Come So Far

I can honestly say that I never thought that this would happen.

When I started this blog just a few months ago I never thought that I would see the day that I would have over 1600 views, and a pocket full of subscribers.

In all truth I was skeptical that anyone would be interested in hearing what I have to say. I was just an eighteen-year-old kid with an overactive imagination and a mind that loved to wander.

So thank you.
Thank you so much.

It was my birthday yesterday. So I'm not "Just Eighteen" anymore. I considered changing the name of this blog to "Just Nineteen", but that just didn't feel right. The more I thought about it, the more I kept coming back to how far I've come since I started this, and from that I drew the new name of this blog:

Come So Far.

I dedicate this post to everyone who has read--and hopefully enjoyed--my ramblings so far.

------

I used to use words to talk.
I would sit and speak through type.
I wanted everyone to listen.
And nod their heads.

I added some rhythm to those words,
though they weren't exactly a song.
As I spoke the words I could feel myself dancing
and I hoped others danced as well.

Now I use words to think.
To think out loud, and I hope--
Hope that others think with me.
Because we've come so far.

------

Little Lexi

I will never stop.

Never stop climbing walls.

Never stop the late calls.

And you know why.

Even if you fight me,

I will never stop fighting

for you.

From you,

I would take every painful moment

upon myself if I could.

In a heartbeat.

When your knees shake,

I will relieve you of any burden

I can steal away.

Because you never have to be alone.

You will always have my

shoulder to lean on,

cry on, to hold on.

Our hands will always be

outstretched.

Even if you hide,

I know that you know

that I'll be right here.

Waiting on the front steps—

Even in the snow.

And you know how much I hate snow.

Never stop laughing.

Because your smile is worth

so much more than you know.

Look around you,

because I will surround you

with everything beautiful.

All you have to do

is take a deep breath—

And hold it.

Cling to it.

Because sometimes beauty

is all you have to remind you

of who you really are.

And who you are,

is twice as breathtaking.

Front

Independent. Immune.

She is fearless.

She is strong.

All those around her

“know” it.

And they all think they see it.

But.

Look. Look deep inside.

Past the walls—past the pride.

And see the girl.

She is afraid. Trembling.

She has fallen, and

It’s dark.

So dark that even her own eyes

betray her, and

She can’t even see herself anymore.

She searches for light

for anything to remind her that she’s

still real. 

She lights a candle.

And another.

And another.

They are dim,

but warm.

And warm means that

She’s still living.

So many candles are lit, though,

that as she lights each one,

another runs out of wax.

No time for tears.

----- 

Turn around.

Flip the switch,

That’s been there all along.

There is a light that

never flickers.

Never dims.

Just say a prayer,

He’ll meet you there.

Wherever “there” may be.

She makes a decision.

An empty space at a table.

As the room floods

with white,

she rises to its heat.

It fills her body and

she remembers

who she is.

A daughter of god.

A princess.

A belle.

Her vigor renews,

she blinks her eyes at

the blinding big world.

And changes it. 

Sleep

This is a monologue that I wrote, just for fun. I was planning on performing it for a competition, but it just never happened. It's just a rough draft that I wrote a while ago, so don't judge it too harshly, eh? It's also a lot better when it is being performed, since the wording is based on how I personally would express things.

Here's the scene: A psychiatrist's office. Javon, an annoyed looking 18-year-old, enters the office from a door across from a wooden desk. The psychiatrist, Doctor Kent, is a stubborn, blunt, middle-aged man. All of the following is said by Javon.

I'm doing well, thanks. I'm Javon Skye. [Sarcastically] New patient.

Actually, I'd prefer not to sit, Doctor... Kent was it? You see, I've already gone through three counselors, two doctors, and four other psychiatrists besides yourself, and, quite frankly, I know that there's nothing that you can do to help me.

My mind set?! My mind set isn't the problem. The problem is that trying to fix me by sending me to see psycho-analyzers is like trying to cure cancer with an ice-pack.

You're right. I've never actually discussed it with anyone, and I never will. There's no point. I have trouble sleeping--That's all. You can't help me. I'm gonna go ahead and leave now. [Tries door, it has been locked from the outside. Turns to Kent, anger rising]

Did my parents put you up to this? They think that if I'm locked in here then I'll just give and tell you? [Pauses] Look, I'm not telling you for your own... protection.

Oh, you think that's funny, do you? I mean, what could I possibly say that could be that bad? If I tell you, lives will be lost. Are you really willing to make that happen?

