aisalynn: (Default)
( May. 25th, 2009 05:16 pm)
No brain! I have to much to do already! I do not want to write a long original story spanning over at least fifteen years involving a war in some fantastical world I make up. I said no.

Hey! Stop giving those characters personality! What? No. No backstory, absolutely no backstory!

What is this? Now you are mentally writing out scenes? Stop it this instant. No, I don't care if his father just died and the letter he got from her was the only communication they've had in three years.

Oh great. Now you've come up with some symbols that are supposed to be tied together throughout the whole story. *throws hand in the air*

I give up. I'm going to go write the outline. But this does not mean I'm writing the story! Too much else to do!

*mutters*
aisalynn: (labyrinth sarah)
( Jan. 24th, 2009 12:33 pm)

So this is what happens when I'm half asleep and composing poetry in my head. I have no idea where this came from, but I kind of like it.



One day, Death sat down and watched the world end.
He sat, and felt the burden of those who died increase
and the folds of his robe deepened and draped heavy on his body.
When all was finished he walked the earth and as he passed
the fires that raged died down to ash.

All was still and bare and quiet.

Death’s sister joined him as he kept vigil for the blackened world.
He said, No matter who or what dies it is always far too soon.
No, she replied, It was time.
And Death was silent, for who was he to argue with Fate?


So, tonight me and [livejournal.com profile] crushingpretty  went to our college's first "Writer's Community" meeting. I was looking forward to it, expecting it to sort of be how it is here, on livejournal. You know, taking enjoyment in other's writing, and in exchanging ideas and prompts and challenges and giving each other advice...and I've always found the writing community here on lj to be fairly warm and welcoming, and I was hoping it would be the same for this "Community."

Well, it wasn't, not really.

I just found many people there to be... I don't know, pretentious. I mean, the way they spoke and acted, it was like, because we are writers we are supposed to feel emotions different than other people, to find special meaning in things like dead leaves and road kill (one guy really did read a poem for like, twenty minutes, that was about his fixation on a dead squirrel that lasted for nine months). Not to say, that one can't find meaning in these things, but it was like, writers find them beause "normal" people can't. Like we are somehow deeper, because we like the written word.

And, I don't know, I've just never believed that. That artists, writers, musicians are somehow more deep, or more spiritual than everyone else by rule. Nor do I feel that if a poem or story is so complicated that it you can't understand it, it automatically makes it good, that if you pile on so many metaphors and images and seemingly random thoughts, that it will be striking, and meaningful. Maybe it's just me, but I've always thought that a good writer takes common, but complex emotions and ideas that many people unknowingly share, and clarifies them somehow, making people go, "Oh! That is exactly right! That is exactly how I feel, and yet I never thought of it that way!" I've always thought a good writer creates a connection with other people, rather than searching for something that is "deep" or "different" and throwing lots of crap on it to make it seem complicated and out of reach, just so you can feel superior to everyone else.

Am I being silly? Should I feel as dissapointed as I do?

In any case, it made appreciate a lot of the writers here on the net. 'Cause I think its great that we just post stuff up here for people to read because we know they share the same love for writing/reading/shows/characters that we do. That we can share ideas and criticisms, and do little games like drabble tag and rpgs and fanfic memes, and just really enjoy writing without all the serious I-am-a-writer-therefore-if-you-read-my-stuff-you-are-looking-into-my-soul stuff.


So, coming back I was a little miffed, and somehow I ended up writing some poetry for the first time in like, years. It was written pretty fast, and is probably really crappy, but it's sort of my response to the meeting, in a sort of mocking way, I suppose... I don't know. It's probably crap. My poetry always was. But hey, at least I did something original! Haven't done that in a while.

Listen )

aisalynn: (labyrinth sarah)
( Jun. 18th, 2008 11:13 pm)


She had hated driving lessons. Hated the strict rules and the tone of her parents voices as they snapped orders at her, hated the thinly veiled frustration and anger she heard that told her they really didn't want to be there, hated the nervous jittery feeling in her gut and knowing, knowing that she was going to screw up, was going to disapoint. Again. 

But she loved the speed.

When she was alone in the car and had an empty road in front of her, she pressed down hard on the gas pedal, windows rolled down so she could hear the roar of the wind as she few down the curvy country roads, leaving everything--worries, fears, responsibilities, even, it seemed, her body--behind.

It was like that brief moment when she woke up in the morning and stretched: the tingly feeling she got as muscles flexed and tightened and it seemed--if only for that moment--as if her spiritual self could finally burst  from the flesh that kept it trapped on earth, that she was finally free. 

Freedom was a full tank of gas and white and yellow lines that stretched into eternity, it was the motion of the wheels and the needle of the speedometer just pushing past ninety. Freedom was the passport sitting in a desk drawer at home, unstamped: an insurance that if she ever needed to go, to just get up and leave, she could, and a promise that someday, no matter how far away that day was, she would. 

Freedom was the distance increasing between her and the life she left--if only temporarily--behind, and the long stretch of wavy road in front of her, leading her anywhere she wanted to go.

Tags:

Going to the dentist is like going to Judgement Day. Despite everyone's "Oh, its just the dentist, nothing big." no one wants to go there. No one wants to lie down in that imposing chair, open wide and bare their soul. The dental hygenist will will scrape and cluck and mutter as if she were examing all your past deeds, and while you are sitting there you know, you just know, that you'll come up short. And then there is the fear of the Dental Omniscience. There's always the chance the High and Mighty Dentist will take one look at your smile and say, "You've only brushed 125 times since I last saw you. INCLUDING, the five times you brushed before coming here. You and I both know you should have brused at least 250 times." And then his eyes will narrow and oh boy, you're doomed. "You've only flossed 37 times!"

And then, with all the gentleness of a drunk, seven headed creature, the assistance will shove a large piece of cardboard in your mouth and take an X-ray, just to give you a visiual that proves that your soul isn't as pearly white as you pretend it is. In fact, someone has been indulging in too many chocolate coverd sins recently. And not brushing afterwards to boot. 

After all this is said and over, the Doctor Dentist will open up THE FOLDER, the one that holds your entire life in it and say, sorrowfully. "I'm afraid we found a cavity. So yes," he nods sympathetically, "you will be sent to a hell filled with cough syrup tasting novacaine, high pitch drilling, uncomfortable metal instruments, bad music and pastel wall paper. But, don't worry, you'll only have to pay $31.50 if your insurance covers it."

 

Last week, I did not pass judgement. I will not describe my experiences in hell today.

So. My dad is currently taking residence in the camper in the back yard, insisting, when my little sister went out there to beg him to come back in, that he didn't have a home. He hasn't really spoken to us kids since Monday (though he did have another small fight with my mom today) and though I know he's really only a couple hundred feet away, with his house keys and credit cards still sitting on the counter, it feels like he really has moved out. Emily was talking to Salena about our parents, and she huffed and replied that they "were both idiots." So true. 

Mom is still on her "sell the house" kick. And though she went Christmas shopping today, and gave away the fact that whe was buying something for me when she hung up the phone when I called her, I can't really bring myself to care right now. Christmas hasn't been fun for the last two years, and this one looks like it is going to be the same. 

Well, the only good thing that has come from all this chaos is that I started writing poetry again. I haven't been depressed enough to write any lately, it seems. (That is how my emotions work it I guess: if I'm feeling joyful I turn to music, if I have an intriguing concept or character idea I write stories, if I'm inspired by beauty I draw, if my life seems like it is falling apart and I'm harassed, pissed off and depressed, well poetry is a good emotional vent.) Anyway, I wrote this Monday:

aisalynn: (Default)
( Dec. 10th, 2005 12:10 am)

I'm bored. Here some poetry. Completely not trying emotional vent poetry.

 

 

Awkward )

In an earlier post I mention (at the end of a very long post) an essay I had to write about suicide. We had to have something to prove, but I turned it into a story instead. There's still a thesis! Its just not as obvious... Anyway, I'm posting it on here, 'cause I'm proud of it. Its rather long though, so I don't know how many people will actually read it. Its a bit bloody... so if you like that... er.. and if you don't.. well you could read it anyway. *pleading eyes*

A Part in the Clouds )

 

So I have started the Parties of the Century again. Not many people could come though. Next time, someone else is hosting it. I hate playing hostess. Bah.

It was fun though. Jasmine, Brady, Danielle and I swam for an hour or so, then we went inside to watch "Monty Python and the Holy Grail"---the movie that started it all. However, Phil wasn't there to celebrate with us. Stupid Phil. Stupid camping. Anyway, Trent came for about a half hour, and we all pigged out on nachos. And after the movie, we went back outside and got in the hot tub. It was fun.

I'm exhausted.

Really. I catch my self staring at the computer with what probably is a vague, stupid expression on my face for minutes at a time. But I am going to post this, cause I haven't posted in quite a while.

I wrote two poems. One of them when I was half asleep--I had tro drag myself out of bed at midnight (yes, that is rather early for me to be asleep) to scratch it on a peice of paper. And of course, I couldn't go to sleep after that. The other one I wrote after recieving a not so wonderful grade on my Algebra II test. I hate algebra.

Poems )

Nothing much happening in life. Evil parents. Weird siblings. Weirder friends. So is life.

I was rather bored, so I wrote something. Something that is not my PHANTOM OF THE OPERA story, which I should be working on, because I haven't updated in a MONTH, but... my Muse is evil. And headache causing.

Anyway, I wanted a character who was manipulative and beautiful. Its just what I felt like writing. And so, this is what I came up with. I'm posting it because... well I'm bored.

 

Pretty Metal )



Tags:
aisalynn: (Default)
( May. 9th, 2005 07:25 pm)

can't you see it, my love? Its always there.
(you watching me watching you watching me)
it just goes on. forever and ever
(watching you watching me watching you)

forever and ever, my love.
We never quit this circle, this dangerous dance of soft cliches and sharp edges.
Can't you see, you allready have me at sword point.
Touche. It just goes on.
(watching me watching you)

It always comes back to you.
It is polite to put "you" before "I," you know
and thats the way its always been.
I wait as you walk throught the door (so polite, so polite)
and you rip my heart out through my throat
and drop it on the sagging chipped front porch.
and even then, it still beats "you you watching you watching you"
and the blood stains the wood, and now I have to paint it again.
There's no use forgetting, dreaming or regretting.
I can't leave anyway.
I'm stuck watching you (watching me watching you)

forever and ever, my love
(watching you watching me watching you)

forever and ever
(watching you.)


















-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I watch you, and your smile's not the same as it was. Or maybe its just that it is no longer meant for me.

I got to go to youth today. I got to go to the bible study before hand even. Of course, there was an argument with my mother before hand, but not as bad. At youth I was informed I should be a psychiatrist, which made me laugh. How can I help anyone else, when I can't even help myself?

Its funny how when I do come to youth, the topic is usually something that I'm struggling with. I mean, not just a "I can relate to that" kind of way, but in a, I desperately need to fix this and I know You keep giving me these signs, these solutions, this love. He hasn't given up on me yet. Isn't that amazing?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

laugh just a little too loud
smile just a little too wide
and maybe they won't notice
how you're aching inside

take a deep breath
go on with your day
don't try to think about
how things never seem to go your way

And when you're alone
you keep your eyes down
no one will notice
no one's around

and you hum to yourself
little nonsical sounds
because of your fear that
the silence will bring you down

lock yourself in
hold on tight
to your belief that
it will all be all right

cause when you,

laugh just a little too loud
and smile just a little too wide
they won't notice,
just maybe, they won't notice
how you're aching inside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I thought of you again today,
but I'm sure you didn't think of me.
.

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