A self-deprecating sonnet I wrote

House of Mirrors

A bare bulb flickers, swinging overhead

Outside its light the deep'ning darkness lurks

The floorboards creak and whisper words unsaid

And everywhere distorted mirrors smirk.

At every turn confronted with myself

I'm ugly, twisted, broken in these mirrors

I'm disassembled, lying on a shelf

I only hope I'm not as I appear.

I've built this house of mirrors to divine

My fatal flaws that must be overcome.

But there is no escape from such a shrine

Imprisoned in reflection, I succumb.

My eyes are always inward, self-obsessed

So selfish, it's no wonder I'm a mess.

Once again, the ability to fluidly rhyme eludes me and I devolve into browbeating pseudo-emo loserpants poetry. To summarize: I just get so frustrated by the way I am constantly thinking about myself. Every action I take is filtered through a lens of "will this make me look less like the loser I am?", and as a result, my interpersonal interactions are bogged down in this self-obsession. Ironically, on a meta- sort of level, getting so hung up about my gross self-absorption as to spend all morning writing a self-indulgent sonnet is one of the more self-absorbed things I end up doing over the course of a day. I just can't win. My ego will most likely implode and form a black hole at the center of my being any day now. (I offer this metaphor with apologies to any cosmologists among my readership who actually know how black holes are formed, unlike me.)

Basically I just need to get over myself, but you, dear readers, were probably already of that opinion.

Winter

There is beauty in impermanence. The flower is all the more beautiful because it will not last. The emergence of the first bud and the falling of the last withered petal are just as worthy of contemplation and artistic attentions as the sweet-smelling bloom at its peak. Winter, likewise, has a limited lifespan allotted to her, from a brisk breeze heralding her approach in mid-October, through the frosty days of November, and on into the snowfalls and even blizzards of her prime. But she begins to fade as spring is born. She ends, gracefully melting, softening, and yielding her reign unto her sister.

The power of the witch was in this lie: you can continue. You can prolong your youth indefinitely. No more long slow decline. You can live forever. Winter forgot that she was reborn each year and began to covet first April, then August. In arrogance and fear, she refused to relinquish her hold, but she hadn't the strength to cheat death for long. And so it came to pass that Winter and the Witch struck a deal.

Aslan, upon his return, found Winter, little more than an icy shell who knew nothing but the fear of death, utterly beholden to the witch. In his warm breath she felt herself soften and found a small stirring of peace in her crystalline heart. Liquid water carved rivulets of tears down her face. After all, she would be raised again. What was there to fear? And so Winter surrendered blissfully to the ever-imminent arrival of Spring.

Further adventures on quadrille rule

a fish, more lonely than hungry

Now I'm not sure just how close you lovely people can zoom in on this thing, but it has some words in it if you look closely.

Lonely Squid

Coming Soon

So I have not written anything here for ages and ages. Lest you think I have been sitting in idleness, or, worse still, actually cracking down and getting some learnin' done, I will be putting up some of my latest odd creations for all y'alls to ogle. I like to make things, whether it be with yarn or pen or tip-typing. On occasion I'll even attempt to bust out a song, but I don't know if I'll put that up here since recording it is more work than I'm probably willing to put into it. The big project that you won't see up here anytime soon is a piece of choreography on which I'm collaborating for a friend's senior solo. Come to think of it, there are three other dances I'll be making for my students that'll be performed in May as well. Meanwhile there are hats and boots, pictures of fish and crocheted octopi to be shown and bragged on modestly. I just need to scan and photograph and post stuff.

In this flurry of creative productivity, one thing I have not accomplished; shaved my legs.

Stalkers!

It has come to my attention that, celebrities aside, I am pretty much the most easily stalked person on the interweb. So to any stalkers or secret admirers or whatever you crazy kids are calling yourselves these days, I say; you don't have to be so shy. Come over to my house (you know where it is, I'm sure) and let's play parcheesi make some waffles or something some time. Stop skulking around my internet and be my friend. I'm just a little lonely is all.

If you're really a creeper, though, I'd really appreciate it if you'd stop going through my trash looking for hair from my hairbrushes for your weird voodoo potions. Thanks!

I'm not sure if I'll be more dissatisfied with this post's results if someone turns up with my door with a parcheesi board, a wide smile, and a bloody butcher knife... or if no one turns up at all.