Today's prompt is one that I love, and it is one that can be a TON of fun to work with so long as you have the right place. It's all about the location.
Write a poem about a place.
That's it. Nothing more. Nothing less. The trick, however, is to write your poem in a way that means something to you, that is interesting and eye-catching (or ear catching), and that other people can relate to. You could write your poem speaking from a different point of view (perhaps a tree or landmark in the location you're writing about) or a letter which personifies the place to which you're writing. This place can be anything: that one nice, quiet park bench, the restaurant you frequent, or even the city in which you live.
If you're stuck on ideas, feel free to check out this video of a poem inspired by this prompt; it's all about the Quad Cities along the Mississippi river on the Iowa/Illinois border:
Today, we're going to begin getting into the writing method. This prompt will incorporate (for the first time, sadly) a quick explanation of one of the most potent tools that a poet has at his/her disposal: the metaphor. So, with that in mind, let's get to the first piece of this prompt.
Think about a job you have worked in the past.
This is a pretty simple task. Think of a job, any job, at which you have worked. Got one? Maybe two if you're unsure about the second piece of the prompt? Okay, good! Let's go on.
Write 5 metaphors which describe this job.
Metaphor is a somewhat scary word. I still am humbled by its power. But the basic structure, grammatically, of a metaphor is relatively simple:
My job was a fire breathing dragon. The morning commute was a march into chains.
Or any number of other things you could possibly relate your work experience to. Keep in mind (my take on poetry and metaphor incoming) that metaphors are meant to take the unique and make them universal. No one else can have your work experience. Therefore, it is up to you to make that very unique experience make sense to other people through the use of metaphor. What was your work? Can we see it better? Can we maybe taste it? Smell it? Experience it? Help us understand.
Now the final part of this prompt (which is sort of a workshop):
With one (maybe two) of the metaphors you wrote in mind, expand upon that into a full-fledged poem.
For example, using one of the lines above, I might find:
My job was a fire breathing dragon: it was always angry and seemed to burn when I got too close, but it guarded treasure which I was loathe to pass up.
Now, we have a better understanding of what your job was and why. The reason you wrote 5 metaphors but only used one was to help if you ever got stuck. If you get stuck in writing, look at your other metaphors (your pre-writing) and use those as inspiration.
If anyone has questions about this writing prompt, feel free to post below. And, as always, I welcome you to share your work in the comments below as well!
Poems. They're about love a lot. Some of my writing is no exception. If you want to check out a recent prompt about the topic, click here. Anyhow, as that post said, I was looking through some old notebooks and found a few poems (or more accurately pieces) on the subject and wanted to post them up because I know at least one person who would really like them!
Falling
It's not that I'm falling for you;
it's just that I kinda maybe probably really sorta sorely want to.
I want to fall like a rock through the sky,
a bird who's forgotten how to fly
because it's been a long time
since I've heard the wind's song chime
so loud and strong within one such sitting
and, girl, you're like Charlie Sheen: duh, winning
at every aspect, but if I had to come clean
I'd say my grasp on firm ground began to ween
that first moment the waves of your voice lapped at my ears.
Such a pleasant sound which assuaged my fears,
my worries at donning a teacher's belt that first day
and more or less stumbling my first lesson away.
Yet I know beyond the beat of my heart
that I wanted to impress you with my art,
for far and away you were a wonder to meet
as, instead of ground, I found falling at my feet.
So it's not that I'm falling for you;
it's that I kinda maybe probably really sorta sorely want to.
Details
As a poet, I know I'm supposed to write about love like
I have a patent on it - like only I understand the plans
filed in that patent office just above your 6th rib. Like
I know so much more about love because, after all,
that's why I write poetry, right?
Because I know what love is like
but I've lost it.
Listen, the only time I've
tasted what love was like was when it
slipped between our lips
during that sudden first kiss, when
it rested on her neck - I could taste
it for just a moment then.
The only time I've seen
love was when it waved its way
and framed her face - I could've sworn
I saw it even in the night and half light
coming from a silent alarm set to break our reverie.
And I only felt
it when she fell into my arms
for the first time -
felt it when my fingers sifted
past strands of hair, to brush
them back and clear her ears.
See - poetry, like love,
exists in the details, so
the only reason I can even begin
to know what love is like
is because I've paid attention
to the details. Like
the way she ties her shoes -
two bows crossed in two loops
and it's beautiful - the details
are all that I remember.
Like how she would tell me
to stop thinking when we danced
because thoughts interfere
with my feet and somehow
muddle the beat. Like
the way we'd walk
but couldn't stop
music from running away
with our feet, like
the way she'd smile, say
"yeah, yeah!" when
something caught her eye
and I loved
the way her hazel
eyes gathered gold
in flecks and reflected
my questions with rich
intelligence. I liked
the way she'd inspire this poetry
in me - this is
an attempt to capture the swish
of her hips on dance floors or
the feel of fingers intertwined
with mine or the warmth
of an embrace or the feel
of her shoulders in my frame.
Poetry is she
and this
is an attempt
to convey that.
She Is
She is like air.
Light, playful, there.
Almost unnoticed,
until she's noticed.
Then, she's hard to forget.
Hard to forget that I breathe her in when
I lack energy - she
could set a ship's course,
make the seas rage,
uproot trees, scatter debris
and flood the land, but
she doesn't.
Choosing warmth, she
speaks softly, almost
as a whisper through leaves.
Although I don't know it yet, I
sense she has the ability
to sweep clouds away
and leave only sun
shining, warm, smiling.
Recently, I attended a memorial walk for an acquaintance who had passed. I was listening to a conversation that another friend of his was having. One word stuck out: "Searching." Ideas flooded into being; I brought out my notebook and began to write. I listened to a song with the same title as the word which had just been used. For reference, this is the song I was listening to:
This is the piece which followed:
Searching
There is a song called "Searching" by an artist
named Joe Satriani. It's a song that starts
off with a slow pulse - like a question at rest.
Chords kick in and a driving solo begins like
the notes are trying to find their home - wide
vibratos and a bass which wants to find its place
between the high strung, tight singing strings and
those loose enough to make rock roll. Suddenly,
the guitar swings wildly, matching the frenetic
pace of the bass, and I realize that the music
is matching emotions, and I wonder if this
is what the music inside of his mind sounded like
when he searched for an answer - a reason for being?
an idea to hold onto? beauty? a melody?
Was he searching for a string - vibrant, sonorous - enough
to stitch his heart back together -
when a man's hands close like life could
never fill them again, the reason is rarely the moment -
the reason is rarely in the hands - the reason
seems to be nothing - nothing found from the
search - no thing strong enough
to hold hands open anymore - what were you searching
for?
