Creating Insanity

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. He said I had a gift. He told me that a person can do whatever they like when they write. He smiled when he told me, knowing that he’d just given me the secret to unlocking Pandora’s Box. I came to discover that he was right. When I write, I can escape, cross over into some other world where the boundaries of time and space don’t exist. If I wanted, I could build a trampoline out of clouds and propel myself up into the night. I could even dance with the stars. I could set with the sun and glow like the moon. I could make an invisible key and unlock myself from any cage. I might even be able to fly without wings. I can ride whales across an ocean that’s truly blue and I’d never have to hold my breath. When I write, I can create a world all my own. My father told me I could. He wouldn’t lie, not to me. I could be the founder of an alien colony on Neptune who tries to make contact with Earth, or I could be the leader of a herd of dragons. I can write and leave everything and everyone behind. It’s a voyage I often take alone, although it is not necessary to be alone. I could take any companion with me, even if they’ve been claimed by the grave centuries ago. Even if they never existed at all. But I like to be alone. I can do whatever it is I happen to please. But my world is starting to crumble. I can feel it, like a poison just on the tip of my tongue. If I move or bend back, the poison will slide down my throat. I can see elements of this place I’ve created slipping into the cracks of places I didn’t build. I shouldn’t be scared, but I am. I’m frightened. The whirlpool of a life that isn’t real is beginning to engulf me. I can feel the darkness and light battling just under the surface of the wind, their war invisible. Fire bubbles beneath the unbroken tread of the waters, ready to emerge the moment my heartbeat flutters. I can’t even move on solid ground now, the foundation shutters and falls away, and I am left with gravity’s betrayal. My father would be ashamed. Now, I do the only thing I know how to do. I write, I escape. And I know there will come a day, soon, where my writing swallows me. When I escape forever, and am never allowed to return. I look forward to it. Then I went back into the house and write, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.  

Famous First and Last Lines

Famous First Line -

"In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since." - From: The Great Gatsby - By F. Scott Fitzgerald

F. Scott Fitzgerald was born on September 24^th, 1896 in St. Paul, Minnesota. He died at 44 years old on December 21^st, 1940 in Hollywood, Los Angeles, California. His is considered to be one of the great American authors, some of his works including, The Beautiful and the Damned, This Side of Paradise, and The Great Gatsby.

The Great Gatsby was written in 1925.

The Great Gatsby focuses on the character of Jay Gatsby and his obsessive effort to be with his love interest, Daisy Buchanan. This story is all told in lavish detail though the narrator, Nick Carraway, and is set in the time of the 1920s.

I have read his book before, and I am absolutely in love with it. I find that the messages about life and love are timeless, and the writing is perfectly beautiful. I believe it to be one of the greatest American novels ever written, and I cannot wait for the chance to read it again someday. 

Famous Last Line -

"Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining."

Samuel Beckett was a writer born in Foxrock, Dublin, Ireland on April 13^th, 1906. He passed away on the 22^nd of December in the year of 1989 in Paris, France. Beckett was thought be a modernist, and one of the most influential writers of all time. He served in World War II, and won a Nobel Prize in Literature in 1961.

Molloy was written in 1951.

Molloy is a novel that is widely considered to be an extremely influential and important piece of literary work from the 20^th Century. It focuses on two major characters, Molloy and Moran, who seem to be somehow connected, sharing their experiences through the novel.

This book seems extremely fascinating. I, in truth, have never heard of this novel before, and I am truly ashamed. It seems to be so fascinating and interesting, and it’s somewhat bizarre plot and characters draw me in. I am so excited to begin reading this acclaimed work of fiction. 

Quotes

"The Mighty Pharaoh, Laid Low" Headline Blog-post

“The Mighty Pharaoh, Laid Low” was a headline in the newspaper that really caught my attention. Apparently, the now forever legendary horse that won the Triple Crown earlier in 2015 has been losing some of his momentum. For any horse to win the Triple Crown is history, I know this much. Now, it’s true, I know nearly nothing about horses or racing in general. But I know about the hype a horse can get. My parents wouldn’t stop talking about this win, and they don’t even follow racing. American Pharaoh is this horse’s name, and when I saw the article about American Pharaoh losing some kind of massive race, I felt heartbroken. And I didn’t know why. Why should I care? It wasn’t as if I knew the horse personally, and I didn’t have any stakes in the matter. On top of all this, it isn’t as if the horse will somehow be disappointed. I can’t imagine American Pharaoh cares who wins and who loses. Still, there was something disappointing about this news.

