story ideas:
two girls (with naive friend) who discover map on dog's skin after shaving him.
girl who drops a shirt in nyc, leaves, then goes back to nyc and discovers different girl wearing shirt.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
suffocation. deprecation.
writer's block and i have a symbiotic relationship. i blame it for all my inspirational failures, and it suckers the artist's life out of me...
in all seriousness, i'm experiencing a severe shortage of creativity. any attempt at artistic creation devolves into a long tirade of incoherent jibber jabber, and i'm left with an increasingly mind-numbing sense of incompetency and the visual image of an overflowing garbage can in my head.
one journalist's woe is that she must sever her sentences.
truncate her expressions.
be blunt.
sacrifice all linguistic creativity for the sake of editorial clarity.
and so. i declare a rebellion, against all rational minds; against all short-spanned attention; against dull. i want to break out of my shell and emerge as a snake, slithering and sliding over syntax and sentences and similes and symbols. like a snake, i write long and convoluted sentences as long and as convoluted as i want, like a snake. i want to entrance man mature enough to make light of my metaphors - a humbert humbert for my juvenile literary explorations.
and i declare a declaration of all emotions, of all fleeting sensations, of all lasting memories of feelings.
i live to feel my sensations.
i am not a strategist nor an analyst... nor am i a consultant or a banker...
i am a writer.
oh expresser of feelings and intuitions and foreboding... that thou art such an emotional wreck.
it is the heartless that cannot comprehend oh what auras i sense of being, of identifying, of grasping what is life.
it is the ruthless that would truncate that comprehension.
if ye be shortsighted, or cruel, i care thee not.
just leave me be.
in all seriousness, i'm experiencing a severe shortage of creativity. any attempt at artistic creation devolves into a long tirade of incoherent jibber jabber, and i'm left with an increasingly mind-numbing sense of incompetency and the visual image of an overflowing garbage can in my head.
one journalist's woe is that she must sever her sentences.
truncate her expressions.
be blunt.
sacrifice all linguistic creativity for the sake of editorial clarity.
and so. i declare a rebellion, against all rational minds; against all short-spanned attention; against dull. i want to break out of my shell and emerge as a snake, slithering and sliding over syntax and sentences and similes and symbols. like a snake, i write long and convoluted sentences as long and as convoluted as i want, like a snake. i want to entrance man mature enough to make light of my metaphors - a humbert humbert for my juvenile literary explorations.
and i declare a declaration of all emotions, of all fleeting sensations, of all lasting memories of feelings.
i live to feel my sensations.
i am not a strategist nor an analyst... nor am i a consultant or a banker...
i am a writer.
oh expresser of feelings and intuitions and foreboding... that thou art such an emotional wreck.
it is the heartless that cannot comprehend oh what auras i sense of being, of identifying, of grasping what is life.
it is the ruthless that would truncate that comprehension.
if ye be shortsighted, or cruel, i care thee not.
just leave me be.
wine.
today, i drank a bottle of wine
not just a few sips, or a few glassfuls, but an entire bottle.
... and yet with each and each sip, i felt more and more desolate, hopeless, and alone.
am i not worth more than a puff of smoke? a fleeting temptation? am i not worth giving up one, simple moment of glory for?
am i so worthless that i am not worth a life?
i'd like to think that underneath my wine and my complain and my bicker, is a lonely soul that wishes to love.
the one to love, is the one that wills change.
so far. so lost.
not just a few sips, or a few glassfuls, but an entire bottle.
... and yet with each and each sip, i felt more and more desolate, hopeless, and alone.
am i not worth more than a puff of smoke? a fleeting temptation? am i not worth giving up one, simple moment of glory for?
am i so worthless that i am not worth a life?
i'd like to think that underneath my wine and my complain and my bicker, is a lonely soul that wishes to love.
the one to love, is the one that wills change.
so far. so lost.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
flotation.
i've always loved swimming - loved the mystical wonder of water as it caressed my body.
i learned two things about rescuing a fellow swimmer.
one was that you should always keep your eyes open.
when i was in 6th grade, my swimming instructor told me a story about a boy he had saved from the clutches of death. the boy, who had had full training on how to swim, had apparently fallen into a lake. confident that he could save himself, the boy began to paddle and stroke and kick as hard as he could.
to the bottom of the lake.
you see, he had squeezed his eyes shut so that not only could he not tell where he was in the water, but also that he was swimming away from the surface.
