sixteen before sixteen / volume 1

remember the moment. you know exactly where you're going / because the next moment, before you know it, time is slowing and it's frozen still /and the window sill looks really nice, right? / you think twice about your life, it probably happens at night, right? / fight it. take the pain; ignite it / tie a noose around your mind, loose enough to breathe fine / and tie it to a tree. tell it "you belong to me." //  HOLDING ON TO YOU: TWENTY ONE PILOTS

i will be sixteen in five days.

i am a broken record to apologize for my absence on my website. reasons/excuses include: {heavy course load, graphic design business, tumblr, english culminating essay [the causes, effects, and cures for prejudice in to kill a mockingbird, 5 pages]}

i would like to write a series of two in between now and december eighth. the series is called "sixteen before sixteen", and each volume will feature a list of eight entities. i wanted to prepare myself somehow; i want to capture what i was and what i am and what i hope to become. sixteen is just another number of times that i have encircled the sun, but i still anticipate the crossing of a gulf, somehow. i kind of want to cross it, i guess. i want to leave everything behind on the other side. i want to collapse on the other side and lift my eyes to see the light ahead; i want to pull myself back up, stagger back to my feet and begin to run.

SIXTEEN BEFORE SIXTEEN // what she once was.

act i: fond memories

[one] i used to be an ocean of colour and imagination. as a child, i was continuously creating. i made drawings, crafts, memories, friends, stories. i was this sharp and passionate child: erratic and imaginative. she loved dragons, fantasy books, and the colour purple. she was strange and embarrassing, but she made so many stories. i miss her. R.I.P. CHILD ABBY 1999-2012
[two] "it's a beautiful sky i'm under, and since i have no camera and no canvas, i must write. i am come back to the hard rock beaches, the sickened jackpines, the grey depths of raven lake. the sun has broken over the waters. white and yellow chips of light roll over the waves. the edge of the horizon is silver glass, outlined by dark ridges of evergreen. i'm on a pile of rocks beside the shore; my body is strewn across the boulders. if i lean back on the rocks, the ends of my hair are coated in lake. the best part of the sky is behind my back, out of the edges of my eyes. it's azure: so deep and formless that it is terrifying. even when the rest of ontario is dead and wet and clinging to a dead winter, raven lake is beautiful. it always will be." -- summer journal. 19 MAY 2014
[three] it was the end of the hobbit: an unexpected journey. i was thirteen: aflame with ideas and hope. credits began to flash over the screen and neil finn's husky, metallic voice resonated in my ears. the lights in the theatre resurrected, but i was paralyzed with emotion. i stood with my friend for a while, watching the screen, and then we had to leave. "no, let's take the back door," i suggested, walking briskly to the exit by the screen. it led to carpeted steps; it was dark and i could still hear the song playing like a metallic folk battle cry. i ran up the steps and thrust the cement door open, gasping in surprise and exhilaration with the outside world. it was freezing cold, and the alley behind the theatre was paved with snow; the stars pierced my eyes upon looking up, and when i laughed i could see the frosted effluence of my lungs. i continued to laugh, and i wrapped my wool scarf around my neck, and i ran down the length of the theatre. my eyes and soul were shining, and i looked behind to see if i was alone. i was; my friend was sensible and took the front door. i ran to the parking lot, falling in the snow many times, and my face was numb and red and the skin on my hands cracked and i don't know if i've ever felt more alive. 14 DECEMBER 2012 
[four] "we should buy an airplane and just fly." -- my brother, 23 AUGUST 2013

act ii: regrets

[five] for a long time, i would close my eyes and shake my shoulders and {tear, scratch, claw} at my mind in fear, in shame, and in guilt over things that i had said and done. i would dream about the things that i had said. one night, i had a dream that i could fix what i had said. he was sitting on the floor of hallway in my basement, and i walked by, and i told him that i admired him and that i was proud of him: that i believed in him. i have lost sleep and gained psychic scars from the things that i overthink; in addition to the things that i regret, i regret regretting them with so much severity.
[six] i regret the fact that i used to hate my pale skin, my asymmetrical smile, my vikinglike physique, my grey eyes, my diminutive stature. i should not have hated these things, because they're pretty cute.
[seven] i regret all of the words that i never wrote.
[eight] most of all, i regret the time that i could have given to Jesus Christ and did not.

poet tree / a list of eight

i am about to share some of my poetry out into the interwebs this is quite a frightening venture for me. i can't clearly formulate the reasons for this fear in my head, but they include concepts such as:

     a. my poetry is quite angsty.

     b. my poetry is quite poor.

nevertheless, i'm releasing these vagrant poems from their paper cages. they are mostly from a slim volume of poetry circa. 2014, and they are mostly drawn from pink floyd songs, thinking too much, genuine boredom, and cute boys. and there is also quite a bit of Jesus in them as well. they are long and quiet summer nights, when my mind was wretched and raw with sorrow, and they are my memories, and they are my insecurities. but i'm not a poet. 

i'm letting these pieces because i need to be more honest with myself and you; you need to know that i am not a poet and i need to stop taking myself so seriously. i wrote these poems because i wanted to write poetry; i'm not a poet.

