In case you haven't noticed, I haven't been doing much blogging lately. That's because I'm extremely busy. So the blog part of this will probably be a bit dormant for awhile, but I'll add on to the poems a lot. Check in frequently to see if new stuff is posted!
 
 
    I don't know how it happened. For whatever reason, I went from a tough, sturdy person that rarely cries at anything to breaking down twice in one day over the littlest things. No, it's not hormones, or mood swings. It was just me being sappy, which is exactly what I have been trying to avoid. I'm not quite sure what's happened to me, but I don't like it.
    Allow me to explain.
    My little episodes started a day or two ago. I was coming back to the hair salon, and was explaining my music tastes to someone. "I mean, I know everyone thinks it's weird and all that I listen to Evanescence, Breaking Benjamin, Eminem, Frank Sinatra, and Beethoven, but as far as I'm concerned, if I like it, I listen to it." I was then asked if I listened to any normal bands.
    To that I answered that of course I did. Coldplay, OneRepublic, and The Fray, are all band favorites of mind. As if on cue, the song How To Save A Life came on the radio. It is possibly one of the saddest songs that I've ever heard. My companion mentioned how they didn't like it because it was so depressing. "It's like a breakup."
    I then proceeded to explain the music video. For all you people who don't know, I would watch it. It basically shows a bunch of grieving kids, and ties in a bunch of "steps" to get over the grief and loss of the parent or friend. It is the one video that has brought tears to my eyes. And as I was explaining the video, I once again felt the tears coming.
    "And...the kids....they're just...so...sad..." I gasped as tears poured down my cheeks, "You can see it...in their eyes....oh my god...I can't even...and I want...to help...I dunno..." I lay my head down between my legs and sobbed. Literally sobbed. Just the thought of all that pain and grief and death really hit me. And I've never been the one for things to affect me. Not like that.
    After my little crying episode, I went home and flopped down, still trying not to cry. I got ahold of myself by thinking about all of my life's problems and how really they were so small and insignificant compared to others. Well, I clearly was giving out the wrong vibe, and was promptly handed a poem that basically said that I deserved to be here and the universe was unfolding the way it should.
    This poem is called "The Desiderata" and they guy who wrote this was an attorney who turned into a philosopher at some point in his life. I forget his name, but I have to give it to him for writing such an amazingly touching and inspirational piece of work. If you've never read it, look it up. Right now. Seriously. It will change your life.
    I was tearing up at "You are the child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars" and lost it at "With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world". I feel like people forget that even though it's messed up, there's so much beauty and inspiration to be found. The way the clouds roll across the sky. The quiet hour of dawn, when all is at peace and not quite awake. The dew-drops on blades of glass, and how they seem to hold tiny rainbows of light.
    I read this line over and over, thinkign of all of the beauties of the world, and how, if one can look that much closer, they can find pure beauty among the darkness. I used to be able to say that poetry had never made me cry. Now, I can take that off of my accomplishments, because I was a puddle of tears by the time I finally put the poem down. 
    I'm not gonna lie when I say that I hate sappy stuff, and being a sap is not something I exactly strive to be. Yet, letting a few tears loose at little beauties and sadness seems to have heightened my awareness in the world. No one likes or understands the big picture, so we might as well work on the details instead of sit back and criticize the art piece that was given to us.
    Now I'm going to end this post for no other reason than I don't want to turn into a sobbing mess after writing something truly poetic about our broken yet beautiful world. A real negative about sappiness is it sneaks up on you, and I'm worred
 
