Raindrops On Roses

Currently, I am surrounded by the sounds of what would appear to be on an album for relaxation. A constant purr of water pats on trees and ground, flashes across the sky to be responded with a resonating sound quite like that of large boulders rolling down a hill, and the occasional bird calling out to another in an every day conversation manner.

I've been addicted to thunderstorms since before I could remember. I'm unsure if I was ever even afraid of them--I only recall fascination. It'd be late at night, a boom would shake the house like an ogre trying to get in, and I'd tiptoe over to my window to slide up the glass for better sound. I'd stay up in bed, then, being quiet, just listening to the Earth's cleanse.

That's how I imagined rain. Like a shower. Currently, I'd think, Earth is being washed. Because that's how my child self saw things then. The water coming down in my town, it seemed logical that it was being swept through everywhere to wash it down, as if clouds were nature's shower head, and they focused on where it was needed most before getting to the next section. A bit true, I suppose, if you were to get to the science of it.

My mother was always frantic about thunderstorms. We weren't allowed to take showers "because lightning." We weren't allowed to go outside "because lightning." And we were supposed to listen to the news and get downstairs when it was severe "because lightning."

These were my grandfather's favorite parts of storms, and I will always have that connection with him now that he's passed. My aunt, two years younger than me and nervous around any weather that isn't sunny, would create a fort in the basement with all of the amenities for a five-day boat ride. Water, food, games... and far away from any windows or natural light. At age seven, she'd cry for everyone to be downstairs with her, out of fear for being alone or our of fear we'd be harmed, I'm unsure at what percentage. My grandmother would grab my hand gently and lead me downstairs, where we'd sit by my aunt's pillows and blankets and flashlights and books and snacks, while the rest of the adults mingled ten feet around us, talking like normal, watching the weather channel for updates.

My grandfather would be upstairs, taking his time, as my aunt cried for his life. My grandmother would distract my aunt with books and games until it went from every five minutes not noticing he wasn't there, to ten minutes, to twenty... During a moment when my aunt wailed that everyone should be downstairs to not be harmed, I snuck away from the adults back upstairs, wondering what my grandfather was doing, what made him not answer to his own daughter yelling out the proper actions needed to be taken during a thunderstorm to stay safe between sobs.

Only nature was upstairs. For the few times I've ever been to my grandparents' house, all of the electronics were off. No television with sports on. No radio on a channel that only played what was made in the 50s. Not even a light.

I walked quietly, barefoot, across their wooden floor into the kitchen, looking around. I wasn't scared, but curious. I'd never seen the house in this state before, and through the large, copious amounts of windows, I could see that, while the sky was heavy with dark, the ground and trees were bright green. I was reminded of times when I would hide under my blankets when I was supposed to be asleep, but I'd be reading a book with my flashlight instead.

Out on the enclosed porch, standing still, was my grandfather, clad in only red shorts that had to be over thirty years old and sandals. Rain gushed from the skies, pouring to their destination, desperate to kiss the ground. Thunder rolled in a surround sound fashion.

I waited a bit, then said, "Are you going to be coming downstairs?" to announce my presence.

"Huh?" he said, not even looking at me. A history of stories and of what I knew about my grandfather dictated he was hard of hearing, and rarely paid attention in the first place. Rather than repeat myself, I came out onto the porch with him. I didn't really care about his answer.

He wrapped his arm around my shoulder as I fell into place beside him. We stood there looking through the screens of the porch as lights flashed to their own time of their own music that is rain. I leaned against him. His skin was hot, although the air was cool. Over on the table was an ash tray with a half used cigar, but we never strayed from our standing point. We just stood, me two feet shorter than he was, clad in a dress with my swimsuit underneath, not waiting for anything to happen. Cracks of light would cut across the sky, their sound preceding them moments later.

"Katia is wondering where you are," my grandmother said. She stood inside, hand on the edge of the opening of the sliding door. She was talking to me.

My grandfather patted my shoulder in a fashion, kissing my forehead when I looked up, and then I walked toward the house opening. My grandmother came into step with me as I crossed the threshold, her rubber soled shoe patting in a familiar style as we made our way to the staircase, my own feet not making any response.

I looked back. My grandfather now held a cigar in his mouth, but he was still standing in the same spot, shoulders rolled a bit forward, red shorts stark against the noir-grey filter the storm had created.

That moment will come to me during very heavy rains, such as now. The non-stop kind of storm, where you wonder how clouds get the audacity to carry the amounts of rain that could fill a pool.

But I've never been scared. Just soothed, calmed that, once again, Earth was getting a shower to wash away whatever filth it decided it had. And I got to enjoy the spoils.

