She walks in Starlight

Sometimes I sing to the stars when I think that they are listening. I sing to them as if to question if they hear me, if they care or if they delight by the sound of my voice. I hope it does; it would feel exquisite to give back to them when they've given me more than anything else on earth. And even though I've come to them with tears socked inside my sweater and with broken spirits--and at times elated smiles--they always seem to be there. They always care. I go to them when I am happy, scared, confused, lonely, elegiac, passionate, content. I love my friends, the Stars. But, sometimes I wish they would just flicker off. I wish like a candle their light would sputter into darkness and leave me in heavy silence where I could be at peace and left alone without my pestering thoughts. For once, I just want to be alone amidst the great expanse of emptiness. After all, sometimes feeling nothing at all is better than ripping off the scabs yourself and watching the blood gush until your eyes cringe tiressly. Then again is it not the pain after all is said and done that we remember most? It is the hurt within our yellow memories that is hidden in the core of our nostalgia and may very well be the whole existence if it. That is what really haunts us. Pain. So flicker yellow stars. Leave me be and let me feel momentarily empty for a while. All I need is peace. Tangible, empty, forgettable peace. 

10:46PM Weds. February 18 2015 (A painful, humane day)

See life, draw closer, observe.

These is my words

True freedom comes from belief, because that is something no one can take away from you. (k.b.)

(1/15/15 8:11pm Thrusday)

Science

"You know, they say that there is a part of the human chest that if you strike it hard enough the person’s heart explodes. This sounds like such a lie that I have to believe it’s the truth. If I were science, I’d never tell anyone where this place is. If I were science, I’d have named this place after you." from “Not As Smart As I Think I Am,” Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz (via judy-poovey)Source: dailydoseofstuf

St. Clarity

This very moment music has entered my soul. The strings were gently fading into my pores and sinking deeply into my heart like butter on warm bread. It continued to sink until it seemed to weigh into the pillow of my soul. Then there I was slowly lifting my hands away from any tangible object, tilting my head back and never opening my eyes. It was there. The music had not only entered my soul, but had stolen it as well. What could I say to get it back? Absolutely nothing. I was breathlessly captured by Heaven itself. If ever there was a moment I were to sprout wings it would've been there. If ever there was a moment of true and utter awareness of existence it would've been there.

It's a Tuesday

Today, I wish it was Tuesday.
Sadly, it's only Wednesday and though it isn't all around a horrific day, I find my strenuous thoughts fraying on the idea it is indeed not a Tuesday. I fear my sweater will be completely demolished in a matter of seconds if I'm not careful.
There's simply something spectacular about Tuesdays.
They seem to sparkle in the eyes of its beholder, dazzling all the senses. There like a good friend you run into on accident that you only wish could stay and chat a little longer about the good old days, when life had no timer and jokes were never in short supply. It's funny though, thinking back, I used to hate Tuesdays. They always seemed in the way, nothing more than an extra day in the week to forget about. It took me years to empathize its neglection but once I did, I fell in love with every piece of it. People think I'm crazy to love any other day of the week besides Friday, Sunday or Saturday, but what can I say? I can't help myself when Tuesday saunters by flashing his sly and outlandish smile, layered in whit and uncanny ideas. Who could ever think of Plain-Jane Thursday or Lugubrious Monday carrying the juice of every lemon between the folds of her skirt, when Tuesday twirls into the room?
How I wish you'd stay a while sweet Tuesday, you always remind me how unlonely life can be. It's as if your ticklish breath teases the curls of my hair as if leaning in to snatch a kiss. If I could be so lucky! If I could be so daring! Is there anything worse than a forgotten kiss from Tuesday? Perhaps losing a sock in the forbidding vat-of-toxic-laundry might be worse, or getting a kite tangled in a monstrous tree you cannot climb. Either way, Tuesdays are nothing to most everyone but me. (Morrie and me at least.)
I tried explaining my explicit love to someone once. I thought it would be easy. But then again, when is talking of love ever completely, explicitly easy? I know this instance wasn't. Here is all I said,
"Tuesdays, my dear friend are simple for one reason: Most everyone forgets about them. Think about it. Who ever gets together with friends on a Tuesday? Who honestly leaves the house for any other reason than the initial on a Tuesday?"
I paused for a moment, contemplating what I'd just spoken.
I concluded in my mind: Monday blocks it out with all its horrid, prolonged depression, then Wednesday with its faithful optimism that the week is at least halfway over. Thursday--I don't even want to talk about and Friday (I'm in love?). No Friday, she's there for everyone no matter what. Saturday is wondrous with freedom furling from his fancy fedora, then Sunday rolls in like Buddha (sometimes literally). Do you see? Where is Tuesday amidst all this? What does Tuesday really bring?
 I then finished to my friend,
"Only true friends get together on a Tuesday because it always feels in the way, most everyone feels tired or annoyed on a Tuesday (but not in the same way as on a Monday. That monster only comes at the beginning of the week). So, if you're making plans on a Tuesday with someone, you know they're pretty committed or they're very loyal because it's so forgettable and seemingly a hassle to 'deal with'. If anything, one can only appreciate a good, gosh-darn day of the week when they can appreciate a Tuesday. That's what real friends do anyway."
Do you get it now?
Tuesday is the underdog of the week, the real hero we all forget about, much like Ron Weasley and his loyalty, or Sam-Wise Gamgee on Mt. Doom. We need more people like Sam-Wise Gamgee gosh-dangit. Enough of forgetting about the "back round hero"! If I were dying and had only one last breath of air to put to good use, I would say only this:
"Oy! Enough with the Fridays already! Bring on the Tuesdays!"
That's all I can say for you kiddos (at least on a non-Tuesday kind of day).
Like today.
k.b.

