P.S.A: An Ever Dwindling Species

Peace and Tranquility are timid beasts. Though many think them to be illusions, mere mythological serendipity, they do exist, though their numbers are fewer than from times past, they can be found, and in unexpected places.

The fortunate news, despite their dwindling population, these beasts are evolving and adapting to this runaway age.

Where once you could find them on the whisper of the wind traveling through every tree that once lined the dirt beaten track, or in the ripple of water playing over stones in a small backyard brook, you can now find them on the rooftops of a moonlit New York city roof, quietly defying the traffic below which will usually threaten the two species with it's angry horns and screeching tires.

Unfortunately, the slaying of these majestic creatures is a favorite past time of man and an incredibly easy activity, one that is said to relieve stress and is considered entertainment to a wild spectrum of people. While a bird's song will easily draw either Peace or Tranquility from their own dwelling places, a harshly spoken word, or the banging of a door can just as easily slay these kind, timid beasts. In fact, children are the most notorious slayers of these great beasts, and this fact is made all the more tragic by the ignorant and careless way children kill them.

I advocate for the protection of these fragile creatures, not only for their own sake, but for the sake of man-kind as well. If you, dear friend, are ever in the position to visit one of these rare creatures, or perhaps, if, on a rare occasion, they ever visit you themselves, I strongly suggest you savour the beauty and absolute magic of these beasts. Care for them with the tender love you would usually reserve for a child.

And finally, dear bloggers, if you can find it within yourself to do so, foster these grand animals, offer them a small portion of your home. Part of the magic Peace and Tranquility offer is their ability to adjust their size to better suit their host.

I beg you to take to heart my words,
Thank you

Bits n' Pieces

Once more have I neglected you, dear bloggers, and once more have the phantoms of ideas and thoughts been tugging at my conscience only to flee at the sight of the keyboard.
Shy things, my thoughts.

Those I do remember, and I feel necessitate recording, make no sense. Just particles of once greater thoughts and fantasies.
Lucky you, to stumble across this particular blog entry; I invite you to enjoy my fragmented thoughts and to finish them at your leisure.


"She stared out of the frosted window and let her imagination loose upon the mist and forest, watching as the creative shadow of her mind stretched gossamer wings forth to brush the gray, twisted bramble, causing a metamorphosis from wooden elements to the deadly elements of a human assassin, forbidding in stature and cloaked in gray.
Face hooded, this man of the night wandered, his only companion, and only means of providing for himself and his loved ones, was the hard dagger at his hip; this dagger glinted maliciously in the thin moonlight, quite aware, despite its inanimate state, of the power it held over its master. This dagger was, needless to say, a very poor companion for the lonely man who strode through the forest.
The assassin, Death's own apprentice, possessed arms that could, and for the correct price would, wrap their vice-like grip around the fragile shells of many an embodied spirit, effectively extinguishing the lives of those unfortunate few. Yet...the girl could tell that these arms were more inclined to wrap around his hungry children waiting for him back across the sea.
Granting the man his wish, she watched as the mist swiftly dissolved into the foaming sea and as a the shadows became the dark, angry ocean. The wind blew and carressed the poor man's face, and she watched this assassin, this husband, this father, lift his head, thoughts momentarily diverted from the grisly tasks awaiting him back across the sea.
She watched expectantly for the warming reunion sure to come as children greeted father and wife, husband. Light and darkness played across her frosty window into this imaginative world, however, causing the creative shadow to withdraw its wing, and throw the assassin's story onto the back of a cool winter wind, scattering the story across the countryside and into the dreams of farmers and their own hungry famalies.
She tilted her head up to greet he who had interrupted her musings, long hair shifting over wool covered shoulders and..."


So how about, on a totally different note, dear readers, instead of saying passed with flying colors we say succeeded with gravity-defying prisms of resplendent light ?

I have other thoughts that would compliment these that I have typed out, but I think it time to retire for the night.
I bid you good night and sweet dreams.

Mrs.Cutt-throat

Hello fellow bloggers, I'm writing this as another assignment for my English class, another type of persona essay, and my audience for this paper is you, so I decided to best get into my persona, I should write this out on Blogger. I'm to write a 3-4 page essay on a common human trait and give a personal anecdote on how I came to this conclusion. Unfortuantely my computer is acting up....

