Update
--Last Edited: August 26, 2009 11:20 PM
Hey guys! Guess what? It's almost my 18th birthday! :D Yup, I'll finally be a legal citizen of the US (oh joy, right?), and then shortly after I'll be headed off to UC Santa Barbara!
You might have noticed the new photography collection I've been putting up recently here and at DeviantArt. I figured I couldn't rightly be a jack of all trades without such a key trade in the repertoire. Now I am a photographer and a model, as well as a writer, poet, painter, drawer, sculptor, seamstress, singer, musician, and AWESOME. Okay, maybe not the last one, but not a bad list eh? (^,~) I appreciate any and all comments, advice, critiques, or whatever you got to offer :3
I think I might have a new idea for a novel this year for NaNoWriMo, assuming college life doesn't interfere too much. I haven't written fiction in a while though, which is bothersome to me :/ Nevertheless, I'm determined to give it a shot anyways. It'll involve robots :D So far that's all I got though XD
Family and life in general's been frustrating of late, so sorry if I sound a little on edge. I'll get over it and I'm fine :3
Well, that's all I got.
Peace!
Story of an Owlie (In Brief)
Well, not much to say about me really.
I'm eighteen years old, a freshman in college at UC Santa Barbara. I'm a writer, poet, philosopher, and sometime (fan)artist and pianist, and that seems to be going pretty well so far :) My ego is generally nonexistent, though, so don't take my word for it. I love fantasy and have recently realized how much I absolutely fansqueal for science fiction, which has also been working well. I've written over 60 poems in the past four years give-or-take, and have started (but not completed) two novels for NaNoWriMo and attempted to write my first graphic novel for Script Frenzy in joint with one of my best friends, Amanda, this past April. Currently I'm about to set out on my third novelling endeavor, so wish me luck! (Psst! You can find more info at my blog!
http://niteowlnest.blogspot.com/)
I am not religious in the least. I don't say I'm an atheist because atheists are assholes, and no one likes an asshole, but I have sort of my own brand of "religion" that is neither religious nor the lack thereof. I'm also openly a lesbian and currently single. However, I'd love to get in a debate with you sometime about either topic--just give me a side and I'm raring to go if you are >:D
As far as music and literature go, I'm not too picky about music as long as it's even mildly tasteful (thus ruling out most rap and hip-hop, despite my particular penchant for Three 6 Mafia). Literature I'm a hardass about. It comes with the label. Stephen King, Isaac Asimov, and Robert Frost are amazing, to name a meager privileged few.
Interesting tidbit #1: I would go straight for older men in an instant, including, but not limited to, Anthony Hopkins, Sean Connery, Denzel Washington, Leonard Nimoy, and William Shatner. Then again, who wouldn't? Those men are "teh sex"--so I'm told the proper phrase is ;)
Interesting tidbit #2: I am dubbed a Grammar Nazi, and with good reason. Do. Not. Tempt. Me.
Interesting tidbit #3: I am a compulsive slasher of men, and damn proud. With all the subtle buttsex going on, how can you not be? :P
...and that's about me in a nutshell. Enjoy my house and don't forget to comment/messag
e me sometime (^,^)
Peace.
Recent Writings
Find 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.
Poetry:
(Written 7/20/2009)
The Boxers
What are we
But boxers in a ring,
Dancing around in some obscene ritual,
Bouncing left and right,
Avoiding each others' throws,
Taunting one another into a corner,
Preparing for the knock out.
Hop left for the jab,
Right for the hook,
Low blows that don't count
But pain us just as much.
And in the end we'll see through blood
And glare and think our dirty thoughts,
But somewhere in the middle
We fall against each other,
Clinging for dear sweet life in the midst of it all,
Before we both retreat
And start the dance again.
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.
Links
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 semi-new poetry and art)
And also these awesome roleplays I'm currently in:
= Lily Tivet
= Defeat of the Duelist
= The 12/Group 3.0
(^,^)
34°37.998'N 118°5.9999'W