they never tell you why
as the hot ash breathes into your lungs and makes you choke -
they never told you why.
you look at the world around you
and you look at the world inside of you
and the difference is so striking it is magnificently clear
that there is no difference at all.
if you have found the message in a bottle
fish it out from the sea and let me know.
more often than not it is written in code
the letters are drawn with confusion and stained by fear.
together we must piece
the broken chords of lament into some semblance of a human voice,
the kind that is reminiscent of ocean-song and salt-wind,
blown from a thousand miles away.
--repost from http://volkeswagondaotaku.deviantart.com/
Friday, April 26, 2013
Monday, April 22, 2013
Sunday, April 14, 2013
DON'T PANIC
Learning how to drive under the tutelage of my mother is a nasty business.
"Turn right at Northcrest, turn left onto the 101 South, come off at Forest and then go straight on Francisco Boulevard until we get to the CVYO Orchestra.* Got it?"
(Starts car) "Yeah."
(One minute later) "What're you doing!?"
"Uh..."
"I said 101 South! Which direction is the 101 South!?"
"...South?"
"You're on the right lane, which means North! Go left!"
The level of agitation of my mother is directly proportional to the volume of her voice and how tightly she holds the door of the car. Studies have shown that staying calm in tense situations helps others remain calm and collected; this logic may be applied in the other direction as well.
"Turn the wheel, turn the wheel, turn the - no not so much! You idiot what're you doing!?"
"Stop yelling I'm trying!"
"Don't go so fast in a turn! Slow down, slow - don't stop in the middle of the intersection!!!"
The seven-minute odyssey from school to my home is a grueling ordeal that must be overcome daily. Perhaps the most life-threatening challenge is the daunting, terrible, scrutinizing last five-foot stretch. Parking, not surprisingly, is one of the most challenging skills to be mastered by a wimpy sixteen-year-old who allegedly has horrible hand-eye coordination (but who is somehow also an advanced pianist), and patience must be cranked up in full gear.
Attempt #1: "You're too far to the right again. Back up, try again."
Attempt #2: "You're still too far to the right. How many times do I have to tell you!? When you come in you have to pull straight, pull straight. You're turning the wheel too much!"
Attempt #3: "Pull straight! You're not doing what I'm telling you to do! Pull straight!"
Attempt #4: "Why can't you do it right!? Pull straight!"
"Will you just shut up!? I'm trying!"
"I'm just trying to help! You're the one who isn't doing what I said! Why can't you do it right!?"
"You don't have to yell!"
"Is it because you're too scared of hitting the garage door!? You won't hit the door, alright, so stop being so scared! There's nothing to be scared of!"
Attempt #5: I come one centimeter away from ramming the front of my mother's car straight into the garage door. At the last second it occurs to me that this is probably a very bad idea in a lot of ways (namely, a large repair fee would only make my mother yell at me even more and doesn't really disprove my cowardice, anyways).
So I don't.
(Neither of us really thinks too hard about whether or not I just don't know where the hell I am in relation to the rest of this leather-seated silver-backed monster of a Lexus, and that maybe if we all just listened to some Mozart and smoked some metaphorical weed I wouldn't be tempted to kill myself at my own front door.)
*most names are made up to protect personal privacy. Not because I don't remember the real directions. Of course not.
"Turn right at Northcrest, turn left onto the 101 South, come off at Forest and then go straight on Francisco Boulevard until we get to the CVYO Orchestra.* Got it?"
(Starts car) "Yeah."
(One minute later) "What're you doing!?"
"Uh..."
"I said 101 South! Which direction is the 101 South!?"
"...South?"
"You're on the right lane, which means North! Go left!"
The level of agitation of my mother is directly proportional to the volume of her voice and how tightly she holds the door of the car. Studies have shown that staying calm in tense situations helps others remain calm and collected; this logic may be applied in the other direction as well.
"Turn the wheel, turn the wheel, turn the - no not so much! You idiot what're you doing!?"
"Stop yelling I'm trying!"
"Don't go so fast in a turn! Slow down, slow - don't stop in the middle of the intersection!!!"
The seven-minute odyssey from school to my home is a grueling ordeal that must be overcome daily. Perhaps the most life-threatening challenge is the daunting, terrible, scrutinizing last five-foot stretch. Parking, not surprisingly, is one of the most challenging skills to be mastered by a wimpy sixteen-year-old who allegedly has horrible hand-eye coordination (but who is somehow also an advanced pianist), and patience must be cranked up in full gear.
Attempt #1: "You're too far to the right again. Back up, try again."
Attempt #2: "You're still too far to the right. How many times do I have to tell you!? When you come in you have to pull straight, pull straight. You're turning the wheel too much!"
