Maybe I should just let it be, and maybe it will all come back to me.

O January, O. I think at least once a year this happens to me. At least. Usually more than once.

I want to talk to you since I don't think you'll read this anyway. Even if you do, you won't know it's you. You'd have no idea. Why would you?

I want to tell you how I feel without really telling you. It's something I've always wanted to be able to do - tell people things without them knowing. There is a sort of fundamental need inside of me to impart thoughts on other people that only exist in my own brain. I want to be able to think so hard that it gives the subjects of my thoughts some thin fog that floats around their heads and lets them have some smaller version of what I feel.

I want it especially in this situation. For a few years I have had an idea, or maybe I should call it a feeling, that has popped into my head, but I have been unable to tell you. In fact, I've never even mentioned it. I wish now that I had but to mention it now would really do me no good.

Sometimes I think that our meetings in my dreams are real, like maybe sharing dreams is a reality and not just something in a movie. What a dumb idea, right? That eventually fades, the longer I'm awake, and I know I'm stuck with this dilemma. It's an unsettled kind of feeling that sits, dormant, until another dream, or another remark you might make to me, or not to me - maybe it's just a remark.

If something lasts for this long, maybe it's real. Or maybe I just need to get over it. I don't mean to romanticize anything. If I shared the true meaning behind my words, I think you'd call me crazy or stupid, or childish. It's a fairy-tale sort of mentality that I'm chasing, and that never seems to work out for anyone outside of fairy-tales. Cliché much? Obviously. That's what I secretly am.

Here, I've stayed up way too late rambling about nothing.

Maybe I'll see you tonight in my sleep and I can finally get some things off my chest. That's never what happens, though.

Whoever you are reading this, it's not what you think. I know what I've written may sound like something that it's not, but it isn't.

Look how cryptic and childish I am. I just might be the next Taylor Swift!

Hey, you. I love you. All of you. Really. And maybe sleep will help me fix my brain. Goodnight.

END.

See, of everyone who called, very few said, "We believe in you." The overwhelming choice said I'm just a boy inside a voice.

See, I made it out, out from under the sun.
And the truth is that I feel better because I've forgiven everyone!

The problem with me is that I forget how much love there is in the world. I forget that I don't HAVE to withhold love from everyone whether I feel like withholding it from them, whether they're willing to receive it, whether they even like me.

I think I have been living my life in such a way that I give each individual person their own value, and I distribute love like it's a big pot of food and there is only enough to keep a few people alive - here I am, choosing which ones are the most valuable.

They are all valuable! What have I been doing? I have been depriving people of something that each person deserves. What has withholding love ever done for anyone? It has produced hate and anxiety and contempt and self-loathing and fear, man, just the FEAR it has created alone is so destructive! Nothing bad has ever been a product of pure, unselfish love, and each of us is so, so guilty of distributing love conservatively.

I spend so much of my time thinking about me. I am about to try redirecting that time to other people.

We'll see what happens. If I succeed, something good. If I fail, I'll try again. That's how failure works, right? Usually I just give up.



I have oceans of love, for everyone. I need reminders sometimes.



Now I'M NOT SCARED!

So come on with me - sing along with me!
Let the wind catch your feet!
If you love somebody, you'd better let them know.

END.

Gather my insufficiencies and place them in Your hands.

I need to cling to words like this. I am so weak that I find myself collapsing under any kind of pressure. It's not even the kind of pressure that weighs heavily on your chest - this is the kind of non-threatening pressure that makes your ears pop when you go to the bottom of the diving well. It's easy to giggle and just dry your hair off once you hop out of the pool, but not if you are afraid of the water.

I am afraid of the water, so to speak. I apologize for the truly abysmal metaphor, but it's the best that I can muster right now. Maybe I should have just stayed literal.

I found myself this past fall, beneath all the fear, the anxiety, and beneath the pressure, however big or small. I learned what it meant to die and to be reborn, and I vowed that I would be a positive influence on others, that I would act like I loved everyone even when I felt like punching them in the mouth, that I would (as stated in the "religious views" on my facebook) "Do everything in love."

In a previous post, I mentioned that being reborn is so much harder than it sounds. When you are born you have to learn everything, but you don't realize it because everything is new and exciting. Sometimes learning is hard, but you grow and you develop habits, you refine your own personality based on how others treat you, what you think of yourself, how you treat others. Then you want to change yourself from head to toe, wishing you had behaved differently from the first person you met to the last.

But old habits die so hard. They really do. It's easy to endure the pressure when there is no pressure.

The last week or so has been a serious challenge for me. Student teaching is something I am not enjoying - I'm not looking forward to any aspect of it and it has already torn me apart. I have slipped back into some bad habits and I need to fight them off a lot more. I have also realized that stumbling blocks can sometimes be avoided. If God does not seem to be speaking through me, if I don't understand enough to act and talk in a way that comes across as humble and loving, then I have absolutely no right to call myself a Christ-follower with that attitude - I refuse to misrepresent God in the way that I talk about Him.

It hit me kind of hard a few days ago when I found it impossible to refrain from reacting instantly to my anger at a ridiculous facebook argument that helped no one. Another problem with this other than the obvious ones? I still feel somewhat justified in how I responded. I need to beat out this mentality.

I feel like God is really trying to teach me something here. He allowed me a fairly easy, pampered semester off, and now it's time to apply what I learned.

I'm just really bad at doing that.

I have to do better. The first step is to stop thinking about myself all the time. I had gotten out of the habit of doing that as much as I used to, but it is now coming back with a vengeance.

I felt the need to purge a little bit on here. This is probably completely disjointed, but it is late at night and I care very little and will probably not even edit.

I just needed a reality check. And tomorrow I must force myself to be the person I want to be for God's glory, rather than the person I have become.

Step 1: concern myself with God and with others - stop making my own feelings the priority.

Wish me luck.

END.

Here today...

I became frightened tonight of how distinctly I still see the memory of that sickly, fragile person I used to be and how often I seem to forget about her completely.

It is good to be reminded of where I used to be.

She comes back occasionally. I hate her - really - and I hated her back when I was trapped inside of her. At the time, it just felt like me, though. It felt like I was genuinely that rotten, all the way through.

Is this confusing? Allow me to explain.

