wowza

Hello there.

It has been an excruciatingly long time since I last posted (several months, anyone?)
I feel I owe an explanation: college process. What a nasty, nasty, disgusting thing that drags on and on and requires an immense amount of BORING paper work that no one is even remotely interested in filling out. I mean, who really cares about that moment in ninth grade were I didn't feel I fit in or some lunacy like that? No one. No one REALLY cares.

Thank goodness the process is over and I can return to my life - in full and enjoy the bountiful benefits it has to offer me - like style and music and art and writing and all that good stuff.

So yes, I'm back and better than ever before!

I've got new hair, a new look, and a recently discovered love for pleated pants. So let's get down to it, shall we?


HAIR



PLEATED PANTS

That's all for now - well, I'll leave you with some writing as well I suppose.


Silent Saints


Silent saints watch over me, staring, gazes of prisms when the sun hits their painted faces. Although they speak no language, their faces tell me all and I know these people, these ancient people. They come out from behind trees, their faces glowing, eager in the hushed air. My favorite saint, the virgin, rarely noticed, peeks out at me from behind a large white speaker. She, her face made of creamy glass, looks into my soul and avoiding her stare; my own eyes wander down to the rows of seats, red cushions, winding rivers of blood, broken by grassy carpeting. In just five minutes, those who were once small children will file in, disturbing the peace and driving the saints to curse their very existence.
Soon my place of solitude will fill with loud indistinguishable words spoken by adolescents, moving quickly to grab a seat, climbing over the pews, yelling out to one another, heating the air, forcing the chill from my shaking bones. Few will notice me, quiet and perched in the balcony, a bird, hoping to pass over this crowd, but knowing that in just five minutes, I will be forced to join them, travel in their flock, submerge myself in their perfume, leaving the odor of wood stain and slightly mildewed carpeting behind.
The saints hide their faces and my favorite, her face of creamy glass, will turn and seek refuge from above, opening her black eyes wide, pleading with the greater power. I plead too, acknowledging that every ounce of worship has escaped these yellow walls, this chamber of God.
In just moments, they will turn on the microphones and my prayer will be interrupted by the dull announcements and jokes that are not funny and the giggles of the girls behind me and the whispers shared between each person, once a child with slender shoulders, facing forward, respectfully silent as others spoke. Then, the saints would stay to watch the people on stage speak, sharing news of bake sales and community service. Now the saints will shy away, disappearing back behind the trees, the virgin behind the speaker. The loud noise of the mic, artificial to these old souls, startles, crackles, shrieks. It has no place in these yellow walls, this chamber of God. How can we hear him if we drown him out?



so.lo.war.