Dear Half Finished Cup of Coffee,
Is there anything in the world sadder than the sight of you? Cold, lonely, and bereft. The milk I so carefully measured into you now risen to the top in a little island of white I prepared you with love, my coffee cup. That first hot sip of you was estacy, like a kiss of caffeine. We started so strong... what happened to us? I held you to my lips and gently sipped your creamy contents. I carried you with me, close to my heart. Everyone said we were perfect together.
What came between us, my darling? How did I forget you? I set you down, promising I would be back soon. And you waited. You believed me. You waited for me. But I forgot about you. I left you all alone, while you life force, your warmth dwindled.
Still you hung on. Waiting for me. Scanning the horizons for my under-caffeinated soul. I needed you and you knew it. So you were faithful, staunch and loyal. You held out, waiting, trusting... dying alone.
But when I finally came back, by chance, not even remembering you, I saw you... cold... dead.
Ah! The guilt of wasting you! Of letting one who was so dear to me pass away without so much as a goodbye.
I pick you up, laden with sorrow, your remains swirling slowly about. I take you to the sink and pour you down the drain to the place of your eternal resting.
I am so sorry... I know its too late... but please, know that I cared about you. You were so good to me and I am sorry... so sorry...
In sincerest sorrow and regret,
Anna
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Your Heart is Like Mine
I think everyone must be a someone, even if they are no one at all.
I am existing. I am living. I am. And by that simple act of being, I am a someone. You are a someone, too. We are some bodies.
It does not matter what I look like, or were you came from, or the color of our skin.
We were born with these things and they define us, but that is not who we are.
It does not matter what you like, or what I have done, or the creed we profess.
No, these are the things that we choose, that we adopt and allow into ourselves, but that is not who we are.
We are someones, no matter what.
Yet we often feel like no one at all. In the presence of greater someones, even someones feel a bit like no ones. And in the presence of lesser no ones, even no ones feel they have become someones.Why is that?
You and I will always have existed. It happened, it is and it cannot be taken back.
You and I, we will always be someone.
Everyone is a someone to someone. And no one is a no one to everyone.
If every man hates you, you are still someone.
If every man loves you, you are still someone.
Yet each is equal.
Tell me, why is it so difficult to accept each other?
Why do we get caught up in the things that don't matter and forget the things that do?
You and I, we are one of a kind.
Why do I forget that your heart is like mine?
Why do I feel I am so alone, when you are right next to me? Why do you feel the same way?
If I find a fault in you, I can often find it in myself. Why is it so much worse to me in you?
Tell me, why do I hurt you? Both intentionally and thoughtlessly? Have I so soon forgotten what is right before my eyes?
The face, the heart, the being of a someone.
Someone important, valuable, beautiful and worthy.
Useful to me or not, good to me or not. That does not matter.
Whether or not I can perceive it, every someone - everyone is valuable. Priceless.
You and I, we are someones.
Don't let me forget how important you are.
I am existing. I am living. I am. And by that simple act of being, I am a someone. You are a someone, too. We are some bodies.
It does not matter what I look like, or were you came from, or the color of our skin.
We were born with these things and they define us, but that is not who we are.
It does not matter what you like, or what I have done, or the creed we profess.
No, these are the things that we choose, that we adopt and allow into ourselves, but that is not who we are.
We are someones, no matter what.
Yet we often feel like no one at all. In the presence of greater someones, even someones feel a bit like no ones. And in the presence of lesser no ones, even no ones feel they have become someones.Why is that?
You and I will always have existed. It happened, it is and it cannot be taken back.
You and I, we will always be someone.
Everyone is a someone to someone. And no one is a no one to everyone.
If every man hates you, you are still someone.
If every man loves you, you are still someone.
Yet each is equal.
Tell me, why is it so difficult to accept each other?
Why do we get caught up in the things that don't matter and forget the things that do?
You and I, we are one of a kind.
Why do I forget that your heart is like mine?
Why do I feel I am so alone, when you are right next to me? Why do you feel the same way?
If I find a fault in you, I can often find it in myself. Why is it so much worse to me in you?
Tell me, why do I hurt you? Both intentionally and thoughtlessly? Have I so soon forgotten what is right before my eyes?
The face, the heart, the being of a someone.
Someone important, valuable, beautiful and worthy.
Useful to me or not, good to me or not. That does not matter.
Whether or not I can perceive it, every someone - everyone is valuable. Priceless.
You and I, we are someones.
Don't let me forget how important you are.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Notice About Plots and Motives
NOTICE
Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.
BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR,
Per G.G., Chief of Ordnance.
I found these inspiring words at the beginning of a book entitled The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, written by a fellow named Samuel Clements, more commonly known as Mark Twain. I found it to be quite inspiring and also highly applicable, not only to Mr. Twian's words, or even my own, but to many. To all.
