sense of belonging

go, go, never stop,
like the river rushing.
i am the river;
passing through
Hard hands and
Clenched fists.
please help me belong,
somewhere safe
and where there is no wrong.
i whisper:
i’m okay, i’m okay,
there’s a warm blooded creature,
a caring teacher
who calls me honey
and feeds me words of kindness.
I know I'm loved
But I now must go.
Too hurried to stay
And too young to say no.

1984.

When they caught her they found this poem crumpled up in her tightened fist:

I want to be there with only the sun to watch over us

With our backs to its warm gaze

Where we can grow our hair to be a million feet long

And adorn it with a million more flowers

Where we can smile til our cheeks hurt

Where there is always a hand to hold

Where we can dress up or dress down

No matter the day

Where we can buy every shade of pink lipstick

Or read every real, unchanged, book as it were

No one to tell us no or where to be

We just would.

That’s my dream.

imaginary diary

Two years ago

A quiet country tune drifts softly through our open windows. Sleepy eyed, he is driving. It is a quiet college town. We've been driving for what feels like hours. We ate peanut butter on slices of white bread. We've decided to travel south. No plans. Just people searching for a place to use their potential.

It is the first day since escaping.

Present day -- my birthday

We’ve been on the road for two years now. Two years pass and now I’m fourteen. We are still on the read. From mobile home, to moving cars, they drift endlessly, wherever the wind blows, whenever the mood strikes. Like birds catching air currents, not looking for an end but a means: The means to eat, sleep, go.

I'm afraid i'm losing myself, my fighting spirit, my ability to hate. In 1984, Winston allowed his spirit to be crushed he learned to love the very thing he hated. Don't let that be me. Please God, don't let that be me.

This diary is my salvation. Without it I'm afraid I will lose myself, I will lose my strength, my rebellious spirit.

Everyday it becomes harder and harder to be. I try to quell my longing for friends, for people to understand my feelings. But everyday it becomes harder. I feel the fire of anger so much it hurts my stomach like I just want to let it out kicking and screaming. I know it isn't a physical fight but an inner struggle to be free. Free to bs..free to be a part of life.  I'm watching it from the other side, like one watches a movie, alone but wanting to think it exist. I believe that is why I love movies. I know they are a fake escape but they are an escape nonetheless.

I'm a collector.

I collect nature magazines.

I cut out all the pictures of birds and fold them in my bag. When I'm not okay I just take them out and look at them. They empower me. I know it sounds silly but they do. I have a little mantra: "I'm a bird, always transpiring, never satisfied, never settling." I always have to repeat it to myself because I'm so afraid I will wake up one day and will be too tired to fight anymore.

The endless drives are driving me crazy. They bring no stability, only shaky ground.

The monsters come at night. Like death taking warm souls.

It is so easy to accept, to love, to give in. Once you give them your love they take your spirit and crush it.

Remember your anger, remember what you're fighting against.

Don't they understand u don't want food. Not physical food but food for the soul. The ability to not just exist but explore and create.

I would live on oatmeal and raisins for the rest of my days if it meant I could be a part of life. What is the point of food if none of its energy is being used for good?

Im saved by my battered but precious  purple CD player. When things become so hard, I don't believe I can endure it,  I just put on a song and it washes me with newfound hope, the hope that I can last one more minute, one more hour, one more day. I love my Broadway CD.

I'm so afraid I will forget these feelings of loneliness and captivity that I wish to document them.

Tangled hair

Deathly anxious and angry

still hurting.

why is it considered the person who fights against their environment, either through words or actions, is consider the horrible person? But the person who submits to it is considered the nice one? Oh i don't understand don't understand don't understand

nobody cares about what you could've done. It is only about the things you did do that count.

I am not a lazy person.

woman of no importance.

"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, Harry." - Prof. D.

What does that mean anyway?

I am very shy and embarrassed when people ask me what I want to do with my life. I'm nervous because saying things like "oh, I want to be a writer" or "I want to be a blogger" are daunting and I'm afraid people will put them down. They will say things like "but how?" "do you even have any ideas?" "what makes you different than all the other writers and bloggers?" Am I just indulging in false fantasies and not acting upon them? Should I stick with "safe" jobs, like school teachers and receptionists? Jobs that have been around for years. What if I fail.. at life?