 It, in a way, reminded me of Pablo Picasso. Everyone seems to know his legendary masterpiece, Guernica. But it’s also been said that after he created Guernica, his work was never quite as brilliant or as thought provoking. It was as if he used up all his inspiration on this one piece of work, and then never quite got it back again. Of course, this is completely a matter of opinion, but there might be some truth to it. What happens when you’ve lived out your glory days and then you have to spend the rest of your life as something that feels lesser than what you used to be? I sincerely doubt this would ever happen to me, I'll never be famous or relevant enough, but the fact that it has happened to others is heartbreaking. I cannot imagine what that must feel like, to be revered and praised and then forgotten completely. I think sometimes we forget that legends were really just people. We immortalize them and use their names in daily conversation, but in the end there’s one thing we all have in common. We’re all human looking for a way to be happy. It’s quite funny really, because it took an article about a horse to remind me of this. American Pharaoh may be an animal, but his story made me remember the somehow forgettable fact that we are all very much human. 

(Link to the original article - http://www.ibloomberg.net/the-mighty-pharoah-laid-low/)

Writers as Readers

When I read, I need silence. Granted, I can read without silence, but the experience won’t be nearly as memorable or as enjoyable. My mind works and thinks at a fast pace, so I cannot have any distractions when I read. And I will not suffer though bad writing when I read. If the writing is really unfortunate, then not even the silence can make the experience a good one. Perhaps that is really one of the things that I need to be comfortable in my reading – for the author to be a talented one. That may sound cruel, but it is the truth.

One of my best memories connected with reading has to be when my mother and I would read together at night. When I was young, my mother and I would lay in my bed and work on our own separate books without saying a word to one another. Yet, this experience brought us closer. I don’t even remember what it was I used to read, all I know is that there was a dragon involved. And if there was even a mention of a dragon in a story, nothing and nobody could tear me away.

My favorite book is, without a doubt, The Kite Runner. This is my favorite because of what it teaches about life. The message is vivid and beautiful. The story is heartbreaking, and I finished the book nearly exhausted because of the emotional impact it had on me. I think back to this book all the time, and my copy is one of my most prized possessions. Without it, I honestly think I would be a different person all together. It taught me that life isn’t always going to turn out the way we want it too, and that happens to be okay.

I do believe that a person who reads a lot might become a stronger writer. I don’t think a person can become talented by simply reading, but I think it can give a person fresh ideas and improves the quality of their writing. As Pablo Picasso said, “good artists copy, great artists steal.” Of course, I don’t completely believe this, but I think it is an interesting concept. How can we not pick up on things other writers have done? I think that anything we read that is memorable will come out in our writing later, it is our inspiration.

I would love to write a book someday. I don’t know if I have the talent for such a thing, but I would truly find it fantastic if it were to come to pass. I have already completed a couple of books myself, but nothing good enough to publish. I hope one day to write a book that is good enough. I don’t know about what yet, I’m still looking for that one idea that changes everything. If I was to be described in some way in the “About the Author” section, I would want to specify that I was nothing special – which is the honest truth. 

Memorable Passage

A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking


"A well-known scientist (some say it was Bertrand Russell) once gave a public lecture on astronomy. He described how the earth orbits around the sun and how the sun, in turn, orbits around the center of a vast collection of stars called our galaxy. At the end of the lecture, a little old lady at the back of the room got up and said: “What you have told us is rubbish. The world is really a flat plate supported on the back of a giant tortoise.” The scientist gave a superior smile before replying, “What is the tortoise standing on.” “You’re very clever, young man, very clever,” said the old lady. “But it’s turtles all the way down!” Most people would find the picture of our universe as an infinite tower of tortoises rather ridiculous, but why do we think we know better? What do we know about the universe, and how do we know it? Where did the universe come from, and where is it going? Did the universe have a beginning, and if so, what happened before then? What is the nature of time? Will it ever come to an end? Can we go back in time? Recent breakthroughs in physics, made possible in part by fantastic new technologies, suggest answers to some of these longstanding questions. Someday these answers may seem as obvious to us as the earth orbiting the sun – or perhaps as ridiculous as a tower of tortoises. Only time (whatever that may be) will tell."

