I hate it when people criticize things. Even if I agree with them. Especially if the person they're criticizing is not there to defend themselves. But it's not always. It's just if it's done in a certain way. It sounds like arguing to me sometimes. And I always feel like I have to defend. When we left the poetry slam and my parents started complaining about the judges I got all bristly and annoyed. I told them that I had a good night and didn't want to complain, or hear them complain. But it wasn't just that I'd had a good night. It's just that Their brand of complaints pissed me off. Even though earlier that week I had been complaining about the same thing to the kids in the poetry thing.
A lot of times complaining turns into arguments. If I disagree with what they complain about I can do three things. 1. Agree and bitch 2. disagree 3. Stay silent.
Now if I choose options 2 or 3 especially with family it tends to turn into a "I'm right you're wrong" type of fight that nobody can win and only seem to end when I apologize even if I don't feel like I have done anything wrong. Very frustrating. But if it's something I actually disagree with I have a hard time agreeing. Or if I start to disagree and then they offer some point or fact and my mind changes I find it terribly impossible to back down. It's frustrating.
Yesterday me and my dad had a small fight that ended with him trying to resolve the thing. I saw no end in sight and lot's more yelling and tense, unpleasent silences so.... He told me I was being close-minded and I agreed. Fine, I'm close-minded about this aspect. Now, DROP IT. The thing is, I don't think he would have if we hadn't been meeting up with Scott and Ashley right hten.
This is poetry season. And i want somebody to write poetry to about this is poetry season and everybodys in love everybodys laughing and smiling and happy and i want somebody to write poetry for i want to note in clever similes your hair is like gold when the sun shines upon it i want to write lines about your face the way it curves or the angles it holds your smile the look you give me or go on and on and on about your eyes the way the shine ' or that their color is so bright.... so green or brown or blue that i could look into them and be lost in the depths or see straight through you look at you and know exactley who you are this is poetry season the season of love the season of happyloveflowers in the air and i want to write poetry for you but i guess i have to find you first
They called him the tassel king. He used to on a motorcycle with tassels all over it. On the handlebars on the sides on his helmet. He loved that motorcycle more than anything...except his wife and she felt the competition. One day she asked him to choose. Well, he chose her, but he kept the tassels. And when he traded in his motorcycle for a mini-van, he stuck them all over it and kept his title as 'tassel king'
Tough she said 'trust is essential' and held her relationship up as prime example she never really put much trust in him. She constantly wondered where he was when he said he was at work. Where he really went when he grabbed the keys and ran out the door shouting something about needing milk. But waht she wondered most was where he went in the middle of the night when he crawled out the window and down the fire escape.
Cody Bellman, Authoress extraordinaire, loves you. Why? you ask. Because at this very moment you are holding her book. You may be considering buying it. You may be considering burning it. But at least you are considering it. Cody grew up on the streets of new york city, the beaches of cali, and the heart of america texa itself. She now lives wherever the wind and the trains she hops will take her. She is making no money off her works nor does she cae of copyright laws. she loves it this way.
It was a dark and stormy night and Pirate was staring out the window with a kind of longing. He really wanted to be out on the open sea with a crew all his own battling the winds. Instead he was stuck here, in a boarding school for orphans and runaways. He wasn't a runaway and he doubted he was even an orphan, never knowing his father. Glancing at his pocketwatch he noticed the time was 4:35 in the morning. He really should be sleeping because in precisley one hour and fifty-five minutes the schools alarm system would ring and he would have to shuffle off to breakfast and pretend to be grateful for the slop the school dished out. Until the he figured he would be sitting in his bunk wondering what being on the open waters would actually be like. Six Thirty however found pirate fast asleep dreaming about standing among his crew shouting 'Row row row'. The sharp bell awoke him witha start, and nearly falling off his bunk, swearing profusley. He slinked out of bed grabbing his freshly cleaned, if obnoxiously scratchy, clothing and headed towards the bathroom. He passed a few of the guys in his dorm sitting on the edges of their beds rubbing the sleep fromtheir eyes. Others, early birds, were already dressing in the room. One of the new boys, a guy named Jeph shouted to pirate. " Hey man, why do ya change in there?" Pirate smirked replying "Honey, this show's not free." To which Jeph turned a light shade of pink and muttered, "Like I'd want to see your skinny ass anyways." A lame response that didn't fool anybody paying attention.