The thought of how destructive I was feels like a puncture wound. It is something I need, though, to understand how profoundly God has worked in me and how tragic my life would now be if I had decided to go the other way.

I listened to "Waltz #2" by Elliott Smith a few times tonight. (HERE it is - so raw and so hollow). It was a song Jackie was really into at the time and I think she and I listened to it on repeat for literally about a week non-stop. It's so good.

But it took on a new meaning to me tonight as I listened to it, just as it once took on another meaning, back when I was that other girl.

Months ago I listened to this song - I used it as a potent drug to numb my pain, to think, "Thank God there is at least someone who knows how to say what I feel."

The lines in the song with which I most strongly identified:

I'm so glad that my memory's remote,
'cause I'm doing just fine hour to hour, note to note.
Here it is - the revenge to the tune:
You're no good.
You're no good, you're no good, you're no good.
Can't you tell that it's well understood?

and

Here today,
expected to stay,
on, and on, and on.
I'm tired.

I'm tired.


I found myself thinking, "This is what it feels like."
The revenge to the tune - push the thoughts from your mind, hide the memories from your mind's eye, and your self-deprecation comes back even stronger when you slip up - "You're no good, you're no good, you're no good."

Like a mantra.

I felt that someone was forcing me to be alive - like there was nothing good about it - "Here today, expected to stay" - and it seemed like it would go "on, and on, and on."

I was tired.


Months ago, this is the person I was. My only solace was to curl up in a song like this and allow myself to be ripped apart by the relentless words that spoke to me as if from my own mind. My cousin, who is very insightful, identifies this kind of so-called "solace" more accurately as "emotional cutting" - intentionally inflicting pain on oneself in an attempt to get away from the more intense pain.


Tonight, I listened to this song and remembered my feelings about it from months ago. It scared me. I had very narrowly dodged a bullet.

I would like to remind everyone that Elliott Smith, while a brilliant musician and lyricist, suffered from severe depression, was a drug addict, and made multiple suicide attempts before finally succeeding and ending his life.

The idea that I ever identified so, so strongly with what were words likely influenced by thoughts of suicide frightened me terribly when I listened to this song again tonight.

Could I have gone down that same road?

I am not saying I was ever depressed enough that I considered suicide. I would never lie about something that serious - I did not consider it.

But the idea does still linger - if I had not finally turned to God and the church for help, would I be closer to considering it?

I think it is important for me to think about these things. Dwelling on them does no good, but I do believe that God rescued me from something absolutely horrific.

I am not writing this post to be depressing. I am writing this to be real and to share what I truly believe was the most important turning point in my life thus far, and I want to attribute it to God. It is all Him - everything is.

I am still trying to figure out where the turning point was, exactly. Maybe it is not God's intention to jog my memory on that anytime soon. It felt like an instant transformation at the time, but I know now that I am still being reborn, that I am still such an infant spiritually. I expect to be an infant until the day that I die, and I'm okay with that.

I hope I can write more about this later, and in a more organized fashion. I hope nobody took this to be a sob story - I just want to recognize how polluted everything about my life was before God and how beautiful and heart-breaking everything is now that He is a part of it.

He was always a part of it, really. It just took me a while to see that.

END.

My first breaths.

Sometimes you are struck so squarely in the face with God that you look at the people around you and wonder how they could possibly be so calm. Maybe they are like you and are struck by Him, too, and they just feel silly laughing out loud or dancing or crying for joy. But mostly they just seem stoic.

I wish I could be like David and dance without fear of ridicule. Anyone who does not dance in public shows the true signs of lunacy - how can one sit still and stare blankly when God is everywhere? Can any person sit idly by while Christ beckons for us to walk with Him through the Gardens of our lives, while he so patiently and lovingly teaches us children about what it truly means to love?

I tend to ignore his pleas for me to follow him, but every once in a while something will remind me to avert my gaze from the stains of the blood on my hands. I scrub and scrub but all I get is more blood.

And, when I finally raise my eyes to look anywhere but the sick tragedy of my own sin, the disgusting hatred I have in my heart for this world and its prisoners, the intense fear that God will see my nakedness if I come out of hiding, what do I see?

I see His arms stretched out in earnest, and He smiles at me.

"I have been waiting for you for such a long time," He says, "and I know you will leave me soon because it is in your nature to seek happiness where you cannot find it. But please, stay with me as long as your fleeting heart will allow, and maybe you will remember the shelter of my love when this world has finally defeated you again, and maybe you will lift your eyes from these terrible stains to find me. Do you see? I have washed them away already - your hands are as an infant's, and your soul is perfect again.

"My beautiful daughter, know that I will never stop being sad when you refuse my love and that I will always hold out hope that one day you will come home to stay. But for now, take the time to see me in the eyes of each person you meet, regardless of what they have done and how they treat you, and remember the depth of my love as you listen for my voice in each and every moment of your life."

And for that brief window of time, my soul cries out to be undignified like the humble king of Israel, to shout out in triumph over a mundane existence that is more like a nightmare than reality, to jump and dance and sing in public in front of judgmental stares, humiliated in my own eyes.

But mostly I am just stoic; I have figured out that stoicism is a desperate attempt made by the human condition to repair the fragments of humility that come from being vulnerable and naked in front of other people whose humility has also been shattered. We are never unfeeling - we are only ever hardened, and underneath there is a jubilant soul coated with the thick shell of pride, or there is a weeping child beneath the toughened skin of a hurt and angry grown-up.

God can soften any tough exterior and wipe away the tears of the child beneath, and he can shatter pride with a quiet little prayer if you let him, and he will rejoice in you and bless the jubilant soul that has been hidden for years.

It is strange the way God reaches us. For me, it was something so unexpected but so obvious it seems silly to never have noticed it. I am so fortunate to have people planted in the soil of the Garden of my life. But He does not just plant daisies, or roses, or even orchids. God plants flowers so exotic and colorful that they sparkle like jewels in His light. They give life to my Garden and they encourage me to keep the soil clean and fertile.

My friend Carter is one among many of these flowers. He reminded me of my good fortune last night at a concert in which he performed. I talked with J about how when he first started performing he seemed sort of reserved about it and not really all that sure of himself - even though he has always been an unbelievable musician - and how he now seems so comfortable onstage sharing his music. It struck me what an honor it has been to sort of see him grow from one great thing to the next.

It's sort of like, if you shake his hand, you expect to come away with your fingers coated in a thick layer of paint the color of rainbows (I think that's what concentrated creativity looks like, anyway: rainbow-colored paint). What a joyful reminder God granted me last night in the form of my friend's music!

We are all vessels for His glory, even when we might feel that we are just playing a concert at a hazy venue in Lynchburg for the pure joy of making music.
Even when we are in an unwelcoming town with nowhere more dignified to sleep than a stable.
Even when we feel that we might just be stuck in a boat catching fish to make a living.
Even when we are dancing in the street and being laughed at by others.

My first breaths make me wonder why my lungs have been here for the last twenty-two years and then I am reminded that I have always been a vessel.

I exist as proof that being reborn is possible.

"I will celebrate before the Lord. I will become even more undignified than this, and I will be humiliated in my own eyes." Samuel 6:21-22

END.

The kingdom of the heavens is buried treasure. Will you sell yourself to buy the one you've found?

My last post still stands. Please don't think I don't feel joyful in God's promise of eternal life - who wouldn't be psyched about eternal life? But I'm realizing that being reborn is harder than it sounds. You have to relearn EVERYTHING, and you have to learn to break habits that you've had for years, and think a different way.

I have problems with depression. I have had these problems since my senior year of high school and I've had problems with intense insecurity for years before that. Recently, I've decided that I can change this by thinking a different way and by fighting off any negative idea that passes through my brain.

Guess what? That doesn't work! Turns out, depression is one of those things that can tap quietly at a spot in your brain until it slowly but surely creates a bruise as big as your fist. At first the tapping seems innocent and you can swat it away or ignore it by acting happy and using a bunch of cliches, but eventually, it will hit you again.

It will come back, probably when you're tired, probably when you've been put under a lot of stress, probably when you've spent a lot of time by yourself... I'm basing this on what has been going down in my life recently. Nothing is terribly wrong, but sometimes I start to doubt things (me stuff, life stuff, school stuff, work stuff, boy stuff - not so much God stuff).

The most depressing and discouraging part about it is when you know you've done everything you know how to do to prevent it and it still consumes you - you find yourself dissolving into tears and wondering why. You've warded off the bared, yellowish teeth of this terrible monster for weeks now - even though at times you could feel his breath hot against your face, his jaws so close your hair blows back when he exhales, and all the while you must endure the stench of his previous victims, the growl deep in his empty stomach so low and terrifying you could have sworn he had already swallowed you whole. Even through all that, you were able to at least keep him at arms length. Then, just when you think the coast is clear and you can relax, you fall asleep, weary from holding up high your shield of optimism and positive energy, you find that the monster has merely sneaked up behind you instead of approaching you from the front. Suddenly you find yourself being chewed up to pieces, and you can feel each of his jagged, yellow teeth penetrate your skin.

You realize sadly as you are being digested that your preparation, your training, your suit of armor and shield, and your resolve made of steel was all for naught. You worked that hard and fought off the monster for that long simply to be eaten anyway. Two steps forward, two steps back.

The one step I have taken since my last bout of depression has been my reliance on God, fake as it may feel sometimes. I have spent the afternoon praying bitterly or hopelessly, rather than faithfully and joyfully, but I have still prayed. This is a step for me. I still feel a lump of guilt in my throat each time I say "amen." But I did not pray before the last few weeks. I barely called myself a Christian. Now I timidly push back at the enemy and hide my face in fear, hoping he didn't see me, but it is still an improvement over being curled up in the fetal position and quivering with abject terror at every new day. That is how I see myself when I look back to a couple months ago.

It's funny how, even when I feel that I have sunk the lowest I have in a while, I still have countless blessings, and I have progressed such an enormous amount from where I once was.

Writing this post has been liberating and it has reinforced my faith in God. It's strange how your thoughts sometimes seem a lot clearer when you stop thinking and just let your fingers talk.

END.

My before and after.

I wrote this in August and didn't have the guts to share it until now:

"2:00 am and suddenly something inside me stirs to write this, my head opening up a long-forgotten faucet of strange metaphors and clumsy creativity. I have missed this tired, unsettled feeling that leads me so readily from one paragraph to the next.

I write this as a kind of testimony. To what? I'm not sure yet. Maybe to depression or anxiety or insecurity, maybe to sadness, or brokenness, or that feeling of being forgotten. I hope that one day I can say it is a testimony to happiness; not the superficial happiness that reads across my face every time I hear a great song or laugh until I cry, but the kind of joy that has been tucked away in some undiscovered memory, or folded into a page of my Bible. Maybe it's still sitting in the brain of someone I haven't met yet, bubbling like a stew. I am scrawny and starving as the chef looks back at me, unsympathetically - "Just another five years and it'll be ready!"

What I really think this might be is just an excuse to write, something my own stupid thoughts have prevented for what feels like years now.

I think I want to start with the past two years. They loom over me every day and I fight them off like a dying animal might fight off flies or vultures. I've felt that way before - like a raccoon, riddled with fleas, lying on the side of the road and hopelessly swatting at the flies, knowing the whole time that I should just give in and willingly provide a home to some hungry maggots. I should have seen that truck barreling down the highway, and it was my own fault for stepping out into the asphalt in the first place. Even if the driver was asleep at the wheel, even if he had time to slow down, even if it wasn't really my fault, it was. Always.

I guess that sums it up, really. But I will try to explain, and more specifically and concisely this time.

My life at school has been a tragedy in my eyes ever since I started feeling a little off occasionally when i was alone at night. I was so ready to be of interest to someone that perhaps I gave in to the immediate drama of depression. It consumed me, and I let it consume me, more and more like a drug every day. I was suddenly very fascinating and dramatic, and so very "realistic" about things. (That was, and still is sometimes, my way of putting a happy face on the word "negative.") I was secretly a mess and that made me more interesting in my mind.

For as insecure as I became, I sure thought very little of others. The word "cliche" was bitter in my mouth, and anything it touched was bitter, too. It never occurred to me that being so very, very pretentious could lead to isolation, to fear, to anxiety, to an even deeper, more dangerous state of depression.

I did have one skill that, to this very day, has remained the fuel to my fire, the reason I can go on living that second life of mine - the one of the dramatic, tortured soul (who never really had anything to cry about) - I hide it. Unless you lived with me, you'd never know. And even then, I dare you to pry the whole story out of me.

