Friday, December 9, 2011

Stormy Night - Forgotten

Dominating and slashing, rain whips the howling winds into submission-
The winds whimper and attempt to escape, flying at breakneck speed,
Ripping vulnerable leaves from their safety and squeezing through the cracks,
Trying to escape the abusive attacks of the rain which permeates everything.

Windbreakers rendered useless, umbrellas scattered on slippery streets,
And one window, torn open from its hatches by the hiding wind, allows
The pitter-pattering clashing rain inside. Unwillingly, momentarily,
Leaving the safe harbor of love's alcove, four arms reach to close the window-

Wind and rain fight, worthy opponents, splattering and buffeting two faces
Drawn in determination to shut the window and return to the privacy and safety
Found in love's embrace. Lightning flashes and thunder booms, shaking the floors,
Shaking frames holding roughly at each other in the frame of the bed. Four arms,

Entwined and rain splattered, begin to dry water drops and clear the fear-
Caused by the rain, calmed by love. Four arms and four hands clear the clutter,
Thrown off shelves by the violent winds of this storm. Broken vases,
Scattered books, ripped curtains, and water - water everywhere! Pattering,

The harsh rain slashes against the closed window, the protection of these lovers,
Attempting another unwelcome interruption into their privacy, into their moment.
But two arms enfold one whimpering body, to the sound of whimpering winds
Two lips meet one face, still streaked with the wet battle-scars of the slashing rain.

Two hands caress dripping hair while two hands clutch a soaked shirt.
Forgetting the whirling storm, two eyes behold two more- four eyes entranced.
Two arms encase the smaller frame, forgetting the thunderous night, and then two...
Two become one.

Friday, September 16, 2011

Leaves fallen, decaying flowers

  Leaves are floating, sinking, falling-
   scattering along, rustling together and
       falling alone. Changing colors of
    crackling leaves- were they the same?
bright oranges and browns opaque
        withering, breaking together
decaying alone. Flowers long gone,
      colors faded, is spring so distant? Is spring coming?
          Petals crushed and torn, beauty
              stolen or given up? Deteriorated-
                wait! Pairs remain- two leaves
                entwined here, two leaves twirling afar,
                resplendently swirling in their own
                song of spring as autumn falls.

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Your Favorite Dream

I am fiercely loyal, self deprecating
A fan of the underdog and celebrating
The mysteries of life, the beauty of pain,
the infinite sorrow, the fleeting gain.
I love with a vengeance; I fight with a cause--
These are my strengths and also my flaws.
I'm a lover and a friend, a goddess and a tease
And yet-- I am none of these.
If you want fantasy, I can do the stage
But if you seek brutal honesty, you've found the right page.
Not much for rhyme, I seldom do reason.
I write when inspired, I change with the seasons.
I'm a beast and a beauty, a Madonna and whore,
Say what you will but I'm never a bore.
A writer, an actress, a girl on your scene
A memory, a nightmare And your favorite dream. 

Friday, July 1, 2011

What if...

Life is full of questions and pondering, "what if"s and "so what"s, and where does that leave all of us? After every emotion has been stirred up in a whirl of thoughts provoked, what if we had the answers?

What if we knew for certain that everything we're worried about today will work out fine?

What if...we had a guarantee that the problem bothering us would be worked out in the most perfect way, and at the best possible time? Furthermore, what if we knew that three years from now we'd be grateful for that problem, and its solution?

What if...we knew that even our worst fear would work out for the best?

What if...we had a guarantee that everything that's happening, and has happened, in our life was meant to be, planned just for us, and in our best interest?

What if...we had a guarantee that the people we love are experiencing exactly what they need in order to become who they're intended to become? Further, what if we had a guarantee that others can be responsible for themselves, and we don't have to control or take responsibility for them?

What if...we knew the future was going to be good, and we would have an abundance of resources and guidance to handle whatever comes our way?

What if...we knew everything was okay, and we didn't have to worry about a thing? What would we do then?

We'd be free to let go and enjoy life.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Adventures in Baking

Allow me a brief interlude in my usual style of writing, for I'm not my usual self today. Today, I let myself be swayed by a single whimsical emotion and stirring.


"Who wants to have ADVENTURES?!?!?!?!" was the sudden scream I found myself listening to this afternoon. Oh and I was the one screaming.

