Merry Christmas!

When I was much younger, the tradition at Christmas was to listen to John Denver and the Muppets: A Christmas Together, and more than any other song, it was a lullaby that Mr. Denver sings with Kermit's little nephew, Robin, that I remember most. When the River Meets the Sea is my most treasured song. I sang it to little kids when I was a camp counselor, trying desperately to get them to sleep. I sang it to my baby sister, born when I was fifteen years old. I plan on singing it to my children, whenever it is I end up having them.

The point I'd like to make about this particular song is that it, unlike many of contemporary Christmas music, is about the true joy of Christmas. It is about having that wide-eyed awe of the world that children always seem to have, of looking at the world as if everything in it that is good and beautiful is a miracle. It is about us and about our future, and not the dim, ominous future that we all predict for ourselves, but for the opportunities, for the potential that we all have. Like the rapture we see on our small ones' faces right before they open their presents, the song advocates that we treat our future as a slowly unfolding gift: something that could be anything and everything, something that could make the world a brighter place.

Christmas is about light, and about love, and I do hope you all have a little light in your eyes and a little love in your hearts this Christmas Day. I shall leave you with Robin and John, may he rest in peace, and I do most heartily wish you a very merry Christmas.

Much Love,
Ellie


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZOoXTggzoFk

Calling All Musicians!

Music is so incredibly important in our lives. Some might underestimate just how special it is, and they wouldn't be incorrect in assuming that we don't need to be constantly blaring Bieber and Miley Cyrus and whatever else the recording business has cursed us with. The music industry has, as of the last decade, taken our music and turned it into a farce. We no longer hear the music of people who've been working at their art for years and years before we ever heard of them. We are listening to a few lucky morons who either had a lucky break or had enough money to buy their way in to force their whiny, off-key, nasal bullshit on us. Some of us are dumb enough to think, because it is on the radio, that it is actually well produced.

I've been singing since I could read (that's the age of three, for those of you who were wondering), and I've almost dedicated my life to music. Since I was eight, I did every talent show I could, participated in every choir in my school, and I've even been a lead in a musical, though I'm sure few of you have heard of or seen Damn Yankees, so I won't expect you to be too impressed. Regardless, music is a considerable part of my life. You almost never see me go anywhere without my Zune on me, and if I'm in the car, and I'm not in the company of someone I really would rather be talking to, I will have it plugged in to my stereo at full blast. Music is possibly the most liberating outlet I've ever had.

My first sister, called such because I'm the oldest, and she's the next oldest of three sisters I have, had a choir concert last night. She is, unfortunately, not in the show choir, which I had been two years in a row, and neither was she in the jazz choir, but it was still pretty exciting. I was underwhelmed by the soloists, and could have gotten along without much of the jazz choir. But when I got called up as an alumna to sing, both for the jazz choir and for the show choir, as is tradition, I didn't expect it to hit me so hard. For four years, I've waited patiently in the shadows. I haven't even seen a stage since I was seventeen. I figured that if a career in music was what was waiting for me after I left, it would happen to find me. So I didn't pursue it. But singing up there and being a member again of something so big...I've been bitten. I thought I'd never want that again. Yet here I am, wondering and searching for maybe a chance to get out there again, and feel the spotlight.


Curtain Call

Dark before ascension, and there is tension,
anxious thrumming, and wishing for straight thought,
instead of such frantic spurts of worry. Asking why I crave these moments
of strung-out adrenaline is like asking where the Loch Ness monster holds
her court in the waters of Scottish highlands, so I don't.
I shut my eyes, I count to three, and
I take a tender step towards the light, a beacon above me.

Bright, searing, and where it falls makes my destination clear.
The timid child within me pulls me away, to hide in the shadows -
the shadows that conceal my darkest flaws - but the brazen minx
who rears her head in my heart of hearts yearns to prove
she is the dauntless blood-kin of ancient kings.
She feels no fear, and I succumb to my pride.
I enter the limelight.

My voice is the Siren's call, and the thrumming of anxiety
turns into a new thrumming in my song,
a sound of reverence, of love older than the skies.
And slowly, surely as a river, the people below turn from foes
to devotees, and even as they do, they disappear as my heart crescendos.
And as the thunderous crashing of waves comes down on a rocky shore,
the curtain falls as appreciation sounds its last.
Satisfaction comes, a blanket around my shoulders, and after all that,
I feel free.

