A Fan Letter...

Dear Jasilyn,

I have not only read your works, but I have come to utterly adore them. I love the way you twist all of old-world vocabulary into your work and how you use such a wonderful way of imagining things. Your works have several levels full of deep philisophical meanings that keep me thinking long after I have read your works. My favorite part about your works is your wonderfully chosen words that add so much meaning to everything you say. Your voice is scholarly, yet has a creative touch to it. Thank you for writing.

--your admirer

This is the way I would love to get a fan letter. I've never recieved a fan letter before; but if I did, I would want it to go along these same lines. :)

Inventing Pink in the Land of Purple

If I could but blend together endless time-the colors of love and hate. Growing from the kingdom of my endless thoughts, I would know the secret of the weaver's hand.
About the colored grasses of the marshy kingdom's growth, I stare in ignorance. If I but knew the secret of the weaver's hand.
This was a start to an endless task; weaving in and out of the colored fields of grass, I started on my way. And a growing sense of commitment grew as my fields of luminosity grew. I watched with love the flourishing of my dear colored fields. If I could now learn the secret of the weaver's hand.
But I did learn in my one-room hut that color loves company, and I loved company too. We played together, sang together, as my unschooled hands nimbly spun the colored fields into the fine clean thread-just like a weaver would do. My colors dimmed away as I cried at night--wallowing at my soft hand's terrible ineptitude. If only I could practice with the secret skill of weaver's hand.
I slowly grew and learned how to roll the soft grasses into the silkiness of smiling eyes. I could fill my basket full of colors without end. They called to me, inspired me, and taught me how to grow. But time passed quickly and I found that I could notice the little things with my trained eyes. Yet, my hands cried silently, "if I could only carry on with the judgement of the weaver's hand".
In the silent nights when wind and rain would tug at my fading home, the grass would whimper silently and cower in the storm. I would not leave them there you see, by now my eyes were simply there. They only things that they could see were brilliant colors that ran on forever. And one-by-one I wove my threads, curious as to what'd I'd done. It started small; it started weak, but it matured week-by-week. And thrillingly my eyes would sing about the discovered secret of the weaver's able hand.
I worked forever; I worked nonstop. I found that I was drawn to the colors who called to me to weave them strangely in and out. It grew and grew until it could grow no more; the colored fields rejoiced. Laughingly they called to me, "you've found the secret of the weaver's hand". I asked them curiously what they did mean, "I've learned no secret; I've learned no skill.", I explained to the best of me. They smiled and laughed and shone some more,"No, but you have learned to love the weaver's tool and grown to serve us all. The secret of the weaver's hand is loving great and small".

Fabric of the Orient

The wistful eyes of a little girl gazing up at the mounds of beautiful fabric was continually filled with pure delight as she walked past the Traded Goods store. As birthdays grew on her back, she found that the more she gazed at these folds of glittering, shimmering, graceful threads of fabric, she became increasingly happy, continually in the state of pure euphoria. Euphoria, that is the word that described it all. The ecstasy, thrill, and shiver that runs through her all seemingly grew from this one simple delight. This delight grew into a near-obsession as she became increasingly fond of her folded glitter and elegant yards of fabric. No one believed this undying love; no one knew how much it truly meant to her. Not one could could believe her true fantasy; and yet, not one would look into those same wistful eyes that were etched with the reflection from the glitter, shimmer, and grace of it all. Her eyes revealed it all. No doubts could be drawn, no indecision of purpose could be seen emitting from the golden source of her honest and true eyes. No one cared to look.
Endeavoring hard, she picked pennies up from off the dusty path, wiping them off as to show them their value. She saw their value and what they would eventually do together-as a completed whole. Painstakingly, she watched her small leather pouch grow with the number of adopted pennies. Every day she walked past that same shop, and took the time to glance longingly towards the one thing she really desired.
Years passed, and childhood fled, but the love she had never failed, never faltered. Soon, not only one purse was filled with the outpouring of growing pennies, but seven were perfectly filled with countless pennies; she knew she was nearing the end.
Finally, the day neared at last. She anxiously packed away her purse of collected pennies as she walked the brightening roads to the Traded Goods shop. She was hopeful; she was courageous; she was filled with brimming light that shone from her unsure eyes. Solemnly, she walked to the folds of glittering threads and put her hand out to meet the beckoning fabric. Slowly her hand moved towards the fabric, hoping just to feel the burning sensation she so longed to enjoy. She couldn't touch it; she couldn't bring herself to lay a dirty finger on the perfected intertwined fabric. For hours, she sat and ached to feel the silk between her fingers. Staring at her hands, encrusted in dirt from continual labor, she began to wonder why she ever saw the glittering fabrics-beckoning from afar. She tried one more time, hoping to conquer all; hoping to drive away the fear that caused her palms to sweat, her heart to race, and her eyes to ignite. Nothing happened. Slowly drawing her hand away from what she wanted most, she realized that she could not touch the fabric. She couldn't finger what lay before her, not because of her own fears, but out of pure respect for the fabric. Slowly, she walked away from the dreamed she never gave up, realizing that threads wanted softer hands of skill rather than the ruff hands of a clueless, dreaming, peasant girl.

