River of Two, but Still One

River of Two, but still One
by me(whatever)

A river runs through me,
separating myself into two.
I can remember from far back,
those simple songs of childhood.
If I could only return to them,
The water would carry both of me
afloat on its back.

A Summers day across the rope swing,
my poems are never poems.
Water coloring the sky portrait,
I pause to remember
it was my diary locked in code,
my feelings in a bucket with a tight lid,
leaking out like blood across blue seas

I dream with a headache,
all when the sun is shining.
Revealing his horribly happy face,
I wake up with a nostalgic feeling.
Trying to remember it's name; my name
Letters scattering like clouds
changing songs to alternate an endless me
The river splitting into many streams,
running over a slowly drowning body.

I think I found it! I think I found it!
Reaching out far to a bank or any kind of sand
slipping through my fingers
That day, when did you lose your own voice?
That name is something you may not say.

It's not an ending yet.
If this was a story, it would be happy
or sad with a lesson,
but all I can see with these separated eyes,
is the other person standing there,
there,
on the other bank.

Sir Wind and the Seagulls

It's funny how I remember the most normal things I've ever done. Most of how I remember my very far back past, when I was a kid, was with conversations. I had a friend in kindergarten whose name was Tira(I think it was spelled this way?), and she was only my friend through kindergarten, but she was my only friend. I've always been rather anti-social. I don't like having too many friends, just a few whom I really like. One of my only memories of her, was a conversation we had when we were swinging on the swings. The school we were at is torn down now. So is my preschool, isn't that funny.

I remember when I was a kid, that my closest sensation to flying was to swing on a swing. All swings were pretty much magical, and held some kind of power in them like that. Even my grandmas porch swing. We were talking about it, and this funny seagull that was going in circles around in front of us on top of a building. We felt it was watching us, like it was are guardian spirit or something. Ever since then, I've always felt that they are watching me, protecting me and the like. Whenever I would see a whole lot of them in a bunch, flying around and going about their birdy business, I would think, "Oh, today will be fine."
So I've always liked seagulls.

And another time that I remember with the seagull memory, is one that came later. I think it was at my second elementary school, but I can't remember who it was that I talked about it to. Well, it was about Mr. Wind. It was some girl who I was talking to, but she agreed with me that the wind was like a person. That he was a bit of a mysterious invisible person. Sir Wind, I've always had a visualization of him too; long coat and hat that hides his face like a stalker. I dunno, I remember things like that. Always have.

Along with those memories, I have a million others that are just as interesting. I should put some more on here, I think. Like when I smashed beads with a hammer for magic dust, and put markers in water-filled juice cans to have colored water. I've always wanted to fly, though.

Our City

Our City
by me(whatever)
to this song: A Town in Blue by Asian Kung-fu Generation

We're walking down this dirty street,
the world is changing,
everything from the people to the trashcans,
look and criticize each other.
I'm searching for something
else within myself.
Can humans have the power to see everything?

Watching the labyrinth of clouds above me,
dodging every empty space,
I don't want you to tell me a mistake;
if there is one, show me how to fix it.
Life has never been that simple.
I can't wait here forever,
my feet are itching to run.

You listen with your ears,
but you don't ever hear me, do you?
The truth is,
we never understood each other.
But I guess we can still stick together,
as long as we're here.
I'm searching for something,
something besides white and black.

"Can you change the definition of a mistake?"
the plastic tumbleweed tugging
My mind is always wandering
and no one understands.
Everything disappears, and I'm left
with a ripped off button.
it reminds me of my heart.

The window of my bedroom is still cold to touch,
I can't get through it, though I can see
Not even able to remember our names,
I chased those clouds that flew away.

Within darkness and illumination,
we're found.
Everyone walking around us,
are only illusions to our world.
But its okay, I'm sure eventually,
We'll find our colors
if we stick together.

We tramped on our own wishes,
I can't see anymore
the sun fell on us,
and burned up, we turned around
That dirty street melted
to a ball of smelly concrete,
and we were left,
with our city smiling at us.

Upside Down views, stories, and Japanese Mythology

I'm not a perfect person, and somehow whenever I'm trying to write a blog post on here, it always ends up a poem. I wonder why that is? Sometimes I stop a think for a second, a the world changes as I view it. Usually I look at it from upside down and sideways, because that's the most fun approach, although it can also be painful. It's different from a straight path to every destination. You look past the mark, and that is what hurts you. But, you know? Upside down is the best way to see the sky.

I want to write a story. I've gotta figure out an idea first. I always want a new one after a while. I want to write something including Japanese spirits/ mythology, and then I want to write something about steam-punk. I want to mix everything together, so it doesn't make sense, and then I want to make a simple story with one concept. But the main thing I can't come up with is ideas. Only themes. MEHH. I feel blocked. See, I can't even think of what I'm writing right now. I don't know if I can finish this post.

My brothers are so annoying. I could write paragraphs on that, but I probably shouldn't. They always leave the toilet seat up, and leave the door open so it freezes me. And they swear, and are dead weights everywhere. So annoying! I guess brothers are like that though. But, really. Don't they at least have the sense that its Winter instead of Summer!? Now I'm going to the library. Random but true. I have the goal set in my brain and deep, dark black heart to get at least one book on Japanese mythology. I love that stuff. I started reading about it on Wikipedia, and of course I liked it, especially the 'Bakeneko' and Kamaitachi' stories. So interesting. I don't think I have too much patience for anything that has less than 50% interesting. Gosh.

Yes, Happy Birthday

Yes, Happy Birthday
by me(whatever)


Ambushed from the stairs,
what more is there to say?
Strings of celebration,
although I hadn't caught reality,
Happy Birthday.

