Huh?

As I was purging my room recently I ran across a file of stuff I'd written a while ago.  A while being "within the last probably five years but long enough that I don't have any recollection of actually writing such things."  But I literally have no idea what I was trying to say in half of them.  I imagine poets encounter the same problem when they find poems from the olden days, or artists who look at their young work and think, "did this mean something?"

Not like I'm comparing my words to those of a poets, or the brushstrokes of an artist (because, um, no, I do not wield that sort of power with my pen, I tell you what!), but it's just a feeble comparison.  For instance, apparently one day I was watching people who stride through glass sliding doors and felt a little bit jealous because I always have to pause before I go through them, or run into them.  Seriously, listen to this:

"That’s what annoys me about confident people, they make such bold assumptions. I mean, I sometimes just look at the person who confidently strides towards the sliding glass doors, not slowing down even a step, because somehow they know that the door will open for them. How do they do that? I stop for a painful second before believing that the doors will open sufficiently for me to pass through. I am not that person.

And people who have the appearance of being calm at all times. How does that even work? I see people, often, those calm-types, the type who, when it’s raining manage to merely walk through the parking lot, not caring that it’s raining with such ferocity. They don’t mind getting wet, and heaven forbid they should just make a run for it. They keep going, even pausing to find the correct key, and then they will calmly climb into their car, enter their house, or tape the door shut on their cardboard box of a home. I’m the type of person who has to run through the rain to get where I want to be. I rush through a store if I feel I’m late, even though others might be amazing enough to just walk purposely, as though that would be enough."

Admittedly, not much of that makes sense, but kudos to me for using the word ferocity.  I don't find much occasion for that word.  Also, the chances of me having seen someone tape themself into a cardboard house are pretty much zero.  I do not know what I was talking about.  Also (part 2), I have no idea why walking through a store purposely was considered "amazing."

You thought that made little sense?  Read this one.  Your brain will hurt.

"Either way, I haven’t gotten a piece of this to take with me the whole time. I don’t understand where in the world we could take these thoughts from. We always make things us: we assume we have all the answers, though we rarely have so much as a clue. Answers? Not so much. We wish we could change things, yet we don’t try. We don’t put effort into anything; we don’t attempt to alter the course of things that cannot rightfully be ours to begin with. How can we change pieces of history that weren’t ours to make? How can we switch courses that aren’t planned through our own free will? We take no thought for what we may do with His power, we seek those things that are "our own destinies." We don’t understand that our destiny, once yielded to His, is no longer our own. And destiny? As if the word commands more power than does His will. We haven’t a thought for the things we disown. We merely seek those things that own us. We seek the things beyond our reach, closer to the stars than our humble dwelling we call home. We don’t look for those things which are above: to do such would be to seek Him in the truest sense. We, as humans, merely seek the things that are above us. Our feeblest senses cannot seem to enter into the purity that could be ours, should we divest ourselves from the enemy that is our own flesh. Why is it, that one of our three mortal enemies should be ourselves?"

Is there a word for "quite possibly hadn't slept for days when writing that," do you think?

As much as I'd like my posterity to be able to have stuff of mine to get a sense of what it was to live in 2011, I'm sometimes afraid of what they'll find.  Because seriously, WHAT?

Not to mention--did I never start my thoughts at the beginning?  Both of those pieces of whatever they are start as if they're following something else.  Why would I jump into a rant about confident people?  why the confusing paragraph about free will and stars that begins, "either way" when there is nothing coming before to answer such a question?

I found one about Lewis Carroll as well.  Apparently I gave him the benefit of the doubt as to not being on drugs and figured he just wrote words at random and gave them to a publisher who was asleep (?) the day they published Alice in Wonderland.  I guess I wasn't too keen on Lewis Carroll.  Good to know.

My Father's Shoes

Last night I had dinner at my grandparent's house. My whole family (all of the unmarried parts, at any rate) was there, as well as two of my aunts and an uncle. We also had another close friend of the family, and it ended up being rather a party-like situation. But then, of course, we got sidetracked (long story) and started reading poetry. Not like Robert Frost-type poetry, but poetry my aunt has written.

