The title has nothing to do with anything in this post... FYI
Lately... Life has taken its toll on me and its dragged me behind its wagon of trials, pains, and afflictions. But you know, I'm on the upward hill now. Walking. Actually no. I'm walking on a road. That is tilted ever so slightly up. So slightly that I can't even feel the difference. I guess you can say that for a road going down... But I'm going up. I am. :) On this fabulous break with only 3 more days left, i am having a good time.
Someone gave my family secret Santa gifts. We all got one gift and a card. We have no idea who they are from. We have absolutely no idea. I want to know because they spent nearly 1,000 buck-a-roonies, on my small small family. Why would they do that? I dunno but if they ever read this I thank them very much. It means a lot to me. We were weren't really planning on having a Christmas this year. Mostly just eating and then, "Family Time" which is where we watch movies and then yell at each other to shut up during the movie. What can I say? Can't break tradition. ;) But yeah. That brought me to tears to see actual presents under our tree with single ornaments and lights strung around it. It made my sister smile, it made my mom cry. It made my dad say 'Wow'. In English. Not that you can say 'Wow' in Spanish, just with less of an accent.
I was kidnapped by my friends to watch The Help. It's a really good movie. Depicts the time of all the segregation and black maids so well. I love it. Because you can all collectively hate the same person, and love the same person. :) I love that. Like when you go to a movie and your the only one laughing because your laugh is on the outside. But I LOVE, when you go to a movie and the people in the theater with you laugh when you laugh, and OUT LOUD no less. :) It's awesome. Or when there are black people and they comment on everything! (Not being at all, seriously, racist. I love black people.)
Today, I went to the Timpanogos temple. Although i didnt go inside because of my recommend and personal reasons. It still felt good to even be on the outside. Being on the outside I still felt that peace. Being on the outside I still felt that comfort. Being on the outside, I still felt His care. It was weird to actually sit there, and think to myself. Why I was sitting on the outside. How I could change that, and What I had to do to be able to go inside again someday. I miss it... but. Today was not wasted. Today, I felt more spirit then I have ever in a single meeting. I know that sounds terrible. ... but it was true. It is true. The temple is a House of The Lord. A place to find peace and joy, and revelation. What's worse is that, we should be able to find that same peace and joy, and revelation in our own homes. Our homes should hold that same amount. But I don't, I find myself in a constant battle trying to find some form of peace in silences, some form of joy in the laughter, some form of revelation in the discussions. If that makes any sense. [its alright if you dont, this is mainly for my own vent session. My imaginary version that someone is actually listening to me and caring.]
Today, I wrote in my journal.. At least.. 15 pages. It hurt, but it felt good. A "hurt so good" kind of thing. I wrote about what happened nearly 5 years ago. I wrote about the trials I had endured, the lies I told, the pain I caused others, the pain I brought upon myself. All of this negative pressure, negative results, all because I didn't have any friends. I was the shy, always-early-to-class student. To a teacher, that's the best student. I was always last in group assignments, or groups of 3's. I would wait for everyone to be done and when the teacher would say "Does anyone not have a group?" Is when I would raise my hand, and receive the looks from everyone in the class that all collectively said "Please don't put her in our group." I knew I wasn't wanted.
Fact: I had to make up, a boy, who "liked me" for someone to realized I was cutting myself. (yeah. there's the big secret. and I won't go into much more details.)
I wrote about how I would speak to my mother in my room, and cover the fresh cuts with my own hands and she wouldn't even notice. That's when I realized, she didn't even notice. Nobody cared. Nobody listened to me.
Now, I love my mother. I do. But at that time, I thoroughly disagreed, and i still do. She told me that it didn't matter if I had friends or not in school. [mind you, it was 7th grade.] That I needed to focus more on my school work, or my studies, then having friends. I ate lunch for the entire 1st semester alone. Even alone in the bathroom at times. I regret to admit, but I did. I was that girl. I was.. Even in elementary. The first note I ever wrote to my friend, she didn't let me give it to her. Because I simply said that a little quiz means less then a friendship. That our friendship meant more then a silly little quiz. But that's besides the point. I had, no friends. All my friends from 6th grade went on to Centennial. Or the friends I did have, decided they were to cool for me and acted like we had never met.
