Every day is the same.
At times it's monotonous, but it's all I have to hold onto.
Each day I'm collecting bricks and carefully building this wall to hold myself up. There are moments, when I'm drenched in sweat and moments away from collapsing in exhaustion, when I look out over the edge and think how easy it would be to stumble and fall. How easy it would be to carelessly place my foot at a certain angle and fall. Fall so hard and so deep... because that would be a lot easier than having to build this wall to keep myself up.
Then I snap out of it.
If I keep working hard at this back-breaking agonizing work, it will be worth it in the end. I would be better in the end. Going through this struggle and strife will make me stronger. This is what I repeat to myself as I slap on another row of bricks to the drying cement.
And so I pick up another brick and keep building.
As I said in an earlier blog post, "Song for You: A Fateful Melody" (Book 1) began a looooong time ago. I actually worked on it as part of my Capstone in college. That being said, it has undergone years of editing. That means it has been gutted and reframed several times. Below is the original prologue I wrote in high school.
Despite anything that I’ve said or that’s ever been said about us, there wasn’t a moment when I didn’t love him. Even later, when things… unraveled, there was still a tiny frayed thread of love in me, even though I have never admitted it until now. I guess it’s true when they say that you’ll never forget your first love, because I never forgot him—and Lord knows I’ve tried! I mean, how can you forget about someone who helped pave the winding path that led to who you are today, when a memory of that person appears on a large, flashy billboard every fifty miles?
It was a time of distress and hatred. People argued, back-stabbed, stole, and hoarded. During such turmoil, it was hard to believe that anything good could be born out of it. And yet it was during this time of darkness and hatred we meet Rose.
Some people argue that Rose wasn't his real name--that maybe he was a woman hardened by the war and lost more than her femininity. Others believe he adapted the name to promote Chaos. Me? I believe it's a metaphor to RISE ABOVE all else and stay true to yourself.
He rose... and one day so shall I.
The night drips--saturates,
Clouds dab at the stain, smearing the truth-
showing it to us in a different light.
While the moon throbs; pulsating irritably,
like the angry veins of frustration...
Chagrin covers--soaking through,
burning a hole to crawl into.
The onlookers sail on by, through
the sea of ignorance--
rocking on their heels,
trying NOT to stare--
While a gust of lies carries them further,
firmly grabbing, steering their sails,
leading them deeper and farther
from the path of reality.
While cleaning out some boxes at my mother's house, I came across this fictional biographical paper I wrote back in high school (circa 2001) and wanted to share it with you.
Allyssa Brooke. Eight weeks ago that name meant something, it was the name that stood out in neon lights all over the world. It was the name any agent would die to get a hold of. Eight weeks ago she was the darling of Hollywood. Every girl wanted to be her and every guy wanted to get with her. Eight weeks ago...
Allyssa Brooke, daughter of Mirian and Michael Brooke, was born into the world on May 16th, 1983 in Wrightwood, California. After Mirian and Michael's divorce in 1985, Mirian moved to Los Angeles and re-married producer Bryan Matthews with Allyssa in her arms.
Allyssa started acting at age three in her step-father's movies, including her big debut, Gem (1988) where she played a young girl who knew secrets of the world and only her grandfather could teach her how to hone her skills.
She grew up in the life of Shirley Temple, being Hollywood's cherubic, adolescent, angel.
As she entered her pre-teen years, she landed a spot on the popular daytime soap opera, Stormy Village, playing the secret love child between the mischievious and decieving Blanch Rueban & muli-millionaire Cornelius Andrews. Soon after she drifted to a spot on the hit TV show, Morgan & Meadow. She and Christine Rosko played twin sisters who were sent to live with their aunt in a small mysterious town. There they stumble upon a world of fantasy, horror, and wishes come true.
In her teenage years, her mother, Mirian, pushed her to be the next Judy Garland, living her life through her daughters'. Allyssa didn't mind, though. In an interview with UR TV last October she stated, "I cannot complain about anything [in my life]. Some people are better off than me, and I'm better off than some people. I mean I can wake up tomorrow and it could all be gone."
This sweet wholesome girl of Hollywood passed each day with a grin and brought sweet innocence to Hollywood. She made everyone smile and put a skip in their stride, especially to her beau of four years, teenage heartthrob, Taylor Clarke. At the young age of thirteen the two started a serious relationship after Clarke made numerous appearances on Morgan & Meadow, playing Christine Rosko's character's boyfriend.
