floweranza: (matsujun red tie.)
(Written for Interpretation of Lit., University of Iowa. January.)

Autobiography of (an Airhead) a Reader

The textures and smells of books have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. Even now, the desk in my dorm room has a haphazard array of novels lined up behind my laptop, external drive, and copious snakes of wires; in fact, there are so many books that my friends often good-naturedly throw jibes at me. While my exposure to reading may have begun with books in the Russian language, I don’t believe my exhilaration at reading has diminished from the transition of preferred languages in my head. For me, reading remains a matter-of-fact joy and way of connecting myself to all the different walks of people who have ever lived in this world.

If a book were to be written about my own life, it would doubtlessly be a bore. However, one of the main themes would undoubtedly be reading. From the first page to the current day, it would be chock-full of such phrases as, “Ah, once again she has flipped open a book, gently running a finger down the crease…” or, “Ah, she has given up on giving precedence to homework over a good story again, the idiot.” Self-teasing aside, it seems that while children often blame parents for their own foolhardy actions, my parents really are at fault. Like me, they were and are voracious readers. I grew up munching at a kitchen table with people whose noses were constantly stuck in white pages, one hand set to page-turning and the other to cutlery. Due to such memories, it’s hard for me to define exactly what reading means to me. Like breathing or walking, it has remained an essential constant. And that is something I can only deeply thank my parents for. While such absent-minded parents (who sometimes ended up not hearing me in favor of an engaging read) were often times clumsy with their first child, they gave me the dearest gift of all: the ability to enjoy expression in written form, a true recitation of human thought and existence.

While I laud my parents an awful lot, I sometimes look back at a choice selection of their ideas and wonder what the hell they were thinking. When I was young, my mother was insanely infatuated with Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. She insisted that I, who wasn’t even out of elementary school, should read it! My mother’s enthusiasm hasn’t changed since then, except I am now considerably more mature (from my point of view) and can better appreciate the things she recommends me. In any case, my young mind greedily took it as a challenge, the biggest book I had read so far. Armed with a dictionary and scooter-accident band-aids, I still didn’t understand everything (how could I, possibly?), but it was a good experience. I look back fondly upon Jane Eyre, having reread it in more recent years, but my happy memories of struggling through it as a child remain and serve to motivate me. Another category of written work that inspires me is, oddly enough, stories written by fans. It is a category that is derided and misunderstood by many. Some people say that writing other people’s characters is a gimmick and unoriginal, that fanfiction is a weak facsimile of the real thing. It is my personal opinion that fanfiction is valid and, indeed, very difficult. Writing characters not your own requires faithfulness and skill, and crafting a story with such understanding of personality defines the ability of an author. Over the years, I have read so many amazing things written by amateurs that I can easily say they all inspired me. Just because a work has not been published doesn’t mean it is less valid; it can still be just as skillful, beautiful, and as worthy reading as any best seller from the New York Times. Reading has given me an appreciation of the published and unpublished, the refined and unrefined, and I think it has also given me a greater understanding of the beauty humans are capable of.
floweranza: (blue flowers.)
Young women don't take naps well, even when they take naps in complete heartbreak. There was one such young woman that tossed and tossed in her little bed, for within her mind gemstones laughed and nipped at sparkling lightstones that inappropriately touched, in turn, the gems themselves. They were quite quite foolhardly things, hardly aware of anything; in fact, hardly aware that they were within a foolhardly young women's mind, which is why they were foolhardly in the first place. And so she tossed and turned and clenched her cold toes in despair beneath her blankets as the gemstones chittered.

Walking softly she finally emerged into the dream world, unaware as most young women are that they were about to do something quite regrettable. (In many cases, in fact, old crones told stories of how when they were young and knew something to be regrettable they had done it anyway, leading to the existence of all illicit things in the world.) So this girl was quite heartbroken, as I have said and as you can imagine, and her questionable judgement was even more worse off than it could have been on any given venture into places where she should not be. ("Bollocks," said one small gemstone, because it had a tiny modicum amount of sense and knew something terrible was about to happen. "Shit.")

