Portfolio 19 Autobiography: First of the Night

This was a school assignment from last year. We wrote one entry a week. Here's one of the better ones. This was written to be performed aloud, and I sang the appropriate line.

I’m backstage. The world is fading in and out of focus, but it’s there enough for me to hear John: “I’m so nervous.”

I give a shaky laugh, “You’re nervous.”

I can’t imagine him being nervous. How long had he spent on this? A few months? It can’t’ve been more than three. It was impossible for him to be as nervous as he seemed, shaking a little from stress and excitement. If he messed up, then he’s messed up once, and he’s lost a few months. A few months out of your whole life is nothing really, even at fourteen. If I mess up…

If I screw this up, I’ve wasted fourteen years.

This swims through my head, and John turns to me, surprised. “You’re nervous?” Something calls him away.

It takes half a second for that to sink in. I grin. He can’t imagine me being nervous. I have nothing to be nervous about. Him? He’s spent a couple months, tops, preparing for this. He might mess this up. He’s still learning, barely even started. Me? I have spent fourteen years of my life moving toward this moment. This is my time. I get to show everyone why I sought for so many years, why I have practiced and pushed and tried for so many after that, no matter what. I get to show them why it matters.

And, I can admit now that I’m out of it, I got to show them-—every friend, every acquaintance, every stranger, every bully, and especially every bully-—that I counted. That no matter what else may happen, this I can do. This I can be. Tell me there isn’t a person in this world who truly cares for me, tell me I’m worthless, tell me I’m not even human. I may even believe you. But no matter; I sing.

I stride out onto the stage, spirit high and smiling. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I know now why that song felt like mine, and why it was so important to sing that song to them. It was my story. It is my story.

It’s the story of a woman who learned to fly.

My cue hits: “Something has changed within me.” Everything. My world may twist and twirl and stagnate into whatever it may be, but I know that this has changed me.

And as I sing, I come to her—-our realization. You don’t need to work for that one. You never did. You need to work for you. You may leave some old friends behind, but you’ll be flying free. You will find all you need.

The audience cheers mid-song and I grin. The music swells and I soar. I am the song, and I am glorious. I am triumphant.

One day in eighth grade, in my little red dress, I changed my world. I wrote lines of fire across our souls. And even if the marks fade on some, the memories burn bright.

And I got the first standing ovation of the night.



A case where the story inspired the trope (TV Tropes is addictive): I Am Becoming Song

Something New, Old, Wonderful

Unrealistic? Probably. I don't ever remember seeing this in real life.

I start by falling to that realm in my head, back/left/center that holds right. For a moment, I'm floating; it's dark, senseless. Not in a bad way, not insane, not anything. Truly. No sensations.

Then, slowly, it spreads. My head floats on my shoulders. My feet grounded, my body whole. No checking for where the connection between grounded and floating is. That twists, grounds.

Shhh... There. Unbothered, unsensed, thoughts floating, whirling, drifting, whispering... Almost asleep. Dreaming.

This time, the dark turns black. Alone for just a moment. Bells chime; white comes. Lovely, soft spots of cheery, chilly white. Almost spherical, all of them. All with natural sides, more freshly turned earth than bubbles. Lovely, they drift down. Or up. To me.

Oh, beautiful. They come into focus. The edges still not smooth, for they are what they are, and only closer for being in focus. One touches. And we're the same temperature. Whether I am chill or they warm, who knows. No way to tell. A little pressure, lighter than a feather, and consistent, runs across. Down a cheek. A hand. A leg. Not the same everywhere. But each run keeps the same weight.

And do they melt? Or do they simply stay as they are, part water? I'd need other instruments to answer that. Sight. Beyond what I guess of feel. Or another temperature, comparison. I could be cold.

What I can see, I know. Looking up. White, soft, drifting like fine sugar.

Snow. Wonderful snow.

Laughter

Laughter is a full-body experience. The sound, the throat, yes, but also the chest, the belly, the twinkle in the eye. The way you move your feet to balance better, even if you're sitting. The way your entire face lights up with that little twinkle that some say is only from your eyes. The way that aura turns everything around pink for miles.

Laughter, on its own, is good. Bright, pink, happy, joyous, lovely. Undeniably so.

And then context sets in. Perhaps it is so, or becomes more so. Beautiful laughter, musical, bell-like, chiming, lovely, wonderful, infectious--one of the few times that word is used in a good sense. Such is the power of laughter.

But that makes it dark when it twists, doesn't it? Malevolent, maniacal, dark chuckle, like a curse. Can come before or after. The sound darkens from an infant's blanket's pink to deep blood red, not the scarlet of a thin set or the almost brown-black of dried blood, even twisted laughter is very much alive. That deep, dark, scarlet-black of fresh blood pooled deep. Still shining. Still alive. But oh so dangerous.

Yet, still, even as the bottom drops out of your stomach, you may find your nostrils flaring, or a smile in kind tugging your lips. An old feeling in your heart. Fresh blood is hunter's scarlet. It taps right into your instincts. Maybe you're prey this time. Chase or run, predator or prey...or maybe fight. Or maybe hit the deck. And don't ever think there's only one way to do any of those.

And then comes the bell-like laughter, chiming merrily through. Silver, striking. Not a child's color, not an infant's color, so very distant. Exotic is attractive. But a flash of silver, that's deadly. Context, context, context.

Laugh with me. See that little twinkle, feel your heart rise. And don't worry about the different kinds of laughter. I can pet my dog or kick my dog. They are both movements; that alone doesn't relate the two. Not in any way worth noting.

And even if you should note it, it doesn't take the shared joy from the pet, the pain from the blow. Everything relates, one way or another. The close ones are the ones people call opposites. If you remember things are opposites, they are truly entangled. Fire, water, firewater. Up, down, roller coaster. Air, earth, tornadoes. Clear, obscure, transparent. Can you see none of me or all of me? I can hide just as well being transparent as obscure. Better. You don't even know I'm there.

Well color me surprised.

Painting and Whitewashing

EDIT for those who don't share my lexicon of idioms: There's a saying that goes, "Too poor to paint, too proud to whitewash." That means the person/group being described cannot do something properly and therefore refuses to do it at all, even if there is another alternative available. A family can't afford to paint their house with white paint, and is too proud to use whitewash instead, even if it would look better than leaving the place to wear down.

I'll admit it; I have a certain amount of respect for someone who, when faced with the prospect of whitewashing, absolutely refuses to do anything but paint, and then proceeds to make that work. I have respect for that level of determination.

-That, by the way, is my line between determination and stubbornness: can you make it work?-

But what really makes me smile, and something that I'd want in an ally as much as a friend, is when someone looks at all the options, notes that it would be most efficient to whitewash, and then proceeds to whitewash without another word. No complaints, no seeing if this will work when painting would be harder or whitewashing better or even, just doing it.

Pride is a deadly little vice. It says, "Look, you could do this...but you could do so much better." Of course, given that this is the verbal embodiment of pride, it's probably doing something like purring or smiling or laughing. Because what good's a voice representing pride if it doesn't have a bit of cockiness behind it?

What got me thinking about this was the following exchange, which I found on the Ain't Too Proud To Beg page on TV Tropes, which is, you guessed it, going to suck your time away into the shiny vortex that is Wiki Walk.

From Farscape
Crichton: Beg.
Scorpius: [instantly] I beg you.
Crichton: That's not good enough. Say please.
Scorpius: Please.
Crichton: Pretty please.
Scorpius: Pretty please.
Crichton: With a cherry on top.
Scorpius: [only one word behind] With a cherry on top.
Crichton: [Beat] Happy Birthday. Now, get out of my sight.

That just makes me smile. And think of an Eleanor Roosevelt quote, "No one can make you feel inferior without your permission." The idea behind making someone beg in that situation is--and forgive me if I miss some of the context, I don't watch the show--either power for the person demanding, or embarrassment for the person begging, which is really just a specific fashion to gain the former.

And then...he decides it's worth it, and proceeds to do it. It doesn't hurt him, because he doesn't let it. Anyone who trots out the sticks and stones line is so naive as to be thoughtless, but the thing about words is that they don't need to hurt any more than hits do. One can dodge, one can block, one can turn the other people's momentum against them and suddenly have the upper hand. It's all in how one decides to deal with it.

Of course, wailing on the other person is a perfectly acceptable method if it works.

What? I said I had a great deal of respect for people who could whitewash, I didn't say anything about preferring it myself. Nor even being able to do it, really... It would be a nice skill. I'm trying.

Incidentally, this has been in my head for a while, and what finally got me to finish was this Harry Potter fanfiction, specifically this chapter (search "I have changed today's lesson plan in the light of recent events", and read to the bottom of the page.)

Words Start

Confidence is my chin jutting up slightly, muscles moving so slightly you don't see the muscles anymore, you don't see me do what feels like a smirk and a grin unless you know to watch my mouth. You just see the gleam in my eye, the welcome of the challenge.

Regret goes the other way, my head jumping back along my neck, my lips and cheeks turning into an invisible genuinely remorseful frown, my eyes tensing back in their sockets. But all you see is I draw back, my eyes turn hurt at my own ill actions.

Resolute is my teeth coming together and making the world's quietest clack, not even as loud as my bones cracking, my my abdominal muscles clenching without any feeling in my stomach, my body twitching closer to itself, tensing to spring or to strike. You see a line in my jaw; you see my hands clench into fists and my lips and chin turn down, if you are attentive you see my footing change.

Flirt is a smile, a little twist to my body, a genuine laugh and interest. You see my eyes sparkle with interest, you see my clothes shift, you see my hands move in a gesture even I don't notice.

Bittersweet is a twist at the mouth, a smile that reaches the eyes but doesn't touch them as a smile should, just turning them too sad, feeling something being lost as something else is gained. You see regret and knowledge, recognizing growth.

