It's been far too long since I've posted anything on here. I've just been letting life in 2010 slip by without commentary, which is not to say that 2010 would be lacking any substance without my two cents. I'm just disappointed that I've approached writing as a chore lately and not as an opportunity to share myself with others. If there's one thing that my newest favorite TV series, Bones, has taught me, it's that you (usually) have to open up to others and show your humility and vulnerability before you will be confided in. Bones has also taught me that there is a certain ilk of bugs that eats away the flesh of burn victims so that forensic pathologists can identify the victim's bones. I'll be sure to share stories in which the latter information is relevant and useful.

Back to purpose for writing: By nature, I tend to take a stance of complacency on the issue of making my voice heard. I think, "With the insanely large number of blogs, opinion/advice columns..etc, why would I put my thoughts out there when the fact that at least one other individual has the same opinion as me is nearly guaranteed?" But I'm revolutionizing my thinking. My goal is not to change the world or to have people pining for my every opinion; by putting my thoughts out there I hope to a) find my voice, b) learn to live and commentate life on the rogue side, and c) to induce an "Ah-ha!" moment for at least one reader.

And now for something...completely different.

Tell me, how much do you love Justin Bieber? Do you love him this much? (It's okay, sweetie, listening to Justin's music makes me cry, too...for different reasons.)

For the past two months I have been searching for the perfect pair of shoes for work. While on the job, I am on my feet for all but twenty minutes, if that, so the perfect shoes have to be comfortable (arch support, no chaffing) and stylish (just because I'm in a hardware store doesn't mean I can't look cute). Tired of tennis shoes, which are miserable to wear on a hot summer's day, I searched for something less bulky for the coming Alabama heat. I drank the Koolaid (oh yeahhh) and bought a pair of Tom's shoes; they are so much fun to walk in! We'll see if they hold up. And in case you don't know about Tom's shoes, I implore you to check out these eco-friendly shoes that correlate to a great cause that donates shoes to children in need. One for one, baby :]

Yes, I just rambled about shoes.

And that is all for now.

DB

Sky, Park, Air

Another free form written in church. What a heathen.


The sky hovers like spilled ink
Over the park.
His fingers tease her hand
And she grins.
They sit on the bench for hours,
Talking, planning, laughing,
Until he hears a voice
From behind a tree that whispers
Too low for her ears.
Contrite, he lowers his head
And walks away.
The air tonight numbs and pricks,
but she has nowhere else to go.

The sky burns red like licking flames
Against the park.
Another finds her standing alone
Under the magnolia tree.
Without saying a word
He kisses her long and hard
And she counts herself lucky.
They sit on the bench
For a minute or two when he says,
"Thank God for a girl like you
To make me feel happy,"
But even dogs tire of playthings;
Ennui smolders his passion.
He walks away.
The air this evening is thick
And sticks to her arms and legs,
but she has nowhere else to go.

The sky melts gray with ripe clouds
Against the park.
She clasps her hands together,
Looks out to the river
That cuts through the park,
And lets her eyes trace a single wave.
The air today swallows everything
In a dense fog,
But she has nowhere else to go.

She falls asleep on an iron bench
And wakes to find herself
Warmed by a fleece coat spread
Over her body.
She looks up at humble eyes
That match her curiousity with benevolence.
She knows him.
He sits down next to her
On the bench and says,
"Thank God for a girl of God.
Use me to show her Your love
And her worth."
She rests her head on his chest.
The air this morning is ubiquitous as always,
But she'd never know it.

Dry-Eyed Rehab

This one is a working progress... You are at a disadvantage because you are out of my crazy thought process. Forgive me if it doesn't make sense. But definately let me know either way. Thanks!

______________
Lie down right there on the green leather sofa.
So, I hear you think you've forgotten how to cry
Or that your tears are all dried up.
I'm going to show you some images that will cure you
And release those tears that cry, "Hold, hold!"

See, the woman weeps for her only child
Whose dim-lit eyes stare past her to glory.

Or the birth a a healthy boy
Who wasnt expected to breathe longer than a few minutes.

Or this one, your friend,
Whose mother unleashes her anger that leaves physical scars.

Or here, the friend who unleashes
Her own anger, guilt, shame upon her self in the form
Of physical scars.

