Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Fourteen Estimates

I am . . .
1.A blank, immovable wall cemented in wait for inspiration to splatter its techtonic plate-moving potential over every centimeter
2.The friend everyone can cry to but is shoulder-to-cry-on-less
3.The understated participant of a many-playered game
4.A weak-looking flame waiting on the sidelines, contained in a glass lantern, unable to obtain its chance at engulfing an idea
5.A shirt worn during a paint fight, catching the slopped hues that will create its own color wheel
6.A gullible fool willing to be pulled by a tractor-pulled sled through hardened, crusty Jell-O
7.A piece of paper, used to scribble homework, then lost in the depths of objects in some artist’s portfolio
8.A French fry dipped and eaten with an ounce of chocolate frosty and gulped down with a carbonated, ice-cold Pepsi
9.A Swiss army knife - just when you think that’s it, there’s another layer of gadgets
10.A bulletproof vest with imperceptible holes small enough for words to seep through
11.The lone pianist in a sea of violins
12.A warm air pocket caught in the center of an Antarctic ice storm
13.A freelance thinker in a foggy room chalk full of political auctioneers
14.In a room of shouting, power-hungry, ignorant world leaders, I am my own opinionated voice in need of a microphone

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Film Analysis --- Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone

Ordinary World: Harry is an ordinary 11 year old boy, orphaned, living with his only living relatives.
Call: Harry begins recieving letters. Letters sent directly to him 'To Mr. Harry Potter, Number Four Privet Drive, Surrey; The Cupboard Under the Stairs'. His Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon know who they're from, but don't want him to know. Another Call could be when Rubeus Hagrid, the groundkeeper at Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, comes to collect Harry from his relatives and bring him to the school that's chosen him, telling him that Harry is a wizard. Hagrid says, 'A ruddy good one at that, I'd wager', which leads to a bigger concluson and question about who he is.
Refusal: When Hagrid tells Harry what he is and how his parents really died, Harry tells him it's impossible. 'I c-can't be a w-wizard. I'm - just Harry. Just Harry.'
Mentor: Hagrid goes on to tell him 'Have you ever made anything happ'n? Anythin' you couldn' explain when you were angry, or - or scared?' He reassures him that's how all great witches and wizards start out.
Threshold: When Harry and Hagrid journey to Diagon Alley, he begins to believe and wonder about who he is, how is parents died and why he became so famous when he didn't know he was. He then hears about people calling him the 'Boy Who Lived'.
Tests, Allies, Enemies: Hagrid ends up telling Harry about Lord Voldemort, the most powerful, Dark Lord ever to live in the wizarding world. He tells him how his parents died, how Harry recieved the lightning bolt scar on his forehead from Voldemort and how he was destroyed. But, rumor has it that he didn't just die. That he is still alive. But only just. He meets his soon-to-be best friends, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, two friends who we would never expect him to gain and keep in his next adventures. He also meets Draco Malfoy, a pureblood whose father is well-known to be rich and powerful. He all but orders Harry to be his friend 'You don't want to get involved with the wrong sort. I can help you there'. He meets Professor Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, his future mentor and best teacher and tutor. Professor Snape, whom Harry already begins to hate with a burning passion, emerges, along with Professor Quirrell, a stammering, confused, worrisome man who teaches DADA (Defense Against the Dark Arts).
Approach: They arrive at Hogwarts on the Hogwarts Express from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. The first years, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville and the rest are sorted into Houses (Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor), have their beginning of Term feast in the Great Hall and begin with their first classes, learning spells and potions.
Ordeal: Harry, Ron and Hermione together find their way to discover that the Philosopher's Stone - a stone of unimaginable power, the ability to keep you alive for the rest of eternity - is going to be stolen by Professor Snape, who turns out to be Quirrell instead. The trio fights their way through a series of challenges and trials, including a giant, intense game of Wizard's Chess and a nasty infestation of Devil's Snare. Harry finds Quirrell, who turns out to be Voldemort in disguise.
Reward: They fight, Harry wins, barely making it out alive. He protects the Stone from Voldemort and destroys him (partially), sending him out of the school.
The Road Back: The students are on their ways back home on the Hogwarts Express.
Resurrection: Harry, Ron and Hermione all return from the Hospital Wing, recovered and well from their expedition and triumph against Voldemort.
Return with the Elixir: Going onto the train, Harry realizes where he belongs. 'I'm not going home. Not really'.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Monotonous

