Weblog

Monday, 01 February 2010

  • Lingering

     

    I wait,
    casually,
    as though I'm not even waiting at all.
    Shuffling papers, or
    going through my purse, or
    pretending to look at my phone, or
    cleaning my glasses.
    Silent explanations
    for why I am still there, lingering.
     
    I look,
    ernestly,
    for little reasons to talk to you.
    Trifling questions, or
    small reminders, or
    something to make you laugh, or
    things that barely pertain to you at all.
    Lighthearted remedy
    for spaces both empty and lingering.
     
    I leave,
    regretfully,
    wishing for a catch and not a fumble.
    When I don't get to talk to you, or
    I say something silly, or
    you don't ask for my number, or
    what I'm doing this weekend, again.
    Doubts and daydreams
    both begging to know if I should stay; lingering.

Monday, 18 January 2010

  • scribblings


    I read a lot. I always have. But I'm not an especially fast reader. I prefer to take my time, rereading passages so I become immersed in the descriptions, finding myself in the world between the words. My sister on the other hand has always devoured books. She swallows them in long sessions of rapid page turning. As a little girl I was sometimes envious of this. She is my little sister, yet she would get ahead of me, reading things I hadn't yet gotten to and sometimes waiting for me to finish a book she wanted to consume. Yet I learned to become happy with my pace. Some books are easy to fly through, but others I think should be savored. I prefer the savoring.

    When I was little my Mom would read aloud to my siblings and I. I grew up hearing and reading such fare as The Little House books, The Chronicles Of Narnia, The Borrowers, The Betsy-Tacy Books, and loving authors such as Lloyd Alexander, Frances Hodgson Burnett, J.R.R. Tolkien, Patricia McLauchlan and many others. Often though my Mom would read to us books that went along with what we were studying in school. We didn't just read fiction; I thrilled at hearing Endurance, the story of Shackleton and his crew's incredible voyage and survival in the atlantic, Carry On Mr. Bowditch, and others which, when I see them on the shelves, are like dear friends; much loved, and with much more love to give when I sit down to reread them as I surely plan to do.

    On time I was told that I was like the Meg Ryan character in the movie "You've Got Mail". I was told that I tended to dress somewhat like her, say things like her, and read like her. I laughed at this, then realized, and said out loud, "Actually, I have read The Shoe Books." If you know the movie you will understand. I am also happy to say that Skating Shoes is now back in print.

    Reading is a love of mine. Some of my favorite conversations center around books. Writing is inexplicably linked to my being (see? I say and write strange things like that, but I mean it and can't help it); I'll be going along, doing normal everything things, and in my head I'm writing an account of what is going on, narrating it as if I were trying to make it come alive on a page, making it interesting for some unknown reader. I love descriptions and am probably too flowery at times. I tend to be poetic, but I think it comes with the territory of having a name like Sonnet, so what can I say? I was born to be this way.

    I so hope that my future husband shares this love with me. More than someone who can perhaps appreciate books and writing, I quietly long for someone who also writes, who also savors books, and with whom I can share the narratives playing inside my head, and be given something similar in return.


    I'm not sure how this scribbling on books and writing came around to end with thoughts on my as-yet-unknown future husband. I guess it all plays into the narrative in my head, and how one thing connects to another in subtle and curious ways. If it's only interesting for me to read, I'm fine with that. Writing is an outlet as much as it is an expression. What about for you?


Thursday, 07 January 2010

  • Currently
    Where the Wild Things Are [Theatrical Release]
    By Forest Whitaker, Catherine Keener
    see related

    Inventive, whimsical, and frightening


      I found myself with an unexpected free night, so on a whim I went to see "Where The Wild Things Are" at the dollar theater. I had heard so many things about it - how it perfectly brought the book to life, how it showed many raw emotions of childhood, and was overall a movie that was remarkable in it's uniqueness. I settled down into my seat, but when the credits rolled I found that I was disappointed. The film was much darker than I had expected. No family fare here; it was a children's film for adults, or at least aimed more towards an older crowd. I had expected scenes with inviting colors; a land from a child's vivid imagination. Instead the landscape and creatures were all varying shades of brown and grey. Yet when I recall the book I can consent that they probably kept the colors of the film true to the original illustrations.

