Music is written

My take-away from my writing class today is that detail is more than the descriptive elements in a story. Such as the colors and the things your senses can feel. What is great about details is descriptions like that, aren't necessary. Sometimes it is equally necessary to get into someone's head or to overhear a conversation. When an author uses details, it is not meant to add color or add vivacious words but to add a depthness to a character that otherwise wouldn't be known. This way the character is an individual.

In some ways, music is taking the opposite approach lately. They try to make songs that relate to everyone. In stories, you want to make that person and give them their own identity. (Though I suppose as a musical artist you want to give your song its own identity.)

Where works

Best and worst place to write:

She sat there on the couch curled up with a glass of tea next to her and nobody was home. Her internet had gone out an hour ago as she sat in the silence completely undisturbed. She pulled out her notebook from next to the crackling fireplace and wrote. She wrote about another world similar to ours but yet so different. Then she wrote for hours as the thoughts flowed out of her inner mind and grasped at the truth within her own heart.

It seemed like everywhere she turned added on another job for her day. The laundry never ended, the dishes had piled up and her toddler, Nick, had another sleepless night. As he cried in his crib, as she placed him down for a nap, she grabbed for her notebook. The pages had been ripped out by grimy, sauce-drenched fingers. She tried to drowned out the shrills as she got transformed into a world full of palm trees, fruity drinks and a handsome man with perfect, auburn hair.

Follow the echoes

I need to start carrying a notebook with me so when I have a few minutes I can write. For instance during my lunch break at school or in my car.

I also have been delving into music a bit more lately. I notice that some lyrics can spur me to write so I am hoping some of the new bands I am listening to can do the same for me.

"When it's all said and done I'll follow the echoes"

There she was walking down the same alley she did every night her bar closed. She found peace in the middle of the night when the animals lerked and the people slept. She could listen to her own thoughts and get some variation of memories and fantasy that would play out in her head like a movie.
As she walked under the ghostly yellow lights, she searched for her keys in her purse. That's when she heard the Earth shattering scream. No lights turned on, no animals screeched back. It was as if it didn't happen at all. But Allison knew better. She could still hear the echo in her mind and she followed her thoughts like breadcrumbs trying to recognize what happened and find a way to help.

But the streets remained empty and the sound disappeared into the dark. The light ahead of her went out and a giant of a man walked out from the darkness.

That's when she realized that the scream was hers all along and no one would follow the breadcrumbs of forgotten thoughts.

Sox Fans Vs. Cub fans: We are one in the same.

You know what I love about postseason baseball. The entire season is a waste of space. Nothing goes how it is predicted and yet everyone's true colors came out.

This was the first year that Chicago has been in the playoffs since Facebook became mainstream and I think a lot of friendships are broken and a lot more are teetering.

I noticed a few other things this post season about both groups of fans.

We both have a group of fans that wouldn't dream rooting the others on and a group that roots for Chicago. Personally, I am of the former. But I enjoy the fact that even in this we are alike.

We both were silenced this post-season. I was a mess; I will admit that. And I stayed nice and silent while my insides were in turmoil and as the Mets started winning, I started speaking up. The opposite is true for the Cubbies. Oh! They thought they won the whole postseason after they won the Wild Card game. And game after game after that, they just kept the hype going. Until they couldn't and the whole city fell silent.

Watch out! The Bandwagoners are coming! For some reason both fanbases hate the bandwagoners. I think its cool that you can pool people from other teams after their team has fallen and watch as they root your team on.

But really they are already here! My mom hates baseball. She doesn't know how many innings are in a game, how many balls are in a walk, she is lucky if she can even point out the White Sox. Yet I know when baseball gets exciting in Chicago because even she starts talking about it. There are fans like this that creep in because the city is electrified. If you asked my mom who she was rooting for, she'd hesitate but probably would have said the Cubs. If you don't pay attention, how could you vote anything else? For many, baseball is not exciting... but when it is... its joltingly so.

We both think we are the underdog. Who doesn't love a good underdog story. "It has been over 100 years since the Cubs have been in the World Series but LOOK at them now?" "The Sox are under-represented, have less fans and basically forgotten in this city but LOOK how they won." We both want to prove something. (Some of us are just better at it.)

The point of the matter is that despite which side of the city you root for. Your heart gets into it during the post season. Some friendships may be lost, some may be gained and some habits never grow old.

Developing a character.

Turning ordinary people you see into characters fit for a story.

As I walked into the cafe, I saw the mounds of paper and notebooks spread over the table and tumbling out of the briefcase before I even saw the man: Oscar Franklin. Most people only dream of speaking his name and here I was ready to introduce myself.

