New Moon/ Full Moon

A simple text can do OHHHHH so much. Something so small and almost pointless seems almost larger than life when unclear, unrealistic, and more confusing than where it should. New Moon---a movie blown out of proportion added with one of these small unclear texts can actually turn into something quite hilarious. Take for the example, "Why'd New Moon come out on a Full Moon?": it's a simple text. It's not quite so when people respond:

"Jacob---drool---", or "Did you FINALLY go see it?!?!?", or "Really Jasilyn?".

A simple question perhaps confuses people the most.

Nanowrimo

Throughout the month of November, I was the happy participant of "Nanowrimo". With writing a hopeful 1,667 words a day in the month of november, one is to be able to finish an entire novel. My novel was all planned out before I got started writing. Heroes were created and found their way into my mind throughout several times of the day. Villans were also created, though not as easily, and were also a constant thought on my mind. I've always wanted to write a novel; it has always been my dream and hope. My story was set, and nothing could change it--or so I thought. My book DID start out the way I wanted it to. People were placed right where I wanted them; people acted how I had always imagined them. Then, the characters seemed to develop as much stubborness as me and decided that they truly weren't happy with how I was taking the book. Honestly, I don't think that I was the creator of this story. Elizabeth, Dawsney, John, Doc,....they are truly the writers of this story.

Silence

Silence revolves. Silence erupts. Silence grips at sliding pencils that threaten to mock its sound. Silence is the icy grip that clings to one's tongue. Silence mourns and cries foul play. Silence is beauty that spins and twirls and shimmers with brilliant light. Silence is a dark; silence is the light. Silence breathes a rancid foulness. Silence hurts and breaks and tears. Silence huddles, alone is shadows. Silence blinks and stares for ages. Silence howls and screams. Silence simply lives.

Humming Hands

Somewhere under an endless rainbow, gentle giants from afar sing drifting lullabies to quiet ears. Humming Hands strum lazily through groves of floral heat. Together, inspiration blossoms grow. They grow to sing, and sing for me. Joy will blossom but, like its roots, will die and wither away to the depths of watery graves. Rainbows have melted, tears have run, and empty strings remain the same.

My Eyes Were Opened Wider

Running thorough a puff of clouds opened up my eyes. While dodging stars and hugging moons, my eyes were opened up. Even wider they approached as I conversed while swimming in the jello. Learning lost when finding none, my eyes widened still. And jumping down a flight of stairs while blowing golden bubbles, my eyes were opened, and so it was when gold had flooded my even-wider dreams. My opened eyes saw dancing muffins in burning ovens, rainbows without an end, grasshoppers with tiny fingers, and band aids cut out of rubber trees. Small blue flowers jumping on a world of dots had opened up my eyes. My eyes found perky birds with sun-sized eyes staring at the moon. They found peach tree dust that swayed like a cantaloupe on a drifting boat. Jumping bears and dancing beans hopped like drunken elves as my eyes were opened wider. Wider yet my eyes did get as silver roses of maple trees had arms for thorns to choke a listless finger while bluish ribbon of endless size joined to break a bond. Splitting broken ends of a most unfortunate size widened my worried eyes. Lights from mountains and caramel from trees, had my eyes opened at first, but to it added swimming goggles of tightening force, jungles of mooing donkeys and glue of sparkling colors. My eyes were opened wide, and the sight made my eyes open wider.

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".