The Sound of Silence

I woke up frequently last night.

For most people, this would happen from a multitude of things. Children, loud neighbors, faulty alarm clocks...

The thing that kept me awake was not the creak of my house. It was not the voice of the wind as it passed through my window. It was not the crashes of waves upon the sand, nor the trees swaying and breaking off their limbs and hitting the ground to make my body jump, my heart thump loudly in my chest and tease my ears in the thoughts that some murderer was in my room.

It was my mother's wind chimes.

I consider myself to be a non-violent person. Although I will curse, throw my controller while playing video games, and occasionally scream in a pillow, I don't seek to harm anyone, never a-purpose.

Except that vile sound-driven piece of junk.

It's the type of chime you don't expect. While the wind blows, you don't really think about it, as it only hits the metal tubes once, maybe twice.

They sound like clanking metal glasses that you carry indoors after a very large party, rubbing against each other with the slightest amount of liquid you hope won't splatter onto you, but your hands are absolutely full, and it wouldn't surprise you if it did, and you certainly try to dodge it without prevailing in the least.

That sound makes my teeth grit. These chimes are evil. They will wake me from a dead sleep, whereas a house shaking thunder will not.

Now, I am a very stubborn girl, and sleep is basically my lover to life. The only thing better than sleep is the languid feeling of laying in bed. The peaceful quiet of the room, where only the sound of your breath can be heard. Not even your mind is fully functional--all it can comprehend is the feeling of comfort, of peace.

And there is hell to those that disturb it. Mostly because I'm also the type to lay in bed and not do a thing but curse whatever is keeping me awake. I quietly murmur to myself these curses, refusing to leave my sanctuary.

I begin to make deals with God.

"God, if you make that drunk college student go back to his room and be quiet so I don't have to yell at him, I will promise to remember to thank you for the good days rather than just complaining about the bad."

"God, if you stop that stick from clanging against that bucket, I won't ever think you are ever toying with my life."

"God, if you strike those geese dead right now, I will sacrifice and eat them in your honor at dinner tonight."

This was usually just a waiting game, the kind you have when you know the soda you are about to open has been shaken beyond belief, and you patiently take your time in opening it so it doesn't spray all over in a sprinkler in the garden fashion.

This was a horrible storm, however. The rain splattered through my screen on the window pane to dash across my face, despite the eave. The thunder boomed to thump the heart in my chest as if I were in the front row at a rock concert. Our hanging birdhouses spun in circles, their own carnival rides in nature.

And those damn chimes banged together, a marching band in it's own right.

There was no rhythm to their clangs. No music to soothe one to sleep by getting used to their demonic calls. They would stop, and my muscles would relax, my eyes beginning to fill with images that only sweet dreams can incur--CLUNK, CLUNK! ..... CLUNK, CLUNK!--no more telepathic powers that I was saving a dolphin with.

My normal tactics weren't working.

"God, if you bust the string on that chime, I will forever say a prayer to save the white sharks--maybe even send some money."

I leaned over my bed to try to pull the window closed. It got stuck. Not wanting to leave my bed, I got to my knees and leaned over the two feet and yanked as hard as I could--ripping the pane from it's track to smack down a glass on the nearby table.

Frustrated, blaming the wind chimes from hell all the while, I got up and slammed it all together, my noises competing with that of the storm.

I flung myself onto the bed, hoping the sounds of my fan would cause the hatred in my heart to calm to a slow beat. There was, instead, a clanging beat that made my heart rate sharpen.

I tore the covers from the bed off of me. Without a care to my being in my boxers and tank top, I strolled meaningfully through the hallway, through the kitchen, and toward the doorway.

My mother, playing a game on the computer, turned her head and saw my dark look that could start a fire. "What's the matter?"

I yanked the door open, ignoring her words, to where the wind chimes' screams were deafening. Water smacked my left side, instantly soaking. I glared at the loud device, stomped over, and took a hold of the dangling pieces--pulled down. Twice.

It was on a metal chain.

I made a noise that would have convinced my neighbors werewolves existed.

There were not chairs I could drag over, as they were unstable and heavy. Water splattering my face, I whipped at the chain, I jumped and whipped hard, forcing the loop to come off from it's hook. Five attempts later, and my body slightly shaking in the cold, the top portion smacked my hand in a fit of defeat, going as limp as dead flowers. I threw the mass of trinkets to the ground in the corner.

My mother turned back to me to stare at my disheveled appearance, the door shutting tough against the wind. I zombified my way toward my room. "You didn't break it, did you?" I didn't even shrug as I walked past.

