Once, there was a writer. She did typical writer things: pondered, daydreamed, felt, gave, took, drained, hurt, loved, and was always stuck being 100%.
She was a writer. But she loved music.
If she were a pot of boiling water and noodles, then music would be the burner. If she were a dog, then music would be the car ride. If she were a parking meter, then music would be the coin. If she were a narcissist, then music would be the mirror.
The point is this: she lived in music, for music. But she was a writer.
She could only do one half of the music: the lyrics.
And she could write and write, forever.
And try to write melodies, and try to harmonize.
But couldn't escape that she was only really good at lyrics.
But, oh, how in love she was with the melody.
So far gone.
She romanticized it; crushed on it; daydreamed about it.
If melody was a black hole, then she was lost inside, furiously writing.
She was intimidated, transported back into childhood.
She was an awkward kid again; insecure; the naked dream.
So she kept quiet, and held back: awkward.
Every once in a while, she would meet other lyrics; writers.
And she would crush, because that's familiar.
They got her; knew her; understood her.
Somehow, she'd let herself fall for those other lyrics.
They'd talk over each other, overlap, and mean nothing.
And she'd remember how she dreampt of the melody, how she actually needed the melody.
She'd think of treble clef signs and stretch her fingers.
The lyrics would part ways, to achieve meaning-
Realizing that they need melody to be complete.
And really, the melody needs them, too.
The melody needed her.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Staring Contest with my Coffee
Little flecks pop up and under-
Like sloppy penguins.
My brain is leaking out, mingling with
the warm depths
and the rim that's been dyed musty
brown.
Sucks my face in and my brown eyes
match it's cream-
oh, escape.
Plopping neurons in like the floater grounds-
wonder:
what's wrong with my machine (it's obnoxiously orange)
I don't think these mugs are ever clean-
faint, caffeinated smell-
permeating the plastic-glass-porcelain-
substance.
My olfaction is calm-
in familiar proximity to my insanity-
Plain, plain, plain-
almost meaty, like life-
Vitamin D milk, sucrose-
that's first, like a stratum of rock-the flood-dissolving the world
(or maybe just sugar)
and then comes the black, melted shingles-
and morphs: light, medium, perfection.
I wait, I sip, I burn.
but, my tongue will regenerate-
the taste buds will be replaced-
It's all good.
Like sloppy penguins.
My brain is leaking out, mingling with
the warm depths
and the rim that's been dyed musty
brown.
Sucks my face in and my brown eyes
match it's cream-
oh, escape.
Plopping neurons in like the floater grounds-
wonder:
what's wrong with my machine (it's obnoxiously orange)
I don't think these mugs are ever clean-
faint, caffeinated smell-
permeating the plastic-glass-porcelain-
substance.
My olfaction is calm-
in familiar proximity to my insanity-
Plain, plain, plain-
almost meaty, like life-
Vitamin D milk, sucrose-
that's first, like a stratum of rock-the flood-dissolving the world
(or maybe just sugar)
and then comes the black, melted shingles-
and morphs: light, medium, perfection.
I wait, I sip, I burn.
but, my tongue will regenerate-
the taste buds will be replaced-
It's all good.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
I was walking home from small group an hour ago. I was in a spring peace mode, breathing in the sensation of the night air against my skin: smiling, relaxed. There was an old man standing outside Chipotle, waving at everyone. Just waving, smiling. He kept waving at me, sweetly excited, with this quirky hat on his white head. "You look relaxed!" So, I stopped and talked to him. Just for a minute or two. He said he had jokes in some newspapers and told me one.. It went to the effect of this:
"What did the grass say to the football team?" "If you cut us we'll root for you!"
I really don't remember it. That was just the gist.
And then he started waving again, so I laughed and said thank-you.
It was so simplistic and sweet. I walked away with a glorious smile on my face, thinking about him. But then I started wondering how many people had ignored him, or walked away without treating him like a human being, or even treated him like he wasn't worth anything. Then it was one of those awkward smiling, but I'm kind of crying at the same time things.
