My first kiss was in the rain.
Or at least, that’s what I tell people.
It definitely beats the story of his second-hand couch upstairs, with Transformers playing in the background.
It was raining the first time I said, “I love you.”
It was raining.
We were just inside at the time.
It was just starting to rain when I said, “Goodbye.”
Not “Goodbye” as in, “Catch ya later!” or “See you around.”
A real, rock-solid, never-going-to-see-you-again Goodbye.
It was drizzling.
I remember being frustrated because the sky couldn’t even match what my eyes were producing.
There’s something about rain that makes memories.
You’re more likely to remember the game you won by sliding through the mud for that last goal, home run, touchdown, whatever.
My mom remembers the years by, ‘That’s the year it almost flooded,” and “That’s the year everything died. No rain at all.”
Nobody remembers the wedding when the sun was shining perfectly.
But there will always be that one backyard ceremony where,
against all odds,
it started pouring down right after the “I do”s.
Everyone ran inside, holding programs over their heads.
The bride’s dress was completely ruined, but she was laughing,
because all she could think about was the grin on his face when they were pronounced “man and wife.”
It may have something to do with how it just happens.
You wake up one morning thinking it’s just another day, but oh,
it’s raining!
It’s a pain because you still haven’t bought those rain boots you’ve been eyeing at Target,
and none of your school bags are actually water-proof,
but somehow,
it usually all works itself out anyway.
It’s kind of like—the world can be totally wrong, absolutely chaotic,
but then it rains.
When everything is failing,
when you just need something to keep on going,
there it is.
There’s always one thing that can just take care of itself.
Of course, I may simply be biased because I get so much inspiration when it’s raining.
And after all,
my first real kiss was in the rain.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
What Real Love Looks Like
Memoir for my creative writing final exam.~
If I’d thought it through, I might have spent more time sitting in my granny’s hospital room with my mom and the rest of the family instead of running through the stairwells, playing hide-and-go-seek with my cousins. I was ten years old. I knew better.
Bud, Darla, Tammy, Sandy, Rita, Kathy, Cinda, Jerry Wayne—everybody but the Utah branch of the family was there, including cousins and family friends and aunts that I’d never met. I don’t remember how many days she was there, but I do remember everyone being upset that a couple of days before, she’d been fine. She’d just been there for something routine and simple, but had gotten sick in the hospital. Adults murmured about neglectful nurses, who would take care of Papa, and who hadn’t come yet.
My mom cried and cried, and eventually made herself sick from it. I felt like I should do something to help her, but what was I supposed to do? Rub her forehead and tell her it was going to be okay like she did for me when I was sick? She had good reason to be sad. Her momma was dying. There wasn’t anything I could do for her. When I found out all the other kids my age were sitting in the lounge, I didn’t think twice about staying in the room with my granny hooked up to a bunch of machines and tubes, my sick momma sleeping on the floor, and every other empty white hospital floor tile being filled with a teary, mournful adult.
Sarah, Brandon, and I could’ve helped anyone walking in the front doors find whatever wing they were looking for in that hospital by the second day. We played around in the elevator, skipped down every hallway, and played hide and seek on the fourth floor when we got kicked out of the stairwell. We watched nurses bring newborns into the nursery, drank from the bottom of the paper cone cups we got at water machines, hurdled over bushes in the courtyard, and played “the white tiles are lava” so we had to hop from pink square to pink square all the way down the fifth floor hallway. We had an absolute blast. I’d heard of people being scared of hospitals, but at that time, I honestly couldn’t understand why. There were endless possibilities of fun for a three kids with lots of time on their hands. But then Courtney scolded her little brother.
Courtney was only four years my senior, but she was at least a foot taller, and the epitome of everything I wanted to be. She played the flute, was on the volleyball team, and nobody could ever find her when we played hide-and-go-seek at Granny and Papa’s house. She actually played with us for a little while, but after lunch, she stayed in Granny’s hospital room. Several hours later, when I saw her in the lounge, I invited her to come play with us again, but she declined. She was frowning something fierce, so I didn’t press it, and I ran off to find Sarah.
