Oda a mis gafas

I wrote a poem in Spanish and thought I'd post it on here (but no, it does not have a translation, so you'll just have to become bilingual to comprehend my genius).

Oda a mis gafas

Los suéteres se desgastan,

el ambiente eventualmente destruye los pantalones,

y los zapatos no duran para siempre,

pero cada día me pongo las gafas.

Amigos fieles, siempre me ayudan.

Sus montas rectangulares abrazan a sus lentes.

Sus ventanas claras me dan pasamiento al mundo de color.

He perdido el arte de ver.

Paso por las gotas de agua en las hojas de los árboles,

los arcos irises por encima de mi cabeza,

las sonrisas tímidas en las bocas de los desconocidos, 

y los nubes sonrojos.

Mis ojos escogen mirar a las calles, las fechas, y los informes.

No quieren recordar su ceguera,

pero siempre están allí mis gafas.

Amigos sabios, esperan silenciosamente

el momento de recordar.

Tristes sin lágrimas, no dicen nada

mientras camino rápidamente a la clase.

Sienten sin movimiento en mi nariz

cuando cruzo la calle hablando por teléfono.

No me piden nada.

Anticipan que los me ponga

y pare por ver brevemente,

que observe las gotas de agua y los nubes,

y que mire la lluvia con ojos fascinados.

Mis gafas, guías leales, me enseñan silenciosamente

a ver.

The Summer Epic

What I'm Listening to: Nothing at the moment, as I've forgotten my Pandora password... Dear followers, I have one thing to say: so sorry for letting my life get too ahead of itself. Yes, it's really been four months since I've last posted (and I am quite ashamed of myself). Instead of penning a dreary monologue about the summer you wish you had, I decided to write a poem...Enjoy! The Summer Epic School finally relinquished me, too tardy for my taste. I sat in for the ACT and took the test with haste. The very next day I boarded a plane, bound for Guatemala. There I met people that probably could rhyme with Guatemala. Cute kids and cute interns there I met and played with all day long. I chatted with the Spanish volunteers and learned a Spanish song. A few days after I returned, I left for Little Rock. Up a mountain called Pinnacle my friends and I took a walk. Kidnappings and mischief ensued, much to my delight. We forked the house of a friend of mine on a moonlit night. Finally, back to my house my friend and I did come. We watched movies, ate too much food, and had a lot of fun. Then I went to Oregon, where I volunteered. Weary but rewarding was my time (though I did not grow a beard). Now the summer draws to an end--I can't say I wish it'd tarry. For my friends are returning to school as well (and I really want a canary). Have an awesome school year, y'all!

Pronouns

What I'm Listening to: Maybe I'm a nerd, maybe I'm not. You can be the judge of that, but I have a strong suspicion that writing a poem...and a blog post entitled "Pronouns" classifies me as a full-scale geek.But whatever you decide, try to read "Pronouns" without any sort of prejudice, academic or otherwise. Pronouns My skin salty and breaths coming fast I press the phone against my jaw. Incapable of terminating that last call. Somehow believing that loosening my grip on the cell phone Would mean letting go of you. But when I finally gave up and hung up You were still there. No longer we or us, two broken hearts stand apart. But quite too close for comfort. Afterwards we'll slay the lovers in our hearts And witness the death of a pronoun.

The End of the Road

What I'm Listening to: Title and Registration (Death Cab for Cutie) Well, I'm finally there. My book is hot off the presses and packaged in three manilla envelopes. The end of the road or the beginning of a new journey--who can tell? But either way, I'm anxiously anticipating the response of the three editors I'm sending Absolute to. The writing process has been very long and tedious, so I'm thankful to all of you who have read my book and given me honest, painful feedback. I would post part of it on my blog, but for copyright issues and that sort of thing. So I decided to settle with publishing another poem. This one has yet to be named, so if you have any ideas feel free to comment!

Champagne is all too good to last

So I toast my empty glass

Hold my breath as it clinks

Pretend to take that one last drink

And wish the best of luck to a stranger.

