i felt more love from a girl i had a brief encounter with in the high school bathroom then i did from of the people i've known for YEARS.
all it takes is a "how are you?" and one that actually means they want to listen.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
All the World's a Stage...his acts being seven ages. -William Shakespeare
It's quite funny:
(actually it's not funny at all but for some reason i feel a need to start this entry off this way.)
I have friends who i often look at and think: wow, they get offended VERY easily. the littlest thing ticks them or makes them want to cry or curl up in a ball or yell or punch someone's face. and i remember thinking how foolish it was.
and now i am thinking, how funny how it's NOT funny that i probably do this more then them. get offended from the simplest corrections people make on me and little words i take hugely to heart. why? why can't i let things brush off my shoulder? why do i get jealous soo easily? why am i such a hypocrite? and most importantly why do i always bag on myself.
this is what's backstage. what i mean is, i'm learning that life is truly a stage. life is an act! you go out and say your lines, pretending like everything is okay or something or pretending everything is NOT okay or something. different motives make you act differently. there's points you get so into the story that God's unraveling for you your acting isn't acting anymore, it's real. a girl i know--- she doesn't act. she sincerley wants to help the poor & needy. it's the real deal. another girl, she's hurting. inside. deeply, emotionally. maybe it was acting once before. i don't think she knows if it was ever acting. but now, now it's real. now it really hurts. and she doesn't know what to do about it. she though the scar was fake blood. but now.
and backstage is where your closest people are, the people who know when you're acting and know when you're not. they know what's up. they're the stage crew for your life. they take the time to get you ready, and they give you pep talks and tell you good luck. and whether you come back crying or dancing or having to use the restroom they are your right hand-men to help at any given times. i'm learning in this life you need a good stage crew, meaning a great group of people who will be there for you no matter what. it's so crazy seeing who really is backstage and who really isn't. who is needed to be kept backstage and who i need to leave the door proped open for. "go get some fresh air, you know? maybe come back when you're ready to be a real help to this show. to this life. otherwise go focus on your other stages because i dont really feel your help here." i've felt that before too. being fired from someone's act. oh gosh how that's painful. it's painful firing someone too, one of the most painful things. but just to be fired, kicked out on the street until you find someone else willing to hire you. i am blessed enough to say that God has given me maybe stages to help set up and keep accountable for and has giving me an amazing beautiful stage crew to keep me accountable. but it's not easy, it's painful of course. that's life though, that's hollywood.
but gosh it's the craziest thing when you see the one element that NEVER leaves whether you're on the stage, or watching eagerly backstage, or wandering in the lonely streets of hollywood wondering where to go now.the element, ask any actor, is the motivations that keep you going; that keep you WANTING to act still. what IS that? in this life some call it faith, some call it nengkan, some just call it motivation in general. but in certain lives, it's called God. i should say He is called God.
and it's painful being corrected while you're on stage!! i know the real directors in my life and i know the people who think they're directors but really have no where else to go and just want an excuse to criticize people! those are the critics. they give you their star amount and a fraction of people will let those stars twinkle in their eyes and walk out the back door thinking "this show looks lame... it only got a 2 star rating." or heck maybe you'll give a 4 star rating and the audience is crowded, you're as popular as can be and everyone loves you! and somewhere in the audience there's that one special character who you always watch and never take your eyes off of-- you can't even if you tried. and they will come and go. but eventually, you know when you see hiim/her-- you think; "i want him/her back stage. i know he/she might be able to help me." so you'll let a few of them backstage, and yes they'll wreck a few things. they might turn off the lights at the wrong time or tear a few curtains on accident. but you forgive, and afterwards you find someone who spot on knows what you need. and without even lifting a finger they give you what you need to be the best actor you can be.
now i'm not saying your life is fake and you're just acting. sure there are times in your life where that is the case; but i am saying that your life is a STORY, a SCRIPT, written by something, someone bigger then we could ever imagine. and like i said, all these critics come in and try to direct the show but really they don't know what the heck is up because there's already somebody directing the show anyway. all of our shows in fact. He's the king of directors and script-writers. and many of his actors/actresses, well frankly they begin to fall in deep love with Him. not a romantic love-- like i said, that's for the one person they see in the audience that makes there acting complete. no, this kind of love is the love that you find in your favorite book. oh gosh, when you hit that last page, that last word, that last period. you turn to the back of the book and feel the soft smooth texture and after that you are always quoting it and always remembering it and always thinking "that story MEANS something." and you LOVE what it says, and what it proclaims to you, and how you're moved by it. that's the kind of love some people develop for the director.
but some people come to be frustrated with the director. gosh flabbit, He is sure making your story not fun or interesting or cool or easy.. sometimes the story is even kind of painful, upsetting, depressing, and heart-drenching. a fraction of those people look up to the director and say "what the hexagon are you doing with the story, you are SC-REWING it up. there is SO MUCH MORE that can be done and should be done to it. look at THAT person's play. so much more interesting, and easy..." and a fraction of THOSE people get so jealous of other people there story is not director-written anymore. it is of them sitting in a corner criticizing something in front of them, a fraction of THOSE people are sitting in front of a screen, either criticizing someone in the blue and white margins of facebook or the colorful but dull margins of television.