Soon after her seventeenth birthday, Michael Brooke demanded custody of his one and only daughter, claiming Mirian never let him be a part of his daughter's life. He was granted custody and Allyssa was ripped away from the only life she ever knew. Michael brought Allyssa back to her hometown of Wrightwood where she was to play the hardest role in her career: a real life teenager.
No one tipped their hat to the rising sun
or applauded the purple clouds.
No one answered when the raindrops tapped on shoulders
or soothed the thunder's cries.
No one stood when the wind asked to dance
and the breezes swayed in solitude.
No one thanked the moon for taking the graveyard shift
or winked back at the stars.
No one sang along with the early birds or
raced with the tumbling leaves on the wind.
No waved waved back at the ocean or
said hello to the line of ants on their morning commute.
No one congratulated the sunset on its brilliant use of color
or smiled at the autumn fashion line.
No one asked the owl for an encore
or praised its soothing lullaby
But we all want to curtsy
and take credit for
the beauty Earth provides.
And, being a mother,
she selflessly complies.
Since today is the day the second book in the Song for You series, "A Song of Life," is being release today, I thought I'd give a little background on the story that has been with me for seventeen+ years.
Do you remember being fifteen? I loved that age. Though I was still too young to drink, drive a car, or even leave my parent's house without permission, I remember fifteen being a year where I had a lot of fun and spent a lot of time with friends... especially going to concerts.
Have you ever been in the car, on the couch, or just living your life when suddenly you catch the scent of a memory? You close your eyes take the deepest breath you can because you know the next time you breathe in it will be gone. You savor that moment and let it roll around your tongue and be absorbed my your tastebuds.
And during that breath memories you forgot you had shoot past you. You try to grab onto them like they were photographs in a hurricane. Soon the moment will be over and how horrible it will be to forget! So you quickly try to bottle those memories up and store them away.
That's what happened. A whiff of new car and morning air--that's how I bottled it--and memories of him I forgotten I had pummeled me like a hailstorm.
Sometimes, when it's dark out, the road can seem to stretch on forever. Nothing can be seen except the headlights of the car scanning the deserted road ahead. The windows were opened slightly and there was a whistle of the wind seeping through. There wasn't much to look at in that old car. I could make out the figure of Dad's head in the driver's seat. He was humming that song that was always stuck in his mind, momentarily taking sips from the extra large styrafome cup which contained a thick black coffee he bought miles back at a donut shop. He was trying not to be a victim of highway's hypnosis and downed the caffeinated sludge.
I leaned my forehead against the window and looked out. Still nothing. The car started making a funny sound. I guess it got bored with the little scenery and wanted to call it a night. Either that or it was following Dad's footsteps and humming itself awake. I don't know how I stayed awake this long. The clock on the dashboard flashed 2:47, sending a pulsating, hypnotic glare through the dark interior.
I pressed my face against the cold glass and I strained my eyes to see if there was anything worth looking at. I was unsuccessful at my attempts. I continued to gaze deeper and deeper into...nothing.
Snickers was the German Shepard that followed my mother around to every room while we were at school. She watched us grow from her dog bed in the kitchen; her eyes always following us, ready to jump into action.
Things were less active now that we were in college and working full time jobs, but Snickers still sat obediently from her perch, getting up now and then with arthritic hips to follow my mother into another room. She watched nostalgically as the new puppy jumped from diner to diner from beneath the table and sighed in agitation when it got too close.
The January snow seemed to freeze everyone indoors the day Snickers did not get out of her dog bed in the corner. She lie there, peacefully on her side, the breath escaping her during a dream.
While my mother mourned this turn of events, she gave the new puppy a rawhide bone to keep her busy while tears spilled from her eyes.
From the kitchen table we watched as the puppy, calm and dragging a large bone in her mouth, set it near the muzzle of our dearly departed Snickers. She nosed the rawhide closer and lied beside her, as if this gesture would make everything better.
In a way that scene is one of the most beautiful in the world.
How do we love SO much when we know everything will eventually go? Why doesn't that prevent us from loving? I know those I love most will die before me and the pain from those loses will hurt twice as much, but I continue to love them with all my heart--why?!
Perhaps love teaches us all balance: there will always be pain with love and love with pain.
This blog reflects the author's original works, photographs, and musings unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced or distributed without permission unless directly linked to this website and credit to the author/photographer is given.