he's not a giving tree

When I was little my dad was, as many children see their fathers, superman. He was the strongest and the fastest, and the best chocolate chip cookie baker. He was my tree. Solid roots that grew deep into my ground and supported me against his trunk. A tarp of leaves to catch me when I fell, and limbs that reached down to me and guided me to the top of my potential. But as I continued to climb, his limbs started to bend, weakening under the strain. They stopped growing, and stretched to a point where they could no longer hold me. They're bark flaking off and disappearing into the fading leaves below. I continued to climb for as long as I could; convincing myself that everything was the same. That this tree had not changed. Until eventually I fell, tumbling into nothingness, where leaves should have been there to catch me. I had not given up. It wasn’t his fault. The weight of my body had grown to fast for him and he had done everything he could to hold me. Right? So I began climbing again. But sharp thorns poked out of the bark, piercing my flesh and tearing my skin. Short branches broke off at the slightest touch, leaving behind rough sticks that scratched my legs and tore my clothes. His trunk did not bend towards me the same way. It seemed to be twisting away from me in disgust, yet it begged me to continue climbing. I gripped each limb of the tree for as long as I could until my hands grew sweaty and slippery, and I found myself on the floor yet again. Yet, none of it was his fault. But what else was I supposed to do? How could he expect me to reach the top of such an impossible course? I’m still climbing.

wow lovely

I write this a while ago. Then I found it. Don't you love it when that happens?

When I grow up I want lots of children. They will have ringlets and shiny patent leather shoes and they will play with Marissa’s cats. Marissa will have fluffy cats. Who are all declawed. I want to live somewhere beautiful, that looks like country, but isn’t because the city’s right there. My name is Alexandra. A lot of people call me Ace. I don’t know why. Well, I do know why, but it’s a shit story so I'm not gonna tell it. One day I'm going to make up a story about how I got my nickname and tell everybody. You’ll be the first to know.

My moms kind of like a gypsy. She wears long skirts that jingle, and ties her hair up with butterfly shaped clips. And she’s always dancing. Well that’s what she does. She’s a dancer. I dance too, but I do not want to be a dancer when I grow up. We move around a lot, me and my mom. We always have. I've never lived in the same place for more than 5 years. This is the longest time I’ve been anywhere. It’s my 5^th year. Sometimes I'm scared we’re jinxed. And something tells me I might not be here next year.

The items I would grab if my house was on fire would be…

1. My computer

2. My dog Lola, even though she’d probably make me regret it. (I'm just kidding)

3. My phone, so I could call the fire department and tell them my house was on fire, and then sue them if they didn’t save everything I had to leave behind. Then with the money I win from the lawsuit I can buy all my important stuff…except not really. Like photo albums, journals, and my stuffed animals. Those are the things that really matter. Not anything I could buy back. But having the money would probably make me feel a little bit better about losing everything.

That’s a terrible situation to think about. Losing everything. I hate losing things. But I suppose I'm not very original in that ideology. Most of my friends are people who have lost things. Not stupid things like a homework assignment or their appetite. But like, things that will still matter to them 50 years from now. Their father, their independence, their freedom, their virginity. But everybody has a sob story. What I'm trying to point out is that I seem to be attracted to people who have lost something meaningful, or something I perceive as meaningful. But people who don’t flaunt their loss. People who hide it. I don’t know how I got into this subject. But I’ll end this now. Is this supposed to be an autobiography or something? If so, I hope you’ve learned something about me. I didn’t really follow the instructions. But really, what’s the fun in that?

something i never told my mother...

A strong, black railing outlined my aunt and uncles house in Florida. Soundly standing on their front porch, dividing their house from the yard. The black paint had chipped off in some places, exposing a rusty metal surface beneath its smooth facade. My aunt, uncle, and older cousins had gone to the store to pick up dinner. Upon realizing that we had forgotten our toothbrushes at home, my parents had driven off to the local CVS, leaving my youngest cousin and I alone in the house, with only our grandmother’s snores to keep us company. I was two years older than my cousin Grace, who had just turned four and had taken it upon herself to remind me of this at least three times a minute. She also reminded me how her mom let her hold the spatula and flip the pancakes every morning, and that she was the only person in her family who could count to ten in German, and that she jumped so high on her bed she could touch the ceiling, and a countless number of other facts that I had no interest or desire to hear. I tried to distract myself from her irritating bragging, but was unable to get rid of her annoying voice mumbling every fact about herself into my ear.