Unloved. Unappreciated. Unwanted. Uncared for. Unusual. Monotone. Neglected. That's what my ordinary world is. When I think over what I do, I even bore myself. Nothing. I write my book. I have a great family. Alright friends. No significant other, but hoping for one. I have so-called beautiful art skills. But, what exactly can I do with the talents I have? Publish the book, cherish my fam, appreciate my friendships, find someone who 'completes me', use my artsy-fartsy skills to do what? I dunno. Improve someone's mood? Perhaps. What would my extraordinary, extravagent, incredible, exceptional world be? To be loved. Noticed. Praised. Appreciated. Recognized. That people would ask my opinion and actually give a crap. That my parents would treat me like an adult sometimes, but know when to treat me like their kid. That I would find my significant other, we'd meet in some romantic place or another, love at first sight (which I personally do not believe in), fall in love, happily ever after. If it was that simple, it would be a dream come true and a weight lifted from my chest...

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

WhiteOut

This is for those without a sense of humor. For those who have one, but don't know how or just plain don't use it. For the special people out there searching for the light. This is for those who can sing, or those who can't but do anyway. Use the WhiteOut. This is for the downhearted with no way to turn. This is for the quirks and mistakes. For the originals who don't think twice. Use the WhiteOut.This is for the romance, action and comedy novel readers who wish something like that would happen to them, but don't plan to do any work. For the warm-fuzzy feeling people. For the protective fathers and patient mothers. This is for the sun-baked sidewalks with cravings for popsicles. Use the WhiteOut. For the unpredictable fairytale endings. For the rainy days spent with a significant other. This is for all the nights wasted on meaningless exercise. Use the WhiteOut. For the dog huggers, the bird owners and the messed up cat lovers. This is for the nature enthusiasts. For the smoking addicts. For the 'Wish I hadn't's. For the 'Regretting it forever's. This is for those people. Use the WhiteOut. Always use the WhiteOut.

Monday, April 25, 2011

Ghandi

I keep forgetting to remember. I keep forgetting to smile. I keep forgetting to talk. I keep forgetting be myself. I keep forgetting to forgive. To forget. To be a friend. I keep forgetting to stand up. I keep forgetting to go to sleep earlier. I keep forgetting to appreciate you. Your smile. You laugh. Your kiss. Our hugs. I keep forgetting to open up. I keep forgetting to cry. I keep forgetting to mindlessly dream for the sake of mindlessly dreaming. I keep forgetting to lock up my heart. I keep forgetting to not take things for granted. I keep forgetting to love my family. When will we own ourselves completely? I keep forgetting to laugh my guts up about something that isn't funny. That is funny. That doesn't make sense no matter where I put the inflections. I keep forgetting to tie my shoes. I keep forgetting to put down my guard. I keep forgetting to compliment my friends. I keep forgetting the name of that song. I keep forgetting. I keep forgetting those in peril. Those in danger. Those who're starving. Those who need my help. But tonight's not the last time I'll see the light. I'll never forget again.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Is it confusing to anyone else but me?

Okay. So I've never been in real love before. I'd like to admit that. I've been in a relationship, but I was fifteen and immature then. I am now older and still rattling my brains. What is love supposed to feel like? When I see the inevitable significant other, how will I know if it's real or just fantastical blurbs of the thousands of books I've read garbled into one thought? Will there be a certain feeling? A tingling in my toes? A rush of blood to the brain? A sudden, unexpected adrenaline rush that has absolutely nothing to do with the death-defying stunt I heroically avoided? Is there a way to tell when I'm in love? I think I am and have been for a while now, but is there a way to know for sure? Post your opinionated comment letting me know what you think. I need answers.

Blurb.

Traveling Soldier - Dixie Chicks
A soldier 
comes into the Diner late one afternoon. He meets a pretty little girl with a bow in her hair. The pretty little girl agrees to write to the soldier since he has no one else. He leaves with the army. They write letters back and forth and soon fall in love. He dies in the army. She becomes depressed, saying she'll never hold the hand of another.
Sara Beth- Rascal Flatts
Sara Beth feels strange. And soon finds she has cancer. While she dreams about going to prom and falling in love, 
doctors assure they can cure her. After a surprising experience or two, she is asked to prom. Her date comes to the door and surprised her and her parents by shaving his head to make her feel less uncomfortable. They fall in love at prom and she's no longer scared because her true love is dancing with her.
Letter to Me - Brad Paisley 
Brad Paisley imagines his matured, older self writing a letter to him, when he's younger. Thinking that providing him with advice and suggestions as he goes throughout life will help him when life gets him down. To stand up and keep on the path. But sooner or later he will have to face reality. That we can't send a letter. We, unfortunately, have the honor to live through life right. The first time.

