News: My thoughts are clouds I cannot fathom into pastries.

--1 June 2018--

Quote: Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest of hearts. --Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

The Fellowship

August 23, 2012

Fyodor Dostoyevski (My Thoughts & Some Quotes)

Lately I’ve become fascinated with Fyodor Dostoyevski’s name. I don’t know much about him as an individual, aside from the fact that he was descended from Lithuanian nobility, ran away from home (permanently) at 15yrs old, hated his studies but nevertheless became an engineer cadet, wrote Russia’s first social novel (Poor Folk), was exiled to Siberia, and after being released from a prison of sorts he went on to write more intellectual novels.
Google Images
The first time I’d actually heard of Dostoyevski was from the movie Tron. I loved how his name rolled off the actor’s tongue, so I decided to research him a bit. Upon skimming through a somewhat lengthy summary of who Fyodor was, my mind turned to my social studies courses from high school. In fact, I should be referring to my Christian studies course, in which we discussed a great deal of Russian thought and philosophy as well as social structure.
I noted, through my skimming of Fyodor’s history, that he seemed particularly fascinated (although I do think “fascinated” is too strong a term in this case) by the grotesque suicides performed in Russia. This brought to mind the writing of Franz Kafka, particularly The Trial. I am also reminded of The Lottery, although it is an American story (by Shirley Jackson)…nevertheless it came to mind.
Pardon my detour from the topic, but I would like to take a moment to reminisce on The Lottery. Several Christmases ago, I was sitting downstairs in my Uncle F.’s house in Eastern Canada. We had been merrily discussing literature and intellectual individuals as well as our own personal thoughts on theology and philosophy. It was a very refreshing conversation, seeing as there are few people who challenge me on that level (no offense to those I know…I suppose everyone is challenged in different ways). Anyhow, he brought up the topic of strange novels and novellas and asked me if I had ever read The Lottery by so-and-so. I told him I hadn’t and he strongly suggested that I read it, claiming my interest in dystopia and such would be pacified to a degree.
As soon as I returned home, I searched up this short story online and read it through, utterly fascinated and slightly perturbed by the dire situation of the text (which I shall leave the reader to determine by taking up the tale, if they so choose).
That aside, I have drifted off topic terribly. I now return to my musings of Fyodor Dostoyevski.
I searched up several quotes by him and find myself rather fascinated by his statements. Let me state a few:
“It is not the brains that matter most, but that which guides them – the character, the heart, generous qualities, progressive ideas.”
“What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love.”
“Sarcasm: the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded.”
“We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.”
“Man has such a predilection for systems and abstract deductions that he is ready to distort the truth intentionally, he is ready to deny the evidence of his senses only to justify his logic.”
“There is silent and long-suffering sorrow to be met with among the peasantry. It withdraws into itself and is still. But there is a grief that breaks out, and from that minute it bursts into tears and finds vent in wailing. This is particularly common with women. But it is no lighter a grief than the silent. Lamentations comfort only by lacerating the heart still more. Such grief does not desire consolation. It feeds on the sense of its hopelessness. Lamentations spring only from the constant craving to reopen the wound.”
Virginia Woolf stated, of Fyodor, in her essay The Russian Point of View, “…the novels of Dostoevsky are seething whirlpools, gyrating sandstorms, waterspouts which hiss and boil and suck us in. They are composed purely and wholly of the stuff of the soul. Against our wills we are drawn in, whirled round, blinded, suffocated, and at the same time filled with a giddy rapture. Out of Shakespeare there is no more exciting reading.”
While I cannot agree that Shakespeare is terribly exciting (I’ve read a large portion of his works so I think I have right to state that), I must admit that what I have seen so far of Dostoyevski is fascinating and very quotable. Perhaps I should acquire one of his novels…although, social literature never really intrigued me. I’d probably find it boring in the end, unless he proves himself rather exceptional.
Indeed! I’ve had the strangest thought. Perhaps reading such authors like Dostoyevski pushed Woolf’s mind over the edge, thus resulting in that dastardly decision :/ ah well, as I always say, salt your reading with more joyful, pleasant things than difficult, dystopic items. That way it at least feels like they balance out evenly.