but who is respected, who seems to gain the most out of this life, this story, this play, at the end, at fin; is the ones who have the trying times in their play but still choose to fall in love with the director. the humble ones who try to make their acting, NOT acting as much as possible. the ones who are backstage often, trying to thank and stay connected and help the ones who come to help him/her. the ones who don't even see the stars people hang on their scripts like a Christmas tree. or maybe they do see the stars but they prefer to have no stars at all so they know when people come to see their show it's not based off a rating but rather the audience actually yearning to know the main character.
and then, the actor dies. their story ends. for some of them. but a fraction of the actors, my friends, do not just get burried in the walk of fame. they don't have a gravestone in the shape of a star on some street in hollywood, "look they have a piece of ROCK to symbolize their life." nope. some people rise, to a new kind of story. this story has a taste that is too sweet for our human tongues to touch. and the same director is directing it, and writing it. in fact He's not a mystery to you anymore. in your first story you couldn't see the director with your human eyes, he always remained a constant mystery to you. but in THIS story, He's not a mystery anymore. you get to hang out with him, talk to Him about your old story and other people's stories and this story that's happening now. but you have to wonder---is it even considered a story if it never has an ending? ♦
(actually it's not funny at all but for some reason i feel a need to start this entry off this way.)
I have friends who i often look at and think: wow, they get offended VERY easily. the littlest thing ticks them or makes them want to cry or curl up in a ball or yell or punch someone's face. and i remember thinking how foolish it was.
and now i am thinking, how funny how it's NOT funny that i probably do this more then them. get offended from the simplest corrections people make on me and little words i take hugely to heart. why? why can't i let things brush off my shoulder? why do i get jealous soo easily? why am i such a hypocrite? and most importantly why do i always bag on myself.
this is what's backstage. what i mean is, i'm learning that life is truly a stage. life is an act! you go out and say your lines, pretending like everything is okay or something or pretending everything is NOT okay or something. different motives make you act differently. there's points you get so into the story that God's unraveling for you your acting isn't acting anymore, it's real. a girl i know--- she doesn't act. she sincerley wants to help the poor & needy. it's the real deal. another girl, she's hurting. inside. deeply, emotionally. maybe it was acting once before. i don't think she knows if it was ever acting. but now, now it's real. now it really hurts. and she doesn't know what to do about it. she though the scar was fake blood. but now.
and backstage is where your closest people are, the people who know when you're acting and know when you're not. they know what's up. they're the stage crew for your life. they take the time to get you ready, and they give you pep talks and tell you good luck. and whether you come back crying or dancing or having to use the restroom they are your right hand-men to help at any given times. i'm learning in this life you need a good stage crew, meaning a great group of people who will be there for you no matter what. it's so crazy seeing who really is backstage and who really isn't. who is needed to be kept backstage and who i need to leave the door proped open for. "go get some fresh air, you know? maybe come back when you're ready to be a real help to this show. to this life. otherwise go focus on your other stages because i dont really feel your help here." i've felt that before too. being fired from someone's act. oh gosh how that's painful. it's painful firing someone too, one of the most painful things. but just to be fired, kicked out on the street until you find someone else willing to hire you. i am blessed enough to say that God has given me maybe stages to help set up and keep accountable for and has giving me an amazing beautiful stage crew to keep me accountable. but it's not easy, it's painful of course. that's life though, that's hollywood.
but gosh it's the craziest thing when you see the one element that NEVER leaves whether you're on the stage, or watching eagerly backstage, or wandering in the lonely streets of hollywood wondering where to go now.the element, ask any actor, is the motivations that keep you going; that keep you WANTING to act still. what IS that? in this life some call it faith, some call it nengkan, some just call it motivation in general. but in certain lives, it's called God. i should say He is called God.
and it's painful being corrected while you're on stage!! i know the real directors in my life and i know the people who think they're directors but really have no where else to go and just want an excuse to criticize people! those are the critics. they give you their star amount and a fraction of people will let those stars twinkle in their eyes and walk out the back door thinking "this show looks lame... it only got a 2 star rating." or heck maybe you'll give a 4 star rating and the audience is crowded, you're as popular as can be and everyone loves you! and somewhere in the audience there's that one special character who you always watch and never take your eyes off of-- you can't even if you tried. and they will come and go. but eventually, you know when you see hiim/her-- you think; "i want him/her back stage. i know he/she might be able to help me." so you'll let a few of them backstage, and yes they'll wreck a few things. they might turn off the lights at the wrong time or tear a few curtains on accident. but you forgive, and afterwards you find someone who spot on knows what you need. and without even lifting a finger they give you what you need to be the best actor you can be.
