Stringing Along

You know, I expected it to rain today.

[pause while blogger flips through fanfiction stories entitled Rain.]

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"All rise for the return of the Eldest!"

A sedate security guard throws the words into the rumbling courtroom. His crossed arms and crooked face book no argument.

A tiny door drags open and a slightly disgruntled brunette cloaked in a Holocaust robe slips out.

Respect shines in the faces as recognition permeates their consciousness, and a whisper is heard:

"There she is--the Eldest Judge." A plump, matronly woman stares in awe at the young lady.

Her companion, a tallish, well-dressed gentleman quotes quietly,

"There never was so young a body with so old a mind..."

Nods of agreement bob throughout the hushed room.

The security guard motions to those seated in the very front.

"Will the defendant please rise?"

Slowly, laboriously, a rotund grey man in a stained tweed suit rises to his feet. His shadowed features are lined with something akin to depression, or maybe just loneliness. Next to him, his seedy lawyer fiddles nervously with his scarf.

Unimpressed, the security guard asks for the statement, and those assembled expect an out-right expression of guilt--after all, the evidence was clear! the witnesses collaborated perfectly! the People had presented their case in such a way that the Eldest Judge had no choice but to move for a verdict of guilty, and yet...there was no guilt on the clouded face of the defendant.

In fact, there was nothing there. No anxiety, no happiness, no nothing--nothing except for those lonely creases lining his face.

"Not guilty," his thundering voice rolled out, throwing the courtroom into confusion. Then, the Eldest raised her hand--and all was quiet once again.

Sighing, she rubbed her temple and glanced at the morose man in his tweed suit.

And thus, for the first time in her career, the verdict was uncertain. Clouded, even.

Yes, the evidence had implicated the man beyond a shadow of a doubt. Yes, the witnesses had all agreed, and YES! the lawyers had been more convincing than usual.

And yet, here she sat, undecided and even confused.

What was she confused about?

Simple.

His actions, while directly causing death, were not his fault. It was his job. The earth would be crusty and dry if not for him, a fact which the People seemed to have forgotten.

The Eldest sighed again, this time catching the grey man's eyes. There, at last, was some emotion.

Emotion that shivered through the bones and pooled in his eyes; a world-weary sadness. A sadness that had rooted itself in constant reuse, cycle after precipitation cycle. A sadness born of goodbyes, ocean tides, and the soft pull of the moon.

Thoughts flitted through her head; wild thoughts that he had suffered enough, that he needed no more punishment.

The jury had made its decision! But they had not looked in his eyes. The People were waiting for the verdict, had waited for long months of trial. He had not been treated fairly, for no trial was necesarry. The family of those now dead were crying for justice. Justice had already been administered. It was being administered.

The pressure closed down around her ears. Reporters flashed cameras and the eyes of the entire world bored a hole into her mind, waiting for the expected outcome.

And with one word, she sealed the fate of the rotund grey man for ever.

THE END.

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Okay. Okay.

BLEH.

...

AUGFGYRUIJKSDKKFFFPPFTT!!!

What do people do when they have no words to describe...anything!

Do they just...wave their arms and some splotches of paint appear as words flit from their hands to the page?

Does a hummingbird twiddle by, pause to take a sip from a strand of hair, and hum along contentedly, while the bearer of the hair sits in silent confusion and exasperation, missing the missing nectar?

Do they ramble on, making no sense whatsoever, and wish for a cup of spoons so they can see a million little reflections?

Sometimes, I wish Mother Earth would yield words as easily as she does rain or sun or even air.

Poor Rain Cloud.

I wonder if he ever posted bail...?

I opened my eyes

And looked up at the rain,

And it dripped in my head

And flowed into my brain,

And all that I hear as I lie in my bed

Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,

I walk very slow,

I can't do a handstand--

I might overflow,

So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--

I'm not the same since there's rain in my head.

--Shel Silverstein

Holding Fast

Fourth post of the night. Not bad for someone who normally uses up all her words before night's end.

My dreams are wonderful. Essential.

I think they're part of why I can write (besides the obvious fact that it's a God-given talent).