 
    Before I start talking about my wild adventure today, let me make one thing clear: I don't like bugs, excess sun, skinned knees, getting dirty, and wild animals. Now, don't get me wrong. Mother Nature has a lot to offer. I'd just rather see it on Animal Planet on my couch where I'm safe inside. It's not like you can get a horrible case of poison ivy inside your own house. To make things clear, I'm not an outdoorsy person.
    At least, I didn't used to be.
    Then I went fly-fishing in the middle of Colorado. All the sudden, I was the one wearing the hip-high waders, splashing in to snatch the fish someone had caught, and expertly removing the hook from its gullet with a pair of tweezers. 
    So now I can officially say that I like the outdoors, but would rather stay in side writing, say, poetry, or blogging. Maybe that's why I wasn't exactly excited to go to the White Water Center. It might have to do with my habit of creating a schedule that I'd rather have not interrupted, and getting a little ticked when it does. But hey, what can you do?
    Upon going to the White Water Center, I made a beeline toward the rock climbing. This was a little different than usual, though. Instead of having hands-on belayers (the people who hang on to the rope and make sure you don't fall to your death) there were auto-belayers, which basically meant that except for a piece of rope and metal that was gonna keep me alive. 
    When I reached the top, I looked down and freaked out. "Ohmigod," I said. "I didn't know it was so far down." I held onto the wall, trying desperately not to think of the fact that I eventually had to jump. Finally, I swallowed, put my big-girl pants on and let go of the wall with a high pitched shriek. I plummeted, and I honestly thought I was going to get an early trip to the after life.
    Of course, the auto belay did its job, taking any and all drama out of the situation. The story ends with me landing on the ground safely with no trouble. I know, I know. Boring. But things get better, just hang on to me for a minute here.
    Next we went to the zipline. Now, let me explain something. Heights make me a little uneasy, as do a lot of things in life. So hanging on to a cable with only a safety harness wasn't exactly my thing. I'll save you the long story of my nervous breakdown, but let's just say that by the end, I was hyperventalating and silently hoping the machine would have to malfunction so I didn't go.
    "Now," the zipline guy said in a heavy accent, "You ah not ta do any backfleepz, cannonballz, or anytheeng dangeerouz or like ze stunts zey do in ze circus." He then strapped me on and cocked and eyebrow, waiting for some form of a response.
    I was finally able to gasp out, "I...I...I wouldn't....I wouldn't dream...I wouldn't dream of it...no..." I started shaking as he explained what position I had to stay in so I wouldn't fall out of the harness. Finally, he pushed me forward and I was off. As miracle would have it, I didn't freak out as badly as I thought, and only muttered a few choice swearwords under my breath to show my discomfort.
    After surviving the zipline, I moved on to the actual white water rafting. "Fun" was an understatement. Maybe words like wild, awesome, even radical would describe it better. I made sounds that no one had ever heard me made, such as "Whooooooohooooo!" and "Yipeeee!" To say that I was out of character was perfectly accurate.
    During the 90 minutes I was white water rafting, I never fell off once, which I would say is a miracle, because falling off a raft seems like something I would almost certaintly do. But hey, maybe I have some hope in this sport after all!
    Who knew one day could have so much fun?
PS: I know this is a kind of horrible blog post as far as they go. I'm still suffering a bit from writers block, and it just isn't coming out right. But I had nothing else to write about, so please bear with me. Maybe one day I
 
 

Closet Cleaning and Nostalgia

     It's funny how coincidences work.
    This afternoon, I was listening to one of my favorite songs by Eminem, "Cleanin Out My Closet". It's a song about Eminem and the relationship with his Mom, which doesn't seem to be a good one. Anyway, I was lounging about, listening to this epic song, when I was given an announcment.
    A few weeks ago, a charity company called saying that they were having a clothing drive, and to please leave trashbags stuffed with clothes at the end of the driveway. The charity truck would then pick up the trash bags and give the articles inside to ids who couldn't afford clothing. After awhile of procrastinating, I finally decided that today was the day to clean out my closet. 
   "I'm sorry Mama,
    I never meant to hurt you,
    I never mean to make you cry,
    But tonight,
    I'm cleaning out my closet,"
    Like Eminem, I was finally cleaning out my closet. The one difference between him and I, though, is that while he's doing this perhaps to make his Mama cry, I did it to make my Mama proud. With a heavy sigh, I trudged over to my room and flung open the closet door.
    You probably have an image of a dark, dank, messy closet in your mind. Well, I will tell you right now that you are utterly and completely wrong. My closet is brightly lit, neat, and organized. It also smells quite nice, if you ask me. The reason why I was reluctant to complete this task of going through my stuff, though, is that there is simply so much stuff to go through.
    Imagine about 7 year's worth of clothing in one closet. That means that there are a bunch of things I never wore, wore to pieces, haven't been able to fit into for years, and I am still waiting to grow into. Biting back a complaint, I reminded myself that I was doing this for the betterment of other people, and I ought to not be complaining. With a deep breath, I began my work.
    I started grabbing anything and everything that didn't fit, I didn't like, or had holes in it in the giant white hefty trash bag I had dragged up the stairs. I tried to go through this task as quick as possible, silently praying that it wouldn't take too long. I had been in the middle of doing nothing, and to be honest, I wanted to get back to doing it as soon as possible.
    I know, I know. I sound like some bratty rich kid. I guess in the end, everyone is. But you'll be happy to know that I tossed that nagging little voice out of my head and just plowed on. I had a one-way tunnel of focus. Nothing was going to break my stride. At this rate, I'd be done in 10 minutes.
    And then nostalgia set in.
    I found, shoved in the back of my closet, about 3-4 dresses I wore when I was about 6 years old. I pick them up, and childhood memories started pouring in. Jumping around in the garden. Getting stung by a bee. Valiantly disobeying time-out rules. It all came coming back. All of the sudden, I became a weepy, sentimental wreck. 
    I took a deep breath and began to toss the dresses in the pile. I had to let them go. They didn't fit me anymore. i didn't need them. But all those memories...Stop it. You don't need these dresses. But I want to keep them. No you don't. Yes I do. No. Yes. No. Yes.
    For about 20 minutes I debated keeping a piece of my childhood with me, or giving it up to a child who needed it. The deciding factor is when I thought of all of those hoarders. Is this how they started? By not being able to let go of a dress? WIth that, I tossed half of the dresses into a pile and kept the other half in the closet.
    Ah, childhood. It was so sweet, so pure, so ignorant. I do miss it. I miss the way I looked at things with a completely open heart, and how I would get so excited that Santa was going to be in my house one special night of the year. How I believed that the Easter Bunny had hid all of those eggs I found in the back yard. I haven't yet learned to let go of all of these special, cherished times and fully embraced the next stage of my life.
    Maybe one day I'll learn to let go.
    But something inside me hopes and prays that I never will.

PS: I apologize that a well intended blog post turned as soppy as it did. In my first post, I said that I hate sappy stuff. This clearly proves my theory that I'm a hypocrite. Hopefully, these weepy and sentimental posts will be far and in between.
 
 
    This morning, I woke up with the plan of luxuriously spending my day lounging around, listening to Evanescence, doodling, and reading whatever magazines I could get my hands on. Unfortunately, there was one thing in the equation that I completely forgot: the dog. As luck would have it, he was in desperate need of a walk. I half-expected him to take his leash and drop it in front of my feet. 
    So at 9:00 in the morning, when I should have been chilling out in my robe, I was suiting up to take the dog out walking. "Thanks to you, I'm losing a lot of beauty sleep," I told Yogi. He stared at me with melting dark brown eyes, his tongue lolling out. It was clear that he wasn't backing out on this one. With a sigh, I headed out with Yogi following suit.
    Soon we were on the walking route, and I was exchanging good mornings and hellos with whoever I bumped into. Eventually, I just gave a strained smile to everyone I saw. I was still pretty ticked about having my whole schedule ruined by this walk. The dog and I walked in silence, him occasionally peeing and I occasionally yanking at the leash in a failed attempt to get him to behave.
    Maybe it was a mixture of sleepiness and the heat, but I eventually started talking to Yogi. Most of it was just blatant nonsense, such as, "You know what, Yogi? I would really like a wolf. A wolf with wings and we would just fly around scaring people." Or I would get philosophical and say, "I wonder what causes us humans to think and feel the way we do?"
    Soon, I was nattering on about anything and everything with Yogi. I was talking a lot more than I used to, saying that it took a lot more energy on my part to keep this conversation going than him. I started making hand gestures and wildly jumping around explaining my ideas and thoughts and dreams. A quick thing to know about me; when I'm on a roll, there's no stopping me.
    Except for one thing.
    "Excuse me..." I jumped out of my skin and turned around to a guy who was staring at me with a puzzled expression on my face. I cocked and eyebrow (Or, at least, tried to-I haven't exactly mastered that yet) and asked him what was wrong. "Well, I was just wondering if you were...okay...because, you know, you were..." He made a helpless gesture.
    Luckily I caught on. Only then did I realize that I had been subconciously having an energized conversation about nonsense with my dog. Turning bright red, I stuttered an apology and yanked on the leash. We were going home. "This is all your fault," I told Yogi on the way back, glaring. "If you had told me what I was doing earlier, this never would have happened." Noticing that yet another person was staring at me, I hastily added, "If you could talk, of course."
    I quickened my pace, worried thoughts running through my mind. What if someone had filmed this event and was going to put it on YouTube? What if I was going to be famous as the girl who talked nonsense to her dog? What if my social life was doomed? I glared at Yogi once again, thinking that it was all his fault and that if he didn't need a walk, this never would have happened.
    After a long silence, I sighed and said, "You know what, Yogi? I'm going to go online when we get home and see if this whole dog-talking thing is normal. I mean, maybe this is actually normal and I'm just psyching myself out about it, you know? But still, I don't think that it was the best first impression for everyone who saw me. Oh...wait...I'm talking to you again, aren't I?"
    We humans never learn.
    
