Hurricane Drunk.

I love my family, both of them. Last night my youth group had an all-nighter, and all my siblings except the baby were there. How awesome it was; I didn't think it was possible to have so much fun packed into one night. So many memories and laughs; almost everything my mother or father mention brings a memory and a laugh to me.

I have so much to say, but my brain is operating on four hours of sleep. So.

Prodigal Son's Prayer

I'm taking small steps:

F. cleaning up my room.

R. writing out my lesson plan for the past three weeks (in other words, making a procrastination right).

M. practicing piano instead of putting it off.

Now to actually get working towards scholarly pursuits.

A friend asked me tonight what I'm doing for college. Ah, I wish I could say. I wish I could say, actually, that I'm not afraid of utter failure; that I'm not afraid of success because failure must surely be down the road. Is this my obstacle now, I wonder: fear?

Regardless. I am moving forward; I am taking small steps. So maybe I'll fail. I won't compromise, though. Maybe I'll be rejected time and again; I won't stop, though. I watched a movie last week called One Week, and it taught me things.

Ben, the main character, wrote a book. He tried to get it published but it was rejected multiple times. Ben gives up just around the time Houghton Mifflin hires a new man who's looking for exactly the type of book Ben wrote...if only he hadn't quit. If only he had tried once more.

So maybe I've failed; maybe I've put it off for too long, long enough that cramming won't get me anywhere. I'm going to try, though. I'm going to give it all I have. I'm going to stop the music that has engulfed me; this music of complacency and soft convictions; I'm going to pump up the drums and bass and march toward tomorrow. Then I'm going to turn it louder and keep marching, until the day after tomorrow; and the day after that; and the day after that.

Jesus. I'm here. Thanks for waiting for me.

Father meet me with Your arms wide open
The world's done broken Your prodigal son
Down this road I traveled
Everything raveled only came undone

Father lead me down to the river
Wash me in the water till I'm whiter than snow
I know I'm not worthy
But tell me there's mercy for the wandering soul

I lost my way but now I'm on my knees
If it's not too late won't You tell me please
You gotta place for me
A little grace for me

Father meet me in Your cool green valley
In all of Your glory when my days are done
Name me as one of Your chosen
Heaven's unbroken prodigal son

Father meet me with Your arms wide open
Lead me down to the river
Meet me in the cool green valley

Name me as one of Your chosen
Heaven's unbroken prodigal son.

Because I'm Mental, Be Gentle with Me.

There is an explosion building up in my mind.. Every thought is followed by a thousand more, and strings of lights and garlands of heart float around, followed by that throng of paper cranes and origami stars. I want to do so much. I want to throw paint around and hot-glue fake jewels to my headboard, draw swirls around the frame of my window, sew some curtains, sprinkle sparkles all over my carpet, and string a million things from my ceiling.

I want to design a dress, cut out some yellow fabric and acquire some lace, and go wild. I want to find some flowers and learn how to make a crown out of them, and wear them to church, along with some ridiculously high heels.

All right. I dream too much when I should be sleeping. I sleep too much when I should be working. I work too much when I should be learning. I learn too much when I shouldn't be procrastinating.

Ah, but I know that I do many things right, too. That's the thing: this is not depression. It's self-awareness. It's tossing my mind into a world of color as well as shadow. It feels like I'm going crazy sometimes, but oh how beautiful insanity is.

A Reflective Rant.

Isn't this crazy? This north-and-south indecision of the needle? How one night we want to kiss every inch of earth for all our happiness, and the next night we want to cry and scream at every inch of space for all the thoughts pouring through our hearts?

I'll Believe in Anything - Wolf Parade

Junebug - Robert Francis

Tighten Up - The Black Keys

Hide & Seek - Imogen Heap

And, you know, one day I feel somewhat certain of my path, of who I am. Today I am sure; today I am unsure. There are many tentacles coming out from my fingers, and I feel like a daughter of Anak, ungainly and wild.

The sons of Anak were giants in the land, men of six fingers and toes. They terrified the children of Israel until Caleb, one of the two faithful spies sent to scout out the Promised Land, offered his daughter Acsah (name meaning "Anklet") as a prize to the man who would take Hebron, the city of the sons of Anak. Othniel (name meaning "Lion of God"), nephew of Caleb, won the city and the girl. Acsah later asked her father for upper and lower springs of water; Othniel became a judge of Israel, taking them back from their captivity under the king of Mesopotamia and bringing about a peace that lasted forty years.

I wonder what all this means. Why is it there? Why include Acsah's request for the springs of water?