I just don't know.

Floridian

The land of boiled peanuts, unwavering heat, breakfast grits, alligators, palm trees, oceanic air, bikinis, lemonade, sunnies, sandals, burnt skin, ice cream, confederate flags, ranches, barbacoa.. Oh and lizards -- lots of them: Underfoot, overhead, in the shade, in the sun, under rocks, on top of rock

All day, every day.

24/7, 365 days a year.

And I love it.

the importance of friendship

"Men come together in cities in order to live; but they remain together in order to live the good life." -Aristotle

pet poetry | monday musings

 I love Mary Oliver.

“The sweetness of dogs (fifteen)

What do you say, Percy? I am thinking
of sitting out on the sand to watch
the moon rise. Full tonight.
So we go

and the moon rises, so beautiful it
makes me shudder, makes me think about
time and space, makes me take
measure of myself: one iota
pondering heaven. Thus we sit,

I thinking how grateful I am for the moon’s
perfect beauty and also, oh! How rich
it is to love the world. Percy, meanwhile,
leans against me and gazes up into
my face. As though I were
his perfect moon.”

The art of not giving up | what sewing has taught me about patience

I'll be honest, I'm not always a very patient person. I don't like long lines or flossing, but I do like satisfaction.

 I sewed my first knife pleated skirt a month ago and since then I've sewn the same style skirt six times over. One too tight, one with Velcro, one with a crazy hemline... well you get the point. Every single time I'd become frustrated with my work and was so ready to give in and accept defeat with the knowledge that I couldn't sew a knife pleated skirt. Yet every day I'd see my pile of sad skirts in the corner and every Sunday I'd  sew it again and fail. And then I'd try again and fail. I'd try again because I was not going to quit -- Don't use failure as an excuse to quit. And finally, finally, after my fifth attempt, a kick ass knife-pleated skirt came into existence. 

So, my conclusion: with a little patience and a whole lotta persistence anything really is possible.

what i ate | lunch

I love peanut butter sandwiches: The velvety smooth goodness is sandwiched between two slices of soft bread. It is like a happy, nutty flavored, hug: simple pure deliciousness.

:)

 

The day I lived in a tent.

It was lovely, warm, and quiet. I woke up with the sun and went to sleep with the moon. I read, ate an apple, watched Feast, listened to Home, played chess with a visitor. My one regret was the position of the tent, which was placed lateral to the sun. When I laid on my tummy my face was cool but my feet burned from the sun rays. At first the sun rays seeped into my toes causing a pleasantly warm sensation but than the sun would start to bake them like hotcakes in the oven, and so now the soles of my poor feet are an angry red, and sadly, peeling.

Note to self: apply sunscreen more liberally to soles of feet when hugging the ground.

favorite night films | Friday

 5..4..3..2..1

butch cassidy &the sundance kid (1969) -- forget the notorious gangsters, i could watch the lovely bicycle scene a million times.

Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964) -- what a delicious and colourful film

dead poet society (1989) -- i cried, i laughed, i simply adored it.

funny girl (1968) -- never have i loved a movie soo much, i could listen to Barbara for hours and never tire.

home.

their lovely throaty songs floated downward with the sweet spring air, very tuneful, charged with a sort of happy melancholy.*

Oh, oh I just love winston and julia.

i cannot help hymning Home whenever i'm reading their pages.

home is wherever im with you.

*modified from 1984

where the birds sing.

god.

it's so beautiful right now. I can see a rickety fence with the latch broken, overgrown foliage hugging the fence, and a distant dairy farm pixellated by the little window of which im looking through. i love living in a tent. there is nothing more freeing than waking up to a million birds singing. well, maybe sleeping under a "wolf sun" is also way up there on the list of "places i feel  most free." Anyway, the tent is orange and white, like an orange creamsicle, and big and airy like a rich folk's house but cosy enough to want to sleep in. 

i wish you were here. it gets cold during the night and awfully scary in the darkness with only the mooing of cows for comfort: it would be a lot warmer with your cuddles. i'm just saying...

Be here, instead of there, please? :)

happenings in my head.

DO you know what I really want?

