Racing Thoughts + Romanian Mythology

Aloha My Dears,

A few nights ago I was laying in bed, attempting to go to sleep, but I couldn't achieve my goal. My mind kept racing with various thoughts that spanned across various topics. I decided I needed to write something down. I then received inspiration for a short narrative, which I have copied below. However, if you are reading this promptly before you go to bed and you, like me, are easily effected by slightly creepy writings, I would encourage you to wait until morning to read it.

Strigoi
-----

Glass shattering.

I awoke that night exactly at midnight. The classical music I played to help me fall asleep had turned off as scheduled. I rolled over to face the right side of the bed. Five minutes pass. I was almost asleep again when I heard the music turn back on, seemingly of it’s own accord. I opened my eyes and looked at the wall I was facing.

People screaming.

I was greeted by a shadow, but not my own or even one I recognized. Too frightened to roll back over to see what caused said shadow, I instead simply watched the wall. The shadow didn’t move for at least ten minutes, but then it disappeared completely. Confused, I drifted back into a troubled sleep.

Bombs exploding.

When the morning came and my alarm went off, I awoke with the memory of the previous night etched into my brain. It all had been far too real to have been a dream or a figment of my imagination. Who caused that shadow? Or is the proper question not “who”, but “what”? Throughout the day I found myself pondering the shadow’s shape and nature, and finally came to the conclusion that it was not, in fact, a human form.

Blood flowing.

That night I found myself awoken again exactly at midnight. The previous night’s events were repeated, except for one difference: the shadow stayed longer this time. Rather than staying only ten minutes, it stayed for fifteen. And this time, it didn’t just stand still… It swayed from side to side in time with the various Beethoven and Mozart pieces that played. Then again, it disappeared without a trace.

Spectators weeping.

Night after night this happened, with the shadow extending it’s stay each night. On the sixth night, I had had enough. The music began to play that night and the shadow once more appeared. After a full hour of mustering up all my courage, I rolled over to face my visitor. I wish I hadn’t have done that. Because there, standing in my bedroom before my very eyes, was a Strigoi.

Evil laughing.

If you are not familiar with Romanian mythology, let me enlighten you: The Strigoi is a troubled soul from beyond the grave, and he is ready to devour your blood and roam the Earth once more. He can also become invisible and transform into the shape of an animal. A creature of demonic lineage, the Strigoi is so feared in the country of Romania that there are still cases of graves being dug up to eliminate the vampiric menace. Romania is nearly 7,000 miles away from my California home, yet here this creature is, in my bedroom, gazing back into my eyes.

Heart stopping.

I can’t remember what happened next. In fact, I can barely remember sitting down to write this. I don’t know where I am or whether I am the only one here. I constantly have this feeling that I am being watched. I can’t feel my fingers typing, nor can I control what they say. It’s as if someone has control of my body, except for my eyes. I still maintain control of my eyes. Maybe it’s an act of mercy from the creature inside me, by giving me the choice to look away from the acts my body is committing. Could this mean that whatever this being has in store for my body will be far more heinous than I myself could possibly imagine, let alone stand to watch?

Darkness cascading.

California: The new home to an ancestral Romanian plague?

---

Well, that's all I have for you this time. Please try to contain your sarcastic sighs of disappointment.

Ciao! -M

Netflix + Sociopathic Characteristics

Shalom My Friends,
I hope this post finds you well in your endeavors on this fine June evening. As I write this, I am sitting on a blanket on top of my roof, gazing out onto the suburban life below. Perhaps it was the view which inspired me to write this next post, but I'm not sure.

I enjoy watching Netflix. It is one of the few things that relaxes me. Just give me a mug of tea and Netflix, and I can waste a few hours or more just relaxing. Recently, I found myself entranced by the television show Dexter. For those of you who don't know, Dexter is a show about a serial killer whose only victims are criminals who are guilty of crimes for which they have been pardoned. The main character, Dexter Morgan, is a sociopath; meaning he has no concept of emotion or moral standing. He does live by a code, one put in place for him by his late father. As I watched the events of an episode unfold, one which featured Dexter's girlfriend Rita, a thought occurred to me: "Rita has emotions. She isn't a sociopath... But what if she were? What if both Dexter and Rita were both attempting to feign their feelings of love toward each other. How would their lives be different?" This thought inspired me to write a few words about that situation. This is what I came up with:

A Sociopathic Romance
-----
Embracing with no feeling.
Running unemotional fingers along smooth skin.
A kiss with no spark.
Hands fumbling around with no direction or drive.
A knife without a blade.
Two people pretending to feel something they've never known,
Each one trying to fool the other into believing that their love is real,
But they themselves can't even begin to imagine the reality they attempt to portray.
They don't even know how to think it, let alone feel it.
It's a ruse
With the one thinking the other is true,
And a lack of feelings to be perceived.
Sociopaths feigning romance.
-----