Hope is a true smile, everything goes up, my head, the corners of my lips, my cheeks, my body, my heart. You see my sparkle, from toes to scalp.

Despair is everything hope rises falling. I slump, I stop smiling, my shoulders drop, I look down. You see the air leak out of me.

Daydream is everything at angles, head this way, chest that way, arms bent at odd angles, on leg stretched and one bent, or both, or neither. You see me leave my body.

I feel; you see. You react; I see. I react; we continue.

Christmas is pine and fresh boxes, new plastic smell and metal touch, blue electricity that you find when you don't look, home and family.

Halloween is pumpkin pie and jack-o'-lanterns, mixing with the smells of home as everyone in the family gets wrist-to-elbow deep.

New Year's is laughter at the oddest things, traditions and traditions of starting new ones, staying up too late and making as much noise as you can with clackers and whistlers and bubblewraps we've saved through the years.

Thanksgiving is gravy, turkey, pumpkin pie, orange and brown and little accents of black that always show up for one reason or another. A napkin, a dress, a decoration, some early Halloween or something else.

Holiday was holy day, and sacred still.

I am myself, a singer and a writer and procrastinating and staying up too late and losing myself and finding her again. I remember not knowing I was a singer, and feeling so lost. I remember figuring out I was. I remember the talent show, when the night was mine, the day after, with Mr. H and the whiteboard, and getting out of running. I remember requests of boys and getting me, I remember getting told to go away, encouragements, and getting no reactions at all. I remember love inside my head and out. I remember figuring out the words for myself, after finding out the idea, long after. I remember my first shot at really writing, I remember the escape, I remember figuring out why I chose the name. Caydo was love and home, he was Cadence, coming to a place I knew the music fit. I remember finding those who were so different we couldn't get along, so different we had to, so similar we tried and bounced away and sprang back, so similar we even had the same plane and slope, no more than an inch apart but never touched. I remember the wadded-up pieces of paper and the tennis balls, and laughter at or with. I remember the insults, and finding out which ones were false. I remember figuring out which colors go with which, and still not knowing for sure with shoes, or socks. I remember learning to read because of a teacher's insult, her challenge. I remember when I've really cried, and when I've set myself free. I remember being passive, and I remember feigning it. I remember. So much. Kindergarten, exceptionally good but I didn't know it yet. First grade, exceptionally bad but I didn't know that either after a while, so many knew how good kindergarten was. Fourth and fifth, getting my challenge. Sixth, honor choir, school. Seventh, history with Ms. W, but math with Ms. DeW. Ninth, district. Tenth, district, state, regional. Eleventh. Sixteen going on seventeen. Fifteen going on twenty-five, always mistaken for five years or a decade older. Just being myself, not my age. Who I am, what I am, what I know, what I knew, connections I remember, hope, always, always hope. Even in the middle of tears, hope. Without hope was without tears, was just unbearably passive. Pushed around. Building up my skin to keep the anger inside, keep the knives in and out, then learning to let those shields down when I wanted to.

Life. Piece by piece, step by step. Running, jumping, dancing to somewhere where I can taste the air getting sweet and feel the shivers run through my spine.

Absence

When civilizations fade and even your last lingering ideals have turned to dust, you will look at the world and ask, "What did I ever do?" For everything will be gone, and it is only human to wish to see what you have done. To wish to see something with your name on it, your mark.

And the little girl will take your hand. She will take you to the chatting, smiling crowd. And she will say, "This."

You'll understand. "But happiness is fleeting. I can't have done any more than just made them feel better for a few seconds." Even if you have cured cancer, you will feel like this, if only for a moment.

The little girl will smile. "Silly. Happiness echoes. And people just keep adding noise!"

Then she'll skip off to another, while you stand in the smiling crowd until you go to someone or someone comes to you. It'll only take a moment. After all, after everything's gone, what else is there to do but get to know each other?

And you'll smile, and maybe you'll walk off. And maybe you'll become one of the little ones, going out and finding those who have been alone too long, learning how to see when someone just needs a moment. Or maybe not. In a truly infinite world...

First Anniversary

What, really? You're still reading? I'm still writing? Aw, shucks.

I set this to go up automatically on the anniversary, so it is quite possible that this is as much of a surprise to me as it is to you. I don't really have anything special planned, but you never know when inspiration might strike.

EDIT: I, indeed, did not notice. Happy anniversary to my readers and me!

Sick and Tired

Some of the best speeches are bluffs.

Eyes shut, as one coming upon a great, but not entirely happy, truth. "If I leave, now, I'm going to survive. I'm going to have a long, happy life. I'm going to live to a nice old age. I'm going to smile at my grandchildren, and have those nice little wrinkles at the corners of my eyes that happy people get when they've been happy for a good, long time. I'm going to look at my kids, and their kids, the way my parents and their parents looked at me." Eyes open. "So I should leave. I should take off running, right now, and not look back for a second. The only reason I shouldn't be sprinting, right now, is to save energy, so I can run longer.

"Assuming I am as weak as you think I am, I should be doing that. Assuming I'm as stupid as you think I am, I shouldn't even have though about how I shouldn't sprint. Assuming I'm as afraid, lost, little, weak, helpless, useless."

The space of a breath passed.

"Assuming, assuming, assuming. Oh, I absolutely love that word. Because it means I can be so many things at once. I can be a brat, and a hero, and the smartest person in the room, and that kid no one should care about, and I don't even have to lie. In fact, I'm more likely to find people believing the truth if I don't lie. If I insist I'm not this, insist I'm not that, then I find people refusing to believe me. Because of course I'd say that. I'm too modest. I'm saving my own skin. I'm trying to puff myself up, little thing in front of the big guy.

"And then,"--smile--"oh, and I can see it now. That understanding. That I was telling the truth. Every single time. And that's the lovely bit. I have never lied, even by omission. I told you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but.

"So, run. Because I'm sick of running, and perhaps I'm too sick to chase. Just...run."

Some of the best speeches are bluffs. The poor thing could barely stand, much less run. Much less fight. But the strength to stand and the will to speak, only speak...that can spin the world off its axis, and right back on again.

Trope of note: Tired Of Running

Travel Log: Grand Canyon

I never really got around to this, so it will not be as specific as my other logs. All of this happened back in the beginning of summer (2010).

Basically, I went to Vegas. There were too many lights. When a bookstore with flashing lights around the sign does not stick out, something has gone weird. Not necessarily bad, just weird.

We went to the Grand Canyon. One day down, one day rest, one day up. It was beautiful. It was also very dry, and very hot. Don't bother wringing out your clothes, just hang them on the clothesline. It'll take them minutes, a little more if you hang them in the shade. 110 in she shade'll do that.

We woke up really early--really, really early, the sun hadn't blinked, much less risen--and it was warmer than I'm used to at noon. We climbed, and then had ice cream. --Note to those climbing the Grand Canyon: There was a point, both going down and going up, where it looked like we only had a few more yards. DON'T BE FOOLED.--

We went to Bryce and Zion, both pretty. Perhaps a little more picturesque, but I mean that--they made good pictures. The Grand Canyon just swallowed you up. There was significantly less walking involved here, though we could have done more had we so wished.

We went back to Vegas. My main vice ended up being whole milk, because I dislike the smell of alcohol and am underage, so that was doubly out, lacked the funds and interest for gambling, and sex wasn't really a big pull. Dunno why.

Then we got back home. I didn't realize it until then, but the air in Vegas had been choking me. I don't have the slightest what it would be like were it farther from the coast.

Power

A lot of words have power. Here are some of the ones I know, and why I think they do.

I am-A declaration of self. On its own, it is fairly powerful, simply because it is saying that the person is. That's one thing another person can't stop, not completely. Someone can kill you, make it into, I was, but in thoughts, in help, in joy, in inspiration, the ripples move out. With a description after it, it becomes more powerful, because it is not just saying, This person is real, it is giving a way to describe. I am a scientist. I am a singer. I am a child. I am a woman. To reinforce both, I am human, I am a person.

I believe-As intimate as I am, but to do with the outside world. This doesn't need logic, nor its absence. It is just a belief. And that'll move mountains.

Especially powerful in, This I believe. The archaic diction gives the phrase some power in itself. Things that have survived this long have survived for a reason. That reason does not always apply in the here and now, but it was there. That sort of belief is why religions claim to predate x or be able to trace this ritual back to y. It's also why stores say Since 1948, or 1904, or 1827. There's power in old things, even if it is only the power people give them.

I know-Alone, it can fall in the same category as, I trust you, or be dismissing another person, or be a, Go on, I understand. If it's, I know myself, it means the person has a strong sense of self. If it's, I know you then it means the person has a connection, and knows what the person will or won't do. How do you know I won't? I know you, Kelsey. And then, the simplest meanings, I am familiar with this, I believe this strongly enough that thinking it false does not (regularly) occur to me.

I love you-Ah, yes. Gotta love the classics. These can be the most important words ever spoken, ever heard. Or they can fall completely flat. The problem with these words is that everyone who is even vaguely familiar with the culture will know how powerful they are. But...they're words. What matters with words is the communication of an idea. When something is so well-known already, it can look like the words are just there to have something there. Can get especially glaring when it's a response. Hm? Oh, yeah, I love you, too. Even Han's response is more traditionally romantic than that, because no etiquette class will teach you to respond to, I love you, with, I know. So he thought about it.

To go back to what originally made it powerful, the phrase can also be someone saying what one or both already knew, if not on the level of the mind that deals with words. Add a finally in there as necessary.

I think-Similar to I believe, though less firm. But this flexibility is a power in itself. I think this true, but I am not challenging you. I am telling you what I think. What do you think. I think so, emphasizes opinion, I think so, lack of certainty, I think so, certainty. Simple words with strong tone, cutting through any random jumble.