Today, I have my symptoms rehearsed, fully without shame for the common affliction: depression, anxiety, insecurity, whatever this monster is (all of the above?). I can calmly have a conversation with someone else, my face showing only a confident, rational person. Sometimes I wonder if people think I do it for attention. There was a time that I might have blatantly done things to get attention, but I wouldn't have done that. Never that. And those days, I guess, are gone now, like I hope these days soon will be.

It might be wrong to wish that time would pass more quickly, but I have lived for several years now with the weight of this terror tied to my waist, struggling to go to work and socialize, to get up on stage and pretend to be confident, to get through one date without becoming accusatory, defensive, pouty or weepy. That weight killed me. I still don't know where it came from, but there it sat, like a hundred faceless shadows keeping their hollow eyes fixated on my brain, waiting for me to think the wrong thing so they could attack.

They wear so many different faces, those shadows, and they slip in and out of my life without warning. Sometimes I see the faces of professors - not the kind ones who encourage me and make me laugh, but the ones who take off points on papers to make me think I need improving, the ones who blatantly refuse to teach you when all you want to do is learn, the ones who take themselves so seriously that every living creature is beneath them - those professors.

Sometimes I see the faces of my friends, people I love, people I hate, people I don't even know - faces of people who are prettier than me, taller than me, shorter, smarter, more popular, more likable, less ignorant, more talented, more focused, more successful; people who are .BETTER. than me.

Sometimes I see the faces of boys from my past, some of them too wrapped up in themselves to know what real love is supposed to feel like, some looking for something else, but never willing to tell that to my face, some who threw away a perfectly good friendship without even giving it a chance, some who took my first true, beautiful experience with comfort and love and destroyed it for no reason, laughing at me so hard, it seemed, that I still blush with fury, with sadness, with utter shame and brokenness and embarrassment, every single time I think about it to this day, and some - perhaps my deepest point of shame - who I dumped on and left behind without consideration for how anyone else might feel, because I was too naive and selfish to know a good thing when I had it.

Sometimes I see the faces of faith - my own perfect image of God and my inability to satisfy Him with anything that I do, the face of a disappointed Caucasian Jesus Christ, a ridiculous picture driven so far into my brain that it has yet to come out, the face of my own certainty that my years in youth group were spent being committed more to music about God and Godless social endeavors than God Himself, the face of organized religion, angering, terrifying sometimes, but more often than not filled with love and sincerity in its desire to TRULY promote Christianity - to live life like Christ - and my inability to warm up to any of it.

But always, always, I see my own face, constantly changing from sad, to stupid, to broken, to worthless, to annoying, to frustrating, to mean, to irate for no reason, to sobbing absolutely uncontrollably, hysterically, and finally submissive, hopeless, beaten, defeated.

These days, I look into my own face and I see behind traces of fear and doubt defiance, hope, and courage.

Hope has worked at me like a virus for so long, like a parasite that squirms through my organs. It's something my brain tells my body to kill on sight - dangerous and unrealistic. I have come to realize now that my brain is wrong: full of lies - FULL of lies, barely a single truth left. I have to let the parasite grow bigger before I realize it is not a parasite at all...

I don't know how this story ends, and I am not sure why I wrote it down. This is a much messier and a much more pointless testimony than what I intended, and it is certainly far less literal than what I meant to write.

I apologize for the brain clutter that is written above. It has gaps and detours that I might one day be able to mend, but not right now. It all feels too unorganized anyway.

If anyone actually read this and got through it, I guess I should say "thank you." It's not like this really served much of a purpose. But, if nothing else, I wrote something, and that hasn't happened for a long time."



I read this now and wonder who I was. I don't know when it happened, but sometime between the beginning of September and tonight, I decided to be happy. I wish I could pinpoint the exact moment, but I don't know that I can. All I know is this: God took me out of the barren place and brought me to the place of peace, even while I am crippled. That statement can be explained here: http://www.hispcc.com/audioFiles/2010_08_29.mp3

I can attribute my struggle with depression - and yes, I consider it a struggle now, although I would have considered it that before (and I would have been wrong). What I experience in the past was not a struggle. In order for there to have been a struggle, I would have had to fight it. Instead, it just happened to me and I accepted it.

Somehow, at some point, God gave me the strength and the desire to fight back, and He has given me so much joy in my life that depression now has to fight its way in. My general attitude about life has changed, and I am beginning to see God's hand in each person I see - my love for my friends has grown, and people that I "didn't like" before are now people to whom I only want to be closer.

I still have so many things weighing me down - so many lies that pop up in my head on a daily basis that threaten to make everything collapse. But God has also given me people I love that surround me and remind me that my happiness is worth fighting for, that perhaps this terrible weight in my stomach is just another lie, or another unresolved conflict my brain has somehow created, chemically or otherwise. And, slowly but surely, each and every person around me, regardless of where I am, is someone I love, someone God loves and whose quirks that I ordinarily would have viewed as annoying or frustrating are now things that make them completely unique and lovable.

It is strange how intensely beautiful everything is when you look at it through the eyes of someone who knows God for what seems like the first time.

I feel like a child again. It would take me hours to write out all the things that have changed in me, but they are all worth mentioning at some point.

Right now, though, my brain is a little exhausted. I feel strange leaving this where it is because I just dropped such a bomb in what I wrote up there back in August. But truly, I feel like a different person.

And now I know to what I was writing that unfinished testimony - it was to happiness, yes, but more importantly, it was to the insurmountable joy found only in the love of God and in the joy of living for Him and understanding that His purpose for you is to be happy and so on and so forth. I really could go on for quite a while.

END.

I'm writing the folks back home to tell them, "Hey, I'm doing all right." Yeah, I'm doing just fine.

Occasionally I will sit and stare for so long that my brain becomes like syrup. Every thought that enters my head begins to drip with richness and meaning, even if it's "I wonder if it will storm tonight?" Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Without a doubt, though, when my thoughts become sticky, sweet, and heavy, they ooze slowly back into the nooks of creativity (somewhere they are usually too rigid and regimented to go) and grasp onto the one remaining outlet for writing: this blog, lonely and abandoned as ever.

The sad part is this: I have so many words but so little inspiration. Story of my life.

