Life.

Hello. Here is Mara again, ranting again.

This time about Life (again).

And how, in addition to its previously listed qualities, there is yet ANOTHER genius thing about it:

Its soundtrack. Its gorgeous, killer soundtrack.

I mean, every song is a manifestation of the character of Life, Charlie Crews, Dani Reese, Tidwell, Ted, Bobby... Deepa. :D

NOTE TO THE FISH
----------------------
You need to watch this show. Life is not complete without Life (of the NBC persuasion).
----------------------
A POST-SCRIPT TO THE FISH
----------------------
Then again, life is not complete without Band of Brothers, either.
----------------------

Oh! And please to click on this link.

It is a work-in-progress playlist of the tunes I especially like from my various television shows.

Or videos associated with them.

Do you know, I always meant to write an essay on how influential and essential music is, but then I gave it up. It is an undertaking too great for my SOUL.

Would you believe it? There are no good (popular) pictures for "soul" on deviantArt.

Well... maybe I can believe it.

Every soul is different, therefore evey interpretation of soul must be different.

All right. I understand some more now.

That's one thing I can do, I've noticed. Really do: understand.

It's weird. I understand to the point where I can not tell the difference between their understanding and mine.

Then I retreat and I realize some things.

I read the story of Hulk Hogan today. It is a sad story.

Do you know what? Life is a sad story.

There was a quote I read once:

Life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

by O. Henry.

Late4Ever.

Of course. April is National Poetry Month and I don't find out until April 30th. -.-

And every self-respecting poet has been busily at work, writing one poem every day, and here I am, JUST FINDING OUT ABOUT IT.

Do you know what? MAY will be MY National Poetry Month, and I'll write MY OWN NaPoWriMo's, one for every day, and post them HERE.

That's what.

The Pretty

Holy crap. A month ago I was excited about post number fifty, and here I am at number sixty.

It's times like these that I need the Pretty (my new name for Matthew Settle).

Not so much I need it as it gives me comfort, in a strange sort of way.

So this is a post chalk full of links. Links to favourite deviations on dA.. and other miscellaneous thingers.

Like this, a tutorial by the amazing `alexds1. Srlsy (lol). Check out her other tutorials (except for the ones rated above PG. I tend to stay away from those).

No. I changed my mind. I am done linking here and am off to spam the Fish's inbox instead.

Hooray for pictures of NOTHING. <3

Repetition

Hello my imaginary audience. I need your support this night.

Because The Pretty is not enough (it never is).

And because sometimes I feel incapable and completely useless. It's hateful when one feels like that more than once in a day, in two different situations.

Like the incident with the Jordanian the the Fish.

And being left in charge of my siblings but it's hard to be in charge when you yourself don't live up to your ideals and even if you did, there is a niggling sense that they won't take that example but remember and reuse the old one.

Siblings are great recyclers.

And I feel that our friendship is strong enough to withstand this (stupid, completely avoidably) storm, but I can't help but feel like the Titanic in its pre-iceberg moments.

You understand.

And maybe a poet can't be a poet unless there are enormous amounts of misery in his life.

So here I am, on my way to poetry.

the path to poetry is cruel
laced with lies of no
small size like
willow trees:believable
but capable of other.. things

like pain.
and maybe i am masochistic
and maybe sadism is attracted
but i am

green today, a chirp of joy like a cricket song

but the cricket is a passenger
on this great titanic
and i operate the radio
that leads us to our doom.

but there's always room
for improvement.

Hey. Maybe I am headed for great things. But maybe great things are like icebergs. And maybe I am stuck on the Titanic theme. But maybe the Titanic was great.

And maybe my heart aches.

Oh. And my brother and I might owe $2,000 dollars to some lady because of an accident that was our fault. Oops.

And thus my brother falls from (his own)grace and breaks my mother's heart with his calloused words and I sit here before a screen and am helpless, completely clueless, to help.

And my father is still fishing at ten o'clock at night.

Misery brings out poetry. I feel another poem coming on.

And my heart ache has transferred to my head. That pounding again, those pounding needles.

Hah. And maybe this is a typical teenage blog, just a little more poetic.

All right. Good night.

Maybe joy will come with the morning, but the night is grieving.

It's strange, how I love both equally.

All right. Good night.

Anger

AJDKO$&#)*A$#*($&@)#*@(+U*(UJREOWJR#AU*(A!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Stupid Blogger. Stupid slow internet. STUPID STUPIDITY.

I tried fixing the whole double-space issue in the previous post, but after five tries on a slow computer, I've given up. (The green tea I spilled the other day might have something to do with it...)

Maybe I'll try to fix it some other day when I have patience.