It's not much, but it's something. I was simply intrigued by that idea.
Short though this post was, I believe it has done it's duty. Thusly, I shall pardon you to return to whatever activities have stricken your fancy.
Godspeed, my friends. -M

Delays + Retail

Salutations Dear Readers,

I apologize for my lack of written word over the past few months or so. I have been otherwise-occupied, between my laptop completely crashing and having to purchase a new one, to my second college semester finals, to homework for said finals, to preparing to transfer to a new college in the fall, working 5 days a week, and seemingly everything in between. However, as I stated in my pilot post, I have not promised to write in an annual method, so I honestly feel no guilt for keeping you waiting for my next "stimulating" post. Therefore, without further ado, my fourth post:

As I mentioned, I have a job. I work for my families retail business. Before I worked there, I worked for another store in town. In both jobs, I have found working in retail has proven to be quite a challenge for my certain personality. It's extraordinarily difficult to hold my tongue at times, rather than letting my sassy nature loose on the general populous. Occasionally I slip up when joking with customers, I forget not everyone understands sarcasm. When this happens, awkward moments are extremely prevalent. But usually I am able to control myself and put on a congenial air, which is far more than I can say for certain customers. I have found that there are a few different general personalities that shine through when dealing with people in a retail setting. Sadly, most of them are negative. Note: Some of these personalities can actually overlap in certain individuals.

Before I continue, let me make one thing clear: I am not aiming to offend, but if this indeed offends you, I apologize for your discomfort, but I personally feel no guilt. These are my speculations and observations, and this is my blog after all.

Customer Personalities:
-The "Sunshine and Daisies" customer: These customers are the ones who are the most pleasant and easy going people to help. They are willing to accept help where it's needed and understand that the clerk is doing their absolute best to try and help them.

-The "Clueless" customer: These people have no idea what's going on and require more time and attention. They are generally pleasant, if not a bit confused at all the new information they're getting. But usually they're willing and eager to learn.

-The "Careless Parent" customer: Now, when I say careless, I don't mean that they are terrible parents, I could not pass that judgement. While we love having kids come in our stores, we do not appreciate gigantic messes being made if they can be avoided. These customers are the ones who allow their children to run around the store and tear things off shelves and destroy displays. There's not much you can do, other than ask the kids to behave, if the parent is not willing to reign their child in.

-The "I Can Buy It On The Internet" customer: The title is self explanatory. These people are slightly obnoxious when being dealt with. If you would rather buy it on the Internet, why are you in the store in the first place?

-The "Time-Crunched" or "Personal Schedule" customer: These are the ones who expect the workers to drop everything they are doing to help them, even if there are people who have been waiting longer than they have and have priority. They fail to understand it's a "first come, first serve" sort of deal. Personally, I understand they may be in a hurry and that being crunched for time is not a fun thing, but being rude to the people trying to help you is not going to make the process move quicker and will not motivate the worker to help you in the future. If you ever find yourself in this position, please have patience and try to look at it from the retailer's perspective.

-"The Customer Is Always Right" customer: To dispel this dubious lie that seems to have spread throughout the world: No, the customer is not always right. These customers are the ones who are so absolutely convinced that they know more about a product or process than the experts attempting to help them do, that they are stubborn and unwilling to admit they may be wrong and end up screwing up whatever they are attempting to do. We all have a little bit of this kind of customer inside of us, but it's not productive to have this part of ourselves take over all our interactions.

All of these customers have at least one thing in common: the store they are shopping at. Within these stores is a system of employees who are doing their very best in order to ensure the shoppers have a pleasant experience and receive all the help they need. In some cases, this may take longer than others, but in the end it will be worth the time spent.

A note to you, my readers (if any of you exist): When you're in a store and the line is moving slowly, or all the employees are busy and it seems you'll never be helped, or the employees seem frazzled, or something of another nature occurs, please remember that working with the public is an extremely difficult task that not everyone can manage. As customers, please attempt to make the process go as easily as possible and try to have a positive and open attitude about the experience. Remember, retail clerks are people too, they have feelings and don't enjoy negativity being constantly thrown their way.

And so, we have reached the end of my fourth (if not somewhat delayed) post.
Do you work in retail? Have any crazy stories about customers? Comment them below.
And as always, thank you for reading. -M

2Cellos + "Oh Captain! My Captain!"