August 22, 2012

IT & All Around (a Poem)

Call this rage writing or whatever you wish it. I needed to just write and so I did. And I can tell you, I'm about to burst because I'm in dire need of a good ol' breath of fresh air. Gonna go outside right now and do that!! :)



IT & All Around

It’s a whirlwind and I just want to gag and cover my face.
There’s too much emotion.
Too much emotion. I’m strangling myself in love and repulsion.
The back beat of the ocean against my spine.
It crawls up and down, every vertebrae shivers.
The rush of feeling tingles in my toes, erupting through my mouth.
Can someone stop this repulsive, wonderful thing?
Someone tell me that it’s only a nightmare!
I’m being driven, faster than any race car has ever dared travel,
Driven off the edge of a cliff, into a garden
A garden of the freshest, purest flowers in all of Venus,
Pluto swarms around my head, singing lonely lullabies
Songs about how it was once loved, so tightly
Like a lover, squeezing your breath out with such a
Such a satisfying grasp around your back,
Pulling tighter like the noose that hung those American rebels and fanatics.
My head is whirling round and round,
Count the rings of Jupiter and Saturn, combine them,
Shatter them against the glow of the sun,
Bite back the words that rush forth, trembling inside your vaulted caverns,
Trembling like hunted wolves, so ravenous but so afraid.
Let your bones tremble, mine tremble with every drop of the bass,
The guitar strings a melody that ties my skin back on,
Ties it back on with such a sturdy grasp,
Pulling all the loose ends together that fell apart when IT first drowned me.
Thought fought against the rush of IT. Emotion. Too crazy to capture.
IT rained down, like a thunderstorm that threatened to immerse the entire earth,
Immerse it in love and happiness and hate and sadness.
The tidal waters rise above our lungs,
Exhale bubbles, exhale into the stars,
Blow away the galaxies with your fury,
Dip your tongue into the dewy nectar of the flower,
Watch the bee fly by, scurrying away from your wandering eye.
Feel the grass bend under your feet, crying out against your pleasure.
Touch the tip of the rose, prick your finger,
It drips, flowing out of you. Life blood…emotion.
So much to feel and think and do,
So many sensations that well up inside like some majestic fountain,
But it all rips out through every pore in my body,
Rips out and leaves me bleeding out emotion from every wound.
Saber wounds, Stuck straight through by the sword I loved.
Stick again, like beanie reused for needles and and and.
Watch me walk, watch me run against the ground,
It flies away, behind, around, inside, through and before.
The end of the line.
Call up the Rinzler. I’m going down.
I’m already gone.
Pull out the .22, it’s already been done.
Shoot me through the heart with the tales of love.
Pulverize my soul,
But I’m already a leaf.
Can you hear the wind?
It calls so quietly, behind the sound of war.
Hold tight, we’re in for the ride of our lives.
Can you see the light?
It spills through the tree tops down on my head,
It’s so refreshing.
I crave light.
Light casts out darkness.
Light overcomes.


Signed with a whirlwind, 


August 21, 2012

A Little Rant About Dreams

My random splurge on dreams. Call it me reminiscing on the many years of dreams I've had, in but a short blip of white space :P


