You Could Care Less?

Aw, that's sweet of you...
You must care at least a little if you're able to take it back.

--I'm sorry?
You meant to convey that the specified circumstance means nothing to you?

Ohhh.
You were searching for but failed to use the popular exclamation, 'I COULDN'T care less.'

I understand now...

To Feel Alive

My life is changing.

***

My music and words
and your words
and their words
and books
and Bible
the people and places and things
and ideas
the actions
the tears and smiles
the laughter.

My life is changing...

You are changing my life.

Everything and Everyone I have ever known,
...is changing my life.
I am seeing more than I ever could have,
relying on more than I ever would have,
thinking of more than I ever should have.

My feet are on the ground
while my head's in the clouds,
my eyes are on your lips
while my ears tune to Dave
humming, humming...

I don't know what to feel
because I feel more than I know how to.
I don't want to choose.
I am going to live it all.

No worries--
I know what I live for
I know what I love for
I know what I learn for
and yearn for

I know where you are.
I know where you'll be.
I know where I'll be
when you want to find me.

I know where I'll cry
when you forget where we've been,
I know who I'll listen to
when I can no longer trust myself.

I know how to feel
but not how to say,
I know who to need
but not who to leave,
I knew when to look away
but not when to forgive...
forgive and forget.

I know how to sing
to myself in the dark
I know how to dance
in the shower
I know how to overuse
people
and places
and things
and ideas.

I know how to give myself too much credit,
and I know how to leave the doubt behind.

I know what it is
to feel alive.

Po-et-ry

"And what do you like to do, Lucy?"
"I like to write."
"Ah, what do you write?"
"Poetry."

Though not quite so bland and straightforward, this exchange, in some form, has worked its way into many recent conversations. After explaining to the asker (and, perhaps, to myself), "I write poetry because [fill-in-the-blank]," I found myself wondering if I do, in fact, write poetry. What is poetry? Do I give myself too much credit in labeling every stanzaed work a poem?

Who might know the answer to this question? Why, Mr. Webster, of course.

po-et-ry (n.): 1. a: Metrical writing. b: The productions of a poet. 2: Writing that formulates a concentrated, imaginative awareness of experience in language chosen and arranged to create a specific emotional response through meaning, sound, and rhythm. 3: Something likened to poetry especially in beauty of expression.

After discovering this, I can identify with the second choice. I write with language meant to convey an emotional response. On occasion, it is concentrated and imaginative... but does this alone constitute 'productions of a poet'? Pray tell, Mr. Webster.

po-et (n.): 1: One who writes poems; a maker of verses. 2: One (as a creative artist) of great imaginative and expressive capabilities and special sensitivity to the medium.

So far, so good. Dare I inquire further?

po-em (n.): 1: A composition in verse. 2: Something suggesting a poem (as in expressiveness, lyricism, or formal grace).

The term 'poetry' is rather subjective, as I should have known - Mr. Webster always has the hardest time with abstract nouns (he offers nine options for the word 'love', to little avail). I consider my musings poetry partly by default, but partly by personal opinion. Ultimately, the label stays.

Jaded

I must expect too much from people.

The World Is Up to Me

I don't think I've ever told anybody this: I have a deep-seated yearning to impact the world. By impact I mean influence, leave a mark, change...all that. I'm not yet sure how, where, when, or even if I will. I feel as though I must. Unbeknownst to me until recently, changing the world feels to be more of a responsibility than a goal.


While this goal may be common, I don't think it universal, and saw this here blog as a worthy forum for future updates. They may be few and far between, but I'm starting early, relatively, and I beleve that if I make the right choices, remain diligent, responsible, courageous, hopeful and close to God, I can *cue cliché* do anything. Anything within my abilities, of course (and, I suppose, the abilities of the people I am able to reach).

Post (my)Secret

Thanks to Stephen and H, PostSecret now defines my Sunday mornings. I read every week and marvel at the contributors' vulnerability and creativity. Some make me smile, some make me think, and some cause despair. Secrets come in all sizes.

Last night, I sat for a good twenty minutes hoping to formulate the many secrets I know I have. Once I started, I couldn't stop. I found my souvenir postcards and went wild. I ripped off the cover of my Spanish to English Dictionary because I couldn't find another worthy medium. I ended up with four, proud secrets.

PostSecret "judges", if you will, go through thousands a day, I'm sure. Yet the comfort in mailing my secrets to a willing reader is immense. I wonder the reactions of my mail lady...how many has she seen? Will she begin to think of her own secrets? This is a marvelous operation.

