This One Goes Out to All My Harry Potter Fans

Tonight, we say goodbye to our childhoods, some of the best friends we’ve ever had, characters that were more real than fictional, the best teachers in the world, role models and for some of us, the one thing that could always bring us happiness.At some point, it was no longer a story. Somewhere among the four thousand plus words and seven books, it all became real. Harry Potter has given me everything. For a girl who lives through the lives of fictional characters and wants nothing more but to live anything but normaly, finding that scrawny boy with the lightning scar was life changing.

We have learned to be brave, intelligent, hard-working, ambitious. We have realized that you can never judge a book by its bespectacled, mysterious, small, bushy-haired, carefree cover. Forgiveness is vital, that we shouldn’t dwell on dreams and forget to live, and that we are always stronger together than apart. We know that it’s levio-SUH, not levio-SAH, that even the smallest person can be a hero, and that our expectations for schools are now impossibly high. Red, blue, green and yellow aren’t just colors and to always keep a bezoar in our pockets, just in case. We know to never pity the dead, to sacrifice ourselves before others, to never doubt the power of a library and to have faith. Above all, that the most important thing we have in this world is love. Because our love will keep this story alive. It doesn’t all end here, because we won’t let it. We aren’t merely a fandom. We’re a group of people who have been touched by the greatest story ever told, and therein our hope lies.

In the words of the incomparable JK Rowling, the woman who has changed our lives forever, “The stories we love best do live in us forever, so whether you come back by page or by the big screen, Hogwarts will always be there to welcome you home.”

Thank you, Harry. For everything

Calf Pasture

I am eight, and my family

Is on the pier at
The beach. I see the swells

Of Long Island Sound, the

Seagulls emerging from air

And land and sea in a raucous

Chorus. I smell the air wafting

From the cold seawater, and the

Distinctive must of the pier’s old

Weatherbeaten wood. My dad is

Pointing out the islands, and

Grandma is correcting him with

Kind amusement and telling us

Of her own adventures at

Different beaches, in different

Times. And her white glasses

Mimic her white hair as she

Laughs, her purple-weined hand

Clutching a cane, and I

Smile now, in the remembering,

Even though she won’t swim

With us ever again.

Regarding Your Jeans

I tried to stop myself, I really did try

but the water was so inviting

and the air was so humid

and I knew they were your jeans

that you had bought just

two weeks ago from our

favorite store

and I think most of the

saltwater smell will come out

in the wash. I’m sorry.

Next time

you should jump in with me.

Tuesday

Tuesday evening, around 5:45 pm:

I’m screwing up.

No, really; you don’t understand how bad this is.

My brain is about to implode, collapse in on itself like

One of those fancy chocolates from a box someone gave you on a holiday--

That one chocolate that you expect to have a hard center

But instead smashes under slight pressure,

Saccharine filling oozing out in pain and defeat,

The fragile shell surrounding my volatile psyche breaking apart

Into splinters of cocoa butter and shriveled efforts curling up into the fetal position.

I’m waiting for this to be over.

My voice teacher told me the other day,

“Keep the energy spinning, let it vibrate.”

Well, my energy right now is spinning

Like the engine of my mother’s car,

Eating itself to death because of a cap left carelessly unscrewed--

My energy is dying, along with most of my desire to do anything but what is required from me

But I can’t even do That much,

So all my self-sabotaging thoughts converge on me,

Circling me like we’re about to start some cheesy tango

In an overdramatic, nationally televised dance competition

And they intend to dance me till these fingers hurt,

Till the pressure building up in my temples explodes and my

Thoughts and fears drip down all over long black stage curtains and fellow musicians,

The ones who know what they’re doing,

The ones who have no reason to feel scrutinized or embarrassed or ashamed.

I want to reach higher levels of musical ability, but how can I do that when

Exhaustion and frustration butter the rungs of the ladder going up to the little control panel where I turn on the “mental processing” switch?

My fingers and my brain have ceased communications,

Old friends who suddenly stop talking over some trivial disagreement

And cannot seem to resolve their tiff until years later when it’s too late to matter anymore.

I can no longer sing through my fingers;

They cannot speak intelligently, with all their information locked away

In a coat closet corner of my brain.

They do not traverse the black hills and ivory valleys like the frequent fliers they are;

These travellers somehow develop vertigo,

And I have little to no control over where they decide to wander off to in their

Drunken, unthinking stupor.

The mental haze settles in the back of my eyes,

Rendering them next to useless in trying to read or fake the next tricky chord changes.