Well. That's... different. How much are they paying you if you get me to indulge my little... Secret?

As there is clearly no alternative in your eyes, I will tell you. I admit, it will be great to finally get it off of my chest.

[Looks Kent straight in the eyes, as he speaks he slowly returns to the desk, eventually sitting back down] As I'm sure my parents have told you, I don't just have trouble sleeping. Every so often, in the middle of the night, they hear me screaming. [Then as a sidenote:] They don't even bother to check in on me anymore.

The wording "every so often" doesn't exactly describe the pattern that actually exists. My parents just haven't noticed it. I scream, in fact, every sixth time that I fall asleep, though I have reason to scream much more often than that.

You see, there's a brief moment between being awake and being asleep. It is that instance when you feel weightless, when you're only half-conscious. I no longer experience that sensation, such is the nature of my curse. It has been replaced with... [struggles to come up with a word to describe it for a moment] with death.

Let me start from the beginning. On the night of my tenth birthday, my grandfather took me aside and revealed to me that I had been born with the family curse. That it afflicted every other generation. He told me that it would take effect that very night. Even though he told me exactly what was going to begin to happen to me, nothing could've prepared me for the first night.

My parents tucked me in as usual, it had been a great birthday, and I had already pushed what my grandfather had told me out of my mind. It seemed impossible. Right before sleep overtook my young body, though the curse proved itself to be real.

I screamed for the first time as I felt my throat be roughly slit. I saw no assailant, I only saw the blood on my hands that had flown to my neck, and felt the warm liquid streaming onto my chest. My parents rushed into the room as I continued to shriek. They came to my side and began shaking me, insisting that it was "just a nightmare."

And then I died.

And then... I woke up.

I had experienced the first death in a cycle of six. During breakfast my parents mentioned my "nightmare", and my grandfather's words creeped back into my memory: If I told anyone about the curse, I wouldn't wake up the next morning. So I told my parents that I didn't remember anything. [Painfully] To this day I still tell them the same thing.

Of course, I mentioned that it is a cycle of six. The second time I give in to sleep, I drown. Water suddenly fills my lungs and spills out of my mouth. I can see the water, hear it, feel it, taste it. But no one else can. [Bitterly] I'm the only one who can't breathe. I'm the only one that gets to perceive myself fighting desperately for air, and losing that fight for my life.

[Begins to sound slightly hysterical] The third death, in sadistic contrast to the last, is thirst. Imagine, Doctor, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. You're struck by sudden helplessness. You feel your organs shriveling within you, and you die along with them.

The fourth "rest" is to be crushed. You can't imagine the pain. Every bone in my body strains and shatters just for sleep, a necessity. The fifth is to freeze. Strangely, it is my favorite way to die. The cold  itself numbs the initial pain it causes, and I quickly lose the ability to comprehend that my body is shutting down.

I remind you that I only scream every sixth night. After eight years with this curse, I have learned to anticipate and mentally prepare myself for the first five. [Leans forward, finally looking Kent in the eyes for the first time] But I tell you, there is no way to prepare yourself to watch and feel your own flesh being consumed by flames.

That is why I still scream.

And that's only half of the curse. [Hysteria growing] You see, I'm not a fool, Doctor. My mother once made a comment when I was sixteen years old which doubled my curse. I learned that I could get rid of my curse at any time by passing it on to anyone else. But how could I bring myself to do that to someone? How could I knowingly cause another person to go through so much pain?

The comment that my mother made was one she said to my father, I just overheard. She said, "I was thinking about Javon and I remembered that my mom mentioned that his grandfather
(may he rest in peace) also used to scream in his sleep. So I called her up to see what made him stop. She said that he screamed almost every night for six years, but suddenly stopped another six years ago. I can only hope that Javon will grow out of it as well."

[Suddenly deathly serious] I realized something that day. A series of six deaths, the sixth being the worst, and he stopped after six years. Six... six... six. My grandfather, he didn't just tell me about the curse that I "already had" when I was ten; he gave me the curse. You see, Doctor Kent, six years completes the curse. After that time frame, the curse can be passed on simply by telling someone about the existence of the curse.

I kept the curse for eight years. When I said that lives would be lost if I told you, you probably didn't even consider that they would all be your own.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But I'm tired, and now I can sleep. 