I can't find anything but upset in the waves
that continue outward - music only exists in the moments
we hear it, but its reverberations can be heard
in the echoes of instruments and in their phrasings like
"I'm sorry for your loss" or "I remember when..." because
not everyone has fingers nimble enough to
pluck out notes, but we all have a heart
strong enough to be tuned and sing out your
praises - and, honestly, I never knew you
well enough to even begin to understand why
the beats of all these hearts sound so somber,
but I have to believe that this
is the only way your song could have ended -
it was always in your hands, and this note - this
note
is trying to make all the songs we're singing
find harmony because one day those songs too will end, but
our search will continue, and
one day
we may find
the strings to complete this symphony.
Music is a very powerful force in our lives, so I want to ask you to tap into that power.
Find a song (it can have lyrics, but instrumental ones can provide for more interpretation) and write a poem about what it means to you.
What connections does this song have? How do you feel when the music plays? Do you feel that the song is saying something other than what you can hear? Are there any stories which go along with this song? I have a tendency to attach potent memories to songs, so bring up your past if you'd like, and tell your story through a song.
Feel free to post what you come up with hear and a link to the music which inspired it!
Additionally, there may be a fund set up in honor of the subject of this poem and to help his family. I will update with any further information as it becomes available for anyone who may be interested in learning more.
I have been on an absolute kick with regard to love. This is possibly because I've been looking through old notebooks and noticing how much my pen used to be obsessed with the idea. I had filled many pages with the idea, and I kind of like it. Love is one of the driving forces behind the universe it seems; it's everywhere. But sometimes we forget it. Or it gets misplaced. Sometimes it sneaks its way into our other pieces of baggage; you know, the ones which we glean from past relationships or ones that will never really be. Sometimes we forget how powerful this word is and why it should be saved and used only when we truly mean it. These thoughts are what lead into today's prompt.
Write an epistle (poem in letter form) to someone whom you love (or loved).
Granted, this is a difficult topic, so I'm going to open it up a bit and encourage you to write to the very first person who comes to mind. What does love mean where this person is concerned? Is it a feeling of concern for their well-being (like a guardian or parent)? Is it a feeling of platonic, amazing friendship? Is it a difficult to describe, deep seated attraction type love? As you'll notice, these questions revolve around what type of love you're trying to express. Keep this in mind: There are several different types of love. Which do you feel strongest in your life right now? Which felt strongest to you at some point prior to this? How would you describe your thoughts/feelings? As always, be specific, and don't hesitate to put pen to page.
Love is a strong emotion and well worth writing about, so be sure to have fun writing and good luck!
I am thankful for so many things it's difficult to know where to start.
So I suppose I'll begin from the ground up.
I'm thankful for my legs which learned
the value of standing strong, knees bent over
toes turned straight forward. My legs keep me grounded; they
know how to kick like Chuck Norris, and they're balanced
from years of walking, kicking, and standing in the right direction.
I'm thankful for my hips which sway
for the grace of songs. Hips are the centered energy
points of power, and the place from which gravity stems.
They communicate with intimate others, keep my legs aligned,
and keep a contact point between the ground and my stomach.
I'm thankful for my stomach which has kept
digesting even though other parts of my system shut down.
Somewhere along the line, my stomach lets me move because
the sun still shines. I've digested so much light
over the years that clouds hardly have a say anymore.
I'm thankful for my heart who's been giving me a meter for 26 years. Blood
runs 60,000 miles a day, and my heart takes center stage; it's
neither vain nor selfish but beats out of love - the lungs
can be told to slow, but the heart knows its way enough to run forever.
I'm thankful for my hands. They
know when to clench into fists, when to stay open, when to hold -
palms up toward the sky - they know when to catch rain or cover -
they are my connection, and they are never empty, they hold my
story, and they help me tell it.
I'm thankful for my shoulders which are broad,
large enough to bear the world, but
have a tendency to stay tight and unrelaxed,
unsure when I'll call on them again in order to keep
the world centered.
I'm thankful for my mouth which makes shapes and,
aside from my hands, is the only part of me able
to make the sign for love. It's a sign my lips may not
wear often, but the value of something so rare is incalculable
I'm thankful for my head which senses most of the world,
converts nouns into ideas, and connects everything to itself.
This is the place that the pen goes to refill itself; this
is the place that I go in order to say I love you; this
is the place that regulates the heart, and this is the place that knows
most of this poem was found in the pages of someone else, so
I'm thankful for so much - almost too much to count - from everyone
around willing to share their hands, hearts, legs, brains, and space.
Without you, this would be a thought without a mouth, a pen minus
a page, and a poem
falling on deaf ears.
Yesterday was Veterans' Day, and we all have someone to thank on that day. This is certainly not all we have to be thankful for, however. And this energy, the energy that accompanies a "Thank You" is the energy that I want to tap into with today's prompt.
Write an epistle (a poem in the form of a letter) to someone or something for which you are thankful.
This letter does not have to solemn - remember that the energy of a thank you can be one of happiness and joy - someone has given time for you; this is something to be joyous about! Of course, you could also write a thank you poem to your favorite forest, to the city streets whose traffic speaks at all hours of the night, to your friend, mother, brother, sister, father, or other family; you could write a thank you to whomever you would like - set your pen free and see what it fetches from its well of ink!
November is considered a time during which we should be thankful. I agree that we ought to be thankful, but I would add on that we ought to also think about where we've been before, take stock, and acknowledge how far we've come. For this reason, I present the prompt for this week:
Write to yourself in the past.
Are there any things you would like to tell yourself in the past? Would you like to thank yourself? Would you like to forgive yourself? Is there something you now understand that, when younger, you simply could not comprehend? Your writing can take the form of advice, of venting, of understanding, of forgiveness, of thankfulness, or anything else that you'd like to present to your former self. As a slight tweak, you may want to think as though you're writing to someone else; often it's easier to talk to others than it is to talk to ourselves, so if imagining that you are writing to someone else who is like you will assist in this endeavor, then certainly feel free to do that.
Through recent years, Zombies have become about as ubiquitous as the imagined apocalypse seems to suggest. They're everywhere like
we've been bitten by some kind of zombie fever. And I recently realized why.
While talking with an acquaintance, I understood that his responses could be replaced by *zombie noise* with barely any difference.
I asked, "How was your day?"
He responded *zombie noise* which I understood as, "Good, you?"
To which I replied *zombie noise* which he took to mean, "About the same."
And so out zombified conversation went on until it came time to part ways.
We shook hands, said our goodbyes, and each shuffled away.
Yet my revelation did not end with the zombification of conversation.
I traveled home to watch TV and see news stories moan about how our economy is in shambles;
the apocalypse, it seems, is walking far slower these days.
Yet this vision is not what made me think we've got a zombie problem on our cold hands.