What is wrong with me? Why didn’t I do this

Yesterday, last weekend, ages ago?

I’m a disappointment to myself,

To the people around me who thought we would sound better but

Aren’t sure why we don’t.

My prior arrogance embarrasses me, makes me regretful.

I just need to get through this moment, and the next two hours of moments like this one.

Maybe just once,

I’ll play something decently enough

So I don’t stay completely grim for the whole rehearsal.

But then I just have to rely on muscle memory and luck.

I just need to pull myself through the swamp reeds

To the promised land of water and shelter on the other side of the river.

Falling Off the Horse/Not what I wanted to Say

You question me, and all of a sudden

Without my consent

Without my desire my voice

Slips out of my control

And the words I’m shouting

In my head--

Strong words, confident words--

Are trapped behind my voicebox like...

Like fumbling actors looking in vain

For their lines, like...

Like tall men awkwardly trying to

Tip-toe through a labyrinth

Full of broken glass; all of them

Hesitant, no matter how much

They wish to save

The play or run

Through the maze with

Heads held high and proud

And so even though I struggle and

Fight to keep the frightened horses

In check, the reins

Slip, the rider cries out and falls, and I,

Left on the ground far from my

Destination and without a horse, am

Left with no control

No control! None at all!

And that frustration alone,

More than anything else,

Forces the words stumblingly,

Haltingly out from where they are

Clenched between my teeth

In an ugly drip-drip of words

Slowly calcifying in brittle stalactite spears,

Easily crushed in the careless vibrations of your

Voice, telling me louder, louder! I can’t hear you!

Crushed to the marrow-yellow dust of my weak words

And even more mortifying I can hear the

Agonizing onerous pace of my

Struggling speech, dragged out to tortuously

Slow proportions-- god, a child of two could

Express herself better than I at

This moment-- that makes you relent,

Because you think

I’m going to cry.

Thank You For All You've Been

I guess i never fully appreciated
The person that you were
I was to caught up
In a silly love triangle
Between
You
Me
And my heart
My stupid heart
That made me fall
So madly in love with you
Even though
Deep down
I knew it couldn't last forever
But now that your gone
I realized how lucky i was
To have been able
To call you mine
And I want to thank you
For the special memories
That might cause me
Heartache for a while
But will end up
Meaning a lot to me
In the future

Prices Payed

Now that you are gone
There is nothing more
For me to live for
You were everything to me
You weren't just a friend
You were something more
Someone I truly loved
And now your gone
Just like that
And the memories
I have of you
Haunt me like a waking dream
Silence suffocates me
As I lie away at night
Waiting for the tears
That won't come
I let you into my heart
To freely
And now I play the price
For loving you to much

Truth & Lies

This is all so
Confusing
Crazy
Heavy-heartening
One minute
You seem to love me
The next
You don't
I wish you would tell me
What was bothering you
Or at least the truth
Don't lie to me
I hate that
I can see right through you
I can read you
Like an open book
I know there is something
You're not telling me
Something that would put
All the pieces
Of the puzzle together
Then at last
I could rest in peace
And happiness
And joy
I won't hate you
Or think bad of you
If you just tell me the truth
You're crushing me
Suffocating me
Making my love for you
Fade
So please
If you love me
Don't lie
Just tell me the truth

Galway County, Wisconsin

[A short story for my creative writing class. Any criticism appreciated.]

Horace sat alone at the kitchen table, reading his newest volume of Irish history. He didn’t notice that his mug of hot cider had melted the thin plastic of the tablecloth again. Silently turning the pages, Horace lost himself in the mysteries of the old country. By degrees, he lost all sense of self. He forgot he was a sixty-three year old man in Wisconsin; in his mind he was a strong young man in Ireland. He forgot he worked in a sad gray office building all day; in his mind he was a historical researcher for National Geographic, being paid to explore the weird old ruins on Ireland’s rugged west coast, near the choppy shores of the North Atlantic.

Holding the heavy book, Horace fell into a half-sleep. Suddenly, he wasn’t pretending anymore—he truly believed he was an explorer in Ireland. In his half-conscious stupor, Horace went over to the closet to put on some hiking boots. Opening the door, he hardly blinked as various odds and ends clattered out into the hall behind him. He put on two mismatching hiking boots and a bright yellow raincoat over his rumpled plaid shirt. With a gray fedora on his graying head and an old umbrella in hand, he ventured forth.