That's right, adventures. This all began in the midst of an intense round of cleaning the house, when suddenly I was struck by the desire to bake. And not just bake any old regular dessert or pastry. No, I wanted Hamantaschen. To be more specific, I have recently discovered a blog belonging to a linguist and food(read: dessert)lover who is prone to insanely amazing photography. www.dessertsforbreakfast.com is my recent discovery and I must say I've been wanting to try out her recipes but never had the time (or the ingredients) to bake these luscious, eye-pleasing, mouth-watering desserts.



Until today that is. Since I realized I had more or less a free day, what with everything clean and the clothes just dancing in the dryer, I decided to go ahead and have an adventure. An adventure in baking.

So I rounded up the ingredients and started preparing the dough for Hamantaschen. With the wrong type of sugar. And I put it in the fridge for an hour, like the recipe said, and waited. I set my oven to 350 degrees (which turns out to be about 45 degrees higher than my oven actually needs). I rolled the dough, cut out 3-inch circles, folded up the "edges of the circles," and pinched the edges together.
However, I folded my circles into 4 and not 3, so I ended up with squares instead of triangles. In the unnecessarily high heat, my squares (reminiscent of hollowed out pillows) crumbled and the edges fell flat. The strawberry filling bubbled over and spilled out. To be honest, the cookies didn't cook as fast as the filling and they looked atrocious. Slightly horrifying and mortifying, leaving me feeling like a failure as a woman (I know it's insane and we're all past that whole "women should all be able to cook well" thing, but I felt like a failure for a little bit).


And then I ate one. THE most delicious cookie I've ever made. Batch number two was modified and all aspects re-evaluated. Batch number two looks astoundingly better, but it's all gone without any photographic evidence except for crumbs, and I no longer feel like a failure. In fact, I feel successful. Not just as a woman, but as a person in general who can create something out of nothing. Amazing what milk and cookies can do for you. Oops, I mean Hamantaschen and milk. Definitely trying out the Hamantaschen again, hopefully with more results more visually-appealing than this:
After my most delicious adventure in baking (with minimal mess, if I may say so myself), I feel more inspired to cook and bake more often. As soon as I round up the more obscure baking ingredients and utensils.

Saturday, May 28, 2011

Midnight Fight and Morning Run

Gusts of wind whipping ebony curls against my face;
my legs, moving faster than I ordered them to, whipping the pavement into submission;
tears forgotten, are they still falling? drip drop dripping, streaming, escaping against my will;
hiding, escaping, crouching, entombing myself in the darkness -
words forgotten - as I escape the now and try to reach that time:
that time which belongs only to us.
the darkness fades into light as the sun rises on a new day;
a new day bringing it's own heat to warm the ice in my chest
as I run farther and faster, making an attempt at forgetting and trying to forgive,
hoping for resolution, needing a resolution, begging for some resolution
to this never-ending struggle, this repetitious struggle...
will it ever end? How will it end? and if so.... do I want it to?

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Out of the Bubble

Except for one sunny beach and the Tennessee Aquariums, I had never left the protective bubble of East Cobb, Marietta. Not until December of my eighth grade year of middle school. In December, I woke up one morning to find a brightly flashing four floating in mid-air. I arrived at school to find an eerily quiet gym, filled to the brim with silent teenagers. The silence was deafening. I saw the usually serene conductor almost fall off the edge. I learned how coffee works wonders.

I fell asleep on a rickety bus to the smell of exhaust, Starbucks, Earl Grey tea, McDonald's, trail mix, Goldfish, and salami sandwiches. I learned about the strength of my stomach.

In the midst of empty airport hallways, I heard gossip, arguments, video games, and blaring MP3's. I could not hear my own thoughts, though I didn't have enough time to think, and had already begun to miss the bubble of East Cobb. Once the plane took off, I heard even more gossip traveling above the noise of jet engines, and the smell of coffee grew tenfold.

Wintry and welcoming were my first thoughts of Chicago. I had never seen such tall buildings, never heard louder street vendors, never had I watched more beautiful street performers. I had never felt more cold, lost, or out of place. I had the best time of my life. I saw clouds that blocked my view of skyscraper roofs. I felt wind whip at my face and snow fall down on my shoulders. I learned that a building has only one correct side; it all depends on the direction of the wind.

