o n e { DAY , you`ll know - WE'RE MEN OF ( s n o w ) ~

"Men of Snow"

- Ingrid Michaelson -

The sidewalk crackled and freckled with blemishes of its years in existence resembled her countenance. It wore scars of its endeavors, marks from those who wished to seal their existences in permanence on a square of cinder which had finally, many decades prior, cemented. Words were scribbled with a finger, one would suppose, and a peace sign by another anonymity.

She wore the same marks of existence. Hers were subcutaneous: sub-muscular, even.

She wore them on heart. She wore them on her soul.

The pace of the world did not frighten her. She went on her own, without an aide, without a guide, for a walk around the block. The days when she could climb, fevered, into a vehicle and rush off to a destination were long since gone. Her heart would race just as intensely when she was panicking then as it did when she had finished descending the stairs now.

A step at a time, she would make her way to the end of the street. Her mind wandered, her eyes looking over things she observed nearly every other day for this designated, afternoon walk. There, by the stop sign letting onto a larger road, her daughter first crossed the street holding her hand. On the other side of the street, which she walked on with grass surrounding the only isolated home on in the neighborhood, was where her daughter's daughter first rode her bicycle without training wheels.

This street was where she had her first fight with her first boyfriend. This street was where she came and moved back into when she had her first divorce. This street was the same street that she moved to when she had her second child. 

This street was where she would witness her descendants doing the same.

Her hair bathed in the sun. Her locks were cropped to her shoulders. She normally would wear a hat, but with peppered tresses, she had nothing to hide: the fistfuls of locks she once brushed regularly were now naturally curled and wiry. They brandished her innate, tacit wisdom gained over the years.

Around the corner where memories her daughter and granddaughter called to her gleefully she turned.

Down the shorter length of the block, adjacent to the entrance ramp onto a highway, she could see one of her neighbors taking a walk as well.

Her eyes, misty with weariness of eternal perspective, smiled brighter than the muscles in her face could match. There was life in her that sang, something that never would leave her.

He hobbled forth, his pace equally as inhibited. Arthritis panged his entire left side, where a myriad of other happenstances rocked his once-sturdy stature. Physique at peak, the man would dive from over twenty feet in the air to twist and contort his body, sliding into the vast pool beneath without so much as a splash.

His smile was crooked with the dentures that chattered in his jaws.

He removed his hat, a stylish, plaid beret that was tanned like his skin, and waved it surreptitiously. It wasn't until he gasped for another breath from the energy he exerted, slowing his pace to speak with the woman, that he realized that he promised her something the day before. He told her he'd give her her early birthday present.

She insisted that he needn't to give any gifts: her birthday wasn't for another six months.

They blubbered their knowings between one another, allaying and alleviating their minds from the topic.

With a break from their hug and a playful wink, he promised her it would be something she wouldn't forget.

Yet, here he was, without the gift.

She could very well see the sudden disappointment which etched over his face. She kept her spirits high, however: it was a nice day and seeing her dear friend would not put a damper on it in the slightest. In fact, he was much too early for her birthday.

They stopped before the massive house of their late friend. He gestured for her to start on the path to the steps first with chivalrous disposition. She graced him with a grateful hand on his shoulder, bringing him with her as always.

At the stoop, they turned around, and settled down, one after the other. They watched the cars whiz by: mothers tugging their litter around; teenagers swerving through lanes or onto the ramp; and a rarity of grown men without purpose carved into their eyes. There were a few kind souls who looked out the window to find the pair hunched over on their knees, just watching the grass grow with peaceful, content smiles on their faces.

This caused the drivers to look back to the road, an unspoken radiance soon festering their bodies with crackles of warmth.

A bird and its company chirped from a tree down the way by the corner the male had come from. She looked up, her eyes brightened by the sun. He looked over at her, and then to the tree where the birds were settled.

They then consequently focused on a massive cloud which danced its way lethargically across the sky. It was painted funny with brushes of clouds that were all different forms and lengths and sizes and intimacy. Each one stamped upon the cerulean of the ocean's reflection was another they would not recognize the day after.

The man rubbed his bald head with his free hand, cane resting between his legs.

A voice hollered from around the corner. It was young, familiar to them both. A smile graced the man's face before it had spread to the woman's. A six-year-old, with both hands carrying something bigger than his torso, sprinted across the grass, rather than taking the pavement like his grandfather had done. He rushed up, heart pumping and eyes scintillating, and presented the present on the side of his predecessor.