now i'm not saying your life is fake and you're just acting. sure there are times in your life where that is the case; but i am saying that your life is a STORY, a SCRIPT, written by something, someone bigger then we could ever imagine. and like i said, all these critics come in and try to direct the show but really they don't know what the heck is up because there's already somebody directing the show anyway. all of our shows in fact. He's the king of directors and script-writers. and many of his actors/actresses, well frankly they begin to fall in deep love with Him. not a romantic love-- like i said, that's for the one person they see in the audience that makes there acting complete. no, this kind of love is the love that you find in your favorite book. oh gosh, when you hit that last page, that last word, that last period. you turn to the back of the book and feel the soft smooth texture and after that you are always quoting it and always remembering it and always thinking "that story MEANS something." and you LOVE what it says, and what it proclaims to you, and how you're moved by it. that's the kind of love some people develop for the director.
but some people come to be frustrated with the director. gosh flabbit, He is sure making your story not fun or interesting or cool or easy.. sometimes the story is even kind of painful, upsetting, depressing, and heart-drenching. a fraction of those people look up to the director and say "what the hexagon are you doing with the story, you are SC-REWING it up. there is SO MUCH MORE that can be done and should be done to it. look at THAT person's play. so much more interesting, and easy..." and a fraction of THOSE people get so jealous of other people there story is not director-written anymore. it is of them sitting in a corner criticizing something in front of them, a fraction of THOSE people are sitting in front of a screen, either criticizing someone in the blue and white margins of facebook or the colorful but dull margins of television.
but who is respected, who seems to gain the most out of this life, this story, this play, at the end, at fin; is the ones who have the trying times in their play but still choose to fall in love with the director. the humble ones who try to make their acting, NOT acting as much as possible. the ones who are backstage often, trying to thank and stay connected and help the ones who come to help him/her. the ones who don't even see the stars people hang on their scripts like a Christmas tree. or maybe they do see the stars but they prefer to have no stars at all so they know when people come to see their show it's not based off a rating but rather the audience actually yearning to know the main character.
and then, the actor dies. their story ends. for some of them. but a fraction of the actors, my friends, do not just get burried in the walk of fame. they don't have a gravestone in the shape of a star on some street in hollywood, "look they have a piece of ROCK to symbolize their life." nope. some people rise, to a new kind of story. this story has a taste that is too sweet for our human tongues to touch. and the same director is directing it, and writing it. in fact He's not a mystery to you anymore. in your first story you couldn't see the director with your human eyes, he always remained a constant mystery to you. but in THIS story, He's not a mystery anymore. you get to hang out with him, talk to Him about your old story and other people's stories and this story that's happening now. but you have to wonder---is it even considered a story if it never has an ending? ♦
Sunday, February 13, 2011
mansion
"we don't want blessings...we want You."
we knocked on the door of the house. nope not a house. a room that had a 10 inch wall between itselt and it's neighbor. an old woman comes out, short and knows no english. but it's okay because carlos can translate. he's really quiet and sweet, but is probably most valuable among all of us. they exchange words and i feel like i've seen this woman before--- not in the fact that i recognize her, but in the fact there are so many woman out there like her. from looks at least. but after they exchange words, carlos and this small woman, underneath her glasses her brown eyes sparkle with hope. it's hard to completley remember what was said, but after they takled for a little bit she invited us in her home. and it might as well been as big as a house because of all the pictures inside it, it felt like it was BIGGER than a regular home; and how she probably treasured all the people posing on her wall-- children, adults, and in between. and right as we walked inside her house was no longer just a small door with people peeking out the thick screen door--- it was a mansion. a mansion of pictures, and of hope for a better future.
we stepped inside the mansion and she continued to talk to us. she gave us a pamphlet of her church-- we had invited her to ours too. and then, the leader in the v-neck, asked if she needed prayer; beinghis job and all. but when he asked this time, it didn't really seem like it was his job and he HAD to ask. there was something different about it. then she looked to carlos, and possibly looked down, and stated a sentence of spanish. carlos repeated, "she said to pray cause her husband drinks alcohol and does drugs." we wrapped our hands around eachothers and said a prayer for the husband. her name was brinda. it was a beautiful prayer. and the great thing was, half of us didn't know the other half at all. but after that prayer, i felt like we had known the other half by more than just the translator and the intern in the v-neck who knew what to say. i knew one thing about all of them, including the lady: the Lord was working in them. they all starved for God. and the truth is, sometimes that's all we need to know. and that day, it was.
we walked out of the mansion, being hugged with deep thanksgiving and kissed on the cheek by the lady who was no longer just like any other lady by looks. she wanted hope. i don't know if she knew it or not but she had it. in her mansion, in her spirit, in eachother's hands when we wrapped them around eachothers, in her big brown eyes behind the glasses. for maybe a minute in that circle we all forgot who we were. not sure if we could tell you our names at the moment, we were all one person just crying out to God for His help. and He will. maybe not in the way we want even, but in the way we need.
and we continued to be one person. of course we exchanged questions like, "where do you want to go from this, v-neck?" and from v-neck to us "where do you guys go to school?" and thanking carlos for his amazing talents. thank God for carlos. he lived in those homes, and got to develop connections and relationships with them and speak in their tongue. a few of them even said "ey carlos."
a lady with no nerve endings asking if she could bring her walker on the bus to the church behind one thick black screen door. a lady with a newborn baby telling us to pray for her stress and just for peace in her home. a girl with stringy hair and some of the most beautiful hazel eyes who i wish i'd have asked if she needed any prayer.
i had more fun knocking on doors talking to strangers in LA then i have had in this entire 2011.
