Many and More Thoughts

I’m thinking…

I have to say one of my biggest procrastination excuses when I’m writing is sitting, facing the computer, and changing the font and formatting multiple times. When I can’t seem to come up with any of the words that fit what I want to say properly, I have a bad habit of opening up the little font box at the top of the screen and clicking on half a dozen different fonts. I will type a little with each font, and then finding (surprise) that the new font isn’t inspiring me any more than the previous one, I go and choose a different one altogether. It’s really quite a bad habit to fall into, because you can just sit staring at the empty word document for the longest time imaginable just going through different fonts. It doesn’t get you any farther in what you are writing, it doesn’t change any of the words that you have written already, and it doesn’t change anything- except give you an excuse to distract yourself from actually writing.

I suppose it’s really the same thing as when I start writing out the beginning sentence to a letter I’m trying to write over and over again on sheet after sheet of paper. I stare at my handwriting, looking lopsided at the head of the page, frown, and crumple up the sheet of paper. It’s really all an excuse to put off doing something that you want, and should, be doing. It’s a somewhat reasonable excuse at first, “oh I just want to change the typesetting, this one isn’t working for me,” but when you have been sitting at the computer changing the font over and over again and going nowhere with the actual writing, it becomes a problem.

I think sometimes that beginning whatever you are writing is the hardest part of it, but other times I think it’s the middle, and still other times I think it’s the end. You see what a fickle creature I am? Sometimes I find it easy to write up ten different beginnings for ten different things but when I come to the middle I have a hard time plowing through. Then again, there are times when the beginning is the hardest to come up with, that single beginning sentence that progresses easily into the rest of the paragraphs.

I suppose, really, that’s why I like to have quite a few different stories and blog posts going at the same time, so that when I get muddled or tired with one I jump to the next. The problem is it’s rather hard to jump back and forth from different styles of writing. It’s easy to let a story fall neglected in the back of the saved documents, saying “I shall get back to that one soon.”

I’m listening to…

Keep Breathing by Ingrid Michaelson. I really love this song, I think because the words “all we can do is keep breathing…” that play over and over again in the chorus are really so beautiful. It’s really a word picture that I want to capture somehow, and that I keep trying to in different things as I’m writing, that feeling of just breathing in and out and listening to that sound only. I don’t quite know how to express it, it’s like a sense of all these tumultuous emotions going on inside of someone, and all they can do is keep breathing in and out, hanging on. I think everyone has moments like that, only varying in strength and weight. Breathing in, breathing out, closing your eyes, listening to the physical sense of the air filling your lungs, and the thoughts that flood through your mind.

I’m creating…

Can one simply be creating thoughts? I feel like that at the moment, sitting here, as I try to write and formulate coherent words. Soft music plays in the background and I keep finding myself drifting away from my fingers that are trying to type, and drifting into a train of thought. Thoughts that can’t seem to be put into any words at the moment, perhaps someday they will become words that will play a large part in something I write, but for the moment they are just little inconsequential thoughts that drift in the back of my mind like little breezes. Too inconsequential, not well formed enough, still too vague, to be put into sentences that express them. I think it’s interesting how old thoughts tend to come back after a while and drift into my various stories without my even intending them to. I won’t be thinking about it, I’ll be writing about a couple random characters and suddenly they are speaking words that are a part of thoughts that I had been thinking a few weeks, perhaps months, sometimes even years ago. I’ll read over it again and wonder how those words crept into the story, how those thoughts I had almost forgotten were now part of the very fabric of the story I had just written. That’s why giving yourself time just to think is never wasted, everyone needs moments where they can sit back and stare at the ceiling and think many thoughts. Are those thoughts ever wasted, even if they are never to be put into words? I don’t think so. I don’t think thoughts are ever wasted, they shape who you are, and they become part of you. Thoughts and time to think are never wasted.

I think that’s part of the reason why I like my job at the library so very much. You see, I can think while working. I don’t have to think about if I’m shelving things in the right place any more; I can just pick up the books off the cart and get caught up in my thoughts. There’s something so very lovely about walking around, pushing my cart of books, thinking my own thoughts while my hands are busy doing something else. I suppose why this job wouldn’t be right for just anyone, I think a lot of people would get really bored after a while because even when they were working their very hardest there is still nothing to really occupy your mind with unless you enjoy getting caught up in thoughts about the cloud drifting past the window. You have to enjoy being quiet, you have to enjoy listening to the sound of a soft rustling of books in the background; you have to enjoy thinking random little thoughts.

