Dogs, Tweets, and Satos

Hi.

August is on its way and as the weather keeps holding everything in place and fighting against gates of rust, I’ve been lazing around, listening to the dot dots of key-pushing, completing a few assignments, babying somebody, and reading, writing, examining words, and watching photosets/gifs of characters I adore.

Last Saturday I woke up to my mother looking at the TV as The Olympic Games ran live. John Green has been tweeting eagerly about the competitors/teams, and I am absolutely enjoying seeing his tweets pour down my timeline.

So far he hasn’t sworn. Yet.

And I got this book 

Inside of a Dog: What Dogs See, Smell, and Know 

and the reviews are enticing – it does look promising, especially with that dog staring into your soul on the cover (and the title even uses the oxford comma, although I try to establish not to judge any work of literature that lacks it) – so I hope I garner more and more knowledge about dogs, considering the aforementioned reasons and the fact that the author is – surprise surprise! – a dog lover herself. 

There are two girls I love so much – one the namesake of the other.

My Asami Baby

(and all the other dogs

try to chase me

but here's my number

so call me maybe)

(I'm embarrassing myself online.)

and my Queen, who appears on Legend of Korra

©

I'll be back this August! Hopefully, yes!

Two Hips and a Hooray

Some days when the world is pretty much the same in the peculiar sense that it is not, I like to think that I do think of the worlds I’ve rumbled and jumbled under my eyelids. There’s a Captain America shield to my right – a story, among other stories. Books – at least the books you know – stand out to you because they’re known and they are loved. I’ve loved worlds and I can’t tell if it’s healthy or not – the longing and the desire – but it dresses me with joy. Unquantifiable joy I grasp till I can’t – euphoria I can hold before the truth and the days of this world blind me back to disparate (and sometimes unwanted) knowledge.

Yesterday I wrote one drabble and hiP HIP HOORAY to that! But now I can feel how competitive and so damn little I am as I have skimmed past a page of laudable writing by a dear blogger. There is pride, now that I think about it, when the screen had flashed through my eyes and thoughts. I identify as writer (and I just had to italicize that word so much because I marvel in it) and I live in a world where there are many others of that too. But then I speed through blog to blog and I know – I’ve always known – that there are lovelier, simpler bridges of words that have been constructed SO WELL that they are so gorgeously complicated in a way it makes me dizzy to comprehend. I envy so much.

One thing: I am a cruel vine sprawled out over lives of my loves, and I am a witch hissing for languages and the breath of vacation. Another thing: A twisted world doesn’t need a Cinderella, but she stays because she’s Cinderella.

If it hasn’t dawned on you yet, I want to speak out that my words do not make sense unless you understand – from beginning to end. I try not to make reading hard for you. But the world doesn’t make writing easy for me. I’m struggling, and I love you. Perhaps you could allot time for reading? :)

Life Number One

For July and for Owl City. 

Let’s say that humans have nine lives and this is my second life. My first was a life of discovery and amazement funneling down into a cryptic close, and I wasn’t worrying because I still had eight more lives to spend. And hopefully I do spend wisely as not to waste.

My first life was a book of fresh faces – the pillars and waves of teeming journal entries and biographies. This life had begun in between wet eyelashes and flipping notebook pages. A collection of fiction and not, I originated and lived without panic.

My Mondays were sewn with the tapping of feet and the blowing of wind, my place of relaxation and study as a twenty year old was a house near the beach where I could breathe way easier. I created dance steps and procrastinated. I was crammed with word document appointments. I was too engulfed in the work of fixing my TV set and staring at dresses and bowties on the Internet. I was a silly lady made out of sharp pencil markings and long hair. I was a borrowed ballerina shoes; I was a freckled face – too sunshine; I was a ponytail snaking down to my tailbone – the colors of black and red were prominent.

Nine years old of first life was when I would always jump out and shout in the rain. My name was Z – like, maybe, zealous! – and when my first life’s fourteenth year came I sat among a couple of friends and their stuffed toys to hit our faces with cake of strawberry icing. I bounced from cloud to cloud when it was a Christmas blue, and I can only recall the jukebox pumping out notes by Momma’s Diner as my good friend Rende (like the rende of rendezvous) leaped from dead rock to sleeping frog with my collection of films. That thief.