The tiny hands clung to the gift, as though it was his duty to guard it with his life. The man, larger and with a deeper voice merely laughed. They were there, seated on the stoop, and the little trooper came to the rescue. They were very much so different in their approaches to doing so, despite the similar trademarks in their countenances - which reinforced their kinship greatly. With a brief hug between the men - little and grown - the boy then deposited the gift in his grandfather's hands, while his bright, blue eyes inspected the woman alongside him. A shier glimpse of the boy presented itself for a moment.

The woman openly invited him to hug, which heralded the priceless smile any child can wholly give a family friend. In he rushed, knocking a bit of wind from the woman, who laughed with the occurrence. She made remarks of his growth since the last time she saw him - a few weeks ago - and admired the shirt he wore, which was his present, favorite superhero. In a feat of his dedication, the boy rushed back around the corner to his mother's calling, invisible cape flowing after him.

He called something to his grandfather, to which the man replied with a roar of laughter. The woman accompanied him, but clasped her hands together and held them over her knees. She admired the family and watched them grow like her own had.

The man turned to his long-time friend, with a wheezy chuckle, and offered it in his shaking hands.

His sleeves were sliding down to his wrists after the rush of controlled chaos that just bewildered them both. His shoes shimmered in the rays of sunshine at the glorious spring day.

After a bashful and impartial decline of the gift, and his insisting, the woman finally accepted it. He then insisted she open it immediately, before him at that moment, due to their inability to promise to see one another at the time it should be opened.

The box was bigger than her lap. Her skirt draped over her legs, grazing slightly against the pebble-stoned stairs they sat upon. Adjusting the box so that she could open it, with a tug and a blink, the lavender ribbon uncurled. The touches to the present were magnificent, and though it was vast in capacity, its weight did not strain nor exhaust her physical abilities. She set down the box before them both and peeled open the lid, as though it held the secrets of the world.

In it, was his grandfather's bowler's hat, her aunt's scarlet scarf, her father's pipe, three buttons from his worn army jacket, two synthetic branches from the community's holiday trees, and an artificial, wax carrot from the cornucopia. Beneath this heap of stuff she believed to be reminiscent of their youthful years, there was something something else: something she had glued into one of her photo albums.

From this, her misty eyes let beads of tears swell at the corners of her eyes.

And for the first time since she kissed her late husband good night, she laughed and cried at the same time.

http://polarbearstale.blogspot.com/2011/12/snowmen-now-melted.html

"SHORT"-STYLED ENTRY INSPIRED BY A PROJECT A COUPLE OF AMAZING FELLOWS ARE WORKING ON. FIND IT HERE: [ JESS'S TUMBLR ] FOLLOW HER AS WELL.

<3 ~ Monty.
=]

{ [ # a world so hateful some would rather die than be who they are .

"I don't know."

One of my friend's favorite songs by Macklemore, "Same Love," tells a story a lot of people are tuning into. Thanks to Jelani for being such an awesome individual and helping me grow as an individual both in confidence and charisma within the duration, less than a year, I've known you. Fun fact: I would surmise that it's an artist's obligation to incorporate a reflection of society - distorted, vivid, impartial or completely deflective - into their trade.

It's society that shapes our environments, our environments that shape us, and, ultimately, it is us who shape society. There's always some sort of cyclical fashion that we get lost in. Fortunately, there are currents and guides along the way to send us to the top of the tornado, at the highest above all the turmoil where we can see the ends of the earth, where we can see everything beneath our feet in its smallest exactness.

There are currents and guides along the way to pull us up from spiraling into the darkness of whatever abyss you may be trying your best to surface from.

Words are colorful. As some sort of writer, I should be more familiar with this, though I just think of writing as writing: I've been doing it for a while, so it's grown nothing more than another facet of my life I'd love to continue as often as I can. Writing anything and everything is obviously not my only trade nor am I alone in the interest. There are more people on this earth than I will ever meet in my life, surely, and there are even more things that connect each and every one of us, somehow: our interests, our favorite musicians, colors, meals and cultures, our physical attributes - the works.

Somehow, some way, there's always an underlining message in every song I've heard. While it may be superficial to half the world, the other half may get all the messages on so much as a conveyer belt of lyrics, each meaning, each connotation of every word panning before their very eyes. Of course, I've always gravitated towards music that sounds good to me. "Good" is merely subjective, because there's been an objective "goodness" that everyone has always disputed. Henceforth, people made their own definitions.


Eventually, there will be no set denotation for "good," but the connotation will be more... uniform, I suppose.

My definition incorporates a tier of the human-ethics concept of being born, innately "good." People argue back and forth over it, and there are always philosophers to reference - like Immaneul Kant [ one of my personal favorites ] - who think they know the best and the most over everyone else in the world. I suppose a bit of superiority garners credibility with a track record of being right more often than not. Just generally stating that seems to be the case with the human ego; I don't really have any prime examples. Not that it would matter much to this entry's purpose.

I wanted to share this song, for some reason. I put it on when I got home because a friend, who I got the chance to cross paths with thanks to a Rachel Miller cover contest way back when, asked me a favor. It had to do with this song.

"...of songs that REALLY hit home, and that's one."

- Jesse Magill

I think it's unnatural. To be able to write something so beautiful, with such frankness that grips the listener and stirs up some sort of reaction. It is natural, however, for whatever reaction is produced to vary on a grand spectrum in relation to other people: I might like this song more than another individual, but my friend Jelani probably loves this song so much more than I do. It's the way we work, I suppose.

Macklemore's lyrics are enjoyable, relate-able in a sense. I mean, his other songs are obviously to enjoy to make his own music, because "Same Love" does not have the same message as "Thrift Shop" or "Like the Ceiling Can't Hold Us," if you're familiar with his hits coming out. But the capacity to write with such depth, or even graze the surface of a matter in so many places, shows his musical vastness. Of course, there are people who would much rather another artist to Macklemore, but this isn't meant to serve as a popularity, public service announcement.

Instead, it is to serve as a vessel, as I aim to do with all of my entries. Well, most of my entries, I believe.

There are some lines you'll always go back to and think about in a song. It may be the chorus, it might be the line with words you're uncomfortable with, it might not even be until the end of the song, if it's any different. Whatever the case, a song's written from someone's mind, and what's really cool about that, to me at least, is that these are all words we know and may use every day, but it just takes a bit of rearranging and a light of consciousness to direct it. And there are always songs that tackle social issues, songs that cocoon the festering and blossoming and brooding experiences of love, or songs that reach out to similarly searching souls, lost in the overwhelming experience of life.

The one line from this that gave me goosebumps when I heard it, when I actually heard it in the song instead of just listening to the song and the voices, is the same line that it is the title of this entry.

The third verse:

"We press play, don't press pause
Progress, march on
With the veil over our eyes
We turn our back on the cause
Till the day that my uncles can be united by law
When kids are walking 'round the hallway plagued by pain in their heart A world so hateful some would rather die than be who they are
And a certificate on paper isn't gonna solve it all
But it's a damn good place to start
No law is gonna change us
We have to change us
Whatever God you believe in
We come from the same one
Strip away the fear
Underneath it's all the same love
About time that we raised up"

This is something we all know of, no matter how sheltered, ignorant you'd like to be, or well-versed with the existence of it is, but suicide claims too many lives. I have yet to meet an individual who has claimed their life null, void, and worthless yet enough to end it. That I am partially grateful for, however, I'd trade everything I have in the world to save someone; not for the sensation of selflessness, nor to brandish any boasting moments to the entire world.

I've always, thoroughly believed that a person's life is much more important than they could ever imagine.

I've had my moments of self-discovery, including turbulence and just as much relative stress as the next individual. It was never in my nature to pursue that ends to the means, especially when I have so many things to take care of, so many people to take care of, so many people to remind that they are loved. It was never in my mind to guide any individual out of the cycle and send them out into the nothingness that is uncontrolled, chaotic, and with all abandon.

It does well to break loose from the regiment, from control and have an epiphany of inner power that helps regulate one's life, though there are so many things that are bigger than us. There was a quote floating around:

"Suicide is the only thing
you can control in your life.
And that's why it's considered a sin.
Because you're beating God
at his own game".
         -S.H

It's not the only thing one can control in their life. There's never just one thing a human being, with such an intricate internal composition and a mind that houses a soul, with such varied capabilities and is riddled with a subjective, unique history that segments their lives in possibilities that are just as unfathomable as the depths of the ocean, can control in his or her life. Words are normally filtered through a conscience; actions are usually contemplated without impulses; happiness is usually enriched or diminished by the environments in which an individual hosts his or her self.

And Life was never meant to be a game for us or whatever higher power instilled us onto the land, into these concoctions of muscle, bone, flesh, and fluids. It's the best we can understand it as, because we'd so much rather "have a conversation about Pokemon than of something serious," as my friend Calin once berated me for. But what amazes me even more is that we have the capacity to dream up lands and worlds and existences that are beyond our wildest dreams. While we may be on the track for the future, there's always some kind of repercussions if we don't follow up and make everything the best we can make it for the time being: if everyone half-asses everything, without any determination or everyone else's best interests in mind, the structure will not support its upper tiers.

It will collapse, just because Gravity exists longer than we do.