Just wanted to write about it.
Peace,
Amanda
"What did the grass say to the football team?" "If you cut us we'll root for you!"
I really don't remember it. That was just the gist.
And then he started waving again, so I laughed and said thank-you.
It was so simplistic and sweet. I walked away with a glorious smile on my face, thinking about him. But then I started wondering how many people had ignored him, or walked away without treating him like a human being, or even treated him like he wasn't worth anything. Then it was one of those awkward smiling, but I'm kind of crying at the same time things.
Just wanted to write about it.
Peace,
Amanda
Monday, March 8, 2010
Catching On
Some folks have to tell jokes
just to be a little bit funny
Some folks have to tell jokes
just to get a half-forced laugh
but you and I are inanely, hilarious
you and I are plainly, mysterious
With a little bit of wit, and a dash of stupidity
Just a little bit smitten, with a dash of ingenuity
Some peeps have to be creeps
just to be a little bit familiar
Some peeps have to be creeps
just to get a half-drunk friend
but you and I are inanely, hilarious
you and I are plainly, mysterious
With a little bit of wit, and a dash of stupidity
Just a little bit smitten, with a dash of ingenuity
I know we are best as friends
You say you're here til the end
They say we are just a trend
You and I hate cultural conformity
You and I are naturally abnormally
They say we are just a phase
When fall comes around, will you still be in style?
When spring gets here, will I still be worth your while?
Just the lyrics to a song I wrote. Yeah, it's pretty silly. No, it's not about anyone I've met yet.
Peace,
Amanda
Okay, I just wrote this too. Yes, this is cheesy. And yes, it is about someone.
I'd kinda like to think
that it was me you were looking at
Maybe it's naive
to think that you've fallen for me
Is it narcissistic
to hope that you think about me?
Maybe it's naive
to believe in organic chemistry
Love could be like monopoly
(I definitely am in jail a lot)
You're Boardwalk, but I've passed through to go
200 dollars richer, but my heart's a little poorer
Love could be like Hungry Hippos
{My heart's definitely growling)
The big addicts, snatching up the unexpected
Hungry for anything, but spitting most back out
Love could be like solitaire
(I'm definitely flyin' solo)
Strategically placing self in the right spot
Hoping the next card brings possibility
Maybe love isn't a game
Maybe cliche's should be done with
Maybe love is an abstraction
But, if so, sign me up, Malevich.
Okay, enough with the cheese already.
Goodnight.
just to be a little bit funny
Some folks have to tell jokes
just to get a half-forced laugh
but you and I are inanely, hilarious
you and I are plainly, mysterious
With a little bit of wit, and a dash of stupidity
Just a little bit smitten, with a dash of ingenuity
Some peeps have to be creeps
just to be a little bit familiar
Some peeps have to be creeps
just to get a half-drunk friend
but you and I are inanely, hilarious
you and I are plainly, mysterious
With a little bit of wit, and a dash of stupidity
Just a little bit smitten, with a dash of ingenuity
I know we are best as friends
You say you're here til the end
They say we are just a trend
You and I hate cultural conformity
You and I are naturally abnormally
They say we are just a phase
When fall comes around, will you still be in style?
When spring gets here, will I still be worth your while?
Just the lyrics to a song I wrote. Yeah, it's pretty silly. No, it's not about anyone I've met yet.
Peace,
Amanda
Okay, I just wrote this too. Yes, this is cheesy. And yes, it is about someone.
I'd kinda like to think
that it was me you were looking at
Maybe it's naive
to think that you've fallen for me
Is it narcissistic
to hope that you think about me?
Maybe it's naive
to believe in organic chemistry
Love could be like monopoly
(I definitely am in jail a lot)
You're Boardwalk, but I've passed through to go
200 dollars richer, but my heart's a little poorer
Love could be like Hungry Hippos
{My heart's definitely growling)
The big addicts, snatching up the unexpected
Hungry for anything, but spitting most back out
Love could be like solitaire
(I'm definitely flyin' solo)
Strategically placing self in the right spot
Hoping the next card brings possibility
Maybe love isn't a game
Maybe cliche's should be done with
Maybe love is an abstraction
But, if so, sign me up, Malevich.