Dear the Fish:
Do you think I should post my blog as one of my websites on Facebook so any random people from youth group (like that one you and I were talking about behind the building that one Sunday) can read it and make conclusions about my character?

Valuing(?) your opinion and desperately needing a head smack,
Mara de la Mugre

Title

Hello. My name is [insert new, to-be-determined screen name here]. I have an anthem for my life now: Be Thou My Vision, by Fernando Ortega preferably; but it's perfect sung into the mountain morning air, as well.

my song is the radio static
stringing between the airwaves
(a fast-pulsing heart of a bird
pumps blood into cage-beating wings).
the shout of the voice of the archangel
ignites fire--no fear--
and everything funnels into my nostrils
(polluted) but trickles sterile.

my song is sung through the bars
through the bars
through the bars
and dances me deep into love.

my song refuses to love
(hearts are too precious to break),
inevitably (aimlessly) thrown through the hedges.
artillery shudders my feet.
and the battle. they called me serene.
my ear buds sprout wings and uproot
leaving holes in my ears (bleed invisible)
and i fill them with silver.

can you hear my song as the bars
dance me away into love.
away into love.

This is my song. Literary vomit, she wrote in her new red notebook. Chunky and formless, regurgitated from her belly (the seat of emotions in ancient Middle East).

Could you hear the faint whispers of Orient? The china blossoms and red pagodas; fat golden Buddhas jiggle into a pool of alchemized porridge. The hungry masses need dinner, too.

(I know this doesn't make sense, but it's 1:22AM and my cup is overflowing.)

I keep animals. Stuffed animals.

The oldest, a blue bunny, was named Lobo during a trip to Maryland with my elusive, ever-changing youth group.

Garfield, too, is old.

Then comes a whole menagerie of vending machine animals:

Mordecai, the green teddy bear.
A Fish called Failure (not you, Fish. Another Fish that had failure written into every quarter wasted) that is purple(!) and green.

The Monk. And others. Many, many others. So many others that I can't keep track of them and they turn into a massive squirrel arm from Scrubs that keeps my conversation alive.

Nonsense is therapeutic.

I worried about my best friend today. Because it scared me, when I couldn't reach her by phone or by fire and I remembered her post and her absence.

Are you out there? Are you alright?

All right. So, my day. My day.

My day was... crappy. I don't know. The only good thing, really good thing, was the one breeze (you know the kind, where all the scent of spring and hint of summer is bundled into one wind) that ruffled my hair and the sunbeam that touched my face.

Babysitting was okay. And I hate how this is turning into a typical teenage e-journal. -.-

But it can't be helped. Because writing all this down in a notebook doesn't nearly carry enough risk to make me feel like the walls of my apartment and my tiny room that I share with my sister who is very aggressive and I am THIS CLOSE to hating this generation until my dying day are closing in around my ears that might be growing closed after a second piercing.

Ahem. Normally I am content. Normally I am chill. Breezy. Easy.

But today...

The proverbial crap hit the fan.

And nothing set it off, really.

I don't know.

I don't know anymore! And this post is insanely long (again).

I've gotta break that habit.

Yeah. I love my room (when the sunset hits it and turns it gold or purple or blue, and the tree outside my window and the sunniness of it all), but some days, like this one, it is hard to breathe.

I think Charles Bukowski said it best.

Leaving this will be easier than living it..

Why must that be true? Why?

Can you tell? Can you tell that my foundations are breaking? Can you hear the creaking of the beams? The shuddering of the glass? The aching of the cemented heart?

And it's hard, you know. I'll never say it again and this is the first and only time I'll ever--ever--say it out loud, but I miss being heard. I miss having every headache killed with Advil. I miss my parents paying attention.

I love my brother. He is the miracle of my life.

But with the whole arm-swelling thing--it's been three months. Three months.

And my stomach curls when I think of what it could be and what my doctor didn't say it was--and he didn't say anything, just to go get x-rays--and my mom didn't call yet. I understand!

I understand that my brother's had diarhhea for a month and that it had abated but now it's returning, and I understand that she is sick as well, but I know that if I cry, even one tear, that it'll be hell to stop. And that was the first and only time I've ever used that outside of my mind.

So there.

And maybe I'm writing all this out because it's now 1:47AM. And maybe I need therapy.

But maybe this is my therapy.

Do you know what makes me sad the most, though? That I'm losing the ability to say coherent thoughts.

I can write all right, but when it comes to speaking...

My mouth and my brain seem to have disconnected.

I type crazy fast. Maybe that's where the connection went.

I've hosted one sleepover in my entire life.

Atonement.

I'm sorry. That was random.

I hate guys, sometimes. A lot of the time. And I hate stupidity. I'm finding plenty of things to hate lately.