FEBRUARY THIRD, 2014 - the story speaks

welcome, wayward warrior,

to the river of my soul.

enter, hopeless wanderer,

to a scattered, silver shoal

and inside my mind enscroll

all that's left of your control,

and on the ragged page unroll

the blood you never bled,

the words you stole.

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??? / 2014 - northern skies

the howling fire of the dawn,

the cracked and bitter sun:

you fade as night's dark ocean 

falls to cloak the winter sky.

this sunless fabric rolls 

across the shoulder of our ground;

yet still with hope, the faultless stars

pierce chasms in the sea.

i fell in love with northern skies;

they hold my heart in slavery.

encased in ice, my lungs whisper

in wonder of the stars:

the faultless stars.

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FEBRUARY TENTH, 2014 - enjolras

do you remember yourself

in your quivering past

when your coming of age

ran away with your rage,

and the gathering stars 

slept beside your head.

but the blood in your veins

stained the paris streets red.

you fell for freedom,

and all your dreams

fell with you.

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JUNE TENTH, 2014 - the storm: an experiment in slant rhyme

you saw my heart in fractures,

and you pushed your fingers in the cracks;

the wind is falling from my lungs.

my skin is drying on the rocks

of shale, and shaking in the sky,

with feathers frayed and black eyes dim,

the raven reads between the lines

and shudders at the story in

the clouds, and when the city lights

have faded and the sea runs red

you'll find me on the rain and 

in the rain, and of the rain: sad

lifetimes chasing through my hair;

grey ghosts inside a neverwhere.

we are the only ones left there:

the silent clouds.

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??? / 2015 - she's a sculpture

she's a sculpture: cut and dry,

carved from mountains, born of sky.

ocean salt is in her veins;

she's an artist, scarred with stains.

silver stairs dance in her hair:

golden fire in her eyes.

she's the only one left here;

elvenfolk left her behind.

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SEPTEMBER 24TH, 2014 - there are tiny moths in my room

shivering, quivering, inaudible wings -

the black and silver dust:

the charcoal beings.

shuddering, fluttering, i can never escape them - 

they, the mass of bodies:

the mass of ghosts.

chaos above, below. i huddle in the darkness - 

i'm shrouded in whispers;

the whispers of flight.

chaos below, above. i see constellations -

they correlate the sky;

they've taken my ceiling.

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MARCH 2015 - a poem about God

you are irregular: lovely, terrifying.

i need you, but i am afraid.

you are the sky: soft, gentle, angry, terrible.

i cannot control you.

you are an enigma: a sword or justice, a cross of love.

i can't wrap my head around you.

you are the stars: brilliant, soft, full of rage, powerful, cold,

so near, and so far.

and you are an ocean: enthralling, dark, unfathomable.

i'm sinking into you.

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AUGUST 2014 - the mourning star

a flash. a wave of light:

the rimless shell of light that fell

over his face...

his face is like the sun, the stars.

his eyes are full of tears: 

the world's tears, yet 

my tears, your tears.

in his eyes, all the sadness

of the world. the light 

that warms my skin in Jesus,

the mourning star.

many little rainy day lists.

this was an unfinished post from june; life happened and it never did. now it is; it's happening, because i still think that is still deserves a chance for life: a chance to break out into the minds of men. it's also completely irrelevant now but it's a little bit poetic so maybe you can still appreciate. perhaps you can think of it as a time capsule and remember your own june. this post is a bit of a mess.

{put this into a tab. thank me later.}

"WE STEPPED OUT INTO THE WORLD FROM THE HEAVY DOOR OF THE VENUE AND THERE WAS RAIN FALLING ON MY SKIN, AND THE WORLD WAS FRESH AND COLD. WE WERE ALL VERY YOUNG. THE SKY WAS AS BLACK AS THE BRILLIANCE OF NEW YORK WILL ALLOW, AND THE THROB OF PEOPLE AND METAL WAS ALMOST VISIBLE IN THE AIR. PEOPLE AND METAL: THAT'S ALL THE WORLD IS REALLY MADE OF, IN NEW YORK. AND RAIN, ALWAYS THE RAIN. AND I COULD BARELY KEEP MY EYES OPEN. I'M SURE IT MUST HAVE BEEN BEAUTIFUL, IN ITS OWN WAY, BUT I COULD NOT SEE IT. THAT'S THE WAY THE WORLD WORKS, SOMETIMES." // you can't win, chapter two

it's been one of the coldest and wettest junes that i can remember, and this is glorious to me. i legitimately love rain, with passion. i think i could be happy if the earth ticked so that it rained every day; because i like to feel cold and clean. i love to walk in the rain, truly. i love the shivering silver rim that layers the pavement.

think of this post as a rain-themed journal entry stretched out over my entire day. it's not going to be very specific. i'm going to take my time, collect my thoughts, soak in the current storm, and write some little lists drawn from this thunder culture.

