October Wanderings

Well, I felt bad that it had been so long since I put anything up here, so I decided to write this, a second posting in the same day, as something of recompense. (Not so right answer.) Or maybe I just felt a desperate need to write something tonight. (More so right answer.)

So here I am writing. Buckle up folks; it's going to be a very random, absurd, hectic, muddled, jumbled, fumbled, pickled, tickled, platypus, peanut butter of a posting. Enjoy! Or don't. Maybe it's a wiser choice to hit that X button in the upper right hand corner of your screen. (Unless you're reading this on a Mac, in which case I have no clue what that exit symbol is that will provide your means of escape from my insane ramblings.) It's up to you to decide.

For those of you that made it past that first test, congratulations! You are a percentage of the way through! And now I lost the train of thought that I never really had in the first place, so time to start a new one! Huzzah! (Every sentence in this paragraph had an exclamation point in it!)

I'm not sure if it has been a previous part of your immense fount of knowledge or not, O Reader, but October happens to be one of my favorite months. And tomorrow happens to be the last day of said month. Sad day. It will usher out the now-too-quickly fading late afternoon light that so commonly filtered down through clouds, birds, and trees to caress all within view in a way that rendered nothing common at all. In that same instant, the already brilliant colors of the changing leaves are heightened and softened. The radiant blue of the early autumn sky seeps down into the burnt though not yet harsh earth to compliment each other in a beauty that neither can hold alone. The air is crisp and clear; it gives you a sensation of euphoria, as though you could carry on just standing and breathing until the sun goes down. And then when it does, the stars come out in abundance, so much more visible through that purity of atmosphere: little spirits of hope for the return of the light in the day to come shining from under the tender covers of an Indian summer night. I simply cannot help but to stop and stare and dream every single time I find myself hit square in the face with this wonder. (And The Man wants me to believe that it was all created through random, unsupernatural (read "boring") methods of "science". Ha! The Man does not comprehend what science's true purpose is: namely to investigate in more detail the utter beauty of what has been created in order to see more and appreciate more.)

And on that climatic note, I'm not sure what else to say currently, other than that tomorrow is Halloween, so I will more likely than not have another post up on that within the next couple of days.

So until then,

Ever wandering where I will,
ww


Copyright 2009 White Water. (As if it really matters, but really.)

Caribbean Eyes

Don’t close your eyes
Let the Caribbean waves flow
The bluest of ships are but shadows from your glow
A sea of stars is just a reflection of your eyes smiling
I am dazzled in their brilliance
Awestruck in the clearness of their purity
I stand in their shallows
Peering into the endless depths
I am desperate to plunge in over my head
Terrified of needing to come out again for air
I long to drown in that sapphire sea
I will cast myself in
Leaving behind all cares
Overwhelmed by the tides
I am no longer dead



So here's another intensely romantic poem I wrote a week or two ago. It has turned out to be one of my favorites so far. But then again, I seem to say that about almost every one that I write. I must just be getting progressively more appealing to myself in my writings. Anyway, the story behind this one is that I was not originally pleased with it at all. I had the concept I wanted to go after a day or two before I got around to writing it, and I was in love with that so I knew even before I put pen to paper that I wasn't going to want to come back up out of this poem once started. However, I did have to pack up, eventually, and as it turned out it was before I had finished. It then went five or six days before I picked it back up again, and I had lost the real spirit of the piece that so overpowered me earlier. I kept scratching away regardless until I just ended up with a mess, and worse: one that dragged. So, my mother being conveniently near at the time (and her also being a writer), I had her look at it and tell me what she thought. She said, "Cut it at this point." Horrified, I saw that she only wanted to keep about eight lines in a poem that I had aimed to be longer than my previous poetical attempts. I remedied that (slightly) by adding in a couple lines of a different section. The end result is at least three times less than the original, but I must say it is at least three times more in line with my original inspiration. And I plan (not plan, I will) use the rest of the stuff for something else, so that's alright, too. And that's the story of how Caribbean Eyes came to be.

Exhaustedly (after having written a much bigger post than anticipated),
ww

p.s. I will not discourage any personal questions regarding inspiration for this poem (or others) but I retain the right to answer as vaguely as I care to. ;)


Copyright 2009 White Water (for those who care).

The man in the window

The man stares out the window
Glaring.
Searching.
He comes every day.
Same time.
Same place.
His gaze is piercing.
Lusting.
What brings him to his watchtower again and again?
What is his wandering eye desiring?
I will never find out for his glance turns mine away, and I am soon gone.