my instructor finally found him, banging his hands against the lake floor like a fish in a glass bowl.
the other thing i learned was that you should never try to save someone who is drowning - with your own self.
i heard a story about a teenage girl who jumped into water to save her toddler sister. the little girl had been thrashing about, trying her best to stay afloat - to no avail. so with no hesitation, the older sister jumped in and swam over to her dear sibling.
now the little girl was probably, what, half her older sister's size, if not less. but to the older girl's great surprise, she found herself being quickly pulled under by the frantic, panicked little girl, until both older and younger sister nearly drowned together, had not other help arrived.
so, my conclusion is: never jump in with someone in distress, because they'll pull YOU under.
i learned two things about rescuing a fellow swimmer.
one was that you should always keep your eyes open.
when i was in 6th grade, my swimming instructor told me a story about a boy he had saved from the clutches of death. the boy, who had had full training on how to swim, had apparently fallen into a lake. confident that he could save himself, the boy began to paddle and stroke and kick as hard as he could.
to the bottom of the lake.
you see, he had squeezed his eyes shut so that not only could he not tell where he was in the water, but also that he was swimming away from the surface.
my instructor finally found him, banging his hands against the lake floor like a fish in a glass bowl.
the other thing i learned was that you should never try to save someone who is drowning - with your own self.
i heard a story about a teenage girl who jumped into water to save her toddler sister. the little girl had been thrashing about, trying her best to stay afloat - to no avail. so with no hesitation, the older sister jumped in and swam over to her dear sibling.
now the little girl was probably, what, half her older sister's size, if not less. but to the older girl's great surprise, she found herself being quickly pulled under by the frantic, panicked little girl, until both older and younger sister nearly drowned together, had not other help arrived.
so, my conclusion is: never jump in with someone in distress, because they'll pull YOU under.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
numb.
him: we're gonna be ok no matter what.
it's ironic that i'm seeing much of blue skies lately.
there was a time in our relationship when consistently sunny prospects would suddenly turn dark and grey whenever he and i argued. and then rain would fall from the sky, splattering on my cheeks where my tears wouldn't flow.
(was i amazingly unemotional then, or looking on like a mechanical gadget, a displaced heart?)
but now when we exchange words and gestures of hatred, i gaze through muddled blurs to see only sunny dispositions and azure canvases strewn about me.
(am i taught humility? imparted wisdom? acquainted with loss? or simply indolent... unwilling to express pain except through the devices of capricious clime.
...even i, the miscomprehended, do not take my own words to heart.)
first heartbreak sends puppy love spiraling into oblivion, dreams dashed like eggs against a window, fragile entity crumbling, yoke bleeding down the pane, hungry eyes helplessly watching from the other end of the glass unable to the cease the destruction, declarations of i could never fall in love so deep again! second heartbreak, darkness overshadows, one is unable to see, unable to move, caught by the freezing chill of warming cozy brutally snatched away, but young heart wising up to experience feeling the spark of meek anticipation of falling in love again with someone completely new. third heartbreak, anger, blind fury, hurt pride, bitter loss in the game of “love.”
finally. a smoke. a drink. and a blink. face forgotten.
... do we grow so accustomed that even heartbreak ceases to… break?
it's ironic that i'm seeing much of blue skies lately.
there was a time in our relationship when consistently sunny prospects would suddenly turn dark and grey whenever he and i argued. and then rain would fall from the sky, splattering on my cheeks where my tears wouldn't flow.
(was i amazingly unemotional then, or looking on like a mechanical gadget, a displaced heart?)
but now when we exchange words and gestures of hatred, i gaze through muddled blurs to see only sunny dispositions and azure canvases strewn about me.
(am i taught humility? imparted wisdom? acquainted with loss? or simply indolent... unwilling to express pain except through the devices of capricious clime.
...even i, the miscomprehended, do not take my own words to heart.)
first heartbreak sends puppy love spiraling into oblivion, dreams dashed like eggs against a window, fragile entity crumbling, yoke bleeding down the pane, hungry eyes helplessly watching from the other end of the glass unable to the cease the destruction, declarations of i could never fall in love so deep again! second heartbreak, darkness overshadows, one is unable to see, unable to move, caught by the freezing chill of warming cozy brutally snatched away, but young heart wising up to experience feeling the spark of meek anticipation of falling in love again with someone completely new. third heartbreak, anger, blind fury, hurt pride, bitter loss in the game of “love.”
finally. a smoke. a drink. and a blink. face forgotten.
