Tags: writing

hair syrup curl

Prompt 397

the light at the end of the tunnel



I tried to focus on the patterns of light. Lots of people write lots of poems about dappling shadows of leaves, right? They are supposed to be so calming. I watched them until finally I focused.
Plaid circles of light danced in front of me, on the water and on the knees of my green velvet leggings. It really was calming, a nice simple thing to focus on, and interesting. The light was coming from a tiny man hole like thing, full of spiders and years worth of cobwebs, and there was a screen of sorts on top - perhaps what was plaiding the circles of light? - that made me guess it might be meant to be a storm drain of sorts.

Dancing, dappling cirlces of light. Plaid. I never was good at poetry. Sighing, I leaned back against the grimey wall. My hair would have all sorts of gunk in it but it didn't matter at this point. I was already quite wet and muddy. I pulled my knees up to my chest and the wet velvet felt funny, but whenever I'm uncertain, it calms me to press something between my breasts. It sounds a bit funny, but thats what breasts are for. And, I was cold. The small bit of wet heat I could trap that way was welcome.

And then, more waiting. I was confused, and was having trouble focusing attention for long, and didn't know where I was, as if I just woke up. I remembered being told to sit and wait here, in the tiny patch of light, by some male voice. I tried to get up after he seemed to have left, but I didn't seem to have any balence, and my hands were bound with something behind my back. I decided I didn't want to think about it, because everything is harder to do when I'm freaked out. I'll just try to get some semblance of balance and focus and walk away, I thought.

As I was about to attempt getting up again, and looked toward the opening of the tunnel, I saw a woman. It had been compleatly silent save the sound of water and bugs and things. The tunnel opened out onto plants and things, a creek, and there was a trickling of ivy like a shredded and sparse curtain, which the lady seemed to be... playing with? She and the ivy were silouetted, with just sprinklings of greens and skin. As she was spinning and splashing the water about, I realized she was naked. I could barely tell, with just the little bits of telltale pink skittering across bits of her body. Beautiful. I was mesmerized. Who would be dancing naked by the light of the tunnel? It is so silly! I heard her laugh, a tiny little gleeful laugh, like when you are staring intently at a grasshopper, and then it suddenly hopps off, almost hitting your nose. This was too much- I let out a laugh.

Then she stopped, turned to face me. Her whole demeanor changed from whimsical to strong and protective, and unfortunatly, perhaps a little antagonistic. I tried to sink more into my wet cold and hungery egg-shape. As she walked toward me, I could see she was very tall. I could also see that her skin was weirdly mottled and patchwork, like she had every ethnicity fighting a war over which peice of skin they got. Like countries.

I saw her put something up to her face, heard a "fwoop!" and felt a prick, right in the side of my cheek. "Well, this is interesting," Spoke my brain to me in my last moment of consiousness. And then I felt ice cold water streaming around my head, cheek, neck and knees.
hair syrup curl

Reasons to reconsider taking a year off.

1) Learning how to write will help signifigantly in writing a memoir.

it'll also help in writing a childrens book.

2) I'll get credit for my learning.

3) I be supplied with art supplies.

4) If I make too much money I will get less financial aid next year, like, you know, if I get a job?

5) I'll have more time if I don't have a job.

6) I can take a year off after learning to write.


Reasons to not reconsider:

1) I already made a decision, and it isn't a bad one.

2) I was supposed to turn in housing forms by June 9th.

3) I could take a writing class out here. (Also Kevin said he'd help)

4) I already know people out here who I would like to get to know better.

5) My dad is moving out here.

6) If I finish those illistrations with Corey Wade, I'd like to try to get them published.

7) It'd be hard to make friends and then leave again, and then I'd have lost contact with some of the people out here.

8) I can totally learn to write out here, and find people to edit stuff. I can then get more help when I get there.



And see, now I feel better about my decision agai, but I don't know that I should.
hair syrup curl

The story of my smutty story.

I did turn it into my teacher. He did, in fact, like my story.
It was just a rough draft... so I am not posting it here, but with that in mind, everyone liked it. Mr Painter liked the character developement and such. And appreciated that I didn't ask him what he would do in that situation.

Before turning it in I shared it with various people- Freya, who came to ceili, riva, Quinn, Some freanch transfer student who was sitting next to me in the computer lab, and MIcheal Prusse.
Now I need to get a guy friend to tell me what he would do in that situation. And I think I need to change the character of the teacher to not give in as easily... more realistic?

Fuck, but Mr. Palen is hot. Sorry. That's who it is based on, except that he just wouldn't.

Yeah.
I had a nice day.
I'm exahsted. Calculus. Bah. Composing. College. I got home, and to bed, at around 2. And up at 6:30. And no naps yet so far today.
And my physics teacher actually bopped me on the head for drifting off in class, for just a moment, and i was still listening...
"Go ahead, get me fired, I dare ya," He said laughing.
"What?" I blinked and replayed the syllables in my head a few times as I walked back to my seat. I was still registering the getting bopped on my head. "Oh." Then I felt bad. I want to get him fired, but not for that.
This morning in his class, I drew a light bulb on a yellow peice of paper and held it over my head to make him feel better about himself, as the whole class was just staring at him blankly. He smiled and told the class, "Look, Mackenzie has the right idea there."
Now I don't know why hes so hard on me. I'm likable and shit.

Oh, and someone actually thought I was sweet and innicent today- In physics class. He didn't think I would curse. I had to dissillusion him. Luckily I was armed with cursing and homemade smut.

It just makes me so happy.
hair syrup curl

depressed.

NOt wanting to actually write an entry reminds me of a time I had riva and Jeff over, and I wrote Happy in the subject line, and put a heart in the body.
Here I would growl.
I have no reason. I'm fine.
hair syrup curl

12 word novels.

