The Perceptions of a Snowflake as it Falls to Earth

I felt strange in my murky confines , aware of a difference between myself and the rippling confines around me. A loosening, and a soft release--what is happening? I panic, aware of my descent, but uncomprehending of my surroundings. My mind spun as I twirled and swirled with a dizzying unaccoustomness. I discerned, vaguely (for I was still vastly out of control), a multitude of delicate, clear chrystal droplets which spun in equal disarray and confusion. My mind closed in on these sparkling beauties, rendered speechless and stunned; what were they? Absolute perfection? Never had I encountered such singular bellezza, such delicate splendour amidst timid opulence. How was this natural fragility obtained? I envied it beyond my mind's comprehension. Why was this spectacle available to those joyous flakes of divine purity, and not to myself? From where did such wonder birth? My spinning slowed and I watched my drifting companions with unmasked jealousy. It wasn't fair; it would never be fair. I felt a renewed gust of western wind and with it dismay at the new frenzied tumult as my very limbs quivered at teh accute harassment of my very fibers. Apparently I had landed, and in a thick blanket of celestial shimmer, the frightening movement had ceased. Then it hit me--I was one of them. I belonged. This was impromptu upon reading a letter my friend wrote, in which she posed and answered her own prompt. This is my answer.

Me Being Even More Sentimental. Dang It, I See A Pattern

Some womanish prose of which I'm ashamed of--while it might be well-written, I don't like being weak. However, I told a friend he'd see what I didn't like. Here it is.

I wish time would bend, and fly back to now, years from today. We would meet in the rain again, you would whisper life in my ear again, and sing praises to the wind again; whilst you caress my skin beneath the forsaken midnight willow. We would dance on the hands of the clock , over frost and flame before we crash in the shades of nostalgia. And I would nestle softly in your safe arms again, set sail upon the mist again, bestow a soft kiss and sweet glances again. Would it be as just and pure? Still true? A binding oath would escape our lips again, and find it's mastry again, beneath our petalled sheets. Innocence is lovely--sentimental and darling--but curiosity is embolding, daring, persuasive. And deadly. The results are the forbiding of such unholy repetition, and in thus, unendurable sorrow. Next along the bitter path--that acrid, moaning path!--is the final token: Death.

Black Butterfly: The Soul's Lament (A moment of teen angst for which I must be forgiven)

I sat down beside her Waited; a sound, a stir, a sign Anything. The Black Butterfly took her ruby ring and sang 'The only way to go is after the fireflies: Weaving within the husky threads of forsaken willow hair In a clearing by the river, Sweet river.' The Black Butterfly held her tainted heart and whispered 'When lilies fade, all is lost And golden dew will never guise the fragrance gone Beneath a silken air, Virgin air.' River rose, I cried While she cherished the wind and made it scream 'Goodnight sweet song, Goodbye.' Sky sank she waited; Watched me praise Demeter in the lavender evening shadow Never knowing, I was vulnerable And she knew When she grasped me, an icy hand, And could not let go. Did she know-- Did she know her soul Could never stand it? Well...that was...stupid. Oh well, I still can't help but like it.

Identifying with Caroline Helstone

Any fan of Charlotte Bronte knows that Shirley is a novel not only about the character for which it is named, but also for Caroline, who, in unusually calm dispair, says the famous line "Half a century of existence may lie before me. How am I to occupy it?" Looking at the text surrounding this statement, I have grown to truly appreciate Caroline and her situation. This text is what follows Caroline's dispairing words:

"I have to live, perhaps, till seventy years. As far as I know, I have good health: half a century of existence may lie before me. How am I to occupy it? What am I to do to fill the intercal of time which spreads between me and the grave?"
She reflected.
"I shall not be married, it appears," she continued. "I suppose, as robert does not care for me, I shall never have a husband to love, nor little children to take care of. Till lately I had rechoned securely on the duties and affections of wife and mother to occupy my existence. I considered, somehow, as a matter of course, that I was growing up to the ordinary destiny, and never troubled myself to seek any other; but now, I perceive plainly, I may have been mistaken. Probably I shall be an old maid. I shall live to see Robert married to some one else, some rich lady: I shall never marry. What was I created for, I wonder? Where is my place in the world?"

