Crying in the Darkness/A Tribute to the Victims of our National Tragedy- school shooting in Connecticut

* One more post, to the victims of this national crisis-

~ Crying in the Darkness ~

Dark times ahead,

Of everyone in the world lies,

But those who have magic,

Give to this evil spirit.

They lift up their wands of red flame,

Which tremble beneath the fire,

That shoots straight from the owners,

To cover the wand,

Right out their hearts.

Although their hearts are bleeding,

The wands of magic from their fiery breasts,

Tremble with passion, and fire, and zeal-

No one can stop the arcs of shooting red,

As they roar to life,

And our eyes look upon the dead ones,

Gentle children that haven’t visited,

Where they still need to go,

Their future plans,

Christmas gifts,

The dreams in their breasts and their own brochures,

Of lands that are forgotten,

Never to be trod on by pattering feet,

And tiny toes-

Or lost hair ribbons from bobbing pigtails,

While the passion arcs now twist about,

In the form of linking hands,

And people praying,

And singing,

Hoping for a better way.

The future,

Holds nothing much,

But betwixt the magic in our breast,

We are able to move on,

For thankfully we shed a tear,

During a ripping crisis,

That brings a certain magic,

A certain song and movement . . .

To every single person.

We who grieve,

Who are grieving in ripping howls,

Are comforted,

By the ability to cry,

To sing and to pray,

On this cold, terribly biting winter’s night-

When all should be at rest,

But are instead-

Walking dead people.

May God be with the souls on this terrible night,

That has shed cruelty upon them,

And may the magic that we share,

Be our guide,

And the tear our song,

That will forever send out,

The message-

Of love.

My Last Advice

~ December 12, 2012

My Last Advice ~

Hello all,

Tonight I would like to give you some advice that was provided to me today by a woman that I work for, who happens to be a marvelous English professor and a martyr of many fields. She said that expertise can get you a master’s degree, but versatility will put the check-book into your hands. This was rather fascinating. You see, in the past, I have experienced various bouts of indifference, all created by myself, in order to explore avenues that I was always sure that I wanted to pursue, without heed to what anyone else said. However, the more I explored these paths, always in my own stubborn way, never listening to what others told me, the more I slowly realized that thinking that I knew everything was getting me nowhere. People would patiently explain that I should be setting my heights on exploring different fields within writing, rather than my own agenda, so that I would be in a better position to write different pieces to audiences that wanted to read what I had created.

But, true to my own rebellious nature and my penchant for being unique, I did not listen.

When I entered Madonna University, in the winter of 2010, I thought that my path had been made out of the fairy-dust of destiny. I unwittingly entered into some unknown origin, facing demons with great, wings of leathery black, and phantoms that hid behind bedroom doors which I could not see, except for in a good movie. While it was exciting for awhile, eventually I got tired of seeing jacks jump out of their boxes, hiding in places that were not within my line of vision. It was a much harder journey than I expected it would be, and even my adventurous side, eventually became worn down by the constant and at the last unmanageable struggling.

I did not understand, when I first became one of the writing students at the university, why the factors which made me unique were not making the landscape of my studies more fun, and exotic. In the past, writing had always been an adventure. Now, it seemed that my skills at enigma were only serving against me. What had I done to imbue the constant flow of criticism from my professors? My essays were always well written, but many of my instructors, especially my composition ones, balked at my inability to follow the directions of an assignment. If I wrote in a phrase such as, ‘flies swarmed around the magnificent article,” what I took in my imagination to mean that the article had garnered the attention of many critics, my ideas were immediately dismissed as ‘not being plain enough.’ Was not the purpose of writing to show my audience how talented I was? Didn’t any of my instructors want to see what I could do as a writer? Apparently not. I kept making the same mistake- over, and over, and over again.

The problem was, that I simply did not want to state what I meant in plain English. I thought that plain English was boring and uninteresting, and I really didn’t understand why anyone would want to read it. I have always been an avid story reader, and to think that I was now facing the political coverage of last Saturday’s debate, with a task that ordered me to write about it in a purely analytical way, was almost unthinkable. I could not cotton to the idea. Yet, eventually . . . as comment after comment poured in, all to the same effect, I realized that I needed to change the way I thought about it.

One of the best instructors that I have ever had the privilege to be a student of, gently began to reprimand me in a way that was much more comprehensible than that which I had gleaned from previous mentors. The head of my department is a soft-spoken woman with a penchant for creative writing as great as my own, and we connected with each other from the beginning. She explained that as a writer, even though she albeit saw me as a professional one, that I did not need to show everyone what I could do. “Not all at once,” she told me. She said that there were different times and places in which my skills would at some point be found attractive. Each skill was different, and they rarely needed to be used in the same medium for the same reason. All of them are useful, but they do not belong together. It’s a bit like mixing oil and water, I guess . . .