FACT (as decided by me) people are afraid, and therefore shy away from, the unknown.

How I came up with this conclusion: in the sixth grade, after watching a vampire movie, I was afraid to go to sleep. I analyzed why and found that, with the lights off, I couldn't see what was coming, it didn't take a large jump of intuition to see the symbolism in that. So, I came up with a little example of my own:a light in a dark room, if you were in a dark room you would be drawn to that light rather than stand in the dark. There's also the proverbial "Light at the end of the tunnel" using light to symbolize knowledge-heaven-and everyone is drawn to that light.

Our planet is in the dark-the universe-the unknown.

So I begin:

The imagination of a child is a powerful tool, one to be used with caution and care lest even more powerful ideas be wrought and therefore released into the world. I, myself, dear blogger, am guilty of possessing an imagination of such debilitating capabilities, and the suppositions that I have wrought due to this overactive tool began in the sixth grade in responce to the unfortunate mixture of a late night vampire movie and said imagination. I give testament now, my dear fellows, to the might of imagination on the young and budding mind of a searching pre-teen. After watching this horror film containing blood sucking fiends and night horrors

DONE:

The imagination of a child is a powerful tool, one to be used with caution and care lest even more powerful ideas be wrought and therefore released into the world. I myself, dear blogger, am guilty of possessing an imagination of such debilitating capabilities, and the suppositions that I have wrought due to this overactive tool began in the sixth grade in response to the unfortunate mixture of a late night vampire movie and said imagination. I give testament now, my dear fellows, to the might of imagination on a young and developing mind.

As previously stated, my first glimmers of real thought, startling in their swift yet infantile intensity, was the product of a late night horror flick. The contents of this movie are mere shadows in my memory and something I deem irrelevant to our conversation; they served their purpose by breaking through that gossamer curtain of juvenile thought and introducing me to a realm of possibility, of unchartered concepts, and of pristine ideas, as yet uncluttered by prejudice and progress and still the pure, innocent, yet shapeless, visions of the young. The sleep deprivation I experienced in lieu of this phantasmal film produced in me the urge to examine the irrational trepidation against the murky shadows and sinister darkness the night cast. In this analysis of the anonymous cause of fright, I considered, why the dark? Not for the first time did the increasingly redundant realization that, if anything were to happen, it would matter not if the clown lamp next to my bed was shining cheerily or currently hibernating; so why the dark?

Suddenly it struck me, and the idea seems so ingenuous now, that people fear that which they can’t see, they fear the ideas their minds can’t grasp, they fear the unexplainable, and darkness represents all of these things because you can’t see in the dark. Fortunately, it doesn’t take a vast leap of intuition to perceive the symbolism between dark and knowledge (or moreover the lack of knowledge), otherwise dear bloggers, I might not have an entry for you today, I might, instead, be salivating upon some picture of a teen-magazine hunk, or allowing my brain to decompose by watching reality television.

Once this connection became established in my mind, once I comprehended the accomplishment I made and the mental freedom I had achieved, I knew that I must cultivate and expand that freedom; therefore, I further advanced my idea, developing it into that which you are about to read.

Let us begin my avid readers and dear friends, with a universal definitive. The majority of people will recognize the proverbial, yet cliché, “light at the end of the dark tunnel”- an often used expression to describe the transition from life to death; from the mysteries of life into the glorious and sage afterlife. Like a moth drawn to a flame, so too are people drawn to this light and the understanding it promises. Why live in the uncertain when you can achieve ultimate understanding? Comprehension of the previously indefinite is what’s enticing about this light- the knowledge it offers is the magnetic force that tugs at its ignorant counterpart: human nature- and that is the reason people yearn for this comprehension. This is an ultimate truth about humans: because of our own inherent desire for moral reprieve, we refuse to live through life with the shady menace of ambiguity when we can illuminate our environment with the radiance of an insight tailored to fit our own comfort.