She continued, “…and I can fit my head through the railing without getting stuck and-”

“Prove it.” I said finally, hoping I would be able to trap her in a silence long enough to escape to my room.

“Okay.” She said naively, making her way to the front porch. It was not the answer I had hoped for, but at least it would be entertaining. I did try and warn her that she could get stuck, and that she would be in trouble if our parents caught us, but she was completely confident in her abilities.

She grasped two poles on the railing and slid her head through easily, shooting me a triumphant smile from the other side of the fence. Her smile quickly faded when she realized that her head must have suddenly grown larger, and would no longer squeeze through the posts. Pushing against the railings she struggled to free herself, but was unable to squeeze her ears through the solid structure. With our grandmother sound asleep the only option was to wait until our parents returned, hopefully well prepared with a remedy for trapped heads. I sat with Grace on the porch. She was not nearly as annoying now, it seemed being stuck in a fence had quieted her.

When she got hungry, I went into the kitchen to look for a snack and returned with a box of raisins. I took all the raisins out of the box, and lined them up symmetrically on the edge of the porch. I watched mesmerized as a small ant scurried up the side of the porch and found its way onto the wrinkled raisin. I picked up the raisin and examined it, captivated by the ant’s ability to camouflage with its food. I then fed the raisin, ant and all, to Grace. I waited until another ant crawled onto one of the raisins, before feeding it to Grace. She had almost finished the box when my parents got home. I picked up the only remaining raisin and flicked off the ant before popping it in my mouth.

his name rhymes with smile.

i was listening to this song when you first told me.

its sickeningly ironic.

It's like forgetting the words to your favorite song.
You can't believe it; you were always singing along.
It was so easy and the words so sweet.
You can't remember; you try to feel the beat.

Your name doesn't make me smile anymore. The moment my smile turned down, I was listening to this song.

So pretty/so smart
Such a waste of a young heart
What a pity / what a sham
What's the matter with you, man?

Don't you see it’s wrong/ can't you get it right?
Out of mind and outta sight
Call on all your girls, don't forget the boys
Put a lid on all that noise

I hear you're living out of state, running in a whole new scene
They say i haven't slept in weeks, you're the only thing i see

I'm a satellite heart/ lost in the dark
I’m spun out so far/ you stop, I start
But I'll be true to you
I’m a satellite heart/ lost ïn the dark
I’m spun out so far/ you stop I start
But I'll be true to you no matter what you do/ yeah I’ll be true to you

sickening.

i won't be true to you. no matter what you do. yeah, i won't be ever be true to you.

sincerely,

when i write...

When I write, I hope that my words can keep up with the multiple thoughts jumping into my head. When I write, I try to remember why it is that I loved writing when I was younger, and why now I never feel like my words sound good enough, strong enough, or thought out enough.

In 3^rd grade, my teacher pulled me aside one day and demanded that I admit to having plagiarized my book report. I didn’t even know what the word plagiarism meant, but I knew I was in trouble, and I knew I had done nothing wrong. I honestly denied my guilt, but even after a conference with my mother she was not convinced. The writing contained too few mistakes and grammatical errors, and had a ‘voice’ strong enough for a much older student.

In 4^th grade when I turned in my first written assignment, I was not accused of plagiarism. Instead, I was moved into the 5^th grade reading and writing class. When I write, I try to remember what motivated and inspired me to write in the past, and I attempt to bring that feeling back to life again, but I rarely succeed.

At some point during middle school, despite encouragement and enthusiasm from my teachers, writing lost my interest. I went from carrying a journal everywhere, to only picking up a pen when it was mandatory. Then people stopped pushing me to write, so I stopped pushing myself. By the time I realized I missed writing, I felt as if I had fallen out of it completely. The strong writing ‘voice’ my teachers had discussed so frequently, seemed to have been lost amidst everything else, and I never took the time to even rustle some papers around in hopes of finding it.