I received some critical feedback from her a couple of weeks ago. She said that my work was excellent, but was best left up to a different audience to discover. She told me to revise my work according to the knowledge of an audience that merely wanted some information. “A bit like reading a plumber’s manual . . . ” in her own words. I pondered over this notion for about a day, extremely frustrated. Yet, I trusted her advice. Therefore, I started to think of all the ways in which I could make the report more attainable to others. I tossed it around in my head so many times that I became sick of it, and had to sleep on it until the next morning. And that’s when it came to me- I had spent all of my time previously writing my assignments in the most emotionally connected way possible. Now, in order to write something which I considered to be mundane, I need to do the opposite.

I gave it a try. When I was finished with the polished product, I turned it into my instructor, biting my tongue, and hoping against hope that this time, I had focused my energies correctly, by in essence removing them.

Today she spoke to me about my revision. Her reaction was the most gratifying and heartfelt one that I could have ever hoped to glean. She was extremely proud, and she listened with interest as I explained the method I had used.

I now understand what I did not. For ages, I had thought of writing as an individual and unique gift, one that comes only from the writer. The reality is, that you are writing for many different types of people, all of whom will not see your work in the same way. You are writing with a specific purpose by putting yourself in their mind rather than that of your own. Never stop writing for yourself. But, keep in mind that not everyone will always think that you know best and take you to be credible. Don’t come off as a humbug that doesn’t care about what others think. Always make sure that when you put your work out to the public, you are keeping their interests in mind too . . .

and this is all I have to say on the subject.

I do feel it incumbent upon me to tell all of you that this will most likely be my last post for the ‘Speculative Edge.’ I am a student intern, with a lasting place with the magazine that was only meant to be until September. I want you to know that I have truly enjoyed updating this blog, and sharing with you many of my personal experiences. It is my greatest hope that it has been of some use. For now, I will bid you adieu, with my best wishes for your fortunes in any area of life, whatever that may prove to be, in the end. However, since I am not of the mind to remove myself from your wonderful presence entirely, I am placing down below several links by which you can follow my work if any of you are interested. Again, the pleasure has been all mine. I hope you all have a beautiful holiday.

Forever and always,

‘On the Room that Explodes,’

Brooke ~

~ http://www.fanfiction.net/u/2537728/snapemartyr (Harry Potter fanfiction)

~ http://brookeslifeslices.blogspot.com/ (Blogsite)

~ E-mail: bfox@my.madonna.edu

A Thanksgiving Story/(Special Holiday Feature)

                                           ~ A Thanksgiving Story ~

           

The lithe stroke of a finger. The soft eyelid of a baby as it lies upon the breast of its mother could not compare, in its infinite sweet innocence, to anything that life has to offer. The voice of strength, and beauty. This can only be found in the soul of the little babe, as it lies in its cradle, sleeping. Folks sit around a ten pound turkey, laughing gaily at a joke that the old man cracked, his mustache tickling his face during the exchange. He sneezes, causing those within earshot of his dialogue to burst into guffaws. Still the little child, with her pink blanket pulled around her like a warm cocoon, continues in her adorable slumber, soundly, and untouched by the air of life around her. Nothing can touch her. A key has been placed over her heart, making all of the special secrets in it secure, and she is protected by the Heavenly Father. The beauty which we call life, ever changing, has no call upon His child, here. 

           

            One of the roguish children, called Nell, threw a piece of turkey upon the ground for the dogs to scavenge. He cried,

            “Come and get it!” to the mutts that ran frantically over to devour the scraps of meat which was meant for them to have. It was rare that they were able to get their jaws over something as delectable as this. His mother scolded him in a hoarse whisper,

            “I told you to eat your supper first!”

            “Aww, but Mom,” whined the little boy, “I’m not hungry.”

            “Then go and find something to do. I’m sure that there is more for you to occupy yourself with than trying to make the animals fat.” He sighed, as though the greatest gift in the world had been snatched from him.

