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Monday, July 23, 2012

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.

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

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.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

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.




Sunday, July 1, 2012

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, jalapeƱo 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 stayedforever 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.