10/06/15 // 12:32 PM
recently:
01. we returned from montréal at 5:30 AM on monday after driving all night. the city was like another world within my world: it was like a small scatter of france inside of canada. it was pristine, throbbing with life and intelligence, extremely french, and architecturally stunning. i was there with my two older brothers and our dad for the montréal formula 1 grand prix [probably the most famous motorsport in the world, although more popular in europe than in the united states] and i will never forget this experience. the hum of fast cars still throbs in my head, and i miss the city terribly. i must learn french more fluently; i want to live there when i am older.

02. i'm done school. it's like a wave lifted off my shoulders. it's wonderful to have so much time in the day to read, play guitar, muse, do yoga, write poetry, learn latin, help old people cross the street. it's too bad that i actually spend most of this time on the interwebs.

03. i'm so apprehensive about this summer; i am both excited and apprehensive. i don't know what's holding me back. i don't know what kind of a person i am now. i don't know what i am meant to fulfill. i don't know i don't know i don't know. all i know is that i don't. i had this really good word describing how i want to live, but i've forgotten it. i wish that the artistic people genuinely found beauty in messy, real things. they romanticize blood and grit and drugs and steel and graffiti and anorexia, but they never see the art in acne and cellulite and hangnails. i want to live efficiently. i want to be skinny and alive and and artistic to the masses. i want to be marketable and fascinating. instead, i am human.

 scared of my own image, scared of my own immaturity / scared of my own ceiling, scared i'll die of uncertainty / fear might be the death of me; fear leads to anxiety / don't know what's inside of me; don't forget about me / even when i doubt you, i'm no good without you. DOUBT // TWENTY ONE PILOTS

seven words / a guest list

hello loves, this is evelyn.

through the course of a shared passion for words, abby and i have come up with a unique idea.

we provided each other with a list of words with the instructions to write what these words mean to us.

here is abby’s list.

here are my heart-felt cries.

I. SHIVER

it is a cold wind that fingers over my skin,
quickly: like it’s trying to find a way in.
its sudden,
like a sharp gasp of breath
that enters numbly and escapes painfully,
leaving a sense of fear.

fear starts as a shiver,
as the feeling of something to come.
and it leaves you numb.
it leaves you frozen in time,
avoiding the next step.
for the shiver has gone,
but it left you with a sense of foreboding
and numbness.

II. WRETCHED

what is this word? what does it mean?
is man wretched because of other men,
or because of himself?
i do not know if i can make another man feel wretched unless i reach for his heart:
what is inside of him, his thoughts, his past, his future,
and turn it against him.
wretchedness feeds on a man who has regret, who is lost,
who’s enemy is himself.

III. CROWNLESS

a crown may befit some, but not me.
i’ll be the outlaw,
the loner,
fighting for survival,
fighting for those i love.

IV. RAW

i avoid looking at the gash, i try to look at the bowed head, instead.
the lips that had uttered “it is finished”
the gritty hair that is swept across the brows.

but i can’t. my eyes are drawn, locked, to the sight of the gash in his side: deep, raw, bleeding.
his destroyed hands, cut through with a rod of sharp iron.
blood is smeared across his body,
dried like tattoos on his skin.
i try to look away, but i can’t.
not when this has been done for me.

V. LIGHT

it blinds me, i cannot see.
only feel.
i touch stone. it is cold, but dry.
i feel cloth, it is soft,
but empty.
the man on the cross,
he’s gone.
the man who let them hang him from nails,
is alive.
Jesus breathes

VI. AGONY

i wonder if agony can be a thing of beauty.
it is so harsh and painful that no one human can come out of the same.
it sears the mind until it has changed form,
and this charred, blackened result:
is it beautiful?

VII. ASHES

it is the end of all things,
disintegrated into gray nothingness.
soft like a whispered farewell,
scorching like a final revenge.
forever in this state,
never to be restored.
burned to the ground,
in villainous flames,
of fire,
of hate,
of love
of ____.
this is the end.

or so they say.

Why I Don't Support the Duggars

And whosoever shall offend one of these little ones that believe in me, it is better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he were cast into the sea. | MARK 9:42

You know things are going to get intense when I actually start using correct capitalization.

This isn't what I usually write about. I dislike controversy and pointless debates, and this is probably the first time that I have gotten involved in either. I'm also kind of late to this particular party. But I've recently been reflecting on the fact that most of my audience consists of homeschooled, female, Christian teenagers, so I think that this topic is particularly relevant.

Basically, a guy named Josh Duggar (a professing Christian and a star on a TLC reality show called 19 Kids & Counting) recently admitted to having molested a number of young girls when he was 14, including some of his own sisters. When these events occurred, a police report was filed and Josh underwent months of corrective labour and spiritual counselling. He publicly stated that his actions were inexcusable and that he sought for and received forgiveness from God and the people he wronged. TLC also dropped 19 Kids & Counting from their schedule.

So why do I feel the need to write a five-hundred word essay on this topic? Because there are still people who want the reality show to come back on the air. More importantly, there are people who are trying to excuse Josh's actions. This, in my opinion, should never be supported, and here is a list of reasons why.

