So I'm bored at work. And I found a way to browse "in private". Which I hope means the boss doesn't have to know. Hehe.
Just because I'm not able to write an entire novel doesn't mean I can't treat y'all to some shorts. Well-- a short. Enjoy:
In those days, we couldn't imagine anything but pain. It was inconcievable to have a child born to our world that would not starve and know suffering. The ancient texts told tale of a once-yellow sun and bright skies, but most were believed to be fables by now. The one thing we still believed in, amazingly, were stories of the Great One; it was our one hope. We had waited for generations for the Great One to return, defeat the evil that kept us bound in darkness, and restore our world to prosperity.
But after years of waiting, I stopped believing. I could see only darkness, only hopelessness. As I looked into the eyes of my baby sister for the first time, so innocent and so pure, I felt nothing but anger. How could something so frail be destined to live the life in store for her? It was a miracle she had survived her first night. The same could not be said for our mother. It was a difficult pregnancy and a grim birth. Still as I held that newborn baby girl in my arms, I knew something needed to change. If the Great One would not return, I vowed to make things better myself.
Eleven years later, nothing had changed. We still lived in squalor, fighting for each breath. The evil that had held us in such a state had not weakened, but redoubled its effort. Many of us were tired of fighting. Too many failed rebellions led some to join the other side. We were not only fighting for our lives, but now we faced an all too familiar enemy: Each other. Though I tried my best to shield her, my sister witnessed horrors unlike any others I had experienced at her age.
She remained innocent. Or as innocent as a child living in our world could be. Her smile had dimmed, but she still believed in the Great One. Her faith was inspirational, though not enough to sway my beliefs.
And then, the towers fell.
"It's a sign!" she screamed as she ran inside from the fury on the streets. I had been repairing the outer wall of our home. She repeated the statement several more times before finding me outside, up to my elbows in the mud-paste I had fashioned for the repair. "Did you hear? The towers have fallen!! They've fallen, Haidren. It's happening, it's finally happening!" She threw her arms arms me, holding me tightly. In eleven years, I had not seen a smile as bright as that one. She looked up at me, her eyes searching for one glimmer of hope in mine. But there was only darkness.
Instead of rejoicing, I questioned her. "What are you talking about?"
Our father followed shortly behind her. In his hands he cradled a wrapped bundle. "It's true," he said as he unwrapped the bundle and revealed a scorched piece of stone. I couldn't believe my eyes. There in my father's hands was a part of the towers that had stood for so long, raining down nothing but destruction. I sank to my knees. "They said those towers were indestructable..."
"But the first sign! You remember the prophecy, Haidren."
I exchanged glances with my father. "They're only words, Rena."
"But it's happening. Right now!"
"It's true, son. People are rejoicing in the streets without fear. I've seen it for myself."
I turned back to the wall. "Those towers have stood for generations. No one's ever been able to bring them down. It's just not possible."
18.11.12
4.11.12
500 Going on Fail
So here it is, Day 4 of NaNoWriMo officially. Anyone wanna guess my word count? A staggering 511 words! w00t.
I have to admit though, I only wrote for about an hour on the 2nd...
But now I have the Jason Mraz playing and the creative juices--well, those are actually a bit stilted. I think I'm having trouble concentrating. I thought if I wrote something else first, this project would come easier. So I responded to some RPs to "flesh the crap out" as Christa would say. But as I stare at my dismal word document of a NaNo, I can't think of a single word.
Here's what I have so far (since I promised updates):
Katie sat in the waiting room of her father’s office absent-mindly flipping through an outdated magazine. Someone had ripped out the pages for a picture of a hot celebrity or for an ad. Katie continued to thumb through it as the clock ticked away. She had been there for forty-five minutes already and would probably be there for another twenty minutes before her father was ready to bring her home to her mother. Every now and then she would look up at her father’s receptionist, Miss Stephanie. Stephanie tacked away at her keyboard barely paying attention to the fifteen year old girl waiting for her father.
Perfectly manicured French tips danced across the keyboard of the receptionist’s computer. Katie watched as the little strips of white jumped like bugs on the lettered tiles. The beaded bracelet on her left arm shook with each new word. It was like an accidental symphony. There was no music in her father’s waiting room; just an awkward and heavy silence. Save for the typing.
The office was too sterile for Katie’s tastes. Her father had decorated the clinically white walls with pictures of landscapes. She didn’t know where these places were or who had painted the pictures, but they were boring. There were no people, no animals; just land. Miles and miles of land stretching from one end of the frame to the other. Apparently, her father thought this relaxed his patients before entering his office. Katie looked at the shut door on the other side of the waiting room. Her father’s name was printed in black lettering on a gold name plate: Dr. Michael Fellows, Psychologist. Katie looked at the clock again. She had been sitting for nearly an hour now. “So, how crazy is this one?”
The typing stopped and the lady gave Katie a disapproving look. “None of your father’s patients are ‘crazy’,” she mimed quotes in the air. “And even if they were, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. Doctor –patient privilege.” She turned her head back towards her computer monitor and continued typing. Katie tossed the magazine back down with the others and sighed.
She stared at a painting hanging on the opposite wall from her. The grass was dotted with wildflowers or daisies or something like that. It was a hilly pastoral scene lying under a blue sky. Katie thought the picture could have used a few houses or at least a barn. Maybe an abandoned tool shed so she’d have something to imagine about while she waited for her father. Not much came to mind staring at a field.
The phone at Miss Stephanie’s desk beeped. She picked up the receiver and said sweetly, “Yes?” There was a pause. Katie instantly recognized the sound of her father’s voice from the other end. “Yes she is, Dr. Fellows.” The receptionist looked over in Katie’s direction then back at her monitor. “A little over an hour now.” There was another pause. “Alright, I’ll tell her. You’re welcome. Goodbye.”
“He’s going to be a while, isn’t he?”