TO wake up to the sun rays streaming through my window; the curtains fluttering in the breeze; making a bowl of warm porridge; eating said porridge on a window seat overlooking the city; putting on a sixties sundress and sunscreen; taking a trip to the farmers market; stopping for a photo shoot against a artsy backdrop in said sixties dress; smiling; coming home; baking a dairy free cake; planting flowers from said farmers market; going to a cafe and writing up a blog post with the artsy photo snaps; upcycling; recycling.

Oh, and I'd like it for it all to happen on a sunny Saturday preferably with a funny and adorable friend.

:)

Confidence.

When people say No, give them a reason to say Yes.

Don't hold back.

"People don't pay much attention to anything unless you give them reason to ." - Brideshead Revisited

The feminist.

"And finally, in our time a beard is the one thing that a woman cannot do better than a man." (John Steinbeck)

miss me

I want to the place full of stories. I sat on their sofas, doodling, dawdling, and painting my nails. I found one of my favorite author's: Katherine Mansfield. I paid $1.25 and happily left with a new read tucked in my packsack. It is titled the Garden Party by Mansfield. It is really a lovely read; full of witty remarks, beautiful places, and dynamic characters.

him.

He ordered chocolate milk.

Mint tea for me, please.

He was nice. He looked like that boy in the fault in our stars, the one who died.

I'm not saying he died. He's very much alive.

Sometime I wished I said yes. I just can't imagine anyone wanting to be with me.

We talked about everything: sewing, carpenterying, glass blowing,

I'm sad it ended.

Next time don't be scared. Who cares -- What makes a person cool, anyway?

sorry, so sorry.

The truth is, i lied. i don't mean it as anything, it's just to cause less tension; a security blanket.

coolness.

What does that word mean?

I've had a hard time with this in the past. I'm embarrassed to say I haven't hung out with people because I didn't think they were "cool" enough. And I've so, so regretted. Is "cool" being the most popular or always haveing the funniest punchline? no! We mustn't think like this. I've often been intimidated by those people, the "cool" ones, and even resented them (why can't I be that cool?). And I could never understand why other people would want to hang-out with me since I've never been like that.

I think the problem is hubris: Pride.

We mustn't be prideful. We shouldn't let other people's coolness define our own unique cool. We should hang out with people who make us feel special and heard, who listen to us and love us, who don't criticize others because of how they look like or what they do.

afeard.

What are we afraid of?

This is a question I ask myself every day. My favorite thing is comfort. I like when the place is quiet and nobody is around. I feel free: I don't have to be conscience of what I say or do. I can just be myself. I feel like a turtle most days. hiding in my shell because I'm afraid of others. I've always been in transient mode, constantly traveling. What comes with that afraidness is regret.  

All my life I've had bigger predators lurk over me, but now I don't want to hide anymore. 

The Minnesota Man.

There was once a man with a donut in one hand, a yellow coffee stained cup in the other, and a Vince Flynn novel tucked under his arm. He had silver hair and a beard to match. The moment he walked through the cafe you just knew his presence was one of regularity and familiarity: he was more than a customer, he was a spectacle-wearing man who like routines, tucked in shirts, and the classic taste of coffee with five sugars.

His name was Tim and he cried when the cafe burned to the ground.

He still came, though. Everyday. He'd sit on the blue bench across the way and watch them rebuild that tiny cafe, a donut in one hand, a yellow coffee stained cup in the other, and a Vince Flynn novel tucked under his arm.

S A I L E R

I am a sailor on an endless voyage.

Jon Steinbeck said truck drivers are like sailors, constantly moving, and never in touch with the world or the places they stop.

I often feel like that.

I dunno, the moving car travels over bumpy crevices and hilly ways just like a sea boat over unwavering water waves, never stopping in an endless motion of teetering and tottering

hair ties for her.

she always had a green one on her left wrist and a purple one on her right wrist. Hair ties, that is.

On good days or sunny days, she wore the green tie. On rainy days or sad days, she wore the purple tie. She didn't really plan it that way it just sorta happened, like falling asleep on the sofa or wearing mitch-matching socks. 

Did I mention those were the only hair ties she owned? Yes. Never black, or grey, or pink, or blue. Only green and purple.

She used them to secure ponytails, pigtails, french-braids, side-braids. 

Every style, every which way.