Before I was actually gone, however, I heard Brandon ask her why she wouldn’t play. Brandon and Sarah were a year older than I was, and Brandon and Courtney were brother and sister. Maybe that’s why Courtney got onto him, but didn’t say anything to me. I remember exactly what she said to him, because as soon as the words left her mouth, I felt the most debilitating sense of shame I had ever encountered.
“Don’t you understand?” she hissed at him. I peeked back around the corner to see her towering over him, her long curtain of light brown hair obscuring her face from me, but not from Brandon. He didn’t seem too concerned with what she was saying, but then, Brandon never really listened to Courtney back then. How many little brothers do? “Ni is dying, and you three are running around like a bunch of little kids. That’s not respectful.”
I knew the words weren’t meant directly for me, and had Courtney talked to me about it, she would’ve been a lot nicer to me than she had been to her brother, but I knew she was right. My granny was dying, and I was laughing and running through the halls.
When I shuffled into her hospital room to sit next to my mom, now claiming a spot on the window sill, the sad smiles and back-pats I got from a couple of cousins were probably meant to console my sorrow for my granny, evident by the tears running silently down my cheeks. I didn’t want her to die, of course. I was sad about that, but what was really eating at me was that I didn’t have the decency to sit there patiently, and just be with her in her last days. Guilt was what had an iron grip on my stomach.
It wasn’t until later, as I watched them bring my papa in and situate him in a chair that turned into a bed next to Granny that I really felt the mourning I should’ve been feeling the whole time. He cried, and muttered “Oni” as he held her hand as best as he could with his weakened ones. He’d been paralyzed for six years, and his loving wife had been taking care of him all that time, but then she was the one that was dying.
“Ni… I love you,” Papa whispered, and as I watched a tear fall helplessly from his blue eyes, I suddenly understood what real sadness looked—and felt—like.
If I’d thought it through, I might have spent more time sitting in my granny’s hospital room with my mom and the rest of the family instead of running through the stairwells, playing hide-and-go-seek with my cousins. I was ten years old. I knew better.
Bud, Darla, Tammy, Sandy, Rita, Kathy, Cinda, Jerry Wayne—everybody but the Utah branch of the family was there, including cousins and family friends and aunts that I’d never met. I don’t remember how many days she was there, but I do remember everyone being upset that a couple of days before, she’d been fine. She’d just been there for something routine and simple, but had gotten sick in the hospital. Adults murmured about neglectful nurses, who would take care of Papa, and who hadn’t come yet.
My mom cried and cried, and eventually made herself sick from it. I felt like I should do something to help her, but what was I supposed to do? Rub her forehead and tell her it was going to be okay like she did for me when I was sick? She had good reason to be sad. Her momma was dying. There wasn’t anything I could do for her. When I found out all the other kids my age were sitting in the lounge, I didn’t think twice about staying in the room with my granny hooked up to a bunch of machines and tubes, my sick momma sleeping on the floor, and every other empty white hospital floor tile being filled with a teary, mournful adult.
Sarah, Brandon, and I could’ve helped anyone walking in the front doors find whatever wing they were looking for in that hospital by the second day. We played around in the elevator, skipped down every hallway, and played hide and seek on the fourth floor when we got kicked out of the stairwell. We watched nurses bring newborns into the nursery, drank from the bottom of the paper cone cups we got at water machines, hurdled over bushes in the courtyard, and played “the white tiles are lava” so we had to hop from pink square to pink square all the way down the fifth floor hallway. We had an absolute blast. I’d heard of people being scared of hospitals, but at that time, I honestly couldn’t understand why. There were endless possibilities of fun for a three kids with lots of time on their hands. But then Courtney scolded her little brother.
Courtney was only four years my senior, but she was at least a foot taller, and the epitome of everything I wanted to be. She played the flute, was on the volleyball team, and nobody could ever find her when we played hide-and-go-seek at Granny and Papa’s house. She actually played with us for a little while, but after lunch, she stayed in Granny’s hospital room. Several hours later, when I saw her in the lounge, I invited her to come play with us again, but she declined. She was frowning something fierce, so I didn’t press it, and I ran off to find Sarah.
