Luna Moth

(no subject)

So here I am at Barnes and Noble, eating an overpriced reheated chicken wrap and black bean soup, and I open up my laptop and check my email -- careful, of course, to not introduce the black bean soup to my laptop. And in that email, I find spam beginning to decorate my last LiveJournal entry, written nearly a year ago. Delete, delete, delete. I'm not sure why spam has sniffed out my LJ, but I'm thinking it's a sign to either come back here and breathe some life into this poor neglected cyber garden (mixing my metaphors, but you'll forgive me, gentle reader, if you're out there, won't you?) or turn over the earth and let someone else plant here. But I can't bear to delete this account, so I guess the former is the way to go.

Since graduating with a bachelor's degree in creative writing last November, I mostly haven't been writing. Mostly. Now, I can never decide whether I am of the school that says you must write regularly, even if it requires you to sweat blood, in order to truly advance in your craft, or the one that says if you must write, you must, and if you simply can't, then don't. But I do believe that just like fields, our writing life has seasons of fertility and drought, seasons when the earth must lie fallow in order to yield a richer harvest later. It is our responsibility, then, to be completely honest with ourselves as to which one it is, whether we are not writing for reasons of crop rotation, or if we are refusing to pursue a necessary discipline. Or if, as I've come to believe for myself, we are somewhere in between both.
red-haired two

(no subject)

It's so fun to laugh at hipsters, right? Everyone loves a good hipster joke. (why? I don't get it.) Until they get old, old, old, and I wonder, can we start seeing individuals again please?

People have a seemingly inherent need to find some group to collectively stereotype and mock. I don't like it. We all probably do it without realizing it, because maybe we aren't targeting a race but a subculture, or whatever. Figure out yours, and challenge yourself. See people beyond the categories you place on them, or maybe even they suscribe to.

Could I get anymore abstract? Well, it's 2am, and I am tired, and annoyed, and philosophical, and want everyone to deal a little more honestly with each other, myself included.

When I look at you I want to celebrate what you didn't grind down to fit in, everything you bring from back home where you sat in a closet dreaming: maybe you could be the one to change the world. Everyone wants to change the world in some way. Everyone wants to be seen. We want an "us" and a "them." If you're standing in front of me, whoever you are, let's be an "us," and remember there doesn't need to be a "them" for that to happen.
red-haired two

She sings my life.

Some music kills us softly in the most delightful of ways, recognizing us and teaching us to ourselves. Today, such a song for me was "Eric's Song" by Vienna Teng. Give it a listen. Maybe it will recognize you.

Listen here.

Vienna Teng is one of my newest heroes. Her music is remarkable most of all for the lyrical and fresh way she uses words.

"Eric's Song," Vienna Teng

Strange how you know inside me
I measure the time and I stand amazed
Strange how I know inside you
My hand is outstretched toward the damp of the haze

And of course I forgive
I've seen how you live
Like a phoenix you rise from the ashes
You pick up the pieces
And the ghosts in the attic
They never quite leave
And of course I forgive
You've seen how I live
I've got darkness and fears to appease
My voices and analogies
Ambitions like ribbons
Worn bright on my sleeve

Strange how we know each other

Strange how I fit into you
There's a distance erased with the greatest of ease
Strange how you fit into me
A gentle warmth filling the deepest of needs

And with each passing day
The stories we say
Draw us tighter into our addiction
Confirm our conviction
That some kind of miracle
Passed on our heads
And how I am sure
Like never before
Of my reasons for defying reason
Embracing the seasons
We dance through the colors
Both followed and led

Strange how we fit each other

Strange how certain the journey
Time unfolds the petals
For our eyes to see
Strange how this journey's hurting
In ways we accept as part of fate's decree

So we just hold on fast
Acknowledge the past
As lessons exquisitely crafted
Painstakingly drafted
To carve ourselves instruments
That play the music of life
For we don't realize
Our faith in the prize
Unless it's been somehow elusive
How swiftly we choose it
The sacred simplicity
Of you at my side
red-haired two

(no subject)

I miss you all ... I miss the inspiration that is my friends page and all of LJ, really. I shall have to start posting on here more regularly again
red-haired mystic

friday night fever

Friday night, and I want to go out. But my options are going with friends of friends to Watchmen or ... wait, that's it. And I'm not a fan of anti-hero, nihilistic, comic-book movies.

I'm not one to usually make plans for Friday nights. Most of the time you'll find me calling up a friend on a last minute whim, or amusing myself, or going to a movie that I was invited to that does interest me. Yet some Friday nights, I find myself incredibly restless, dying to go out and do something, anything. Just not Watchmen. And often, on those nights, everyone already has plans.

Tonight is definitely one of those nights. on top of that, for some reason, I feel particularly fragile. Mixed feelings remain, three weeks after breaking up with my boyfriend. Ties to friends have been weakened, while I was wrapped up in him. A powerful craving for the love and affection and security that I had in my relationship with him lingers. On top of this, it feels difficult to make new friends, for I will be leaving soon.

