that is all. 

In the name of the best within us: He found it.

Scrolling through Facebook, doing the usual procrastination of the mundane, when I see a post by a girl who I am not even sure I've ever had a conversation with. We were in the same grade, in 6th grade before I moved and she was always way above me, so why we are friends on FB, I have no idea. But I am grateful for all the years of posts I didn't care about because they allowed me to find this one. She has a friend, Devin Aadland, who has a talent and a passion and is doing something with it. He works with photography and art, and btw, is also in a band called Molly's Worst Enemy. I can't tell you why this was so meaningful to me, but something about this video really inspired me, it made me think back to my goals. Why am I where I am, and   am I doing what will help me get to where I want to go. His work inspires me to be who I want to be, to never change, and to be proud of that.

 His photog page: https://www.facebook.com/aadlandphotography
The video that changed my day:  Devin Aadland: Dec 8, 2012 2:42pm


Most of all, in the middle of this oh so stressful finals week, his short video gave  me a healing reprive from the tedious work of the unimportant and made me feel valuable again.
Shout out to Devin Aadland, you are a new hero of mine. When you do something big and shake the world, I'll be applauding from Seattle.

me&you.

Stop thinking you are special.

You are amazing.

Why do you think you are better than anybody else?

You are no different!

We all think that way.

Tell me everything you think about.

That isn’t new!

It’s not that big of a deal!

Why can’t you just tell me?

You did a terrible job of explaining that.

Stop doing that!

Just talk to me!

You talk too much!

You are special!

You are different and smart!

You think more than anyone I know.

I love you!

You think too much!

Just because I am not doesn’t mean I wasn’t.

You caught me at the worst time.

I’ll hurry.

I don’t do that!

Why do you do that?

Nothing can tear us apart!

You make it so hard!

My heart is willing,

But my mind is weak.

From trying to guess the next thing you might speak.

Will it be ok this time,

Or will you explode?
Should I stand my ground,

Or say you are profound.

Should I bend and conform

Or be who I am.

Is who I was what you wanted?

Or who I will be?

Or who you can make me?

For being so simple, you make my life complex.

This or that. One way or the other.

I never quite know with you.

Returning once again

I am sitting over here, silently angry over something you don’t know you did.

Secretly annoyed that you don’t know you did it,

But unwilling to bring it to light.

This isn’t the first time you have insulted me in such a way.

And yes, I took it personally.

You seem to think that you can smooth anything over with some sugar.

Well, you are wrong.

It doesn’t matter how you frost the cake if it has been made with rocks instead.

You always say you love me,

You say you always will.

Why then, is respect for who I am not imperative?

I feel I am becoming an object.

I have thought this once before, that you do not know the real me.

How can you love that which you do not know?

But you said you did and I believed you.

You proved me wrong, or so I thought, you had me fooled for a long time.

But now I am wondering again.

So many things that make me me,

You cannot seem to comprehend.

I didn’t think it was going to be like this, I thought it was going to be like everything I wanted.

But it’s not. Not yet. Not now. It was, for a while.

But can it ever be that way? Is it even worth it to imagine, or am I wishing for the impossible?

I am returning, to where I was, to the way I thought.

I will never be truly understood.

And that is ok, because that is life. 

me but not myself

me but not myself.
i hate me
but not myself
myself 
a wonderful creature 
of interest and 
love
a blossoming fountain of life
at least, 
that is what my mind tells me.
but Me.
Me.
a reminder of how much I 
detest that which I
have allowed myself
to slip into

sometime I hope
to find myself
amid all this
me
mountains and mountains of 
me 
to be climbed and conquered.

I'm on my way. 

Jacob Lawrence Gallery

The floor beneath my feet
smoother than ice
scratches the soles of my
shoes.
The air smells of paint.
It is clear the walls have not seen
any.
The room is mostly empty.
Tables are stacked on the edges
gallery lights shine down on
creamy blank walls.
There is an extension cord on
the ground and
art work in drafts
pinned to the wall with a
single prick.
Someone sits at a desk.
A guard.
Is it an accident, that the door is
open.
or
is this art?

Waiting for Michelle

Down the hall she smiles as she

unlocks the bathroom door for a girl who 

left her keys inside.

