Ignorant

I am sick of being ignored. But on the plus side, I didn't break down today.
And I had two lovely and long walks.

Worthless opinions.

Maybe, the spiritual worshiping places of the world should be built by their communities, from materials found in and produced by the communities.

I refuse to step foot in Spring City's new chapel.

The Accidental Activist

http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/03/25/the-accidental-activist/?hp

There is hope, don't you feel it too?

Probably not a single person will find this on my blog, but even so, I'll be able to find here for future reference, hopefully :)

Colors Of Forever

They see nothing
Their eyes are glazed 
With the light of computer screens
[a web worthy of Shelob herself]
Ears stopped with the cries from within.

Jaunty caps
[black as one perched on a speaker]
And sour complaints.

Blue and white are the colors of the day
[could they be the colors of forever?]

I too am stained
Poisoned,
Tied-up and strung
[like the strings attached to friend's hearts, but worse[

But am I? Are they?
[is this all there is for me?]

I'm putting a title here just so it looks like a legit post.

I've been feeling terribly out of sorts today.
I can't really pinpoint it down to one reason.
I'm just grumpy and sad, and maybe a little frusterated.

I keep snapping at my mom and siblings. It's unfair to them, because three-quarters of the time, they didn't do anything to deserve it.

And I was feeling so powerful and free for a few days.
Not so much now.

At least I have "Glastonbury Song" to keep my spirits up a bit.

Why am I feeling this way?

Tears for Japan

Where did the crabs go?
Shells empty. Water stagnates.
Homes burn, sky still blue.

Transformation, written in 2010

I pick scales off my
Wrist. Am I becoming a
lizard? Desert sands.

"Man's mind, once stretched by a new idea, never regains its original dimensions"
~Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.

Perhaps, man's mind is never the same as it was a minute ago, there's so much that can happen, inspire, influence.
What a beautiful world we live in, in that respect.

Questions of, perhaps, a delicate nature

I'm not very good at these long, rambling online journal-like posts that a lot of people seem to like to write.
I've got these things I want to say, but don't know what or how.
Or if I should say them on here.

I guess I'm just confused.

The world's so weird lately, I find myself basically just not caring about much.
I don't get obsessed anymore. I used to get really obsessed about a lot of things, but I'm just really neutral about a lot of things lately.
I can still feel, I can still care, but not to the point of despair.
I guess I've developed this after years of watching my parents work themselves up because of their beautifully deep empathy.
They were always terribly sad about something, and they're still rather like that.

Do I understand now? I'm not sure.
There are still things I want to say to you, but feel like I can't because they might seem like feeble protestations, like I'm trying to... I don't know, the feeling's there but the words won't come.

Is this how it's supposed to be?

The Protester

A girl strode in front of a building,
hoisting a sign in the air.
What was written on the sign matters not,
what matters is that the girl was all alone,
deprived of the company of physical human beings.
But from her stance,
from the way she swung her hips,
and from the grim and powerful expression on her face,
you got the feeling that the people of the ages were behind her.
Imaginings of Puritans standing in song rose unbidden to your mind,
as well as those of hippies raucously chanting,
their faces bold,
their faces thrust into yours,
their eyes accusing, baring your very soul. 
The way she marched reminded you of the
ghost dance of natives from long ago
and not so far away.
She had the support of many. 

She was solid in herself,
solid in her defiance. 
 
She did not walk alone,
she was not silent in her seemingly solitary vigil,
she was silent because she was not alone.

Culture

Tea parties.
A culture consisting not of fast food, but of lazily allowing time to pass by, in an almost zen state of feeling.
A culture we are beginning to earnestly live.
A culture of conversation and slow, lazy afternoons with loved ones.
A culture of enjoying the moment, a mug or cup of hot tea snuggled into one's hands.
A culture of slowly savoring the fragrance, the warmth, and the taste.
A culture that brings beams of sunlight, geraniums, and small, simple sandwiches to mind.
A culture that I am learning to appreciate, as my family begins to bring it into our daily lives.

Of prom dresses and eye makeup

Do I now fail to see beauty in mankind and it's works?

No, it is that I fail to see beauty in the facades of mankind.

The words of solitude will pass, just like the golden light of summer.

 (Started last Summer, finished only recently.)