3 things I figured. Nobody Noticed. Nobody Cared. Nobody Listened. It wasn't until the 2nd semester that I had 3 friends. THREE. Count 'em. ONE. TWO. THREE. They were well known among peers at school, mostly because they had their own group at their elementary. The Pink Ladies. [They loved the movie Grease] With jackets with letters and everything. Later that year they had told my counselor. Then ... I got better. Slowly ... and at times I felt the way I did before. At times at school now, I still wait for the teacher to ask that question, but sometimes he/she doesn't and I'm left sitting there. Getting the assignment done by myself. Because. Nobody Noticed.
Granted now I do have more friends then I did in 7th grade. 8th grade was the push of my shyness. Choir helped in a way. I had to sing in front of a class room of 40 girls. I joined a dance group program after school and actually met a boy. A real boy. Who liked me. And I liked him. A lot. He saved me. He saved me from the RUT I was in. Of course, he had to move away and I haven't seen him since a volleyball game at Springville that Mountain View Football was playing at. He came to see the game for a bit. :j Of which I had gotten dig, after dig, and we got the game winning rally point, because of those digs. :)
.... well.. This has been quite the entry no? I'm sorry. that was just my long. long. long. long. long. long. Stream on conscious. So yeah.. Don't judge me to harshly.. I have my reasons. I have my flaws. Your not perfect either, you were just given different trials. We all were. Sometimes they can be similar. But its rare. You know, If I were given a chance to CHOOSE my trials and pains and frustrations. I'd pick the same ones. So would you.
Yours Truly,
Amanda Jeannette.
Stay True, Stay You.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
The Last Eight Counts
The following is a paper assignment for my Creative Writing class. What i got out of it was that I'm to depict what a Dancer, a professional dancer, might feel, think, or see? if given the news they have to lose both their legs.
The Last Eight Counts
One, …Two, …Three, … Four, …Five …Six, …Seven, …Eight
Leaping and flying I felt boundless, unlimited by the world. There was no amount of gravity that could hold me down. No length of letters to the law that could keep me from dancing. I knew exactly what I had to do, and what I was capable of doing. My teacher never told me to fix my posture while in 4th position. He never yelled at me to point harder or straighten my leg any better. He always showed me as the prime example in passé. The way I look at ease in this position. I was his protégé. I was only 16 in a class filled with students much over 21 years of age, they having had lived more of their lives dancing then I could in a single day dream. I was always given more then my own space, more then enough room to dance and not hit anyone.
One, Two, adjust my shoes.
Three, Four, I am forlorn.
Five, Six, I danced like this.
Seven, Eight, Time is gone and now its too late.
Kicking, punching, and screaming now replaced Pliés and Elevés. Chassés and Dégagés were performed with anger, grief, and malice. Infused with rage towards myself, creating a cruel mixture called Life, My Life. Where did I go wrong? Did I miss my marker? Was I on the wrong count? No, that can’t be it. I’m sure he said five I just know it! This isn’t how its supposed to be. He never said I’d be doing this alone. He said he would always be there for me to make sure I was jumping high enough, pointing hard enough, dancing just, enough, to suit him. I didn’t audition for this solo. It was never planned in the schedule. Then again, nothing is ever planned, its only jotted down in the hopes He’ll allow us to do so. Sometimes we write it down and all He can do is laugh because it’s not what he has in mind.
One, …Two, …Three, … Four, …Five …Six, …Seven, …Eight
Fiery balls of gas fell from the night sky. They hid from me behind mountains, and trees, and large boulders from a far off. Once they held my power, my strength and agility. But now they simply burnt holes in my pockets. Where there was once a cyan blue sky, now sits my black shadow. I sit here alone, awaiting my fate as I hear his footsteps coming closer and closer. A small chance that I could walk away with a minor set back or to be constrained to a wheel chair filled with self-contempt. What would be the prognosis? My life lies in His hands.
I can’t leap or bound, I can only fall. But at least I know how to fall, the right way. My mama once said to me “If you do something over and over again, it will soon become you.” I used to practice my leaps for hours and hours on end. Jumping and jumping as high as I could. But now, I can only turn and turn as far as I want to go. Push and push and be pushed for the rest of my life. The strength required is small, but in large doses does it prescribe. The milligrams though large they may be are do able, but don’t subside the pain.