Greetings Literary Comrades (and I mean that in the most Capitalist way possible),

          Tonight, as I listen to the serendipitous recordings of 2Cellos, I was inspired to sit down and write down my third entry.
          A few days ago, I was pondering upon what to write about for my third entry, and I came up short on ideas. I then took to the internet, as the vast population of people do nowadays, and began to search for a poem or short story to converse with you all about. I searched high and low, within authors including Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickinson, and a few other authors, both known and not. Then I happened upon, not directly a poem or a story, but a memory. I thought back to times when the country seemed to united under a single idea or shared opinion, and then it struck me: death. No, I didn't die, obviously, but I remembered after the beloved actor Robin Williams passed away that my Facebook newsfeed was filled with quotes of "Oh Captain! My Captain!" I, being the occasional nonsensical dimwit I am, never thought that it could be more than just a quote from a movie I hadn't seen, but then I remembered it was a quote from Dead Poets Society. POETS. I then proceeded accordingly to Google this quote and stumbled upon the Walt Whitman poem from which the movie had quoted. Upon reading the piece, I found myself on the very ship, staring horrified at my captain's dead body lying there on the deck of the seafaring vessel, smelling the salty sea air mingled with a sense of foreboding. Not literally, of course, but after sailing back home and into my own mind, I thought to myself, "Now THAT is a splendidly authored work!" The imagery was so very descriptive that I could actually place myself in the shoes of the one speaking in the piece. How marvelous it would be to be so trained and have a talent so honed that you could instantly transport a person into a whole new dimension of thought. It reminded me, too, of why I am majoring in English as a college undergraduate student. It also inspired me to watch Dead Poets Society, a deed I have yet to complete.
          If you have not read the magnificent work of "Oh Captain! My Captain!" by Walt Whitman, here is your chance:

"O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

                         But O heart! heart! heart!

                            O the bleeding drops of red,

                               Where on the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

"O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

                         Here Captain! dear father!

                            This arm beneath your head!

                               It is some dream that on the deck,

                                 You’ve fallen cold and dead.

"My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

                            But I with mournful tread,

                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead."

            Isn't that simply lovely? Of course, it bears quite an unfortunate end, but a necessary end indeed. I found the transition of the tone throughout the piece to be interesting. In the first and second stanzas, the speaker seems to be hopeful that he was wrong about the captain's death, but alas, finds he was very correct indeed. By the third stanza, the speaker has fully realized the severity of what has happened, and treads heavier because of his grief.

Do you have a poem or work of literature you would like me to write on? Leave a comment with a suggestion! Thank you for reading once again. -M

Pinterest + Patient Love

Top of the morning to you, my friends!

Last night, after the birth of this blog, I couldn't sleep. I found myself in a haze of thoughts, most seeming to not pertain to my life in any manner. What did I do? I accessed my Pinterest board of writing prompts and soon fluttered into a world entirely of my own creation.
This writing prompt told me to "write a scene beginning with the words 'He waited for her'". This I did. Well, it may not be a scene, but it is something. Perhaps it lands within the classification of poetry. I'm not sure, so I leave that up to you, my darling readers. Below I have written out my Pinterest-inspired work. Beware, you may find yourself in a more solemn mood after reading it.
--
Patient Love
--
He waited for her.
Suitcase in hand, plane ticket in his breast pocket.
He stands in the drizzling rain and just waits.
Never once does he falter in his faith that she will come. They had been planning this trip for a long time.
His cellphone rings but he doesn't answer it, he doesn't even hear it.
Twenty minutes pass. She wasn't there.
Still he stood.
Thirty minutes. No sign of her.
Never does he waver.
Forty five minutes.
He looks around at the people rushing past him, he hears the sirens.
An hour has passed.
"Things have changed around here," he thinks to himself, "and still she hasn't come."
He takes the ticket out of his pocket and reads the date and time of a flight they had missed 20 years ago.
He sets down the empty suitcase.
He stands on that corner every year at the same time, trying to relive last time he was truly happy.
When she was his and he never had to share her with anyone or anything.
And now he shares her, but only with a coffin and a tombstone bearing her name.
But still he waits for her.
--

Leave me a comment or two about what you think of my work. Thank you for reading it. -M

Pilot

Good Evening fanciful inquirers,
On this, the evening of March 4th of 2015, I am beginning a new way of presenting my material. What material, you ask? Well, I fancy myself a bit of a writer, a consumer of literature, and other such things, but this material will most likely cover a vast number of things.
Within this blog, you may find some of my personally favored works. I may comment on them, or I may choose to let you, my audience, interpret pieces for yourself.
Within this blog, you may find things I myself have written, or perhaps things written long ago by minds much more brilliant than my own.
Within this blog, you may also find commentaries upon happenings in my own life, however biased they may be. After being told by my math teacher during my first semester of college that "my life is the stuff novels are made of," I began to find that it is indeed a tragedy for a writer to ignore their own life, and to not account for events in their literary potential.
Within this blog, you will find a great number of conflicting theories, whether within my own mind or within a written work. Do not worry about such things, for they will most likely never be settled, so worrying is indeed a trivial pursuit.
Within this blog, I am not promising to write in an annual method, nor do I plan to ever attempt such a silly thing. I am not one to sit down and write when inspiration is far from my grasp.
However, one thing I can promise, dear reader, is that these will not be predictable quarters.
So, shall we begin? Tallyho, Allons-y, Geronimo! On we go!
-M