Crash.
Rain throws itself against my window, as though trying to out-do the howling of the wind.
The trees groan in protest as the churning sky whips them to and fro.
Flicker.
Lights dim, then blacken as the electricity is lost to the darkening atmosphere.
I light a candle, it's fire illuminating my small table. I lift my pen again, just hardly set back by the loss of light.
Whimper.
The dog lays at my feet, whining with nervousness at the monster who wreaks havoc on the outside.
The sky, black and heavy with storm, pours the rain upon the fragile flowers in the garden.
"Please..."
Flowers try to gaze upward with tired eyes, but are beaten down relentlessly by the sky's burden.
The clouds above grumble with thunder and scream with lightning, each streak a reminder of how furious the storm is getting.
Goosebumps.
I watch, intrigued from the danger.
I'm tired, but won't let sleep hamper my creativity.
But the storm- it plays me. Coaxes me.
"Sleep..."
Pulling my energy like a harpist pulls her strings.
Breathe.
I resign myself to the fact that the storm is more powerful than I. Putting down my pen, I wrap myself in a blanket and curl into bed, exhausted.
Crash.
The rain still pounds.
The thunder still roars.
The candle still flickers.
And I lie there watching it, hypnotized.
Until finally, I close my eyes,
And sleep.
*Inspired by, but not directly taken from, Hurricane Irene. Praying you're all safe and will get power back soon!*
Monday, August 29, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
To Each His Own, To Me A Mountain
Mountains...and lots of them. Everywhere you looked there was another monstrous hill rising in front of you. And behind you. Left, right, front, back, 360 degrees of rock, coal, and trees.
Pick up a rock and it doesn't exactly invoke wonder. But pile it together with a few billion more rocks and you start to get lightheaded just by looking up in amazement. Mountains are probably my favorite geographical phenomenon. Something about the humbling feeling you get as you cast your gaze upward. And upward. God must've been showing off when He created them. Each one is unique, holding a story and mystery all its own. Have you ever hiked a mountain? What about hiking a mountain with no trail to follow? Kinda throws you off a bit. You hear a waterfall, and would swear that it was atop this next little hill, only to discover that the water's cascading sound was echoing from the complete opposite side of the mountain. It's adventurous, thrilling, and a little scary knowing how easily you can get lost if you wander too far off the trail.
And the air, so pure and untouched by human pollution. It's enough to make you dizzy if you breathe too deeply. You know it's a high that's good for you though. So breathe again. And again. Get as much of it as possible before climbing back down to the humid, polluted reality that we constantly breathe.
Pick up a rock and it doesn't exactly invoke wonder. But pile it together with a few billion more rocks and you start to get lightheaded just by looking up in amazement. Mountains are probably my favorite geographical phenomenon. Something about the humbling feeling you get as you cast your gaze upward. And upward. God must've been showing off when He created them. Each one is unique, holding a story and mystery all its own. Have you ever hiked a mountain? What about hiking a mountain with no trail to follow? Kinda throws you off a bit. You hear a waterfall, and would swear that it was atop this next little hill, only to discover that the water's cascading sound was echoing from the complete opposite side of the mountain. It's adventurous, thrilling, and a little scary knowing how easily you can get lost if you wander too far off the trail.
And the air, so pure and untouched by human pollution. It's enough to make you dizzy if you breathe too deeply. You know it's a high that's good for you though. So breathe again. And again. Get as much of it as possible before climbing back down to the humid, polluted reality that we constantly breathe.
*Pictures of my favorite mountains on earth- The Blue Ridge Mountains that cross Sparta, NC*
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Rain
What is it about the rain that brings calm,
Yet urgency?
Hope,
Yet sadness?
Peace,
Yet disturbance?
Why do the same drops that persuade you to dance so energetically under their shower sing you into a motionless sleep at night?
It caresses,
But stings.
Whispers,
But screams.
Comforts,
But exasperates.