"we don't want blessings...we want You."
we knocked on the door of the house. nope not a house. a room that had a 10 inch wall between itselt and it's neighbor. an old woman comes out, short and knows no english. but it's okay because carlos can translate. he's really quiet and sweet, but is probably most valuable among all of us. they exchange words and i feel like i've seen this woman before--- not in the fact that i recognize her, but in the fact there are so many woman out there like her. from looks at least. but after they exchange words, carlos and this small woman, underneath her glasses her brown eyes sparkle with hope. it's hard to completley remember what was said, but after they takled for a little bit she invited us in her home. and it might as well been as big as a house because of all the pictures inside it, it felt like it was BIGGER than a regular home; and how she probably treasured all the people posing on her wall-- children, adults, and in between. and right as we walked inside her house was no longer just a small door with people peeking out the thick screen door--- it was a mansion. a mansion of pictures, and of hope for a better future.
we stepped inside the mansion and she continued to talk to us. she gave us a pamphlet of her church-- we had invited her to ours too. and then, the leader in the v-neck, asked if she needed prayer; beinghis job and all. but when he asked this time, it didn't really seem like it was his job and he HAD to ask. there was something different about it. then she looked to carlos, and possibly looked down, and stated a sentence of spanish. carlos repeated, "she said to pray cause her husband drinks alcohol and does drugs." we wrapped our hands around eachothers and said a prayer for the husband. her name was brinda. it was a beautiful prayer. and the great thing was, half of us didn't know the other half at all. but after that prayer, i felt like we had known the other half by more than just the translator and the intern in the v-neck who knew what to say. i knew one thing about all of them, including the lady: the Lord was working in them. they all starved for God. and the truth is, sometimes that's all we need to know. and that day, it was.
we walked out of the mansion, being hugged with deep thanksgiving and kissed on the cheek by the lady who was no longer just like any other lady by looks. she wanted hope. i don't know if she knew it or not but she had it. in her mansion, in her spirit, in eachother's hands when we wrapped them around eachothers, in her big brown eyes behind the glasses. for maybe a minute in that circle we all forgot who we were. not sure if we could tell you our names at the moment, we were all one person just crying out to God for His help. and He will. maybe not in the way we want even, but in the way we need.
and we continued to be one person. of course we exchanged questions like, "where do you want to go from this, v-neck?" and from v-neck to us "where do you guys go to school?" and thanking carlos for his amazing talents. thank God for carlos. he lived in those homes, and got to develop connections and relationships with them and speak in their tongue. a few of them even said "ey carlos."
a lady with no nerve endings asking if she could bring her walker on the bus to the church behind one thick black screen door. a lady with a newborn baby telling us to pray for her stress and just for peace in her home. a girl with stringy hair and some of the most beautiful hazel eyes who i wish i'd have asked if she needed any prayer.
i had more fun knocking on doors talking to strangers in LA then i have had in this entire 2011.
"we don't want blessings...we want You."
Friday, February 11, 2011
Coulette-- chapter one.
the bridge, it was quite long. and when i ran across it, i wanted to go off course, jump over the side and land in the abyss of... the rest of time. would something stop me anyway? maybe "God" would stop me. maybe, right before i leap into the air, i would realize the meaning of life!! maybe, the love of my life would come dashing in to save the day, grabbing my shoulder and yelling, "wait! -huff huff- instead of jumping off the bridge... would you like to walk to the end of it with me?"
i know what i'd like to walk to the end of. this life. so, i'm gonna do it. my friends always told me, what if you were trapped in a white chamber with a terrorist giving me two choices: to kill myself, or for him to torture me for the rest of my life. would "God" understand? oh man i HATED those kinds of questions. just shuddup, kay? because truthfully, why the HECK would that even happen? honestly. some people have to much time on there brains... anyway. even if i wasn't in the chamber i'd still do it. not just cause i hate my life and everything. i'm not like that. you know, one of those "depressed" people who THINK they are depressed but are really starving for eyes to be fixed on the black that they drown themselves in (whether they're drowing in their too-thick eyeliner or their too-tight pants or band tees.) i just... wanted to feel something. i felt NOTHING in this life. you know, i thought i felt love once. but look at me now. so i'm tired of trying to feel love. i wanna feel the adrenaline of flying. what does it feel like to fly? i've always wondered, and dreamt....
dreams become reality if only for the last few seconds of my reality. because i'm doing it. i'm running. i'm sprinting. i'm almost flying just leaping across this bridge. shift in direction. up the walls. the things that trap us in. is their panic behind me? not sure, but don't really care. i stand over this bridge and abyss of green below me. they always said green was symbolic of calmness and serenity. yeah, i'll be calm now...