This lust for substantiating knowledge, a knowledge that agrees with our ethics, is an unconscious sin everyone suffers from, myself included; knowing all and fearing nothing because we know we’re right and, therefore, there is obviously nothing that would dare threaten us. Five and a half years ago, sitting in my dim room, I felt anxious about turning off my lamp because to do so would be to blind myself to the rather improbable vampire attack that was sure to come. Likewise, people refuse to acknowledge the dark and metaphysical around them, instead reveling in the serenity imparted by focusing on the “exquisite” truths provided by the tangible and by our “undeniable” science. The shunning of the uncomfortable, but necessary, potential prospects for future generations stunt the human population’s growth, just like not sleeping for fear of night spooks released by the dark unknown will stunt a child’s growth.

For centuries people have scorned the physically different, mocked the eccentric ideas of unrecognizable geniuses, and prosecuted those who threatened the longevity of their precious understanding with radical and confusing proposals. The human race’s grip on their comforting “knowledge” tightens with each turning century as the once heretical ideas of past times become increasingly possible, if not apparent. The feasibility that people might be born gay, that killing unborn children is publicly acceptable, that we are running out of nonrenewable energy supplies, even that people actually want to cut their hair in such extreme styles, menaces the set and “undeniable” knowledge that humans have always required. And, as I’m sure you’ve took note of dear bloggers, it is already becoming a matter of public concern that our planet floats nestled by galactic darkness, illuminated only by the resplendent, yet seemingly insufficient, star we’ve christened our sun. And so I ask of you dear bloggers, despite the promises of many a misguided politician, who will lead us out of this darkness; the darkness of human prejudice and obstinacy, and do we even want to be lead out?

Moving On

(I Don't Claim Artist Status)

Please note the wording of my next sentence:

My grandmother passed on yesterday.

I say passed on and not died because of the simple reason that the word "death" is much too final for the transition my grandmother's soul just made.

To die would be to cease existing, and my grandmother has not done that. She has simply left her frail and earthly physical form and took on a perfect and glorified body in heaven.

I'm happy for her, and didn't cry for her when she passed.

Although... I am terribly sorry for my grandfather; please, allow me to evoke tears by describing his "good-byes".

I mentioned in my last blog that my grandfather's faith was weak at best. Well..Mom-Mom's (my grandmother's) death certainly brought religion to my grandfather, he called the priest of our parish down to pray over my dying grandmother. He called himself weak and a sinner, said he should have done more. He told her that he would see her tomorrow in heaven and has since wished death down upon himself countless times since her passing. He's convinced that he'll be going to hell and that he'll never see her again.

And I...

I cried for him...

I cried for him as he pleaded with her to open her eyes. I cried for him when his knees buckled as he signed the sheet releasing her from her state of artificial living. And I cried whenever he looked at her the first time he walked into the room and gave a gasp and a moan at her shocking state.

I cried for her children.

I cried for my father who cried only momentarily on his older sister's shoulder because he lost his mother (only momentarily though, for he had to be strong for his own father). I cried when my big strong uncle laid his head on his wife's lap as if he was six years old again and had just woken from a nightmare...only...this nightmare was for real. I cried for my mother who was rife with guilt over her avoidance of my grandmother, convinced that my grandmother was always judging her.

Live as if your loved ones were dying tomorrow...remember?

I guess I wont be playing the piano for her any longer.

Depressing?

Well then, let us talk of poetic tragedy, shall we?

It was an on-going joke between me and Mom-Mom that whenever she hugged me my hair was always wet because I was just getting out of swim practice or just finished taking a shower. The last time I hugged her my hair was wet because I'd finished marching a color-guard for the parade while it was raining. When I watched her die, for I was in the room when they removed the oxygen tube, and I was there while her heartbeat slowed and stopped, my hair was also wet because I'd had an early morning swim practice and my hair had yet to dry.

My brother...well he arrived home that afternoon boasting a "Get Well" card he'd written for Mom-Mom at school that day.

And the good that came from this? What was God's intention?

Well...who can say what God's intention is, but...

My grandfather's faith is now firmly established; he'll be damned if he doesn't get into heaven to see my grandmother again.

My uncles, aunts and parents have never seemed closer.

I've been running and biking and exercising like crazy to work myself through any residual grief.