In my dreams it’s like another world; a world of violence and passion and emotion.
My dreams are so unlike the real world. I’ve been married to an East Indian, a Russian, a bench-presser, a theatrical dramatist, a cowboy, and a skater dude. I’ve journeyed across the world, through cold and heat, through war zones, on airplanes, inside ships, and across beaches. It’s the grandest adventure and the world’s worst nightmare all wrapped up in the prettiest Christmas wrapping ever seen.
I still remember the time I saw the witch on the stair case. She haunted my dreams multiple times, turning her long iron spoon in her bubbling mixture, peering through blinded eyes into the darkness as I tried to sneak past on the stairs. I remember the time I rode the wildest roller coaster in the world…and of course there was that trip through the haunted tunnel where the banshee screamed at my friend and I from behind curtains of the unseen.
I’ve been chased more times than I care to mention. By people, masked avengers, mountain lions, tigers, bears, strong guys, and such. One time I was pursued by a gigantic cat down the side of a mountain during winter time. I ran faster than the wind and summersaulted into my friend’s wedding only to battle sharks and octopus while I swung from the rafters on a giant rope.
Then there was the time I took the villainous position in my dream, stealing people’s hearts and sealing them in little bags, after which I’d collected them with my friends we’d slid down these giant slides and deposited our booty in a crusty looking van. Then there was the washroom episode where the toilet was covered in spiders. I screamed so loud I thought the smeared glass composing the window would shatter…but it didn’t. And the spiders climbed all over my blanket.
I’ve seen orcs in a university, chasing down innocent people who had no clue they were under attack in the first place. I’ve commandeered a battle operation in which all of Canada was under attack by the Nazis. I’ve flown in airplanes and survived crashes into the Atlantic Ocean. I drove a truck in standard before I actually learned to drive standard :P that was fun.
I’ve helped stem wounds; seen people get limbs lopped off, watched brains fly all over the wall, swam in blood, slipped on gore, shot and been shot at, and escaped a prison of lunatics. I’ve sung in front of an audience of thousands, played piano, conducted a symphony, and owned a gorgeous ball gown that was probably worth more than my entire province.  
I even sang with my first pastor. It was sad. I woke up crying, because he was amazing and I never did get to sing with him before he passed away. His sons played the brass instruments and we sang a beautiful song to Jesus. I don’t remember what it was, but I loved it and I hold that dream close as though it were a reality.
I’ve had people say wonderful things and horrible things, in my dreams. I remember the time a dream helped me get over a big crush I had on a guy a long time back. Yeah, dreams can do that. I was visiting him in this school but he was busy wrestling with some girl. It was weird. And I was mad. When I woke up, I felt as though I’d been released from ever liking him in the first place.
I’ve learned things from my dreams…such as some people cannot be trusted no matter what, repetition of an action can result in it becoming an obligation rather than enjoyable, and God beats everything :P
I’ve battled demons and flown around the country without wings. One time I was chased through the air by a demon, but I kicked it in the face and rebuked it in Jesus name…I didn’t get to see what happened because I woke up at that point. It was insane. Then there was that evil woman that pursued me continuously for nearly 2 years (yes, I’m talking actual years, not dream years) in my dreams. She locked me in chains and chased me down the country side (but my friend was able to drive me away and hide me in a muddy hole in the side of a ditch). She was evil…but I’m glad to say she’s not come around for a long time! And then there was the evil white-haired man who tried to steal my soul. But he’s been gone for quite some time too. Hopefully they never come back.
So dreams are awesome and dangerous and crazy. They certainly serve as a jump-point for amazing tales. That is all for now. Perhaps I’ll expand on this at a later point in time.

Signed with waves, 


August 9, 2012

Goodnight & Go (short clip)

This morning I was watering the garden and listening to a bit of Imogen Heap. One song in particular (which I call her "creeper" song) caught my attention and reminded me of an image I had seen earlier (I put it below). A wee bit of a yarn spun in my mind. It's terribly cheesy and, in my opinion, poorly written. But hey, we all have those days where we churn out a bit of junk. So this is a bit of poor cheesy writing for you to read. The song I wrote to is also included.

(note: I'm guessing it's poorly done because I had to rush since we're supposed to leave today to go on epic travelling adventures...and I was quite pushed for time. Even now I rush to put this down so I can return and conclude my cleaning adventure :/ lol)



