Monthly Archives: October 2011

A poem about the Death Star, as told by Hope Crews.

This evening I found my one of my sister Hope’s first attempts at poetry. My mom is staying at her dad’s house while he recovers from surgery, so Hope dedicated it to her. It reads as follows:

Dear mom I am riting a powam
for you mom I love you the is a powam
for you abawt the deth ster
for derth vaters home vater is Luks dad
hoo was Anicin Skiwocer hoo chands too
vater and chanj too bad Luke had a
lif saver just like vater
hoo was cild bi the alst chans the
epier was too omost too the time he cood
cil luke skiwocer but vater
had savd Luke and evereebutee
was happy but Luke was sad a
litl bit sad Perises Laya was Lukes
sister and Luke fawn at in the
3 ster wors

ritin bie Hope Crews

(Translation, for people like me who had to read it eight times first:

Dear mom I am writing a poem
for you I love you there is a poem
for you about the death star
for Darth Vader’s home Vader is Luke’s dad
Who was Anikin Skywalker who changes to
Vader and changed to bad Luke had a
life saver (<—- that makes me laugh every time) just like Vader
who was killed by the last chance the
Empire was too almost to the time he could
kill Luke Skywalker but Vader
had saved Luke and everybody
was happy but Luke was sad a
little bit sad Princess Laya was Luke’s
sister and Luke found out in the
3 star wars.

written by Hope Crews)

I could not be more proud that my little sister is  a) writing poetry about b) Star Wars and c) dedicating it to her mommy like it’s the most normal thing ever for a six year old to write poetry about the Death Star.

She’ll turn out well.

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math homework, the first intelligent and meaningful conversation i’ve had in months, two new friends gained in a week, and the shins.

i think i’m actually happy tonight.

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the shifting of names & stars

what begins to bother me after a while is the sameness of both what i want and what i hate, and the way they start to manifest themselves in the patterns of the shadows of my ceiling. if i had a sledgehammer, i would pound that ceiling up and out at night, so that i could see something above me. i want to see the absence of stars in the sky and feel them running through my blood instead. i want to feel my name, feel it inside of me, who i am and what i am made out of. i miss the musical quality that names begin to lose when they are said the same way too often. i miss being able to speak my name and think it something beautiful, not something i lack.

(i heard the sound of fireworks, and i thought
for a moment
that it was my heart sparking.
it wasn’t.)

be still, my soul;  think on letters, on packages & love & indian summers & stars at night,  rooftops & dust storms & carrot cake.  think on tall & short glasses of water, of the smooth feeling of a glass in the hand, of clearness & the gentle path over the tongue & down the throat, liquid that washes you in the moment. think on the blackness of charcoal, the way fingers brush & stroke shape into the thick, dark dust, giving depth & layering visions where there is no light. think on pink snouts & the chuckling, happy grunting sounds of a baby piglet.

think not on the whys and the hows and the
but ifs. only think on the fact that,
in this world,
even now,
there is such a thing as that sort of miracle.

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i sleep with a metal baseball bat.

it makes my mom feel better. also, i am glad to have it, because while i am not particularly worried about my home being broken into, i am most definitely worried about the monsters that live under my bed and try to eat my toes at night when my blanket doesn’t cover them. we’ll ignore the fact that i have a loft bed and there is nowhere to hide underneath.

several nights ago i had horrible nightmares, the kind where you wake up shaking like mad and aren’t sure if you were actually screaming or not. i was kidnapped in an airport and no one was listening to me screaming for help, they just moved out of the way so my kidnapper could drag me out. i was dragged to a house with a bunch of other girls. we were forced to go down these happy innocent looking slides and at the bottom they thought it would be funny to have a porcupine waiting, and everyone else was crying and panicking and then i avoided the porcupine and ran away and somehow managed to get a hold of someone to come rescue me. up until then it sounds rather comical and it was scary, but just that; scary, not that unusual. but you know how in dreams sometimes you know things, and when you wake up you can’t explain how you knew it, you just did? when my rescuers showed up, apparently i knew that something really awful was being planned for everyone that got left behind, and i was hysterical and trying to explain that they had to go back and get everyone else, but they wouldn’t listen to me and just kept saying they’d go back some other time, maybe in a month or so, and to them it was just ha-ha funny that i had to outrun a porcupine and all the girls were going down sky-blue slides in wedding dresses, when the whole time i knew that wasn’t the point, all these people were going to die and no one cared and i was telling them about all these girls that needed their help, but it was like i wasn’t even talking.

i hate dreams that are so terrifying, but then you try to explain it to someone so that you’ll feel better, and it just sounds funny. and i have dreams like this every. single. night. not this exact dream, although i do have recurring dreams, but the same kind of dream where nothing seems all that wrong, but there’s that underlying sick feeling of fear that sticks with you all the next day. or, in this case, the next day, and the next night, and the next day, and now the night after that as well.

so i am sleeping with a baseball bat, because i am hoping if they come back tonight i will be able to beat the hell out of my pillow with the bat and maybe my mind will recognize that i am a force to be reckoned with and not make me think of such horrible things anymore.

or maybe i’ll just stay up all night reading cybele’s secret, instead. beautifully written fantasy is always comforting.

