Consolation Post

Hello, readers! 
I'm sorry I deleted those music videos :'(
So, to show that I really am terribly sorry, here is a consolation update. 
This is the most personal abstract short I've ever written. 
Please appreciate it as such. 

My mind is a lonely place. I can never actually show someone something I’m thinking about: just tell them in words. Don’t get me wrong, though: words are lovely. There just aren’t enough of them. And sometimes I feel like I have a whole planet in my head, but I always remember: oh yeah, I have several universes holed up in there, not just one planet. Silly me. You can’t type with one hand unless you’re really good at it. In that case, I salute you! …With one hand. Punctuation is so unique and so…so cultured. I wrote something and put it on the internet so I would remember it, but then I can’t find it, and the last time I looked in a mirror I was laughing so hard that the mirror cracked up with me and I got seven years of bad luck. Poor mirror. Having to look at me all the time. Maybe it’s gone to a better place, one where beautiful ladies in shimmering silk gowns dance slowly across the lacquered floor with invisible men. Not just any invisible men, though: invisible gentlemen. Why do I insist upon this small courtesy? Because although there aren’t enough words, the ones we have can be very harmful and impolite if not used properly. I believe that you should have a license to use certain words, just like you have to have a license to drive a car. Why? Because some people don’t know how to use cars or words correctly, and they get hurt or hurt other people. Grammar is not a privilege, it is a right, something that we must use to get about our daily lives. How do I know this? Because I was born with the ability to make great stories, and to make great stories, you must have correct grammar. With me, grammar is instinctive, so I don’t feel the need to read small, colored leather books in a dusty chair all day. Instead, I run wild all summer, looking cool and occasionally frantic. Never mind that, though, because I had a dream when I was five, not a goal or a vision, but a nighttime dream, and I had it again last night, only it made much more sense. I guess that’s because I’m older, but only in my mind and body. My soul, my spirit, my core is still about five or six. I made a decision one morning when I was that old, that I would get up and out of bed cheerfully, immediately, and without complaining. It worked, and I now get up out of bed cheerfully, immediately, and without complaining every day. I did that because I got so tired of wasting energy being grumpy and laying around half in, half out of bed. I just finished my cookie, but society tells me not to go get more because then nobody else can have a cookie. I would like to just say ‘not my problem’ and get more anyway, but I wasn’t raised that way, and I can’t break habits that easily. I think this is the most personal I’ve ever gotten when writing abstractly, and it just felt so natural, like laying in the grass on a hot day or taking a drink. My soul is a beautiful glass pitcher, and the more water I pour out, the more flows into me. That’s just how I work. I’m going to say goodbye now, but remember one thing: Creativity is like a small child. If you don’t want it to grow up into a spoiled brat, discipline it, exercise it, and give it rules. That’s what I did, and I pinky promise it works.  

The Violin

Hello my most dearest readers here is something I wrote a long time ago when I played the violin. I don't play it anymore, because I never really felt like it was something that I wanted to spend time on...I would rather write. However, I know that a lot of people have an almost magical connection to their instruments, and to music. I tried to write about that, and this is the product. It was written a few years ago.

My bow lightly touches the strings, eliciting a musical sigh of content from the polished, varnished wooden sound box. I smile; my violin is eager today, hungry for the music that fills its soul with tremulous vibrations of perfect notes. I rest the bow against the strings, gathering my thoughts, then smoothly pull the white horse-hair into a liquid laugh that fills me, drowning out any other noises or emotions like a waterfall, but not as unchanging. For though this music flows like water, it leaps, laughing and tumbling, then turns low and serious, like the wind moaning and playing through a field of grass. It catches me, tosses me, throws me like a child up high, then returns me safely to where I can continue playing. I bend and sway, my long hair and dress flowing with the music, swept away by the power of the most perfect equations turned into crystalline, silver sound. "Perfect" is too flawed a word to describe this. And then, with the suddenness of an intake of breath, it ends.

Constant Movement

Hey, what's up! 
Here, dearest readers, is something I wrote a couple months ago and then forgot about. 
By the way...the book, "The Last of Five" is going to be finished this month! Keep an eye out, I'll be publishing as soon as possible!

