QwertyGirl's blog

I write you letters now.
Black ink fountain pen.
Spiraling, nonsensical musings
on
thick notebook paper
(sometimes- bright white torn from my sketchbook
I like the idea that I'm the kind of person who carries a sketchbook).
They (I) never make sense.
Sometimes I wonder if you
(care) understand.
I ramble-- Science class--

1.
"On any given day you'll find me gone..."
I've been listening to Carbon Leaf quite a bit lately. I'm not really sure why. I only have three of their songs, but they've been stuck on repeat on my iPod now for about a week.

2.
I spent the past week in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Eating cupcakes & Indian food & drinking expensive tea.

3.
You told me you loved me on a Monday night.
Your hair falls onto you forehead perfectly in black-brown curls & your eyes are always happy.

4.
I've missed you now for about a week.

5.

The final draft of my short story for English class...
_____________________

A short story I wrote for my English class.
My problem-- the end. It's just kind of like "What?"
Any suggestions for how to end it?
______________________________________

Haven't let my fingers breathe
poetry
for a good couple months now.

They miss that freedom, the computer keys.
I've never been able to handwrite
decent
poetry.

My mind works faster than the pen.

Computer keys make clicking noises
not quite as
perfect as a typewriter
but
a happy medium
(seeing as I
do not own a typewriter).

I sat
on my bed
last night and
thought about
how much I missed this
cascading
pile of
jumbled
nonsensical musings.
The aesthetic is a part of it, as we all know.

I love our conversations
they have been
keeping me
sane

(An English assignment. Based loosely on Allen Guinsberg's "Is About").
____________________

Heap   is   about  
                        individuality,  
                                                            reality,  

An English assignment- describe the character's personality type in a situation.
It's a work in progress, but as we all know, I struggle with where to take things next. I also think a lot of the wording sounds a little off. Help would be greatly appreciated.

I have this theory- funerals for people who were loved are always held on beautiful days.
It's the end of January in Denver, Colorado. It's always sunny here, I forget that sometimes. I used to live here. I lived here for most of my life, for some reason I always think of it in the summertime. Sunshine goes with summertime in my mind, along with green grass, blooming flowers, & bicycles.
I haven't been here in the winter for about 3.5 years. & I've never spend just four days here.
The funeral is at 2pm, because of the time change that means my body will think it's about 4pm.

I’ve started shrinking away when certain people try to hug me. They say things that make me mad & it always reminds me that they are not my best friends. They are people who I spend abnormal amounts of time with. I miss it when we were all young, naive. None of us really had anything to worry about. We worried about boys, of course. Who asked who to dance and who liked who and who maybe liked us…

(I'll write more later.)

"Anna, I need to talk to you and your sister."
"Okay, what?"
"No, privately. When are you and Breanna going to be done with French?"
"I dunno, twenty minutes?"
"Okay."

Sometimes I miss sunshine. Not very often (I’ve never been one for warm weather), but sometimes all I want is summer time. This begins to happen especially around this time of the year. Mid-January. The holiday season is over, there are no breaks from school for quite a while and the only time anything seems beautiful is when it’s snowing. I love the snow. I’ve always loved the snow. I started skiing, literally, before I could walk. My father had one of those little backpack things that you can put babies in and ski down the mountain with them. Apparently I used to love it.

A poem I am in the process of writing for my English class. It's supposed to be based loosely on Allen Ginsberg's poem- Is About (http://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88/ginsberg-is-about.html). The things in in up typeface are things I still need to write stanzas on... I would very much appreciate help with it. Mostly with flow, rhymes, content... Also- my last line. I have no idea what to do with it.
__________________________________
Heap   is   about  

Click it and you can see the whole thing.
This is too big and carries over into the side bar...

Click it and you can see the whole thing.
This is too big and carries over into the side bar...

Snow falls and it is beautiful.
My fingers are ice cubes and I can't even feel my toes.
My window is wide open- as always.
I have Tibetan prayer flags hanging from a wall, cutting right above a Janis Joplin poster and a painting of an iris.
I found monogrammed tissues on my floor and the only thing I could think was "Why would anyone ever want monogrammed tissues?"

"Take these sunken eyes and learn to see..."

I was raised knowing
there is never such thing as music that is
"too loud".

I don't really know what's going on with this... It doesn't make very much sense in my head, I don't really know how to make it make sense... Suggestions?
_________

Fire places are terrible places to raise children
the smoke gets into their lungs
& the flames burn their skin
& needless to say these children never turn out quite right.

Their eyes- forever a smoky blue-gray.
Their hair- a little too dull to be blond & a little too pale to be brown.
Their skin- white. Ashen.

I was raised in a fire place.

i. It amazes me sometimes- how quickly I can train my fingers to type a certain word or phrase.

ii. My sister sister has become that person I hated going through middle school and I wish there was something I could do about it. She comes home and talks about "that weird girl" who sits in the back and hums to herself and how weird she is. I just want to look at her and yell at her "That was me! Don't you get it?". But no. I am silent. Of course she doesn't get it. She is the kind of person that doesn't get any of it.

http://vermontdoodles.wordpress.com/

http://vermontdoodles.wordpress.com/

http://vermontdoodles.wordpress.com/

Snow falls and sticks to the outside of the school bus.
Dear Winter,
      Please hurry, I need you.
I miss days of fire and hot chocolate. Snow days. The sheer perfection of the unexpected.
I need purple fingers, cold lips, snow melting into hair ("everyone looks better with snow in their hair"), shivering bones.
It's this time of year I hate the most. Leaves & apples= gone. The air= somewhere in between luke warm and brutally cold. Trees= bare (dead?). Nothing is alive, nothing is beautiful. Nothing will be until the snow falls.

I have not been sleeping much lately. I go to sleep at semi-reasonable hours (10:30 is most common) and lie awake in bed for hours. Sometimes I'll get up and write letters. I know I'm not going to be able to sleep so I don't see much point in trying. My parents have noticed this- how tired I am. Their solution? Make me go to bed earlier. I have a curfew of sorts. 10:00- I must be home, all communication devices turned off. Sometimes I'll get excused from this (concerts, parties, plays, etc.) but it's relatively set in stone. My new curfew? 8:30. 8:30.

My strangled silence is a mask.
My lungs
have never done me any good when I need to
scream-
I let my fingers &
my hands
do all the work.

TheNovelty and Qwerty, all day every day.
In case anyone is wondering, my handwriting is the bubblier one with very round letters, TheNovelty is the other one.

define: Anna.
1. Anna is a Latin form of the Hebrew name Hannah (חַנָּה or Channah, meaning “favor” or “grace”.)
2. Japanese- “apricot”.

define: Writer.
1. a person who is able to write and has written something.

define: Minimalist.
1. One who believes in or seeks a minimal state; one who seeks to minimize or reduce to a minimum; Believing in or seeking a minimal state.

define: Teenager.
1. adolescent: a juvenile between the onset of puberty and maturity.

define: Student.
1. a learner who is enrolled in an educational institution.

define: Agnostic.

Somehow
we forget
to breathe.

& the words can't get through our lungs
& something won't let in the air
& I miss you so much I can't breathe
& I love you.

We hurt
so we medicate.

Our bones ache and our fingers bleed and our minds are nothing but tattered balls of yarn
so we medicate.
Nevermind the fact that this is
beautiful.
Our tattered minds are the only thing
holding the world together.

Our hearts develop cracks and tears from being thrown around too much over time
so we medicate.
We don't realize that all we
need
is someone to pick it up and dust it off and
give it back to us.