Ants (Tanka)

Tiny ants crawling

one step at a time they go 

with such swift movement 

finally stopped in their tracks 

having met their match in me 

In Cold Blood

I have started the book "In cold blood" by Truman Capote. I am only a few chapters in so I am just getting my barrings on the book, but its eerie nature is already shining through. The book takes place in Holcomb, a small Kansas town and follows the murder mystery of Mr. Clutter who owns his own farm. I am slightly confused with beginning, but Truman Capote's description of the book create such vivid images that it puts shivers down my spine even though nothing bad has happened yet. You know something is about to happen, just not sure what yet.

Indecision

It looms above my head like a hungry vulture

Never relenting in this overactive brain

A game you can’t win until you decide to give up

But still persisting even when the win has come

My breathing constricts and arms go numb

Until I push it down so far that reality disappears

As it resurfaces, it hits me with a blow

Its still there, in the same place I left it

I create it to avoid the problem

But it alone has become my problem

There is a rock and a hard place

And I am plainly stuck between them

The taste of it alone shows sour all over my face

But eventually this sour become my drug

The struggle becomes my life

My life becomes the struggle

2nd Semester Check-in

How has this Semester been going?

My Project has changed shape a few times since the last time I checked in. I have shied away from song writing, although, I am not ready to leave it behind quite yet. It is not easy for me to write lyrics and with the senioritis that I have other topics have come easier. This past semester I have been reading a lot and I’m really enjoying it. I find that the more I read the better I write, so I feel that this is a positive step in the right direction. It is refreshing to take a step back from your own head and reflect on others’ writing styles. One thing that I would enjoy to finish out the semester is embracing my creative writing in the form of possibly poem or short excerpts of stories. I feel that I with these short pieces, I can go as far as I wish. With each idea I can expand it as much as feels natural then move on to the next without getting stuck. This may also inspire other work that could come.

The Other Wes Moore Follow Up

As I finished my most recent book (see summary below), it posed the question of what made the difference in the two men's lives that changed their fate so drastically? While one of the two ended up becoming a successful politician and writer, the other resides in a state pententury. The differences between the two men are not clear cut, but I will try to point them out. Wes 1 (as I will refer to him as) lived with his mother after his father passed away and eventually moved in with his grandparents. His mother and father were stable but struggled with financial problems. Wes 2 also lived with his mother after his father left as his brother slowly became a big time drug dealer and gangster. Wes 1 had positive role models in his life while Wes 2 did not and this made a big difference in their lives. Wes 1 had others expecting to do better but Wes 2 did not. As a teenager, Wes 1 was sent to military camp where he had to change his attitude whereas Wes 2 never had to change his ways. The Biggest difference was that Wes 1 had a support system who loved him. When he would do the wrong thing, he wasn't just letting down himself, but everyone else. Wes 2 did not have that support system that he could count on and counted on him.

"The Help" Summary:

In the mist of the civil rights movement, a town called Jackson Mississippi was an epicenter of the war between races. "The Help" follows two maids working for white families and a white woman struggling with the expectations of society.

 Miss Skeeter returns to Jackson after attending college and cannot find her place in this familiar world. She yearns to move to New York and become a journalist but cannot catch a break. After getting in contact with a big time publisher, she found the inspiration she needed.

Aibileen Clark was a maid all of her life. She raised 15 white children whose parents were too wrapped up in their own lives and one of her own. Treelore was Aibileen's only biological child and the day he died, so did a part of her. Aibileen is left to pick up the pieces and continue work for a woman who cares little about her.

Minny Jackson is known around town as a maid with a mouth on her. Not only is she a notorious "sasser" but she is falsely accused of stealing from the woman she works for. She is left jobless and no hope for finding a new one after the word travels around town. Dealing with an abusive husband and a houseful of kids, she finally gets a break. When a new couple arrives in town, Minny lands a job with this woman, uneducated about the social roles around her. With her new relationship Minny is left rethinking the social norms she has tried to fit herself her entire life.

