Sunday, June 26, 2011


Yes, I've been MIA. Sorry about that.

Went to Boston for the weekend, and had no internet access, but it was awesome. My friend and I found a street dance party, which was awesome.

I wrote another piece, and this one definitely needs some work. Sorry about that.

When we were young, we'd chase rainbows
And try to place them in jars.
But the color would escape from the holes
That we had made so the fireflies
Wouldn't feel trapped.
We'd run through the rain
And how with the wind
And trace patters in the
Water splatters on our arms.

We didn't walk, we ran.

Now that we're older,
We have so much to do -
And we don't try to escape from
The holes in our own jars.
We look up, and sigh, and think
'What have I done?'
We drown out the rain with
our constant complaining,
And instinctively wipe away the water.
And we never run, we only walk.

I don't know, I think I might take out the second part, after "We didn't walk, we ran." What do you think?

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

If I Were a Star

Here's a little piece from me.

If I were a star, I'd shine brightly.
I'd twinkle and gleam in the night sky. The moon and I would converse as if we had just met, even tough we'd known each other since the beginning of Time. It was a game we'd like to play.
"What's your favorite color?" She would whisper softly to me, as if we were lying nose to nose.
"You are," would be my reply.
She would remain stone-faced, embarrassed; yet still, she would glow.
And I would twinkle with joy.
We would talk; we would whisper; we would laugh; we would scream. We would share out secrets as children would - the Moon and this singular Star.
"You know my secrets," she would breathe. And I would blush a brilliant white.

How Lonely We Both Would Be.

And one day, I would shine too brightly. And the Moon would have no one else to confide in any longer.
She would look at where I used to glint in the dark. A familiar face nowhere to be found.
And the Moon would weep.
"Who will know my secrets now?" She would sigh.

If I were a star, I'd probably not shine at all.

And Today

Hi Loyal Blog-Readers of Mine,

I'm sorry for neglecting all of you. It's been a bit of a rough week. A better post to come, and I hope to get back to all of you tonight or tomorrow.

Be well.

Monday, June 13, 2011


Here is a piece from a short story I recently read. The short story is from Temporary Sojourner by Tony Eprile. This excerpt is from the story Carillon.

It really resonated with me. If you have a difficult times with relationships, love, and getting close to people, it might resonate with you as well.

These crushes overwhelm me: I will find someone impossibly beautiful, distant, intriguing. Men and women. These crushes don't last and are often wasted on someone totally unworthy, but I wouldn't give them up for all the world. It's like biting into a cold peach; I get goosebumps all over. Mark is different and he doesn't understand my infatuations. His affection is constant and unchanging: a wide and placid river emptying endlessly into the sea. I couldn't possibly be like that. When I have one of my crushes, I want to be that person, crawl inside his skin, feel his blood pulse through my veins.

For me, love is all-important and redemptive. It has replaced religion and God. It doesn't matter that it blazes for only an instant before vanishing without trace. It doesn't matter that I often despair of ever being able to love anyone in a true, sustained way. It's the believing in its existence that counts.

This is not a popular view these days. Most of the people I know want to give the impression of being unimpassioned about their love affairs.

It's worth the read.

Friday, June 10, 2011

ee cummings

This is one of my favorite poems of all time. It was written by ee cummings, an American poet, who was one of the first writers to experiment with the syntax of a poem. He didn't like to adhere to standard poetic form, and I think that is something that is awesome about his poetry.

This poem is a beautiful piece of work. Pay attention to grammatical errors and the like.


somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Roll of Thunder, Soothe My Heart

It’s a warm evening, and a storm is coming in. One of my favorite things is to sit outside and listen to the thunder. It rumbles quietly in the distance.
The air is heavy with moisture, and a few drops land on my bare legs. The sky grows darker with every passing minute. The bell tolls eight times; the thunder keeps coming. Softly at first, but every so often there is a loud rumble. A gentle breeze blows and rustles my hair.
And yet there will be no stars tonight. No glimmers of light in the sky, no soft twinkling as they burn far away. No moon tonight either. I like to watch it pass behind the clouds as they it plays hide and seek with the stars.
The trees, in full bloom, look ominous against the dark grey sky. It reminds me of a big slate, and the trees are so still they look drawn on.
It’s beautiful and quiet, with the exception of the occasional roll of thunder.
Roll of Thunder, Soothe My Heart.
Let us be quiet and sit here, and listen to the birds chirp as they prepare for the onslaught of rain.

Edit: And what a storm it was.

Fortune Teller!

I made one last night.
Let's play a game while I'm commenting back to everyone.

Choose a color:

Tuesday, June 7, 2011


Tuesdays are usually much worse than Mondays. Here's my reasoning.
Monday: You're still thinking about the weekend.
Tuesday: You know you're in it for the long haul. There's no going back.
Wednesday: Hump Day!
Thursday: We're closer..
Friday: I can almost taste the freedom.
And then 5:00 comes on Friday, and you're free! Until Monday, when the cycle repeats.

But today was a good day. My best friend came over and we got lunch in this super cute little Mexican place near campus. After eating delicious burritos, we grabbed a pint of vanilla ice cream and a six pack. We walked back to my room, drank the beer, ate the ice cream, and listened to some good tunes.

And then R saw the pen that my Uncle gave me, "For editing purposes." It's impossible to write with.
I wrote: It is so hard to write with this. And she wrote: You're right, it's too top heavy.

But it was okay, because then we got iced coffee. And life was good. Maybe Tuesday's aren't so bad after all.

Monday, June 6, 2011

Look Who I Met!

Guys! When I was walking to grab dinner, I made a new friend.

I'm pretty sure she was a stray, but she was super nice!

She just loved getting pet. I was sad to say goodbye to her. Even if she did have mangy fur. It's cool though, because the sunlight hit the white in her, and made her gleam.

That's all.


Well, I always try to give Mondays a good name. No one likes Mondays, but I've made it my personal mission to always make them good.

That said, on my way to the library this morning, I passed a horde of children from a local middle school. That's fine; our campus is very beautiful and lots of people from all over come to see it. It was even fine that the boys who would wave Hi to me, and try to get my attention. As is customary for me, I'd give them a head nod and a "What's up." What was not fine were the boys who, in an effort to impress their friends, would respond with, "You're freaking fat. You should lose some weight."

Well I never. I'm not fat by any standards: I'm a tad on the heavier side, but I'm not fat. And I'm not just saying that to make myself feel better. For me to be at my ideal weight, I'd need to lose 10-15 lbs. No big deal; there's reason I'm at the gym for an hour and a half and run at least 2 miles every day.

But really? Those comments were just simply uncalled for. I'm not sitting here crying about it, but it's just shocking to me that children have become so disrespectful.
What ever happened to respect your elders?
It's not like I'm super old, but I've got a good 8 years on those boys. Kids today, I swear. I guess summer really is here.

Regardless, I'm still trying to have a good Monday. Sitting in the cool library, getting ready to start an intense writing session.

I hope everyone else has a good Monday!

Edit: For clarification, I wasn't hurt by these comments. More astounded, if anything.

Sunday, June 5, 2011


Woo! Let's go Mavs! I'm rooting for you, even though I'm not home!

We got this, y'all.

EDIT: It's cool, I'll still love you, even if we don't win.

The Search for Meaning

Here's a thought for today.

He who has a why to live can bear with almost any how.
-Friedrich Nietzshe

This quote has gotten me through quite a few hardships. An excellent one, if I do say so myself.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

The Sound of Voices

An interesting question was asked of me:
If someone isn't taught a language (due to neglect or not) what do their thoughts sound like?

