when i miss you at night, between the ticks and tocks
i pretend i'm a house.
i feel my floor, made of wood and salt
i nudge my nooks and my corners into place
but i stay away from my ceiling,
i'm afraid of heights you see.
i worry over the furniture you've brought in, it's too heavy and your bed presses down especially hard.
my floor groans under the weight but i'll manage,
more worrying is the cat you've brought in.
i can't stand those things and look, your cat's stirred up my allergies.
my wallpaper's turned out spots and bumps
but i won't complain. i'd much rather you stay with your blasted cat then run away again.
i like myself as a house and wish you would stay.
but the cat's scratched my wallpaper and i'm bleeding out onto my floor, made of wood and salt.
Tuesday
Friday
the rib that adam ate
the smell of coffee lingers here
milk curdling in my throat
i swallow your mouth and pray your teeth won't bite on the way home
it really is too bad my dear, my indecision got the best of me
the door was there and i was leaving
but you talked as if you had all day, and i didn't have all day
i can only allow so much you know
so i plucked your head and coaxed it whole
i'm afraid your ears have gone down my trachea,
and your lips sit warm against my ribs
milk curdling in my throat
i swallow your mouth and pray your teeth won't bite on the way home
it really is too bad my dear, my indecision got the best of me
the door was there and i was leaving
but you talked as if you had all day, and i didn't have all day
i can only allow so much you know
so i plucked your head and coaxed it whole
i'm afraid your ears have gone down my trachea,
and your lips sit warm against my ribs
Tuesday
2011/1/18
Well, isn't this just exquisite? I've been reading through some older work of mine and I've come to an icky conclusion: I play favorites.
Yes, mine reader, it's true. I play favorites with words, terms, vocabulary, what have you. As a writerwannabe, I am dejected and debased by this revelation of relatively big parts. Like any graduate of classical American education, I've been through the ritualistic horrors of second grade spelling tests; then, why, why, I ask forlornly, haven't obscurer and dandier words lodged in my bits of grey cloud matter?
I mean, really, I am dreadfully afraid of a situation in which Milo is finally finished and printed into a million little clones of herself, but alas, I open the first page and realize with mounting panic I'd used "irrevocably" twice. On the dedication page alone.
Irrevocably, I will assuredly, most certainly need to stay away from my pet foibles. My house-trained peccadilloes, if you will. But recurring night terrors aside, I have lately incurred great pleasure in dissecting synonyms and their degree of relation to each other. For instance, dread and terror. Each is a synonym to the other, but whilst dread sulks and stalks the dark cavities of one's neuroses, terror is white noise spilling out from every sweat-choked pore, with nowhere to hide and nowhere to run.
Grievously, whenever I try to impart my little terminological results to my young cousins, they pooh at it and make nasty, disparaging remarks. Perhaps, instead of symmetry, metonymy will alter their opinions and open up their flea-ridden minds to the wonders of the Bard's rose-sweet language.
Or I could just shove their faces full of grammar worksheets.
On that note, some fun facts from dictionary.com:
Noun: Irrevocability, Irrevocableness
Adjective: Irrevocable
Adverb: Irrevocably
Indubitably.
Yes, mine reader, it's true. I play favorites with words, terms, vocabulary, what have you. As a writerwannabe, I am dejected and debased by this revelation of relatively big parts. Like any graduate of classical American education, I've been through the ritualistic horrors of second grade spelling tests; then, why, why, I ask forlornly, haven't obscurer and dandier words lodged in my bits of grey cloud matter?
I mean, really, I am dreadfully afraid of a situation in which Milo is finally finished and printed into a million little clones of herself, but alas, I open the first page and realize with mounting panic I'd used "irrevocably" twice. On the dedication page alone.
Irrevocably, I will assuredly, most certainly need to stay away from my pet foibles. My house-trained peccadilloes, if you will. But recurring night terrors aside, I have lately incurred great pleasure in dissecting synonyms and their degree of relation to each other. For instance, dread and terror. Each is a synonym to the other, but whilst dread sulks and stalks the dark cavities of one's neuroses, terror is white noise spilling out from every sweat-choked pore, with nowhere to hide and nowhere to run.
Grievously, whenever I try to impart my little terminological results to my young cousins, they pooh at it and make nasty, disparaging remarks. Perhaps, instead of symmetry, metonymy will alter their opinions and open up their flea-ridden minds to the wonders of the Bard's rose-sweet language.
Or I could just shove their faces full of grammar worksheets.
On that note, some fun facts from dictionary.com:
Noun: Irrevocability, Irrevocableness
Adjective: Irrevocable
Adverb: Irrevocably
Indubitably.
Thursday
2011/1/6
It's an interesting process the writer goes through when she is trying to create her villain, her antithesis, her baddie.
Should the baddie be completely bad, irrevocably so? Is the baddie so far gone off the dark end that sending a pet snake to do his nefarious deeds is only to be expected and tearing his soul apart into seven parts just so he can feel a little safer in his own skin is the icing on a marked down Christmas cake?
Is the baddie remorseful? Does his metaphorical heart grow thrice its size in response to the faint carols of the Who village? Were the real reasons for his night villainy, perhaps, loneliness and self-loathing rather than a true rejection of classic holiday binging?