As my eyes glanced to his stature, I froze near the door. Mr. Franklin looked older than his pictures. His salt-and-pepper hair gave him a distinguished look. One you would expect from such a significant man. He was busy scribbling away. For every breath he took, he tapped his pencil on the mountains of paper. Each tap seemed determined, animated and as if Mr. Franklin was in a world of thought that no mere man could enter.

As I took my final breath, I walked up and introduced myself through a rapid heartbeat and a shaking voice. His crystal eyes were as unwavering as a lion staring down his prey. I gulped and pulled a chair out, not knowing what to expect.

"Let's look through this one more time." He said, "I have some questions." And just like that, I was transported to his world.

perceived faction

So in my writing class, we were asked to write 2 paragraphs. One with 3 lies and 1 truth and one with 3 truths and 1 lie. I found that writing truths and slipping a lie in was easy. But making up a story and slipping a truth in was challenging. This is something I should work on a bit.

Someone else's comment: "I believe the exercise demonstrates that the line between fact and fiction is often a matter of perception. We each have our own version of the truth and writing fiction is about sharing your version of the truth with the reader hoping to secure their investment in your perceived reality."

Which matters more

You know, in a lot of ways I think teaching is the reason I have given up writing. My brain gets so overwhelmed by what I do at school that I don't have time to dive into writing. And I kind of hate that. I love the high I get from writing. I feel at peace with the universe when I write something that couldn't make more sense. I don't want to have to give up writing to teach. But given the option I will because I'd rather help the children I can see, than attempt to help those that might never read the pages.

Voiced

In 2003, I found my voice. It wasn't thanks to a guy, or a girl or a catastrophe. It was thanks to the Cubs. I will admit that. And that they were doing well. They looked like they might pull it off and I was having nothing to do with it.

I fought tooth and nail against every Cubs fan I knew. Sometimes to the point of costing me friendships. But it didn't bother me. You should be able to fight for what you believe in. And I believe in the Sox and I believe in not believing in the Cubs. I really hated and loved 2003 all for that. I was bold, brash, cunning, devious. I sweat and screamed and refused to watch the game in fear they would score. Yet it made me me. And I loved it.

This season I'm not the same as that 14 year old punk of a fan.... but I want to be. I'm dying to be. I want to be mean and laugh and joke even if the only one laughing is myself. I want to root for the enemy of my enemy. I want others to understand my logic to some degree. I want to profess my feelings. But I'm holding back. I am biting my tongue when I never have before and I don't want to. Really soon I think the lid on my classy is going to pop. Really soon I am going to ooze hatred. And I'm going to love every minute of it. As long as the Cubs continue to mess up like they always have. If not I'll be wrong and a mess. But I'll be wrong and a mess either way lol. So might as well take a few fans down a few pegs on my way.

Soxdom

Now the topic for the day. Baseball. For the record I am a Sox fan. From the time I started being a Sox fan, I was taught 2 distinct rules for Sox fandom.

1) You HATE the Yankees. You hate them not because they are good (which they are and you know it and you loath it) but because they have bought their rings. They have the highest payroll of any team. Of course they are going to win a lot. And you hate that they can. and 2) You root for ANYONE playing the Cubs. You do this not because they are the other team in Chicago but because they are Goliath. And next to your David, you have to. You are the underdog. Less people like you, you aren't the loveable losers. You have to work hard to get your seats filled, you have to have fire as a Sox fan because you will put up with so much. You aren't liked here. You aren't respected here. How dare you care about a team that isn't the Cubs? What are the White Sox anyway?

So you learned how to be a Sox fan and now that the Cubs actually have a baseball team on the field instead of a laughable B-rated shit-show. You still hold by your morals. The day that made it better was that you won the world series first. As you know, you really aren't much better than the Cubs. 86 years without a World Series win until 2005. Both teams had 2 rings. Until 2005. The year that gave you hope again. You thought for a brief few years that it didn't matter if the Cubs won now because you got there first. You liked being on top. But as each year went on, your argument became less valid. And now, again, now that the Cubs have a team and your team turned into a shitshow this year? You are scrambling. If they win again, you are even. And the thought will make your skin crawl. Worse yet they have a team that might last more than one year, what if you fall behind?

You have always been behind in numbers at the stadium, in fans, in Chicago. You don't want to be behind in rings too.

Beauty the Beast

She slammed her fist into the mirror. It's not like the first time she'd seen it done before. He'd broken the same mirror plenty of times in his fits of rage. The cracks and slivers of the mirror break up the image she can't bare to look at. How did she become this beast of a person? Where was the beauty she once viewed in herself?

She wanted to scream but remembered that she traded away her voice for another chance. Another chance to be the woman he wanted. The woman he craved. Who needs a voice if you have love? Love gives you music on a rainy day to dance to through the streets, it gives you joy that sings from your fingertips from the first time you touch. A voice can be useless. All it's done was get her into trouble anyway.