And this (Don't turn your head, look back this way),
of the love promised for you that he lavishes her with.


And yet, your eyes remain parched?
-[aside]This disease... is far beyond my practice.
Have the strings of her heart untied, or the stream of her tears
forgotten how to flow?-
Miss, you're bleeding There, just above your left eye.
Looks like a scratch or a paper cut...
Let me fetch you a bandage--
It's widenening-- Oh! Hold this over your head...

_______

That's a nice looking gash you got there.
-[to nurse]She's losing blood fast-
A wound from years ago? You don't say.
How did it reopen, Dear? Come now, think hard.
Hold still, this might sting a bit.
-Cauterize the edges-
What a brave young woman you are!
You haven't shed a tear.
What's that? Don't be silly.
You can't forget how to cry.
-The skin around her eyes is too dry.
The wound will never heal itself-
Just one more thing...
-Cover it with sillicon skin-
See there, no one will ever know
that the wound was there.

Bucket Lists and Jellyfish

I think i'll add "get stung by a jellyfish" to my bucket list.

I swear there's logic in my thought process that led to this conclusion.
A friend and I began talking about bucket lists a few days ago, and the subject has attatched itself to the back of my mind since. Bucket lists introduced itself to the subject of jellyfish -- a subject stemmed from my fear of swimming in the ocean at night. Bucket list and jellyfish hit it off right away, and the two collaborated to make a revelation.
Are you still with me?
If I add a painful, unpleasant experience like getting stung by a jellyfish to my bucket list, then in the event that said experience occurs, I'll have met one of my goals and I'll have an interesting story to write about.
Still confused?
People write what they know(or at least they should). If I got stung by a jellyfish or experienced some other unfortunate event, I would gain authority to confidently write a story based on the incident. I hate pain as much as the next pansy, but my inner Bronte and Dickinson welcome the experiences in a twisted way.

She writes in third person and daydreams

She has so much fun writing about herself in third person. When people are written about in third person, as in a story, it usually indicates that something extraordinary is going to happen to that person.

______________________________

Secretly, she wonders if she will ever be able to put up with a guy's flaws long enough to date him, marry him, and grow old with him.

She thinks, perhaps, she should just get a dog.

______________________________

She knows the guy she is going to marry.

She doesn't know what he looks like or where he lives. Or how old he is or what kind of job he has. But she knows about him. He's respectful, friendly, and personable. Confident, not arrogant. When a stranger talks to him, he talks back instead of awkwardly avoiding conversation. People like to be around him. He isn't clingy, but he enjoys every second he is with her.

Above all, he loves God more than anyone or anything on earth, even her. He prays for her, and she prays for him.

She can't wait to meet him.

She sits in the bookstore

She sits in the bookstore at a table with only a journal and a pencil to keep her company. She secretly wishes a stranger would ask her what she is writing. Why she is alone.
She would tell the stranger about how she is meeting someone here in an hour, but until then she is scribbling random anecdotes in hopes of capturing a brilliant line or two. These she would store away for that novel she's always wanted to write.
Instead, no one talks to her. In fact, she is fairly certain no one is even looking at her. Which is perfect since she plans to people-watch in a few minutes.
Suddenly she begins to judge herself.
She is insane.
She is insane and creepy and secretive.

Just like a writer.
Mission accomplished.

________________________________

More to come from her. Don't know when she will decide to publicly share more anecdotes, though. She is kind of self-conscious about some of them. I'll try to persuade her to post more sometime.

A Freedom Writer

I've been running away from my stress so much lately that the pounding of it's footsteps behind me are inevitable. I can't ignore it any longer. Taking a deep breath helps, but that's a difficult task when you feel like you are being smoldered by a pillow. A pillow made of sandpaper.
Don't get me wrong. Life is a wonderful thing, but the wearing and tearing is getting to be a bit much for me. I find myself wandering aimlessly in my mind, searching for something like aloe vera on a sunburnt back. Something to sooth my aching heart, something to rest my tired mind.
But I sat down at my computer and just started writing. Almost immediantly I began to feel like all of the worthless thoughts I had floating in my mind didn't matter and I could just be free. Free to succeed. Free to be someone. Free to give my ideas a voice. How awesome is that?

What do you do that makes you feel free?