Firstly and Secondly - Experiment #4

     It was his scent that hit me first.

     It was as if every last drop of Calvin Klein's marketing career was spread in a thick layer across his skin. It filled my eyes with stinging musk, but to be completely honest, I was crying before he even got within sniffing-distance. And he was smiling again. Why does he always smile when we fight? Is that really the same smile that made me fall in love with him? He pulled me into his chest - an unwelcome hug that printed his stink in perfect lines on my skin. He spoke as he smothered me.

     "I know things have been rough lately, Mills, but I think we can do this." He pulled away enough to look at me. "I promise I'll be better."

     His famous line. "I'll be better" has been around since the first time I threatened to leave him. I had had a few drinks that night, so I wasn't thinking properly when I believed him. Then again, that doesn't excuse why I've stayed with him three years since. I suppose it's because I'm scared - of him or myself, I'm unsure. I paid special attention to a small stain in the carpet. Weak, I thought to myself. I willed myself to meet his gaze.

     I nerved myself. A deep breath, and then; "I don't believe you, Luke."

     There's something off-putting about autumn. If you've ever lived through a true autumn, you'll understand what I mean. It's a melancholy beauty that thrives on death. As the beautiful fruits of spring ripen under summer suns and grow fat with juice, autumn arrives with gravity, pulling leaves from their nodes and fruit from their flowers. They're then raked to the side to decompose into mulch. 

     Luke's face was like autumn, then. I was the mulch. 

     He raked me aside by the hair and threw me against the wall. Shoulder first, I crashed into the ivory wall, making the surrounding windows rattle precariously. I crumpled into a pile on the ground, my shoulder burning and my ankle screaming from under my weight. I shifted and waited in dripping, silent agony, bracing myself to receive whatever punishment Luke felt fit. It was his release that was my reprieve. 

     Nothing. I slowly peered up from behind a curtain of hair - my only defense. Luke sat on the bed with his head in his hands, his shoulder blades crashing against one another in a fitful weep. My heart hurt for him - I really did care for him - but my ankle told me to stay put. His breathing began to slow, and he lifted his forehead from his palms. His blue eyes struck me, wet and red with irritation, and my heart jumped to my throat. He looked so hurt. What had I done?

     I spoke from behind my veil. "I'm sorry, Luke. I didn't mean that."

     "I know."

     "I really didn't. I know you only hurt me because I make you angry."

     "I know."

     "I'm serious. If there's anything I can do to-"

     He was on his feet, a vein in his temple pushed itself against his glistening skin.

     "I know! I know! I know!" His approaching footsteps felt like thunder in a summer storm, my veil like rotting wooden shutters against a window with no glass. "Jesus Christ, woman, what will it take to make you understand such a simple sentence as 'I know'? You make me want to fucking blow my brains out! Right out of my fucking skull!"

     My veil was broken. He was on top of me.

     It was his fist that hit me second.

Wyrd-Count Wednesday!

...or rather... Untimely Thursday.

     I'm sorry to inform you all that my laptop has taken an inevitable, irretrievable voyage to the shitter. While I work on scrounging up student discounts and coupons for a new one, I'll be using my boyfriend's for the time being. What a sweetheart, amiright?

     Anyway, shall we begin our counting, my bibliophile phriends?

What Am I Working On?
      So I've decided I'm going to begin my journey along the path of narrative. Yes, I'm going to begin brainstorming the first few pages of a story in media res, as good ol' Bradford suggested we do. I have a great idea a'brewing already, and I'm excited to share it with all of you.
      In other news, I'm working on a poem or two for the MPC Literary Magazine (I can hear Dan cheering in the back as I write). I plan on submitting quite a few works, but to be completely honest, I'm not quite confident enough to send it in. I'm hoping running it by a willing few might up my ante, if you know what I mean.

How Do I Feel About The Process?
     To put it bluntly: I am incapable of predicting how this is going to turn out, as of yet. This could be pure literary gold... but more than likely, this is going to do fuck-all for my portfolio. ... My confidence is bursting!

What Am I Reading Now?
       My current read is "Sharp Objects" by Gillian Flynn. It's actually the first book I've ever read of hers (don't gawk, I completely understand how ludicrous that is). I'm enjoying it so far. She's practically the epitome of what I look for in an author. Maturity, brevity, humility, and kick-assity. I'm not usually one for murder-mysteries, but she is KILLIN' IT.

     More updates to come as my laptop situation rectifies. I regret to inform you all that I will not be present in class on Monday to share my progress, but I will return on Wednesday with a (hopefully) thrilling narrative!

     Adieu,
              -A Fellow Bibliophile

Painting the Hopeless Romantic - An Experiment

Here it is!!! <=== Click me to listen!!

Aurora cigarettes, to light up my own vignette
Around the ultramarine of five-fifteen
Romancing your answering machine
'Cause I had a bad dream I need to forget
Dawn wilts like the silk from a spider
It touches the terrain, the windowpane
Heavy with morning rain and propane
Struggling inches from a lighter

I miss you more when the sheets are cold
With lamplights dripping like melting gold
My bed calls out to your faraway soul
And I'm choking on lonely, breathing in nothing

A starlit apathy, a fogging window movie screen
My smoking cigar wanders between the stars
A memoir to the sound of passing cars
In my dreams, you break me perfectly
The shadows dance again to the rhythm of my circadian
Daylight creeps from phosphorous streets
Like radio waves, they lull me awake

I miss you more when the sheets are cold
With lamplights dripping like melting gold
My bed calls out to your faraway soul
And I'm choking on lonely, breathing in...