My heart accelerates as the lights begin to dim

Swirls of skirts and waltzing men

Fill the humid air

And I act like I don’t care

I don’t have a partner.

The ACT and Surgery

What I'm Listening to: Heaven Forbid (The Fray) After finishing a quiz today, I sat silently at my desk and compared standardized tests and surgery. I found an impressive amount of similarities: Both require that you not drink or eat. Most people find both quite stressful (there's often pain involved, too). Everyone eagerly--or worriedly, in some cases--anticipates the results. Both involve a treeful of paperwork. There's a lot of chance associated with both--the surgery depends on the skill of the doctor and the ACT or SAT depends on the random assortment of questions. But the most significant similarity is the make-it-or-break-it stakes. As you may or may not have figured out, I'm preparing to take a standardized test (the ACT, to be exact). My nerves are more or less fried, so thankfully After the Crash has already been penned. I would just like to point out that this, part eight, is the highly anticipated finale of After the Crash (which means I have to find a new piece of work to publish...) Well, here it is: Liberation My wet lashes flutter. I wonder idly if it's from the snow. And then I remember it's been weeks since I've merely breathed fresh air--let alone been in the snow. I used to be able to count on one hand the times I've cried. Now I need two. I sweep a finger under my eye and the tear comes away clear and unclouded. It's been weeks since I've worn makeup. I might stop altogether. It's kind of nice, not checking for mascara stains. "This is the day you're released," the kitten-clothed scrubs lady says, adjusting my awkward clavicle cast and helping me sit up. "It still hurts," I say in confusion. She tells me it will for a while, sweetie. But I will get better. She sets the clothes I wore the day of the crash on the bed, washed and unstained. I stand up on my own for the first time in weeks and slip out of the horrible hospital gown. It slithers slowly the floor and lands in a blue-and-white heap. The checkered white floor chills my bare feet and I shiver, quickly climbing into my clothes. I am wearing a white T-shirt, a black sweatshirt, and pants. For the snow, I presume. I throw back the curtain on the right and make my way to the bathroom. The sweatshirt hangs loosely on my impossibly smaller-than-usual frame. I'm betting IVs don't include Death by Chocolate. But wouldn't that be ironic? I take off my sweatshirt and knot it around my waist. It clicks distantly in my mind that I'm going to have to walk out of the hospital barefoot. I turn on the icicle-emitting spigot and splash my face with a frigid wake-up call. I then attempt to brush my teeth without a toothbrush. I am ready. My feet pat softly down the clouded-sky hallway. I throw back my curtain and my hand hesitates at the one on the left. Slowly, slowly I pull it back. There is confusion in his eyes. Then comprehension. Then ecstasy. Only then do I notice the elevated cast next to me. The pain on his face that he is so heroically hiding. "I knew you'd come," he whispers, his teeth set in a concealed grimace. Somehow, strangely, I did too. At first I didn't want it, but now it's...different. "I don't--can't--leave you," I say, looking like the sorry state that I am. He grins some more, and then scrawls an address to my new life on a Pepto-Bismol colored pad. And then I do the inevitable. I walk away. David doesn't--can't--know what he's done for me. At least not yet. Several passerbys glance austerely at my bare feet and I stifle a grin. If they'd been through all that I've been through, the last thing they'd be thinking of would be bare feet. But here I am, unshod, and it's snowing again. I am healing, but I'm not well. I am like a manuscript. What was written is written and there's no going back. But I'm open to reading. At least, by people I risk enough to let into my heart. Like David. The cry for a taxi freezes on my white, cloudy breath as I screech to a halt. I fly back, back to the curtain. Somehow I'm going to have to fake sick for a while.

