Home for the Holidays.

I think my friend is right. I can never be happy! Toward the end of the semester, I was so eager for a break just to be able to sleep for a few more hours and to relax, and now that I'm home, I'm slightly bored. Being home alone with two dogs is relaxing, but I need something to do. I won't be bored for long, though; I'm starting to plot out a new idea for a creative writing project. Unfortunately, I became a bit bored (shocker) with the last one, so I've set it aside. Who knows, I may come back to it. I have what I consider a grand idea, but I want to make sure it is properly in order before I start writing...otherwise, I'll just become frustrated...and bored. HA.

One of my professors is willing to help me revamp a research paper for presentation at the Elizabethtown Scholarship and Creative Arts Day this year, so I've decided I'm going to take advantage of the opportunity. Rebecca Skloot will be there this year (author of The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks - such a good read), so presenting is on the top of my list. My project concerns developmental psychology through the life cycle pertaining to literary characters. I should have taken a developmental psychology course before writing it; it would have cut down on a lot of research, but it was such an interesting topic, I couldn't give it up.

I wouldn't mind traveling a bit this break either...we'll see what happens :)

The Book of Love (a draft)

We're giddy in the bookstore,
our home away from home,
lifting the aging pages to our noses
to inhale the hands which have held and cradled
these delicate spines which bind this world together.
Our world, where I am me,
laughing at your book collection
with unmarred pages and beautiful covers,
until I came along
and discovered your stash of Melville, Steinbeck, and Plath.
Now lines of life run down the spines
and occasional coffee stains spot the corners
(respect for your obsession for pristineness
was the only barrier keeping me from penciling the pages).
But we both would never want the nights to end
where my lips are to your ear,
only the words on the page separating you and me,
the twilight blending into rosy shades of dawn.
In this world where so much is wrong,
we find our niche, where we can be us:
nestled cozy and warm in the leaves of a book,
love written between the lines.
Here, I forget all of the reasons
why we should not be
and cling to the one why we should:
the Book of Love is hard to find
on the shelves of ages and time,
but with you, I have it locked in my heart
and read from it at night
when all the world is asleep
but for you and me.

Tree of Life.

Tree of Life

My life is a solitary tree.
A dead one.
One with massive, white branches
nude all over
like a newborn child but filled with wisdom.
My skin peels away, baring my core,
but I do not feel it.
My life is a solitary dead tree.
Lightening may strike
the wind may blow,
yet standing here in an empty cornfield
I am anything but alone.
In my branches, inside my core
is the beauty you seek:
Nesting cardinals in the crook of my arm,
A sleeping owl perched on my shoulder,
cicadas seeking shelter in my hair,
badgers nestling inside my trunk,
the field snake at peace among my roots.
My leaves have long since abandoned me
as well as life
but here I stand.

My life is a solitary, dead tree.
But beauty lurks within me.