My twenty-first came one day and I made the bell ring once again in the nearby library of Mrs. Monica. I showed her my doodles of Rende and that diner one time it snowed abundantly, making sure my toothy smile was safely inches away from her frowning one. But I can tell you that she smiled at the end of our almost one-sided conversation; Mrs. Monica may have already been eighty-seven and a widow, but she breathed in stories the way I breathed in paint. She loved, loved, loved it.

So I told her another story and whispered it, saying, “You know, ma’am, I used to bounce from cloud to cloud.” She pushed her pair of glasses back and inquired, “You stopped?” And I laughed. I don’t know why I laughed, but I did. It was more like a small snicker to myself – a sarcastic and bitter one. Oh, I did stop.

“Mrs. M, of course I did!” I smiled. She grew a smile. And she told me to continue hopping until something stopped me.

That was when my pencils unraveled themselves from my fingers and drew that Christmas blue back. “How can I, Mrs. M?” I always called her Mrs. M. I already had called her that half a dozen of times that day. But I was afraid. I had not cloud-hopped in a long time. My jukebox wasn’t there; my diner wasn’t there; and my good friend Rende Zvous wasn’t there.

She told me, so softly, “Believe.” That word took me aback, but I stood in place; I feared my pencils and I feared myself. “You’ll die and you’ll live. Be yourself, miss Z. You have won the Christmas blue before, and you will again. Behold, the sun is shining! You are sunny, too. But you know you belong in the world of the moon and the stars, child. I will miss you. Your books will miss you. But Christmas blue misses you much, much more.”

Mrs. Monica blew my jukebox at me, and it landed on four stars next to Momma’s Diner. She hauled – and I almost shrieked for she mustn’t carry such a massive thing! – the world at me and before I could catch it with my hands, my heart did. I breathed out a few wishes, a few hopes, and a few miseries. I kept more to myself. But still–

I hopped.

A Few Colors

Today was like a million drops of dark chocolate syrup and splotches of blood under a summer day’s sun. It was like finger-shaking cross-stitching and yogurt, landing in between frames and cups of mango bits plus rainbow sprinkles.

by Adam

The library was closed during lunch time and so I engulfed the raindrops of sunshine under the roof and peered through the glass, scanning the shelves and pillars of books – pages were left open, then later they blinked at me like a pair of butterfly wings. Clouds dunked in Microsoft blue and paper white littered the sky as raucous chatter pushed on and on to exceed one of many limits. My heart – a cavern – hungered for answers, scrambled toward the door and almost left my mind behind with nothing to give. Daydreams hung around notoriously, and I rowed onward.

I drank the light of last night’s lamp like my last gulp of iced tea. My languid kicks brought me to a room stirring with finality, a place where I could breathe in and out with pruney fingers. Buh-reathe.

Thank you.

The Orb of Dreamers

The Orb of Dreamers by The Daniel Pemberton TV Orchestra

Adam introduced this track to me via LittleBigPlanet – a game where one can design, interact, and so much more. The narrator has an accent and the introduction is mind-blowing and seriously the game is amazing. Through Sackboy (the main character) and with him, you journey from one place to another. Beautiful.

Adam plays levels in the car and we listen to the tracks of each. The Orb of Dreamers has been my favorite yet, and I've downloaded it. I suggest you listen to it.

It reminds me of the joy you receive when you meet a goal or when you feel the euphoria bubbling in you.  I don't want to complicate it – or trivialize it with my words – but I admit that I sense longing and melancholy somewhere in it. When the Titanic sank, fresh ghosts danced from room to room, and the world experienced loss but they breathed in new life. As phantoms, they sojourned without shackles.

Yes. Longing.

Reign Julia

Prettiest baby ever.

Lovely reader, if you don't revel in a baby's laugh I don't understand why not.

Coffee Sunday

On a cool afternoon, I died curled in a midnight blue cardigan – the patches of cartoonish stars splayed across my chest and belly, pulling the piece of clothing tight around me that I could almost feel myself suffocate against the missing buttons. I was ensconced in a rocking chair as I swung my feet playfully under me, making sure I didn’t kick my cat (because I did love that stupid slyboots). The floorboards creaked as I peeked through the slivers of the curtains and out at the neighborhood. It was an old sight, colored with swaying trees and games. Then later I let myself rest back and gulp down – with little difficulty – a mug of newly prepared coffee.