These three woman cross paths when a book idea, conceived by Treelore, Aibileen's late son, becomes Miss Skeeter's new brain child. She seeks out "the Help" in Jackson County to tell their stories of what it's like to be a maid. At first there are very few willing to talk, but as situations escalate, more and more sign on. With so many women in Jackson Mississippi leading double lives, it is just a matter of time until things come crashing down.

The Other Wes Moore

I started reading a book called, "The Other Wes Moore" that looks at two men with oddly similar lives. They are both black males living in the same Baltimore neighborhood, growing up in the same time period. Both had similar family and financial situations but 20 years later, they are in gravely different places. One resides at a state penitentiary where he will be until the day he dies and the other, an alumnus at John's Hopkins University, is married and a successful published author. As of the first few chapters, the book has described the early lives of these two young boys. Both of their fathers were gone before their eighth birthday. One Father left due to a drug addiction and a lifeless demeanor, the other died because of a misdiagnosis at a local hospital. "The chilling truth is that his story could have been mine. The tragedy is that my story could have been his."

Hungry

My feet were the first thing to regain feeling. It started with a tiny prick then went into a full on tingle. As the feeling went back into my legs my eyes finally opened. As I looked around the room, confusion turned into terror as I had no idea where I was nor any memory that had happened previous to get to where I was. My last memory: walking down the baking isle looking for brownie mix. I remember seeing the double chocolate mix on sale so I opted for that. I saw 300 calories per one serving on the back and felt remorse but still grabbed it anyway. Now looking around the room my brownies were gone and the empty box lay lifeless on the ground. The man in the corner was eating the last one and my stomach was grumbling. "Fuck him" I thought.

Breakdown

Across the border to your heart
Between the bridges of the lonely soul
the waves lap and the oceans swells
like the hands of our foes
place me at the borderline
one foot in one foot out
but something tells me, I'm here to stay

don't ask me now
I have no answer
ask me later
nothing's changed
leave me this open pasture
I'll have to mull it over

(Chorus)

breakdown, breakdown
your body lives beneath the ground
breakdown, breakdown
spirits move when you are down
breakdown, breakdown
I'll wake you when this storm is over

(another verse to come)

Wild Recap

For the past two weeks I have been reading the book "Wild" by Cheryl Strayed. The book is about a woman who hikes the Pacific Crest Trail after her mother dies at 42 after a 2 month battle with cancer. After her mother's death her family becomes estranged, her young marriage falls apart and she becomes dangerously close to an addiction with heroin. At this point she picks up a book standing in a checkout line that would change her life completely. It was titled "The Pacific Crest Trail Volume I: California". 2 months later, she was starting off in the Mojavi Desert embarcking on a three month journey taking her 2,663 miles up the west coast to the Bridge of Gods in Washington. With thirty pages left, Cheryl is in Oregon looking into Crater Lake. Crater Lake used to be a mountain. Mount Mazama, it was called. 7,700 years ago Mount Mazama blew up in the largest explosive eruption in the cascade Range in over a million years. In the wake of this destruction, 500,000 square miles were covered in ash. Crater Lake today, it is one of the most beautiful lakes in North America. Strayed recounts this sight."This was once Mazama, I kept reminding myself. This was once a mountain that stood nearly 12,000 feet tall and then had its heart removed. This was once a wasteland of lava and pumice and ash. This was once an empty bowl. They simply were not there anymore. There was only the stillness and silence of that water: what a mountain and a wasteland and an empty bowl turned into after the healing began." This quote essentially sums up the book. Cheryl is not only talking about Mount Mazama, but is talking about herself. Her journey stripped her of her emotions allowing her to grow into a peaceful state of being not unlike that of Crater Lake.

