Schizophrenic Snow Globe Thoughts

The strange thing is...I don't even remember when I wrote this. I must have been contemplative and in a particularly dreary, angry, hateful mood. But the actual act of writing this, what I was thinking, what spawned this creativity-  is lost. I typically remember exactly why and how and what inspired me to write pieces - but this escapes me. This lapse of memory means something. What that something is? I'm not sure... I do remember hunching over the computer, and standing while I wrote - which means it was really flowing out of my fingers - that I wasn't censoring, and I wasn't thinking. But then again, I never really think about what I write - it just travels out,  like breath, like a long exhale, like a meditation. This is a fictional piece - with bits of reality, or realistic undertones/emotions I should say. But let me clarify one thing: I do NOT go into online chatrooms. Haha. Don't get me wrong - I did in middle school, when that was the "kool" thing to do. But I haven't gone into a chatroom since eighth grade when my friend and I fought over a cyber boy who was simultaneously flirting with both of us. Very dramatic. Oh, middle school. Enjoy the darkness. 

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Sometimes I trace your outline with my fingertips across the wooden floor. I close my eyes, envision your smile, the wrinkled lines by your eyes, and I laugh silently to myself. Sometimes, I'll lick an ice-cream cone, and the chocolate will get on my nose, maybe a few rainbow sprinkles, and I imagine you there wiping it off with a folded napkin, shaking your head at me. Sometimes I'll be talking to someone. I won't hear a sound besides the wind, whirring loudly into my ears, resounding and pounding like a drum. And I remember the way you would dance. 

No one knows about these thoughts. I don't tell anyone. I keep it to myself. I plaster a goofy grin on my face, nod at everything they say, and I listen. I listen to every word, but I don't hear what they are saying, because I don't genuinely care. I am only thinking of you. What you would say. Your voice is in my head, like a commentator from the horse races. 

Sometimes I worry that I've become schizophrenic. That the words I conjure up and form in my mind, though I know they are fictional or excerpts of things you once said, are not conscious. Then I have a Truman Show moment and wonder if anyone in my life is real. Once I lost my friend in a department store. I felt dizzy and light headed and parched. She was gone. I wondered if she had ever been there to begin with. Then she reappeared. But maybe I'm just that crazy person everyone stares at, everyone humors. I suppose I'll never know.

Sometimes I'll go into an online chatroom and pretend to be you. I say what I think you would say, laugh when I think you would laugh, be sarcastic or funny or rude or ill-tempered the way I remember you to be. It is my way of keeping you alive. Is that sick? Is that unhealthy? I know it is. But I continue to do it. 

Sometimes I'll sit under a tree, a giant oak or a tall fern, and pretend that you are dead. I pretend that you are a spirit, and that the soil and the earth underneath me, the wind blowing through the leaves, the fallen blossoms are a culmination of you. I talk to you, and people, passersby, think I'm in mourning. They think I have lost someone. I suppose I have.

Sometimes I get into my car and I scream and sob at the wheel. And at the red light the people in the car next to me look into the window, and I feel like I'm in a movie. They don't know why I'm crying, and they probably come up with far-fetched, ridiculous stories. In truth, I'm only crying about you - as inconsequential as you may seem. When I heave in and out, my chest pumping, my breath shortening and my eyes filled to the lid with tears, I feel calm, I feel real. I feel at peace with you. I feel angry with you. 

Sometimes I look at the moon and the stars, when I am walking alone at night. I tilt my head up and feel trapped in a snow globe, and I wonder when you are going to shake me up again. When is the snow going to fall? I don't see the sky expanding. I see it moving downward, closing in on me. But I feel connected to the moon. I wonder if you look at it too. I wonder if we look at the moon at the same time, feel a sense of reassurance, a sense of beautiful sadness. I wonder if we feel poetic at the same time, and close our eyes together and feel the breeze ripple through our hair. I'd like to think we do. 