All was going well until we had my dad read a poem called "My Father's Shoes." It's a poem my aunt had written for one of my grandpa's birthdays, and it was just one of those poignant poems that make you cry, because my grandpa's health is failing, and it was just that kind of poem. Well, we didn't all cry. My aunts and dad did, along with my mom and my grandpa. But my grandma? She was in one of those jovial moods and would not be deterred. Every time someone shed a tear, she made a joke. When my grandpa started telling a story about one time when he thought my aunt (the poem-writing one) had died (she was little and swallowed something sharp), he was in tears and my grandma was just serenely saying, "Well, I never saw him cry so much. He really thought you were dead." and just carry on eating like it was no big deal.

Honestly, it was hilarious.

As badly as I felt for those shedding tears, the dynamic between the all of them was just so funny. And there was no way to sober my grandma up. When my grandpa told this story about some girl who held her little sister in her arms as she breathed her last (he was in this weird let's-talk-about-sad-things mood), I asked when that was, meaning how long ago. My grandma just goes, "When? It was when she died!" And that was that. I couldn't even pretend to be solemn any longer.

But it was sort of sad. How many more times will my family be sitting around like that? Even my immediate family is at risk of changing, due to the increasing ages of those of us not as yet married. So, even though I took sides with my grandma and we just laughed our way through dinner, I wasn't quite as jovial as she.

All good things must come to an end though. Except Heaven. That's one good thing we can all count on lasting for, well, an eternity!

Wing to Wing, Oar to Oar

I found this poem the other day and thought it was cool. As much as I profess to dislike poetry, I think it's mostly a partial truth to cover up that I can't write it myself.

The Master Speed by Robert Frost

No speed of wind or water rushing by
But you have speed far greater. You can climb
Back up a stream of radiance to the sky,
And back through history up the stream of time.
And you were given this swiftness, not for haste
Nor chiefly that you may go where you will,
But in the rush of everything to waste,
That you may have the power of standing still-
Off any still or moving thing you say.
Two such as you with such a master speed
Cannot be parted nor be swept away
From one another once you are agreed
That life is only life forevermore
Together wing to wing and oar to oar

Finding home

I rarely ever hear songs by The Afters, but I happened to hear one this week that struck me as kind of up my alley. I don't actually remember much of what the song sounded like, but I looked up the lyrics when I got home because I was pretty sure that the words intrigued me. Either that, or I'd heard them totally wrong. But no, I'd heard them right.

"The World's got me tied on a string/Wanderlust has overcome me/Like Lewis and Clark I'll dream/There's a million different ways to go/Only God can know where I will call my home."

I actually have no idea what the point of this song is. I sort of get the impression that perhaps they wanted a few filler songs for a CD and just decided this one was good enough. Not that I dislike it, but I literally have no idea what the point of it is. It's called "Love Lead Me On" and the entirety of the chorus goes as follows: "Love lead me on/Where no one else has gone/Faith keep me strong/Love lead me on."

It also rambles about finding home, and love, and picture perfect sunsets, so I'm pretty sure it's just a feel-good song about finding home, but I mostly liked the lines about wanderlust and Lewis and Clark. One of my friends and I used to play Lewis and Clark (I'm pretty sure I was Lewis) and we were masterful waterfall jumpers. It was pretty swell.

I have a friend who is going to school to be a guidance counselor, and he's already pretty good at it. We'll be having a conversation and suddenly I'll realize that I'm just rambling about all sorts of stuff I normally wouldn't. It's rather unsettling, actually. That being said, I was talking about traveling the other day, and he asked me, "Do you get antsy if you stay in one place for too long?"

I had no idea what to tell him. I don't even remember the last time I stayed in one place for a long time. At least one weekend a month I'm somewhere else--anywhere else! And it's not that I don't love my family, or my home (because I love both, very much), but I'm just always doing other things on the weekends. It was odd for me to take a step back and look at myself the way others must see me. I know there are some people who think I'm out and about too much, that I should be home more.

But... I am pretty tight with my family. We eat two meals a day together, we discuss anything and everything whenever we have spare minutes, we travel places together when we get the chance, I ask my parents for advice about most things (even crazy-sounding things, so they can talk me out of it), and my siblings and I are incredibly close.

So, does my traveling a lot mean I'm escaping from something? Because I can't think of what I'd be running from, or what I'd be trying to run toward. My home is just that: Home. I wouldn't want to think I'm out trying to find another place to belong. I'm just out to find that perfect sunset, to play Lewis and Clark and make discoveries worth discussing at the dinner table.

I like to think of it like T. S. Eliot always said: "We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time."