Sing for the Moment - Eminem
Eminem isn't against the world. The world is against him. And his fame. Even his music. Everyone might hate rap, but it's his life. And he may be hated by everyone for that, but that's their issue. He wants to speak to the young generation, anyway. The old generation hates rap because they know they bring no good, so they hate him.
Mine - Taylor Swift
A busy, loud restaurant, full of complaining, fighting people brings Taylor back to her childhood. Back when her mom and dad used to fight. After shaking herself out of her daydream, Taylor meets eyes with a handsom waiter. They fall for each other instantly. They go through life together, taxes, mortgages, but no real problems. Their life is a happy life. But, when disagreement heats between them, she's unsure that they will last much longer.

Six Words

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

I apologize

I have no idea why "Cupid", "complete", or "quote" are underlined. Sorry bout that. It just sorta showed up when I posted them. Oops.

A Story in a Song

Viva la Vida - Coldplay
Plot: The king of France, isn't a good king. Isn't treating the people very generously. Makes them starve, isn't giving them enough food or clothing or anything, taxing them more than they can afford... basically all the bad things every other tyrant has done in the past. The song basically goes through all the things that happen to him and his kingdom as it falls. And bites the dust. Hard.
Characters: King Phillip, the people/inhabitants of France being mistreated, narrator (I think he's talking in the voice of the king, but I'm not 100% sure, so don't quote me on that.)
Setting: France, 1700s (ish)
Theme: Frustration and anger with the king. Confusion - Phillip's confused because he doesn't understand that not feeding people kills them. Weird how that happens, y'know? With, like, every tyrant or annarchist. Ever.
Conflict: Subjects of the kingdom don't want to be treated poorly anymore, like dirt, so they want to dethrone him. Or kill him. Unfortunate for him.

Geek in the Pink - Jason Mraz
Plot: A guy really likes this girl. He's describing how he feels about fitting in and doesn't care what other people think. He's telling the girl that she's going to regret it if she lets him slip away. He can save her from "unoriginal dumb-dumbs" who "wouldn't care if they complete her or not", which there are too many of in this world, IMHO.
Characters: Geek in the Pink (my idol), girl he likes
Setting: Uh, not really known or described. I'll just guess as a social setting or something...
Theme: Undying love and adoration. If you plead and wish enough, things might start looking up. Be yourself. Everyone else is taken.
Conflict: Cupid "must have fired multiple shots at her" because she "falls in love too often". That's what's the matter. She doesn't know who she loves. He likes her, but she doesn't know if she likes him or not.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

More Questions on the Book...

So, I'm kind of shaky bout posting it on here, but I'm getting anxious. I need comments and to know if the thing is worth publishing. Should I post snippets of it? Should I post anything at all? I dunno. Let me know what you think so I can start doing whatever ASAHP:)

Monday, March 28, 2011

I have something to say . . .

I dunno if I should even say this yet, but I'm going to anyway. If any of you care, that'll be great. I want to just get this out it's not like any of you will end up buying it or something. Or anything big will happen. I wonder though. I need to get the news out somehow and I figure, why not do it on my blog, that people may or may not read. I'll get to the point now. I am writing a book. There, I said it. And I want people to like it and read it, but I sort of need opinions. Which is the whole point of this post. If anyone wants to read a portion or something to critique it for me, that'd be wonderful. I need some outside opinions... badly.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Covetous

Introduction to Poetry.
". . . all they want to do is tie the poem to a chair with rope and torture a confession out of it." -Billy Collins
    One of the many things I love about poetry is that I can make it my own. Every person is different, with different life experiences and completely different pasts. What's convenient about poetry is that I can make it my own and it affects other people in the way they see things. If I write a poem about how much I hate broccoli, for instance, there might be someone who absolutely is in love with it and would be lecturing me, telling me I'm wrong. When I'm really not. In my opinion.
From Collins' poem Intro to Poetry, I collected that the people who read poems want immediate answers. They don't want to take time to find out what the author is saying. They want to understand what they were trying to explain right then. Which I agree with. People don't take time to consider what the poet is trying to say about something. They're too impatient. We're all too impatient. We freaking have to watch food in the microwave, waiting for the food to cook milliseconds after we put it in. We sit at the computer, expecting it to work every single time. Expecting it to be lightning speed each time.
Every. Single. Time. Which isn't possible.
Random tangent. Stream of consciousness getting away with me again. Sorry. Collins always expresses what he is trying to say in the most simple phrases, but they seem to have the greatest effect on people. On me, anyway. I wish I could have that effect without having to go into gory detail about everything, but some people have that talent. Able to convey their feelings through a few words. Not moi. I get too into what I'm trying to say. He's very blunt, which I enjoy about him.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Complaints are NOT overrated.