Or is she a tortured baddie, the haunted rather than the haunter? Does she set out to destroy the one person she loves above all the rest and in doing so, destroys herself instead?
I love other people's baddies, I do. They are so deliciously twisted and messy; I can only hope my very own baddie lives up to her villainous creed and persecutes the goodies vigorously.
Should the baddie be completely bad, irrevocably so? Is the baddie so far gone off the dark end that sending a pet snake to do his nefarious deeds is only to be expected and tearing his soul apart into seven parts just so he can feel a little safer in his own skin is the icing on a marked down Christmas cake?
Is the baddie remorseful? Does his metaphorical heart grow thrice its size in response to the faint carols of the Who village? Were the real reasons for his night villainy, perhaps, loneliness and self-loathing rather than a true rejection of classic holiday binging?
Or is she a tortured baddie, the haunted rather than the haunter? Does she set out to destroy the one person she loves above all the rest and in doing so, destroys herself instead?
I love other people's baddies, I do. They are so deliciously twisted and messy; I can only hope my very own baddie lives up to her villainous creed and persecutes the goodies vigorously.
Sunday
2010/12/13
It's 4:30pm on Monday, and I have not eaten yet today. I'm not sure if this is part of the diet or if I'm just truly, irrevocably lazy.
Milo is moving along at a steady pace. If by steady pace, I mean I erased most of what took me five months to write and decided to put in a totally new character who isn't fleshed out at all and is also going to add on another year of anguish and writer's block, then yes, Milo is a marathon runner in the last stretch.
So a friend of mine introduced me to a blog that shall remain forever nameless because of its pure awesomeness. It depressed the shit out of me and I bemoaned my stupidity and general lack of imagination for a while until I realized something.
The author of that blog is 24. I'm 23. I can so totally conquer him after I turn 24. Because everyone knows people grow older and wiser through the pure magic and sugar-candied loveliness that is a birthday. That is why we blow out birthday candles. You know how we breathe in oxygen and breathe out toxic, horrible carbon dioxide? Well, we're carbon dioxidizing our birthday wish when we blow out candles. Thereby, making it woozy and unable to think rationally. That's when we grab it by the throat and make the wish come true, with the help of rainbows and Crayola products.
And my birthday's coming up. Yes, prepare to be amazed, oh blogging world. When I turn 24, I will instantly be revamped into a cooler, wittier, much more prepared and diligent version of myself. Version 2.4.2011.
I'm going to blow on those candles until I faceplant on my cake.
Milo is moving along at a steady pace. If by steady pace, I mean I erased most of what took me five months to write and decided to put in a totally new character who isn't fleshed out at all and is also going to add on another year of anguish and writer's block, then yes, Milo is a marathon runner in the last stretch.
So a friend of mine introduced me to a blog that shall remain forever nameless because of its pure awesomeness. It depressed the shit out of me and I bemoaned my stupidity and general lack of imagination for a while until I realized something.
The author of that blog is 24. I'm 23. I can so totally conquer him after I turn 24. Because everyone knows people grow older and wiser through the pure magic and sugar-candied loveliness that is a birthday. That is why we blow out birthday candles. You know how we breathe in oxygen and breathe out toxic, horrible carbon dioxide? Well, we're carbon dioxidizing our birthday wish when we blow out candles. Thereby, making it woozy and unable to think rationally. That's when we grab it by the throat and make the wish come true, with the help of rainbows and Crayola products.
And my birthday's coming up. Yes, prepare to be amazed, oh blogging world. When I turn 24, I will instantly be revamped into a cooler, wittier, much more prepared and diligent version of myself. Version 2.4.2011.
I'm going to blow on those candles until I faceplant on my cake.
Thursday
2010/11/18
Quick update on my self-inflicted diet (since it's affecting my writing):
My aunt brought home delicious, delicious dduk and chicken. As a result, Milo is facing down a large slab of meat in her dream.
I'm thinking of leaving in this salivating brilliance.
My aunt brought home delicious, delicious dduk and chicken. As a result, Milo is facing down a large slab of meat in her dream.
I'm thinking of leaving in this salivating brilliance.
Wednesday
2010/11/18
Woke up way too early today to get the tutoring out of the way. Had breakfast, lunch and am now ready to start writing again. I'm trying to make this a continuous process, so that as I go further into my novel, I won't have to drag myself to the computer to write on a day-to-day basis.
Had an epiphany yesterday. Torpid development of self as writer led to this, a definitive moment for me as an wannabe novelist.
I am a belated perfectionist. I want my writing, my pace, my story to be perfect, but I don't struggle towards this perfectionism until it is almost too late. But I think I have the pattern down now. Basically, chug out a massive mess of letters, move around huge chunks of it for eight hours and two days later, realize it's not worth scraping off of the bottom of your shoe. Or anyone's shoe.
I'm so proud.
Had an epiphany yesterday. Torpid development of self as writer led to this, a definitive moment for me as an wannabe novelist.
I am a belated perfectionist. I want my writing, my pace, my story to be perfect, but I don't struggle towards this perfectionism until it is almost too late. But I think I have the pattern down now. Basically, chug out a massive mess of letters, move around huge chunks of it for eight hours and two days later, realize it's not worth scraping off of the bottom of your shoe. Or anyone's shoe.
I'm so proud.
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