not everything is bad. I mean, I'm not perfect. Far from it. There are somethings that, I don't know, just get under my skin. Let's list 25 shall we, to balance the happy things.
They are as follows:
- Old movies when the driver never looks at the road.
- Condescending people
- When strangers touch you in a friendly way
- When people chew gum with their mouth open
- Facial twitches
- People picking their nose when they think no one's looking... but you are...
- PDA
- People who answer the phone with a color (i.e. "Yellow?")
- People who abbreviate words that should not be abbreviated (i.e. legit, fab, disgust)
- Facial Piercings.
- Body piercings
- Really loud high laughs
- Yapper dogs
- Monkeys
- People cheating off my test when they think I'm not looking
- Laziness
- Large people who walk slowly in the middle of the pavement.
- People who pronounce vehicle, VEE-HICKLE, or MOTOR-SICKLE
- Bigots
- Miley Cyrus
- Butterflies
- Windshield wipers
- People that don't understand the meaning of "personal space"
- Hypocrites
- People that complain about their pet peeves.
Any more pet peeves? Let me know
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