I'm tired. I'm tired of being tired all the time. I'm tired of being judged. I'm tired of being misused and mistreated. I'm tired of the way the media portrays a perfect person. I'm sick and tired of homework. I'm tired of being under my parents' thumb. I'm tired of the way students who have known the teacher for a while act like they own the place. I'm tired of feeling sick. I'm tired of being excluded. I'm tired of money. I'm tired of people wanting money. I'm tired of people wanting power. I'm tired of suicide. I'm tired of death. I'm tired of constant sarcasm. I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of being someone I'm not. I'm tired of living in Happy Valley. I'm tired of sleeping because, frankly, it doesn't make sense. We sleep for eight hours, doing nothing, eyes closed and snoring and we enjoy it. Weird. I'm tired of the 's' on my keyboard of my laptop missing. I'm tired of feet. I'm tired of the word freaking. I'm tired of being normal. I'm tired of broccoli. I'm tired of being blind. All the time. I'm tired of ridicule. I'm tired of sickness. I'm tired of cancer. I'm tired of disease. I'm tired of car bombings and terrorists. I'm tired of hearing about how much people spend on buying another company, when people in Asia, the Mideast, the freaking homeless people in the United States of America are dying of starvation and exposure (oops. I used freaking). I'm tired of rich people. I'm tired of superstition. I'm tired of people who aren't funny who try to be. I'm tired of snow. I'm tired of it not being spring outside. I'm tired of being in love with Heathcliff, yet hating him simultaneously. I'm tired of funerals. I'm tired of not being invited, sitting at home and watching chick flicks with my little brother. I'm tired of talking stuffed animals that don't shut up. I'm tired of being scared. I'm tired of Dr. Who. I'm tired of weeping angels. I'm tired of being lonely.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Admiration or a sickly obsession. What is love, exactly?

Love is a bridge, connecting two worlds. Love is a sea of deep, threatening water. Love is cherishing the moments that block your windpipe. Love is a deep crimson rose. Love is blood on the freeway, impossible to avoid, even when too much of a public display of adhesiveness, or whatever the heck it is. Love is that one unmistakable touch. Love is being injected with fierce adrenaline. Love is a ghost trapped in a beat. Love is sensitivity of sense during sleep. Love is an embrace of fiery ice. Love is the sting of 409. Love is asymmetrical. Love is frizzled hair. Love is curdling buttermilk. Love is an eye twitch. Love is a hand cramp. Love is a blank canvas. Love is a banner of golden silk. Love is a microwavable meal. Love is a heart attack. Love is a tangled, exposed wire in a basement flood. Love is a public fight. Love is torture in the silence. Love is a gas leak. Love is solitaire. Love is boastful freedom. Love is a cliche. Love is a stained glass masterpiece. Love is an echo in an amphitheatre. Love is a fallen tree in a forest of leaves. Love is an inside joke. Love is giving up your life to save it. Love is not dying. Love is being steps away from a door, then waking up. Love is the danger in a situation. Love is closing the window. Love is an issue gone unsolved. Love is an hourglass without time to count. Love is ultimatum. Love is alive. Love is a PowerPoint without a projection. Love is protection from evil. Love is too-sweet semisweet chocolate chip cookies. Love is a dark mystery. Love is unhindered consciousness. Love is a muffin in a field of cupcakes. Love is a balloon in a countryside of scissors. Love is a sunset after an overcast rain. Love is a cut you don't realize is there until you see the blood. Love is unblossomed admiration. Love is a fragile line. Love is sticking with a lover after a traumatic happenstance.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Hair

Sometimes I wish I could cut it off. I dunno if you've ever felt the need to not have it, but I don't see any reason why I need it. And then, once I do cut it, then I'm thinking, What the h*** is wrong with you? This might seem like a really random post, and it is, but I was just playing ping pong at a friends house the other day and didn't have an elastic. You can imagine how irritated I was. Moving constantly to brush it off my face, I would then proceed to miss a play. I lost. Oh, and then we played Foosball and, you guessed it. I lost. Stupid hair. Good for nothing, really. I can't do anything with it and it's dead. Even though it grows, people say it's dead, but why then, does it grow? I've never been able to answer this question and I've never taken time to look it up and see. I've never seen the need to really know. Yet, here I am, rambling on and on, wondering about it. Hmmm. Interesting. I love looking outside and seeing the fog and mist from last night's downpour. It makes me feel like I've refreshed myself and I can start again. It's probably lame, but that's what I think when I see or feel it:)

