Silly Little Girls

I’ve been wanting to use this blog for more than just a place to spill all of my thoughts out. I’ve been wanting to also use it as a way to share some of my writing in an attempt to become more comfortable with people other than myself reading it.

I will never claim to be a poet. In fact, I’m already dreading any future poetry classes I’ll need to take for my degree, and those are quite a ways off. I’m much more comfortable writing in essay form or even short stories. Poetry is probably my least favorite of all writing styles for me. I love reading works by others, but it’s not something I enjoy doing for myself.

But I’m trying. I’m making an effort and branching out. Experimenting with other mediums is what creating art is all about.

This is part of a collection I’ve been working on for over a year. Mostly inspired by my experiences, some just inspired by observation, I want it to eventually be a solid representation of the counterculture I had the privilege of being around the past thirteen months or so

Silly little girls.
You naive, pretty things.
One day, you’ll learn. One day, it won’t be all sugar and dancing anymore.

Silly little girls.
You who know almost nothing of true hardship and suffering.
You love things you’ve yet to understand.

You stand, you cheer, you shout praises for the man on the stage.
When he screams from the front of the room, it’s partially for the recognition, but most of all, it’s to expose his soul.
He shouts pain, for darkness and struggle are his prided muses.
He pleads for someone, anyone, to bring him the drugs, and your praise is deafening.
Your adoration is blind.

This is what he claims to want- this blind celebration.
Without it, his intentional anguish means nothing.
Without it, his self-inflicted torment is for naught.

Take heed. Be careful. Count yourself lucky for not knowing that pain.
For one day, the world could come crashing in.
Those easy days could turn into a long-forgotten fantasy.
Treasure the good, the calm, the innocent.
Take hold of your own soul.
You can’t know that you’re giving parts of your own self away until you’re running on empty.
At least then, when the word master weaves his web of tormented phrases on stage, you can feel at one with his words.
Just wait.
You’ll see.

Tyler, TX - Summer 2015
Tyler, TX – Summer 2015

listening to: Damien Rice

The Next One

I haven’t written anything except for journal entries in just about a month. I think the reason behind this has been pretty simple. I needed to regroup my thoughts.

So what have I been doing instead?

I’ve been reading.

More specifically, I’ve been reading things that I feel have been having a wonderful impact on my thoughts and writing projects: The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran, Scary Close by Donald Miller, and Naked Human by Christopher Poindexter. They’re all very different from each other, but they have one thing in common: authenticity.

I’ve been thinking a lot about relationships lately. Not just romantic relationships, but mostly the friendships I’ve formed with the people I’ve met in Tyler since I’ve been back. In fact, I had a conversation with an old friend this week about how he was proud of me for being social and actually connecting with people in town.

The thing is, I don’t even feel like I’ve been trying to be more social or getting to know everybody I possibly can. I’ve just been more authentically me. I’ve been more open and honest and friendly, and there’s a sense of freedom that comes with that. I’m not saying this in a bragging sort of way, but I think because I’ve been more willing to be wholly genuine, the people I’ve met and have surrounded myself are also like that. That sense of honesty is the breeding ground for intimate friendships. That celebration of genuine humanity- both the positive and the negative- inspires people to open up and help each other through the struggles.

It’s a very rare thing to be part of a community that is so willing to talk about their downfalls. Everybody enjoys sharing their achievements and happy moments, but it’s not very often that you stumble across a group that can be truly supportive even when people are admitting the faults that hit the very core of who they are. Because of this, you really get to know the souls of people, not just the outer shell that many of us wear on a daily basis. You are able to support their dreams with joy and without any sort of jealousy or bitterness.

Sometimes the support comes in the form of cheering on bands at local bars and restaurants. Other times, the support is having art shows and poetry readings. I got to go to my first one of these art shows a couple weekends ago, and ended up sitting in the back corner of the place writing, similar to the day that inspired my seven descriptions a while back. This was what came out of my people watching:

Willowy frames swaying with every strum of the bass. Spectators watched every hip sway and every limb move. It was a dance of seduction and passion, but you couldn’t avoid it- you couldn’t look away. The girls in the front knew what they had and the only thing on their minds was celebrating that- reveling in all that was free love- and they reached out their arms in an attempt to bring that love to the rest of the room. It was extravagant, yet bare bones simplicity. They all had pasts that had turned them into sirens, women who were so beautiful in their youth and freedom, but could drive you to the point of begging to throw your soul upon the rocks.

The whole space made you feel as if you had been transported to another world. It was a warehouse that had been converted into an artist’s safe haven. Paintings covered every wall and hung from the rafters. A stage was set up in the middle of the room for the various musicians in the room to properly express their thoughts and feelings the best way they knew how.

He had been encouraged to get up on that stage all night. Words were what made him come alive. He wove them together like a spider weaves a web, both parts artistry and survival. If everyone in the room had a title, his would have been Poet. He was the best at what he did, and while he was confident in many areas, the constant second-guessing in this facet of life made him more of an artist than he was probably willing to admit. He climbed up on the stage and even the willowy sirens fell silent, for they too felt the respect that his words commanded. There was a hush in the room as everyone sat with anticipation until he took a deep breath and began to speak.

