My poor, sore feet.

It's 2:11 am, I'm just sitting down, and I've just recently gotten home from work. This week I've had to work till midnight and 1 am, all while still functioning at school, and being a decent person. Tonight, I had to work from 5pm till 2 am and I will be working at 12pm later today until 9pm. I then also have to work Sunday, Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday of next week. That will be a total of 70 hours of work in a matter of two weeks. This equals lots of money, but this also equates to my descent from sanity.

I don't know how I can possibly balance my 3 extra extracurriculars, school/homework and somehow fitting sleep in there. I realized this evening that I want nothing more than an evening free of stress, and free of worry, however this seems more like a fantasy than anything that may lay on the horizon of the near future. I forced myself to write this blog now, because I know if I don't, I'll end up writing some half-assed blog tomorrow. So this is my confession/relationship, of me going insane! I'm not sure how I can juggle all of this stuff! It's insane, plus this is my first job, and this is the first year I've had multiple extracurriculars, along with that, the stress of university is staring me down.

I don't know what else to write about! I'm going insane, so my question to you guys this week, is what can I do to manage my life during this hectic time. Any techniques you busy people have to help you get through the rough patches? Where to you look to for inspiration when you've got writer's block, or when you're lost, or can't concentrate?

In my memories...

Some people live in the future; worrying about tomorrow, planning ahead as far as they possibly can...
Others live in the now; living life up to it's fullest, enjoying each day as though it were their last.
I, on the other hand, live in the past.

I think it's absolutely amazing how one item can hold so many memories. You can pick up an object and feel sad, happy, proud and guilty all in one instant...

The other day I went into my closet and pulled out my old combat boots in preparation for the snowy weather. As soon as I pulled them out I was reminded of when I first bought them. I had seen them in the at a store in the Whitby Mall, and decided from that point on I simply needed to have a pair. I went home and started saving up. I scrubbed floors, did dishes, cleaned up dog poop... After 2 months I had enough to buy them, and I was positively elated! At $160 dollars it was my most expensive purchase ever! I wore them around with pride, knowing how hard I had worked for them.

The next thing I was reminded of was my very first Sinclair show in grade 9. We would get into costumes, don masks and climb up and down on a huge black tower! (Note that this is only the shortened description of the exciting things we did on that stage). I remembered how after rehearsals one of my cast mates would put on these large boots and tromp around like some sort of gothic elephant. For this reason alone, these boots always remind me of that first time I ever stepped out of my shell, and also the undying sense of unity and family I felt within that cast that I had never felt anywhere else before.

As I ran my boots under the warm water to clean off the dirt that was caked onto them, I recall how the dirt got there in the first place. It was a warm spring night and my parents had gone out on vacation for the weekend... A good friend of mine slept over, and before we went to bed we decided to walk over to the park. He donned my boots (so as not to get his new shoes dirty) and we trekked through the mud on the way to the park. Once there we cuddled under the stars and talked about life and all the other cliche things people talk about under the stars.

Even as these boots grow old and ragged, I don't plan on ever letting them go. Sure, these times have all past and are put behind me; people drift, time moves on and things change, but these memories are something I'll always have.
Even if I'm unsure of the now, and if I lose friends and if I am hurt;
I can wear these boots and remember the good times
I can feel your arms around me
I can laugh and smile
I can feel at home
I can be proud
And I can hope for more good memories in the future.

*********
OH MY SWEET LORD JESUS
THIS IS A CHEESE FESTTTT
I was trying to give it a personal, meaningful, feel but... failed to do so.
I think it's over the top and cheesy.
I need tips on how to make it less so.
Just kabosh the ending completely?

Boy

i was listening to the across the universe soundtrack while i was doing my isu logs last night; and of course, when Jim Sturgess' velvety-smooth Girl slithered through my speakers... well, let's just say i got no work done at that time. This poem is not a response to the lyrics of Girl, although it does follow the same sort of tone/voice. A bit of a homage to the song. sort of.
you get the idea! it is a different sort of freestyle than i'm used to doing, so i hope you like it...

***

deep breath, hold still.
i can hear your footsteps;
can you hear me calling?

i'm shouting out your name toward the stars.

they don't respond;
they turn their backs and leave me choking
upon the dust that gathers in its wake;

upon the platform raised to watch me fall,
in
three
two
. . .

can't you see it's me?
i'll be your shadow,
if only you'd turn around.
i'll be the one to follow you through the darkness;
the unknown doesn't faze me
by your side.

your hand in mine, boy.
your hand in mine.

it's your turn to make a move,
to make the moment last;
this noose isn't getting any looser.

your eyes meeting mine, boy.
your eyes meeting mine.

another wave and you could disappear.
another stroke and i'll be on my knees.
and what if i surrender?

my white flag's for you.

All That You Can't Leave Behind

I've noticed an apparent theme with several of my posts. An inspiration that I've had for as long as I can remember: music. More specifically, the music of U2.

If you haven't heard of U2, then you are sorely missing out. But, the odds are that you have heard of them. From Ross and Rachel's song, "With or Without You," to the Academy Award nominated "The Hands That Built America," to the inspirational song that captivated the nation, "One." Chances are you have heard at least one of their amazing ballads and just didn't know it.

When U2 first started, it was not like most bands. Rather than typical 'rock star' songs about sex, drugs, or money, they wrote powerful and inspirational lyrics about serious issues. Now, over 20 years later, their music has only evolved into something greater.

They have experimented with different sounds, which have resulted in certain songs that have achieved a perfect harmony of music and lyrics. For me, it is the music I have known my entire life. And as I got older, I only learned how to appreciate their music even more. Even now, I find myself rediscovering songs that I never used to appreciate. I can look back at their older albums, and find a song that I can relate to now.

The most powerful thing about their music is that it never dies. I could listen to the latest top 20 track, have fun dancing to it for a little while, but after some time it becomes so over-played that I vow not to listen to it again. I become easily bored with today's music, but my love for U2 will never die.

It's hard to put into words why you love something. All I know is that the love is there. I love their music, and the message behind their words. I love their range and versatility and all that they have accomplished. I love the music, and how it compliments the lyrics. Their songs are beautiful, haunting, inspirational and meaningful. But I cannot just make a list to prove why I love U2. It does not do it justice. I simply love the very essence of their music and the band itself. I encourage you to listen to their music. I guarantee you will find at least one song to love.


I have.

Time and time again.

Who's To Say Where the Wind Will Take You?

I decided to base another post off of a random lyric from a song. And of course it's U2:


I'm a man, I'm not a child" - U2 "Kite"

* * *

It's okay to let go of my hand now,
I've made it across the road.
You don't have to worry;
Anymore.

I promise I will be fine;
For I have forged my own path;
and if I stray off the beaten trail,
I know I'll always find my way.
Back to you.

Back to all you have taught me,
to all your understanding
and acceptance.
But if I don't come home
-at least for a while-
please do not fret.

It is not that I no longer need you,
or that your guidance goes unnoticed.
I just no longer need
your hand clamped onto mine.
What I need now is your trust;
That the mistakes I make,
are not yours to fix.

Because from these mistakes,
I will learn!
Just trust in my judgement.
And someday I will return;
when I cannot replace your advice;
when your guidance becomes a memory;
I will return.
And then may you
hold
my
hand.

* * *

I hope as a group of teenagers venturing off into the unknown next year, that you will be able to relate to this poem. It is written in the perspective of someone that has a doting parent that is afraid to let their child leave home.

Any criticisms you have about flow, tone etc. would be appreciated. And do you think I should create a rhyme scheme? Let me know! :)

worth of the written word

Even during my elementary school years, my parents mused that I would make a good journalist - that the written form of communicating with and to the world would give me a challenge that I would enjoy taking on. It became a topic worthy of dinner-table conversation.

I listened. nodded. I didn't think much of it, to be honest.

But the idea had been planted in the back of my mind. As I moved onto high school, I used the idea of journalism as a safety net; if I wasn't sure what I wanted to do in the not-so-distant future, I could satisfy people with a simple, single-word answer.

Which, of course, is expected of today's confused teenagers.

What I didn't expect was to fall under the spell of the writer's majestic captivity and the state of the global community all at once. I saw myself wandering unfamiliar streets - notebook, pen, and recorder in hand. I began to see my name in print, below the headline I had chosen to represent my work. I suddenly had the quixotic need to experience the world and take on an active role in helping communities move forward.

The thrills, knowledge and satisfaction would be enough for me to make it in the world of media. It would outweigh the risks of travelling overseas, of possibly becoming a political or social target as is often displayed in cinematic features desgined to shock and entertain.

I didn't fully understand the ugly, reckless truths of my decision until it was staring at me through the words of a fellow journalist himself. I came across the story, in my final year in high school, of a reporter who had been taken hostage by the Taliban while pursuing a story in war-ravaged Afghanistan.

David Rhode was a husband, father and reporter for the New York Times, a position which sacrificed 7 months and 10 days of Rhode's life at the hands of Taliban commander Mullah Atiqullah. Upon his return, Rhode began documenting his experiences in a Times exclusive, confessing:

"I thought of my wife and family and was overcome with shame. An interview that seemed crucial hours earlier now seemed absurd and reckless. I had risked the lives of Tahir and Asad — as well as my own life. We reached a dry riverbed and the car stopped. “They’re going to kill us,” Tahir whispered. “They’re going to kill us.”