Don't feel sad because she only had two hair ties. She liked them and they were her special little comforters and cheerer-uppers. 

the art of not being scared.

it doesn't' just mean:

fighting dragons

saving princesses

or catching bad guys

it means:

saying hi already

looking silly

creating things 

smiling... at flowers, people, sunshine, learning

accepting people, new places,

are you scared of these things? me too. And probably the neighbor next store and that schoolgirl are too.

limbo.

I haven't been feeling well lately. not in a sick manner but in a hazy dreamy way. Like i just don't think, I just feel and hear. I hear the people's conversations i feel the pressure of the water bottle i see books and words like fiction and romance. I feel like crying, like the sensation you get when you just feel sad. I'm not sure what to do.. I definitely feel like going for a walk. walks are nice, I like the breeze, the fresh air, the sunshine, the people. I like seeing and talking with people but I don't like the attention, I don't like when people start to notice me. I think that is why I like theatre because It is a way for me to interact with the players and with the audience without having to be me, instead it is fake, the emotions, the talking, ect. I feel like go go go but i stay stay stay I think that is why i'm sad it is a lazy sensation.. Like the other day I didn't really want to go even though it was good to go. like tonight is the class but i cannot go. i want to go but I'm not willing to fight for it. i am so tired so instead i'll just lie around. when i have kids ill make sure they are always occupied but not with tv and phone screens, with interactive things, things that make them use their mind and hands and voice and feet and . god i am to world's biggest self-pitter. there is a scene in David Copperfield where someone says to davvy not to feel bad about this one person because "she had never met someone who enjoyed being miserable so much." I guess I like it . I guess.

the strawberry wine cake | a short story

On a sheep-cropped knoll under a clump of elms we ate the strawberries and drank the wine -- as Sebastian promised, they were delicious together -- and we lit fat, turkish cigarettes, and lay on our back, Sebastian's eyes on the leaves above him and mine on his profile.- Brideshead Revisited, Chapter 1 ?

It was a hazy day filled with  the sweet scent of sun-ripened strawberries and a heavenly bottle of Chateau Peyraguey. The dream was like a nice sounding record that played over and over in the baker’s mind. Night after night it came, while moonlight poured in from the laced draped window, enveloping the room in a silver glow. One night, as soon as the dream kissed her mind and burst into full bloom, the baker awoke. Pushing the blankets to the foot of the bed, the baker leaped out off her warm sleeping cocoon and tiptoed her way downstairs to the place of sweet creations: The kitchen. She lit the kerosene lamp, preheated the oven,  and made her way to the record drawer. She tilted her head and gently bit her lip as she thumbed her way through the records, looking for something…

Of course, she thought, smiling sadly.

Nothing is Over by Oh Land. Carefully, brushing the dust off the record, she placed it on the rickety old record player and let the music soak into her sweet bones, as she tied a faded pink apron around her waist. Dancing over to the icebox, the baker took out a glass jar of almond milk, rolled sweet butter, two medium brown eggs, and a pint of strawberries. Closing the icebox door with a slippered foot, the baker carefully balanced the ingredients in her arms over to the counter. Then, she quietly measured out dry ingredients as she sang along with the song:

two and a half cups of flour / In my head, in my heart /  a half teaspoon baking powder / Now you're here, now you're gone / one fourth teaspoon salt / I've had packed and I moved on

With the strawberries, she diced them whilst her toes tapped, and splashed them into a delicious bowl of sweet wine. Smiling to herself, the baker creamed the butter, adding in two cups of sugary crystals, and with tongue in cheek, she gently cracked the eggs against the bowl and added them to the sugary mixture, sans egg shells. Satisfied, she moved to take a wooden spoon to cream the sweetnesses together, but first she played it for a “microphone” and twirled around in the warm golden light of the lamp, catching a few of the words:

Turn the clock, let's go back / Clear our words, go from scratch / And you walk up to me

Tucking a curl back up into her bun, the baker floated back to her baking creation and stirred to the rhythm of the song, adding the flour mixture and milk in equal parts. And in a quick rush, she added a dash of vanilla flavouring. Not forgetting the wine concoction, the baker gently folded in the wine-soaked strawberries, just until incorporated. With one last effort, the baker whisked over to the pantry, and picking out a round baking tin, she poured  the strawberry-wine batter into it and placed the cake lovingly into the heated oven, just as the last words of the song faded away:

Tell me now nothing is over / Nothing is over!

a bittersweet memory.