Walking Home

What I'm Listening to: Different Names for the Same Thing (Death Cab for Cutie) Being sixteen and not having your own car is practically murder. Especially when you have a license. I am one of those many unfortunate, carless teenage souls. I draw the line when it comes to riding the bus, though. Parents, if they choose not to invest in their teenagers in this area, should be obligated to drive them to school to save them from the horrors of the bus. The only problem with that is my parents are both frequently late and forgetful. After half an hour of waiting outside the high school in sub-freezing temperatures, I called my mom and told her I was walking home. She met me after I had walked about a mile and apologized for losing track of time. Shivering and shaking, I massaged my frozen legs and nodded. Despite the cold, I have to admit the walk was pretty nice. Maybe it was my feeling of independence; maybe it was my suddenly slowed pace. But either way, it felt good to get outside and breathe the crisp, cool Washington air. If it weren't so cold, maybe I'd walk home from school once in awhile. And now the long-awaited seventh installment of After the Crash: Bronze I am horrified to realize I have drifted off...again. "David!" I croak. "David's in surgery," a voice says from behind the curtain. "Who are you?" "Just the nurse," he replies. A man-nurse? What else is new? I purse my lips together and ask politely what surgery he is having. He tells me David fell out of his bed last night and broke his leg again, and a few bones in his wrist. My eyes open wide. I ask him if he will be all right. He tells me oh, yes. It will just take a while, is all. I let a breath out hesitantly. I am beginning to get a strange sense of déjà vu. I outlined my eyes in a black pencil and stepped into a knee-length boring black dress. I examined my face in the mirror and sighed. Why in the world did I put on eyeliner today? The streaks only added to my sense of melancholy. I let down my hair that I had tied into a bun. The less people that saw my miserable state, the better. My boots were somewhere under the piles of clothes and junk food, but I had no idea where. Somewhat reluctantly, I settled for a simple pair of black flats. A fluid, single note stirred the blood in my veins. The doorbell. I smoothed my skirt and stood up, letting several shirts and shoes fall to the floor. "Coming," I called emotionlessly. The girl at the door had flaxen hair and a blank expression. "You must be the boss," I said almost kindly. "Oh. I guess he told you about me." "Vaguely," I admitted, and shook her cold, lifeless hand. She led me to her car--a white Lexus--and I climbed in. The journey was spent in perfect silence. I stared out the window, watching the cars and pedestrians, thinking they had it so much luckier than I. The girl and I stood next to each other, next to the gaping hole in the ground and the caramel-colored box with a nameplate of bronze. His name. The color I had only so recently associated with his hair, never to grow again. "How did this happen?" I heard myself say in barely a whisper. The boss said someone came into the firm with a gun and shot whoever was in sight. She could never have done anything. She was lucky they got him--and not her. I don't think she understood me. I knew the fundamentals. But why? How? I had not idea. I gazed at his normally tan face, his bloodless lips, his shut brown eyes. He was beautiful even in death. I reached out a hand and touched him softly on the lips only I--and I presumed his manager--had known. They were cold and stiff with fatality. I shuddered and drew away my hand. Forever how I would remember him: cold, lifeless, and dead. Not the vitality and bronze I had come to love.

A New Kind of Ready

What I'm Listening to: Clocks (Coldplay) As the beginning chords of "New Year" sounded, I sleepily rolled out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom adjacent to my bedroom. I turned on my shower and climbed in once it was warm enough. After massaging shampoo and conditioner into my hair, I rinsed my hair, scrunched it and put on makeup. I then blow-dried my bangs and straightened them. The last step was to grab my watch, purse and backpack from my room. Suddenly, I glanced at my bedside table and stared in horror.

The alarm clock proudly declared 11:59!