Those two paragraphs up there are all I have. I need to do things in my life in order to have any remote form of inspiration.

The bad thing about syrup is that you can't have too much of it or else you get sick.

Sleep takes over at this point.

END.

I'm gettin' bugged drivin' up and down the same old strip. I got a funny new place where the kids are hip.

Work makes me tired.

I have no time to write because my body goes, "NO, Allyson! Bedtime! Now!" every time I think to come here.

I write best when I am tired. Fatigue is my muse.

It's time to sleep. Good night, muse. Maybe I'll be able to spend more time with you tomorrow.

END.

You're addin' all the right colors every day, and you take the grey away.

I want to post this song, but I can't find it anywhere online - they're a pretty obscure band.

I am so happy right now!

"Things are out of line,
but it's not as bad as you think.
Just a temporary mess,
like the dishes in our kitchen sink.

Oh, I know I can be strange,
but everything's all right,
'cause I'm sleeping next to you
come the night.

You're adding all the right colors every day,
and you take the grey away.

You got that sunny sense of humor
to keep me from getting down.
You are music personified
when everyone else is just sound.

Oh, I know I can be strange
but everything's all right,
'cause I'm sleeping next to you
come the night.

You're adding all the right colors every day,
and you take the grey away."
- David Shultz and the Skyline -

You know it's useless to pretend. That's all the voices say: "You'll go right on circling until you've found some kind of friend."

A dream I had a couple nights ago. I apologize in advance.


I stood on the shoreline watching someone toss a fishing line into the water, the strong current giving her nothing more than gratuitous amounts of seaweed and false hope. It seemed she would not catch a thing.

She was certain, once again, that she had something on the other end of her line and reeled vigorously, but there was no sign that anything was fighting it – probably another patch of seaweed.

Then I saw, as if obscured by a camera lens, a blurry mass being dragged across the sand to where we stood.

I bent down and heard the softest hooting noise, so soft I could almost feel it like a blanket on my face. It pained me like the most piercing shriek.

My eyes focused and I saw that it was an owl. His feathers were drenched and matted by the unforgiving salt of the ocean. Frail wings were brutally crushed beyond repair and black eyes seemed to plead with me, for something, anything.

He let out another terrible, heartbreaking hoot, as fragile as silk, and I began to cry. What could I possibly do for this poor creature? I touched its wings very softly and one of them fell off. The owl continued to sing his gentle, barely-audible requiem as I cried and helplessly looked around me for anyone else to care – no one noticed.

Finally, I resorted to trying to pick it up to take it somewhere. I put my hands underneath and lifted. For a moment, it seemed to work, but as I regained some sense of hope, the owl dissolved between my fingers, its eyes remaining for a split second, imprinted in my mind.


I'm sorry if that was depressing. Like, ruthlessly depressing. It was something that really stayed with me when I got up, though, and I've been thinking hard about it for the last couple days. It felt vivid, as most dreams where I start to cry feel.

I don't mean to say that I'm always sobbing hysterically in my dreams or anything, because I'm not, but it does happen occasionally. This was probably the most personal and unsettling one of those dreams I've ever had, though. Usually I'm crying about something stupid.

Anyway, I just wanted to document it the best I could. A few other things happened after that, but it was all extremely fuzzy and disjointed, and it hasn't been eating away at me like this has.

I'm done now. It's time to sleep. Goodnight.

END.

Now the distance is done and search has begun - I've come to see where my beginnings have gone.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TEDbI2UJhXM

Please, please listen.

"Well I looked into a house I once lived in
around the time I first went on my own,
when the roads were as many as the places I had dreamed of
and my friends and I were one.

Now the distance is done and the search has begun -
I've come to see where my beginnings have gone.

Oh, the walls and the windows were still standing
and the music could be heard at the door,
where the people who kindly endured my odd questions
asked if I came very far.

And when my silence replied, they took me inside,
where their children sat playing on the floor.

Well we spoke of the changes that would find us farther on
and it left me so warm and so high,
but as I stepped back outside to the gray morning sun,
I heard that highway whisper and sigh, "Are you ready to fly?"

And I looked into the faces all passing by -
it's an ocean that will never be filled -
and the house that grows older and finally crumbles
that even love cannot rebuild.

It's a hotel at best, you're here as a guest.
You oughta make yourself at home while you're waiting for the rest.

Well, I looked into the dream of the millions,
that one day the search will be through.
Now here I stand at the edge of my embattled illusions,
looking into you.

The great song traveler passed through here,
and he opened my eyes to the view,
and I was among those who called him a prophet,
and I asked him what was true.

Until the distance had shown how the road remains alone,
now I'm looking for my life in a truth that is my own.

Well, I looked into the sky for my anthem
and the words and the music came through,
but words and music will never touch the beauty that I've seen
looking into you,
and that's true."
Jackson Browne

Help me with this. I think I have to learn something from it because it hits me kind of hard when I listen to it, but I'm not quite there yet. Please discuss.

END.

Besides, maybe this time it's different - I mean, I really think you like me.

Traces of optimism lie in the following:


Yours is the first face that I saw.
I think I was blind before I met you.
Now I don’t know where I am,
I don’t know where I’ve been,
but I know where I want to go.

And so I thought I’d let you know
that these things take forever -
I especially am slow -
but I realize that I need you
and I wondered if I could come home.

There's a wall of ice I need to smash before I can reach anything creative. It's a really thin wall, too, but it's like I'm in one of those dreams where I try to punch someone in a fight and my fist is really sluggish, like I'm underwater. It doesn't matter how thin the wall is if I can't move quickly enough to break through. Does that make sense? Probably not.

I think I lost myself somewhere in high school. It's strange how I was happier before I really had very many friends - back when my friends were the people who liked me instead of the people I could fool into thinking I was cool. Maybe that's still not true - I don't know who I consider my "friend" and who I consider just a "friendly acquaintance." There are some of my "friends" who I might even call "strangers."

Here's a secret that's probably pretty evident if you spend any time around me at all - I don't use the word "friend" or even "love" liberally at all, even though I feel that they are both fairly noncommittal in most situations.

Here's a bigger secret:

I love everyone - yes, everyone - I've met at school over the past few years. They are all good people, despite how it might sometimes seem to others. And I believe that, at least at one time or another, they have all been sincere with me - that's hard to do.

