Friday, December 29, 2006

Concerning Carrie

For those of you who don't know her, Carrie is my sister. She's rather...well, just read it. tehehe :)

My sister is a bit uncouth,
But for this do not judge her;
For she's a most eccentric youth
(None who ever had the prize
Of seeing her with their own eyes
Could for this fault begrudge her).

Composing limericks fills her time;
She's apt to write one for you.
Beware! Her dedicated rhyme,
Though clever and quite full of wit
May leave you feeling somehow quit,
And readily annoy you!

Ah yes, though I do not pretend
To vie for publication,
I cannot say that I contend;
As witty as her words may be,
She uses them outrageously!
(Just check her punctuation.)

But never worry, Carrie, Doll,
You know that I don't mean it;
I'd never post this on my wall
(Especially a verse this weak)
Unless it is your wrath I seek.
Don’t to a rage submit...

Thursday, September 28, 2006

For she belongs not among us...

She dwelt in a hushed calm,
The unworthy sphere of the earth
Living around her.
Sensing, pleading, deeming,
She thought, among thoughts
Not her own.
Thoughts swirled and merged inside,
Boundless combination,
Never ceasing changes:
Passages, patterns of poetry,
Sacred poetry, deepened thoughts,
Symmetry, balance,
Drawing forth colors.
Light and dark and blinding flashes,
Softened starlight, burning sun,
Word and symbol,
Harmony and song,
And Time,
Ever stirring,
Was still.
For she was hallowed,
In His consent.

She thought of things,
Assimilating, absorbing and uniting,
Becoming one within.
In Time’s absorbing cells
She was without,
And she pondered.
All things she pondered,
And was troubled not of Time.

Past and present,
Future, death,
Love and hate,
Triumph and defeat,
Gratitude, regret,
Song and beauty,
Malice and din,
Fear and courage,
Harmony and dispute,
War and peace,
Wrong, and justice,
Good and bad,
All she pondered,
And considered thought’s reflections,
And observed Time’s effect,
But was not troubled.
She did not belong; this she knew,
And she was not afraid.

She thought, the thoughts
Continued to move, and remain within her,
Ensnared in her essential mind,
Her pulsing brain,
Quivering with being,
Yet in motion
Beneath the credence of her thoughts.

Her mind, heaving with the essence
Of living, breathing, being,
Held a basket of faith.
And a penetrating light
Invaded her consciousness,
Satisfying her mind with understanding,
A pale, golden sunlight,
It blazed before her eyes,
And in a moment,
One single moment,
She saw many things.

She glimpsed eternity,
That space in the mind’s eye:
That infinite Hope of forever,
The vast chasm, in which
All things are.
A sphere of pure light,
Filled to the brim with Beauty:
Love and light.
A great ring of blinding infinity,
As bright as a thousand suns,
And in the sphere,
A garden, lost of time,
In which Time has no worth,
And death is uninvited.
Fear is shunned,
And hatred is forbidden,
And Time is no guest
In His everlasting Paradise.

He showed her
All these things,
And she was sacred in His eye,
For through her came His light.

Time had her,
But only for an instant.
For she contested Time
And its role.
She gazed heavenward
And consented,
And was seen no more.
Up to Him she went,
To be with Him in her sanctity;
His holy thought absorbed her
Like a deep breath,
And His created Time
Did not take affect.

And she was given the wisdom
Of eternity.

There she is,
She dwells in a silent calm,
Beauty living around her,
Sensing, praying, believing,
For she belongs not among us,
But in His everlasting Paradise.

Friday, August 18, 2006

Adios, Verano...

Well, it's back.
The school year is upon us again with that kind of hovering pressure that makes you dread going to bed each night, simply because you know you'll wake up the next morning to your alarm clock and wishing that you could perhaps smash the thing with something heavy (a hammer works very well in just such an occasion. Or an axe, perhaps, if you have one handy), pull the covers over your head and sleep for a few more hours. But alas, with a sulk and a sigh you must heave yourself up and out of the comfortable mattress and hurriedly brush your teeth and comb your hair and dress yourself and eat breakfast...all to partake in the mad rush of getting someplace you really don't want to get to in the first place. And as glad as you are to be back in the swing of things, you'll miss summer. The school day may seem to drag on endlessly after the lazy summer days are over. You may even find yourself watching the clock all day, waiting for that minute which brings the precious freedom with which you've been spoiled all summer (even if it is in considerably smaller doses), and were suddenly and madly jerked away from when the time finally came to begin your duties again. There it was, that day, sneaking up like a raincloud promising perpetual downfall, like an unwanted relative, ringing your doorbell and asking to stay. And yet you'll get used to it. You'll get used to the freedom of summer being gone. As if watching a departing train that carries a friend away, you'll farewell the lazy days and approach the hustle and bustle of your academic studies and social life with a grim determination, which very soon will turn into a sort of pleasant excitement, which then becomes daily routine and life is back to the way you know it.
Who knows; I'm sure many of you are excited about the new school year. I would be, I suppose, if my entire social life revolved around it...however, being homeschooled, all the school year brings is, well, school.
Imagine that.
Yes, a few weekly activites accompany it, such as RSA (Renaissance School of the Arts) in which Mom enrolls us each year, varied sports and clubs, and other typical weekly activities scheduled parallel with the school year. They don't come without their share of fun, certainly, but the weight of the schoolwork is still enough to instill that dread in me that comes with each beginning school year. Ah, well, I've learned to buckle down and take the work. Beginning the year without being difficult eases everyone's loads. After all, it's easier to learn to get in the swing of things if you simply begin swinging.
Still, why does summer seem to last forever when it's happening, but as soon as it's over you're wondering how it flew by so fast...