A few hours later, I turned on to tune in again only to find a commercial claiming that I'm missing something.
The television blared a horde of images which transfixed me in place for some moments, and I heard *intense zombie noise* creep its way into my room which I
understood as, "Don't you wish you had a big screen TV?
After all, your stomach may be empty, your heart may be slow,
your brain my be tired, but you'll always know
you've got 60 inches or 5 feet through which you can watch the world just
waste
by."
The jingle was disheartening and it gave me a stroke
of insight as my eyes flooded wide, and I
realized zombies are popular because they're as close as the nearest mirror.
I decided that day to take my reflection back.
First, I'm cutting zombification from my conversation.
Of course, unsolicited life stories are about as grave as "good", so instead, I'm choosing epithets like
magnificent,
disheartening,
dilatory, hectic, epicurean, atrocious, absurd, or abhorrent to describe my day in ways that tax my brain.
Second, I've decided to heave my heart into my mouth because anything that doesn't stain my teeth with the pulse of truth
is barely worth the breath to sigh, so if I say [improvise!],
you can bet that somewhere deep in my chest,
my heart is echoing those same syllables beat for beat!
And lastly, if there's even a meager chance that, after death, my body will be reanimated to roam the streets and mindlessly consume,
then that's sure as hell the last thing I'll do while I'm still alive!
So, I implore you to join me;
join me in walking like a zombie only if it's on purpose,
speak the truth
even if blood stains your teeth, and
light up this night by holding your pen like it's a torch
bright enough to put sunspots into a blind man's eyes!
Join me; join me this night that way we may
move the living
and raise the dead!
Everyone is afraid of something. More often than not, we find ourselves afraid of things like the dark, blind corners, and strangers. This is partially because those things are inherently scary or that we have been warned to stay away from them, but I think it is more likely that we are afraid of these things because they represent the unknown. What, after all, is hiding in the dark? What is around the corner? What is in the heart of a stranger? This last question is one I want to focus on.
In order to take the fear out of something, we need to understand it. In order to understand it, we must experience what it is like to be that thing which we fear. For that reason:
I want you to try writing from the point of view of something you don't understand or something which scares you.
Try writing from the perspective of a spider. What does it see through its manifold eyes? What does it feel from the hair on its eight legs? If spiders scare you not, perhaps the slithering of a snake could give you inspiration to write. If animals do not scare you, try writing from the perspective of someone or something you do not understand. If you're a staunch republican, write from the point of view of a democrat, or vice versa.
I recently tried to write from a perspective I didn't completely understand, and I was able to come out with a poem that meant something and informed me more about what I had been previously missing. With any luck, not only will you discover a new and powerful poem with this prompt, but you'll also be able to find greater understanding where you couldn't before.
Everyone has dreams or goals or desires. Everyone has something that he or she would absolutely love to achieve. Problematically, we don't always know the "correct" path to walk in order to achieve those goals. This, however, is not necessarily important. When beginning to write a poem, I will generally have an idea of the concept I want to write about, but more often than not, what I end up with is not what I started with. This is okay. It's called the journey, and it leads to discovery. But let's get back to the prompt at hand.
I want you to think about something you really want to achieve. I don't want you to care about the how or the why of getting there or what you want to achieve; I just want you to have a solid picture of a goal in your brain. Do you want to make more money? Do you want to find love? Do you want to make a new friend? Ask a girl out? Ask a guy out? Be asked out? Win a competition? Something, anything so long as it is something you want. Got that image in your head of what you want? Good.
Now, write from the perspective of already having achieved this thing you have in your mind.
How does it feel? What are you doing? Let your mind go, and let your emotions wander with it. Write about how you feel now that you've successfully achieved this thing you want. Be creative, have fun, and write!
This is my response to October 15th's Prompt (which can be found here). The issue that I wrote about was the pressure that teachers have with standardized testing going unchecked and, in many ways, running rampant in our system. Additionally, this poses a large toll not only on teachers but on their students as well. I had a couple of teachers come up to me and tell me that they understood this poem very much. I am posting a link to the video of it. Please note that it is somewhat loud, so turn down your speakers a bit!
After the poem, I will outline some of my thoughts for how we can change this. If you'd like to view more of my poems, please click this to link to my YouTube channel. If you like what you see, please subscribe!
Curriculum and Voice
0 – [Sign Language] This is the voice
we teach our students to use when authority speaks
1 – [Whisper] This is the voice we
teach our students to use when whispering with the partner at their
elbow
2 – [Quiet Talk] This is the voice we
teach our students to use when the unravel the mysteries of their
quizzes in small groups
3 – [Normal Voice] This is the voice
we teach our students to use when they interact in the classroom
4 – [Outside Voice] This is the voice
we teach our students to use outside to manage teams and make plays
5 – [Screaming] This is the voice we
teach our students to use when it's an emergency!
Our students have a belief that their
voice travels
only as far as their arms because actions
speak
louder, and a fist is far more formidable than they've been
taught
their voices can be because
we shut them up. Say,
“sorry, but
there's no time in our curriculum for your
questions”
because finding an answer to “Why
am I the way
that I am?” will never be featured on any state sanctioned test.
We don't give them time to digest all
the facts but seem somehow surprised
when they throw up the rest.
Teachers are taught to teach to the test
because numbers are our
only measures of success, and standards
have been removed from a
point of high esteem and only seem
to hang above heads like the
sword of Damocles. Teachers
are punished when kids can't remember
facts they never cared to know.
They are statistics.
And numbers are the only things on
which we can count because
the same can't always be said for
parents or society – we
are failing our students,
not the
other way around.
With drop out rates soaring higher than
the system says our kids ever could, we've
waged a war of
attrition on our educational institutions but are somehow surprised
when our students
only know how to shoot. We
hold them back by
becoming the clasped hands of politicians
who've never set foot in
a classroom but still make dangerous generalizations
without
understanding that their voice and actions reach farther than their
arms, so
we should raise our voices to 5; we should scream
emergency because
our schools are punctuated by the shrill cry of
bells designed to turn
students into workers who slave to the tune
of minimum wage.
No, there is still no time in our
curriculum for your questions like
Why do dead bugs litter our
buildings or
Why are my textbooks older than me or
Why won't my
legs move as fast as my dreams or
Why is 5 grades ago the most I
can read or
What do these tests actually measure, but
all I can
say is we have a system that says your
questions will not fit into
our curriculum because
we've got a status quo to keep, and
this
consuming society by which we must abide, so
critical
thinking is the first to get pushed aside, and I'm
sick and tired of the silence we push
upon our students because
5
This is the voice
we should be teaching
so our students can see change
can't result
solely from the swing of a swift fist but can come
with the power of
their words
4
but
3
this is the voice
2
I'm required to
teach
1
my students
because
0
authority
has spoken.
