Hi everyone! What a lovely surprise this is…I’ve been nominated for the “Very Inspiring Blogger Award” by the incredible Sarah Garratt of The Lit Bear. She’s a very talented writer who posts everything from poetry to short fiction, and it’s always a joy to read her work. I suggest you go check her out if you haven’t already. Thank you, Sarah! Now, the rules are as follow:
Thank and link to the amazing person who nominated you.
List the rules and display the award.
Share seven facts about yourself.
Nominate 15 other amazing blogs and comment on their posts to let them know they have been nominated.
Proudly display the award logo on your blog and follow the blogger who nominated you.
Ok, so here are seven facts about myself:
I’ve been actively studying flute performance since I was in the fourth grade, and am currently playing in a few ensembles and an orchestra. Actually, that’s the main reason why I’ve been slower to post lately; I’m rehearsing from nine in the morning until five. I also play the piano (but not well). I pretty much can’t survive without music.
I wrote my first “novel” (quotes because at the time, I thought it was the single greatest work of literature in existence) when I was eight. It was seventy-five handwritten pages and about a dog who snuck to school in his owner’s backpack. First rate stuff, right there.
I have a 130 lb Bernese Mountain Dog named Luna, and three hermit crabs named Armando, Philomena, and Seamus. I used to have three turtles (Giovanna, Luigi, and Luciana) and two snakes, and to this day turtles remain my favorite animals.
I’m about half Italian, and whenever my dad’s side of the family gets together, we make the most delicious strombolis and pizzas from scratch. My favorite dish would have to be baked zidi, though. I’ve recently fallen into a cooking and baking kick.
I’m trying to learn French, because I think it would be so cool to be bilingual. I’ve been taking lessons for about two years.
Though I have an infinite amount of respect for the independent publishing industry, it’s always been my dream to have a book published traditionally. You know; the agent, the editor, the whole shebang.
I’m kind of sort of obsessed with Doctor Who, BBC’s Sherlock, and Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood (it’s an anime, in case you didn’t know…). I also pledge allegiance to Nerdfighteria (the awesome community created by John and Hank Green, the Vlogbrothers.)
So now you know more about me than I’ve ever posted on this blog. Here are the spectacular bloggers who I have nominated, and you should definitely visit:
To the nominated blogs: please don’t feel obligated to complete every step exactly; I just wanted to give you some recognition for being amazing. Thank you again to Sarah of The Lit Bear for nominating me, and thanks to all of the above blogs for being awesome!
I’ve touched the sky, you know.
It feels like ice on the verge of melting,
strong and solid and drumming with life,
but lithe and loose and flowing with an
energy unspoken, a force not felt through
two feet on the ground.
I’ve tasted the sky, you know.
It tastes like unsweetened cream, freshly whipped,
light and fluffy and seasoned with stars,
but dark and heavy and looming with night,
an eve burdened by shadows unsavored
in the dishes of earth.
I’ve smelled the sky, you know.
It smells of a sea tossed across the world,
salty and ancient and familiar with time,
but summery and fresh and friendly to my
heart, like an old acquaintance long
lost across the land.
I’ve heard the sky, you know,
and it sings of what it’s seen;
of the the beastly and the beautiful,
the bygone and the brand-new-
I’ve heard it both repine and rejoice
in a voice as eternal as existence.
The third one this week, if we’re being wholly honest.
It usually starts when I remember that
we’re all ants sitting on an orb
spiraling through a universe
filled with other orbs
with probably other ants
sitting on them;
other ants who could be pondering
if their realities are parallel
with other realities,
or if the monotony of their existence
will mean anything when the galaxy implodes
on itself and all of time collapses.
That’s usually how it starts.
After the initial ‘awakening’ to the
fact that I am indeed an ant
floating through eternity,
a tempering of corporeality washes
over me, and I somewhat come to terms
with my inevitable ending and invisible influence.
Because really, how can we ever
shake the notion that nothing is fixed,
what even is a self?
Why are there selves?
Am I a self?
Out of all the selves in society,
how come I am this self, and not another self?
No, not again…
I’m having an existential crisis.
I wasn’t sure whether to tag this as poetry or not, but I decided to go ahead, because poetry is a very flexible thing, I think. I’m one of those people who has existential crises left and right, if you couldn’t already tell. Whether that’s a bad thing or not, I can’t say. Probably a bad thing.
Gather ’round the fire, friend, we’re not such a scary lot. Sure, that one’s been condemned a witch, and the drunk one here’s a sot. But we’re nomads, braced against the world, adventurers rare and true, and the fire here’s so warm, my friend, and we cook a lovely stew. I’m a bard of many songs, you see, for you I could weave a tale, of golden knights and silver ghosts, and fair ladies of the vale. You’re a stranger ’round here, aren’t you? But that’s just fine with us.
See, we’re vagabonds and castaways,
the roughest of the rough.
But don’t shy away, come sit by me;
I’ll strum you a mellow hymn,
and together we will share this toast, until our bellies brim.
When I wrote this, I pictured a bard sitting on a log by the fire, surrounded by nomads and strumming his lute. It’s yet another piece for the project I’ve been writing. This is just a “rough draft”, so I might tweak it in the future.
I feel like no more than a machine;
an automaton built from scrap metal,
and left by its maker to roam the earth,
forever searching for its beating heart. Most of the times
I’m not even human, at least, not in my mind…
and the day draws on with no consequence,
with no meaning or might.
I’ve been compared to shells before,
spit out by the sea and abandoned by all other creatures-
but at least shells are collected,
at least they’re adored. I always
feel like an impostor in some poor person’s skin,
a thief who stole away their life, pulled apart their
ambitions and said, “No, you can’t have those.”
Perhaps I am a machine,
dropped in this world to ruin lives,
because that’s all I ever seem to do.
War is not a game of sides.
You may don your colors proudly and
thump the sigil on your shield;
you may swear your oaths with your
steel at your feet, and kneel before your throne,
ready to break and bleed-
but war is not a clash of causes,
a battle of banners,
a trifle of titles.
War is a game of graves.
When the rage of swords has subsided,
and the crows circle the blackened sky,
your colors will be no more than scraps in the wind,
and your shield’s sigil splintered wood.
Your oaths will mean nothing when your lips are cold,
and your knees pricked with arrows.
In the end, war is a contest of casualties;
and we all look the same dead.
This free verse is a bit dark, I know, but I’m experimenting with getting into characters’ minds. This particular character is sort of on the pessimistic side (obviously).
In the soft pleats of darkness
I find a strange solace,
like the night knows me better
than any being on this earth.
If the black were to swallow me
I’d have no objections,
for its voice brings me comfort,
and its embrace evokes mirth.
The stars know my secret,
but they’ll never tell,
and the moon listens to my
prayers every eve.
The midnight winds, with their
sweep away my demons
so that I do not grieve.
Some fear the shadows and
yearn for the sun,
but its glow is a ruse meant to
tempt and chafe.
In the night I am warmed
and sealed by dusk;
for when the evening sighs
am I truly safe.
Wings are hard to come by
in a world where having two feet
planted firmly on the ground
is considered ‘customary’.
Flying is frowned upon,
especially when publicly
spreading your fiberglass wings
in defiance of ‘societal conventions’.
Magic is made monstrous
in a time when casting spells
will get you no more than a funny look
and piece of concerned advice.
Wings will weigh you down
in a sky that spits acid rain,
for flying isn’t safe nowadays,
since magic is misliked.