When I feel contemplative like this, I often wish I had some place to go. A quiet mountainside by the beach, with padded grass and daisies. Without intruders. Just me and a checkered blanket. I would play with the strands of fabric, thinking to myself, looking up at the sky, looking down at the earth, wondering how we evolved, and you would come. You - my saving grace from the world, my saving grace from myself. You would hold me. You would tell me that everything would be alright. That I didn't have to worry anymore. That I didn't have to question the world. But when I did, you would give me your thoughts and they would provoke me to new, profound levels. And we would sit, on my red checkered blanket, huddled in eachothers warmth, until the sun came up and we didn't feel alone anymore.

Barcelona, it was the first time that we met, Barcelona, how can I forget

I wrote this passage after a mesmerizing experience in Guadi's Park Guell in Barcelona. In the Spring Semester 08 I studied abroad in London and over my break I went to Paris and then Barcelona. Visiting the park grounds was one of the highlights of my trip, due to the tremendous scenery and the general sense of peace and serenity I gained simply from stepping foot onto the property. The photograph to the right is one that I took while looking out from the top of Park Guell. The man pictured was a stranger and unaware of my camera - I captured him in his true form - taking in the view, just as I did. 

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I climbed steadily up towards  the top of  a cobblestone,  cemented hill.  I passed small trinket stores, hearing American accents and English words. After beads of sweat began to form in the small of my back and on my brow (as I was covered in my down jacket), we finally reached the pinnacle. Roaming green hills and marble arches adorned with mosaics of blues and greens, a sea of rich, shiny colors, created a serene yet visually stimulating atmosphere. A statue of a lizard, a tile image of an octopus, splayed across the wall, among countless other creations, specifically imitations of trees, plants, flowers, and other kinds of natural foliage were interspersed and plastered on the architecture throughout the park. Large oak trees formed shade for observers while white manufactured halls and columns paved the way to several natural dirt paths. We walked in silence, except for the crunching of the earth beneath our feet. My eyes drifted outwards and scanned the Barcelona coast, the sun beating down across my face, the warmth feeling soothing and inviting. I saw the sea, sparkling in the light, behind a foreground of expansive buildings and construction sites. People were close to each other, involved in laughter and conversation,  wrapped in blankets, resting on hard benches, faces upward towards the sky. I found a spot upon a hill that spoke to me, somewhere in between the engraved cacti and rock-covered ground. I sat on a large stone and told myself to commit to one action: breathing. I inhaled solitude and respite - lingering on my own thoughts. My back was slouched but my head was held high. I was in a completely relaxed state, deeply involved in my interior world, yet not concerned with worries or fears. It was a time of reflection and a chance to let go and relinquish any baggage that had been weighing down on me. When it was time to leave, we walked in silence all the way back to the metro station, never questioning our desire not to speak, only reveling in the fact that we had all been touched by this experience. 

Only read this if you can keep a secret...

After a fun evening with a friend, this story came to me. With some imaginative help I have created the answer to an unsolved mystery. Read on...if you dare...MUAHAHAHAHAH

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Harold is small. And when I say small, I don’t mean short or thin. I mean he is a staggering two inches tall. But don’t ask him about his height. It’s a touchy subject. Because what Harold lacks in stature he makes up for with his HUGE and defensive ego. If asked, Harold puffs up his chest and proclaims his height as two and three-quarter inches. And if you so much as mention how ridiculous it is to add the “three-quarters” he will launch into an overzealous lecture in which he states that he is an honest man, but a man to whom every inch or three quarters of an inch counts.

Harold is also a Viking. And I don’t mean this as some sort of arbitrary metaphor either. Harold is actually a Viking…no, Captain of the Miniature Vikings. He wears a silver cap with two ivory antlers protruding from the sides. He adorns his diminutive body in full armor with dull spikes on the edge, thus making it apparent that he is merely trying to appear rugged and tough. He has a long, bushy chestnut beard that is the consistency or texture of a squirrel’s tale. Harold also has little beady eyes that cling to the bridge of his large nose, creating a permanent scowl upon his face.