Caroline is my favorite charater in this book, and I would love Robert Moore, if he would love her. I feel that many women today can identify with Caroline's predicament, and feel as though no one may comprehend their loneliness and pain. Yet, it was understood over 150 years ago by Miss Bronte! And what made me hopeful was when I learned that Charlotte Bronte was married within the last year of her life. Some may say this is horrible, having only one year being loved, then disappearing, but I take the opposite view: if a person lives in misery and discontent all their life, then finds happiness--wouldn't it be an all consuming joy which would suffice for their entire existence? To be loved at all, truly and simply, is a beautiful way to finish existence. Charlotte Bronte could have died with total and complete happiness in her heart--who could ask for more?

The Waiter: Finalish Draft (the one I have to turn in for a grade, anyway)

I added a scene, then took it out again. Hee hee, oh well. I just made some minor adjustments, mostly grammatical.

"I don't come here often."
I nodded, twirling my fork in the soupy wreckage otherwise known as tortellini. It really didn't matter. I knew he was excusing his poor taste in restaurants, but that wasn't the problem. There was no real problem. Except for me.
He glanced down at his soggy fettuccini alfredo and exhaled a meager sigh. "I'll drive you home."
I shook my head, fiddling with my unused spoon. "No thanks." One cold spoon.
He raised a sparse eyebrow. "It's a long walk."
"I don't mind it." I really didn't. I never mind walking.
He gave a resigned shrug. "See you."
"Yeah." I nodded and looked up into his face. He was one of those people who looked perpetually tired. His brown, practically gray hair was lank and his eyes gave off a faint glimmer, like a light bulb at the end of a long, dank sewer. "See you."
I heard the bells on the door jingle as he left. I grabbed a few sugar supplement packets and opened the first. Splenda. I poured a small amount into my hand tentatively sampled the hard white flakes. They were bittersweet, and I had half a mind to spit them out. Their unpalatable flavor spread over my tongue like a virus, and I quickly downed some water. I do that everywhere: sample the sugar packets at restaurants to see which one's best. Not that I ever use them; real sugar is just fine for me.
The waiter sauntered up to my table. "Mind if I sit? It's my break."
I glanced around the room. Plenty of similar red velvet booths were empty, and this table happened to have a terrible draft. "I don't see why not."
The waiter smiled and sat down across from me, grinning softly. The waiter was definitely Oriental, but his eyes were a hazel green that caught my interest; not what you'd call good looking, but he did have a sort of charm that made me want to stare at him all night.
"That your boyfriend?" the waiter asked, gesturing, unperturbed by my staring, to the door.
I shrugged. "I don't mind him."
The waiter's eyes twinkled. I couldn't look away. "You don't mind him? How romantic." The waiter laughed, leaning forward slightly and closing his eyes. It was a nice laugh. You might call it sincere.
"Well, he's nice, he doesn' mind me-" I couldn't think of anything else.
The waiter chuckled. "Am I nice?"
"Sure."
"Well, I don't mind you. Does that make me your boyfriend?"
I considered that. "I know almost everything about him." The waiter's eyes laughed. "No, really," I explained, "there's not much to know. We've been together for a long time."
The waiter nodded. I could tell he understood. It was just one of those things. "What if you knew everything about Frank Sinatra? Would he be your boyfriend?" I marveled at the perfect seriousness, no sarcasm involved.
I gave that one some thought. "He's dead."
"That's a problem?"
"Maybe. No. It depends."
"It depends?" The waiter's eyes shone.
"It depends on the person he was when he was alive."
The waiter nodded. "That makes sense."
"What's your name?"
"Haven't got one."
"Haven't got one?"
The waiter pointed at his nametag. It was blank. "Haven't got one."
"Sorry."
"Why?"
I wasn't sure. "You're the first person I've met without a name."
The waiter was amused. "Do I seem worse for wear?"
"I guess not."
The waiter glanced at his small black watch. 11:24. "It's almost closing time. I can give you a ride home after I finish cleaning up, if you don't mind waiting."
I didn't mind. I never do.
We made love in his room that night. The waiter was surprisingly gentle. The waiter probably knew it was my first time. Still, it wasn't awkward, like I'd imagined it would be. I'd never cared about the whole virginity thing in the first place, but I'd never gotten around to getting rid enough.
Afterwords I showered and the waiter gave me a ride home.
...

"You've got to understand," my friend told me sheepishly, sipping her black coffee and staring intently into my eyes. Both were habits she'd picked up from the waiter.
I nodded. I knew how easy it was to get caught up in a person.
"The waiter knew too much," she continued fondly, letting her hand stroke the handle of her mug, "I could say anything and he'd understand. Anything." Her eyes cleared for a moment. "I never loved him," she mused, "but I let myself believe I did. We're all able to trick ourselves like that, I think." Another tentative sip. "You know the rest."
I nodded again. I knew that things had gone on like that for months. She would go to the restaurant at 10:30, hang out for an hour, help clean up, go to the waiter's house, have sex, shower and go home. All very methodical, invariable, and according to her, wonderful. Then it just ended.
"Everyone has to wake up from a dream sometime," she told me, "and I got to dream for a long time. I guess I was lucky."
...

