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Nite_Owl (Has been on ET for 7 years :o)
Name: Michelle, or Owlie, whichever ya like
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Update--Last Edited: February 6, 2010 2:31AM
College is an strange place. Ocean view, late night parties, cool classes, ridiculously ignorant people, freedom of bullshit, the whole shebang.
Needless to say, it makes for an interesting life.
(side note: House info's been changed. I think it better reflects me as a person now. Just sayin')
Story of an Owlie (In Brief)
I'm a writer, a poet, a student, a mentor, and a lover of the mosaic of life.
I'm a daughter, a sister, a step-daughter, a step-sister, an aunt, a niece, and a step-half-sister-in-law.
I'm a best friend, an enemy, and an acquaintance to many.
(hey, it rhymes)
I'm also a stranger, and just as confused and scared and worried about the future as the next person.
I'm not special, and I'm certain I have a twin somewhere hiding in the world--I'm not unique--
but as a human being, I share your planet, and, if you're reading this, I occupy some space in your life.
Let's make it count for something, shall we?
Recent WritingsFind this one and many, many more at Nite Owl's Poetry and at http://niteowlnest.blogspot.com/ , the official storage of all my writing blurbs.
There is a kind of
in the daylymonthlyyearly revolutions
of a numbing tumbling space.
The dim and shaded Moon can only see
as far as its spectacles will allow.
While Lady Sun basks in the glow
of her own star stuff,
shining to her billion billion sisters,
accompanied and entertained by the endless dance
of her infant planets,
stony and sleek in its spot of sky,
all shady lines and callous curves
with a face ribbed with the wrinkles
of a hundred thousand weary craters –
has only pretty Earth.
Ever facing, ever twirling,
set on a path upon which childish Earth
has come to rely.
She does not see a happiness in Sun.
She sees no vindication
in the permanent desolation
of her sibling rotary stones.
Of all the beings Moon as known,
she has envied none so much
as the comets that blast through black,
leaving trails that slowly burn and fade
like old Polaroids against the Sunglare.
All it takes is a single push.
The gentle tug and pull of will
against all math and reason,
the selfish need for something more
to ease the wantingneedinglonging.
Blue and yellow sequin spills,
amber umber oil paints,
red and violet velveteen
tracing patterns in the ageless brick
of a dying universe.
And while the Lady Moon pursues
a thousand sights of beauty and decay,
wheeling in its glory and simplicity,
forgotten is the diamond Earth,
that subtle pearl,
aching in its loneliness,
and feeding on itself
in search of love.
Bit o' Writing:
(a bit of prose on the art of dying--find more on my blog at http://niteowlnest.blogspot.com/)
People don't die anymore the way they used to.
It used to be that people knew what camaraderie was, running into battles with swords and guns and cannons blazing, like all the good stories. It used to be that people died in the arms of others who prayed for them, softly and sincerely, in their final moments. Men holding each other because they had to, because there was no one else, and for an instant there could be unfathomable and unconditional love because there had to be. Then, the fires would roar and they'd be up again, leaving the fallen alone and cold but always within memory, always tingling on the edge of remembrance. Someone would write a song about them later and call it something simple and sweet so others might wonder what it's really all about.
Now there's just needles and white bed sheets and pills and strange little containers and bags with tubes that weren't there the week before. Dying alone with strangers and a strict deadline to keep. Six months. Six weeks. A few hours, maybe. Depends on charity. Depends on the money. Just depends.
The movies like to think the saddest part is letting go. Talking to the dying with some prepared speech that makes an audience weep and they don't even know why. Sometimes there isn't a reason at all, really. Just because it's an opportunity to feel something more than numbness. An opportunity to feel more than what we can muster for the people we know in our lives that needed to see it. Because that's all we are: numb. Numbed to the killing and the dying alone in hospital beds. Hearing another "I always loved you, always will" or "I forgave you a long time ago" while holding hands until one of them goes limp is a refreshing little twist of angst compared to the usual droll gray-white that always seems to end before the punch line.
A man sleeps in an otherwise empty bed. He's just turned eighty-four years old. A long time ago, he used to deliver papers on a bike that wasn't his. The man down the street named Mr. Johnson used to talk to him every day on his routes. He died a long time ago. He never remembered that kid's name, but he thought about it sometimes when he wasn't thinking.
His children call him on his birthday every year. They can never come up because it's always so busy at home. He doesn't mind though. It's understandable, and he loves them anyways because that's what fathers do. He has pictures of his grandchildren and old photos in black and white. He doesn't remember the faces well anymore, but he likes to look at them and try all the same when there's nothing better to do.
His wife died a few years ago. She was the prettiest girl in school when they first kissed, and her eyes were still the same old blue when she died, only they didn't twinkle so much as they had then and her hands were stiffer and colder than they had a right to be. Now there's no one to listen to him play his piano in the other room but walls filled with faces and an old TV he forgets to turn off.
On a warm sunny morning in May, the man wakes to find himself something to eat. As he reaches for a glass in the cupboard above the sink, his heart seizes. The glass falls and chips the edge of the counter. He lays on the linoleum floor of his kitchen, gripping his chest as he stares at a spot of black lint beneath the fridge. As his vision blurs, he tries to think of what Heaven will look like, but the pressure in his chest makes it hard to think, and all he can see is that fuzzy black spot. He can't think of anything else to do but wait, so he does, and dies.
No hands to hold. No sudden final call from loving relatives. No camaraderie. No note on the bedside table. Just the low gasping for breath that has run out. Just another average man's death in just another average town.
Sometimes we try to find reasons and meanings, when everything's over, just because we feel we should, when the reality is there is no reason. Reasons come with things that happen with consequence, and death has no consequence. It simply is. It comes and it goes and the rest of the world moves on because it must move on. Sometimes he's remembered. Most times, he isn't.
It's just the way it goes. I imagine in a hundred years things won't even need a reason anymore. People will just assume there isn't one and leave the guessing and the speeches we didn't get a chance to make to the movies about fake people and real people that didn't have a reason either, until the time comes for us to die too. So we'll slip into that darkness without a thought, without a reason, without a consequence. Without significance.
I guess people just don't die the way they used to anymore.
Don't forget to check out my other websites/wikis for more writing and artwork:
= Nite Owl's Poetry (all poetry, ever)
= Owlie's Art (relatively empty)
= http://niteowlnest.blogspot.com/ (all major writings and prose/short fiction)
= http://niteowl9491.deviantart.com/ (all recent poetry and art)
And also these awesome roleplays I'm currently in:
= Lily Tivet
= Defeat of the Duelist
= The 12/Group 3.0/Group 6.0
And of 6 more wiki-pages. List them
|Age: 20||Year of birth: 1991||Month of birth: 9||Day of birth: 4|
Fantasy race personality: Dwarf
Place of living: USA-California
Town: Santa Barbara
Elfwood artist: No
Elfwood writer: Yes
Weblog URL: niteowlnest.blogspot.com
Elftown crew wannabe: Yes
Favorite drawing objects
|country||folk music||heavy metal|
|theatre||The Town Herald||travelling|
Civil status: strange
Sexual preference: same sex
Body shape: plump
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