Escape

Escape

      It was a first for me. Memories of three young girls' lives being ended by a midnight locomotive flit in front of my eyes for a pale instant. My breath pulls inside me in a single sharp gasp before I manage to regain my composure and release the stranglehold on the air inside me.
      Relax.
      I take a step. A small, careful step from one dank wood tie to the next. My breath now comes in long, ever-steadying sighs, inhaling the autumn air that glides through the rays of the full moon to reach my cold-burning lungs. The ties of the railway, which disappear around a silent bend, suddenly have a certain serenity to them.
      With each progressing stride I lose myself a little more in the mix of the navy-tinted palette that blends the reflection of the sky on the river to my left. Each subtle wave seems to beckon me to enter the shallows, to forget my cares and drift into the pseudo sky it wears as a gurgling, imperfect mask.
      "Almost there."
      I jump, though only barely enough to be perceived. I stumble backwards slightly, tearing my gaze from the hypnotic rhythm that carpets the impostor moon. Having nearly forgotten that I was not alone, I stare at my companion's figure which moves with practiced steps, smoothly travailing the knobby, weatherworn planks which serve as our path. I steal a final lingering glance at the raw motion of the damp stolen sky and hurry to catch up to my friend who now blends with the shadows up ahead.
      I wonder what my friend is thinking right now--such a hard life, so many reasons to be unhappy, but always moving on. I am surprised to finally be on my way to "the place" I have heard so much about.
      I scan the ground ahead of me as I proceed, carefully measuring each step to land on the slightly-giving tracks in front of me. I come to a clearing: my destination. I look up from my restricted view of gravel and pine. I see a silhouette sinking slowly into the river.
      "What are you doing?" I cry, running towards the shape which now consists only of a still-clothed torso, and a head above the surface. Peace radiates from the pair of familiar golden eyes as they sink beneath the swell.
      My mind doesn't stop to rationalize before I have leapt off of the boulder which shoulders the stream; time lags as my body splinters the lunar mosaic resting on the surface. I remember how much I hate being wet just as I feel the weight of soaked jeans resisting my attempts to stay afloat.
      I find myself alone in the now rough waters, only deep blue surrounds me as I cling to a crevice in a  rock that braces itself in the center of the river. I stay there only momentarily, knowing that no person can physically stay under a choking current for so long. I push off of my stronghold and plunge back into the liquid struggle.
      I fight to swim to where I last saw those eyes, I get there and instantly stop thrashing against the current.  Because suddenly there is no current. The water is warm here--and eerily still. I can feel myself being drawn downward, just as I witnessed before, and even as my mind threatens to split its seams with panic, I can feel my lower body relaxing. As the water reaches my throat fear consumes me as I anticipate the claustrophobia I associate with being separated from cherished air.
      But it never comes.
      I hold my breath as long as I can, and then discover that it isn't necessary. I keep expecting to drown, to feel the water filling my lungs, but my breathing comes easy.
      I settle in a sitting position on the river's floor. Focusing through the water is like staring through layers of antique windows. As my eyes adjust  I can make out the body of my friend, eyes closed, sitting across from me on the sandy bottom in perfect tranquility.
      Surreal. It is the only word that describes the experience.
      Every time I had been told about this place, it had been described to me as an escape, but only now do I realize the literal sense of the word. After an indeterminable amount of time, the eyes across from mine open for a moment, a quick blue smile accompanying them. We both stand and with little effort rise towards the surface.
      We reenter reality and ride the flow to shore. I drag myself onto the boulder that I had used as a diving board and blink in surprise at a red and gold sunrise. Serenity, apparently, is no respecter of time. I stand and look back into the river, which now shows a smiling mask of the dimly sunlit sky. I resist the urge to plunge back into the impossible escape.
      I think of the life that has been given to my friend. The hardships that I can't even begin to understand, the times that I've been surprised by a lack of tears as experiences were described to me. "How can you know about this, and stand not to just escape forever?"
      After a long pause, my answer was spoken to the ground at a near whisper.
      "Life... is far from perfect. It seems like every person I've looked up to for acceptance has turned their back on me, has given up on me already. Some nights I sit up wondering why I shouldn't just give up on me, too. I don't even really have a family; all I've grown up with is people fighting around me. But I have to rise up. I have to rise above my parents' practically nonexistent expectations for me. Yes, I come here to escape every once in a while, but I can't turn my back on life, because if I turn my back on myself--then I truly do have no one."