Okay, enough with the cheese already.
Goodnight.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
40 days fast from boys
My weak heart floats
pushing against the taut cartilage
I swore I'd pray-
dreaming, not life-
I'm free. I'm chained.
That imagined pulse haunts me
as the thought of God, the image of empty
painted onto eyelids. I blink
my mind-a thought gets him in.
I say "Get out"-It's stuck-
the soapy, helium-filled bubbles-
stuck, filling up my trachea-
so, dislodging my heart.
Not sure how many people I've told about this, but basically I've been fasting from romance for Lent. I am one of those unfortunates who is so caught up in the idea of romance and love, that I dedicate way too much time thinking about it. So, I thought that for Lent I would give all of that up-thinking about romance, about falling in love, about some random guy. It's been difficult as anything, but worth it. It's caused me to think of God a lot in every day moments. (which was the plan-replace every romantic thought with thoughts of the Greatest Romance)
So, yeah. This just captures the struggle. It was a poetry assignment for 101-Modeled after "Facing It," by Yusef Komunyakaa. It was an extremely difficult thing to do... I literally had to place my words into the original.
So, that is all.
Peace up, out, within,
Amanda
pushing against the taut cartilage
I swore I'd pray-
dreaming, not life-
I'm free. I'm chained.
That imagined pulse haunts me
as the thought of God, the image of empty
painted onto eyelids. I blink
my mind-a thought gets him in.
I say "Get out"-It's stuck-
the soapy, helium-filled bubbles-
stuck, filling up my trachea-
so, dislodging my heart.
Not sure how many people I've told about this, but basically I've been fasting from romance for Lent. I am one of those unfortunates who is so caught up in the idea of romance and love, that I dedicate way too much time thinking about it. So, I thought that for Lent I would give all of that up-thinking about romance, about falling in love, about some random guy. It's been difficult as anything, but worth it. It's caused me to think of God a lot in every day moments. (which was the plan-replace every romantic thought with thoughts of the Greatest Romance)
So, yeah. This just captures the struggle. It was a poetry assignment for 101-Modeled after "Facing It," by Yusef Komunyakaa. It was an extremely difficult thing to do... I literally had to place my words into the original.
So, that is all.
Peace up, out, within,
Amanda
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
I feel like a piece of surrealist art
Oh, I went to a poetry reading today.
It was pretty decent, but one poem really felt outlines to me.
It was about a man who murdered another man, and then ate him.
Here's the clincher:
The man wanted to be murdered, cut up, and eaten.
There aren't many non-expletives to describe how that makes me feel.
It's called "Letter after Dismemberment" by Allison Stine. Essentially she used quotes like this to describe the man's desire: "dream in pixels," "place me in an ice cube tray," "the man through the window, sliced by panes." (Those are not all exact, I can't find the poem online to quote)
The surrealist movement been on my mind lately, because we are also doing surrealist poetry right now in poetry101. Not gonna lie, I get a lot of negative, creepy vibes from the surrealist methods. The only time I've ever studied it, previous to the past couple days, was for English102. I did a paper on the Black Dahlia. Somebody out there proposed a theory and wrote a book describing said theory. The theory is that the Black Dahlia was killed in an attempt to bring surrealist art to life.
Disturbing.
(Creeps just thinking about this)
The book describes how aspects of Dahlia's dismemberment are similar to different surrealist art work. Everything from the way her arm was positioned, to the separation of her abdomen, to the missing triangle of flesh in her breast... All tie into different art pieces.
I'm not saying that I buy into this theory of her death.
It was just hella convincing.
And creepy.
So, now, whenever I think of surrealism, I think of poor Elizabeth Short (Dahlia). Thankfully, earlier today I started to see the beautiful side to this artform-that is the dreamlike, metaphorical essence. Maybe surrealism is just the artist wanting to depict the metaphor for each body part or object in life.