At night, my brain pulses with the dreams, and in the morning, my word bank is overflowing again. It's almost like recycling--my mind reuses the scenes of the day and adds brilliant colour to the remaining words; and then, while my word bank is repleneshing, the colours mix in with the other words and SHWOOP! the word bank is now colourful and vibrant again.

And I wake up, and I am FULL.

It's quite, really, truly, amazing. Indeed.

Yeah. I'm a dreamer.

But not that kind, if you follow the link. Although I think that would be pretty cool, lucid dreaming, I'm a little wary still. But...I love dreaming.

Honestly.

There is a love/hate relationship with the morning that I have... I hate waking up, because that means losing my Dreams, parts of Dreams. But I love waking up, too. Remembering the Dreams, seeing the sun come up (waking up early is amazing. Seeing the world wake up with a cup of Tazo tea in one hand and a book or blanket in the other is the closest to heaven I've been), and just the general peacefullness of early morning is the most beautiful thing I've felt. It's a spiritual experience, definitely.

Dreams...

I think...that Jesus delights in giving us Dreams. They're so...ethereal!

I wonder if the Dreams are all around. All purple and rich and fizzing with life...and others still mellow and pulsing with shadows and puddles...

Well.

Who reads this? Who will read this?

Sometimes my dreams are framed by grey, tinged with green and black. And other times, they're so sagged with colours and flying spurts of liquid that it's hard to stay sleeping. They swoop with wings of sunbeams, and blanket the horizon in dreary snow.

Ok. I will go look for those dreamy tree(puddles) now.

Hold fast to dreams,

For if dreams die,

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams,

For when dreams go,

Life is a barren field

Filled with snow.

The Little Boy and the Old Man

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.

--Shel Silverstein

I am a little British Church

Ah! Hello! Today has been a good day.

Ahem. Before I rant, I'd like to wish Major Winters a Happy 91st Birthday, and many more.

He's my hero, you know. The human one, anyway.

Today was great! I loved it. My notebook is four pages fuller, the bag of chips on the printer is half-empty, and the Edge is captainless no longer.

AND--I am 70% British.

You Are 70% British

Congrats, mate. You're are probably British. (If not, definitely Australian. Or Kiwi. Or Canadian.) You enjoy most aspects of mainstream British culture, without being stereotypical about it. You also have a typical British temperament. You wouldn't dream of being impolite.

How British Are You?

So I'd say that today's been pretty productive. I've organized some of my work for the past school semester and ate some steak.

So I'm feeling dandy...sort of like candy.

i am a little church(no great cathedral)
far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities
-i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
my prayers are prayers of earth's own clumsily striving
(finding and losing and laughing and crying)children
whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness

around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope,and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church(far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature
-i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing

winter by spring,i lift my diminutive spire to
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)

--e e cummings

Fitting

This has been posted before, but it just...fits.

The night is freezing fast,
Tomorrow comes December;
And winterfalls of old
Are with me from the past;
And chiefly I remember
How Dick would hate the cold.

Fall, winter, fall; for he,
Prompt hand and headpiece clever,
Has woven a winter robe,
And made of earth and sea
His overcoat for ever,
And wears the turning globe.

What else fits? Nothing, really. It's cold outside and the snow is inching on the ground. Practice is tonight and that doesn't fit either. The new youth pastor fits. My poem and story for Fine Arts fit. My hair fits, but it soon won't.

The music doesn't fit and I have to go now.

Freedom Flock

In my Wikipedia rabbit-trail travels, I have found that history is full of misquotes. Whether or not this is a disquiet, I do not know.

All I know is that the All-Nighter was incredibly fun, caffeine-free green tea is nasty, and working hard after a sleepless night is not recommended for your health.

Ahem.

So there I was, standing at the bottom of a make-shift ramp at the bottom of church stairs, freezing cold, falling asleep, and fighting back biting remarks.