the bottom of my shoes,which i can't recall which pair of shoes i'm wearing. they wave goodbye as they leap off the metal, and they greet the air. sorry for such a short hello, but i must be leaving soon they tell the sky and air. all my body parts do the same. goodbye. i even feel like my lips said goodbye. out loud?
i feel an absence. an absence of... force. of ground. i haven't hit it yet. i didn't think i'd be able to fly this long. what? my brain is going in twelve different directions now--- still trying to say goodbye, another direction wondering why in the world am i still trying? one direction trying to think of how i could possibly not injure myself from this stunt, one direction wondering how in the name of harry potter i haven't hurt myself yet. more and more directions. if i don't hit the ground before i die, i think i will die from too much weight in my head from all my different thoughts and panic modes. what is going on? is the most distinct direction.
i feel myself losing sight of the green abyss. it's gone. what is coming into view now?m aybe i DID hit the ground. maybe this is death greeting my feet hello now. it just wasn't anything i ever imagined. but it's gotta be it! that's gotta be the end of my time greeting my feet. what else could be greeting them now? but maybe...
who has control of my vision? no longer me. something, someone has taken over. and now all i can see is... a little girl. she has short, curly bouncy white locks. well, almost white. her hair is blindingly blonde. she has a cherry-red overall dress on, ankle socks, and cherry red buckle shoes. her face, it sparkles with joy and laughter; even if she isn't smiling. her eyes scream wonder and curiousity. oh man, i miss innocence so much. if i could just touch and feel THAT again...
she bounces, she leaps. she's like tigger. and once the thought of tigger entered my mind, i now identified that name as HER name. no other name would fit her now. she held that innocence and happiness and bounce about life no one else but tigger (and possibly roo) held. bounce. bounce. bounce...
what is she bouncing on. what is she bouncing on? i want to bounce! funny, last time i tried jumping, look what happened. funny again... i don't really know what happened after i left the top of the bridge. i forget that thought and continue to watch her bounce. all the sudden she stops. she stares at something. that curiousity in her eyes, holy... it was like someone was giving me an injection of it or something. it made ME curious as who KNOWS what. i saw a shape. four cornered, right angles... a square? she was looking out it. okay, it's a window. she's staring at it. maybe not even staring AT it, but OUT it? she freezes withthat same posisition for 23 seconds (i counted.) and leaps. but this was no average leap. she... she dived into the air. her feet, they waved goodbye to her bedpan and hello to the air for only a split second. sorry i couldn't stay longer, her feet whisper into the silence. and the rest of her body parts. and she lands. right in front of the window. what does that feel like? the moment you land right after you jump? i forgot. but she stood there and did the exact same thing. stare. stare. stare, stare, stare, curiousity, stare, curiousity, stare, stare, stare. at this point, i realized this wasn't like TV; i might be able to reach out and grab what layed in front of my eyes. i did so. nothing. maybe it WAS like TV. i never liked TV anyway. well, not after i turned 15 and a half, i didn't. at that time, i realized watching TV was equivalent to being babysat...psychologically. so i stood, without control; being forced to watch goldilocks stare.and stare. and stare.
but soon enough, she greeted movement by greeting the window. she started drawing shapes and figures on the window (in the window?) with the paintbrush on the tip of her finger. she drew hearts, stars, and happy faces; because that was all she was taught. that was all she ever knew. she tried drawing a musical note, which i admit was pretty advanced for ayoung girl like her. it was in the wrong direction but it was pretty close. it made me miss music. what did music sound like? i had forgotten that too...
as i watched this girl, i felt as if i was staring just like her. in fact... i felt like i was staring into a mirror. doing the same thing as her, or she doing the same thing as me? watching HER look into a mirror. was SHE watching herSELF look into a mirror? i couldn't see what was on the other side of the window. but i knew, that, i saw my reflection on that day. or second. or hour. or centimeter? i forgot about time too.
then she jerked. a noise shattered her serenity. she turned around.
"cole," the voice behind her murmered. "what are you doing ? the neighbors downstairs said they heard a big shake. did you jump off the bed again ?"
tigger glanced over at the figure now identifying with the noise. "yes melody."
melody's eyes came into view now. i could see her pupils lose their graps of gravitational force and rise up to the top of her eyes. "cole," she stated, as if she was tired of repeating herself. "humans can't fly. even if we jump off beds. unless we go in.. airplanes. but everytime you try to fly off the bed you disrupt the neighbors downstairs. so stop, okay?"
i think melody could tell tigger was dissapointed. she looked out the sqaure again. she had this look on her face that i could tell would be imprinted into her spirit for a long, long time. an expression she would use again; holding wonder but dissapointment and discontent as well. "look, cole." melody's figure was defined now as she slid over to tigger. "you can try flying again when the pool is open."
"can we go right now?" oh man, tigger, i would give you a piggy back ride to the pool if i could. those eyes could make me do anything... i think probably anyone else would feel the same.
"no, cole. it's too cold outside. it's almost the end of winter. maybe... maybe in a few months. okay?"
"months, melly!?"
"you can wait, months aren't that long."
this woman. she didn't have a clue. a CLUE. in kid years, minutes were hours, hours were days, days were months, months were years, and years... were a childhood's lifetime.
but tigger just nodded. "melly.. do the neighbors downstairs not like me huh?"