I Will Make Today The Day

I Will Make Today The Day

      I am a dreamer and a dream. Blue and gold sunlit skies urge me on through days of droopy-eyed paths. I tell myself that I can be something that the world has never seen before; the desert earth is parched and I am its quench.
      I am needed, required even, to fill the shared-conscious of humanity with silver quartz: crystal faith and sterling hope. Required to fill until the people can again feel the warmth that radiates from every windswept soul.
      I raise my eyes to the spotty scarlet sunrise, determined to move both my own and my peers' minds from the security of quilt-covered mattresses. My eyes linger on the the glass of my window for a moment before readjusting to focus on the white purity of what lies beyond the pane. The pain melts away and I rise with a navy blue boldness that shows in my skin and my smile.
      I will make today the day. The day I will quench the world.

      Each day begins this way. It is not because I have great influence, strength, or power. It is not that I truly believe that I am more important than anyone else in this populous world. It is because otherwise I will be afraid. Afraid that I am nothing.
      And I cannot start a day that way.

      I must live on in the lungs of history, be remembered with every exhale. Huddled behind piercing words and peeling paint I will live forever. Must live forever. I fear being forgotten, flee from the possibility. Yet I wallow in procrastination, watching my hours die on clocks in countless places.
      And here, with motivation lost, I end my thoughts.

A Day of Introspection

A Day of Introspection

I take a day of introspection,
and peel back all the paint
     that dictates bright eyes
     and forms charcoal sighs--
To see what I will see.

Layer upon layer falls away,
past whispers on the floor
      ostracized and lost,
      weak and double-crossed--
Masks without a host.

Even more strips are cast asunder.
I fear what I will find,
      when I reach truth's eyes,
      when I cannot hide--
I take a deep breath,

and remove the final blinding crust.

Feeling like a child in the big world
I blink at fresh sunlight.
      Unfiltered and pure,
      it reaches and cures--
I see with new eyes.

My first instinct is to cringe and hide
from myself and others.
      There is so much fear
      behind smiling mirrors--
And then it hits me.

Everyone is the same deep inside,
Craving the acceptance of
      their friends and peers,
      all dreading a sneer--
They layer on masks

to protect themselves.

And even as this realization comes
   I reach
      for paint.

Thank You Distant Moon

Life is sitting in soft sand--
      Warm, enveloping.
Sometimes the East coast,
Sometimes the West.

When the tide comes in--
      Thank you distant moon,
the rushing water gives us comfort
or burns us with cold.

When you choose the shores of California--
      You have no excuse for tears.
For running away.
Or giving up.

When you bask in the heat of Georgia--
      You have no excuse for tears.
For running away.
Or giving up.

So choose where you sit--
      or stand or lie.
Put on a strong face,
and learn to fly.

And Then Came Rain

      Rain and I never really played well together.

Whenever we saw each other I always ended up getting frustrated.

      He had always just been a whimpering wet blanket to my day.

            I saw the gray sky moping this morning and breathed an anticipatory sigh.

      But today was different. 

Maybe since we are older he decided to behave himself.

      Or maybe we are both just a little more mature now.

            He allowed me to walk to class without disturbance.

      He even waited until a roof was between me and him before he made his presence official.

The first step I took outside after class, though, immediately caused me to scowl.

      He was here.

            I was wrong.

      He had come in quick whispers, and had left the same way.

I saw the signs of him everywhere.

      I was again skeptical of his seemingly good intentions when I saw puddles.

            I braced myself for the chafing of wet socks.

      And again I was put to ease. 

The standing water was just shallow enough to not reach over the rubber of my soles.

      Just deep enough to gently splash my ankles with warm water at each step.

            Rain allowed me to have some space today. 

            I admit I was pleasantly surprised.

            I might even admit to him some day that I enjoyed it.

Perhaps They are Necessary

Most days are laughing days.
Sometimes singing days.
And occasionally a dancing day.

Every once in a while, though, I have a "What If" day.

"What If" days are the days when everything you see has a tint of gray in it.
They are serious.
Everything is serious.

They are the days when you look back and think,
"Have I wasted my life away?"
"Am I wasting my life away?"

You listen to others talking about their victories.
Their struggles and their pains and think,
"Why don't I have any triumphs to share?"

It's on those days that you wish that you could be someone else.

You'd be your best friend.
Your role model.
Even your worst enemy.

Their lives seem so flawless,
with their blue love and tears.
But even as you think that, you try to remind yourself that it isn't true.

But you still like to think that their lives are perfect.
It's easier to let that thought simmer.
Stir it until it gets thick.

Thick and it gets stuck in your head.

You spend the whole night wondering.
Wondering if there's a way to go back in time.
To change who you are.

