So on the way back from my dad's for spring break, I saw this kid on the plane and... well just read on(:
We sit on the plane in the very back next to a kid probably 12 or 13 years old. I think nothing of him as my sister and I shuffle into the small airplane seats. About halfway through the flight, the boy, who has been staring out of the window this whole time, rushes a black binder out of his backpack with a picture of a grinning him and two, -I'm guessing- friends, slid into the clear front pocket and whips it open to a blank page of notebook paper. All of the sudden an overwhelming sense of curiosity grips me about what this unknown boy will do on the empty page. Draw the crop circles far below? Write some kind of poetic story about being high in the clouds? The longing to see his work, and the anticipation of what it will be, is intensely overpowering, and incredibly unexplainable. I take myself by surprise, but I can't help it. I didn't peg him as a poet- or for that matter a sketch artist either, with his skater shoes with no laces, cargo shorts, and baggy sweatshirt. But I almost want him to be one of these things, if just to prove me wrong. I can almost feel my eyes sparkling with excitement, and if you looked at me right now, I'm sure they would be. The suddenly mysterious kid stares intently out of the window with pencil in hand as I sneak a glance over his binder. I notice some papers labeled "Vocabulary" and after seeing that it says 7th grade, feel almost boastful at my good guess at age. I look away for just a second- why, I can't recall now- and when I look back the boy is just finishing writing no more than a sentence. His hand blocks the writing and I just catch a glimpse of his neat scrawl, without making out any words, before he closes the binder and shoves it back in his bag, leaving me dissapointed that the chance has left.
Monday, March 28, 2011
How To Be a Post-It Note
Be made of paper.
Be packed in with all the others.
Don't be scared to be bent. Or shoved in a pile of junk or a thick book.
Be prepared to adhere to anything. From shelves to refrigerator doors to chairs to pages.
Be a tattoo maniac. Get all inked up.
Be fearless; carrying on the legacy of the ones before you.
Be comforted in the fact you served your purpose, if (and when) you are sent to the shredder.
But most importantly,
Just keep sticking
Be packed in with all the others.
Don't be scared to be bent. Or shoved in a pile of junk or a thick book.
Be prepared to adhere to anything. From shelves to refrigerator doors to chairs to pages.
Be a tattoo maniac. Get all inked up.
Be fearless; carrying on the legacy of the ones before you.
Be comforted in the fact you served your purpose, if (and when) you are sent to the shredder.
But most importantly,
Just keep sticking
Tuesday, March 08, 2011
NEW DESIGN!!
so I basically completely redid my blog design and since I want to put some of my own photography and edited pictures on here (eventually!) I just decided to tell the world about my background image. I actually took this picture of a dessert rose plant/flower thing and if I may say so myself it was pretty cool. But then I edited the photo on picnik.com (I have no photoshop- yet) and so have the end product- the new background of this blog. And I quite like this effect that i used on here. It was called posterizing. so... yeah. cool i guess. (:
You Bandage Your Cuts With Tie-Dye Duct Tape
This poem kind of came by accident; I saw some tie-dyed duct tape and thought up the line "You bandage your cuts with tie-dye duct tape" and this poem was born. ALTHOUGH I do still very sincerely mean what I say in it because I have been a witness to these sort of goings-on. (: hope ya like it:
You bandage your cuts with tie-dye duct tape
To disguise the gory wounds
beneath the colorful sticky adhesive.
You patch together crumbling pieces
and seal on sticky strips
To fool others of the reality
of your falling apart.
You bandage your cuts with tie-dye duct tape
because you've fooled yourself
that I don't wonder what's underneath.
You bandage your cuts with tie-dye duct tape
To disguise the gory wounds
beneath the colorful sticky adhesive.
You patch together crumbling pieces
and seal on sticky strips
To fool others of the reality
of your falling apart.
You bandage your cuts with tie-dye duct tape
because you've fooled yourself
that I don't wonder what's underneath.
On Turning Ten
I discovered this poem through my writing class (as I usually discover poetry, etc.) and I love it. I think maybe because I was sort of the opposite; I couldn't wait to grow up. And sort of still can't (I cannot wait to finally be able to DRIVE!!:) but I am definetly realizing the responsibilities that come with getting older and occasionally miss the good 'ol days when i could throw my hair in a ponytail and play all day with the boys, but of course now that would probably be considered flirting- but I'll save that whole other entry for another time.
SO here it is- it's called "On Turning Ten" by Billy Collins:
The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light-
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.
You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.
But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.