Where do the strings of thought even come from?

"I could shatter the atmosphere with the ceaseless thoughts of you right now."

(k.b.) January 1. 2015 3:23AM

Snow

"Upon the Thoughts of Snow"
Borë Néj  Snijeg Lumi Neige Schnee Theluji Snö Zåpadå

Part (I)

Upon recent thumbing through my beloved book, I was delighted to read through this year's first experience of snow for me and as I read, something hit me quite impetuously. It was a voice as firm as concrete conviction. Do you know what it whispered? It whispered this: "You, my dear, love snow." And it's true. But I don't just love snow. I revel in it. If I could roll around in powdery precipitation draped in nothing but delicate clothing to bask in the musky breath of snow, if I could but leave my bedroom window ajar every morning to let the sweet scent of snow drift in, I would. Yes, indeed I said "the scent of snow" as snow--despite most misconstrued beliefs--has a smell. It is a wondrous smell to behold, filled with chilled nostalgia and powdered excitement; it is musky and heavy with ideas. Sweet snow is something that once inhaled completely strikes your senses so fiercely it seems to coil its frigid fingers around your soft core until it too becomes frigid and freezes over beautifully, making you its work of art and not the other way around.
And then there is its delicate and intricate appearance. Truly there is nothing in the world to compare to the craftsmanship of winter crystals, like sophisticated diadems carved from the Angels above us. I can see them now in pearly gowns tucked behind their exquisite wings, bending through the clouds gathering lumps of ice between the folds of their skirts and carrying them to their prestigious tables where they gently scrape and sculpt every shape imaginable for a flake of snow. Then the moment their artistic creation is complete, they release their sculptures into the wind and watch them drift into the unconscientious-ness of our dreary, crumbled dreams the misconception of heaven has slid behind our eyelids.
See what I mean?
Snow does things to people, it makes them gentler and think more beautifully. It has a gravity of its own and once you're compelled into it, you never want to leave its mystique atmosphere.
Ah, snow, how I love you dearly.  
(k.b.)

December 3, 2014

Wednesday

4:59PM

Part (II)