I think that sometimes the greatest motives, morals and plots are found in the stories that don't boast of them. That hide them, carefully and cleverly so that only the people who care and dare to look will find them. The greatest works of Literature are real and simple, yet masterful. They are relatable to us, narrowing in on purely human insights that become apparent to us through the simple act of living, yet they also teach us. They allow us to see through another's eyes with our own.
Don't go looking for a motive in this narrative. It will find you. Looking for a moral? Than you are going about this all wrong. Stop attempting to find a plot. Follow the Mississipi on a river raft.
You might be shot at anyway, but then you will have found everything you were looking for and more.
Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.
BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR,
Per G.G., Chief of Ordnance.
I found these inspiring words at the beginning of a book entitled The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, written by a fellow named Samuel Clements, more commonly known as Mark Twain. I found it to be quite inspiring and also highly applicable, not only to Mr. Twian's words, or even my own, but to many. To all.
I think that sometimes the greatest motives, morals and plots are found in the stories that don't boast of them. That hide them, carefully and cleverly so that only the people who care and dare to look will find them. The greatest works of Literature are real and simple, yet masterful. They are relatable to us, narrowing in on purely human insights that become apparent to us through the simple act of living, yet they also teach us. They allow us to see through another's eyes with our own.
Don't go looking for a motive in this narrative. It will find you. Looking for a moral? Than you are going about this all wrong. Stop attempting to find a plot. Follow the Mississipi on a river raft.
You might be shot at anyway, but then you will have found everything you were looking for and more.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
I'm A Back Seat Driver
Why is this as funny as it is annoying?
Because I don't drive.
Seventeen years old and I don't drive. I don't even have a permit.
I am the bane of many people's existences.
Anyway, my younger sister, Clare, is learning to drive. She was practicing with our Mother today and I was along for the ride. Funny, when my older sister learned to drive, I was worried the whole time I was in the car with her. (She was a bit jerky on the whole stopping-starting thing and she was nervous a lot. Bad vibes, man.) With Clare, I was so relaxed I almost feel asleep. (She's a smoother on the accelerator.) And I almost did... except for the part when she drove up on the curb and jolted me awake.
In all seriousness, she was doing very well. It was only a minor disagreement with the curb and she trampled it into submission with minimal damage to our respective spinal cords. And I wasn't sleeping. I was coaching her along. Wise and encouraging words flowed forth from my lips like a fountain. A very talkative fountain.
"Slower on the turns. One hand over the other on the wheel. Like how sailors pull in their sails? That's a girl. Very good."
"Splendid, Clare! You only took out four imaginary cars!!"
"You have your own lane, sweetheart. You can get out of theirs."
"Give the poor thing some gas, please. I don't think you'll make this turn at four miles an hour."
At one point my Mother asked at when I had read the drivers manual. (Um... never? I had no desire to.) Then she said she wanted to see my oh-so-advanced knowledge of driving in practice.
No, thanks, Mom. Really, I'm fine.
Why don't I drive? I can't remember wanting to as a kid. Mostly it just scared me and I wondered how adults managed to keep their eyes on the road and stay awake. Looked terribly dull. Still does.
It still scares me to some degree. The few times I have driven, it's felt weird. Wrong somehow. Probably it would go away with practice, but I am adverse to the idea. I'm a hazard. I'm doing the world a favor staying off the roads.
Besides, I love shot gun. You have the view, control of the radio, but none of the responsibility. Well, I suppose I am still responsible for distracting the driver, but that's easy. Not to mention fun.
I suppose I will eventually learn to drive. But I'm in no hurry. Being a back seat driver is so much more fun.
Because I don't drive.
Seventeen years old and I don't drive. I don't even have a permit.
I am the bane of many people's existences.
Anyway, my younger sister, Clare, is learning to drive. She was practicing with our Mother today and I was along for the ride. Funny, when my older sister learned to drive, I was worried the whole time I was in the car with her. (She was a bit jerky on the whole stopping-starting thing and she was nervous a lot. Bad vibes, man.) With Clare, I was so relaxed I almost feel asleep. (She's a smoother on the accelerator.) And I almost did... except for the part when she drove up on the curb and jolted me awake.
In all seriousness, she was doing very well. It was only a minor disagreement with the curb and she trampled it into submission with minimal damage to our respective spinal cords. And I wasn't sleeping. I was coaching her along. Wise and encouraging words flowed forth from my lips like a fountain. A very talkative fountain.
"Slower on the turns. One hand over the other on the wheel. Like how sailors pull in their sails? That's a girl. Very good."
"Splendid, Clare! You only took out four imaginary cars!!"
"You have your own lane, sweetheart. You can get out of theirs."
"Give the poor thing some gas, please. I don't think you'll make this turn at four miles an hour."