As she descended the spiral staircase, she looked at her fingertips, the way they barely touched the arm of the banister. She was startled at first, where were her fingernails? She used to love painting them all the colors of the rainbow, just to be her own kind of different. Then the memory surfaced. "Biting your nails isn't normal" he told her. Would she ever be normal? she thought. She screamed as he took out her fingernails as if he was declawing a cat to trap her indoors.

And just like a pet he primped her and groomed her. "You look prettier this way" he said as he drew on more makeup and dyed her hair. Picking out her outfits and picking out her life.

He was being helpful. She used to tell herself. He could save her, she thought. As he took the skin off her shoulders so she couldn't carry any burden. That was helpful. She obviously couldn't carry more anyway. Because every time she tried, she'd cry.
"Why are you so weak?" he asked, as she cried through her pain, her frustration and her agony. He didn't want someone that was weak. So her solution was simple. She replace her eyes with those that couldn't cry. Am I what you want now? Am I good enough now? 

And temporarily she would be. Oh! There would be singing and dancing and enjoying their time together to his hearts content. Until she moved the wrong way and he replaced her feet with wheels. He'd tell a story about the first time they did her makeup and how she enjoyed every minute of it. How dare she say she didn't. "That's not how it was. I remember it." he'd say and soon enough he even replaced her memories with nightmares.

She'd spend her time drawing and writing and speaking in the only way she could. She'd show him what to her was a masterpiece and as he flung it to the floor, he'd scream, "You are not worth it!" He had even managed to douse her passions out like putting out a fire.

She had stood there scrutinizing the mirror shattered from his anger. Her eyes had blackened, her skin transparent. Her voice gone and feet she was no longer able to control. The woman staring back at him was barely a woman at all.

And just then after all these changes and all this time. She was done. She was taking back her life. The life that belonged to him for so long wasn't his. She decided to steal back the parts of herself he had taken.

She searched around the palace for her missing pieces. She found her eyes first. My eyes fill with my emotions. They see beauty and peace. They see monsters and angels, they see love and they see pain. And she replaced the eyes that cry. Because crying may show weakness, but it also makes you strong. She saw her skin and nails next. My skin keeps me together. I need to fight for myself because I am worth more than this. I am beautiful. I am ready to fight back even if no one believes I can. And as she looked for her last missing pieces, she heard the most beautiful sound. A sound she hadn't heard in years. My voice is the only way to be heard. 

She waited until he was asleep and tied him up so he could feel as trapped as she had become. She pitied him because if he had turned her into a monster, what was he? And just like that she left him there trapped and alone. While she had all the freedoms in the world and even more fight than she knew she was capable of.  

Find another room

If you ever find you are the most talented person in the room. You need to find another room."

This explains so much to me. While I ran the preschool, I was the best, I pushed myself but I remained the best. I brought people up but I struggled bringing myself up more. I capped myself because I had no one better than me. My minimum was the best there was. (That's not saying I worked my minimum. God knows I didn't.) But the times the preschool grew were the times I went out to learn more than I already knew. When I reached out to other teachers, when I brought other teachers in, when I explored the internet to figure out what my next steps should be. If I hadn't given it my all, it would have been good. But by giving it my all it was great. 

Also by being the best in the room and constantly upping your expectations, its draining. Go to other rooms to make your job easier. It's so much easier to learn from someone in front of you, someone you can talk to, ask, get advice from. Go to other rooms so that you can work on other things. 

Instead of giving your all to one thing.

The cost of being great at running a preschool was that I lost my writing and my creativity. 

My version of Steal like an Artist: Point 10

Creativity is Subtraction.

I brought this up a bit already too. I like writing because I leave out the lesson. The lesson is up for you to discover. It doesn't have to be my lesson. It can be your own. 

Creativity blossoms in boredom. When there is nothing, you can create everything. 

Creativity starts with no one. But it can create someone.

Creativity doesn't start with an idea. It brings one to life. 

Creativity in so many ways isn't what you have or who you are or what you did. Creativity needs less in order to be so much more. 

My version of Steal like an Artist: Point 9

Be Boring. 

I have always said that preschool murdered my creativity. And I believe that. I was working so hard at being wonderful at that, that I gave it too much. And what I gave it was my time, my effort, my everything. I gave it my writing, my hobby, my passion. 

"Be regular and orderly in your life, so that you may be violent and original in your work." This is a lesson I need to learn. I can't give everything 100%. So I need to figure out what percentages to give what. And to be honest, in a lot of ways I commit and other parts of my life suffer. 

Also, I need a calendar so I can write down my success. A checkmark goes so far. I need this for working out and for writing. I need this to make myself do more and do it consistently. I made this group for that. Now I need to do it every day. 

This one also said to get a log book. Just to write down random occurrences throughout the day. So you have the memories you will remember later. I used to do this a lot too. But I need to go back and do that. 

Of all the points in the book, this is the one I suck at the most. I suck at being boring and I need to fix it. 

Because I am a better writer (and a better person) if I am bored sometimes. 

Creativity blossoms in boredom. It makes you create a more fulfilling world around you. Maybe this is why creativity is so often dead in our society. It is suffocated by the countless and meaningless banter of social media. 

My version of Steal like an Artist: Point 8

Be Nice: The World Is A Small Town. 

"Quit picking fights and go make something." I am a person that wants to fix everyone. I drop whatever I can to help and sometimes I need to stop. I need to pick my battles and the battles I don't pick I need to use the inspiration I had from them and focus it on something I can do. If a friend is in an abuse relationship, I can't fix that. I can help to the best of my abilities but what I can do? What I can really do is write a pick-me-up, write a story where she isn't alone, write a lesson that maybe the next person will learn from so they don't end up in the same shoes. If a friend is depressed I can't fix that. I can write about butterflies and rainbows, I can be silly, I can hope that I make a smile turn the edges of his lips that day. But I can't fix it. So why try? Why not use the energy I have been dealt and create something beautiful with it. 

Also in this point was to keep a praise file. I do this with teaching, I should do this with writing. "Write a book" " I get the first copy" the words I enjoy hearing, when people love my writing, I should have for the days that I can't think of a nice thing to say about it myself. The same is true for teaching. Have a praise folder. Of your favorite works of art from students and work that reminds you of where they were and what they learned and more importantly how they view you. These things can be praiseless acts but its important to hold onto the praise you do get.  

My version of Steal like an Artist: Point 7

Geography is No Longer Our Master. 

This is something I know very well. The internet is the reason I have friends all around the world. I am able to maintain friendships maybe not perfectly, but I am able to connect. 

Maybe I need to start networking with other writers. Learn from other examples. I have thought of this. I am on every creative writing group on Facebook actually. Well, all the ones that appealed to me one day. However, I don't go on them. I don't care to. Because I am not good enough to share yet. But I think it could be important to get inspired by others. 

I think the things I want to get inspired by the most is poetry. I don't write 19th century poems, I don't write awful-Ashley-used-to-always-rhyme-gross poems, I tend to paint a picture with words in poetry. I like to do this because what lesson you learn from poetry might not be the lesson I intended, but the point isn't whether you learn my lesson or your own.

That's one way I think teachers really mess up "theme" in school. Who cares what the overall lesson is. Love Conquers All. Family Matters. If its a lesson you already know it isn't the lesson you learned. The theme of the book should be personal, what lesson did you walk away with. Why was it important to you. 

I always hated theme. I could never figure out the lesson the teacher wanted. I was too busy finding the lesson that could change my life for the better.

Also I need to learn to embrace my captivity. To find a way to be bored and be okay being bored. Too often do I fill in the void of time just to fill it. I used to fill it in a productive way and now its more like candy for the brain. It does nothing for me. It just satisfies the itch. 

My version of Steal like an Artist: Point 6

The Secret: Do Good Work And Share It With People. 

There are two parts to this tip. First, strive for what is good. Don't share everything. Just share what you are proud of. Right now, I don't do good work. So I don't share it with people. I noticed I don't share because I am not proud of it. The ones I am proud of, I openly share. The ones I am not hide away in the darkness of my blog where no one reads it but I have it in a collection in case I ever want to. But once I get good again, I can share it with the world. My world anyway. It doesn't need to be for everyone. But it can be, and I'd lie if I said I didn't want it to one day. 

So I need to force myself to do good work. And that means writing. Writing with the intention of writing. Writing with the intention of success. Writing so that one day I can be proud of the good work I do. 

My version of Steal like an Artist: Point 5

Side Projects And Hobbies Are Important.

In this case, writing is my hobby. And I crave it when I don't do it. In the book, the author explains how without your projects you will feel a phantom limb. And I have been for years. I have been ignoring it. I have been satisfying the craving from time to time but not indulging. Without working for the time being, I will be able to reawaken this part of me and it may be the spark I needed in my life. 

When I procrastinate I somehow lose hours a day in front of my computer screen. This needs to stop. I need to turn those unused hours into learning, into dreaming, into writing. Not into Facebook and twiddling thumbs. 

Boredom is good for you. It allows your mind to create, to explore, to wonder what else could be going on. We live in a world where boredom equals death when it should equal peace. We fill that time with meaningless banter and the media and stories that have already been written. Instead we need to write our own. 