The reality we rarely coincide with is daunting. The world is rough, the world is crude and callous. It's cold and unearthly, leaving us with scars littered around our open chests and with a gaping space where our conscience once resided. There are a select few, leaders and followers of their generations all the same, who are not in peak shape to exist, but merely exist. They share laughs, they share cries, they share words of wisdom, and they share an arm or two, whatever they can give for those who need it.

They share the love they think they, themselves, deserve.

This entry reminds me of my friend Nicole Pastore and her organization, You Are Loved. For regular readers, you're probably more than familiar with it all. For people who've rarely looked at these and stomached a resolve to sit through them all, song looping and all, feel free to inspect it. You can find it linked in the image of the book at the top  of this entry, or even on the Facebook page. A shameless plug, I suppose you can consider this.

The song does not touch just one thing. It does not only talk of homosexuality or only of religion or only of Macklemore's accounts, whether they are fictional or non-fictional. It is borderline impressive into wondrously bewildering how someone can write and say things so clearly, so bluntly with a grace and amble air about his words. Rhythms and pitches in the voice, fluctuations in emphasis and emotion accompanying it all, the song just leaves whoever is the audience member with their own reaction.

It's unfortunate to see that, with as many people are in this world, the number of individuals who dislike this video is so high - not in comparison, but accumulative in its own right. Music isn't always about who can make the best song for the summer, or who can repeat the chorus the most and make it the catchiest. And by no means am I intending to protect Macklemore and his work, because he's an artist as are the rest of them. It's just impressive because, from my perspective, these lines paint an image that no other individual would be able to replicate.

It's of the world with the sun at a different angle: an image that you would never be able to capture the same exact way, no matter what.

"Love is patient
Love is kind
Love is patient
Love is kind

Love is patient
Love is kind
Love is patient
Love is kind"

 

<3 ~ Monty.

=]

now my body ~ F E E L S ; (( moving )) through OCEANS .

Crystal Fighters - "Wave"

Sometimes you don't know where things begin, and sometimes you're completely unaware of where they're going to end. Sometimes you lose track of time, sometimes you track time so precisely that you lose track of detail. Sometimes detail's so overwhelming that you never think anything's changed, that anything's the same.

Sometimes, just sometimes, you can feel... out.

Sometimes loneliness is okay.

Sometimes loneliness hurts.

Sometimes your body tells you secrets, and sometimes you tell secrets to your body. Sometimes those secrets hurt. Sometimes they heal.

Sometimes the world around is too much; sometimes it's exactly what you need.

Sometimes the ambiguity of a stranger leads you down both paths which reach the same destination.

Sometimes you learn things that strengthen you. Sometimes you learn things that weaken other people.

Sometimes you are put in a position of compromising. Sometimes you are put in a position of moral challenge.

Sometimes your feelings are wrenched; sometimes they are wrung lifeless, barren, frugal. 

Sometimes you become so feeble, your mind becomes its sharpest.

Sometimes, when Life kicks your face to the dirt, you find that missing component to the equation that you could never solve when you were too busy looking in the clouds for it.

Sometimes, just sometimes, you figure that things couldn't get any worse.

Sometimes, when they do, you forget that you wake up every morning.

Sometimes those new mornings are new beginnings.

Sometimes it leaves your body like a breath. Sometimes it weighs down like water in your lungs. Sometimes it crushes your head like a wave. Sometimes it settles like Death.

Sometimes depth of everything is misconceived for depth of nothingness.

Sometimes nothingness is more than everything.

Sometimes nothing leads to nowhere, and sometimes everything leads to nowhere.

Sometimes everything leads to where you need to be, and sometimes nothing leads to where you need to be.

Some times will come and go. Some times will be held in memories. Some times will never come because you're expecting them. Some times will never tell you when they're happening.

Some times will show you that sometimes you may not know where they lead, but they get you where you need to be.

<3 ~ Monty.
=]

T o (( the recent GRADUATE ;

I've got a present for you all, even if you didn't graduate. First of all, congrats. Whether it's graduating from middle school, high school, undergraduate, or graduate school, congradulations. You've made it this far and now you've got miles and miles before you to pace yourself and make your impact on this world.

I've got a friend who did this speech thing at her school. She's quite the character, and you can tell it by her speech. She gave me permission to mention it, and though it's no blog-day entry, it's still important to share.

Reminds me of when I graduated. Oh man.

Fantastic job, Ink. I'm honored to know such an intelligent, wise, and awesome individual. Keep true to yourself and continue to share the knowledge you possess with everyone around you. I am grateful you share it with me.

Clara Lepard - "Do What You Love"
East Lansing High School

<3 ~ Monty.
=]