Growing, believing, belonging: gone. I am new now, having purged myself of these sometimes unimportant things. I am fire: I light the night, burn away the impurities of today, growing stronger the more I incorporate. I am earth: mighty and powerful, passive but not neutral, ready to shake you to the ground. I am water: engulfing, pounding, full of energy, always moving. But mostly, I am air: moving, pushing, rushing, whispering, moaning, dancing across the earth. Leaving both of our cares behind, I will take you away, to somewhere that I will be free to roam, not running up against walls or iron bars that sap my strength. Never again shall I subject myself to the will of others. I do not need them, do not need support, borrowed emotions, masks. I only need myself, although others can depend on me if they want. But still, it’s not that important. I’ll take them with me, stretching them out until they are tall enough to stand on their own, then leave them behind. It doesn’t bother me in the least. If it bothers you, don’t look away; just cover your ears. The music is what makes it scary. In complete silence, you will hear many things. Don’t take my word for it, though: just see for yourself. Hear everything, and grow still. Then, I will leave you, because all these things will pass, and I want to move on. Silence is life: movement is life. Never stop moving completely, or your body will turn back into energy, and you will be like me: swept away on the gust, the wave, the earthquake, the inferno that I cannot control, that are my passions, my emotions.  

A New Book

Dear readers: I've started a new book.
I haven't finished my other one, the Last of Five, but this couldn't wait.
I can't share the book with you because I'm afraid of people stealing it, but I had to share this with someone.
Last night, I woke up sometime in the dark hours, and I had this idea in my head. It was like someone opened me up and put it there. I didn't dream about it. I didn't think about it. It was just there.
I've heard of people who get flashes of inspiration like that, but I have never had it happen that way. My ideas usually start simple. My entire dream universe started with a name, and grew from there. This time, it didn't happen that way.
Anyway, the book is called, "How Beautiful We Were." The funny thing is, it's about a future where humans turn into robots called Androids over their lifetime. This happens because when something breaks or stops working, say, if someone from that future breaks an arm or gets arthritis in their legs, they get a new mechanical arm or a new set of mechanical legs. Since it is a natural thing for the human body to sort of break down over time, eventually, everyone in that world becomes a robot.
The book is about the one person who realized how wrong and unnatural it was for this to happen, and how he challenged the world as he knows it (how he will know it? It's from the future [will be from the future?] and I don't know how to phrase it.)
Anyway, my dearest readers, thank you for letting me share this with you. I'll let you know when I finish writing it, but don't hold your breath. It could be a while.

Words Of Wisdom

Dearest Readers: I am going to impart my Grandfather's wisdom upon you. 
Try not to squeal in delight as the universe suddenly makes sense. 
Grandfather: "The pilgrims taught the Indians how to make bread. They left, and when they came back, they said, 'Ooh! Indian Bread! We want it!'"
...
And if anyone is feeling adventurous, go to google.com and type in, 'do a barrel roll'
...Or zerg rush.

A Book and a Song

Hey hi hello, readers!
Here is a quick review of a book that I didn't remember in time for the last post, and a song that I really like.
The book is called "A Wizard of Earthsea." Tolkein fans, delight! Usula K. Guin is an amazing author, and this book is incredible. I haven't yet had time to read the second or third books, but this one is so good! It is written in the same style as the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and...And I'm definitely not going to go on a mythology/writing style rant, so you'll just have to read it! Appropriate for whoever is able to read it, I suppose.
The song is called, "Radioactive in the Dark." I love to start playing this song for someone, then say, "You've never heard this song before." Invariably, the response is, "Yes I have! Radioactive, by Imagine Dragons!" And it's timed perfectly so that when they say that, the mashup begins. Yes, this is two songs put together, Radioactive and My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark. After I listened to this mashup, I realized, "Wow, these songs are so musically similar!" and they are! Just listen. Oh, by the way, here is a link! Just in case you do want to listen to it.
By the way, readers, if there is a certain book or song or whatever you want me to review and critique, just tell me in the comments! I'll try to read/listen to/whatever the book/song/whatever as soon as I can, and post my thoughts of it.
And I really am trying to get the fashion thing together. Clothes just don't happen to be my forte.

Bye!
And...happy Super Bowl to...Let me google who won...Seahawks fans! And Bronco fans, too, I'm not judging you.

Hello, hello

Five people in a black-and-white photograph stare at me. I wouldn’t mind, but they aren’t the right people, and that makes me feel terribly stiff and polite. Never have I missed a light more than when you left, got left behind. I miss you. I love you. Which means more? Because love has seven different definitions, if you look it up in a Greek dictionary. But that’s beside the point. The point is that sometimes, you do, sometimes, you don’t. That was supposed to make sense somewhere in my timeline, but it doesn’t, so there. Good for me. There was a boy in my past, my brother actually, and I saw him grow from a weak little sprout to a tall, strong, sometimes unintentionally cruel tree. Yes, I know…we can’t stay like this forever. Well, not forever, no, but we could try to make it last longer. Because you only have eighteen years to learn how to be an adult before you are one, and that’s when all the fun ends. Oh, well. Bells will chime and call to me, and since I obviously can’t refuse a call to fairyland, I will see you when you answer the call.