An interview that seemed crucial hours earlier now seemed absurd and reckless.

Coming across this genuine confession, I admit, has made me afraid. My simultaneous love for possibly dangerous controversy and the written word has brought me to a stand-still. Is my righteous political involvement and challenge a mere selfish, foolish and treacherous dream?

the words are reverberating;

aburd.
reckless.





**

this is a true and personal conflict that i have described above. just to let you know.
this is the article, a series called "Held By Taliban" in the New York Times. i strongly recommend you check it out. You won't forget this well-written, haunting story.
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/18/world/asia/18hostage.html?_r=1&hp

Bad things happen to bad people too.

"Heaven hath no rage

like love to hatred turned,

Nor hell a fury
Like a woman scorned"

Love isn't blind;
Unlike anger set free.

I lash out with closed eyes

at what I once treasured;
Ruining for others

What I no longer see.

Love isn't blind
like malevolency.

A deep rooted desire
For reciprocation;
All you have coming

You first gave to me

You should've known better;

You created a monster.
Love isn't blind

But my revenge
will be.

**********

This was just written specifically for this blog post so I had something to blog about, but I kind of like it.
The 'love is blind' lines kind of break the flow... and at first that was what I was intending but I'm not sure if I like the effect...
Any comments, criticisms or tips would be useful!

Just tell me what you think!

Week 5 posts

Some great posts this week! Can we try to include some feedback that isn't just poitive? I think that some more constructive criticism would benefit all of us...we can't all be perfect you know!

The Dying Dead have not Died

What’s dead, has died; no longer alive,
Immortally; a myth, does not exist,
If this is real, then what I feel is fake,
Ignore, I must, what I feel while ‘wake.

For what has died, is dead, no longer living;
The reborn are illusions of the delusional.
My dreams must have spilt into my reality,
As my heart soars towards nothing.

What’s gone has died, and is dead,
My emotions are zombies, roaming
This plain; a baron land they wander,
Lost in confusion, lead by wonder.

In death, something dies, and ceases to exist,
This must hold true, for whom I miss;
No longer in my arms, no longer I can kiss;
I pray and pray, but my arms remain empty.

They say the dead are at peace,
But why they must rest on my heart?
Haunted by memories, that roll down my cheek.
Taunted by voices; the lonely are weak.

I wish to rest, to be at ease;
But I don’t believe; The dead die,
And are no longer alive,
My heart still beats, and I wonder why.

Passion died along with love,
Yet I swear I’ve seen them ‘round,
I feel them in my hands, and my heart,
Although we’re worlds apart;

I wish to rest, to be at ease;
But I all I need is to believe,
That the air is thick with her,
And my arms are no longer empty

What’s dead has died, no longer alive,
But I’ll argue that is a lie.


----------------------------------


Is this a good poem? Should I use better punctuation? Did I have any spelling mistakes or grammar that doesn't seem fitting? What was your overall impression?

Dear Abbey

Hey guys, so I was pulling my hair out yesterday trying to find something, anything to write about this week, and i decided that i would write a dear abbey letter, and think of what advise I would give myself in this situation. I had originally no intention of actually publishing it, because it was just a writing exercise to get my mind thinking about writing, but I ended up really like it. It is quite rough, I did change somethings, but most of it is still a free writing exercise.
I hope you enjoy it.

Dear Abbey:
What the fuck am I going to do? My deadline is tomorrow and i have absolutely no inspiration. How can I write an article, when I have no fucking clue what to write about. My editor is expecting freaking Shakespeare, and I have diddle squat.
It' all that stupid Sarah's fault, if she hadn't distracted me, then I would have been able to concentrate, and get this stupid article done and over with days ago.
Oh god what the fuck am I going to do, I'm going to lose my job, my career, there are a million kids fresh out of university just waiting for an old timer like me to slip up, so they can sweep in and steal my job. Its New York they don't fucking care.
Oh god, if I don't finish this, my whole life is screwed, the government is going to take away my kids cause i won't be able to provide for them, oh god Abbey, what do I do?

Abbey, how can i find inspiration quickly to avoid ruining the rest of my life, and losing my kids?

sincerely:
Without a clue.

Dear With out a clue:
First thing you do, is relax, your going to have a heart attack if you keep caring on like this.
Second thing, does your article have a focus, or general area that you stick to? If so then take a walk thought the streets of New York, there is one of everything there, and I'm positive that they have a section of the city that is closely related to your articles focus. If your article is about literature, take a stroll thought the streets of Greenwich village, listen to the poetry being read in the little cafes, it will come to you. The city is alive, you can find inspiration anywhere you look, you just have to think about it.

Sincerely:
Abbey

I would love to hear your feed back, maybe how you get inspiration, or whats its like fore you when you just have no ideas anymore.