Sunday, August 1, 2010

I know, I promised.

Hello to all of my readers who may or may not exist!

It's been almost two months since my last post, hasn't it. I know, I know, you don't need to tell me, I promised that I would be writing more and more as time progressed, but, well, I haven't. Yes, there were an extraordinary amount of commas in that sentence. The only reasoning behind that is because of the fact that I often type in the same manner I speak, pauses, punctuation, and all. My teachers often penalize me for this, as the way I speak isn't necessarily incorrect in the grammatical sense, it's just a little difficult to follow my general train of thought, especially when you're not me. I can't wait for the first teacher to read a sample of my writing in college, because I'll get all kinds of those nice "AWK" marks that my 8th grade English teacher liked to write, (Mrs. Liguori, bless her, she's the teacher that opened up the world of writing for me, made it much less of a chore than I had made it out to be) and try to make sense of it. As I stated previously, only I can understand the true meaning of my own writing. Though that hardly makes me special, as all authors have the highest understanding of their own writing. That's why we study and slave away at books in school, isn't it? To get the faintest morsel of an idea as to what the author was thinking when he or she wrote his or her novel? That's how I look at it, anyway. What fun is it to read a book purely to analyze the symbolism, possible allegories, motifs, themes, chiasmuses, syncheses, onomatopoeias, alliterations, or whatever else happens to be hidden in the novel? Obviously, if they can be detected by high school students with very basic literature experience, the author did not intend for the sole purpose his or her work to be to convey that literary element. Only through spending as much time reading a work as the author did writing it is the proper way to get into the author's head. Personally, spending years, or even decades focusing on a single work would drive me insane. That's why the people who do it get paid the big bucks. Therein lies the secret to being wealthy, do a whole lot of something that no one else wants to do any of. Do you have any idea of how much a garbage man gets paid? Ask one. I guarantee you'll be extremely surprised.

There's my rant for the evening, and I leave with something a bit more poetic. I've been churning out the lyrics lately, and came up with some that are slightly less embarrassing than as is the usual, so hopefully they're enjoyed.

This is entitled "Smoke Rising, I'm Falling"

The air is thick with laughter, my lungs are thick with smoke
The bedroom's growing smaller, with every word your voice spoke
Decisions not made lightly, seem to crumble down and die
As you sleep the night away, I have to stop and ask why, I'm falling

Just because I've fell, doesn't mean that I'll keep falling
I've gotten up before, and you left me calling and calling
Seen it played, this rotten game, don't worry nothing new
And though I've fell, I'm gone, I'm falling, I'll still be the one to catch you

Surprise surprise, the day has died, the sun along the way
My bedroom's empty but for smoke, and yours is full today, oh
How wind picks up and spits it out, I'll never understand
The smoke coming from your room, the fire started with my own hand, I'm falling


Caught up with me (the fire's burning)
I'm falling slowly (the smoke's unfurling)
I'll catch you, you'll see (the dawn's returning)
This is how it should be (for you I'm learning)

*chorus and out*

That's about the long and short of it. Goodnight all, I'm headed for Rutgers orientation tomorrow. As always, thanks for reading!