She walks with confidence towards me,

around my legs on the floor.

"No problem" She smiles after my apology.

She unlocks her door and 

goes inside.

I hear her set down her bag.

Expletive. 

She shouts.

I hear her muffled cries.

She sobs

and sniffs

another expletive

She makes a call.

The door across the hall 

opens 

and I walk away. 

---------------------------

What happened while I was waiting for Michelle?

What happened while this girl was smiling? 

Smiling for the world and letting it all fall on her capable, perfect shoulders.

Was there an alternative? 

Please don't fall now, my love, your light is my life.

There is something both 
glorious 
and adulterous about basking 
in the warm glow of a lamp you know 
cannot stay lit for 
long. The light is so warm and 
inviting, it fills you with hope, it 
heats your body in a cool 
world and 
makes it possible to breathe again. 
Deep, heavy breaths of 
being content. 
You could stay here
forever. But
you know that no matter
how warm or steady the 
light is, the lamp post will
not stand forever. Winds will
scar it, rain will cause it to 
rust. You can love that lamp post 
with every cell of your body
every pull of your soul
but you cannot 
hold the lamp post up.
And someday it 
will fall.
And when it does you'll be there underneath it
burned by the hot oil 
scarred by the shards of glass and 
crushed under the weight of it.
Under the weight of your love
fallen on top of you and burned
to bits. 
You can love the light, the heat, the glow, the post.
But you cannot keep it standing. You
can only pray that it's you who falls first
so that you aren't there to feel the fall,
only to cushion your love with a
dead empty body and a warm
happy soul.  

Magic

I think all little girls dream of living in a castle, it is in our blood. We love to pretend we could be worth the world to someone.
Life comes along and tries to teach us otherwise, and the adult in us believes it must be true. We cannot all be a princess. We cannot all rule the world. There is no magic. Only life.
If not magic, what then, is life?
Some people might argue that life is a job and school and paying bills. But that is not life, that is merely what it takes to maintain a "normal" society life. Life is the desire to live, to feel the air in your lungs and the blood in your veins and rejoice in their vital movements. Life is to love and to give, to learn and to grow. It is making mistakes but getting up again, and finding, within our everyday life, what it takes to make it worth living. That is the magic.

What is life without magic? There is no life without magic.

To be more me....

Isn't is astonishing, how in the midst of doing everything we love, we can lose ourselves.....and how sometimes it takes something we hate, an action we can't stand to see accomplished...to make us realize how unhappy we were being happy?
                 Thank you for teaching me that. I am back where I need to be now, all thanks to stranger who stopped me in my tracks of being what I hate, and helped be remember who I am.


                                          Sincerely,
                              Nobody's Wife, but My Own Someone

An old teacher.

He stood against the wall; large bricks painted off white.
He glanced down awkwardly at his note cards, often.
He usually commands a classroom, but today
He stands nervously in front of a student-held camera.
His brow sweats.
His face cracks into the form of a smile.
His lips move,
He speaks of adventures and dreams.
He tells us to never give up.
He says we can do it.
But his eyes;
His eyes block miserably the painful confession that
He is a man who never found
His dream.

What a Worrisome Wednesday

Sitting in the classroom, just minding my own business, I have a lot to do. The sounds of a piano waft down from amidst the rhythmic strums of a bass and staccato melody of a cello. I try to focus on my task. But the piano's lively song pulls at the corners of my mind and I find myself involuntarily drifting into the music. Dancing on colorful melodies laid against a vast darkness, I try in vain to keep my heart out of it, enjoying the moment just the same. Life so dark, music so light; the notes seem to bounce off the walls and sky, amplified by their pure and joyful intent. Stepping and twirling among themselves; little black dots that are girls and boys; the page comes to life. But there is no page; this tune is new and pure--and we, the virgin audience. Music so badly needed, fulfilling the secret need of every person within its sound.

The pianist's eyes betray his passion and I am unable to keep from smiling.

In defense, I turn back to my work, drowning out the music with a screaming rant deep inside the rooms of my mind. Darn that pianist.

Dreams-- imperfect.