The young lady, because that is how she saw herself within a dream, emerged into a glen. Sobbing silently, heedless of the tears that were plopping down her cheeks and vanishing, quietly, into the mist, she knelt down by the small creek and scratched her knees upon the stones there. The weather was cold and dreary. As every traveler knows, you quite determine what you come into when you tread into dreamland, but I can't say enough how foolhardly girls can be. And as every traveler knows, when you leave some of your blood on the age-old stones by the creek which lies and travels through the center of everything, things get taken quite out of your hands.

Cool wind rattled harshly. Water ran over the stones, gurgling and burbling and mumbling, carrying with it her tears and foolishness and the promise of a quick, pretty smile. It ran as the creek that runs through everything, through pastures and forests and fields and even deserts, though there it ran underground, prancing through stalagmites, and eventually it came to the side of a brooding young man.

Unlike this completely idiotic young woman, the young man was one of the dreamland and had no good reason to even take naps, though he was also quite in a state of heartbreak. There's no sense to think he was very beautiful or handsome just because he lived in the land of dreams. But he was kind, and young by the measurement of however long humans have dreamed. And now he sat sulking by the creek that runs through everything (though, of course, like any good traveler he kept his knees away from the stones!) and wished, wished very hard, that something good came to him.

Something did.

It was a small smile, quiet and pretty and rather sad, but it was everything he had ever wanted.

And so the young woman had done something extremely foolhardly, because now this young man began traveling, slowly and with intent, to where her presence was. The gemstones in her mind twittered in gossip. ("Bollocks," said that one gemstone again, because it was really an idea that had been cursed to remain in this particular young woman's mind, and now it had no chance of ever getting out. "Shit," it said again, with feeling.)

Once something in the dreamlands wants you, after all, instead of the other way around, well, what happens then is a tale that's told to children before they fall asleep. It's often told in warning, and sometimes in fond memory, sometimes in melancholy.
The young man kept walking along the creekside, mist in his eyelashes and the young woman woke, more slowly than she had ever woken before, from her nap.

Something was about to change.
floweranza: (trotting pig.)
Proper Methods of Sleeping
by Eve (Julia)

1. Never fail to take off glasses or other uncomfortable material appendages. They will disrupt your deep, procrastinating sleep and such a thing is unadvised to any student at any scholarly level.

2. Learn how to sleep-txt. Your phone will undoubtedly go off with vibrations, loud beeps or bright lights at least two times during your valuable sleeping time. Learn how to wake up just enough to send a partially conscious message before dropping back into the depths of the beyond.

3. Paste distressing optical illusions on all the walls surrounding your bed. You will have no choice but to sleep.

4. Make a proper body cocoon with the blankets. From now on, you are a caterpillar. This is a very important part of sleeping properly and getting the most out of the time you sleep, whether it be four hours or 10. If you do not like tucking the blankets around you, learn to like it. There is no other proper way to sleep.

5. Do not spend money on a punching bag or stress-relief squeeze toy. Your pillow will suffice. Learn to let the hate seep away with violent night attacks on your pillow. No one will be hurt, though this must be timed correctly and neither too late or too early for anyone to observe the crime.

6. You are a caterpillar and all sleepwalking, if need be done, must be done in a cocoon. There is no other proper way to sleepwalk.

7. You will not be a beautiful butterfly when you wake up. That is a lie. The proper method of sleeping involves hanging your head over the side of the bed, creasing it and looking as outrageously diseased as you possibly can upon waking up. This is particularly useful to students.

8. Sleep is not a restorative process; rather, it is simply a way of putting off anything you have to do. The proper method of sleeping does not let anyone convince you otherwise, and the only time to sleep must be with that intrinsic truth in mind. Sleep may be entirely arbitrary based on your tasks.

9. The proper method of sleeping involves keeping a self-responsibility of staying nourished and hydrated during the time of hibernating procrastination. Keep small snacks and water by the bedside at all times. Having to trudge towards a refrigerator during the night is outlawed by the proper methods of sleeping. Crackers and other loud, crackly foods are recommended. They are annoying and will test the proper sleeping methods of everyone else around you.

10. From now on, you are a caterpillar.
floweranza: (Default)
[ The warmer current of the river collides with the cold snap of air: sends the billows of fog stretching from bank to bank. I stand on the small sandy beach formed by the continuously receding water and watch the world, bathed all in white. ]

Upon seeing such a beautiful and fleeting act of nature, a human being usually starts to think of themselves - as part of nature, as beauty, and the virtue of their own existence and identity. Or, perhaps, that is just me? Awe-inspiring sights make one contemplate and imagine, our own advantage of human creativity coming alive.

