Beearbee

That is to say, I'm going on a short hiatus until the end of October, because marching band and school have gotten the better of me, and it's unfair to make my readers constantly check to see when I've written a new post. :)

See you soon!

Math on the Brain is Never a Shame

In Other News: I'm getting published! My 900-word life story is being published this month in an anthology of local life stories! Eeeeee!!!

In Other Other News: I love children... Two little 3-year-old twins are staying over with my family tonight because they're in the foster care program, and foster parents can't leave their kids with just anyone when they go on vacation. I miss having little kids around the house... :)

In Other Still Unrelated News: What is this? A somewhat-consistent posting schedule? Since I have creative writing every other school day, you can probably count on hearing from my every time I have that class. Woo hoo!

Today's creative writing class was, as always, a joy! I taught the lesson today along with one of the newer students. We decided to talk about metaphors. We brought a bunch of different items like a plastic snake, a bottle of shampoo, gloves, a hacky sack, and other such oddities, and had the class think of them in a metaphorical sense. Most of us drifted more toward personification, but that's okay. I got to share my favorite poem, so I didn't really mind what happened after that. What can I say? I love to share.

The object I used as a metaphor was a paper airplane, and my previous class was math, which obviously influenced the wordplay.

A Play on Geometry Lessons

I am a plane
No shape nor dimension defines me
Lines pierce me and fiercely I try to resist all the wearing and tearing
You hold me and fold me

and now

I'm a plane
No shape nor dimension defies me
You can throw me or bow me decrease all my edges but as my wing fledges
I soar

Flat no more

Writing Exercise: Creative Vomit and Beautiful Words

EAL always does these little teaching moment things, which I think are super cool. Well, I decided to give it a try myself. The following is my greatest weapon against writer's block (aside from mowing the lawn).


Creative Vomit: The Ultimate Inspiration Tool

Today in creative writing we did one of my favorite exercises: stream of consciousness writing (or as I like to call it, creative vomit). For those who are not familiar with the term, stream of consciousness writing is a tool  to extract ideas from your brain. I think it is one of the purest forms of ideas and inspiration: raw and unedited, like the "unrated" versions of R-rated movies, only generally less crude (really, it's one of the stupidest marketing ploys I've ever seen, but, then again, I don't watch R-rated movies).

How To Do It

1. Find a quiet place.
2. Get a whole lot of paper or use a computer. You're going to be writing a ton, and you don't want to run out of paper halfway through a thought.
3. Choose a topic to start yourself off (for example, one of my streams started at autumn and ended at accidental homosexuality (It's not what you think! It's not! I'll put up the paper when I find it)).
4. Write. Write every little thought that passes through your head, no matter how weird, dumb, abstract, stupid, etc. etc. you may think they are.
        4.1. Set a timer. Don't lift your pen or stop typing until it goes
               off. Start small: 5, 10, 15 minutes is a good start. Once
               you figure out how it works, you can work up to longer
               periods of time.
        4.2. DON'T worry about grammar or punctuation or spelling.
               You can edit after the timer goes off.
        4.3. DON'T edit before you record your thoughts and
               don't edit until you're done. You waste time and ideas
               by doing that.
        4.4. DON'T look back at what you've written.
        4.5. DO go off-topic. If you stray back to your original topic,
               you're forcing yourself. Don't. Let your mind wander.
               Most of your good ideas will come about 3-5 minutes into
               writing as long as you let them.

Most people's streams look like a massive wall of text, but mine end up looking more like poetry. Every person vomits differently, so don't worry about making it fancy.

An Example of Stream of Consciousness Writing

My thoughts were pretty fleeting and I had to leave halfway through to go see my stupid school counselor (gr) to talk about a class that I don't want to take but my parents insist I do so I can get this stupid scholarship. (Try saying that sentence in one breath). Well, not stupid. I'm just bitter because the counselor wasn't even paying attention (she was unpacking a printer, I think), and I was on a roll in my writing! Don't you just hate when that happens?

Notice how sometimes my thoughts are coherent and sometimes not. Like I said: my thoughts were fleeting. Also, don't feel obligated to read the whole thing, as I have more to say at the end and it's pretty long and incoherent.