And I hate it. :P

I hate this bitterness that's slowly seeping into me.

There. I have it. My new name.

.

.

.

Hello. My name is Mara. I have an anthem for my life now: Hurt, by Johnny Cash.

Call me Mara de la Mugre.

But strength alone, though of the Muses born,
Is like a fallen angel; trees uptorn,
Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchers
Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs
And thorns of life; forgetting the great end
Of poesy, that it should be a friend
To soothe the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.

--John Keats

e. e. cummings

To the Fish: I hope you know Leo Cohen wrote that song...?

XD

Well then. It was one of those 24-hour bugs, and I'm fine, more or less, today.

And I really don't have much of anything to say.

Oh. I've been meaning to take a hiatus from my youth group. Everything seems to be moving so quickly, and I am standing still. I don't know. I don't know.

"What a Writer"

what i liked about e.e. cummings
was that he cut away from the holiness of the
word
and with charm
and gamble
gave us lines
that sliced through the
dung.

how it was needed!
how we were withering away
in the old
tired
manner.

of course, then came all
the e.e. cummingscopyists.
they copied him then
as the others had
copied Keats, Shelly,
Swinburne, Byron, et
al.

but there was only
one
e.e. cummings.
of course.

one sun.

one moon.

--Charles Bukowski

A Thousand Kisses Deep

Once in a while, I come across something so utterly wonderful my heart stops.

Poetry does this to me most often. A good song, less often. There aren't enough good songs. An atmosphere, like the one outside, that makes me fling open the curtains and light a candle. The expression in a picture. A fleeting feeling. A moment in time that eclipses and twirls around me.

But poetry does this to me most often.

And Leonard Cohen is the king of poetry.

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

me to the wedding now, dance me on and on
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long
We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in
Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

Down to Earth

So the doctor told me to get my arm x-rayed. Nothing other than that--just to get an x-ray.

Didn't take my worry one way or another (not that I was worrying).

In fact, I wasn't worrying. I just wanted something exciting.

When my dad and I were standing outside waiting for our name to be called, I told him that I hoped it was something interesting, like gangrene.

Ridiculous, I know. But still.

And also, I have some kind of stuffed sinuses. Mom gave me medicine that'll make me drowsy eventually, so no youth group tonight. Normally, I would object, but not tonight. Don't know why.

Well..maybe I lied. Maybe I do know. Maybe I just don't feel like truthing today.

So...Earth Day. I forgot it was Earth Day until I turned on the TV this afternoon. Then I was like, Ohh.. Okay. And I flipped to another channel.

I coloured today, in a colouring book. A picture of a pig peeking out from behind a fence.

I told my sister, this pig is unique. It's of a unique brand--the porker tastes like apples! It is a bright green. With a red nose.It even looks sweetly sour.

The sky in that picture was orange. Because it got a suntan, I told my sister.

The fence was purply-pink. Because trees have feelings too, I told my sister.

I relived my childhood today.

Don't get your dirty feet all over nature.

Careful What You Wish For

Wow. It's the next day, and the weather is obnoxious! How funny.

I don't hate everything, though. I hate some things, but not nearly everything.

So, I'm here. That sore throat is still irritating me (To the Fish: well... I still caught it :P).

And I am going to the doctor tomorrow to have this swell on my arm (that's been there for a good three months) checked out, since it's grown and has spread to the other arm as well. And it's hardened.

So...yeah. I was worrying, but now--not so much.

I think the word is complacent.

Complacent. adj.
1. Contented to a fault; self-satisfied and unconcerned.
2. Eager to please; complaisant.

If only, if only.. cries the woodpecker.

I think a woodpecker is cool.

Woodpeckers on the moon, however...not so much.

They'd peck through that cheese with ease.

And then the sun would come (little darling) after the long, cold, lonely winter.

It's raining outside, by the way. Rain, rain...go away.

Come again another day.

@($+%*!!!

The Fish's sore throat is contagious, it seems.

And I love icons.

And I'm considering sending NBC a letter begging them to keep Life on the air, with a package of Lifesavers thrown in for good measure.

My Livejournal communities come up with great ideas.

And I also can't make decisions on the fly FOR MY LIFE.

I tried. I really did. And I knew what I wanted (sort of). (Not really.)

What have I learned in the past week...

Let's see.

There was something yesterday, an important, earth-shattering lesson; but it's been forgotten, today.

And sometimes, I am glad that no one reads this except certain fish.

Oh. And I tried watching The Cougar yesterday...I died a little inside, I think.

Sort of like when I went on a roller coaster for the first time--except on the roller coaster, I died, but also became more alive.