[FLASHBACK]

Of course I push boxes like a girl! Have you take a good look at me lately? Is something unclear to you? YOU try pushing boxes all by your LONESOME in sub zero weather, then we'll talk. And--and--the point of pushing boxes of food up ramps is for them to make it safely up the stairs, not for them to slam against the wall, breaking any eggs that might be in there.

[END FLASHBACK]

[Pause while the Eldest composes herself]

Good grief.

There really is nothing to say, but I could ramble.

Ramble, ramble, rant.

Can't rant. Rant...rent!

RENT! Rent due, due date, Date Movie, movie theatre...

Theatre...

Theatre...theatrics!

Hysterics.

That's hysterical!

Hysterical...

[stumped]

...

I love nonsensical answers.

For example:

What is the meaning of life?

-Yes.

And

Is it possible to get through the Impossible Quiz without frustration?

-No.

I love the snow. But I especially love LOTS of snow. Truckloads!

*sniggers*

Heh, heh...Trucks.

Anyway. There are things I love
more, but snow is just...amazing. Just like making up nicknames for people that
only make sense to yourself.

Colors are another love. Teal, yellow, lime, Bering Sea blue, Slate grey...

I think the world is full of love. Sure, it's not the ideal, I-love-you-and-you-love-me-so-let's-lay-down-our-weapons-and-hug-a-tree sort of love, but it's there.

Some love their jobs. Some love their jobs more than anything. I'd say that's a form of love.

Others love themselves, so much so that they supply themselves with oppulent houses and the best food and pleasurse of the exotic kind.

Oh yeah. The world is full of love. Chalk-full.

They love freedom, regardless of its lofty cost.

Freedom to ignore murder. Freedom to sustain ignorance. Freedom to shroud bigotry while claiming complete tolerance. Freedom to feel as much as possible, regardless of anyone else.

Freedom to do what they want.

Freedom of idolatry. Freedom of adultery. Freedom of blatant rebellion. Freedom to celebrate distorting that which should be sacred, precious.

Freedom to laud stupidity and pooh-pooh anything that pinches what's left of their conscience.

Bleh.

Freedom's not all it's cracked up to be.

Paul and Silas bound in jail

With no money to forgo their bail,

Keep your eye on the prize,

And hold on, hold on.

Hold on, hold on,

Keep your eye on the prize,

And hold on...

If religion was a thing

That money could buy,

The rich would live and

The poor would die.

Keep your eye on the prize,

And hold on, hold on...

One and one,

That makes two,

Tell you what I'm-ma gonna do:

Keep my eye on the prize

And hold on, hold on...

Know the one thing we did wrong,

Stayed in the wilderness far too long,

Know the first thing we did right,

Was the day we started to fight.

Keep your eye on the prize and hold on, hold on...

My Future, According to e-MASH

		I will marry a Red-headed Eskimo.
		After a wild honeymoon, We will settle down in Hugh Laurie\'s Backyard in our fabulous Apartment.
		We will have 87 kid(s) together.
		Our family will zoom around in a Goldenrod Yellow Morphable.
		I will spend my days as a Crawfish catcher, and live happily ever after.

That was honestly the most fun I've had in ages. AGES.

In fact, I had so much fun I'm going to take it over again. And then again, for good measure. SO FUN! [Edit: This was time number two. This is positively addicting!]

Ahem.

So I'm still procrastinating terribly on just about everything I need to do. That's as a good a way to waste time as any, I figured.

"Yes, that's right...it's Mr. T at a Tea Party! Now, you're probably thinking that a big, tough, pimp-daddy * like Mr. T wouldn't be caught dead at a frilly pink tea party. Well you're dead WRONG, fool! The Big T likes his enemies dead, his wimmens hot, and his tea even hotter!

Now pass me some more of that * brew and a crumpet, PUNK!

Shut yo' mouth."

--holymackeral

[Insert Creative Title Here]

I have nothing to say.

=scratches head=

Not even any lyrics. Or, there are lyrics, but I can't find the ones that belong here.

I've sat here since 9:30, writing and deleting and reading.

Some songs are better without the music.

Oh the world who

Hangs from the star-gallows:

Dead, Dead, and Dying,

Decaying,

Loving its own rottenness.