I Hate Petty Thieves

I was going to write about friendship this week, mostly due to the fact that my Air Force best friend (he currently goes by my best friend from South Korea) is coming home this week, and I'm very excited to see him and hang out with him and get into general shenanigans with him. It is going to be amazing.

However, this morning, I woke up to find that my car had been busted into while I was house-sitting, and all the contents were strewn about the front two seats. I also discovered that a bag of clothing I had saved for doing laundry was gone, and I'm feeling the need to talk about my feelings about the morning I've had. I also realize this post is two days late, but I'm more focused on the fact that I now have something to talk about.

As I've said in the past, I am a notorious cynic. I believe that everyone is out for themselves, that we are all motivated by self-interest. While this may not be true, it is what I believe. My experience in the past, in dealing with people in my personal and professional life, have led me to this conclusion, and, so far, I have not been given any sign that this is any different.

I say that I believe this. I don't have to like what I believe. In fact, it disgusts me. Why we have to be so focused on our own problems when there are people out there who suffer much worse than we do is frankly beyond me. The world is so much bigger than one person's problems. I will admit, I was very upset this morning, and I did rant for a long time about how selfish the people who took my things are. How dare these people inconvenience me so? How dare they think their problems are so big that they can take advantage of me? But I soon sat down and thought for a while. Perhaps they really are that troubled. Perhaps they are desperate for clothes. Of course, they would have to find a washing machine to wash said clothes, for they were plenty dirty from working and sweating and running and whatever other activities I get into that generate filth on my clothes. However, that isn't the point. Perhaps they really need those things more than me. I was, after all, able to replenish half of what I lost within three hours of discovering my things were gone. Not everyone has that luxury.

And then I thought about it more. Even if they thought their problems were bigger than mine, even if they really were that desperate, where does the right to steal and violate other people's space come from? In almost every species we see that has evolved into a successful species that can sustain itself, altruism is one of their founding behavior patterns. Looking out for each other propels the success of the species. Human kind routinely abandons this philosophy, calling for an "every man for himself" dogma that would theoretically destroy us. There is such a thing as being able to ask for help, and we let pride and suspicion prevent us from seeking solace in our fellow human. We get in the way of ourselves, and so we fail our altruistic instinct, falling prey to the temptation of over-analysis.

Of course, I could take this tangent so many places. I could talk about universal health care. I could talk about gay rights. I could talk about the corruption of the modern corporations. I could even talk about religion. I won't. But I will say this: Selfish impulses, however strong, will be the undoing of our infrastructure, and, in the end, desperation is only our weaknesses getting the better of us.

The Futility of Invincibility

I'm all for adrenaline rushes. I am the first person to respond to a drum riff in a song I'm playing in the car by revving up the engine. I'll accelerate to up to fifteen miles over the speed limit, while in the middle of a sharp turn, and I'll be feeling the thrill like nothing else. There is nothing like the feeling of being chased. I will be hiking on a trail in the middle of the woods, and suddenly take off, just to pretend I'm being pursued - or pursuing. And I love the feeling of danger, of the unknown. But all too often, I am confronted with how fragile it all can be, and how mortal I am.

I learned a long time ago that I am not invincible. My mortality is the same as the person next to me, or the person next to you. It's always so amusing to me how old I sound when I say things like this, but I developed a good understanding of the world very early on in my life. My mother calls me her "cynical daughter" for this very reason: I made my mind up about the workings of the universe long before anyone else my age did, and not much has changed my perception. All it took for me to realize how mortal I really am was looking at the wasting away of my friends as they delved into dangerous waters: drugs, meaningless sex, and adventures into darker, raunchier places. When few of them made it out the same as before - and I do mean they were mere husks of who they were before - I knew that not only are we physically mortal, but we are also mentally mortal. They played with fire and found an addiction in getting burnt. Sometimes getting a rush is not worth the risks we take.

This is one I wrote when I was undergoing that passage from naivete to cynicism.

Bridge from Childhood


The most beautiful place that I've ever walked
was a bridge, stony, weathered and laced with ivy.
Bracing waters that it shadowed, it held a century of love and war,
childhood play and adult tears. And I walked there with you, so long ago.
In your arms, I stayed and watched the moon rise up and kiss your face, and danced between streetlight and fenced trees.
And in my darkest hour, I'd sob into the stone, which would hold me up
when I felt like falling apart.

And that beauty I know to be true is a monument to the teenage ruin
that came to pass and fall with each flirting child who lost their virgin tongues
to a night as black and velvet as their cloaks of secrets given in tribute to the obsidian river.
Begotten lies and trades that would eventually be harvested in the incest,
and all their hopes to be grown-up drown as they realize that they lost their identities
trying to be someone else.