Names-There's a mythology in every culture I have run across about true names. It may not be of importance to humans, but there's someone or something out there, and if you know the true name, then you have power. This holds true in the turning-ones-life-upside down fashion with ID cards, social security numbers, etc. But there is a power in just using someone's name, even if it's common. If your parents say, JOHN SMITH! then even though that name is common and has been worn by many for ages, it still has power if it is yours. In the right tone, a whispered, John, would speak volumes.

Any words to add?

The Attentive Lady and the Tiger

(Edited because I didn't think to when I posted this at eleven.)

I walked in. The first thing most people would have noticed about the room would be the utter lack of furniture. All told, four walls, ceiling, one one-way mirror, lights currently set so that the other side was visible, and equally bare. That was it.

The first thing I noticed was the man looking into the mirror. If he hadn't been using a little 'nothing to see here' thing, most people would have seen him first.

He was old, in his fifties (physically), I knew. But in addition to the world-walker look, he had also aged very gracefully. Small laugh lines, but other than that, flawless skin. Grey hair, but it was closer to silver, and very neat. He wasn't facing me, but I knew that if he turned, his eyes would have that same silvery look.

A shiver should have run up my spine. If I weren't already so tired from being woken up twenty minutes after going to bed, and being awake for the next thirty and counting, it would have.

"Funny."

"What." The question was mostly reflex. I didn't expect him to answer.

He turned. Colored contacts, baby blue. "You. Not ha-ha funny. Just off. Odd."

I ran through my resources. I hadn't know where I was going, so I had armed. The guards had patted me down, of course. And, of course-of course, I still had a few weapons. Wrists, hair, breasts, and ankle. The blade at my ankle was actually a decoy, I was stunned no one had caught it.

Topic at hand. "Oh, tell me this isn't going to be a speech that could be boiled down to 'Evil Cannot Comprehend Good.' You are so much better than that."

He smiled at me. "Why thank you. I didn't know you cared."

I shrugged. "You're not stupid."

"Why thank you," he repeated dryly.

"What's funny, and please avoid the mathematician's answer."

"I try and arrange a meeting with you. A thousand different ways; inviting you, pressuring, 'bumping into you'. Then, I send out a guy you know works for me. You must have known where he was taking you. But you couldn't be quite sure. I'd been trying to figure out a way to make it a little less clear where you were going, but all I needed was to put that little grain of doubt in your mind. Isn't that fascinating?" He smiled. If I hadn't seen the face behind the mask, there would have been butterflies in my stomach.

"Riveting. But there's the whole bit where you've been keeping away from me whenever I wanted to see you."

"Well." He shrugged. "Who wants to meet on someone else's terms?"

I sighed. I'd call him on how stupid that was if it wouldn't have been so hypocritical of me. "Let's get on with this. I figured out my stuff without you, thank you so very much, so I hope this is important."

"No. Not at all."

It was an effort of will to keep from growling at him. I turned on my heel.

"Just some news on your sister."

Just like that, nailed to the spot. And I'd stopped suddenly, so he knew how much I cared. Drama is a cruel mistress. At least there was nothing left to hide. I turned back to him. "Oh?"

He smiled. Shivers ran up my spine. "Let's talk."

Breathe in; breathe out.

Slow, soft, gentle, calm.

Nothing here, no qualms, no qualm.

Quick, fast, clever, you know.

And they'll never think you're slow.

Take a deep breath and relax yourself. Unfocus your eyes, relax your self. Just a little time, just for your health.

And here's the little secret, dear:

To not just let go of, but recognize your fear.

Letter, Spirit, Reason

Law as written: All demonic influences are to be removed as quickly and thoroughly as is possible.

Letter: Utterly destroy anything that has been touched by a demon.

Spirit: Exorcise demons as efficiently and with as little death as is possible.

Reason: Protect the people.

Let's say we have a situation where there is a demon rampaging around town, possessing people, etc. By the letter of the law, one should utterly destroy the town. By the spirit or the reason, one should evacuate the town and fight the demon down. There are probably some other things you could do; I'm hitting extremes; just go with it.

Let's say a demon is repeatedly possessing the same person. By the letter, kill the person. By the spirit, exorcise the demon and watch and protect the person. By reason, set a priest to watch over the person, one who can perform exorcisms. The priest need not follow the person everywhere, it is just supposed to be the priest's main duty, so someone is always on deck. If the demon gives up long enough, then the priest can go on to something else. But there should be someone present who can do this, even if it isn't the primary job.

Let's say there's a good demon. Go with me on this. By the letter of the law, kill the demon anyway. It doesn't matter whether harm is being done, a demon is a demon. By spirit, get the demon out of town, one way or another. If following the spirit well, then this can even be done without bloodshed. Following the reason: Let the demon be. This demon is not dangerous.

People will talk about how a law should be upheld because it is the law. In situations where one requires a knee-jerk or immediate response, this is probably the best one can do. But if one ignores the reason of the law, that can be worse than ignoring the spirit. At least people who violate the spirit in favor of the letter are easier to expose. For people who follow the spirit instead of the reason, there's not even anything on the books.

This post written under the influence of painkillers (see previous post).

Wisdom Teeth

I just got my wisdom teeth pulled, and also got a bone graft and a sinus lift. In other words: A lot of stuff happened with my jaw area today. Also, I'm still on Vicodin while writing this, so some errors may occur.

Here's what it was like from my perspective:

Notes
In order to put everything together, there had to be quite a bit of back-and-forth between the oral surgeon who was doing the pulling, the graft, and the lift, and the orthodontist who does my braces. I'll only be using the first letter of both their names, since I haven't gotten permission to use their names. Dr. S is my orthodontist--has been since third grade--and Dr. F was my oral surgeon.

Background
A while back, I got a tooth pulled. I don't know what it's called, but if I touch my right canine, then go back two, there's a gap there where the tooth used to be. It was pulled because it was a milk tooth with no adult tooth behind it, and so was going to grind down too much. I knew that, eventually, that would have to be replaced.

Unknown to me, the bone did not fully heal. This is normal. If there's no tooth there, there's no reason for the bone to completely heal, it just heals the hole back together, but the bone is too thin for an implant (needed the graft and lift to put it in).

My lower wisdom teeth, meantime, were growing in slanted. If this isn't taken care of, that causes something called impacted teeth. I don't know much about this, but I believe it means the bones get crushed and then you get teeth that are damaged and other teeth that are hard to pull and that just doesn't work for anyone. So, better to do it before any of that stuff happens.

Set-up
Dr. S told us that I'd need an implant** and needed to get my wisdom teeth looked at. He recommended Dr. F. We went to Dr. F a couple times to set up exactly what the procedure would be, and it ended up making the most sense to do everything we could do at once.* That meant getting both wisdom teeth pulled, and doing the lift and graft. So technically the title of this post should be longer, but so it goes.

I got some drugs to take the morning of. One was a Valium pull, to ease me into the general anesthesia they'd be administering, and the other four were some antibacterial pills that were white and pink/red. The white side had A 45 marked in red. I was told to take all of these at 9:00 AM the morning of the surgery.

I was not supposed to eat or drink anything but the meds and a little water to wash them down after midnight (general anesthesia).

A little later, I was worried something in my braces might mess up the operation. Dad said that probably nothing would, but called anyway. The receptionist said Dr. S would probably have noticed something like that, but she would ask anyway. I don't know if anything happened on our end after that.

The Night Before
I had a late dinner, and ended up finishing quarter of nine.

It's summer, so my sleep schedule was completely out of whack. Despite knowing I had to get up at 8:30, and accordingly planning to get 9-10 hours, I didn't get in bed until 11:03, and I couldn't sleep until I finally gave up and tried reading my biology book. I got to sleep around 1:00.

The Morning Of
I got up at 8:30 and showered. After reading the paper for a little while, it was 9:00, so I took the four antibiotics. I confirmed I could take two at a time, but I found that out by taking one, so I ended up taking one, then two, then the last one.

The Vicodin, however, had crushed into a powder. Luckily, it was in an envelope, but I still had to tap it into my mouth, which meant that I tasted it. Bleaugh.

There wasn't much effect, and then I sat up and felt rather lightheaded. It didn't really affect my head, just made it a little difficult to go down the stairs at my house and get in the car. I was thinking a little differently, but just as clearly as is usual. Make of that what you will.

Then we got to the waiting room. We were about five minutes early, and I think we waited about ten.

The Surgery
They put me in a blue chair. It was pretty much a normal dentist's chair, except a little more cushioned and with straps on the arms. They put an IV sedation in me. I looked away from the needle, because I have no problem with needles unless I have to watch them go into my skin, in which case I jerk my hand away. Don't ask me why; it doesn't even scare me; it just happens.

I remember thinking I should probably let myself fall asleep, then hearing the doctors talk about how to set everything up, and then I don't remember anything until waking up.

(Though I was not awake for this part, I was told after the fact a little of what happened. Dr. F had to snip through some rubber bands on my braces in order to do the sinus lift--so I was right about my braces causing an issue, though I didn't guess exactly what. I also found out later that my molars were fairly easy to take out, all things considered. I'm a good patient even asleep :D.)

I woke up to Dr. F asking me to open my mouth wider, and I was a little cold. I thought there was something on top of me, but I wasn't sure. I was still a little out of it for a while, but from what I heard and saw, he was putting the stitches in.

The string he was using was bloody, as were his gloves. I thought, Hm, that's my blood. That should probably bother me, but it doesn't. Ooh, I wonder if this is how hemophobiacs feel under anesthesia!

He finished with the stitches, and someone took off the blue paper they must have covered me with at some point. So I was right about there being something on top of me. After that, someone else took the IV out. My legs were cold, and just as I was about to finalize my plan of how to communicate that without using my gauze-filled mouth, someone brought me a blanket.

