Sunday, June 15, 2008

When You Get Older, We'll Go To The Beach Again.

This evening, while searching my dad's study for The Remains of the Day, I came across a green, unmarked book that turned out to be a journal of letters from my parents, written to my baby sister. Rebbekah died when she was two years old, in 1994. I suppose it is somehow wrong to be reading these letters, but I couldn't really keep myself from it. When she passed away, I was only five years old, and I don't remember an awful lot about her, so I can't blindly pass the journal.

The letters begin when Bekah was in the hospital. She spent the first three months there because she was born prematurely, at twenty five weeks. We had to leave her in the city and come home for a few days, which simply killed my mother. She writes about how she wishes so to be able to hold her and kiss her, and assures her that people all across the country are praying for her. Reading these makes Rebbekah so much more real to me, more defined - real to the point of crying, when I can't even recall enough to miss her in the common sense of the word. Really, it doesn't add up in the sense of mourning a loss, but, rather, simply that my sister was here and now she is gone. I guess it comes from hearing my parents speak to her like that. I apparently called her 'my baby.' I loved her, and I know that the people who mean the most to me in this world did as well. Thus the tears, I suppose.

At some point, we went to Disneyworld, and I told Bekah (my mother has written on my behalf in the journal): [When you get older] we'll go to the beach again. We went to see Micky and Minnie and their show. When you get older, we'll go on the Merry-Go-Round.

Later, my father writes 'who knows where we'll all be when you're old enough to read this? Goodnight, Angel.' This is the second-to-last entry, and is written on April 12, 1993. One year later, my grandmother would pass away, following my sister by five days.

I would like to also note that Bridge Over Troubled Water just happened to come onto my iTunes.

When you're weary, feeling small
When tears are in your eyes,
I will dry them all.
I'm on your side
When times get rough
And friends just can't be found.

Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.

When you're down and out,
When you're on the street,
When evening falls so hard
I will comfort you.
I'll take your part
When darkness comes
And pain is all around.

Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.

Sail on silver girl,
Sail on by.
Your time has come to shine.
All your dreams are on their way;
See how they shine.
When you need a friend,
I'm sailing right behind.

Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.

And He did. Sail on, silver girl.

Friday, June 13, 2008

There is a fly in my room. He is darting around very quickly -- too quickly to assess whether he's a normal housefly or a big scary biting type. Sometimes, in mid zoom, flies can look much larger than they actually are, you know. I wish he would settle down for the night. It would make me feel much better about sleeping.

I spent most of my evening tonight at my friend, Wesley's, house playing RISK. It was me against four boys. Three I've known practically since birth, and the other my friend's boyfriend. He's from Canada, and so clearly had a jump on the whole "world domination" thing. I got out second. I might have gotten out first, but the Canadian (his name is Bryan) committed RISK suicide in the interest of spending alone time with Sarah before he has to go back to Canada.

Are you following? Well, it doesn't particularly matter.

RISK with the boys is definitely fun. Being the token girl is, as well. Sometimes it works for my advantage... most of the time, though, they just take my countries, anyway. Occasionally, like the last time I played, it is possible to employ the help of one of the guys. I think it's a chivalry thing. You know -- I'm a poor little girl. I surely can't take over the world alone. Help me! But again... usually they just call the bluff and move on. I think it has to do with the "known since birth" thing.

I did not dream of him again last night. The aforementioned-in-my-last-post man. Boy? Guy? Do we call ourselves men and women now? I am not sure that I know. But I didn't dream of him. So there isn't a whole lot more to say to that.

I think the fly is the big and scary type.

I've been playing Kingdom Hearts with my brother on his Playstation 2 for two days now. It is pretty much taking over my life. I saw some greenery in my yard and immediately wondered whether or not it was climbable. We just beat Agrabah. It was intense. Now, I think, I have to play around inside of a whale for awhile. This should be fun.

On another note completely, the summer makes me want to be loved. It's intoxicating. Like the sunshine is a drug that makes you a loser romantic, which I already was in the first place, though I do not know precisely why. I think that has something to do with the dreams.

Simon and Garfunkel

Who will love a little Sparrow?
Who's traveled far and cries for rest?
"Not I," said the Oak Tree,
"I won't share my branches with
no sparrow's nest,
And my blanket of leaves won't warm
her cold breast."

Who will love a little Sparrow
And who will speak a kindly word?
"Not I," said the Swan,
"The entire idea is utterly absurd,
I'd be laughed at and scorned if the
other Swans heard."

Who will take pity in his heart,
And who will feed a starving sparrow?
"Not I," said the Golden Wheat,
"I would if I could but I cannot I know,
I need all my grain to prosper and grow."

Who will love a little Sparrow?
Will no one write her eulogy?
"I will," said the Earth,
"For all I've created returns unto me,
From dust were ye made and dust ye shall be."

Thursday, June 12, 2008

The lines on which my title is based are from Sylvia Plath's poem, Love Is A Parallax:
The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':
though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
there burns throughout the line of words,
the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
an insight like the flight of birds:
I write what I feel, the fierce brief fusion inside which others may or may not connect with reality. It is more fun this way, don't you think? I certainly do.

I came across a poem today which I had previously read, but had not filtered for understanding. It has quickly become one of my favorites - it's another Plath. Of course.

Monologue at 3 AM

Better that every fiber crack
and fury make head,
blood drenching vivid
couch, carpet, floor
and the snake-figured almanac
vouching you are
a million green counties from here,

than to sit mute, twitching so
under prickling stars,
with stare, with curse
blackening the time
goodbyes were said, trains let go,
and I, great magnanimous fool, thus wrenched from
my one kingdom.

Correspondingly, I have written at least fifteen poems of the exact nature of this one, but mine only seek it, whereas this finds it, pulls at it, and shoves it in your face. If only I could do that.

Also correspondingly, I have dreamed about the same person for four nights in a row. On the third night he was back and we were together, sitting in some sort of auditorium, when a large and frightening bat-of-some-kind flew in and, though I felt it coming, made him disappear again into nothing. No traces, simply gone.

Drift away on a dream, drift away.

But don't, please. More fitting is:

I'm nothing on my own. And I love you, please come home.