Outside, it was snowing for about the fortieth time that winter. “How curious! Snow, at this time of year!” Horace shouted madly to himself, his gray mustache positively quivering with excitement. “And in the county Galway! Won’t Penny be surprised to hear this!” He twirled dizzily in the wind.

Horace meandered across the gritty sand toward the shoreline of Lake Michigan. “The sea! The sea! I must be in Galway Bay!” he cried, swaying a bit in the gale. His poor umbrella struggled valiantly, suddenly turning inside out. “Oysters, I must dig for oysters!” Horace poked rather limply at the snowy sand with the broken umbrella.

A Coast Guard officer was patrolling the perimeter of the shore. She frowned. What was this man doing out here, in the cold? Surely he’d heard the news of the imminent blizzard. “Hey, what are you doing?” she called out.

“Digging for oysters!” Horace cried, triumphantly displaying his catch.

The officer looked at Horace’s fist dubiously. It was clutching a bunch of rocks, dead plant matter, and sand. “Oh really?” She reached for the walkie-talkie on her hip.

Suddenly, Horace lurched over, snatching the device. “An artifact!” he crowed. “Good work, little lady! But this is only the beginning. We have so much left to find!” And with that, he turned around abruptly and galloped into the frigid water, now swirling with snow.

The officer kicked off her heavy boots and dove in after him. One way or another, Horace landed face-up on the Wisconsin beach. Soon enough he was in a screaming ambulance, tearing down the slippery streets.

He gasped desperately for breath. He came out of his trance. Someone was pushing on his ribcage. His lungs were on fire.

Horace frowned, struggling to focus on the hazy figures swarming above him in the dry, warm darkness. “Where am I?” he asked feebly.

The officer stopped giving CPR and smirked. “County Galway Hospital.”

My Refuge

The chair is black, only the smallest semblance of a back. The pedals are three brassy, slightly cool metal levers; my right foot on the far right, my left foot on far left—I leave the center one on its own. The keys are familiar wood, somewhat glossy, smudgy in places but still comfortable. Gold lettering names some obscure manufacturer from Baltimore. Above, 264 little pegs—three for each of the 88 keys—hold wire strings taut for worn hammers to tap or pound. The lid, with its faintly peeling black, paint, is closed.

My fingers and my brain think together, one leaving off where the other begins. I find some sense of peace here that I cannot find elsewhere. My problems are reduced to coordination of my hands, producing the next chord in a pleasing way, deciding whether high notes or low octaves are better, dynamics. And none these decisions is constricting, inalterable: I can take back anything, play it again, experiment with different melodies and harmonies. I can play the same two F sharps with my left hand for half an hour, and no one will care, because I’m alone and listening.

Sometimes, when I am done with an idea, I like to play a nice ending chord and hold down the sustain pedal. I can take my fingers off the keys and listen to the notes fade into nothingness. A minute, two minutes can go by before I can no longer detect the notes.

i dont know...

I want to laugh...

I want to scream!

That feeling inside me...

Like I'm bursting at the seams!

Imploding, and choking...

hoping and wishing...

stopping.

and sitting.

and breathing.

and then...

realization.

the feelings, the stress.

i am alive.

but im proud of this.

you

did you know?

that sometimes i'll think about you,

the way you talk,

that sense of humor,

but also,

how you care about so much.

except...

im not the person that'll wait on your calls...

i get pissed if you forget,

but i'll forget too.

i sometimes just think that we can be the best of friends,

it'll be great, i'll be happy...

but then i remember this.

i remember that feeling in my stomach,

where i know i never want to be anywhere else...

that knowledge that for once...

my head is a gooey mess.

i remember the fact...

that i love you as such a good friend,

but when i see you... every once and a while...

i wish that you knew what i meant.

untitled

its weird...

when i mention this. i freeze.

i want to say don't laugh. i'll cry.

don't mention it, don't worry.

but i know. i want to hear this...

i want to know what people think,

i want verification, some safety net...

but that can't just happen.

i want to hear, "this imagery is perfect!"

or "that flows just right...."

but critique is life.

if i learn. i grow.

so i just have to keep telling people,

that this is me.

MY bloggggg

i'm copying maddie and i want you ppl to comment on my blog 2 cuz i like NVR get any comments anymore.

It's http://dostuffwritestuffbynoodle.blogspot.com/

Thank You!
Noodle

my blogg

hey please check out my blog! its got a lot of the stuff i put on here, but it has moree :) please comment on my poems, and idkkk. the link is there, and the other blog links i have are good too :)

http://maddie-live-laugh-love-write.blogspot.com/

Tobias Fulner and the Art of Persuasion

(Disclaimer: this is a farce, and a poorly written one at that. Do you think I can save it in any form? This was written for my self-imposed Tobias Fulner writing challenge. Ladies, I'm waiting for your entries!)