Rain drops bouncing off the pavement

blackened bread tops

deceivingly good e-mails

day dreams without cause 

sweaters that don't quite fit

friends with other intentions

perfect love not shown

nail polish smudged in minutes, curls fallen

outfits planned, not worn

futures worked for

outcomes hoped for

finding the balance between 

getting it done and

giving them a chance

remind me

that dreams are not perfect

In the Rain

I ran up to her in the crowded cafeteria, I jumped and hugged her.
 My best friend, it was hard to tell who she was under all the stage makeup.
It was a wonderful show. It was an excellent show.
It made my cry inside, though outside I was aglow.
After offering congratulations to all in the cast, I left.
I snuck down the dark hallway and through the front door.
Into the rain I walked, illuminated by the street lamps from behind.
I walked and it rained and I watched as the silhouette behind me became a beautiful person.
The shadow reached out for mine. Their hands connected and turned me around.
 I kept walking as the lamp people danced in the rain.
As I passed another lamp post, I saw them leaning against it. Kissing in the rain. And I remembered.
What the heck am I doing? All this stuff? It isn't life.
To love is to live.
 And I'm missing out.

L'après midi-Mon temp favori

The afternoon, when the sun is low
my problems fade,
my smile shows.
I'm not sure what it is
about the late afternoon
that makes me feel like I have room
to grow
and to stretch
and to climb and to soar...
The sun through the leaves
just makes me want more!
More, I can take it--
Give me all you've got!
For, come ev'n and morning:
"I think I'll not."
When the skies are grey
the late hour turns cozy;
a bitter morning rain;
into a world of imagination,
 sheet to hide behind,
and a lake to dance in.
When the clock moves to three.
I'll take your hand,
you hold mine too
when the clock hands
show its after two.

I Found Myself When Atlas Shrugged (Essay)

On August 12^th, 2011, I walked into a Barnes and Noble and scoured through the fiction until I came across the thick, white novel titled, “Atlas Shrugged”. The book is the epitome of the works by modern philosopher, Ayn Rand.  I was fascinated with her writing, while at the same time scared of the depth and length of the book.   I determined I needed to read twenty pages a day if I was to finish before school began, with enough time to write an essay for the Ayn Rand Institute’s annual contest.  I began right away, reading in my friends’ car on the way to a summer party, and plowed my way through the first twenty pages that night—amazed, as always, by Rand’s ability to capture my attention with such minute details.  Some days, it was a chore to read so much of a book that, while a work of fiction, is so full of philosophy that it takes your entire mind to understand the events and concepts presented. Other days, I soared through my allotted twenty pages, as on one such day when I read more than 200 pages perched on a rock in the middle of a beautiful lake.  

I connected with the characters on an intimate level I never imagined possible with a book. I feel as though Hank Reardan, Dagny Taggart, and John Galt, three of the major characters in the story, are my friends and are with me whenever I want them to be. I began to see people as “the Reardan of this time in my life” or classify certain of my peers by saying, “Oh, he is nothing but a James Taggart”. But this is more than simple fiction-love (when a reader is so entranced with a story that they confuse the book with reality), and I assure you that I am not crazy (the voices in my head never talk back—out loud). It is more than that because within the 1069 pages of Rand’s masterpiece, I learned something about myself, the world, and how I can change it. A quote by Galt in the book, and one of the crowning phrases of philosophy within the novel, reads, “In the name of the best within us”.

 In the name of the best within us. Over and over I would say this to myself, and as I have had time to read and write about and contemplate on the book, I believe I understand what Rand intended this phrase to mean. In the name of the best within us:  representing and demonstrating all that I have to offer, I will not settle for less. This came as a bit of a revelation to me, and it is a philosophy which I now hold close to my soul, for the protection of my worth in my own eyes.  In the name of the best within me, I will settle for nothing less than the best of me, for me, or through me. I will always give my best, go my furthest, stand my longest, love my most, and excel to my highest. This book had such an impact on me that my whole philosophy on daily life is centered around it.  Every day I will wake up, ready to give my best.  No matter what happens, no matter who or what gets in the way. I find this statement is beautiful and empowering because it focuses solely on the self. By relying only on myself, there can never be any responsibility passed. All credit for my achievements will go to me, and all blame for my failures will fall on my shoulders.  It puts me truly in charge of my own ship. But this phrase not only asserts my position of full responsibility over my actions, but is a motivator to always put forth my very best. I have read many books that transported me to far off lands and distant adventures. I have, within the pages of a book, conquered dragons, and kingdoms, and crooks alike. But never before has a book not only invited, but compelled me to look to my own mind for the power to conquer, the creativity for adventure, and the strength to be everlasting. Atlas Shrugged has changed the way I see myself, the world, and my ability to live in it. Atlas Shrugged is my favorite book.