            “Alright, Mom.” A little cat called Jasper made his way daintily over to the fold. He was small with yellow eyes, and although nearly three, still had the appearance of a quiet kitten, who eyed everything in his surrounding with a serene air about him, almost as if he knew that something special was at work in life, and that he himself was adored, nearly as much as the little three month old baby a few feet away from him. When the darling had been brought home, to meet everyone for the first time, Jasper had taken up with her immediately. Rather than fearing for the child’s welfare, in the vein of most overly protective mothers, the soft-spoken woman known as Cherrie had wrapped her scarves tighter about herself and declared in a quiet, authoritative tone,

            “Let him go to her.” The cat had then, upon realizing that he wasn’t about to be stopped, trotted delicately to the child lying in its crib. She blinked peacefully up at him, while the feline marveled at the little thing. At that moment, she was no larger than a doll. He felt compelled to lie down with her, and so carefully set one paw upon the edge of the carrier, as if he were hesitating. After a minute though, he knew that everything was alright, and so hopped in, and curled up next to her.

            “We’ll call her Blossom,” said the mother. “Because she looks like a cherry blossom with him.” Indeed, Jasper had curled up and placed an arm around the mite-sized angel, because not only was she nearly as big as he was, but, as quoted the mother, she felt good next to him. Pretty, sweet, and innocent. His own flower. And so remained she.

            As everyone around the table merrily talked of things that had naught to do with being thankful, clever Jasper eyed the party balefully, yet with that still serene air that he carried with him everywhere. The nature of the conversation to him seemed rather selfish, and he snuggled closer to Blossom, not allowing anyone to see where he was hidden. The only person who knew where the animal was, had to be Cherrie, the child’s mother, because she had grown accustomed to the manner in which everyone’s favorite runt would place himself just so, barely showing an inch outside of the crib. In fact, down to the many blankets the child wore, he was practically hidden, so his black fur did not reach beyond those coverings, let alone touch anything beyond, and no one saw him. Cherrie put a hand inside the crib, unbeknownst to anyone around her, to give the cat a quick scratch. She felt him purring softly.

            It was not long until the discussion over the roast turned to more inane and crude chattering, most of which were not fit for the women. Several of them promptly left, and a few of the younger girls, who showed reluctance, were promptly reprimanded by their mothers, and forced to follow after them. Clever Jasper and Blossom were moved to another part of the cozy house, beside the fireplace. Cherrie placed a finger upon her chin thoughtfully. Coming out from the radio meandered sounds that were not pleasant for her ears to behold, since the newscasters decided to take it upon themselves to assail her with their many prattling about war and other such nonsense. She frowned slightly. This was not anything that she needed to hear on Thanksgiving. She placed a hand upon the dial, and turned it to another station. Another radio spokesperson was speaking about the war in Afghanistan. She turned the radio off.

            From beyond her shelter of the strong wooden door that had weathered a many terrible storms in its time, the man still animatedly argued over the things that she didn’t want to listen to. Several of them actually pounded the tables with their fists. She moved her rocker closer to both of her ‘children,’ and allowed one of her hands to hover, protectively over the two of them-

            Just then a loud banging from the less protective door announced the flamboyant as well as crass entrance of her brother-in-law.

            “Cherrie.” He bore down in front of her. She could smell the stale stench of ale pungently dripping from him.

            “What is it, Matthew?” He looked at her, and his eyes for a moment swirled with an emotion that she could not name. It looked nearly sympathetic, while at the same time causing her breast to swell with anxiety.

            “We need to go now,” he told her. “The troops are moving in. I heard it on the radio just moments ago.” She reached down into the cradle, letting the pink covers on her baby come down very slightly. She suddenly found herself choked for air.

            “No.”

            “Right now. Grab the baby.” She wouldn’t do it.

            “No, no!” she cried out. “You can’t have my baby.”

            “Cherrie, let go of her. Your husband is fighting in that war.” She stopped her passionate struggle, and looked at him. He held her in a strong grip. Her hair fell in frazzled whirls of ridiculous curls about her face.

            “I know.” She swallowed heavily, tears stinging her eyelids. She could hear Mathew’s harsh breathing, and looked once again into his red eyes. They bore into her like nails. She said, “I know.” Then she lifted the cradle, and took up both of her children. Jasper lifted his small head up and looked at her. She placed a finger to her lips.

            “Shh, not now.” He gazed at her knowingly, and then settled back down next to Blossom, looking rather sad. Her heart felt as if it were going to tear out of her chest. “It’s alright, little angels. It’s alright.”

           

            Blossom was a very special angel. But, as sweet as babies are, they cannot compare to elements in this world that are of magic. Jasper was a bright, intelligent animal, who had a sixth sense that told him when things were going to happen. That is why, when they were taken away, the little baby and the loving cat torn from their fireplace beneath the arms of people who stole across alleyways like thieves, in the night, he simply put his head down and slept.