       What caught me off guard though was the intense, frightening moments. The film portrayed fear, loneliness, abandonment, and brokenness that grasps children in small things but is ever leering in the shadows as adults. Funny-looking, bumbling Wild Things were bearers of such emotions, exemplifying and magnifying what the little boy - Max - felt. It was clever, but it was also dark and frightening. The Wild Things punched holes in trees and put themselves and others down. They argued and fought, and threatened to eat Max, and he in his childish way tried to calm them and make everything right. The Wild Things wanted the audience to both laugh at them and empathize with them. I love the concept, but the heaviness throughout the movie outweighed - for me - that of the attempted message. Even the fort they built - a colossal structure of woven branches that rose in whimsical twists and boasted an underground tunnel - was beautiful but too much for a child. It seemed intimidating. When one of the Wild Things pulled another one's arm off I was squirming in my seat, even with the air of humor and lightness they portrayed: "That was my favorite arm!" the hurt Wild Thing complains. The next few scenes showed the hurt Wild Thing with a twig in place of his missing limb. I found it painful instead of amusing.

    I left the theater not knowing quite how I felt about the movie. It was definitely different and inventive. What was perhaps most different about the film was that it left a lot of loose ends. It didn't wrap the ending up in a pretty bow, as expected from a movie derived from a children's book. The Wild Things are left only slightly less confused as before, waving goodbye to Max, their short-time king, two of them giving much-longed-for hugs, but with looks overall on their faces as though they have no idea what they will do when Max's boat sails out of sight. Back in the real world, Max is hugged by his worried mother, who looks on him with love as he eats his dinner, but never does his sister show up for a needed reconciliation. Then again, the book itself has Max sail away from the Wild Things almost haughtily, returning to his own bed and his own dinner which is provided by his unseen parents. There is no real lesson learned, and therefore no reconciliation or cozy wrap-up, in the short children's book.

    In all, it was a creative effort, but it won't be a favorite for me. It left me wishing that the Wild Things had found without a doubt the happiness and security they so craved. It left me wanting to paint bright colors in a world of brown and grey. But then again, if the longing for such things can stir one to make a difference, and help others find happiness and security, pushing back the wild feelings of fear and loneliness, then I can accept that as a good point for a movie different from one I've ever seen before.

Monday, 14 December 2009

  • life or something more like it



    The memorable moment came when I was sitting on a scratchy bale of hale, surrounded mostly by strangers. I had been stomach-growling hungry since about 6:00 pm, and it was now close to 9:00. I was cold; my canvas coat was not enough warmth in the winter night, and I had forgotten both hat and gloves, though my brother had kindly lent me a pair of his biking gloves. I and about twenty other people had climbed up onto a long trailer bed and seated ourselves close together on hay bales. My brother sat across from me. My friend Ben drove the truck. Erin and Sydney (I just met her that afternoon on the drive up) were somewhere in the mix. A guy whose jet black hair and subtle use of eye-liner unfortunately reminded me of Adam Lambert struck up a brief conversation with me. Then the trailer began to move, making a loud scraping/clanking sound from a chain dragging on asphalt. We began to sing Christmas carols, our voices rising above that of the annoying chain. I found that Sydney and I have voices that match well together.

    We drove to a pre-decided street, then clambered out of the trailer. We got together in groups of six or so and went door to door, knocking, singing, talking to people, giving out Christmas gifts and praying with them. At first we had only a vague idea of what we were doing, then we fell into something of a routine. Sometimes we would knock and sing and no one would come to the door. But mostly the doors were opened, and we would inquire as to the number and ages of kids in the home, if any, and while half our group would stay and talk, half would run back down the dark street to the trailer, where we would pull out gifts and candy or even a bicycle or two.