Suddenly, I want to find it again. During the day, hundreds of thoughts shoot into my head in the form of paragraphs, books, and articles. Unfortunately, they seem to jump out of my head, just as quickly, before I even get the chance to pop off my pen cap. I often wish that I had a voice recorder taped to the inside of my brain, to record every one of these thoughts before they disappeared into the black hole of my head. If that were the case, I would probably have at least 10 novels written by now. I am trying to learn how to catch these sneaky thoughts before they disappear, hoping that one of them will contain my ‘voice’ and lead me back on track.

I never draft or outline as suggested when I write. Instead I try to let my thoughts flow freely onto the paper, ready to be rewritten and edited later. In my mind, writing is like watching a waterfall in action. My hands like the water spilling across the rocky keyboard. Outlining is like creating an obstacle course for something not meant to be contained or controlled. I find it much easier to filter it out once its reached the end, rather than interrupting the flow continuously during the process.

When I write, I grasp onto anything running through my brain, and then attempt to follow it through to the end without stretching it out to far, or letting it get away to soon. I try to let my writing speak for itself, and to let everything I know and am learning, find its place somewhere in the passage.

i love...

i love symbolism. 

sometimes, i just can't stop thinking about it, as my friends will constantly complain. 

symbolism seems to give me reason to find depth and meaning in coincidences and mistakes.

 like what i imagine faith would feel like. 

it provides something to believe in. 

something i can use to prove to myself that the cycle of life does in fact prove a purpose. 

i love movies based on books.

i always read the book after i watch the movie.

(if i do it the other way around, im usually disappointed)

i like to see how hundreds of peoples interpretations of one book, combine to create a million pictures that you watch flash before your eyes as words are brought alive.

then, i like to read the books, to see how one authors imagination created so many different and complex ideas. 

its like a huge puzzle in my head, and all the peoples opinions are the pieces. 

then i can take ym own opinions and interpretations, and fit it in where the pieces from the jigsaw are missing...

and suddenly everything makes sense.

A View of the Sky

Recent high school graduate

A shopping mall

After a thunderstorm has passed

Reminiscing on how things have changed

The assignment was to use the character/ place/ thoughts/ etc. and write a short story around what was provided. I decided not to plan it out at all, not that i usually do, and to just see what happened. this is what happened. 

You know how the sky is after a huge thunderstorm. The clouds drift in their own directions, splitting the sky, and surrounding everything with a deep blue glow. Sometimes it looks as if heaven were opening up right in front of you. I wish I could be sucked up into it, heaven I mean. Not that I want to die and go up there, but the sky just looks so inviting, as if a pair of arms is about to reach out and grab me to bring me up, and I wish they would. I could stare up at a sky like that for hours, just waiting hopefully for those arms. Well its one of those nights tonight. But I’ve decided to not waste my time staring at the sky, since those arms have never showed themselves, although once I swear I saw an arm hair glittering off the sun. So instead, I’ve stuck myself somewhere where I can't even be tempted by the sky and all its temptations. I’m sitting in shopping mall, specifically in the food court. I often worry about the people who willingly decide to go to shopping malls. No silence or peace, all chaos and commotion. No privacy or space, and definitely no fresh air. Every other corner smells like crappy Chinese food samplings or receipt ink. And there’s never a view of the sky. I’m here because I'm worried that if I'm anywhere with a view of the sky, I might just attempt at jumping into it. After all these years of temptation I’ve been able to hold back, but its getting harder and harder. Especially now that I have nowhere else to go. Well, that’s not completely true. I’m not homeless or a runaway. I have a job (part time) but since graduating high school (as of two weeks) and still not having any idea what I'm doing with my life now, jumping into the sky sounds like one of my best options. I guess it’s a bit of a hyperbole to say that malls have no view of the sky. I just realized that I've sat myself under one of the few skylights in the food court here. I guess no matter how hard I try to separate myself from temptation, the sky will always find me. On the other hand, I'm the one who sat down here, so maybe I'm the one who’s always finding the sky.