My family had gone up to Quebec this past summer to kayak on the Rivier Desert. (Fitting to its name, the river was low on water and quite proliferate with rocks.) Ten hours in a car with a sullen family, although intermittently driving, was such a monotonous and 'silent' ordeal that I retreated into my own mind. And, later on, when my tired muscles burned and I kept on paddling - a Sisyphean task - my mind kept wandering, still a tiny bit lost in the fog of the early cold morning.

Who are we, and who am I, and how are we who we are, and why am I here, paddling on the water that might possibly be a unique claim to a solitary existence in a vast universe? Perhaps these are questions better left to seasoned philosophers than brooding teenagers. But all can appreciate beauty - and all history has shown that we continue to live, to persevere, by asking questions and trying to find answers.

The fog in the river seemed to be a natural representation of ourselves. The view is at first cloudy, but it clears up with time and we cannot waste the day dwelling in the fog of the past, no matter how beautiful it may be. Taking from it what we need and using it is neither thievery nor plunder, but us.

It is every person's privilege and duty to keep paddling, to keep driving, to keep thinking - to continue down that small rocky river, where the fog is soon enough replaced by the sunshine.
floweranza: (noplskthxbai!)
pd. 4, --> yon, shi [death]

dylan thomas exercise

He sits beneath the snowpiles beneath the icicles - the humming thrum of silence, the quiet murmur of men is off in West Easthampshire; the snow drips pink and blue delight and he digs fingers into the wet earthy dandelions; they open their faces to the sun in weedy glory with roots copulating under the earth, winding and twisting round each other, round and round, singing - the piper plucks a dandy lion, whistles through it, and places into it his hungry hands. The snow is like candy on his tongue and perhaps, perhaps perhaps he should head west to Easthampshire where the ladies stream water off their balconies like skimming cream, but for nowtime he will crouch here under the overhang.
floweranza: (red lamp.)

Poem #1

Robin sits upon the fence
Sits and waits and deliberates

Cat curled sweetly on the floor
Dog hunched tightly by the door

Robin sits upon the fence
Sits and waits, and deliberates.

Judges humans,
since the cat and dog
do not.

Poem #2

CAT: well you know I always thought that the human being being as it may is something we could use for food and shel--
DOG: but he's my friend
CAT: well either way we're not really criticizing are we
DOG: animals have got no right to judge humans
CAT: right

Peer out the window,
if you see a robin, it
bares your soul.

DOG: there's that one though the oddball
CAT: who
DOG: that robin always judging

Brief second,
a look into the robin's eyes,
sets a goal.

ROBIN: i have no debt to humans so let me be.

Poem #3

I met a man
who once shot down
a little robin by the riverside.

He was a man,
an ordinary man,
of the most ordinary ways,
and he shot down
a little robin by the riverside.

I met a man
who once caged up
a little robin by the window.

He was a man,
an ordinary man,
of the most ordinary ways,
and he caged up
a little robin by the window.

Unassuming, ordinary men.
floweranza: (to nowhere.)
Treatment for Episodic Television

TITLE is a half-hour situation comedy which concerns the plight of two researchers from a distant future who, through their own folly, have become trapped in 19th century England. In the future, the Earth has become a focal point of a megastructure that encompasses the Milky Way and several smaller surrounding galaxies. Due to the Earth itself becoming more and more uninhabitable with time, human civilization has settled out in space. Life has, of course, adapted, and therefore is not very different from the trends that have defined humanity for the whole of its existence. However, ethnicities have largely mixed. The two researchers, Annabelle (Abe) D. Danzo and Patrick Menny, are exceptional in the field of astrophysics. As they are given free reign by the Interspace government for their pet projects, Abe and Patrick become particularly enamoured with exploring one thing that has evaded the scientific grasp of humanity so far - time. Through a wildly explosive mistake that obliterates any evidence of their research, the two men find themselves somehow transported to a remote field in 19th century England. Both astonished and terrified by what they have accomplished, the two attempt to fashion a way home in a world that is largely treating them with hostile intent.