With this, a little part of me just... decayed away. :P

Do you know what I miss?

Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends.

My cable company cut Cartoon Network randomly a few months ago.

I died a little then, too.

DEATH! It is everywhere.

Eeh... And now I have random butterflies in my belly, for no reason at all.

I had a sudden urge to fling the door of the car open and jump out when we were speeding down the Boulevard this morning.

It's been happening a lot lately, these strangely suicidal urges. Which is weird, because I'm perfectly happy staying alive.

If you would not have fallen
Then I would not have found you
Angel flying too close to the ground

And I patched up your broken wing
And hung around for a while
Trying to keep your spirits up
And your fever down

I knew that someday you would fly away
For love's the greatest healer to be found

So leave me if you need to
I will still remember
Angel flying too close to the ground

Fly on, fly on past the speed of sound
I'd rather see you up
Than see you down

So leave me if you need to
I will still remember
Angel flying too close to the ground

--Willie Nelson

Delicate

There are some things in this life that make you suck in what breath you have left, they're so beautiful.

'S different for everyone.

(The eye of the beholder, you know?)

And those little things (the catch of the singer's voice in his song, the subtle shading of a sad old snapshot), they break my heart.

And 's almost funny, how much I like my heart broken that way.

I am undecided. Does an artist call himself an artist, or do others decide for him?

Me--I think I'm just in love with the beautiful.

That might've been the most I've soul-bared on here.

But I am. And maybe that's what artistry's about--the love of the beautiful.

Again. 'S different for everyone.

But for me, I know this: that my heart cracks when I look into an icon's eyes and see the breaking point. Those dots of 'chutes across the French sky soar my soul. Words that flow from a speaker (butter on a bald monkey) sear my spirit.

In every heart there is a room
A sanctuary safe and strong
To heal the wounds from lovers past
Until a new one comes along

And every time I've held a rose
It seems I only felt the thorns
And so it goes, and so it goes,
And so will you soon, I suppose..

And this is why my eyes are closed
It's just as well for all I've seen
And so it goes, and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows.

--Billy Joel

Roses to the Moonrise Burst Apart

And I am back.

Randomly, purple-y, wonderfully, exasperatingly back.

Being back means I have a month's worth of deviantArt to check and catch up on (thousands of Daily Deviations, messages, and random things like that).

Checking out what everyone's been doing on Facebook (which I've finally leaped into and regretted it almost immediately).

Purple is my new favorite colour since last Wednesday.

My hair is wonderfully short and bouncy and fluffy and soft. Sort of like a puppy, but less tongue.

Last Thursday (sweet thursday), I saw the two most beautiful things in the world.

Mountains in the morning and mist-covered, up-lifted hands.

Life is funny. How fast it floats by.

Have you ever been walking on a windy day and glance up at the sky and feel the wind and see the clouds appear to stand still.

Then you stand still and those clouds fly forward.

Life feels like that A LOT.

You seem to be moving forward and think that you are making headway, but then...

You stand still.

And look up, just a little.

And find it hard to move, and realize that other things are moving so much faster than you are and why are you hurrying in the first place, anyway?

What hasn't changed?

I still love tea.

And writing.

I adore writing.

And it is still troublesome to take my head out of the clouds, seeing as how it's been up there so long it might as well be connected by my hair-ends to the cloud-particles.

Oh, I missed this.

This, this whole flowing thing.

I can't even call it writing.

Sacrilege!

It's flowing! It's freedom! It's an escape.

Forgive the length, but my fingers won't stop. My brain is waving uncontrollably as the tons of words that have built up over the last month are irresistably spilling out from my fingers, into the keyboard, through the circuits, and into this blog.

Can I explain adequately?

Can it be explained?

I borrowed a book from the library about the 101st Airbourne, of which Easy Company from that most beluvered mini-series was a part of; and there was a snapshot of a wounded soldier with a white gentle face and story-telling eyes sittting in a foxhole.

He died two days later.

I hate that.

I hate it I hate it I hate it.

I've wished many, many times to have lived during that time.

Oh, I know I would've been caught up in some sort of fighting and maybe would've been captured, but I would've lived.

This--this life that I live right now, it's--I don't know.

The greener grass and all that, you know?

I don't know.

Oh. And my arm is still swollen. Has it been a few months already?

It has.

Someday I will post a favourite poem on here.

I did not lose my heart in summer's eve,
When roses to the moonrise burst apart:
When plumes were under heel and lead was flying,
In blood and smoke and flame I lost my heart.
I lost it to a soldier and a foeman,
A chap that did not kill me, but he tried;
That took the sabre straight and took it striking
And laughed and kissed his hand to me and died.

--A. E. Housman