"The waiter wasn't at the restaurant one day. Just like that. I asked the hostess if the waiter was sick. She didn't know.
"I was scared. I realized how much I depended on him, on the connection we shared. I know it sounds corney, but I was addicted to him. I ran to his house, but I think part of me knew he wouldn't be there. I couldn't comprehend it. He just disappeared. Gone. It's possible he never existed. Not that I'm crazy. It's just one of those things."
"The door to the waiter's house was unlocked, but it didn't feel like I remembered it. Th waiter's Subaru was gone. I went inside.
"Everything was gone. A bare, cold skeleton of a house was all that was left. I didn't find any of it unnatural though. It just felt like the way life worked. His bedroom was empty too, not that there had been much in it in the first place; the waiter lived like a monk. I walked to the shower as slowly as my feet would let me, running my fingers over the stark walls of his bedroom. I didn't feel a thing maybe it was a dream after all. Maybe I hadn't woken up."
...

"I still don't think I've woken up," she whispered, "I don't think I'll wake up until he comes back." She pulled a small, white rectangle out of her purse. "This is the waiter's nametag," she explained, handing it to me. "You see? Nothing."
I turned the nametag over in my palm. Terrence. "Yeah," I said, handing the nametag back to her, "nothing."
Sometimes people need to keep dreaming.

La Luna, Que Belleza

Ewwwwwwwww....standardized testing is horrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrid.

I realized just now that Doris Day is an cute little woman (upon watching The Ballad of Josie), and a perfectly average actress. But so adorable! She's like a sugar cube or pink frosting with sprinkles. I wonder what it would be like to be her; purely feminine warmth and sweet glances, like a fragrant angel.

It makes me giggle how wonderful people can be. I'd like to be one, really; it would be amazing to be darling. That or to be a kindly senile woman--if I could count on being senile, I'd want to live a long life. I wouldn't be the Arsenic and Old Lace type, necessarily, but I would at least be the Wedding Singer type granny. Hmhmm, that would be nice.

I don't know how to deal with my writing right now. I ave plenty ideas, but I just can't focus, as if my mind decided to play tag and I have to chase it. I wonder if that's considered idiocy or lunacy. Huh, lunacy. I really like that word: it's as if the moon makes you crazy. La luna, que belleza. Mis ojos sonrien para ti. Dulcemente, Carinosamente, perfectamente....Ha ha, Spanish is beautiful to me, even if I do some of the grammatical stuff incorrectly. The moon, what beauty. My eyes smile for you. Sweetly, lovingly, perfectly. I'm in a rambling mood and I'm just not saying anything sensible or useful. Oh well, rambling is nice.

Semi-Screamo Bands Before Wall-e and Unpacking

Yesterday I heard this song in my friend's car, and it made me think. And then I was a little sad.


La Dispute: One

In the last quarter of the twentieth century
much of the world sat on the edge of an increasingly expensive theater seat
waiting for something momentous to occur.
Christian aficionados of the Second Coming scenario were convinced that,
after two thousand years, the other shoe was about to drop.
And five of the era's best-known psychics predicted
that Atlantis would soon reemerge from the depths.
To this last, Princess Leigh-Cheri responded,
"There are three lost continents: we are one: the lovers.
"In whatever esteem on might hold Princess Leigh-Cheri's thoughts, one must agree
that the last quarter of the twentieth century was a severe period for lovers.
It was a time a time when romantic relationships took on the character of ice in spring,
stranding many little children on jagged and inhospitable floes.
Nobody quite knew what to make of the moon anymore. Consider a certain night in August.
The moon was so bloated it was about to tip over.
For more than an hour, Leigh-Cheri stared into the sky. "Does the moon have a purpose?" She inquired.
The same query put to the Remington SL3 elicited this response:
Albert Camus wrote that the only serious question
is whether to kill yourself or not.
Tom Robbins wrote that the only serious question
is whether time has a beginning and an end.
Camus clearly got up on the wrong side of bed,
and Robbins must have forgotten to set the alarm.
There is only one serious question. And that is:
Who knows how to make love stay?
Answer me that and I will tell you whether or not to kill yourself.
Answer me that and I will ease your mind about the beginning and end of time,
Answer me that and I will reveal to you the purpose of the moon.