Yet, just as I start thinking about going to bed early, I find a chance to hang out with some new acquaintances. At this point, I'm tired and can feel the long week hanging from my eyelids. Yet, despite my earlier hesitance, the chance to meet new people fills me with the energy even sleep can't always provide.
roses on gravestone

falling into the sky

The winter sky can be beautiful. Particularly when the trees hold up their naked black branches against it, lacy patterns that are sometimes crisply seen through the cold air, sometimes hazy against a hazier sky.

I hurry from my car to class, my nose tucked into my scarf, my hot breath reflected back at me by my scarf. The chilly breeze finds a way up my skirt. my gloves smell of gasoline. I need to buy new ones, anyways. But I never seem to.

Date someone, and your priorities can suddenly rearrange themselves, against your best intentions. The more time you spend with that someone, the more time you want to spend. The more you root for him to find a job in your town, so that he can move the 30 miles that makes weekends your best option for seeing each other.

Winter is a good time to have someone. Winter is a good time to have a boyfriend to just call up on a wistful whim, to have someone to hold you when it gets cold, inside or out, to have someone to massage away the finals stress-stiffness in your neck. Winter seems a good time to wonder if you love someone, despite your best intentions. If you don't love someone, despite your best intentions

The winter sky can be beautiful. Particularly when the trees hold the black lace of their naked branches up against it. It makes me feel cold, and warm at the same time. It makes me yearn for something I cannot name. It calls me. I haven't figured out yet how to follow that call through my life.

Cold, and warm. Cold, and warm.
red-haired two

new term, new rhythms

Right now, I'm listening to a song from Evanescence's new CD that I haven't heard before. Or rather, just finished listening to it, because I set everything aside so I could fall into it and experience it more fully. First listenings of a song can be so powerful. I've listened to my favorite songs hundreds, maybe thousands of times, and the sad part is, they can't take me to that place that they helped me to discover anymore. Maybe that's why I haven't bought a lot of the albums I've been looking forward to -- I don't feel it is the right time, I don't feel ready, in some way. I do that with books, too, and find that my judgement has generally been good, and that when I finally do pick them up, they are just what I wanted to read at that point in time.

So my computer crashed. Hardware failure. (Most likely my fault, since I dropped it earlier the same day.) Had to send it into Dell for repair; it's been gone a week and two days. I've been joking about withdrawal symptoms, but it's been HARD to do without it. Especially since it's the first week of school.

Plus, I had just downloaded Stepmania. Oh, joy! Free, open source DDR!

No longer. D:

But, my baby should be home by Friday -- here's hoping ...

School has been tough. I can tell most of the people in my classes aren't too thrilled to be there, and I've been a bit too intent on hanging back with the pack and not making waves, lately. I made the plunge and took a creative writing course for fiction, I'm hoping that will click with me, last time I wrote creatively in a class setting I ended up with a lot of pretension in my writing. :/

After two years of shopping at some really good area thrift stores, a large portion of my wardrobe has suddenly become skirts. Some days a skirt is just what I'm in the mood for. (Make it long and flowy.) Some days it feels, like my poetry from that class years ago, pretentious, and I'm suddenly wearing another, invisible garment, a Good Girl's face, a Good Girl's movements and voice and opinions.

I understand myself less as time passes, instead of more. Feminine and masculine, religious and irreligious, mature and immature, odd but just like you, really... and I circle back. We all carry paradox, but how do we come to terms with it?

And I still haven't learned how to lose a friend gracefully.
  • Current Music
    Like You by Evanescence
red-haired two

"he's growing flowers to understand dying."

So it seems I can never find a roleplay or a roleplayer to suit me. I think I just need to give up the ghost, at least for a while, but it used to be so much fun!

I feel rather ... adrift now that so many of my friends have gone home. Indeed, many of them have even graduated. Also I have changed jobs. Also I will be moving back home soon.

The times I've had with my friends here have been very good, but I honestly can't wait to see my parents, cat, and friends at home. Some of these friends are like sisters to me, and I miss them heartily.

I took the fifteen minute walk to a cemetery near my apartment tonight. It's a little less business-like and dreadfully economical than the other cemeteries around here - more nooks and crannies, more grand old trees shading the sleepers. It sits on a grassy hill overlooking the city, but surrounded by a good  thick copse of trees. There are plenty of old and interesting stones in it, as well as new ones.

It was soothing, in the same way that Ecclesiastes is soothing. I saw only one grave with fresh flowers on it. I think living flowers honor the dead more than artificial ones, even though they die - perhaps especially.
red-haired two


Big News:

1. Ian McKellan = Gandalf in Hobbit film (He and Elrond are the only characters that need the same actors for continuity, but aside from that, Ian McKellan was Gandalf.)

2. Hobbit prequels: the Hobbit, then something or another based on the Hobbit / LoR interim period as suggested in the appendices.

3. Guillermo del Toro (of Pan's Labyrinth fame) for the win! He's directing, now, instead of Jackson. He and Fran Walsh are still sticking around to help out, though. These are both good things, I'm pretty sure. Peter Jackson was a bit obsessed with the stabbity-stab. If del Toro does with the Hobbit what he did with Pan's Labyrinth, we have much to look forward to.

get the dish

p.s. I was talking with someone tonight about the strange places our favorite standard phrases, i.e. 'frog in your throat', come from. Got any good ones? My favorite is cooties: it's what they called head lice in the WWI trenches