"My socks are soaked.
It all started when I was up in my room finishing an episode of my new fetish, Gilmore Girls, when suddenly, I stopped with the sudden impulse to open my screen-less window. Climbing upon my desk )(a usual habit of mine) I was caught dead in my tracks by Drew--who decided to join me in my impulsive deed. I nudged my friendly window open only to be surprised by delicate, yet colossal flurries of this year's first snow fall! Together we reminisced in the splendor of its quiet beauty. Drew duly noted on its silence, while I delighted in its smell. I spoke quietly to revel in its sacred beauty. There is a solidity in the stillness of a snow fall, particularly the first. It deserves reverence and so I spoke in hushed awe and contemplated [quietly] if dipping my bare toes in its first blanker was too much. Soon Adam came, but I confess it was difficult to devour its arrival (the snow) with both of my slightly distracted brothers in my room. But try, I must. Shoveling everything off my desk and onto my bed, and also sliding my italian shells carefully to the side, I comforted myself right beside the open window and the illusion [of] warmness [from] my lamp. Ah, to inhale the smell of snow is to feel alive! My eyes searched its calm, scintillated dancing, while my body fought the urge to join it. I'd been waiting for this night; my mind ached for it almost as much as my senses. If I leaned one way I could simply fall into the noisy warmness of my lamp-lit room...but if I  but [flickered] another way I would plummet into the soft pillow of renewal that reeked of memories and things, great things, yet to come. Tempted as I was, my [knobby] fingers were the only pieces of me that made the treacherous trip. After settling the fact my brothers wouldn't be leaving, I begrudgingly shut my window and made for  my safe seclusion with nothing but essentials:
My Pen.
My Blanket.
And this book.
I contemplated for a moment as whether or not to turn the porch light on as it might better illuminate my snow storm, but concluded my pink flashlight would suffice. And there I sat completely wrapped up in myself and my quaint snow storm. I felt content until something hit me--or someone. I refer to my heart as 'someone' because it makes it easier to hate and easier to talk (or yell) to. There it was sitting cross-legged just like me, its arms wrapped within its folded body and then it leaned to me, tucked my hair behind my ear and (because it knows I love that) and whispered inside me, "Why are you crying? Don't you know the snow is for you?" Only two heavy tears escaped me. But I didn't care. All I seemed to care about was this: Why? Why-oh-why can't I be in love? Just for once, why can't it be me? I told the sky just that. I wanted to shout it just to erupt  the silent, yet noisy, snowfall.
But I didn't.
Couldn't.
"Please." was the last thing that left me before I heard a noise to the left of me. Was it Drew on "my" roof? Was it somehow the love I'd been ludicrously asking for? Well, whatever it was I never found it. I got my socks soaked trying to find it. My favorite white and blue, polka-dotted socks. I flicked my flashlight against the sky and falling snow as if to find it there, but nothing. Melted snow squished between my toes as I trudged back into the house, the musk of snow clinging to me and the cold trail of tears still slapping my senses. I didn't even make it far. I fumbled into here, the dark living room, crumbled between the couch and folded into the pages of this book feeling no less empty or heavy as before, only elated by the first fallen snow and saddened that I have no one to share it with (but you)."
(k.b.)
From the excerpts of my book
November 22, 2014
Sat. 12:40AM

Part (III)
It hasn't snowed in weeks. Being in Utah, that is not okay. People are beginning to think that it isn't Christmas without any snow and I for one happen to almost agree with them. Almost. (obviously, it means more to me than a bit of precipitation). We went to the barn today (boy, don't I sound like a little country gal) to continue decorating for the wedding that is now under a week away. It was a while before I saw it--something was coming, though I didn't know it until my eyes did. Around 2:00-3:00pm today, it at long last snowed. I don't just mean light little flurries--no--it full on, big flakes the size of Jupiter, snowed today! I remember my family didn't see it as first, but it almost called me by name. I was pulled to the open barn doors, beckoned by its graceful burial service. Yes, that is what it does. It buries the earth in white. At first I ran to it, delighting myself beneath its alluring beauty. Chips of snow cluttered my eyes and clung to my hair like drips of honey. It was a pretty image, seeing my cascading curls bejeweled in stones of snow. I enjoyed the sensation of it tingling my skin into a shiver that in no way bothered me at all. Then my tongue begged for the same commotion. I retreated back to the large oak doors and stood there, captured by the infinitive downpour so much bigger than I ever could be. I rested my head against solid support, but felt the enormity of every flake falling in a different pattern, a different pace, it's own dance from the sky to the ground, as if it were all around me. A little black bird  flickered above me, I couldn't help but admire its dauntlessness. It is strange how much stands still in a snow fall. The only ones that move are the ones that either compliment its dancing or betray it. I wasn't sure were I stood on that precipice, but I gladly twirled beneath its beauty in graceful adoration. Truly there is nothing to compare to the bliss and solidity of serendipitous snowfall twirling.
(k.b)