Before I was actually gone, however, I heard Brandon ask her why she wouldn’t play. Brandon and Sarah were a year older than I was, and Brandon and Courtney were brother and sister. Maybe that’s why Courtney got onto him, but didn’t say anything to me. I remember exactly what she said to him, because as soon as the words left her mouth, I felt the most debilitating sense of shame I had ever encountered.
“Don’t you understand?” she hissed at him. I peeked back around the corner to see her towering over him, her long curtain of light brown hair obscuring her face from me, but not from Brandon. He didn’t seem too concerned with what she was saying, but then, Brandon never really listened to Courtney back then. How many little brothers do? “Ni is dying, and you three are running around like a bunch of little kids. That’s not respectful.”
I knew the words weren’t meant directly for me, and had Courtney talked to me about it, she would’ve been a lot nicer to me than she had been to her brother, but I knew she was right. My granny was dying, and I was laughing and running through the halls.
When I shuffled into her hospital room to sit next to my mom, now claiming a spot on the window sill, the sad smiles and back-pats I got from a couple of cousins were probably meant to console my sorrow for my granny, evident by the tears running silently down my cheeks. I didn’t want her to die, of course. I was sad about that, but what was really eating at me was that I didn’t have the decency to sit there patiently, and just be with her in her last days. Guilt was what had an iron grip on my stomach.
It wasn’t until later, as I watched them bring my papa in and situate him in a chair that turned into a bed next to Granny that I really felt the mourning I should’ve been feeling the whole time. He cried, and muttered “Oni” as he held her hand as best as he could with his weakened ones. He’d been paralyzed for six years, and his loving wife had been taking care of him all that time, but then she was the one that was dying.
“Ni… I love you,” Papa whispered, and as I watched a tear fall helplessly from his blue eyes, I suddenly understood what real sadness looked—and felt—like.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Orgullo
This poem I wrote for my Creative Writing class is about people in America that celebrate their culture from other countries. Specifically, Mexican-American.
Orgullo
She flips her long black pelo forward
and brushes it nice and suave.
Two studs and one hoop in each ear,
todos de oro, and gifts from her novio.
Un crucifijo hangs from her neck,
marking her a Católica.
Everything else about ella
screaming her Mexicana American
pride.
orgullo – pride
pelo – hair
suave – smooth
todos – all
de oro – gold
novio – boyfriend
un crucifijo – a crucifix
ella – her
Mexicana – Mexican girl
Friday, March 18, 2011
A Film Viewing Experience
As part of my Film Application process, I have to go through an interview where I tell about a film viewing experience. When I sat down to write the writing sample for next week's creative writing class, I decided I'd try to put on paper what I wanted to say in my interview. It came out a little more nostalgic than how I think I'm going to actually tell it, but here it is in all it's glory, haha. Honestly, when I was asked about a film viewing experience, this is the very first thing that popped into my head. I wish I had a better memory.
I almost cried when I read through it after writing it. Gosh, I'm so homesick.
I almost cried when I read through it after writing it. Gosh, I'm so homesick.
I was eleven years old, and entirely too ecstatic to be at the movies on a Saturday morning, just Daddy and me. I didn’t know what we were there to see, but it really didn’t matter. We watched TV together all the time, but we never went to the movies all by ourselves! It wasn’t that I was excited to get away from my mom, or anything. I liked going to the movies with her, too. I think I was just happy to do something special with my dad that I’d never done before. He held my hand all the way from the truck to the lobby of the dollar theater.
He bought us tickets to something called Star Wars II. As we sat down right in the middle of row, Dad explained to me what clones were. Then, he quickly tried to tell me what had happened in a previous movie—or was it movies?—so I wouldn’t be totally lost. I didn’t really understand any of it, but it was interesting. When the movie actually started, I had no idea what was going on most of the time, but it had a lot of action and running and shooting, so I liked it alright. It was my very first experience with science fiction, and I was definitely intrigued.