No small wonder

I love books. We all know this. All kinds--big, little, boring, fat, picture, memoir, hilarious, odd, anger-inducing, calming, whatever. But I do especially love children's books.

Which is handy because... my co-worker is going to school to be a children's librarian. It's pretty much awesome, because we're always going off on these random conversations about illustrators and authors and genres and subtle lessons. She's taking a children's literature class that talks a lot about Caldecott books, which is fun for me personally, because one summer I decided to read every single Caldecott book I could find. I ended up reading all of the Winners and a good portion of the medal-winners, and still reminisce fondly on those picture-book-heavy days. Good stuff.

But our conversations are so hilarious. We both love the same edition of A Child's Garden of Verses because the illustrator was a genius (actually, Gyo Fujikawa is one of my mom's all-time favorite illustrators because of this book. I think that's why I love it so much), and our conversations about Crockett Johnson go like this.

Co-worker: "Crocket Johnson--"

Me: "Sheer genius!"

Not very work-inducing, but a good way to keep spirits up in the office.

Yes, I've been busy

I haven't been neglecting my blog for no good reason, trust me. Things have been a tad hectic in my corner of the world.

But, on the plus side, I found this nifty little poem the other day!

Whatever you are working on,
Engage in it with zest,
Because your work is for the Lord
And He expects your best!

I thought it was good, especially since I felt like I was working on too many things to engage fully in any of them, so it was a good reminder. Plus, I like the word "zest." It's one of those words that make you sort of sparkle your eyes, yes?

And that, my friends, is all I have time for.

Poety, poety

When I was little I used to "quote poetry" by starting a poem with the line, "Poety, poety" and carry forth. I couldn't frame my words properly, in case you're wondering what a poety is, much the way those one guys from the Bible couldn't say Shibboleth.

But I just found an embarrassing poem the other day, that I wrote within the last year, in an attempt to get some creative juices flowing. I don't have it with me, but it went something like this--

Everyone always talks about hope,
The butcher, the baker, the pope,

And it goes from there. Worse, if you'd believe it. But it made me laugh, because poetry is some of the easiest stuff to mess up. I did a poetry course in school once (best one ever: my textbook was Poetry for Dummies) and it didn't help. I think poetry is something you're either good at, or not. Me? I'm in the not-so-good category. Not at all good, in fact.

I do like poetry, though. I used to read poetry all the time--I have these old volumes of Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson and obscure Japanese poets--and I'd read them out on the roof in the evening time, right after dishes were done, and in the twilight it was practically magical.

But I don't have time for poetry any longer. When I have a spare moment or two, I read books with actual stories. But sometimes, when my window is open and the twilight and fresh air blow in my room, I wish I would make a little more time for whimsical things like poetry.

But... not writing it. Just reading. It's official.

Back to Up

I mentioned the Disney/Pixar movie Up a few weeks ago, and I was pondering it the other day. And today, I guess.

A fact about me: I'm not romantically attached to anybody in any particular way. Thankfully. =) One day I might be ready. Moving on.

So here's the deal: sometimes I wonder if love is worth it. That quote from Tennyson, the one that goes, "'Tis better to have lost and lost/ than to have never loved at all," always struck a nerve with me, if that makes any sense. Sometimes I'm convinced that love isn't worth it. First, look at the percentages of marriages that don't last. Oh, and pause and consider the number of marriages that have lasted, but as a technicality, because the marriage itself hasn't held up internally. Then consider the people who aren't in marriages yet have crummy relationships.

And that's just marriage. Don't get me started on the games people play before they get to that point.

Sure, marriage seems scary and like a lot of work. This much we all recognize. But what scares me worse than that is the thought that one day, after you've worked through the agonizing parts, and come out stronger on the other side, blah blah blah, if the Lord doesn't come... well, that spouse (or you, whichever) is going to die. Raptured or dead, those are the only options. Doesn't that sound cynical? News flash, I am sort of cynical.

So we've determined that I'm cynical and that marriage seems big and scary. What does this have to do with Up?

For those who have seen the movie, they will immediately remember the first 11 minutes of the film, wherein a touching story is shown of the life of Carl and Ellie, a couple who went through a lot (death of a child=supposedly one of the worst things that can happen to a person, though I don't know from personal experience), and lived life to the fullest. Until Ellie died. Bummer.