            When the group made their way into a hidden enclosure just beyond a market plaza, where people seldom ever went unless to remove their backpacks from days of traveling, as they came into town, Cherrie began to sing quietly to the baby. Jasper’s ears straightened, while the sounds meeting his ears turned into a melody that flattened out like a sweet roll before it baked. It was soft to him, and welcoming somehow. He blinked up at the lady in question peacefully. She placed one of her hands on top of him, yet again, stroking the black fur, once, then two more times. But before she knew what had happened Jasper lifted a paw, swatting her away gently. She lagged near the end of the party, slowing enough to hiss under her breath,

            “What is it, Jasper?” His yellow eyes bored into her, as though he were trying to transmit a message. She bent down closer. “Do you need something?” She murmured. It was hard for her to believe that Blossom had not awakened, but with the black bundle resting protectively around her baby’s head, perhaps, that should not have been surprising . . .

            Jasper’s body was now rigid however. He was alert, his ears perked, and his beautiful orbs of yellow meeting hers evenly. Cherrie did not know much about animals save for what her experiences had been with this one, a rather strange kind of background to boast for one that communicated so fluently with the small cat. She noticed glowing embers in the distance, and wrapped her arms more tightly around the child.

            “What is it?” she questioned again. “What do you need?” The cat stealthily crept up to the edge of the cradle, his yellow-amber eyes observing the scene around them. He could not do anything at the current moment while in his present position. Therefore, he swatted Cherrie’s arm once again.

            “You’re free to go,” she said, starting to choke up. “But I won’t know where to find you.” He gazed at her again, and those round, glowing eyes seemed to speak to her. Then he jumped out of the cradle, streaking across the expanse between the refugees and several buildings several yards away from them. Tears streaming down her face, she wiped at herself angrily and continued walking. Jasper was no more than a shadow as he sped across the open, and she tried not to look. She raised her head high and continued walking.

           

            The little cat dashed between large, angry men with enormous instruments that he had never before seen. He heard shouts coming from many of them and crass words that he knew his master wouldn’t allow under her supervision, but he also knew that they would not be able to catch him, because he was faster than the speed of lightning. Ignoring their rudeness, he thought of all the nice things that he and Blossom would do once they got themselves out of this mess. Dogs barked, but they were miles away from him. He shot into a house that looked as though it were on the edge of collapse, since the Japanese had burned it. Some men beyond the area called out roughly.

            “Run!” One of them shouted, as several sparks were lit up, and the building across from him went up in flames. Jasper sat in the window of the broken down, thatch-roof shelter he was in, quietly watching while all of it took place. He heard Christmas music in the other direction, and so followed his senses, being careful to dodge all of the raging bullets and scornful lust of these horrible people as he took off, making toward the lovely singsong voices. They reminded him of Cherrie’s voice.

            “God rest ye merry gentlemen and they will . . . ” The voices tapered, but the little cat continued to roam around, looking for them. He met up with the carolers soon, after he crossed two more streets. The group was composed of five women and three young girls, all of whom were covered in warms scarves and shawls up to their heads, down to their very toes. All of them also had bright pink faces, and as they sang, their breaths could be seen in the cold air, twirling into whiffs of clouds that petered away after a time. Jasper watched in fascination while the older ones held their girls close to them, a larger, buxom lady pulling hers so tight that she looked as though she might suffocate. In the blink of an eye, an idea spurred the tiny cat into action. He raced up between them, the purple pads upon his feet thudding with very little weight on the cobbled stones beneath him, an act of gravity that only he was privy to hearing. He leapt up at a piece of sheet-work dangling, grabbed it between his teeth, and before the unfortunate caroler had a chance to turn, ran as fast as his legs would carry him towards the direction of his own party-

           

            When he heard the familiar voices, his heart pounded faster, spurring him with intense motive, joy filling him. When he was within sight of Cherrie and Blossom, he couldn’t contain his meow of pleasure, dashing straight into the cradle, without so much as another minute given away to surroundings. His master started crying softly. No one could see how happy they were save for feline and the mother who was a part of this.

            “Did you have a safe trip?” She asked him. “What’s that you have?” She fingered the sheet-music delicately, before more tears in her eyes gathered. “Do you know you could have been killed? What’s wrong with you?” Jasper simply purred, rubbing his black head against her gloved, aromatic hand, whose air of spices and herbs he had missed. “Jasper,” she scolded halfheartedly, not really owning up to any true need to reprimand him for his work. “Look, everyone. Jasper got sheet-music for us. Let us sing Christmas songs.” No one except Matthew turned back around, not paying her any mind. A few of them even tossed her a hard glare before they continued walking down the dark street.