So here's just a little snippet of some stuff I'm working on:
It's an art form,
can't you see that?
It's a metaphor.
Obviously.
(Or not)
Apparently its definition is
only divided by a cord-
jumping from dictionary to thesaurus:
perception to reality-
So easily unplugged, removed
trashed.
Rude.
Maybe if your office was cleaner
and the cords tucked away-
you wouldn't be tripping.
(And also, get off the drugs)
I feel sick from your sadistic
disruption and interpretation of body
God wonders where
He failed your eyes
God wonders that
He wasn't the ultimate professional-
artist.
God wonders at you.
So do I.
So yeah... A lot different from my style. Or maybe that's just how I write when I feel angry
Then here's another snippet... This was an exercise in class
Jesus doesn't blink-
neither do you.
But the sun winks at us all
and though, it's heat
intermingles with glass
and warps the city's structures
(as if buildings could dance, ha)
the infant tree,
in your lap, gently shaken
by the train's repetition,
sucks up the sun's staccato iris
Clorophyll B, reproduction-
Gleeful xylem
Last bit:
So...
We need to talk.
Apparently, my neurons have been
(incognito)-
out of touch
But I get to see them in dreams,
We don't talk-
they're just playing a guessing game.
You seem to be the antagonist-
the big evil presence-
So, tell me, Godzilla
who are you?
Or what, and why?
I know my scent is everywhere
I know it's attracted to your nose hair
(Do dinosaurs have nose hair?)
Either way, your septum always knows
(And that wasn't a pun)
Do you ever get me in the end?
Or what happens-
Strange childhood coverup-
what's going on with me?
out of the loop with my issues-
Let's have the DTR-
define our relationship.
Maybe for once I'll run after you
Soo. Yeah, my voice feels a little different.. but eh, I'm diggin this experience.
Peace, lovelies.
It was pretty decent, but one poem really felt outlines to me.
It was about a man who murdered another man, and then ate him.
Here's the clincher:
The man wanted to be murdered, cut up, and eaten.
There aren't many non-expletives to describe how that makes me feel.
It's called "Letter after Dismemberment" by Allison Stine. Essentially she used quotes like this to describe the man's desire: "dream in pixels," "place me in an ice cube tray," "the man through the window, sliced by panes." (Those are not all exact, I can't find the poem online to quote)
The surrealist movement been on my mind lately, because we are also doing surrealist poetry right now in poetry101. Not gonna lie, I get a lot of negative, creepy vibes from the surrealist methods. The only time I've ever studied it, previous to the past couple days, was for English102. I did a paper on the Black Dahlia. Somebody out there proposed a theory and wrote a book describing said theory. The theory is that the Black Dahlia was killed in an attempt to bring surrealist art to life.
Disturbing.
(Creeps just thinking about this)
The book describes how aspects of Dahlia's dismemberment are similar to different surrealist art work. Everything from the way her arm was positioned, to the separation of her abdomen, to the missing triangle of flesh in her breast... All tie into different art pieces.
I'm not saying that I buy into this theory of her death.
It was just hella convincing.
And creepy.
So, now, whenever I think of surrealism, I think of poor Elizabeth Short (Dahlia). Thankfully, earlier today I started to see the beautiful side to this artform-that is the dreamlike, metaphorical essence. Maybe surrealism is just the artist wanting to depict the metaphor for each body part or object in life.
So here's just a little snippet of some stuff I'm working on:
It's an art form,
can't you see that?
It's a metaphor.
Obviously.
(Or not)
Apparently its definition is
only divided by a cord-
jumping from dictionary to thesaurus:
perception to reality-
So easily unplugged, removed
trashed.
Rude.
Maybe if your office was cleaner
and the cords tucked away-
you wouldn't be tripping.
(And also, get off the drugs)
I feel sick from your sadistic
disruption and interpretation of body
God wonders where
He failed your eyes
God wonders that
He wasn't the ultimate professional-
artist.
God wonders at you.
So do I.