You wonder if you can change who you are now.
But it seems unlikely.
Impossible, even.

Your heart beats slower.
You can't help but hate yourself in that moment.
Tears seem imminent, but even they seem to have abandoned you.

Your eyes close.
Just for a moment, and suddenly you find yourself waking up to a ray of the sunrise.

Its warmth meanders through the curtains just to find you.
Only you.
No one else.

You wake up and everything is in full color again.
The gray?
Just a nightmare of the day before.

Perhaps those days are necessary.
Necessary to remind us that our life isn't always going to be perfect,
that sometimes you are going to feel left behind.

The next morning though, inexplicably, you always feel okay again.

Not necessarily good,
but okay.
Ready to live some more.

Morninglight

I was supposed to copy the style of another author and write about my first day of college. I procrastinated until four in the morning the night before it was due, and it quickly turned into a satire of Stephanie Meyer's Twilight.


If you haven't read at least the first book you probably won't get it...
To be read in a whiney voice:

I hate Provo. It’s always raining here. It isn’t like Mapleton. In Mapleton it never rains and my mom is there. Just my dad works here and he’s always been overprotective.
            I walked to my first class in the Maeser building. I felt like everyone was watching me. It was raining. I hate Provo. Did I mention how much I hate Provo?
            I turned the corner into the classroom, relieved to be free from all of the staring eyes. I looked around the room; there was only one seat open. It was next to the most beautiful girl that I had ever seen. She was almost… inhuman somehow.
            As I walked to the lone empty seat I thought about how much I hate Provo. And rain. I sat down next to the girl and she hissed and scooted her chair away from me. Her dark eyes flashed at me for a moment. Then she got a weird look on her face that stayed for the rest of the movie, I mean… day. I thought, “That was weird. People never hissed at me and scooted away in Mapleton. But whatever, she’s pretty. I hate Provo. It rains here.”
            Then we went over the syllabus. I didn’t hear a word the teacher said because I was completely engulfed with staring at the beautiful girl next to me that had strangely pointy teeth.
            I broke the silence and said, “Are you a vampire?”
             And she said, “Noooo!”
            And I said, “Will you bite me?”
            And she said, “Noooo!”
            And I said, “Will you date me?”
            And she said, “Yeah cause you smell good and I watch you when you sleep.”
            And I was like, “Wait, what?”
            And she said, “Never mind.”
            And then all of the sudden there was this really buff girl that came up and was like, “I’m a really bad actress, and I’m definitely not a werewolf.” And then the pretty girl I was talking to hissed at the buff girl and I was like.
            “Hey stop that, I love you both… but buff girl you’re a baby. You can marry my son Renesme.”
            And the buff girl said, “IMMMPRINTINNNG.” And then she turned into a wolf and scampered away.
            And I was like, “That was weird, but she said she wasn’t a werewolf and I trust her because we used to build motorcycles together.”
            And then the teacher said, “Did something just happen?”
            And then I dropped an apple and the pretty girl caught it for me really fast. And then we were playing baseball. And then I was like, “I know what you are.”
            And then she wrote me a song and then another girl tried to eat me.

The End.

Nonsense Journals

I wrote these a while back in high school. I also have a knack for writing things that serve no purpose whatsoever besides being ridiculous. They are best read out loud in an obnoxious voice. Enjoy.


Journal #14

                My favorite color is blue. I like blue because it matches all of my pants, and my favorite pair of shoes. Not to mention the fact that a lot of my favorite things are blue, such as, the sky, water… when it’s in ponds, blue fin tunas, Dory, and those blue raspberry lollipops. Mmmmmm… J Sooo delicious. I wish that everything in the whole world was blue. If grass was blue, maybe I would enjoy mowing the lawn more, on my blue lawnmower. I would frequently take drinks out of my blue water bottle, and would bask in the blue sunshine. And I would eat blueberries, because they would actually be blue, instead of that crappy purplish color they are now.

Journal #15

                If I could be any animal, I would probably be a fox… Or a lemur. But we’ll stick with fox. Foxes are, well, foxy for starters. And that is the definition of me. I mean… just look at me. I’m simply dazzling! But not sparkly, like Edward. Gross. Anyways, back at the ranch, foxes are also very skinny, like me, and they are very sneaky and tricky. I can usually get whatever I want from people because, one, I dazzle the crap out of them, and two, I am very persuasive. I also am lithe and graceful like a majestic flying squirrel.