But who can really say why things happen? I can't even get my dogs to stay when I tell them to, I'm certainly in no position to try and guess at God's inner thoughts and actions.

Things Always Sound So Much Better in My Sleep

So....
My grandmother is in the intensive care unit of a local hospital.

I don't know what to think...although (and I know this doesn't make much sense) she's made me think...about a lot actually.

I don't feel anything about the situation, I haven't been worried...at least not for her, for my grandfather yes, but I'll explain that later (if I remember to).



So bear with me as I try to sort through these thoughts;



She's always been the healthy one b/w my paternal grandparents so when she was originally put in the hospital I dismissed it as being minor, unfortunately her condition has quickly deteriorated. I saw her a few days ago (for the last time?)---she called me pretty, claimed to have once been as pretty as I am, I wanted to tell er that she is pretty and that I thought her hands were beautiful.



She says she's proud of me.



I thought...if I was to never see her again, I think I would be most upset at the fact that I've always avoided playing the piano around her (she makes me nervous) even though I know she loves to listen to me play, ha, I once played her to sleep.



I've yet to be sad, although I have experienced bouts of guilt and have suffered the grief of that guilt.



Her sickness has taught me that the saying "Live like each day is you last" is absolute bump. I personally will grieve very little if my life means nothing to myself, because I know that that is my fault, and I can live with that. However, I now think that it is incredibly important to live each day as if it is your loved one's last day.



Does that make sense to you?



I can live with disappointing myself, but to let down someone I love, especially if it could be their last day on earth, is quite...unbearable.



I've also learned that your perspective of reality changes as you age, and I don't mean dementia or any other debilitating outgrowth of time.



For example, I find that beauty, as you age, changes from "the aesthetically pleasing" to "youth and vitality" and that strength is no longer so much a physical attribute as it is the ability to control your movements and possessing absolute belief in that ability - that is strength!

Now to make a reference back to my grandfather, I'm not going to call him atheist, but, his belief in God is not without major cracks and dents. He is the picture of cynical old men, and I love him for that, but I worry for his soul. He, as you obviously already suspect, blames God for the misfortunes that have befallen Mom-Mom (My grandmother), and he is particularly upset that this illness chose such a blissful time in my grandparents' lives to take effect.

My grandfather had just begun to take Conformation classes at our Episcopal church, now however....

I can't help but wonder if this illness is a test of God's toward my grandfather's budding faith. If so...I'm somewhat worried for my grandfather. I don't know what to think...

Heaven is a good place to go, or so I've heard, and so I believe, but to convince my grandfather of that will be more than a little difficult.

As a younger child I stumbled upon the most reassuring of quotes and I always connect it to death (although that's not difficult since it is about death)

"Why is it we rejoice at births and mourn at funerals? Is it because we are not the person involved?"

Yet Another Speech....

So, I was recently given an assignment in which I was to write a persona speech. I rather like it, although there are a few sentences that I'm uncomfortable with. See if you can detect the irony:


I've been told that my name is inconsequential, therefore, let us forgo the dubious pleasure of introductions. Besides, to give you a name would be to give me a face, and I have learned that it is better to hide my face. Instead, call me Every Child, for Every Child who lacks the common man's faith, or, for Every Child who must hide in his or her own home. Or, if you prefer, call me Nothing At All, for I am used to that as well.

I don't mean to complain, I've been taught better than that. I'm lucky really, to have parents that actually take the time to instruct me in right and wrong. And their instructions are poignant ones; the words issuing from their mouths reminding me of the sea's angry waves crashing down upon me, submerging me in emotional and physical bruises.

I've learned much from my parents. Like what love is and how God will treat disobediant children. I've learned proper manners, for example: "Children are to be neither seen nor heard." Most of all, I've been instructed in how to keep secrets. Indeed, I'm rather proud of how quickly I learned that lesson; what happens in our home, stays in our home.

It's not like anyone would listen to, or even care about, a troubled kid like me. My own mother scorns my existence. Poor Mama must often berate me for my fanciful tales of unjust instruction. That is why when teachers inquire after my collection of multi-colored bruises, I cleverly lie about them so as to both escape more of my parent's special brand of instruction and to spare my parents the trouble of having to instruct me.