Writing a poem and speaking it is not enough. We must also offer solutions. Here are some of my thoughts:
1. Decrease class sizes
"Sorry, but there's no time in our curriculum for your questions"
Students need personalized attention. No student learns the same way as another. The amount of variability in one classroom in terms of learning style is absolutely astounding. Teachers, while amazing, cannot do it on their own IF the class sizes are too large. The optimal number is about 20 students per teacher. In order to decrease class sizes, we need more teachers. It is plain and simple. Unfortunately, this would require a lot of money to achieve.
2. Reduce our dependence on standardized testing
"Teachers are punished when kids can't remember facts they never cared to know."
Not every student is a good test taker. While there are strategies one may employ in order to become a better test taker, it takes time to employ those strategies, explain them, and have the students practice them. Time is one of the many things that teachers don't have enough of.
Additionally, the way that No Child Left Behind currently focuses on standardized tests, including its punitive ramifications, are counter-intuitive and disgusting. By 2014, schools are supposed to have 100% passing grades on their tests. This means that every student must be proficient or better. This is an impossible feat to accomplish. Hercules could not do it. In addition, if these standards are not met, entire schools can be shut down. Teachers can be fired. Granted, I can see where the logic comes from. But this logic has not shown improvement, and it does not make sense to punish schools that have low test scores in the way that NCLB does.
For those who don't know, NCLB affords schools national government funding. However, if test scores are not proficient, that funding can be taken away. One of the best ways to bring scores up is through personalized attention. As mentioned earlier, this is expensive. NCLB all but ensures failure.
Beyond school performance, in 2013, a teacher's evaluation will be based almost 50% on their students' test scores. As a teacher with whom I worked has said multiple times, "I can't control if my students had a good breakfast, or if their parents struck them the day before - there is just too much variability in students for these tests to be a good measure of learning."
Finally, tests are not actually all that standardized. States determine what constitutes a test. In other words, the states determine what should be on the test. For a time, one state's test didn't even have science on it. Therefore, that curriculum was pushed to the back burner. When the test was changed to include science, the school systems had to try to educate their students through a massive deficit.
"Teachers are taught to teach to the test"
3. Shift our focus to students
"Because finding an answer to 'Why / am I the way that I am?' will never be featured on any state sanctioned test."
Knowledge availability is not like it used to be. Today, one can find information about almost anything he or she wants to find via the internet (or library if you're 'old school'). Thus, we MUST shift our focus from teaching everything one way and hoping that our students pick it up to teaching to the students. We MUST shift our focus from "teaching to the test" to "teaching to our students". In order to do this, we need to make sure that the first item on this list gets taken care of, but we must also strive to engage students more. Some kids love facts and are aces at memorizing statistics. Others want to create. Others want to argue. Others need to understand how everything works; they must break it down to put it together. Our curriculum must be free enough to allow this to happen.
The caveat:
In order to fly, you must first be grounded. In other words, we cannot let students simply go into the world on their own. While this is a viable method for learning, it is also a slow one. Students need mentors to help them guide their way through this world. They need discipline to keep them focused. They need someone to help them; they need to be encouraged to ask questions, and they need to have the drive instilled in them to actually go find the answer. We sometimes forget that everything we are was put there by someone else. Yes, we are ourselves, and we are the only ones who can be that, but we had help finding the materials to make ourselves along the way. We both build ourselves and are built by others. It it difficult to find time to encourage questions with so little time in the day and a test that is always looming.
4. Our schools need to be safe places
There is a line that I cut out of my original piece which said
"During a tornado drill, I saw students sit with knees and foreheads pressed against the wall, and I couldn't help but think that this is a little too close to home for some: sitting execution style."
We must not forget that life for students is very different. It most certainly is a scary time to be alive as a students. Bomb threats. Shootings. Standardized test. The economy. There are several different ways to fix these things, but I don't have answers to those. Unfortunately, the answer to this point hinges on the answers to those questions. Getting into those answers would turn into a book.
Anyhow, if a student feels unsafe, that student will have a much more difficult time learning. Every student deserves to have a safe place. Schools should offer that, but they can't do it on their own. Our culture needs to examine itself very thoroughly here in order to come up with a comprehensive solution. And this change WILL NOT come overnight. We need to be stalwart and demanding. We have high standards to uphold, after all.
5. We need to empower our youth
"Our students have a belief that their voice travels only as far as their arms"
We need to empower our youth to ask questions and think critically. If a student can think through a question, he or she will find much more value in the answer than if he or she is told that answer. This is why the "Socratic method" of teaching is so powerful. Students learn that questions lead to understanding, and they begin to see their voices as tools for reaching information. Along with this, we MUST change our tests up to focus less on right or wrong answers. These kind of questions (true/false, multiple choice) do not engage a student's mind very thoroughly. Only by asking questions and having students seek out answers (synthesizing knowledge, evaluating, and critiquing) do students come to a better understanding of what they believe.
Generalizations are dangerous. They force us to see the world as a binary switch. Yes or no. This is not how the world works. The world is, to use a cliche, grey. It cannot always be completely quantified. In order to understand this, students need more time with a teacher who is not buried by grading papers. One of the best ways to get our students to where we want them to be, contributing members of society, is by giving them personalized attention and time. Time is worth more than money, but money, right now, is the only thing that we can trade for time. It's an unfair system, and it needs to be looked at. Possibly rebuilt, but definitely changed.
With everything going on in the world, it can sometimes feel as though we're just being swept along for the ride. It can feel as though we have little to no control over the issues that are important to us. This is why today's prompt is important.
Write about an issue that is important to you.
Is there something that's been on the back of your mind that you have difficulty keeping there? Perhaps it's been something you saw in the news or something you've experienced in your time alive, at your job, or with a friend. Is there something that bothers you because it remains largely unknown, ignored, or misrepresented? Allow your pen today to flow freely. Write a rant; pen out your pent up annoyance at something; tell people how you really feel. Take the time today to allow yourself to complain.
After you've written all you can, try asking the following question:
Is there anything I can do about this?
I am not advocating any sort of force or violence in order to make a change, but if there is a way you can help yourself, don't be afraid to find it.
"In Response" is a piece that I had written some time ago with this week's same prompt in mind. For those who'd like to hear, I've included a video of the poem. As always, however, the text is also provided! The poem to which I'm responding I came across at a library's teen poetry publication. I'll post the text up with the idea that it is protected under a creative commons license, but if it is not and I am notified of such, I will remove the text immediately.
NOTE: You may want to read the piece to which I was responding first; therefore, it can be found at the bottom of this post.
In Response
You asked me to understand. To just
Please
Understand. But
I can't.