Annabelle (Abe) D. Danzo
While a respected figure within the scientific community, Abe is nevertheless covertly teased because of his first name. He had a normal name as a very young child; however, he was such an annoying presence that his father, in a fit of righteous fury, legally changed the boy's name to Annabelle. Thirty-four years later, Abe has not changed much. He is 36 years old, hailing from the small planet commune Yorkland in the far right reaches of the Milky Way. Abe fought his way through the education system and, eventually, bullied his way in to the elite scientific university on a full scholarship. Somewhere along the way, due to an incident he never mentions, he became involved with the Interspace government. At age 24, he met Patrick, and the two decided to become partners. Abe is sarcastic, somewhat sadistic with the application of science, and has a reasonably loose moral center for what others would find obscene and wrong. He is extremely annoying in many situations - nevertheless, his colleagues take it with a grain of salt, due to his efficiency as a scientist. He is not married. He loves the color green to a high degree; the fact that his employee tag is tagged with red bothers him, and he spends much of his time annoying the higher-ups about this. His interns/assistants are Jalee Hu, Michael Gross, and Ben Silmer.

Patrick Menny
Much like Abe, Patrick's name can be often seen in recent scientific journals, citing various advancements. He is a bit of a Mother Bear figure to Abe's interns, who can usually be found gravitating to him whenever Abe is being particularly nasty. Patrick's usual mood seems to be a cross between gloomy and forlorn, whether he is feeling that way or not. Whenever he has a mental breakthrough, he gets very excited - often in bad places, like the street or meetings. Patrick comes from a small Irish community on the Moon, though he doesn't really care that he is one of the few people left to have a distinct ethnicity. He is 37 years old. Patrick is divorced, and has not seen his ex-wife in six years. Consequently, one reason for the divorce is that Patrick hardly spent any time at home, instead preferring to work at the laboratory. Unlike Abe, Patrick was specifically propositioned by the Interspace government for his job. When he's in unfamiliar places, he panics. Patrick mostly works with Abe's interns, but he does have Aaron Peld - an intern that, despite being brilliant, rarely comes in to the lab.

Jalee Hu
While being an otherwise sensible young woman, Jalee has been driven a bit bitter by the nuances of Abe's personality. She can usually be found bemoaning her fate around the coffee machine, or otherwise trying to avoid her boss by throwing herself into work. She shares an apartment near the laboratory with Michael and Ben.

Michael Gross
A recent university graduate, Michael is a joker who manages to keep Abe's nastiness in stride. However, this often leads him to be in bad positions with the other researchers. Due to being a ward of the state, he puts pressure on himself to be the best, and only wants approval from his close colleagues. He shares an apartment with Jalee and Ben.

Ben Silmer
Having worked with both Abe and Patrick longer than either Ben or Jalee, Ben's life has reached an easy rhythm of being completely owned by his job and his boss. It had always been his dream job ever since childhood, so he doesn't really pay this situation much mind. Ben is a bit obsessed with fixing the environmental problems on Earth, though he has never actually visited the planet. He shares an apartment with Jalee and Michael.

Aaron Peld
A brilliant underachiever, Aaron nonetheless has a job with the Interspace government. He spends much of his time at home, sleeping on his couch. Whenever he actually comes in, he usually contributes something uncharacteristically brilliant. Aaron seems to be detached from society.


Another Creative Writing class exercise. It'll be, um, updated as I go along, I guess.
floweranza: (Default)
Dialogue for BEFORE SUNSET/SUNRISE, (c) Richard Linklater & written for a Creative Writing class.

Not finished.


They lean against the wall of the Galleria Dell'Accademia building, close to each other. Pedestrians can be seen crossing in and out of the scene in front of them as they talk.

You know, I think one of my friends talked about this place once. And I nodded my head because, you know, I'd never thought I'd ever go to Vienna. But maybe that's why I came.

I think - well, that might be true. I've heard about it so much that when I think of Venice I think, ah, Galleria Dell'Accademia, something like that. My grandmother is a big fan of Veronese and she really loves him. She really does. She has reproductions of his work all over the walls.