I met a Santa Claus with a real beard, a stray dog carrying a steaming hot dog, and a novice bellhop who dragged our luggage up the stairs while flirting shamelessly. I shared a room and, above all, a bathroom with three other girls. I tasted shampoo for the first and definitely not the last time during four minute showers and reminisced about my estranged hairdryer. I learned that wet hair in ten degree weather can almost freeze and easily breaks off.

I ran down thirteen flights of stairs because the elevator didn't work on our floor, barely making the bus on time. I tasted my own sweat, followed by blood trickling from my lips, because I was too stubborn to put on Chapstick.

I saw the guitars of Elvis Presley and Bon Jovi on restaurant walls. I watched our waitress dance the YMCA on our tabletop, while balloons floated down from the ceiling, adding to the oddly suggestive sight. I tasted the greasiest pizza and the thickest milkshake on the face of this planet. I have never had a better meal.

On the way to rehearsals, I tripped on snow. I met a homeless man with a spectacular singing voice. I felt comforting warmth emanating from the second and third Starbucks on the block. During our walks, my fingers bled and I resignedly put gloves on. During rehearsal, my fingers bled and my arms ached, but I happily kept playing until the giant grandfather clock struck noon. I learned that an expensive violin doesn't necessarily make a better violinist.

We went ice-skating and I felt myself glide over ice like my bow glides over my strings. I skated with one of my fellow violinists and felt a pang of jealousy at seeing all of the happy couples skating hand-in-hand while the snow softly fell on the ice. I hoped to join them someday.

I saw a saleslady with one leg in the most ornate mall I've ever set eyes on. I held a diamond necklace the weighed more than I did. I saw hundreds of shoppers pushing overloaded carts vainly hoping to finish their holiday shopping.

I played cards until two in the morning with a throng of unknown girls in our room; our nighttime friendship protected by darkness and then dissolved by daylight. As I tried to sleep, I heard piercing horns blaring and harsh men baiting women and swearing at men on the street. I missed the tranquility of the bubble of East Cobb. The screechy wheel of the maintenance lady's cart passed by our door twice every night and we feigned sleep while the lady in the next room watched Jerry Springer. I learned new words I would never use, not for years.

Though I was glad to be home where there is no wind, no curfew, and no more than one Starbucks per block, I often think back to the excitement of the windy city and the lessons it taught me. I learned that four girls and one mirror don't work well together. I learned eighty-three orchestra students and one restaurant don't mix well. I learned that if we want to experience any life other that life inside the bubble, we alone must take the first step outside.


In the years that have passed since this trip, the East Cobb bubble has been abandoned frequently for many adventures. Thinking on it now, I'd love to return to Chicago someday, to see the rest of this breath-taking country and burst through whatever bubbles I find.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Red Oak

Reliant roots, sturdy, stretching swiftly far and wide
though not too deep. Reaching out
into
my
world: entwining
myself with my surrounding family, e x pan d i ng into my community,
embracing my friends. Absorbing the best of my surroundings,

nourishing my soul and sentience.
Supporting
whoever
needs
it, lending strength
without discrimination.
Scorning the harmful advances of the unworthy.

In this wobbly world, strong roots make for stable footing.

Ardent heart
at the very center.
Enduring, sinewy, and steady.
Supporting what my roots
cannot, ready to cherish and
love
with al it can.
A heart strong enough to stand
on its own
against tempestuous storms
and emotions
yet
delicate
enough to be broken.
Such a sweet
strong
supportive
heart surrounded
by peculiarly hard
and protective
bark.

Particularly beautiful?
In the most conventional ways,
no.
The other trees,
they are taller and shorter, skinnier with slender arms,
they have more delicate branches,
or smooth leaves.
Those other trees are
more common and this one...
This one finds itself overlooked.
Often overlooked.
But someone would like
this individual oak
to see its own beauty,
even if only once in a while.
Those initials carved along
the oak's trunk proving an everlasting
love. Sometimes the oak can,
given enough love.
External internal
eternal beauty.
It can
see.
If only this oak could also see how tall and proud it stands:
bending away from the destructive gales of this changing world;
never yielding or breaking down, always surviving, day after day.
If only this oak would see.