It wasn’t the movie that made it special, though. We were the only ones in the whole theater, so I sat with my legs draped across his lap. I could ask aloud why something happened, and what something meant, and my dad could answer, because there wasn’t anybody around us to bother. We had a great big bag of popcorn all to ourselves, a bag of regular m&ms and a bag of peanut m&ms that we took turns trading. Honestly, I only remember one scene from the entire movie, and nine years later, I still don’t understand Star Wars. Mostly, I just remember that I went to the movies with my dad, just the two of us.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Pantoum - Light in my Kitchen
Would you believe it? This creative writing class has prompted me to write another poem that I like.
The light is better in the kitchen
Though it faces south
I could read in here for hours
And pretend that I’m alone.
Though it faces south
I can see the empty windows
And pretend that I’m alone
Sitting here at my table.
I can see the empty windows,
Once so full of life.
Sitting here at my table,
It’s empty here, too.
Once so full of life,
The courtyard’s tree is bare.
It’s empty here, too.
There’s no one left to care.
The courtyard’s tree is bare
It’s been a long time since it snowed.
There’s no one left to care
Spring is almost here.
It’s been a long time since it snowed.
I like to sit beneath the window.
Spring is almost here
The colors will be returning soon.
I like to sit beneath the window.
The light is better in the kitchen.
The colors will be returning soon,
I could read in here for hours.
The light is better in the kitchen
Though it faces south
I could read in here for hours
And pretend that I’m alone.
Though it faces south
I can see the empty windows
And pretend that I’m alone
Sitting here at my table.
I can see the empty windows,
Once so full of life.
Sitting here at my table,
It’s empty here, too.
Once so full of life,
The courtyard’s tree is bare.
It’s empty here, too.
There’s no one left to care.
The courtyard’s tree is bare
It’s been a long time since it snowed.
There’s no one left to care
Spring is almost here.
It’s been a long time since it snowed.
I like to sit beneath the window.
Spring is almost here
The colors will be returning soon.
I like to sit beneath the window.
The light is better in the kitchen.
The colors will be returning soon,
I could read in here for hours.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Secrets
“Hey Mel, what’s crackin’?” Sassy asked casually as she sauntered into the kitchen. Melody jumped about a mile high and quickly wiped the milk she’d sloshed from her cereal spoon off of her hand.
“Oh, you know…” she said noncommittally. She slurped a spoonful of cheerios into her mouth and dipped her spoon back into the bowl for more before she even finished chewing.
“Fantastic,” Sassy thrilled, opening the refrigerator and ducking into it farther than she needed to find her apples. She was being too loud, and Melody was bound to notice. For some reason, Sassy was always way too bright when she was hiding something, almost like her happy demeanor could automatically dispel any second thoughts to her lies.
Melody shoved her backpack under the counter with her foot while Sassy rummaged around in the fridge. She was still stuffing her cheeks full of heart-healthy whole-grain O’s. She knew Sassy couldn’t have any reason to look into her roommate’s backpack; to think such was completely absurd. Simply having it in the room made her nervous, let alone the fact that her roommate might, at any moment, ask her where she’d been the night before.
Sassy finally just grabbed a Tupperware of pineapple she’d sliced a few days before. Her hands were shaking too badly to cut the apples anyway, even if she’d had the patience to keep looking for them. She popped off the top, grabbed a fork from the drawer, and leaned over the kitchen island to smile at Melody.
“So,” she said, and popped a large bite of pineapple into her mouth. It was overly sweet, and stung the top of her tongue, as if it were the burning consequence of the lies that were bound to come out of her mouth sooner or later.
Melody grabbed the bowl and hastily started chugging the leftover milk. She had to get out of there. She just had to get out of the kitchen. If she could get out in time, maybe she could avoid telling a fib altogether, and it seemed like Sassy was about to ask her exactly what she didn’t want to say.
Sassy swallowed the pineapple and licked her lips. “Oliver told me you have a date this weekend. With Connor,” she said. The last word came out as almost a squeal. If Melody hadn’t been so busy trying to escape, she might have noticed Sassy’s overlarge eyes, and the fake eagerness of her tone.
“Oh,” she said, and almost sighed with relief. Of course she doesn’t know anything about it! she reasoned with herself. Sassy wasn’t going to ask, because she couldn’t possibly know about—about that thing—anyway. “Yeah. He asked me yesterday. We’re going to the movies on Friday.” She nearly fell off the stool in her haste to get to the sink and rinse her bowl.