... do we grow so accustomed that even heartbreak ceases to… break?
miscomprehended.
feeling the need to exercise the creativity sectors of my writing brain, i recently created this blogspot as a way to propell my perambulating tendencies and to vent my frustrations at a blank canvas (metaphoric) rather than at tangible human beings.
so, motivated by a stirring of fashionista-cum-contemplative spirit (related to shoes and a sense of self), i logged on to my blogspot... only to find that it was locked!
"this blog is under review due to possible blogger terms of service violations, and is currently unpublished. you can view your blog's posts here in blogger, but not make any changes."
shocked and a little horrified, i promptly clicked open the terms of service to review my rights and limitations. skimming... nope, nothing wrong there.
after all, all i had posted within the first two days of creating my humble little account were a poem and a short
granted, i appeal liberally to poetic license, but it's like they say: the novice writers are obsessed with words and word play and word experimentation. a la joyce.
(at the ripe(?) age of 23, i say i have every right to declare myself the novice. i am still the inner child, delicately placing marble words in her mouth, delighted by the way these delectable round glass orbs roll around her tongue, her mouth, grating against each other with satisfying intensity.)
there was a "contact blogger support" button on the home page, so i quickly browsed over to that page and requested "human review." something about mine having the characteristics of a spam blog. hm, need a definition for that... *click*
whereupon, i discovered the following:
"blogs engaged in this behavior are called spam blogs, and can be recognized by their irrelevant, repetitive, or nonsensical text, along with a large number of links, usually all pointing to a single site."
...apparently, my writing is "irrelevant, repetitive, or nonsensical".
as an "artiste," i feel so... miscomprehended. what a "no one understands my art" moment!
(note: it's been nearly 3 weeks since my blog was first locked, and this is the first time i'm posting since march 21!)
so, motivated by a stirring of fashionista-cum-contemplative spirit (related to shoes and a sense of self), i logged on to my blogspot... only to find that it was locked!
"this blog is under review due to possible blogger terms of service violations, and is currently unpublished. you can view your blog's posts here in blogger, but not make any changes."
shocked and a little horrified, i promptly clicked open the terms of service to review my rights and limitations. skimming... nope, nothing wrong there.
after all, all i had posted within the first two days of creating my humble little account were a poem and a short
granted, i appeal liberally to poetic license, but it's like they say: the novice writers are obsessed with words and word play and word experimentation. a la joyce.
(at the ripe(?) age of 23, i say i have every right to declare myself the novice. i am still the inner child, delicately placing marble words in her mouth, delighted by the way these delectable round glass orbs roll around her tongue, her mouth, grating against each other with satisfying intensity.)
there was a "contact blogger support" button on the home page, so i quickly browsed over to that page and requested "human review." something about mine having the characteristics of a spam blog. hm, need a definition for that... *click*
whereupon, i discovered the following:
"blogs engaged in this behavior are called spam blogs, and can be recognized by their irrelevant, repetitive, or nonsensical text, along with a large number of links, usually all pointing to a single site."
...apparently, my writing is "irrelevant, repetitive, or nonsensical".
as an "artiste," i feel so... miscomprehended. what a "no one understands my art" moment!
(note: it's been nearly 3 weeks since my blog was first locked, and this is the first time i'm posting since march 21!)
Friday, March 21, 2008
at mind's end...
made her purchases with tears
and signed off with sighs
she made for breathless buys
and fell for no-return ploys
but when it all came to
and all was awry
she loved him still
and all just for free
even lifting high her gaze
and swallowing back hard
could not a huge knot
in her stomach discard
was it regret?
was it mistake?
even her heart
could not a choice make
only in her head
was a voice shouting run
as far as you can
love is a sore illusion
so what can a girl do
to make a boy see
that she needs to be,
free.
and signed off with sighs
she made for breathless buys
and fell for no-return ploys
but when it all came to
and all was awry
she loved him still
and all just for free
even lifting high her gaze
and swallowing back hard
could not a huge knot
in her stomach discard
was it regret?
was it mistake?
even her heart
could not a choice make
only in her head
was a voice shouting run
as far as you can
love is a sore illusion
so what can a girl do
to make a boy see
that she needs to be,
free.
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