In the reflection of an empty wine bottle left from the frivolities of two lovers,
I saw my heart burst, wishing I could be the river.
Wishing I could pass by the darkness in my heart, that while shining
like a jewel in the eyes I once dared to gaze in, was not to be lingered on.
I wished to be a river, to be carried away into the sea
where nothing is left to meaningless dreams.
And no more would I linger on this stony bridge, where I passed over
a chance to be ever changing.

In Response to A Question

So, for those of you who read this blog, I have submitted my fan fiction to a good friend of mine who is running a nerd's website of sorts. He will be debuting it soon, I believe, and I will be published under a pen name, largely due to the fact that I'm not really ready to attach my name to something this big. It may also be that I'm outwardly very much a prude, and this fan fiction is definitely blush worthy. Needless to say, The Nerd Filter will be launched very soon, so you all should definitely subscribe to it. It is run by a couple of my coworkers, and I have no doubt that it will be a huge success. It is also a relief to finally be rid of that God-awful piece of writing.

On to my topic for the week: love. It's a topic that has come up before. I've mentioned it in terms of lust and the differences between the two, and I said that I wasn't really sure what the differences between the two were. Not to say they aren't mutually exclusive: you can love someone and definitely lust after them, though the two feelings are definitely very different, and I did know that, but I didn't understand how. But I think I'm beginning to.

The feelings I felt for the subject of those poems were primal, basic, and without much depth. Lust is primal. Lust is looking at someone and saying, take me, if only for tonight, and not caring what happens afterward. Or you might care, but it isn't about what happens to the person you are feeling for. Lust is a dream and a figment of your imagination, what you wish could be love, but in your heart of hearts, you know can't be. It is selfish and it is a dark curiosity that can easily be satisfied.

Love is innumerably deeper. Love is bigger than physical attraction. Love is admitting to yourself that pride doesn't matter. Love is that connection, that understanding that you share with someone to imply your desire to do whatever it takes to make the other person's life better. Sometimes it comes in the form of reverence. Sometimes it comes in the form of embrace (and I do mean embracing personality quirks). Sometimes it comes in the form of sacrifice. You literally lose all desire to gain anything that would detriment the other person in any way. There are even cases, more numerous than should be physically possible, where we lay our hearts on the line for the people we love, where we take our hearts and smash them up before we can even try to receive love. We look at ourselves and deem ourselves too unworthy for the person we love to even dare consider giving ourselves a chance because we'd rather not disappoint the objects of our affections. We would rather stay away than risk injury. It is, of course, a noble effort, whatever the cost. I myself have been found guilty of dismissing my value for the value of keeping someone safe, and I have found people guilty of doing it for me. Some of those people were right in doing so. Not all of them were.

It is in those few cases that I would advocate for strength and courage. I have been the victim of being kept safe from the love of another, and more than anything, I was offended that I was not given the opportunity to make that decision myself. I would have asked for a chance, and damned the consequences, for I missed out on something that I might have wanted, had I known it was an option. True love only comes to us in every few lifetimes, and it is not something to be dismissed for what would seem to be the greater good. Pain, while not pleasant, is a reminder that we are alive and that we are strong. I would rather live in pain and see life for what it could be than merely survive without feeling at all. I want to be loved, and not for my beauty or my grace, but for my intellect and my good humor and, damn it all if not for my clumsy feet as well. I have had enough of lust. Whatever the sacrifice, I want to feel love again, and make someone feel loved even more than that. We all should get that chance at least once, to have that satisfaction of making someone feel whole.

I know this post is a little preachy. I know there's no poem this time. But I guess I figured there are enough love poems in the world, and I'm sure I'll write more of my own on my own time anyways. I just want it to be clear that I do get it. I know what it is to lust, and I most assuredly know what it is to love. Perhaps I will even find love someday. I'll be looking for it, wherever it is.

This post is dedicated to an old friend, who also needs to learn the difference between lust and love.

Heart of Darkness (It Isn't Just a Book)

I've always, ever since I started being discerning about who I let in my life, said that I'm good at being alone. Now, I say this, and I want you to know that this doesn't mean I like it. One of my very good friends heard me say this once, and he promptly told me that no one is good at being alone. No one likes being alone. No one wants to go through life unnoticed, unrecognized, and unloved, and that is what you become when you are alone. No one is there to tell you if you are a good person or a bad person. No one is there to tell you their opinion on the deeds you've done and the words you've spoken. No one is there for you when you are alone, and it possibly the most unhealthful feeling in the world to feel alone.