I’ve been a fan of Stephen Hawking since I was young. I believe that this paragraph, from his brilliant book, A Brief History of Time, has something memorable for everyone who has the courage to give it a chance. I was so terrified when I first took a look at this paperback. I didn’t think I was smart enough to understand the things he wrote about, my self-confidence was that low. I couldn’t bring myself to believe in my intelligence enough to really look forward to reading it, but once I’d started, I couldn’t stop. He answers so many questions that I’d been asking myself for years. The things he writes about blows my mind, and this paragraph itself does the same. This is, however, the first words written in his book. Many would say that it is not the most profound or the most interesting, but I think it is real genius. How many books can start out with something like this? His ideas, which he talks about casually and with wit, have changed my life and my view of the world in general. I admire Hawking, he has found the strength and bravery to live a full life despite the physical setbacks he faces. He is truly an inspiration, and his knowledge, which he has been gracious enough to share with the world, has opened up new doors in my mind and allows me to think in ways I never could before. And this paragraph represents all his book has done for me. 

Salvation

Sleep. Dreams. Nightmares. Anything is better than the reality I face. I wake up to the torment of my mind. The sun that streams through the window of my room feels like shards of angry glass that stab at my being, tearing me to shreds with angry vengeance. By midday my soul is gasping, desperate for the air it cannot receive trapped inside my body. I can feel it claw at my ribs, scratch at my stomach and bite my skin. It’s hungry, it’s starving, and the only food it knows how to digest now is itself. The thirst will never quench, at least not when I’m awake. By evening my heart is crumbing. It turns to dust and withers away with the north wind. There’s no music, not a sign of light or darkness. That’s the worst thing of all, it’s neutral, worn down like a stone that’s been washed away by the tide over the years. And the sea never forgets, and the ocean never repents. My pillow is my salvation, the escape where my body can revive. The light of the moon and stars flow into me like golden nectar, better than ambrosia. It’s my cure, and I wake up again every morning with the sickness reborn. But the pillow is my ship, my plane, my car. It lets me go, and doesn’t ask me to come back. The only one who beckons me home again is the sun. Traitor. Would it really be so bad if the sun stayed away for a day?

If I Were in Charge of the World

If I were to change the world
I'd cancel ignorance, prejudice,
stupidity, and also the lies we tell ourselves.

If I were in charge of the world
there'd be honesty, love, peace, and
genuine happiness.

If I were in charge of the world
you wouldn't have depression
you wouldn't have anxiety
you wouldn't have mass hysteria.
Or, "ignorance is bliss".
You wouldn't even have ignorance.

If I were in charge of the world
a hamburger would be a vegetable.
All people would accept each other
and a person who sometimes forgot how to be happy
and sometimes forgot to smile and laugh
would still be allowed to be in charge of the world.

I Know

I know why the angels weep, why they keep their eyes cast to the ground and their harps silent.
I know why the demons in me laugh, I know the sound of their cackle well.
I know the battle rages, I can feel it underneath the surface of my skin.
I know my soul is their weapon, the only weapon of use to anyone.
I know the wryness of defeat, I know what a candle feels when the flame blows out.
I know the pride of victory.
I know the darkness, and I know the light.
I know I must choose to fight, and I know that I can lose.
I know the war.
I do not know surrender.

A Dream Come True

Q – The worst dream you’ve ever had

A – I’ve been having extremely vivid dreams since I was a child. Since before I can remember, actually. And, although it may sound ridiculous, some of my dreams come true. Wait, hear me out. I’m not saying that I can fall asleep at night and discover the exact date of the inevitable apocalypse. But, I do sometimes dream about bad storms before they occur, or about someone coming to talk to me after months of silence. But the most bizarre and horrible image that has appeared to me in the night happened a few months ago. My brother lives in Colorado, and I only see him every few months. I hadn’t been thinking about him at all when this dream occurred. In my dream, my brother was trapped in a small, compact room with bright shards of glass protruding from every surface. His eyes were wild, and he never said a word. I think he was trying to make some kind of contact with me, he keeping looking right into my eyes, but never made a move towards me. And I never made a move towards him, I can’t imagine why I didn’t. He did his best to work around his glass, and avoided cutting himself for the longest time. I thought he was safe, and I sensed he thought it, too. Then, just when security began to kick in, he violently lurched forwards and rammed his own skull through the glass. Blood gushed from his head and filled the room with the crimson liquid. I woke up in a sweat, panting and shouting. I forced my dad to call him, even though my dad thought the whole ordeal was ridiculous. But when my dad hung up, he said he had discovered something. Earlier that day, my brother had suffered a head injury from slicing open his scalp on a piece of glass. 