Love like Honey

It was new at first, like a little seedling-- a sprout.
We had to test everything, figure it out,
just what our love was all about.

We grew up and up, 'till soon we could see
that though the light shone still,
life would soon be sun free.

But that didn't stop us, no
We kept drinking up the water,
we still wanted to grow.

So we did and we did
we grew up and up higher
and even as we grew, the clouds
they got darker.

Then one day, it was over.
Like that.
Not without cause.
Not without knowledge.
We saw the clouds coming all along
But did we run for cover?
no
we kissed in the rain.

Then winter came, hard and harsh
The petals now dead,
though once they were lush
Our love, like a flower it once bloomed
Now only a lonesome life,
in the distance loomed

Unknown to us,
for we were otherwise occupied
there was a kind little bee
who found our nectar bona fide.
He sipped it long and carried away
all our memories of each sweet day.

The winter was long,
and for me it was harsh
Your blossom I thought, never again
would I see it, though nearly March.

Then one day, while reflecting, I saw
that it did not hurt still,
No, not at all.
It was like swimming in honey, sweet and opaque;
All our moments were rosy,
and the pain soon felt fake.


I soon realized what a great favor
that honey bee did me,
it saved me my friend meilleur.
Back to the living now,
back to the present
I'll always be grateful for you and that bee
Life is better, now that we're back to honey.

So what if it's Valentine's Day?

Break up with the world

Move on with your life

You don't need what they say

You've got enough work and strife

You can do things your own way

You don't need them to approve

So why don't you break up with the world

So you can find the real you

I don't need to beat you, I just need my beats

Those people who try to own everyone, they really tick me off.

What makes you think I'm worth owning anyway?

Why don't you try to own yourself, instead, work on making yourself better today.

I don't need to be better than you, or anyone else.

I only need what makes me feel good, and that isn't beating up on the rest.

I only need the sunshine, but if not--I'll love the rain.

I only need the smiling face--but I'll embrace the pain.

If darkness falls on my grand plans, I wont fight and scream and pout.

I'll just look up to the starry sky and dream of something else.

 Life isn't always perfect, and so I've gotta' stop tryin' to be.

As long as I'm me, I'll try to be happy.

So when you wake up in the morning, and think about who you're gonna beat today;

I'll just pull on my old sneakers to go outside and play.

 All life needs is love and work and with one you'll get the other.

This isn't how it always goes, sometimes I'm downright gloomy.

But from now on I'll try to win, myself, and let His light shine through me.

This is my creed, my new motto, for facing life's tomorrow.

You may choose to walk down the halls and swing a punch or two.

I'm gonna choose to dance to a beat even if its lost on you.

--Found In Space--

She carefully laid

her head on the cold

thick glass and watched

as trees flew by.

Her life like the

swift moving pines;

her chance to make

it better-- the

disappearing darkness

between each.

It knew her

better than once thought.

She let herself

open into the space

between each knowing arm

as she knew she could

and in the space

find herself.

Find herself where she was,

when she tucked and covered.

Where light meets line

and breath and depth combine,

life she'll find.

Substance Abuse

It's dark and gray... and I need it.
I need it now and
I need it bad.
I need it to bring back the color,
if only for three minutes.

Life: Dark and dirty.
Its a crime to want it.
A sin to so indulge.
An urge impossible to ignore.

No matter how long you wait,
it will never go away
Your need will only grow stronger

Fill it. Fulfill it. Surrender.

Sacrifice your soul to the pained strains of another and watch as your heart takes flight,
your mind aroused

Let it take control.
Let it take you away.

Abuse.

That's what this is.
Abuse of it.
Abuse of you.
Every time you push play

Un Poème de l’Amour et la Vie

Ensemble, nous avons volé.
Ensemble, la vie était bonne.
Mais, maintenant, les bons moments
sont partis.

