This is my Blogproject. Sit down, stay awhile. Feed the fish, and read some art.
If you like what you see or have any questions or critiques, please let me know.
Yours, Truly.

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

To Poetry (Pompously)

I want to write you a poem.
It shouldn't be so difficult, I've done it before.
Write what you know, write where you've been, write how you feel.

I've been the ingénue, seeking a taste of glamour and gambolling in rain-soaked frocks. Chasing epiphanies and waiting for the world to reveal the secret blueprints that must exist for existing. (A girl can dream.)
Once, I believed in balance, in rhyme-schemes, and trite paths to trivial endings.

My words had to change with me. To give voice to the edges of my thoughts-- the things that fit nowhere, but begged sweetly to be said aloud.
I bombarded you with ephemeral eloquence-- glimmers of finesse.

I almost became inured to the face-crumpling regret of routine tragedy. Almost.
And almost, I accepted my own place in that flawed tangle of rights, and wrongs, and very wrongs, and seemingly inevitables.

The deluge... was a stream... was a trickle.
And what is left?

I fear sometimes that I have lost you. That you have waited, and languished in disuse.
That I will never be able to capture a scintilla of your essence on paper again.

But you are here.
In the lilting tangential lines I struggle to subdue into recognizable diction.
In the way I listen. Sifting through countless ragamuffin syllables tripping over teeth like puppies to sleep, tumbling head over heels for the sumptuous aural fragrance of a graceful phrase. Mooning over the vestigial remains of you on my tongue.
In the truth I force myself to tell.
I feel you.

Always your gossamer strands catch at me. A cobweb of now unravelled, unrivalled beauty.
In rapture I remain, a palimpsest-- a pastiche.
A patchwork girl with poetry in my hair.

Yours, Truly.

Friday, November 9, 2012

Roller Coasters

I'm never afraid of the things that I should be.

Spiders are artists. Loving parents, innovative engineers.They fascinate me.
Snakes are lovers looking for warmth. Composed of a single all-encompassing hug, just waiting to happen.

Fire plays on every sense. The heat caressing your skin, the crackle and hiss of a new log, the smell (oh the smell!). Fire smells like joy and childhood. Like dusky nights and freed secrets. Even cave-men saw it-- equal parts danger, practicality and beauty. I could stare at it for hours.

I love to be alone, I'm more afraid that I will never be allowed to love it without guilt.
Death is simply another place I have to go. 

Flying, falling, jumping, going...
They leave me elated; my nerves sparkling, and every breath I expel is victory set precariously on the edge--veering recklessly ever closer to laughter.
They also cause mothers everywhere to frown (as only mothers can).

You, I'm allowed to love. I guess your gaudy colours and flashing lights distract from your more nefarious possibilities. But despite them and, in part, because of them we flock to you.
What do you expect? I'm just an overqualified monkey-- an adrenaline junkie. I'm a moth to a flaming chariot. I'm a girl who loves to feel alive. To snub my nose at the incredulity of existence and let awareness flood every iota of being that I possess.

You give me all of that, when you can. But it's cold now, and I miss you.

Yours, Truly

Monday, June 25, 2012

To My Biggest Fan

I want to express my appreciation, in these last few weeks you've made life bearable. There are literally times I couldn't live without you. And that's not just a bunch of hot air, I mean it!

You don't let the conversation die, so there is no silence between us-- And despite your blades sharp tongue you never cut me off. When I am lonely and listless, you spin tales of ice cream worlds and water-slides to distract me. You'd blow off anyone to spend time with me, and it's something I really appreciate.

I remember falling asleep to your whispers every summer as a child. Covered in mud and creek water, in bug bites and sunscreen-- I'd walk through the door with the light fading in my wake. I'd grab a glass of water and find you, and just bask in your presence until the crickets had chirped their last chirp, and I was out (and deliciously) cold.

And that's how it's always been, you make me feel good--
I come to you when I feel extra hot, and I leave feeling like the coolest girl around.
You always listen, occasionally shaking your head slowly in commiseration when I complain about the damned heat.
And when I whisper close, you make my voice sound hilarious!