1. THE FACT THAT THE DUGGARS ARE AN EXAMPLE OF CHRISTIANITY TO A WIDE AUDIENCE CHANGES EVERYTHING.
Some of the girls who Josh molested eventually forgave him. This was their decision; I think this is amazing and I don't know if I would have the love and compassion to forgive something like this. I also believe that if Josh was truly sincere in his remorse, God also forgave him. I'm not trying to say that his repentance was insincere or that should never have been forgiven. However, this forgiveness is entirely and utterly undeserved. He did not deserve a second chance at all; the fact that he was given one is entirely a result of God's grace. Some might argue that none of us deserve forgiveness and we are all given second chances through God's grace. While this is very true, there are four reasons why I believe that in this case, we can't just brush the issue off. (1) Sexual immorality is deeply and extremely offensive to God and should be treated seriously. Read the verse at the top of this post; it kind of emits a vibe that this issue is serious. Some writers such as Matt Walsh have been trying to point out arguments like "all Christians make mistakes", but I believe that (2) sins that directly affect and hurt other people should not be readily excused. Sexual abuse should never be swept under the rug. Yes, we are called to forgive others as Christ forgave us, but (3) forgiving an abuser and supporting that abuser as a public example of Christianity are two very separate things. Josh and the Duggars were representing Christianity to a very, very large demographic. Is this the kind of person we want people to think of when they hear the word "Christian"?

3. THE FAMILY AGREED TO STAR IN A REALITY SHOW WHILE FULLY AWARE OF JOSH'S PAST.
They agreed to have their lives filmed and televised as an example of a Christian family, and I think this was a dreadful mistake. Did they just never consider the possibility of this information being released? It was, by the way, a tabloid that initially released the information on these sexual assault allegations. It is likely that if this information has not been discovered, the family would never have been prevailed upon to mention the incidents. Of course, not even Christian families are perfect. Everyone has their own skeletons in the closet, but these are some pretty nasty skeletons. I'm subsequently led to ask why they ever agreed to have their lives televised for the public; I cannot discern any legitimate spiritual benefit from it. I don't know what their motives were (although I'm guessing fame and money), but the result is that now a large number of people think of conservative Christians as backwards, sexist child molesters. This, although mostly inaccurate, is not a great testimony.

3. SEXUAL OFFENDERS SHOULD NEVER BE ALLOWED TO BECOME MEDIA ICONS.
"If you're a sexual abuser, having a chance at becoming a better person is completely different from deserving your large audience of people that you have power over."  This quote is from a YouTuber called TheThirdPew in an {extremely good video} on a similar topic. Supporting Josh on a personal level is completely different from supporting him as a media icon. There isn't much that I need to add to this.

4. SUPPORTING THE SHOW INDIRECTLY SUPPORTS RAPE CULTURE.
This isn't the fault of the Duggar family and I believe that they probably wouldn't want to excuse rape or blatant sexism. Nevertheless, there are still some  fans of the show that are making excuses for what happened. Some that even go as far as to blame the victim. This is awful, and it is possible mostly because the show had such a large audience (which reiterates my previous point). To allow the show to continue would be, in my opinion, to indirectly excuse sexual assault.

It's great that Josh is apparently different now. It's not great that the Duggars were hiding Josh's past sexual misconduct and simultaneously starring in a show that displayed Christianity to the world.

the summer bucket list

abby: *writes sidebar updates* *redesigns blog* *reads her own posts* *edits her old posts* *never writes posts*

this is my last summer of freedom. in september, i will be partially enrolling in public school (kill me now), beginning grade eleven, and finally scraping my life together by acquiring a part-time job. it's horrifying - i am going to be forced to deal with other humans, and shoulder responsibilities. i will no longer be completely homeschooled. i'm going to be accountable to new orders: new authorities. i won't be able to hang around my basement for most of my day in my sports bra and sweat pants, making myself coffee every two hours. it is barbaric; it is frightening. on top of all this, my older brother wants me to apply to write for esquire. yes, the magazine populated and read by thirty-year-old, vaguely philosophical men with kodiak boots and red beards. i am a white, middle-class, teenage girl. maybe they will find this ironic and endearing, but i vibrantly doubt it.

i asked evelyn what i should write about, and she said "you should write a list of things to do in the summer". so yeah, that's what's going down. i'm going to write about what i want to do in this: my last summer of being a child... thank you, eva.

i am probably not going to die this summer. at least, i'm not exactly planning on it. the implication of the kicked bucket in the title of this post will have to be translated as a metaphor: i will be writing about the things i hope to accomplish before the metaphorical summer bucket is kicked. you should all also do these things, if {you know} you want to.

my children, this summer you must live.

1. READ BOOKS.
one of my most frequent regrets is that i do not read enough. it's very true; i don't. although, it could also be argued that i read too much, as i read so many books simultaneously that it takes me months and months to finish a specific book. it's a bit of a tragedy. but i love to read; i love to read under trees and in the rain, so i think that i will read more this summer.

2. EXPLORE MORE TERRITORY.
literally, mentally, emotionally, socially, internationally, locally, in literature, in music, in art, in people.

3. KEEP LEARNING.
i complain about school for most of the year and then miss it when it is gone. i love to learn. i love to obtain knowledge; i want to sink my fingers into a rich wealth of information and withdraw everything i can hold. i am going to continue to learn, this summer, as much as possible. i'm going to keep studying latin and french and read more international news websites and learn more constellations and keep a compass with me everywhere.

