Mad Musings

Writing is amazing and annoying. Ideas take a lot of effort to flesh out. When you live in your head often ideas you once thought were unique feel overplayed and repetitive simply because you yourself have been turning it over in your mind for so long. Often I want to start an idea and it quickly becomes a monumental task that requires me to map out a whole world. How does the magic work? How do people live day to day? Are everyday moments too mundane? I know we want to move the plot along or develop characters. When I was in film school the question was always what does this scene do to further the plot or character’s struggle. What purpose does it serve? But, with film, we are working with a set amount of minutes. That makes sense. There are books that are pages upon pages and when I read I don’t analyze the texts or question whether each scene is necessary. Maybe I should, to better understand, right? That’s what people do when they work with a craft. Turn it inside and out to bette...

  To sit down and purposefully write for this feels wrong, weird even. I don’t write with an audience in mind, to be honest. I just write. I write out my feelings and when inspiration strikes. To find things to blog about feels disingenuous… So why not write about that? Writing purposefully feels weird after a while. It’s most likely because when I started writing I had a lot of big emotions to get out. I often wonder if that’s why I find it hard to write sometimes. To be blunt, my dad passed away around a month after I turned 9. That’s a lot to deal with. It started me into being really introspective, before this point I was loud, rambunctious, and forthright. A kid obviously. I remember liking a boy nearly twice my age and making him hold my hand and my sister scolding me for kissing his hand. I loved hard. A force of nature. I terrorized the people I had crushes on. I imagine it was 2-3rd grade when I stopped. I don’t remember much about that time. I remember things from kinderg...

My mind twists, and with every turn a new frustration. What is it that makes people tick? How do they operate? Where do I begin? Time waits for no one does anyone wait on time? Lost in thoughts of you like you'd ever notice anyhow. I'm in love but frustrated. Missing parts of me like dominoes in a box of forgotten string. I won't know what's out there until I'm lost will I?

He watched her from across the room. She had headphones on with the music up loud, and her foot was steadily tapping to the beat as she wrote. What she wrote, he would never know. As he sat on the love seat in his room, she sat on his bed. He could see she was tired, but she refused to lose. For some reason she kept writing, he wished she would sleep, but she seemed intent on her work. After an hour or so had passed she leaned her head back against the wall. She kept fighting sleep. Finally, he got up and sat down on the bed. She looked up at him, blinking furiously. He pulled her into his arms and laid down on the bed. She looked up and rolled her eyes. She looked so adorable. He kissed her lips and felt her smile. Clearly, he had won, so she took off the headphones and listened to his heart beat as she fell asleep. ~~~~ She woke with a start, anxiously looking around. her eyes fell on his peaceful, sleeping face. Her eyes softened, and her heart calmed. She ran her slen...

He was lying on the couch, propped up on the arm. A sound system was playing an array of songs from his ipod. In his arms was a slightly younger girl, she was beautiful and looked angelic as her chest rose and fell in a peaceful sleep. She looked so innocent, so breakable. Nothing could be hidden or displayed or faked when you were asleep. He was so tempted to kiss her small, full lips but did not want to wake her. She shivered and moved slightly. He pulled her up so that her head rested on his shoulder more and dragged a blanket down from the back of the couch. It was late, he should sleep, but he wanted to watch her peaceful face. It was only for a minute longer. He kissed her cheek and hugged her close. His heart thudding against his chest.

She ran through the rain; feeling the cool drops against her warm skin. It felt amazing, it was dark and there was nothing to shed light except for an old, forgotten street lamp that hummed softly. It was barely audible over the roar of the rain and clap of the clouds. She wore only a mid-thigh length dress that, by now, was soaked to her bones, plastered to her form. Her dress was black as pitch and her skin dark, but paling. Sun was something she didn’t see much of, this one summer night had been just warm enough for a dress. Nothing adorned her long, slender feet for she wanted to feel the Earth with her roots, as if she were a tree. ~~~~ He watched the rain fall from the shelter of a rusted, forgotten shed. Darkness was all around him, and, if he wished, he could simply turn on his flash light to chase away the darkness but he did not. Darkness had always been his friend, always. Even as a child he would sit in the dark, for the dark does not judge. It blindly loves and embraces y...

"What are you doing next?" "What's next for you?" Harmless. Small talk. Chit chat. It's safe, easy. In theory at least. Life is as hard as we make it. I just graduated college. What am I going to do next? Failure is normal, struggle is easy. In theory of course. I sometimes find it hard to keep the anxiety down, spiraling spiraling until sleeping becomes a restless game of cat and mouse. But I'm okay. We all are eventually okay. A mantra we hold close to our chest like crossed arms barring us from unwanted advances and discomfort. Life is throwing yourself into discomfort more often than we like to admit. It's okay to not be okay, but know that okay or not okay is only temporary.

Noon. Probably not the best wake up time. Forever torn between late nights and early wake up calls I stumble to the kitchen. Groggy and teetering I make my green tea. My mother is here and I need to walk down to the shed she dubs "The She-Shed". I walk outside. She's on the phone with her boyfriend. The small black plastic slipped over her ear as she picks up trash. The dogs got a hold of the large black trash bag we left outside the previous day. I help her, barefoot and hot tea up in hand. She's chatting to her boyfriend as we work. "There was a pair in the trailer but it was too much trouble to go get them." Oh. The little grabby things. What were those called? An arm with a trigger on one end that caused the other end to clasp and close with each squeeze of the handle. It's always interesting the various things we use or come into contact with and never wonder what they are or what they're called. If only I had thought to grab it... but why?...