Wednesday, 28 April 2010


I saw her first when she was sitting
in the branches of the willow tree.
Her plumage was soft and shining,
her song was bright and free.
I called to her, "Dear Bluebird!
Why do you sing so long and high?"
She replied, "I like to rest here
and watch the world go passing by."
I knew I could not follow her,
this bird in sunlight crowned,
so I asked if she would join me;
sit a while here, on the ground.
She came at my call, the beauty,
soon she was perching on my hand.
She described to me the joys of the sky;
I told her the woes of the land.
I wrote her a song, this bird of mine,
I wrote her a love-letter true.
I told her there was no voice like hers
and birds of her beauty few.
We would meet at the foot of the willow
and sing a soft harmony,
but my notes were always so heavy,
while hers were light and free.
So at times our songs would differ
and it was hard to see who was right.
But I brought her a new kind of comfort
and she brought me such light.
Then one day she said she was leaving.
I knelt and begged her to stay,
"Can't you see how much this hurts me
for you to leave this way?"
I believe she knew my sorrow,
but all she said when I asked her why
was, "Don't judge me, I'm a Bluebird, remember?
I am built to fly.
I cannot stay, my dear one,
and you cannot follow me."
Then off she flew and left me kneeling
at the foot of the willow tree.

Monday, 26 April 2010

Lookit that...

A stumble! I came across this band, Tuung, during one of my tangent searches though the mazes of youtube. They have some good songs, for example Jenny Again and Bullet. Click the links and listen :)

Also, social networking websites (as they do) have just informed me that an old childhood friend is married and expecting a baby. It's a strange thought, and one that is messing with my mind rather, which is why it is here on my blog page... She doesn't look much different. Same soft face, same straight blonde hair, same upturned nose. She looks just like she did when we walked out of middle school together. It's a confusing thought. And only seems to underline my own naivety. I find myself doubting myself. This odd tightness in my throat; is that a simple strangeness at this news, or a strange desire, or only a fear for her, for myself, for those lost years? It seems that people around me are growing up too fast, too fast for me to keep up with. Hell, I don't even have a job yet!
Am I odd for my fear of change, of striding out alone, of meeting that one in these next recent (or not) years? Maybe I shouldn't even be thinking about it. It seems to me (she tells herself, as she shakes her head and directs her mind in a more concrete direction) that right now the most important thing to be worrying about is this dratted English essay...

Saturday, 24 April 2010


Glittering, sparkling and twinkling. They spin through my fingers and litter the carpet; tiny rainbow scraps of light bounce off the walls and flicker over my fingernails. Scarlet red. Starlight silver. Ocean and new-leaf green. Copper orange. Summer-sky and baby blue. Some joined together in separate, repeating patterns, the rest lonesome in their group vividness. So pretty.

But unfortunately my money slips through my fingers as quickly as the beads do. It's a sort of covetousness. But my hair needs cutting and mini debts need paying and bus fare needs buying, not to mention food. So it looks like I must leave my beloved beads for a while. Return to the sewing, my lovely.

I do have some rather pretty buttons...


I return! A couple of weeks sleeping and eating and jewellery creating and little-soft-things sewing and forcing myself to work (ohjeezcourseworkdon'tremindmei'lldieshouldbecalledcurseworkdammitthankgoodnessit'sover) and then I venture back out onto the blank page. And I find posts by friends that I haven't read before, and doodles and drawings I've not seen. Their words on these virtual pages, musings and creations and ramblings and all, remind me of what I've missed. And their pictures and patterns make me smile. "So this is why I am here," I think, "So this is why I enjoy this." Their continuation and dedication encourage me.

Watch this space...

My name.

Not me. Fast as the planes will fly. May the crown fall from your head and whisper along the ground of my empty face and the silence along the road. Sing me your song on the path along which you strode. Don't make me wait for the silence to pray for sun as the rainclouds disperse and my memories say you won't come. Maybe one day I'll wake to your glistening shame as my gold hair falls and the sunbeams murmur your name. Because the moon is a face that watches each step I take and scribes it all down in quiet words for story's sake, though I wish he would not for my footsteps are failing firm. Put your pen down and walk with me from this cold term. The wildness howls. I feel its pull as I stand; indecision to sway, and knowledge from yielding land. You caught it too fast, and now it lies in your palm. Tell it my sighs, and the bluebirds will sell my calm. For this girl is not me. But somehow she looks the same. Your crown whispers by and reminds me to say my name.

Tuesday, 20 April 2010

"Cinder and smoke."