Miss Stephanie nodded.
Not too shabby huh? Yeah, well, I'm proud of it. I guess. It's a start. It's very heavily weighted with back story and character establishment. I need to turn that filter off. The one that asks 'Why is this here?' or 'What does this say about that character?' I need the voice that says Fuck that, get the word count! Yeah, where's that voice?
:~o*'Isianya'*o~:.
I have to admit though, I only wrote for about an hour on the 2nd...
But now I have the Jason Mraz playing and the creative juices--well, those are actually a bit stilted. I think I'm having trouble concentrating. I thought if I wrote something else first, this project would come easier. So I responded to some RPs to "flesh the crap out" as Christa would say. But as I stare at my dismal word document of a NaNo, I can't think of a single word.
Here's what I have so far (since I promised updates):
Katie sat in the waiting room of her father’s office absent-mindly flipping through an outdated magazine. Someone had ripped out the pages for a picture of a hot celebrity or for an ad. Katie continued to thumb through it as the clock ticked away. She had been there for forty-five minutes already and would probably be there for another twenty minutes before her father was ready to bring her home to her mother. Every now and then she would look up at her father’s receptionist, Miss Stephanie. Stephanie tacked away at her keyboard barely paying attention to the fifteen year old girl waiting for her father.
Perfectly manicured French tips danced across the keyboard of the receptionist’s computer. Katie watched as the little strips of white jumped like bugs on the lettered tiles. The beaded bracelet on her left arm shook with each new word. It was like an accidental symphony. There was no music in her father’s waiting room; just an awkward and heavy silence. Save for the typing.
The office was too sterile for Katie’s tastes. Her father had decorated the clinically white walls with pictures of landscapes. She didn’t know where these places were or who had painted the pictures, but they were boring. There were no people, no animals; just land. Miles and miles of land stretching from one end of the frame to the other. Apparently, her father thought this relaxed his patients before entering his office. Katie looked at the shut door on the other side of the waiting room. Her father’s name was printed in black lettering on a gold name plate: Dr. Michael Fellows, Psychologist. Katie looked at the clock again. She had been sitting for nearly an hour now. “So, how crazy is this one?”
The typing stopped and the lady gave Katie a disapproving look. “None of your father’s patients are ‘crazy’,” she mimed quotes in the air. “And even if they were, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. Doctor –patient privilege.” She turned her head back towards her computer monitor and continued typing. Katie tossed the magazine back down with the others and sighed.
She stared at a painting hanging on the opposite wall from her. The grass was dotted with wildflowers or daisies or something like that. It was a hilly pastoral scene lying under a blue sky. Katie thought the picture could have used a few houses or at least a barn. Maybe an abandoned tool shed so she’d have something to imagine about while she waited for her father. Not much came to mind staring at a field.
The phone at Miss Stephanie’s desk beeped. She picked up the receiver and said sweetly, “Yes?” There was a pause. Katie instantly recognized the sound of her father’s voice from the other end. “Yes she is, Dr. Fellows.” The receptionist looked over in Katie’s direction then back at her monitor. “A little over an hour now.” There was another pause. “Alright, I’ll tell her. You’re welcome. Goodbye.”
“He’s going to be a while, isn’t he?”
Miss Stephanie nodded.
Not too shabby huh? Yeah, well, I'm proud of it. I guess. It's a start. It's very heavily weighted with back story and character establishment. I need to turn that filter off. The one that asks 'Why is this here?' or 'What does this say about that character?' I need the voice that says Fuck that, get the word count! Yeah, where's that voice?
:~o*'Isianya'*o~:.
29.10.12
NaNoWriMo: Part 4!
I am still not used to this new-fangled Blogger site... Took me about 10 minutes of staring at the screen--the incredibly cluttered screen with all its buttons and menus--before I found the "new post" button. I seem to remember it being a lot easier to post in the past. "Compose" was the biggest square on the screen. Those were the good ol days.. Le sigh.
Anyway, here I am again: Writing. Which, apparently, is what I want to do with my life. It's what I went to school for. It's what I love. I like to think I'm good at it...
So on that note, here's my official blog post announcing my NaNoWriMo participation this year. Again. Yay! I know I've failed in the past. 4 times over. But this is a new year. And even though I never finish, each year my love for writing is renewed... it's my hatred of deadlines that kills me.
But I figure if I announce it here online for "the world" to see, it may help me continue and maybe actually finish this year. So feel free to comment and ask me about my progress. In fact, I'm begging you to do so.
Why should I do that? you ask. Well, my novel idea this year is spectacular! Duh.
I'll post excerpts throughout November. Probably work out some of the writing here. And of course, track my progress.
Here we go! (again)
.:~o*'Isianya'*o~:.
Anyway, here I am again: Writing. Which, apparently, is what I want to do with my life. It's what I went to school for. It's what I love. I like to think I'm good at it...
So on that note, here's my official blog post announcing my NaNoWriMo participation this year. Again. Yay! I know I've failed in the past. 4 times over. But this is a new year. And even though I never finish, each year my love for writing is renewed... it's my hatred of deadlines that kills me.
But I figure if I announce it here online for "the world" to see, it may help me continue and maybe actually finish this year. So feel free to comment and ask me about my progress. In fact, I'm begging you to do so.
Why should I do that? you ask. Well, my novel idea this year is spectacular! Duh.
I'll post excerpts throughout November. Probably work out some of the writing here. And of course, track my progress.
Here we go! (again)
.:~o*'Isianya'*o~:.