At one point my Mother asked at when I had read the drivers manual. (Um... never? I had no desire to.) Then she said she wanted to see my oh-so-advanced knowledge of driving in practice.
No, thanks, Mom. Really, I'm fine.
Why don't I drive? I can't remember wanting to as a kid. Mostly it just scared me and I wondered how adults managed to keep their eyes on the road and stay awake. Looked terribly dull. Still does.
It still scares me to some degree. The few times I have driven, it's felt weird. Wrong somehow. Probably it would go away with practice, but I am adverse to the idea. I'm a hazard. I'm doing the world a favor staying off the roads.
Besides, I love shot gun. You have the view, control of the radio, but none of the responsibility. Well, I suppose I am still responsible for distracting the driver, but that's easy. Not to mention fun.
I suppose I will eventually learn to drive. But I'm in no hurry. Being a back seat driver is so much more fun.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Purple, Smelly, Evil, Vile
Today, for the first time in a long time, I had heartburn.
I object. I am way too young for this. Young people are supposedly to be ridiculously healthy all the time. I'm supposed to feel and look fabulous 24/7 until I turn like thirty or something, right? My body obviously needs to get with the program.
It's been so long, I'd almost forgotten what it felt like. Ack. Almost... too bad I didn't get to totally forget. I could have gone for that.
When my head ache makes the floor look like it's moving, I know this could well be a baby migraine. (Oh. Migraines. I'll take heartburn any day.) So, in haste, I find some pain reliever to nip it at the bud. Fast. When I have heartburn, it can mean one of two things. One, it's going to be a mildly unpleasant day or two, Anna is going to be violently ill. (Thankfully, I think this one was the former.) In the case of heartburn... I must choke down a anti-acid.
I loathe anti-acids. The powdery texture is so thoroughly nauseating. Why would they make a medicine that is supposed to help you with your stomach ache so truly vile? If I can get it down without gagging, we're home free, baby! If not... well... it's not a good thing.
So. I had heartburn. It was mild. There was hope. But I had to act quickly. I meandered to the medicine cabinet. Stalling sort of, kind of totally on purpose. I found the bottle of anti-acids and peered in. They looked so evil. They smelled even worse. I grimaced.
Ewww... do I have too?
Shall we consider the options? A few seconds of agony, or the possiblity of a few days in agony?
Well. When you put it that way...but they are so disgusting.
Shush. Just eat them.
Yuck.
I'm not disagreeing, but it's got to be done.
Fiiine...
I selected two. Purple. Smelly. Evil. Vile. I looked at them, lying in wait. Sitting innocently on my palm, waiting to torture my taste buds.
I got a glass of water. If I was going to have to taste them, I was going to have something to wash it down with.
One... two... three...
First bite.
Oh yeah. They are so disgusting.
Yep.
Ack! Bluck! Ick! Eww! Chew faster! It's getting stuck in my teeth!
Swallow...swallow... YES! Done!!
Yuck.
Obviously, I survived. And I live to fight heartburn and anti-acids another day.
Although I sincerely hope I don't have too.
I object. I am way too young for this. Young people are supposedly to be ridiculously healthy all the time. I'm supposed to feel and look fabulous 24/7 until I turn like thirty or something, right? My body obviously needs to get with the program.
It's been so long, I'd almost forgotten what it felt like. Ack. Almost... too bad I didn't get to totally forget. I could have gone for that.
When my head ache makes the floor look like it's moving, I know this could well be a baby migraine. (Oh. Migraines. I'll take heartburn any day.) So, in haste, I find some pain reliever to nip it at the bud. Fast. When I have heartburn, it can mean one of two things. One, it's going to be a mildly unpleasant day or two, Anna is going to be violently ill. (Thankfully, I think this one was the former.) In the case of heartburn... I must choke down a anti-acid.
I loathe anti-acids. The powdery texture is so thoroughly nauseating. Why would they make a medicine that is supposed to help you with your stomach ache so truly vile? If I can get it down without gagging, we're home free, baby! If not... well... it's not a good thing.
So. I had heartburn. It was mild. There was hope. But I had to act quickly. I meandered to the medicine cabinet. Stalling sort of, kind of totally on purpose. I found the bottle of anti-acids and peered in. They looked so evil. They smelled even worse. I grimaced.
Ewww... do I have too?
Shall we consider the options? A few seconds of agony, or the possiblity of a few days in agony?
Well. When you put it that way...but they are so disgusting.
Shush. Just eat them.
Yuck.
I'm not disagreeing, but it's got to be done.
Fiiine...
I selected two. Purple. Smelly. Evil. Vile. I looked at them, lying in wait. Sitting innocently on my palm, waiting to torture my taste buds.
I got a glass of water. If I was going to have to taste them, I was going to have something to wash it down with.
One... two... three...
First bite.