"why would you ask that?"
"well, whenever i'm bouncing my ball outside... they always tell me to stop. like i'm making too much noise. and when i jump off the bed... they tellme to stop. and when i dance... they tell me to stop again."
melody's head nodded. "sweetie, sit down. let me tell you about the neighbor's downstairs."
tigger plopped onto the bed, and melody sat like a ballerina or something. "cole, they aren't blessed like you and i. you see, they want kids like you. they know you have a beautiful spirit... they just can't have kids like you. mommy and daddy are lucky and can. but they just don't have luck in that area i guess. so whenever you bounce your ball, or dance in the kitchen, or jump off your bed... it's just making them remember how they don't have a great kid like you. okay?"
"why can't they have a kid like me? that's a sad story."
"because..." melody stared out the window for a few seconds, silent. "because the stork that brings down the babies to the mommy's and daddy's skipped them on accident. maybe one day he'll come and give them one after all. but now just...isn't the time."
"maybe if i learned how to really fly i can find the stork and tell him to bring them down a baby just like me!"
melody started to comb through her blonde pasta-like hair. "the stork is..." she paused again, out the window her eyes focus flew. "the stork is a lonely one. but he likes being alone. he knows he has to do his job on his own." she nodded to herself. "okay? but i bet he really likes that you want to help so much."
tigger nodded. and that's when i saw it. that when i saw who i was looking at. at that moment, her head nod. the way she understood, and the way she always stared out that window. i knew who it was.
---Chrissy Z
please don't steal. i would copyright this if i knew how. please! (:
i know what i'd like to walk to the end of. this life. so, i'm gonna do it. my friends always told me, what if you were trapped in a white chamber with a terrorist giving me two choices: to kill myself, or for him to torture me for the rest of my life. would "God" understand? oh man i HATED those kinds of questions. just shuddup, kay? because truthfully, why the HECK would that even happen? honestly. some people have to much time on there brains... anyway. even if i wasn't in the chamber i'd still do it. not just cause i hate my life and everything. i'm not like that. you know, one of those "depressed" people who THINK they are depressed but are really starving for eyes to be fixed on the black that they drown themselves in (whether they're drowing in their too-thick eyeliner or their too-tight pants or band tees.) i just... wanted to feel something. i felt NOTHING in this life. you know, i thought i felt love once. but look at me now. so i'm tired of trying to feel love. i wanna feel the adrenaline of flying. what does it feel like to fly? i've always wondered, and dreamt....
dreams become reality if only for the last few seconds of my reality. because i'm doing it. i'm running. i'm sprinting. i'm almost flying just leaping across this bridge. shift in direction. up the walls. the things that trap us in. is their panic behind me? not sure, but don't really care. i stand over this bridge and abyss of green below me. they always said green was symbolic of calmness and serenity. yeah, i'll be calm now...
the bottom of my shoes,which i can't recall which pair of shoes i'm wearing. they wave goodbye as they leap off the metal, and they greet the air. sorry for such a short hello, but i must be leaving soon they tell the sky and air. all my body parts do the same. goodbye. i even feel like my lips said goodbye. out loud?
i feel an absence. an absence of... force. of ground. i haven't hit it yet. i didn't think i'd be able to fly this long. what? my brain is going in twelve different directions now--- still trying to say goodbye, another direction wondering why in the world am i still trying? one direction trying to think of how i could possibly not injure myself from this stunt, one direction wondering how in the name of harry potter i haven't hurt myself yet. more and more directions. if i don't hit the ground before i die, i think i will die from too much weight in my head from all my different thoughts and panic modes. what is going on? is the most distinct direction.
i feel myself losing sight of the green abyss. it's gone. what is coming into view now?m aybe i DID hit the ground. maybe this is death greeting my feet hello now. it just wasn't anything i ever imagined. but it's gotta be it! that's gotta be the end of my time greeting my feet. what else could be greeting them now? but maybe...
who has control of my vision? no longer me. something, someone has taken over. and now all i can see is... a little girl. she has short, curly bouncy white locks. well, almost white. her hair is blindingly blonde. she has a cherry-red overall dress on, ankle socks, and cherry red buckle shoes. her face, it sparkles with joy and laughter; even if she isn't smiling. her eyes scream wonder and curiousity. oh man, i miss innocence so much. if i could just touch and feel THAT again...
she bounces, she leaps. she's like tigger. and once the thought of tigger entered my mind, i now identified that name as HER name. no other name would fit her now. she held that innocence and happiness and bounce about life no one else but tigger (and possibly roo) held. bounce. bounce. bounce...