But I digress. The daughters of Anak (I am sure there must have been some) are never mentioned. I'm not surprised; I would be surprised if they were. They most likely weren't pretty enough to attract a man, and the only thing they would be noted for would be their height, I suppose. Or their 24 fingers and toes. Maybe they'd be expected to go chop some wood in addition to mashing the millet for dinner. I don't know.

They were girls, though. We haven't changed much. We still want love; we still want someone to value us, to visit us, to talk to us. I wish I would remember this when I'm talking to my people. I wish I would always say the right thing. I wish I could be edgy and unoffensive at the same time. I wish I had the patience to fold a thousand paper cranes so that I could earn one wish come true. I wish I knew how to fold a paper crane.

I wish I deserved some of the compliments and opinions people give me, regarding my gifts. When I know so many others who draw much, much better than me, why do they focus on me? I hate it. It feels unfair, and it burdens me, even as it gives me heaps of joy.

Ah, a ranting post. I haven't done one of these in a while. Was it fear that held me back?

I finished another journal last night. It's become almost an obsession for me, journaling. Every day, tangibly remembered, stuck to pages and ink for as long as the paper holds out. I have tried very hard to be honest, to not just write to remember but write to reflect, to learn, and to grow. I didn't want to write just to find therapy in drawing the pen up and down, back and forth. I wanted to be able to look back and remember the moment with all my senses and all my emotions.

I wanted to remember the curtains in the corner, the fake ghost hanging outside the window, the dim lights, the Kylie-like quietness of the person next to me, the tiny lines of dirt hiding underneath the fingernails, and the accepting, round eyes looking straight into my own. Were they blue? They may have been black. It's so hard to tell, even in person, let alone in memory.

Since the middle of January, I have diligently kept journals. I filled one as May began. I filled another one as August ended. I started one at FUEL, hated the cluttered designs of its pages, and deserted it in favor of a very old leather one that I began in 2007 and just finished last night.

On the last page I copied down the lyrics to After the Storm by Mumford & Sons. Hopeful enough to not be depressing; thoughtful enough to make me cry. That's how I have ended all my journals, so far: with some kind of song or poem.

White Blank Page - Mumford & Sons

The Only Exception - Paramore

Transatlanticism - Death Cab for Cutie

Just Breathe - Pearl Jam

It's funny - most of the time, the moments I want to happen are much less pleasant than they seem in my head. The moments that are unplanned and go-with-the-flow-y are the ones that stick, the ones that keep me secure and warm. It's been a year of those moments, and I'm glad I won't lose it to memory.

A Little List

There are three things in life worth living for, not taking into account the spiritual side of things.

1. Friendship.

2. Hope.

3. Sunshine and trees.

Imperfections.

What to say: as the day passes, yesterday fades surely and firmly into memory. All the words and thoughts I could have said are all folded into that memory, and it takes some sweat to peel the layers back and find them again.

I have met my sweat quota for the week.

I watched One Week, an indie movie that struck me as perfect. (Many things have been doing that lately.) It was slow-paced and reflective, calm and questioning, full of quotations and scenery and the main character's introspection. It fit, yesterday, and if I watched it today, it would probably fit again. I'm often in the mood for reflection these days; I'm often in the mood for questioning and sitting back, eyes closed and head open, reaching out and finding answers or perhaps more questions.

It's the rain, I think, that does this to me. Me and my old bones.

And..

So: it is accomplished. I did everything I set out to do, Sunday night. It gave me good thoughts and feelings.

So: much more new music. I found a music blog that is just my taste, and also the deviantArters are proving to be a good source of great music, thanks to the necessity of titles for their deviations and the lack of creativity in that area, on average.

So: I have a lot of ideas about things to do for my room...like cotton ball clouds, and satin walls. Perhaps a silhouette portrait in an antique glass frame, or something equally charming and homemade.

So: it's an old day, at this point, and it has been full. My icon supply is replenished and I am coming to terms with myself and the world. I might pierce the back of my neck; perhaps the back of my tongue. I am still unsure, but I so, so want a tattoo. It doesn't matter anymore, the repercussions of old age.

In Celebration.

In a few minutes, it will be 10:10:10 on 10.10.10. I plan to celebrate somehow; I haven't made up my mind yet how exactly I'll do it, but I have about 20 minutes.

It's been a good day. We walked through a field full of grass and weeds as high as our waists, and I read a book of photography that blew me away. I watched The Corpse Bride and loved it for many, many reasons.