You handed me your hand
written note and called it poetry.
You wrote about how, once upon a time,
you grew up under the auspices
of a stiff spine and hard head,
until somewhere along the way,
you ran into something tougher
than your brain or back could bear
and it snapped.
Suddenly, the stiffness of your spine left you with little to brace back on, so you
Crumpled
like a poem that wasn't written right.
You asked me to understand. To just
Please understand, but I can't
comprehend
the solace you've sought in statistics.
People are more than numbers, and you
are more than lines, and I know that's hard
to remember when other people only gloss across the stories that are
written in your hands that are
held in your heart that are
seen in your eyes and that are
carved in your arms. And I know this
because I once etched seven lines of ugly poetry into my skin
hoping that someday someone would notice something
besides shame written in them. Shame
like the same you feel your life has taken.
And you asked me to just,
Please,
Understand,
And I want, but I can't
Because you say that you're insane
for inhaling this pain and screaming
Back with no one to hear, and you say
that your lungs feel like wasted space like they
keep taking
and taking and
taking while
no one leaves words to
let you know that they understand, but
they do.
And we can't help but wonder if you've
held your breath
in place of that razor.
If you've ever held your breath until your lungs
understood what it felt like to miss something they knew so long, so
I don't understand how you can't see that
your presence is like air to someone's lungs!
Without you, someone out there will inhale nothingness
and scream back the air they wished you'd remembered
to breathe.
You asked me to understand.
To just
Please
Understand, but
I can't understand
How you can't see
that all these words I've spoken are true because
these words that I have, they're for you.
The poem to which I was responding: Sweet Release Gabriella C.
And the story of my life, was once I was clean,
I was pure, life was serene,
But I hit a wall, the wall called life,
And I grew up once upon a time,
My backbone grew stiff,
And my head grew hard,
But yet I was so weak,
so insecure,
When you think I am sober, I am drunk,
When you think I'm sleeping, I am still up,
With a box cutter to my wrist, and a tear running slow,
When I'll stop this cycle? No one knows.
I'm just another statistic,
And I chose this path,
But I'm afraid this cut,
Might end up being my last,
I hurt no one purposely,
Yet my life is a shame,
I thought I was good,
But now I'm insane,
They say insanity is doing something over again,
hoping for the outcome to be different in the end,
So am I lost?
In my mind so alone,
Or am I screaming for help,
But no one is home,
I once was a girl,
With hopes and dreams,
Now I'm a disgrace,
Not wanting to be seen,
I say I live, day by day,
But the truth is, I've lost track of time,
And these days are just moments,
Moments intertwined,
Moments that blend,
One day they will mend,
And on that day it will not matter,
Because of how reckless I have been,
I'll lie in peace,
All hopes and dreams gone,
With eyes so empty,
And skin so cold,
So please just remember,
I wasn't always this way.
When you stand over my casket,
With no words to say,
I lived with a heart full of love,
Love I shared with you,
But my mind got a hold of me,
And these words I say are true,
So I ask for forgiveness,
While I still can,
Don't cry, I'm not worth it,
Just please, understand.
I had a particularly poignant experience today while reading a poem I had written earlier in response to a prompt from last week's poetry club meeting. The prompt: Write something personal. I almost lost my emotions with the reading of the first line, and I realized how closed off I can be from my emotions at times. So, I wanted to share not only the words of the poem but also my reading of it. The lighting may not be perfect, but here it is posted, and I have included the text so that you can read along! Thank you for listening (or reading or both), and feel free to leave a comment!
8 Words
I was 10 when 8 words changed the world,
sent my heart into my stomach,
had me wishing that my mom, like God
was wrong, had made a mistake.
I was 10 when 8 words changed the world.
A response to a question I had though God
wouldn't allow across lips that had never been kissed,
over outstretched hands that had never known
the coldness of a coffin - that hadn't
clasped themselves in prayer before bed but
opted for rest instead. Was He dead?
Deaf? Was this
punishment part of penance or plan?
I was 10 when 8 words changed the world.
Before boarding into the family car bound for the hospital, around
the kitchen table, I asked my mom,
in full view of God, "Will this change
my life?"
8 words in reply: If it's what I think it is,
yes.
As promised, here is the first week's prompt. The purpose of this exercise is to get you thinking about what another poem is about - you must interpret what another poem is saying and attempt to craft a response in your own poem. This response can take any form whatsoever: A sonnet, a limerick, free verse, blank verse, anything just so long as it responds to another piece of writing. Today, try writing a response to another piece of writing. Imagine you are a character responding to the character, subject, or concept of the initial piece. Pretend like you are having a dialogue, an argument, or perhaps a sit down with an old friend. Let your imagination go along with your pen and be sure to check back later on in the week!
Good luck and have fun writing!
This won't really be a poem or work of creative non-fiction or the like. I kind of just wanted to talk about what I want to do with this blog thing so that, if I don't follow through, perhaps someone out there will remind me of what I wanted my dreams to be.
I'm going to start posting some poems and performances on here. I will achieve this via YouTube. If you would like to see some of the poems I already have up, feel free to search for my name or my channel name, "Key0fZ". The 'O' in "Of" is actually a zero (0). Anyhow, I have a few martial arts demonstrations up there in addition to a few poems on there as well.
Some may ask, "Why? Why add videos and such?" Well, in terms of poetry, I think that it should be heard as well as read. And not a lot of people like to read poetry out loud. It's a little weird to read aloud to ourselves, after all. Society says that reading is a silent activity. Good thing that society isn't Simon; otherwise, we really would have to listen. Additionally, I think that something gets a bit lost when a poem isn't heard. While most of us have a voice in the back of our heads that sounds the words as we read them, there is something very musical about listening to another person perform.
Finally, I will be posting weekly writing prompts with a short description about them. Some of the prompts will be just useful things to get you to write. Others will require some work and may function more like a workshop than a prompt. In addition to this, I would like to encourage others to share their work in the comments or send me a link to a YouTube video of your work.
The title of this blog is "Life is Rumored to be Written Here". Not "My Life". Just "Life". Thus, I'd love to hear and be able to showcase other perspectives. Granted, the current audience is limited to mostly close friends and family and whoever else clicks on a link I place to Facebook. However, this is still a place to share your story if you'd like to. I can't speak for anyone but myself, and I can't tell your story better than you.
The first prompt will be posted on Monday, October 8th. Get ready to write, and please don't hesitate to share!
If this does not come to fruition, I urge you to call me out on it. Send me emails. If you know me via Facebook, you have my permission to assault my wall. If you have my number, you have my permission to text. I probably haven't talked to you in awhile and would appreciate the message anyhow.
A very good friend of mine was recently married to the love of his life. I'm incredibly happy to have known him as a person and to have trained with him when he was younger as a martial artist.