Wrestling the thought of living our life alone
Lamenting lost lullabies deep into the phone
Dreaming without you is a new kind of lonely
And I'm choking out words, breathing out nothing

A thousand nights like this. and I still can feel
Your breath on the pillow; living with the vertigo
The perfect companion, this amorous phantom
Spectral fingers paint the hopeless romantic

I miss you more when the sheets are cold
With lamplights dripping like melting gold
My bed calls out to your faraway soul
And I'm choking on lonely, breathing in...

Wrestling the thought of living our life alone
Lamenting lost lullabies deep into the phone
Dreaming without you is a new kind of lonely
And I'm choking out words, breathing out nothing


Here it is!!! <=== Click me to listen!!

1 A.M. Update

     Y'all would be so proud of me!

I'm actually writing a song

     I've composed songs before, of course, but none of them have been quite as promising. Given I've been working on this little piece for a total of three days thus far (with the guidance of my male-counterpart), I'd think it's safe to say that it has potential. How does this affect you, you might ask?

I actually might post this thing

     Of course, I wouldn't be singing it, nor would I be providing the instrumentation (blog fright, you know?), but I happen to be happily in love with a man who has a pleasant voice and the golden touch. Yes, my friends - my boy will be preforming my piece for all of you to see, and I will be uploading the video directly to my blog (providing I can be that tech savvy). 

     The lyrics still need a bit of polishing, and the audio will be slightly less than studio-quality, but I'm excited to share it with all of you, and I'm interested to hear your feedback. Given we have a selection of musically inclined folk in our class, I'm a bit nervous, but fear not! I will not let you down!

      I see you shiver with antici-

                   - ...pation

A Brief Account of My Dream Last Night

Daughter, dearest,

Your life's being sucked out from under

Great moons ringed with paper and wonder

I wonder what brings you here

I wished on that star to disappear

-s.c.g

I'm Not Dead Yet!!

     Look, I get it. You're disappointed.

     "You've had this blog up for a week and you haven't posted a single thing, Sarah."

     I know, I know, you don't have to tell me twice. Slap me on the wrist with a ruler if it makes you feel better, but I don't regret a thing. Don't get me wrong; I want to post, but I haven't had a single lick of time since I created this mess of an online journal. And no, this isn't just a lame excuse to abandon my blogging endeavors in pursuit of laziness and binge-watching Netflix originals. Maintaining four college courses, and a long-term, long-distance relationship, while working forty hours a week is challenging for anyone.

     Wade Bradford, my Creative Writing professor at Moorpark College, has given us the interesting opportunity to experiment with various writing techniques and projects. Recently, he suggested we create a picture book of roughly 30 or so pages. I have personally never written for a young audience, but it's not something I would completely dismiss. I had a really good idea rolling around: a kind of elementary spin on Edgar Allan Poe's short stories and poems. Unfortunately, this idea has not yet come to fruition as my schedule has been about as hectic and confusing as a lactose-intolerant Wisconsonite at a cheese curd festival. Excuses aside, I still plan to partake in this experiment as it does sound quite interesting. I might even go as far as providing my own illustrations (as this is just an experiment for me), and work with it from there.

     Today, however, Wade suggested we write a song. Now, poetry is a bit further up my babbling and somewhat treacherous brook of literature expertise. I've written quite a few songs in the past, some of which I've composed music for, and others I've shipped off to the deep recesses of my recycling bin. But let me tell you this, my fellow writers: I will not fail you now. I will write the best damned song I can procure from the bowels of my brain - within the 5 days provided, that is.

     Bis Dann,

                -A Cheese Curd Enthusiast

Blog Wars: A New Hope

     After cleaning out the collection of angsty, pre-pubescent poems and utterly embarrassing attempts at being "edgy", I think it's safe to assume my blog is ready to be revived!

     This blog began with a relatively successful post (still available to read and be cringed at, mind you), but like many modern trends, it eventually dissolved into the deepest recesses of cyberspace. Although, this loss of following was greatly due to my inability to maintain timely postings and interact with my followers - I figure I was much too young to honestly motivate myself toward its' upkeep. 

     "But why now?" You must be thinking to yourself, "My god! Leave the dead to rest!"

     If it weren't for the recent circumstances with which I've found myself, I would have agreed with you, my brutally honest correspondent! And yet, I have returned... and with a purpose!

EXPLORATION OF THE MIND

     Yes, I'm about to brave the new frontier of my cerebral state. Manifest destiny of my left parietal lobe. Circumnavigate the vast expanse of the viscous, ooey-gooeyness that is my brain! (Finals really took a toll on me last semester, lemme tell ya.)

    "Christ alive, woman! We get it! What are you going on about?"

     I'm glad you asked, my bellicose friend! This semester, I have decided it fitting for myself to take a course in Creative Writing, and I am actually required to maintain a blog as an ongoing assignment for the class. There! I have my motivation!

     I, an English Literature major, am an analyst. I pick apart stories, isolate ideas, and create meaning where there was originally none. I can pump out a five page argumentative/persuasive essay in an hour and still have time to spell check. I can beat a horse deader than a Black Eyed Peas concert. I read, too. Kinda comes with the whole analyzing thing, y'know? Writing, though, in a creative sense... it's a whole other story (pun totally intended). This is a whole new ballgame for me. I mean, I've written plays in the past, those of which have never seen the world outside of my office recycling bin. Poems are a bit more common in my literary repertoire; however, I'm not banking on my ability to form a slant rhyme. This is going to be TOUGH. NOODLES. (Shout out to my main man, Josh Peck, for articulating my feelings so cogently.) 

    Nevertheless, I will endeavor to persevere, just like my other main man, Lincoln, once said. You never know... maybe I'll enjoy this creative writing blog thing enough to actually keep it up once I graduate!

                                                                        (Ah, gotta love that situational irony, hmm?). 

      Fair winds, my feisty friends! Until we blog again!

       -An Analyst