December 13, 2014
Est. 4:33PM

Forget about the Umbrella

Unintentional Costume Party

December 12, 2014

After 7:00PM

Friday Evening

"One Eclectic Costume Party"

Call it what you want, but last night was one of the best night's I've had in a long time. Too long of time, in fact. It all began with a special basketball game we Westlake students call the "Silent Night" game where we all dress up as spontaneous and eclectic as we possibly can--but the fun doesn't end there, folks. Once we come, look around, and throw carnival-like glances at each other, some complimenting the sheer brilliance of others and some wondering why on earth anyone would come out in public dressed like that, we sit. Yes, we sit down at a basketball game and suddenly as the clock nears its end of counting, just after the national anthem is patriotically finished, we wait in silence for the tenth point to come. What happens while we do not talk? People ask. Mostly unaccounted whispers and heavy breathing rich with anticipation. I respond. Why are we silent? Others contemplate. Just wait and see. Is all I say. Even last year, as it was our first year doing this new tradition, people looked at us in deep confusion, speculating it was some sort of tribute for a deaf person or something. Most just thought we were lunatics. Every basket made, every good call from a referee before the tenth point was cheered for by the waving and epelectic shaking of our hands. I referred to them as "jazz hands" but it was the best we could come up with as a substitute for our lack of cheers...until the tenth point, that is. Legend has it, once the tenth point is alive and breathing--so are we. Even more so! As soon as the ball swirls through the hoop we are on our feet screaming, cheering and dancing as boisterously as humans possibly can! We cheer just one step away from ballistic. It's quite an incredible sight to behold and experience. I know last year was just plain ridiculous. If I'm not mistaken, several people were injured as we stormed the court just before half-time was about to begin--yes, half-time (the poor basketball team had been so nervous about this new idea that they didn't score ten measly points until a few seconds before the second quarter ended). Anyway, that year we were permitted to "storm the court" which actually turned into a major mosh-pit/dance party that left no one unscathed. I happened to be wearing a watch of my mother's from her young adult life and even though I still can't account to this day what caused it to break, I can still remember looking down and seeing nothing but a bare wrist and this feeling of remorse of what she would say once I got home flooding through me. This year, there would be no mosh-pit. And this year I only jammed one finger. After the tenth point, I remember feeling something wet hit the back of my neck from all angles--spit. Yuck. The kid next to me (a sassy ginger-polynesian) was screaming so cacophonously, moisture was spewing from his mouth and hitting me. It didn't help that we should've been exceeding the limit of humans on one bench at a time and so I was forced to be squished really close to him and everybody else. Needless to say, it was not a pleasant position. But, the cheering sent chills down my back and to top it all off we ended up winning our game by a landslide! Us! Little ole Westlake who never wins anything but band! (No offense kiddos, as awesome as band is, most of us would appreciate to be cheering into victory for all events at our school too). Dripping in sweat and all pleasantly surprised by the fabulous turn out of the event, we all laughed and enjoyed ourselves inside the gym long after the game ended. It was good to reiterate all the good things that happened and all the ludacris fun we had cheering in our strange outfits and being close as peebee and jay. After that, everyone but one person knew where we were going next. Maddie Lauder's eighteenth birthday was only twenty-four hours ago and so Jentry (her best friend and also a close friend of mine) had planned a very top-secret surprise party for her at her house and so slowly and very inconspicuously we departed in clumps until all but two arrived. (Jench had created a sudden diversion of a milk-run escapade for Maddie to fall into until everyone was in position). Suddenly, she knocked on the door and when she came in it was a multitude of hyperactive cheering and extreme hugging and jocund favor! It was great. Really, really great. Maddie didn't even have a clue about the party...or so I heard. The rest of the night only escaladed in enjoyable memories, most of which have escaped me, but the ones that sticked were simple: There were many kids of all ages eligible for high school at this strange and assorted costume party of sorts, there were delicious and rapidly disappearing Swedish Fish and there was at one point a "Circle of Trust" that consisted of us sharing our first kiss stories and what not. It actually ended up as a highlight of the night as most of the stories were interrupted with laughter and endless jokes parading all over our "unofficial"rule to stay quiet and only let the person with the "Speaking Hat" tell their story. Our circle was small, but heavily compacted with members. It was hot and by the end of the night I remember remarking that the basement smelt really strange and can only assume it was because of the major occupancy of teenagers and the ruckus they had caused. I floated between anyone and everyone--except I made a point to avoid the sophomores, as well, you know, they are sophomores--and enjoyed mostly listening to everyone tell random stories that had nothing to do with anything. Clay Baggage was most especially talented in that area. At one point I was caught in a web of one of his strenuous story about something I can no longer remember, but I do remember it was long. My eyes kept wandering about the room becoming rudely distracted by kids playing billiard pool and chucking exercise balls a little too close to my face for my liking. Then there was this other kid that really turned my head upside down. You may not know this about me, but I'm not exactly the life of the party. In fact, most would associate the "wallflower" with me. I tried my best to interact, but often found myself wanting (and refusing) to retreat. Daydreams of running out the back door and under the sleeting rain often popped into my head (especially during one of Clay's notorious stories). Sometimes it was almost an overbearing sensation to run away, but I refused. Something inside me wouldn't let me, and sometimes I really hated that little jerk, but most of the time (usually after the party) I was grateful for its sensibility. Through out the party, some were found buzzing by the piano, pretending they could play or otherwise trying and failing to teach others how, as I had done a few times, and if you took a break from the rowdiness in the theater room, you would only find a different kind--one that ignored the holiday movie and instead insisted on starting everyone in the room into a heavy conversation about anything but the movie. It also ushered people in and out in a constant flow of indecisiveness that both annoyed and understood everyone in the theater. I hardly ever deluded myself to that room. After about 11:30 kids starting dropping like flies. I found one sprawled out on the bean-bag in the theater, but the most humorous was Tiffany whom we found cuddling on the floor next the couch, completely asleep and defying her usual party habits. By midnight, most everyone was gone, but the few that left last were extremely drousy on the drive home and honestly made me very nervous to ride home with. But even that situation wasn't as uncomfortable as a sophomore frequently telling me all about his dream about us making out on Jentry's couch. Yeah...and I thought I really knew awkward before that. All in all, this night was one to remember and what do you know--it was the best unintentional costume party I've ever been to. 

(k.b.) 

December 13, 2014 

11:43PM SAT

Philias...

Philias...

The suffixes –philia and –philic are related to –phile. Philia is actually also a noun which means “amity, affection, friendship; fondness, liking,” coming from the ancient Greek word for “friendship.”  When you add –philia as a suffix, it means “love of <something.>” Below  I have compiled  a list of some the philes that define me. They are quite precise and also the only "real"philes I could find that truly relate to me:

astrophile: a lover of the stars

bibliophile: a lover of books; a book-fancier

logophile: a lover of words.

theophile: one who loves God

xenophile: fond of or attracted by foreign things or people

pluviophile: a lover of rain.

Being a lover of many things, I do not limit myself to only defining myself by the official philes as listed above. I decided to craft some of my own philias by compounding a favorite subject with its Latin, French or Greek root. Observe:

phonophile: fond of or attracted by music and/or sound

pathiophile: fond of or attracted by emotion

ocuphile: a lover of eyes. 

phyllophile: a lover of trees or leaves.

artemphile: fond of or attracted by works of art.

putophile: one who loves to think.

animophile: fond of or attracted by life and/or spirits.

cryptophile: fond of or attracted by secrets or keeping secrets.

esthaphile: fond of or attracted by beauty; a lover of sensation and feeling.

juvenphile: fond of or attracted by youth or young things.

oestophile: a lover of bones. 

mariophile: a lover of the sea or ocean.

cosmophile: a lover of the universe. 

graphiphile: a lover of the written word or writing.

amiphile: fond of or attracted by love.

urbophile: fond of or attracted by the city or urban envoirnment. (also known as "poliphile/philic/philia")

auctumnusphile: one who loves Autumn.

niphaphile: a lover of snow.

plexaphile: one who loves braids or intricate designs.

anthophile: a lover of flowers (specifically peonies).

pothichephile: fond of or attracted by pottery or more formally all things in relation to "Harry Potter".

anthrophile: fond of or attracted by people and/or human cultures (also known as "popophilic" or "demophilia").

hyperintelligeniaphile: fond of or attracted by knowing, knowledge, or growth in understanding. 

montiophile: a lover of mountains.

pseudoanticphile: fond of or attracted by things of or belonging to the past.