So now you know: Harold is a two and three-quarter inch tall Captain of a squad of other tiny Vikings. Think you’ve heard enough? No! You want more? Harold and his fellow Vikings have a very serious profession…

…They make the holes in Swiss cheese.

I know this because one time I saw Harold and he told me. However, I am breaking a promise by telling you this classified information. You see, I was supposed to keep my meeting with good ol’ Harry a secret. No human is supposed to uncover the mystery of Swiss cheese and I was to continue living life as if I didn’t know the answer. But it’s eating away at me (pun intended) and I must share this secret with you.

While the Cheese-makers are asleep, Harold and his gang sneak in and make the holes with special tiny circular shaped tools that resemble mallots. And what do they do with the excess cheese? Why eat it, of course! Well actually, they bring it home to their families. Yes, they have little 2-inch tall families (well the children are minuscule in comparison to Harold and his crew, just like human children are much smaller than their parents).

Now I know you probably think that this is all fictional. But I promise - this really happened. Pinky swear. One day I was watching my friend eat Swiss cheese at his dining room table. I know…I lead a fascinating life. He was peering through the holes as he held the slice between his fingers and I asked the fateful question: “Why does Swiss Cheese have holes?” He looked at me, smirked, and continued eating. As if this question was of no importance. Ha!

A few moments later, I looked behind his chair because something caught my eye. Perched on the ledge of a windowsill was a tiny Viking. It was Harold – decked out in his best and shiny attire – standing in all of his (little) glory. Naturally I was astonished to see such a sight and I thought maybe all my lack of sleep was finally catching up to me. My friend stood up to the go into the kitchen and, as he left, Harold leaped onto the table and looked me square in the eye. First, as a test, he whacked me on the cheek with his metal weapon AKA the tool he uses to form holes in the cheese. When I merely rubbed my eyes in dismay, thinking I was having a hallucination, he realized that I was harmless and not easily angered. He proceeded by shouting “HELLO, I AM HAROLD! CAPTAIN – SWISS CHEESE UNIT”. I told him that he didn’t need to shout. Just because I was larger than him did not mean I was also hard of hearing or unintelligent. So then he summoned me, to come closer, with his tiny, blistered hand and whispered into my ear. He told me everything I have just written and when I rolled my eyes in disbelief he demanded that I look behind my friend’s chair once more.

I glanced over and sure enough there was a small cluster of, oh, I don’t know, approximately, FIFTEEN tiny Vikings. One of them, in the midst of the group, shouted as he jumped up and down, greeting me with much admired enthusiasm. When he realized that he was the only one behaving in this absurd manner (all the other Vikings were quiet and still), he became quite bashful and with much awkwardness said “Hi”  under his  (cheese) breath. After this uncomfortable display, the other Vikings chimed in, saying “Hello” and “Hi” and “How ya doin, me lass?” (well no, not really, no one said that last one…but that would have been nice). They stood, huddled up, and shyly waved, as if they were young children forced to be polite to an elderly stranger.

Just as I was about to speak, I heard the floor-boards begin to creek. (Hey, that rhymed!) I looked toward the hallway to see if it was my friend or his pet cat. I’m not sure which would have been worse for Harold and his posse. Does Patches need a new chew-toy? Let’s hope not. Indeed, it was my friend returning from the kitchen, but when I turned back towards the window ledge to warn my new pals of the approaching danger, they were already gone. Where to? I’ll never know.

Anyway, now that I have divulged this information, please, for my sake, do not repeat it. If it gets out, I am worried that Harold will come back with his Vikings and attack me, probably during a much-needed afternoon nap, with their cheese weapons. In which case, the next time you see me I will know you cannot keep secrets, and consequently be covered in tiny Swiss-cheese-like holes. 