23.10.12
Your Best Move
Wow... There are so many things to go into this post. First, I feel I should mention that I had to change 4 email passwords and log into two separate Google accounts before realizing that the entire Blogger system had changed. I am not a fan. I also don't appreciate how my browser is forcing me to choose, modify, and link accounts with every new window. It's very frustrating. Hey Google, if I wanted to link accounts, I wouldn't have separate ones! Also, just because my alternate email account is another Google account, doesn't mean I want to have the password sent to that one for an email I'm not even using anymore. And since you won't let me change the account email, I guess I'm stuck in a cycle of Hotmail, Google, TigerMail, and then.. yet another Google. Okay /endrant
Secondly, once I finally do get into my Blogger account, I'm very disappointed to see that everything has changed. As I'm writing this, I find the staunch white composing screen a little off-putting. Definitely not good for late night writing. There's too many menus and toolbars condensed around the edges. I liked the old cluttered look. It made since to me. This.. Well, this will take some getting used to. Again, thank you Google.
So, here we are: My actual blog post.
I don't really have much to talk about. Only that I happened to stumble back into my friends' blogs recently which I thought were dead. But no, my friends have been writing. And writing often. Me, not so much. My friends are writing with such abandon and such honesty that I'm a little jealous. A lot jealous. I notice that I censor myself so much. Even as I'm writing this, I'm constantly backspacing, reading, re-reading, backspacing again... There's just this little voice inside of me saying "Are you sure that's what you want to say?" Is that the right word choice? The most varied sentence structure? How does it sound? Does anyone actually want to read this? More often than not, the answer is always a resounding NO.
A few years ago, I met a woman named Megan. Megan was a tutor at the middle school I was also tutoring at after school. She wasn't with my company, but her class was across the hall from mine. And our kids would ride the same bus, so we dismissed around the same time and monitored our kids after the tutoring together. It didn't take long before we discovered a bar around the corner from the school which we would go to religiously every Thursday for 1/2 half off margaritas and live music. Then one day Megan asked if I and another tutor in the same hallway wanted to go to her place for homemade wine and games. Anyone who knows me knows I don't turn down free wine. So I went.
Megan introduced me to a delicious pink wine she had made and even gave me a bottle to take home. Which my sister and I polished off in a few days. Megan and the other tutor, Freddie, were playing chess. Freddie had just made a move after much thought and consideration. But Megan stared up at him and asked, "Are you sure you want to make that move? Is that the best move you have?" Both me and Freddie looked at Megan in disbelief. Megan blushed and explained that her father was somewhat of a chess expert and taught her how to play. As a girl, Megan's dad would play with her and her brothers, encouraging them to make their best moves. He would stop the game, take back their play and tell them to try again. They would be told to make their "best" move. The most strategic one. The most clever one. Again, the best.
The point is: That story has always stuck with me. Make your best move. In chess. In life.
I have a story inside of me. A novel. A great teenage fantasy novel. (Or two) But I'm haunted by Megan's story. Is the best move I have? The best story I can write. And I don't have an answer.
My friends can write their blogs frequently and honestly. But me, I'm censored. I'm afraid. I can't make my best move. Maybe because I don't have a play to make...
Secondly, once I finally do get into my Blogger account, I'm very disappointed to see that everything has changed. As I'm writing this, I find the staunch white composing screen a little off-putting. Definitely not good for late night writing. There's too many menus and toolbars condensed around the edges. I liked the old cluttered look. It made since to me. This.. Well, this will take some getting used to. Again, thank you Google.
So, here we are: My actual blog post.
I don't really have much to talk about. Only that I happened to stumble back into my friends' blogs recently which I thought were dead. But no, my friends have been writing. And writing often. Me, not so much. My friends are writing with such abandon and such honesty that I'm a little jealous. A lot jealous. I notice that I censor myself so much. Even as I'm writing this, I'm constantly backspacing, reading, re-reading, backspacing again... There's just this little voice inside of me saying "Are you sure that's what you want to say?" Is that the right word choice? The most varied sentence structure? How does it sound? Does anyone actually want to read this? More often than not, the answer is always a resounding NO.
A few years ago, I met a woman named Megan. Megan was a tutor at the middle school I was also tutoring at after school. She wasn't with my company, but her class was across the hall from mine. And our kids would ride the same bus, so we dismissed around the same time and monitored our kids after the tutoring together. It didn't take long before we discovered a bar around the corner from the school which we would go to religiously every Thursday for 1/2 half off margaritas and live music. Then one day Megan asked if I and another tutor in the same hallway wanted to go to her place for homemade wine and games. Anyone who knows me knows I don't turn down free wine. So I went.
Megan introduced me to a delicious pink wine she had made and even gave me a bottle to take home. Which my sister and I polished off in a few days. Megan and the other tutor, Freddie, were playing chess. Freddie had just made a move after much thought and consideration. But Megan stared up at him and asked, "Are you sure you want to make that move? Is that the best move you have?" Both me and Freddie looked at Megan in disbelief. Megan blushed and explained that her father was somewhat of a chess expert and taught her how to play. As a girl, Megan's dad would play with her and her brothers, encouraging them to make their best moves. He would stop the game, take back their play and tell them to try again. They would be told to make their "best" move. The most strategic one. The most clever one. Again, the best.
The point is: That story has always stuck with me. Make your best move. In chess. In life.
I have a story inside of me. A novel. A great teenage fantasy novel. (Or two) But I'm haunted by Megan's story. Is the best move I have? The best story I can write. And I don't have an answer.
My friends can write their blogs frequently and honestly. But me, I'm censored. I'm afraid. I can't make my best move. Maybe because I don't have a play to make...
28.3.12
Hello Old Friend
Wow. Two posts in one month! There was a time when I would have considered that unacceptable. Now, I'm actually impressed with myself for taking time to write again. I've been so busy. I've been so tired. I've been.. highly unmotivated. I know that's not an excuse. I can't say I want to pursue a career in writing one day and then neglect something as easy as freewritng for myself. There's no excuse. I don't have to churn out something spectacular each time. I just have to try.