An unnoticed squeak in her hair,
a mutant orange for lunch,
a chocolate orange for pessimism,
December girl hanging with a pencil case,
Orange dress wearing a pink bathrobe,
a booklet of late mails, and a nostalgic song,
a promised illustration.

With the gifts wrapped in a list,
I gorge on my favorite foods once a year,
inhaling sushi with gusto,
sipping Udon,
all the while,
feeling quite spoiled.

Except,
of course,
we forgot the "cake".

Underneath the World

Underneath the World
by me(whatever)
to this song: Sky Gate [FELT]

Underneath the world, 
when I wake in the darkness,
no one to see from anywhere,
snow lighting my footsteps,
My freezing body holding a warm soul.
I still live on like this,
lying to everyone except the moon,
expecting pain from every direction,
yes,
if only I could fly there.

My cheeks iced in red,
the wind beats through my body,
confused about the season,
I still stand out here
waiting for spring to pop up.
I can't help it, you see
I feel so warm,
I could spread
like butter in the night sky,
giving my back to wings,
walking on the milky-way,
never hoping dawn will come

I want to live like this,
watching the green and blue turn far away,
dissolving within the space of time
a harp-played rain,
twinkling down into stars
waltzing like orange city lights,
fearing nothing but the end of the feeling.
Snowflakes twirling in my heart,
creating an ice umbrella that deflects nothing
numb toes and a reflection in my eyes,
giving in and looking down the gravel
I puff out my feet.

Time was short.

if this wind never stops,
even if its comforting with scents of flowers,
I will always be reminded,
of this memory underneath the world
where no one but me resides,
where only I reside,
With the wind, the snowflakes, the rain, the moon, the stars
falling in and out,
and inside out
with this melody.

So I Went to see The Nutcracker

Yesterday on Saturday, I went to see The Nutcracker. I don't really think it matters why I went, or who performed it, or where I went, but I'll tell you that I went to see The Nutcracker. I remember in the last few days of October, I told myself that I would go if I could, and it turned out exactly that way, although I didn't really do much of anything to figure anything out. The reason I had wanted to go was because of my Scarlet Notes of Hood blog that I was writing at the time. In that blog I wrote exactly 31 diary entries of Little Red Riding Hood as she traveled through the wood Jarnvior, and meets fairy tail people from other stories. It was pretty fun to write, although it tired me out considerably. In the last post, there's a masquerade party that has the nutcracker pop up. I had to research a bit about the story on Wikipedia, and when I finally read the story for the first time, I wanted to go see it. All the other times I had ever seen The Nutcracker I had never understood what the heck was going on. So this time I knew what was going on, and I enjoyed it quite all the way through. I was not bored once. And it snowed too, outside when it was over.

Before it began, my sister and I actually graffitied the pamphlet. It was awesome, with all the ballerinas with wings, and holding spiders and ice cream cones, and stick figures climbing up a guys back as he talks to a lady with a moustache. By the way, that guy had a spider familiar who was trying to protect him from the stick figures. Ha ha, and there was also a Peter Pan play ad, that was just perfect for me to draw wings and a halo on him. I mean, where is Peter Pans wings? A little boy that was sitting on his papa's lap was watching us the whole time, and tried to get his dads attention to our drawings too. Oh, goodness it's great when you let go of your maturity and do fun things like that. I think that 'maturity' is most times just something people put about themselves to make themselves seem cooler anyways. I mean, even I do it sometimes, so I understand.

When I watched the forest of lighted Christmas trees outside, I realized that I had see those probably ever since the moment I was born. Since I was born in December and my birthday is coming up really soon. I don't want to turn older. Blegh. But those Christmas trees were really beautiful.

Huckleberry Finn

*These are poems that I wrote for an English project, because we had to do an activity with reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain. My group chose to go with the prompt 'character relationships' and use poetry to describe them. I got to write poems for the relationships of Huck with his father, and Huck with the King and the Duke. In my personal opinion, I like the poem of Huck and his father better.

Huck and his Father 
12/12/12
by me(whatever)

He's one that nothin' could reform
no matter how it tried.
No purpose to 'livin,
except to drink
and no purpose to being a gentleman
'cept to eat.

Livin' his life by a borrowin',
a chicken he'd want only for himself
that swine of a drunkard,
he'd a kill himself dead,
and in his dreams,
he'd a kill me to.

Lockin' me up like a rat
for a fortune of six thousand,
but not a penny I'd want
for freedom and to remain unsivilized.

If he'd a want some coins,
it'd be spent on liquor,
and if he'd a want a belt,

it'd be spent on me.

Huck and the King and Duke

12/13/12

by me(whatever)

"Lowdown humbugs and frauds" were they,

the two of them,

thick as thieves,

a King and a Duke with no money of their own 

bow down themselves to their lies.

Between the four of us, we wanted different things

Like my father and his liquor

Was their extreme want for those green frappings,

yet the two of us besides,

Watching their deviltry with displeasure,

wished for the green, green grass.

And with their trickery up their sleeves

numerous as their lack of coins,

They sung and recited from played sorrow,

playing and paying the people with all they got.

I would stand for that,

but I would not stand for tricks

given to the parentless,

and neither would they stand to be penniless,

So they sold out my friend. 

Waltz of Wandering Moonlight

Waltz of Wandering Moonlight
 by me(whatever)
to this song: Endless Waltz

Does your soul enjoy wandering moonlit?
The moths will create a waltz for you.

The words you shouted on sunlit rooftops,
were heard years later by only the shadow behind you.
So there is always someone following you.

