Abstract enough?

I had some time on my hands a few weeks back so I pulled out my paints and brushes and tried some painting.

I wanted to see if I could do a decent abstract piece and ended up with this-

Abstract art is weird. That's all I can say about it. I'm not sure I'm entirely good at it either.

Facing Jane Austen

Reading Jane Austen's novels has always been a daunting task to me. Like just about every other girl on the planet I have been deeply in love with the films since I first started watching them, and as I have grown up more and can understand and relate to more of the subject matter I can safely say that I still hold that opinion today. After receiving her complete works for Christmas I finally caved into my fears and started to read Sense and Sensibility. I truly thought that i would not enjoy the book as well as I did the movie, but I was mistaken. I could barely put it down after starting it. I am starting Pride and Prejudice soon, if I can find time to read it amongst my geology class, work, and all those free nights I have from a lack of social life. I'm so booked I just don't think I could possibly find time to :)

PS For those of you who love the movies you should definitely see the BBC version of Sense and Sensibility. I still love the original with Emma Thompson and Kate Winslet, but the BBC version is definitely my favorite now.

Words are feelings put to use

Tonight Tara and I attempted to have a sleepover in our front room. We dragged our mattresses out and everything only to discover that the movie we had hopes of watching was possessed and refused to cooperate in any of our 3 computers and our DVD player. So we ran out to a Redbox, stopped by Smith's (well drove by because there was a major drug bust or someone found a bomb because there were a dozen cop cars in the parking lot and the whole place was sectioned off) and finally got home to watch Fame.

I liked it. A bit depressing in some parts but on the whole... really inspiring. In an odd way. I sometimes desperately wish that I could get up on a stage and just belt some beautiful song out and wow everyone. Or that any time I got onto the piano I could play a little Bach or Chopin. Wonderfully enough that people would close their eyes the same way I do when my little sisters get on their violins and cello. I am now determined to get back to practicing the piano more often. This will become much easier when I move into my new place in the fall which will have a piano :) And when I have the time I would love to take voice lessons. That will definitely be something I need to wait on but I am determined to do it.

Aside from all of that, I just want to do something I love with my life. I want to write. It's scary sometimes to think about how writing can't really support a family, let alone one person. And how once I start having a family I won't really have time to sit and write amidst all the things that comes with being a parent and a wife. But I determined to succeed, to find those precious moments where my mind wanders into far off places and damsels in distress are saved and the hero always gets the girl (well... maybe).

Just because becoming an author is a long and hard road doesn't dissuade me from wanting to at least try. I really have no idea why I'm still typing. It's kind of late and my thoughts are more than just sporadic, they're hopeless. They've become paper butterflies fluttering off my page, flitting away into the night sky to become stars up in the heavens of dreams. Good night

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
~E.E. Cummings
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the color of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands