A Dream Deferred
by Langston Hughes
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
Friday, June 25, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Going Through the Stacks
It seems like life is so frenzied right now. I know Gabe feels the same way because he asked me the other day, "Is there a weekend when we don't have something planned?" I know exactly how he feels because ever since we were married, moved house, came down with plague-pneumonia for a month and then were hurtled into the summer holidays (Graduations/Father's Day/ Class Reunions/BBQs/ & Birthday Parties) it seems like every moment is filled. I came up with a plan to have my story finished by the end of July and already I am sooo far behind.
Our house is filled with crap. We moved that kind of way where you just throw things in boxes and then they stay in boxes until you are like, where the hell is that ____? Then there's a mad search in which you come up with several other things that are not what you were looking for, but are nice to have around anyway. Our furniture just arrived and is sitting in neatly stacked boxes waiting to be assembled. And in the meantime, I have my writing, sorted into neat piles, waiting for me to give it the full time and love it needs.
I had a moment when I went through my desk and notes and organized all of my stories into neat little stacks, all lined up on the floor of my bedroom. Besides the obvious fire hazard and lack of real organization, this gave me the delightful experience of seeing that I've come up with not just one but at least four or five different novels over the last ten years, and countless little short stories and essays. It was good to see that even though I have produced nothing, my brain is still working away, creating little storylines that lay dormant until I have the chance to pick them up again.
It doesn't help that I'm now obsessed with Doctor Who. Gabe and I both seperately joke that we have our own TARDIS in our heart-- he because he is constantly producing outrageous heat-energy and me because I am able to travel anywhere in my mind and in my stories. I wish I did have a real TARDIS though-- then there'd be no more spending the majority of my time doing something completely unrelated to my life-goals. When I think about how much of my time, the raw percentage, that is spent in such activities I kind of want to scream. Even though I wish the solution was stepping into the Police Box and being whisked away, really it's going to come down to me. What kind of time can I carve out for myself, steal for myself among the unimportant and mundane? That's what it's going to come down to. Me fighting for every moment in which I can possibly be creating, and instead of spending that time to relax and vegetate (which is what I want to do most of the time).
Here's to fighting for every moment. I wish, Jonathan Coulton, that living every day like it counts was as easy as it sounds.
Our house is filled with crap. We moved that kind of way where you just throw things in boxes and then they stay in boxes until you are like, where the hell is that ____? Then there's a mad search in which you come up with several other things that are not what you were looking for, but are nice to have around anyway. Our furniture just arrived and is sitting in neatly stacked boxes waiting to be assembled. And in the meantime, I have my writing, sorted into neat piles, waiting for me to give it the full time and love it needs.
I had a moment when I went through my desk and notes and organized all of my stories into neat little stacks, all lined up on the floor of my bedroom. Besides the obvious fire hazard and lack of real organization, this gave me the delightful experience of seeing that I've come up with not just one but at least four or five different novels over the last ten years, and countless little short stories and essays. It was good to see that even though I have produced nothing, my brain is still working away, creating little storylines that lay dormant until I have the chance to pick them up again.
It doesn't help that I'm now obsessed with Doctor Who. Gabe and I both seperately joke that we have our own TARDIS in our heart-- he because he is constantly producing outrageous heat-energy and me because I am able to travel anywhere in my mind and in my stories. I wish I did have a real TARDIS though-- then there'd be no more spending the majority of my time doing something completely unrelated to my life-goals. When I think about how much of my time, the raw percentage, that is spent in such activities I kind of want to scream. Even though I wish the solution was stepping into the Police Box and being whisked away, really it's going to come down to me. What kind of time can I carve out for myself, steal for myself among the unimportant and mundane? That's what it's going to come down to. Me fighting for every moment in which I can possibly be creating, and instead of spending that time to relax and vegetate (which is what I want to do most of the time).
Here's to fighting for every moment. I wish, Jonathan Coulton, that living every day like it counts was as easy as it sounds.