Goodbye and Goodnight.

Flurry Birthday

Today was a nostalgic sort of day. My parents and I spent two hours, at the least, on Youtube, watching old Russian videos and Vladimir Vysotsky and Modern Talking.

Heh. Anyway.

It snowed!

I do wish that it could've snowed just a little bit more, but I love what did fall. I even doodled a poem in it...which was later stomped out.

Winter is breathtaking. I feel giddy. My daddy promised to take me to buy The Princess Bride tomorrow. We went to a Chinese place today, and I couldn't eat because my stomach was killing me. But it’s fine now. Everything’s fine now.

And now, I am going to go eat cake and read and write. I did take my walk (in the snow!) and I ate food and wrote a blog and spent some time on each website (and even some additional ones), I was wished Happy Birthday 18 times (or more, counting the many time throughout the day my amazing family wished it), and it was great. I couldn't ask for a better birthday.

[This is a very belated post, but it's all good. I wrote this Saturday night and a birthday present to myself Saturday night and now I am going to write a current blog. There are no pictures in this one because they're not working. -.-]

Over Half of Twenty

January 10. The tenth day of the year. The birthday of Rod Stewart, Charles and Laura Ingalls, Frank James, Ethan Allen, Frank Sinatra Jr., Stephen E. Ambrose, and football player Jack Delhomme.

My birthday.

10 AM, on a Sunday morning in Ukraine, a little dark-haired, blue-eyed baby girl was born to Tanya and Igor. Their Eldest. She was born with the chord wrapped around her. The doctors doubted she would make it. For five days, she lay in an incubator. Her mother was allowed to stand at the window and cry for half an hour, each day.

Her father's sister, Irina, came the Sunday after the 10th, wanting to know what she could do. Pray, Tanya asked. Please pray. And so they did.

And that little baby girl, whose life seemed to be over before it began, was miraculously healed, with atheistic Ukrainian doctors proclaiming it a mircale.

And so it is. And so I am. The dark hair has lightened a little, turned sepia by the sun and the ocean and the trees. The sky blue eyes have long ago darkened into a warm brown.

But the prayer! It's lasted. And it's grown, and I've grown, and I'm still growing. In fact, I don't think I'll ever stop.

They told Her So...

Shot by =damien-c

Before Birthday Thoughts

>grins<

I'm amazed *some people* still want to eat eggs after my comparison yesterday. First with the forks, now with the eggs.

My birthday is tomorrow. Tomorrow!

I have a strange, misunderstood theory about my birthday; one that only my dear old pater understands (to a degree). I'm not going to go into it--well, maybe someday--because it's too long and complicated, so complicated that I'm still figuring it out.

But that's okay. I have an eternity to think about it.

My parents are taking me to breakfast, and then I'm spending the day doing my favorite things.

"What are your favorite things, Eldest?" You may ask.

"There are plenty," I answer, gleefully rubbing my hands together. "For starters, I'm going to listen to my all-time favorite songs (And So It Goes, the Main Theme from Band of Brothers, Waiting on an Angel, Rain, and so on and so forth).

"After that, I will throw on my favorite scarf and hat and go outside and sit on my favorite log in my favorite woods.

"THEN, I am going to drink my favorite tea (Organic Darjeeling) from my favorite brand (Tazo) out of my favorite cup (Dear God, etc. etc.)."

"But Eldest," you may shake your head in incredulity, "is half a day sufficient for that huge amount of favorites?"

"That's not all!" I laugh, patting you kindly on your head. "I also intend to add a little more to my favorite story that I am working. I may also doodle a little in my favorite sketch book.

"I plan to read my favorite book of the Bible and a little from my other favorite books (Dear Enemy, Left Behind).

"And THEN, when it seems this day of fun and favorites can not be filled up any more, I will log onto Fanfiction, Deviantart, and Blogger--in that order--and fiddle around for a few minutes, reminiscing and replaying the years of my life, happy to be alive."

I wait a few minutes, then grow concerned when you don't answer. I turn around and find that you have gotten bored minutes ago and are now sitting in front of the television screen, laughing at Monk.