That's why I like it. All emotion, all feeling, can be brought to the surface with just a short soak in the rain. It's amazing what the sky does to a person. The rain you just so spontaneously and happily danced in has all of a sudden turned you into a grouch who hates getting wet. So beautiful in its contradictions. That's why it fascinates me. I love to hear it. It plays with the same orchestra over and over again, but each time the melody has been re-composed. It colors the earth the same shades, but paints with a different brush each time. It soothes you, it angers you; it helps you sleep, it wakes you up. It's so complex and just when you think you know how it's going to make you feel,
It changes.
Yet urgency?
Hope,
Yet sadness?
Peace,
Yet disturbance?
Why do the same drops that persuade you to dance so energetically under their shower sing you into a motionless sleep at night?
It caresses,
But stings.
Whispers,
But screams.
Comforts,
But exasperates.
That's why I like it. All emotion, all feeling, can be brought to the surface with just a short soak in the rain. It's amazing what the sky does to a person. The rain you just so spontaneously and happily danced in has all of a sudden turned you into a grouch who hates getting wet. So beautiful in its contradictions. That's why it fascinates me. I love to hear it. It plays with the same orchestra over and over again, but each time the melody has been re-composed. It colors the earth the same shades, but paints with a different brush each time. It soothes you, it angers you; it helps you sleep, it wakes you up. It's so complex and just when you think you know how it's going to make you feel,
It changes.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Revel Grove
Ok, so. I've made the executive decision to expand my blog's horizons. I've got a lot of thoughts that need a place to live so they're not tumbling aimlessly through my brain. A lot of these thoughts that may or may not be music-related. Don't worry. I'm still focused on music and dance. Just a few other things as well.
Anyway. On to bigger, greater things. Like the upcoming season.
Fall. One of my favorite things in life. Nothing invokes such calm as the changing leaves. I drive to work every weekend and I've been seeing the leaves gradually fade from bright green to a muddier version of their summer color. Its exciting. It promises spiced apple cider, scarves, bonfires, Halloween, and most importantly, the Renaissance Faire. Each October, the family (plus Amanda) makes a trip to the Faire to enjoy the merry-making and festivities. There's jousting, costumes, theatrical performances, food-on-a-stick, and quaint little shops to visit. The whole atmosphere is just enveloping. Once you step through the gates you are whisked away somewhere back in time, hundreds of years ago. The ages of knights and ladies, courtly love, quests, chivalry, castles. And the smells. I mean, there's nothing like it. The scent of crisp leaves and sugared pecans dances softly through the festival, mingling beautifully with the sound of laughter and music. It's just kind of surreal and you can't help but smile and pretend it really is 1512. Then you turn to look behind you and you see this towering, majestic figure shrouded in white. It's wearing a porcelain mask. Whatever it's supposed to be, it's on stilts. And looking up, you can't stop yourself from cracking a grin as it tilts its head and dips slightly toward you in greeting. Offering a small wave, you turn back to meander through the crowd. You can see the elephants to your left and at the bottom of the leaf-laden hill, a woman sells roses from a hand-woven basket. A man dressed as a pirate (and just because it's the Faire, you let yourself believe he IS a pirate) touches your shoulder and dips his tricorne hat below his eye, offering a coy smile while doing so. "Good day sir," you say in a practiced British accent. The scene from atop the hill hasn't changed, but a breeze is blowing now. Chilly and laced with the mystery of the past. Somewhere in the distance, the clash of lance and shield can be heard, followed by a tumultuous "HUZZAH!" A horse's neigh. The sharp clink of tankards. Raucous laughter from a tavern nearby. Stand there for a minue. Just take it all in. You probably have the best view of the Faire from up here. Through the amber-colored trees, you can almost see the performance happening on Fortune Stage. Children run around chasing one another, giggling and squealing, brandishing wooden swords and shields. Wandering down the hill, you come to a little shop. Paintbrushes and palettes sit in the window sills and costumed figures stand over their customers, decorating them with strokes of deep purples and reds. Works of art, really. You sit in an empty wooden chair and a lady walks up to you. You let her work magic, making pleasant conversation all the while. When she's finished, you look in the mirror. Glittering ribbons of paint cascade down your cheek, branching off in all different directions, forming a mask over your face. Everyone turns to look as you wander along the pathways.