Oh, Otis

Inspired by the soulful, head-bobbing, body-swaying melodies of the one and only, Otis Redding. Specifically: These Arms of Mine, Pain In My Heart, and Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa (Sad Song). Let me just remind you that this blog is for my FICTIONAL creative writing pieces. However, that does not mean that I am not inspired by real life. Is this excerpt based on one of my past/current relationships, you ask? I'll let you decide. (Coy smile). I have to keep some things mysterious, right? Enigmatically yours, Victoria

 XOXO

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Sometimes I listen to Otis Redding and think about you. 

About red wine, some hash, and your lips - tasting of cigarette smoke and the 40's. 

I try to understand what drew me to you. 

Why you kept pulling me, like a pup on a leash. 

You were mean. Cruel. Yes, you were. 

But that Otis Redding, he kept crooning, kept singing to me, and bringing me back. 

We would sit in your inviting bed, your yellow hair covering your eyes, small and smug, and we would play. 

Those arms of yours, they provided a respite for me, but there was pain in my heart, and we were often silent, conversing without words, as the melody "fa-fa-fa-fa-fa" wafted through the stale air. 

I felt old next to you. Not old as in age. But I felt romantic and antiquated. 

When I walked into your home, passed the wisteria, through the barely-budging door, it was like stepping into another era - a Woody Allen movie, perhaps - a smokey room, jazz, burgundy and forest green. 

We would talk about philosophy and film and our world theories.  

But we never got along. 

I would threaten to leave, you would tickle me, I would succumb, we would kiss, and then I would walk out the door. 

It was tumultuous and you were an asshole - vulgar, but true. 

What is so mysterious to me - is that, even now, to this day, after all the shed tears, the hateful words, I still have a desire to go to your house, sit in your bed, cover myself in your red duvet, feeling the clean cotton against my skin, and listen to Otis Redding - watch you mouth the words, with your eyes closed, your hands draped around my naked body. 

That memory brings a strange sense of contentment. 

I often wonder - why is it that you keep resurfacing? 

I hate so many things about you. 

I despise your attitude, your arrogance, your stubbornness, among other more unappealing attributes. 

So why now, if you were to invite me over, would I be tempted to follow my feet to your couch and listen to you belittle me? 

It must be the Otis Redding. 

Ohhhh, Otis. 

Bringing people who should not be together...together. 

You devil, you. 

the (im)penetrable

A good friend of mine wrote a poem that spoke to me. I wrote a response to it - from a different perspective. And I will post it down below. His poem can be read on his blog at http://punctuatepoorly.blogspot.com. No, this is not a shameless plug. This is of my own accord. I really enjoy reading his work - but the poem that I am specifically referencing is entitled "a thicket: robert part two" and somewhere beneath this work, is "part one" which gives you even more of a sense, more of a significance of the words. Well here is my poem, which should hopefully stand on its own, but also takes MUCH, even direct quotes, from "a thicket: robert part two," by Michael Martin. 

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Vanity,

     I mistook 

     For virtue,

Is your downfall

Your demise

But that will not hinder me

I will not stutter or stumble or fall

No, you are not ageless

Not

     Immortal

Nor am I

And I will not waste another second

Alone

Gazing,

     Sadly,

Into the mirror,

Watching age sneak upon us

In the dark

We were younger once,

Thinner too

We belonged

     To eachother

But you singed me

     With your cigarettes

Burnt - I still maintained my innocence

Charred, but still delicious, you said

Vanity,

Is what makes your heart ache

You can comb your hair, straighten your curls

Alter your appearance

But that won't change

     The formation of your heart

Your heart

Is a thicket

Condensed

     Seemingly impenetrable

But I will break through

I will get scratched, no doubt

As I prune away

To reach your center

To till the fertile soil,

     Hidden underneath the brush

But I will nurture you

     Until Spring

Do you think about me? I think about you.

Inspired by and written to Ballade No. 1 in G Minor, Op. 23 by Janusz Olejniczak, "I Think of You All the Time" by Rachel Portman, and Evening Primrose's "Take me to the World". 