The diet's working; green is a good color on me; I read in a book on Faerie that fairies have always favored green; the crescent moon came out tonight; there is nothing like approval to satisfy the heart; I love my state of singleness and all its possibilities, all its potential, and all its freedom;

The semi-colon is a useful little chap, as Abraham Lincoln said.

I now have about ten minutes to determine my mode of celebration.

Today I felt happy; today I remembered that "this too shall pass."

I think I've figured it out; how to celebrate, I mean. I'm going to draw a butterfly. I'm going to write a poem and not think, not censor, not second-guess myself at all; then I am going to brew myself a pot - not a cup - a pot of tea, take one cookie, and go outside, look at the moon, and think and think and think until my parents yell at me to come inside.

I'm going to put on a dress and heels and put a bow in my hair.

Goodnight. I go now to prepare.

Indulge Me.

Today is National Music Appreciation Day (or something), and I have been appreciating music very much. I've also been appreciating typewriters and journals and light and trees and this Indian summer weather and the hippie style of dress and tea and perfectly roasted chicken and learning how to love and learning about the Constitution and reading, reading, reading.

I've been wondering whether my poems, the ones I struggle over and second-guess, are any good. They've stopped rhyming conventionally (I've thrown in much more internal rhyme and rhythm), and I suppose they've grown as I have. Maybe people aren't ready for them. Maybe I delude myself. I wanted to say "regardless," but it's not... I care very much if my work is quality or not. It matters to me what my poems make you feel. The images you see as you read are incredibly important to me.

But there is very little feedback. I wish I had more of it, good or bad, just so I could know what I'm doing wrong, or right, or what.

I wrote this one about a week ago and it garnered more response on dA than any other piece I've done.

Indulge Me.

If I write about important things,
and the world is thrown
into a circle of unrest, a valley of death;

If I write and they crown me queen
march out from underneath me in droves
(black and yellow, red and white,
all are precious in my sight) and my ideas
are cheered like new green things
growing from black moss, and I’m so boss
I’m crazy but they love love love me;

If I write out a grand new scheme that
came to me in the swirly cream of my cappuccino,
and the new National Capital is the
corner Starbucks, and the guerillas in their
jungles turn their guns into fruit juice;

If I write a word that tosses the content
of the cabinet like a controversial salad
all the animals in the zoo run wild through
the swampy narrows then
the alleyways reverse from the dank;

If I write with a prowess
so that upheaval follows
the stress of political correctness;

Life, Sweet Life.

David Gray sings a song called Nemesis:

I am the thoughts you are too ashamed to share..

I have some of those. They're all I've been thinking about, all last night and almost all day. They linger in my mind and catch my tongue like burrs. They fill my throat with puffs of cotton, my chest with crowds of heartbeats.

But I'm good now. Menial tasks such as washing dishes are strangely effective at washing away things like thoughts and musings other than music and bubbles. I'm glad for it: I've missed that innocence.

Now I can swing my feet, and listen to music and love it for its melodies and not its message (you may know of my penchant for sad or wistful songs), and look at art and love its beauty instead of nearly-weep over the emotions it stirs.

And that is this day: a blustery, autumn-y sort of day in which I met a Top Chef, was confused by my own circles of thoughts, talked a little bit, played a little bit, walked a little bit. A day in which I lived.

From What I Once Was.

Today I saw a biker man in a blue shirt and squarish sunglasses. He was tall and blonde and just enough of chunky to make him solid; he held his wife's hand and dropped some money casually into the donation bucket of some teenager. My theory remains: all the good guys are either gay, taken, or ninety.

Today I want to have the excuse of insomnia, instead of just being too awake to sleep. I want to go into my room and find a bed that alone in the room, alone with its lavender sheets and Dutch-trimmed pillows. A room that's whitewashed with little pastels colors all over it: baby blue sheer curtains filtering moonlight, a soft yellow rug on the floor, pink flowers and hearts strewn across the walls.

Today I lived an entire day, mostly, outside, but it's so hard to remember easily. I remember the soft sunshine in the morning, and the grand comforts to be found inside the hood of my 80's-inspired hoodie, and joking around with the Vanilla Gorilla, and those beautiful old glossy cars, and the extreme loveliness of the layers of my hair. Have I begun to think in icons, I wonder. I have some new ones.

Would you settle for a wasted life?

We can't always belong to a place in time.

Come along for the ride, let them take you inside -

No one wants to wait anymore;

Come along for the ride, let them take you inside.

And all my thoughts wrapped up in neverending white lights

and celestial beings parting ways with me;

I'm losing faith in life.

Too afraid tonight to lie awake

And in my thoughts there are ways of getting lost.