I went to his reception but being quite... unable to afford a gift, I decided to write a poem for my friend. Because, as another poet once said, "Being a poet around wedding time is like being the guy with the truck around moving time."
While the inside jokes may not be understood by all, I hope that anyone reading it is able to take something from it.
Hey Nate,
Do you remember martial arts? Demonstration team, training,
the minutes, moments, years, bruises and tears? I do. Almost
like it was yesterday. There's still a spot on my left leg
tender from the day we threw well over 1,000 kicks.
Remember how that following weekend we
all hung out as a team and competed to tell about which
one of us had it hardest to wake up and walk stairs that morning?
We decided it'd be fun to then hit each other's legs and say,
"Did you know that your eyes..."
And we grew to despise the question that followed, but that
is another story.
Remember when we'd blame you for everything?
The weather? Your fault.
That time I accidentally broke David's sister's foot?
Your fault. When
someone fell? Your fault.
When we performed a kata
wrong? Your fault.
See, but we knew your smile was strong enough to bear it.
And your arms? Well, they are still a little weak, but
your heart is strong enough to lift people's spirits, and I'm happy to have
been able to train alongside that strength even back in the day.
Now, years later, it's almost hard to believe that
we've gone our separate ways, but you've stayed you; you've
stayed with that strong smile and heart hardy enough to lift
your wife's spirits.
See, being a poet, I know the weight the world takes, and sometimes it seems that
it's all too much to carry until the corners of our lips collapse
into a frown. But you - you have the strength to keep your
smile shining, and not only that, you have that same strength to
sustain your wife's smile, and it's beautiful.
But don't forget where you come from, though I know you won't.
Don't forget the playful side when you're enmeshed in matrimony.
Sometimes, relationships can be difficult, but I think you should approach
your marriage as you did those fight scenes in which we used to be.
This is not to mean that you should punch it, but I mean you
should approach it with the same excitement and energy and patience that
you would apply to all of our practices. And, yes, some days,
it will feel like it did back in the day, back in the dojo.
This is to say you will be blamed for things like
the dishes.
Like the laundry.
Like the weather. Like
when she smiles so
brightly it rivals the sun, like when
the moments are so beautiful
between you two that you almost lose focus, but don't!
Because love
is like martial arts:
It is a way of life;
you can train in it
for eternity without every mastering its subtle graces; and occasionally,
it hurts. Occasionally,
it will be like back in the day, back
in the dojo like when we ran many minutes straight and
if anyone fell or stopped mid stride, the time would extend, and after 5 we
weren't sure if we could go on... but then - then we learned
that the burden could be shared. Love - love is like that. Love is
a marathon where we pick each other up and run because
we're not sure when time will run out.
Yet even when we ran, you had
the strength of spirit to keep your smile shining bright, and it,
like the life I know you and your wife will share,
is beautiful.
Let me start off with something of an advisory. No, there will not be any controversial language, per se, but there will be some political points being brought up here. So, if this does not interest you or you'd like to avoid it, I completely understand.
The original article has been linked at the bottom of this post.
Symbolism. This is the life blood of a good story. It's the stuff that allows audiences to come back, time and again to Inception's ending. Is the top at the end the real thing, or is it simply a symbol? If the latter, this means that the main character indeed has yet to wake up.
When Clint Eastwood gave a speech at the Republican National Convention, I'm not sure if anyone was prepared for the symbolism he would bring out on stage with him: An empty chair. This was it. Nothing more, and nothing less. But this empty chair eventually came to symbolize something more. No longer was it as light as air; it took on the heaviness of the president of the united states. The empty chair came to symbolize Obama.
Political symbols have been used for a long time in this country. Some rally under the banner of an elephant whereas others understand their symbol as a donkey. Symbols, as Batman Begins might say, cannot be killed. They have meaning because of those things we attach to them. Thus, I find it disturbing that someone in Colorado has taken it upon himself to set a chair in his front lawn. I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't be upset over that. Let me rephrase. He has set a chair swinging as though from a noose from the bough of a tree on his front lawn. This, he claims, is a political statement, and it should be protected under free speech.
I agree with him, actually. I think that he has the right to do what he wishes to do. However, I think that this is a political statement in the same way that Mein Kampf is a political statement. You're certainly allowed to read that if you like, but I think we all know where you'd stand, politically and morally. Disgusting is the first word that comes to mind although it may not be the best.
Let me explain why.
If the chair is a symbol for president Obama, then hanging that chair from a tree in the middle of your yard is akin to the symbolic lynching of someone. This act carries connotations of racism, hatred, and bigotry. It should be publicly discussed. I think this man should be ashamed for such an heartless display, but it is in his yard. It is on his private property, and I cannot justify forcing another to act as I see fit.
I just want people to realize that this act carries meaning. Moreover, that the meaning it carries is not a very good one. In fact, it is rather vague. What is it saying? That Obama ought to be hanged? For what reason? Because you don't like his policies? There are far more eloquent ways to publish this message into a myriad of mediums. Not only is this statement ineffectual, but it is brutish and grotesque.
Just as we are unsure if the top from Inception ever actually stops spinning which would leave the audience stuck firmly in a dream and deep in sleep, this country, too, sometimes seems unsure as to whether or not something as a symbol has meaning. Everything has meaning, and we must wake up and realize that our actions and voice travels much farther than our arms (or our yards), and if we make a statement, we should make sure that we have a purpose for doing such not steeped in a past from which this country is still feeling the effects.
Rather, our creed should read:
We are awake; we are watching; and we are willing to speak up in a respectful manner if something doesn't sit right with us. Even if that thing is simply an empty chair which has taken on much greater heaviness than simply that of air.
People often look up at the stars at night and marvel
at the might of the universe. How vast, how bright, how brilliant, how exalted, how beautiful.
The grandeur of it keeps us eye-locked on the sky at night for a blinking hint at
any messages the universe may be sending.
People often look up at the night sky without realizing that the stars are just
a reflection spied within their own eyes.
The blinking matches the beating of your heart; don't you hear it?
There are constellations in your palms; you just have lines already traced over them.
Think about this:
You are breathing the same oxygen atoms that Jesus, Siddhartha, Mohammed, Moses, and Abraham inhaled.
When atoms interact, they can become entangled, so you have divinity
within your blood at every moment. Moreover, your
fingertips are made of molecules, atoms of carbon, keratin, and creation because
those same atoms were used to compose the bodies of stars until they collapsed.
Stars died so that you could live. You
hold the makings of light at your fingertips, so
make sure that the stars didn't die in vain.
Grab a pen and let the constellations in your palms pour onto your pages.