Did I mention it's incoherent?

and sometimes maybe then such so someday but not just today you joy yes because then tomorrow indeed inword if please

if i calm my mind i have nothing to say, no words tho think or thoughts to speak, not anything will come on the words or the p[age with be blank as my mind that’s not thinking, not a thing to be said, not a thing to be said, no thoughts to band e thinking or thinkings to think, void of void nothing there, no time to spare i must fill up the spaces with thinkings and places to roam far from home and certainly i am quite alone but it’s not something i mind, no, not at all do i mind being one of a kind, im just as good as i can be here yes

the birds did not cry out today
as though they had no thing to say
and the sun stayed low in the sky without a reason to pass through the highway is this the end?

sylvia plath i am not alone am i?

and tomorrow i have work to do
and
is my favorite word without end to the sentence and phrase and and and and and and

chillllllls
up my spine
can’t be min
but they are

how to write a sonnet what shall i do
i haven’t the foggiest,
no, i have no clue,
no, i haven’t the fogiest
can rhyme yes?

appease my diseased mind
no food can quench this hunger, no water slake my thrist, but first i must find these reasons that i’m not good enough in the first place
and if i were younger, maybe,
taller, thinner, stronger, quieter, healthier, prettier, doubtless,
doubtless i would love me
too

quiet as two am
sun syrup
my favorite thingsssssss

if i imagine then i am a celebrity in my own mind
mustn’t get caught up with myself

qwertyuiop is a word indeed

ther’s a certain slant of light i’ve been told that slants a certain way. certainly.

i am alpha so i think. i sure am glad i’m an alpha. white is such a pretty color.

listen to the camera flashes. I amd famous aren’t i?

alevoli

i could have olive oil if i wanted. olive oil and rosemary

what does the heart race?

my heart beats with a clockworktick

words want to be marriedtogether always indeed

inword and indeed

idon’t like hymns but i do love poetry
i love music but not singing
no

p l e a s e
and then
because

i am sick i am tired
yeah
carry me

poetry is not paragraphs but lines of literature

what is an illiteration?

i need to i need to i need to

oh what a thrill my thumb instead of an onion!
and my mind isn’t right

look at me look at me
repetitoin is so utterly important
why aren’t the important words repeated?

supercomma to the recue!

internet poets are doing it
wrong
like me.

i want someone to love meeeeeee like i do
please

just as things were geting good look who showed up to wrruin it all\

look at all that empty space on the page
it must be lonely
like me

fill me darling
with something
like sweet
or cool
fill me chilll me like your icebox, glacier cyhunks and bread hunks
hunkny
huny.

gills were made for breathing

poets should not take anatomy. you don’t speak with your esophagus, nor do men have breasts.

water breathing under it please surface little fish for you are dorowning.
no im’ not
i have gills and frills for swimming
do not save drowning fish from drowning
mister chinese man
writeen by a chinese woman

iiiiiiiiiii
staring eyes
on faceless ps and qs
are what exactly

look at creative vomit it still looks just like poetry
coming out of me
that kame out of my brain
my pretty little head
i can’t rhyme with dead or dying anymore
hackneyed, gross, cliched cliches

out of sight out of mind so they say
who they are?

and polluted

pinkies will be gone soon as well as feet and appendixes and tears

o brave new world with no people in it.
ione word is all it takes.

The Diamond in the Midst: Drawing Inspiration from Your Own Thoughts

So there's 30 minutes of stream of consciousness. The next important thing is to use it.

When you've finished writing for your 10-15 minutes, read over everything you've just written. If you typed up your stream, print it out. If you wrote on paper, obviously that doesn't apply.

Take a highlighter and find one, two, three lines that you absolutely love or can expand. I put the lines I liked (they're at the beginning of my stream) in bold. Pull them out and write again, but this time you are allowed to take your time and follow the rules of grammar and spelling (you're welcome).

The first line of my stream turned into this (also, no, the internet didn't mess it up. I formatted it that way on purpose):

The Most Beautiful Words

                                                p l e a s e
because then you AND i__________
someday AND

just m a y b e
because       then >/if/< we
AND \                    / indeed
        > tomorrow<

maybe then                                 such
s   o         |such|
maybe ////not////          TODAY

but then                            yes
            t  o  m  o  r  r  o  w AND sometimes
us

So there you have it: stream of consciousness, essentially. If you try it out, I would love to see your creative vomit (in part) and what you make of it! Email it, post it on your blog, whatever.

It Started out So Well

I’ve already checked all my symptoms and diagnosed myself.
I sought out cures just for you,
But it just isn’t enough
To appease my diseased mind.
You tell me I’m good enough,
But I see right through your lies when your eyes don’t smile the way your lips do.

Why didn't I finish it?

What were my thoughts one hundred-and-one days ago?

How should it end?

Why didn't I finish what I started?

Dang.

The Mind Is a Blank Slate

I love children, but I don't know if I'll ever have any of my own.

There, I've said it. My greatest fear: having children.