“That’s GREAT!” Sassy shrieked, and plopped another bite of pineapple in her mouth, grinning as some of the juice started dripping down her chin. She could have fainted with happiness. Melody had no idea what had happened. Surely she would’ve said something, or made some kind of inclination when Sassy had mentioned Connor’s name.
“Yeah, I’m excited,” Melody said, and smiled, hoping it was at least a little bit convincing. “Well, I, uh… gotta go,” she said, grabbing her backpack and nearly running to the door.
“Okay, see you later!” Sassy said, and followed her roommate to the door. She locked it behind her and leaned her back against it in relief. She doesn’t know, she thought to herself, satisfied. She held her stomach as if she could feel the weight literally being lifted from it.
On the other side of the door, Melody leaned her back against it, rubbing her face with both of her hands before staring down at the navy blue bag at her feet. She doesn’t know, she thought to herself, and almost laughed with happiness.
“Oh, you know…” she said noncommittally. She slurped a spoonful of cheerios into her mouth and dipped her spoon back into the bowl for more before she even finished chewing.
“Fantastic,” Sassy thrilled, opening the refrigerator and ducking into it farther than she needed to find her apples. She was being too loud, and Melody was bound to notice. For some reason, Sassy was always way too bright when she was hiding something, almost like her happy demeanor could automatically dispel any second thoughts to her lies.
Melody shoved her backpack under the counter with her foot while Sassy rummaged around in the fridge. She was still stuffing her cheeks full of heart-healthy whole-grain O’s. She knew Sassy couldn’t have any reason to look into her roommate’s backpack; to think such was completely absurd. Simply having it in the room made her nervous, let alone the fact that her roommate might, at any moment, ask her where she’d been the night before.
Sassy finally just grabbed a Tupperware of pineapple she’d sliced a few days before. Her hands were shaking too badly to cut the apples anyway, even if she’d had the patience to keep looking for them. She popped off the top, grabbed a fork from the drawer, and leaned over the kitchen island to smile at Melody.
“So,” she said, and popped a large bite of pineapple into her mouth. It was overly sweet, and stung the top of her tongue, as if it were the burning consequence of the lies that were bound to come out of her mouth sooner or later.
Melody grabbed the bowl and hastily started chugging the leftover milk. She had to get out of there. She just had to get out of the kitchen. If she could get out in time, maybe she could avoid telling a fib altogether, and it seemed like Sassy was about to ask her exactly what she didn’t want to say.
Sassy swallowed the pineapple and licked her lips. “Oliver told me you have a date this weekend. With Connor,” she said. The last word came out as almost a squeal. If Melody hadn’t been so busy trying to escape, she might have noticed Sassy’s overlarge eyes, and the fake eagerness of her tone.
“Oh,” she said, and almost sighed with relief. Of course she doesn’t know anything about it! she reasoned with herself. Sassy wasn’t going to ask, because she couldn’t possibly know about—about that thing—anyway. “Yeah. He asked me yesterday. We’re going to the movies on Friday.” She nearly fell off the stool in her haste to get to the sink and rinse her bowl.
“That’s GREAT!” Sassy shrieked, and plopped another bite of pineapple in her mouth, grinning as some of the juice started dripping down her chin. She could have fainted with happiness. Melody had no idea what had happened. Surely she would’ve said something, or made some kind of inclination when Sassy had mentioned Connor’s name.
“Yeah, I’m excited,” Melody said, and smiled, hoping it was at least a little bit convincing. “Well, I, uh… gotta go,” she said, grabbing her backpack and nearly running to the door.
“Okay, see you later!” Sassy said, and followed her roommate to the door. She locked it behind her and leaned her back against it in relief. She doesn’t know, she thought to herself, satisfied. She held her stomach as if she could feel the weight literally being lifted from it.
On the other side of the door, Melody leaned her back against it, rubbing her face with both of her hands before staring down at the navy blue bag at her feet. She doesn’t know, she thought to herself, and almost laughed with happiness.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
"I Hate Memoirs"
To say "I hate" something automatically makes it a strong statement. I usually don't like that word, but here I have to explain my disdain for memoirs...