This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.
It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.
SO here it is- it's called "On Turning Ten" by Billy Collins:
The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light-
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.
You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.
But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.
This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.
It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
Florence + The Machine- Dog Days Are Over
Florence Welch... I mean this girl can SING! Florence and the Machine is yet another rad band that can really play. This vid is a lil strange, but what music video isn't? This song is one of my faves (:
Mumford and Sons- Awake My Soul
"How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes, I struggle to find any truth in your lies" ... "Awake my soul, cuz you were made to meet your maker" - Such a beautiful song... This band is awesome, they sound just as good live as they do recorded, which is just amazing(: They rock. Legit.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Jump (Open Your Eyes)
Wake up, Wake up!
Open your eyes.
Do not be scared,
I have a surprise.
Open your eyes
As wide as they'll go.
Prepare yourself-
This will be quite a show.
Open your eyes
And don't close them back.
Get ready for a ride
The excitement shan't slack.
Open your eyes
Look at me, dear,
Listen close:
You've nothing to fear.
Open your eyes
The hour is close
The one you love
The one you fear most.
Open your eyes
It's here now
right in front of you.
Nothing to lose now.
Open your eyes
And hold on tight
Hope for the best
JUMP
with all your might.
Open your eyes.
Do not be scared,
I have a surprise.
Open your eyes
As wide as they'll go.
Prepare yourself-
This will be quite a show.
Open your eyes
And don't close them back.
Get ready for a ride
The excitement shan't slack.
Open your eyes
Look at me, dear,
Listen close:
You've nothing to fear.
Open your eyes
The hour is close
The one you love
The one you fear most.
Open your eyes
It's here now
right in front of you.
Nothing to lose now.
Open your eyes
And hold on tight
Hope for the best
JUMP
with all your might.
Mountain Thoughts
This past week, my family and I went on vacation to gorgeous Colorado. Being in this beautiful state inspired me to write a poem. So here it is:
Mountain Thoughts
Studying every crevice.
Staring intently at every dip and curve.
Marveling at every point and ridge.
Wondering at every towering tree that somehow managed to grasp on to the sheer edge.
Pondering every rock that refuses to accept Newton's theory no matter how sparse the supportive structure beneath it becomes.
Awestruck at every steep snow-filled slope which strikes a silent fear of avalanche into the mind of all.
So are the intersecting thoughts of one in the mountainous area.
Mountain Thoughts
Studying every crevice.
Staring intently at every dip and curve.
Marveling at every point and ridge.
Wondering at every towering tree that somehow managed to grasp on to the sheer edge.
Pondering every rock that refuses to accept Newton's theory no matter how sparse the supportive structure beneath it becomes.
Awestruck at every steep snow-filled slope which strikes a silent fear of avalanche into the mind of all.
So are the intersecting thoughts of one in the mountainous area.
Rant Against "Them"
People say write about what you know. They say write about your experiences.
But what if you don't have experience? What if you don't want it? What if you're content with being more naive than you know? After all, "They" say usually innocence comes with naivety.
So does my lack of so-called experience keep me from being a good writer?
I think I'll have to disagree with "Them."
Because, I think what makes a good writer is being able to bring things to life; being able to bring meaning and importance to the simplest of things. Because good writers have good imaginations- if not always in the fictional, fantasy form. They can imagine- or maybe a better word is see- this importance of little things that others may not see, (or maybe they do, they just don't realize it and need to hear or read about it to finally grasp the full meaning in the otherwise valueless thing.)
Hence, the importance already existing, just going unnoticed; the writer's job is to simply put to words what already is. And the good writer's job is to put it in such a way that even more clearly evaluates the position of significance the thing holds.
Now, you may disagree with me, or you may disagree with "Them"; after all, I'm just speaking from my experience.
But what if you don't have experience? What if you don't want it? What if you're content with being more naive than you know? After all, "They" say usually innocence comes with naivety.
So does my lack of so-called experience keep me from being a good writer?
I think I'll have to disagree with "Them."
Because, I think what makes a good writer is being able to bring things to life; being able to bring meaning and importance to the simplest of things. Because good writers have good imaginations- if not always in the fictional, fantasy form. They can imagine- or maybe a better word is see- this importance of little things that others may not see, (or maybe they do, they just don't realize it and need to hear or read about it to finally grasp the full meaning in the otherwise valueless thing.)
Hence, the importance already existing, just going unnoticed; the writer's job is to simply put to words what already is. And the good writer's job is to put it in such a way that even more clearly evaluates the position of significance the thing holds.