I can only draw words from the endless well,
I cannot create the rain myself,
and before long, from the bucket,
The starlit tongue swallows blue transparency.

The darkness envelops your eyes,
dancing their most beautiful dances,
for the newcomer.

The opposites cannot be separated.
Even the wood of flame,
creates shadow.
The moths and butterflies kiss each other on the wing tips,
alighting on your body,
one creates, and one destroys...

The world will rest again,
watching while some toil and,
we who never cared,
will dance this waltz,
forever wearing out our shoes.
For it is infinite.

My City

Where can I find my city? Is it over there? Or over here? Maybe it's underneath the ground, or perhaps it resides on a cloud on a sky. Is it upside down, or does it lie on it's side, gawking at me with an unreadable expression? Is it somewhere I can't see, right under my nose, or far, far away where I'd have to travel more than a thousand miles to arrive there? Perhaps I see it, but don't realize it?

Do I want to get there? Do I want to climb the walls around it? Perhaps there are no walls, only an entrance. Perhaps there are fences. White fences, black fences, red fences, wood fences, stone fences. Maybe it is only circled about with barbed wire? For all of the inhabitants are chickens? Or maybe the population composes of aliens, zombies, fairies, donkeys, flying keys, invisible people, ruined kings, bird-legged maidens, talking objects, and half-breeds of the kinds put together? Is there a magic fish somewhere? A lake that, if you fall into it, you're really just falling into the sky of another world? And perhaps there are inhabitants that have learned to survive without falling in that lake? Like sky-fish, and avimaids, swimming birds, winged sea-horses? Airplanes constantly fly up straight out of there, splashing water into a thousand tiny rainbows, for it is the only entrance to other worlds that there has ever been in existence. Do the people drink rain-water for supper, lunch, breakfast? Does it change color and flavor as it slides down their throats, lighting up into brilliant spectrum's as their final show as they go into the darkness of the innards? Perhaps my city is under-water? Perhaps I can fall off of it? Perhaps I have already? Perhaps I have no city? No. Everyone has a city. Not a single soul is left without one. It is just the matter of searching for it, and finding it before your clock runs out. Many clocks I have seen on the cold, hard ground, broken and stopped, never ever to move again. The frozen atmosphere of the world is what stopped them, turned them over on their sides, and had them stepped on, over and over, until they were given up and left there alone without any comfort or movement to call their own. So, I have to ask before time runs out on me. Where is my city?

December Flame Among Mountains

December Flame among Mountains
by me(whatever)
11-4-12

Among the monochromatic hills of wandering,
from green to red, December, it bites
Sir wind only a-whispering
in my ear
a lingering noise still awakes.

They stand back-to-back, those silly dirt-mounds
whimsically whistling their song to travelers
And as I turn my eyes, the snow covered peaks
gallantly strive back my gaze
stoical in their silence,
standing alone from the threshold of cold

Like the scent of wilderness, I wish to continue running
toward the place my heart resides
the subtle caperings of my feet
flying through the snow of those six pomegranate seeds,
and the Earth spinning in my lungs,
always, continuously

Instead of a lucid dream.

And how far does a flame
Have to go?
Straying through the silent storm,
Destroy or be destroyed?

If that is so,
then as the perspectives change,
individual as the trees
to catch them all in their gaze,
falling towards the sky, and
skin as frozen,
as was red,

I am the snow-capped peak
still sleeping
standing on the threshold of loneliness.

Teacups

Teacups
by me(whatever)

My mother, she set the teacups,
my brother, he broke the teacups,
and so I took out some glue and mended,
the shards into teacups again.


This is literally the story of today. I still have super glue attached to my fingers. It was fun though, like a glass puzzle. Luckily my brother had saved all the pieces.

Underneath the stairs

It seems all I've really written this month is poems.....that's okay, I guess. Anyways, this one was written under my school stairs. I was sitting there after school waiting for someone to come pick me up....or not pick me up, which one was it? I do weird things every once in a while. They're fun though. I think different things.

Under the stairs
by me(whatever) 
11-29-12

Sunlight slants down through the school windows,
as I stop from the pace of my world,
and I watch people pass on their business,
towards destinations outside.
Underneath the stairs,
I have no business,
but here I am all the same,
with the perpendiculars.

Here are some other stuff I wrote down:

Mix-up

Cruelty is a sort of kindness,

and kindness a cruelty.

So with all these mix-ups,

which am I?

The people inside can't see me-

only the people outside.

A leaf

A Leaf
by me(whatever)
11-27-12

a leaf,
removed from the tree, and
blowing in the wind,
stops,
and floats,
to the ground.

some others settle there,
as companions.

They talk,
and feeling of simalirity,
all dream,
of putting down roots.

But the wind,
tugs on,
the leaf,
who is cast,
whichever which way,
into the sky

In the end,
was it Destiny?

Because a leaf,
is bound,
to leave?

Shoes

Shoes
by me(whatever)
11-27-12

Shoes show where you're going,
with their straps and colors.
Some people walk with their head to the ground,
watching for stumbles
And some people look about them,
determining their steps by others.
Some stare straight at their destination,
Though lose the scenery around them,
And some few stare at the sky,
stumbling as they walk.

Some pairs have stopped,
and having been removed by fingers of flesh,
lay in wait for another.
And some shoes have been cast away,
used and abandoned.
Some walk on, even with holes in their soles.

Yet, the pair that is waiting
underneath the umbrella tree,
is of the observer
whom I feel familiar.

Horizon

By me(whatever)
*click here to read more about it

Slightly pink horizon,
announces the suns arrival.
The stars,
a full knowledge of their fate,
continue shining.

