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Milo_words
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Name: Milo
Gender: Female
Interests: the Truth. the Wisdom. the Beauty in everything.
Expertise: searching for my interests.
Message: message me
Member Since:
3/2/2006
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| Here are two shortish pieces from the most incredible english class ever. The first is thoughts on the priviledge of literacy, the second is well, redemption.
The Worth of Word
I have power in words. I have immeasurable power in arbitrary lines and curves. When thoughts tumble, clashing and colliding, and nothing but the ambiguous and inevitable Umm…is able to reach the elusively fine ear-hairs of my unfocused audience, I still have a voice. And late that night as everything quiets except the things that go burble and bump when they think no one is paying attention, I sit and wait for something to connect. Letters and sentences begin to fall into place, ideas solidify, and before long I know what I want to say the next time someone asks about the purpose of fear. Or the value of education.
Every day I am thankful for the power given me by the written word. There is an easy escape through the words of others, sometimes far too easy, and a bottomless well of knowledge. On a cold evening in February, that month when everything seems out of joint and lost-cause-esque, a book beckons. The spine is cracked and every page is aged brown and exuding that irresistible dusty smell. I envy every writer their confidence, which comes from knowing what they need to say and saying it. In the wee hours, when everything has rhythm and clarity, that confidence seems almost within reach. Here at my disposal lies an entire language waiting to be mastered so that my reader knows when to breathe. And if that one perfect word still doesn’t exist there are a thousand new languages that know exactly what I mean. By a simple process of ABC’s, Frog and Toad, spelling bees and vocabulary quizzes I have been given a voice that overcomes my inability to speak and be heard.
Yet in the wee hours I am haunted by a thought that swims from the depths of that place in my mind where unpleasant things are kept. In appreciating literacy I equally envy those who do not depend upon it. There is a more pure kind of confidence that comes with knowing only what you know and speaking only from yourself. I long to be the quiet round-faced boy who can say nothing but the truth. He understands far more about the world than I, with my expensive vocabulary and cemented syntax. The most valuable learning comes from seeing people, hearing people, and loving people. Put in such perspective the lines and curves really do seem arbitrary. What is a poem compared to a handshake and moment of connection?
As always, balance is the ideal. Perhaps if we teach spelling to the illiterate and social awareness to the intellectuals we will assist the progression of peace. So tomorrow as I enjoy every wee minute of the wee hours I will once again wait for something to connect, and then I will begin to write. Maybe this time as I push each plastic key I will begin to understand what I have known all along. Words with capital letters and punctuation are an incredible tool and gift, but they can only be mastered if there is also an indestructible base of understanding and curiosity for humanity.
Redemption
She huddles against the wind, gnawed fingers clenched into fists inside nylon pockets. She welcomes the numbing cold, and even welcomes the icy trickle of rain down her neck. She wants to know real misery. The blame stalks her like a hungry beast, and regret and guilt return in full force, pounding in her ears and throbbing behind weary eyes. The guilt drowns out everything and blinds her with its bleakness. Gradually the storm grows bored and moves on, and even guilt makes a little room for something new. The need for redemption. In the end, resolve is a far more helpful companion than regret. Tomorrow she will call up the dead boy’s family and apologize. Tomorrow she will start plans for yet another organization to educate teens about drunk driving. Tomorrow she will somehow make things better.
That night her father comes home. She runs to him, bursting with excitement over her plans. But he can’t look at her when he speaks. He says, No, you don’t understand. You killed a sixteen-year-old kid because of a worthless party. You can’t change what happened, and you can’t make it disappear. He stares at the ground when he whispers, Nothing, nothing will ever absolve the murder of a child.
She can feel it is the truth. And there is no way to unknow the truth. Still, she searchers for hope. It appears one day as a bulletin in the local paper. A new program is starting up to help at-risk teens, volunteer to be a mentor, and change a child’s future as well as your own! She applies that afternoon.
The boy is like a stray dog, fleeing from attack, but ready to defend his territory. Mostly she helps with his homework, sometimes they get ice cream or go for a walk. She can’t really tell if he enjoys it, but at least he does a little better in school. One day he doesn’t come and she worries. The next day he looks terrible and she tries to ask what is wrong. No, everything is fine, just dandy, shove off. Then suddenly he is crying, sobbing violently so she can barely understand. Three years ago my brother got killed by a drunk driver. Yeah, and my parents blame that idiot cause they don’t know, they don’t know to blame me. He didn’t wanna go out that night, he wasn’t s’pposed to take the car, but I wanted a burger…and he pretty much never said no. I killed him. I was selfish and stupid and I killed him. She hugs him close, and whispers, It’s not your fault. Over and over, Believe me, it’s not your fault.
