For those who are interested, I've started another blog at http://theshipwreckinmyhead.blogspot.com
I won't be getting rid of this blog, but I doubt I'll continue it. This has been a fun experiment, but now that I know what I'm doing more, I'd like a do-over. Thank you, and keep writing.
-- Ryan, aka Percival T. Honeybee
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
Thursday, June 12, 2014
The Twelve Days of Summer
June 12th:
Sometimes I think we're all trying to convert each other to our own personal religion. A religion of opinions.
June 11th:
The people in the ads sway their hips in time to the music on my iPod, as if they were made for each other.
June 10th
My firehose of a shower made my face numb as millions of droplets roamed up and down my face.
June 9th
I keep setting alarm clocks even though there's no reason. School aftertaste. Happy birthday to me.
June 8th
Discouragement just can't keep his hands off me.
June 7th
I know that tobacco kills you slowly, but love never had that warning label. Anyway, I'm sure I'll think of something. I always do.
June 6th
If minds were houses, mine would be the Weasley house: worn out, crooked, and held up by magic.
June 5th
A problem's not a problem if you refuse to acknowledge it, right?
June 4th
You don't know how precious you are. How could you know? They never told you how much they would miss you.
June 3rd
I think part of the makings of a good kiss is the sound your lips make when they pull apart. That little note of sweetness. If you don't have that, if the kiss is soundless, then it's almost like it didn't happen; it's easily forgotten.
June 2nd
Every time I get a bad memory, I physically shudder. One of these days, someone's bound to notice.
June 1st
Sometimes I wonder if I know anything about anything. I'm incredibly under qualified for everything, and I feel this overwhelming urge to be perfect in an instant. Excuse me while I go beat my inner critic with a stick.
Monday, May 26, 2014
Welcome to Paris
The first time I met Paris, I was on my way to Italy with nothing but a typewriter in a briefcase and a pair of blinders that my English teachers gave me. I never took them off, for fear of what getting lost would mean.
And then one day, a boy who knew a lot about nothing told me that Paris had made him feel something, and that if I ever wanted that typewriter to click, it was worth a visit--not just for the typewriters sake, but for my own, and every day I would ever live. I listened, and took the blinders off.
The first day I was in Paris, I was nothing but bread crumbs in the squares of the towering monuments.
Is this even Paris? Surely there's a mistake.
I checked and re-checked my map, thinking of the blinders I left on the country road to get there. Tightening my scarf around my vulnerable neck, I set out on the streets, determined to find what Paris could teach me.
I didn't speak the language. I'd never heard anything like it. And even though I didn't understand it, the words were so beautiful. The day I heard them speak was the day I forgot my briefcase at my hotel room.
The next day, I came upon a man who was painting with words. A group followed him with their own easels, like the masses following Jesus. But the man was not Jesus.
He swore, he tossed easels into the gutter, and shouted in the faces of the tourists as they fled to their brochure destinations. I watched the scene with fascination, because the man looked no different from any other homeless artist surviving on nothing but the merit of their paintbrushes. But what I didn't know is that this artist wasn't judged by his paintbrushes, but by the world he saw when he lived off them.
I kept to the back of the crowd, scribbling notes on my arm with a free ballpoint pen I got from a college fair. The first day of the vagabond's lessons was the day I decided to trade my scarf for a notebook.
I took pictures, I painted, I wrote, I listened to every word the group let loose. There was no subject that couldn't be touched, because in life there is no "inappropriate", and this was a class about living.
And one day, I forgot my easel on the rim of the fountain where we always gathered. It was the closest I had ever dared get to the others; so close, I could hear them breathe their poetry. I rushed back to find my easel and to my surprise, I found that the others were gathered in a circle, holding it as tenderly as a mother, soaking in the harsh marks and the clashing colors, then passing it on.
I held my breath as the easel came to the hands of the master. He adjusted his cheap glasses and grunted, flipping my painting of the Eiffel tower over as if he was expecting more to it.
"Percival!"
His shout carried across the courtyard.
"Yes?"
I approached the group and stood with them. The vagabond handed back my painting, smiled, then said,
"Welcome to Paris."
And then one day, a boy who knew a lot about nothing told me that Paris had made him feel something, and that if I ever wanted that typewriter to click, it was worth a visit--not just for the typewriters sake, but for my own, and every day I would ever live. I listened, and took the blinders off.