I have to say, I think this letter may be addressed wrong. Right now, I feel like *your* biggest fan. I'm off to visit Pool, when I get back do you want to have a mini-hurricane party in my room? Sweet.

Oscill-you-lator Gator!

Yours, Truly.

Sunday, April 29, 2012

Internet Friends

My (almost) friend,

It feels different to write you a letter even though (as of yet) our communication still stems solely from our fingertips.

But there is something wonderful about communicating here, inside the wide umbrella of Internet. I always imagine it like Santa's workshop within a large clockwork factory-- as soon as I hear that satisfying click, my words are off! Speeding through the frantic underworld at megabytes per second, narrowly missing tiny elves and eluding the occasional gremlin in the works.

You are so far removed from everything around me, it's easy to imagine a labyrinthine complex between us. And so each time I receive more from you it means our words have found a way to exist and to survive our combative worlds. Basically it means you haven't forgotten me for the spoils and triumphs of the dreaded 'IRL'.

And more than that, it is glorious. We sit atop computer chairs of gold and memory foam and declare ourselves. Our size is whatever we imagine, we are entities solely made up of words.

I will choose to be a microcosm.
A sub-genre of obscurity on the fringe of your cognizance.
And I will choose to be no size at all.
So that I may infiltrate you at any level and no physical boundary may preclude me.
And I will choose to be all-encompassing.
Bigger than your whole imagination, so I can swallow you whole and fill you up until my own words trickle out of your indents.
Until your spacebar is my heartbeat.

I like the idea that a turn of phrase can be a turn of hip, or cheek, or some abstract polygon of anti-flesh. That I can build myself into a sea of letters that still somehow carries what, and (if it can be answered) who I am in essence.

When I cease to be this virtual claim, and regain my status as a flesh-and-blood girl again, I hope that you still like it. Still like me.
Are we the same? Which will my screenname evoke?

Names are a different kind of word.
When people say "who are you?" you say it, instinctively.
And maybe it represents all you are, but maybe it's simply a collection of letters with a vaguely pleasing sound that someone thought up once while drunk on life and high on the power of word creation...

Mine means more than words to me, is more than even they are capable of. And the only way to make you see that same inherent worth is to use all of my words (all the silent ones too), until you know who I am.
Until you know the most important word in my life.

I know that there can never be just one-- words only flow when they collide.
And that is part of the wonderfulness, that something can exist with so much potential but realize none of it without another. It's gorgeous and cheesy and speaks to my insides.

For now I am glad to know the you made of words, and fascinated by the process of learning more. I will continue to revisit the common clichés of meme, and link you to until something real falls through the cracks of this crazy-beautiful phenomenon--
Internet friends indeed.

Yours, Truly.

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

And Now For Something Completely Different

"To Scale"

My littleness is not one-sided.
It pervades my every dimension, it colours my movement, it informs my mannerisms.
I live a little life.
But the slow pull of melancholia is double the gravity,
And the hole in my stomach echoes more times than a can in a canyon.
My raging pulse is an mad drum reaching a wild crescendo and that damn trickling fear
just sits in wait like an icicle
over my fragile spine.

It makes me wonder... Are my feelings immense?
Or do they only overwhelm me because I am... small.
Am I the only one?

I have compared myself to a moody ocean.
Sinking ships in the bay,
I beckon with the lulls and dips between waves,
Before the storm hits, and the sky admits--
it's just for show.
Pathetic fallacy calls for stormy skies, despair prefers straight pain.
My friends, you take your thunder-- I'll bring the hurricane.

Other times, I have cited a star--
A cosmic release, a bug in a jar.
Up and away from these notions
The motion of the ocean, and the commotion of
emotional turmoil.
There is a fire, making it's home in my bones, burning the marrow till tomorrow,
running on midnight oil.
You're too distant to see how it burns in me,
and the colours bleed;
There's a disconnect in my constellation.

My littleness is not one-sided.
But neither is my greatness.