And, as I said before, I have no real reason to complain. This is just the way the world works after all.....isn't it? Although, if there was one thing I could change, it would be my dad's eyes.Yes, he who instructs me the fiercest also possess the fiercest of eyes.I avoid Daddy's eyes whenever possible, for to do otherwise is dangerous. Doing so is what brings forth the bruises that mottle my skin and the dents that decorate my faith. But what really scares me about Daddy's eyes is that I'm afraid, one day, I will look into those frightful eyes and see them, not from Daddy's angry face, but instead glaring back from my own.

Dramatic Much?!

So, I was recently called over-dramatic by my mother.
You see, I wrote a speech for an EAA meeting I was to attend (they sent me through a week of flight camp) and I was to explain my experiences there to the group of EAA members.

Here's what I wrote:


Greetings, my name is ____________. I am the current Cadet Command Master Chief of the ______ NJROTC.
My week at ________________ was a grand experience that presented me with pleasant memories that will surely last for the rest of my life. My thoughts approaching this week were ones of skepticism. I had heard that, by the end of this one week, we would be intellectually equipped to fly an airplane. One week! You can see where I became skeptical. But the one week came and passed quickly, the days filled with flight charts and aeronautical terminology. We learned of altimeters and vertical horizons, of vertical speed indicators and of barometers. We learned of weather patterns, safety, and of designated flight areas. I could maintain this reiteration of all that I learned there for weeks on end!
I’ve wanted to fly since I was a little girl, first gazing into the vast expanse of the sky. In fact, I’m sure that if you were to pry open the mind of any youth, you would find that same, burning passion to fly. We took two flights total. The second, I was privileged enough to chart the course and actually fly from ___________ to _________. The first time I flew was a night flight during the middle of the week. I was excited; for it was my first time, ever, up in the air!
Describing my flights, in fact describing any flight, is the action of trying to take the most magnificent ideas, the most passionate feelings, and the most dazzling scenes, and trying to condense such stirring and beautiful things into relatable terms. It is impossible to describe flight, even when using the most eloquent of terms and the most moving of images. There is nothing to compare it to. At the beginning of time, we thought flight impossible, and therefore, made no word that could ever encompass the magnificence of it. And I believe that it would be impossible to really try anyways. Flying, unfettered and free of all Earthly bonds creates a feeling that compromises you both physically and spiritually.
Flying has haunted human beings since prior to the tale of Icarus. The great writers and philosophers of all time lived through a time in which flight was impossible, nothing more than a vague and unvoiced dream. But had they lived now, had they ever flown, they would surely have voiced that the air up there is the delicious filament that angels enjoy eternally; that the sky is the uncharted wilderness of creation; that the sky truly is the wine of the gods.
And so I’d like to thank you sincerely. The memories that you have provided me with are possibly the most exquisite and eternally beautiful I’ll ever come to keep. I am in your debt forevermore.

Sound familiar? I know, I was drawing blanks so I used some of my previous article to help inspire me.
I must say though, I'm quite proud of how it turned out.
Dramatic...?....maybe....
And the EAA members absolutly loved it.

I Suppose....

I suppose that I sat down tonight to try and write something profound.....I seem to like trying to do that.

Indeed, it seems that that may be my purpose in life, to give ridiculous opinions for the embarrassment of myself and the amusement of others.

I know what you're thinking "You're cutting yourself short, your horrible spelling also amuses us!"

Well thank you for your comforting reassurences, but I am pleased to announce that I think I finally feel above my philosophical urges.

Today I was thinking of how, after I pass on, I would like my body to be disposed of. I've always been rather fond of the thought of cremation, and I was contemplating the purity that fire brings with it, when a thought occured to me.

(Well....it actually occured to me while I was berating myself for being foolish again, I do that quite often...but I really do enjoy the idea that fire brings purity...but I digress)

It occured to me that philosophy is the action of a person taking the most magnificent ideas, the most passionate feelings, and the most heart-wrenching scenes, and trying to condense such stirring, beautiful things into relatable terms.

And then it struck me, Who can do that?!