Now, you may disagree with me, or you may disagree with "Them"; after all, I'm just speaking from my experience.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Adjective In Detail (Unique)
Unique is NOT different on purpose.
Unique is learning to be yourself.
Unique is pretending for no one.
Unique is unforcibly kind.
Unique sounds like a beautiful voice going unheard.
Unique sounds like a quiet protest sincerely forming.
Another word for unique is special.
One thing about unique is... it never conforms.
Unique is learning to be yourself.
Unique is pretending for no one.
Unique is unforcibly kind.
Unique sounds like a beautiful voice going unheard.
Unique sounds like a quiet protest sincerely forming.
Another word for unique is special.
One thing about unique is... it never conforms.
Autobiography in Five Short Chapters
Chapter I
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost... I am helpless.
It isn't my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.
Chapter II
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don't see it.
I fall in again.
I can't believe I'm in this same place.
But it isn't my fault.
It still takes a long time to find a way out.
Chapter III
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it there.
I still fall in... it's a habit... but,
my eyes are open.
I know where I am.
It's my fault.
I get out immediately.
Chapter IV
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.
Chapter V
I walk down another street.
-Portia Nelson
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost... I am helpless.
It isn't my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.
Chapter II
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don't see it.
I fall in again.
I can't believe I'm in this same place.
But it isn't my fault.
It still takes a long time to find a way out.
Chapter III
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it there.
I still fall in... it's a habit... but,
my eyes are open.
I know where I am.
It's my fault.
I get out immediately.
Chapter IV
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.
Chapter V
I walk down another street.
-Portia Nelson
A thing that grows out of the ground.
You imagine a tree. A beautiful tree that is tall and strong with branches flowing gracefully down the trunk, yet sturdy enough to support little mini branches and hordes of perfectly shaped leaves. A tree that is the exact perfect shape for a decent tree house with one L-shaped branch simply begging to have a swing hanging from it. A tree that is dense enough to provide adequate shelter from any rainstorms should you need it and refreshing shade on those scorching days, yet penetrable enough for holes of sunlight to trickle down for an appealing abstract effect. A tree that produces a diversity of red and gold and purple leaves in the fall and sheds them all for a lovely bare look, which is occasionally accented by snowflakes. A tree that provides the perfect angles for nests of little songbirds which provide you a splendid chorus is the spring. It's perfect; everything you want; everything you could hope for- though, imaginary. So... you go outside and plant a tree.
Thursday, February 03, 2011
HELLO PEOPLE OF THE WORLD!!
I realized that I was so excited to get my first blog post out there, I gave no introduction what so ever. SO...
HI! I'm Audrey and this blog is completely random. I mostly set it up for my writing purposes; to post poems and stories etc. of mine. But I'm thinking you may also see some photography,and more than likely some picniked pictures (for those who don't know, picnik is an application much like photoshop, from whence you edit pictures.) So anyone who is, or may be following my blog in the future, THANKS and I hope you enjoy my joyful randomness(;
P.S. In case you were wondering, yes I did get the title of this blog from Finding Nemo (thanks Dory!) But, I think it also goes along with this Albert Einstein quote that I LOVE: "Life is like riding a bicycle - in order to keep your balance, you must keep moving." This is so true, and it is also kind of my motto. The 'just keep swimming' is almost a subliminal message hidden beneath a funny forgetful fish. (hey that's an alliteration!:) It seems like a much simpler way to put the Einstein quote. Hence this blog IS: Just Keep Swimming.
HI! I'm Audrey and this blog is completely random. I mostly set it up for my writing purposes; to post poems and stories etc. of mine. But I'm thinking you may also see some photography,and more than likely some picniked pictures (for those who don't know, picnik is an application much like photoshop, from whence you edit pictures.) So anyone who is, or may be following my blog in the future, THANKS and I hope you enjoy my joyful randomness(;
P.S. In case you were wondering, yes I did get the title of this blog from Finding Nemo (thanks Dory!) But, I think it also goes along with this Albert Einstein quote that I LOVE: "Life is like riding a bicycle - in order to keep your balance, you must keep moving." This is so true, and it is also kind of my motto. The 'just keep swimming' is almost a subliminal message hidden beneath a funny forgetful fish. (hey that's an alliteration!:) It seems like a much simpler way to put the Einstein quote. Hence this blog IS: Just Keep Swimming.