My version of Steal like an Artist: Point 4

This point was a lesson I just learned recently. Use Your Hands. I have found that writing is coming to life a bit more by actually writing. Not typing (although I do that too) but by finding the connection from my mind to my fingertips. "You need to find a way to bring your body into your work." And that's what I had lost. I spend so much time on the computer that I am putting a screen in front of my creativity. And that doesn't mean that I can't write something amazing on the computer, but sometimes you need to connect with yourself before starting on this sort of journey. 

Being one with your writing makes everything unfold and its good to see the mistakes. That is one thing writing does for you. On the computer its so easy to just erase it. But on a piece of paper its still there. Maybe you start over maybe you scrap the idea to come back to, maybe you fix it as you go. But the original is there. And you can see it and watch it blossom in front of your eyes. 

My version of Steal like an Artist: Point 3

Write The Book You Want To Read. 

A lot of people will tell us to write what we know. Well I don't know what I know. But I know what I like. So why not write about it? All of my writing is advice. Advice I have learned, advice people need to learn, a lesson inside of a story waiting to strike for a person. 

I am a teacher by heart and in my writing that still remains the case. The point of The Bionic Girl (http://www.electricminded.blogspot.it/20…/…/bionic-girl.html) is to not worry about the possibilities and know there are people that will also be on your side. That's the point I gave it but maybe it means something else to you. Maybe it means you aren't the only one, maybe it means that there is more to someone than their cons. Maybe it is the reason you want to be a teacher. Three Ways to Follow a Path taught me that there are roads for everyone and sometimes you have to create your own.Yet it might teach you a story of heartbreak. It might teach you that type of road you wish to go on.

I teach what I love and what I love is to learn. And I can share it all through writing.

My version of Steal like an Artist: Point 2

Don't Wait Until You Know Who You Are To Get Started. 

This is one I have never struggled with. If anything writing has helped me figure out who I am, figure out the world around me. I don't need an idea to write, an idea sparks while I write. Now, that being said ideas SHOULD spark all over your life and for me, they have stopped. So what I need to do is write and continue to write until ideas spark and then continue to write until ideas spark all over. I don't need to be an author to write, I need to write until I become an author. Fake it until you make it. The more we interpret things on our own, the more we copy and create and spark ideas, the more it becomes less of a copy and more of our own creation. 

One thing I do struggle with that is near this but is not this is that I sometimes run into the issue of feeling like I need to know what I am writing about to write. I feel like I should already have an idea to begin with and what I need to remember is that I need to write to get the idea and then write some more to make it come to life. I used to always do this. Just write utter nonsense. I always had a notebook on me or found a way to write. whether it was my notepad on my computer, on my phone or one I held a pen too. I would write and sometimes those sputterings would come to life. Other times they would die out. 

So my take away from this point is to write. To scribble. To continue. In order to do that, I need to just try. And once in a while, it will come to life and then I can write what I thought I wanted to write all along. 

My version of Steal like an Artist: Point 1

So speaking of the museum, I am reading a book that I found there that I have had my eyes of for a while. Waiting for the right time to dive into it. When I found the title, I had no idea that it was a pun off of Picasso. I just thought it was a catchy thought. It's called "Steal like an Artist: 10 things nobody told you about being creative". A lot of what I have so far read in the book is pretty basic and a new way to think of an old perception. I'd like to consider the points I have read so far. 
1) Steal like an Artist. Nothing is original. At first, that sounds a bit depressing. In the past, I have viewed it as depressing. What is the point of creating if its already been created before? Every story stems from another, every story has already been told, every lesson was already once written. Avatar is Disney's Pocahontas but with blue aliens and technology instead of Native Americans and farming. AI is Pinocchio where things come to life. A Bug's Life is based off of Seven Samurai which is based off of historical events. So, why create? This thought has plagued me. It has stolen from my innocence and left me alone in the dark world.

I didn't have the answers, until now. First, I need to. I have this thirst to write so I had better quench it. I miss the way I feel on top of the world after finding a new way of understanding. I miss having my own mind blown and finding the ordinary extraordinary. The other answer is a quote from Andre Gide, a French writer, "Everything that needs to be said has already been said. But since no one was listening, everything must be said again." You know what bored me to death in high school reading books that I couldn't relate to. Reading such old stories that I felt like I was learning to read again, not enjoying the stories in front of me. And absolutely not learning the lesson. If you want me to read Romeo and Juliet, give me West Side Story. And for the next generation, they will need their own. Don't focus on what used to be. People don't read it. Those that do, might not understand the lesson. 

So we create. We reinvent the wheel so that we can use it. If not, we'd still be carving rocks to roll onto our cars.