>shrugs<

Believe it or not, that's what I'd love to do.

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Is disillusionment depression?

I didn't think so, not at first. But after thinking about it some more (although I'm not done thinking about it fully), I have decided that it is a form of depression. But not really, if that makes sense.

What is disillusionment? What is depression?

Webster's dictionary describes depression as:

A sinking of the spirits; dejection; a state of sadness; want of courage or animation; as depression of the mind.

A good answer from Yahoo Answers says that disillusionment is a shattering of illusions.

So, if a theoretical young lady used to have high expectations of birthdays and the changing of ages, and they were gradually shattered over the changing of ages, then that would be disillusionment.

Would it produce a state of sadness? In theory, it could.

Dejection? Possibly.

A state of sadness? Sure.

Want of courage or animation? I'm not sure about t

hat one. It could, but something like birthday expectations isn't that likely to take away one's courage. Animation, it could take away. Who wants to act on a birthday that doesn't matter as much as it used to?

Or, so I've heard.

>.>

<.<

So, based on the theoretical situation and the possible answers, I say that yes, disillusionment is a sort of depression, if you consider occasional bouts of sadness depression. But who doesn't have them? Would we be human if we were constantly happy? (Maybe if we had those coffee patches from Meet the Robinsons.)

And, in my experience (limited as it may be), I have seen that the world is often throwing rocks that shatter our expectations. They are, after all, built of trust and pixie dust--dainty stuff. Fragile stuff.

But disillusionment is important, I think. An important part of growing up, growing older. Illusions are a part of growing older, too.

After all, a little faith, trust, and pixie dust take us beyond up.

It takes us past the stars...

Colours

I woke up stuffed and runny... sort of like a barely-boiled egg that's not quite as hard as it looks and has cracked against the bottom of the pan. I slept in hour-long intervals during the day, had some more strange dreams, and ate (lol. I didn't realize this until now) a lot of eggs.

About two posts back, I wrote that I wasn't true to my blog title. Today, that is not the case.

Last night, I couldn't sleep, so I picked up a book entitled 2002 Surprising Things about God and the Bible. I was surprised.

The Bible, while being the best-selling book in the world, is also the most shop lifted.

And I re-remembered how massive and holy and hugely complex my God is. How gentle and tender. How righteous and merciful. How big! and mighty!

And even though it all went wrong,

I'll stand before the Lord of Song

With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

Hallelujah...

I wonder what the angels thought as Eve ate that apricot (Yes. Yes it was an apricot). Did their wings flutter as she plucked the fruit? Did Michael the Archangel yearn to unsheath his mighty sword? Did the Angel Armies and the Heavenly Hosts forget how to sing, for one cataclysmic moment, as the apricot dropped into the woman's hand?

And Eve. Was she so ignorant of the consequences?

So I wonder. And I ruminate. And I turn it over and over in my mind, playing with the possibilities.

But in the end, the glory of God is solidified yet again, through the tragedy of Eden, or the cowardliness of Abraham in Egypt, or the wonder of Bethlehem milleniums ago.

I think that Heaven will be colourful. As it should be. Eternity spent in off-white would begin to tire a little, even with the sheer splendour and magnificence of everything.

Can you tell my thoughts are bouncing all over the place today?

Sometimes, I wish...oh, I wish a lot of stuff. Stuff, stuff, stuffed stuffity stuff. Europe and coffee and flying and marshmallow clouds and cotton pajamas and the mountains of Washington and Bastogne and trees and everything, I wish for it.

I wish right now that this blog made sense...but stuffy noses full of egg yolk and a mind crinkling with eggshells, swimming in fluffed egg whites will do that to you.

Hey. I'm getting pretty good at this typing thing. Although "G" tends to elude my fingers at times.

And, in regard to my dreams and wishes, I'm holding fast. Not only to dreams, come to think of it. Also to life, and love, and the hope of love, and the dreary present, and dim past, and uncertain but hopeful future...

Hold fast to dreams,

For if dreams die,

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams,

For when dreams go,

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.