And that is what he thought I meant when I said I'm good at being alone. Had that been my meaning, he would have been right. But I don't like being alone. I'm simply practiced at it. I know how to survive long periods of time without contact with the outside world. When the task asks me to act the shut-in hermit, I do it without question and with uncanny finesse. It is like the saying goes: once bitten, twice shy.

There is safety in loneliness, despite how detrimental it can be to one's psyche. No one can take advantage of you, no one can break your heart, and no one can betray you. For a long time, I was convinced that it was all anyone ever wanted to do to me: all they wanted to do was use me for their own ill-gotten gains. I will admit that I am gullible. I still retain some innocence, and despite my protestation, I will even go so far to admit that I can be something of an idealist. And it isn't a bad thing. But in a world where people are so easily corrupted, it isn't the smartest thing either. So I broke off from my friends and from those I deemed too fallible to keep safely in my heart. After that, there was a long time when I had no friends, only myself and my writing to keep me company. Obviously, I went a little mad.

I've never addressed this dark point in my life. In that time, I didn't write poems. I wrote fan fiction and played video games and made a fantasy world for myself: an escape from my solitude. It was only last spring that I was able to reemerge from my seclusion. Now, almost eight months later, I will attempt to speak on that black time. I will try to convey the anger and the fear that I still strive daily to overcome.

Walking Through the Fires Unhanded

If ever I had tried to love, it was with an open heart and open mind,
and I thought the best of all I touched, believing so strongly
that the light I carried would shine bright enough to touch them,
to kindle little lights of their own.

But woeful was the girl who did not understand that darkness
is sometimes our closest companion. Our shadows are thick,
full of our hatreds and hurts, and we are daunted
by the prospect of letting in what small sunlight there is for us,
since with the sun comes the painful truth of seeing what monsters we harbor.

Since I was ignorant of whatever monstrosity festered and grew in my soul
as I was continually refused, the day it grew to match my height
was a shock, a stalker hiding behind the curtains leaping out with a knife.
However, death was not the foe that claimed me.

Black anger, tart and putrid, filled me, and all of a sudden,
I was the darkness. I walked through shadows as if I was one,
and they knew me too as one of their own, welcoming me to their
pitted ranks, their humble existence.
And no longer was I counted among human company.

So still, I waited for the light to capture me, and it was an unending game
as I eluded the candle that flickered once in my heart of hearts.
Until one day, my shadow-friends took fright from a glance my way.
I chased them, pursued them with anguished cries, but could not coax them.

It was that day I realized:
the candle had been there all along.

Waiting for the Full Moon

Today is the day of the new moon, and it is overcast where I am. I am sorely missing the nights when I could walk outside, and not worry about being lost in the darkness for the light of the full moon above me.

Why are we so fascinated with the Moon? Back in the day before we could travel in outer space and use technology to uncover the secrets of the world around us, it was understandable: the Moon was a mysterious orb in the sky, and no one really understood its purpose other than it was what we could expect it to reflect the Sun's rays back to Earth and illuminate our night skies. It inspired a ridiculous amount of mythology for the ancients and today, it is still apart of our urban legends, despite the fact that we pretty much have all the facts and knowledge of it that we can really gather.

Obviously, as a writer and a lover of lore, I am obliged to write about the Moon.

Diana and the Hunt

Through the night, she passes, her glowing face mirrored in
starlight and celestial incandescence: she is the fierce, the wild,
the unnameable force that makes the water dance at her feet.
She is the dauntless nature that summons the tide.

Her cries are those when her face is fully shining and the wolves are her voice,
calling to their Sister to lead them into the night,
where prey and playmates come out to join them in their dance.
They are the lovers of joy and family, and she is their matriarch,
shooting fiery arrows through the night sky when the weather is warm,
to celebrate their fraternal bonds.

Dark comes a time, on every other fortnight, when she hides herself,
her shame at having let herself go too much,
indulged too abruptly in the splendors of the Earth below her.
But it is when the sullen lowing of her children breaks her heart,
a warding away of her solitude,
that she is coaxed back to us, back from the velvet void above us.

She dances above our heads, watching over us as an elder sister would,
guiding us through the shadows.
Diana waits and watches, arrow nocked and ready
to slay the beast that hunts her little friends.