4. COLLECT RISKS & TAKE EXPERIENCES.

5. LEARN ALL MY FAVOURITE SONGS ON GUITAR.
i have an extremely basic mastery of the instrument and i wish to become better acquainted with it. my older brothers both play guitar with beautiful and fiery passion, and i love the sound so much. i'm going to learn a bit of radiohead, a bit of imagine dragons, a bit of tchaikovsky (if humanly possible on guitar), a bit of fleetwood mac and a bit of folk.

6. PLAY TENNIS. 
i've always thought of it as a more civilized sport (i like civilized sports. i.e. tennis and boxing.) and my pretty incredible dad told me that he would teach me how to play. i'm not going to wear a skirt.

7. MEET NEW PEOPLE: CARE FOR THEM.

8. LIVE FULL DAYS.
i want to meet people and kayak more and train myself to be a better boxer. i want to drink a lot of tea; i want to go to the library and do yoga before bed more often. i want to sleep tired and hard, with a wealth for my brain to digest. i want to hurt and laugh. i want give beautiful things away, like love and companionship and kindness and knowledge. i want to live full days. i am probably going to end up wasting 45% of my summer on the internet, but it's nice to fantasize.

9. READ THE ENTIRE NEW TESTAMENT. 
i have never read the entirety of it together, and i really should. i love to hear Jesus speak. i love to hear of him healing the sick, i love to see him take the little children into his arms, i love to read of him being moved with compassion, anger, passion, love. i love the epistles and the depths of knowledge layered inside them. revelation fascinates and terrifies and enthrals me. i'm going to read the entire new testament this summer.

10. WRITE EVERY SINGLE DAY.
i'm shooting for the small goal of 350+ words a day. i know, it definitely is not very much, but i need to set an attainable goal if i will be able to accomplish this. whether it's in my novels, in my journals, in my books of poetry, or on this blog, i want to write at least three-hundred and fifty words every day.

11. EMBRACE MY AFFINITY FOR RAIN.
i think a lot of people say that they like rain, but they do not when faced with the cold, muddy reality of rain. i love rain, a lot. i will purposely walk and run and read outside in the rain because i love the rain. it feels cleansing and profound and silvery and wonderful and i love the rain. i am going to spend as much enjoying it as possible.

12. WATCH SOME AVATAR: THE LAST AIRBENDER.

13. PAINT MY FACE LIKE JACK MERRIDEW AND WALK THROUGH THE WOODS.
i did this once last year with extremely fulfilling results.

14. WRITE MORE POETRY.
i filled a slender poetry book for 2014 and i am yet to create one for this year. when this new book is in existence, its pages will brim and drip and cascade with poetry for Jesus and the stars, raw and ragged outcries, philosophical epigrams, ballads, three-chord acoustic lovesongs...

15. LOOK UP.
these summer nights, i will watch the stars. i will look up, i will calculate, i will memorize, i will discover. and i know that my heart will forever be encased in slavery to the love of the faultless northern skies.

vignettes.

prologue. i'm physically and mentally weary today, and i don't know how to write. i want to write about ivar a little bit, and maybe boxing, and maybe boys or pink floyd or my scar, but i do not know how to weave these things together with continuity... do you know how many posts i have written and never posted? neither do i. there have been so many; there have been so many times when i have sat down to write and i have written and the words have poured out like blood and water but i could not let the world read them. oh dear, i am so tired. i am here in front of a screen and a blank page, weary and dry, and a waterfall of memories continues to wash over my head. it's steady; it flows heavy with pain and passion and joy and fear.  there are going to be many, many grammatical errors in this post but i am too tired to correct them.

WORDS WE HAD SAID GREW IN MY HEAD / COVERED MY THOUGHTS, SANG ME TO BED. 
LOST MEMORIES GREW INTO TREES / COVERED THE DOOR, SWALLOWED THE KEYS // oren lavie

I. THE SCAR.

i've had my scar for most of my life. i don't think about it very much; sometimes i forget about it. it's three inches long and it's near my hip bone; a little to the left. it is pale and white against my already pale and white skin. it is almost the same as the one natasha romanoff has, but hers was formed by a bullet and mine was formed with a surgeon's blade. i was a few months old and i nearly lost my life and if i had not acquired that scar i would be very much dead today. that's a metaphor, i guess. you can figure it out. maybe apply it to your life or something, i don't know. 

but i have a little white scar near my hip bone and it reminds me that i am alive, and that i am alive for a reason. 

scars heal.

II. THE STARS.
it was the first night of youth bible camp and i was fourteen. it was late and dark with a rich and rough blackness to the sky, and everyone was high on hope and angst. it is a very exciting thing to be placed in the woods with a lake and Jesus and 63 other teenagers. everyone was wandering around and laughing, crowded sparsely around the light sources like moths. one of the girls in my cabin grabbed me and asked me if i wanted to go explore, and i said yes because that sounded like the best and worst idea i had ever heard. the exploration team consisted of myself and the girl and two other girls from my cabin and a boy, and they took the flashlights on their phones and we laughed and screamed and ran around the camp and then down to the big playing field by the lake. the grass was wet and there was barely anything visible in the vague blackness... except the stars. unobstructed by lights and anger, the stars burned innumerably in the fathomless black sea. countless, immeasurable. the milky way streamed across the sky in a soft river and there was a muted cloud of laughter, audible from up near the buildings... we lay down on the cold grass and watched the stars and poured out our hearts and felt safe. those will always be my favourite stars.

III. THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON.

i can distinctly remember the first time i listened to pink floyd. it was summer and it was dry and hot and hazy. we were driving over dusty grey highways that were cut through the forests and blown through the hard rock of northern ontario; i was thirteen and i was with my brother in his small red car and we were driving to the cottage, and it was july. i'm starting to sound like hemingway; oh my word...

i remember thinking about the white lines in my jeans. my brother and i weren't talking very much. this wasn't because we are bad at talking to each other, i think it was because it was warm and there were things to think about. neither of us felt the need to talk and we were both okay with that. anyway, he did talk after a while. 

"want to hear something crazy?"

"okay."

"this is the best album of all time."

"okay."

the dark side of the moon begins with a heartbeat. at first you might think that the album isn't playing, but then you begin to hear a rhythmic pounding. it grows consecutively louder with each fall. it beats and keeps beating because the dark side of the moon album is about being alive and time and death. and then you hear the ticking of clocks, the tolling of bells, manic screaming and maniacal laughter... and it is terrifying and beautiful and terrifying.
i didn't like it when i heard it the first time.
a few months later was nanowrimo 2013, and i was writing my first novel. my brother gave me the dark side of the moon and i downloaded to my itunes and gave it back to him. i listened to it over and over while i wrote that story, and the heartbeat and the ticking of the clocks sank first into my mind and then into my words. time and death were woven into that book. it was not a very well written book but it was very important to me.

epilogue.
it's 4:19 pm and i'm a little more awake. i'm thinking about these things... it's funny how sometimes you do not know what is shaping your life until it is a memory. and now i've spent most of the afternoon emptying my mind of these memories. i am simultaneously slightly more awake but extremely drained of mental muchness. my mind is pretty much a skeleton. i am a skeleton, clothed in flesh. a shell. i'm a shell and a small, sad lady. i'm going to a ballet tonight.

you can't win | an undefined list

I've been hesitant to talk about this because it's so young and kind of dumb, but as I said previously I have a new work in progress. It's eight terrifying pages in; I write slowly because I don't have the time (and also no concrete plot). I guess this is an introduction to You Can't Win, which I will hopefully talk about more in the future.

I. THE BOY | His name is Ivar Volkov. He's seventeen in the opening scene but most of the book will describe his life as he is nineteen years old. Ivar is the Anglicized version of the Russian name "Yvor". He's a fighter: little quiet, a little sad. He's calculating and perceptive; he cares profoundly for people.

My vision was black with swimming stars when he hit me again. My fault; my head wasn’t tucked to my shoulder and I wasn’t paying attention. It’s very bad, my attention span. It’s very bad for a boxer. It’s sad, really. The boxer with ADHD. I’m half Russian. Russians are supposed to be good at this. I swung a hook and missed, but I brought my gloves to my face and the ends of my elbows back to my torso in time, this time, to absorb his retaliation: a jab to the body. I was happy. But I was still losing, with twenty seconds. You can’t really win in twenty seconds, unless you’re very good and not tired. I was not good yet. Eight years, almost nine, and I was not good in the ring yet. It’s one thing to stab at a heavy bag, and it’s another to stab at a man who stabs back.

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II. THE CREW | Ivar's crew: a little street gang of young, unabashed New York City club boxers who consist mostly of his childhood friends, I guess. The cast has tended to be a bit fluid so far, so these boys that I'm going to tell you about might not be in existence in a week. Or they might have a different name, a different face, or [heck.] even a different gender, because I'm perpetually changing my mind. 

i. Aleks is Ivar's little brother. Passively angry most of the time. Likes Radiohead and dogs. Changes his mind a lot. Doesn't know what to do with himself. He admires his brother deeply and thoughtfully, but wouldn't admit it for the world.

ii. Andy is Ivar's best friend. He probably has some sort of very deep and tragic back story that I haven't figured out yet. But anyway, he's quiet and solid and he plays guitar. He's a bit of a steamroller in the ring; he's the middleweight of their crew. I love him.

iii. Jess is the glue of the pack, and a lightweight: quick, with very good footwork. He's optimistic and extremely alive. He laughs, a lot, talks a lot, and lives and believes with passion. He thinks he's a Bollywood star. He also has an older sister with whom Ivar is a little bit in love.

iv. Kieran is a welterweight, like Ivar. He's erratic. He's unpredictable; he wins his fights with ingenuity. He's a bit of a genius, I guess, but it comes with a price. He has a very important role to play in the novel which I cannot tell you about.

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III. JIST | I have many, many ideas for this novel, but unfortunately I am still without a story. This is usually my problem... I can create a sphere of flavours, people, sounds, emotions, aesthetics and pains, but I cannot easily construct a working series of events. I don't know very much about what will happen in the story, but I know what it is about.

