Painting heart-cries, word by word

Freewrite [2] January 14, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — verbosevictoria @ 9:42 pm
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I have been in love with crunchy peanutbutter and crips Pink Lady apples ever since I started being a mom. There’s something about natural, crunchy peanutbutter and the sweet crunch of an apple that is incredibly satisfying to my tastebuds. The energy doesn’t hurt either; it’s one of the few snacks I love that doesn’t make feel like a freight train afterwards.

It’s interesting what makes me feel good or proud of myself. I am proud of myself today because I said sorry when I realized I was wrong, I took a shower on a whim instead of debating it with myself, and my house still looks lovely after cleaning it up yesterday. I like the way I look because I actually styled my curls into a sort of submission and picked out an outfit just for fun. Most days I’m wandering around in a groggy stupor, pajamas and messy bun and glasses. No wonder I feel like a disaster. I probably LOOK like a disaster. 

I keep noticing my wedding bands today. I have a simple soft gold set with diamonds. The only unusual part is the main diamond is heart-shaped, which I love because it wasn’t something I would’ve chosen. I don’t like the practice of a girl picking out her wedding ring to make sure it’s something she’ll like. If it had been up to me, I probably would have gone with silver or platinum settings and a fiery opal instead of a diamond. Definitely not heart-shaped diamond set in gold. But I love it for that precise reason. Eric picked it out for me because when he saw it, he knew that was the best representation of his love for me and our commitment together. I do like it, every year a little more, and I’ve started to wear more gold because of it. I don’t see why I should keep all my favorite things the same just because they’ve been my favorites for years. I’m actually contemplating changing my favorite color from green to purple. Green used to be my favorite color because it was the color of my eyes when they were at their most interesting. I loved green because it was the color of the forest and I was slightly obsessed with trees for awhile. I still am, on some level. I loved green because I could wear it well and not many other people would, so it felt like MY color. It also signified life in general and genuine, vibrant things, which I felt expressed the best parts of me.
And yet, I am considering changing my answer to the perpetual ice-breaking question to purple. I’ve added purple into my life without really realizing it. I think it is the color of my life now, at least a bit more so than green. Green was when I was very young. I’m not quite that young anymore. At the same time, I’m not feeling terribly mature. Purple is such a rich, textured color and invites contemplation. I love to think, probably a bit too well, and purple is like a mental peace. The ability to converse in my head is a source of comfort for me. And it also expresses my passion and creativity. I want to be that passionate, creative, thoughtful person every day. I don’t succeed in that goal, but I still carry it in my back pocket as it were. Tucked out of sight but never quite forgotten. I want to have a purple life, now that I’ve had my green one.

–10 minutes


Freewrite (hopefully the first of many) January 12, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — verbosevictoria @ 1:16 am

I’ve been thinking about the way birds fly recently. The way, the liquid way their wings move through the air. Dark shapes piercing the sunrise in a way man has never been able to achieve. Why didn’t God make us with the ability to fly, or at least to learn how? I’ve flown so often in my dreams. One person once told me that flying in our dreams was our soul taking a break from our bodies and just zooming around for awhile. But why do I have to be subconscious to soar? Why can’t I do it naturally, physically, right now? Is it an eternity thing? Is that a price of being bound to Earth and Time, to feel the plodding under my feet all the time and only to sense the freedom awaiting me as I drift in dreams that are like memories? Memories are so difficult for me. So painful. Not that my life was painful to remember but the fact that some of it is over already and reduced to nothing but a faulty retrieved file in the back of my over-stuffed brain, to be viewed in colors that have nothing to do with reality and voices that sound like the echoes in an empty apartment with high ceilings. The sounds are all barren white, the colors are all slightly moldy, the sensations are strong but untrustworthy. It’s odd to think that we can remember anything at all, that our minds are so full yet are able to recycle. Nothing is ever exactly the way we remember it–we’re not recalling reality, we’re recreating our perception of it. Reality itself is so much bigger than what we see of it. Memories can’t embody that sense of being part of a much bigger whole, that knowledge that we are not the only ones in the world and we are not the center of the universe. I have a lot of childhood memories of my dad and I from way back when, but my mind seems to have sealed all my home life memories (except for a very select few) from when I was about 15. I don’t remember much, which worries me. There’s always a bit of latent worry when I think about my life at home as a teenager. Nothing bad happened, but why did I block so much of it out? Maybe I didn’t like myself and home was the only place where I couldn’t pretend to be something else. That might be it.
I don’t want to talk about that anymore. It’s too serious.
I wrote a poem when I was a 15 year old girl who thought far too much for her own good and it was the only free verse poem I ever deigned to write. I called it “Green” and it was about wondering what I liked and what I had been trained to like and whether I could differentiate between them. It was so important to me to be genuine back then. And now. And that poem was about the “who am I” problem, about my insecurities, and my high standards for myself that no one else seemed to give me. I’m still doing that, by the way.
I’ve said for years that I’m not a poet, but my life in writing would dictate otherwise. I am a poet, I am just an uncomfortable one. I don’t enjoy looking at those sensitive areas for so long so I ignore them as much as possible. I observe them as a scientist rather than experiencing them as an artist. I can’t bear to sit in my feelings, probably because I am intimidated by their influence over my head.

–10 minutes.


Trying On A New Adjective

Filed under: Uncategorized — verbosevictoria @ 1:02 am

When did I become so small?

There was a time that my biggest fault was opening my mouth and letting things pour out with no filter, but these days I am slightly embarrassed by my silence. I used to be unknowingly brave, although admittedly obnoxious as well. Now? Now I have my head bent, examining the effect of my shoes on the carpet, and I say nothing.

Case in point– I am in the library, miraculously kid-free (I have four, so, yes–a miracle), and I can barely string together an entire thought because these two people next to me are being so loud. They’re in high school, they’re hanging out, they’re having a good time. But it is a library and I came for the quiet, not a teenage version of the playing I see all day at home between my small children! I almost said something at least four times but instead of politely asking them to keep it down, I just sit here. Why? Why don’t I speak up?

“Timid” was never an adjective I applied to myself but it seems to be fitting.