Tell the story you've inherited from your parents that they
inherited from theirs down the line through the eons, past time and
back through space to before the Big Bang when God spoke and made
that first burning source of light - the words, like the atoms in your body,
have existed since then - waiting for you to
take up your light, to tell your story, to be bright,
brilliant, exalted,
beautiful.
I'm going to break one of the rules of poetry here and provide a bit of context to this poem. Namely, it was based off the word "Grandeur". In a poetry club here in town, we have a "homework assignment" to complete for each week. While there are no points taken away or anything like that, it is simply an opportunity to explore an idea, a word, a concept, or ourselves. For example, the coming week's assignment is to "Write your story." Granted, we all have many stories, but the main question here is how do you see yourself? What image can you pull from your life to explain how you're living now. Stories are important to us. You'll notice that the above, however, is not a story.
Well, with this blog, I one day want to be able to give back and not just keep taking your attention and time for my own words. I would love for people to be able to share their stories. If not here, then somewhere. If this experiment ever takes off, I want to give back in the form of donations, workshops, mentorship, and/or editing/revising/writing help for anyone who wants as much.
So, I implore you to write your story. Who are you? What do you want to say about yourself? If you don't want to share here, please share somewhere so that someone gets the insight of whoever you are.
So please go, write your story, and be bright, brilliant, exalted, and beautiful.
I don't like politics. I like discussion and debate; don't get me wrong on that. I love a good argument, in fact. But I can't stand politics. Someone might as well be poking me in the eye. Or I might as well be roommates with the owner of 1,000 shrill alarm clocks all set to go off at the most inopportune time of night - namely, right before sleep finally sets in. But I am willing to put that dislike aside for just a moment. Okay, more than a moment, as writing this will likely take at least a few of those all too precious seconds.
This country has a problem. That statement is misleading. We have several problems. One of which IS unemployment, the economy, capital, and, yes, taxes. This problem is multi-faceted and reaches a level of complexity which a humble English major can't really get into, so I, instead, as every professor of creative writing will eventually tell his or her students, will write what I know. Or at least what I think I know.
There is a lack of truth in language. Words seem to shift in their meaning, and I'm not sure when it happened, but it's set the idea of things all off-kilter. Somehow, words have become like art. Like music. Two disciplines in which one may ask, "But what does it mean?" The likely reply (if the composer is worth his or her salt) would be to simply play it again and have the individual interpret, as they are wont to do. Words do not function like art. A speech should not be a painting. A press release should not be a poem. Words have meaning; politics is not art. But this doesn't explain why we have so many politicians rearranging facts as though those facts are the features of faces in Picasso's paintings. Journalists should not need to interpret the words of a politician.
Perhaps this is why I'm so appalled by recent comments made by a certain politician. The words themselves, while disgustingly general and grossly stereotypical I can stomach. Lima beans aren't palatable at first, but one eventually develops a taste for them. What dismayed me was the response put out by the man who spoke the words (paraphrasing): "They [the words] could have been more eloquently stated, I'll say that much." This is the gist of the retort. A rebuttal of sorts and one which should send up red flags because politicians are not poets.
I am a slam poet. In writing this competitive style of poetry, one must always be mindful of a few things: concept, writing, and delivery. Concept is the core idea or message behind your poetry. Writing is your phrasing, the words one chooses to express the concept of the poem (how eloquently one states his or her point may be considered to fall in this category). Delivery is the poet's stage presence; it is his or her performance. Writing cannot change the concept of the poem. Writing DOES NOT change the concept of the poem. Painting a racing stripe onto a Ford Pinto does not change the fact that it's still a Ford Pinto. It would not change the fact that I would be mildly embarrassed to be driving one. In fact, I'd wonder if other people wondered if I was trying to hide something by dressing up such a crummy car. Before this analogy gets too messy, let us use it to talk about something useful.
Mr. Romney writing off 47% of the American public as entitled, victim complex people who expect the federal government to take care of them is an absolutely deplorable concept regardless of how he wants to word it. Eloquence be damned; no amount of writing can save such crass statements. If I walked into a slam with a poem with that poor of a concept, I should rightfully lose. No matter my writing, a bad concept is just that: Bad. It is uninspired, pandering, and insipid. Which is to say tasteless.
I will be waiting to see just how the media decides to cover this. More than likely, the man in question and politics as usual will resort to something like poetic license. This is what was said, but that is not what was meant. Sadly, it reminds me of a poet who once said of their own work, "Mine is the kind of work that you can't really understand. You just have feel."
Romney is a politician, not a poet. If he were, however, his work would be the kind I could neither understand nor feel.
I'm 26, a student teacher. My first semester. I've spent time subbing in distant districts, but this is my first class in which they'll see me week in and week out.
It's Monday, 9/10/12. Suicide awareness day. I wasn't aware until a student walked in with words written on his wrists. The words triggered a memory of back in college as an undergrad. I remembered events broadcast over Facebook, and I remembered people branding profiles and pictures with the acronym TWLOHA: To Write Love On Her Arms. I had decided that the assumption underlying the acronym was that love was too beautiful to strike through; no one would willingly redact that word if it were already written there, on someone's arms. Or wrists. So the pen was treated as a bandage. Highlighters and markers became the definitive way to show support for friends, family, or peers lost to early to their own devices. Love. That one, simple word was all it took to stop someone from striking through that spot. Apparently, the name of the day changed, but the sentiment had remained. I was remembering this when my student walked in with words written on his wrists.
About his past, I had gleaned the following facts: that he had lost his father to something. Possibly an overdose or no chair to stand on which left a broken neck or lack of air; it could have been a slickened wrist with arteries that couldn't coagulate fast enough. Whatever the cause, I didn't want to ask.
Death is not an easy topic. But today, we're talking about something entirely different. Adjectives. Modifiers. Descriptions. And I don't want these things to be just words for my students anymore. I want words to become bandages for the scars I know my students hide. I want words to become reasons for waking up, or ways they can still see the sunrise as something that's beautiful, not just 6 AM. But many barely know how to write let alone how the pen can become a bandage, but I don't have time to teach this. Due to budget cuts and an emphasis on lessons designed to prepare students for tests, we have little time to explore why writing is important for the long term. For a moment, I think about today and what it means, and I wonder if writing "Love" across school budgets would stop bureaucrats from slashing them. And, besides, we have a test coming up. This is something I've learned already in my short time here: we always have a test coming up.
But then my student walked in on suicide awareness day with words written on his wrists. Words like "love", like "rest in peace", like "dear dad." The finality of it is brutal. But we have a test coming up, and I don't have time to talk to them about how the pen can become a way to understand the world. I don't have time to explain how I use lines and letters and words to describe and understand how this world works, and I'm afraid that many will never come to understand the joy of placing a sunset on paper or making time slow down with the sound of a pencil between their finger tips as it gently whispers across pages, but then my student walked in with "Love" written on his wrists, and I understand.
