Poem

There are moments
In life
When a veil, hardly noticed before, is removed from my eyes and I am allowed to see.
Really see.
And I know that what I am seeing is not of this earth.
Not man-made.
In these moments
I am looking into the face of God.

First Sight
Watching Garrett Sherwood
Strumming and playing away
Made time pause and say
"Stop. Look."
I looked and watched as this man was transported into a new realm
By his music.
It was the tears of "Bring Him Home"
The beautiful ache of "La Vie en Rose"
And the goosebumps of "The Music of the Night"
All rolled into one.

Second Sight
Talking with my sister
Also made time stop
And I could see
The fire in her eyes
Consume her.

Third Sight
Our Town.
Our Town, Our Town, Our Town.
The one that set everyone, and everything, on fire.
"Do any human beings realize life as they live it? Every, every minute?"
Thornton Wilder had snatched the veil from my eyes
And refused to give it back.

Music.
Theater.
Flurries of passion.
Moments of sight.
All I can do is stand
And breathe
And wonder.

Funeral Story

First things first: this is a story. It is not true. The main character does not in any way symbolize me. For one thing, he's a guy. I am not a guy. Get it? Good.

The absolute worst part about Mom dying is this viewing. For the better part of two hours, I’ve been standing in a corner next to Dad, Grandma, and Grandpa in some sick sort of reception line as person after grim faced person passes. Those who speak have absolutely meaningless, empty things to say. Things that comfort them rather than me, and make them feel like a compassionate and shining saint. Things like “I am so sorry for your loss” or “I know that she’s happier now”. Or that ever asinine question “How do you feel?” I never answer this query. I stare the person down, let them think about what they just asked me. I watch them blink and blush, then give a flustered apology and hurry away. Out of all the people here that I hate, the ones who ask that question take the cake. My cousins could give them a run for their money, though. The awkward ones who are dragged over by their parents and forced to stand before me, looking at the ceiling, their shoes, out the window, anywhere but my eyes or inside the casket...it takes all my energy to keep myself from punching every one of them in the face. One cousin took me by surprise, however. After a full five minutes of uncomfortable silence and a staring contest with her fingernails, this girl charged me down and threw her arms around my neck in a chokehold. My body stiffened at this attack, arms welded soundly to my sides. After a tense three or four seconds, she backed off. Our eyes met. She blushed, then whipped around and sped off after her overly distraught mother, whose sobbing was shaking plaster from the walls. I swear she was in such a hurry, she left skid marks on that floor.

I don’t know how much longer I can take this. My tie is slowly constricting around my throat, cutting off my air supply. Making it impossible to scream. I want to. Long and loud until I pass out and don’t have to feel or think anymore. I want an end, I want nothing.

I’m on the floor. How’d I get on the floor? It’s cold, it’s so cold...and my knees hurt. What’s that noise? There’s a strange ripping sound, unlike anything I’ve ever heard before...hands. Hands everywhere. Someone’s talking. “Here, I’ll take him. Let me take him.” All the hands disappear, except one on my hand. Soft and cool. Lips near my ear. Light breathing. A whispered, “Come with me.” This voice is female. It’s low enough to be a male’s, but it is most definitely female. I’ve never heard this voice in my life. I am intoxicated by it. Maybe this is the reason I get to my feet and follow this woman, this woman with the strange voice. It’s not until I’m being led slowly away that I realize the sound I’d heard earlier, the ripping, was coming from me. I’m crying. Blubbering like a baby. And I don’t care. My sobs continue as we travel down several dark hallways, this woman and me. We stop at a sofa. She releases my hand for a moment to sit, then gestures that I should do the same. Before I know what’s happening, I’m sprawled across the sofa, my head buried in the woman’s lap, and I’m shaking all over and sobbing loud enough to wake the dead. The woman doesn’t hush me or tell me “It’s ok, it’s alright...” As a matter of fact, she doesn’t say anything at all. She just lets me soil her dress with my tears, all the while combing her fingers through my hair or tracing patterns along the pinstripe of my suit with her fingers. This should all be very strange to me. I acknowledge this as I shudder and sniff childishly into the skirt that has become my handkerchief. But somehow...it feels very natural, and I’m far from bothered by what is happening.