Friday, June 18, 2010
This is It
And that was it-- the moment when I realized this is all the time I have; the moment when I simply refused to go in the same direction any more. It's time for a change.
I just realized that pain can be good. If it galvanizes me to action, makes me take leaps toward the frightening unknown that I've avoided-- then it can be good. If it makes me realize the importance of trying as hard as I can, without fear, without self-destructive criticism-- then it can be good. If it makes me realize that my life will never change unless I take it upon myself to be the catalyst-- then it can be good.
Pain is good if you use it as a weapon. Not to strike down others, but to make something better of yourself. That's the only thing that's changed. But it's so much. This is it.
I just realized that pain can be good. If it galvanizes me to action, makes me take leaps toward the frightening unknown that I've avoided-- then it can be good. If it makes me realize the importance of trying as hard as I can, without fear, without self-destructive criticism-- then it can be good. If it makes me realize that my life will never change unless I take it upon myself to be the catalyst-- then it can be good.
Pain is good if you use it as a weapon. Not to strike down others, but to make something better of yourself. That's the only thing that's changed. But it's so much. This is it.
Don't live another day unless you make it count
There's someone else that you're supposed to be--
There's something deep inside of you that still wants out
And shame on you if you don't set it free. ~Jonathan Coulton
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Time to Fall
There is only one place, which is the place that is mine. It is the Obelisk, which I built with the spray of the stars and the air of the oceans-- is the undefinable, the untouchable, and the transcendant. It is the place I found that cannot be touched by any other, where no troubles may follow, and where I am always alone.
The Obelisk is black. It is its definition, a pillar with a top like an beacon pulling fragments of reality down to its base. It is slightly taller than myself, and its corners are smooth so that my hand as it grazes across the surface never comes to an end. It is this motion, my hand on its flowing planes, that wakes it and causes it to create.
There is no limit to that which it might bring into being. The last time I was there, I sought peace from an illness that wouldn't give me a moment's rest. I went to the Obelisk, I touched it and it brought me the wilderness that I could not bring myself to visit. It brought me the thoughtful, gently swaying trees, rippling the sunlight into glass patterns on the ground. It brought me the long grass which is always a home to me, the gentle ocean of movement that comes up to my waist and engulfs me in the familiar. It brought me the green-green smell, freshness personified. It brought me the sun at its best-- not stifling or sweaty but simply warm, comfortable and right. It brought me the scenes of my childhood, the eternal and boundless; impossibly young nature which knows nothing but good. I touched the Obelisk and it brought me to my home. At last, I breathed easy and fell asleep.
The place where the Obelisk lies is not always a place of nature. Sometimes it is a place of science, sometimes an entire world where my children play. It is ever changing and unknowable, and in my fiercest heart I hope that it will never die. But I know it will only last as I do, and the time for both of us grows ever shorter....
The Obelisk is black. It is its definition, a pillar with a top like an beacon pulling fragments of reality down to its base. It is slightly taller than myself, and its corners are smooth so that my hand as it grazes across the surface never comes to an end. It is this motion, my hand on its flowing planes, that wakes it and causes it to create.
There is no limit to that which it might bring into being. The last time I was there, I sought peace from an illness that wouldn't give me a moment's rest. I went to the Obelisk, I touched it and it brought me the wilderness that I could not bring myself to visit. It brought me the thoughtful, gently swaying trees, rippling the sunlight into glass patterns on the ground. It brought me the long grass which is always a home to me, the gentle ocean of movement that comes up to my waist and engulfs me in the familiar. It brought me the green-green smell, freshness personified. It brought me the sun at its best-- not stifling or sweaty but simply warm, comfortable and right. It brought me the scenes of my childhood, the eternal and boundless; impossibly young nature which knows nothing but good. I touched the Obelisk and it brought me to my home. At last, I breathed easy and fell asleep.
The place where the Obelisk lies is not always a place of nature. Sometimes it is a place of science, sometimes an entire world where my children play. It is ever changing and unknowable, and in my fiercest heart I hope that it will never die. But I know it will only last as I do, and the time for both of us grows ever shorter....
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