One, …Two, …Three, … Four, …Five …Six, …Seven, …Eight
After my first failed “Flying Stars” audition, my father raised me from the floor into his arms, looked me in the eyes and said “ Don’t you ever give up. They aren’t worth your talent.” As he placed me back on the floor, the paper that stuck to my chest with the number eight withered in my tears.
I used to think that I could fly off the face of the earth if I wanted to, that I could get anywhere I needed to go. But now the only axis I can move on is X. There will never be a Y again. Do I bother even trying if I know I’m just going to fall down again? Why am I this point on the graph, stuck on the Line of Life unable to move up or down, diagonal in direction? Was this really my role? Was I to be assigned to be the part of the paraplegic? How would He have known what my response would be?
I’m not ready to let go, because I’d never know what I’d be missing. What I’d be sitting out for. I would lose everything I never found, everything I never saw, never felt. But as two turns to zero, zero turns to four; I’m left alone to ponder with my thoughts. “I think it’s me. … At least I hope it’s still me. Half of me really.” I am left to live the other half of my life this way. I never asked for this. It wasn’t in my plan, it wasn’t on my schedule, but then again those things are really only jotted down to make Him laugh aren’t they?
One, …Two, …Three, … Four, …Five …Six, …Seven, …Eight
Yours Truly,
Amanda Jeannette.
Stay True, Stay You.
Ps. Courtesy Editing help, and keeping me sane by not letting me abuse my delete button: Jenna King.
The Last Eight Counts
One, …Two, …Three, … Four, …Five …Six, …Seven, …Eight
Leaping and flying I felt boundless, unlimited by the world. There was no amount of gravity that could hold me down. No length of letters to the law that could keep me from dancing. I knew exactly what I had to do, and what I was capable of doing. My teacher never told me to fix my posture while in 4th position. He never yelled at me to point harder or straighten my leg any better. He always showed me as the prime example in passé. The way I look at ease in this position. I was his protégé. I was only 16 in a class filled with students much over 21 years of age, they having had lived more of their lives dancing then I could in a single day dream. I was always given more then my own space, more then enough room to dance and not hit anyone.
One, Two, adjust my shoes.
Three, Four, I am forlorn.
Five, Six, I danced like this.
Seven, Eight, Time is gone and now its too late.
Kicking, punching, and screaming now replaced Pliés and Elevés. Chassés and Dégagés were performed with anger, grief, and malice. Infused with rage towards myself, creating a cruel mixture called Life, My Life. Where did I go wrong? Did I miss my marker? Was I on the wrong count? No, that can’t be it. I’m sure he said five I just know it! This isn’t how its supposed to be. He never said I’d be doing this alone. He said he would always be there for me to make sure I was jumping high enough, pointing hard enough, dancing just, enough, to suit him. I didn’t audition for this solo. It was never planned in the schedule. Then again, nothing is ever planned, its only jotted down in the hopes He’ll allow us to do so. Sometimes we write it down and all He can do is laugh because it’s not what he has in mind.
One, …Two, …Three, … Four, …Five …Six, …Seven, …Eight
Fiery balls of gas fell from the night sky. They hid from me behind mountains, and trees, and large boulders from a far off. Once they held my power, my strength and agility. But now they simply burnt holes in my pockets. Where there was once a cyan blue sky, now sits my black shadow. I sit here alone, awaiting my fate as I hear his footsteps coming closer and closer. A small chance that I could walk away with a minor set back or to be constrained to a wheel chair filled with self-contempt. What would be the prognosis? My life lies in His hands.
I can’t leap or bound, I can only fall. But at least I know how to fall, the right way. My mama once said to me “If you do something over and over again, it will soon become you.” I used to practice my leaps for hours and hours on end. Jumping and jumping as high as I could. But now, I can only turn and turn as far as I want to go. Push and push and be pushed for the rest of my life. The strength required is small, but in large doses does it prescribe. The milligrams though large they may be are do able, but don’t subside the pain.
One, …Two, …Three, … Four, …Five …Six, …Seven, …Eight
After my first failed “Flying Stars” audition, my father raised me from the floor into his arms, looked me in the eyes and said “ Don’t you ever give up. They aren’t worth your talent.” As he placed me back on the floor, the paper that stuck to my chest with the number eight withered in my tears.