Attempt #3: "Pull straight! You're not doing what I'm telling you to do! Pull straight!"
Attempt #4: "Why can't you do it right!? Pull straight!"
"Will you just shut up!? I'm trying!"
"I'm just trying to help! You're the one who isn't doing what I said! Why can't you do it right!?"
"You don't have to yell!"
"Is it because you're too scared of hitting the garage door!? You won't hit the door, alright, so stop being so scared! There's nothing to be scared of!"
Attempt #5: I come one centimeter away from ramming the front of my mother's car straight into the garage door. At the last second it occurs to me that this is probably a very bad idea in a lot of ways (namely, a large repair fee would only make my mother yell at me even more and doesn't really disprove my cowardice, anyways).
So I don't.
(Neither of us really thinks too hard about whether or not I just don't know where the hell I am in relation to the rest of this leather-seated silver-backed monster of a Lexus, and that maybe if we all just listened to some Mozart and smoked some metaphorical weed I wouldn't be tempted to kill myself at my own front door.)
*most names are made up to protect personal privacy. Not because I don't remember the real directions. Of course not.
Monday, April 1, 2013
And So It Goes
Happy April Fool's, everyone!
--They don't give it much thought, the poltergeists; this day is just like any other. More tricks to pull. More property to trash. More people to hate. But then they notice something strange, and they stop to watch in silent awe (or as much awe as a poltergeist can muster, anyways): the living are playing pranks too. And the strangest part is the way they laugh as they do it, and the people who got pranked laugh too, mostly, and the way that everyone's just going about their business and laughing instead of having mental breakdowns and getting shut up in a straightjacket as is prone to happen with poltergeists playing around. Poltergeists don't laugh, you see. They cackle, but they don't laugh. The dead don't laugh very easily.
But even the poltergeists, these creatures who have long forgotten their own names in favor of a rankling emotion that stings and claws and that even they can't put a finger on, these sorrowful cackling dead, even they can recognize the laughter of the fools and wish they were as wise as we.--
On another note, Sunroad's still kicking around feebly in the back of my mind, so I write just enough every day to remember where the plot's going and because I've already got almost 25,000 words down (0 - 0 amazes me every time I sit down to think about it, even though it really shouldn't); who knows, maybe by the last day of school it'll actually be finished, ready for Draft #3, if the plot doesn't get any more complicated than it is now. And also there is Camp Nanowrimo. Which I'm kinda cheating through. But meh, I'll still post my progress here, anyways.
Words written yesterday: Not...really any, no. Total words: 24,400. Heck yes.
Progress clip:
Other ongoing writing projects: short story due for dA competition April 6 (theme: Sanctuary), comic collab with LitChron friend I should really finish today, other shorts to build up portfolio, etc...
--They don't give it much thought, the poltergeists; this day is just like any other. More tricks to pull. More property to trash. More people to hate. But then they notice something strange, and they stop to watch in silent awe (or as much awe as a poltergeist can muster, anyways): the living are playing pranks too. And the strangest part is the way they laugh as they do it, and the people who got pranked laugh too, mostly, and the way that everyone's just going about their business and laughing instead of having mental breakdowns and getting shut up in a straightjacket as is prone to happen with poltergeists playing around. Poltergeists don't laugh, you see. They cackle, but they don't laugh. The dead don't laugh very easily.
But even the poltergeists, these creatures who have long forgotten their own names in favor of a rankling emotion that stings and claws and that even they can't put a finger on, these sorrowful cackling dead, even they can recognize the laughter of the fools and wish they were as wise as we.--
On another note, Sunroad's still kicking around feebly in the back of my mind, so I write just enough every day to remember where the plot's going and because I've already got almost 25,000 words down (0 - 0 amazes me every time I sit down to think about it, even though it really shouldn't); who knows, maybe by the last day of school it'll actually be finished, ready for Draft #3, if the plot doesn't get any more complicated than it is now. And also there is Camp Nanowrimo. Which I'm kinda cheating through. But meh, I'll still post my progress here, anyways.
Words written yesterday: Not...really any, no. Total words: 24,400. Heck yes.
Progress clip:
“You do not…‘command’ us,” the woman
said, and paused thoughtfully. “Perhaps ‘commission’ is a better word. We are
not the same as soldiers, after all. We are more like mercenaries. We do as we
please.”
“Then, what kind of orders do I
give?”
“Hunting orders."Other ongoing writing projects: short story due for dA competition April 6 (theme: Sanctuary), comic collab with LitChron friend I should really finish today, other shorts to build up portfolio, etc...
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