I just don't like writing them. Either I have to write about something really intense (as my "insignificant" memoirs generally don't turn out how I want them to), and I sit there blubbering for a couple of hours as I write it, or I have to wrack my brain for hours and hours, trying to remember enough details. I'm not very good with remembering details. I remember movements, thoughts, and feelings, but I have a hard time remembering sounds, words, and colors. Why? I have no idea.
Perhaps it's because they take more effort, but I really don't think that's it.
There's a quote from Bones that goes something like,
"Authors reveal more than they intend on every page."
"You know, I never really believed in all of that English 101 stuff. Sometimes a river is just a river."
I whole-heartedly agree with the second statement, but when it comes to writing memoirs, I have to really open up, and let people see my insides more than I'd like them to.
And, you know, sometimes it's bad enough to exerience it once, and not have to write about it and then subsequently read over it, edit, explain, and then take criticism on it.
It's easier to make something up.
I just don't like writing them. Either I have to write about something really intense (as my "insignificant" memoirs generally don't turn out how I want them to), and I sit there blubbering for a couple of hours as I write it, or I have to wrack my brain for hours and hours, trying to remember enough details. I'm not very good with remembering details. I remember movements, thoughts, and feelings, but I have a hard time remembering sounds, words, and colors. Why? I have no idea.
Perhaps it's because they take more effort, but I really don't think that's it.
There's a quote from Bones that goes something like,
"Authors reveal more than they intend on every page."
"You know, I never really believed in all of that English 101 stuff. Sometimes a river is just a river."
I whole-heartedly agree with the second statement, but when it comes to writing memoirs, I have to really open up, and let people see my insides more than I'd like them to.
And, you know, sometimes it's bad enough to exerience it once, and not have to write about it and then subsequently read over it, edit, explain, and then take criticism on it.
It's easier to make something up.
Robert Frost
I'm not really a big fan of poetry. A lot of it is just lost on me, because I don't understand obscure metaphors right off the bat like everyone else seems to. However, every now and then I fall across a poem I can appreciate, even come to love. This is one of those poems. One day I hope to have it memorized. :)
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Walking Encyclopedia of Weirdness
When you’re first getting to know someone, there are always the inevitable questions of, “Where are you from?” “What are you majoring in?” “What’s your favorite color?” and, sometimes, “What color is your toothbrush?” (Thank you, EFY!) Every now and then, however, you get a question that’s actually kind of thought provoking. One such question came to me very recently: “What is your favorite thing about yourself?”
In middle school, I got the nickname of “The Walking Encyclopedia.” Since I’ve been able to read, I’ve been reading everything I can find on things that interest me. I probably wouldn’t know the answer if you asked me something about starfish (though I could tell you dissecting them in the seventh grade was simultaneously gross and exciting), but I’d definitely know every Robin Batman has ever had (Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Stephanie Brown, and Damien Wayne), and why vampires and werewolves are mortal enemies (particular to four different mythologies).
In the TV show “Supernatural,” Dean Winchester says to his brother (in season 2, episode 16 “Roadkill”) , “Dude, you are a walking encyclopedia of weirdness, do you know that?” I laughed when I heard that line, and my best friend looked at me and said, “You know, that totally applies to you.” The more I’ve thought about it, the prouder of that fact I become.
I love that I know just about everything there is to know about at least three different TV shows, four book series, and the mythologies of several different creatures and stories. I love that in one specific online community, I’m to go-to girl for 1,200 people when they have questions about anything ranging from vampires in general to the TV show The Vampire Diaries.
I love the fact that I am a Walking Encyclopedia of Weirdness.
Then again, that’s probably not the answer someone is looking for within five minutes of meeting you. Giving them that little spiel would be like saying I adhere to the five-second-rule after two minutes, or that I wear some of my jeans several times before washing them (which I’m, um, not admitting to). So, I’m pretty sure I told him I like the color of my eyes. Oh, well. He’ll find out eventually!
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Thunderstorm Poem
I was thinking about this when I was writing for my Creative Writing class. And, somehow, I ended up writing poetry.
"Texas Thunderstorm"
There really isn’t anything
like a Texas thunderstorm.
