Love is Radioactive

They say love never dies. That deep down, any love you've ever felt or any hopes of love you've ever dreamed, still exist. And I believe them, whoever they are, because I believe that love is radioactive.

That's why you still hold on to that girl you crushed on in second grade or that boy who kissed you in the rain. That's why you'll always love the someone who broke your heart and remember the someone who let you break theirs. That's why breakups still hurt and butterflies never go away, and even though we fall down so many times, we get back up and keep going. It's all for the sake of love.

Of course, we try to forget. We always do. It's human nature to hide your pain between layers of dirt whenever someone breaks your heart. But no matter how deep you dig, it will never be deep enough. Because deep down, beneath the soil and rocks and clay, that love--that radioactive mess of hopes and dreams--still burns. And as far as principles of physics go, we know that radioactive materials will decay little by little,  even when there are only two atoms left, and then one. After that, the quantum particles of the lonely atom will start to break down until millions and millions of half-lives are passed and it's almost all gone but never completely, because that's not how the universe works.

Each and every one of us seven billion people living on the Earth has buried our love at some point in our lives. And I think it'd be safe to say that the Earth relies on the love we create, and that is why it preserves a portion of it day by day. That radioactive love we make is the reason why the flowers are so beautiful and the grass is so green and the snow is so white in the winter. Our world needs our love, buried in the dirt or sand or rocks for mother Earth to use as fuel to keep on living, to keep on dreaming and becoming. We need our love, too.

So after millions and millions of years, the world has become so full of true love and fake love, of lost love and found love, of happy love and sorrowing love and tough love and  unconditional love and romantic love and unrequited love and brotherly love and lovely love and every other kind of love, of so many different kinds of love that maybe we'll say it's all just radioactive love, and that one day all that love is going to reach critical mass and light up this whole world in glitter and flames.

And I want to be there when that happens.

Because even when it's all over and only dust and dreams remain, love still just might.
And after all, love is what I live for.

Don't Ask Me What This Was

I wrote it for my English class. I don't know... Can you tell I'm feeling pessimistic about this whole English-language-as-an-art thing lately?

Because I totally am. True Story.

"I am not a heap of adjectives. I am not a hunk of prose. I am not a poem, or a song, or a story, or a blog post, or an encyclopedia entry. What I am is a soul. A girl who refuses to be defined by the way I write or by the words I speak, but rather by the way I live. Music, people, and the gospel are the three most important things in my life, and with that, perhaps you could say that I write simply because I have no better reason to.

I was once one of those writers who would hand-pick words for hours just to show my English teacher that I was the one with the most beautiful bouquet. I didn’t care what I wrote or what my words said—As long as they sounded pretty, witty, or otherwise intelligent, I stamped my name at the top of the paper, sent it off to the basket, and waited for that cute little “A” to appear a few days later. It was all about the grade, and so for years I wrote in a way that would earn me the most points or allow the universe to smile down on me for what I considered to be my noble contribution to that vast and ever-increasing collection of thoughts and words.

It was all going perfectly well… That is, until I realized one important fact. Writing isn’t a self-existent art. To write for writing’s sake will always be a futile endeavor, because until something or someone comes along to give it meaning, words are dead. Language is really only a tool we use to describe the things that really matter: people, experiences, feelings, ideas. 

 These days, I prefer to write what matters. While for so long I have been accustomed to writing for the grade, I am now more fully committed to write only what matters to me. I write for myself, for my family, for my friends and my peers. I write to record the thoughts in my head and to comment on the little things nobody else notices. I write to keep myself sane, but to encourage insanity in other people. I also write to discover the real reason I write. While I’ll deny any claims that words can somehow describe the person I consider myself to be, I do admit that I describe words as a river that lives inside of me—flowing, shaping, and changing me until one of these days, I might actually understand a bit of what I’m talking about."

Untitled (Why can't words and titles come together?!)

I found my old writer's notebook today! All the way back from ninth grade.  Reading through it, I was surprised to find that I haven't changed. Not one bit. I mean, compared to now I had the same sorts of ideas, the same sorts of insecurities. Boys haven't changed much, and neither has time. In fact, I wonder if I was a better writer back then than I am now.

For example, I wrote this:

"Slowly, carefully, they unlocked the door. She peered inside--just glancing at first, but then eagerly searching for him in the darkness. Searching, until finally he emerged. Dirt covered his body--head to toe. He was too thin. The effects of years of mistreatment showed. His lips had curved themselves down into a scowl, abd Elle took a step forward, wondering if he could possibly be the same man. He certainly didn't look like it. She immediately recoiled. He isn't the one.