Writers Dreaming

5.) After going though a major trauma at age seven, Angelou didn't talk for almost five years. Could you live this way? Do you think you talk too little? What could you learn if you listened more and spoke less? How could you grow as a person by speaking more? – I think it may be considered arrogant and ridiculous to firmly say I could go five years without talking. But here’s the thing, I think I could. I don’t really like to talk, and I do it too much as it is. I bet I could learn so much if I just kept my mouth shut, I could observe things I never could have before. I’ve never been very adept at reacting to social situations, I understand this. I’ve always felt as if most of my problems come from my mouth. I often say things I don’t mean, and that are in no way what was expected of me. I am a skilled master at making something uncomfortable and awkward. I have a crippling desire to make and keep other people happy, and it may sound like a good thing, but it usually isn’t. If I even think I’ve done something to upset someone I will beg for their forgiveness until they really have no choice but to give it to me. I feel intense guilt over tiny things I did six years ago, and I do and say whatever I possibly can to make other’s laugh. I often suffer from both anxiety and depression, but most of my friends would never know how bad it gets because of the way I act. I never seem sad or down at all. This is done on purpose. So, I think I could go five years without talking. I’d be happier. And me, being happy, this would be a welcome change. And maybe I would grow as a person if I did speak more, if I let people know what I felt all the time, but I'd come to regret it. I know I would. 

7.) Angelou says she often has "total recall" of the events in her life. Are you a person who remembers everything or someone who remembers almost nothing? Which is better to be? Which periods or times in your life are clearest? Fuzziest? Do you have better recall of the times you consider happy or the ones you consider sad or embarrassing or uncomfortable or humorous? – I don’t have some amazing memory. In my case, I will often remember insignificant things that make no real difference to my life at all. I’m always thinking, and so I spend a good deal of time by myself inside my head. And, although I can recall in distinct detail events that may have taken place a decade ago, I cannot take back the memory of what happened last week. However, I do think I have a tendency to either romanticize a memory or completely over-analyze and destroy it. For instance, I think about myself as a young girl and I cripple myself with regret for things I’ve done that really aren’t as disastrous as I’ve made them out to be. And, although I can tell myself over and over again how much all these things don’t matter, I can’t get over much of it. A big part of my personality is how deeply I feel things. I’m either riding high on intense bliss or I’ve exhausted myself with dark sadness. This is part of my problem. My memory seems to only give up material of extremely good things or extremely bad things. Sometimes I wish I was different. But I’m not, and nothing is going to change that. But I think it's better to not remember everything, and to think of everything that's happened as beautiful and golden, to go though life with a kind of ignorance that's bliss-like. That would be lovely.

10.) Angelou quotes Nathaniel West as saying, "easy reading is damned hard writing" and says writing is "just hard work, you know?" Do you agree with this? What is easiest and hardest to you about writing? Is writing hard work?  – If writing is not hard, then I doubt you’re doing it right. For me, writing is emotionally exhausting. Sometimes I’ll be depressed for weeks after writing something. I think that Nathaniel West’s statement was extremely accurate. For me, the only easy writing is the writing I’m forced to do. I have a genuine need to defy authority, so I almost never put my whole self into something I have no choice in creating. However, when it’s my own fate I’m deciding, I do whatever I can to put every ounce of effort into it. This is extremely difficult for me to do. I hope day I will find a way not to make writing easier for me, but I sincerely doubt that day will ever come.

Dream Threads

"The silhouette was staring at me, I tried to speak but I was paralyzed." I knew who it was. It was her. I reached out, my blood was poison, it had poisoned her. I reached out again, but my mouth was useless. It was stitched together, bound by the silence that had killed us both. My throat was clogged with fear, unbroken and unbreakable diamonds froze my tongue. My voice was shattered by memory. She stepped into the light, but I could only see her eyes. God, those eyes. I would've fought the stars and gutted the moon to see those eyes again. But now it felt wrong, I knew, somehow, that she wasn't really looking at me. I wanted so much to kiss her, to feel something on my lips again, even if it was only the pale grayness of death. It felt like I was walking towards her, like I was trying to help her find her way back into a world where she still existed. I would follow her there. Did she know that? How could I tell her that she wouldn't have to be alone anymore? She looked so young. It was as if time had stood still for her. What did I look like to her? Now, after all these eons. Had she missed me? When I made an effort to speak again it came out like a bellowing screech. My hands wrapped around my throat. This was awful, it was a nightmare. Still, trapped here, in this nightmare with her, was better than my reality. No words erupted from her. Her blank stare pained me, a knife in a stomach. I could feel this wound in my heart that cut into the very fabric of my soul. I could feel myself waking up. I fought against it with all my spirit. I knew it was useless, and I sensed she knew it too.  Her eyes went down, and I knew it was over. "She would never grow up, never kiss a boy, never grow old with me."