Goodnight & Go

Ivy let a small grin touch the sides of her lips. She sighed and flopped back on her bed, bouncing several times as she exhaled fully and let her cobalt eyes graze the ceiling. Pieces of paper slid off her bed and floated to the ground, covered with the musings of her mind.
Imogen Heap’s tremulous voice soaked through the walls, spreading itself through her brain.
Say goodnight and go. Woah woah. Woah woah.
“And I just sit here and listen to this stuff. Hah!” Ivy blew a tendril of hair off her face and shook her head, causing her feather pillow to rustle. She quickly popped back up into sitting position and pressed the eraser of her pencil to her lip. Her eyes flicked down to the pages she’d finished filling.
“Filling with silly little thoughts. Oh what would Andrea say.” Her eyes fluttered a moment as a healthy blush rose to her cheeks, spreading down her neck and disappearing beneath the high-collar of the oversized wool sweater she wore. She always picked sweaters several sized too big to wear at home. It made her feel secure. Like a polar bear cuddled up in snow, melting into its environment like a soldier in camouflage.
Nibbling the end of the pencil, she picked up one of the rumpled pages that had fallen to the floor and read it over,

So it’s something like this. It’s something like that. Oh dear I can’t even explain it. I’m so invisible. Ok. Let’s start with something simple.
Every single evening, I walk down that path that leads to the sea; the one with the red bushes and beautiful gardens tended by grandmas and grandpas that spend their afternoons baking apple pies and spoiling children. The one where my dreams run free with the wind and I’m permitted to imagine anything I could possibly want to imagine.
That path has lead me to write many stories – stories about dragons and princesses and secret tunnels and magical flames; tales of princes and wars and tribulations. It’s the best place ever. Until it was invaded by you.
You. It’s such a simplistic, ordinary…even general term. It’s used every single day by millions of people in reference to others. And yet every time I hear that word, every time I write it, I only see you. Your face. Your eyes smiling back at me.
Gosh, I hardly know you personally; from a distance, though, it’s a different story. You sit in the middle of the lecture halls with your friends, your laugh carries light years across to my ears. You walk with a bit of a limp. Were you fighting robbers or pirates? Did you have an accident? A massive car wreck? Maybe a skiing accident? I don’t know.
When you smile, your whole face lights up, and your eyes crinkle like folded paper. Your hair is ethereal. I’m sure every guy wants to copy you. You’re so perfect.
Of course, you’re terribly popular. Always surrounded by your friends and acquaintances. You’re always going somewhere, doing something. I’m pretty sure you’ve never noticed me at all. I’m so quiet. I don’t even know anyone in our classes. Well, ok I know a few people but it’s not like I have a whole group to be part of. I just kind of wisp my way from class to class. I’m a little ghost. A little bit of cellophane. I’m invisible. And that’s kind of how I like it.
That’s why I was so shocked. You saw me on the beach, smiling at the sun and throwing sand dollars back to the ocean surf. You said hello. You knew my name. How? I’ve never even been face-to-face with you. Why do you know me? Why did you approach me? Why?
And why do you have to be so cute? I can’t even breathe. I’m sure I made a complete fool of myself, stumbling like a drunken sailor over my words. It’s like I’m a ship lost at sea…

 Ivy rolled her eyes and tapped the pencil against her chin, “Way too cheesy, Fred.” She glanced over at her re-stuffed teddy bear with the patched eye and lop-sided grin.
“What would momma say? Oh I know, I’m losing my mind. One day I’ll wake up and I’ll find myself living underwater with the mer-folk and there’ll be a sea horse outside my door waiting to take me galloping over kelp farms. Haha!”
Ivy reached over and picked up Fred, placing him between her crossed legs. She stared down at her favourite childhood stuffy and then cuddled him close, breathing in the faint scent of detergent.
Exhaling, she slid her legs over the side of the bed and shoved aside her worn journal and its loose pages.
“Let’s get some tea. Tea always helps when you’ve got silly thoughts prancing around.”
With that, Ivy left the room as the last few chords of Imogen Heap faded into oblivion.  


Signed with a pennywhistle note,


August 8, 2012

An Adventure (A Poem)

I was thinking about adventures today and got a bit inspired so I wrote this little poem. It's rough, but I kinda like it :P mayhaps I'll add more later on...after all, there are millions of adventures to be had :P I don't quite think I covered even the bare minimum of them all.