I've always found this subject intriguing. I first really began thinking about it when I read Bruce Perry's The Boy Who Was Raised as a Dog, which is an emotional book revealing a few of the children Dr. Perry has seen in his career as a psychologist. The title chapter details a little boy named Justin who was, quite literally, raised as a dog. He was placed in a dog cage and rarely spoken to. Due to years of this treatment, his brain began to deteriorate and he began to only communicate with people in the only way he knew how: as a dog. He would moan and wail, and had absolutely no social skills of which to speak. Gradually Dr. Perry was able to communicate with Justin and begin to nurture him. Eventually Justin was placed in a foster home and his development rapidly increased with the amount of care he was given.

I find this fascinating because the little boy simply did not know language. Of course he had to have thoughts - it is impossible for one to not have thoughts - but what did they sound like? Might they have been action thoughts (eg. imagining oneself as yawning instead of thinking "I'm tired")? I think this must be the case, especially when it comes to the deaf. They do not have a verbal language - it is all physical. Their thoughts must be physical.

Or maybe a person can still think in sounds even if one cannot hear them (such as Beethoven). But when it comes to being without a language - without words with which to communicate - perhaps thoughts are actionally based.

More research needs to be done on this.

On an unrelated note, an ant next to me was carrying a fellow ant, which was dead, on his back whilst trying to find his anthill. In which language do animals and insects think?

Nelson Mandela

Here's a nice Nelson Mandela quote for you to ponder:

Without language, one cannot talk to people and understand them; one cannot share their hopes and aspirations, grasp their history, appreciate their poetry or savor their songs.

Friday, June 3, 2011

Oh Dear...

So, my little Chinese roommate and I are both bug-aphobic (I'm aware that doesn't exist, thank you very much!).

Since the summer started, we've released stink bugs, killed beetles, and squashed bees (I happen to be allergic to bees and wasps - as a result, we have to keep our windows closed because they creep in through the screens. Don't ask me how, I have no idea). However, there is a moth flying around. My little Chinese roommate started yelling at the moth in order to make it come out of it's hiding spot.

Needless to say, that did not work.

The Writer's Challenge

Well, I had my meeting with my advisor, and while it went well, it's always bitter sweet.

"You're an incredible writer," he always tells me. "So clear, so elegant, so beautiful."

As for my project, one thing I've been struggling with is that I keep feeling the need to confess in my writing. I don't want it to be chronological, and feels like it might have to be that way. Instead of writing analytically, personally, retrospectively, and importantly about South Africa, I keep feeling the need to explain everything about myself.

Kaffir Boy explained a lot: it followed the protagonist (Mathabane, also the writer) from childhood in a township outside Joburg all the way to him leaving for college in the States. I feel the need to put that amount of depth into my story, but Advisor 1 thinks it's a bad idea. He's worried about it sounding like I'm whining.

Advisor 2 thinks I should put it all in: that it would give my reader more of a view as to who I am and where I came from. But what if I don't know, myself? I don't want to sound trite in my writing: it might be my biggest fear.

But really, if I'm going to stick with my "Morally Honest" perspective, what I'm really afraid of is that I really have nothing to say. What could a 21 year old have learned that she could impart on the greater readership?

Thato Globe

For Christmas, my best friend R made a snowglobe for me that contained a picture of my favorite kid in South Africa.

The present combined two of my favorite things!

That said, I keep it on my desk. Looking at it helps me write.


A Moral Commitment to Honesty

Well, I'm going to give this another go.

I'm at school right now, working on my thesis (actually I have a meeting with my thesis advisor in about an hour). I'm writing what's called a bildungsroman, or the psychological journey a protagonist goes on when transforming from childhood to adulthood. Let me tell you what: it's harder than it sounds.

As my title says, I've had to make a moral commitment to honesty in my writing. You know what, that's a lot harder than it sounds, as most people cannot be honest with themselves about most things. And not only do I have to admit things I've done, I have to admit things I feel and I have to do it publicly.

After spending time in South Africa, it all came to me: I'm no longer a child. And so I've started this project. We'll see how it goes.