What makes her like him? edit



It was something about the fact that his paintings tried to make this link between humanity and faith - well, my grandmother, she's not very religious, but she's a wonderful person, she's always liked the arts.

(she lowers her voice a small bit, intentionally increasing her accent to create an exaggerated enthusiasm)

"Celine! There is a -- damn, what's the word? -- paradigm to all things in this world! And art lets you escape it!" That's what she always says.

Paradigm... (pause) A set? A pattern?

Something like that.

I dunno if I agree with that. I mean, yeah, history repeats itself over and over, and all people are kind of the same on the basic level, but can we really say like, 'Shit! I better give up now because things are going to be the same forevermore!' I mean, can we say stuff like that? That seems so, uh, stagnant and finite. I had this friend who -- hey, don't laugh at me, it's that same friend as before! -- anyway, he was this really gung-ho art student, right? I mean, he was really into it. Dreamt of being this great animator or something since he was a kid. So he studied and graduated, and then he got this amazing job at an animation company, and that was when he told me that he didn't really enjoy drawing crap anymore.

Oh... why did he say that?

Suddenly found himself bogged down by all these responsibilities. Like, he turned in a work and be told things like, 'You can't do that, it goes outside the specs!' or, 'That line is way off!' or whatever those guys say. This sounds so melodramatic, but he kinda killed his own art, you know? So I don't necessarily think that all things follow this determined pattern and I don't think that art is this sole escape to it, either. I mean, if there is a pattern, art's going to be part of it just like everything else. And if there isn't a pattern - Well! I can't even draw stick figures without messing up. Can't really say anything about it.

floweranza: (s & c.)
Small things from the Writing Center today.

For a mere second after I jerked my gaze up from my book, it seemed to me as if the world around me was simply a moving picture, complete with sound and smell and three-dimensionality, but nothing concrete, not reality. It was one of the oddest sensations I had ever felt in my life.


Something of my derisive attitude about it remains, though I do think that I'm self-entitled to any rage that I express through my writing. There is much to write about. Rage is as good as any fuel to write about common things in your life that, while not being intense or shattering, are still hurtful and an itch that life has deposited on you.


With some people, it's very pleasant to simply let myself go. Without anything restraining me I am a wild thing, largely unconcerned for the feelings of others. When this happens, I am no longer concerned about the question that haunts me daily, that search for that something which continuously elusive and that I will never be able to find. However, there comes an inevitable depression, and so I don't let myself free very often.


I don't think a lack of understanding is always necessarily bad. There are probably times when it will be the worst thing of all, a murderous thing, but then at over times I feel like it can also be something powerful. Sometimes people say wonderful things when they don't understand. Someone else will have understood the significance of those words, though, and I think that defines the beauty of the world.


Someday I will figure out why I am so fixated on writing about deserts.

I have yet to visit one, and maybe I should make that a personal goal.


I think it's rather frightening that our own perceptions can fool us. (How fragile everything is, how intelligence depends on genes or the tissues of the brain or a superfluous chromosome and not the, I suppose, well, the person - and even that I wonder about. If my brain is 'me' and my body is 'me,' why is it such that it is 'the brain' and 'the body' and not the person... this is probably a very stupid thing to even think about. Leave it to the realm of philosophy.) When you look at the numbers on a digital clock and it says 1:45, you don't think that it's a very long time to 2:00 at all. But when you look at a physical clock, at the hands ticking around and the circle, it seems that 1:45 is so very far away from hands-at-12-and-2. But it's the same thing, and that's distressing. I think it's distressing that I can't master that.


I still can't write the things I want to write the way I want to, though. Still working.
floweranza: (hmm.)
Dialogue exercise script. Drunk people! ...admittedly, not as funny as it sounds. )

Uhh. Do me a favour and rate the 'realness' of it, I suppose, on a scale from one to 10. If something's bothering you about it, tell me, since I have to hand this in on Monday.
floweranza: (space pineapples!)
That day was the sixth day of her waiting. It was as hot as any other. The heat of the land leaked out of the ground and blurred the air, creating a false illusion of movement. Everything was still, though; still and dry and cracked. The land itself stretched like this in all directions. Lizards lazily made their way through the scattered bits of rock upon the plateau and hunting birds spiraled overhead, searching for easy prey. The air itself was acrid.