I snuggled into my covers, a sense of peace wafting over me. In the morning, docks would be split from the waves. Branches would cover the roads. People would question where their garbage cans had gone to, and there would be a need for the insurance companies to come out and verify the damage to all of the houses.

But at least my sleep wasn't fucked with.

A Blessing

I miss New Zealand. Whenever I think about it, which is at least once a day, I think of how different words are pronounced.

I love how they pronounce 'marathon', the 'o' sounding like an 'e'. And how 'garage' was the name 'Gary' and 'age' placed together.

I'm sad I didn't spend more time really exploring the place, rather than having to choose school over a weekend in Wellington, where I only spent one day in and felt so happy and perfect in that place, like it was a new home I didn't know I had.

I sometimes wonder if I left something behind in that country. For a place that didn't necessarily have the best technology, they were way ahead of America in acceptance and generosity. The only bad experiences I had there were with other Americans, who didn't want to befriend the Kiwis I so enjoyed hanging around.

Most of my art projects involve an element of New Zealand. Kiwi and plant life alike, they find their way into my pieces. I feel like I'm stealing from another art when I mimic the way a leaf unfolds.

But I can't get it out of my head.

And then I came back. I don't think I had a reverse culture shock, but I did keep comparing things in my head. I noticed the scenery around me more, and missed the green lush that was so vivid. I still laugh at how Michael told the whole floor how I called a duvet a comforter, and how I'd been so embarrassed because the rest of the floor chuckled with him. I love that my mates got into the Halloween spirit with me by carving pumpkins, dressing up, and then watching scary/fun flicks.

I mostly miss how safe everything was. Everybody was nice, welcoming, and willing to share. And I feel guilty that I had a whirlwind experience and wasn't able to give that back to the extent they did for me.

This is what I think about in the split seconds of the morning when I wake up and wonder where I am.

Random Fact: The gnomon is the thing that casts the shadow on a sundial.

To be Inspired

I was once told that in order to write, you must get over the fact that you have nothing to write about and write anyway. That, even if you have a writer's block, writing about that will therefore mean you don't have it.

For the past two years, I have been unable to pick up a pen and write something that I thought was worthwhile. Considering the ever booming internet with it's Facebook and more blogging than ever thought possible, I felt that for me to write something was to write something that was already done and said, so why add my mantra?

It took a while for me to realize that this wasn't who I was. I've always added my mantra, or opinion, or two cents (accumulating to over a quarters worth as the years continue).

And writing made me happy. It has been a part of who I am since I can ever remember. Books fascinated me. As a child, my father would read to me before bed, books such as The Big Orange Splot, or The Contests at Cowlick, using voices to create characters I now remember even at the age of 23. My father can still recite Yertle the Turtle when I ask him (which, when I do, he shakes his head and tells me that I "can't be serious". But then he does when I start off and ask how the rest goes).

During my elementary years, I was told to be a good student, but wasn't always paying attention because I would be reading while the teachers gave their speech about addition and subtraction (In my defense, I already knew and figured my time would be better used in an imaginary world rather than blankly staring at a person and waiting for the five students who weren't fully understanding the process to lie and say they got it so we could all move on to the next subject.) My favorite time in elementary was when we could make our own books. We'd write a story, pictures and all. The library would help us make covers out of fabric pasted on cardboard, then would help us to bind the book. I would have made fifty by the end of the day, had the teacher not insisted on moving onto the next subject, and that they also didn't have enough supplies.

When our computer was upgraded from the silly floppy disk hangman game to an internet dial-up machine just before my teens began, I quickly discovered I could use a program to type up what I was thinking, which was much faster than writing down my million-a-minute thought process (my parents always said my brain was going much faster than my mouth could speak). I began my first "novels", which consisted of taking ideas from my most liked subjects and trying my hand at creating it myself.

I'm happy to announce the probably lawsuit material cannot be seen as the computer crashed and broke (thank God, as I'm sure it could be used as proper blackmail, the stuff was so horrid).

Hours were spent on that computer. I'd write before I went to school, after I came home from school until dinner, and then after dinner until my father would tell me that , yes, I had to go to bed, as it was two in the morning.

College changed that.

Despite my love for writing, I originally thought my career would take me into an acting path. I loved theatre, and even spent my junior and senior years devoted at an arts high school. After writing as I normally do for a class, a teacher came to me and asked if I considered taking a few more classes on writing, as I had a unique and fun style. One semester in and I changed my major.

Theatre is like a mask, I found. Everybody works together, and the show can't go on without everybody doing their part. And yet, the other side is like a competition, where, behind the scenes, there was more drama than what was on stage.