I thought I had been running a little late, but I was actually ready seven hours early. Which left me the dilemma of what to do with my hair. I couldn't exactly sleep on it wet, because everyone knows doing that makes it flattened on one side and lumpy on the other. But nobody sacrifices seven hours of sleep for a good hair day either. Fatigue won out and I ended up arriving at school with hair slightly less attractive than when I fixed it. Nevertheless, life carried on as usual and I was no worse for the wear. And now for part six of After the Crash... Echo Tracks It wasn't very unusual for him to call. So why was my stomach filled with a sickened sense of dread? The small cell phone at my side beeped incessantly, waiting for me to answer it. "Hello?" I said, my voice cracking. I recognized his voice at once. Only, it wasn't a voice he'd ever used with me. It was the hesitant, sorrowful voice of a boy about to break up with his girl. In this case, moi. "Hi, baby," I said, already choking. He told me it was all political, really. Had he told me he had a new job?--that's why he never seemed to be here anymore. His boss was a girl who was in love with him, and if he dated her, he would get a promotion. Of course he still loved me. Of course he wanted to be with me. Of course he would stay with me--the relationship with his blond, sexy superior was merely for political reasons. Somehow I managed to hold back the bile. I told him okay, that I wasn't that interested. He hung up and I ran through the list of possible ailments: Blind Deaf Stupid My eyes filled with broken, angry tears. I tore through the house, heaving glass and timber alike to the floor. Through my blurred vision, I made my way to the front door. Silently, I stood there, looking at his many Echo tracks. Imagining where he stood last. How he looked when he kissed me...for the last time. Sitting on the porch and looking at the pearls and diamonds he'd always promised to get for me would never be the same. I could never honestly enjoy a night under the stars ever again. I was devastated. Broken. Used. I broke down on the steps and cried, listening vainly for his pleasant, husky voice. Telling me he was sorry. He never liked that Blond anyway. He didn't really need the job. But no. I was left in dreadful, breathtaking silence.

An Almost-Collision

What I'm listening to: Better Together (Jack Johnson) I almost died on Friday night. Well, more accurately, a skater almost died Friday night. Let me explain: on the car ride home from Safeway, I noticed a faint outline of a person standing in the middle of the road. At first it looked so freaky and ghostlike I thought I only imagined it, but seconds later I was screaming, "Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!" (In my shocked state, I guess I couldn't articulate something like, "Dad, stop the car! There's someone in the road!") Nevertheless, the message translated in just enough time for Dad to slam on the brakes and scream a warning to the retreating form. Adrenaline drizzling away, I leaned back against the seat. I still couldn't get the image of us crashing into that guy out of my head. Thankfully we didn't hit him, but I'm never going to second-guess what I see again. And speaking of car crashes, here's the next portion of After the Crash: (Oh, and just in case you're being a little lazy, the narrator has flashbacks in this one) Many Happy Returns His halo the color of burnished bronze did not hold my attention. Though his intelligent, soft pools of melted chocolate gazed at me, they were not my primary concern. His perfect mouth touched my smaller one, and my frenzied heart threatened to attack. I awake in the same frantic state. A short woman wearing pink kitten scrubs rushes in. "Are you all right?" she asks. I tell her I just had reconstructive surgery three days ago. Her pink mouth sets in a firm line as she fills a needle with clear liquid. My eyes open wide as she injects the medicine into my IV. Maybe they have those clapper lights in here, because there's a popping sound and the lights start to dim. I hold my breath as the nurse unwittingly sends me hurtling back into the past. He smiled again and I felt his hard, muscular arms wind around me. Heaven. I had a feeling that's the closest I would get, but that was just fine with me. "I'll pick you up tomorrow," he whispered into my hair. I would never wash it again. "Okay," I managed finally, pulling myself from his grasp and climbing up the stairs to my house. His sneakers crunched on the gravel as he made his way to his shiny new Echo. I held up my hand tentatively, watching it flutter like an autumn leaf. I stood outside long after he drove off, watching the dust settle and the night fall. Somehow, even though I watched it every night, the velvety black showcase of diamonds, with its large pearl centerpiece, never ceased to amaze me. I awake to the soft glow of morning. Artificial light shines from somewhere, hits the curtain, and glances off pink. Suddenly, I realize what woke me. A small, almost musical moaning drifts toward me from the other side of the curtain. "David!" I cry out in alarm. David doesn't say anything, and suddenly everything gets very quiet. The calm before the storm. Or possibly the devastation after it. I listen disparagingly for David's rich, calm voice. Nothing. All of a sudden, I feel very, very small and silently wish for him many happy returns.