The Colorless Gray of Lost Love

  Blue, when I see blue I think of him. The whole sky was poisoned with the painful memory. I keep my eyes down now, and pray that one day I will find a world not embedded with sapphires, his eyes were like sapphires. The corn flowers mock me, taunting me with their hue and tint.  I wince when the robin's eggs hatch in the spring, and the shattered remains of this new life fall from the oak tree and slice at my skin like glass. I see skin in cyan now. I cry in the night and my tears are indigo. I remember his eyes, so royal in their color. When will the day come that I stop seeing his eyes?

  His hair was black. Raven feathered and dark as the very depths of the ocean.  I am blinded by the ebony memory of him, and wonder how I've come to lose my sight. Was he made of onyx when the world created him, or was such a gemstone born by this very presence? Every morning when I wake, I choke on the charcoal he's decided to leave behind. The nights are starless now, only left with the inky darkness born of sin and doubt.  

  The lips he possessed were red. I've spend my life kissing roses, and now my mouth is infected with thorns. Rubies were hand chiseled by the Gods to form such a smile. How could such a crimson grin bring such agony? His knife was laden with the scarlet blood of my soul. The pain seeping from my battered spirit was like his wine. He only spoke when vermilion butterflies spread their wings and took flight, and he came to grow wings. And he fluttered away, leaving me.

  The light he brought to me was yellow. The sun herself would pay homage to such a golden glow as the one I remember. My hair became flaxen and colored, leaving behind the colorless gray of the storm clouds. He painted my world in the style of the goldenrod, and he came to slaughter the daisy. And as the moon comes to rise tonight, I am in his debt, for I can still recall the amber. One day I'll smile, and the dusk will come to rival the dawn.

7-Line Poem

1 - She swings the softest lace over her shoulders, her head tilts back at a slant.
2 - He smiles blissfully at her, in awe, his eyes were made of crystal, gazing.
3 - Her voice is like a little trumpet, and he can feel himself go deft to everything but her.
4 - Her eyes are Finnish lavender spikes, they have impaled him.
5 - Her irises are a vineyard, purple royalty and majesty.
6 - How can he escape now, when the enduring purple shade of her eyes has enraptured his soul?
7 - Like a swift hawk, she can captured and devoured him, and his fight is over.

Haikus

Purple in the light

Royalty in the morning

Lavender at night 

Blue as the ocean

And dark as the moon tonight 

Unforgotten now

Private Sanctuary (acrostic)

Purple flowers that
Ripen and fade with age
Invite me back to memory and
Very tired flowers. I
Assemble the lavender beauties in my hand, bunching them together when
The night wind
Elopes with the stars, the

Stars smile as they
Align together in the
Night, the lilacs point up to the
Crescent moon,
Tears shed at midnight. The flowers
Unite, ready to
Assent and wither,
Ready to let go. And
Yet, I am not ready. Will I ever be?

Belle of the Ball

"Belle of the Ball."

  I'm not going to lie, all my life, I've desperately wanted to be a princess. "Belle of the Ball" is a pale yellow, light and soft in color. It reminds me of the dress Belle wears in Beauty and the Beast - my all time favorite film. When I was young, more than anything else, I wanted a magical night of dancing and massive puffy dresses and discovering I'd found my true love within ten seconds of meeting him. In short, I wanted to be a Disney princess. But, the older I got, the more I came to realize that this was not likely to happen. The closest I'd ever come was when I went to homecoming with some of my friends. And even then I hadn't really enjoyed myself. I'd all but given up on fairy-tale balls when a young man randomly came over to me and, very bluntly, asked if I would go to prom with him. I was in shock, I'd never been asked to a dance by a boy. Ever. I accepted, and then did what I do best. Procrastinated. I bought my dress online and didn't try it on until it would have been too late to buy another. I didn't plan or get too excited. I was convinced I would be socially awkward and make the entire night uncomfortable. In truth, I was just hoping not to make a total fool of myself. When the night came, and I got dressed, I felt like royalty. We went out and danced, my feet hurt by the end. What can I say? I was having fun. I didn't really think about what was happening, I was too happy to think about much of anything. Then, just when I though the night couldn't get any better, it was time for the slow dance. I told him I didn't know how to slow dance at all. He smiled and said he'd show me. My wrists ended up locked together around his neck, his arms went around my waist. We didn't say anything, I watched his feet for direction. Every now and then I looked up and saw his smile. Something happened inside of me then. I don't know what, but it was like a million butterflies decided to emerge from their cocoons at once. I felt like Belle, sharing that magical dance with her prince. I was one of those nights you can't forget, no matter what you do. And I swear, that night, I felt like the Belle of the Ball.