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Once upon a time I was in love. In love with a statue on a pedestal. In love with contradiction. In love with pain. In love with you. Although you did not love me back. You did not even know I felt this way. You were oblivious, your head in a cloud of dust, a grey cloud that orbited in circles. You were too busy with yourself. Understandable, I suppose. But you were too busy to notice my obsession, my infatuation, my simplest desires. Or maybe you did notice, but chose to ignore your discoveries. I am not sure which is worse. Regardless, I am still left in the dirt, my clothes tattered and worn, my heart ripped to shreds. At this moment, I am trying to mend, to heal. Everyday I sew each heart-shred to another. But as the needle pricks the fabric of my old, trampled devotion I am reminded of you - a romanticized image, maybe an ideal that never even existed, except in my imagination. Maybe what I dream of is not real. Maybe I have invented you, my love. Maybe you are nothing. Just like me. I am nothing to you. I wish this could change. I wish with every fiber of my being that I could alter your opinion of me. That I could capture butterflies and place them in your stomach every time you see me. That I could add life and excitement into your eyes, your buttery eyes, whenever you hear my footsteps. But I am only human, and incapable of such things. So I must suffer. Something I am akin to. Something I know all too well. Once upon a time, I was in love with the notion, the ideal of love, itself. I was in love with being in love. I was in love with the sickening feeling whenever you made me unsure or confused. I was in love with the peaks and valleys, the ups and downs. I was even in love with the anger, the frustration, and the sadness. I was simply in love with feeling. Feeling alive, feeling life course through my veins, feeling you affect me. It was powerful. It still is. And I am not sure I am ready to let go. To relinquish , to move on, would be to rid myself of feeling alive. And ultimately, I am utterly, unabashedly in love with life. Thankfully, that love is not unrequited. Life loves me with all of his heart. He has loved me since the day I was born and will continue until the day I perish. He is my only stable love. I suppose I can be content with that. At least I am loved at all. 

"To conceal is something so inorganic for me"

I did not want this blog to be a place for me to write about myself. I wanted it to be a means of  posting my creative writing pieces. For people to read and enjoy my stories, or to feel connected to the emotions and ideas present in my poems. But I haven't posted anything in a long time, and I feel compelled to do so. At this point, I haven't written anything creative in a while. Sad, but true. I have been so busy with other things. The most creative, unassigned piece that I have written, has been about myself, specifically my feelings about myself. I am posting it in hopes that some people may feel the same way about themselves and can connect to it, or if nothing else, can maybe gain better insight into who I am. Here it is. Love. 

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Rain makes me feel poetic. I do not know if it is the sound of the water splashing against the pavement or the fact that I am held captive, locked inside...a prisoner to my thoughts. 

It is almost as if the rain is the background music, a constant melody to the lyrics that are playing in my head. These lyrics are contemplative, rather displeasing memories or feelings of dejection, which I would rather not think about. But once the rain splatters onto the ground, like paint to a canvas, and the wind begins to whirr, my eyes become glazed over and there is no way around the forceful urge to think.

Right now I am feeling a sense of loss. Not a loss of my "sense of self", but rather a loss of a part of my self. Is it my dignity? Maybe. Is it my pride? No. I have never really been a prideful person. I have always worn my heart on my sleeve. Even though I am easily bruised and due to my openness, eagerness, and hatred of "games" I have been shattered and displaced, I always dust myself off, and continue to chase after my dreams, whatever or whomever they may be. But I have recently learned that persistence is not the answer to everything...well at least not the answer into everyone's heart.

It seems like recently I have been selling myself. Selling myself short, perhaps. But mostly just trying to get by, to rush through, because within me, there exists an internal clock, ticking at a frenetic pace. It is not a steady rhythm and sometimes it speeds up irrationally, making my mind blurred, my face red. The only way to cease the incessant ticking and tocking, the resounding and pounding, the loudness, the quakes, the never-ending beating and banging is to take action. And, unfortunately, most of the time that action, simply should not have been acted upon.

