Always a Blogger

It is impossible to sum up all of July and August, impossible to re-tell the moments that made me laugh til I cried, and cry until I laughed. It is just as impossible to describe how I felt, how I really felt everyday between now and then, that's why I'm a blogger. 

I am a blogger by choice, a writer by nature. I am inspired by people mostly, but memories are a close second. I blog to remember, but I haven't been doing so lately. I'm dissapointed because when I turn to my blog to remember my summer 2010, I will only have the memories that lose themselves in my brain to look back on.

I'll always be a blogger, I just need to be inspired.

Sometimes Untitled says it all

If I could write short story vignettes to describe my mood, the colors of my feelings, or the dead strands of my hair that fall to the ground whenever I am in need of change - I would. If I could explain the mysteries of tear stained t-shirts and half-opened love notes - I would. But I was not blessed with the gift to write, to give answers, or the gift of explanation. I am only a pack of mystery markers, each printing a unique pattern on white paper. I am the stains your coffee left behind this morning because I am the boost of energy you did not drink. I am the throw pillow used for decoration, and the pencil you use to write. I am all things useful, wasteful, and dysfunctional.

I have extraneous talents I waste daily. I forget to draw, paint, and sculpt. I write daily messages via text message and email but forget to write whimsical words that flow on pages of yellow notebook paper for generations beyond this one to read. I forget that stretching my limbs, my mind, and my body require standing up from the fetal position I carry when sitting on my couch. I wallow in 12 a.m phone calls that never come, and drinking habits that resemble that of a nun.

I am all the things you need, and all the things you don't want.

you, her, and I

We're every color, tone, and shade ever created. Were hues of yellow's, pink's and brown's. Together we piece together the human genome project where everyone is interconnected, and every pigment of the imagination is interlaced. My pink mixed with your brown makes her yellow, and together we create a soulful painting, artfully crafted to mold itself into our hands, hearts, and our lives.

You are my sisters.

Like the weather, I change too.

I deal with the weather, no matter what the weather will be. There are no rain drops that prevent me from dressing myself in the clothing most appropriate for the summer's sun, no scorching heat that prevents my sweat glands from functioning under my new crochet sweater. And no matter the weather I am forced to deal, because I am always unprepared.

I like to wear new shoes in the snow, and old sandals in the rain. I like the way the frostbite feels, and how the drops of rain splash off each heavily coated toe nail, but most of all I like to feel human. The natural cleansing offered by the pouring rain is more effective on a broken soul than any days worth of crying teaspoons of salt. Away go my sorrows and away go my pains, and like the grey clouds dissappear so does my anguish, and much like the sunshine I am a vibrant and I am back.

Just for now.

I often wonder why I pride myself on independance, integrity, and commitment. I look at my life through the lens of a biographer piecing together the tale of 3 million stories and interpretations. I dedicate myself to leaving behind a unmistakable trail of crumbs, each precisely followed by another creating a pattern that will unravel periods in time I would like to leave written down for Historians to uncover. I am dedicated to creating change, constantly re-inventing myself, my beliefs, but never my values.

I want to write a book, I want to write a poem, but my inspiration has been faltered and pulling from the darkest crevices of my brain has only left me this.

Oldies

I spent years 0-11 of my life cooped up in an old mini-van, driving from point A to point B only to wind up on 93-S heading wherever the dashed yellow lines told us to. There I sat on the last seat of the back row, looking out the right hand window, two seats behind the passenger sitting at shot-gun. I always pretended I was an orphan being taken away by child services as I waved back in sadness at the family I thought was standing at the steps of an old yellow house - dramatic I know. I pretended my Barbie's were stuck in a Hurricane and left homeless, that the red nail polish was a teen mom and birthed a blue one, but my most poignant memory are the tinted window shades the tan mini-van carried inside. My cup holder never carried a cup, but miscellenous hair clips, cookie crumbs and remains of Barbie clothes and Polly Pocket shoes. In the backdrop were pine trees and road signs, in the backdrop FM station 103.3.

Why I Blog

Sometimes I am inspired by those who surround me, those who indulge themselves in every aspect of my life, who curl around my words as all my stories unfold. Those who speak solemn words when I am leaking internally and exposing my irritated eyes, those who have savage hair, threaded eyebrows and a closet full of boxer-briefs, but ocassionally I am surprised.