She sees him everyday now, even though he got too old for the mentoring program. They play black jack for cheerios and talk about stuff. When things get rough with his parents he comes to sleep on her couch and they stay up all night talking. He goes to college, a good college, and she becomes a full-time counselor.
Eventually she understands the magic of the frightened boy she bought so many cookie-dough ice creams for. Nothing will ever absolve the murder of a child, nor should it. She will never forget her mistake, never eliminate the pain of guilt, nor should she. But redemption comes when she learns the necessary lessons and teaches them to others. Redemption does not erase the past, it brightens the future.
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| wow, been a while, no?
Anyway, this is from an assignment, but expanded on, and hopefully to be continued.
His face is strong, pointed, somehow angular. Everything about him is perfectly proportioned, sharp. All, that is, but the crown of elegantly untidy, golden brown hair that curls daringly into ringlets of commingled fluff and dirt. Jaded eyes lead to faintly hooked nose, and that nose overshadows lips half twisted in a lopsided smirk. Lanky neck fades to starkly sloping shoulders, then taut, pallid limbs draped in the material of pure comfort and buoyancy. His bare feet proudly wear the scars of battle with all elements. But peeling, calloused toes and dirt invaded nails seem the only evidence that those feet ever touch the earth. For those feet feel a rhythm that is more bounce than step, more dance than stride.
It is a boy’s smile, and a boy’s heart, but the iron will of a soldier, and the venerable wisdom of experience. His certainty is bent by the burdens of sorrow and duty, but strengthed ten-fold through bearing them with purpose. And though his spirit drunk with youth and golden sun, some lonely depth still waits for peace and moonlight.
He speaks only when he should, receiving every word, every whisper, every glance before revealing thoughts—fresh but carefully processed. He speaks gently, but with the brightness of summer, and the sincerity of spring.
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| For those who don't know. This is about the sweat lodge ritual. I haven't actually done it, but this is my imagination, plus what I know about it.
Inipi
Heat. White hot. Now pink, gold, crimson, sky blue, violet. Black.
Fear becomes manifold as it pours from us all in glossy, wet beads. There is the fear; raw, blatant, tangible. Yet holding hands with fear—is joy, renewal, awareness.
Prayer begins, and song. Tunkashila, Grandfather, behold the people. Hear their cry for mercy. Teach them to walk in goodness. We have become unclean, careless in our practice. We return to darkness, acknowledge our ignorance, pray for forgiveness and guidance, Wakan Tanka.
Light. Air. Sweet breaths that catch in swollen throats. Freedom from the fear, the rapid thought.
Blackness once more. Hissing; sharp, accusing, frightening hiss. Heat closes in again . The heat, the colors, the lack of air. The panic, the submission, the calm. The prayer.
Grandmother, Great Spirit of the Earth, behold the people in their weakness. They have come with humility to receive wisdom and protection. See how they walk, Grandmother. See how they walk in gratitude. We return to the womb of our mother, waiting for rebirth.
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| Hey,
it's me.
This is one of those letters I probably won't ever send, but it will make me feel better just to write.
I watched you get on the bus a few long minutes ago, thinking it was just another goodbye, see you soon, have fun. Walking away I began to realize how much it hurts this time. You seem somehow so different, perhaps you're just older, more experienced. I love to see how you change, but this time I was scared. Scared that you will come back and I won't know you anymore. Maybe it is because other people I love have done that--my own sister included. I'm so used to sharing my family and friends' experiences, but this summer has changed that, and it has been challenging.
I guess what I want to say most, however selfish it sounds, is that I don't ever want you to go away. The physical distance is hard enough, emotional distance would be too much.
I love you. And your ridiculousness, your arguments, your love--whatever form it make take--helps keep me alive and sane.
Friend, boyfriend, brother, I don't care.
I just need you.
All my love,
carson
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| A solemn face of time upon the wall
One minute gone, then two
But no time to stop, no need
This Journey is too short
No time to slow and watch the little things
And then we stand again before that face
The visage of our soon forgotten fate.
This is not always so
For taking just one breath to slow the world
To see each star and wonder at it's birth
To listen to each bird, not only hear
To smell each leaf and blossom one by one
To feel each raindrop separate from all others
To taste each single moment--sweet or bitter
Is to stop our endless clock and know the truth
Perhaps this wild Journey is too short
But living every minute strengthens joy
Knowing Here and Now is the Great Wisdom.
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