 I have rather a bad habit of getting too caught up in my thoughts though; it can be a bad thing. I can get so caught up in thinking about some little thing, turning over an odd little thought in my head, that I can get rather oblivious to what’s going on around me. The other day I apparently looked somebody straight in the face, so obviously they thought I had seen them, but I didn’t. If I hadn’t gone up to say hi and ask why they hadn’t come to say hi when they first arrived, I probably would never have known. Yes, I get that bad. It’s rather embarrassing and I need to work on it. Emily needs to get her head out of the clouds sometimes, but it’s rather hard when thoughts are so interesting sometimes.

 Outside my window…

For a long while the blue heron that comes to our pond was standing directly across from we when I glanced out the window. I like watching him stand in the water, motionless, waiting, then suddenly diving his head into the water and coming up with a goldfish. Can you imagine having to do that? Just standing there, hour after hour, never letting yourself move, until your dinner came close. I think I would much rather be the little goldfish swimming beneath the water, finding my dinner there, even though if that were the case I’d probably get eaten by the blue heron. I’d rather like to be a little fish though, swimming down in the water, looking at the world from beneath the rippling surface. I’m watching the water move on the surface as I write this out. Watching it ripple, and go swirling from one side to the next. I’m watching the little raindrops making their imprinting upon the surface in a calm moment. The little reeds and small trees at the water’s edge rustle with the breeze and the grass looks wet and green with the drizzling rain falling on it.

One of my favorite things…

Rhymes that aren’t cheesy. I’ve been discovering that so many rhymes get so cheesy sounding, they sound like bad puns. A good rhyme sounds beautiful; it just makes a sentence blossom out into poetry. You don’t even notice that it was a rhyme; it was just part of two sentences that go perfectly together. Have you ever listened to the rhymes they insert into commercials though? Oh my goodness. Really. It’s bad. I sometimes wonder who sits writing such balderdash: do they enjoy writing things like that? Things that make somebody snort and go off into muffled choking and laughter saying “did they really just rhyme that with that? Dear me.” So yes, a rhyme that is well rhymed is one of my favorite things. It creates beautiful sentences, beautiful poetry to the ear, I can’t say I am very good at coming up with them myself, but when I hear a sentence where someone has it just makes me beam happily, now THAT was a good rhyme.

From the kitchen…

I put some chicken in the crock-pot to simmer away until I can get the rest of the ingredients together for a soup I’m going to make for dinner. I’m rather excited to try out this new recipe, it sounds delightful. I do like soups; they are such nice homey things. There is nothing homey than a nice big pot of soup bubbling merrily away in the kitchen, filling the house with warm lovely smells, especially when it’s rather a cold chilly day, with rain drizzling outside.

I’m wearing…

One of the dresses I brought along for World Youth Day and that I wore in Paris, so it always reminds me of that. When I walk around, with the long, black and white striped folds swirling around me I think of walking down the street listening to a group of musicians playing “What a wonderful world” by an old looking café. I think of lying on my back in the grass and looking up at the Eiffel tower gleaming at nighttime. It’s interesting what little things can bring back such strong memories. Things like wearing a dress that you wore somewhere else; it can bring back all those memories of that day.

A few plans for the rest of the week…

At this point all I can really think about when I reach this prompt is Thursday. Thursday, getting on an airplane and flying to Virginia. All I can think of is packing my suitcase and toting around as I tour Christendom college. All I can think about is what book to bring for the airplane ride, all I can think about is finding a proper camera, all I can think about is the little stack of things waiting for me to get them ready. All I can think about is Thursday.

~Rachael's Memories

Just for fun I thought I’d post a story just finished!

Rachael's Memories
People tell me memories are bitter things; tear stains smearing across one’s past, but when they think I’m not listening, their conversation always begins with those two words I have never been able to pair “I remember.” Because I don’t.