Truly, no mere mortal could come close to the ablsolute and consuming feelings that come from being in love, or the unrelenting loss and physical pain of losing something irreplaceably dear to you. Certainly, there is no botanical wonder that could come close to said passion. Nor any natural marvel that could represent these absolute and all-consuming emotions.

How could one even consider, how could anyone be so audacious, as to even try to condense those feelings with some natural metaphor?!

The search for wisdom, that lust for knowledge, that's how!

I am guilty of that lust, that greed, but as I realized the absolute futileness of attempting said affronts, I realized that philosophy is false. There is no accomplishing that which I described by any other save GOD.

Why try?

Comfort I suppose...the utter completeness of feeling is intimidating to say the least. Why not break i down into managable metaphors....it's rather similar to what we've done to time.

Anyways, as you probably guessed, I wont be getting off my high horse any time soon. Just because I recognize my rantings as being in vain, and despite my obvious unpolished ideas, I like to rant.
Comfort and all that. *winks*

Random Thought

The saying, "You are what you eat" is now outdated.

It is now officially, "You are how you dress."

*rolls eyes.

You know, when I look back at this quote, I sound like a whiney teenager who has just been dissed by some popular kid and is venting her anger out upon her blog. Quite frankly, it makes me sound like a total nerd.
Let me elaborate upon it, please read if you have nothing better to do, I'm writing because I don't.
Let me be the first to admit that I am vain. I do indeed suffer from that particular sin, maybe not to such a ridiculous degree as some people, I'm not in love with myself, I love myself, but am not in love with myself. I like my body, I like looking acceptable, I'm not a fanatic about clothing nor do I stress out over eating a bit too much dessert. To tell the truth, I enjoy eating, but I am a fanatic over being physically fit. I would never want to be weak or fat (no offence to those who live under those catagories, I have nothing against you, you don't disgust me in any way, but that's just not for me). Let me reiterate that I am both vain and not a fanatic over clothing. There's nothing wrong with wearing comfortable clothing once or twice a week, but beware, how you dress instantly makes an impresion upon people. How often have you seen movies in which the nerd is taken out of his/her normal clothes, made up, and all of a sudden, (s)he's a babe? Same person, different clothes, there you are.
You Are How You Dress.
Oh, and other people's hair does bother me. I'd rather you be a fat slob than have greasy stringy hair, and I don't care who knows it. If you do, put it up in a ponytail, cut it, wash it, do something with it.
It's gross.
Sorry.
All well, goodnight!

P.S.-a quick mention of the entry below, random stories float in my mind all the time, events take place that spawn anything from long adventures to quick little pieces like the one below. I usually lack the discipline to sit down, collect my thoughts and type them out; that particular one was spawned from a beautiful night sky.

So Serene She Was Almost Transparent,

So Serene She Was Almost Transparent, Ready to let go and float away into the night. Ready to become one of those angelic tears that shine mournfully at night against the dark velvet blanket covering the heavens.
That's what he saw the first time he gazed upon her. The first time he glimpsed her pale face. That's how he remembered her, and that's what pulled him to her, to follow her, to watch her, to think of her as he had seen her then.
Calm, thoughtful, ready to let go of all Earthly ties and float into that oblivious abyss.
She was quite different, although only those who watched her when she thought she was alone would know that. Only to him, was this known.
To all others, she was like any other foolish girl, silly, flighty. Seemingly easy to get worked up into a rant about things she really knew nothing about.
He could see through it. One minute watching her as she really was, when she was alone, was enough to dispel any doubt that she was in any way childish or ignorant. Although truly, she was never alone...he was always there, watching from the shadows, smirking whenever she caught herself doing something silly, and then mocking herself for doing it. Studying her depressed silences. She was sad, she was lost, but she wasn't confused, nor was she blind to her faults and depression.
He knew she knew.
It was in her eyes.
It was in her stance.
It was even in her walk: the way she floated in a contemplating gate around the house, treading softly on her toes, head tilted in a 25* angle. Eyes distant and looking past the mundane household objects for something to occupy her ever dwindling time.
Something that would capture her heart and her mind and her body, completely and undividedly.
She wanted for something.
Something different than what most people had.
She wanted life!
That's what he saw in her eyes, the need to live.
That is what truly drew him to her, he felt her eyes mirror his own soul.
She understood what he did, that all of what most people called living was really just a shallow shadow of what people could live. People lacked real purpose, life has been devalued, no one worries that it, that life, that all that they have, or want, or need, could be snatched from their weak and mortal finger at any time, leaving them bereft of anything save hope.
She wanted to hope, but was afraid. He watched her watch others quietly, studying the faces of her family, searching for that hope in their eyes, searching for life in their eyes.
Searching for that ultimate realization that their life is incomplete and lacking purpose. That without the threat of death, which provides hope, there is no life.That without the purpose to survive, without the independence it takes to wake yourself up, there's no hope for anyone.