She began to turn away, but she caught one single glimpse of those unchanged eyes. Blue--deeper than oceans. They were the same. He was the same! She ran to him."

Also, my ideas are the same. Lately I've been thinking about writing something about this phenomenon, or at least I was until I found this:

"Sometimes when I read my past writing, or look at an old drawing or photo--I remember. I remember exactly where I was at the time, how I was feeling, and what was going on. As if a piece of time was captured and placed carefully between the pages of my notebook.

I was sitting crosslegged on the couch--wrapped up in a blanket and trying to absorb all the heat from the fireplace. I was writing, and I reread it and it took me back. I was sitting at my counter--drawing the mirror while everything around me went on. It's so weird--I'm taken aback even now, as I recall the time when... it just goes on and on."

And finally, my insecurities were obviously similar to what they are now. Is that because I haven't yet conquered them? Or is it more a matter of conquering one step at a time?

"It's weird--how come being a '4.0', 'top of the... what ever I am' is harder than just being normal? Everyone says I'm so lucky. I supposedly don't have to work too hard for anything. It all comes naturally. But if anyone was actually put in my shoes, they'd crumble from all the pressure. Of not being able to live up to the expectations I'm supposed to.

I'm not perfect--no one is. But why does everyone expect me to be so amazing all of the time? This is why I never raise my hand in English--I'm not always so brilliant. This is why I refuse to inprovise for jazz band--what if my solo isn't absolutely amazing? This is why I'm a little afraid of additional praise in anything--half the time I feel undeserving. Why can't I just be like everybody else?

I wish, for once in my life, I'd really have to work for something. I wish that when I walk into a classroom, I don't suddenly become the teacher's favorite or most 'special' student. I wish that people would stop comparing themselves to me, to their version of the 'perfect' student. Sometimes I wish I had none of these things... these 'talents.' But I guess they're a part of me, and I'd just be losing myself. It feels like I already have, though. Because of the pressure."

Back then, I suppose pressure was a big deal to me. It isn't so much now, and I think it's a little late to be saying I'm scared of soloing or being an academic. So maybe I have changed. Maybe I have matured a little. My handwriting's different--that says something. :)

I think way back then, my brain wasn't exploding so much. I wasn't so scattered and spread thin across all sorts of personalities and ideals of who I should and shouldn't be. I kinda miss those days. Things were uncomplicated, and though I don't wish I could go back, I0 do remenisce. We can thank my notebook for that. :)

Scraps

Last night I stayed up till midnight writing an essay I didn't actually turn in. I pitched it in the girls' bathroom, I never should have written it. It was a terrible essay, and likely very untrue. There were two ways to view the incident, and I wrote in the wrong perspective. Note to self: never do that again.

Though the essay as a whole was offensive, I wanted to save the good writing. Here are the snidbits.

1. I try not to keep my own secrets, if I can help it. A truth is a matchstick; when covered, it has the potential to ignite, which burning harms the holder. No doubt it would be better to share the burden of secrets than to confine them; but what of the failure to have secrets in the first place? Secrets are the by-product of misjudgment—whether socially, morally, or on a basis of trust (or lack thereof). But since our society is a judging one, and that judgment is imperfect, there is no judgment without misjudgment. It is foolish to presume that secrets can be obliterated; however, they can be minimized. This minimization is so critical when it comes to forming friendships, keeping relationships, and maintaining social standards.

2. Not after accepting the deception they've created for themselves.

3. Used rather than considered

4. Some are the type of people to make and keep friends easily, whereas my inertia for gaining friends is much higher

5. Prior to that point of realization, I was disinclined to consider...

6. ...onslaught shocked me into a daze

7. What blossomed later in life began as an attack on my endurance

Not that any of that makes sense--it does to me, and I guess that's what matters.


***Post-Edit***
Well, I WAS planning on posting Day 14 as well, but no thanks to a certain bass player, my mood is ruined.

Honestly... I don't care what the Octet thinks of me anymore. Every person in there knows I'm terrible, I'm the weak link, yadda yadda yadda. But to point it out? I thought that was rude. At least it wasn't in front of everyone. Just, as I walked to my car, "Awesome job tonight, Brittney."


You know that feeling where you KNOW someone is trying to make you feel bad? His double-edged sarcasm hurt. Not a lot, though, because I don't deny having played horribly tonight. But I do feel bad about not being good enough to be worthy of the group. I wish there was a way to drop out... I don't even LIKE jazz music! I don't belong there.