It is about boxing: the pain and the calculation and the insecurity and the sweat and the lights and the shaking lungs. It is about New York City: the people, the yellow lights, the steel castles, the aura of ordered chaos and the streets that shine and glow silver in the rain. It is about physical and mental pain. It's about depression. It's about growing up. It's about everything that is hard and cold, and everything that hurts, and everything that reminds you that you are human. It's a little bit about nice, happy stuff too. And it is about Jesus Christ, somehow.

some things...

01. i ran yesterday, drank a lot of green tea, did some yoga, then wrote a 250 word post which i promptly deleted after i reread it. whoops.

02. what would you like to hear more about from me? i have a poll set up, but if you have any ideas you can tell me in the comments section or something. email me. write me a letter. idk bro.

03. i might try to post every week. wouldn't that be nice? it kind of sounds like a fantasy, honestly, but sometimes dreams come true.

04. i hope you all have a very, very nice day today.

northern girl | a list of seven

i'm writing about my home today, and why it's going to be hard to leave one day. i'm sorry. i'm sorry that i only post once a month. that's a bad interval. very bad. i'm sorry. it might change; hopefully it will change. but it probably won't. i don't know, it might change. this is a list about the northern wilds of canada.

FROM FATHER TO SON, THE BLOOD RUNS THIN // SEE FACES FROZEN STILL AGAINST THE WIND // THE SEAM IS SPLIT, THE COLD FACE CRACKED // THE LINES ARE LONG, THERE'S NO GOING BACK // THROUGH HANDS OF STEEL AND HEART OF STONE // WE WAIT ALL DAY FOR NIGHT TO COME

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i live in the northern wilds of ontario, canada, in a little red hill mining town with about 45,000 people. i wear plaid button-down shirts a lot. i live next to a moose resort where they keep moose. driving in the winter is better than in the summer, because the potholes are filled with snow. about forty percent of the conversation to which i am exposed is about mining. this is a list of things that northern ontario is composed of. these are the structures of my territory; this is a list about my home. this is what i am made of; this is my atmosphere. mostly, it's a list of reason why i belong here.

WHY I AM OF THE NORTH.

I. THE COLD. it invigorates me and it makes me feel alive. everyone else complains about it; everyone talks about moving down south. they constantly complain about winter; it starts too early and it ends too late. when someone says that we have winter for six months of the year, they are not exaggerating. winter edges into the beginning of october and stretches across into the end of march. our average temperature in the winter is -20C and we have literally had snow in july, and i love it. i love it so much: i love the way my hands crack at the seams and i love the grey and formless skies. i love watching myself exhale white and silver clouds. the snow glitters like crystal on sunny days.

II. THE WILD. canada is home to 10% of the world's forests. that is a lot of trees, and a lot of wild. you could walk for weeks and weeks and be entirely alone out there, in the trees. it is harsh and wonderful. i lust for wilderness.

III. CATHOLIC CHURCHES. i'm not a catholic, but half my country is, and they build beautiful cathedrals all over the north, and the south and the east and the west. i like the spires that reach up into heaven and the stone and the stained glass windows. it makes me remember: "God is there. he's there and in my church and in the wind and walking with that boy down the sidewalk and in the tavern down the street and up in the stars." there are so many catholic churches, everywhere, and they're beautiful. God is there.

IV. COFFEE. there are seven tim hortons establishments and multiple other coffee houses in my city. hello, my name is abby, and i am a coffee addict. my father began to let me drink out of his mugs of black coffee when i was chilling on his knee at fours years old [good times]. i've been drinking coffee regularly since i was eight. i am five feet and one inch and i have stopped growing [no, it's not stunting my growth...]. coffee is the lifeblood of the north: it flows through our veins.

V. CULTURE. [or the beautiful lack thereof.] i live in a mining city. everyone walks down the street and in and out of coffee shops with a grim determination, steeled to the frigid air and worrying about the price of gold. there's a small town a little south of mine that is stuck in the 1970s. it is made out of dirty red brick, neon signs, peeling paint and linoleum, but its radio station plays very good classic rock. there is a men's clothing store that sells ancient bowler hats and vinyl jackets and soft, thick, heavy suits. everyone is either friendly and quiet, or angry and on drugs, or angry and quiet, or friendly and on drugs. that's what the north is like.

VI. FREEDOM. the lust for wilderness is a lust for freedom as well: freedom to advance into the uncharted forests and kayak across dark, deep lakes of silver glass. there's freedom here. it's a freedom from civilization, if you get far enough. but it's also a small mental freedom in the knowledge that you are surrounded by pine and snow and lakes.
it makes me tick, i guess.

VII. THE NIGHT SKY. in midwinter, the north star rises above my house. orion is to the west, just in the corner of my eye. i cannot fathom the stars... the skies are so black and so clear and cold in the north; the blackness stretches over the top of your sight like a thick blanket, pierced only by flecks of fierce silver stars. they're innumerable and terrible and beautiful. on a clear night out in the wilds, you can see the stream of the milky way coursing over the dark.
the stars are a gift.

how to write things.