Fuzz Ball
So yesterday, me and the fam were watching America's Funniest Home Videos and we saw a hilarious vid, so I wrote this story about it:
That little hairy dog with sporadic splashes of black on his scraggly white fur on the home video show is apparently trying to bark. But the noise comes out broken, hesitant; almost like laughter. The first impression of this cute canine is of course that he, (or maybe she,) is quite the funny figure. But then I wonder if the dog knows what a pitiful sound he is making?
Is he being seriously hurt by the laughter of the large primate behind the camera, and only following undeniable instincts by continuing to bark in reply to it?
Or maybe he's aware of the laughing-bark and kind of a clowning pup; he's trying to get laughter out of his audience.
But then again, it could be that he is completely oblivious to the dreadful sound which he is omitting. Maybe he has some kind of little-guy complex, and thinks he is literally owning the people at whom he is barking, and perhaps even is decieved at the meaning of the laughter from them.
But, no matter the pupppy's perception, the general consensus of us humans is that the laughing-bark is very amusing.
That little hairy dog with sporadic splashes of black on his scraggly white fur on the home video show is apparently trying to bark. But the noise comes out broken, hesitant; almost like laughter. The first impression of this cute canine is of course that he, (or maybe she,) is quite the funny figure. But then I wonder if the dog knows what a pitiful sound he is making?
Is he being seriously hurt by the laughter of the large primate behind the camera, and only following undeniable instincts by continuing to bark in reply to it?
Or maybe he's aware of the laughing-bark and kind of a clowning pup; he's trying to get laughter out of his audience.
But then again, it could be that he is completely oblivious to the dreadful sound which he is omitting. Maybe he has some kind of little-guy complex, and thinks he is literally owning the people at whom he is barking, and perhaps even is decieved at the meaning of the laughter from them.
But, no matter the pupppy's perception, the general consensus of us humans is that the laughing-bark is very amusing.
Blue Eyes
Oh Blue Eyes,
Why do you taunt me so?
Leading me on with your sorrow,
with your seemingly deep soul.
Blue Eyes, Blue Eyes,
Your beauty enthralls me
keeping me struggling
In the depths of your sea.
Why can't you stay?
Why can't you go?
Why must I feel I must keep you close?
Blue Eyes, Blue Eyes,
Make up your mind.
For I fear if I see
your blue eyes again,
I shall never make up mine.
Why do you taunt me so?
Leading me on with your sorrow,
with your seemingly deep soul.
Blue Eyes, Blue Eyes,
Your beauty enthralls me
keeping me struggling
In the depths of your sea.
Why can't you stay?
Why can't you go?
Why must I feel I must keep you close?
Blue Eyes, Blue Eyes,
Make up your mind.
For I fear if I see
your blue eyes again,
I shall never make up mine.
Wednesday, February 02, 2011
Tuesday, February 01, 2011
Fairytale
Once there was a beautiful princess. And of course, a most handsome prince. Now wait; before you go any further, let me warn you; this is not the happily ever after story you may have been hoping for. The one where the gorgeous prince that everyone wants falls in love with the somewhat underdog princess with minor self esteem issues; the one where he carries her off to a magical land with fairies and unicorns and spontaneous coreographed dance numbers. No, because in that fairytale, the princess would get everything her little heart desires; a hot prince, the latest in ball gown fashions, the biggest names in interior mansion design to decorate her castle, and more importantly, the love she's always longed for.
But, in reality this love may not come so easy. In reality, this handsome prince may at first appear to be Prince Charming, but then he plays the princess and leaves her for another, taking part of her heart with him. But then out of the grey, someone else shows up. Someone who may not at first appear to be Prince Charming, maybe slightly less physically appealing than the first boy. But he talks to the princess and they become friends. He makes her feel good and happy and beautiful and takes her out. But he doesn't let her get everything she wants. He tells her the truth, and she believes him, whether it's what she wants to hear or not. He compliments her strengths, and she compliments his and they in turn make each other stronger. The princess remembers the boy she used to know who broke her heart... what was his name again? She only sees the man in front of her to whom she's given her broken heart and who has gladly picked it up and pieced the shards together, even nicking his own hands every once in a while. He treated the pieces delicately, and stitched them together as best he could, then introduced her to One who healed it completely; spackled the cracks, sanded the rough edges smooth, painted a beautiful mural and left His signature at the bottom. The princess stands hand in hand with the man she loves, looking deeply into his eyes as he speaks words that she's always longed to hear. Then someone else speaks and she becomes once again conscious of other people there with them. She now comprehends what the third-party voice is saying: "You may kiss the bride."
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