Steal Like an Arist

Pablo Picasso: We all know the name. About a month ago I went to one of his museums while I was in Barcelona. I'm going to say something from what I knew about Pablo before the museum: I didn't like his art. So he can stretch a face, make people look weird, draw weird ears. Cool. So not my thing.

But I went to the museum anyway and I found that he really did have quite a lot of artistic talent (moreso what I consider artistic talent) and he was able to dabble in it all. Some realism, some landscapes, some pottery, some weird sugar burning painting thing. He did the weird stuff, the side we all know of him. But he did so much more too. He copied others styles. Then he stole parts of them and made his own. I have learned to appreciate his art a lot more now looking at his life's work as a whole.

When I think back to when I felt best about writing, it was when I was student teaching. I was using a writing program called Being a Writer. And I loved it. I would sit down and join the kids. It had all these picture books with a little background on certain authors and some guiding parameters to write with. And you had to take a part of the story and make it your own. We read "The true story of the three little pigs" and had to write twisted fairytales of our own. We read "My Rotten Redhead Older Brother" where we had to write a story from our childhood just like the author did. We took a concept and we twisted it into our own. We need to use the art that is already around us until we find something that makes sense to us. Until then we dabble in our own creativities. I try poetry, realistic stories, fantasy stories, past stories, biographical stories, non fiction stories. Because if you dabble enough you may find the parts that you want to hold onto that make it your own.

Fingertips on my soul

This speaks to me today. To me creativity is a matter of getting lost in the moment. Of finding some truth about the world, some truth about yourself and opening the door wide open and embracing it. I want to listen, I want to understand, and I want to create.

I have been looking at a lot of quotes lately and one spoke to me:
"Imagination is the voice of daring. If there is anything Godlike about God it is that. He dared to imagine everything.-Henry Miller"

I want to dare to imagine as much as I can with the time that I have on Earth. And all I have to do, to do that is push myself.

Creativity is fingertips on my soul and the collective soul of the human race.

Ashen Gray

She sat on the icy cold, stone steps.
She was numb and lost like a ghost with no purpose.
Dead inside and shattered out. 
Visitors walked by, looking right through her
As the crystals dropped from her eyes
Fragmenting her view of the stone steps
Gray in color and her, in emotion.
She was alone in the city,
The country, the world.

He used to be with her, holding her, loving her
Used to make her world bright
And he was right inside.
but she didn't feel him.
She couldn't see him.
But he was right there,
before all these strangers eyes.
She couldn't bring herself to go inside
the chapel.

Where her love laid and her spirit died.
She started to ascend to the door and all she could
Feel was a fire, slowly leaving her soul,
Slowly leaving her lips.
she was fluttering out,
Smoked from the inside out,
Ignited and tortured
Burned and suffering
Just like he was a few days before.

How was it just a few days ago their love soared,
it burst with passion and filled the room.
Today it withered and died.
Today it started to extinguish.
If only she was there, if only she could have saved him.
And somehow, her fire stayed red hot in the coals.
It may not burst, it may not ignite but it stayed.
Keeping her burning hot but cool to the touch.
She loved him even at his resting place.

A resting place inside a chapel,
In a shimmering urn, where peace looks calm
But he was burned up and ashed out.
No more smiles, no more memories to be made.
He laid there and she felt like death.
She felt nothing.
Empty, alone and forgotten.
Because even though he rested, even though he died
"Love has no ending, just a resting place"

•  "Behind us the damage is done, no one can erase
  Love has no ending, just a resting place"

Of Monsters and Men

There you go again as the mountain of regret start to form,
The monster inside you has started to protrude.
"The weak lies and the cold walls you embrace"
Transformed you into a man hiding beneath a mask,
hiding behind the souls of the damned
In a life that doesn't make sense.
It leave you destined for unfathomable chaos mixed with
Butterfly kisses and unkept secrets.
Where there is no way out and your only home is a cage.

The unnerving fact is that only with the mask
do you know who you are, but who are you?
The monster? The man? The boy lost in his senses?
What makes you feel strong is what makes you weak
And what makes you weak is what made you who you are.
So embrace the man and forgo the monster,
for if you don't, for if you let the monster out,
the monster will become the man and
the man will disappear into the chaos.

•  "And the weak lies and the cold walls you embrace
  Eat at your insides and leave you face to face with"

First Snow

As the first snowflake fell to the Earth, it sank like a stone but also floated like a feather. This snowflake was different then all the other snowflakes nearby. It seemed alone, forgotten, damaged. But as it sank, a miracle happened. But first, there was a moment, a short breath where everything stood still. At that point, the snowflake was still a snowflake and the miracle had just settled in for a moment and then a soft and sweet sound arose like that first note to be hit by the orchestra. As soon as the note was played the rest of the instruments followed through. This snowflake world started growing, creating and transforming the way the universe was. It grew new shapes on top and formed new elements this storm had never noticed. The snowflake had moved on its own and made what was impossible, possible.