An Adventure by Squeaks

Let’s go splash in the moonlight. It’s so beautiful outside, darling.
Let’s go dance in the summer sun, the sweet breeze flowing through our hands.
Let’s go smile at the monkeys and feed the giraffes.
Can we go on another adventure?

Let’s go twirl around the blueberry bushes, and pin leaves on thorns.
Let’s go melt chocolate in the microwave and eat marshmallows.
Let’s go climb a tree and forget we ever knew what dirt was.
Can we go on another adventure?

Let’s stop looking down and turn our eyes heavenwards, to the cerulean sky.
Let’s stop hiding from the rain, it’s for dancing in after all.
Let’s stop brushing away the bumblebees. Not everyone wears a yellow jacket.
Can we go on another adventure?

Let’s take the train across Canada and ride on the winds of imagination.
Let’s climb the great towers and stand under the spray of the majestic Niagra.
Let’s hunt fish with our hands and splash in a river's cool, terrestrial flow.
Can we go on another adventure?

Let’s take our backpacks and hike the Rocky Mountains,
Let’s pause to have a snow-ball fight, I’ll throw snow down your back and run like a gazelle.
Let’s chance the wilderness and get lost on the backroads.
Can we go on another adventure?

Let’s drink orange and watermelon juice for breakfast and grin at the sun,
Let’s throw waterballoons at passersby and hope they burst.
Let’s get ice cream in December on the day before New Years.
Can we go on another adventure?

Let’s watch the whales spout out sea water and slap their tails against the surf.
Let’s paddle a canoe down the Amazon and throw darts at a dart board.
Let’s pray for the sick and homeless and care for the orphans.
Can we go on another adventure?

Let’s go to a reenactment and pretend we’re English-born in the 19th century.
Let’s sip sherry and ginger-ale and grin like sir’s.
Let’s throw confetti in the air just because we can.
Can we go on another adventure?

Let’s watch the moon set on the western horizon as the stars twirl their merry dance.
Let’s watch a bird in flight as it soars up high and then swoops down low.
Let’s watch a fire crackle in the hearth, it’s warmth spilling out towards our frozen limbs.
Can we go on another adventure?

Let’s go on adventures our whole life and grin as we share them.
Let’s spend January through September grinning, and then September through January smiling.
Let’s go somewhere, do something.
Let’s go on an adventure.


Signed with rosemary and jasmine, 


August 6, 2012

Laid to Rest (A Poem)

I wrote this poem today (the 6th of August). It's a memory poem -- drawing upon similes and pictures to paint a vivid story from my life. In other words, it's based on truth that is seemingly extrapolated...but of course if you look at it from the view of a sort of allegory (which is not the word I'm looking for :/ I can't find the one I want) then it makes more sense and isn't quite as shocking :P 

Essentially, this poem tells the tale of one individual trying to keep a friendship alive. However, as you all probably know by now, friendship takes two. Every relationship in life is like an intricate dance. If one partner stops dancing, then the other cannot continue. They can try and help their partner along, coaxing them to keep up, to take the simplest steps...but if one gives up, the other must move on. There is only so much time that someone can spend trying to help another person keep dancing. If they don't want to dance and they're firm about it, you have to move on...and that dance dies. Relating back to friendship, if one friend refuses to lend a hand, to contribute to the matter how much you try to make it work, the friendship eventually dies. 




Laid to Rest by Squeaks

I gave you so much, letting it all drip along the vines of time,
Every memory and thought caressed by those soft, worn branches,
Every thought and tear, captured by the long lost hollows of the wood.

I gave you so much, letting it flow through troubled waters,
Dipping another cloth into the cooled broth,
Laying it to rest upon your weary brow.

I gave you so much, pausing not to think twice but only to act once more,
Stooping down to kiss your sunken cheek and brush away scattered hair,
Waiting just another moment to see your chest rise and fall rhythmically.

But you took it away, and buried it beneath the sapling in the back yard,
Like a dog buries a bone, or a squirrel hides its winter hoard
Away from the bitter cold.