They wanted to move me, so I tried to sit up on my own. Someone next to me said to lean back a moment longer, and sat me up with the chair. She gave me an ice pack. And even if you think you don't know what I'm talking about, you do. Those little while, wrap-around-the-head-like-a-headband deal. Then she got me over to a bed that was about five steps from the chair, and told me I'd probably have to rest for about half and hour. It was five of twelve, by my watch (which is five minutes fast). My tongue and my right cheek, right lips, and lower lips and chin were numb.

About ten minutes after that, whoever had gotten me to the bed found/figured out that I had gotten the drugs that would make me dizzy early on in the operation, and they would probably have mostly worn off by that time. She got me in a wheelchair and wheeled me out to my parents, who had been waiting in the waiting room about three hours by this point.

Dr. F had apparently gone over wit them when and how I could take the various drugs I'd been given--X every four hours normally, but can go every two if the pain's intense, Y as labeled, and the antibiotics with dinner. None of the drugs have bad interactions, so we didn't need to worry about that.

The woman who had helped me along wheeled me out to our car. Dad offered to bring it around, but since it was in the lot she said she'd just wheel me out.

End Wound Count
Stitches over where both my wisdom teeth, the back part (near the hinge) of the right side of my jaw, and on the right side of my mouth, under my upper lip.

Recovery
I got home and my tongue was no longer numb, and the rest of the numbness was receding. I felt pretty good, too. That may just have been the drugs, but besides a little ache in the back right of my jaw, it hasn't gotten much worse, Vicodin or no. I got a bit of a bloody nose, but Mom said Dr. F says that's normal. Makes sense--he basically cut a hole in my sinuses. I went out to see a friend whose party I could not attend (no points for guessing why), and he said my smile was creepy. Mwahaha.

Dr. F called a little while later (c. 5, 5:30) to tell me I should use the meds ahead of the pain, and so I took a Vicodin around then, at my mother's request/behest.

Then I started the blog entry and oh I've gone recursive.

TBC: Obviously I'm still recovering. Dr. F said the pain should peak at around Sunday (two days), so I'll at least keep this posted until then.

Continued
The numbness faded completely around 7:30 PM. I went off the Vicodin at about 9:45--in that that's when it was supposed to stop affecting me. At about 10:00, my mom thought I looked pretty tired and pale, and told me to try to get some rest.

I got into bed and burst into tears. No pain, I was just crashing from (a) drug(s) in my system. Sadly, I had a bloody nose and the sheets got bloody... My mom replaced the sheets and set up a spot for me on the couch so I could wind down some more. I did that until my brother called to be picked up from a sleepover, at about midnight. I went to bed at 12:30.

8/7/10
I woke up at 8:00 and proceeded to put the ice pack on, eat breakfast (clam chowder, yum), take my antibiotics, brush my teeth (ow), and take the antibacterial rinse, in that order.

I had my first thing I really had to chew at 5:40. Pulled pork sandwich, courtesy of Mom. It was delicious.

8/8/10
The swelling and pain were the worst, but that was the warning I got. On the bright side, I could chew without much change in pain, it just hurt more overall. So whatever, I guess. Started calcium supplements--regrowing a lot of bone.

8/9/10
Swelling worse, pain better. I sneezed and it hurt a lot. Really. It had no right to hurt that much.

8/10/10
Swelling better, pain better. I tried to go off the pain meds though and...too soon. Sharp pains with the aches.

8/11/10
Finished the antibiotics with lunch, finished the antibacterial rinse in the evening. I could actually go off the pain medication and go out, though I don't think they'd worked their way out of my system yet. Swelling better, pain better.

8/12/10
Swelling almost entirely gone, and I can actually sing for short periods. The pain lessens, and I could chew grilled cheese on sourdough.

8/23/10
It pretty much continued like this. I went off the calcium supplements a few days after.

* We couldn't put the implant in until after the bone from the bone graft had settled in, which would take ~9 months.
** EDIT: Or a bridge. But the doctors suggested the implant, and it's what we chose.

Water

“Do you mind telling me why she sent you?”

“She found out what I was. If she can, others can, etc.”

“Do you mind telling me what you remember of how she did?”

“No.”

“All right, then. Whatever you can.”

I nodded and started.

“I was at the stream in the park. I stared at the water a moment, trying to make myself see. Something didn’t fit. I knew it was clear as day; I just couldn’t see it.

“ ‘Day,’ I said aloud. ‘Day, day, bright, sun, yellow—‘

“For a moment, I just stood there. I had just said the important bit, but for some reason it wasn’t clicking. Nothing was ever quite real for me until I spoke it aloud. If I wanted to think, I had to talk. And that got very distressing with company, or in public. The crazy old lady who talks to herself is bad enough, but what I’ve got means I can’t screen out. None of that secret stuff you don’t say because it’ll insult somebody, if I want to know it, I’ve got to say it.

“ ‘The water’s yellow.’ I started a little with the realization. With that said, I could realize that not only was it yellow, it was not a natural yellow. Natural would be autumn leaves. This was sickly, diseased, chemical…

“ ‘Wrong,’ I said aloud.

“ ‘Quite.’

“I frowned, sighing a little. I’d finally gotten a place where no one went, so I could think. Naturally the first thing to happen would be someone finding it.

“Turn. Autopilot. My thoughts went to a near standstill, but normal etiquette takes very little thought ever since I caught the rhythm.

“ ‘Hello,’ badge, blue uniform ‘officer.’

“ ‘Hello, miss. Any particular reason you’re here?’

“ ‘I just like a spot to think. This was a nice one.’

“The officer nodded at that. ‘The water’s turned rather sickly.’

“I nodded. If there was something more the officer wanted, it had to be something obvious, since she wasn’t saying. ‘I’m Annabelle.’

“Officer Brown. I would have thought you’d’ve noticed how the water was before getting this far along.”

“I shrugged. ‘It didn’t seem important.’ Which was true. It had been hammering at my head, but that was a familiar enough sensation that I could describe it without going through the motions of talking. It hadn’t seemed important.

“ ‘The water’s yellower than some poisonous insects I’ve seen. It didn’t seem dangerous?’

“I wrinkled my brow, trying to look dull. This was getting beyond what I was used to. Whatever bought me time. ‘No.’ Why not, I muttered under my breath. ‘Because it didn’t smell wrong.’ Smell. That I got. Smell, taste, touch, that was fine. Hearing was almost always fine. It’s just abstracts, and sight. They aren’t…real.

“ ‘I’m sorry, what did you say? Between no and because.’

“ ‘Just ordering my thoughts. Sorry, I’ve been in my own head for a while now.’

“Officer Brown nodded. ‘Of course.’ That surprised me. Most people tend not to like that sort of answer, especially people trying to figure me out. And, I hope you don’t mind me sayin’, that seems to be the better part of a cop’s job.”

He gave me a little gesture that meant, ‘No offense taken,’ with a hint of what might’ve been, ‘You’re right.’

“She looked at the stream a moment.”

" 'It's just paint, isn't it?'

" 'Yeah.'"

I hesitated. Force of habit, hiding. He already knew.

“ ‘You don’t have to hide.’

“ ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I said it without missing a beat, which probably gave me away more quickly than anything else could have. After hesitating over everything, screening it without really thinking, giving that automatically…it meant I was used to it.”

“You seem used to this.” I could have said it along with him.

“I knew you wanted to talk to me. I’ve been practicing the stuff to say, I’ve got an outline for everything already in my head. And it's a lot easier once I get going.”

He seemed to accept that, and made no mention of my admission that I had specifically done what allowed me to lie to him. He might not have noticed; he might just have planned on surprising me. Who knows? Maybe he just thought he’d be able to tell.

“Anyway, she called me on what I just described. I winced. ‘Got me.’

“ ‘Lupomorph?’”

He looked at me.

“It’s the PC way of saying werewolf.”

He nodded.

That was a lie. Werewolves are carefully hidden, or hide themselves. They go rabid at full moons. Morphs don’t do that unless they don’t shift for a moon cycle. Since we’d done such a good job of hiding weres from the general populace, most of them called us werewhatevers.

“I shook my head. ‘Ursamorph.’

“She paused a moment, then nodded. ‘Bear. Wouldn’t’ve guessed.’”

I don’t think it really needed explaining why. I’m not exactly imposing. Until a few weeks before that, I was still seeing ribs in the mirror; I’ve never kept weight on well. Just naturally waif-y, I guess.

"May I ask a question?"

"Of course."

"How you see...how does that work? Is stuff out-of focus?"

“No…it’s not that we have bad eyesight. Bears have pretty good eyesight—not a lot of people know that, but it’s true. It wasn’t that I couldn’t see; I don’t need glasses or anything like that. I just…it’s like I have to force myself to pay attention, unless I've linked some sight to a reflex. I don’t think it has anything to do with being an ursamorph, or any kind of morph. Though it might be a disorder limited to us. I haven’t studied.

“But still, it’s usually enough to tip people off. That’s why I find my private places.”

“Why not just try and work around it?”

Expected or not, my lips twitched in something approaching a snarl before I stopped them.

“It’s like thinking through molasses. I—it is an unpleasant feeling.

“She told me that she wasn’t the only one who’d spotted me. Like I said, even though it’s not really limited to me, my type of issue has some fairly clear symptoms, once you're looking. I end up looking like an idiot in front of just about everyone, and then I get really deep around people I know well. It’s not like I’m stupid; I do well on tests so long as they don’t throw me out for cheating, and if I can mutter to myself I’ll win just about any debate. That’s common, with us. At least, it is from what I can tell. I suppose that if I weren’t bright to begin with, this thing I have wouldn’t be nearly so obvious.

