(Feeling impatient)

A dis-ease.  

I am a child who cannot seem to stop fretting over her clothes.  It feels a little too tight here, a little itchy there, quite cumbersome over here, and just impossible everywhere else.  No, I am not quite comfortable in this skin.  Whether it is new, or old, I can't really tell.  All I know is that it's incredibly different from what I had gotten used to.  If it is new, then I suppose I just need some time to get used to it.  But if it is old--that is, if it is the same as what I had always had, but had been worn down and soiled by time--then I must believe that a time is coming when I will finally be able to break out of it and revel in the glory of...

In the meantime, I must keep myself from scratching too hard, lest I wound myself.  Time, and the infinite grace of God, shall be my guide.

September Dreams

1. I somehow ended up in the middle of the ocean, with no land in sight. The water was black, the world was a stifling shade of gray, and I was all alone. I found a speckled dolphin (or it found me) and held on to it for dear life. It dove into the deep where the rest of its family was. Part of me prayed that it would surface soon because I wasn’t sure how long I could hold my breath. The rest of me found a strange peace, despite the subsurface gloom. Perhaps it was the way the water muffled the noise of the coming storm. Perhaps it was the presence of a whole pod of carefree dolphins. Perhaps it was the certainty of my salvation.

2. A bareback ride on an Asian elephant in the middle of a flooded rainforest, in South America, soaked, absolutely soaked. Everything was lush and green and deliciously wet. My elephant meandered through the water with its trunk raised up like its snorkel. I sat on its back in silence; the water went up to my knees.

Outlined.

I. I will not fight it.
II. Sifting through a mess of desires.

A. I want...
B. I want...

C. I really want...?

1. I've been given so much.

a. talent
b. skills
c. education
d. resources
e. time and opportunity (and my youth!)

2. They say the biggest problem now is apathy.

3. There is a God-shaped hole in every heart.

D. I want.

III. The academe demands.

A. I should not be in front of the computer right now.
B. Shall I befriend coffee once more?

IV. Nostalgia.

A. ...
B.
C. We grow up so fast. 

V.  Waiting.

A.  I can't remain here.
B.  The temporary lingers.
C.  Clarity creeps in slowly.

 

11.28.08

Perfection proves to be elusive

and so we succumb to you,

oh, happy flaw of humanity

rest in the hands of the Divine.

Pure Wordplay

Hapless lovers breaststroke down life river,

sunlight shivering on our sleeves.

The rediscovered laugh triumphantly,

and eternity begs to begin again.

Dream (March 17)

Please bear with me as I try to describe the music in my dreams with the limited musical vocabulary that I have. :)

I stood in the midst of yellowing, old buildings.  The sky, the trees, everything, gently curled into the horizon, as if everything was set before me through  a fish-eye lens.  I could hear someone playing a cello from inside the third building from me.  The melody rolled out like gentle waves, with a slight staccato every now and then.  It had the faintest hint of playfulness.  But the cello's voice pulled this close to its chest, to hush it into a sweet dissonance.

As I listened to the sound of the cello, I realized that someone in the building near me was playing the violin.  Its music swooped in and out of the cello's embrace, first harmonizing, and then pulling away into its own world again, only to return for a measure or two, before pulling away once more into a separate composition.  But in time, the violin and the cello fell into complete harmony. Each melody, each voice, was distinct.  Neither became the other.  But their every note, and rest, and swell, and breath, fell into place, perfectly.  I couldn't help but wonder how two different instruments, being played by two different people, from within two separate buildings could blend into one beautiful piece.

I became so lost in the music that now I'm not sure when or how, but eventually, the sound of the violin and the cello both came from within one building.  And they were soon joined by more instruments, more voices, more melodies.  Suddenly, I had a saxophone in my hands, and I knew that I was to be a part of it.

Love was her favorite word.

Love was her favorite word, though she wished that it wasn’t. She fancied that it would’ve been much more interesting if she could say that her favorite word was flamboyance, or Reubanesque, or, delicacy. They rolled out so nicely through her teeth and lips. But then, she thought, why not make shabrack her favorite word? It had such a fascinating sound to it! Or how about tripanosome? Or metasequoia? Or, she thought, how impressive she would sound if she could say that she was absolutely in love with the word aschelminth! But, there it was again. That word. Love. That insufferable cliché of a word! A word that she would hear on everyone’s lips, see on almost every book and blog and journal, flashed on every T.V. show, plastered on billboards, etched on study desks and bathroom stalls, preached on the pulpit, and whispered in gossip. LOVE. The word had become commonplace. What was it that drew her to it? A mere syllable comprised of four letters. Love. She said it over and over again, softly, slowly, in an attempt to understand it. Love, love, love… Her mind raced to find an answer. But whenever it felt like an epiphany was nearing, she suddenly found herself back where she began, back to the whispering of the word, in wonder, in utter stillness. Then she realized that perhaps that was where she would like to remain. Still, in waiting, in the anticipation of the revelation of love.

Painting

The paint feels different today.  Gritty, and tired, the smooth blue worn down to pools of resistance.  It is unsettling.  The paintbrush once drank its fill of pthalo blue with ease.  Now it laps it up desperately like an old mop.  And, still, with the grittiness at every stroke.  I wonder if it's my skin that's different?  Am I the one who's been worn down?  No, of course not.  Never.  It is the paint, it is the paintbrush, it is the water, it is the day, it is many things.  I cope with it, I continue to paint, and I relish the taste of exotic chocolate in my breath.

Clueless.

I believe I am now in the middle of something good. At least, something that will lead me to something very good. But as of the moment, I am now in the process of... getting there, where I want to be, wherever that is, because, honestly, I'm not all that sure about what I really, really, really, specifically want right now. In fact, I'm not really sure about a lot of things. But, strangely, it feels very good to not know. I just know good things are coming. I just know it. I mean, they have to, right?

At least I know what I need to do right now. Sort of. Haha.

But I just can't help but wonder when something really beautiful will happen to me. The Happily Ever After sort of thing. 

Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe I just need a break. Maybe I need to go to the beach, and soak myself in seawater, and get a tan. The sort that makes me look radiant, according to my classmate.

Maybe one day life's going to be simple. Maybe that's what I really want.

But what would it mean to have a simple life anyway?

In Art School

We were told to squint our eyes.  

Squint, to wipe away those minute details that take our attention away from the general picture.  Squint, to forget, for one moment, the intricate parts of the composition.  Squint, and take a few steps back, while you're at it.  How does the picture look, washed of all embellishments?  Squint harder.  Look at the shapes, look at the values, look at the form in its entirety.  In what direction do your eyes travel?  Do they move in straight lines?  In curves?  In circles?  Do they dance about? Can you hear the music?  No? Ah, there is silence.  There is stillness.  There is potential.  Squint harder.  See how the picture shivers?  It struggles to remain as it is.  Squint harder, squint harder.  Until it disappears altogether.  Keep your eyes closed, and wait for an image to burn through the heavy curtains.

The first entry.

I wonder if it's true that the first defines the rest.  That the beginning foreshadows the middle and end--if there is an end!  If it's true, then this is one very important entry.  But why should this one entry carry such a heavy burden?  Is this first entry really responsible for the state of the rest of this blog?  

Maybe not.

I'd like to think that no matter what the first is like, one can always choose to progress, and progress, and progress.  Until, one day, we look back, back to the very first, and think I can't believe that was me.