God, I hate my job so much. Really, I do. At first, I was excited about the prospect of having that big, post-graduate, 9a-5p job. But this is nothing more than a temp assignment that's driving me insane. The stress is more than I'm accustomed to dealing with. More than I think I can handle. I'm crying more, sleeping less and drinking... Well, let's just say there's only liquor and water in fridge at home. I know my health is suffering because of this job. I wake up tired, I don't sleep well at night, and I'm having more and trouble focusing throughout the day. On the drive to work, there's this billboard that reads: "1 in 3 people will die of heart disease this year." I pass that sign everyday on the way to work and think, I'll probably be one of those three. I'll probably have a heart attack at 27. Or develop some stress-related heart condition as a result of this job. And for what? I have nothing to show for it other than the amazing people I work with. But everyone is looking for another job. It's odd. I feel like I've been tricked.
On top of that, I feel like I'm failing in my personal relationships as well. I don't communicate well, if at all. I have trouble opening up. I build walls. I reinforce them. I reinforce the reinforcements. So I have all these things building inside of me with no hope of release. I drink myself into a numbness nearly every night and start over in a few hours. It's like a reset button. Although, it's not really a clean slate each morning. The problems are still there. It's more like a save button. I just clear off whatever's bothering me and store it somewhere else. It's not healthy, or so I've been told. But it's all I know. It's how I've learned to deal. There's nothing worse than being "that girl". The one who always wants to talk about fer feelings. The one who's too insecure to function.
I may be that girl, but I don't want to be known as that girl.
I need a vacation. From life.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
God, I hate my job so much. Really, I do. At first, I was excited about the prospect of having that big, post-graduate, 9a-5p job. But this is nothing more than a temp assignment that's driving me insane. The stress is more than I'm accustomed to dealing with. More than I think I can handle. I'm crying more, sleeping less and drinking... Well, let's just say there's only liquor and water in fridge at home. I know my health is suffering because of this job. I wake up tired, I don't sleep well at night, and I'm having more and trouble focusing throughout the day. On the drive to work, there's this billboard that reads: "1 in 3 people will die of heart disease this year." I pass that sign everyday on the way to work and think, I'll probably be one of those three. I'll probably have a heart attack at 27. Or develop some stress-related heart condition as a result of this job. And for what? I have nothing to show for it other than the amazing people I work with. But everyone is looking for another job. It's odd. I feel like I've been tricked.
On top of that, I feel like I'm failing in my personal relationships as well. I don't communicate well, if at all. I have trouble opening up. I build walls. I reinforce them. I reinforce the reinforcements. So I have all these things building inside of me with no hope of release. I drink myself into a numbness nearly every night and start over in a few hours. It's like a reset button. Although, it's not really a clean slate each morning. The problems are still there. It's more like a save button. I just clear off whatever's bothering me and store it somewhere else. It's not healthy, or so I've been told. But it's all I know. It's how I've learned to deal. There's nothing worse than being "that girl". The one who always wants to talk about fer feelings. The one who's too insecure to function.
I may be that girl, but I don't want to be known as that girl.
I need a vacation. From life.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
16.3.12
If These Walls Could Talk
I was cleaning off my desktop and found this picture...
Well, I say "clean", I guess I mean more so.. sort. It's still more than halfway cluttered with old files and icons. Like this picture. Anyway..
This picture may not look like much.. But it's the sum of a lifetime's work, dedication, and perseverance.. And it's the site where I've had some of my fondest memories. It's like a dream.. But looking at this picture reminds me that it's just wood, metal, plaster, and brick. What makes this picture so special--this place so special, is what it's become. How I feel when I'm there. Not the walls, but how I feel inside them.
I think captain Jack Sparrow said it best: "That's what a ship is, you know. It's not just a keel and a hull and a deck and sails, that's what a ship needs but what a ship is... what the Black Pearl really is... is freedom. "
Yeah, that's it. Freedom.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
Well, I say "clean", I guess I mean more so.. sort. It's still more than halfway cluttered with old files and icons. Like this picture. Anyway..
This picture may not look like much.. But it's the sum of a lifetime's work, dedication, and perseverance.. And it's the site where I've had some of my fondest memories. It's like a dream.. But looking at this picture reminds me that it's just wood, metal, plaster, and brick. What makes this picture so special--this place so special, is what it's become. How I feel when I'm there. Not the walls, but how I feel inside them.
I think captain Jack Sparrow said it best: "That's what a ship is, you know. It's not just a keel and a hull and a deck and sails, that's what a ship needs but what a ship is... what the Black Pearl really is... is freedom. "
Yeah, that's it. Freedom.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
5.2.12
Rest and Just Believe
I'm always amazed at the graciousness of God and His presence in my life. I see it in the things that make me indescribably happy like my godson's smile or the peace that I feel when I'm attending mass. Further more, I'm humbled by (as a great inspiration of mine would say) "moments of unscripted grace." Here's on that happened today.
Lately, I've been feeling overwhelmed by the new role that been placed in my lap: responsible adult. Neither of these two words describe me very well. Nor do I aspire to become either.. not any time soon, anyways. I'm tired more often than usual; I have no time for myself; I'm frustrated and irritated more often than not.. It's not very good.
However, something happened to me today that just made me stop, throw my hands up, and give it to God.
This weekend, my mom came for a visit. She was helping me buy new clothes for my new job. More professional wear. Which, as you might imagine, I have little to none of. Anyway, I was really excited to have my mom come for a visit. Even more so because I knew my sister and brother-in-law would be going home. So it'd be just me and her. I know it's a terrible thing to say, but I know my mom prefers the company of my sister over me. It just is what it is. So I was doubly excited learning she'd be making a trip just for me.
Well, when she got to BR she told me she wanted to get on the road pretty early the very next day. Meaning she'd stay less than 24 hours. I was a little jolted and hurt because I thought she'd try to make time for a proper visit. Time for me. But that didn't happen.