If I received a nickel for every time I committed an action and then regretted it shortly after...I would have A LOT of nickels. No, but on a more serious note, I would be sitting on my private yacht, circling my private island, drinking a peach mojito with extra mint brought to my by my private butler, Jeeves (anyone who is anyone has a butler named Jeeves, right?). The point is: I cannot censor myself. And recently it is becoming quite a large-scaled problem. Maybe it is not that I lack a filter or self-discipline or the "just say no" bumper sticker, but it is that I see the warnings and blatantly ignore them. I notice the stop sign, but roll right through. 

I have told people before that it physically pains me to keep feelings or thoughts inside. To conceal is something so inorganic for me. It is incredibly difficult. Like trying not to laugh when you are being tickled - quite the challenging task, I know (unless you are not ticklish, you lucky son-of-a-gun). But, once you give in, once you finally laugh, it feels so freeing - just giggling with glee and relinquishing yourself and really committing to that release. Here is another hypothetical: You are a young child, playing a pool game with friends, trying to see who can hold their breath under water the longest. If you come up a second too early you could lose, or if you hold your breath one mere second longer you could win. But once you have been submerged for a certain amount of time, the panic sets in, that sinking feeling in the depths of your stomach, and you do not care about the contest or the consequences anymore. You just want to reach the surface and take a big gasp, a large gulp of air. Once you come up for breath, however, you realize you most certainly could have stayed under for longer, and when little Suzy comes up a second after you and shoves her victory in your face, you are left feeling incredibly defeated and angry at yourself. This is how I feel whenever I say something I know I should not say or do something I know I should not do. 

I have often thought of life, and the many facets within it, as just one big build-up to a climax. Many activities, goals, experiences - all are centered around working until you reach a climax, and then retreating down the slope, only to build right back up again. Getting a lead in a play, a promotion at work, a marriage proposal, etc. Imagine all the grandiose efforts put into reaching these goals, and then remember the downward spiral after it has been achieved. Anyway, I am impatient, and do not typically enjoy "the process". I just want that burst of excitement and passion, that moment of "flow", when everything is working cohesively together and everything feels right in the world, even if it is not. And so, even though I know, rationally, that there is a certain path to reach this climax, I refuse to take it because it involves censorship and discipline and games and most importantly time...and for some reason I do not have the capacity to wait.* I am in a rush. But I do not know why. I feel as though I am trying to reach an invisible, imaginary deadline. And it is ruining me.

I am also one of those people who writes an extensive New Years Resolution list (I try to whittle it down to ten, since I have slight OCD and like lists to always be at ten or at least a good, solid number like five or fifteen).  But of course I can never abide by these "rules".  The resolutions are usually alterations of my character.  And almost always, one of them is to "be less open".  I am often too vulnerable and do not protect myself. I do not think most people appreciate my openness, but instead find it uncomfortable or invasive and off-putting. I wish I did not have this yearning to reach out to people so much, to share everything with everyone. It is so drastic; so black and white. If I could be grey for a moment, life would be less complicated. I could be patient. I could hold my breath and count to ten. I could breathe. Maybe I could be found instead of trying to find.

I do not want to search anymore. I am on an endless hunt for what I want, and I am not returning home. I put myself out there. I climb on that limb, and now the limb is disconnecting. The branch is falling off the tree, and I am barely hanging on. I want to feel sturdy and secure. But every time I make that resolution to be strong and stop saying every single thought that enters my mind, I simply cannot abide by it. Stop being forward. Stop seeking. Do not do that. Be this way. Act that way. Wait. Be patient.

...I cannot. 

And unfortunately, given my stubbornness and inability to learn from mistakes, I will not.

*Now do not get me wrong. I can be very disciplined when it comes to school work or an assignment, but not when it comes to finding love, which is mostly what I am referring to in this post.