So most of you have probably already read this over on the FB, but I wanted something new up on my blog, so I decided in the laziness of my heart to just stick this one here anyway. However, there is a bit of a story behind this one (not a whole lot, just a bit, but it's something right?). I wrote this poem very much on a whim while in Ecuador this summer. We were randomly driving around (taking the scenic route to our VBS destination, or more-so scenic route if you will, seeing as the entire country was already gorgeous) and we happened to go through a small city. While stopped at (what else) a stop-light, I was looking out the window of the van-bus that we were riding in and saw a man in a window looking back out into the street. He had this somewhat sullen expression on his face, and I joked about it with one or two of the other members of the group. As a follow-up to what I was joking about, I decided that this was perfect material for a short poem. And that's what it ended up as, though maybe not as perfect in final form as the potentiality of the material warranted. But hey, that's how writing goes.

lazily...
ww


This stuff is copyrighted to White Water in 2009. So, yeah...

First Illusions

I was under the spell the instant I walked into the old theater. The room was small and dark, forcing the watchers to crowd tightly together on the weathered wooden benches, which were barely wide enough to balance precariously on. They were stained and aged by the adamant passage of many memories to look almost the same as the well-trodden hardwood floor. The curtained walls muffled the already hushed whispers of the audience, but could not contain the intensity and mystery that resonated from them like the unstoppable tide softly hissing secrets on a strange shore. It seeped into the shadows cast by the dozens of torches lining the aisle and stage that flickered wild patterns on the ceiling. The curtain covering the front of the stage like a veil hung in thick waves of a dark crimson, and as the shadows and light played tag across its face, it almost look like a live creature, slowly breathing in time with the ever more anticipating audience.
A startled gasp ripped through the crowd as a white rubber ball flew from somewhere in the back. The overfull benches were jostled even tighter as those standing in the way tried pushing out of the path of the fist-sized ball bouncing down the aisle. It started to lose steam as it neared the stage, but the ball suddenly took a tremendous bounce and tore another surprised gasp from the lungs of the riveted onlookers as it never touched the stage, but hung as if frozen in the air. My eyes went round as the ball in delighted shock.
A man came out from the curtain on the side of the stage and walked deliberately to the rubber ball, plucking it from where it hung suspended like an apple without a tree. He was simply dressed, calm, and quiet, with no air of flashiness or power. Yet I knew right away that he was the one the room had been speaking of in subdued tones moments before. His eyes, flashing a blue more brilliant than any sky I had ever seen, with a light in them as if he had he had captured a star and eaten it gave him away.
I was totally enamored, locked onto his every muscle twitch and blink, without him having even said a word. I do not remember moving, or even breathing for at least two hours of his mesmerizing act as he pulled pigeons out of thin air, threw water into the air to have it freeze in animated suspension like the rubber ball, juggled full decks of cards, tossed seeds into the crowd that turned into ripe apples over their heads, and countless other wonders.
Breathing became a priority again, however, as soon as the gunshot rang out from the back of the theater. The room was silent except for the sound of the air whooshing out and being sucked back in in one synchronized struggle for breath. The entire audience shifted to look behind and see the smoking pistol in the hand of a large, wild looking man with wilder hair and beard contradicted by an overly calm demeanor still pointing at the stage. All attention immediately turned back to the magician clutching at the red stain spreading through his shirt. He stumbled forward and lurched off the stage as the panicked, screaming crowd surged in every direction at once. No sound of his body hitting the floor could be heard over the chaos, and the braver members of the audience who had rushed forward to rescue the wounded magician found nothing but empty clothes, still warm with blood.
Sobs continued to intersperse the lessening hysteria as the mob was herded out by police as quickly as possible. Soon, I was the only one left seated on the bench as a detective questioned the others who had stayed behind. It was hopeless, they would find no clues. And only I was calm. Only I knew. For as the magician fell off the stage, our eyes had locked, and my scared ones were comforted when his star-like ones smiled.



So, it's probably pretty obvious what inspired this story, namely the movie entitled "The Illusionist." But ah well. It's not my fault that it had the exact atmosphere that I wanted to instill in my story. However, that was not the only thing that had a part in the inspiration of this short little work. I wrote this about a week ago in a small stage, theater area that was actually back behind the main auditorium of the performance center I was at. My sister and I had gone down to Roanoke in order for her to have a master's lesson with Natasha Korsakova and then go to a free (for us who had complimentary tickets, anyway) concert of the Roanoke Symphony. But it was in the behind-the-stage theater, with its all four walls with black curtains and its wonderfully abandoned, out-of-the-way feel, that I had the time and idea to write a short story. And so I did. And now you have read it. Hopefully. Or maybe you are just reading my postscript without having read the script of which it is post. Whatever the case, I hope you enjoyed reading whatever you read. Even if it was just this sentence.

Abstractly,
ww.



~Ahem~ Copyright 2009 White Water. Thanks! !sknahT .retaW etihW 9002 thgirypoC ~mehA~

The Paradox of Life

I seem to be putting up all poetry first, so I guess I'll just continue with that brand-new, one-person tradition. (Or maybe I'll just sit here thinking about how weird and confusing that first sentence was. No, I think I'll move on.)
This particular poem was my first (and to date, only) attempt at rhyme. As a result it turned out rather cliched and silly sounding. It's definitely not one of my better pieces. But I somehow enjoyed it despite its many deficiencies (and being stuck for two days on one word). So go ahead, read it. Laugh at it. I don't mind. (I smirk at it, too!)