I also wanted to discuss my car situation. I thought she'd have good news for me. I thought we'd discuss things. But when I brought it up, I found her evasive and, even more upsetting, indifferent to what I'm going through. She even took my sister's side on another issue that had upset me earlier that week. But, as I said, I've been irritated a lot lately, so maybe that could explain that. Oh well. Point being: I was upset. And hurt. And feeling.. overwhelmed and ignored. Which, in a person like me, is not a very good combination.
So, on the way to mass this morning my mom and I were listening to inspirational music and a song came on that just grabbed me. The words were just what I needed to hear when I needed to hear them. I can't describe the feeling I got hearing the lyrics as they played.. powerful is about as close as I can get. I was nearly moved to tears. Coupled with the homily of mass, this song really helped me relax and prepare for the week ahead. And the responsibilities that will come in the future.
It's called "All Things Are Working" and here's some of the lyrics:
Falling apart
and tearing at the seams
Tribulation lends a hand
and squeezes all your hopes, your dream
You say you retreat,
you say you just can't win
Before you let your circumstance tell you how the story ends
Know that His word says you can stand,
He'll cover you with His grace
Everything you need is in your hand,
So lift up your head and say
All things are working for me,
even things I can't see
Your ways are so beyond me,
but You said that you would
let it be for my good,
so I'll rest and just believe
I don't know what God has planned for me in the future. And this may be far from my trial, but I have decided that I will allow Him to take the wheel and do His will. I can't let every little problem and difficulty get my down. I have to trust Him and His judgement. And in return, I know He'll provide me with everything I need. Even strength and understanding I can't see myself having or helping. I will try my best to be patient (although it's not a strongpoint for me) have faith. I'll rest and believe.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
Lately, I've been feeling overwhelmed by the new role that been placed in my lap: responsible adult. Neither of these two words describe me very well. Nor do I aspire to become either.. not any time soon, anyways. I'm tired more often than usual; I have no time for myself; I'm frustrated and irritated more often than not.. It's not very good.
However, something happened to me today that just made me stop, throw my hands up, and give it to God.
This weekend, my mom came for a visit. She was helping me buy new clothes for my new job. More professional wear. Which, as you might imagine, I have little to none of. Anyway, I was really excited to have my mom come for a visit. Even more so because I knew my sister and brother-in-law would be going home. So it'd be just me and her. I know it's a terrible thing to say, but I know my mom prefers the company of my sister over me. It just is what it is. So I was doubly excited learning she'd be making a trip just for me.
Well, when she got to BR she told me she wanted to get on the road pretty early the very next day. Meaning she'd stay less than 24 hours. I was a little jolted and hurt because I thought she'd try to make time for a proper visit. Time for me. But that didn't happen.
I also wanted to discuss my car situation. I thought she'd have good news for me. I thought we'd discuss things. But when I brought it up, I found her evasive and, even more upsetting, indifferent to what I'm going through. She even took my sister's side on another issue that had upset me earlier that week. But, as I said, I've been irritated a lot lately, so maybe that could explain that. Oh well. Point being: I was upset. And hurt. And feeling.. overwhelmed and ignored. Which, in a person like me, is not a very good combination.
So, on the way to mass this morning my mom and I were listening to inspirational music and a song came on that just grabbed me. The words were just what I needed to hear when I needed to hear them. I can't describe the feeling I got hearing the lyrics as they played.. powerful is about as close as I can get. I was nearly moved to tears. Coupled with the homily of mass, this song really helped me relax and prepare for the week ahead. And the responsibilities that will come in the future.
It's called "All Things Are Working" and here's some of the lyrics:
Falling apart
and tearing at the seams
Tribulation lends a hand
and squeezes all your hopes, your dream
You say you retreat,
you say you just can't win
Before you let your circumstance tell you how the story ends
Know that His word says you can stand,
He'll cover you with His grace
Everything you need is in your hand,
So lift up your head and say
All things are working for me,
even things I can't see
Your ways are so beyond me,
but You said that you would
let it be for my good,
so I'll rest and just believe
I don't know what God has planned for me in the future. And this may be far from my trial, but I have decided that I will allow Him to take the wheel and do His will. I can't let every little problem and difficulty get my down. I have to trust Him and His judgement. And in return, I know He'll provide me with everything I need. Even strength and understanding I can't see myself having or helping. I will try my best to be patient (although it's not a strongpoint for me) have faith. I'll rest and believe.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
2.2.12
Cubicals, calls, and stuff--oh my!
Okay, so I actually ran out of stuff to list for the title, but this is the obligatory new job post. That's right, I finally got my big post-grad, big girl job. Which, I guess if I were much of an adult, I wouldn't refer to it as that, but eh.
As of Wednesday, I'm training to become part of the Resolutions Team for Home Depot's corporate office. That means I'm issuing customer concessions and solving problems for the biggest home store in the world! Omg. Right now, I'm basically just listening in on phone calls (complaints) and watching the other members of the team do their work. I did get to key in a few gift cards, but more on that later.
So, day one:
There are 4 of us from the recruiting firm (it's not a temp agency, it's a recruiting firm) who started in Resolutions. We arrived at the large concrete and glass building at 8a like we were told and waited in the lobby for someone to give us further instructions. And although we're all young adults (actually, one girl told me she's 28), we were like children on the first day of kindergarten. The room was silent. Every time someone came through the door, we picked our heads up hoping they were coming for us. Most people just breezed through with a kind smile before swiping their keycard and moving through the door at the back of the lobby. We were silent. And scared.
Melissa, a Supervisor from our department, finally came in at about 8:05a (though it felt like we had been waiting much longer) and retrieved us like we were the last kids at daycamp. "I'm sorry," she said hurriedly like she had just ran down the six flights of steps it would have taken to get from Resolutions to the lobby. "They told me you all would arrive this morning but I didn't know where to find you." No one said anything. She motioned us to follow her and we did.
