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