I am pushed down cement roads and brick pathways only to find musicians playing guitar down subway steps, songs of sunshine's and tomorrow's spilling out of railways into seperate train carts pushing and pulling into all ends of the city. I am inspired by this stranger, and by the woman sitting next to me, by the man with three children and the addict in the corner.

I have never met you, but my wandering mind will assume more than it knows, it will explain the irrational and create a story that unravels as I scribble down words on a notepad. You are my inspiration, as is the color of the moon, the waves the grass makes when the wind blows, and all the lies you've ever told.

I blog because I am alive, I am alive because I am inspired.

Today

My eyes are burning, a fiery deep burn. I cant quite grasp what it feels like, but tears keep dropping without a residue of sadness. Each one empties out the moisture which in turn creates a deeper burning sensation at my cornea.

My eyes are bright red, like the fires of hell they burn. Each vein more obvious than its neighbor. The root beer brown color that surrounds my pupil looks lighter to detract from the eye sore this off-hue pink creates.

Im not sad today, but as my eyes drop tears from the sky I am aware that todays fiery, dry eyes are a sign of the tears I should've cried. But today is a good day and Im not looking back.

Idealists, Secretive, Sensitive, Risk takers, Hard working, Attention seeking, Good sense of humor

More adventurous: Last born or youngest children are more likely to be “loose cannons”, according to an article in Time magazine. Youngest children are more likely to be an artist, entrepreneur or adventurer – and more likely to participate in physically risky sports. They are usually the life of the party. Last born children want to carve their own footprint in their family and in their social life.

And according to my sister, this is not a statement, but a fact

Back again

I revisit my blog on occasion. Whenever someone or something catches my attention, but lately I've been living and my main focus has been myself entirely. I've pulled away from conversations, people, places, and most of all this electronic technology that has me clicking away my deepest and most hidden thoughts, but today is a good day.

The one year older means one year less. Minus the innocence, minus the fun, the smiles, and the complete contentment of sitting back and watching others unwind the clock for you, dictate the way you will grow up, the language you will learn and the mannerism you too will one day teach.

In 2010 more than 3/4 of my friends willl turn 18, the legal age of Adulthood.

Im not easily frightened, and have never shyed away from increasing age, but today I am.

You See These Stripes?

Cheerleading has only been a part of my life for the past 3 years, I didn't do Pop-Warner, or learn how to jump at an All-Star gym. In fact, the first time I tried out for cheerleading I didn't make the team. My cartwheel was bent, twisted and only 3 inches off the ground, and my jumps looked more like conniptions. I worked extremely hard that following spring and in the Fall I became a flyer for the CRLS Falcons.

Since then I have dedicated my entire time to perfecting myself, and all aspects of my life within cheerleading. Although I am proud of the progress I made, I wonder how I could possibly be better, what steps and actions I need to bring to the table to truly shine on the mat. I would hope that in your following seasons you too challenge yourself, push outside your comforts and reach beyond your full potential.

I will always be a cheerleader, but I will no longer be wearing the colors that have been represented across my chest for 6 seasons, black, silver, and white.

I remember last august when our team was coachless, and my man hunt for someone who would be willing to teach us, educate us, and make us something worth respecting. We are so much more a team now, and when we yell out our colors our fans do too. Honestly, what else could we ask for?

Our season has been far from perfect, but I will never forget it. I will always wear my pink zebra spankies and remember my senior year, my cheerleading team, and my coaches. My hope is that next year, your jumps are a little higher, your toes are slightly more pointed, your stunts are a little stifer and your spirit is larger, I love you. And I will forever be a Pink Zebra.

For India

"Remember, remember. This is now and now and now.

Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware

of all I've taken for granted."

- Sylvia Plath

because for you, the moment is always now and the future is later and consequences only occur if the moment dies out. you are today, never tomorrow, and a forgetten yesterday because happiness is only partial and I wish for it, for you, forever.

Daisy in the Sun

A daisy is only a daisy if its petals are full of life, if the blue color vibrates off the yellow center, or if the orange looks more appetizing than a tangerine. A daisy is tall, and its roots are embedded. Her stems are strong, lean, and mighty. A daisy blossoms in the spring, but is planted in the winter.