My To-Do List:

-officially decide to not be indecisive
-remove the 4-month old flower (if you could still call it that) from the vase in my window
-learn to dance (a classic Taylor Swift "You Belong with Me" dance isn't going to cut it)
-Travel to a place where they don't speak English
-Trap myself in a library for 2 weeks
-Invent a "Less-White" tanning lotion for red heads.
-Mount a telescope on the top of a mountain and count the ants at the bottom
-Teach my dog the dangers of moving vehicles
-write something brilliant
-find the antidote for boredom
-Learn how to really draw a blank
-take a class on how to roll my eyes
-watch Pacifier--learn the Peter Panda Dance
-experience the world in only sunlight by chasing the sun around the earth
-participate in a Renaissance Fair
-Bike the Tour de France
-Become a professional guesser
-Become a professional fencer
-Learn to say "hi" in at least 50 languages
-Go to alps and learn to yodel
-Have the largest firework display while watching the northern lights
-go to the Alhambra
-Visit the 7 wonders of the world in 7 days
-Touch Lady Liberty's nose
-grow the largest pumpkin ever
-have a city named after me
-star in the hit-series NCIS
-spend a summer alone in a deserted castle in France or Germany
-learn to ride a dog-sled
-hide all the clocks in my house

My Two Eyes

I see the world and life. My eyes of age and wisdom mount my face and watch the world with no surprise. They stare, almost coolly, toward the unknowing souls, unconscious of their growing insight. They glare, glower, pierce, glaze, burn, throw icy daggers, and bare into the souls of all those who come upon them. But just perhaps they stare down at my other pair of eyes. Soft, innocent, and watching the world in utter amazement, my childhood eyes watch the world too. My childhood eyes are different though; they don't watch for the old and gray, but brighten at the new. My child eyes don't give off airs but watch with a revealing confidence, facing the world with very simple fear. Perhaps my wise eyes, tainted with time, forgot how to shine gloriously in the light. Perhaps my eyes shall never agree about the world around me. Both admirant of the other, they know not which to see, but continue, steadfast in their natural love of the beauty around me. Life should be prepared-under my watchful, brilliant stares.fjakl;

In the Hands of an Angry Junior

This assignment was one that I recently completed for my IB English class. We are studying about the Puritans/Early American time period. After reading Johnathon Edwards' popular sermon, "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God", we were challenged to write a similar essay. We were to choose a pet-peeve and expand on a punishment for them. While writing this essay, I was laughing so hard; I've never enjoyed writing an essay so much! This is my final result:

--------The Continuous Killjoy in the Hands of an Angry Junior------

It is easy to spot a distasteful misanthrope when you walk into a room. So full of careless depreciation of others, these detestable slugs ooze across the earth, having no consideration for the sunshine that surrounds them. “What care I of beauty?” they whimper and whine as they sludge grudgingly onward. While most decent beings would look for the good in any terrible problem, these irremovable warts scar the earth with their pessimistic views. With a hideous smirk, these abhorrent monsters don’t let anything good and beautiful get in their way of doing their “normal” deeds. Oh no, these creatures do not even give a second thought to anyone who might surround their nighttime of darkened thoughts. But this is not the worst of it all I must warn you; these foul monstrosities embrace their distasteful hostility with absolutely no reason at all.

These killjoys who find serenity in the doings of their selfish deeds will one day discover that cruelty, no matter how unintentional, they inflict on others will one day come and haunt them. If they do not obey the simple rules of courtesy, they shall soon find that the unfair world will soon find them to be unwanted vermin and push them all away. Any hopes, dreams, or slivers of light that might have existed within, will be eventually extinguished by outer forces that look at them with paralleled dislike. Break forth and learn to express friendliness; acquire the ability to graciously smile upon others. Break free of binding sarcasm and show some true and genuine emotion. Break the binds of brooding thoughts that scorches virtuous pleasantries. Learn to be your own self; learn to show your own authentic worth.