i’m on an island all by myself and i talk to the people who sail by and they make me happy and joyous and sometimes i’ll chill on their boats, but at the end of the day and in the middle of the night i am completely alone on my island.
i will happily watch movies
that tear into the soul
and make me feel like
all relationships are void;
because the beauty
is in the pain,
and the happiness
is worth the suffering.
i will listen to the music
that you gave to me,
even though elliot smith
makes me scared for myself;
because the music you listen to
is unique to you alone,
and the insight it gives me
is voyeuristic in nature.
i will read new plays
of all different types,
and subject matters,
and styles, and themes;
because they’re interesting
and important to me, and i think
that if i read enough, i will be
interesting and important to you.
but i will not yet let my guard down,
or give you my full trust,
or believe that you’re in it
for me and not for you;
because i’ve been scorned
in the past, and i now know
that if i let you you hurt me
i would pull myself together for more.
I write in two ways.
When I’m awake and without distraction, I write stories in bulk. I sit and I write undisturbed; I plow out word after word, and paragraph after paragraph of straight shots of straight thoughts.
but with poetry
my thoughts fall ever-so softly
into rightful place
august burns softly
in her troubled heart
before many things
tore her apart.
her soul simmered softly
and she smoked it away,
when the heat of the month
matched the heat of her day.
she whispered quite softly
to only herself
about the troubles she’ll face
and the worries she’ll shelf.
the wind called her softly
and toward water it beckoned;
so that cool night she left
for the beach in a second.
her footsteps fell softly
in the white and dry sand,
with moon large above
looking quite grand.
the waves crashed so softly
at the girl’s half-wet feet
that she barely even noticed
the sun begin to peek.
the wind blew her hair softly
as she left the sunrise
behind her, along with
her old way and times
and she fizzled so softly,
her fire put out;
and reborn with a life
without worry or doubt.
and she held herself softly
as she stood there and changed
and she that knew she had
her new mind all arranged.
This is from an observation journal assignment for my acting class. I got carried away and instead of writing just a paragraph I wrote a full-fledged story. This is unedited.
Two old men sit at a high-top table in a coffee shop. Probably in their sixties, they have white hair, glasses, and are both wearing hats inside. One is cleans-shaven and one has a beard. More of a goatee really. The one with the goatee (who from henceforth will be Goatee) sits and listens a lot, wears a very nice watch, and often has his hands at his mouth. The clean-shaven one (who will be Orange in honor of his shirt) seems to do most of the talking, and he gestures a lot while he talks. They’re both smiling.
This kid just called photographs “old-fashioned Instagram”
her hair
dried in knots
as the wind
whipped it back
and the sun
shone its first light
on her fair skin
i watched
as the tide
rolled out
and felt
the phantom touch
of your arm
around my shoulders
My skin isn’t smooth
My face isn’t symmetrical
My lips aren’t plump
My legs aren’t shaven
My stomach isn’t flat
My back isn’t toned
My feet aren’t small
My hair isn’t textured
My wrists aren’t dainty
My fingers aren’t thin
My breasts aren’t even
My butt isn’t round and
My muscles aren’t lean;
But none of this matters
When you wrap me
In your arms
And hold me
Like I’m perfect
And make me
Feel beautiful after all.
(Author note: This is an essay I had to write for my Acting I class about what it was like working on Summer and Smoke. It’s sloppy and I haven’t edited it and I’m not going to, but I want to share it. It’s a 4-page-long word document, but I believe it’s actually fairly interesting. You’ve been warned)
There’s a clatter as hangers hit the floor, and a stifled groan comes from a girl draped in fabrics. This is the third time she’s dropped hangers backstage during a quiet moment of the show. The Assistant Stage Manager looks over at the girl and smiles a sympathetic smile. Hangers are tough, and being backstage is hectic. The girl picks up the hangers and retreats back into the dressing room where the makeup lights are mercilessly bright and the air is frigid, and she’s greeted by a smile and a question about a costume change. This girl is a dresser for FAU’s most recent production of Tennessee Williams’ Summer and Smoke, and this girl is me.