Ma vie est sombre
Comme les étoiles qui sont mortes,
a cause de toi.
Parce-que tu es parti.

Tous tes mots
Sont des double-étendres.
Ton sourire comme un poignard dans mon cœur

Mais, le ciel est plein d’espérer,
Plein de couleurs et de lumière

Bleu et rose et le soleil doré
Les nuages racontent des possibilités d’avenir

Et quand le soleil se levé encore,
Je vais voler seule.

Make Believe...

It's been another day, another just like the rest. School, work, church. Whatever happened today, it doesn't really matter because it's over. She's that much closer.

She flips off the switch, the light from her lamp and in her eyes disappearing in the same instant. She no longer has to pretend. It's late, past bedtime and she crawls under the quilt. Ear buds in, she closes her eyes, and the ritual begins. Slowly, the longing strains of an organ seep into her mind and she begins a mental inventory of her day. Her week. Her life. Every night she does this. Because every day she wakes up, smears on the makeup and the positive attitude in one swipe. It's not that she’s ugly, it's that she is too stressed to remember her beauty. It's not that she's negative; it's that she is too weighed down to be light hearted. It's not that she isn't happy; it's that she is too busy to feel happiness. But they don't know.

They know she is busy, sure, but do they know what its doing to her? The real her. No, because every morning she carefully applies the her they want to see. The version of her that is on top of her studies, never shares a cross word and will come to the rescue at any moment for the sake of another. They don't know that she studies life from the bottom, that her words are only cross when they are to herself, and that what she really needs to someone to rescue her. Someone to simply care about how she really feels.

Someday there will be someone. But she doesn't need anyone right now. Just her music. And late at night, with her blinds shut to the possibility of the stars beyond, she escapes into her music and the world in which she will one day live. A world where she can be herself, the beautiful girl she knows she is. Where she can think things and say things without fear of being labeled, tossed into the section of "rebellious teenagers" where adults keep those they'd rather ignore. Someday she will wake up and skip the mascara, grab her favorite shirt and rock her natural hair. Someday she will travel afar and introduce herself to total strangers, because no one will care who she associates with. She will sleep in, because the freedom to declare the value of her health over the importance of a meeting will be at last attained.

But until then. Her music will lull her into a painful sleep, a brief and horrible escape where she will dream of the nightmarish world in which she poses at the top. And in just a few short hours, still in the dark of the morning, she will wake up to the innocent blaring of her old alarm clock and apologize to it. It's not its fault she doesn’t like to get up.

She will walk to the mirror in the dark and carefully apply the girl people expect, masking the one she loves.

But it's O.K.

Because she is one day closer to the end of this game of make believe.



-- "Fix You", Coldplay

A PASSION TO DIE FOR...

They say that passion is permanent. That once you fall in love with something, it is part of your life forever.

No matter how hard you try to remove it.

She always loved the violin, ever since she was very young-- she had spent hours every day in front of a black music stand. In college she would stay up all night long, practicing in the basement of her dorm. There among the rumbling of the machines and hissing and moaning of the old pipes, she would pour out the grievings and aspirations of her soul through the strings of that violin. Her dreams would fly out of the rosin dust, dancing in the air with her broad strokes before settling all around her like pixie dust. Tears and fears would resonate on the concrete walls with every harsh chord, love and passion penetrating each melody she endeavored to perfect. She lived for the music; she lived through the music, and the music through her.

She spent her days playing for celebrations, events and concerts. She spent her nights in lonely rooms away from the world, breathing in the music, recharging her soul.

One day she was driving through the woods on her way to a wedding for which she had been hired. She happened to glance to her left as she passed a clump of trees when she first saw it. Perched on the edge of the pavement was a black music stand with a piece of music opened on it. She drove on, looking behind her at the empty road.

A few months later, as she walked down the steps of a large concert hall to her car, she saw it again. The black music stand with music opened to the second page, standing on the landing. Just there. She approached the stand and turned to the front page, at once recognizing the famous czardas. As she stood there, the music turned back to the second page as if by the wind, but the air in the hall was still. She walked to her car and drove home, only to stay awake in her room, playing hours more.