I'm still young. I've got a while to grow out of it, but sometimes I worry. I worry that I'll be... forced... into something I don't want. Certainly I want to find a man, but after that... then what?

I never was the child who dragged a baby doll everywhere I went; in fact, I was terrified of them. When my family stayed in hotels on vacation, I insisted that my sister get rid of her baby doll before she got in the bed we shared.

Growing up, my friends wanted to grow up, get married, and have twelve children, and they had already picked out names for each and every boy and girl they intended to produce. I never participated in such conversation. Actually, I found playing "superpowers" with the boys more enjoyable than associating with girls in any way.

I think that's kind of what helps me empathize with the character in the story you're about to read. It's a major work in progress, like all the short stories I start and never finish. This one's different, though. Something about it makes me want to write more...

The working title is "Blank Slate." Chapter 1.2 is still majorly in progress, as is chapter 2, and the preface needs work. Try not to be too critical.

Have you ever loved someone enough to kill them? I’m not asking about a sick pet or an ancient many-greats-grandmother who’s been confined to life support for the last few years, and I’m not speaking metaphorically. I really mean to ask: Have you ever cared about someone so much that you took it upon yourself to…

I think I’m starting this off in the wrong way, because already I’ve made myself sound like a—no.

I mean to say, you’re probably wondering why I haven’t—well, never mind.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that right now I’m very emotional, and the words I’m trying to say aren’t coming out right. But that’s the funny thing about writing from the heart: even though it hurts, I know I still have to do this. I still have to tell this story, and I have to tell it properly.

Today my son is dead. Carter did not die of natural causes, nor was it accidental, or suicidal, and it wasn’t murder. Carter died because of love, and the best way to explain that—well, there’s two ways, and I’ll tell you both.

The first way to explain it is that when you love something—or someone—very much, you have to let them go. That’s how I explained it to Carter when he lost his stuffed toy. I’m not sure that was something he could understand, but it made me feel better about leaving his toy at the doctor’s office. I’m sure some other kid is having a better life because of it.

The second way to explain it will take longer to tell, but hopefully it will help you make a little sense of what I’ve done.

1.2 
“Angie, have you ever thought about adopting?” She asked me.

“No,” I said automatically. That was my natural response, but in reality, adoption was the thought foremost on my mind. I just didn’t know how else to answer her question. She was obviously looking to educate me on the matter.

“Oh. Well, I’m working on the red tape for my third. He’s a little gem from Ethiopia.” She waved her lettuce-laden fork as though to emphasize this fact. “My husband and I have been working it out for five months, but the end result is worth it.”

She took a bite, then looked up at me curiously. “You’ve worked here for, what, five years? And you really haven’t tried out a kid? I hope you don’t mind me saying, but it’s a bit beyond me.”

Well, it would be for you, I wanted to say. Miss married-at-twenty, two-adopted-kids-and-another-on-the-way—it would seem strange that someone like me doesn’t want all that. But what I really said was, “That’s nice, Bree.” I sucked in my breath and glanced at my phone. “Ooh, sorry. My break’s over. Maybe we can talk later.” I feigned a smile and walked off, leaving her staring after me a little stunned.

I don’t know why I always let her get under my skin, but she was so... Naïve. The words came flying out of her mouth before she could wrap her brain around them, and she didn’t seem to notice the friction they caused. But despite her abrasive nature, she was one of my closest friends when I could stand to be around her.

She chatted about her “hubby” and kids ninety percent of the time she talked, which only reminded of the things I didn’t have. I wasn’t married. I didn’t have kids. Up until that point, I had never desired either, but I felt something growing inside me. I don’t know if it was my natural motherhood instinct suddenly kicking in or an errant rush of hormones, but I wanted all that: the husband, the kids, the sense of belonging.

My office seemed suddenly empty, devoid of life. Unlike all the others, I had no family pictures to deck the walls. In fact, the only photos I had were a baby picture, a picture of me with my parents, and the portrait from my senior prom. I don’t know why I kept that picture. I didn’t date the guy past prom night, and it was hardly a treasured memory of mine. I suppose it was just wishful thinking, or maybe a pathetic attempt at fitting in with the rest of the agency.


2.
“Are you sure you can handle this?” Alison, my supervisor, asked.

I flicked through the file in my hand, not sure how to answer her question. Could I handle this? Was this the right thing for me to be doing now, or would it pull me under?

Alison shifted in her seat across the table from me and cleared her throat. “Listen, Angie… I mean, I know this is a big dream of yours, but do you really think you can take care of a kid on your own? Especially this one!” She gestured to the manila folder in my hand. “Do you realize how much help he needs?”