Soon, the chilling Autumn twilight descends upon the festival, giving it a new atmosphere, one of secrecy and enchantment. There's not very many people out anymore. They have all either found their way to a tavern or gone home. A feathered costume brushes past you. Goosebumps. You spin quickly enough to see the hooded creature disappear into the darkness. You smirk at the excitement of it all. Music still plays somewhere. The warm glow of the glassblower's fire beckons you near. He's still hard at work, creating beautiful masterpieces by the dozen. "Come in," he calls. You enter. Your eyes wander around the shop. It's warm, comforting, crammed full of beautiful glass vases, gazing balls, and ornaments. You find yourself standing beside the fire, watching as the old man crafts a blue globe from the top of a long tube. You can still hear the music. It's slower now, becoming accustomed to the approaching night. You know you have to leave. But what a hard thing to do. You slowly turn from the comfort of the fire and head back into the growing darkness. It's a hard walk, the one from the Faire to the car. One you wish you never have to make. Bittersweet, though. You know you'll be back. Next year, the leaves will change again and you'll find yourself caught up in the mystery and intrigue of the Faire once more. And at that thought, you can't help but smile.
Anyway. On to bigger, greater things. Like the upcoming season.
Fall. One of my favorite things in life. Nothing invokes such calm as the changing leaves. I drive to work every weekend and I've been seeing the leaves gradually fade from bright green to a muddier version of their summer color. Its exciting. It promises spiced apple cider, scarves, bonfires, Halloween, and most importantly, the Renaissance Faire. Each October, the family (plus Amanda) makes a trip to the Faire to enjoy the merry-making and festivities. There's jousting, costumes, theatrical performances, food-on-a-stick, and quaint little shops to visit. The whole atmosphere is just enveloping. Once you step through the gates you are whisked away somewhere back in time, hundreds of years ago. The ages of knights and ladies, courtly love, quests, chivalry, castles. And the smells. I mean, there's nothing like it. The scent of crisp leaves and sugared pecans dances softly through the festival, mingling beautifully with the sound of laughter and music. It's just kind of surreal and you can't help but smile and pretend it really is 1512. Then you turn to look behind you and you see this towering, majestic figure shrouded in white. It's wearing a porcelain mask. Whatever it's supposed to be, it's on stilts. And looking up, you can't stop yourself from cracking a grin as it tilts its head and dips slightly toward you in greeting. Offering a small wave, you turn back to meander through the crowd. You can see the elephants to your left and at the bottom of the leaf-laden hill, a woman sells roses from a hand-woven basket. A man dressed as a pirate (and just because it's the Faire, you let yourself believe he IS a pirate) touches your shoulder and dips his tricorne hat below his eye, offering a coy smile while doing so. "Good day sir," you say in a practiced British accent. The scene from atop the hill hasn't changed, but a breeze is blowing now. Chilly and laced with the mystery of the past. Somewhere in the distance, the clash of lance and shield can be heard, followed by a tumultuous "HUZZAH!" A horse's neigh. The sharp clink of tankards. Raucous laughter from a tavern nearby. Stand there for a minue. Just take it all in. You probably have the best view of the Faire from up here. Through the amber-colored trees, you can almost see the performance happening on Fortune Stage. Children run around chasing one another, giggling and squealing, brandishing wooden swords and shields. Wandering down the hill, you come to a little shop. Paintbrushes and palettes sit in the window sills and costumed figures stand over their customers, decorating them with strokes of deep purples and reds. Works of art, really. You sit in an empty wooden chair and a lady walks up to you. You let her work magic, making pleasant conversation all the while. When she's finished, you look in the mirror. Glittering ribbons of paint cascade down your cheek, branching off in all different directions, forming a mask over your face. Everyone turns to look as you wander along the pathways.