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Why is the smell of toast such a nice, comforting smell?

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Simply Nonsense

Say "pipe" over and over. Isn't it a funny word? It leaves a wonderful sensation around your molars, rather like having whipped cream in your mouth, its puffiness preventing the inside of your mouth from closing up after the lips have shut around the last "p". Say it again. Again. After a while of saying it, the word loses all meaning and merely becomes a plaything, an experiment for your mouth. Try it. Say it again, again, again! Isn't it wonderful? "Pipe, pipe, pipe, pipe..."
It works for many words, actually (although not many words that are three syllables or more, because the meaning of the word comes back to you too quickly and there's not enough time to finish saying the word before it stops being pointless). The words "fork" and "spoon", for instance, are excellent words with which to experiment. The word "fork" leaves an awkward feeling in your throat from the ugly sound of the "r", and after a while of saying "spoon" the "sp" becomes harder to say and the "oo" stops sounding's really rather fantastic, really. You should try it sometime. Try it all the time! Except when you're eating; you should never talk with food in your mouth. And perhaps not when your mother is yelling at you to clean your room. If she said "Clean your room!" and you suddenly started saying "clean" over and over again, she might think you were being difficult (although "clean" is also a good word for experimentation; try it now before you get it yelled at you, then you'll have it out of the way). Very much in this world amuses me, as you can plainly see. I apologize for being such a dork, but really it keeps life interesting.


Tuesday, August 08, 2006

A Poet's Hand

A Poet's Hand (Sort of)

Ah, many times I’ve wondered why
The poets write such splendid lines;
While we, the little people, stand
And wonder at a clever hand
Of riddles, jokes, and jests galore;
And yet they always think of more!
Never a day goes by it seems,
That I don’t sit and dare to dream:
To be a poet, ah! How grand,
And they would wonder at my hand!
And they would wonder at my mind;
What merry secrets hid inside,
And I’d astound them day by day
With new thoughts always on the way.
I’d think of things deep and profound
(And then of course I’d write them down).
For others who were once like me
Could sit and read them happily,
And perhaps someday, I would inspire
A young dreamer, who dares desire
To express, by his very design
Words undescribably sublime.
But until then, I wonder why
The poets write such splendid lines,
While I sit here and think, and yet,
All that I ponder I regret!
I only dare to write them down,
With hopes that they’ll never be found...

Me, a Critic's Point of View...

My sister Mary Beth and I were recently discussing Spiderman and its popularity, and perhaps the reason why it's so popular is because of the love story involved in it, and then of course going on a tangent about Hollywood and their complete disregard for anything realistic when it comes to love, and their love stories being fake and often sappy (and occasionally just plain gross.) Since love stories have a tendency of doing that--appealing to everyone in the audience by tugging at the heartstrings, and causing sometimes even the dryest eye to shed a tear or two over the complete sentimentality of a man and a woman standing there on screen, confessing their undying love for eachother and sealing it with a kiss (although half the time the tears are caused by the inevitable issues the lovers have; not necessarily the lovey-dovey scenes themselves)--every movie made has to involve some kind of romance. I don't understand why they have to be such there something I'm supposed to be sad about when they portray a man and woman who love eachother but for some reason can never be together and therefore go their separate ways? Or when a man loves a woman but can't tell her? Or when a woman loves a man but is engaged to someone else? This is supposed to make me cry? Half the time I'm too busy criticizing everything in the movie that's done badly or portrayed unrealistically...I admit, I am rather a jerk about that; one of my sisters, Sarah, recently showed me one of her favorite movies about two lovers from Ireland, and after it was over looked at me expectantly and said, "Wasn't that a good movie?" I'd share with you what I was really thinking, but that might include a few words unfit for any case the movie made me laugh; I found it mushy and sappy, and while that may be Sarah's type of movie (she is the lovey-dovey kind, after all, and it suits her) it isn't mine. I think she was upset when I told her, and since then I've realized it might be best to keep my opinion to myself, giving only vague answers when asked such questions...
I must say, my kind of movie is the kind which involves a good story line with the perfect amount of love mixed in; if the love story is the main part of the movie, that's fine as long as it's done well; Dear Frankie was a good one. The love wasn't too unrealistic, and the acting was fabulous. Batman Begins was a good movie (not that I expect Batman to be realistic...he's a fictitious character, after all), and the love story didn't get way out of hand. In fact, there was 1 kiss in the entire movie. That was done well, I think. But Spiderman...goodness me, Spiderman is supposed to be about a superhero who happens to be in love, and it turned out to be a love story with a superhero in it. I think I just have too much fun dissing that movie (or movies in general...), so I'll stop now. I actually like the movie just fine; I mean I'll watch it and enjoy it...but I'll watch pretty much anything as long as I can make fun of it at the same time. Well, not anything...
Forgive me, this is me being a critic. I have altogether too much fun with it. Perhaps I should make it a career; I'd enjoy it so much I would do it all the time and make millions...