    Handing the kids their gifts was wonderful, but I think that talking to people was my favorite. We spoke with a man who was just getting home and wanted to sing along with us. We spoke with a older black gentleman whose kids were all grown but who was pleased to hear a song and asked to pray for us before we went on our way. We spoke to a Hispanic mom who said her baby wouldn't have had any Christmas this year if it weren't for us. We went to house after house and street after street until nearly all our toys and candy were gone. It was then when we were driving back, almost three hours later, that the moment came. I was sitting on the rough hay, my right side pressed against a girl I didn't know, some guy sitting on the floor leaning against my left leg. It should have been uncomfortable. But for some reason, it wasn't. In fact, I felt incredibly alive. Although I knew that when we got back there would be warm food waiting for us, I didn't care about that as much as I cared about staying in that moment. The cold and hunger had subsided and was only a faint whisper in the back of my mind. I was pressed between strangers, my throat was slightly raw from so much singing in the cold air, but it didn't matter. I felt strangely, indescribably alive.


    Recently I went to hear a lecture by Rob Bell entitled "Drops Like Stars". In it, Bell speaks on how pain is necessary in life. Every great turning point and awakening moment in life involves some kind of pain. Every instance of hurt and failure leads to something beautiful in the end. It makes me wonder if that is one reason why - in what was admittedly something of an uncomfortable situation in various ways - I felt like that moment, that night, was part of something so much bigger. It wasn't just a time of doing something good; going to help a minstry for a couple of days and bestowing carols and presents on a few down-on-their-luck strangers. It wasn't just "an experience". It was something that I don't think I can describe because I don't fully understand. All I know is that that is what I want; a life that goes outside of myself, outside of my comfort zone, outside of what I can see. Searching for a greater good. A beauty from bits and pieces. Those are the moments I've always felt the most alive. Shouldn't that be what living is all about?

Wednesday, 02 December 2009

  • Is that the sun?


    As with many things, I'm not sure where this poem came from. I started it awhile ago and just now finished it. It's not reflective of a place I am right now, but maybe of one from times past.



    I think I've been here for so long
    I cannot tell the time
    I cannot hear the distant song
    that lovingly used to chime

    I'm far from home, I'm trapped and lost
    and all the bad guys won
    for night to lift, tell me that cost!
    but wait, is that the sun?

    I'm stumbling, aching, crying out
    so bitter and angrily
    To break the silence I give a shout
    which echos back at me

    I try to hold the truth, like light
    just make a spark from one
    Searching for what I thought was right
    wait, could that be the sun?

    They say that every tunnel and path
    has a light at the very end
    but I'm too weary to do the math
    too many turns and bends

    Hope and joy have slipped away
    but to them I would run
    if I but saw the smallest ray -
    Please, say that that's the sun

    Are my eyes playing tricks on me
    finally I've come undone?
    Or finally, finally could it be -
    Thank God; here comes the sun.

fairlightsongbird

  • Visit fairlightsongbird's Xanga Site
    • Name: Sonnet
    • Birthday: 6/27/1985
    • Gender: Female
    • Member Since: 8/3/2005
Your section contained code not allowed in the new custom module

About Me

  • "And in the end, it's not the years in your life that count, but the life in your years" - Abraham Lincoln. ~ Dreamer, optimist, artist of sorts, friend, daughter, sister, coworker, wanderer, woman, girl. ~ I want to travel: Prince Edward Island, New Zealand, Alaska (to see the northern lights), the red wood forests in California, and Hawaiia are places I wish to visit. ~ I love adventures. I want to hang-glide, sky-dive, mountain-climb, and deep-sea dive, among other things. ~ I love to write and sing. I love making friends. I love my family, which is plentiful. ~ I want to help people. ~ I'm trying to figure out what God has in store for me, what His plan is. I love my Savior, and this life He has given me.

Pulse

Chatboard (4)

  • promisexinxthexsnow
    With a smile and a song Life is just a bright sunny day Your cares fade away And your heart is young With a smile and a song All the world seems to waken anew Rejoicing with you As the song is sung There's no use in grumbling When the raindrops come tumbling Remember, you're the one
  • Flyingandrew16
    Also, that does not mean that I do not want to hear from you, and you know it! Post all you want, but others can post also!
  • Flyingandrew16
    ...hehe talking about grammar, you spelled it wrong on my chat!!!! MUAHAHAHAAHAHAHA....ok that was pointless. :-P ttyl!!!
  • fairlightsongbird
    People, friends, talk to me. :-)