Writing was different. I found that most of what I liked about theatre was the story being told, and where an actor couldn't get across a character, a book could. And so went the next four years after my first year writing. I added on film, so I could direct and create visually as well.

Frankly, I got burnt out. Toward the end of that path, I began to really look at myself in comparison to others. I had chosen a career path that went distinctly on a person's whim. I could write my whole life and have people say, "You're all very good, but we're looking for something with more vampires, and possibly zombies. Yes, zombies would be good." or "We love how you phrase things, but we aren't looking for someone with a sarcastic and quip-like writing." And I noticed other people's writing, where they got such great ideas for short stories.

I stopped writing because I decided it was easier to not even try rather than set myself up for disappointment.

Except it became hard, difficult even, for me to not write. I would constantly think about writing, but would never write. I would think up lines and wish I would just write them down for later use. I would smile after a conversation as I thought of how it would be in a paragraph, or how it could become a short story. But after not writing for a good few months, I couldn't grab the pen to write because that would be giving in and accepting a defeat I didn't even have yet.

People say they found themselves in college; I lost myself. It took graduating for me to begin to find myself again.

When I'm asked what I do, I say I write. I make films, and I write. My job isn't writing, which is what it became in school. My job is something I have on the side to make money so I can continue to do what I love, the way I love it, until somebody's whim says they like what I have to offer.

Slowly, but surely, I have become okay with this.

Random Fact: Plants can suffer from jet lag.

Half-Gallon O' Pop

On Saturday, Amber allowed me to join her on her way to her home-town, in which we were to make 12 batches of candy from scratch.

We wore fancy smocks. We sang all types of music. We laughed and had a great time. We topped the night off, as well.





What you are staring at is a half-gallon of A&W Root Beer.

Allow me to explain.

After our long day of sweets, we had our pizza and pasta, then we went along our way back home, as I couldn't be staying past a certain hour--I have a job to come back to. Thus, we were driving past an A&W around the mark of closing. We were thirsty.

Making our way into the building, we stared at what they had. We were stuffed to the bone, but still really thirsty.

Regular: 1.50
Large: 1.99
Half-Gallon: 2.99
Gallon: 3.99

A gallon would have been too much to hold onto. A large soda felt pretty cheap next to a half-gallon.

So, we put two straws together, stuck them in the container and drank the nectar of the Gods.

I still have some in my fridge.

Random Fact: There are 66 million different possible pizza combinations on the Domino's pizza menu. Which one do I want to choose?

Finally Good

After the election. After the stogie. After the party. After the hugs and screams.

After that feeling inside of me, and the realization that I was proud, and things were going to change.

I went back to my room, sat and wondered what was next.

Then, I placed a CD in my player, hit play, and lay back to lavish in the idea that, yes, things were going to finally be okay.

Random Fact: President Barack Obama is the elected 44th president.

Later Than Never

There are specific reasons why I don't post as often as I should. To be completely honest, it's mostly to do with being a Negative Nancy--you may thank my Mass Media & Society class, most of the time.

There's no wonder people would rather be entertained during this day and age--things are so depressing in our world, it's hard to tell where to begin to make it better. But, the fact of the matter is, it won't be getting better without us paying attention. I'm just afraid of my life being overtaken. Or, should I say, my life being about that, rather than enjoying what life has to offer. God knows how difficult it is to try and do both.

It's actually pretty sad, but a lot of my time isn't spent on the computer too often anymore--at least not for the purposes you'd think. My Tuesdays and Thursdays consist of me on a computer from 8am to 1:30pm... plus, two hours of homework through Dreamweaver. By the time I'm done, I don't have the want to stare into a screen for another how long to write a post, much less see anything else. But, I've also realized how important this thing is, as it keeps me writing and keeps people up-to-date on my life.

And it keeps me up-to-date as well.

I've been having weird dreams in the recent. One was about my mother and I having a huge fight, so bad that every time I passed her in the dream, a few seconds later I'd burst out into tears. I woke up feeling as if I'd spent the entire night crying. The other had me over at Mandikat's house, both me and her mother. I remember showering and getting ready for something, and there was something about books, painting and being depressed about... something. Ha. Interesting dream to all of you, I'm sure.

In the end, I stoked it all up to stress. Between school, being an RA and constant reminders of me being alone in the love department (livable, but it's still there), my dreams are beginning to become more vivid, as I don't get good enough sleep to be normal and not remember them as much. My subconcious sucks, sometimes--I need more dreams with lovely things.

