Ballad of the Beginning

White is all to cover green.
Nothing left now to be seen.
Yet one green stands its ground alone
As red stains halos in the snow. 

Falling all, one by one. 
Never-ending, never done.
All lay down for one last rest 
'Til morning shows who is the best. 

(A)

~E

Be Careful

"There's no life like the snow life." 
                   - While I Shovel the Snow, Walkmen
                                                                                                                                                                       
I have often heard that people do not mature with the years, rather the damage. 
I think this morning has aged me a bit more than expected. 
So many people, so many different voices telling me to be careful, drive slow, don't even get on the roads. Normally I take it with a busy mind and stumble a little. 
This snowstorm wasn't supposed to hit until tonight. 
Plenty of time for classes and getting what I need before I compete at state this weekend. So of course to spite me, we get the snow early. That doesn't change the fact that I still have to travel and pack as planned. 
"Don't go that far," the cashier said. 
"I have to," I tell her. 
"I hear you might be okay on State Road 1," says the customer in front of me. "We're headed that way ourselves."
"But still be careful," says the cashier. 
Then my coworkers, one, two, three, four, all of them. "Be careful." 
Then my aunt on the way out of the gas station. "Go straight home. They're sending people home from school." 
"I still have other classes and things to get done," I tell her. 
"Be careful." 
And for once, because it really is bad outside, I heed their words with a clear head. 
I go slow. Thank goodness for those new front tires. I actually have some tread now. No distractions to pull my eyes away from the road. Music on to keep things calm. 
Then just a little nudge. 
The back tires? I'll just be careful to straighten them out. 
Swing right. No, no, you're supposed to straighten out. Why aren't you straightening out? We're not going that fast. 
Swing left. Oh. We're perpendicular to the road now. I'm not sure I can save this one. 
Backwards. And now we're off the road. Is that a pole? 
Yep. That's a pole. 
I blink, and I'm staring out the windshield, just blinking. Adele is still playing, the car is still running, I'm still warm and surprised. No, wait, it's a little chilly now. 
The back window is shattered in. Great. I should probably get out and check that. 
Oh, of course. The door won't open. It's barricaded with wires. From an electrical pole. That I just hit. Wonderful. There go my rates. 
So instead, I climb out the passenger door, and thus begin the two hour journey of passersby and police and parents and coworkers and big trucks hauling my fractured baby out of the ditch. No one is quite convinced how I'm still walking around fine. 
"No concussion? Or whiplash? Didn't you hit your head? The seat belt got you, right?"
"No. I'm just fine. Well, you know, maybe a little shaky." 
So much for those new front tires. 

~E 

Tires

"Go ahead as you waste your days with thinking/when you fall everyone stands."
                   - Move Along, All-American Rejects
                                                                                                                                                                    
Shove the wrench onto the bolt and raise.
Apply weight.
Screw out.
Repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat.
And again to the other side.
Repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat.
Up goes the car and off they come!
Although it's something I probably should have learned at an earlier age, changing tires became my Sunday lesson this week. Normally I don't enjoy grime worming under my nails, but the experience was worth the dirt.
I feel as though there are other such simple things I have yet to learn that should already be under my belt.
But for now, at least I've got some new tires.

~E

Earth

"Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts"
                   - Rachel Carson, The Sense of Wonder
                                                                                                                                                                              
If he had to describe her, it couldn't be in colors or sounds. She was an ever-changing aroma, a perfume that changed of its own volition.
In the morning it was dew from the garden, where the dirt stained her skin like a cordial kiss.
At noon it was acrid and bitter from medicine, its application and creation alike.
In the afternoon it was sweet, supple from her visits among the flowerbeds and bees.
And in the night it was fire, mollifying all senses with the warmth of a candle.
But for him she was another scent. Redwoods. Sturdy and earthy and everything he needed to stay grounded before getting swept off into the sea.

~E

Sleep, Sleep, Sleep?

"Oh, there ain't no rest for the wicked."
                   - Ain't No Rest for the Wicked, Cage the Elephant
                                                                                                                                                                                
I'm tired.
So incredibly tired.
I couldn't even get my last two posts for the week up until today: the day after.
I decided to run an experiment last, to sleep as long as I could since for once, there were no obligations this Saturday.
So I did.
I woke up mentally refreshed, but my body still seemed to be begging for more rest.
Other times during the week, I'll get maybe six or seven hours of sleep, wake up physically ready to go but feel like a zombie inside.
I've been told often that stress messes with your health in more ways than one. This is becoming more apparent with each week.
So I inquire to my more-experienced peers: how do you guys handle it all?
Thank you all and have a good weekend!

