the girl
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She's the girl who sits and watches while others live a charmed life. The girl loves to write but doesn't know if she's any good at it. She loves rainbow sprinkled ice cream on a rainy day. She loves to take walks with the wind blowing. Giggling should be made a career. She tells you her secrets in not so many words.
in the past
blog pokes
well-known pokes
Friday, June 19, 2009 10:13 PM
la mer
Fingers are the most fascinating things, especially when the air is reeking of tension. They can pretend to dance and be birds on the blue carpeted floor, because you need them just so. I counted them twice over and ended up with 15 in disbelief, only to find the other five scrunched up in a fist in my pocket.
When eyes determinedly refuse to make eye contact, there's always the triangle of the forehead to speak to. Triangles can be fascinating too, if you let them. They become swimming little polka-dotted patterns of brown and pink with a luminosity of 70%. While fingers can transform, patterns have the ability to distract from the pain - which is most evident with just one look in the eye - and both can be counted.
In that one hour, I found myself with 80 fingers and 10 brown and pink dots each. I was glad that there wasn't a way to put an empirical number on this heart, at least not at the present moment where the air was supposed to be light with chatter and excitement. The numbers would possibly be most alarming, warranting immediate expert care.
Try as I may to kid and smile, all I could do was feel the weight. A burden that was, and a regret for its ever present presence. I saw, I heard but I could not move. And it was at that moment that I realised that it wasn't right to keep tearing at the brown paper covering this package. That's probably why the packaged burden, now tied up neatly in brown string, I will let, be chiseled off in whichever way fit.
I will lift up my eyes to you,
When my heart starts to fail,
Lord, your strength will prevail.
When eyes determinedly refuse to make eye contact, there's always the triangle of the forehead to speak to. Triangles can be fascinating too, if you let them. They become swimming little polka-dotted patterns of brown and pink with a luminosity of 70%. While fingers can transform, patterns have the ability to distract from the pain - which is most evident with just one look in the eye - and both can be counted.
In that one hour, I found myself with 80 fingers and 10 brown and pink dots each. I was glad that there wasn't a way to put an empirical number on this heart, at least not at the present moment where the air was supposed to be light with chatter and excitement. The numbers would possibly be most alarming, warranting immediate expert care.
Try as I may to kid and smile, all I could do was feel the weight. A burden that was, and a regret for its ever present presence. I saw, I heard but I could not move. And it was at that moment that I realised that it wasn't right to keep tearing at the brown paper covering this package. That's probably why the packaged burden, now tied up neatly in brown string, I will let, be chiseled off in whichever way fit.
I will lift up my eyes to you,
When my heart starts to fail,
Lord, your strength will prevail.
minx wrote at10:13 PM
2 replies
2 replies
Sunday, June 14, 2009 4:21 PM
our unlikely two
There are loose curls behind this girl; the eventual product of one straight and one curly. Behind those curls are two grumbling adults on a self-assigned construction project. They've stared at the materials together and sat down in turns, all to make happy a new mother who's a little more than a few hundred miles away.
Amidst the grumble, they heard my plea to lessen the loot which will, without a doubt be a more feasible solution to this seemingly impossible problem. They may have listened with an open mind but, only too predictably, let their kind hearts dictate the way to scratch out that idea.
It's been a little more than an hour since they began on this little 'problem question'. From creating a workable mess on the dining table, they've moved to the floor and back in succession. Amidst yelps from the cellophane tape, the almost inaudible pleas for perfection are greeted with grunts threatening to leave the project for nobler pursuits.
If this was a competition, I'll bet that the grumbling would turn into an out of breath screaming and anxious laughter. I can almost see the pushing away at the imaginary sweat of labor. And who can forget the repetitive self-encouraging chant that all will end well.
Nobody really knows what kind of team this unlikely two make. Not then, and quite possibly, not even now. A journey approaching seven and two, and they can be as petty as four year olds arguing over which crayon to use for the sky. They sit and giggle at Mr. Bean, with one yelling but laughing over not so silly antics while the other controls giggles with a twinkle of the eye.
They're neither as cultured nor as proper as most. You'll not find them decked in the best or quipped with the most intelligent responses. Instead they sit at corners or fill up the front row and yell mostly embarrassing lines and sing the loudest (out of tune). One makes the worst possible grammatical errors. The other has an anxiety level that sky-rockets even at the mildest situations. And both let sarcasm go unnoticed, just because.
Yet both have the genuine intention to get to know all they come across (with the most personal questions). They have the loudest laughs and the most embarrassing habits of all of us. They frustrate me and their other one to no end.
We often wonder how the church conformed to silence as the priest pleaded for objections.
And still, we sit in wonder at the journey the two have made and will continue to make as the Parental Unit.
Amidst the grumble, they heard my plea to lessen the loot which will, without a doubt be a more feasible solution to this seemingly impossible problem. They may have listened with an open mind but, only too predictably, let their kind hearts dictate the way to scratch out that idea.
It's been a little more than an hour since they began on this little 'problem question'. From creating a workable mess on the dining table, they've moved to the floor and back in succession. Amidst yelps from the cellophane tape, the almost inaudible pleas for perfection are greeted with grunts threatening to leave the project for nobler pursuits.
If this was a competition, I'll bet that the grumbling would turn into an out of breath screaming and anxious laughter. I can almost see the pushing away at the imaginary sweat of labor. And who can forget the repetitive self-encouraging chant that all will end well.
Nobody really knows what kind of team this unlikely two make. Not then, and quite possibly, not even now. A journey approaching seven and two, and they can be as petty as four year olds arguing over which crayon to use for the sky. They sit and giggle at Mr. Bean, with one yelling but laughing over not so silly antics while the other controls giggles with a twinkle of the eye.
They're neither as cultured nor as proper as most. You'll not find them decked in the best or quipped with the most intelligent responses. Instead they sit at corners or fill up the front row and yell mostly embarrassing lines and sing the loudest (out of tune). One makes the worst possible grammatical errors. The other has an anxiety level that sky-rockets even at the mildest situations. And both let sarcasm go unnoticed, just because.
Yet both have the genuine intention to get to know all they come across (with the most personal questions). They have the loudest laughs and the most embarrassing habits of all of us. They frustrate me and their other one to no end.
We often wonder how the church conformed to silence as the priest pleaded for objections.
And still, we sit in wonder at the journey the two have made and will continue to make as the Parental Unit. minx wrote at4:21 PM
2 replies
2 replies