On Pocket Watches

There is just something about them.  Maybe its the whirling gears, or the steady click of a second hand moving, that simply charms the mind.  Maybe its the chain, slinging across one's skin, or the perfect weight of the device sitting so solidly in one's hand.  Maybe the quirky charm of old world mechanics, the trill of self perpetuating movement.  Digital simply cannot compete.  

Lack of Inspiration

Its been one of those weeks, a simple lack of inspiration.  No matter how I search for the words, they never seem to come out.  Not this week, at least.  I hate writer's block.  It strikes so unexpectedly, crippling my mind, taking over all I do.  And yet nothing can shake it.  Not until some idea struggles through the fog like the internet connection on a rainy day.  In other words, its nearly impossible until the storm clears.

And its showing in my work.  The latest short story I wrote for my class, its appalling.  As I write my next draft, I try to spice it up, but there seems to be nothing I can do.

And I still put off my ap paper.

All in all no interesting writing today.

The Music Man

I've always been pretty good a judging my surroundings.  My third grade class, I walked in and knew it would be a good year.  It was.  Ninth grade science, same.  And Tenth lit.  Central Connecticut State University Writing Program--I loved the atmosphere from the start.  And the eca writhing program- I walked in and knew I belonged.   Marching band...I knew it was going to be hard, but worth it. 

This was completely different though.  It was that I wasn't welcomed, no--I wasn't cut out for it.  Very hostile atmosphere, to say the least.  Not that it was anyone's fault.

I just can't sing, so of course a chorus room scares me.  I;m still coming to terms with even landing a part in the school musical.  Still pondering what gave me the insane idea to try out.

I don't know what they're talking about, sorting us into tenners and altos, sopranos and basses, it all just sounds like the saxophone section to my band nerd ears.  I didn't realize people could sing those parts. 

I'm an alto, or so they assign me.  Its the lowest girl part, so I'm told.  I'm not allowed to go any lower in my 'gender role'.  It makes my gender queer self enraged.  Probably helped by the fact nearly all the notes were to high for me to hit.  I eventually stopped singing, I sounded so bad.

I was right when I thought I was in for a long night.

But I made the most of it.  And guess who is singing tenor now (technically just an octave lower).

But I want more.  I'm just a chorus member, so this to me seems like a good time to create my own character.  Don't get me wrong, I don't want to make a fuss.  I just want to go on stage as a man.

I know it may seem weird, but its normal to me.  I've never been 'girly'.  It makes sense too, or so I'm told.  I can pull of 'guy' with my short hair and stocky build.  My face looks just like my father's.  I sing with a deep voice, in the chorus, and have no speaking lines, so my voice won't give me away.  And, all in all, I'd be ten times more comfortable in a pair of knickers and a button down shirt (hat?) than any girl clothes of the time. 

It makes me rethink my first impression.  If I had walked in there as a guy, would I have felt more at home?

Origami Dreams

That would always be the last thing he'd remember, before he fell into slumber.  Even now, a grown man, his head still falls heavy to swirls of soft purple, the light stains of doves, white and fluffy, ever so slightly smudged over, almost luminescent. 

He would always open the window for them at night, giving them the chance to fly away, if they so desired.  After all, what good to a boy is a caged paper bird. 

And so was his ritual, still to this day.  Let in the moon's shine, let the breeze fill the room.  Window pain through open for hopes to soar through.  Mubles of goodnight, and sleep tights, and the ever lingering invation of open darkness at night.  He would fall asleep, doves burned into his eyes.

And only at that moment would things stir and rouse.  The wallpaper birds would drink in the mood, soon ruffling their feather, with joy only paper can feel.

Still the same dreams live in the mans head.  And origami bird always flits through his dreams. 

Getting a jump

And so were off to a new year.  The famed 2012.  I suppose this is what some may call a revolution.  Yes, my new year's revolution.  You see, this is no mere resolution, but a civil war of my mind, an overthrowing of the current government, replacing the old cogs with shiny new gears. 

In simpler terms, as an aspiring creative writer, I figure writing everyday will be a fine way to flex my fingers, and keep the key board lettering memorized.

That being said, I'm not much for planning, therefore I have little an idea of what to put up here.  Suggestions are always welcomed.  Perhaps a prompt a day, or some similar ruse.  Or a rant.  That seems to go better with the name.

Any who, this worthless rambling has gone on long enough.

~Oz