This is the first installation of my nanowrimo. It is in no way a completed chapter and it probably sucks.
A person who has had significant influence over me is Orson Scott Card. Perhaps you've heard of him. He's written many novels and short stories including the popular Alvin the maker series and the Enders game series. Sitting on my bookshelf in a neat row are twelve of his novels almost all books that I have read and loved. The thing about his novels is that, when you're reading it you're thouroghly caught up in the story he weaves. Not all that unusual for an accomplished author, but it's almost a shock to finish the novel and find myself in my bedroom again, I’m that caught up. When the novel is finished and I'm back in my room thinking about the story, I can't help but find a hidden meaning. Somehting that when I see it I’m certain was something he wanted to show us. Take for example his novel Treason. The people of smith have become so in tuned with the earth that they feel every pain that it does. And that right there is amazing to me. That he’s trying to tell us that the earth has feelings, it’s not just some chunk of dirt that we live on and disregard carelessly. But then Orson Scott continues. He presents us with a character, Lanik Mueller, rightful heir to the Mueller throne, kicked out of his country and birthright because of a genetic defect. When Lanik stumbles along the country of smith they take care of him and teach him how to hear the earth. They even go so far as to change his genetics, fix his mutation and make him more like him, he can now photosynthesize. The need to hurt the earth in any way is now gone. What Lanik learns from this though comes later, that we have to hurt the earth to survive. Have to rip sones from the earth to plant food that we will also rip from the earth, it just has to be done. In this one novel alone there is a million life altering points of view. Things that say with straining voices ‘Look at it this way…doesn’t that make sense?’ and all that it can hope for is for you to nod and whisper ‘yeah, I suppose it does’. Orson Scott Card has not only pointed out different ways for me to see the world, but has shown me a new way to write. You have to be subtle. You have to put things in your writing that takes a bit more looking to see. I want to write words that weave into your mind, make you forget where you are and then finish re-depositing you at your desk, bedroom, or kitchen table. But mostly I want to write something that makes you think, makes you wonder and imagine. That’s the kind of author I want to be and Orson Scott Card is a very strong influence on why I do want that.
This past weekend was one of astounding amazing-ness. I went to a punk show at somebodys house that started 2 and a half hours late. I didn't lose my shoes or scarf and the band was amazing. Then I went back to gynelles house and fell asleep while she stayed awake til 2 talking to yakov. I went back to my house around 12:30 and my mom was sick. She went to the hospital while me and Gynelle took some of my stuff to the new house. Then she went home and I pretended to do some homework. Mom came back, she's better now. At 10-ish we went to denny's and did some art. Beautiful, Hilarious, Random art. Then me Gynelle and Robert went to the hamburg house (after breaking into the A2 house to get the key. The next day we went back to Ann Arbor and I traveled Back to Hamburg to help my parent move. We had long angry discussions about the landlord. Our house might have black mold , woot. Got back home at 6-ish and fought sleep until 10. An Amazing weekend.
This november I am participating in NaNoWriMo. All that stands for 'National novel writing month'. The site is nanowrimo.org. It's an awesome idea. You start, pretty much from scratch, a story on november first. By november 30th it should be a novel of at least 50,000 words. Actually not that long for a novel. My story....will suck....but that's not the point. The point is that I will actually be able to say I've written a novel. This is something I've always wanted to do and now I have the encouragement. I will be posting updates here regularly come november and hopefully reach my mark with something slightly better than shit. It'll be awesome, It'll be frustrating, It's proably going to make me cry....but I'll love it. So, i calculated, it's about 1666 words a day, unless my math is off, which it quite possibly is. Current worde count 0. That will stay the same until november first, wish me luck.