Shadow

Shadow
by me(whatever)
to Disillusion by Tainaka Sachi

I had a dream like a shadow,
screams echoing through the darkness.
if even your memories are abandoned,
Return to the past

The shatters of your reflection
Cut to the very essence of your soul
The hand that grabbed for you,
Will you let it fall?

The voice disappeared from misty lips,
and silence fell over as snow
This time I will search through the forest,
for your nostalgic smile

If the stars keep sparkling like this,
I will believe in silver over gold.
Because the mirror shards you wore over your body,
will only slice you to pieces

Your memory is before your heart,
so you decided to never, ever forget
Even if the eyes dissolve in water,
please wait for me, because I am there.

The ice moon will only turn you to dust,
freezing the crumbles of your thoughts
A temporary fix, but if you take my hand
I'll unravel the future

So retell your wishes to the sky,
and even snow will cry it
The wind is moving along the glacier,
To find where you are.

Clouds

The truth is, I don't think that true happiness exists while we are alive.
but I think that if we humans are able to not only live with our pain, our sadness,
that if we can find a way to get past the boundary,
to fly past our gray skies,
Then we will be able to find something out there

and that something will definitely be valuable.

And I want my colors to always be there

so that even when the sky is crying tears,

I want to look up 

and see that even gray is beautiful.

I want to be sure that life is not meaningless,

that my something is not only layers of blue,

 But I'm sure that even if that is what it is,

then it will come out lighter on the opposite side,

and I will eventually be able to see something,

Perhaps,

a clear blue sky?

If I could Become the Rain

If I could Become the Rain
by me(whatever)

I love the rain.
When it falls,
I listen to the melody.
The clouds stop by,
and shed their grace on every surface
the sidewalk, the newspaper stand, the spinning umbrella's,
the leaves of acceptance, and dripping down, gently,
on your face.

If I could become the rain,
perhaps I could meet you again
caressing your cheek as you look up with those
beautiful eyes
Would you listen to my song?
My voice is distanced,
but can it reach your ears?
Please......

In diagonal lines,
rushing down like running silver
I know you love vibrant color,
but will you enjoy my gray?
This is my own selfish wish, but
Please don't just wait for the sun

I don't mind
if you avoid my puddles,
I don't mind.
If I fade away with this brief time,
If you avoid my cold touch,
If the umbrella's stop spinning,
I only want
to cover the world
In my affection for you.

So,
it's okay
if you only want me to pass away,
But, if you want,
I am there for you to sing and dance.
I will dance with you,
I will sing for you
With the streaks of light peeping through,
your figure illuminates with the sky
My only wish,
My only hope,
If my voice will reach you;
I love you. 

 

Lost

Lost
by me(whatever)
to Zombie Loan soundtrack 1-main theme

Despite previous engagements,
we begin a conversation.

Is that yellow ribbon you're wearing,
truly a message to yourself?
So everything really is boring

And socializing is tiring,
I yawn to send a message.
But you keep talking
as though the curtain is drawing.

The fairy tales are closing and slowly dying,
the ones that were locked inside my head.
As you start crying and shouting,
I can only hear you distantly,
far-away.

I'm following the butterfly outside my window,
covering the scarlet bleeding moon,
you start singing a song
or is that my imagination?
The crimson verses
echoing throughout the air

"Ignorance is bliss",
they say, not hearing the consequences
I don't wish to be a fool,
Nor do I wish to be wise.
But little things make sense,
and the large ones leave me lying on the frozen ground,
so is it that already? Again?

I've been insane once,
So I can lie, and understand
Once you scream
The clover will rip in half,
and the wings will fail
and I will be left, only pretending I'm not listening
not on hand.
the right.

The night is enveloping the end,
She is what I have chosen
Never resting, locked words
disjoint the blood ribbon from your wrist
your voice is lost.

Jack London

*A research paper I wrote for my Evil English teacher. Even though I'm older....Well, I really liked reading about Jack London's life, so I guess I can forgive her.

Jack London Research paper

                When I first thought of Jack London, the titles of the books White Fang and The Call of the Wild came to mind. These were the books that I had read from him, after all. However, I had no idea of who this man was or what his lifetime was like. Yes, I chose to research him simply because I recognized his name, nothing more. But once I started to read about this strange, rambunctious author, I became engrossed in his tale. No doubt, his life is the most interesting story he weaved; not from paper or ink, but from his living breath and traveling feet. Jack London holds possibly the most interesting biography I have ever known.

                “Jack London was born January 12, 1876 at 615 Third Street, San Francisco, California. His parents were William Henry Chaney and Flora Wellman. However, W. H. Chaney left Flora after she got pregnant, and Jack never knew he was actually his biological father until he was twenty. Flora was also a strange mother, unfortunately obtaining Typhoid fever when she was young, which, along with weakening her physically, could’ve also changed her mentally. Flora married John London in September 1876, a widow who had had (because of financial difficulties) to scatter most of his previous children around. Because Flora could not nurse, she made an agreement with Jennie Prentiss, an ex-African American slave from Tennessee who had her child just die, to nurse him for her” (Jack London A Biography 1-4). Already we can see the family he is born into. It is a very poor family who mostly obtained money from ranching and farming, and a few piano lessons and séances here and there by Flora.

                When Jack London “graduated Cole Grammar school at 8’Th grade, he was immediately thrusted with different jobs to help; some canning and newspaper running mixed in with some other things” (13, 17). Because of their farming business, they would have to move plenty of times, though mostly in Oakland. Jack London, whose real name had changed from John Griffith Chaney to John Griffith London, spent his boy years reading like a devil, borrowing from Oakland Public Library. He remembers his boy years as boring, and therefore, his true adventure begins as a teen.