Oh I remember some things, such as my name and how to tie my shoes but I have no real memories. Each night it is as if my memory is wiped clean and I am left with nothing. Nothing but a white fog like the residue of chalk left on the chalkboard of my recollection.
Memories may be bitter things, things of teardrops and past regrets but they are sweet also. I know. I have seen people’s faces light up as they sit before the warming glow of a fire on a chill night recollecting some sweet memory.

Sometimes I wonder what I felt in those past days; Joy? Sorrow? And why, what made me feel that way? What happened in those days? How I long to have the memories of those days within my grasp. Others, they take for granted those memories, they know that they will always be able to look back, to pull from their recollections some dried rose with its bittersweet smell of bygone days. So they take for granted those memories. I would not.

No matter how much I have longed for memories in the past I have not, until this moment, realized how desperately I want them. Not for any memories I think I may have had, but for the memories I have made in this day, because I know, by tomorrow I shall lose them.

We sit together, William and I, and I wonder how I can tell him. Tell him that by tomorrow I shall have forgotten all this? Tell him that I shall in the morrow look at him blankly and say “William who?”

I lean against his shoulder and tears blur my eyes but I will not let them fall. Somehow in this one day, this one day that I can remember, this one day that I shall soon forget, I met William, and suddenly my past didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what had happened or who I had been, only this moment, the now, had mattered, but evening had come, and I would soon have to say goodbye.

Most people when they come to goodbye have the reassurance that they would have a memory to cling to ever after, I didn’t even have that. No matter how hard I cling, no matter how hard I clutch on to the memory of today, I know it will slip through my fingers like a snowball melting back into water, and I knew I would have to tell him.

How silly it must seem to you that I should find it so hard to tell him, he who I have felt like I
could tell everything in the world and he would understand, it wasn’t that I was afraid but I was clinging to a feeling. A feeling of normality.

I had felt like the fairytale princess who knew that her love would last forever, and somehow I still feel like that, I know what somehow I shall always love William even though I forget everything about him (how impossible that seems!). I reveled in this thought of a feeling lasting forever, in thinking that “tomorrow and the next day and the day after and always I shall remember this” and now I had to shatter my pretty illusions and face the truth that tomorrow I should remember nothing…I never did.

Once I started speaking the words came easier than I had imagined they would, so did the tears, I felt like a Mary Sue as they trickled down my face.
“Rachael” He said, brushing his hand against my cheek
“It doesn’t matter if you don’t remember this day, because we shall make memories together all of the days of our lives and you may forget them as they pass away, but I shall always remember.”

I wanted to believe his words, believe that even though I remembered not he would keep this memory and somehow make me remember.
Somehow after that we said goodnight, and somehow I went home.

I tried to remember. Desperately I tried, but in the morning it was all gone. I had no memories of yesterday, its joys or its sorrows; my memory was empty, wiped clean in the night. There was nothing. Then I saw the letter waiting for me on the table. I opened the white envelope in wonderment, but instead of the sheet of paper with black written words that I expected to find a pile of pictures fell into my hands. Pictures from yesterday. Pictures of me and William. Like bittersweet memories in a physical form they lay in my hands. But still I did not remember. A tiny spark of remembrance seemed to ignite in my mind, it is true, a tiny glimmer of candlelight in a dark empty room.

While I stared at the photos in my hands a knocking came at the door. I stood still listening, I couldn’t understand why I didn’t move to open the door but somehow I couldn’t. the door opened and footsteps came towards me and suddenly a man had taken my hand.
“Rachael” he was saying “Rachael, do you remember?”
I turned and looked at him then I shook my head. “I don’t know who you are.”
He had been prepared for me to say this yet the heartbreak in his face was enough to show that clearly all the preparation in the world could not be enough to hear someone you love say this. “I don’t know you.”

He lifted my hand to his lips, and gently kissing it he said “Rachael, I love you.” gently, softly as if stating a fact, not pleading a case. I stared at my hand held within his and looked up into his face.

Then I remembered.

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Now I thought I was being so original with this story, until Mom told me there was a movie with that exact same plotline! Geesh stealing a girl’s plot! Every good plot’s taken! But it really doesn’t matter to me if there was a movie made just like it, I wrote this story in my own style, which is completely different from anybody else’s so who cares if it has the same plotline as half a dozen movies? Not me!