Before anything,
the smell skips ahead,
and you know without a doubt
that your arthritic grandmother
was right
about the coming rain.
Everything
changes colors.
A little tinge of green
permeates your surroundings
and gives hue to even the deadest,
longest summer grass
you’ve ever seen.
Your daddy reminds you that a
hint of yellow colorin’
(not green like everybody thinks)
means a twister’s on the way,
so keep yer eyes peeled.
And momma tells you
about that day, when she was
driving you home from the hospital
by herself
and it came up a hurricane,
nearly sweepin’ her off the road.
It can come up from outta nowhere.
Big, angry clouds, ready for
a release.
Sometimes a two-minute warning
is all you’re going to get
before it just pours down
on top of your head
and your car
that you finally decided was time to wash
yesterday.
Sometimes it falls hard enough
to pull the petals off of
momma’s flowers.
If it really gets goin’,
the wind makes the trees dance around.
Scary,
but completely mesmerizing
at the same time.
The music swells with the
tittering and smattering of the drops
on the porch and roof,
and the big bass of the thunder
ranging from the little timpani’s
to the house-shaking, momma-scaring
booms that you can feel all the way down to your
bones.
It’s an uneven rhythm,
an unpredictable kind of song,
but rain’s beautiful however you play it,
and nobody plays it
like Texas does.
"Texas Thunderstorm"
There really isn’t anything
like a Texas thunderstorm.
Before anything,
the smell skips ahead,
and you know without a doubt
that your arthritic grandmother
was right
about the coming rain.
Everything
changes colors.
A little tinge of green
permeates your surroundings
and gives hue to even the deadest,
longest summer grass
you’ve ever seen.
Your daddy reminds you that a
hint of yellow colorin’
(not green like everybody thinks)
means a twister’s on the way,
so keep yer eyes peeled.
And momma tells you
about that day, when she was
driving you home from the hospital
by herself
and it came up a hurricane,
nearly sweepin’ her off the road.
It can come up from outta nowhere.
Big, angry clouds, ready for
a release.
Sometimes a two-minute warning
is all you’re going to get
before it just pours down
on top of your head
and your car
that you finally decided was time to wash
yesterday.
Sometimes it falls hard enough
to pull the petals off of
momma’s flowers.
If it really gets goin’,
the wind makes the trees dance around.
Scary,
but completely mesmerizing
at the same time.
The music swells with the
tittering and smattering of the drops
on the porch and roof,
and the big bass of the thunder
ranging from the little timpani’s
to the house-shaking, momma-scaring
booms that you can feel all the way down to your
bones.
It’s an uneven rhythm,
an unpredictable kind of song,
but rain’s beautiful however you play it,
and nobody plays it
like Texas does.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
I Hate February.
I really do. I don't think there's any other month I loathe quite as much as I dislike February. Why? Well, it's cold. It is so miserably cold, often without snow. (If it's going to be cold, it might as well snow. That provides a little bit of insulation, at least.) Also, I'm not particularly a fan of Valentine's Day. It's cute, and I like all of the lovey-dovey chick flicks that come on TV (though I don't have cable), I've never had a boyfriend on Valentine's Day. Well, okay. I did once, but we did nothing, and I broke up with him two days later. And, last year, I was waiting on a missionary. Well, puh.
So, this February, I'm going to do something about it! I'm going to make myself like this month. I have twenty-six and a half days left to make it happen. So it will happen.
1. I'm going to write every day. I'm currently reading an excerpt by someone named Lance Larson about Creative Writing. He says to write every day. So I'm going to. It might not be more than fifteen minutes, and I might not write something of worth every day, but I'm going to write anyway.
2. I'm going to have a photo of the week every week. I actually want to do this all year, but it starts with February. (I'm always late, haha. My parents like to state that my birth was the only thing in the world I was early to.) What I mean by photo of the week is, I'm going to get myself more involved in fun photography. My photography. (My photo of the week for this week is "Caleb" which I posted yesterday. I'm just so in love with that picture.)
3. No soda pop until my birthday. Yeah, that includes March too... Well, I don't really like March either. So it works. How is that going to make my February better? Well, I'm hoping it'll help me lose weight. Haha.