                His first adventure was sailing. Borrowing his father’s skiff, he went out to the bay and learned by watching and doing. He would love sailing for the rest of his life. “Using Jennie Prentiss’s money, he bought the Razzle Dazzle and became an oyster pirate” (21). An oyster pirate, as you can imagine, does not steal treasure and cursed gold, but oysters belonging to different companies. They later sell them and earn money that way. Jack London and his crew were successful at it, but in the end there was a fire on his ship that destroyed the mainsail, making the boat completely useless. So he got a new job as part of the Fish Patrol, ironically the nemesis of the oyster pirates. A while later he joined the “Road-kids” – kids illegally jumping trains- and earned the Monica “Sailor kid” or “Frisco Jack”. He traveled this way for a while before going back home and “joining the Sophia Sutherland, a ship that went out far to harvest the hides of seals” (28). When he got home, he wrote about his seal-hunting experience, and won a contest in the newspaper Morning Call for the most descriptive essay. He traveled with the Road-kids again, but eventually got thrown in the “Erie Country Penitentiary in New York for a month”( 1).  After his time, he went back home, and soon took off again after General Coxey’s Army of the Unemployed, a protesting group. But since he “Couldn’t stand starvation”, he quit the “army” and hopped some more trains to view the Niagara Falls, but got thrown in jail for another month at Buffalo, New York. “He started school again, going back to High school at age 19 in grade 9. He dropped out after one year, and after three months of vigorous studying, passed the exam into the University of California. However, he was only in the University for one semester because of financial problems” (51).

                “In 1897 Jack London went out once again after the Gold Rush in Klondike, Alaska. He didn’t earn a single penny, and went back to Oakland after obtaining Scurvy”(77). He found that his father, John London, had died. Now he had the responsibility of the entire family on his shoulders, as the son. He started writing. He mailed short stories to newspapers and magazines, at first only earning failure. But as he continued, he got a few successes here and there. “From 1899 and onwards, Jack spent mornings writing 1,000 to 1,500 words”(110) every day. It was in the 1900’s, at the turn of the century, that he finally got his stories and books selling.

                About Jack’s marital life, he married twice and had two daughters. His first wife was “Bessie Maddern, the lady with whom his two daughters, Joan and Bess (but mostly called Becky), were born” (125). Their marriage was not one based on ‘Love’, but on the concept that they would work together well. In this way, Jack divorced Bessie in “1905 (though he still paid them an allowance) and married Charmian Kittredge”(150), whom he was with for the rest of his life.

                Jack London was an outspoken Socialist, and “toured the country giving speeches about it” (147). He traveled constantly, and even went to Korea, trying to get scenery of the Russo-Japanese war. This one did not work out though, after punching a Japanese citizen, and getting jailed so that Theodore Roosevelt had to get involved to free him. He even planned a “7-year sailing trip in his own crafted boat The Snark, although construction did not go as planned, and the boat only managed to get them around Hawaii” (167). After that trip, Charmian and Jack settled down in “Sonoma Valley, California, “The valley of the Moon” (185).  With the fortune of his success, he built Wolf Mansion, but it burned down after catching fire. Living in other houses he built, he owned ranches, and even built a “pig palace”; an easy kept building for the pigs. In such a way, he enjoyed his money.

                Jacks Literary style was “Real”, a style meaning that he took from real life experiences and put them into his stories. His themes would mostly be his experiences with sailing, and the Gold Rush in Alaska. Most people thing of jack London as someone who has animals as the main character, but the truth is that out of his 50 or so books, only 4 have that as true. People may think this because his most major works were The Call of the Wild, and White Fang, both books having canines as the main character. Some of his books are offensive to the generation today because of their racist touch (common back then), and are now out of print. Another major work of his is The Seawolf, a story that features a young man forced into seal-hunting on a ship. Although Jack London did not receive very much money for the Call of the Wild, it, along with White Fang, are still being read in schools today.

                Jack had an alcohol addiction throughout his life, and even wrote a book about it called John Barleycorn. The first time he tasted alcohol was when he was five years old. In the end, it killed him. Jack London died on” November 22, 1916 from Uremia and other various weaknesses” (203). His kidneys gave out. He was only forty years old. While he was still alive, he believed in cremation. “Cremation is the only decent, right, sensible way of ridding the world of us when the world has ridden itself of us.” –Jack London (206) It is a good thing then, that after his death, he was cremated. I think he would have been satisfied.

Bibliography

Dyer, Daniel. Jack London- A Biography. New York: Scholastic Press, 1997. Print.

“Jack London. Biography.” Bio. True Story. A+E Television Networks, LLC. Web. 28 Oct. 2012.

“Jack London.” Biography Center. Biography Center. Web. 28 Oct. 2012

Starfish

Starfish
by me(Whatever)
 
My body is composed of limbs,
arms and arms, that's all
and a mouth contained in my stomach,
the center of my being.

I am named after wishes in the sky,
though no light shines in myself,
and though the mirror between reflects us,
I am alive.

No eyes to grasp the future,
and just crawling on the ground,
"Why are you lying down?"
"Why are you standing?"

I devour the creator of the pearl,
call me cruel, call me a monster,
I am a survivor,
still regenerating broken limbs.

Soon, though, the waves knock me ashore,
a sandy, dry outline,
and as my breathing fades, I realize
I should have never let go.

