For Richer For Poorer

http://nowheremind.tumblr.com/post/10458542192

They know her too, but not by name; to them, she is only Flower Girl.

The flowers stay beige and still, and they rustle as she runs to the bus stop.

She lives far away from the city; no one wears the long red coats, no one sells flowers out of wicker baskets.

Beige flowers are not for the life of the rust-railed, drab-suited men and women hailing from the glittery buildings.

But every day she waits at the bus stop, basket empty, basket full, and she knows the people.

She knows the woman that comes with her phone attached, whose ringtone prompts reflex, whose eyes glitter with the light of her screen.

She knows the man and his two children he takes to work in the big glass grocery store, because they always come back with two lollipops reward.

She knows the elderly couple that hobbles to the metal bench and falls into it, even when it rains.

In good times and bad, sickness, health, joy and sorrow.

They sit at that bus stop and wait to go home.

Pinwheel

There's a pinwheel in my head. 

Spin spin spinning. 

Its plastic panes a constant bane, slip-slapping upon the insides walls that compose the cavern that is my skull. 

No brain.

Just spin spin spinning. 

A wooden rod shoved down my throat, sprouting leaves and leaves of societal norms and from it came the wheel. 

Its logical home my head, of course. 

Cheery, colorful crushing.

And I can't get it out.

It's staying.

No, the wind's on.

It keeps me awake.

No rest to be had.

I think it hates me.

My spin spin spinning head.

It's shiny, strict hands, all over the walls.

Stress stress stressing.

Never going to sleep again.

-Suzanne

(For some reason, I had Ed Sheeran's "Don't" stuck in my head while writing this. Words are very different, but the rhythm is similar in some parts.)

Afire

She heard the story

Of the girl who wrote poems

Under the desperate watch of the moon

And, when found

The girl locked herself in a closet

And set herself alight

She knows better

Of course.

She knows when to nod

And smile

When to cover her face and

Hold her tongue.

But she cannot help

The wanton words

the lustful lines

that escape her

in broken bits of song

a forbidden courtship in ink

scribbled hastily onto the back of

the veiled hand

rubbed away at a

moment’s notice.

She can’t let them see.

She wonders if she has the disease

The blood sin

The wax-wicked words

That set a poet afire.

-Christina

Note: this is a poem based on a true story, from this article: http://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/29/magazine/why-afghan-women-risk-death-to-write-poetry.html?pagewanted=all 

And then, as you were always meant to, you tell her the story of your life.

The streets are dark and damp and uneven, as they are apt to be this time of year. The cobblestones were once paved straight, but those days are over and we are resigned to the grumbling of the squeaky unoiled horse carts through the town.

Do come in. It's going to rain again soon, I think. You can feel it in the air. Mind the step.

Have you been traveling long? Of course you have. Sit down, won't you? I'll get tea.

Fires burn in the fireplaces, lovely and simmering. Smoke claws out of the chimneys, only to be devoured by the saturated air.

Grey or chamomile? Do you have a preference? Oh dear, I've lost the teapot. It'll only be a second, you just rest there.

The chair is so warm and the day is so long. The fabric is so worn and the night is so muted.

There we go. The kettle's only, it'll only be a mo. Say, what's your name? I don't think I caught it. Oh here, take the blanket, love. Right on the arm of your chair---there you go. That's better, isn't it? Sorry, I was asking your name. What was it?

Her voice is gentle yet with substance. She is the kind of woman that does not get wrinkled nor weathered, but is instead halfheartedly creased before the world decides that it liked her better without all the folds and consents to leave her as she is. Her cheeks are still full and dimpled, the kind of cheeks where you can still almost see the youth, if you work hard enough to see it.

Oh that's a gorgeous name, that is. You're from the north, with a name like that. What brings you out so far?

The rain taps tentatively on the roof, seeing if it is welcome.

That's a right far journey ahead of you, then. Oop, I think that's the kettle, let me just check on that. One second, is all.

And then it comes down, faster and faster, gaining confidence and speed.

Looks just about there. Chamomile, you said? Dear Lord, listen to that roof. I told you it would rain.