I find that my saving grace in these negative times (shit economy, bad media, terrible democracy, etc.) are the smallest of positive factors. Video games. Good friends and family. Quick hugs. Small things do count. If you don't let them count, what would you have?

I've been watching Extras, as I just bought the two seasons and season finale with the gift cards I realized I had. I'll just place this out as a fact so the rest of the world may know: Ricky Gervais is a fucking genius. If you haven't watched Extras, The Office BBC... even Stardust (best surprise for me ever). He's epic. Brilliant.

On the side news, I've started making scarves for friends this Christmas early, as the cold days have already come. I've finished two of them, and will continue onward, some being hats or mittens depending on request. Amber and I decided to make things for each other out of what we do best, so I'm making her a scarf with leg warmers to match. She's going to use her bead-work to make me something, but I haven't a clue what. She's really good at making earrings, necklaces... spicing up a headband or making a dress for a pow-wow. She had the epiphany today what she was creating, and poked at me a little since I won't know for ages.

I'm excited for the holidays. Friends and family, all together for meals and sharing--Thanksgiving and Christmas have become my favorite holidays because of that.

When I was a child, I absolutely hated having those parties, when practically every person we knew would be over, "celebrating". Destroying what we'd just cleaned up was more how I liked to describe it. I remember cleaning my room for the occasion one year, and two other girls, the destruction crew as I remember them every year, went up into my loft bed and began throwing my books around like candy at some sort of parade. Perhaps that was the moment when I realized I hated people my own age. Maybe just people in general. I'll never really know.

what I do know is that the time was mostly spent with me feeling awkward with adults around, whom only had male children my brother's age. I'd finally yank on my snow gear and grab my sled to go off the jump we'd made earlier. Right next to the snowperson I'd made angry at sexism one year by giving it breasts. And my brother later placed a penis on.

Now, instead of gender confused snowpeople, we gather round because we're all so spread apart by distance. The day is spent creating the meal. The night is spent eating and playing Nintendo Wii. Today, I count my gifts at hearing my parents' voices, Michelle's laughter and stories, Deb's crazy antics and my brother's sense of humor. My favorite Thanksgiving was spending the holiday with my Auntie Egg and Uncle Mike.

I hope that we can all still enjoy the holidays coming up as we used to. The older I get, the more important I find my friends and family to be. To lose any of that... I wouldn't dare think.

Random Fact: About 90% of Americans view themselves as being shy. HA.

Bad Timing

When I mentioned that being an RA tests my multitasking skills, I certainly meant it. Though I have managed to keep up with going to classes and getting assignments done, I haven't managed to keep some time to myself until this week.

Being around people can really wear you out.

It has been a very filled week. I sometimes feel as if I have different lives at the same time, doing so many things, and I get lost in what I'm doing until I finally take a break and set myself aside to do other matters to get lost in.

A wistful me wonders what it would be like to not have such worries. One that has enough money at all times, that studying wasn't needful and had the social grace to keep up with friends, rather than chat with for thirty minute intervals once every three months. It's an interesting concept, a parallel universe in which that is probably happening. Would I be happier or more depressed? With someone? Liked?

And then I begin to wonder why I even start to think of things as such--I'm here, now, who I am supposed to be. I'm rather sick of thinking of how things could/should be. I want things happening. Now.

This is the time in which I tell you I already know that I'm an impatient person who wants to control what happens. All this really ends up doing is making me anxious and unhappy with the turn of events. What a cycle.

The only worst aspect of this is that I'm getting worse and worse with my sleeping cycle. I'll stay up late and get up early, but I can't seem to get tired enough to just collapse on the bed and sleep early, even with exercise added to the equation.

Instead, I lay and think for a while. I don't actually dream, but "day"dream in my head. I go through conversations I've had and think of odd jokes I've heard throughout the years. I cuddle my pillows, shut my eyes and think of my favorite dreams.

So, I'm being a little melodramatic. It's just that, the longer I'm around this Earth, I begin to realize that normal doesn't exist--not really. Anything we consider to be normal, if you were to take that second look...

From a child, we are told how things are. From parents, from teachers, from friends, from peers, from media... and they're all distorted, because they've all got they're own agenda, and they're not the same as anybody else. Parents, teachers, friends, peers, media... depending where you are, it's all different. And every person will have it differently as well. Complicated system, it is.

But, what I wouldn't do for a deep, fulfilled sleep.

I swear, I will be writing more frequently and about more interesting things in the soon--I just had to write the awkward entry of "I haven't written in a while" to get me started.

Random Fact: Mamihlapinatapai--a look shared by two people with each wishing that the other will initiate something that both desire but which neither one wants to start