I now visit PostSecret as a potential contributor. Even if these don't make it, they are no longer secrets. They don't need to be shared with the important people in my life, do they? A stranger will do just fine. It feels really, really good.

(This post would have been loaded with links, but my "insert link" thingy is temperamental. Visit the Link List to the left, if you wish.)

I Need A Hero

Inspired (as they often are) by Stephen's latest post.

I am strong and broken.
I am independent, but don't understand why people leave.
I've created a best friend out of many people.
Is it okay to take what I like and overlook the rest? I suppose not.
Is it acceptable to expect this one person to be, at some point, a package deal?
I realize my own flaws through the judgement of others'.
I am honest to the point of brutality.
I am fragile and try to hide it.
I think too highly of myself and my opinions.
I expect others to reach those conclusions.
..This isn't smart. But that's not what I'm concerned with, at the moment.
I want to breathe freely.
I want to be an innocent bystander
fists unclenched.
I want to rely on God completely.
I want to know this will be sufficient for the rest of my life.
Yeah, I'd like an earthly hero. Those impossible heroes.
I don't want to be my own hero. I am no hero.

I Didn't Really Want That...

I find it interesting, the things I convince myself I need...be it an object or person.

And when that/they are taken away, I am able to live without them, only by convincing myself that I can't have it. I can't be with them/own that object; I am not allowed.

This is a tough mindset to put myself in. I have focused so much energy on needing it, desiring it, only to find the energy wasted. The rebuilding of my desires is no easy task...but I hate wasting time on undeserving people. I don't deem them undeserving, they do. The worst part follows: my slight (or not-so-slight) obsession with "what's not good for me" affects the judgement of my character. Perhaps that is why my thoughts are so closed off.

So. All of a sudden, this thing is no longer forbidden. And I have no concrete reason to put it in the back of my mind...it floats right to the top. Now deserving, now accesible. Though that is what I knew I needed, I was mistaken. The rebuilding of desires begins yet again. And I didn't really want that. I'm back where I started.

A Combo of Sorts

As of today 35 people have died beknownst to me, including the VA Tech tragedy. The others were a student, a mother, and an uncle. I understand that death is part of life and happens every day. Why so close all of a sudden? Why so related to me and people I know? I don't think I overreact when I say it's been a spooky week.
...

I have links on my three most respected blogs! This makes me very happy as writing is a recent thing for me, and the "impact" is unsuspected. Thank you all.

Jad, Flenker, Stephen, and Matt now have their own playlists. Considering Jad doesn't know I exist, well...hah. I'll think up a good comment to leave ASAP.
...

Drumline practice today included drums and tracking. That's marching, for all you non-bandos. I got the chance to play bass and snare. I'm glad I did since I doubt I'll be behind a snare's carrier ever again.

Something I may not have shared: I love band. There is nothing like being part of a great line..listening to the synchronicity, letting every roll flow, feeling the tempo in my heels. Ah.

For all of the smirks this screen is receiving right now: that's okay. I embrace the geekiness.

We Miss You Both

Philip Silverman, a member of our senior class, died this morning. At around 3:00 A.M. his friend fell asleep at the wheel. The driver and a third friend have been in intensive care.

The student body seemed in a daze. At some point I stopped asking the tear-stained faces if they knew Philip. Does it really matter? I didn't know him. It is so upsetting how many people a person can meet posthumously.

How many times the story of the accident was retold, I can't count. "A.J. was driving, Jimmy was in the back. Philip's dead." Dead. Dead? Really? He's eighteen. He knew people I know! He's not ever coming back? They won't ever be the same? They will have to live without him for the rest of their lives...

This is the problem death presents to me. Dr. House, my reigning favorite on-air diagnostician, stated that everyone would cry like a baby when told of their imminent death. I am not afraid to die. I will admit I am afraid of some routes that could take me there, but I am not afraid of being dead. I am afraid of who will live without me. I am terrified of living my life without those people. I want to outlive everyone I love.

I hate impossible needs.

The cynical side of me, or the realist, finds this and wonders who it will be. Who will die in my graduating class? Whose death will shake the school, as well as my life? I don't want to think about it. I can't help it. I have felt as if tragedy is impending for some time now. I am hoping to train myself to cope with it, when it comes. How ignorant is that? I can't ever know. I just can't ever know. I would rather not ever know. But...see above.

I apologize for my rambling, and the unoriginality of this topic. It's been a long, hard day.

Rest in peace, Philip. Not to mention Kurt Vonnegut... We miss you both.

Lennon

dear writer
symbol to mankind

i wish to have known
you and your truth

what there was of it
anyways

..I found it

Thank you, Kurt Cobain