I guess having a lot of friends isn't really as important as some people think it is, or as important as I thought it was back when I was fifteen or sixteen. It's easy to think that, though, when you have friends.

Making sense is something I rarely do anymore.

So if you want to be with me,
with these things there’s no telling,
we'll just have to wait and see.
But I’d rather be working for a paycheck
than waiting to win the lottery.
Besides, maybe this time is different -
I mean, I really think you like me.

What do I think this song is about? Probably what it says it's about. What do I take away from it?

It's about seeing and understanding things for the first time - maybe understanding them so well that you're suddenly willing to put the work in to make your dreams reality, even if it's difficult, especially for you. It's deciding that working towards happiness is a better option than waiting to see if happiness happens to you.

I want to follow that happiness.

And you said, “This is the first day of my life.
I’m glad I didn’t die before I met you.
But now I don’t care, I could go anywhere with you
and I’d probably be happy.”

I'm glad I didn't die before I met you.

END.

And I am nothing of a builder, but here I dreamt I was an architect.

But the angles and the corners -
even though my work is unparalleled -
they never seemed to meet,
the structure fell about our feet,
and we were free to go.

What a sad song. It just hits you so hard in the face with the truth. No matter what happens - in any lifetime, any profession, any time, any place - they will never be together. So much love, but the stars aren't lined up right or something. It just doesn't work out. "Guess it's better to turn this way."

It's all trial and error. Until you screw up a couple times, sometimes there's no way of telling which way is better to turn.

Isn't it funny how I feel that I learn more from listening to fictional songs than I do from my own experiences, or from hearing advice from my parents or friends?

Sometimes I think that music is just a form of communication God chooses to use with me because there are so few people who I feel understand me on such a deep, meaningful level - Jackson Browne, Colin Meloy, Paul Simon, and yes, even Carly Simon on occasion - and really, it's nice to have those people understand me. They're people I will never know on a personal level, and it's very unifying to have that connection to them. It's like that whole Avatar thing where we're all part of each other and blah blah blah. You know what I mean.

And really, why would I ever not want to have a deep connection to Colin Meloy? Uh, hello - yum.

He reaches me in such a way that it makes me want to change for the better.

I think I prefer learning from music, rather than learning about music.

If you ever really want to reach me, play a song for me - I might actually listen.

And here I dreamt I was a soldier,
and I marched the streets of Birkenau,
and I recall in spring
the perfume that the air would bring
to the indolent town.
Where the barkers call the moon down,
the carnival was ringing loudly now,
and just to lay with you
there's nothing that I wouldn't do,
save lay my rifle down.

And try one, and try two,
guess it always comes down to,
all right, it's okay.
Guess it's better to turn this way.

And I am nothing of a builder,
but here I dreamt I was an architect,
and I built this balustrade
to keep you home, to keep you safe
from the outside world.
But the angles and the corners,
even though my work is unparalleled,
they never seemed to meet,
this structure fell about our feet
and we were free to go.

And try one, and try two,
guess it always comes down to,
all right, it's okay.
Guess it's better to turn this way

And here in Spain I am a Spaniard.
I will be buried with my marionettes.
Countess and courtesan
have fallen 'neath my tender hand
when their husbands were not around.
But you, my soiled teenage girlfriend,
how you furrow like a lioness.
And we are vagabonds,
we travel without seatbelts on,
and live this close to death.

And try one, and try two,
guess it always comes down to,
all right, okay, guess it's better to turn this...
But I won, so you lose.
Guess it always comes down to
All right, it's okay, guess it's better to turn this way.

I want a love that's right, and right is only half of what's wrong.

I went for a run this morning. Wow, that was awful. But really, it's about what I expected, so I guess I can't really say I'm disappointed. I got probably about three quarters of a mile down the road and then got lazy when I had to go up another ridiculous hill, so I walked for a bit. As I was walking back to my house, a couple of golden retrievers ran up behind me and one of them jumped up on me and started licking my face. They followed me almost all the way home.

It was nice to have some company - it made it easier to start running again. I think I would eventually like to get a dog, because I don't think I could go long without having an animal around. They're just honest - nothing to them except for what they really are.

I wish I had something a little more substantial to say than this, but I don't.

Maybe tomorrow.

END.

Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try.

I just went to see the movie "Crazy Heart" with my parents. I though it was quite a good movie, and that says something coming from me. I tend to be picky when it comes to movies and I'm not really sure why that is. Either way, I have that song stuck in my head now (thank you, rolling credits) and I'm actually okay with that.

I have been looking for a venue in my life through which I could become a good writer, and I think I may have found one - a good one - provided things play out a certain way. We'll see what happens.

I have come up with a couple good but obvious ideas in the past twenty-four hours, both of which have been the derivatives of something ridiculous that is likely to never be known by another living soul. It's really quite dumb. But it's been a source of great entertainment and motivation for me recently.

Again, we'll see.

The first of these good-obvious ideas is to start running again. I can't explain why, but I think this would improve my life drastically, SPECIFICALLY if I began running in the mornings before class. "Early to bed, early to rise" and all that. What a wonderful way to start my day. "Oh hi, did you just wake up twenty minutes ago? I've been up for an hour and a half and I ran x miles before I even showered. I feel so incredibly prepared to start my day that I don't even need to drink coffee." Yeah. That's it.

The second good-obvious idea is to practice more. Oh my gosh, DUH. Am I even a musician anymore? I'm not really sure. I feel that I've begun to lose my identity because of this. There will be a musical revival in my near future and this excites me!

I know I said "a couple" of good-obvious ideas, and that three is more than "a couple," but this third good-obvious idea is more good than obvious, so maybe I can get away with "a couple" instead of "a few." Now that the disaster that is that last sentence has ended, I'll continue.

My third good idea is to help people more often. I am not quite sure as to how I should do that, but the recent benefit concert for Haiti made me feel happy - happier than I had felt in a while. It was horribly stressful, but I don't think I need to do that big of a thing too often, anyway. All I know is I would feel better doing something to benefit someone else.

Isn't it funny how something ridiculous can manifest itself to be some of the best good-obvious ideas I've ever had? I intend to come back from spring break as a different person - a different student, different musician, different girlfriend - as a better person.

By the way, I am driving back to Farmville on Wednesday to teach piano to a wonderful little boy named Frederick. He is renewing my excitement about music education - maybe this will begin to satisfy good-obvious idea numero tres!