~E

The Fallen

"All of the leaves on all of the trees/are falling with me down to the ground/and I'm falling/I'm falling/I'm falling for you."
                   - The Fall Song, Bridget Mendler
                                                                                                                                                                                            
He couldn't feel the arrow that pierced her in the one spot she always failed to protect:     
her heart.
He couldn't hear her choke for air with a body that could hardly move.
He couldn't swallow the last bite of dread that clung to her as she fumbled for the arrow.
He couldn't catch the scent of a hearth as the gold of her armor gilded first her skin, then her emerald eyes, then the blood of her hair, in a smoldering evanescence.
And he couldn't watch her ride the wind, a newfangled soul of cinders falling to the beyond.

All anyone would say, could say, was that she was gone. 
He wouldn't believe...no, he couldn't. Because she couldn't be. Not her. Not the unbeatable warrior. He would graciously accept MIA. Even that meant she was still fighting. Somewhere. 

But then came the person who had seen, who had watched with unequivocal eyes, that which would destroy any hope he still nurtured. 

She was gone. 
Just gone. 
But no one would tell him what she really was. 

R.eturn
I.mperforate
P.yrrha

~E

Wind

"Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?"

- Pocahontas, Walt Disney Studios

 

He could whisper in her ear, a breathy word, or strike a chord that pierced her very soul.

Everything, everything he was, everything he did, everything he is and everything he does

Drawn-out, lingering, an interminable.

Fair hair seemingly elongated down an elongated crest of moon’s skin,

Fingers seemingly elongated across an elongated ritenuto.

She could find him but only by searching,

Although he would be better heard than seen.

~E

When Am I?

"Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go/So make the best of this test and don't ask why/It's not a question but a lesson learned in time."
                   - Good Riddance, Green Day
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        
Time is often described as a river. I can see this. A controlling torrent with no end, but yes, a river all the same. It's goes only one way but with the irony of two. 
When we want to look behind, it does nothing but push us forward. 
When we want to move forward, it does nothing but turn our heads over our shoulders. 
When it's belly echoes with a vacant cry, the walls expand for miles. 
When it's full with not a room to step, there is hardly room to take that step. 

I can't remember the last time I had a night to sit down and really just write. Anything. A new story, new ideas, lists, names, events. Anything. 
I wake up with no knowledge of what day it is. For all I know, it's midnight of Halloween. 
I go to sleep never knowing where I'll come to. 
Is this day and age gone? 

The river is flooded with more than water. Books that grace my arms with paper cuts. Notes that bring forth blood from my ears. The waft of copper from the cash register. And, not even fresh water, salt. Sweet salt. 

This post, and it's offspring to come soon, were meant for the previous evening. 
But the river swept me past my dock. I only managed to claw my way back again. 

~E

Her Doll

“With the truth, all given facts harmonize; but with what is false, the truth soon hits a wrong note.”
                   - Aristotle
                                                                                                                                                                                          
I perch on the lid of toilet and wrinkle my nose to the hairspray that bogs the air. It is a scent long ingrained in my childhood, but that does not make it anymore appealing. The manufactured mist clings to her curls and sculpts them into place across her shoulders.  Her hair is a cloud of darkness once more, appropriate for public. She walks out; we leave. 

He smiles as we arrive and adorns her arm wherever she goes. There is a plaid shirt to hide his skin. Plaid. That's a new one. And he's shorter this time. His head of straw has been traded out for dirt, but the pales eyes are left over. 

Pale eyes are rare. I've seen the dirt hair with dark eyes and dirt hair with amber eyes and dirt hair with dirt eyes, but never dirt hair with pale eyes. 

There was a time when he had dirt hair with pale eyes. I can't remember that one; I was hardly alive then. Those pale eyes belong to me now, though. 

We make our way around, her leading the way and him playing the part of escort. It isn't long before we return home. She plays with him a while longer, and I retreat to my room, weak in the stomach. 

A wheel turns. 

I perch on the lid of the toilet once more and turn my cheek to the nostalgic puff of gas. Her curls lock into place; we head out once more. I expect to see that his eyes have changed, and he does not disappoint me. 

Dirt eyes again. 

~E

This Saturday!

“When I hear music, I fear no danger. I am invulnerable. I see no foe. I am related to the earliest times, and to the latest.”

                   - Henry David Thoreau

                                                                                                                                             

Short notice, but I thought I might let you all know in case you're interested or need to fill the void of an empty Saturday afternoon. 

Boy, do I miss those. 

Tomorrow I will be performing at IPFW in their annual Three Rivers Honor Band. The concert takes place on campus in the Auer Concert Hall at 2:30 p.m. 

There will be four songs featuring a Korean folk song variation, a tribute to our great nation, a unique piece written by a composer from the 14th century, and an ode to the strife of the Son. 

Attendance is free, and open to anyone. Of course, I never demand people to come, but it is an option I'd like to make available to you all. 

Have a nice weekend!

~E

Trade

"The only truth is music." 
                   - Jack Kerouac
                                                                                                                                                                                             
He was a lot of things. 
He was everything she wasn't. 
He was blue. 
He was dark. 
But he was also the light. 

She was also a lot of things. 
She was everything he would never be. 
She was brown. 
She was light. 
But she was also the dark.  

~E