what is she bouncing on. what is she bouncing on? i want to bounce! funny, last time i tried jumping, look what happened. funny again... i don't really know what happened after i left the top of the bridge. i forget that thought and continue to watch her bounce. all the sudden she stops. she stares at something. that curiousity in her eyes, holy... it was like someone was giving me an injection of it or something. it made ME curious as who KNOWS what. i saw a shape. four cornered, right angles... a square? she was looking out it. okay, it's a window. she's staring at it. maybe not even staring AT it, but OUT it? she freezes withthat same posisition for 23 seconds (i counted.) and leaps. but this was no average leap. she... she dived into the air. her feet, they waved goodbye to her bedpan and hello to the air for only a split second. sorry i couldn't stay longer, her feet whisper into the silence. and the rest of her body parts. and she lands. right in front of the window. what does that feel like? the moment you land right after you jump? i forgot. but she stood there and did the exact same thing. stare. stare. stare, stare, stare, curiousity, stare, curiousity, stare, stare, stare. at this point, i realized this wasn't like TV; i might be able to reach out and grab what layed in front of my eyes. i did so. nothing. maybe it WAS like TV. i never liked TV anyway. well, not after i turned 15 and a half, i didn't. at that time, i realized watching TV was equivalent to being babysat...psychologically. so i stood, without control; being forced to watch goldilocks stare.and stare. and stare.
but soon enough, she greeted movement by greeting the window. she started drawing shapes and figures on the window (in the window?) with the paintbrush on the tip of her finger. she drew hearts, stars, and happy faces; because that was all she was taught. that was all she ever knew. she tried drawing a musical note, which i admit was pretty advanced for ayoung girl like her. it was in the wrong direction but it was pretty close. it made me miss music. what did music sound like? i had forgotten that too...
as i watched this girl, i felt as if i was staring just like her. in fact... i felt like i was staring into a mirror. doing the same thing as her, or she doing the same thing as me? watching HER look into a mirror. was SHE watching herSELF look into a mirror? i couldn't see what was on the other side of the window. but i knew, that, i saw my reflection on that day. or second. or hour. or centimeter? i forgot about time too.
then she jerked. a noise shattered her serenity. she turned around.
"cole," the voice behind her murmered. "what are you doing ? the neighbors downstairs said they heard a big shake. did you jump off the bed again ?"
tigger glanced over at the figure now identifying with the noise. "yes melody."
melody's eyes came into view now. i could see her pupils lose their graps of gravitational force and rise up to the top of her eyes. "cole," she stated, as if she was tired of repeating herself. "humans can't fly. even if we jump off beds. unless we go in.. airplanes. but everytime you try to fly off the bed you disrupt the neighbors downstairs. so stop, okay?"
i think melody could tell tigger was dissapointed. she looked out the sqaure again. she had this look on her face that i could tell would be imprinted into her spirit for a long, long time. an expression she would use again; holding wonder but dissapointment and discontent as well. "look, cole." melody's figure was defined now as she slid over to tigger. "you can try flying again when the pool is open."
"can we go right now?" oh man, tigger, i would give you a piggy back ride to the pool if i could. those eyes could make me do anything... i think probably anyone else would feel the same.
"no, cole. it's too cold outside. it's almost the end of winter. maybe... maybe in a few months. okay?"
"months, melly!?"
"you can wait, months aren't that long."
this woman. she didn't have a clue. a CLUE. in kid years, minutes were hours, hours were days, days were months, months were years, and years... were a childhood's lifetime.
but tigger just nodded. "melly.. do the neighbors downstairs not like me huh?"
"why would you ask that?"
"well, whenever i'm bouncing my ball outside... they always tell me to stop. like i'm making too much noise. and when i jump off the bed... they tellme to stop. and when i dance... they tell me to stop again."
melody's head nodded. "sweetie, sit down. let me tell you about the neighbor's downstairs."
tigger plopped onto the bed, and melody sat like a ballerina or something. "cole, they aren't blessed like you and i. you see, they want kids like you. they know you have a beautiful spirit... they just can't have kids like you. mommy and daddy are lucky and can. but they just don't have luck in that area i guess. so whenever you bounce your ball, or dance in the kitchen, or jump off your bed... it's just making them remember how they don't have a great kid like you. okay?"
"why can't they have a kid like me? that's a sad story."
"because..." melody stared out the window for a few seconds, silent. "because the stork that brings down the babies to the mommy's and daddy's skipped them on accident. maybe one day he'll come and give them one after all. but now just...isn't the time."
"maybe if i learned how to really fly i can find the stork and tell him to bring them down a baby just like me!"
melody started to comb through her blonde pasta-like hair. "the stork is..." she paused again, out the window her eyes focus flew. "the stork is a lonely one. but he likes being alone. he knows he has to do his job on his own." she nodded to herself. "okay? but i bet he really likes that you want to help so much."
tigger nodded. and that's when i saw it. that when i saw who i was looking at. at that moment, her head nod. the way she understood, and the way she always stared out that window. i knew who it was.
---Chrissy Z
please don't steal. i would copyright this if i knew how. please! (:
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
diverged in a yellow wood,
TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same, 10
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
[ ],
and it has made all the difference.
---Robert Frost
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same, 10
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
[ ],
and it has made all the difference.