I must be doing something wrong. I believe Heavenly Father placed me in the Octet for a reason, and I don't think I'm accomplishing what I should. IF only... I don't know. I get so confused whenever I'm there, I hardly know what to feel, let alone think.

Someone take me out.

***Post-Post Edit 3/24***

Well... now I feel lame. I'm SO OVER-ANALYTICAL!!!

The Octet doesn't CARE if I fail at jazz. They don't CARE if I don't like jazz, or if I solo poorly, or if I don't know any answers or have anything argumentatively constructive to say... These are musicians, they'll accept anything unless it's their place to judge!

They want me to go on a gig with them. (What?!) The bass player probably wasn't being sarcastic. (Double What?!) They liked the song I picked out to transcribe. (triple... WHAT?!!!)

Huh. I've been saying this a lot lately, but...

my logic is flawed. I might need to reconsider finding a better

p e r s p e c t i v e.

Because apparently, everything I perceive is transformed into something...

e l s e.

*sigh*

Poetry for Amateurs

There's nothing like shocking news:

I became the Junior Poetry Editor for Argus, our student literary journal.



I know.

Since when am I a poet?

(Since now, apparently.)

I figured that if I am to be a decent editor of poetry, I should also be a decent writer of poetry. So I sat down one day, and began work. I felt quite proud of myself that I managed to write a poem I thought was deep and brilliant. I posted it here originally, but after rereading it... Well, it was nasty. Everything about it. I realized it was a poison to my nowhere-near-perfect-but-always-dreaming blog of free expression, so I removed it from the post.

Next I tried to set a goal to write a small poem every night, but I couldn't write a single word. They say poetry has infinite possibilities--art--and yet, sometimes even the most freedom can be the tightest confinement. It's counterintuitive. Or is it logic, the enemy of all art forms? Perhaps.

So maybe I'm not a poet. But lucky for me, I don't have to be. I just have to recognize good poetry well enough to make a decent editor. Since I do that easily with other forms of writing, I'm hoping it will be no problem. If not, there's always plan B.

(Run away as fast as possible and hope nobody finds me!)

Well, here goes being the Junior Poetry Editor! Wish me luck.

The Butterfly Tree: A Musing

In the front garden of the place I call home, there grows a certain Butterfly Tree. It grows green leaves, but by summer it is red. It is small, for a tree, but from my point of view it stands twice as tall as any other. I've always felt a certain connection to that tree, and I think it began the evening it proved its name Butterfly, for that was the day it became mine.

It was a time ago, and I remember opening the door to surpirse. Many, perhaps hundreds of butterflies, all kissing the tree's flowers and leaves and trunk. The sight was majestic; I dared not approach the tree in fear of scaring off the beautiful creatures. Instead I observed from the window, sunlight warming my face through the glass. It has not happened since, those butterfly kisses, but as a child that one evening was enough for me to fall in love with the tree--I called it mine, and it was, and that was the end of it.

As time passed I watched my tree grow, bloom, change, then shed its colors and start over. I began to take pictures of it, for it was important to me to remember how it grows, and by so doing I noticed a miraculous happening.

Why am I so fascinated with the Butterfly Tree? I often ask myself. After all, my tree, like everything else, can only follow that natural cycle Heavenly Father laid out for it. Still, in my mind the tree seems to fill a greater role--one I have just begun to figure out. Thinking back, looking at my pictures, laying them side by side...

I think it reminds me of myself.

Like the Butterfly Tree, I grow. I change. I shed my colors and start over. I want to capture every happy moment, I want to weather every storm and stand proud through every trial. Someday, I think to myself, I will be presented with butterfly kisses, too. That will be the day I am claimed by one who is greater than I; but for now I am searching, watching, and growing. You could say my leaves are green, but one day they will turn red. One day, I will stand magnificent.

Who Am I?

Not very happy about writing Project Me.

Can I turn that in as my essay?

Thanks.



p.s. this dog is evil. It moved maybe a month ago, but before that it kept my Sunday afternoons QUITE entertaining. I used to walk home from church, cross the street to walk by the dog's fence, and then tease it. I would run back and forth, making the doggy chase me while barking its head off, and it would never quite catch me. It would get madder and madder and madder and madder until it was going to explode and I was afraid it'd jump over the fence to eat me.


Just wanted to post something about that.

Anyway. Have a nice day.

- Maestro