“Then she took me in, and took me here. I heard that it’s suggested we tell you what we are.”

“Not necessary, but yes. We can’t tell when someone’s a morph, and it’s another possible pattern to take into account if there is a string of robberies or something.”

A sudden burst of sparkling clarity hit me like a diamond hammer to the side of the head. It was, roughly: My goodness, you used the right term. You’re faking,.

“May I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

“Do they ask officers applying?”

“No, why?” He didn’t miss a beat.

“You just said, ‘morph.’ Before, you looked like you had no idea what lupomorph meant, but you just used it like you’re used to it.”

Now he paused. “Neither of us will be sharing this.”

“Of course. But…well…I’m sorry; I’m not rehearsed anymore; are you an ursamorph?”

“Why?”

“I’ve never…met one.”

His emotions were entirely clear for the first time in the conversation, if only for a moment. I'd shocked him. “Your parents, surely.”

I shook my head. “It’s a recessive. Both of ’em were carriers, not bearers. No pun intended.”

“Who taught you about shifting?”

“Grandma. She died when I was six, but I’d figured most of it out by then. Find a good forest; find a place to put a spare set of clothes; keep track of the moon. And find a friend, but that was more grandmother to granddaughter than teacher to student.”

He stared at me. Something was flickering in his face, but it was too fast and too complex for me to figure out.

“I’m so going to regret this,” he sighed, so quietly I barely made it out. His movements might have been resigned as he took out his card. “If you ever need a hand with anything, this is my personal stuff. And yes, I am an ursamorph, and no one living save my dear old mother knows that, so keep your mouth shut about it.”

“Will do.” I stared at the card. “You do realize the fact that you gave this to me means I’m going to need it within the next week, right?”

“I was thinking something along those lines, Annabelle. Considering how we would meet, I sincerely hope I won’t see you; considering how we’re going to meet, I hope I see you before you get into too much trouble.”

Very softly, I said, “Genre-savvy, ursamorph cop and poor little girl with little to no family who could begin to understand her life. Here we go.” I got up to go.

Over my shoulder, louder, I called, “Chapter one.”

Joseph knew the kiddy morph saying. “Just begun.”

Grammar: Prepositions

It's that time again!

Ending sentences in a preposition. Ah, of course you know this one, good reader! That's incorrect!

All right, can you tell me why?

*crickets, crickets*

...Right. The best explanation I have ever heard is one for the clarity of the sentence in question. This being clear, obviously a sentence changed around to avoid putting a preposition at the end when this makes it more difficult to understand is something up with which one should not put.*

The explanation that I believe is that some scholars thought that Latin was superior to language because...because it is! It's older, and it's the scholarly language!

But English has Germanic roots. Trying to make it look like Latin is going to end up being silly, confusing, or both.

The point of language is, and always has been, communication. The idea of knowing proper grammar is that this allows one to use it. There are instances where grammatical inaccuracies are meaningless, and therefore we can assume them to mean the closest correct thing. There are places where they mean something else, and what a reader/listener should be able to assume is that the statement being made is the one the writer/speaker intends.

On these grounds, I would say that clarity should be valued above accuracy. This does not mean accuracy is valueless. Accuracy feeds into clarity. If both the person communicating and the person understanding agree on what is correct, it will make communication and clarity much easier.

On these grounds, I would say that both

"What did you step on?"

and

"On what did you step?"

Are perfectly fine. The former might be slightly easier to understand, but both should be understandable to a fluent English speaker.

Unnecessary prepositions are improper regardless of their placement. For instance:

"I fell off of my bike,"

can simply be

"I fell of my bike."

Even though the preposition is in the middle of the sentence, that preposition is still sloppy, because it is an additional syllable that gives no additional information. The one exception to this would be when and author is establishing an accent. Then it is still wrong, just not sloppy. It adds information.

Incidentally, there is one type of sentence where the preposition at the end burns me. Dad, if you're reading this, you're going to wince.

"On what did you step on?"

Just...gah. The person is trying to correct the sentence--because there is no accent I know of that would start the sentence with, "On what," like that, I will assume this--and then goes on to make the 'mistake' that person was trying to avoid.

Beginning, end, middle, just don't sandwich.

* I am perfectly aware that the original quote could have been rendered, "I will not put up with that sort of pedantry." But this raises the question of why that is any more correct than, "That is the sort of pedantry I will not put up with," in the first place.

Glimmers in the Den

The stories that get told from bad times can be dark indeed. But sometimes the most memorable are the flashes of wisdom, hope...


We weren’t happy. Who would be? Forced here, where we were basically food. If we got lucky, we died or became one of them. And what if becoming one of them meant a shift in thought so huge that we became…well, like them?

I touched the stones in my pocket. As I went through the day I saw a girl yelling at the guards. I handed her the varied brown one that said wisdom. Her lips twitched and she nodded; fell back. She tucked the stone in her pocket.

A few days later, a little boy was hiding in the corner. He was sobbing his clear, too-old gray eyes out. I took his hand and pressed the pale green stone into it. He looked at it, then at me. He clung to me and we held each other until he stopped crying. I convinced him to start washing and eating again.

Barely a few hours after that, I was flipping the last one over and over. It was black, and polished very smooth. I think it had been like that since the start. I might just have come to it for comfort enough.

A woman was praying. Before, I had heard her saying she wouldn’t pray anymore. It didn’t surprise me that she was. We were all going back to old comforts, and until she said she’d stop a few days after coming here, she’d prayed every evening. She said she had since she was six.

The topic didn’t really surprise me either. It wasn’t even covered in pretty language anymore. “I’m trying. I’m trying. But I don’t understand why.”
I looked around, checking for anyone obvious. The fact that I couldn’t see them wasn’t really pertinent. When they wanted to be seen, we obeyed every rule perfectly because they were cementing their power. Most, though, just wanted to make sure none of us were trying anything too dire—-like escaping—-and get on with it.

No one I could see. It crept down off my bunk and over to hers. By the time I got there her prayers had stopped, she was just crying. It hurt—I mean it physically hurt—to see someone so broken. I hoped the outburst would help her, but I was worried she’d just fall farther.

“Miss?”

She jerked up and looked at me. “What?” she asked sharply. Then she closed her eyes and softened. “Sorry. Yes?”

I took a breath. This was my last, but it was worth it. But it was my last, so I better make it count. “I’m Amelia.”

“Jean.”

“When I was little, I got these stones. They’ve got words on them, and they help me remember what I want to do, or be.”

She nodded. “I’ve seen you giving them out. How many have you got left?”

“Just the one.” I held the small oval of polished black out. In the dark, it was nearly invisible, though it reflected a lot of light.

A few phrases ran through my head. ‘(I think) It’ll do you more good than me.’ ‘You need it more than I do.’ But that wasn’t what I wanted to say.

“I want you to have it.”

She took it, solid black indent up. “What’s it say?”

“Turn it over.”

She looked at me; then turned it over.

“If you ever need me, just ask.”

She stared at the stone for a moment. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she smiled a little now. “Thank you.” Her eyes went to mine. “The same goes for you.”

I smiled. “Thank you.”

That last one said trust.

Some Fall

Falling from grace
He keeps apace
Silently watching the drift.

Falling to low
Has to go slow
But good from the bad he can't sift.

Perhaps here is the wonder
Perhaps the song
We've sought for so long
So long.

And here we go
Murmuring too low
In the quiet of the riot
In the eye of the storm.
One false step, one left torn.
That's the bargain, now don't feel what you've borne.

Slowly wheedling at your core
Now wait, just a second more.
Here, you see? Here you fell
But here now, it is not your Hell.

Oh, no, don't watch me so
You asked and then you paid in full.
I heard you beg; I heard you plead
From the oven-baked to the dough you knead
You want it back, then that's your way.
You've given; I never said I'd taken away.

Storyteller!

The sun shone. The sky was that beautiful blue one gets on perfectly clear days: only there on the rarest of days, and all the better for it. It made the straw into spun gold, the grass greener than any emerald, even the roads were bright.

"Storyteller! Storyteller!"

I smiled at the girl who ran towards me, straw shoes smacking on paving stones, hair messily tied back, dress undyed and wrinkled. Her eyes were bright as the sky, and her hair matched the hay. There were ink stains on her fingers, still sharp black against sunburned skin. And, of course, scrolls spilled out of her arms.

"Yes, Prema?"

"I--I got a commission!" She beamed at me. Prema had had some trouble around that. Never cleaning up will lose you quite a few jobs, no matter how well you write or tell.

"Wonderful, little one." I ruffled her hair, to the extent that was possible. "Who's the lucky patron?"

She gave some impressive title that rolled off her tongue as well as one of her first stories told around the campfire did now. My lips twitched. She'd been practicing her patron's name. "And what does she want you to write?"

Prema's eyes were still as bright, but their character changed. "Um, tell, actually." Now she shifted the scrolls to one arm and pushed her hair out of her eyes. "And...it has to be something new." She shifted her weight and licked her lips, suddenly huddling in on herself. "She--she saw some stuff I wrote, and she wanted me to write something for her, then tell it, for her guests at the party."

"And you're getting...?"

"A good outfit, a night around potential clients, dinner and a few silver pieces." She flushed a little at the last, as if accepting food and fine clothing for one of her stories was perfectly acceptable, but money unthinkable.

I nodded and smiled. "Good, for a first commission." Premmy relaxed a little. "And what have you got there to look at?"

"Oh! Well, everything."

"Everything?"

She laughed. "All right, not everything. Everything I've ever written. Unless a muse decides to come around and smack my head with a new idea, I don't have time to come up with a whole new story from scratch and memorize it in time."

"Oh? When's the party?"

She grinned sheepishly at me. "...A week? I know; I know!" was all she said to my look, "but I've got fittings, and...well, I'd get so nervous."