He once heard her utter, "Maybe they are wiser than me, to not think about such things, to not wonder what is missing...............They certainly seem happier than me."

Tsk Tsk little pixie he thought you know that's not true, you know that their happiness is simply an illusion.

Memory

So many thoughts have been buzzing around in my head lately, but as soon as I sit down to type them out, they all dissapear....
Bother.....
Let us see........something profound I think, if only my thoughts hadn't fled me.....

Well, aren't I just a silly little girl?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Well....It's bee 5 days since I sent this post to drafts I'm still not quite sure what I'll do with it....

I was thinking earlier tonight ( I know, me thinking, shocking isn't it?), anywho, I was thinking earlier tonight, wait, let me start from the beginning (Sorry, I'm rambling, and this is turning into a huge run-on sentnce right? )
O-K...So my grandparents are over right? Yes, they are; and I had just finished playing the piano for them and was looking at my grandfather. Then, I realized, I really didn't know what he looked like, and I studied his features, and they were..foriegn...for lack of a better word. He has always been more of a presence. He didn't seem any different than usual, it was just . . I was thinking, 'Here's this man, he looks the same as always, to me anyways, but this physical body is just incasing an ever-aging soul. He's getting older every day, finding new limitations to his physical body. He's having to face the thought of death. He doesn't seem to be any different then ever before, but, I've been alive for 16 years, he's getting old.' And as I gazed at him I realized I really didn't know his face that well, and then a depressing thought, occured: When he dies, as all of us will do eventually, I won't remember his face. I'll remember he was a big man, and I'll remember the way he made me feel, I'll remember the way his presence felt, but I won't remember his face, he'll turn into nothing more than a warm memory I'll have of a long ago past. I studied his face for a long time after those thoughts passed through my mind. He still doesn't seem all that different to me now, than he did when I was younger, though. I don't want to forget his face, his kind blue eyes, the way his hair curves (and he has a good head of hair, all of it his), his well perserved skin (barely any wrinkles on that man). *sigh*
I know you might be thinking, 'How on Earth could you forget your grandfather's face?!'
You have to understand, I don't remember things. I remember smells and feelings how bright the lighting is, or the mood of the room, but I dismiss,or I guess you could say take for granted, the things I see, so I don't remember them.
An Example If You Need One:

A few days after we moved into our new house last winter, I had all but forgotten our old house. Oh sure, if you brought up a certain memory I could recall it, but if I try to find one myself it eludes me. I moved from one house to another.

Simple as that.

I had always thought myself just well adjusted, accepting of change easily (something that used to be difficult for me, but a "talent" I fought with my subconsious for over the years). I never really think about the past, nor do I like to think about the future (something that is driving my parents crazy by the way). I always preferred living in the 'now' .
But tonight, thinking about it....thinking about my grandfather...
I don't know....

Will I..Or moreover: Should I fight for such things back?

Could I?

Is it really that important?

Is it a weakness to have such troubled memories floating around in my head, a streangth?

I guess balance is the answer to that question (quite frankly I think balance is the answer to all of life's problems.)

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Mememories are films about ghosts.

Not sure where I heard that from, but really...
How true is it?

High Horse

Hehe, looking back on my other blogs, I'm a bit embarrassed. I havent been able to quite express my ideas the way I've wanted to, and everything comes out all muddled and preachy.
Plus, my spelling is quite atrocious.
Yes, its quite embarrasing.