When my sobs eventually give way to occasional gasps, and the awful shudders become tremors in my hands, I sit up and take a look at the woman whose skirt I have just ruined. My breath catches in my throat. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Her skin is as white as paper, and as delicate looking as porcelain. Her hair is the blackest I’ve ever seen, and cropped short, ending at her chin. Her eyes are a deep, deep blue. Practically navy. Her dress matches her eyes precisely. Her feet are bare, and it’s not until I see her feet that I notice a certain...glow emanating from her. Very faint, like a night light, but still distinct and there, shining through her skin. I am frightened by this. Am I insane? Is it a trick of the light? It is absolutely impossible to tell.

After several minutes of simply studying her, mouth agape and everything, I realize something. She has been looking at me in very much the same way I’ve been looking at her. Full of wonder and interest, as if she’s never seen anything like me before. She reaches out and runs her fingers along the lines of my brow, where it is crinkled from confusion and intrigue. I open my mouth to ask who she is...but at the last moment, Mom pops into my head. And I can’t help it. Story after story, memory after memory, comes tumbling out in an avalanche of words and emotions that I am suddenly too small to contain. I don’t know how much time passes. It could be minutes, it could be hours. It could even be days, I cannot tell. The beautiful strange woman doesn’t speak or appear to loose interest. She nods and smiles and laughs. I love her laugh. I found myself searching for more funny memories in the outpouring to share, simply to hear her laugh again. It is like music. Beautiful, tinkling music. I’d do anything to hear that laugh. Die, even. I’m certain of it.

I’ve been speaking for so long I cannot speak anymore. And suddenly I feel exhausted, as if I’ve been running for miles. I’m fighting tooth and nail to keep my eyes open. The woman takes my head and her hands and guides it to her shoulder, and holds it there, stroking my hair again. I’m drifting now, I know it. I fight to keep awake. There’s something important I have to ask her. “Are you...are you an angel?” Now that I’ve asked it, it seems childish. I wish I could take it back, but it’s too late. The question has been released into the atmosphere and demands an answer. I wait expectantly. But she only laughs.

I fall into a dreamless sleep. When I awake, the beautiful woman is gone. There is absolutely no evidence of her being there. I look out the window. It is pitch black. Dad must be wondering where I am. I rise to my feet and leave.

Decleration of Stupendence!

We the people of the Laura Chapman Restoration and Refurbishment co. in order to form a more perfect Laura, do desist trying to sound like the US Constitution and proceed with our demands already.

We demand the following:

Article 1: That Laura resurrect this blog, and keep it in ship shape and up to snuff. It has been horribly neglected, and we believe Laura has forsaken it purposefully. Why? Because she is afraid. Of what? We do not know. All we know is that her 14 year old self would be horribly ashamed to see her 16 year old self let her precious blog (and writing skills) fall into horrible disrepair. This abominable slothfulness must be eradicated posthaste.

Article 2 (that bears a small, cousin-like resemblance to Article 1): That she write in her journal every day. Shall her posterity have no record to show just how awesome the loins from which they came are?
...ew. Just kidding. We just believe that there are certain effing awesome experiences and thoughts and conversations that have long since been forgotten because our client failed to write them down. This cannot proceed.

Article 3: That she be kinder to people. She has ever so slowly evolved into a prideful prejudiced priggish pig. Shall she fail to evolve back into a human being (accepting and loving of everyone), this prideful prejudiced priggish pig shall be butchered into bacon, boiled, and ballooned to babbling baboons in Bangkok, if they can stomach the swine.

Article 4: That she use less alliterations....ugh.

Article 5: That she open up herself to trying new things. Food, music, exercise, waxing her legs, whatever. Saying "yes" more often may help.

Article 6: That she learn to be grateful. Less whining about her present situation or what she wants, more appreciating what she's got.

Article 7: That she look for the positive, even when frolicking through fields of negative. (Well, if she's frolicking, she'd be off to a good start already, wouldn't she?)

Article 8: That she not promptly ignore everything said in this document, which would be counter-productive and a waste of our time. And would give cause to enact the said consequence in Article 3! So maybe she should, after all. We loove bacon here at the firm. Bacon, bacon, bacon...

This concludes our presentation.
Now, go eat some bacon.
Amen.

Word Beyond Measure is Man's Greatest Treasure

Snelgrove: [referring to The Count of Monte Cristo] So, then we find out that Madame Danglars and Lucien are LOVERS!

Class catcalls and "Oooh"s.

Kid: Wait, isn't Lucien the one who does Madame Danglars' stocks?

Snelgrove: That's one way of putting it.