So yeah... A lot different from my style. Or maybe that's just how I write when I feel angry
Then here's another snippet... This was an exercise in class
Jesus doesn't blink-
neither do you.
But the sun winks at us all
and though, it's heat
intermingles with glass
and warps the city's structures
(as if buildings could dance, ha)
the infant tree,
in your lap, gently shaken
by the train's repetition,
sucks up the sun's staccato iris
Clorophyll B, reproduction-
Gleeful xylem
Last bit:
So...
We need to talk.
Apparently, my neurons have been
(incognito)-
out of touch
But I get to see them in dreams,
We don't talk-
they're just playing a guessing game.
You seem to be the antagonist-
the big evil presence-
So, tell me, Godzilla
who are you?
Or what, and why?
I know my scent is everywhere
I know it's attracted to your nose hair
(Do dinosaurs have nose hair?)
Either way, your septum always knows
(And that wasn't a pun)
Do you ever get me in the end?
Or what happens-
Strange childhood coverup-
what's going on with me?
out of the loop with my issues-
Let's have the DTR-
define our relationship.
Maybe for once I'll run after you
Soo. Yeah, my voice feels a little different.. but eh, I'm diggin this experience.
Peace, lovelies.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Apparently, Glue
So, I've been freaking out. I have no idea where my song book is. I am nothing without this book. I am desperate to find it again. There is stuff in there that is private and sacred...
The most important thing is this song. Mikey, Matt and I wrote it for our parents on their 22nd anniversary. I thought it died with the book.. but I was smart and had backed it up on the computer :) Go me
Apparently, Glue
You pulsed through this heart of stone
You are the marrow to my bones
You blanketed this heart uncovered
You are the chocolate to my peanut butter
Refrain
Together we answered words unspent
Together, we are the perfect complement
You gave me the breath for words unsung
You are the air to my lungs
You were there to carry me
You are the moon to my sea
Refrain
Chorus
I didn't sign up for this
Thought we said for better
Thought we said in health
Not everybody knows
What it is to be stuck at go
I didn't sign up for this
But if we're both here
Then, I guess, we'll stick
You completed the love story I sought
You are the imagination to my thoughts
You danced with me, held me tight
You are the rock to my might
Refrain
You are the melody that gave me a start
You are the beat to my heart
You are the lens that clears the hazy
You are the truth in my crazy
Refrain
Chorus
But I guess, we'll stick
Yes, I'd like to stick
So, let's just stick.
It's very much a "Anyone Else but You" song. Totally the same vibe and everything. It's a duet and it is a little bit cheesy. Or a lot. Thing is, we asked them both to define their relationship in unique terms to them... This is what we got
Love you mom and dad :) Props for stickin!
The most important thing is this song. Mikey, Matt and I wrote it for our parents on their 22nd anniversary. I thought it died with the book.. but I was smart and had backed it up on the computer :) Go me
Apparently, Glue
You pulsed through this heart of stone
You are the marrow to my bones
You blanketed this heart uncovered
You are the chocolate to my peanut butter
Refrain
Together we answered words unspent
Together, we are the perfect complement
You gave me the breath for words unsung
You are the air to my lungs
You were there to carry me
You are the moon to my sea
Refrain
Chorus
I didn't sign up for this
Thought we said for better
Thought we said in health
Not everybody knows
What it is to be stuck at go
I didn't sign up for this
But if we're both here
Then, I guess, we'll stick
You completed the love story I sought
You are the imagination to my thoughts
You danced with me, held me tight
You are the rock to my might
Refrain
You are the melody that gave me a start
You are the beat to my heart
You are the lens that clears the hazy
You are the truth in my crazy
Refrain
Chorus
But I guess, we'll stick
Yes, I'd like to stick
So, let's just stick.
It's very much a "Anyone Else but You" song. Totally the same vibe and everything. It's a duet and it is a little bit cheesy. Or a lot. Thing is, we asked them both to define their relationship in unique terms to them... This is what we got
Love you mom and dad :) Props for stickin!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
