Relics of a Kid Poet

Please bear with me, dear readers. I am determined to post tonight despite a days-long migraine and insomnia, so it's anyone's guess how much sense this will make. But damn it, I will award myself a gold star for effort!

I just want to mention that, in the midst of a week of utter hell, I came upon a piece of my past that I have come to consider both a painful reminder and a precious remnant.

Just prior to the first anniversary of my father's suicide this past Monday, I came upon a piece of loose leaf paper with some of his usual random notes about odd tidbits of things. It was one of many in the forlorn pile of things I've been avoiding since his funeral last year, but for some reason I was drawn to it and ended up sliding it out of a shuffled stack of tattered pages. Dad's chicken-scratch filled different parts of the top half of the page's back, and I recall turning the old-ish piece of lined paper over to find the neatest hand-written cursive I've ever see. Ever. And to my surprise, I recognized the lettering as my own.

And now I recall where this paper comes from. In 2008 (according to the date on the paper), I was sitting in class and ignoring lecture as I usually did. This day, however, instead of idly doodling in the corner of my homework, I decided to write a poem for my dad. I don't think the poem had a specific purpose, besides potentially sparking a smile from the tall, gaunt man and supplying his collection of doodads from his daughters with yet another piece. So, without much forethought or planning, I wrote out in my neatest penmanship a poem I wished to construct similar to an old Celtic Folk melody's lyrics.

And I did.

I also recall quite vividly the rather subdued response of my dad to the poem, and not too long afterwards the nonchalant way he handed it back to me with the nonspecific notes jotted on the back. I remember regrettably peeking at the front of the then-crumpled sheet and seeing my neat cursive creation, hardly noticed and completely recycled without a passing thought.

So, as you might imagine, it was with a good deal of sadness that I picked up this poem last week. After all, it was one of many unappreciated attempts at gaining my dad's approval.

Yet, I've somehow found myself more and more driven to place that poem, and some others I have written over the years, in another place of honor: in print. Yes, for the first time in my life. I feel the drive to pursue my options as an author in the world of published work.

Somehow, the rejection of a creation by the one for whom it was intended has me seeking another purpose for it. And whether or not this happens, I'm oddly grateful for that painful memory. It may have just given me a push I need.

...just a quick final thought: Damn, my cursive was stellar before I became lazy!

A Geek With a Guitar

So, I have been oh-so feebly attempting to learn to play guitar. I have an entire eight hours of playing experience under my belt and am shockingly (try not to let your jaw drop too fast) truly and fantastically not good at it. It more closely resembles twangy noise that one might hear as a raccoon tries to mate with a banjo that badly needs to be tuned. But hey, you have to start somewhere, right? Oh my poor roommates...

Moving past the undeniably creepy raccoon/banjo analogy. My point is this: though I have become quite good at butchering the chords for "Familiar Taste of Poison" by Halestorm and "Comatose" by Skillet (both wondrously fantastic songs by great bands, in my opinion), I may have actually found a song I can less-epically fail. (Gasp!)

Some of you may know the song I am referring to with a glance at the following picture, though I doubt the majority of the population will be familiar with the reference.

To anyone who just scrolled down and exclaimed something resembling "The Guild!" or "I love that song!", you are awesome. Thank you for being so awesome.

And if you haven't watched The Guild, or have indeed watched it and consider it lame, I tell you this: Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee! That's right, foo'. You've been Shakespeare'd.

Anyway, the song "Do You Wanna Date My Avatar" is a recent obsession of mine in the YouTube category. Though it's pretty awesome if you listen to it without having watched The Guild (which is the web series that inspired the song, if you don't already know that) it lacks a sense of familiarity that only adds to its awesomeness if you know who Zaboo, Clara, Tink, Vork, Bladezz, and Codex are.

So geek it up, people. Get familiar with this stuff.

Right, right...there was a point to all this. The song "Do You Wanna Date My Avatar" is fairly easy to play, depending on where you look for the chords online. I happened to find a really easy version that sounds quite good, and I have been playing around with it a lot. In fact, I do believe my tally of guitar-playing hours is now up to ten!

It figures that the one song I'm actually able to play is a song about a guild of gamers and the romantic qualities of an online avatar. All in jest, of course, but still...that must be a sign. And I like it.

Game on.

Bliss

So I totally haven't been giddy with excitement the past day or so. Nope. Because I definitely did not lose my wee green iPod some time ago and did not spend the last God-knows-how-long panicking about the loss of my little friend. Oh, and I certainly did not almost burst into joyful tears when one of my roommates held up dusty little Bliss (yes, I named it...that's not odd) from the nether-regions of the couch and handed it back to me. Nuh uh.

Kay, I lied. All of that indeed happened.

And now I am a happy girl, sitting in my room with Bliss clutched in my clammy little hand. I am now quite familiar in the cruel reality of music withdrawal, and in the strange hollow feeling in my pocket when a precious little rectangle is not persistently poking at my pelvis through the denim. Never has slight discomfort been so very gratifying! *Happy dance*

Do I know why I used all those negatives in telling my little story in the beginning? I have no clue. Maybe I'm just cryptic and subtle. But there's my story.

Sniffles

I realized with shame the other day that I had once again abandoned my blog to shrivel away for months, no longer caressed frequently by my fingers dancing (rather clumsily) across the keyboard and filling its virtual pages with words. I am a bad person.


In other news, Bin Laden's body has allegedly been found and he is evidently quite dead. Not just mostly dead, similar to the claims made of Westley's fate in the oh-so realistic movie "The Princess Bride", but fully and completely 100% not alive. Unfortunately, I don't fully trust the media or the government, so I will not be going on about this story like just about everyone else is right about now. Don't cry though! There's plenty more to go on about.


In addition to being a bad person, I am also a sick person. And no, not the "twisted and malicious" kind. (I hope...) I mean the coughing, sneezing, croaking instead of speaking (which I'm sure is rather sexy, so you're welcome, dear boyfriend of mine), and just feeling gross in general. I'm a lot of fun to be around right now, in case you haven't gathered that much yet.


While being ill is generally a fairly negative experience, I'm slightly enjoying the little perks that accompany it. For instance, I don't think anyone can remain in a state of unhappiness if I sing a little tune for him/her right now. Seriously, it's hysterical. Also, my mom (being the super-mama that she is) has stocked my bedroom with cans of soup and other delicious food items to keep me sustained until I have the energy to move again. Yay, Mom!


Also, for the first time in my life, I'm beginning to fully embrace the nerd in me. I have made it my official personal project to learn Sindarin Elvish. Thanks to a wonderfully eclectic new friend, I have the necessary sources to learn a language that isn't even "dead"; It's completely and totally fictional. Huzzah!


So, that's about ten obscure hobbies and interests, pointy ears, three years of a dead language from high school, and the beginnings of another technically useless language under my belt. Not bad for a Sophomore in college, eh?