But a shadow suddenly covers me,
and I am lifted by a small hand
"Why are you lying down?" I'm asked,
and I'm cast into the air

I can breathe again, and if I can live like this
With the waves rushing over me,
My five limbs like those fingers,
Will I finally be able to stand?

Problems

My mouth hurts. It is a sad reality. I have one of those blasted tongue-sores, and my teeth hurt like they have cavities. Yes, Halloween is really, really, really bad for me. I must remember that next year. Something's wrong with my right foot, too, hah, I'm just a creation of problems. Whenever I get something annoying on my list, it's never by itself. Somehow problems like to cuddle up to each-other and socialize in big party balls. I get the small, pesky ones that like to dodge my solutions. At least a big problem you can corner down, no matter how vicious and teeth-baring it is. You either kill a big problem, or be killed. It's a simple thesis. On the other hand, small problems are ones that are the most annoying. They run away when you try to capture and crush them, like fleas. You have to continuously keep running after them, tripping over your own feet, never even managing to exterminate them in the end. You just keep suffering until they hop away on their own, probably attaching to some other poor beast or human. Of course, big problems are usually a combination of small little ones. When this happens, really, the best you can do is just run for your life and board a plane to somewhere far, far away like Japan. This is what I want to do. Unfortunately, some problems are amazingly persistent, and even when you have managed to avoid them once or twice, it comes flying at you, now a bigger beast than when you first saw it. Sometimes, it comes with several of its friends. You need some quick canons and bombs for those ones. But man, I just wish I wouldn't have to talk in front of the class tomorrow like this. School really is a cruelty.

The Old Lady and The Pigeons

I'm becoming interested in the French animation director Sylvain Chomet lately. He directed my favorite 'The triplets of Belleville', and other movies I really want to watch. His style is so weird, it's almost scary, and you have no room for predictions to come through, because you have absolutely no idea what's coming next. Here is a 20 minute short animation he did called 'The old Lady and The Pigeons.' It scared me to death, and yet captured me at the same time. You can see his strange style through this.

Kitchen Heart

Kitchen Heart
by Me(whatever)

This heart of mine is a kitchen,
if I were to describe it to you specifically.
the walls change colors on different days,
and the windows close and re-open,
according to the temperature of the weather. 

The pictures lined up prettily on the changing wall-paper,
need to be dusted every once in a while.
If the decor is disarrayed and messy,
I must use my hands, -quickly
before a guest comes.

The dishes can become dirty as they sit in the sink,
eventually a rotting smell seeps out.
I can ignore dirt and grime for a while,
holding my nose as I walk by,
though in the end I can't bear it.

And when I become hungry,
the refrigerator sits in the corner,
Preserving  memories I haven't thrown away.
Though they've cooled with time,
I can easily reheat them in the microwave!

If I wish to bake some cookies for someone,
the oven stands to be heated.
Though things I've kept in the freezer,
hoping never to be melted,
may also accidentally be thrown in.

The knives reside in their places,
clean and ready to be used.
To feed my boredom,
I grab the things I bought elsewhere,
and even if I'm cut, I chop and cook.

Pots large enough for a family,
and spiders unseen deep down in the cupboards.
Sneaky mice thieves running in at night,
the drawer that holds all the useless gizmo's,
thrown in by indifferent fingertips.

Yes, the chip bag hidden for a self-pleasure,
the cans over five years old,
people opening doorways searching for nourishment,
the stinky thing they find,
and the performance of dancing silverware.

Conversations are held here,
singing, twirling, crying, wondering.
The bottles of cleaning supplies sweep the floor,
scrubbing away with all their might,
a discoloration of Clorox. 

Plates all stacked up,
occasionally becoming broken,
the counter-top grandly adorned with candy wrappers,
the aroma of spices,
and the acquaintances walking through.

Hey,
if I said,
"my heart is a kitchen"
what would the glass vase roses say,
that are in the dining room?

Because,
no doubt,
a kitchen,
is a dangerous place.

Princess of the Next Life Soon After

Princess of the next Life soon After
by Me(whatever)
Birdy the Mighty: Decode(Ost) Main theme- Side Birdy-

Melancholic Jazz plays as my theme
This is the Revolution of a Girl!
Shatter salt into the Night sky
Move with the power of Love
to the next Life soon after

Become your own Hero,
The Princess was never Saved!
She is the Knight herself
Covered in teary scars and blood
to the next Life soon after

Running like the billowy wind,
The Darkness will hide me!
She screams and holds out in Kindness
The Dragon was defeated
to the next Life soon after

You are the only person in the world
This is my Sky Call!
Powerful beyond Belief
The Feelings were covered
to the next Life soon after

Shallow Tea-cup Sea
Her Beacon of Flight!
Never was such a Glittery Story
Turned into a Heart of Gold

to the next Life soon after?

Drowning Dreams

*Short Ghost story I wrote for English, yet had the idea way before then. English again, huh?

Drowning Dreams

My sister had nightmares about drowning. We would hear her thrashing about and moaning pitifully from our own rooms in the bleakest and darkest middle of nights. We were all sleep deprived. Being a family of three; my father, sister, and I, we considered ourselves close. But I think that we were farther apart than we realized. My sister never even told us the most important part of her nightmares. We had no idea until we read her diary afterwards. When she woke up, she was soaked in cold water. It wasn’t simply sweat; it was lake water, as though she had actually been swimming during the night. For the dreams we took her to a bunch of different people, thinking they could help, but they were to no avail. She still had those nightmares; we still woke up in the night. We eventually got so tired we had arguments. Oh, we had arguments. They were fierce and screamed for hours.  They were horrible beasts that raged on and on, chained to the floor, yet snarling and baring their teeth at one another face to face.  We would have to hold our ears while we screamed for fear of losing our hearing. Perhaps the anger was reason enough for her not to tell us about being soaked to the bone. I would certainly understand that.

