You In The Rain
You may ask why
I have only see the rain;
I will say that it is because that is how my world works.
But the water grows and grows,
Endless cycles and endless trips,
Always falling down again, greeting endless cycles of me.
My life is like the rain, falling, breathing, living, moving
And what else is life, but the tin roof of someone else's house?
I am like the rain, perhaps;
Falling into you, falling through you, and then being carried away again.
(Only to fall again)
Or perhaps I am like the roof,
And you are the rain
And we will always meet, whether I am roof or tree or rock
Whether you are rain
Here's the first thing you should know:
The body is the best of all machines. Inspiration comes from the elegance of the limbs to a singer's voice to lashes brushing against skin. Inspiration lives in the map work of veins that crisscross the body and the skin, tattooed or bare, that we are bound in.
But often, I like to strip it all away. I peel off the skin and think of vulnerability. As my muscles unknot, I find clarity in pain. As ligaments fall away, strength comes from my emptiness. Thoughts transverse my veins like the most ancient of tides, pulling me out and away. Organs give me something to be thankful for: t
She turns to me, radiant, beautiful, glowing. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, but it's there, in front of me undeniable.
"Car?" She whispers, and her voice asks so many things, because that her way, our way to take.
Take what you want from me, my beloved. I will give you any and everything, all I possess, just to claim the right to trace patterns into your skin.
This time she wants reassurance, an answer that I don't know how to give to her.
"Yeah?" I answer, finally, and my voice is so quiet compared to her, ash compared to fire.
"I " What was there for her to say? She was glowing,
He had never before been aware of the gulf that grief created between two people.
But it was there yawning, black, too much like an abyss for his comfort.
He had known grief before, oh yes! Had experienced it when he was young and it was easier to experience, not because his feelings were somehow less but because he didn't think about it as much, didn't confuse his feelings with thoughts and vice versa.
Isn't it amazing how much grief is perpetuated in our minds? How we try to catalogue it, label and define it we have a grieving process. A proper way to grieve.
Will had lost a family member to death exactly once: when Aunt D
"So I don't think we should do this anymore."
He looked up slowly, carefully creasing down the corner of the page of his novel, frowning pensively as he always did when he was interrupted from reading. The children down the street liked to tease him about his expressions, his methodical-ness, his carefully prepared manner, his way of doing things.
How can he explain to them that these methods of doing things are rituals he perfected in his youth, things that keep the cold and dark away, things similar to the way their mothers tucked them into bed at night: right, and wholly necessary.
"You don't?"
"No."
"Why?"
That was his son
His biggest fear is that one day, her eyes will be dull.
Yes, without him there is nothing; not in the typical romantic sense, not in the cliché romance novels that his older sister Edna used to read secretly. It was more in the without-him-she-didn't-exist-sense.
But Will ignores that, forgets that; if it's all a dream, if it's all in his head, then it's all for nothing anyway, and he cannot live with that.
So he struggles on, sneaking through the Sujerian desert beneath the big sky with a surly Ian at his side, and he thinks of everything that can go wrong.
They are trying to win, trying to finish a desperate, impossible quest.
T
You In The Rain
You may ask why
I have only see the rain;
I will say that it is because that is how my world works.
But the water grows and grows,
Endless cycles and endless trips,
Always falling down again, greeting endless cycles of me.
My life is like the rain, falling, breathing, living, moving
And what else is life, but the tin roof of someone else's house?
I am like the rain, perhaps;
Falling into you, falling through you, and then being carried away again.
(Only to fall again)
Or perhaps I am like the roof,
And you are the rain
And we will always meet, whether I am roof or tree or rock
Whether you are rain
Here's the first thing you should know:
The body is the best of all machines. Inspiration comes from the elegance of the limbs to a singer's voice to lashes brushing against skin. Inspiration lives in the map work of veins that crisscross the body and the skin, tattooed or bare, that we are bound in.
But often, I like to strip it all away. I peel off the skin and think of vulnerability. As my muscles unknot, I find clarity in pain. As ligaments fall away, strength comes from my emptiness. Thoughts transverse my veins like the most ancient of tides, pulling me out and away. Organs give me something to be thankful for: t
She turns to me, radiant, beautiful, glowing. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, but it's there, in front of me undeniable.
"Car?" She whispers, and her voice asks so many things, because that her way, our way to take.
Take what you want from me, my beloved. I will give you any and everything, all I possess, just to claim the right to trace patterns into your skin.
This time she wants reassurance, an answer that I don't know how to give to her.
"Yeah?" I answer, finally, and my voice is so quiet compared to her, ash compared to fire.
"I " What was there for her to say? She was glowing,
He had never before been aware of the gulf that grief created between two people.
But it was there yawning, black, too much like an abyss for his comfort.
He had known grief before, oh yes! Had experienced it when he was young and it was easier to experience, not because his feelings were somehow less but because he didn't think about it as much, didn't confuse his feelings with thoughts and vice versa.
Isn't it amazing how much grief is perpetuated in our minds? How we try to catalogue it, label and define it we have a grieving process. A proper way to grieve.
Will had lost a family member to death exactly once: when Aunt D
"So I don't think we should do this anymore."
He looked up slowly, carefully creasing down the corner of the page of his novel, frowning pensively as he always did when he was interrupted from reading. The children down the street liked to tease him about his expressions, his methodical-ness, his carefully prepared manner, his way of doing things.
How can he explain to them that these methods of doing things are rituals he perfected in his youth, things that keep the cold and dark away, things similar to the way their mothers tucked them into bed at night: right, and wholly necessary.
"You don't?"
"No."
"Why?"
That was his son
His biggest fear is that one day, her eyes will be dull.
Yes, without him there is nothing; not in the typical romantic sense, not in the cliché romance novels that his older sister Edna used to read secretly. It was more in the without-him-she-didn't-exist-sense.
But Will ignores that, forgets that; if it's all a dream, if it's all in his head, then it's all for nothing anyway, and he cannot live with that.
So he struggles on, sneaking through the Sujerian desert beneath the big sky with a surly Ian at his side, and he thinks of everything that can go wrong.
They are trying to win, trying to finish a desperate, impossible quest.
T
Current Residence: Washington State Favourite genre of music: Indie, Alternative, Heavy Metal Favourite photographer: Ansel Adams Favourite style of art: honest and emotional Operating System: OS Lion MP3 player of choice: Ipod Classic - 160 gigs Wallpaper of choice: something pretty Favourite cartoon character: tweety bird of course! Personal Quote: to be an artist requires a courageous soul
Favourite Visual Artist
Frederic Leighton, Frida Kahlo
Favourite Movies
It's Kind of a Funny Story, LOTR
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
Apocalyptica, Bon Iver
Favourite Writers
Rilke, Tolkien, Yeats, Rowling
Tools of the Trade
fine nibbed pen, lined paper
Other Interests
singing, writing, reading, dancing, photography, sleeping, tons of other stuff...
I want wings tattooed on my back (yay cliche) but i want them to be made up of all of my favorite quotes and words and such. And i want many, many piercings. And i blame it all on the megasexy Lisbeth Salander.
Recovered from surgery pretty well, seventeen months sober tomorrow, going to europe in July. Life is pretty good.
The novel has dragged to a halt, however. War scenes are difficult to write.
<3 Remmy.
So, as my novel-writing is soon to be finished (as soon as I write those pesky war scenes >_>), I've been looking for pictures to inspire me for the prequel and for the book cover and such. And there's a picture I'm trying to find that I know is on dA because I've seen it before.
It's of a black woman with amber eyes looking sad and there are a lot of purpley tones in the picture. I used it when writing for both Twinge and Novae. If anyone knows who it's by or has a link to it, I would appreciate it. <3
In the mean time, I'm gardening a lot and I'm very happy. :D
I graduated from high school on Saturday, and the ceremony was beautiful. I've also been working on my novel and writing a couple odd drabbles. I'm very excited for this summer, especially since I'm going to Europe!
<3 Remmy
quaaack. My novel... I think it's kind of like Lord of the Rings meets Inception. It's about a twenty-two year second generation Italian Jew named Will living in London in 1952. He's also a vet student. One day he wakes up in a different world, in a Jungle called Kuntaw, and has no idea how he got there. He finds out that Kuntaw is (in his opinion) a utopian society of shapeshifters, ruled by an oligarchy that embodies the virtues that make them shapeshifters and not mere animals. While in Kuntaw, Will becomes disillusioned with our society, falls in love, and ultimately must help finish a chain of events that happened eight thousand years ago by assuming his role in Kuntaw's society, by repaying a very important magical debt, and by making a sacrifice that will cost him everything. It's called The Lonely Dreamer and while it's not published YET, I have agents and editors interested. And Nicolas looks EXACTLY what Will looks like in my head.
Well I've got to get it published first. But man, that photo just screams 'cover' to me. If I ever do get a book deal, I think I'll point my publishers in your direction. Is that cool? Think we could work something out? Btw - I just returned from Paris. Loved it. France is lovely.