Or close to millions, anyway...

A Children's Hour...

As my sister mentioned in her blog a while ago (I don't know if you've ever experienced her blog; it certainly is much better than mine. I'm almost sorry to share it with you, since after reading hers, coming back to mine will feel like coming back to sippy cups after you've had the great pleasure of experiencing wine any case her blog is called Mabelogic, and I recommend it), she has realized just how much she loves little kids. She babysits every Wednesday night for a group of three-year-olds in the church up the road, and has really begun to love it. I babysit three little boys every Monday and Tuesday afternoon; a four-year-old, an almost three-year-old, and a 1-year-old. I've started to realize, the more I babysit them the more I love it! The boys are so adorable; Brayton, the 4-year-old, is your typical oldest child who knows he can get whatever he wants out of his younger brothers if he is persuasive enough. He has light brown hair and round gray eyes, and speaks surprisingly well for a 4-year-old. When he talks to you he looks you right in the face, and isn't convinced that he has your undivided attention unless he gets right up next to you, with his face on the same level as yours, preferably. He's extremely energetic and every game has to involve running around you, while you try (in vain) to catch him, or racing you for something lying on the floor. Griffin, the second one, a sandy-haired two-year-old with huge blue-green eyes and a generally happy face, has that same second child quality that's familiar after babysitting for so many years; he is perfectly capable of entertaining himself, and in fact requires little or no company, merely your attention at certain times. Often he'll approach you with a book in his hands and plop himself into your lap and simply listen, unless the book bores him and then he has to climb off your lap and find another one, but after that he's off again doing his own thing. The baby, Dawson, turned 1 recently, and is the cutest baby I think I know, with large blue eyes and blonde hair. He rarely cries unless 1) he has just woken up from his nap, and then he cries in his room only until someone goes to fetch him, 2) is frightfully hungry, in which case all you have to do is feed him, or 3) has hurt himself...and of course then all you need to do is hold him until he feels better (which is never very long; he gets distracted easily). He can play with any random toy lying on the floor and be perfectly happy, and if he looks up and sees you across the room he'll smile and stand up and toddle over, and kind of fall into your lap or your arms or whatever part of you happens to be nearest. After a few seconds he'll remove himself from you and toddle back over to his side of the room to continue whatever it was that was entertaining him before you so rudely interrupted him by sitting wherever it was you were sitting.
I love going to their house because they're always excited to see me; I hear from within "Jean Marie!" as soon as the doorbell rings, and they begin jumping around like crickets, anxious to show me their latest lego inventions. I love the childlike simplicity with which they consider everything. Why can't we all be like children? That would be nifty; after all, my favorite years were those of childhood...