But you took it away, and sunk it beneath the tombs of time,
To a place where I cannot go, for I am but virgin soil, untrod upon by hell.
To a place where foxes and thieves return, in the dead of night.

But you took it away, and you slaughtered it in cold blood,
You squeezed every ounce of life out of its broken body
And you shoved it in a coffin without any ceremony, without a second glance.

And so I cried, and my tears fell and the earth drank them up,
And Jupiter spun more rings than Saturn, enshrouding itself in misery
And the grandfather clock on the basement wall tolled 12am.

And so I cried, and my shoulders shook in silent agony,
And the bear in its den rolled over, covered with a mist of sleep,
And the vixen peered from behind her bushy tail into the dense thicket of winter lace.

And so I cried, and my body became weary from weeping,
And I dropped my pen on the floor and it rolled away down the stairs,
And the fireplace crackled deviously behind me, casting shadows on my wall.

For there it died, the friendship cultivated with such love and hope,
Every spring, blooming such beautiful, glorious flowers,
Every winter, a graveyard haven for the hooded soul.

For there it died, what had been sown in love, now lost to tears,
Not a sound from the brush, not a snapping branch
Nothing restores life to what is dead, except God.

And so a part of me died too, laid down to rest under heavy snow,
Eyes closed, lips ever slightly parted as though seeking breath,
Pale skin against the white robed earth, laid to rest.
Laid to rest.


Signed with clouds, 


Frustration Sets In

I'm quite frustrated at the current moment. You see, I have all this inspiration for writing the tale of the century (ok maybe not quite)...I can see the characters and the snippets of battle scenes in my mind. I can see where I want the plot to go, how it will twist and turn, the characters that will rise and fall. I can see it all! But I cannot write it. Why? I haven't a clue. The words refuse to come out. Blame the muse, blame the writer's block, blame whatever you chose to blame...but I only blame myself.

*insert epic faceplant on the bytes of cyberspace*

Why can I not have the capability of putting my thoughts on paper? Well, I suppose I am doing something to that degree at the current moment. It's just that when I go to capture dialogue or description of a setting, I cannot :/ my brain jerks to a halt and refuses to let me. Woe is me.


I'm not even close to the suggestion captured by the image. I don't have hundreds of scraps of paper floating around my room. All I have are a few stick-it notes on my bare looking wall. One states that love conquers everything, another bemoans the fact that love is a difficult thing, the third is some scribbles from a twilight-moment dream, and the last two are conversations/snippets of what was running through my mind (with regards to characters). That is all.

Doesn't really help that everything on the entire planet is annoying me right now :/

Aah, but it does feel wonderous to vent it all out -- to throw away the drab, useless thoughts and make way for, hopefully, more useful ones.

I was briefly skimming through Abigail Hartman's blog, Scribbles and Ink Stains, and ran across her post All Your Might. I found it quite inspiring. She brings up Ecclesiastes 9:10 and then discusses the honour of doing something with all of one's might.
Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might, for in the realm of the dead, where you are going, there is neither working nor planning nor knowledge nor wisdom. 
Quite a drab verse. In fact, all of Ecclesiastes is forlorn and semi-depressing, which is why I prolong reading it until I'm absolutely certain I can handle it's truths. At the current moment (in which I should be outside, toiling underneath the unbearably hot glare of the sun) I feel as though this verse pertains quite well to my endeavours in writing. Of course, life is also the other answer (perhaps the more important one?) but I shall refrain from discussing that at the moment.

My hands find a pen or a pencil...they reach to the paper, smooth the soft skin out over a table. My mind searches its depths, longing to tell the story I hold before I pass into that nether-world, that realm of the dead. Why is it then, that my mind chokes every time I go to write? Perhaps I am not doing what I desire...with all my might.
Might (noun): Great and impressive power or strength 
 Yes, I am definitely not using all my might with regards to writing. I dally. The question is, will I be brave enough to fix how I err, now that I've confronted myself? Shall I tear down my heart's door and force my mind to bring forth a tale or shall I continue to wait until it longs to flow from my soul?

Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore. -- Andre Gide

Signed with nocturnal breathe,

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