I laughed. "As you wish. So you need to pick one to finish."

"Yes! I've got all of these memorized as far as they go, they just don't end."

"Well, which one did your lovely patron like?"

"Oh...well, this one." She juggled the papers around until she had the right one on top.

"You know, you could put those on the bench." I nodded over and we sat together, keeping all the scrolls between us. When she handed me the scroll I'd asked after, she looked away. It didn't take me long to figure out why. The characters were a little exaggerated at times, and it skipped over some things I wouldn't've skipped, but...

"I didn't know you were writing an autobiography."

She squirmed a little. "I--I mean--I'm sorry! I know I should've asked you before I showed it to anyone, but she wanted to see something and I forgot to take it off the shelf! I--" By then her eyes were starting to fill.

"Prema?"

She flinched. "Yes?"

How to say it... "You wrote beautifully. This is your story. I happen to be in it, but this, as it is written, is your story. As far as I am concerned, you never have to worry about showing this to anyone. If I had been hurt by this, it would have been because you believed something bad of me, not because you had written of it." I squeezed her shoulders and took in the air, tinted with the soft smell of hay and the warm smell of life, in general. "Not everyone will feel that way. But I'm your teacher too, and I'm honored I was there so much."

She looked at me. For a moment, she waited, as if she thought I would tell her it was some joke. Then she wiped her eyes, hugged me, and gathered everything up.

As she dashed away, she called over her shoulder, "I've got an ending!"

I smiled and walked around town. Nothing ever ends. But she'd found an ending, at least, and that would be enough for her patron. Knowing her, it would be fantastic. She wouldn't stop until it was.

Theft, Inspiration and Muses

The moon, a statuette, a loved one, sudden surge of hope, adrenaline rush, sunlight pattering on leaves, dappling, the sunset, fire.

Music. Amusing. Musings...there are doubtless more.

The fun bit in muses is half the effect they have here, now. Then the effect that work has. The Muses themselves inspire words, and the idea of them continues to inspire--is this the Muse yet speaking, or her echoes? Does it matter?

And there is that other piece, where it is no the work inspired that acts a a muse, a font of inspiration, not directly. Think of how often the sunrise or sunset has been described as fire. Who was the first? Who knows? But now it permeates, and describing it as another requires another step in thinking. The sun is fire, far away; the sun at the horizon is fire and fiery.

Some muse, some cue in our collective consciousness says that now. The sky is air; blue is water. Brown is earth, as surely as that warm, damp life with a sprig of green is. Wind whips through our hair, fire warms. Fire kills. Water refreshes; drowns. Earth is home, or have we moved past that?

That gives the tumbling, whirling, downright weird world of Muses, muses, inspiration. What would we be without them? We don't know. We can't, our language relies so thoroughly on being present in this culture that has had them for millenia, at least. Were there someone who could tell us, how would we even begin to communicate? Where did that idea come from?



And we're running into this issue, especially with the advent of the internet. Stealing another person's idea is wrong. But what constitutes stealing? For instance, we can no longer say that saying the sunset is like fire is stealing, because there is no one to steal the idea from. If anyone living tries to claim the idea, then there would be too many quotes to count that anyone could come up with--internet--that predate that author's line by at least a century. It would take a while to sift through all the not-quites, but it doesn't even take a handful to make one's point.

BUt copyright solves that, right? Well...legally, yes. But morally? Trot over to DeviantArt or YouTube. Are those things copyrighted, trademarked...? Well, no (not exclusive). Is it right to take them and claim them as one's own? Well, no.

That, we can probably agree upon. Of course, it is difficult to draw the line. Copying outright is wrong, I guess. But what if you use a similar juxtaposition of scenes to a video you saw? You're not copying, and it's not like this person drew the work in the first place--of course, if the creator did, that's just a whole 'nother can of worms. So, is using a similar way of putting clips together really wrong?

Nnnnno? Or does it depend on how long? Doing it for two minutes, thirty seconds of a three-minute video is probably wrong--it really depends on how similar 'similar' is. Doing it for five seconds is probably better, but what if the 2:30 is using similar clips in a completely different fashion, and the five seconds is outright copying?

That's the difference, to me, between inspiration and thievery. Granted, it's not clear cut in practice. But I'd say it's where someone takes the complete piece and steals part of it. This naturally gets difficult in the contexts of AMVs. After all, one is taking another's work. But it is no more stealing than a karaoke night is. Using another's work for profit, that's where it turns darker gray; claiming you made it is outright theft. These people have editing, acting, drawing, whichever, as a job.

ADDENDUM: For the record, I am not trying to imply that AMV-making is not a true art by comparing it to karaoke. This is so for two reasons: 1) I think the term 'true art' is so subjective as to be useless and 2) ...Wow that's a complex question.

Fire and Ice

Be still; be quiet; be calm.

But--

Be still; be quiet; be calm.

But I need to dance. I need to move or I'm going to--

Be still; be quiet; be calm.

Are you even listening?

Be still; be quiet; be calm.

You're melting, aren't you.

Be still; be quiet; be calm.

That's what you're so worried about. Listen, Ice, you don't need to worry. You can flow. It doesn't have to be so--

Be still; be quiet; be calm.

Listen to me. Please. I know this has worked for you. But it's not working for me. Please, just listen.

There was quiet. Which was about as close to assent as Fire was going to get.

You're cold. I know. I know it's worked for you. But it's not working for me. I can't just sit here; I can't just watch everyone go by and just--stand here. I need to move, to spread, to grow.

You haven't tried.

Yes, I have. I've tried; believe me. I have tried stopping myself, but it's not working. Do you remember when I really got to burn, so bright I was almost blinding, so hot I burned? I have never felt better. Never.

You burned.

Yes. Yes I did. But it didn't hurt anyone.

It scared me.

And it scares me when you're so...cold. But I get it. It's how you work.

Ice trembled. That surprised Fire, truth be told. Ice moved, but Ice moved like...well, a glacier. Ice didn't tremble, any more than Fire truly went still.

I'm melting.

I could move.

No. From the inside out. If something taps me, I'm going to shatter. I'm melting.

Fire paused. Fire knew, on some level, that Ice was melting. But Fire hadn't known how close Ice was to the tipping point. Fire had assumed the heat was melting Ice, and so the melting would be from the outside in. Visible. Showy. The idea of melting from the inside out...

You're burning.

Heating up. Yes.

Fire was, for once, at a loss. Whatever the emotion, Fire could adjust. That was the strength. Fire moved, danced, adapted, and, if it came to it, burned through. But what to do for someone who was so afraid of doing just that...

Try it.

What?

Melting. Flowing. Try it.

What if I can't get back?

Then wouldn't you rather do it now, on your terms?

Poem 4

The little voice in the back of your head stops talking and you realize how lost you are without it.
I love you.
What is this?
Is this apathy? Truly just not...
Caring?

There's that feeling of...

A lack of a feeling?

Wait, what?
Did you say something?
Oh. Must've been my imagination.

But it's not there
Here.
Everywhere.

Goodness. Light. Virginity. Whatever.
Dark. Home, warm. Soft, gentle, loving.
A familiar little sense runs through me.

I tilt my head back like feeling the rain. Home.
I'm home.

I turn to see the one who spoke. And yes, you spoke, aloud or not.
I love you.

I jump through the hoops...

...in the hope that someday I might dance through them.

Should I go to college?

Show of hands, who just said or thought, "Yes," automatically?

Okay, now: I am given the chance to do something I have dreamed of doing since I was in third grade. Throughout that entire time, my interest in it has never wavered, only deepened. Let's take musical theater, since that is something I truly enjoy. I get, not a major role, but a credited one. But, in order to take it, I would have to skip out on college, and I might never have the time to go to a real college or university, because I'll have a career. Should I go to college?

Now, hands up again if the missing out on college schooling sounded like a bad thing.
----
This is the odd mindset I'm running into quite a bit. It's treating school as an end in and of itself, instead of a means to an end. The idea that homework is there, not to reinforce learning, but as an end. That classes are there, not to teach, but to explain again and again. In other words, the idea of spending time on learning something, not to learn it, but to spend time on it.

And that's just a...well, weak way of going through life. Believing that the point of school is learning is one thing, believing that the point of school is school is another. School is a place where one goes out and finds bits and pieces of everything, and then, hopefully, decides on something. Or multiple somethings. Polymaths rock.

I am working to get a career in music. If I got offered a job that helped that, at the sacrifice of some school time...how does it make sense to turn it down? Dropping out of school altogether can be argued against, but say I would need to drop Choir because I'm going out to tour and sing.

Well...that's why I'm taking choir. It would be like asking me to re-take basic algebra when I was offered the chance to learn calculus--and have the skills to survive that course, naturally. I understand algebra. I might gain something from the course, but it makes no sense. If schooling sets you back, it's doing the exact opposite of what it's supposed to. Even if someone were to make the case that it looked good that I stuck with the class, which looks better? Choir in school all four years or going out on tour?

I jump through these hoops today. "Alright, ladies, hop to it! Three, eight, quarter spin, in formation now!"

I jump so that someday, when I have learned how to do that, I can leap, twirl, act and dance through them. So that I can take someone's breath away, or make 'em laugh, cry.

If I get the chance to learn how to dance through them, or the opportunity to do so, I don't see why I should say no simply because there are people still teaching others how to jump. I know how to jump. I also know how to leap and soar. Why shouldn't I?

Read also: Harrison Bergeron

Story 3

A/N: This is something of an experimentation with voice and tone, so please tell me what you think. Warning: Some swearing.

I just--ugh! It's like, there's stuff that sticks with you for years, and it shouldn't be there after a couple days, or even hours. Like you're mind's trying to get back at you or something.