            “Good grief, woman! We’re in the middle of a war,” he said harshly, his brown eyes narrowed. “What would possess you to sing?” She shrugged serenely, a small smile upon her lips. “My husband would have wanted it.” A slight changed moved behind the look he was giving her.

            “Perhaps he would have. But you know that we cannot sing. We’re in the middle of chaos. Everyone here is just fighting to stay living.” His eyes fell involuntarily upon the baby in her arms.

            “I know,” she said. “But then . . . what we really need is to stay alive here.” She pointed at her heart. “I know it sounds crazy, Matt, but . . . perhaps, when we find shelter, if we sing this carol then it will give a sense of normalcy to Thanksgiving. After all . . . ” she looked up at the sky above them, where all the blue in it, seemed to have congealed into one mass between the burning flames. “There is more to be thankful for then, well- I might have thought.” She looked down at her children again, now both sleeping softly.

            That night, ten people of various ages sang God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman, around a fire, completely removed and apparently unaware of their city, which was going up in flames around them. Cherrie reached down, as she had so many times on that particular occasion, and softly stroked her children’s faces. In the far distance, a woman who had lost her written carol sang from her heart, having been forced to memorize all of it. And, in some small way, on that Thanksgiving Evening, more had been accomplished, than words could tell. The faint stroke of a finger and an eyelash moving upon the face . . . the secrets which were locked in the heart of a small babe. Jasper’s treasure was his love for his two family members that meant to him so much, and his family, well, they all adored him. A long, long time ago, where we never imagine we can go, is the story of love, and beauty, in a sheltering fold-

           

            And on that Thanksgiving night which I am describing, that particular story, was worth more to those people in their hidden cave, sodden as it was and no matter how dank, than anything they could ever have cherished. God surrounded them, and while the area went up in flames, a mother lay sleeping upon her child’s breast. And a cat’s eyes burned through the dark-

with some kind of magic.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. I hope you enjoyed this little special. If you did, feel free to press that dreaded button called 'comments,' which we all know and love regardless. I bid you best wishes until next time we meet.

Brooke ~ 

The Art of Connecting Through Words- Or Not Being Understood

                                   

The Art of Connecting Through Words- Or Not Being Understood

November 20, 2012-

               

I always like stories, and I feel as though many of those I tell are gleaned from experiences which may or may not have anything to do with- well, anything. Sometimes I tell them simply to hear myself chatter at the typewriter I imagine, or perhaps listening to the music of the keys sends me, from somewhere far away. Like some kind of message from a sky blue expanse, trickling a ray of sun down over my hands while they smoothly chug out letters, telling me to keep going; there must be something greater than this simple little box on which all of the numbers, letters, and cognizant sounds are portrayed. In fact, I think that the beauty felt, seen, and heard, all of the senses which envelop you when storytelling, are all part of life experiences which grow, when they are in you. The most likely begin as nothing- a sight, or a sound, and then demonstrate all of the other senses as we nourish them.

            Some of you may not think that is comprehensive at all. In fact, at the moment, I wonder whether anything that I write down is ever understood by others. I think that our words are so uniquely tailored, that we never truly understand with each other. However, we do connect, or magnetically oppose one another. In the Writing Center last week I underwent my own example of one such moment, which weathered me into a person with more wisdom, or storytelling- whatever you want to call it. This particular woman walked in with a supercilious manner swarming about her, glanced at the scene in front of her, turned to me, and said,

            “There’s no place to sit?” I pointed to all of the available seats, which, to me, were as plain as her own nose. That nose could have breathed fire though. She spun around and, much to my surprise, made a beeline for the table directly before us, where a lab student sat, busily writing one of his assignments. “I’ll sit here,” she said, nodding. Then she faced the student, gesturing at all of his work that spread across the table. “Is this all your stuff?” she asked him, as if she couldn’t believe it. “Here. We’re just going to shove some of this down.”

            When I sat down with this individual, my mind was spinning with all of the ways in which I could take control over this situation before it got out of hand. Some of my quick thinking must have shown on my face-

            “Are you scared of me?” The woman asked me. Those thoughts quickly turned into disbelief.

            “What?”

            “I asked if you’re scared of me. ‘Cause you’re looking like you’re a little scared.” Inspiration struck me now. I shook my head at her.

            “No,” I answered, slowly, smiling. “Are you scared of me?” I asked her, pointing to myself. She answered, of course, negatively. I started to tutor her.

