An Excerpt from 2006

Do you ever find yourself going back in time to discover the coolest things?  Sometimes when I go through old material, such as stories, poems, and journal entries that I’ve written, I discover a piece of my past.  Often, I have forgotten this piece of me, of the beliefs I held during that time and of the emotions I was going through.  Looking back, I realize I still believe in the same things, yet somehow, I’ve forgotten to make it a priority.

While going through old material to compile poems for my upcoming poetry book, I stumbled upon this interesting journal entry that I’ve written for a Creative Writing class.  Here is the except that really spoke to me.

One sleepless night, I came up with an awesome analogy, which has become my new philosophy.  Life is like a short story.  You need to have conflict, tension, connections and disconnections in order to experience triumph.  Sometimes I wished my life was perfect, but I really don’t want it to be because then it would be boring, like Happy Ending story 1 – they live, they fall in love, get married, and die.  I’d rather have the rollercoaster ride because when it goes down, I’ll have something to look forward to.  What comes down will ultimately go up again, ’tis the bittersweet cycle of life.

Writing is self-expression in that it is like a diary.  You can vent about life without being completely vulnerable because all your qualities and faults are placed in your characters.  You are free to alter the truth and let your characters be someone you’re not and believe in something you don’t.  That’s why I love fiction.

 

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Nothing in Particular: Part 3 – Prose

The following short story is a flash fiction piece that I wrote back in 2006, which I really enjoyed.  It was based on a previous poem that I had written.  I had always wanted to combine poetry and prose in some fashion.  This piece was also meant to be a sort of vignette, where the images and descriptions speak for themselves without having to have some ultimate meaning.  The reader can take out of it what he will.  After writing it, I realized that it was kind of like a Neil Gaiman piece.

Nothing in Particular

Rain falls in a diagonal motion, wetting ground, watering plants, falling into puddles, making ripples in the pond. Outside, little boys in blue raincoats are chasing paper ships down the waterway. The elderly Mrs. Chan dressed in white, burns paper houses in a black cauldron for her dead husband. It has been a long night. The crow watches a raindrop slip off the golden leaf and disappear with a plop.

A moment of silence, and then the rain pounds harder, like translucent daggers hammered into doors. The crow flies off into the night, passed the children, passed the wooden house, passed the naked slithering worms, into the cemetery with Gothic gates where people are engaged in a ritual dance. Singing, shouting, dancing around and around, arms in the air, with the beating of drums. Crosses, crosses everywhere, there are angels too, all over the tombstones. R.I.P.

The crow flies off, passed the lovers skinny-dipping in the lake with moonlight glistening on their skin, passed the restless, thrashing waves, passed the fallen tree, occasionally dodging the wire-like thunderbolts, only to land on the sill of a barred window at the insane asylum. With his dark little pupils, he watches, waiting, anticipating … the scream.

The woman has her back to him. Her long black hair falls down her thin nightgown in a tangled mess, until the tips touch the floor. She stares at the granite wall, as if mesmerized. She counts: 1, 2, 3, until she reaches 13, and turns around. She is pale with sunken eyes and high cheekbones. There are cracks in her red lips. Upon seeing the crow, she screams and screams and SCREAMS!

Her voice drowns out the drip, drip, drip of the leaking faucet in the corner of the room. Her face is contorted in pain. Her eyes reflect the flickering light of the candle that sits on the nightstand. The crow does not flinch, but simply stares back.

The screaming stops as the woman brings her index fingers to her lips and kisses it.
“Shh …,” she whispers, “breathe in, breathe out.” Her chest rises and falls, rises and falls. All over the world, awake or asleep, people are breathing a harmonious song of nature. She spreads out her arms, as if to fly, and twirls around in circles at a steady pace.

“This is our moment, a special moment in time,” she whispers. She throws back her head and cackles, jumps up and lands sprawled on the floor. She slowly bites her finger until a trickle of blood appears.

“Shh…,” she whispers, gently putting down her bleeding finger on the cold cement. She writes in the flickering candlelight with the crow perched on the windowsill and the moon shining behind. There are no stars tonight, and she is no van Gogh. When her writing stops, she blows out the candle and the crow flies off. What does she write?

Nothing, nothing in particular.

Puddles of Memory

The theme for this month’s Inspirational Circle is “Dream” and I have written a poem to reflect the ambiguity of dreams by using imagery of rain.  I hope you enjoy this reflective piece as it carries part of me with it.

Puddles of Memory

Gloomy and gray,
it’s refreshingly cool
on an autumn day.

Lost in thought,
I step into puddles
of memories,
deep as the sea,
of all the things
I wanted to be.

Splashes of hope,
splatters of youth,
ripples of anxiety
twirling around
in my puddle
of memory.

Shimmering
reflections
of the past,
of the good
and of the bad
side of me.

Sprinkles of tension,
sprinkles of joy,
sprinkles of hypocrisy,
what do you really
expect from me?

Ripples of emotion
from a teardrop falling
PLOP
into a cascading beauty,
reflecting
my questioning eyes
as I step
into a puddle
of mesmerizing
color
overlaying
the wet,
cold
truth.

Knee deep
in splashes of love,
splatters of laughter,
ripples of melancholy,
reflected in
my puddle
of memory.

Dancing in the rain,
I see sprinkles
of you and me,
refreshingly sweet
upon my cheeks,
rainbowed-colored
raindrops,
reflecting dreams
that belong
to you and me.

Dancing in the rain,
laughing freely,
seeing sparkling
crystal raindrops
of reality
kiss me
on the forehead
lovingly,
refreshingly clear,
cold to the touch.
I dance in my puddle
of memory
as the sun comes up
and hugs me.

Inspirational Circle #11 – Dream

Remember being given a word, an idea or a theme and using that as inspiration? Remember the excitement that ran through your mind and traveled to your fingertips as your idea came to life?

The Inspirational Circle is back! This will be the last Circle of the year, and probably for a while, as I want to focus on compiling poems and promo videos for my poetry book starting next year.

To end the Circle with something fun and also contemplative, I have chosen “dream” as the theme 🙂  You can view it however you like (figurative dreams that you have at night, daydreams that you wish could happen, or realistic dreams that you want to pursue).  Make it fun, make it real, but most of all, make it “yours” as that is how the best art is created.  And, of course, share it with us on our Facebook Event!

All creative work will be considered – drawing, painting, photography, poetry, prose, mixed media, sculpture, etc. If you post the work of others  as inspiration, please cite the original source to give the artist credit. Please spread the word and invite others to join in.

Here’s a poem by Edgar Allen Poe that will give you some inspiration:

A Dream Within a Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow:
You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand–
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep–while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

And now a cute poem about childhood dreams that I found here: http://www.gigglepoetry.com/poetryclass/dream.htm

My Bed is Like a Sailing Ship

My bed is like a sailing ship-
when I’m tucked in, I take a trip.
I leave behind my busy day
and sail to places far away.

I sail past beaches, gleaming white,
with palm trees swaying in the night.
I watch the waves break on the shore,
and then I see my bedroom floor!

I blink my eyes, I scratch my head-
my ship is home, I’m back in bed.
My ships goes sailing every night
and sails home in the morning light.

And now for some photos that I found googling “dreams”

dream

dream3

dream4

dream5

dream6

dream7