Untitled (at the moment)

You'll never find what your looking for if you never over turn that rock
Never know whose coming for you if you would just ignore that knock
You're rolling around, in these familiar grounds, never straying from your path
you look at me with those causeless eyes asking "what do i do now?"
blink once and blink one more time, then turn off your thoughts
look around you with a new pair eyes and you will be surprised

(Chorus)

Cause when its gone, trust me its gone and when daylight comes then you will the hangover will be ruthless
you've been hanging around, for way to long, and you're feet cant stand it anymore, so get up get moving

so get up, get up
get out of this town
get up get up
get out of this town

the musics playing other places that you don't seem to look
feel the beat beneath your feet and rhythm in your soul
the fish are jumping we are thumping come on don't be shy
once you let it then you will learn how to fly
so don't walk with your head  turned down, you'll miss out on life
take the world in the palm of your hand there's no need to think twice

(Chorus)

Cause when its gone, trust me its gone and when the daylight comes then you will the hangover will be ruthless
you've been hanging around, for way to long, and you're feet can't stand it anymore, so get up get moving

so get up, get up
get out of this town
get up, get up
and get out of this town

Where Does The Truth Lie?

She was just a baby herself
Starting to find her footing on the ground
'till late one night, she took one step too far
and all she was left was a decision and these scars
they called her shameful, they called her a whore
and they say its a sin and try to take away her right

I'm not well but I'm well enough to understand
that your words just melt in the sand
that you have us in the palm of your hands

(chorus)
You play the part, but you've fallen short
10 steps ahead of where you're not

You surround yourself, with those who buy this shit
but trust me, I have not

"We just can't swing it" are words he hears a lot
three part time jobs, his mother can't do enough
But every night, he prays he won't get sick
because god knows what'll happen, it just wont add up
they say we have other things to worry about
and it'll just hurt us in the end
but if hurting us is what they are worried about
then you may want to think twice

(chorus)

Because you play the part, but you've fallen short
10 steps ahead of where you're not

You surround yourself with those who buy this shit
But trust me, I have not

Road Blocks

This week I planned on giving my viewers a song to ponder. I agonized over this. I thought about writing it all week but as Wednesday came around the only progress I had, was a chorus and a few thoughts. As I attempted to write down my thoughts I was feeling good. When I went back to re-read what i had, it was crap. Straight crap. As I wrote it again, it was just as bad. The third time around, still not good. So here it is, All that i have for this week:

(chorus)

I'm not well, but I'm well enough to understand

that your words just melt in the sand

that you have us in the palm of your hand

you play the part, but you've fallen short

10 steps ahead of where you're not

you surround yourself with those who buy this shit

but trust me, I have not

After this week's fiasco, I have much more respect for the great lyricists. It is much more challenging that I initially intended. But stayed tuned, I will have more for next week, I promise. 

I Am From

I am from the mountains, the deep rolling hills of the Berkshires
I am from the streams, the ponds, the puddles
The highest peaks and the lowest valleys
I am from the foxes, the bears, the badgers and the snakes
I am from the snowy winters, trapping amphibians under water and mammals in hiding
I am the from the trembling voices surrounded by utter silence
The wind whipping in and out, through the trees echoing throughout our souls chilling bodies from toes to nose
I am from the warm fire but still shivering

I am From the awakening
I am from the unfreezing of the world around us as the sun sets in
The first sprouting in March, the filling of the lakes
I am from the rain, washing away our dirty secrets and imperfections
The heavy streams taking away the ground and the rousing mammals, out of hibernation

I am from the hot direct sun light
the sun burns, sand between our toes, sour sun screen
I am from the lightning shows at midnight casting shadows on those below
The long night around the camp fire creeping in closer as the clock spins
and The stack of books that begins to disappear as the temperature rises

I am from oranges yellows and reds as they turn to brown
the morning frost catching the green thumbed off guard
waking up to the dark shortening days
I am from sweatshirts and fuzzy cotton socks
I am from the mountains, the deep rolling hills of the Berkshires