Journal #16

                My favorite kind of vegetable is the avocado, because it is so versatile. You can eat them plain, in salads, in guacamole, in salsa, and on top of casseroles and a variety of other dishes. My favorite kind of fruit is the red pear, not green pears, not yellow pears- red pears. Their flesh is pleasantly firm and the flavor is succulently sweet. It’s like heaven above had a rainstorm, and that rain fell to earth and planted a tree, and from that tree grew red pears. I also sort of like grapefruit. My favorite kind of starch is a potato. Because that’s the only plant in the starch category that I know about besides like… parsnips. And parsnips just aren’t that special. My favorite herb is dill, because when you get the plants fresh, it’s fun to run your fingers up and down the plant because it feels fuzzy.

Journal #17

                Once upon a time, in a galaxy not very far from her, in fact, it was here, just a long time ago… Ok starting over. Once upon a land right here, there were dinosaurs that ran around. They ate lots of plants. One day the dinosaurs decided that just eating plants (and each other) all day was really boring, so they decided to start a disco club. They stayed up all night, every night, discoing the night away. T-rexes danced with Stegosauruses, Triceratopses danced with Duck-bills, and thus, racism was eliminated in the dinosaurs’ society. And then a giant asteroid hit the earth and squished them all. The end. Someone should make a movie about that.

Journal #18

                In my ideal world, everyone would wear togas because they look good, and feel good, and I already own several of them. Also, everyone in Korea would have to stop eating dogs, because dogs are very friendly and don’t deserve to be eaten without written consent from them. And I’d like to see you try to get a dog to sign a consent form. In my world, everyone would be forced to chant my name every Wednesday for an hour, because I would be the supreme dictator of the world. I guess that everywhere wouldn’t be able to eat dogs, because I’d turn the entire world into one country: Spencerlandicus. There would be world peace, and I would solve world hunger by planting lots and lots of corn. Innnnndian corn.

Journal #19

                If I had time to do whatever I wanted, I would probably take up competitive underwater basket weaving. It is just a really intense sport, and it’s always been my dream to go to the Boise, Idaho national competition some day. I plan to win first place there, and take my place among the most famous basket weavers of all time. When I am done with that, I will take my prize money and retire to Finland, because the Fins are just super classy. I’m going to have a lot of extra baskets when I’m done with my illustrious career, so here is a list of things I will be keeping in them: mittens, muffins, puffins, puppies, guppies, grills, pills (legal), pineapples, red apples, one fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish, Scotland, cotton, a manicurist, frogs, dogs, Lincoln logs, root beer extract, newspaper clippings, grass clippings, grasshoppers, jalapeño poppers, flip floppers, glue, oranges, whiskers, cold mold and bold gold. Yep. Them’s gonna be some full baskets.

Journal #20

                It’s random ranting time, with Spencer Ballard! First off, the funny thing about platypuses is that they’re not really mammals, and they’re not really birds. I mean… what the crap? It’s like a pelican and a sea otter had a summer fling or something. Secondly, what’s the deal with junior high kids thinking that they’re the shiz? I was driving down the street the other day and a bunch of poser junior high kids were walking in the middle of the street and only letting one car go past at a time. I seriously considered doing the world a favor and giving one of them a friendly nudge with my car, just hard enough to knock some sense into him. And thirdly, we should all start convincing people we don’t like to illegally immigrate to Mexico, so they’ll think that our country sucks so they’ll stop coming here. It's not because I'm racist per se. It's because I just want to be able to go to Wendy’s and have them understand my order the first time I say it…. Not the fifth time.



Journal #21

                Let’s discuss some mysteries of the universe. Why do English people always have bad teeth? Explanation:  It is a pagan ritual to give them anti-braces when they are born, so they will fit in with all of the other bad-teethed people. Why does my teacher rule her class through fear? Explanation: her third grade teacher was a descendant of Mussolini. Why is America getting fatter? Explanation: the bees are disappearing. Why do people think monkeys are cute? Explanation: they, themselves, look more like monkeys than people. Why do people not recognize Miley Cyrus when she’s just wearing an (ugly)wig? Explanation: She’s a hypnotist. Dun dun Duuuun. Why does everyone think kittens are cute? Explanation: they are hypnotists, too. Why are bubbles so fun to pop? Explanation: your brain goes through the same process as when you drink lots of cold medicine. What do you get when a midget fortune teller escapes from jail? Explanation: A small, medium, at large. What time is it when an elephant sits on your fence? Explanation: time to ask the elephant why the heck he’s sitting on your fence in the first place. This has been –discussions of universal questions- with your host, Spencer Ballard. Please send any cash donations to 801-830-6491.