And still the snowflake gave more. The snowflake began melting from the heat of a thousand stars, making this world came to life. Trees grew and animals formed and little by little the snowflake had no more to give. This snowflake soon brought water to the depths of the dirts edges and it brought hills where the dirt stood clumped for definition. It gave its whole life for this world. It gave the whole world the present of life.

Overcoming who you are

One thing I know about myself that a lot of people don't understand is that when I was young, I was who everyone wanted me to be. Little of it was "me". I was caring, I craved love, but everything else was expected of me.

And a few years later, I became a "girlfriend." That's all I was Smith's girlfriend. Anything he didn't like, he conned me into changing. Everything he like, I learned to like. I became someone different. I always thought that if I gave everything love would last. You fight the big battle to win the princess (in my case the prince), I expected that meant becoming who he wanted. and I had to learn the real truth is that you can't give up yourself. Because someone should love the person that you are. But at the time, I was young and naive.

God, you wouldn't be able to recognize me if you knew me back then. I was like my sisters and in some cases worse. I was a girly girl when I was expected to be and a sports fanatic when dad needed me. I helped him fix cars with moans and groans because I was a "girl" and it was expected of me, I played pretend for hours. I wanted to be loved. That was always my goal. I wore pink and cared about makeup and wanted to do anything I could to be loved. Change my hair, change my life. My whole goal had always been love. I don't know why that was such a drive for me. Was it the books I read? Was it the life I lived, why did I care so much about love. I know people that don't daydream about that like I did. I would create love in my mind before going to be and have Barbie marry ken because they were in love. Disney be damned because that was all I cared about. And to be honest, to this day I struggle with understanding people who don't care about love. What drives you then? Work? School? I was and always will be a hopeless romantic.

Mike changed all that about me, our experiences changed even more. When he broke up with me. I was no longer that girly girl. I was no longer his girlfriend. So I didn't know who I was, what I liked or where to start.

I spent weeks, maybe even months sewing together the person I wanted to be. Screw who I was, screw what I had been through. I knew I had to change. I had to look at the qualities inside myself that I defended, the ones he hated. I was emotional, I was irrational, I was always trying to make things better and I was stubborn. But I liked all that about myself. I was emotional because I cared about everyone, irrational because I think in different ways, always working on achieving greatness in myself and in a relationship, I am stubborn because I am passionate. These are things I kept about who I was and what I KNEW to be me. Then I changed, I was somewhere in between a girly girl and a tomboy and in some ways I always was but it didn't feel that way. Not when hanging with the guys. I was "the girl" so I became one of the guys. In my head, guys are strong, they are tough and I needed that shell. I needed to be strong and tough for whatever life had in store for me. I was done being dainty. I liked videogames, thats one thing I took away from Smith, and the ability to debate. I became great at getting my way (because I learned from the boy that could sculpt my own thoughts into his). I stopped believing in religion and kept believing in love and kindness and morals. I walked away with better music (in my opinion), better memories and better stories.

I became the person I wanted to be. I became the Ashley you know today. The crazy part is that I wasn't always her. I mean, maybe I was, but not in my head. In my head I was the girly girl (and not a very good one at that), I was a sports fanatic and I wasn't smart (that came later to be totally honest.) Young Ashley was what everyone expected me to be, high school Ashley was what Smith expected me to be. Today I am who I expect me to be.

And I found a man who loves that about me. Who takes the crazy emotional, stubborn and caring soul I have and supports it. I found a man who lets me fix things time and time again because he knows I am trying my best for us. I found someone to play videogames with, laugh at my inability to name a song and hold me when I cry over the last book I read. I found someone who makes me an even better me. Who takes my sculpture and adds definition.

I wish I could help other people figure out what they don't like about themselves and change it. To support what they do like about themselves and to show people that the world doesn't have you pegged. You get to be yourself, and its a remarkable you.

Yesterday's conversation:

Love is either a country road or a roller coaster.

Stability is key. Unwavering devotion means more.

How do you become a constant when you have never seen one?

"I hate myself for not having the answers."
"But you have the questions! The questions are worth so much more than the answers."

Had a great conversation that challenged my thoughts last night. heart emoticon It was my writing for the day.

Why are relationship conversations a no-no?

The biggest let down in our education system is how no one talks about relationships. Friendships, family, dating, marriage. It is this realm of our life completely left on its own. I understand we have to learn through our own experiences but we should at least have the opportunity to know what the right choice in that path would be theoretically.