I dropped an egg. “You idiot! Can’t you-” He slipped. Fractured skull.



Her back itched. Scratching, she felt feathers. Finally, she could fly away.



I picked her a flower, From behind, I whispered in her ear.
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hair syrup curl

My fingers race against the sound of words swooshing about in my head

Trying to find the right one but the go by so fast, jumping to get out. How can I catch them. They are trickily little buggers, but so beautiful; and full of life and color that I can't bear to let them go. They are black and word shaped and yet 3 de and fluid an the most inmportant thing, ink slipping through my mind, out the tips of the fingers to the keys, click clack, the race. I'm running, running, my fingers can't keep up.
And the worst of it is, in the effort to write down my thoughts before they get away, I lose my inspiration, it jumps out the door, noticing I am distracted, not giving it my full attention. But how can I when I have this barrier of skin and bone and muscle to get through.
I'm trying my best I tell it but tis out the door.
And on those few second that Inspiration stays and I keep up, my body quakes with joy. As if I am being huged and loved and kissed. It is now.

Words are the most present thing I have. I love them because they are real and true. Thoughts are elequoent and brilliant and beatiful and detailed, and unless they are written down, amble off scornfully, forgotten or neglected.
But when you allow yourself to think, your thoughts get so exited and nourished and happy that they run away, leaving only a convedluded impression on your paper of where they'd been. Water color foot prints. That anyone manages to get more than that down astonishes me.
Its like a lie. You take the foot prints and work from memory, trying to agonizingly rereate the pictures, and sounds, and what was said.
How can any one hope to finish elaborating and eternalizing one thought, let alone a story, when there are so so so many thoughts to be had, and they are beatiful and coming at you all the time.
What am I to do? I simply dont want to ignore the here and now. After all, there here and now is why I write.

Thoughts are like improvisational music, excepting that an improv is easier to recreate, you know why you were playing, and that all the notes exist, there are a limited number of them.
But the woes of composing are essentially the same no matter the medium- The effort to get it down on paper is more tedious and time consuming that the wonderful idea itself.
hair syrup curl

heres a funny story about english.

When I was visiting my grandmother today, she told me she put me in a story. I asked what she said about me.
So a while ago, around christmas time, I was having dinner with them and i said something about my brother and "because of him wanting to go to blah de blah, he...", and my grandmother, very quietly so no one would hear her, sayed, "gerund." But I heard her, and I immediatly stopped and said, "his wanting to go...". Now shes never corrected me before, so its not like expected it. Any other normal me would have either ignored it or said huh? But you know, its so much work to ask for clarification on something someone else said and no one else heard while your in the middle of telling a story yourself. So I doubt I would have. But I wouldn't have known what she was talking about... If it weren't for 8th grade english class. I learned everything in that class, I swear.
Anyhow, the way it did happen, my grandmother said, "Oh!" as she is apt to do when surprised and amused and started laughing. Well I did too, all the way at the other side of the table, because I had caught it, and everyone else was confused. 
It was wonderful.
hair syrup curl

I write way too much

I wonder if I annoi any one. But this is just how much I like to write. I love to think, and if I don't write it down, its gone. Its weird that people read what I write though. I like it but I'm not used to it. You, know, I'm talking to myself, thinking to myself, but other people opine on it. What an odd sensation.

But I wonder, Does it bother anyone how much I write?
I dont know why I am right now, I should do something useful. I should compose the peice of music I'm working on. The only thing I've really done today is wash my hair. Then I took a long nap I didn't need. Then the house was taken over by Joe dirt, and rebecca came over for an hourish, and I embroidered a tiny flower. But I suppose I could do something now.
hair syrup curl

that sad feeling, when your head hurts and your heart is in your throat.

you know it? when your esophogus tightens and the bone around the upper right of your eye brow and below your eye hurts. And you feel hopeless, but you feel the hurt, and at least you know it exists. You can't do anything about it but you know it exists.

Well, you got it from atching a movie, reading a book, or an article, or listening to a friend tell a story. And you care, oh god you care. You sypathyse with that pain and feel your own for it, making connections the the hate and corruption of the world.
And so, yeah, you feel sad for all that, but the worst part, you realize, is that it wont last. You'll feel awful for a couple minutes maybe... at the most, but the then that pain just drifts away, and unless you force it to stay, all you have is the memory of being sad, the memory of your own opinion. It goes stale.... you might answer a phone call, or heat up some cold pizza. You might have a bowl of ice cream. If your sad, it is because you want to be... because you know that the worst part is losing what you once thought. Of course your not thinging about that, your probably feeling sorry for whoevers plight saddened you.
But then, you realize you have homework to do. You've got a calculous test tomarrow, and an english paper due, and if you were already asleep you still wouldn't get enough sleep. It might not have been so bad if you hadn't wasted a few hours watching that movie or reading that book or talking on the phone, or researching random stuff. Then you realize you have to apply to colledges and you don't know where you want to go. Or you don't know what you want to do with your life, and it feels like your always behind and have no time.

You have your own life to worry about. You were sad for half an hour at most, I'm guessing. But you have work to do, and sleep to get. What were you sad about again? no time to think about it.

You were only sad because the story was effective. People seem to be immune to horrible things. Most things wont get to you, or make you cry. There just isn't time. Its just gotta seem really important, and be really well crafted to make it matter. It has to know what matters to you, and feed off of it - family, children, etc. Its gotta know how to make it matter and make it hit home.

I want to write like that. I want to make people feel reality, and feel it as stong as if they were there. I want to first of all, know what I feel about things, and then be able to make people feel it at least that stong, hopefully stronger. I want to write so that people feel it in their feet and their hands and their mouths. And in their minds. For longer than a half an hour.

I'm thinking it'll work better to just brainwash the world to be healthier. Which would be more difficult?