Tobias Fulner was a very young man who believed in the power of the art of persuasion. Every day he would lift his head off of the pillow, stretch, yawn, and persuade himself that the world needed him to get up. And so he did.

Tobias was not a good student in the classical sense of things. He did not like to do homework or yardwork or woodwork or anything he deemed "immoral", a word he used so often it appeared to have less to do with morals than the principle of the thing. His parents deemed him an unruly child and made up their minds to send him to military school.

Little to their knowledge, Tobias, being a believer in the power of the art of persuasion, soon surpassed their wildest dreams and had quickly become an integral part of the Premier's inner circle of military advisors. Unfortunately for his country, Tobias knew nothing of military strategy. All he had was a gift for persuasion and a spunky, lopsided sort of charm.

Therefore, to the chagrin of all the other advisors, the country entered a war in a far corner of the globe. However, this war did not last very long, as Mr. Fulner quickly persuaded the other side to simply give up.

The next day, there was a ticker-tape parade in celebration of the heroic Tobias Fulner. All the children stood outside of their gloomy apartments and cheered for this bemused, funny-looking man who had a way with children and convincing adults to do things.

Later, spurred by the attentions of the local media, Tobias grew interested in the prospect of power, based on things other than persuasion. He had grown tired of continuously having to convince other people to do things. So, he decided one morning as he persuaded himself to get out of bed, he would do his last big job of persuasion. He would persuade the country to replace him as their leader.

So he got in front of the television cameras and the bloggers' screens and made his case. It was quite persuasive, and soon people began to question why he wasn't their leader in the first place. So the whole country mutinied and installed Premier Fulner. Actually, it wasn't a real mutiny per se, as the original premier was persuaded to give up his post too.

Satisfied, Tobias sank into a deep slumber in the cushy bed of the Premier's Palace, which had been built for him by an especially sympathetic crew of architects and construction workers. He woke up automatically the next morning when rays of sunshine tickled his retinas. But, having given up persuasion forever, he could not convince himself to get out of bed.

Days passed, with no signs of Premier Fulner reaching the outside world. Tobias was bedridden. The population became uneasy. They were unused to functioning without a leader for such a long period of time. On the twelfth day of the Premier's self-imposed exile, the people revolted. They installed a new Premier in his place.

The men from the moving company moved Fulner's bed out of the palace, into a small clearing in the nearby woods. Still Tobias would not stir. As it was, Tobias Fulner could not convince himself to do anything anymore. As is usual with these sorts of things, Tobias Fulner died.

At his funeral, no one quite knew what to say. He was buried under a large statue of a charging horse, in a plot he had persuaded the cemetery owner to give to him for free.

My Hearts Desires

What do you call this feeling
The feeling of pure joy
Whenever I'm near you
The feeling that a part of me is missing
Whenever I'm not
How my heart seems to race
At the sound of your name
And all i ever think about
Is you and your perfect smile
What do you call this feeling
I think it's called love

The Neverending Friendship

The simple things
That made me smile
And appreciate the person you were
Even more
A hug when I needed one
Encouragement throughout it all
Our friendship is like a rainbow:
Red like an apple, sweet to the core.
Orange, like an eternal flame, never dying out.
Yellow like the sun that brightens the day.
Green like a plant that keeps on growing.
Blue like the water that is so pure.
Purple like a flower that is ready to bloom.
It may stop growing
Or keep flowering
But it all depends on how hard it works to stay alive
I hope we continue to nurture the flower
That is our beautiful friendship
So that, like the eternal flame
It will last forever

that feeling...

that feeling...

when everything explodes.

when your eyes well up,

and your throat closes.

that feeling....

where you want to whisper their name.

when you need a friend,

and a hug more than anything.

that feeling....

when you know they've won.

when you can feel your life slipping,

and it slides right out of your hands

that feeling...

when you know it went wrong.

when you feel like losing hope,

and you know it's all done.

that feeling.

falling

i wanted to fall,

to finally let myself feel that bliss.

but once i fell,

i realized, you see me as just this.

you see me as a listener.

i great friend, a good person.

but what if i told you,

that i fell... hard.

that i fell for the first time,

that i let myself do this.

what would you say?

if you knew that you were my first REAL crush.

what would you say?

if you knew that i never let myself fall

what would you say?

if i said i wished for anything but this.