I used to think that I could fly off the face of the earth if I wanted to, that I could get anywhere I needed to go. But now the only axis I can move on is X. There will never be a Y again. Do I bother even trying if I know I’m just going to fall down again? Why am I this point on the graph, stuck on the Line of Life unable to move up or down, diagonal in direction? Was this really my role? Was I to be assigned to be the part of the paraplegic? How would He have known what my response would be?
I’m not ready to let go, because I’d never know what I’d be missing. What I’d be sitting out for. I would lose everything I never found, everything I never saw, never felt. But as two turns to zero, zero turns to four; I’m left alone to ponder with my thoughts. “I think it’s me. … At least I hope it’s still me. Half of me really.” I am left to live the other half of my life this way. I never asked for this. It wasn’t in my plan, it wasn’t on my schedule, but then again those things are really only jotted down to make Him laugh aren’t they?
One, …Two, …Three, … Four, …Five …Six, …Seven, …Eight
Yours Truly,
Amanda Jeannette.
Stay True, Stay You.
Ps. Courtesy Editing help, and keeping me sane by not letting me abuse my delete button: Jenna King.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
"A poem is never finished. It is only abandoned"
Words you have to read with sound, hear out loud, see float and just hang in the air like fog.
I recently ran into Spoken Poetry on youtube by a friend and I am in love with it. I've just been addicted to hearing people tell me their stories through rhymes and rhythms, and comparisons i could have never even DREAMED of using.
Gravestones to Teeth, Anesthesia as the gas we breath living in suburbia telling us everything's okay. A soldier to a little girl with a plastic bucket. The things people go through, the joys and pains you see revealed by a simple gesture worth 10 words plus. Then another gesture to explain the next 10 words.
Spoken Poetry is soooooo amazing. I wish one day to be able to spit out the things I've been through, paint it on to a piece of paper and be able to touch someone far from where i am at the moment. That as soon as i reach them i quickly become a part of their past and slowly a part of their memories. So someday they can tell someone else, about that great somebody they heard tell them about their story, and the story will forever be told.
Today I asked 2 different people to write a poem with me. One. Very funny. The other, the complete opposite. I started one, and the other one I followed. I did what any writer would do. Feed off the beginning. She started and i followed. I started and she followed. The following are 2 completely different poems. One about a Man leaving someone behind unnoticed, the other. About. Shoes.
(I wrote the blue lines. Black is my friend.)
SHOES
Left and right. Left and right. is all they know.
They sometimes run, sometimes skip, always on the go.
Unknowing, like hands fumbling in the dark.
Going where led, stopping where parked.
Obedient as a well trained dog, frantic like a baby on a log.
Some will be shiny, others will not, some may be tiny, others a Lot!
Shoes, shoes, the things i strap to my feet.
Shoes, shoes, they really are quite neat!
JUST THERE
At the family Christmas party and your standing there, just standing. Water dripping down ever so slightly on your cheeks, sniffles and coughs, beating and bouncing around the room like a percussionist's audition. Hands shaking as if there was an earthquake.. feet wet. Staring off into space, wondering if I will ever find my way back into reality, into the screaming, into the laughing, into the distraught and lonely, into the love and heart aches only to see how it hurts me. Help. Help me. I'm stuck. They through the shovel out, I'm stuck in this hole all by myself no one can hear my cry's for help.. I sit and watch as the shadows of happiness and joy cross over my face like ants on a picnic blanket. Knees tucked in, head bent down alone sitting, tears streaming.. I can't control my thoughts. I think things I know I shouldn't. He doesn't care. Or does he? Does he really see me? Does he see me now? Am i making you proud?! ... He sees me.. Alone here, sitting. Watching my minds cogs tick, and twork as i make a decision all on my own, as a child stumbles and falls from the lessons you've learned, He doesn't care. He's moved on to the next one. He hasn't called in weeks. Maybe even months.. he doesn't see the stress beyond my smile.. if.. if.. I even smile. Sometimes its dependable.. on you, but you don't seem to care really.. obviously I'm not. Okay. I see where this is going. Where this is coming from. And its not something that is easy to go through. Not something that can be fixed over night, not something that can be trimmed off the edges and swept away.
And that's where it ended.. But do you see how words can portray completely different stories, pictures, scenes. All SO different. I'm not taking this last one personally, it didn't meant anything to me, i just simply fed off of her. My dear friend. Who goes through a lot of hard things and she's only just "a young lass", a young women. Things that shouldn't be shown to such a girl, such a girl with pure innocence. And it pains me to read the things she wrote and to try and pick things up for her to up the end, but it just sucks to be on the listening end sometimes.