But then the sliver disappeared and the stars pushed forward, leaving me scrambling for light and air.

Light. And air.

With a quick swipe of a blade against my ribcage, I tumbled down onto the dusty floor. I let loose a horrible cough as I willed my eyes to open, but they were already open – I just couldn’t see. Beneath the sound of my heavy, troubled breathing, I could hear a song I was forced to remember. It was a minute of alluring voices as I slowed down, trying to grasp anything like my ugly cat or the feet of the rocking chair. I froze when I heard the door scrape open. I froze, I froze, I froze.

And I fell down.

I fell down with the blackness clinging onto me – its hold on me like a blanket of metal, twisting around me like a slithering snake. Ouroboros was what it looked like from the corner of my eye. By then I had to listen to the sound of my heartbeat – quick, nimble footsteps pounding on soaked ground like thumpthumpthump. They collided as one until my eyes were blown wide and I felt like a mighty lion. I fell down until I sank down. The shoot led to a cyan world of nothing but me foolishly attempting to gain purchase on anything that could help me swim to shore. I had told myself that I’d swim to shore like a brave sailor, a cap’n alone but warm with a beating heart. But here’s the twist and I suffocated more with the revelation.

There was no shore in sight.

I was stranded and I was dying as the cold blew above me and the stars flew to the sky. They danced and pulled the night into the view, and the night did embrace the little stars with its own blinding light as they twinkled so carelessly across the sheet of bedtime. Bedtimebedtimebedtime – my tears were as cold as the wind, cruel as the blanket around my shoulders.

I did not understand how fickle and evil the world was until then.

But I kicked,

roared,

fluttered,

breathed

until I felt wings behind me growing gradually with light. I carried myself over the waves and in the air, suspended for a while so I could watch the stars sway and so I could learn from them. I made them tug me to land, and so I was like a moth to a flame but with more control. There was nothing dangerous about the heat of the stars. There was only me.

I had sand in between my toes and the ocean in my hair as the blanket bid me goodbye and trailed under the gentle waves. My ribs were gone and maybe my heart fled away too, but I swore I could feel my heart like a flame inside me. It was the fire that was life and not destruction that made my eyes rife with ember. I could see the red and orange through the reflection of the water – they reminded me of the books I used to read. They were fragile pages of fantasy and mystery coalesced into a beautiful genre.

But then I was the fantasy and the mystery – a book yet to be opened. 

Running Around

image from here

The thing about being a writer is that it isn’t easy, so I’m going to rant about it. Oops.

As a writer, I am very conscious. Actually, I am also a cognizant-of-her-surroundings person – I’m looking up and around in between words and I can faintly hear someone in the neighborhood talking; I can hear some frying from the kitchen. And air is blowing in my face thanks to the electric fan next to the table, and I keep looking back at my other open tabs. I can get really distracted and aware of many different things and that’s okay as a human, I guess. But when it comes to being the aspiring writer that I am, it sucks. Bad.

Honestly, I am not the kind of writer who types and types and reviews later. I’m the kind who types then stops in the middle of a sentence and reads almost everything all over again. I irritate myself to no end, and if I could stop myself I would. But yeahhh, I can’t. And as I look over my words – noun, verb, adjective, pronoun – I squint on the inside and see how redundant I can be with my adjectives or verbs. Then later I try to remember a substitute/synonym for them until I can’t find any and I end up dumping my head into my sad, sad hands.

Believe me when I say that writers are mercurial people, especially when they want to deal with stories of their own. We devolve from one state of feeling to another; we listen to words and sounds and debate and watch; we do our best to be in between our sentences rather than writing them down. We are persons gifting the world with an overflowing plethora of words that twist to life. It isn’t a simple ride, but I can assure that I – and many other writers, I’m absolutely sure – enjoy it. We shift from one fictional mind to another and we see, although we may not agree. We bleed. It’s what we do best.

I stayed up thinking about this last night. And I love being a writer and a reader. You learn to aspire and you aspire to learn while you read, and then later you write. You crawl, then walk, then run, then fly. It’s a cycle and I love going through it, dizzy and out of breath. Writers are ubiquitous if you think about it, because we skip from one world to another.