4. I'm going to finish City of Glass by Cassandra Clare. I keep putting that one off.
5. I'm going to read my scriptures every day. No excuses.
6. Every week I will read something from the Ensign.
I really don't want to be the sulky, self-pitying person that I automatically revert to when I'm not really doing anything, or even when I'm doing something sometimes. I want to be happy, approachable, and the best friend I can possibly be. Positivity, woo!
Thanks for reading!
Krista
PS- Happy Birthday, Papa. I love you. I'll see you on the other side.
So, this February, I'm going to do something about it! I'm going to make myself like this month. I have twenty-six and a half days left to make it happen. So it will happen.
1. I'm going to write every day. I'm currently reading an excerpt by someone named Lance Larson about Creative Writing. He says to write every day. So I'm going to. It might not be more than fifteen minutes, and I might not write something of worth every day, but I'm going to write anyway.
2. I'm going to have a photo of the week every week. I actually want to do this all year, but it starts with February. (I'm always late, haha. My parents like to state that my birth was the only thing in the world I was early to.) What I mean by photo of the week is, I'm going to get myself more involved in fun photography. My photography. (My photo of the week for this week is "Caleb" which I posted yesterday. I'm just so in love with that picture.)
3. No soda pop until my birthday. Yeah, that includes March too... Well, I don't really like March either. So it works. How is that going to make my February better? Well, I'm hoping it'll help me lose weight. Haha.
4. I'm going to finish City of Glass by Cassandra Clare. I keep putting that one off.
5. I'm going to read my scriptures every day. No excuses.
6. Every week I will read something from the Ensign.
I really don't want to be the sulky, self-pitying person that I automatically revert to when I'm not really doing anything, or even when I'm doing something sometimes. I want to be happy, approachable, and the best friend I can possibly be. Positivity, woo!
Thanks for reading!
Krista
PS- Happy Birthday, Papa. I love you. I'll see you on the other side.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Vampire Diaries Writing
Boy, have I been writing like a maniac lately or what.
I'm part of an art community called deviantArt. It's a place where you can submit art, photography, writing, etc. and receive critique, or just appreciation. I'm part of a group on this site dedicated to (yes, I'm a fangirl) "The Vampire Diaries." They're having a competition right now that has a written category, so I decided to enter.
I've entered a piece about one of the main characters, named Damon Salvatore. He's sort of the bad boy that's actually good. You can find that one here, if you're interesting in reading it. This is the one that I'm most proud of. I really, really like it, and I've gotten a lot of feedback for it!
I also wrote one about Jenna Sommers, the aunt and guardian of the main character. That one is here. I do really like this one, but not as much as I like Damon's.
And today, I wrote one about Tyler Lockwood. Until now, he's been a very minor character. But this next season, we're going to be seeing a lot more of him, seeing as he's a werewolf... ;) Here is the piece I wrote about him after he finds out about the death of his father.
I've also been doing a lot of writing on my story. :D That's super exciting for me. Buuuuut I'm not going to tell you much about it. Why? Ohh... I have my reasons!
Thanks for reading!
Krista
I'm part of an art community called deviantArt. It's a place where you can submit art, photography, writing, etc. and receive critique, or just appreciation. I'm part of a group on this site dedicated to (yes, I'm a fangirl) "The Vampire Diaries." They're having a competition right now that has a written category, so I decided to enter.
I've entered a piece about one of the main characters, named Damon Salvatore. He's sort of the bad boy that's actually good. You can find that one here, if you're interesting in reading it. This is the one that I'm most proud of. I really, really like it, and I've gotten a lot of feedback for it!
I also wrote one about Jenna Sommers, the aunt and guardian of the main character. That one is here. I do really like this one, but not as much as I like Damon's.
And today, I wrote one about Tyler Lockwood. Until now, he's been a very minor character. But this next season, we're going to be seeing a lot more of him, seeing as he's a werewolf... ;) Here is the piece I wrote about him after he finds out about the death of his father.
I've also been doing a lot of writing on my story. :D That's super exciting for me. Buuuuut I'm not going to tell you much about it. Why? Ohh... I have my reasons!
Thanks for reading!
Krista
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