We were having an argument. Whatever. It was a bowling alley, even if we were yelling it wouldn't've carried more than a few feet. She was attacking whatever she could; seeing what stuck. Saying that I was a loser, I had no friends. Again, what-freaking-ever. Like I hadn't been hearing stuff like that since, like, third grade. Most of it since first. I mean, honestly, get some new material.

And then, she got flustered, she stopped thinking, and she hit something.

"I come here in my best clothes, and you come here in--in scraps--"

I really didn't hear anything she said after that. All I could think of was that she had called my very best scraps. This was my new outfit. I'd gotten it for my birthday. I loved it. It felt like she'd hit me, full on and in the chest.

I can tell you, looking back, why it bothered me so much, why I burst into tears--and the girl asked, "Are you getting help? Do you take medication for this?" which was real bright. I can tell you that, though people had insulted my voice, my oddities, my family, my intelligence, and everything else, no one had ever touched my looks. I knew, on some level, that I was pretty. To have someone attack that was worse than anything else she'd said.

Call it shallow. Call it valuing clothes over friends. But it was what I had, and losing that last inch hurt as much as the first time a friend had turned her back and snickered.

And her asking if I had medication...Hell. I know, she was just trying to push the blame off herself, onto some imbalance in my system. Anywhere that made it so she didn't have to feel the guilt. I know. It just doesn't help much. Or, you know, at all. Do people ever think before they speak? Is this so hard it's a step people just skip over, so they can listen to themselves yap insults and compliments, work themselves up some fucking popularity tree?

I put up this big facade. I don't care how I look. I don't care what you think. I don't care I can't seem to keep friends. It's all bullshit. I care. Anyone who bothered to look at me for two seconds would know that. Which means that anyone who doesn't see through this it doesn't bother to look for two seconds, and that makes me feel just wonderful, thank you so very much.

Aw, shit, I'm sorry. I'm unloading all this on you, it's not your fault.

No, it's not a problem, really. I wanted to get to know you better. And...I'm glad you let down the facade.

Hah. Thanks. Glad you saw through it.

Hey, you said it. It only takes a couple seconds. If you ever need someone to talk to...I'm here, okay?

Yeah. Okay. Thanks, J, I'll remember that. I'm probably going to come up with a list long enough to reach the moon for reasons not to, but I'll remember.

Just use a large font.

Ha! Sure, why not?

Virtue

Mercy.

It had been simple, really. Names here...in English, really...no one really bothered to remember what half of them meant. Even the obvious ones like 'Victoria'. They're after the person, the people, not the word. One things Queen Victoria, not victorious. Though one might associate them, perhaps not. And perhaps it's not her. Perhaps it's a childhood friend or acquaintance, so blond hair, gray eyes, and an old aunt who always brings cookies.

It was all so...random.

And the names that do have something obvious tend to be so mundane: Ruby, May, April, June. A rock. A month.

It's not like there's anything wrong. They can be perfectly good names. But given the choice...choice. Given the right to come up with my own name, there was just something in me that wanted more.

Yet I couldn't stick out. I couldn't pick something like spirit, or soul. English just doesn't do that often enough for one to blend.

Naturally, I gravitated toward virtues. But...Chastity? No. Charity was better, Hope was good. Still. I wanted something different. Charity was nice, but was a reaction to a problem. Hope was something that kept you going, good, but...

I wanted something that would be present if the world were perfect. Charity would not be needed, everyone would just have. You would not need hope, per se, it would just be. One does not really have hope the sun will rise; it is more that one would feel betrayed if it didn't.

But mercy. Yes, I liked Mercy. Even in a utopia, people would still make mistakes, however slight. Perhaps oversleeping. Forgetfulness.

What I really wanted, what I would have taken as a name if it were common, is Forgiveness. But Mercy is...well, fundamentally good, in ways Forgiveness isn't. Even if you cannot forgive, cannot forget, cannot let go, you can be merciful. You can let it pass.

"Name?"

"Mercy."

"Last name?"

I hadn't thought of one. Hm...your last name was your family, right? A connection to blood and earth. And that would not sound nearly so needlessly poetic if we were speaking just about anything but English, trust me.

I smiled. Trust.

John might approve, he might not. Either way. Here I am.

"I am Mercy Johnson."

She nodded, first in recognition and then to where I should go. "Third door on the right. Eleanor Wright will see you."

I nodded in recognition back and went to see Ms. Wright.

Musing #6: Truth, Honesty, and Stories

Truth: facts

Honesty: straightforwardness, adhering to facts; see also honor, integrity

Story: Ha. Anything told. An anecdote, a fiction piece, a lie.

Oh, and of course.

Lie: something that is untrue that the speaker knows is untrue, but is reporting as truth.

WARNING: Opinions contained from here on.

Occasionally, I go through and try to figure out oxymorons. Most of the ones people bring up are fairly obvious, e.g. jumbo shrimp are large in comparison to shrimp, military intelligence is military wisdom/knowledge, information gained pertaining to the military.

For today: an honest liar, a truthful liar, a lying honest person and and lying truthful person.

The simplest is a lying truthful person. Stating facts, but only the facts one wants to. Nothing factually inaccurate is being presented, but the image created in the listener's mind is false.

A lying honest person is also fairly easy, though a bit harder to wrap one's mind around. If honesty is related simply to telling the facts, then it would be the above. But it is not--at least, not how I'm using it.

One can mislead by telling only the facts. But there are also times when this very exclusion can serve for greater honesty. If a person has genuinely reformed, then bringing up his or her past serves to do nothing but mislead. So that might get swept under the rug.

Or it might be someone asking if person X said, "Jane Doe needs to lose a few pounds." If the technical answer is yes, but it was said in a joking tone and meant to be taken as a joke among friends, then the honest answer is no. If X doesn't know Jane, or Jane is particularly sensitive about her weight, it gets trickier. But if it is given and taken as a joke, then saying yes is dishonest, even if it is factually accurate.

And, of course, it could also be taken that the honest or truthful person is being deceitful just this once.

A truthful liar is someone who regularly tells the truth and regularly lies. This would almost certainly imply the above example, using facts to mislead. But where the above implies doing so once, this implies doing it as a matter of course.

An alternative is much simpler, and therefore less fun to work out. It is simply someone who regularly lies and regularly tells the truth. This is probably the most dangerous type of liar, as people tend to ignore him/her--and 'Boy Who Cried Wolf' aside, it is rarely just the person misleading who suffers for this. Imagine, if you will, that the flocks are kept close together. The shepherds have to keep taking their sheep away, and finally when the wolf shows up, they don't. They lose their sheep, get injured, etc., etc.

An honest liar. This has the same deal as a truthful liar; it can be someone who tells factually inaccurate things for the sake of the true picture regularly, or someone who is honest and dishonest as a matter of course.

But because of how honest can be used, it has another way to take it. It would be someone who lies, but will not mislead on particularly big stuff. So, for instance, would say, "They went that way!" to get someone off a (friend) thief's trail, but wouldn't do anything that would end up killing someone. Or killing someone 'important', though what that means varies. More commonly referred to as a trickster, scalawag, or playful/mischievous [noun].

And, of course, it could just be a poetic way to refer to a storyteller. One who says things that aren't true, but in such a way that s/he doesn't expect anyone to believe them.

Short Post the Second: Grammar!

They're/There/Their: Okay, yeah. This one just bothers me. If one is using, "they're," it can be replaced with, "they are." If one is using, "there," it is a place. "Their" is a possessive.

"They're going to put their things over there."

"They're from Kentucky."

"Their gifts arrived just last night."

"The gifts are over there."

Usually, the difference it clear. However, it is not always clear by the time the reader has reached the word, meaning s/he has to reread the sentence, and that's no fun!

Short Post

Storyteller, Trickster, riddle me this:
What's the price on the head of a hiss?
Above or below a wonderful bliss...
Can you even put a price on something like this?

So people wonder, and people want,
And search for money, and those with it flaunt.
Because deep down, we all know:
Nothing beats that first throw.

There are those who would kill
For one last thrill
But leave you alive, so you might thrive.

Grammar and Punctuation

Today's Lesson: Endangered Species

Parentheses: The text can be read with or without the text contained.

Example: "Have you ever been sent to school with the same old (empty) bag lunch?"

This means if you have gone to school with the old bag lunch, whether it is empty or not, you would say yes. You might clarify, but it is not necessary.

Spoken as: "Have you ever been sent to school with the same old--possibly empty--bag lunch?"

In other words, parentheses should almost never be used in dialogue--excluding reading aloud. They can be used in any written mode, but cannot be pronounced. There are ways to indicate parentheses if you are reading a quote, but to properly 'enunciate', one would need to say "Parentheses [blah blah blah] close parentheses."

It is also worth noting that some people use parentheses when they mean to use dashes. Dashes are these:--. These are both quite useful punctuation marks, but are different.

Begging the Question: Okay, let's start here, because I love that site. tl;dr: Begging the question is assuming something is true with no proof but the assertion of the statement.

Examples: "I think he's unattractive because he's ugly." (Any tautology fits here, really)

"I can't see why this is so hard. Anyone with a brain could figure it out." "Ah, but that's begging the question. You assume he has a brain."

Misestimated/Underestimated: Misestimate is to misjudge an estimation. Underestimate is specifically to estimate too low.

In explaining that the former is losing its use, I must point out that my spellcheck does not recognize it. I really think that's all I need to say on the point.

Examples: "I appear to have misestimated." "Over or under?" "I'm not sure..."

"You underestimated me."

Lay/Lie: I do this so much. Lay is to put/place. Lie is to recline.

Examples: "Chickens lay eggs."

"I'm going to lie down."

However, and here's the tricky part: "I lay my head down."

This actually has a fun meaning if used correctly: It can imply a feeling of separation from one's body.