I hope you write today.

Shy Beacon

come out, come out, wherever you are.

This will be a bad post.

I remember the first time I willingly slept late. I had a tab in my hand and was reading Glee fanfiction – the writer having a great way with words and owning the word “crescendo” in her URL. I knew I kept glancing back at the clock, as the litany of tick and tock was a soft mantra beneath all the words spiraling into my head. The words glared at my face and glowed like the stars – okay, maybe I’m terribly exaggerating, but I like making exaggerations; I’m all about exaggerations.

These days, my world is a maelstrom of noisy flip-flops against the tiles, literature, and thinking way too much. Like right now I’m flipping through my life’s further chapters – and although I’m not really paying attention to the words that pass by, I can feel a crazy quilt of emotions flying away and, unfortunately, tethering themselves onto me.

Before I get all theatrical and stuff, since writing to me is what singing is to the fictional Rachel Berry, I’m telling you that I just really need to vent out because I’m being misanthropic and destructive today – like almost everyday. Okay.

If I would ever be able to be a bird, I’d fly away from here and to another world. I wouldn’t really bring anything – because my wings would be assiduous in flight, of course – but I’d spend some time alone with my books and treasured belongings. After that, I’d flap my wings and journey through the air and sing. I’d sing like all those birds do outside, but my songs would be human curses at first. Yet they’ll translate to melodious music of another language, and they would glide along with me as I chirp my way to paradise.

If I would ever be able to evolve into a dragon, I’d spew red and yellow across the lands and shove glaring honeyed dragon eyes upon my victims of hypocrites and liars. I’d spread my wings and roar within the thunder – lightning will beat my back like bang bang bang and I’ll skate through the clouds with my tail peeking out. I’d hit the viridian seas with fire, and it would make a sound of harmony that would lull the innocents to sleep.

If I would get the chance to be the rain, I’d drip down on castles and junkyards. I’d pour down on many heads again and again – it will be a tumultuous drive of mantra over mantra as I beat umbrellas and raincoats. I’d transform into a livid storm that chases around for victims of poor souls. I’d scream with my victims. I’d scream like I haven’t before.

I’d kill, but I’d rather die.

Tiptoe Tiptoe

“You look so cute sitting in your boat.”

This, my lovely reader, is being written with me on my belly. I’m messing with my eyelids in the dark at two-fortysomething in the morning and I can’t sleep because I had tragically used my body clock as a plaything; I am the girl with the red bowtie you’ll see at the nearest playground. My pillow reminds me of vampires and one nightmare I had years ago – one I couldn’t forget.

It was a dream painted in black and white, a melancholic one, a fearsome one in color and silence. I don’t really remember anything besides what qualified it as a nightmare; it was an episode of two characters who surprisingly were Mickey and Minnie Mouse. Twisted it was, horrifying and quiet and eerie, when Mickey produced a gun out of nowhere (Oh where did you get that, dude?) and shot his beloved darling spontaneously. I really can’t fathom the whole thing. And I also don’t understand why I’m writing this down. It didn’t really horrify me, honestly; I was insouciant about it to be honest. I don’t know if Mickey Mouse would do that if he wasn’t created kid-friendly. It was melodramatic in a way that made itself screw onto my head and bid to probably never depart. Eh, perhaps I just watched too much Disney that time. It was also, possibly, an omen to my newfound admiration for fictitious violence and gore. Yay!

Now I’m on my butt with my legs tangled in a lotus, half of my body ensconced in a blanket, thinking of maybe continuing reading that pending (but not inveterately abandoned) John Green book which is currently placed amidst other books and a laptop in the darkness of the other room. Here are some facts most people don’t know (that are related to me, ehehehehehhhe): A. I sleep with my headphones squeezed in between two pillows – one pillow being the comfy nest of hobo/hermit head. B. There is a dreamcatcher pinioned to the ceiling in one corner of the bedroom. (Psst, it hasn’t been helping, really.) C. I am an Instragram freak, xoxo. You can erase Instagram from the whole sentence too and it would still be true.

I should try to sleep now. Good night/morning/afternoon, darling; I bid you adventure some night.