The class sits in absolute silence for about three seconds, stunned. Then the entire room is erupts into laughter, while Snelgrove's jaw drops and his face grows red.


Snelgrove: (Grabs textbook on desk, closes it, then points at it) THAT is a closed book!!

On me mind...

The Top Fifteen Films Extravaganza

The challenge: List the top fifteen movies that have influenced and "stuck with you" over the years.
Sounds simple, right?
Ooooh no. -chuckles- Naive child.
This must be done without looking at your shelves and/or lists of any kind.
MWAHAHAHA! Ok here goes.

In no particular order...

1. Finding Neverland
2. Julie and Julia
3. Breakfast at Tiffany's
4. An Affair to Remember
5. Pride and Prejudice
6. The Princess Bride
7. Singin' in the Rain
8. My Big Fat Greek Wedding
9. The Hobart Shakespeareans
10. Annie
11. What's Up Doc?
12. Sense and Sensibility
13. Dan in Real Life
14. Jane Eyre
15. Sabrina

Awlright, awlright! Not bad! Not bad at all. I only had to cheat on one! Or two...orfour. But what do numbers even mean nowadays?

A Formidable and Chivalrous "Expository" Essay

This just goes to show what will undoubtably happen when I am asked to write an expository essay about an emotional experience from my past. Haha.


I am a knight. I have been since age eight. Or nine. My memory is hazy. That's what becoming a knight does to you. Once that sacred sword makes contact with your being, symbolizing your advancement from peasanthood to knighthood, recalling things as trivial as dates becomes obsolete. However, the memory of my very first knighting is so vivid, so vibrant, so emotion-fused , that I could not forget it, not even if aliens beamed down and attempted to pry it from my large and tremendous mind. Would you like me to recall the occasion for you? You would? Spiffing. This is a wondrous tale that you shan't soon forget.

Before I begin my tale, I have some 'splainin' to do. The kingdom I resided in at the time of my knighting was the great and spacious Texas. Within Texas is a small hamlet in which is a very fine school for young peasants. At said establishment, all us younglings were commanded by our Queen, Principal Fezziwig, to live the value of the month, so that at the end of said month, we may be eligible for the honor of being knighted.

Alright, I’m going to switch dialogues here. Now, I know that this all sounds fictional and somewhat ludicrous...but I am far from kidding. Everything I’ve said so far is completely factual. Except the bit about Principal Fezziwig. The name was, indeed, procured from A Christmas Carol. I used the name for one of two reasons. One: I can’t remember the Principal’s name (see paragraph one) and two: because I love the name Fezziwig and desperately wish that it was the nameless Principal’s name. But wishing gets me nowhere. Telling the rest of the story, however, might.

Dialogue switch. The value of the month, the value which led to my knighting, was that of tolerance. I was the one doing the tolerating. I was not the scum that was to be tolerated. My toleration was apparently so impressive that my elders supposed that it was high time that I be promoted from meager peasant to shiny knight. On the day of the knighting, the air was buzzing with such excitement that it was almost tangible. I felt that if I could take a bite out of the air, the taste would be the taste of...victory. I had somehow discovered, with the knightly powers I was about to attain, no doubt, that this was my day. I sat down upon the cold tile before the stage with my peers. I was one of them, yet above them. I glanced around, and saw my parents standing in the back of the chamber, their eyes aglow, beaming smiles, video cameras in hand. Yet further evidence of what was to come. I smiled to myself, and glanced around at the sea of inferiors surrounding me. Ha! Then, quite suddenly, the time had come. The names of those who were to be knighted were read. I heard my named called. Pleased, but not at all surprised, I rose to my feet, and took a step towards my destiny. As I did so, I glanced around, and saw all the little peasants whose names had not been read weep with envy. It was a miraculous thing to behold. I mounted the stage, smiled at the appointed knighter, kneeled, bowed my head, and was born again. My new life had begun. The life...of knighthood.

Dialogue switch. Again, this all sounds like a preposterous falsehood, I know. But honestly. This school was big on chivalry. A knight was our mascot. Every month, a sweaty man with a mullet showed up in fifty pounds of glistening armor, names were read, five year olds were told to kneel before him and stay still while he tapped a terrifyingly real looking sword to both shoulders. Then they were handed a medal and a coupon to McDonalds and sent home. It was a fantastic, albeit creepy system to get children to behave. And it was a incredibly potent emotional experience for all. Hence this essay.