We all herded into the elevator and Melissa pressed 6. The top floor. The elevator is half glass, so I watched as we slowly ascended into the air. The elevator slowed feet from the ceiling and then lurched to level with the floor. We all filed out after Melissa and followed her into the office.
The office floor was about what I expected: a large room filled with cubicles and people buzzing around doing work. Melissa then began assigning us to employees to shadow for the day. I was assigned to Ammie. She was very nice and enthusiastic. I liked working with her. Under her. Watching her. She has the efficiency of an elementary school teacher: very patient and always smiling.
At 10a, though, it was time for Ammie to go to lunch. Since I didn't know any of the other temps, I just went to the large break room on the third floor (which Ammie showed me)and read my book. Alone. Because it was so early in the morning, I guess no one else was on lunch so it was pretty empty. Which I didn't mind; I always value good reading time.
When I got back, Melissa informed me that I'd be moving to someone else's desk. She wanted Ammie to work on another task. So I moved to work with Lakesha. Everyone calls her Kesha though (like Keisha, not Ke$ha). She was more comfortable than Ammie. She joked around with the other team members and was way more relaxed. I guess she's been there longer. Anyway, I did some work with her and then I had to move again.
This time it was Carlos. There was already another temp with Carlos, but he let me sit in. It was a little cramped with three people in big rolly chairs--wow, I just realized I typed "rolly chair" and not office chair--into one cubicle. Carlos is what you would call a class clown. He moved around the office talking and joking. It was interesting. I can't really say I learned much from shadowing Carlos. But it was still interesting.
So, yeah, that's about how it's going so far. I'm excited to have a 9-to-5 and be all corporate America-y. Actually, it's 8a-5p, but yeah.
More to come! (hopefully)
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
As of Wednesday, I'm training to become part of the Resolutions Team for Home Depot's corporate office. That means I'm issuing customer concessions and solving problems for the biggest home store in the world! Omg. Right now, I'm basically just listening in on phone calls (complaints) and watching the other members of the team do their work. I did get to key in a few gift cards, but more on that later.
So, day one:
There are 4 of us from the recruiting firm (it's not a temp agency, it's a recruiting firm) who started in Resolutions. We arrived at the large concrete and glass building at 8a like we were told and waited in the lobby for someone to give us further instructions. And although we're all young adults (actually, one girl told me she's 28), we were like children on the first day of kindergarten. The room was silent. Every time someone came through the door, we picked our heads up hoping they were coming for us. Most people just breezed through with a kind smile before swiping their keycard and moving through the door at the back of the lobby. We were silent. And scared.
Melissa, a Supervisor from our department, finally came in at about 8:05a (though it felt like we had been waiting much longer) and retrieved us like we were the last kids at daycamp. "I'm sorry," she said hurriedly like she had just ran down the six flights of steps it would have taken to get from Resolutions to the lobby. "They told me you all would arrive this morning but I didn't know where to find you." No one said anything. She motioned us to follow her and we did.
We all herded into the elevator and Melissa pressed 6. The top floor. The elevator is half glass, so I watched as we slowly ascended into the air. The elevator slowed feet from the ceiling and then lurched to level with the floor. We all filed out after Melissa and followed her into the office.
The office floor was about what I expected: a large room filled with cubicles and people buzzing around doing work. Melissa then began assigning us to employees to shadow for the day. I was assigned to Ammie. She was very nice and enthusiastic. I liked working with her. Under her. Watching her. She has the efficiency of an elementary school teacher: very patient and always smiling.
At 10a, though, it was time for Ammie to go to lunch. Since I didn't know any of the other temps, I just went to the large break room on the third floor (which Ammie showed me)and read my book. Alone. Because it was so early in the morning, I guess no one else was on lunch so it was pretty empty. Which I didn't mind; I always value good reading time.
When I got back, Melissa informed me that I'd be moving to someone else's desk. She wanted Ammie to work on another task. So I moved to work with Lakesha. Everyone calls her Kesha though (like Keisha, not Ke$ha). She was more comfortable than Ammie. She joked around with the other team members and was way more relaxed. I guess she's been there longer. Anyway, I did some work with her and then I had to move again.
This time it was Carlos. There was already another temp with Carlos, but he let me sit in. It was a little cramped with three people in big rolly chairs--wow, I just realized I typed "rolly chair" and not office chair--into one cubicle. Carlos is what you would call a class clown. He moved around the office talking and joking. It was interesting. I can't really say I learned much from shadowing Carlos. But it was still interesting.
So, yeah, that's about how it's going so far. I'm excited to have a 9-to-5 and be all corporate America-y. Actually, it's 8a-5p, but yeah.
More to come! (hopefully)
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
30.1.12
Shadow
I wanted to experiment with writing emotion. I decided to go with the one I've experienced the most recently and felt the deepest: Death/loss.
---
Carrie Morgan was too young to remember her grandfather’s funeral. In fact, if you asked her about it, she probably would shrug it off and tell you it was “Sad, I guess.” She wouldn’t’ remember holding her mother’s trembling hand as they stood outside the church, greeting the family members as they fluttered in, one after another like black rose petals picked up and scattered by the wind. She wouldn’t remember being squeezed into the front pew, snuggly pressed between her mother and aunt just a few feet from the open casket. She wasn’t yet old enough to read all the words printed on the programs, which had managed to outline a full 82 years of life in less than 300 words. She wouldn’t remember standing in the graveyard, holding a rose, watching as they lowered the casket and her father said goodbye to his father; her grandmother’s anguished cries of “Edward, oh my Edward” fell on her deaf ears.
But what she did remember was growing up without her grandfather. Years after the funeral, she could recall the void left in her family by his absence. Her grandmother seemed to move slower, as if the weight of loneliness were too much for her to bear There was no joy at her grandparents’ house. Carrie could remember staring at the pictures hung on the walls and set on the coffee tables, waiting for her grandfather to somehow spring forth and re-introduce color into what had become a very grey adolescence.
One late afternoon, hen the whole world seemed still and quiet, Carrie found her grandmother sitting by the window in her old rocking chair gazing at nothing in particular on the other side of the glass panes. There was a squirrel which immediately caught the young girl’s attention as it darted from one end of the yard to the other, pausing only cock its head up and stare sideways back at the house. Still, her grandmother’s eyes were eerily vacant, her face emotionally hollow. She looked like a doll, Carrie remarked, only the craftsman had forgotten to paint her smile on. And although she couldn’t remember her grandfather’s funeral or draw on any pleasant memories to cheer her grandmother’s mood, she felt in that instant the cold chill of longing.
Carrie walked over to the her grandmother resigned to that rocking chair, reached down deep through her soul and pulled out a pinch of courage. “What do you miss most about him?” Her voice was so thin that it crumbled on her lips and the question tumbled to the floor – a jumbled mess of emotions. She thought abut asking again, but couldn’t find another bit of courage to draw upon. Instead, she took her grandmother’s hand in her own and just held it there. At first, her grandmother was unmoved. Her hand rested on top of Carrie as easily as a dove might land on a branch. But Carrie held it there, just reminding her grandmother that she was there. There for her.
After a moment of still observance, her grandmother sighed deeply. It was the type of sigh heavy with sadness; the type of sigh that burdened the person that breathed it and anyone within distance of the breath. Carrie felt that sigh. It hung in the air until her skin had absorbed it and it weighed down her very bones.
“Shadow.”
The word was so unexpected that Carrie was sure she hadn’t heard correctly. Truly, she answered, “I don’t understand.”
“I miss his shadow most.”
“But Grandma--,”
“When I had your grandfather with me, I loved everything about him: his smile, his eyes, his touch on my hand, his voice, even his snoring. But his shadow.. That was special. You see, even when we were alone, cuddled up in front of the fire our shadows would be dancing on the walls. And when we went to bed, he held me in his arms, and I felt safe under the covers. But on the wall, our shadows molded together to form one and I never felt closer to him. His shadow followed him wherever he went, and mine followed his. We were bonded by our love and our shadows were never far apart. And now that he’s gone, I miss that shadow. I miss that silent, constant reminder of his presence.”
A week later, after years of loneliness and waiting, Carrie’s grandmother went to meet her grandfather. And though she couldn’t remember any part of her grandfather’s funeral, Carrie remembered this one. She spent every minute looking for her grandmother’s shadow, but never saw it.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
---
Carrie Morgan was too young to remember her grandfather’s funeral. In fact, if you asked her about it, she probably would shrug it off and tell you it was “Sad, I guess.” She wouldn’t’ remember holding her mother’s trembling hand as they stood outside the church, greeting the family members as they fluttered in, one after another like black rose petals picked up and scattered by the wind. She wouldn’t remember being squeezed into the front pew, snuggly pressed between her mother and aunt just a few feet from the open casket. She wasn’t yet old enough to read all the words printed on the programs, which had managed to outline a full 82 years of life in less than 300 words. She wouldn’t remember standing in the graveyard, holding a rose, watching as they lowered the casket and her father said goodbye to his father; her grandmother’s anguished cries of “Edward, oh my Edward” fell on her deaf ears.
But what she did remember was growing up without her grandfather. Years after the funeral, she could recall the void left in her family by his absence. Her grandmother seemed to move slower, as if the weight of loneliness were too much for her to bear There was no joy at her grandparents’ house. Carrie could remember staring at the pictures hung on the walls and set on the coffee tables, waiting for her grandfather to somehow spring forth and re-introduce color into what had become a very grey adolescence.
One late afternoon, hen the whole world seemed still and quiet, Carrie found her grandmother sitting by the window in her old rocking chair gazing at nothing in particular on the other side of the glass panes. There was a squirrel which immediately caught the young girl’s attention as it darted from one end of the yard to the other, pausing only cock its head up and stare sideways back at the house. Still, her grandmother’s eyes were eerily vacant, her face emotionally hollow. She looked like a doll, Carrie remarked, only the craftsman had forgotten to paint her smile on. And although she couldn’t remember her grandfather’s funeral or draw on any pleasant memories to cheer her grandmother’s mood, she felt in that instant the cold chill of longing.
Carrie walked over to the her grandmother resigned to that rocking chair, reached down deep through her soul and pulled out a pinch of courage. “What do you miss most about him?” Her voice was so thin that it crumbled on her lips and the question tumbled to the floor – a jumbled mess of emotions. She thought abut asking again, but couldn’t find another bit of courage to draw upon. Instead, she took her grandmother’s hand in her own and just held it there. At first, her grandmother was unmoved. Her hand rested on top of Carrie as easily as a dove might land on a branch. But Carrie held it there, just reminding her grandmother that she was there. There for her.
After a moment of still observance, her grandmother sighed deeply. It was the type of sigh heavy with sadness; the type of sigh that burdened the person that breathed it and anyone within distance of the breath. Carrie felt that sigh. It hung in the air until her skin had absorbed it and it weighed down her very bones.
“Shadow.”
The word was so unexpected that Carrie was sure she hadn’t heard correctly. Truly, she answered, “I don’t understand.”
“I miss his shadow most.”
“But Grandma--,”
“When I had your grandfather with me, I loved everything about him: his smile, his eyes, his touch on my hand, his voice, even his snoring. But his shadow.. That was special. You see, even when we were alone, cuddled up in front of the fire our shadows would be dancing on the walls. And when we went to bed, he held me in his arms, and I felt safe under the covers. But on the wall, our shadows molded together to form one and I never felt closer to him. His shadow followed him wherever he went, and mine followed his. We were bonded by our love and our shadows were never far apart. And now that he’s gone, I miss that shadow. I miss that silent, constant reminder of his presence.”
A week later, after years of loneliness and waiting, Carrie’s grandmother went to meet her grandfather. And though she couldn’t remember any part of her grandfather’s funeral, Carrie remembered this one. She spent every minute looking for her grandmother’s shadow, but never saw it.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
18.1.12
Try not to Drown in This Stream
ad·dic·tion
noun
the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming, as narcotics, to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma
I've said it before and I'll say it again: Sometimes, I really hate the person that I am, the desires that I have, the behavior I exhibit because of some deep-seeded need I can't explain or defend.
Lately, I've stopped trying to stop these actions and just giving in. And you know what? I find that I quite enjoy it. And then, I hate myself. It's an addiction, an obsession.. a guilty pleasure. Emphasis on the guilt. But I don't want to stop. I think about it more and more. Constantly. And then I fall slave to my horrible habit. But I find that the flames of Hell are quite warm... inviting, even.
Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment--doing these things, testing, escalating, knowing that soon it's all going to come crashing down on my head. And the pain will be so blissfully numbing that it was all worth it. Oh, that sounds lovely...
And it's no one's fault, really. A consequence of coincidence. A coincidence of consent. I can't say I was driven to this behavior by anyone or anything. I'm just.. drawn to it.
Worst of all, I can't talk to anyone about it because it's so deplorable and irrational. I can't even explain it to myself! I guess I'm just hopeless, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for it to fall...
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
noun
the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming, as narcotics, to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma
I've said it before and I'll say it again: Sometimes, I really hate the person that I am, the desires that I have, the behavior I exhibit because of some deep-seeded need I can't explain or defend.
Lately, I've stopped trying to stop these actions and just giving in. And you know what? I find that I quite enjoy it. And then, I hate myself. It's an addiction, an obsession.. a guilty pleasure. Emphasis on the guilt. But I don't want to stop. I think about it more and more. Constantly. And then I fall slave to my horrible habit. But I find that the flames of Hell are quite warm... inviting, even.
Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment--doing these things, testing, escalating, knowing that soon it's all going to come crashing down on my head. And the pain will be so blissfully numbing that it was all worth it. Oh, that sounds lovely...
And it's no one's fault, really. A consequence of coincidence. A coincidence of consent. I can't say I was driven to this behavior by anyone or anything. I'm just.. drawn to it.
Worst of all, I can't talk to anyone about it because it's so deplorable and irrational. I can't even explain it to myself! I guess I'm just hopeless, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for it to fall...
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
10.1.12
Science & Faith
Recently, very recently, like within the past hour, I read a very interesting and telling blog by a close friend. This friend has brought me through some of the craziest adventures of my teenage years and hilarious memories. And this friend has always been brutally honest.. with others and with himself.
I've always admired his bravery. So I thought "What the hell". I may as well be honest.
So I've been listening to The Script's album, Science & Faith. A-MAZING record! I try to listen to just one song and I always go through the whole cd. Start to finish. Everytime. Sometimes, I feel as if they're speaking directly to me, singing my memories.. my faults. Other times, I feel like the girl they're singing about.. the heart-breaker, the bitch.
Anyway, here's I song that really eats at my insides:
Where does that leave us?
Tried to break love to a science
In an act of pure defiance
I broke her heart.
As I pulled apart her theories
As I watched her growing weary
I pulled her apart
Having heavy conversations
About the furthest constellations of our souls. Ooh.
We're just trying to find some meaning
In the things that we believe in
But we got some ways to go.
Of all of the things that she's ever said
She goes and says something that just knocks me dead.
It leaves me in pain.. Which only you make better. And in a constant state of worry and confusion that simply go away when you're near me. It leaves me strongly desiring the joy that you bring me.
You won't find faith or hope down a telescope
You won't find heart and soul in the stars
You can break everything down to chemicals
But you can't explain a love like ours.
I need you more than anything :)
Ooohhhh
It's the way we feel, yeah this is real
Ooohhhh
It's the way we feel, yeah this is real
-------
This is song is perfect for us. Science and Faith. Two completely separate and powerful ideas. But ideas that are both necessary for living.
I don't know what it is we have. There's really no word for it. Then again, we've never been ones for labels or boxes. But whatever we have, whatever we keep fighting for, it's real. And I love it.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
I've always admired his bravery. So I thought "What the hell". I may as well be honest.
So I've been listening to The Script's album, Science & Faith. A-MAZING record! I try to listen to just one song and I always go through the whole cd. Start to finish. Everytime. Sometimes, I feel as if they're speaking directly to me, singing my memories.. my faults. Other times, I feel like the girl they're singing about.. the heart-breaker, the bitch.
Anyway, here's I song that really eats at my insides:
Where does that leave us?
Tried to break love to a science
In an act of pure defiance
I broke her heart.
As I pulled apart her theories
As I watched her growing weary
I pulled her apart
Having heavy conversations
About the furthest constellations of our souls. Ooh.
We're just trying to find some meaning
In the things that we believe in
But we got some ways to go.
Of all of the things that she's ever said
She goes and says something that just knocks me dead.
It leaves me in pain.. Which only you make better. And in a constant state of worry and confusion that simply go away when you're near me. It leaves me strongly desiring the joy that you bring me.
You won't find faith or hope down a telescope
You won't find heart and soul in the stars
You can break everything down to chemicals
But you can't explain a love like ours.
I need you more than anything :)
Ooohhhh
It's the way we feel, yeah this is real
Ooohhhh
It's the way we feel, yeah this is real
-------
This is song is perfect for us. Science and Faith. Two completely separate and powerful ideas. But ideas that are both necessary for living.
I don't know what it is we have. There's really no word for it. Then again, we've never been ones for labels or boxes. But whatever we have, whatever we keep fighting for, it's real. And I love it.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
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