“Alas, Sovereign Lord,” I said, “I do not know how to speak; I am too young.”
But the Lord said to me, “Do not say, ‘I am too young.’ You must go to everyone I send you to and say whatever I command you. // JEREMIAH 1:6-7

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1. write.

2. don't stop, just write.
3. even if it is weird.
4. even if you don't like it.
5. even if it is dumb and juvenile.
6. write, more.
7. no, stop editing.
8. just put one word after another.
9. a little more.
10. you need some tea now.
11. don't take long, you still need to write.
12. drink your tea.
13. write some more.
14. stop rewriting that chunk of dialogue from 2013.
15. write.
16. put on some music.
17. maybe some tchaikovsky; maybe some nirvana.
18. and keep making sentences.
19. yes, it is very bad, but write it anyway.
20. yes, you will look back on it and cringe, but write it anyway.
21. yes, it needs work, but not now.
22. write some more.
23. drink your tea.
24. write some more.
25. drink your tea.
26. write some more.
27. drink your tea.
28. write some more.
29. write some more.
30. you can stop now; you're done.
31. you have a skeleton now.
32. it's a nice skeleton; kind of bare.
33. and frightening.
34. but you're not finished.
35. you have to weave flesh on that skeleton.
36. you can edit now; you're weaving.
37. you're sculpting.
38. sculpt some more.
39. you can fix that now.
40. it's strengthening; it's growing.
41. weaving flesh; sculpting muscle.
42. it's looking pretty.
43. you're finished now.
44. well done.
45. it's beautiful.

14/14 // things i've learned about jesus

i'm still alive. and kicking. vigorously. i'm sorry about the unannounced hiatus, although the only reason i have to excuse it is that i have been both very lazy and very busy, and that's not a very good combination.

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2014 was beautiful and terrifying, brilliant and blurred, progressive and retrogressive, I guess. The best of times; the worst of times, and all that jazz. I learned so many things, because I made so many mistakes. I didn't cry very much but I read some important books and I listened to a lot of angsty psych & progressive rock. I met beautiful people and heard beautiful words; I witnessed a few broken hearts. I think I lived every day different than the previous one, and that was essential. I made so many mistakes and learned so many things about people that I love and I fell in love with so many ideas, and Jesus was over and above all of this like a sky full of stars. I don't really know where I was going with that metaphor, but I guess I mean that he was piecing everything in this year into the soul he wants me to become. So most of all, I learned about Jesus, I guess.

This is fourteen things I learned, or maybe appreciated for the first time or whatever, about Jesus in 2014.

01. HE PROBABLY LOOKED LIKE THIS.

This is an image of a very ordinary-looking Jewish dude. Which was, in fact, exactly what Jesus was. Not quite the fair-skinned, blue-eyed guy in a shiny white dress that we see in westernized children's books.

02. HE CREATED THE STARS, AND THEN CAME DOWN TO SLEEP UNDER THEM. 

03. HE HAS UNCONDITIONAL LOVE. Like, actual unconditional love. He likes people who don't like him. He cares about people who we wouldn't even want to talk to.

04. HE WAS PASSIONATE. It's easy to think of him as this sort of disconnected guy who floated Israel around patting kids on the head and performing miracles, but he wasn't exactly like that. He flipped tables in anger, he sweat blood in anxiety and sorrow, he wept for the death of Lazarus, he cursed a fig tree for producing bad fruit, and he was often extremely direct and even sarcastic when dealing with the pharisees. When I read the gospels, he never ceases to amaze me. Because even in his perfection, he had passion, love, sadness and anger.

05. HE MIXED WITH THE WRONG KINDS OF PEOPLE. Tax collectors, prostitutes, adulterers, social outcasts... He healed them. He forgave them. And yeah, he even hung out with them.

06. HE REALLY LIKED KIDS.

07. HE LITERALLY CAME DOWN TO THIS EARTH AND CARVED TABLES FOR 30 YEARS. Like, literally. He spent the majority of his life on the world he created making furniture or whatever for people who didn't even recognize who he was. There were probably people in Nazareth who owned tables made by the Messiah, and they didn't even know.

08. WE ARE BREATHING THE SAME AIR THAT HE BREATHED.

09. HE'S INTERESTED IN US AS PEOPLE. I mean like, your favourite books, your favourite colour, the people that make you smile, your ideas, your goals. and the things you love. He's interested in all of that.

10. HE'S NOT ACTUALLY A POLITICAL PARTY OR A GENRE OF MUSIC. He's actually God.

11. HE SAW EVERYONE THE SAME. Religious people and tax collectors. Kings and prostitutes. Zealots,  and fishermen. He sees every individual the same: as someone who is lost, and who needs him.

12. HE WANTS TO TALK TO HUMANS. Even the very bad ones. Especially the very bad ones.

13. HE SAVED ISRAEL AS THE MESSIAH. AND THEY DIDN'T EVEN REALLY NOTICE.

14. HE WAS A MAN. This is, to me, harder to imagine than Jesus being an omnipotent God. He was a man, A human. I read somewhere lately that sometimes we think of Jesus as this pious, detached being who floated around from miracle to miracle, but he kind of wasn't. I mean, he probably laughed at jokes and got the hiccups and everything. A little amazing, when you think about it.