And then it barrels without abandon onto that little thatched roof, and for a moment it is surprising that it does not collapse inward with the pressure, but it holds strong. 
How old is that woman, that woman standing over the kettle? No one knows. There is no way to know, and somehow it is clear that she is not about to reveal that bit of information to anyone. There is no reason to care about that kind of information, anyway. She is not a creature that ages, only one that matures.

There we go. Here's a cup for you, is that warm enough? Breathe in the steam, it's good for you. Now, dear, tell me about everything. From the day you were born until this very moment. On nights like these, it's good to have a talk, don't you think?

The day so long, the night so muted. The rain so sharp, the tea so soft.

These are the nights where nostalgia lurks.
These are the nights where stories reign.

Fantastical Fridays (6) In Which Publishing Crawl Is A Thing

So this will probably be the last Friday post for a while...I'd like to have a lot of time to talk about this stuff that I care about, and I'm not getting that time right now, so I will wait until the crazy blows over and I'll see how things proceed.

So today will be pretty short. As has become the fashion of things, I suppose...

Here is a beautiful blog that y'all should check out:

http://www.publishingcrawl.com/

What is this strange and barely introduced link, you wonder?

Ah, grasshopper. It is a meetingplace of the brains of YA (just the brains, the authors and agents and editors stay at home). They drink tea and silently muse about the workings of writing and books and sometimes the publishing industry, and when their silent musing is over they exchange it into an uneven mixture of quarters and pennies and use the currency to purchase gorgeous words from the tiny word people that live in the clouds. And then these beautiful people on Publishing Crawl take their hard-earned gorgeousness and splurt it all into a series of blog posts for the general folk of the world.

So thank them for it, and head on over to take a look.

Wheeee!

-Kat

My Not-So-Super Superpower of Invisiblity

    There are definitely perks to being invisible, but I wouldn't say this is one of them. This aching dreariness seeping through me in this packed hallway. This desperate need for connection, contact with a fellow human.

    I know you! I know you! You know me! You were suppose to be my friend--why can't you look at me?

    They're supposed to look at me, I tell myself. Church brothers and sisters. Junior high friends.

    What have a done? What about me makes you twist your neck when I'm coming down the hall? 

    Aren't such sorts of people supposed to love me? This transparent body of mine is crushing me. Weights in my heart sinking me, pulling pulling pulling me.

    You're cool, I'm not. You're a boy, I'm a girl. I'm a freshman, you're a junior. Am I too weird? Am I too awkward?

    The guy in my class says hello with a  smile. The girl in my club hugs me. The player on my team gives me a high five. Me. Me! They are looking at me not through me!

    WHY CAN'T YOU LOOK AT ME?

    I guess the people that care about me might not be the ones I think ought to be caring about me, but they are relevant nonetheless. Because they don't make me feel quite as invisible as

    you.

-Suzanne

Beautiful Skinny

My mommy is the most beautiful person in the world. She smiles like an angel, and when she gives me hugs, her hair tickles my face. Sometimes I sneak into her room when she’s getting ready, and watch her put her paint on her face (Mommy calls it makeup) and spray her delicious par-fume. In the morning, she always smells like flowers and fruit, but by night, her hugs smell of almost burnt cookies and chicken soup. She hugs me with strong arms, squeezes me tight. She sings in the kitchen, loud and shaky, but I think it’s perfect.

My mommy doesn’t think she’s beautiful. When she’s putting that chalk dust on her cheeky-bones, she sighs, and talk about the imaginary lines on her face. They must be imaginary, because I can’t see them. She bakes the cookies, but leaves it all to me and Daddy. She stares at the melting chocolate bits, a little sad, while Daddy asks her about her die-et. She frowns while Daddy jokes about the tummy of hers. She reaches for an apple.

There’s a pretty dress in Mommy’s closet. It’s lacy and pink, and Mommy says she wore it when she was young and skinny.

I look at her. “When will I be ‘skinny’?”

Mommy frowns. “Darling, you already are. I wish I could be as beautiful as you.”