One evening she pulled out of a yellowed folder a piece of music. The famed Monti Czardas that seemed to be following her. She played into the early hours of the morning, setting down her beloved instrument just as the sun was rising. An accomplished musician, she had been able to make great strides on it just that night. It was nearly ready for an audience. Except for one part on the second page.

Again and again she played the czardas, determined to perfect it. That measure in the middle of the third line on the second page. That was the trouble. It was not a difficult section, in fact she had seen many less talented musicians play it perfectly before. Why was it giving her such trouble?

Weeks had passed since she began her study and attempt of the infamous czardas when she saw it again. This time on her porch. A black music stand, with the czardas opened to the second page. Standing defiantly in the windy afternoon sun on her front porch. The street was empty. Deciding to make use of it, she studied the music to see if there was a hint on it for her, a fingering penciled in or something. Although obviously worn, it was in crisp perfection. Frustrated she unlocked her door and went inside, closing the door firmly behind her.

That was the first night in months she didn't play the czardas, instead going to bed early. But it did not stay away. No, she dreamed of the czardas, imagining that she played the broken measure over and over again. Each time she played it, the scenery was different. Sometimes inside a crowded concert hall. Sometimes in a blustery park. Once in the basement of her old college dorm. Once in the woods where she once saw it. Never done perfectly. Each time the mistake was louder, more obvious, more painful. She awoke in a cold sweat, listening to the stark silence of her room. She did not sleep well the rest of the night.

The next day, she put her violin in her car and drove away, far away to the coast. She would stay in a cottage on the bluff. A welcome respite from the dark city life. She did not take her music with her, but would play only what her soul desired.

She started off with a lovely concerto, a melodic piece of beauty. But she could not stay away, and in the fading light of sunset, her melodic strains transformed into the painful chords of the wrenching czardas. Always stopping right before the measure of repeated failures. She tried to start at the next line and finish the piece, but she could not do it. Frustrated and angry, she slammed her violin into its case and drove home, arriving very early the next morning.

She slept through the day, waking only for a cup of tea in the evening. Holding her steaming cup, she walked to the front window, gazing upon the red and golden leaves of deep fall rustling in the wind. She closed her eyes, breathing deep in the tortuous scent of her tea, the fall air, and the rosin that seemed to seep into everything she owned. When she opened her eyes, it was there. In her living room. The black music stand, opened to the second page of the czardas. She dropped her tea, the cup rolling to a wet stop a few feet away. In fury, she tore the music off the stand and ripped the page in two, thrusting the stand to the ground as she stormed off into her room. She opened her violin, and played the czardas. When she once again destroyed that measure, she stopped. She set her instrument on the bed and reached for her music. Placing it back into its aging folder, she pulled on a scarf and walked to her front door, hardly noticing the empty living room. She walked briskly down the street and deposited the music in the hands of a happy child sitting on a park bench. She did not return to her apartment that night.

The next morning, she gathered her violin again and began to play. She played everything but the czardas. She played with such a level of passion that the very trees outside seemed to dance with her music. But she was not satisfied. She went to bed upset. That night, she awoke to use the restroom and found the music stand behind the curtain in her bathtub. She slammed the door and stormed back to her room. Finding the room empty she sighed and fell to the bed, praying for dreams of peace.

Instead she dreamed of nothing. Nothing but blackness and the czardas playing over and over in her mind, louder and louder. Always with an imperfect measure from the second page. She again awoke in a cold sweat, her hands clammy, her breathing fast and shallow. She rolled over to look at the ceiling, afraid of what she would find in her room if she looked. Unable to hold out any longer, she closed her eyes and sat up, her feet dangling off the edge of the bed.
There, in her dark room in the early morning on a November day, was a black music stand with the Monti Czardas opened to the second page. Not breathing, she stared at the pages. In the middle of the third line on the second page was a gap. A white space. A missing measure. It was gone.

Breathing deeply, she forced her eyes shut and threw herself into her mattress. Down and down she fell, the moonlight streaming through her window growing smaller and smaller until it ceased to exist. At the end of her tunnel was only one thing. A small sound, a violin. It played for just one moment. It played a measure from the middle of the third line on the second page of the Monti Czardas.

Ever one with the music, her heart stopped just as the bow left the string. Perfect notes resounded in the emptiness, but she was not there to hear them.

Whatever your passions, beware. Passions are something to die for.