Eating candy is like receiving a warm hug. That's a funny expression but really quite lovely. 

Anyway, at the beginning of the trip they gave  each a bag of sweeties and crisps:

Nutter butter

Doritos

Trident gum

Mints

Slim Jim

There was 8. In the van they talked nice, they asked me what my favorite music was. Someone played the banjo.

But I didn't really belong. I felt like an imposter. Like what the hell was I doing crashing their car ride. My mum says it's a business and if you give them money they let you be with them. That's t fucking wrong. Course, it's easy to be with others but it's hard to belong.

five favorite reads | friday

hello. i like words. they

empower,
empathize,
and emotionalize.

these are some stories that have made me feel special and i hope they make you feel special too.
it's funny, i sometimes can't remember the whole story, once I've finished, but i can remember how it made me feel and so that's why i wanted to share them: they made me feel hopeful.
enjoy.

the little prince.


there is a little prince on a planet that leaves his beloved rose to travel the other planets. he loves that rose because it is the only one on his planet, thus he believes it's specialness comes from it being the only flower on the planet. that is not the case at all and the little person is sad to find that many flowers exists in the universe.

the fox tells him: “It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.” 

message:  specialness comes from love and devotion not from its rarity. 

perks of being a wallflower

i've read this story twice. it's really lovely. it is written in simple words from the special perspective of a quiet boy. he only wants people to be happy but mean words, love, lust, and loneliness cause such troubles.

as charlie finds out " even if we don't have the power to choose where we come from, we can still choose where we go from there. We can still do things. And we can try to feel okay about them.” 


the book thief


every time i think about the book thief it makes me smile. there is this girl who is special mainly because she is hopeful and only ever builds things with love in the midst of a war-torn country.

one line perfectly describes the girl, liesel, "“She took a step and didn't want to take any more, but she did.”  
you see? even though there is a lot of sadness within its pages, the book thief is really about hope.

catcher in the rye


 Holden  seems to be the character who never settles, regardless. holden is a special character because in a world of such conformity he searches for the meaning to his life, knowing he won't find it in a stuffy building full of pretentious beings. he doesn't seem to like anyone but he is lonely. he is not sure what he wants and so wanders aimlessly. i'm not sure where i'm going with this.. holden is lonely and isolated from the world and goes to places like this museum he went to as a kid that made him happy. i think what i liked about this story is that there was this person who felt just as isolated and lonely and insignificant as me, yet the way he sees things and asks question makes one love him in a sad way. one scene that makes me smile and cry at the same time is when holden is trying to find out what happens to the duck in central park during the winter: "The ducks. Do you know, by any chance? I mean does somebody come around in a truck or something and take them away, or do they fly away by themselves." not only is he sad about his brother's death and his own life, he's worried about the creatures' lives.

p.s
i know this is a contradiction since this book doesn't have any words but i love it so much i couldn't not share it: The sidewalk flowers.

in the story everything the little girl touches turns to colour:  love and kindness is beautiful and colorful.

love still lives here.

"We do not meet one another as persons in the several aspects of our total life, but know one another only fractionally, as the man who fixes the car, or as that girl who serves our lunch, or as the woman who takes care of our child at school. The humanistic reality of others does not, cannot, come through." C.Wright Mills

As i sit crossed legged on the rickety wooden chair surrounded by others, I have never felt more alone. sometimes i wish everyone would stop pretending to be busy and just be with each other already, like dance or talk, or whatever. how can people so close to oneself feel so unattached like we are each wrapped up in our own world it's like we are on different planets, you know? it makes for sad days. wouldn't it be lovely if everywhere we went people were just.. friendly and nice? not that sugary fake shit. but just.. there. like really there. i'm so tired of everyone always leaving, always rushing off to somewhere like they are never content where they are, right now? sometimes i talk relly fast in hope that I'll say at least one interesting thing to make that person stay. why must one always be entertained? 

i read somewhere that silence created intimacy. if that's true,  that's maybe why we are afraid of it, the deafening silence. we'd all be united in solitude, sans voices and things that distract us. it seems we're too afraid of what we may find in the silence so we deafen it out with constant noise. by reveling in nothingness we may actually find something interesting about ourselves or the person next to us. embracing that vulnerability is realer than the acts we put on each day.