Another Sad Departure

Well it's only Tuesday, and it seems as if I should begin with something like "The week is coming to an end," or "now that the weekend's almost here," but it isn't, and it's not, so I have to begin with something else, such as "It's Tuesday." But that sounds kind of stupid. Oh wait, I already did. Nevermind.
I had a friend named Katie visiting from out of town. She's a tall, athletic, red-haired beauty with large green eyes and such a distinguishable personality as deserves mentioning it to you in a blog at all...she loves cookies, though, and I was fighting her for them all the while she was here. I can't tell who won, but I think I didn't get quite as many as she any case she was here since Sunday, and just left on the train a few hours ago. I wish she could have stayed longer, but for some reason her family wanted her back. I always hate it when a friend or visitor leaves; it means life has to go back to normal. The pleasantries of the visit linger in the air for a while, like an aftertaste of something sweet...and yet you know it's gone. Those few days I enjoyed with Katie--the few days in which we did whatever we pleased, in which my household duties were dished out to whatever sibling happened to be nearest with the altogether just reasoning, "Jean Marie has a friend over," in which entertainment or shopping trips were most generously offered--are now over. It almost seemed, coming home from the train station, that something special should be waiting inside as soon as I opened the door. Because otherwise life would return to normal, and what would I do for the remainder of the day but wish Katie back? Still, I approached the front door warily and turned the knob, knowing there was nothing to expect but half-expecting something anyway. As I pushed open the door and stepped inside, a rush of cold air attacked me, and with it came the realization that this was it; life was back to normal whether I liked it or not. I closed the door, shutting out the summer heat, and sighed. That sweet aftertaste was there, and I suddenly missed everyone terribly, as bitterly as you would miss the tasty morsel itself. All the people we left...moving was such a challenge, and that realization strikes every time someone leaves, some friend or visitor. The disappointment is not in life going back to normal, but the fact that the norm is living without those people I so hate to see leave. When am I going to see them next? What will they look like? Will they have changed? Will I have changed? But holding on to the disappointment only makes matters worse; I have to let it go with the hope that I'll see them again, soon enough. Besides, the school year is starting soon and then I won't be half as bored, and my time will fill up with activities and school-related functions and I'll wish I was bored again just to get away from it all. Until then, though, who knows...


Until then, Katie, you need to come back. I'm bored.

Saturday, August 05, 2006


Why do the teenage years bring with them so much emotion? Why are we so much more inclined to have blue days, and be weighed down with our own juvenile problems? Does one grow out of it? If so, when? How does the maturing come about? I was having a rough day recently and came up with all sorts of emo thoughts...

"Being a teenager is completely idiotic. Why do we have to bother with it at all? Why can’t we just jump from child to adult, without the silly years in between? That’d be nice...not so messy, that’s for sure. Fewer tears. Fewer complications. Fewer pimples. And sure, we wouldn’t have those precious years in which we wallow in our social life, but doesn’t it seem that it’s worth it, really? To skip the dramatic years in which we are confined to the limits of our parents’ rulings, educated harshly in manners academic and otherwise, forced to communicate with our neighbor through the peer-pressure of schooling, and throughout the chaos of each day, expected to keep up appearances; tie your shoes! Comb your hair! Brush your teeth! Smile! I suppose it’s a peek at the adult world, in which social activity is limited and academic career is essential. Still, must we be adults so soon? It seems as if the world pushes our childhood along so quickly, and before you know it it’s over and gone. How sad, for I dearly loved being a child..."

Just ponderlings, really...

Matilda, Who Told Lies and Was Burned to Death

*sigh* How sad is it that the last post was in December? Over six months have passed since I even acknowledged this sad little blog. I've changed alot since then; I just know it. I'm sure you have too (who ever happens to be reading it, which I doubt is very likely, since anyone who ever DID read anything I ever posted and for some reason came back for more has more than likely given up on my ever blogging again. I can't say I blame them.), although I can't say for certain. In any case, as I have nothing to write about at the moment, I will probably put a poem or something here, just to fill space.

And here it is. One of my personal favorites:

Who Told Lies, and Was Burned to Death
by Hilaire Belloc

Matilda told such Dreadful Lies,
It made one Gasp and Stretch one's Eyes;
Her Aunt, who, from her Earliest Youth,
Had kept a Strict Regard for Truth,
Attempted to Believe Matilda:
The effort very nearly killed her,
And would have done so, had not She
Discovered this Infirmity.
For once, towards the Close of Day,
Matilda, growing tired of play,
And finding she was left alone,
Went tiptoe to the Telephone
And summoned the Immediate Aid
Of London's Noble Fire-Brigade.
Within an hour the Gallant Band
Were pouring in on every hand,
From Putney, Hackney Downs and Bow,
With Courage high and Hearts a-glow
They galloped, roaring through the Town,
"Matilda's House is Burning Down!"
Inspired by British Cheers and Loud
Proceeding from the Frenzied Crowd,
They ran their ladders through a score
Of windows on the Ball Room Floor;
And took Peculiar Pains to souse
The Pictures up and down the House,
Until Matilda's Aunt succeeded
In showing them they were not needed
And even then she had to pay
To get the Men to go away!

It happened that a few Weeks later
Her Aunt was off to the Theatre
To see that Interesting Play
The Second Mrs. Tanqueray.
She had refused to take her Niece
To hear this Entertaining Piece:
A deprivation Just and Wise
To Punish her for Telling Lies.
That Night and Fire did break out--
You should have heard Matilda Shout!
You should have heard her Scream and Bawl,
And throw the window up and call
To People passing in the Street--
(The rapidly increasing Heat
Encouraging her to obtain
Their confidence)--but all in vain!
For every time She shouted "Fire!"
They only answered "Little Liar!"
And therefore when her Aunt returned,
Matilda, and the House, were Burned.