            She had three journal entries in all, and did not seem willing to take my advice on any of them. When I had finished, we had gained absolutely nothing out of the session, because I in the role of the tutor could not reach this person, and she, as the student, refused to listen to any of the tips I gave to her. Whenever I made a suggestion, she’d simper at me a bit, and say, “But I like it the way it is.” I would then nod my head and say, “of course, that’s fine. These are only suggestions- ” I tried to emphasize the word, spreading my arms out to help myself articulate, pointing at the woman- “to help you.” She would wave me aside, giving the same response.

            When we finished reading through all of the entries, she began to pack all of them into her bag. As she zipped it up, she looked down at me, saying,

            “And now I have a little bit of advice to give you. Now this is only me speaking to a younger person, to give the benefit of an older person’s wisdom.” I bit back what I really wanted to say. In my mind, a particular point in our discussion stood out. I remembered her waving her hands in front of her face while I struggled to give her well-received commentary, telling me that she had hot flushes- this entire session was absolutely bizarre. Perhaps she was simply, in this case, having a terrible day? I nodded however, barely refraining from rolling my eyes.

            “I’m listening.”

            “Now,” she said, “all throughout this session I had the feeling that you didn’t want to be that close to me.” I know that my mouth dropped open, but I couldn’t refrain from staring at this exotic specimen that was still talking. “Excuse me?” I asked. She gestured at the space between our chairs. My mind went into overdrive. She had actually been measuring the feet between us while I had been tutoring her? Who would have thought . . . this was the reason that she did not take my advice? Or was she completely out of touch? Odd pun to use.

            “We’ll, look we’re we started out.” And then she proceeded to demonstrate where she thought we were before the session started. “And now you’re all the way over there.” I glanced between our respective seats, at a space that didn’t look at all significant. “I didn’t even realize . . . I usually like to give students their space when I tutor, because a reposed position seems to put them at ease as well.” She brushed my words aside.

            “Frankly, I find your attitude standoffish. This makes me wonder if I smell bad, or- does she just  not like me? Why doesn’t she want to be close to me.” The dendrites in my head were sparkling. Firecrackers went off, and I know that my face turned red as I struggled to hide my emotions. She smiled down at me, understanding my feelings, for the first time throughout this tutoring session, truly. “Now I’m very good at reading auras. People always tell me that I’m extremely good at- being able to read people- you know.” Again I had to fight to choke down my words. People felt that she was extremely good at reading people? She had me all wrong. Then her smile got a bit brighter.

            “But, on the plus side, you’ve got very nice skin.”

            Okay. So the session was over with. All throughout this one, the tutor behind me and to my left had been watching quietly, and we had our own little discussion when it was over, mostly concerning my own indignant spirit. I did learn something out of all this, however. Most of our lives our primarily made up of that which appears to be absolutely pointless in the ritual of idea-giving, but, guess what? When I sit down after an occurrence such as this one my pen showers the fireworks that had been suppressed as I was forced to listen to that lady. I’ve come to the conclusion that fireworks, create who we are.

            So what is today’s writing tip? Find something to say. After awhile, you realize that you have the right to say it. Don’t hold back due to the nature of the subject, whether or not it will make any sense, whether or not it is comprehensive. Like a message from the sky, let the words flow- you’ll soon find out it’s worth it.

Until next time,

Brooke ~

The Election Spirit

     

                                                                                 

The Election Spirit

October 6, 2012-

AUTHOR’S NOTICE:

I want to clarify the specifics of this schedule for our readers. No longer will I be updating once a week, but once every two weeks. Due to the amount and nature of the work I am doing for the Speculative Edge at the moment, this is the most convenient route for me to take. Please let me know if you have questions. I will provide an email at the bottom of this where readers can reach me if they so please. Thank you so much for your continuing support.

It must be relatively impossible to understand exactly how much working in an environment filled with the sights and sounds of an upcoming election affects the spirit of a place. Those sitting at their desks merely filling out their tax forms, watching the country as it evolves, surely must know that they understand more about their computer systems in that particular moment. They know more about housing and finances, more about every function, on this dear Earth. The election, makes those in a business context vivacious- it fills us with colors and sounds that we would never be able to imagine.

            Ah, I see. You want to know if I am telling you the truth. Aren’t elections boring? Yes, you my readers enjoy the art of reading and writing fantasy, but- what causes this interest?

            We do not simply sit idly by watching, while taking up the colorful land of our environment. Environments give life to people in any place, in any way, shape, form or manner. I feel more in this minute than in any other, because the election of the next president of the United States has filled me with verve and vivacity, with a fervor and with a fire for the purpose of bettering our nation. I feel, while I sit here filling out my tax forms, that I have become more than anyone could ever imagine that I could be- I have become a writer.