From cold nights and fiery frostbite a petal peaks from beneath the brown gravel. Green, vibrant, and cohesive the young, blossoming daisy sprouts from the ground, each day getting taller and taller.

Today you are still growing, tomorrow you will be stronger.

For What I Cannot Verbalize

"Owls, Peacocks, and Hummingbirds"

They fascinate me, and in my deepest thoughts I imagine them sprawling all over me in the form of ink, but I cannot verbalize why. Perhaps because in my deepest sorrows I stayed up late in the night, eyes open wide - while wisdom poured into my thoughts from the overcast of my day. Maybe, because the night time is full of mystery, peace, and depth.

I am an owl.

Representative of beauty, movement, and intrigue. Peacocks are rare, and distinct; beautiful in their own masculinity. And through my femininity I am vulnerable, and appreciative of the colorful array of feathers that blossom from their oddly shaped bodies. Delicate, fragile, while still maintaining strength and dignity.

I am a peacock.

The ability to stand still, while still gracing the air amazes me, awakens my senses. Lacking the ability to fly backwards as I the ability to be in the past, but momentarily they stand still in time, humming, pondering - as I do. Beautiful, deep and full of systematic developments in their evolution, like I was - planned and pre-conceived.
I am a hummingbird.

This, or that.

"People will always judge you by the decisions you make,

not by the process by which you made them."

I read this inside my journal a few nights ago, and I continue to stand by a phrase I wrote when my voice was hidden by my actions, and my values and morals were thrown down an elevator shaft last spring. I was sixteen then, now a whole year older my decisions are still clouded by this stigma.

Hope for Haiti

To live for yourself is to live selfishly, but to live for others is to live eternally. - Wyclef

You do you, cause I damn sure does me.

I find the seperation between ideals and beliefs to be a growing one, one that increases overtime. I find that my ideals, beliefs and values motivate me to look further on than just the moment, and truly inspire me to be much more than the teenager I am today.

I have a curfew, and I respect it. I have parents, and I respect them. Ive made decisions, and I regret them and its why I am not a cliche, a teen searching for my inner rebel. I dont believe fun comes with intoxicated tales of coulda, shoulda, woulda's, or that the fate of my entertainment lies in the heart of my past four years in high school. I dont believe I am for sharing, that giving someone fifteen minutes of satisfaction will truly satisfy my need for excitement on any night, or that guys and girls are meant to zoom by eachother in the halls after an embarrassing decision.

I believe in happiness, in all art forms. In humans big, small, mighty and tall - I believe that satisfaction and joy are only truly accomplished when you yourself are fulfilled. I believe in secrets, mysteries, and folk-tale. Not 'the man and the legend'. I wont find happiness in bottles of rum for fun, and I wont find happinnes in relationships that involve overtime and work.

Happiness is just that, a period in time when all negative emotions dissappear, and blissful thoughts rapture themselves in the crevices of your brain cells. I find happiness in commitment, in secrets, in self-reflection, and random and selective moments of dizzy, spinning, sippin' fun.

I am entitled to believe all that I do, and you, yes, this is for you.

Believe as you do.

Maybe one day

Maybe one day you'll get it.
One day youll see, when the roots so trong get pulled out of your chest so quick you cant catch you last breath. And those roots that seemed so strong seem to dwindle in the light, shriveling, shrinking, dissappearing in sight. Maybe one day you'll get it, the day your internal tempature rises, and your skin keeps swelling and swelling. Maybe one day you'll get it, and I mean completely understand, that these are not obstacles, mountains, or stands. Maybe one day you'll see why my voice rises, and chin crouches, why my throat seems to dry and my feelings seem to linger, maybe one day youll see that really that reflection you see, and the words being projected were a clear reflection of you - yea that's you in the mirror.

You just dont get it, peace.

I like my toast with butter, but I'll take it with cream cheese.
I like my pasta with meatballs, tons and tons of meatballs, but I'll be alright with just two or three. You see, I like my things the way I want, but I'll take them as you please. I dont like the way you walk, but I accept it with ease, the way you talk is foolish and your words are too, but its alright I guess, I mean - if this is how it has to be. Im always the one to settle, and its windled down to three, but really - I just need one, and that one is truly me.

sacred

Though relationships can get old
They have the tendency to grow cold
We have something like miracle
Yeah, and I'll stay with you