Incidentally, I think I would like to learn another language... French would be highly convenient.

END.

I was fighting, but I just feel too tired to be fighting. Guess I'm not the fighting kind.

My writing is dull and unrealistic. Someone please give me some feedback:

The night sky is blacker than usual as the rain drowns out the incoherent shouts of coaches and parents. Individual drops band together as they fall softly on branches, concrete, and pool water to create a dull roar; it blocks out all screams and splashes while leaving me fully aware of how cold I am.
My body tingles, inside and out. My stomach is currently churning in response to a combination of nerves and a greasy, overdone swim meet burger, and my skin has that pins-and-needles feeling your foot gets when it falls asleep. I abandoned my dripping wet towel long ago, about twenty minutes into the torrential downpour that’s been plaguing the meet for a couple hours now.
I wipe my eyes and squint through the haze – a veil of water, obstructing my view of the lifeguard stand. I can see just enough to make out some soaked sweatshirts draped heavily over three forms, an umbrella, and a rescue tube that has been haphazardly tossed to the side. It’s no secret that the lifeguards rarely do what they’re paid for at the swim meets, and the rain seems to have only made them more apathetic.
I don’t mind – I’m pretty ready for this thing to be over anyway. The novelty of swim meets wore off in sixth grade so, as a rising senior in high school, this particular meet is doing a very poor job of keeping my interest.
I’m sitting on a cheap, plastic chair with the number “six” slapped carelessly on the back. I’ve examined the soft, fragile note card I clutch in my hand several times now, but I want to read it again. Maybe if my mind stays busy, it’ll take a break from noticing all the shivering and goose bumps.
GILLSON, CARRIE. EVENT 40. 100 BUTTERFLY. SEED TIME: 1:31.91.
HEAT: 3. LANE: 6.
The goose bumps are still here and now the greasy lump in my stomach feels like it’s coming to a boil. HEAT: 3. LANE: 6. I get stuck in the last lane of the last heat for most events and I’m always the slowest girl. Nerves are my biggest weakness, with humiliation being a close second. I guess you can figure out that always being the last to finish doesn’t do much for my morale.
I’m not a bad swimmer. Truth be told, I’m actually pretty fast. It’s just that lanes one through five will be occupied by girls who are all going to beat me. I don’t know how else to put it; I just know they are. Being in the fastest heat is hell for a “decent” swimmer.
I look to my left at lane three where Stevie McKale sits with a blue towel wrapped tightly around her broad shoulders. She’s tall, slender, and muscular – just like a swimmer should be. I watch the corners of the towel drip rain water for a moment and notice that she’s shivering with the rest of us. It takes me by surprise – I guess because I’ve never really thought of Stevie as being a “normal” girl. I’m not sure why she wastes her time on summer swim team. Maybe she does it to remind people of how good she is; I doubt our feeble little summer practices help her anyway. I don’t know – I’ve never even talked to her. Either way, no one really thinks of her as legitimate competition because she’s just too fast.
This is my ninth year swimming for the Oakland Piranhas and Stevie was here before me. I guess she likes doing it. It’s a well-known fact that her mom does very little volunteer work at the meets, but a lot of complaining about the way things are run. I’ve always suspected Stevie to be sort of stuck up, but maybe that’s just because she’s never noticed me at all. I guess I have a lot of respect for her – she works hard, anyway. But it’s hard to like someone who destroys her competition without batting an eye. This event will be like every other: Stevie McKale will always win.
Lane four is occupied by the second fastest swimmer – some girl on the other team I don’t know. She’s stocky and I can tell that it’s mostly muscle. She doesn’t shiver but her teeth chatter as drops of rain roll sleekly off her nose and chin to splash against her big thighs. I notice that she keeps stealing glances at Stevie. ‘Don’t bother,’ I want to tell her. Stevie McKale is untouchable. Rumor has it she’s headed for the Olympics.
Anyone who’s seen Stevie swim could tell you she was born to be in the water. I skipped warm-ups before the meet today because the sky was overcast and there was a cool breeze. I decided to get some school work done. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen: your typical summer reading assignment, I guess. I had lost interest in the book, so I took a break and watched Stevie dive into the water.
She was the first of the night to tear through the pool’s placid surface: the only person who seemed worthy enough to disturb the water after its long day hosting screaming children and agitated lap-swimmers. She woke it gently, soft ripples emerging from the drops strewn by her powerful kicking feet. She didn’t breathe for the first lap and a half and her arms moved in large, slow strokes, making the most of every ounce of water.
She didn’t seem to take it for granted like the rest of us. That’s the thing about Stevie. I think she understands the water. It’s never a hindrance to her – it’s her friend. Now, looking at her shivering body wrapped in that towel, I’m not jealous; I’m awestruck.
“Heat three, over here!” a woman wearing a large yellow poncho yells at us. We all stand up and file behind the lanes as we watch the previous heat swim their third lap.
I look at my card again before handing it to the man timing in my lane. SEED TIME: 1:31.91. I only need to cut off a fraction of a second to get a Varsity time. My goal tonight is 1:31:34.
“Do you want to be an amateur swimmer for the rest of your life, young lady?” To my left, Stevie’s mom yells. “You’re going to get your ass in that pool and swim!”
“Mom, I don’t want to. I’m sick of this.” She’s crying. I notice I’m not the only person here who can’t look away. I’ve seen Stevie’s mom go crazy before, but Stevie doesn’t usually cry or make a big scene. This is strange, even for their family.
I realize that I’m staring and force myself to watch the girls who are swimming now; I notice they’re slowing down on their last lap. Some of them can barely bring their arms out of the water. God, I don’t want to swim this event.
Stevie’s mom is talking again and I’m trying not to eavesdrop – it doesn’t work. Her voice is a little softer now, but she certainly isn’t whispering. “You’ll thank me when you’re not some meek little housewife like the rest of these girls. I’ll be damned if my daughter is going to be a failure. Now wipe your nose and get up on that block – you’re a mess.”
Stevie glares at her mother through bloodshot eyes. I half expect her to start screaming. Instead, she just nods and says, “Thanks, Mom. You’re right. I’m sorry.” She wipes her nose.
Her mom’s demeanor suddenly changes. “That’s my girl. Good luck, Sweetie. Try to cut a couple seconds off – you were a little sluggish last week.”
Stevie seems to ignore her mom as she hands her note card to the timer without even glancing at her seed time.
The second heat has finished now. I’m not feeling so great, plus I’m a little pissed off. It makes me sick to think that both Stevie and her mom think of us as failures, when we’re all just doing swim team for fun. I wish I had the guts to yell at them – to stick up for the other girls who heard every word of that conversation. But right now, I’ve got a hundred yards to swim and I’m a freezing cold, nervous wreck.
“Swimmers, step up.” An all-too-familiar voice comes from the speakers on either side of the pool. As I step up on the diving block, three feet above the surface of the water, I suddenly feel calm. The rain beats against my skin, trying to bring me back down to reality, but it’s no use; the abrasive surface of the block is like sandpaper and, somehow, it always gives me stability.
“Swimmers, take your mark.”
I move my feet and my hands slightly over the edge of the block, doing my best to grab on with both my toes and fingers. The surface is cold, even compared to the rain. The lights shining from the sides of the pool light it up and make me look forward to its warmth.
I stare down at the water below me. I don’t see the other end of the pool. I don’t hear the people behind me talking. All I do is wait.
It feels like they’re never going to push that button –
BEEP.
My knees bend. My feet and hands push off the block with as much force as they can muster. I keep my head down, my arms come up, and I am a human torpedo.
Silence fills my ears when I hit the water, and I feel alone. The pool is like a hot tub and I want nothing more than to sink to the bottom and go to sleep. Instead, I kick. Hard. I’ll be exhausted by the time this race is over, so this is my time to enjoy the feel of the water against my frozen limbs and to save my energy for when I really need it.
I’m a third of the way down the pool when I surface, but I don’t breathe. My shoulders rotate and my arms fly from the water, reminding me of how cold the air is. I’m doing everything to push the water behind me as muscle memory forces my body onward.
I’m halfway down the length of the pool and I can already see everyone pulling ahead of me, except for Stevie, who’s now swimming back toward me. I’m not surprised – she’ll be done with her second lap by the time I’m finishing my first. I take a single breath before reaching the wall and immediately turn to do it again.
I swim my second lap with less conviction and one more breath than the last.
The third lap burdens me with discouraging tiredness, but the end is near.
I turn to start my last lap and everyone else is at least a third of the way down the pool. I’m so tired. This lap is all adrenaline. If I’m going to get that Varsity time, I can’t breathe at all this last lap. I’m sure of that. The question is whether or not my lungs will hold out.
I’m halfway down the pool now and I already need to breathe. I catch a glimpse of a girl off to my right, but I ignore her. My chest hurts too much to humor my curiosity right now.
Every inch of me screams to breathe, but I can’t do it. I have to make it the last ten feet. Seven feet. Five feet. Two feet…
My hands hit the brick at the same time and, half a second later, I raise my head and take a breath of air – chilling, biting, magnificent air. I hoist myself from the water using arms that barely work and stand up, trembling in the rain.
“What’s my time?” I pant at the man with the stopwatch.
He’s writing on the note card. Doesn’t he understand what this means to me?
“Excuse me, sir, what’s my time?” I’m still breathless and can barely get the words out.
“Hang on, hang on.” He continues writing and then casually looks at the card and says, “1:29:31.”
That’s a Varsity time! “Thank you!” I can’t stop myself from grinning as I start to walk away, my legs feeling feeble and unsteady. Then I remember the girl in the water.
I turn back around to see Stevie in lane three, floating on her back in the middle of the pool; her hands are making soft circles and her feet twitch occasionally to keep her body from sinking.
I look for her mom, surely livid. I’m right. She’s yelling at Stevie to get out but I can tell that Stevie doesn’t care what her mom thinks right now. My guess is that she doesn’t care what anyone thinks. It’s not the fact that she still hasn’t even finished the race, or the fact that everyone is staring at her. It’s the fact that, if you look closely, you can see her smiling.
I can see her lips have turned a little purple from the cold air, but her eyes are closed and she’s grinning. The rain rolls down her cheeks and pools next to her eyes.
I don’t think she cared that much what her mom said about the other swimmers, or even what her mom said about her. I think she just couldn’t stand the idea of the swimming being separated from the water and identified with the competition. There was never any sport for her – there was only water. I guess she had to stick up for it and show everyone that there’s more to swimming than just swimming; there’s a bond between the stuff in our blood and the stuff in the pool and the stuff in the clouds.
Maybe it won’t matter to her, but I think I’m going to thank her. It’s the first time in a long time I haven’t come in last.