Like I said, nonsense. But nonsense can be more fun to read than a novel of literary worth sometimes. Which one was your favorite?
Want me to write a new journal entry? Comment with a prompt.

Stream of Consciousness

      I was at an Art Museum a few days ago and examined this incense burner from ancient Islamic culture for a solid twenty minutes. I wrote down whatever came to mind, and this is what I came up with.

Incense burner.
Oh what do you represent?
With your cold eyes so hollow.
Half smiling, half screaming.

Intricate black windows allowing insight
into your slim body, reminding me that there
is nothing to see in you. At least not now.

Have you no idea that you have a tail,
curved and ready to strike?
At you? At those who you love?
Or do you know it too well to be afraid?

Are you a feline, as your face would suggest?
Or are you a creature who's identity is as
fleeting as the limbs that support you?

How mighty you must have looked,
scented embers glowing in your broad chest.
Never again, though,
will wisps of smoke and symbolism
escape through the patterns that tattoo your polished skin.

You are caged, trapped.
Damned to the narrow eyes that will never know your past triumphs.

What were your thoughts of your masters?
Who surely held you tight,
your sheer magnificence a mark of their succes.

Did you have a name?
A place? A home?
Were they truly the master of you at all?

Did the children play with you,
when your body, your soul, was not consumed with fire?
Or did they fear the face that holds such mystery to me now?

What are you thinking?
Do you know what purpose you serve?
How important, precious you once were,
though your "importance" has changed so much?

You are a memory of what once was,
what still now is for all your onlookers know.
As you sit in silence,
do you feel old?

Why were you touched at all?
Were you? Did anyone ever have a
second thought about your graceful markings as they
started the flames inside you?

Now we fear you.
We will not touch you.
And I ask you,

Do you ever feel forgotten?

I've Been Waiting for so Long

Keep in mind that my writings are written to be read out loud as well as to yourself. I hope you like it.
Please comment at the end with any feedback or suggestions.

I’ve Been Waiting for so Long

         When I was little, love was pink. The soft, gentle pink of my mom kissing my forehead even after I had spit out my carrots on her lap just moments before. It was the pink of her letting dad hug her when he got home from work, even though the rank scents of gasoline and oil clung to his skin and invaded hers as they touched.

The pink crayons that all of the little girls in my class used to fill in hearts with as they dreamily doodled on their spelling tests- it was that pink. Love was mamas and papas caring about each other and about me. That was as far as my underdeveloped, cartoon-obsessed mind ever bothered to wander on the subject. Love was pink. It was so pretty.

When I became a big, bad junior high kid, love wasn’t pink anymore. It turned red. And green. And gray. A dismal Christmas of jealousy and awful aloneness. 

During those years love was so fiery red that it burned my fingers. I would involuntarily recoil whenever I got close to it, then I would hang my head in self-pity. I was a scruffy-looking housecat, trying to fit in with a zoo full of tigers—who all seemed to have mates.

During that time I liked this girl. I thought she liked me. Then she made out with my best friend. A lot. Was I bitter?

Love was green. So was I. But it was still red.

Junior high love was a cloud that separated the cool from the uncool, a thick gray cloud that caused a lot of rain to fall from peoples’ eyes. This love thing, that everyone else seemed to have, caused me to have an ashen stare whenever my friends complained about their dramatic, wonderful relationship problems. I was painfully aware that I was just a single philanthropist to them.

What do you get when you mix fiery red, downcast green, and overcast gray? The dark rust color of the bricks that stack to form my junior high, that’s what. How quaint.

Junior high was rough. High school was better.

I painted a mask of confidence, put it on with superglue, and threw away those dark December days. I may even have kicked that stupid building— just out of spite. I was done with love. Love was not done with me.

I met her eyes for the first time sophomore year. Eyes that wouldn’t, couldn’t ever hurt me. And every time I closed my eyes I saw her face, just as my friends had described to me through all the gray.

She didn’t live close by. Neither of us had a cellphone. We asked our librarians how to use this dusty technology called email, and that was how we communicated. Back and forth: one long, heartfelt message each day.

Almost two years passed. Our conversations were on and off. She had other boys during that time. I never had another girl. We found ourselves stargazing. I finally stole her hand. I finally stole her lips. Love broke out of its rust colored cocoon. It emerged with glistening wings, but I didn’t see its color at the time because my eyes never left hers.