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Writer's Block

Y'know. It's really ironic and frustrating that my creative writing teacher gives us a packet from a book he's read about writer's block, then, helpfully, the next weekend and for the rest of the week, I had none other than writer's block. I haven't been able to write anything creative and flowing for the last week and it's DRIVING ME INSANE! You see, I'm writing a book and I'm almost finished, yet I can't seem to write it because of the lingering, powerful, looming sense of writer's block. Every time I have a sliver of an idea sift through my brain, somehow the ever-present curse flaps its wings and it puffs into a cloud of creative smoke. I don't understand why I have it and I'm having a week where I want to shoot myself because of the overwhelming humidity.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Broken Dreams Blvd.

The road isn't clear. The time is unknown. The space of emptiness I feel has taken not only a place in my heart, but the buildings seem to have absorbed the crushed, burnt, deformed feelings pulsing from what's left of my most vital organ. I walk alone. Now I walk alone. How can I survive when the sun itself has dimmed its sweet warmth? When the flowers and trees don't stand tall on their stems. When the mountains themselves, those peaks of vegetation in the distance, have lost their previous majesty? Dust clouds my vision consistently, a cold gust of wind whispering through the empty sideroads, throwing the reminder that I walk alone full blown into my face. I walk alone. I am alone. Lights, once blinding and powerful, have blurred into obscurity with the salty residue left in front of my eyes. Those traitorous tearstains. And I myself, thinking there is not a possible place to sink, my mind continues to drop, still lower. Gradually deflating from its lack of proper use. Voices. I look up, expecting to find a face to match the familiar tone. Seeing empty space, I realize that I do, indeed, walk alone. Alone. The mists gather in their swirling, menacing tendrils of youthful imagination, the clouds gather into blackened cotton and thunder claps. Lightning strikes. The world brilliantly lit for a millisecond, again draws deeper into itself, leaving me to walk alone in the bitter cold.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Thoughts

I'm thinking about you.
I'm thinking about you like laughs think about oxygen. Like oxygen thinks about lips. LIke lips think about . . . chapstick? I'm thinking about you like brissels think about paint. Like lies think about the truth. Like faith thinks about trust. I'm thinking about you like cowboys think about bridles. Like bridles think about the taut muscles on a horse's back. I'm thinking about you like tires think about sunburnt sidewalks and dried ice cream. Like chlorine thinks about skin. Like tongues think about the smoothness of frozen yogurt. Like chick thinks about flicks. I'm thinking about you like Vitamin D thinks about the peach fuzz on a baby's exposed cheeks. Like fingers think about texture. I'm thinking about you like heads think about the soft down feathers of their pillows after a hard day. Like boxes think about chocolate. Like locks think about keys. I'm thinking about you like the long hand thinks about those sixty minutes it'll take before it can reach the short hand again. Like fire thinks about grease. I'm thinking about you like teeth think about piercing the skin of a firm, refrigerated pear. I'm thinking about you like the sun thinks about the moon. Like firemen hope when they're on a job that they can see their wives again. Like blood thinks about flowing. Like hearts think about breaking. I'm thinking about you. Now, even as I talk, I'm thinking of you.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Eh . . . bleep.

Don't you hate when you say something to someone, but you forgot what you were going to say before, then when they walk away after you finished saying what you didn't want to say and you remember what you wanted to say before? Yeah, so do I. I have absolutely nothing to do but sit and wait for the grass to grow and the snow to melt, so here I am. Speaking to whoever's listening. Even if no one is.
Y'know something? I've started reading Mistborn. I dunno who's read it, but I LOVE it. It's probably . . .  and I never thought I'd say this . . . it's most likely my all time favorite series. I bought the series for my kindle and now I am seriously in love with it! I'm sorry, Austen. I never thought I'd find a better book than Pride and Prejudice, but I was completely wrong.
. . . . . . . Ha. Now I've written a paragraph. About nothing. And, sadly enough, it had nothing to do with anything whatsoever... hmmm. Eh. Well. It's my blog I guess. Haha. While I've got your attention (or not). If you could live forever, what would you want to live so long for? Or, if you could relive any part of your past, what day or week or year or second would you choose to relive? And why?