Okay. How many grammatical errors did I make? Oh, and feel free to add any others that Just Bug You (TM) in the comments section.

"Stars, hide your fires."

Macbeth, Act 1, Scene 4, Line 50-51:

Stars, hide your fires;
Let not light see my black and deep desires:

Now mine:

I walk upon hot coals.
I fear not.
I know it is fire, and it calls to me, but I fear not.

I feel the sun shine down on me and burn me rose red.
I fear not.
I know it is warmth, and it calls to me, and I answer; I fear not.

I see the lamp burn too-bright white.
I fear not.
I know it blinds, and it calls to me, but I do not look.

I look at the moon.
I fear not.
She is mother and giver. I know her power over tides, but that power is a part of me, so I fear not.

I look at the stars.
I see fires, pinprick suns far off.
I see something I know.

I look between them.
I see black velvet.
Darkest night.
Blackest dawn.
Not clouded. Not lost. Present, and dark, always dark.

I see something of myself.
I see my demon, and I see my angel.
I see what Freud called superego and id.
I see what is my self.
And I see something that scares me.
I see myself, not thinking.
But I do not look.
I fear to, should I look, examine, what should I see?

But I press my will and I make myself.
I know that not thinking is a greater sin than any I would find.
I know.
...
I smile and might chuckle.
I thought.
I fear not.

Breaks

In a story--and any time you communicate an event, that is a story--one has to separate breaks. First, the simplest way I do:

1) Meta breaks: In a written format, this would be paragraphs, chapters, line breaks, or whatever else; when speaking, it is a pause or change in tone; in acting, a scene break, act change, or any in the previous; in movies a fade to black or any in the two previous categories. This list is not exclusive.

2) In-story breaks: Times when the character took some time. Examples are taking a break from whatever the character is doing, be that in writing, reading, fighting, or anything else. This may overlap with the above.

What is fascinating is exactly how much difference separating these two breaks makes. Say an author goes through a day in the life of one of her* characters. In the first telling, she put down everything that happens, and the character's feelings about all of it.

...

Wow. That is boring.

Okay, she goes back. Looks it over. And she asks herself that most important question in all of fiction, nay, in all of storytelling:

"What am I trying to write?"

The simple truth is, if the author can't figure out an answer to the question, the editing process is going to go nowhere. In Rapunzel, you will almost never hear what happens to her mother and father after she leaves in anything but the scantest of detail. The same goes for the witch. Why? Because the story is about Rapunzel. Adding all that information just breaks from the main action, the main story. It is not about her parents, or the witch, or even her prince. It is about her. So those are the details that got passed down.

Not knowing where your story is going when you write it? Fine! There's no problem with that. But trying to edit a story when, when it comes right down to it, no one knows who or what it is supposed to be about it going to end in disaster. If someone didn't know the story was about Rapunzel, would that person cut the description of the Prince's childhood, her parents', hers? Has to cut at least one, all these things are cluttering up the book and we don't get 90% of the loose ends tied up! We're breaking from the main action in half the book; I don't even know what the main action is supposed to be.

So, what is the story? Is it about Rapunzel? Her Prince? Their love? The witch? Her parents? A young boy who watches some or all of it happen and his response? Something completely esoteric?

There is no need for that to be the only thing in the story--no matter what the response is, all of those will be affected by the environment. But the majority of the book should be based around the focus of the book. The rest are breaks. A book without breaks makes no sense, a book that is mostly breaks is just plain weird. Though that can be done well, in order to do weird things well one has to be A) really lucky or B) aware of the weirdness.

[announcer voice] Step right up and try your luck!

* I dislike saying him or her.

Song Analysis

All my own opinions, I have not seen anything Idina said. If we're going by the school of whatever the artist says is right, I'm probably way off.

Also, note: the she I refer to is the speaker, not the author. Idina may share some or none of these traits, I wouldn't know.

My Own Worst Enemy
Idina Menzel

In the roses
In the spring

Innocence, specifically in the sense of ignorance. Roses are used as signs of love, and spring of new life; everything has its own little realm and you see the world through new, bright eyes.

I remember

Immediately implies that that time has passed. If you still are innocent, you do not remember, it simply is. This is particularly true with innocence, those truly innocent (using it as partially synonymous with 'ignorant') do not even know that it can get worse.

There was a time
I wasn’t afraid of anything

Emphasizes the innocence/ignorance again. People talk about having no fear flippantly occasionally, when discussing bravery. But, in context, this seems to imply a literal lack of fear. A lack of fear is caused by either a lack of experience or a lack of imagination. Considering the idyllic setting, it is probably the former.

But with the lilacs
And the rain

Direct link drawn back to the roses and the spring, mentioned earlier. This time it includes an obvious reference in the spring vs. rain parallel, rain comes later in the year and we assume it to be slightly worse. Not necessarily in the long run, but in the here-and-now? Yeah.

This draws us back to the innocence/ignorance, as looking to the future is a sign of wisdom, but you have to earn that.

The roses vs. lilacs is more interesting. There is nothing particularly bad about lilacs--they are also used for love, they bloom in spring, all that good stuff. But it's also just a bit less mainstream. On the other hand, combine it with rain and you could get tears on lilacs--very easily a loss of innocence, when you consider the juxtaposition of love and tears.

One day you went away

Loss of innocence, realizing you can lose people.

I remember
I forgot everything

Can be seen as a first freak out. You spend your entire life learning how to fit into society, learning every rule, probably learning how to manipulate them and then BAM. You lose it. The first time this happens can be liberating, surreal or both, making the opposites above very appropriate.

Chorus:
My mother’s always trying to tell me
How to be grateful how to believe

May be just me, but I always heard "believe" as "be free". One could see this as showing how to trust even in the face of bad things, and how to survive on one's own, either way.

My father’s always trying to say
Baby you’re beautiful in every way

Classic good dad. He's saying that everything she does is alright, everything she is is beautiful. The multiple meanings of beautiful--outer, inner and actions--make this an interesting set of lines. It could just be out there to show how she has no reason to be scared/hurt, or it could be that he has trusted her and helped her every step of the way.

My lover’s always got me in his arms
Trying to protect me keep me from harm

She has a close relationship with her lover. By this point it is clear that these three sets of lines are a unit, establishing that she has people helping her, people who care about her, every step of the way.

It's also worth noting that, in all three instances, the word "trying" comes up. Her mother and father are trying to teach her, her lover is trying to protect her. This means it ultimately comes down to her, and...

So why do I always have to be
My worst my own worst enemy

She clearly feels she isn't living up to this. She feels she is holding herself back, hence her bit about being her own worst enemy. There is also a not-quite-pause between My worst and the rest of the line. This makes the line being spoken, however briefly, into, Why do I always have to be my worst? This takes us back to tears and the freak out, few people would want either of those things to be someone's first impression of him or her.

In the shadows in the grays

First off, shadows is very loaded. We have a long history of associating darkness with evil, making it impossible for it to be otherwise.

The grays has a bit of duality because it's gray. Just as we've associated dark with evil, we've associated light with good. Gray stays solidly in the middle of that spectrum, meaning that it is both not what one would hope for in good nor what one would expect in evil.

In the lonely
There is a place
Where we can all hide away

Being lonely is bad.

We're pack animals. We can handle being alone, but loneliness automatically has a number of stigmas against it, to the point that those who remain alone by choice or necessity are seen as odd.

But hiding can be a comfort, and it is often necessary to be alone if one wishes to hide. So we have a wish and a necessity noted in this line.

But in the windows of the soul
There is nowhere we can go
If we keep running
Running from our destiny

Back to being alone. If you are alone, you have to deal with...yourself. You naturally can't run. It is worth noting that the speaker knows there are things you can run from (see above), but running from the bad bits of something will also run from the good parts of it.

So you can run, but there are things you cannot run from. And I suppose it makes as much sense as anything else to call those things your destiny.

Chorus:
My mother’s always trying to tell me
How to be grateful how to believe
My father’s always trying to say
Baby you’re beautiful in every way
My lover’s always got me in his arms
Trying to protect me keep me from harm
So why do I always have to be
My worst my own worst enemy

The chorus, this time can be seen as the things that keep her from running. Her mother, who helps her remember the things she is grateful for and so should stick around for. Her father, who helps her remember she doesn't need to run. Her lover is the most forward in this interpretation, he is actively holding her from running and trying to stop the things that are making her want to run.

But still, we have trying. Are they succeeding?

You say I walk on water
You say I walk on the moon
But it’s never enough
(no it’s never enough no it’s never enough)

The former is downright divine, and the latter is widely established as a turning point in American history. But still, no matter what she does, she is not good enough. Usually this would be a way to make the character sympathetic and the person who is creating this feeling unsympathetic. But the speaker is neither asking for sympathy nor blaming someone else. In the context of the song, it is clearly never enough for herself. Everyone else is supportive, but she never feels like she's worth it.

You say I’m only human
It’s all in my head
But it’s never enough
(no it’s never enough no it’s never enough)

Emphasizes that the above things are all but impossible for humans, doing them at all is impressive. Any claim otherwise is just her trying to be more than anyone would reasonably expect of her.

One day I’ll find
My alibi...

An alibi is only used when someone has done something wrong. The idea that she cannot do these things is, to her mind, a crime.

Chorus:
My mother’s always trying to tell me
How to be grateful how to believe
My father’s always trying to say
Baby you’re beautiful in every way
My lover’s always got me in his arms
Trying to protect me keep me from harm
So why do I always have to be
My worst my own worst enemy

Now the chorus takes on a feel of people trying to convince her that she has nothing to be sorry for. They're trying to say that she's done enough, and her lover in particular is saying he can help her through the rest, if she just lets him.

Hey

Just popping in to wish everyone a happy last day of march. So, even if blogspot won't let me put it, happy 3/32/10 everybody!