            What does a writer essentially do? How do you become one? I must tell you that there is actually more to being one than finding the right color pen. You must feel it.

            Readers you see, I don’t want to write this to you for the mere sake of writing something on a page. I think that writing is more than that. I want to assist in your learning of the art, its precious gem, and everything that this honor encompasses. The next president of the United States provided all of us with some extremely interesting insights not only to our world, but to our fantasies in this election. On television, I have noticed people of all races, creeds, colors, and various life positions, with different offices upheld, by a variety of people that even flock to those places from different statuses. We are stratified, but we came together when the time required it.

            The president of the United States represents in a way, the history and the present context of our country. But there is something special about who we have become. We are more than just a symbol. Citizens of the United States, with all of our differences, have committed to memory the impossible. This particular presidency will go down in history textbooks never to be erased, because, of something that I don’t really understand just yet. Our country is evolving, with spirit, and charm. In the air the election meanders to everyone, for I see it when I drive and when I attend classes, when I sit outside reading and a sign is pushed into someone’s yard across from me.

            Now as I said this has served us in more ways than providing us with the next president of the United States. No matter where we are, or what we are doing, the next presidential election has appealed to us as writers. How do we harness this flaming streak of character that has taken over our senses? By not allowing ourselves to ignore it. The home owner filling out his or her tax forms should have that TV blaring loud and clear in the background. If everything which is being said can be heard, and not interrupted by our own obstructions, then we will easily remember the information. It will magically appear in our work later on when we take out our special writer’s pen. Writing is about more than technical considerations. It is about seeing and believing. If we believe in our country’s good wish and bode nothing save for all of the best favors upon it, then we will wreak the advantages that bestows to us. When we open our mind we will fill every nook, and no cranny in our mind will be left as empty opening. When we allow our senses to preside, then we are, in every sense of the word, a writer.

Today’s challenge for the week:

Try to think of one way in which this election has affected your daily life, and write about that element.

Best of luck,

Brooke ~

bfox@my.madonna.edu

Voices of the Ghouls at Work

~ October 22, 2012

Voices of the Ghouls at Work~

           

            I am sitting in the Madonna University Writing Center observing many different characters. I want to hear everybody's voice. A woman called out to a student who walked in mere moments ago, saying, 'I know your voice!' before turning around the entire one hundred and eighty degrees in order to obtain a view of her. But it's odd is it not? Voices, I mean. They are all around us, betwixt our persons. They are lilting and they are charming, or they are low and perhaps rumbling, deep, reverberating . . . a ghost might whisper in the dark, around a cavern. Voices can echo.

            I like to read a voice and I like to hear one too. The transition must not vary that often when watching the person's back, wondering what will be transferred to  the page as the dendrites click, and click. Even watching their backs we can hear the wheels spin around. Strange is it, that that person shoulders a voice that is much the same as the vocal one that we all enjoy, which heralds that unique individual before their mighty entrance into the room. That voice! Where have I heard it before? Oh, that sweet, beautiful voice!

            I wonder as I sit, writing and thinking to myself in the most introspective way when no one must be watching I do not believe, at the gesticulations of those discussing their topics fervently, at the student with his chin in his hand a couple of yards away. I can see feet tapping in a rhythm of the fierce Indian drum on the ground with his own voice. 'I am nervous,'  whispers that beat to us all, 'please do not think ill of me for saying this. I am about to provide you some constructive criticism.' The hands fall into a synchrony that belies his connection to that same notion. They work quickly to aide the voice of the person in its verbal form, but those hands grow nails out of them long and red, making me coordinate the girl in black who is tutoring her student with a Halloween spirit of sorts . . . those reaching claws spin like red banners in the evil of night and clouds of thundering fury to the sound of the feet, voicing, 'I am nervous. I am nervous. Perhaps you will not understand what I'm saying . . . let me move faster, let me cover myself with these beautiful nails so that you will not think ill of me. CRITICISM.'

            There are so many voices. So many feet, and a plethora of hands and echoes and reverberations and thundering growls in this dark center. The hair of a ponytail flips around with a quick spin while one student leaves to stretch her legs outside of the center's doors. I can clearly see the elegant cross of those loose appendages as she speaks with that voice that I know so well over the phone. She walks in with a body that draaags in the shawls that she's adorned, perhaps directly before she made her appointment today. Those pale robes of  purple remind me of Albus Dumbledore's walk around the Headmaster's office, placing me in mind of the gold and the silver instruments, of the midnight blue colors and textures which manifest in others too, such as white perhaps mixed with black, and green, anything that could be imagined in that magical elements. Voices of floating pumpkins, ghosts, bats, and Alan Rickman with that lovely velvet soothing murmur, so dark, float around the classroom now. The girl in front of me scratches out the word 'OMIT,' on a sheath of paper in front of her. I wonder what OMIT means, but somehow I really do not want to understand. This was the person wearing BLACK earlier.  Two people to my right speak animatedly about the process of failing. And behind me, I hear the throes of a tutoring session.