I did. The boy had been bounced around a few foster homes before finally ending up back here, just three weeks after his arrival. The circumstances of his upbringing were… interesting, to say the least.

“Yes, of course I do. I’ve only read his file, what, a thousand times?” I placed the folder on the desk and let out a deep sigh before meeting Alison’s eyes. I could feel rebellious tears springing up in my eyes. “Alison, I just… I know he’s the right one for me. I can’t tell you how many children I’ve looked at, and none of them make me feel the way he does.”

Alison echoed my sigh. “I just don’t want you to go into this too quickly.” She picked up the boy’s file and replaced it in a stack on her desk. “Give it a week,” she said, standing up to leave. “If he’s not in another home by then, we’ll talk.”

“Yeah… yeah, all right,” I mumbled, swiping the tears away from my face.

I slipped into the ladies’ room to check my makeup. The blotchy, tear-stained face that stared back at me from the mirror didn’t seem like my own. There was a desperation behind those green eyes that I’d never seen before. Never had I wanted something so badly, and the thought that this boy might go to another family almost made me sick. I had to have him.

My mind was in a fog as I walked down the halls of the agency, and I was so deep in thought that I passed the door I wanted before I realized where I was.

I could almost feel a dark curtain lifting from my brain as I entered the playroom. There he was, sitting off to the right with his back to the door: my son. I couldn’t help myself; I ran over and scooped him into my lap.

“Hi, sweet boy,” I murmured into his ear, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “How are you today?”

As always, he made no response. His blue eyes looked anywhere but at me, his fingers twitched, and his only sound was quiet breathing. But for me, I could swear he smiled; that was why I was in love.

“I brought you a friend, Baby Brother,” I said. Baby Brother was his temporary name, as his father had never bothered to name him. In my mind I had already began to list the names I wanted for him: Ethan, Jackson, Cooper, Carter, Isaac. There were more, of course, but I had narrowed it down to those five then.

I reached into my purse and produced a stuffed lion, yellow with a brown yarn mane. Its eyes matched Baby Brother’s: empty.

“His name is Lionel.” I shook Lionel and the bell inside of him tinkled. “He’s very kind and brave, and he’ll always be a good friend.”

 Do you agree? Is this a worthy pursuit? And am I alone in my fears?

ROMance

What a day...

I woke up at 7:00 and rushed out the door to get to school before 7:30 (an obscene hour, if you ask me). Thankfully the girls I take with me found other ways to get there, but I still feel... well, dumb. I didn't even turn on my alarm, for heaven's sakes!

It's been a helter-skelter kind of day.

My brain is helter-skelter, too.

On one of the blogs I follow, the main topic of late has been the author's adventures through an online relationship. Ten posts long, so far, and apparently there's more. :O

Now this is, mind, a seventeen-year-old, in-the-thick-of-puberty-and-high-school take on things, but the only online "dating" experiences I've ever had were bad ones, as in a guy said he loved me and turned out to be a creeper, so I blocked him and moved on.

But can it really work? (eHarmony says it can, but you can't trust corporations these days.)

I find it hard to believe that you can really truly fall in love with someone over the internet. I can see how you could find someone of interest or someone you might like to take on a date, but love? I don't believe in it. There's something so intrinsically cold and unfeeling about internet relationships. I enjoy you, my readers, and all your jokes and feedback, but I could never see myself falling in love like that (especially not the ladies. Heavens, no).

But I do see the appeal. I like to think of my blog as "concentrated Alexa: all the opinions with half the obnoxious." My real-world friends can probably attest to this, except they all comment via Google Buzz rather than on my actual blog (I'm telling you, you guys are missing out by doing so. Just sayin'). So boys who would usually be repelled by my loud and wonderfully annoying personality might find me super appealing, attractive, and insightful (if I do say so myself) on my blog.

So, being the poet that I am, I wrote a poem expressing my feelings with more than a little alliteration. Admittedly, my favorite part of this poem is the title. Aren't I just... just so clever? You don't have to answer. I already know I am. }:)

ROMance

I don’t believe in love at first site.
I cannot discern personality from pixels,
Character from characters,
Or status from stat messages.
I find nothing exciting in email,
Attractive in AIM,
Or fun in Facebook.
I do not believe in e-harmony—
Or e-chemistry—
But,
Then again,
It’s never happened to me.

What about you, readers? Will you have an internet marriage, or a traditional courting experience? Do you use the internet for laughs, or finding your soulmate? Or flirting, for that matter? (Like those weird Zoosk commercials. Honestly, who actually does that?)