She worries. Every morning, when I peek into her and Daddy’s room, I see her stand on that scale, and sigh a little. She looks over pictures, and when Santa Claus gave me A Little Princess and The Wind in the Willows, he took our cookies and gave Mommy a weight-loss book to make her “skinny”.

One day, I see herself sitting in the closet, holding the dress in her lap and crying over the scale. That day, she only had carrots for breakfast.

 Later, I go into the closet and look at the dress. The next day, when I look closer, I begin to see Mommy’s lines. Maybe I can only have apples when I grow up. Maybe I don’t want the tummy.

Maybe I want to be skinny. 

It Feels So Long Ago

Do you remember when we walked in
to the future and you let
go of my hand?
I don't know who let go
first. But
I do
know I'll never see you again.
I can't. Every day I think
of that hand I know
you less and
      less
because, darling,
I have heard the tales.
I have heard all the tales.
And darling, I cannot forget those tales.

Fantastical Fridays (5) --- In Which I Am Obsessed With Paint

It's been crazy week and I'm still a bit deaf from people yelling in my face for an hour before I went home, but I just found this music video and it is gorgeous. Best lyric video ever.

Now I actually have to go back and listen to the song. Whoops. Missed that part.

Short post, but, y'know, PAINT. You're welcome.

-Kat

Beethoven

My band class, two days old by the time you see this, had begun in a painful sort of way. Everyone was gripping their seats as if they were life rafts, instruments precariously perched on trembling knees. Nervous chatter filled the room, like the chatter of birds or chipmunks crying for help from a friend in a neighboring tree. There was no help to be had here. The director stood at the front with a marker in his hand, a baton absent, widening the eyes of his students. Then, he began to part the lips of his fuzzy, beard-clad mouth and

Speak!

And in moments of his voice being released, he had a room full of glassy-eyed teenagers rethinking all of their life decisions that had led them

Here.

Band was where you were supposed to pick up your instrument and play some notes on a page, preferably at the same time as everyone else. Well, at least

Potentially.

But potentially the purpose has more potential to be examined. Because it seems like music might just be more than those previously mentioned notes and baton slashes. Some players just make it look like

More.

When you look at many of the first chair players before class, you can see maybe of them joking around, laughing, being the crazy teenagers the rest of us are as well. But then, they come to class, they sit down in their seats, press their mouthpieces to their lips, stick their mallets in their palms, or touch their reeds to their tongues and

Transform.

They pull the notes off the page with their fingers on their keys and oxygen in their lungs they've sucked out of the air. They take themselves to another place and leave everything else

Behind.

But these impressive musicians are students right now, and we are all uncomfortable. There are kids on their phones, whispering to their neighbors and staring off into space. I am still clutching the edges of my seat, trying not to pass out from boredom and exhaustion and desperately trying to remove my mins from thoughts of the physics class I am required to attend next. And to do so, I begin to look at the board my director is writing on and start to catch what he is saying. He is talking about

Beethoven.

As he speaks, talking with such vigor about this passed composer and his works and his oddities and his differences, I begin to really like Beethoven. I had nothing against him before this lecture, but I didn't really feel like I knew him before. Now, I know

Him.

Beethoven wasn't like the other composers and metaphorically speaking, wasn't allowed to join in the reindeer games for quite some time. Because people try to judge the composer before they are 

Dead.

In the music world, that just isn't right. Beethoven was different. He didn't want to write about circuses or parties or dogs or toys or anything else like the others did. As my director said, "He chose not to write about what was earthly." He wrote about

Emotions.

Beethoven was a poet with notes. He cannot be described any other way. He wasn't a composer who likes rigid markings or strict notations. He wrote to express and he expected it to be played how he felt:

Emotive.

That's what those first chair players wanted to be doing right now (and at this point many of the others in the room who could no longer stand the blank staring and urging to talk): expressing. But instead, here we were listening to the director speak for 60 of the 90 minutes instead of conducting like we felt he was supposed to. It seemed as if only two people in the room were listening. And then I realized, I was one of them. I was listening because I was listening to Beethoven. I was listening to his anger and his love an his tears and his heart in the music I had heard before but never really understood.

I was listening to poetry without actual words. And I found myself loving it. Me! The last chair flutist growing a first chair

Heart.