It stuck in your lungs and stayed so for many hours.

She clambered over the rocks, swearing softly as her thumb stubbed itself in a nook and leaked red. From overhead, this place was evident as one of the great masses of rock that interrupted the smooth, sweeping plane of the land. The rocks here were dry and sore-red.

As her fingers went to the leather water canteen slung around her hips, she perched herself upon the rock. The girl drank down two deep gulps, and then corked it again. She was a child of this land, and water was sacred. She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked to the west.

Heat wove its tight hold around her and the rock and everything else. The sky was a glorious blue that did not speak of rain, and the ground itself seemed to groan in agony amongst the silence. She sat still, as still as the landscape around her, and waited. It was the sixth day.

From an automative writing exercise. There's something I really like about these places, for some reason. I end up writing about them a lot.
floweranza: (blue spitfire.)
Posting more writing! I usually go to the Writing Center in my school during the Study Hall period, and this is the kind of stuff that usually comes out - little drabbles that put things that irk, amuse, or fascinate you into words.

Just one.

(a study in claustrophobia?)

Walking down the stairways in my school feels as if you are being packed like cattle. The lines are strict; to the right/left going down and to the left/right going up, depending on the perspective, and breaking this unspoken rule is akin to a terrible crime. You end up using them about five times a day, on a loose average. When you do, you don't notice the long walls surrounding this incongruous trap. But when you are alone (in the hush of classtime when students are not boisterously making their inching ways up and down, pressed tight), you notice those long walls. They press. They surround. They are immense and they go from the ceiling to the floor, and those stairs are suddenly a mousetrap, trapping you. This is one case where it is better that you do not see, because something so simple (a stairway in a school, how can it go wrong!) is enough to drive anyone insane.
floweranza: (trio drinks.)
3 Character Descriptions
Grandmother, boy who left for college in city, sister who's also moved away.

1) Grandmother
Name: Sarah
Age: 86
Location: Farm in Arkansas.
She folded the blanket with her wrinkled fingers, and put it aside before habit could move her to spread it over the boy's bed. She dusted the windowsill and the bedside lamp and propped open the window with the wooden stop that lay on the floor beneath it, so that all the dusty air in the room could escape and be replaced with sunlight. The sunlight glistened over her white hair and shined on the few black strands that remained and, when it hit her hunched body, made her look a bit younger, a bit more capable. Her nose was crooked at the bridge like it had been broken and then healed badly and her glasses sat straddled on that bridge, a kind in which you have to peer down through special lenses to be able to look below. After she had folded and dusted, she sat down by the powder blue phone and waited for the call. May stood in the doorway and watched her.

2) Brother (Grandson).
Name: Thomas, Tommy, Tom
Age: 18
Location: New York University, New York City, NY.
He moved his fingers over the taut strings and the melody came out short and slightly melancholy. The edges of the guitar cut into his thighs where they were loosely covered by the sports shorts and the rough cut of his black hair strayed and tangled in front of his eyes. The last note stretched and snapped like the curt tone of a call in waiting. The boy stood up and put the guitar into a corner by the wardrobe, where it was cushioned by the thick padding of discarded clothes on the floor and the sterile-looking comforter protruding through a side cabinet. Warm air drifted through the large, open window and the cheap pinwheel his roommate, Jake, had taped to the glass whirred and spun in a blur of red. Noises of the city drifted in and for a moment he basked in them, loved them, remembered that that was what had called him here in the first place, not the nature thrum of the Arkansas life. He was tall and solidly-built and for a second he looked down at his cell phone on the table, as if thinking about a tiring obligation he had to fulfill. An addressed envelope lay by it and a sheet of paper, erasure marks cutting deep into each other and into the white plane, lay by it. Then the young man shook his head and strode out of the room and headed to the basketball courts in the heart of the sprawling city.

I'm happy that you guys like my writing. This is an exercise for my Creative Writing class that I'm currently working on. :)
floweranza: (Default)
And that was the moment of absolution.

When I was a little girl it used to sweep me over like the tide brings the shells back to their home in the sea. It was something frightening - big and awful and so much, much bigger than anything else I had ever thought to have even been thinking about - that I felt cowed in its presence and wanted nothing more to do in that moment than to die.