The first day I was in Paris, I was nothing but bread crumbs in the squares of the towering monuments.
Is this even Paris? Surely there's a mistake.
I checked and re-checked my map, thinking of the blinders I left on the country road to get there. Tightening my scarf around my vulnerable neck, I set out on the streets, determined to find what Paris could teach me.
I didn't speak the language. I'd never heard anything like it. And even though I didn't understand it, the words were so beautiful. The day I heard them speak was the day I forgot my briefcase at my hotel room.
The next day, I came upon a man who was painting with words. A group followed him with their own easels, like the masses following Jesus. But the man was not Jesus.
He swore, he tossed easels into the gutter, and shouted in the faces of the tourists as they fled to their brochure destinations. I watched the scene with fascination, because the man looked no different from any other homeless artist surviving on nothing but the merit of their paintbrushes. But what I didn't know is that this artist wasn't judged by his paintbrushes, but by the world he saw when he lived off them.
I kept to the back of the crowd, scribbling notes on my arm with a free ballpoint pen I got from a college fair. The first day of the vagabond's lessons was the day I decided to trade my scarf for a notebook.
I took pictures, I painted, I wrote, I listened to every word the group let loose. There was no subject that couldn't be touched, because in life there is no "inappropriate", and this was a class about living.
And one day, I forgot my easel on the rim of the fountain where we always gathered. It was the closest I had ever dared get to the others; so close, I could hear them breathe their poetry. I rushed back to find my easel and to my surprise, I found that the others were gathered in a circle, holding it as tenderly as a mother, soaking in the harsh marks and the clashing colors, then passing it on.
I held my breath as the easel came to the hands of the master. He adjusted his cheap glasses and grunted, flipping my painting of the Eiffel tower over as if he was expecting more to it.
"Percival!"
His shout carried across the courtyard.
"Yes?"
I approached the group and stood with them. The vagabond handed back my painting, smiled, then said,
"Welcome to Paris."
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Why I Hate the Phantom, or some kind of metaphor, or whatever
There's a matter I need to handle, before the situation gets any worse.
What is love? What is love? It's been defined so often that everyone with a pen thinks they know.
I know this post is titled why I hate the Phantom, but I lied. I'm going to talk about love.
First of all, you need to make it to Paris.
I made it to Paris. Yeah, your home town. I took it like a sucker punch to the gut. You had something to say to me, one last thing to say after all the times I tore you down. With my mouth closed in a tight line, I took it as metaphor after metaphor pounded at my sandcastle walls. My hard shell softened; I started to forgive.
"You betrayed me." I said, keeping a tight fist on my anger because it was the only rope keeping me from falling. "You closed the door on me and I'm done with you."
I think you understood, because you stared at me with so much sadness, such staggering tenderness that the image of your face now haunts the darkness in my eyelids. But my venom didn't stop you. To this day, I think you were just trying to get me to understand your reasons.
Have you ever loved someone so much, you can feel it in your bones? You feel it in the joints of your elbows, up your arms and down your spine. Like you were meant to go together. I guess that's what you felt for her.
But really, how different are we? After all, we're both doomed to want something that doesn't want us back. I don't want to be like you, and I don't want to be reminded of you, but it's hard to leave you behind when I see your face in the artists on the street. In the writers and their poems. In the music and the lyrics. Paris, Paris, Paris.
And to the people of the world, the Phantom's real freaking name is Erik.
I read the book version once, and in it, the Phantom dies of a broken heart. In the movie, I'd like to think his heart was shattered like those mirrors. One hit for when she stopped listening. One hit for the time they kissed. One hit for the friendship that died. I flinch every time he takes a swing.
Your thoughts taste like chocolate, but the photographs and memories have the aftertaste of poison. I guess that's why they call this feeling bittersweet.
She loved you, but she feared you. Phantom, there's no fear in true love. You go forward, holding nothing back, even though it's scary--you go forward because you don't care. You don't care that everything you do is in permanent ink now. It's a risk, an airplane you have to dive out of. Who cares if there's a parachute?
I'm done with using people as a means to an end. With love, you're silent together and that's okay. It's okay to sit still. Love doesn't want or fear anything. Love is in the selfless mothers and fathers. Love is bleeding so someone can walk away untouched.
But then again, you did let her go in the end, so I guess that counts for something.
P.S. Raoul is a bag of crap.
What is love? What is love? It's been defined so often that everyone with a pen thinks they know.