Soon, the chilling Autumn twilight descends upon the festival, giving it a new atmosphere, one of secrecy and enchantment. There's not very many people out anymore. They have all either found their way to a tavern or gone home. A feathered costume brushes past you. Goosebumps. You spin quickly enough to see the hooded creature disappear into the darkness. You smirk at the excitement of it all. Music still plays somewhere. The warm glow of the glassblower's fire beckons you near. He's still hard at work, creating beautiful masterpieces by the dozen. "Come in," he calls. You enter. Your eyes wander around the shop. It's warm, comforting, crammed full of beautiful glass vases, gazing balls, and ornaments. You find yourself standing beside the fire, watching as the old man crafts a blue globe from the top of a long tube. You can still hear the music. It's slower now, becoming accustomed to the approaching night. You know you have to leave. But what a hard thing to do. You slowly turn from the comfort of the fire and head back into the growing darkness. It's a hard walk, the one from the Faire to the car. One you wish you never have to make. Bittersweet, though. You know you'll be back. Next year, the leaves will change again and you'll find yourself caught up in the mystery and intrigue of the Faire once more. And at that thought, you can't help but smile.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Frozen
A totally unrelated post. Sometimes though, you just can't stop the pen from writing what it wants to write. Thank you, Facebook buddies for telling me to do nothing. It worked.
~Frozen~
Ever wish you could make time stand still? The scene before you captured; locked away in your memory forever, ready to be recalled at a moment's notice. How often we fail to remember what we promised ourselves we would, or worse still, what we wish we could. That moment you so cherish loses small details over time, a snip here, a bit there, until you can't even remember the year in which it happened. It seems so important when you first commit it to memory. "I will never forget this," you say as you lock it away in the safety of your long-term memory. When you try to remember though, you realize you've placed your special moments in the hands of a false security. Sure, you'll remember the important things- the way your grandfather's signature joke lit up the room no matter how many times you heard it; how it felt at 2:00 am laying deliriously on the floor with your best friend, talking about nothing and everything and life and death and all the important questions. However, the small details of those frozen frames have a tendency to melt away. Lost forever in the hapless depths of your own mind. What was the punchline of your grandfather's joke? What was it your friend had said that suddenly made you see things so clearly? And thinking about it, its those little details you long so desperately to remember, grasping out in the velvet darkness of your brain, listening to the cruel taunting of your "safe" long term memory as it teases you with "I can almost remember". But you can't help it. What can you do, except keep searching and in the meantime, replacing those disappearing memories with the new ones you are bound to make?
~Frozen~
Ever wish you could make time stand still? The scene before you captured; locked away in your memory forever, ready to be recalled at a moment's notice. How often we fail to remember what we promised ourselves we would, or worse still, what we wish we could. That moment you so cherish loses small details over time, a snip here, a bit there, until you can't even remember the year in which it happened. It seems so important when you first commit it to memory. "I will never forget this," you say as you lock it away in the safety of your long-term memory. When you try to remember though, you realize you've placed your special moments in the hands of a false security. Sure, you'll remember the important things- the way your grandfather's signature joke lit up the room no matter how many times you heard it; how it felt at 2:00 am laying deliriously on the floor with your best friend, talking about nothing and everything and life and death and all the important questions. However, the small details of those frozen frames have a tendency to melt away. Lost forever in the hapless depths of your own mind. What was the punchline of your grandfather's joke? What was it your friend had said that suddenly made you see things so clearly? And thinking about it, its those little details you long so desperately to remember, grasping out in the velvet darkness of your brain, listening to the cruel taunting of your "safe" long term memory as it teases you with "I can almost remember". But you can't help it. What can you do, except keep searching and in the meantime, replacing those disappearing memories with the new ones you are bound to make?
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