Writer's Block

What I'm listening to: Title and Registration (Death Cab for Cutie) I tried to write a poem today, but I ended up with half a sheet of scribbled-out purple characters. Gotta love writers' block. I think it's even transferred to my blog today (good thing it doesn't show how many things I've just tried to say). Oh well. Writers' block, just like everything else, comes and goes. Absolute (the book I'm trying to get published) sits on a dusty cyber shelf, waiting for the friendly comments of my editors. An unfinished English essay hangs on the thread of my imagination and yet another History project looms in the near future. Such is life--for me, anyway. But now I'm only stalling. Here's the second installment of After the Crash: The Curtain "You crushed your clavicle," says the doctor. His voice is grave. I ask him what that is. "Don't you feel it? Your collarbone." "Well, now that you mention it..." My voice trails off. I stare at the pink-and-white patterns on the ceiling. I notice my eyelashes are wet from fallen snow. The doctor tells me he can fix me. It will be easy. Just a quick surgery and then a cast. But I don't want to be fixed. I'm like an old painting, or a manuscript maybe. What was written was written and there's no going back. Of course, I know there's something wrong with me. But it isn't my clavicle or ragged arms. To admit it would be to acknowledge it. And then would come the fixing. Nothing's wrong wit me. "Can't I go home?" I ask. The doctor peers at me from under his owlish spectacles, and I decide to drop it. Tomorrow's Saturday, I suddenly recall. Sadness fills me like a dessert that leaves a funny taste on your tongue. I will spend the day in the emergency room. Or maybe the operating one. Flecks of white spatter the baby blue walls and it immediately reminds me of snow. I shudder. The wheels of of the hospital bed squeak methodically as the nurse pushes me along like the child I've grown up to be. She shows me to my curtained-off, ten-square feet of privacy and gives me a smile. I wonder how much she was paid to do that. Not enough, considering my condition. "What are you in for?" I ask the unisex curtain next to me. "Broken leg," it mutters back. "Clavicle," I say. The curtain tells me its sister once broke her clavicle. And that, by the way, his name is David. I cringe. Names. Names open people up. Names remind me of what I've tried so hard to forget. I hate names.

New Beginnings

What I'm Listening to: The District Sleeps Alone Tonight (The Postal Service) First blog entry of my life: no pressure or anything. I suppose I could say I'm a highschool author. Or maybe that I just moved two thousand miles away from my home less than two months ago. But I guess that's a little generic. So maybe I should start with one of my poems, After the Crash. Maybe it will get you hooked, maybe not. But (of course), I'm only going to publish the first part. Which means you'll have to keep coming back to get the whole story. Enjoy! Snowing Fire My small, white feet are a stark contrast to the smoothed-sandpaper feel of the wet pavement. It's cold, but my shoes lie under several twisted heaps of scrap metal. There's a faint smell of burning rubber in the air--could it be my sneakers? Passerbys, I think idly. Doesn't that sound better than passersby? They are staring. Staring at me. I glance down at my shoulders--and gasp. Intricate web spiderwebs are engraved into my arms and seep through my white T-shirt. Funny. I never felt a thing. "A doctor, a doctor," someone finally says. "Somebody call a doctor." For what? My car? I tell him Band-Aids and a cup of cocoa will suffice. He tells me I'm in shock. That I should lie down. Get something to drink. I can feel my arms now. It's a sort of awful, wonderful feeling--it burns like the pits in Hades, yet it doesn't warm me up. Someone--it is a woman this time--pushes a few pills and a bottle of water at me. I tell her I can take the pain. That I, strangely, want it. An odd, terrible look fills her eyes and she shoves them down my throat. I am lying down now. The gray fluffy plumes of cotton candy loom overhead. The delightful monster. Fifteen minutes later--or sixty, for I have no track of time--and it's snowing. Well, it certainly looks like snow. But the fluffy wads of cotton seem to ignite my veins on fire. I have to clamp a hand over my mouth to restrain crying out. As the ambulance arrives, the clouds don't show a sign of letting up. Good, I think with some surprise. I don't want the miserable rapture to end. Keep on, keep on. Keep on snowing fire.