Listening to someone express their feelings, and thoughts. Their perception on all the same things I've seen and heard is ... both trembling, and interesting.
Anyways. Hope this wasn't a downer of a entry...
Sometimes its hard to be the listener, and have no one listen to you. It's the hard part of being the listener.
Hmm... The Listener... sounds like the makings of something new..
Yours Truly,
Amanda Jeannette
Stay True, Stay You.
I recently ran into Spoken Poetry on youtube by a friend and I am in love with it. I've just been addicted to hearing people tell me their stories through rhymes and rhythms, and comparisons i could have never even DREAMED of using.
Gravestones to Teeth, Anesthesia as the gas we breath living in suburbia telling us everything's okay. A soldier to a little girl with a plastic bucket. The things people go through, the joys and pains you see revealed by a simple gesture worth 10 words plus. Then another gesture to explain the next 10 words.
Spoken Poetry is soooooo amazing. I wish one day to be able to spit out the things I've been through, paint it on to a piece of paper and be able to touch someone far from where i am at the moment. That as soon as i reach them i quickly become a part of their past and slowly a part of their memories. So someday they can tell someone else, about that great somebody they heard tell them about their story, and the story will forever be told.
Today I asked 2 different people to write a poem with me. One. Very funny. The other, the complete opposite. I started one, and the other one I followed. I did what any writer would do. Feed off the beginning. She started and i followed. I started and she followed. The following are 2 completely different poems. One about a Man leaving someone behind unnoticed, the other. About. Shoes.
(I wrote the blue lines. Black is my friend.)
SHOES
Left and right. Left and right. is all they know.
They sometimes run, sometimes skip, always on the go.
Unknowing, like hands fumbling in the dark.
Going where led, stopping where parked.
Obedient as a well trained dog, frantic like a baby on a log.
Some will be shiny, others will not, some may be tiny, others a Lot!
Shoes, shoes, the things i strap to my feet.
Shoes, shoes, they really are quite neat!
JUST THERE
At the family Christmas party and your standing there, just standing. Water dripping down ever so slightly on your cheeks, sniffles and coughs, beating and bouncing around the room like a percussionist's audition. Hands shaking as if there was an earthquake.. feet wet. Staring off into space, wondering if I will ever find my way back into reality, into the screaming, into the laughing, into the distraught and lonely, into the love and heart aches only to see how it hurts me. Help. Help me. I'm stuck. They through the shovel out, I'm stuck in this hole all by myself no one can hear my cry's for help.. I sit and watch as the shadows of happiness and joy cross over my face like ants on a picnic blanket. Knees tucked in, head bent down alone sitting, tears streaming.. I can't control my thoughts. I think things I know I shouldn't. He doesn't care. Or does he? Does he really see me? Does he see me now? Am i making you proud?! ... He sees me.. Alone here, sitting. Watching my minds cogs tick, and twork as i make a decision all on my own, as a child stumbles and falls from the lessons you've learned, He doesn't care. He's moved on to the next one. He hasn't called in weeks. Maybe even months.. he doesn't see the stress beyond my smile.. if.. if.. I even smile. Sometimes its dependable.. on you, but you don't seem to care really.. obviously I'm not. Okay. I see where this is going. Where this is coming from. And its not something that is easy to go through. Not something that can be fixed over night, not something that can be trimmed off the edges and swept away.
And that's where it ended.. But do you see how words can portray completely different stories, pictures, scenes. All SO different. I'm not taking this last one personally, it didn't meant anything to me, i just simply fed off of her. My dear friend. Who goes through a lot of hard things and she's only just "a young lass", a young women. Things that shouldn't be shown to such a girl, such a girl with pure innocence. And it pains me to read the things she wrote and to try and pick things up for her to up the end, but it just sucks to be on the listening end sometimes.
Listening to someone express their feelings, and thoughts. Their perception on all the same things I've seen and heard is ... both trembling, and interesting.
Anyways. Hope this wasn't a downer of a entry...
Sometimes its hard to be the listener, and have no one listen to you. It's the hard part of being the listener.
Hmm... The Listener... sounds like the makings of something new..
Yours Truly,
Amanda Jeannette
Stay True, Stay You.
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