I know people who don't know how to be supportive friends. I personally sucked at being a sister as a child. And relationships, we act like if we just believe in happily ever after it will work for us.

Relationships take work. Friendships take work. Being in a family takes work. You have to work hard for the things you want.

How do you know what to share? When to share it? What to open up about and what to leave to yourself? How do you know what makes a great person, a ying to your yang in the dating scene.

What in your opinion makes for a strong relationship? I think people struggle in knowing what a good healthy relationship is and what isn't. I used to be in a very unhealthy relationship. I was put down and made fun of and attempted to mold myself in a way to fit what looked like a "good relationship". But I have since learned that to be good in a relationship, you not only have to be yourself, you have to have constant support from one another. Your job in the relationship is to make that other person know you love them and the parts of them you love about them.

Communication is a big key. How many times have you heard this saying. But its there because it is true. Especially later on in a relationship it gets easy to just fall into a rut every so often. It's always hard to try new things and sometimes it is just easier to do the same thing over and over and over again. I think a lot of it comes down to comfort and this comes through in our actions and our words. We need to be able to talk to one another about more than what will make them happy but what they also may not want to hear. We need to be able to approach new boundaries and be willing to try new things in our relationship.

Meet Paris

What was she doing on this train? The thoughts began to worry her. What if she wasn't ready for Paris? What if she couldn't step through those doors?

As she passed the blurry streams of green and blue, she heard the barista pull up her clanking cart and offer drinks to the nearby customers. As a community college librarian, she had basically given up her want for alcohol. She has made her own mistakes once too many times from such a drug. She had experienced what it does to too many people, and how it lost her the love of her life. And it was the the knife that first drew blood.

Alyssa was always a good girl who rarely had a drink, let alone a couple. She didn't like the way people stopped being themselves. She didn't like the decisions she chose to make. That night, she cringed. She hated that night. It was the night she stabbed herself with the knife, the day she received and lost the love of her life.

When Alyssa was 14, she went to her first high school party. Feeling ready to grow up, feeling ready to make that next step. And as one of the senior drama kings approached her, her knees buckled. He chuckled and she blushed. He passed her a drink, then another as they discussed silly things. He flirted, she flirted back. Tony grabbed her hand and led her to the dance floor. And with one last drink, that's all she remembered until the next day.

She woke up in a fright. Where was she? Who was this next to her? Where were her clothes. Her panic set in. She looked around quickly, got dressed as fast as she could and bolted.

Through the next month, they passed each other in the halls and it was as if she was invisible. How could she be so stupid? What would happen to her? She'd never drink alcohol again, she realized as the two little lines turned on the pregnancy test.

But today was different. She ordered another glass of wine as she thought about Paris.

She couldn't believe that she would soon be in the city. She had never been to Paris but expected that romance was just a part of the city's charm. The most terrifying part, was that she would be meeting her daughter for the first time.

After finding out she was pregnant, she decided to give the child up for adoption. She never expected to hear that voice again, never expecting to see those vibrant blue eyes again. Alyssa was in love for the first time in her life. She loved the cry that came out of that child. The way the baby looked at her through the glass and the way she seemed to smile even though she was much too young. Alyssa couldn't keep the baby. She had to rip out her own heart as she watched her daughter leave her in what appeared to be a forever kind of way.

I guess forever didn't last quite as long as I thought it would, she mused. She picked up her glass of wine and stared at the design. The intricate grooves and gems along the glass reminded her of a chalice. Just what she would expect if she was going to see Paris. As she pulled the glass to her lips, she hoped for bravery and she hoped for her daughter, she hoped this new forever would allow them to be together.

What Alyssa didn't know is that the barista could tell the anxiety billowing off of her. She grabbed the specific glass with a smirk and set it down for Alyssa knowing what would happen next. Sometimes everyone needs a sip of courage.

As the train stopped, Alyssa stood with a new vigor. She was ready. She got to the edge of the train and halted. She was going to see Paris, she was going to meet Paris, Paris was all she could dream of since she received the letter.

The letter was very straight forward, asking to meet up in Paris on this weekend. Her daughter coached a beauty pageant and wanted to share the excitement with someone. Her adopted parents had died in a fire years ago. Her daughter explained that the beauty on the inside is all you need but that you also need to appreciate beauty when it is around you.

I wonder what color eyes Paris has now? Sometimes eyes change on a baby, would I even recognize her? As she took a deep breath and stepped off the train, all her worries went away. She walked until she was directly under the clock in the station and looked around ravenously.

The eyes jumped at her. These mystic blue eyes were a color only fit for gems and they showed every ounce of excitement, nervousness and fear. Her daughter, Paris, was beautiful. She had long dark hair, big brown eyes. Her lips were the color of the morning sun. She was perfect.