Comfort in Nature

Just cold enough to cause me to pull the ends of my long sleeves over my knuckles and curl my toes within my socks. Such clean, chilling temperature causes me to want to be sheltered by my skin. There is nothing cozier than feeling comfort in your body. I am reminded how the flow of my blood and the hair on my flesh work to bring me warmth.
I am tempted to steal the richly colored leaves but they are the treasures of the ground and that is whom they belong to. I know that if I take the treasures from their place, they will immediately lose their value. The earth has set a spell on them so that they cannot be taken for granted by the greedy human beings.
The rays of sun that leap through the branches of the trees catch my eyes just enough to excite the rods and cones within them. My pupils shrink in order to manage the light and my brain releases the feeling of happiness into my nervous system causing those cute little bumps to emerge from the skin on my arms and neck. In response to the chilling of my skin, the rays produce a quick stroke of heat that puts my cells at ease.

Mediocrity

While sipping a vanilla latte with soy milk steamed to 150 degrees in a sophisticated 60 percent recycled to-go cup with a philosophical quote by one of the greats printed on the side, I read the newspaper filled with stories about about people who live lives that contain remarkable happenings.
I love finding raisins amidst the soy nuts and cashews in my trail mix but I try to combine each one with a few nuts and seeds in my palm before pouring them into my mouth. This gives me an argument for trail mix rather than just raisins (which would be just too boring).
Such dilemmas make up the majority of interesting experiences in my life. It's a shame I have never seen a headline that reads, "Girl Strives for Equality between Raisins and Nuts: The Fight for True Trail Mix."

Me = Busy

I am so sorry to all (if any) that read my blog. I have been swamped lately so I have not been posting... as you can see. I have a bunch of essays and poems I have been working on in my journal that I will be adding ASAP. So sorry!!!

The Woman

I call her Agnes.

She is a strong woman with a bold face and long, soft, ash-colored hair. Her chin is broad and her eyes are sure. Rimless glasses act as her telescopes for the world. I feel as though she can see into my soul, she knows my thoughts and feelings, she sees everything I do and judges, but she is not judgemental - she is true. I sense a caring love from her like she knows my heart, my hopes, my fears, and she only wants to help me find my way. She uses a cane and walks with difficulty, I want to help her but I feel that I would taint her pride. Just because it is hard for her does not mean that she is unable to do it, she can and she will. I believe that she can fly, fly above us all filling us with strength through hope. Agnes is my fairy godmother, and she is a woman who rides the 100 West Busway Oakland city bus every morning at 8:13am.

We have never spoken.

by Jess

Crumbs of Memory

I sit on the bed with my dad. He has no face but I know he is my father. I haven't seen him since I was three years old. Once upon a time, he must have had a face, but it has faded along with every other memory of him. We are making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches using saltines as substitutes for bread. I take a bite and the cracker crumbles down my shirt landing in my lap. He smiles at me. I cannot see the smile but I can feel its presence. I know he is happy. I return the smile and we finish our mini sandwiches on paper plates making a lovable mess.

My mother tells me that this never happened. I have told her about this memory many times and she always insists on its implausibility.
"He was never home with you during the day, Jess. He was always working or drunk," she tells me.
I also could not possibly have been old enough to participate in the making of the sandwiches. He left us when I was three. Maybe I just watched him make the snack alone, or maybe it was my mother whom I shared the moment with. I have tried to rationalize it and I have heard my mother's truth multiple times yet the memory stays.

He is faceless but the vision in my mind is vivid. I taste the crackers, I feel them break, I sense his smile, I know he is my father. I may be lying to myself and to you but amidst all of the hatred and heartache this is the only memory I have of him and it is sweet. Can you really take that from me?

By Jess

From "How to Read a Poem" by Terry Eagleton

This book is a wonderful piece of literature and I think that anyone interested in Creative Writing in general should read it.
Anyways, the author uses wonderful analogies and metaphors to make his points. One of the examples he used in the chapter I was reading today about Formalists just made me completely happy and thoughtful and just amazing.

He said:
"The general idea, anyway, is clear: poetry is a kind of creative abnormality, an exhilarating illness of language - rather as, when we are actually ill and so cease to take our bodies for granted, we have an unwelcome opportunity to experience them afresh."

First of all, what a beautifully hopeful way of perceiving illness.
Second of all, this author is brilliant and is able to explain poetry in ways I never would have thought of on my own. He gives me a newly found appreciation for poetry as not only an art form but also a way of communication.

The Genius of Prof. Aziz

"to be a propagandist, you almost have to not believe it"

To All Those Who Say Write What You Know

I know something of desire. I know the blue spell of afternoon on his skin, the way a minute's kiss can absolve one hundred wasted days. The plain chance of bodies I've been willing to mistake for fate, like playing cards found facedown on the sidewalk. I know the words—the yes and the sorry and gone—that stand in for other things we can't say. The constellation of freckles on my left arm I am waiting for someone to read me like tarot. I know the aftermath of want.

by Kate Petersen
http://www.creativenonfiction.org/brevity

My Plea

Pulling. Pushing. Please someone, just hold.

photo by Jamie Stuart http://pilgrimphotography.blogspot.com/