There's something to be said about peaceful atmosphere, like some beauty of a deserted beach somewhere in the large span of the blue ocean. You can feel the warm wind swirling around your cheeks and brushing the sides of your neck, and the palm trees would swing gently with the added weight of coconuts. Every sound not crushed by the tide would be loud and would be the entire world, in that entire single moment that its note ran on and on. That island, however small, would be everything and it would make itself, like we all do. And if we were on that island we would be lead to believe that everything is everything the way it is and there's nothing more to it, the breeze is warm and we are alive.

This realization is painful for some people. I'm not sure why, though it was this way for me too once, and sometimes it still continues to be. A truth is not yours after you have grasped it once or twice or even three times, no matter how much you would like to think so. Follies are repeated, and so we live. There's nothing one can do about it and at the same time you can do everything. Even now, writing it, what does one think about? I don't know. I merely sat there reading the book on that warm beach with a coconut at my side and the shells pulsing my heartbeat into my ear.

Things concrete: this chair under me, my eyelashes, my fingers at the keyboard, the students to the left and right of me and the world outside.
Things I cannot touch and will never be able to: the exact same things.

Think abstractly and in that moment you will be an island too, though of course you already are. Think abstractly even more so. You have the power and the drive, no matter how weak you think are, because this is such a powerful thing that you can never escape it and it'll hang over your head like it did when I was a small child. Write. You can do it.


written spontaneously and posted just as so, unedited.
floweranza: ((2) made by fencer_x.)
The first 10 people to comment on this post get to request a drabble (real drabble: 100 words exactly) from you. In return, they have to post this in their journal and write a drabble for you. Post all fandoms you're willing to write for.

Go ahead, request. I'm not following the strict 100 rule (that's boring) - don't know if I'll get ten, either, but that's not the limit for me. You can request more than one.

I'm willing to write for... a lot. I dunno, hit me. If you want a specific idea written, too, put it into the request and I'll do the best I can.

(No one's forced to do this in return.)
floweranza: (Default)
shallow water

and dreams
of the foolish

the stones

and the sound
of laughter
in paradise

seaweed salad

and the cruise
ship's horn

floweranza: (Default)
Night falls and the dust-storm wails in anguish, the land crying and billowing, tearing and spreading itself in all directions like skin torn under strain.

There must have been something. Nothing happens without a cause.
floweranza: (inform about maker.)
Look, words! They are glorious and wordy but, to all sad regards, altogether quite empty and lacking of intelligence. That is not the words’ fault, of course, but my own, since I am writing these lackluster words to avail of my own boredom. O, words, I do apologise for making you so empty, so will-less, so lacking colour that your font type is white…


Feb. 19th, 2006 01:42 pm
floweranza: (Default)
They sit in separate rooms and eat separate dinners and watch separate television. I do not speak of the rich family or the poor, but the one in the middle with the cozy house and the single television and the worn-down dining room table. That family doesn't exist, because everything is separate now, all on different spokes of the same wheel.

Father's Wife sits in the kitchen, and watches. The man on the screen says, "But I do not want to die," and the rigid woman answers him, "No one wants to die." That is the sort of thing Father's Wife watches with eyes glued to the screen. The pad of the kitchen counter chair is threadbare.

Father stretches out on the plush couch and watches apocalypses. Futility and desperation and fantasy and things that could never happen, just as much as Father never lived his dream. The man on the screen says, "No, no, one second more!" and I am sure that is what Father said when the test came to an end.

Brother curls his small body on the plush chair in his room and watches cartoons. He is still young, but already heading off an a different path; that is inevitable. Brother watches everything, but he pays the most mind to the things with story, and I believe that Brother might come out the best of us all. He will illustrate the stories in his heart.

Brother's Sister sits here.


Feb. 16th, 2006 07:57 pm
floweranza: (Default)

Altogether, it is not entirely strange. The halls are clean and well-kept and the students move through them in straight lines, parallel, going opposite directions.

The teacher - rigid old woman grey long fingers slim, dressed in overcoat of slaughter - moves in the space of the middle, and stalks between the factory lines, observing.

The overseer wears slaughter on the sleeve.


floweranza: (Default)

May 2009

3 4 567 8 9
10 111213141516


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags