Like a Pheonix....

I'm jealous.   

I always know when I've found a good poem; a good poem haunts me long after I'm done reading.  Like an angry ghost, the poem Still I Rise by Maya Angelou haunts me.  It's not an unpleasant haunting, I will gladly entertain the ghost as long as it stays, but like an echo is reverberates in my memory.  It repeats itself: "Still I rise, still I rise, still I rise."  It repeats itself over and over again until I can't hardly forget it.  As if Angelou saw the future, she knew that even in my memory, still she would rise. 

I can't seem to forget the poem.  She tells of the world stacked against her, how her enemies (some I assume reside within herself) want to see her defeated, but then how no matter what, she will rise above it all.  Even the structure of the poem is set up to give the sensation of rising.  One stanza will talk of the opposition, then the next will jump to how she reacts; she overcomes the opposition with grace and defiance, with an almost mocking tone in her voice.  She wants one thing to be clear, you can't bring her down.  Still she'll rise. 

The poem moves forward, starting low and moving up, until it reaches the last stanza.  She starts boldly:

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

She reaffirms her determination:

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

She tells of the power behind her:

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

She lays out the goal:

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

She conjures the voices of the past, the ghosts of all those who came before, and in climax seals upon me the words that will haunt me and echo within my memory forever:

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

Wanting to Begin Again

Hi guys,


It's now 12:35.  My eyes are heavy, my back is sore, my mind is dull, and my heart is underwater.  To be more clear, I feel like a complete failure. 

I know that life goes on, this isn't the end of things, but how did I get to this point?  Poor grades, no sleep, over-worked, over-stressed.  I can't help but feel I'm doing it all wrong. 

It reminds me of a song from the musical Rent, "Halloween".  In the scene, the character, Mark, is thinking about his entire year and wondering how he got to such a bitter place.  What sequence of events brought him here?  What sequence of events brought me here.  Is there a reason?  I-- well, don't know. 

"Why did Mimi knock on Roger's door?  And Collins choose that phonebooth back where Angel set up his drums?  Why did Morene's equipment break down?  Why am I the witness?  And when I capture it on film, will it mean that it's the end and I'm alone...?"

The List of Urg

There wasn't really much to this one-- no creativity, no inspiration.  Just complaints (and a one liner I stole from the song below.)

The List of Urg:

"I've been tired of feeling weak, and I'm so tired but I can't sleep, this time this thing is deep.  I'm lost in time and it's finally starting to show-- and i know you know."

I'm tired of working harder and getting payed less.  I'm tired of unreasonable expectations.  I'm tired of getting to bed late, of getting up early, of not sleeping at all.  I'm tired of the snow. I'm tired of the clouds.  I'm tired of sunless days and starless nights.  I'm tired of my room, my house, of all of indoors.  I'm tired of feeling tense-- I'm tired of the worry, the anxiety,  and the stress.

I'm tired of feeling jealous.  I'm tired of the secret that plagues my heart, of the dread that stains my soul.  I'm tired of empty journal pages.  I'm tired of being behind.  I'm tired of being over-scheduled.  I'm tired of apathy.  I'm tired of being patient with people who aren't patient with me.  I'm tired of people that think other languages and ethnicities are inferior to their own.  I'm tired of racial jokes.  I'm tired of not knowing what "my thing" is.  I'm tired of nodding off.  I'm tired of running out of ideas.  I'm tired of not having ideas in the first place.  I'm tired of not speaking my mind.  I'm tired of being passive.  I'm tired of people with no integrity.  I'm tired of forgetting.  I'm tired of remembering.

I'm tired of him.  Of her.  Of him and her.  Sometimes I'm tired of them, and other times I'm tired of them.  I'm tired of it, of those, of all that over there.  I'm tired of thinking about all I'm tired of. 

Love is all.

Here's my "Love is..." prompt. I decided to take a slightly different outlook while writing: towards the beginning I'm writing of what love is usually seen as, then I move towards my own lost feelings towards love—as a teen who has no idea of what love is. While I may not know what love is, I do know one thing. Love is all. Here's what I feel. Enjoy.

Love is all:

Love is feeling complete; love is feeling whole. Love is being mad but never caring any less. Love is the power that binds nations, languages, and people. Love is a lonely thought shattered by thoughts of you. Love is one sundae and two straws. Love is a spark between four eyes eyes. Love is a chemical bond between two hearts; love is the gravity between two souls. Love is filling the silence with substance. Love filling the heart with joy. Love is a waking dream. Love is falling on purpose. Love is binding, being, and never ending. Love is a theory explaining everything.

Love is yearning. Love is looking for but never finding. Love is making a wish. Love is giving a gift from the heart. Love is letting the wind wash away your troubled thoughts. Love is a sunrise bringing new hope. Love is a quiet afternoon in the park thinking of you. Love is saying a silent prayer. Love is aching with care. Love is being there.

Love is a secret deep within my heart. Love is a heart that woke up too late. Love is a lie I declared but secretly believed. Love is a wistful thought, a look, a sigh. Love is the way it should have been. Love is a promise not to give up. Love is a memory, a hope, a dream of the future. Love is the way I find reasons to believe. Love is a hidden fear-- loving is hiding my tears. Love is giving up for the moment but finding a way. Love is waiting for the day.

Love is all.

Memory

I don't have a ton to say about this post, except that it struck a cord down in me somewhere; whether I did it justice or not, this is where "the impulse" took me today.  As I began writing this post, I was reminded of a song from the musical Cats-- which I have attached at the bottom.  It's a long song, but if you have the time, take a moment and listen for a moment or two until you get to about 1:30 where I found a lot of my inspiration.  Enjoy. 

Memory:

     In my mind, there’s a box. It’s a small box; looking very plain and simple, it remains tightly packed away in the back of my mind where no one else can find it. When life gets rough and my soul needs a rest, I brush off the dust and look into the swirling mists of that box and pull out a memory: a memory of time long past.

     First, a relaxed memory of lazy Sunday nights surrounded by family, popcorn and Chinese checkers sprawled across the floor. We play games, we tell stories, we laugh and love like it’s the only thing we can do. I pull out another memory and find a cold memory, filled with warmth: hiking through the mountains on a frigid winter morning. I am not happy at the early hour, but as the dawn fades into a mountain-view sunrise my heart melts and I am speechless. A new memory arises and takes hold, dispelling the image of the now bright horizon, and suddenly I’m in the park and not alone. We look into the night sky and laugh as fireworks explode just above our heads. There’s a crowd not far way doing just the same, but we pay no attention to them; for now it’s just us, and a summer that will last forever. Another memory wrenches my attention, and the scene changes—a funeral now. Family has just passed away. The atmosphere is sad, tears wet every eye, but among the tears is a surprise. A smile, a laugh, they are not filled with joy of the present, but rather joy of times past and joy for times yet to come. The scene fades away and sinks back into the box.

     As I return the box to the shelf, I ponder on the last memory I have just relived. We all have crazy lives, and through it all there is always one place we can go. Memory. I knew it, they knew it too. For when life goes on, the past does not sink away. It becomes a part of us: a memory. A memory too.

The Aurora, or La Aurora. That is the question.

I find so much inspiration in nature; from beauty, to balance, I think nature's got the right idea.  The two things I find most inspiring in nature is the idea of the sunrise (morning, dawn, night giving way to light), and the northern lights (mystical, magical, otherworldly).  Imagine my surprise when I found out the two were connected across two languages. 

In English, the northern lights could be called The Aurora Borealis, or just The Aurora for short-- while in Spanish, the word La Aurora means The Dawn.  Two ideas, one word.  That's the kind of thing that inspires me!  With this discovery in mind I added two phrases to the inspiration page of my journal.

"I dream of the Aurora, espero la aurora (I wait/hope for the dawn)." 

Now the next question, which idea do I want to take and use for the theme of my blog?  The Aurora, or La Aurora.