“My name is…”

Mango's Chateau, Tyler, TX- April 2015
Mango’s Chateau, Tyler, TX- April 2015

I write to…

Even without meaning to, there are always reasons behind every action that we make. We might not be aware of them at the time, and sometimes it takes a lot of reflection to decipher our own mind’s intentions, but they’re there if you dwell on them long enough. Thinking about why I’m so passionate about writing and why I want to make it my life lead to a few reasons why I spend so much time holed up with a pen, a journal, my computer, and some music; why I write.

I write to make sense. My thoughts are so often jumbled and disorganized and don’t make a single drop of sense. However, when I get those thoughts and emotions out on paper, everything makes a little more sense. When I can re-read my thoughts, I can find motives and reasons behind actions.

I write to remember. I make the same mistakes over and over and over again. I feel like I’ve fallen in love with the same person three different times, but writing down all the experiences the last time around has helped me keep a more practical view. My memory hasn’t been the same after a hit to the head several years ago, and writing keeps me on track.

I write to inspire. I’m not good at a lot of things. In fact, I’m pretty terrible at most things. The one thing I’m good at is writing to be relatable. In everything I write, I want people that might be struggling to know that they aren’t alone. I want people to feel like they can conquer their demons because I’m doing an okay job at that through writing.

I write for therapy. I write because putting my hurt into words helps to remove myself from a bit of the pain. There’s something wonderful in the healing process of looking back to when the pain was fresh and seeing how you’ve made it through the worst parts.

I write because I have to. I write because if I don’t, I get incredibly irritable and cranky. I get frustrated and rude. I get so emotional, but when I finally get that pen and paper back out, the bad feelings just flood out of me and I feel peace and contentment again.

I write to keep myself sane.

A collection of journals, stories, and poems
A collection of journals, stories, and poems

listening to: Muse, Father John Misty

Six sentences

Inspired by my writing class, a (very feeble) attempt at a micro-story on love:

She had regretted her decision for years and only wished that she could get those six years of lost time back.

He had been hurt by love one time too many, so he couldn’t allow himself to truly need her, no matter how much he might want her.

They gave it a third try- a try after moves across the state, the country, the world.

However, once you fully and completely break the heart of someone who once loved you without holding back, the trust can never be regained.

So she let him go.

Willing to shoulder all the hurt and blame, she let him go.

Paris, France - July 2014
Paris, France – July 2014

The First Seven

I have a project that I’ve slowly been working on. A project that will hopefully chronicle the growth and strength of the culture I’ve mentioned a couple times prior in this blog. When the writing course I’ve been going through prompted us to work on some character descriptions and development, I was so excited because this was the perfect shot of adrenaline that I’ve been needing.

These are all based on people that I know and love dearly. The descriptions might be embellished here and there to create more interest, but this was an incredibly fun exercise. I only made it to seven people, but I’m hoping to expand this and possibly do some extra characters each week.

She flitted from group to group as if she knew everybody. She looked young, but seemed ageless. When she chose to, she could turn those crystal blue eyes on you and flash the brightest smile like you were the greatest person on the planet and her best friend. She was free, a hippy child born far past the era she belonged to. Under the freeness, however, was a vulnerability. If you took the time to get to know her, you noticed the expressions of uncertainty that flashed across her face when nobody was really paying attention. Through it all, she loved. She loved more fiercely than anyone I had ever encountered.

He had an aura of serenity enveloping him. His smile was slow and steady, and although he looked quite young in general, his eyes were ancient. When he chose to grace someone with his undivided attention, he looked as if nothing in your soul could be hidden from him. As terrifying as that should have been, his air of total acceptance put even the most unsettled person at peace. He was attractive in the traditional sense, but there was something oddly majestic about the way he carried his tall frame. You could see that he had dealt with many demons throughout his life, but his utter acceptance and love for everybody he met was proof of his strength.

His hair was untamable. His laugh was infectious. His smile was proof of his love for life and the people he surrounded himself with. He looked like the kind of person who could instantly befriend anybody, but it betrayed a little of his uncertainty if you looked carefully.

A third man sat in the corner with his phone in one hand and a pitcher of beer in the other. He hardly glanced up at all, but when he did, there was an attitude of melancholy that radiated off of his entire self. He wore a red beanie that sometimes served as a form of armor- a protection that prevented him from being completely vulnerable.

She walked in with the guy with the untamable hair. She knew his feelings- she knew that he wished they could be together and have a happily ever after, but her actions showed that she just didn’t care if she hurt him or not. She was careless- careless in a way that many viewed as attractive, but not in a way that brings any sort of value to a community. She lived her life without remotely caring about the feelings of people who dreamed of caring for her, so she left a path of destruction in her wake.

They were the ideal rocker couple. He expressed all of his emotions through his guitar, and she showed her love and support by being front row every single time he was on stage. He was the most introspective-looking man around, one who had thoughts running through his head constantly, but was only able to express those thoughts through music. He always looked as though he was under the influence of something, which he might have been, but you could also tell he was constantly fighting demons- demons of addiction and overindulgence. She loved him despite all of this- she loved him so selflessly. It was a pure sort of love- a love that was constant and battled through the demons, a love that most people could only dream of. They shared a love that was pure despite all of the dirt that tried to fight them.

Tyler, TX- January 2015
Tyler, TX- January 2015

listening to: Portugal the Man