Thoughts on a Wednesday

Yes, I dare call them thoughts.

I almost fear opening my mouth right now, or at least letting my thoughts appear on this screen, because I am really not at all sure what I am going to say. I feel vaguely full of words and my fingers keep moving so I suppose I shouldn't try to squelch the muse and just let the dang thing happen.

Ah control. That tentative thing we all try to grasp. That security we all like to pretend we have.

(I say "we all" all the time. In case you had not noticed. I like to identify with humanity and yet I feel as though I am selling you all short in a way. Like I expect you to be as imperfect as I am. If it comes off that way, I apologize. It has not escaped my notice that many exemplary people exist and many of them to not have the vices I portray "us all" as having. I know I have them and, in my narrow scope, I like to think maybe those good and wonderful people once had them too, but they outgrew them. It's a very optimistic view and it gives me hope, so let it be. Just know that I am condemning no one but myself when I make overgeneralized statements about "us all.")

And that was a tangent! But it felt good. Today I just want words on paper (or blog as it were.) These short posts, as I mentioned before, seem so incomplete, so half hearted. I need some sustenance. So I will ramble and maybe something semi-readable will emerge and I will feel better and you will be like "Whoa..." (There are worse things than shocking people with your strangeness. Better than shocking them with your cruelty or your bad breath, for example.)

I may have failed to mention I am home schooled. It may or may not have been on purpose. We shall delve into my feelings on this subject at a later date, because while I feel like posting something long, that deserves it's own header instead of being lost in this free write of randomness which is basically me trying to get a grip and let the words loose. (Hey- we came back to control again! Why does this excite me?)

Returning to the sentence the home schooled thing was supposed to support, I am loving the Literature program for Senior year. Like, seriously. Where was this stuff all my life? You know, back when I was too young and (because I was/am not a child genius) stupid to read it? It was there, I assure you. (Dickens is a lot older than I am.) They are so deeply refreshing.

I won't lie (this time), I read a lot of what is best classified as crap. (Sorry, Mom.) It's light and the stories are trite, recycled and... mediocre. Not to say this stuff isn't popular, because it often is. But many times, it just isn't quite art. I realize that in order for the artist to get paid (a.k.a. pay the bills, not starve, keep the electricity to run his/her computer) he needs to sell a product. It's basic economics (yeah! I am learning something from that loathsome book!) But when the product becomes our main goal in art, sometimes the creativity and quality of that product is compromised. And so, we have lost the meaning of art. True artists often don't get paid and those who write to sell do get paid. 

Economics. You give the people what they want, they pay you, you make money and can support yourself. Yay! Good things! But should art be sacrificed for its sake? Perhaps it shows how the focus needs to shift. In a materialistic world, material (product) is the goal. We forget about the means and the people behind them. But... (Here comes the impossible, riduculous, idealist statement: run!) prehaps we can balance these two? Maybe one does not have to die at the feet of the other (wow, Anna, that was graphic). Maybe the two can co-exist and... maybe... they can even strengthen each other.

I do apologize for the scatterness of this post. This was more for me than for you. Though if you ever glean, like, loathe or laugh at anything in this blog... you're welcome.

Peanuts

I don't have a lot today. Just a few things I'd like to say.

I owe you and me and this poor blog a long post. It's starving over here and I just keep feeding it a peanuts and promising it a sandwich tomorrow. (Tomorrow as in that fictional 'later' that is postponed indefinitely) I keep on posting thoughts I should have expanded on and I didn't due to time constraints. It's annoying me.

Sweaters are knitted hugs. That's probably why Grandmas are famous for making them.

I hate this post. I will publish it anyway though, because peanuts are supposed to have some nutritional value.

What is Nothing?

Nothing.

What is nothing?

Everything is something... what is nothing?

What is not something?

To me, nothing is best described as that that best and blackest level of sleep. Where you don't dream, don't know, aren't aware at all. A sleep so deep and complete, it is almost death like in that when you awaken, it is like being recalled to life.

Nothing.

What does that mean to you?

Some Semblance of Success

Tomorrow morning, at a ridiculously early hour, my mind shall be timed, stretched and measured.

It's called the ACT.

Nervous? Yeah. My strengths do lean toward English, (though if you read my blog you should know that they don't lean very far) but I am horrible, awful and in all other terms hopeless at Mathematics.

I could honestly fail that portion of it... numbers do not make sense to me. Words are much kinder. Numbers are staunch, strict and they are always the same. Yet I can't remember for the life of me how they work. You can give me a problem and I can invent a very charming way to get an interesting answer for you... but it's just not the right one. Like, ever.

With words, on the other hand, we have this delightful gray area. The answer is completely dictated by the creativity of the individual. You give people a writing prompt and none of the essays will be the same. They will all be different. And yet, all of them could be right. It's truly wonderful, isn't it? (Don't be fooled into thinking that I am not worried about writing the timed essay. I am. Yet I don't think it will as massive a disaster as my Math score.)

Word to the wise- do not wait to do this for the first time until you are a Senior. I had my reasons, of course, (I was bound and determined not to go to college until my Junior year. That's another story for another time) but I regret it very much.

So as I count down these last terrible hours, I torture myself with 'maybe's' and 'what if's'. People tell me I will do just fine (I know really nice people), but of course, I am unsure.

Funny thing is, I will be an internal disaster tonight and tomorrow, but once it actually starts, I will probably shift into survival 'kick this thing's butt' mode.

Hopefully kicking butt translates into success. Or at least not total failure. That is some semblance of success, no?

To My Abandoned Coffee Cup

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

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.

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.