            They walk, and pencils wag. Their ears perk up, while their mouths hang open inexplicably. The word 'thrilling' jumps out of one of those tutors behind me. Murmurs, whispers have evolved from bubbling laughter. I sit here, typing out all of the voices. Do you know the world or the particular sphere in which so many different vibrations could possibly find a home? I don't think that any of them ever find a home. The picture of a bone on the screen in front of me depicts a hauntingly chilling voice as that arm continues to yell at me, 'I HAVE TOO MUCH HOMEWORK!' Oh dear. Footsteps trod outside the door. I must leave you know amidst all of these cackling voices. I hear jangles. The Writing Center here in which I work, has turned into something, indecipherable . . . the voice of language. It haunts us all. No one understand it.

            On Halloween, yikes!

            These voices will come out in their true spirits.

            Spirits is the word for all of them.

           

            Halloween. Halloween-ish. Work today has merely been  a prelude to the voices and their mad clutch over my brain. Perhaps I have become mad. I do think that writing today, has become a bit, too much . . .

Good evening to you all,

Brooke ~

A Time For Reminiscing About Us

October 9, 2012~

A Time For Reminiscing About Us

Hello everyone,

 Tonight I find myself reminiscing about a few key elements in my week that I keep turning over in my mind, like a pancake thrown out to me by a nutty maid. Over and over, these ideas coerce, and they melt together. They might land on my head, or the floor . . . but unfortunately, they are not strung together into one form of any type that flows together, really making sense. You know. Tests have the same type of spirit about them, well, leastways when you haven’t studied. Tonight I realized that I truly don’t retain the necessary information about my readers that I need to harness in order to ride the horse of desire. Much of my musings over the week have centered upon audience, which brings everyone together into one mix of people, all of who share common experiences or interests. In the educational environment such focus becomes an innate part of every system in which the professor speaks to student; the student, in turn, speaks to audience in the correct manner. The sheer number of various, common areas are unimaginable in which these people could be. Audience could be hiding in your pocketbook, or on the television in the patented, charismatic styles of those who dress up for that very occasion of becoming grand personalities for the benefit of the viewer. I understand audience. I am not entirely certain however, that everyone does.

For many years I rolled through academia, of sorts, all of the sparkling rhymes and meters of musical lands, been on teams, and still . . . I have sporadically written about all of them, taking as I sat down with a paper and a pencil over my ear with a silly smile, bits and pretty shards, broken, placed into my mind by them, which I borrowed. Borrowed all of these which were most interesting to me. Yet, were I to give a story to one within any of those different categories of my life, the bulk and the heaviness that came in the package must have been too much, and . . . I am not entirely certain that their weight had been felt by me. Audiences are so complex! Nothing appeals to one as a whole, because each individual within that audience is different. All of you reading this maintain questions, that float inside your mind bobbing and meandering around up there, but those which do not necessarily merge with those of your fellow peers reading this. I read a story for the Speculative Edge this past week, tailored specifically by the author for an audience that appeared to be much younger, for its main theme had a detailed description of magic flowing through the pages. And yet, how is it that I now limit myself to simply taking the simple idea, before turning to the person next to me, about twenty-two, who absolutely finds herself, or, himself, riveted by the altitude that magic knows, and such a world. Shame on me then! I think that we have a simple idea indeed, of audience. Perhaps we should broaden it.

Well, have a good morning everyone. Somehow, it appears bright and sunny even though it’s the fall. Perhaps that has something to do with the fall issue that just came out. The fall is filled with the dark, yet the dark knows something more than outer blackness . . . even space is dotted by stars. In the meantime, behave yourselves, my pets! We all have questions to answer, and as I continue to seek out my quests, I hope that you will, indeed, seek yours, whatever they might be. We float in the outer realms of what could never be seen, yet the interior of which we will always ourselves create. Space and time licks our spirits, but our constant flaming of what the inner strength encloses, is where those touches that we feel, always make sense in our hearts. The questions on the outside simply pass us by . . .

Until next time then,

In The Room That Explodes,

Brooke ~

~ Oh, and if you will please I thank you, for checking this blog between Monday night and Tuesday morning. I seem to have fallen into this gray spot, and it feels quite comfortable. Thank you.