But it was so sad! And even at the end of the movie, when I knew that Carl was happy and hanging out with his newest pal Russell, it was sad, because I knew that for every day Carl was enjoying his favorite activities with Russell, it must have hurt him, because those were Ellie's favorite places, too.

Odd to consider this in such depth, but I'm sort of an odd duck.

So there we have it. Loving and losing sounds frightening. Everyone says it's worth it, but this girl needs a little more convincing.

Party: Guy Fawkes style

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
The gunpowder, treason, and plot,
I know of no reason,
Why the gunpowder treason,
Should ever be forgot.

This poem is just to remind us all of the glorious holiday that is coming up tomorrow. (And lest I forget, happy birthday, mrg!) I guess it's maybe a little odd that I love Guy Fawkes day so much. After all, it's in celebration of a man who tried to blow up British Parliament. But since they celebrate it in England, I think it's only fair that we get to celebrate here, too.

People always ask me: why do they celebrate it? Well, I always answer that it's fun to run around and light off fireworks and have bonfires and the such, but I'm pretty sure that the only reason it is a celebrated holiday is because it used to be a mandatory holiday. No joke, for about 250 years after that not-fateful-after-all day, English folk were required to celebrate the deliverance of the King of England. My theory is, they just got so used to having a holiday specially for blowing things up that they just couldn't stop that train of fun once they were on it. So they celebrate to this day. And some of us poor North American folks, who don't know any better, celebrate right along with them.

This year, we're having a big Guy Fawkes Day party at my house. I'm not really organizing it (here's where the realities of work set in), but mrg is planning it for me. And coming over to cook the food, too. Nice...

Anyhow, I don't really have much else to say about GFD. I don't even know how I could wax eloquent about blowing things up. Except to remind us all that the tongue is a little member, and boasteth great things. How great a matter a little fire kindleth! Guy Fawkes no doubt never considered the power his tongue wielded. Unfortunately, he was too busy trying to kindle things with a little (or lot) of fire. My problem lies more with the tongue thing--I'm more tempted to spout off at the mouth than I am tempted to light things on fire. Though I do accidentally burn a very high number of pot holders... Hmm, maybe I have more of Guy Fawkes in me then I thought.

Rhymes with "wholly unfortunate"

I used to write poem-ly things when I was young. Once, I even took a poetry class. Unfortunately my poems were, in a word, terrible, and the poetry class didn't help even one iota. The whole "tree/Calvary/died for me" rhyming scheme worked well for the first 12 or so years of my life, and after that, I sort of latched onto the simple "rewind/mind/God is kind" type stuff that seemed like such brilliance.

But I just have no talent for poetry. Every time I look back on poems I considered to be so incredible or deep, I sort of want to burn them (which isn't unusual, I pretty much want to burn everything I've ever written). But sometimes I make myself try to write poetry, just to see if I've inadvertently gotten hit in the head with a poetry-laden 2x4. So far, just so you know, it hasn't happened. When I try to write poetry these days I just feel like being lazy and doing what every other modern poet does, which is to say, write completely random words.

Let me try a poem that would get a modern poet published in a magazine.

Tortilla Chips dreams
Frozen Vegetables drama
Wrinkled Paper fear
Antique Watch far from youth

Pretty much, that's what I see when I read poetry written in the past hundred years or so. What is wrong with at least attempting to put in cool-sounding lines, like things about "time yet for a hundred indecisions, and time for a hundred visions and revisions," sort of Thomas Stearns style? Not that T. S. Eliot bothered to rhyme much, but at least he had a natural cadence to his work, and at least some of his stuff rhymed, and at least he didn't write abstractly about plutonium and proms and sowing seeds of anger. When I look at modern poetry I realize that there's usually something to decipher (unlike my beautiful poem above, so seriously, don't bother trying to find a deep meaning between my tortilla chips and fear), but if I wanted to decipher something, I'd work on Hebrew, or do a logic puzzle, or try to read my dad's handwriting or something. There is no good reason for having to spend forever trying to figure out poetry.

Poetry is supposed to touch a chord inside of you. Reach something you didn't know you had. It's supposed to make you itch to say words or your own, jumbled masses of thoughts, strung together like music. But these days? You're counting blessings if the words are even masses of jumbledness, and finding things strung together is somewhat hopeless.

The tablecloth,
Sinks in the washer,
Under the weight of water,
and soap, and dirty socks.

Seriously, people get paid for that?