---Robert Frost
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
theRaindropMusing
it wasn't too rainy of a day. it was actually pretty sunny outside. a little cloudy, but after all the rain we've had we couldn't complain. there were still drops racing down the window as we drove to school, but no signs of rain. it was kinda nice.
the window was crying almost, but it looked like it was crying tears of joy. how could one identify the difference between teardrops of joy or teardrops of sorrow on an blank unemotional window? it was all in the actual tears. every raindrop held a reflection of something. and on that day, it looked like instead of raindrops falling down the window's cheeks; stars were falling down instead because of the suns reflection on the raindrops. beautiful would be too loose of a word to describe it.
we are all raindrops. we reflect others, and vice versa. i'm discovering that what i don't like in other people i hold inside my own self. there is a quote (that i unfortunatley cannot bring to mind) that states what humans are composed of are all the experiences they've ever experienced and all of the people they've ever met. are we just mirrors then?
would you find that discouring? i kinda do. the thought that we all reflect eachother is a downer. but the thing is, we don't reflect eachother in EVERY single way. we reflect eachother in different ways; good or bad. you can do either one of two things: accept what your reflection is. whether you think you're beautiful, or ugly, or whatever. or, try to change your reflection. this could be a good or bad thing, trying to change yourself because you don't think you look "good" (or maybe even because you want to look "bad".)
i'm also learning that in the end it's not what your opinion, or what other people's opinion, on who you are (or your "reflection") is. the only opinion that matters on you is God's. humans will do anything to change their physical reflection. yet, they're still never satisfied. people try to change their personality to look a certain way. why? we continously care what people see of us.
but maybe, God wants us to be like those sunny raindrops. yes, to have our own different shapes and sizes; big and small. but to overall reflect the sun's glory and light. reflect what good things come in front of us, or reflect to others good things that God shows us. to overall be lights in this world.
falling stars.
"Do everything without grumbling or arguing, 15 so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a warped and crooked generation. Then you will shine among them like stars in the sky 16 as you hold firmly to the word of life." --Philippians 2:14-16
or stars racing down a window on a cold January day.
the window was crying almost, but it looked like it was crying tears of joy. how could one identify the difference between teardrops of joy or teardrops of sorrow on an blank unemotional window? it was all in the actual tears. every raindrop held a reflection of something. and on that day, it looked like instead of raindrops falling down the window's cheeks; stars were falling down instead because of the suns reflection on the raindrops. beautiful would be too loose of a word to describe it.
we are all raindrops. we reflect others, and vice versa. i'm discovering that what i don't like in other people i hold inside my own self. there is a quote (that i unfortunatley cannot bring to mind) that states what humans are composed of are all the experiences they've ever experienced and all of the people they've ever met. are we just mirrors then?
would you find that discouring? i kinda do. the thought that we all reflect eachother is a downer. but the thing is, we don't reflect eachother in EVERY single way. we reflect eachother in different ways; good or bad. you can do either one of two things: accept what your reflection is. whether you think you're beautiful, or ugly, or whatever. or, try to change your reflection. this could be a good or bad thing, trying to change yourself because you don't think you look "good" (or maybe even because you want to look "bad".)
i'm also learning that in the end it's not what your opinion, or what other people's opinion, on who you are (or your "reflection") is. the only opinion that matters on you is God's. humans will do anything to change their physical reflection. yet, they're still never satisfied. people try to change their personality to look a certain way. why? we continously care what people see of us.
but maybe, God wants us to be like those sunny raindrops. yes, to have our own different shapes and sizes; big and small. but to overall reflect the sun's glory and light. reflect what good things come in front of us, or reflect to others good things that God shows us. to overall be lights in this world.
falling stars.
"Do everything without grumbling or arguing, 15 so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a warped and crooked generation. Then you will shine among them like stars in the sky 16 as you hold firmly to the word of life." --Philippians 2:14-16
or stars racing down a window on a cold January day.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
This isn't psychologically or spiritually significant, but I think in the long run it can be. (:
So,I just wanted to say you should follow
modesty.blogspot.com
It's a blog by this great guy named Stephen Christian; who's a big influence on this blog actually. he's famous for his band Anberlin but he's written a great book and has a side project called Anchor and Braille and also leads an orginization calle Faceless international.
Stephen takes everyday stories and makes you see life in a whole new perspective, even if it's the perspective of a fish bowl. (See his latest bowl; it's not an inside joke I sware.) I also encourage you to buy his book from Amazon with leftover Christmas caching; it's called "The Orphaned Anythings: A Memoir of a Lesser Known." Has to be one of the best books of ALL time.
Thanks, and I'll be posting something soon!
CLZ.
modesty.blogspot.com
It's a blog by this great guy named Stephen Christian; who's a big influence on this blog actually. he's famous for his band Anberlin but he's written a great book and has a side project called Anchor and Braille and also leads an orginization calle Faceless international.
Stephen takes everyday stories and makes you see life in a whole new perspective, even if it's the perspective of a fish bowl. (See his latest bowl; it's not an inside joke I sware.) I also encourage you to buy his book from Amazon with leftover Christmas caching; it's called "The Orphaned Anythings: A Memoir of a Lesser Known." Has to be one of the best books of ALL time.
Thanks, and I'll be posting something soon!
CLZ.
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