                She told me about them once; the dreams. It was a solitary evening where we sat around the table half-heartedly doing homework while rain pattered like a soft drum-beat outside. Our town is very wet and cold, and can be depressing sometimes. I don’t know what came over my sister, but she suddenly started talking about them. Before then we had already debated about them for a long time, but she had always told us the exact facts of what she had seen, never more. This time she told me more in depth about what she felt. I remember it quite clearly. I always remember rain.

She had felt it when she was so small she could barely remember. We often went to the lake down a little ways from the town, and one time she was simply swirling her fingers in the water as usual, when she felt it enter her body. It was warm and light, so it delighted her, and she didn’t think anymore of it. We had learned that same day that a lady in her middle years had committed suicide by jumping off the highway bridge across the dam; tying her feet and hands together. She hadn’t put two and two together until she started having the dreams years later. She said they were the most painful experiences she had ever had. Whenever she entered the mind-stopping freezing water, her chest felt so heavy as if it was bleeding with heart-break. They were not her own feelings, but the memories of someone else. She couldn’t breathe either. She always woke up gasping for breath. That was one of her fears, she said; of drowning in her sleep, and dying in real life.

When my sister died, I remembered that evening conversation. No matter how hard we ran to find her, she had jumped and sunk herself down into the abyss of water. I had barely found her, when I saw her jump. I ran and jumped into the water after her, but I couldn’t find her. I couldn’t believe it, I simply couldn’t believe it. How could my sister, so joyful and happy before her nightmares, jump and kill herself? Did the nightmares have anything to do with it? Was it how she said? Did someone else’s soul drag her? As soon as I thought that, I felt something warm enter my freezing body. It started at my feet as though I was grabbed by an invisible hand, and spread upwards through-out my entire body. I felt paralyzed with relaxation. And from a voice in my head, I slightly heard someone whisper in my sister’s voice, “I don’t want to die.”

Growing Over

Growing Over
by me(whatever)
Princess Mononoke theme

Every so often,
I glance at the clock.
Whirring around imperatively,
without stopping; a few gears broken
A few years taken.

Once in a while,
I stare in mirror shards
lying only to be cracked once more,
splintering into the earth; a fatal cry
taken by and by.

I always wear a blind-fold,
to scars never seen.
listening to the spinning of life,
my reflection shattered; and time grows over
Like a tree I grow,
and time grows over,
as time grows over.

Morning Avenue

Morning Avenue
written 5/3-4/10(wow a long time ago)
by me(whatever)
to this song: Miku Hatsune- Chaining Intention

Rapid paintshots
create small dots
to traveling
unraveling
streams of flowing
make our knowing
the flavoring
is savoring
signs in city
designs are witty
the parallel
streets are
surveying the sound of
the morning bell.

Notice #2: Once again, another blog

Yes, I have once again created another blog. It's called Scarlet Notes of Hood. This is a blog that is entirely for Little Red Riding Hood's diary entries. She is traveling through the magical wood to her granny's house, and will encounter plenty of other fairytale creatures that possibly have nothing to do with red or hood. It only has one post so far, but I'm planning on plenty more through-out October. Check it out if you're interested!

Glass Dolls

Glass Dolls
March 2012
by Me(whatever)

Little kiki wandered
Alone,
Outside of the cheerful city
soaring among the melting crystal
watching her own breath
sink into the sky.

She stuck her red hands
Into the wet wool blanket
shivering and yelling
To katie
whose figure was made transparent
by large insects.

Exchanging strikes of powder spheres
kiki and katie played until dusk
and when the sun became sick gold
a glimmer had caught
katie's eye
and she called out to kiki.

"Wait! Don't Go! Look!
My friend of all, come see!
Before you leave you must at least
Come and see my cozy nook
that I have made my home!"

And kiki looked,
and she found
a small abandoned empty shack
standing alone
But curiosity always kills the cat
and kiki left her hat.

As she entered katie disappeared,
yet unnoticed by a fly
the spider strings strung across every corner
creeping down
upon an oblivious puppet
and reached her.

Familiar colored beady eyes
Reached the Blue of kiki's
though disguised the same
Her porcelain skin
and imaged rosy cheeks
were actually
Green-eyed jealousy.

And kiki was gone
taken in by a riddle,
the transparent betrayer in her body,
Gone.
Other voices of loneliness
took kiki as their friend.

She wanted escape only
she was afraid
and ashamed
of the same betrayed desperation
Purple katie gave
was hers

"Will you stay here forever?
With Missy and I
You know we might have to
kill
But stay.....
Please stay.....

kiki turned silent as days
spiralled into nights
of pitch-black fear, however
crawling
Nearer
a single child of replacement

Yet the hope did not meet
those now green Dark blue eyes,
and before a warning came
a misplaced step
and silent screams
came Shattered Glass.


inspired by this...

 alma (short film)

SeaSwan Lovers

SeaSwan Lovers
by Me(whatever)
written to Tori no Uta- by Lia (but anythings fine)

Coursing through,
the wings of your mask dancing
black within black,
glove within glove

Slipping through my fingers
like a glass of poured wine
Invisible lights peer through them
My Seagull Soul

The stained glass windows
offer no refrain
There-do you see?
The large yellow eye lies watching

"There is no escape"
the rocks on the road speak
We wish for none
but for the golden 'One'

It will find us
For the coin hopes we left behind
A place not reached yet,
hand within hand

Secrets jump through the treetops,
exactly like this whimsical breeze
Where have the birds gone?
-To the sky

Edge of the overlooking cliff
Waves of white lace roar against your heart
The millions of pointed blades
Slip through your fingers

Black Swan of the night,
embrace the light before you leave
Ever since the wind left our sight
We were once there

Like the strength of a diamond
Cry out against your cards
Black against Black
Steal the Stars.