-Suzanne

 

Neverland

They told me of an island

Fraught with magic

With faeries and thick-brush swamps

Wild mysticism, untamed innocence

children go there in their dreams

To the legend

Where the pure

ones dwell.

Ruled by a mischievous boy

The young spitting image of Hermes

Dressed in green

I wished hard

For the night

I’d escape from the window

Be lighter than the wind

Fly.

Fly, fly away to the Neverland.

I suppose I can’t now.

  

I’m too old.

Even in my youth, I’m

weighed by my knowledge

changing

slowly becoming chained to this earth

I can’t be an astronaut.

I can’t fly to the moon.

I can’t grow wings.

I spit words out of my mouth

Like gold

They—adults—are beginning to listen to me now.

Worn down by years

Marked by sin

Illuminated with wisdom

I am becoming them

Slowly

Sinking

Into their beautiful

Elaborate

Sad

world.

I am no longer

That whimsical child

Asleep on top of

The book of fairy tales.

I can’t escape through my dreams

Now.

Maybe it’s called the Neverland

For a reason. 

And he knows you too.

You know him; he is the spirit of the waters, he is the voice of the deep. Down and down you go. You know his face, you know his eyes. Whiskered and sunken, writhing in gritty shadow upon the ocean floor.

Once when the world was bare, he clothed it. When the world was dark he roared; when the world was light he whispered. He fell in love with the great rock in the sky, and they waltz each other to sleep.

You know this being, this grandfather of grandfathers, this baritone of silent arias that hum along the sands.

Once he thought he was the sky; fleeting and wind-struck, dragged along by the images of clouds across his skin. But they pulled him and pulled him...one day they let go, and he found himself barreling back in the other direction, realizing that he was anchored. For better or worse, he was anchored to the earth, and this did not bother him as much as it might have.

You know this king, this god of waters; Neptune, Sea Dragon; Lord of the Nile, Lord of the Styx. You know this man because his is the heart that keeps yours beating.

Once he tore at the earth for thousands of years until it yielded. Once he crashed upon the sands and ravished its people. Once he was the calmest thing upon the planet; one touch would ripple on for miles unchallenged.

You know this man, guardian of the deep.

http://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-Wave-Sold/290387/175619/view

-Kat

Fantastical Friday (4)

...otherwise known as Three German Songs You Should Be Listening To Even If You Don't Speak German.

Okay, the first one isn't actually a song but it has music in the background sooooo...

Classic unintelligible German. Gotta love it.

Next is what I can only explain as The German Version of Gangnam Style If Gangnam Style Took Place In A Grocery Store. "Supergeil" basically means "super cool" in this context.

And then here's just a beautiful song that has a really adorable music video. Cheers. 

I mean, Proust...

So viele Lieder! Ja, es ist die Beste. Ich weiss.

Auf Wiedersehen!

-Kat

Music Box

Music box chimes

Whirring gears

A faint little melody

Falls on deaf ears

She rises from beneath

A fair maiden in of glass

Her crinoline skirt

Less childish, more class

She takes to the room

With all ease, all grace

Floating about

Not feeling out of place

Among dry, soggy faces

And coarse, rough eyes

Gray, dank people with

Pain, undisguised

She should feel weird

She should feel wrong

She should feel down

She shouldn't feel strong

It's not fair, her talent

Her faith, her joy

She has perfection

Not some trick or ploy

"She mustn't be around here

While we crumble down

It's only fair she leave us

To drown"

The faces murmur

Anger stirred from within

And pick up the ballerina

Throwing her back in

Into the prison

Of dissonant notes

and untuned bells, she's stuck 

Beyond too far a moat

Crossing is unattainable

She is forced to give in

Tossed off her toes

Thrown from her peak

Ballerina gone

Tutu beside

Now all that is left

Is a pain she can't hide

-Suzanne

(Sorry for the super cheesy rhyming poem but it was all I could come up with today. I'm still really sick. :P Hopefully by next week I'll feel better and you guys won't have to suffer along with my  horrible poetry. Oh, and the second picture is of a music box. Sorry it's dark!)