I know this post is titled why I hate the Phantom, but I lied. I'm going to talk about love.
First of all, you need to make it to Paris.
I made it to Paris. Yeah, your home town. I took it like a sucker punch to the gut. You had something to say to me, one last thing to say after all the times I tore you down. With my mouth closed in a tight line, I took it as metaphor after metaphor pounded at my sandcastle walls. My hard shell softened; I started to forgive.
"You betrayed me." I said, keeping a tight fist on my anger because it was the only rope keeping me from falling. "You closed the door on me and I'm done with you."
I think you understood, because you stared at me with so much sadness, such staggering tenderness that the image of your face now haunts the darkness in my eyelids. But my venom didn't stop you. To this day, I think you were just trying to get me to understand your reasons.
Have you ever loved someone so much, you can feel it in your bones? You feel it in the joints of your elbows, up your arms and down your spine. Like you were meant to go together. I guess that's what you felt for her.
But really, how different are we? After all, we're both doomed to want something that doesn't want us back. I don't want to be like you, and I don't want to be reminded of you, but it's hard to leave you behind when I see your face in the artists on the street. In the writers and their poems. In the music and the lyrics. Paris, Paris, Paris.
And to the people of the world, the Phantom's real freaking name is Erik.
I read the book version once, and in it, the Phantom dies of a broken heart. In the movie, I'd like to think his heart was shattered like those mirrors. One hit for when she stopped listening. One hit for the time they kissed. One hit for the friendship that died. I flinch every time he takes a swing.
Your thoughts taste like chocolate, but the photographs and memories have the aftertaste of poison. I guess that's why they call this feeling bittersweet.
She loved you, but she feared you. Phantom, there's no fear in true love. You go forward, holding nothing back, even though it's scary--you go forward because you don't care. You don't care that everything you do is in permanent ink now. It's a risk, an airplane you have to dive out of. Who cares if there's a parachute?
I'm done with using people as a means to an end. With love, you're silent together and that's okay. It's okay to sit still. Love doesn't want or fear anything. Love is in the selfless mothers and fathers. Love is bleeding so someone can walk away untouched.
But then again, you did let her go in the end, so I guess that counts for something.
P.S. Raoul is a bag of crap.
Let's Not Pretend
Where should we start? If you really knew me sounds good. Alright, so, if you really knew me, you'd know that in this class, I feel like a scientist in a sea of artists. I feel like my skills are inadequate, and sometimes that's discouraging, but then I remember that poster in Shep's room that says, "Whether you think you can or can't, you're right."
I think I can. I think I can.
-- Thomas the train. I never watched that show.
If you really knew me, you'd know that I have more secrets than area 51, and I don't normally share things just because you asked. You would know that the secrets I keep aren't secrets for good reasons--I'm just afraid to trust. Withholding information makes me feel powerful.
You would know that my parents make me doubt myself, but this class has been helping with that. You can be poor and still be happy.
I'm deathly afraid of spiders and the dark, and I'm good at keeping calm in bad situations, unless those situations involve spiders or the dark.
The say something that no one else knows about you game makes me nervous. I've never had a boyfriend, and I've never had a first kiss, and I'm perfectly secure about it.
I can tie a cherry stem in a knot using nothing but my tongue, and every time I do it my mom makes some remark about being a good kisser. Gosh dang it, Mom.
I'm sorry for anyone who has had me in carpool, because I don't say much. I could make excuses about how I can't think straight in the morning (which is true), but really it's because sometimes I really don't know what to say, or how to say it. And when I do say it out loud, it's not always the line I had in my head, which was perfectly edited and actually made sense.
I daydream a lot, and I'm trying to work on that. Working on not doing it, I mean. At least, not in public. I've failed miserably.
I'm a huge nerd. I know people say that about themselves, but I mean it. Huge. And more than anything, I just want a friend I can do a fangirl squee with.
I love art and writing, and I have a new found love of poetry. I didn't understand what it could be until this year, but now that I know, my life will never be the same. I just wish I could write it. Writing, stripped of structure, yet it all has a pattern. I'm an autistic writer, trying to figure out how to do all these things using rules. I'm drowning in a sea of guidelines.
Wilson.
I feel like an alien in the world. I don't always understand the weird customs humans have. I have sanity issues. I talk to voices in my head,. It's actually quite healthy.
This whole "secret sharing" thing is actually a lot more therapeutic than I gave it credit for.
-- #Ryan out
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