 
 
    I have a confession.
    After many restless hours of thinking, pacing, pondering, and typing, I have come to a conclusion. On only my second day of blogging, I have a horrible, nasty case of writer's block. The words just won't come out, no matter how hard I try. I am simply at a loss of what to write.
    I know. It's pathetic.
    This has happened to me before, on one of my many failed blogs. I type something up, come back to it in a day a week or a month, and have no idea what to write. I fear that this site may be going in the same direction. I had forgotten how hard these blogs were, and how much time and energy you had to put into them. It feels like a failure in the making.
    Okay, pity party's over. You, my fellow readers, probably don't want to read about my sorrows about blogging. You're probably hungry for material, for interesting stuff that will want to keep reading and have your gears turning for weeks. And don't get me wrong, I tried to write you material that would accomplish this, but it never worked.
    It all started when I woke up this morning. I went straight to my blog, plopped down at the computer, and started typing. Almost. A more accurate version of this event is me staring at the computer screen with absolutely no direction as to what to write. Oh, don't get me wrong. I had ideas. Thousands upon thousands of things were jumping around in my mind, so I began the process of elimination.
    I then began sorting these ideas into categories: too personal, too boring, too long, too random, etc. Eventually, only a few ideas made the cut. With these fresh in my mind, I pondered for a few hours as to how to write them. That's when the problems started.
    When I finally zeroed in on a topic, I got through about 5 paragraphs before deleting everything. "It just wasn't right." I defended myself. I tried again. And again. And again. The posts didn't sound like me, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get it to sound quite right. It wasn't going with my normal flow, and after another half an hour, I gave up.
    I paced and pondered and desperately tried to salvage something from the wrecked remains of my ideas. Any other thoughts that could have worked as blog material had flown out of my head a long time ago. The one thing I couldn't get my mind off of was the blank, empty wall filling my brain. It was like I was constantly pushing against it and getting nowhere. I was suffering from possibly one of the worst cases of writer's block, and there seemed to be no cure except for wait.
    Except if I waited, I would most likely ditch this blog like all of my other ones. And all that would be left would be one sorry blog post that someone would stumble across and think, "Gee, someone sure had committment issues." They would then be on their way and never think about it again.
    I had a committment that I had to follow through, but I also had to have material to write about. And that's where I was faced with a conundrum: fufill your promise and write a half decent post and regret it later, or write nothing at all and forget about it.
    Somewhere along the way, I was struck with a brilliant idea. Why not write about the one thing that kept me from writing: writer's block? After giving myself a pat on the back, I plunked down at the computer. This time, I was not failed. I knew exactly what I wanted to write. Who knew that inspiration could come from so many places?
    Alas, I feel that I have done the impossible. I have turned writer's block from a horrible, dreaded enemy to a source of inspiration, and even something of a friend. 
    Perhaps I'm getting the hang of this blogging after all.
 
 
    I will first of all like to say that blogging is a lot harder than you think. You must first of all think of a topic that isn't totally random that will not only capture the audience, but give them a sense of your writing and your voice all at once. Spelling checks have to be made and the occasional witty comment slipped in. Basically, blogging is a pretty big commitment.
    You might be wondering, "Why the heck is this author blogging if she thinks its such a huge time consumer? I mean, it's not like she has to or anything." You're right. I don't have to do it, and I don't always want to do it. But as I mentioned on my homepage, I want some documentation of my life to look back on when I get older. I feel like I'm preserving a key piece of myself so that when I get older, I can look back and see who I once was and the kind of person I've become.
    Drat. Now I'm getting sappy.
    I hate sappy blogs. I think that no matter how well written they are, if they're all filled with gooey, gushy feeling that is completely unneeded, the blog is a bit of a fail. Not that I don't write sappy stuff. In fact, some of my book ideas are the kind that turn into cheap, paperback romance novels that no one wants to read except for the sake of entertainment. 
    Which basically makes me a hypocrite.
    This blogging is a lot harder than I thought. Not that this is the first time I've done it. Oh, no, there are a bunch of blogs that I have tried to start all over the internet. You may have come across one and thought, "Gosh, what was this person thinking? There's only one half-finished post from two years ago."
    That's committment for you.
    Anyway, this blog is going to be different. I'm not going to completely walk out of this one. Nope, I'm going to try to post something every few days for maybe the rest of my life. I'm going to keep this up. In fact, I'll even make a pledge to show my commitment for this stuff. 
    "I pledge to post on this site every few days for maybe the rest of my life. I promise to be a committed blogger, writer, poet, and even artist if I ever get around to posting some of my work on here. Even if no one reads this, I will act as if I have millions of viewers on at all hours of the day. I will not back out on this one, I swear."
    Okay, here we go. This is the start of an experiment that will probably fail, but I'm definitely not going to go down not trying.
    I hope.