Oh yeah. They are so disgusting.
Yep.
Ack! Bluck! Ick! Eww! Chew faster! It's getting stuck in my teeth!
Swallow...swallow... YES! Done!!
Yuck.
Obviously, I survived. And I live to fight heartburn and anti-acids another day.
Although I sincerely hope I don't have too.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Poem: Though No One Loves Me Yet
In my loneliness, I will love
Though no one loves me yet
So I have no need for tears
No cause for me to fret
If I have no lover’s hand to hold
I’ll hold a wrinkled shaking one
And hear them tell their stories of
Their own life, nearly done.
If I have no lips to kiss
I’ll kiss a crying child’s knee
And soothe her hurt a little bit
As someone else once did for me
If I have no one to share
With thoughts and hopes and dreams
I’ll keep on wishing, keep on thinking
And hope someone dreams of me
Though no one loves me yet
So I have no need for tears
No cause for me to fret
If I have no lover’s hand to hold
I’ll hold a wrinkled shaking one
And hear them tell their stories of
Their own life, nearly done.
If I have no lips to kiss
I’ll kiss a crying child’s knee
And soothe her hurt a little bit
As someone else once did for me
If I have no one to share
With thoughts and hopes and dreams
I’ll keep on wishing, keep on thinking
And hope someone dreams of me
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
A Flippant and British Mood
I get in this certain mood. (Maybe you have it too.) When this mood strikes, certain words are way too appealing. Like, I want to use them, not because they are particularly useful in the context, but because they strike me as superior to others. They are quirky. They are strange. They aren't run of the mill. They just sound darn pretty.
Shan't. Perhaps. Since. Quaint. Forgetful. Pensive. Fashionable. Simplistic. Hop-scotch. Figurative. Majestic. Practically. Mooch.
Most of these words sound excellent with a British accent. Go on. Try it. No one's watching, and if they are, you will totally make their day.
Maybe that's all there is to the mood. Maybe it's just me feeling British.
I have a bit of a thing for accents. That's what I get for being boring and from the Midwest. I know there is supposedly a Midwestern accent. We say things like warsh or wursh rather than wash. A creek is a crick. It's actually a joke in my family because we don't. Ever. The only Midwestern quirk I can detect in my own speech is saying fur instead of for. I fail to stress the O sound. It sounds funny to say for like the number when I try to stress it.
Any way, I like to pretend to have different accents to annoy people. My British accent is fairly decent. My Southern accent is way overdone (but one of my favorites), my Irish accent makes me sound like an old man who has had a few too many shots. My Australian accent turns British after a few sentences. I took three years of French, so I have a less than horrible French accent. Spanish? Nope. I can't do it. Which is just hilarious and annoying.
Ya'll have probably figured out by now that I am an annoying person. Yeah. It's an art.
In this same mood, I love to read poetry even more than usual. This mood is dramatic. It is vibrant. It loves sharp, strong, concise emotion. I could go on and on about poetry all day. It wouldn't be very good, but I do love it, though meager my grasp upon it.
This is an atricious blog post. I rather loathe it. But I don't care. I'll post it anyway.
The mood doesn't care. It just does whatever. Thinks later.
For the cronic over-thinker, this is delicious.
Shan't. Perhaps. Since. Quaint. Forgetful. Pensive. Fashionable. Simplistic. Hop-scotch. Figurative. Majestic. Practically. Mooch.
Most of these words sound excellent with a British accent. Go on. Try it. No one's watching, and if they are, you will totally make their day.
Maybe that's all there is to the mood. Maybe it's just me feeling British.
I have a bit of a thing for accents. That's what I get for being boring and from the Midwest. I know there is supposedly a Midwestern accent. We say things like warsh or wursh rather than wash. A creek is a crick. It's actually a joke in my family because we don't. Ever. The only Midwestern quirk I can detect in my own speech is saying fur instead of for. I fail to stress the O sound. It sounds funny to say for like the number when I try to stress it.
Any way, I like to pretend to have different accents to annoy people. My British accent is fairly decent. My Southern accent is way overdone (but one of my favorites), my Irish accent makes me sound like an old man who has had a few too many shots. My Australian accent turns British after a few sentences. I took three years of French, so I have a less than horrible French accent. Spanish? Nope. I can't do it. Which is just hilarious and annoying.
Ya'll have probably figured out by now that I am an annoying person. Yeah. It's an art.
In this same mood, I love to read poetry even more than usual. This mood is dramatic. It is vibrant. It loves sharp, strong, concise emotion. I could go on and on about poetry all day. It wouldn't be very good, but I do love it, though meager my grasp upon it.
This is an atricious blog post. I rather loathe it. But I don't care. I'll post it anyway.
The mood doesn't care. It just does whatever. Thinks later.
For the cronic over-thinker, this is delicious.
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