April, come she will,

when streams are ripe and swelled with rain.
May, she will stay,
resting in my arms again.
June, she'll change her tune.
In restless walks she'll prowl the night.
July, she will fly,
and give no warning to her flight.
August, die she must.
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold.
September, I remember
a love once new has now grown old.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NPIPhmMybQg

Listening to this song is so difficult. It sounds so real to me. I like the idea of things changing with seasons, maybe because my mood has so much to do with the weather. That can probably be said for most people, though.

I came to this hoping that I would derive some kind of inspiration from Paul Simon and his ability to speak to me, but I think I'm mostly just humbled.

It doesn't take much to humble me, but you get it.

I need a life outside of facebook and homework.

Boo.

END.

You're holding me down, you're turning me 'round, you're filling me up with your rules.

After some serious editing for the sake of all potential readers, I have opened The Youth and Beauty Brigade to the public. Please, feel free to bask in the glow of mediocrity.

Maybe this will pressure me into writing better and more often.

I need a lasting theme for this blog, but that never seems to work for me. Call me a commit-o-phobe, but I disagree. Maybe that's because I'm a jack-of-all-trades, or a jack-of-no-trades, or because I told J earlier that I feel people constantly misuse "-phobia" with no real understanding of what it really means - sort of like "ironic," or "migraine," or possibly even "love," if you want to get into the really scary stuff.

Either way, I am open to all suggestions. That does not mean I will act on them, because, apart from being afraid of commitment, I am also incredibly stubborn.

Enjoy.

END.

Stay if you want; there is enough sadness for the both of us.

What if I began to make something of myself and change my attitude? Maybe it won't stick, but it will at least get me through this semester.

God, please help me stay positive. Amen.

END.