         Looking back, I think that love was a glimmering blue at that moment. A bright blue that could’ve had a bright future. As time passed, though, it slowly dulled and faded. Her eyes never did hurt me. I just never nurtured that love enough for it to fly.

         It got worn out. A haggard blue. Haggard like when you run a mile in the biting wind and you can’t breathe. Your vision gets spotty, and you have to catch yourself on the railing before you collapse. Your lungs burn through the ice in your diaphragm and you cough for a much longer time than it took you to run that mile. You reach that point where you can’t physically run any further.

Haggard blue lasted for a long time. A few times I almost ran again, but my heart was never into it. You can become afraid to run again sometimes when you’ve reached that point.

After blue, love became clear. Colorless and lost. Something I could never wrap my arms around, something that my hands went right through whenever I tried to discover it again or feel its shape.

Recently, I discovered what color love truly is.

It was a quiet, warm night in O’Fallon, Illinois when a thoughtful friend of mine, aptly named Harmony, introduced me to a music album named “The Broken Bride” by a band called Ludo. The album has five songs, including four songs that tell a story of a man who is trying to save his wife’s life. The first time I listened to the album I enjoyed the sounds. The second time I listened to the album I grew from the words.

“I’ve been waiting for so long, to touch you and sleep in your eyes. And now as my heart’s beating so hard, I hold on, and keep you at home in my arms.” I heard these lines and wondered, “Well, just how long has he been waiting?” The way it was said, it seemed so heartfelt to me.

I had never paid enough attention to follow the details of the story before. I looked up the lyrics to answer my question.

Fifteen years.

It was in the first line of the first song. After his wife perished when she was in a car accident on her way to work, her husband dedicated the next fifteen years of his life towards building a time machine so he could go back in time and stop her from leaving the house on that fateful morning in May.

Fifteen years.

I kept reading.

He successfully builds a time machine, but as he sets off something goes wrong and he ends up in the Jurassic age. He is chased into a claustrophobic cave by velociraptors. He is sure he is going to die. He writes his beloved wife’s name on the wall, and goes out to face them. He is willing to risk being torn apart to get back to his time machine to try again to reach her.

At this point I couldn’t pull my eyes off of the screen. I was captivated by this story of pure devotion.

Blood. He is injured, but reaches his machine. This time his machine jerks forward, dragging him to the end of time. The world is in an apocalypse. The people have no hope, they are simply waiting for “The Dragon” to come and destroy their city, consume their families and themselves. “The Dragon” comes; the people have no way to fight back. They are being burned. The protagonist in the story sacrifices everything. He uses his machine to kill the dragon, he knew that it would destroy his machine, but he did it anyways.

Angels come to him as he weeps. They can’t understand why “his heart still screams” when he has just saved an entire civilization. He explains that he just wants to tell his wife goodbye. He knows that he can’t change her history. He just wants one more day with her. “That morning in May.”

The beings have compassion on him and use their power to send him to his chosen date. What follows is the last song in the album. The song is love. The love is white.

He walks through the quiet house, finds her upstairs asleep. He is overwhelmed with emotion. Those lines, “I’ve been waiting for so long, to touch you and sleep in your eyes. And now as my heart’s beating so hard, I hold on, and keep you at home in my arms.” Mean so much more to me now.

She wakes up, for her it’s just a normal morning. Before he can stop her she is out the door in her car, heading to work. He runs, catches up to the car, knocks on the window and says: "Baby, I thought I'd come along for the ride.” He will die with her. He can’t be without her again.

         The song ends with a slightly altered chorus:

I've been waiting for so long.
Time slows, and I take your hand.
To touch you and sleep in your eyes.
I hold you as we lose control.
Together our hearts beating so hard.
Hold on, baby we're almost home.

Together. I realize that his love, true love, is white.

White like when you’re under water and you see delicate rays of sunlight rippling in front of you. It is holding your breath and reaching for those rays, doing even more than you think possible, to be stayed— forever— in their protective warmth.

All I know is that this is what I’m reaching for. All-encompassing white.

Anyways, tell me what you think, and here are the links to the four songs that make up the story. 

Pt. 1 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6n3KNmpPywY

Pt. 2 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tpi728NhCpU

Pt. 3 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6DwUUKTlMoU&feature=results_video&playnext=1&list=PLF7923E457F925648

Pt. 4 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i7W4ZwhnJ24