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happiness

packages in the mail. particularly delightful ones.

making things out of other things, and then giving them away.

writing two letters in one day to two of the loveliest people i know, miss erin and holly. (i would link, but my computer is not allowing me. my computer is FANTASTIC. oh, except for that it’s not.)

decorating envelopes- because sometimes i get tired of blank whiteness and need to doodle.

entering art in the state fair, not expecting it to place, but just wanting to share it with other people.

earl gray tea in my happy mug (see the top of it above) which has seventy happy faces on it and all are different. or, when traveling, an excellent thermos to keep it piping! hot.

approval from the mother on my decision to stop eating meat as of my sixteenth birthday (not quite three months) and possible participation in my goal of at least one year of vegetarianism from my best friend, as well.

weekly dinners with my grandmother and occasionally grandfather as well- we tend to disagree on a lot of things (when i brought up becoming vegetarian, i believe ‘scathing’ would be the word for the response i got) but it is still one of the most pleasant times of my week.

being accused of becoming a romantic, due to my current obsession with poetry, art, and tea.

the words lugubrious and globular. who cares what they mean, they’re delightful to say.

finding writing in old books, and guessing things about the person who put it there.

my art teacher trusting me enough after eight years of teaching me that it’s been a year since i’ve actually done the assigned project the exact way i was supposed to- i am testing to see how far he will allow me to take my creativity, and so far there are no boundaries.

my phone- it’s almost square shaped, it’s so squat and adorable. and the back is the prettiest, brightest shade of blue. the screen saver of the adorable five-day-old piglet smiling at it helps, too.

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anyone who doesn’t believe in rape culture is an idiot, and i hope they’re offended by my saying that.

just a note to all the people out there who claim to be feminists and yet think porn is great, prostitution is “beautiful” and rape is funny, although i am fairly sure this applies to none of my regular followers:

every single time you make light of rape, and this includes both shrugging it off and making jokes about it, you encourage it. you support the culture in which my best friend was raped and i heard my own supposedly feminist friends say they ‘weren’t excusing it, but’ she was a very sexual person. sexual meaning, in this situation, nothing more than attractive. you contribute to a world in which pretty = asking to be raped. a world where a woman can be molested, and yet the molester is the one who receives the sympathy because ohgodhejustfeltsoBADaboutitafterward.

every time you watch porn, it effects every single woman you talk to. every you buy into that shit, you encourage the attitude with which even the “nice guys” are allowed to treat anyone they feel like as their own piece of shit property. and guess what? i can tell you, there is nothing sexy or appealing about being treated like property. there is nothing appealing about being expected to laugh along and act like you don’t care because otherwise, you’re a ‘feminazi bitch.’ there is NOTHING. positive. about feeling like an object. objects are not SUPPOSED to have feelings. every time you treat one of us like an object, you also send the message that we are not entitled to the rights of an average human being such as anger and pain when we’re treated with that kind of disrespect.

every time you try to convince us that stripping is beautiful, that prostitution can be wonderful ‘for some people,’ you excuse it as a whole. you make light of it as a whole. and as long as it’s fine for you to abuse SOME women, as long as you are ENTITLED to SOME women, what the hell is stopping you from being entitled to all of us?

i’m guilty of making light of all this, too. i’ve done it before, and it makes me sick to think of things i’ve said in the past, damns i haven’t given that have so seriously affected so many people i love. i’ve kept my mouth shut and accepted the treatment myself, watched it happen to other people, not pulling together the courage to say, just once, to the misogynists making life hell for all of us, STOP. ENOUGH.

but right now i’m angry enough. i am not content with all of this. if i can’t even once express the fact that I DO NOT THINK THE WORLD WE ARE LIVING IN IS OKAY anymore, that I DO NOT THINK THE CULTURE FORCED ON US IS OKAY anymore, i really don’t know how i can stand living in it for one more day.

enough of this bullshit. enough of the misogynist ‘feminists’ i keep meeting. stop kidding yourself, saying this doesn’t REALLY affect women.

i know this is terribly written and scattered, probably because it’s one in the morning, but i am too depressed to sleep right now and the only way i know how to deal with my lack of faith in the entire world is to blog. if anything i’ve said pisses you off, i’m actually pretty freaking not sorry.

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on not sucking

today, i figured out pretty much the whole world sucks and it makes me really angry, and that most people suck too.

so all you lovely people who don’t suck, keep on not sucking, because i really like you, and that is all i have to say today if i want to focus on the positive.

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