Light shines the brightest when the world is dark.
Love binds the strongest when surrounded by hate.
Flowers smell the sweetest when furthest from the park.
Heat burns the warmest when touched to the coldest state.
The earth that is parched most needs the rain.
The greatest of joys is tempered by pain.
This is the paradox of life.


So there it is. Or at least what it turned out to be. Not quite what I envisioned (should have been way longer for one), but that's usually how my writing works. I have an idea. I attempt to put said idea onto paper. I forget where I was going because I thought of something else. I pursue said something else. Repeat process until End is abruptly achieved. Final result: rather strange (but usually quite unique) combination of ideas all mashed into one. And so it goes.

This particular mishmash of thoughts and theories originated in a little internet cabana in Ecuador. While the leader of the group was busy checking email and posting on our trip's blog (things that were rare treats for him on that journey, and therefore always jumped upon when the opportunity might present itself), myself and three others needed to find a way to engage our surroundings to lighten the wait. (And yes, that was indeed a very bad pun. Tough.) My own remedy was to sit down and right something. And so I did. At least most of it. I got stuck on a word and had to finish it two days later when I had another chance to write. But that's the paradox of life.

ww

Copyright 2009 White Water and stuff.
If you plagiarize my writings I will plagiarize you! Ha!

Love Left Behind

This is my most recent attempt at poetry. It was written last Sunday while listening to my sister's symphony orchestra concert. (Which was really spectacular by the way!Mozart, then a gorgeous piece from Bruckner, who definitely needs to be played more than he is!) I'd been wanting to write another poem for quite some time, and this was finally the perfect opportunity. And so I did. Though writing in public can be somewhat strange and embarrassing,I seem to end up doing it quite a bit. But the final result is up to you. So here it is.

Breathe.
Inhale. Exhale.
The rhythm intertwines with the beating of my heart.
Slipping.
Slowly, softly,
Dry eyes shut and consciousness drifts away on the winds of forgetfulness.
Do not struggle.
Loose your childlike grasp.
All is lost.
Dream nevermore.

I am oblivion and it becomes me.

Breathe.
Exhale. Inhale.
The rose-hinted breeze caresses my cheek.
It stirs the slumbering dream.
Faster. Harder.
My breath catches.
My heart skips a beat.
She is there again.
Her smile dazzles even my unconsciousness.

My eyes open,
But they do not see.
They are dry no longer.
Breathe.

So anyway, that's that. Kind of sad, but I like it anyway. And if you're wondering whether this is based off of personal experience, the answer is....I'll let you decide.
Regardless of your choice, you can at least tell that I'm a hopeless romantic (in both senses of the phrase), so this poem turned out to be one of my favorites that I've written so far. I hope you enjoyed it, too!

WW

Copy it right 2009 White Water. (Or else!)

Eyes

Eyes…
Cold, harsh eyes
Furtively glancing
Each instant piercing, tearing
Hateful eyes.
Glaring looks
Leaking black light
Painful light
Searing my eyes
I cannot see!
The world is sinking, swirling…
Pain…
Confusion…
Where am I?
Who am I?
What am I?
…Am I?
I am empty
Void
A shadow, spinning in darkness
There is nothing.
Light flickers again…
But this is white
It does not move
It is solid
Warmth
Surging past my eyes
Filling the soul
Comforting
Eyes…
Soft, compassionate eyes
Reaching out
Longing for me…
Smiling.


This was the first real poem I ever wrote. It was back when I finally realized that I had been given a passion to write, and that I might as well get around to doing something with it, that this poem came into existence. I remember the joy and pride overwhelming me upon its completion. I wanted to show it to everyone, yet at the same time it was such a meager offering in reality that I was rather afraid of what the reaction would be. And so there I was, anticipating the end of my inspiration right at the beginning, yet unable to keep it to myself. Thankfully it was met with no negativity, albeit not a whole lot of support either. Nevertheless, it was something to start with. And from there my journey has taken me along many twists and turns, through mountains and valleys, fear and freedom. But that's another tale to be told...

-WW


Copy write 2009 White Water. Etc.

The First Blog

I have been cheating on this blog, posting all of my writings on my Facebook account, along with this site. However, I do not feel adulterous in the slightest. I am merely attempting to expand my audience (and therefore critique), and so I was inspired to create this wonderworld for words that the mysterious phenomena known as the "internet" has provided. (Props must also go to Dominic www.dominicfaineant.blogspot.com for particular outlet of said inspiration.) I hope that you will be delighted in reading and commenting on what is put up here as much as I delight in posting them!

-WW



Copyright 2009 White Water (Though if you managed to find anything that you're desperate enough to plagiarize from this post, I guess I really don't care if you do.)