I understand that he understands loss more fully than I currently do, never having lost a father I knew. No matter how many pages I fill, he will still feel the loss of his father every time a birth day comes and goes, and he has no dad to express how proud he's become of his growing son. I think he understands more than our tests could ever confirm, and we shouldn't cease academics due to the absence of fathers or mothers, but I wonder how much learning will actually get done today. After all, learning is a life long process, but this system emphasizes short turn over for answers. It emphasizes that information is only useful for finding an answer, and that there is only one right answer. Because of this, our system cannot understand why my student walked in with words written on his wrists. It cannot understand that the sunrise is so much more than just 6 AM. Even worse, this system cannot understand why its students get out of bed each morning.
But we have a test coming up. We always have a test coming up, so there's no time to change the system.
But learning is still a lifelong process which will not end when the tests do. My student walks in with words written on his wrists. I think about how a lifetime isn't enough to learn everything. I think about how I don't have time to encourage this curiosity. I think about how 13 years seems like too few to understand what loss is but more than enough to learn it through and through. I think about how, after 26 years, I'm still trying to describe the beauty of a sunrise on paper.
It's suicide awareness day when my student walks in. But we have a test that he has to study for and not enough time to be able to talk about the words written on his wrists.
I'm not sure what to write. I just came from an amazing meeting of some of the most poetic minds I know. Sometimes, we think that we've heard everything. Maybe it's because of the saying that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Even after all this time of listening and reading and writing, I'm still hearing things that are brand new. I'm amazed by it all. This vastness of talent can make anyone feel less self-assured. I found myself feeling like just a shadow of myself. Suddenly, the lines I thought were great sounded less impressive, and the thoughts that could have sounded so new had a thick layer of dust. No longer verdant, they were... missing something.
And here I'm reminded of a Facebook post that's been circulating recently. A picture put out by George Takei. On it is a dark brown background with the words "The reason we struggle with insecurity is because we compare our behind-the-scenes with everyone else's highlight reel" super imposed on top. I suppose this thought has been expressed before in yesterday's "The Experiment." post (or some variation of it): We don't know how long it took an artist to compose a work. We can't really be sure how long a piece took to get finalized. What seems like a short time may actually have its roots in the far-flung past. The point is that we cannot compare ourselves with others in any meaningful way in this regard.
The moment we begin to think "I'm not as _____ as ______ is", we've lost sight of what makes us so amazing. Suddenly our greatness is diminished as though it is a shadow shrinking under the midday sun. Perhaps, then, we should commit to taking walks just before the sun sets or just as that same sun is rising. By doing so, maybe we can remind ourselves that who we are, like the length of our shadows, is not always determined by our size but by the light being cast upon us. So we should find the best light under which we can thrive and grow. Find friends who shine on you at your best angles rather than stare down as though you're under interrogation. It is never wrong to be who you are.
You may not know how you are amazing, but it is a good start to simply know that you are.
What does it take to write something worth reading? How much time did authors of the past put in in order to ensure that their words, like verbs, were moving? How many strikes of a pen through struck out words did Hemingway make before it was enough? When is something finished to the point of publication?
Questions seemingly unanswerable are ones on which we writers thrive, yet they can also be to our detriment, our demise. As a writer or something like it, I know the sorrow which befalls a blank page. Taunting. Especially when we can do naught but write tautologies. Yes, music is like sound, but it is so much more than that as well. Yet here in the space between idea and expression is where words so often fail. Here, writers strike through word after word while trying to find the right ones. The life of ideas is cut short here. This is why the pen is mightier than the sword: swords can rend flesh and tear sinew away from bones, but they can never touch the life of an idea. The pen is the only weapon strong enough to cut through the embodiment of ideas: words.
This is a place I will practice my craft. I will write. I know not yer if any will read these musings, but I like the idea of a grand experiment to see if I can raise an army's worth of words. Though, not to do battle with anything but my own ideas. I can't always guarantee an amazing experience from each and every word I write, but I can say that the words will at least strive to sound nice. This is not to say I'll always be kind. Sometimes, we must simply say what's on our mind in order to let it breathe and give it room to grow.
I know not yet what it takes to write something worth reading. Someday, I'll find this out. I only hope someone is around to read it when I do.
I was thinking about this earlier today, and I think my thoughts (as they often are) were a little... harsh.
Perhaps it's because every year at this time, the local campus and the College Republicans place tiny American flags on the lawn like some macabre, patriotic reminder. I don't want us to forget the people who were important to us who were lost that day, when the towers fell. I don't want us to treat the sacrifices that brave men and women made like that sacrifice was nothing. They still feel the repercussions of their courage in their daily lives, hospital bills, health problems, and so many other things. But what I do want us to forget is a mentality: the generalization that everyone of Islamic faith or Middle Easter decent is somehow complicit with those attacks and their underlying ideology.
It is unfair to assume that the beliefs of many line up with the actions of a few, but we're taught that actions speak louder than words, so maybe that's why we don't hear the frantic protests in the Middle East. Life is complex, and the history of human actions is even more so. I won't argue about who did what to whom as I'm not knowledgeable enough about history to carry any kind of debate with any sort of authority...
Perhaps... I wish we could band together like we did after it happened. Unfortunately, I know the dark truth behind that wish is that people were held together by their sorrow and their hate. While some may have been simply glad to be alive and to understand the joy of holding their loved ones hands, others could only look in horror as smoke poured out of buildings like clouds; physics stopped making sense. Maybe that's why some chose to jump; they... thought they could fly, or that they would simply fall into the sky because, after all, the world had just been turned upside down.
I don't know anymore. I want to say we should live like people are wonderful, and these attacks were freak accidents, but that's a happy state of denial by which I'm hesitant to abide because sometimes... sometimes people are what's wrong. But they can also be what's right. People are willing to help out to an amazing extent those whom they know, but the unknown causes doubt. Fear, I suppose. And some say we're governed solely by those two emotions. No longer love and hate because those are far less dichotomous than we've been led to believe, but I don't know.
Life is rumored to be written here, and for me, right now, THIS is life. Unsure. Frail. Apprehensive. Yes, scared. But looking for a way forward. I don't know where I'll find the path, but I know there must be one to walk. Today should be a day for giving thanks to those we love and honoring those, whom we may not know, who have served this country. While I won't say that we should embrace the world with love or the like all the time (as I'm far too cautious to leave my heart, mind, soul (I suppose) so far exposed), I do think we should... I should... be willing to walk with the knowledge of my past in my stride.
I was thinking about this earlier today, and I... still don't have an answer, but I'm willing to walk 'till I find one worth keeping.