They are locked behind barred lips,

Never to see the shining glad sun,

Nor to see compassionate blue eyes.

Words of

Darkness,

Distress,

Depression.

Heavy,

Forlorn,

Orphaned words.

Words that make my heart seem as if

It was crafted from lead.

Like small drops of

Nothing,

Fallen from a white throat.

They are never to be given voice.

Like a wound

That must not be revealed;

And can not be revealed.

Suffered in solitude, no one suspects.

Like Invisible teardrops of blood,

Falling to a checkerboard floor,

There they are to be lapped up by a

Dark and lonely,

Invisible terrier.

I see an abandoned and crushed straw hat,

Smelling of summer,

Thrown carelessly over my closet bar,

Like all of the summer months condensed,

It brings remembrance of the good times-,

{When you canoe smooth as silk and fast as time across the murked lake,

A straw fedora sitting upon your brunette head.

It was given to you by your Grandmother last summer,

When you wanted that sort of thing.

.  

{Laughing and talking loudly with your siblings,

Your soul soars across the darkening sky.

You follow your younger sister as she swims like an eel,

Long and smooth in the water,

Her astonishingly long hair flowing behind her,

A contrast to her decidedly tomboy attitude.

You paddle swiftly toward her

As she waits grinning with her horse-like teeth,

Her arms and legs pushing against the water

And the black deep below.

{Your brother sitting behind you,

Paddling with rapid, strong strokes,

His muscles clearly showing through his tanned and clear skin.

You reach your sister,

Your canoe’s wake trailing smooth as glass on the tourmaline water.

{She attempts to board your diminutive ship,

Snaking long,

Tanned arms over the side,

A spidery leg accompanying a few feet across.

She tries to heave her blue clad body up into the sleek, green canoe,

Only to have it rock threateningly.

{You shriek,

High and shrill,

Like a whistle blown by a traffic-directing policeman, alerting to danger,

{And she hastily splashes back into the cool water.

She tries a few times more.

Hesitant,

And unsure.

She’s done this before,

Many times before,

But the experience is always new,

Like a logger truck

Careening down a steep mountain-slope

Of a road.

{She grips the side of the canoe again,

And she heaves,

The canoe rocks,

Then tips over completely,

Flipping onto its top,

It lands all three of you into the water,

Flailing,

Splashing,

And shrieking,

Once again.

{Suddenly,

All noise ceases,

It is calm and quiet, you swallowed little water,

And you don’t really need to breathe just yet.

The bottomless dark below is serene,

As if you were suspended within your mind.

You can’t stay forever;

You do need to breathe,

Even if you wish it weren’t so.

{Eventually you push,

Gliding toward the surface,

The evening sky; and the world.

You break into the air,

Taking a deep breath as water splashes all around you.

{You survey the scene,

You can see your brother and sister,

The canoe is upside-down,

And the paddles calmly float away from your group.

Amazingly, your straw hat remains on your head, soaking wet,

And still the same shape it was before you got dunked.

{If only the paddles were so easily accounted for}

-But it’s just a memory, recounted with sadness, or fond nostalgia.

A memory that seems almost melancholy in your present mood,

A mood of dark thoughts,

And tarnished longings.

You get to the core of this swirling pool of emotions;

You feel like the invisible girl,

Forever reaching out while others turn their faces away

Towards the things that you will not experience.

They leave you behind.

Like a forgotten and intricate pebble,

You are left by the roadside,

Under an over-reaching sky,

Beneath the waving grass,

Waiting for someone new to come along,

Waiting for the process to start all over again.  

Thoughts

Dreams are weird, but honestly, I think that real life is weirder, as well as being less exciting. Though that's not always the case.

Y'know, people are really hard to read. They're always so much more than we ever could have thought.
I guess that's why you have to keep an open heart and mind, as well as do your best not to make judgments.
Perhaps I understand now.

A Dream Come to Life

Bittersoft and sicklysweet,
Loud and long and hard,
I pray to god my soul to keep,
If I should depart.
Hugely unsatisfying,
Strangely electrifying,
Sickening,
Am I dying?
A world so inside my head,
Weird sensations all around,
Could it be that I'm already dead?
Please, 
Somebody,
I need to be found.