Star Compass

Star Compass

by Me(whatever)

It was a compass. Sent from the sugary and salty heavens above. And it broke in my hands.

Some might say it wasn’t my fault, not my responsibility. But I was the one with the gold-bounded object in my care, and I cannot ignore the shame that wells up whenever I think on it.

The beginning had started at the end; the end of a despair that had broken into a million fragments. These fragments brightened up as a spark of hope and nestled themselves comfortably and coldly within the vast darkness above our heads. I spoke with them. The shattered despair had been mine. We conversed for a little while, but gradually became distant. These hopes had not belonged to me alone anymore. They were too busy granting wishes of my children.

And one night, a freezing hand reached out and patted me on the cheek. I could hear the celestial voice in my dozing; sounding around and ‘round like a merry-go-round might. What they said was something I cannot remember anymore with the fragile mind of something called human. But when I awoke that morning, with the sunlight hiding divine faces and streaming in to find mine, I found it on my pillow. Something that possibly might have led a single family through a brutal sea of a God’s tears to land. The dark-almost as black as death- very dark blue, palm-sized compass next to the lump of where my head had been. It does not always point to the top of my skull as some might believe; the North Star is only one to stand in the heavens.

I knew what it was. From my skin I could generate more than trillions of information from the ones living there. I knew how they acted.  My life on the surface had been a short one of only a bit more than one hundred years, however that was enough to know the limits and possibilities of a beating heart and breathing lungs. And therefore, I am one of them; because I understand. However the differences do not make it past the truth. I am not them. I understand far more and far less than they ever would. I live in the center of myself; the inside of a sphere filled with burning heat and hell-fire. And I live on the outside of myself, green and blue and many, many more shades of color left unnamed. I am beautiful. I am cruel. I am kind.

I am mother.

When my life on the surface ended, as the first daughter and mother named after Life, the evening came as I was buried into the burrows of my crumbling, future skin. The energy they call the soul was transported deep into the soil, and was burned thoroughly through the core of the planet. It was far different from Eden. I am so heavy.

The arrow of the compass pointed East.

I traveled to the first corner of the Earth. It was spring there.

I watched the beginning of life sprout up as tiny sprouts; so tiny and innocent.

And- as I watched with joy swelling in my breast- they bloomed.

Many were lost by starving teeth and tongue; however the ones that stayed sprouted seeds for the next season of happiness.

The beginning of my life was set in a Garden.  

I can remember it.  But who was there? The person I remember as myself who is no longer there; cries out for recognition. And was there someone else? The person I loved who turned into the sun? It was all there. Now there is nothing. I had forgotten when I fell asleep. The moon is my pillow.

Nevertheless, joy was there. My dispersed mind memoirs it. Memories cannot fill the present however. It cannot fill my stomach.

The arrow of the compass pointed South.

Summer and the wriggling heat waves hit me. Walking barefoot, I burned and relished them on sweltering road paths and freshly sprinkled grass-ways. Fireworks in the sky reminded people of the spring blossoms that had already withered. I walked on.

Entirely blue skies waited for me at the end of the clouds. I gazed up at the sun that now contained the soul of my spouse. The sailboats waved past me, on a journey to azure. I felt part of myself go with them; wishing them luck. The burning ground gave a mystery. What was inside it; an eaten heart? Or perhaps there was millions of rotting bones giving presence to the origin of life.

The fruit ripened. A forked tongue reached out and touched conversation. I answered. “The forbidden tree,” it said with slit eyes. The scaled body slid between the branches. You would meet me, did you know? - Between white and black. The invisible gray squashed into nothingness. Those things that never existed at all; only one word will change you.  See, over there.

An arrow was shot West.

Fall fell down upon warm colors. A place was already decided for them long ago. Crimson leaves gave a stained glass window up for naught. Autumn storms passed through my hair as though attempting Kamikaze. I could smell it. Pressed by a decision, you would always choose the one you haven’t lived. And because of this simple cat’s cradle of curiosity, I chose an unavoidable destiny.

I picked the fruit.

It looked a bit like a pear, for the pair that dropped to Earth. I ate it, lured by the single word; knowledge. And that was exactly what I gained.

I passed to North.

Winter stood at my feet, knowing the consequences. The snow twirled down in massive streaks like a waltz of sparkling faeries. Even rain from sight stuck frozen to your eyelids. Even if one was to describe the landscape as white, all I thought was black.  Distance is a valuable weapon. A weapon is made mostly for destruction. Though this wasn’t what this was. This was law. With my eyes half-shut, I tripped with the compass in my hands and it shattered amongst the shards of ice. The shards of time also concealed it.  I had searched for it a long time. MY WAY. But even so, it was lost. I lived on as I remembered so long ago; having offspring, happiness somehow present. But I always remembered.

And that is how I had lost it; my direction.

                I turned over the broken pieces of the star compass in my hands, comprehending all of these flow of memories. It was always present, but always gone wasn’t it? I laughed to myself and threw the quarter of cerulean shards to the four corners of the Earth. I had no need of it anymore. My spirit was passing away, pulled of the burden so vastly stretched. But it did not matter. The shards would guard them. Lead them to their way once I had disappeared.

I had already found mine.