Dancing fool

So, there was a blues dancing festival in town this weekend. Four days of social dancing, lessons, and more social dancing. I am exhausted. I don't think I was in bed until 5. This-morning-5-am. Latest I've ever stayed up. But goodness. It was so much fun, and included dancing with a Nathan-Fillion-look-alike (I need a Shamwow to mop up the drool here). I'll write a decent post later, I promise!

I know it will be alright, but I need you to tell me anyway

And some other random thoughts/very short writings:

Excuse the grammar on this first one, those of you who are better at Spanish than me:

Es un día obscuro; llueve. Las nubes están bajas, y los cielos lloran. Es como yo; mi espíritu está bajo. Pero no es como yo, porque yo quiero llorar, pero no puedo. Los cielos están afortunados.

Translation:

It is a dark day; it rains. The clouds are low, and the skies weep. It is like me; my spirit is low. But it is not like me, because I want to cry, but I cannot. The skies are lucky.


I don't like people taking pictures of me. If it's an official photo, as in a 'gather-around-and-smile' thing, I don't really care. But informal, unannounced candid shots? I hate them. I am the one who's supposed to be on the edges, watching the world through a camera lense.

I haven't eaten a real meal today. And I probably won't until around 4. Argh. But I am out of food. I'll probably hit Target and Whole Foods, because I need food/materials from both.

I'm running on six hours of sleep. It's not enough.

I'm trying to find a balance of simplicity in my writings - spare and clean, yet not lacking the necessary details.

I'm clearly about to fall asleep. Oy. Hasta luego.

Because I'm too tired to think of a coherent paragraph.

Twitter-style!

-Ultimate Frisbee is the sport of champions.

- Note to self : Although Ultimate is the best sport ever, one should not stick one's hand in the way of a Frisbee traveling seventy miles an hour.

- Yes, there is a nice red welt. Possibly a bruise tomorrow.

- Perhaps donating both ice packs when I'm going to be sore isn't the best idea. Too late now.

- 16 credit hours + track + non-relationship = stressed-out blogger who hasn't written a word of fiction in over a month.

- Noise is irritating at this point.

- Shrieking girls are irritating at this point.

- I hate technical writing with a passion.

- I am so confused.

- Can I just go to sleep for a month?

- My head hurts, my nose is raw, and my heart hurts too.

Yes. Edge is having a rough month. Clearly. She's talking about herself in third person. I just want all this stuff to go one way or another and be resolved! Argh! For some reason, I was thinking about this a couple days ago - I haven't screamed in over five years, if not more. I'm just not a screamer, and there hasn't been a need.

I want to go to the balcony (again) and just scream out my frustration for a while.

My Tired Thoughts on a Few Songs

Beyonce's song has proper grammar and Nickleback's does not. "If I Were A Boy" uses the subjunctive mood. "If Today Was Your Last Day" uses the more popular, but technically incorrect indicative mood. Yes, I think too much.



So What by P!nk is a rough song. This is where you're going to possibly laugh and call me crazy, but I think behind the song is someone who is hurting, but determined not to show it, and have a devil-may-car attitude to disguise pain. She says 'So what', but I feel more behind that. I'm not sure what else to say, but this is what I think every time I hear the song.



And then last night, I was tired physically (aka - got hit by a train or played four hours of Ultimate Frisbee), and emotionally, and this song hit me hard. I've never actually heard the song, but someone recited the lyrics a few weeks ago. The first part I don't care as much for, but the second half...I hide my romantic side behind sarcasm, but this coaxes it out.

Manly Man (By Bradley Hathaway)

I don't want my long hair
pretty green eyes with
no I do not have on mascara
Eyelashes
Skinny figure
Undersized T-shirt
Hip
Shake
Too
Much
when I walk
Confuse anybody...
I am a Manly Man!
Within this sissy frame
obviously rib laden chest
lies a heart
that beats
to the drum of a
Native American ritual dancing
wildness
It pumps an evercascading supply of untamedness
that a herd of wild mustangs have yet to grasp.
If danger lurks about, I will seek it out.
If adventure abounds, there I will be found.
If a damsel be in distress
I will show her who is best.
I am a Manly Man!
Because I don't flush
and I leave the lid up.
I drive a nineteen
eighty-eight
Ford Pick-up truck.
Girls don't break up with me
I break up with them first!
(except the last time, it didn't really work out like that )
I don't shave the hair on my face
(because I still can't grow facial hair yet,but when I can
I won't.)
Because beards are tough.
I fart
burp
spit
when I want
Not caring who's nearby
Disrespect my momma
and I will punch you in the eye!
I am a Manly Man!
Or am I?
I tell my guy friends that I love them.
And sometimes,sometimes, I even hug them.
No because I'm not gay. But because I love em'.
When I watched Bambi
I cried.
When my mema gets mad
I still run and hide.
Like David I want to be a man after God's own heart.
I'm not there yet, but I'm past the start.
And when people talk
I try to listen
a spirit of compassion
That's my vision.
Surely I am a Manly Man
I want to be loved
and have love
and give Love.
(and not just that romantic kind either)
Although I am looking for that beauty
Not helpless
But wants to be rescued. [Best. Line. Ever.]
The Damsel in distress
Man
Woman
Myth
True.
I will fight for her.
Climb the highest tower for her
Love her.
Share with her.
Delight in her.
Be her warrior.
Her protector.
She will be my crown
and I will be hers.
My Masculinity will be passed down
and affirmed to my sons.
Each of my daughters will know they are lovely
and deserving of authentic romance.
Society tells me all day long
That I have defined manhood completely wrong.
But you ask any honest man and he will agree
You ask any honest woman and she too will see
That I am a Manly Man!

Hasta luego...

Must Write!

This will be a very short post, but I have to write some fiction. It's been two weeks. I'm not even sure what I'm going to write about yet, so don't expect a masterpiece (and no, Judi, this is not the promised story involving music and colors. Hang tight, 'kay?) I'd love to write about my crazy long run on Sunday, and how ticked off one of my teammates got at the guy who suggested this particular park to run at, but I'd have to do a lot of editing. Language issues and all. Don't get me wrong on this, but it was really funny. Of course, I also tripped and ate dust the day before, so maybe my brain was just rattled...

Alright, I"ve got an idea. This is total off-the-top-of-the-head, inspired by The Iliad. I finished book 8 this morning. (And no, this is not brought on by the Percy Jackson books).

My opponent brought down his sword with what seemed a casual turn of his wrist. His blade hit mine with enough force to clack my teeth together. I cursed myself for not anticipating the blow and took a half-step back, tightening my grip. Our blades met again, and my arms felt like they were being pulled from their sockets.

I couldn't decide exactly what about this man worried me so much - aside from the fact he was in a group ambushing a small pack of travelers. And that there was something about him physically that seemed...almost superhuman. Even without a helmet, he stood just enough taller than the rest. His shoulders filled armor inches wider than even my father's friend Argos. It was unnatural. By nature I was one of the best swordsmen - swordspersons - in Greece, and my father theorized that Artemis blessed me in my toddling days. Never had I met one who could put so much force into a stroke.

Sunlight flashed against his sword, the bronze throwing specks of light into my eyes. I continued parrying, dodging. He was a giant, yes, and I was a girl masquerading as a boy, but I was by nature quicker. At one thrust, however, I could not dodge, and shoved my shield arm forward. Pain exploded in my arm as the blow knocked me backwards three steps. Teeth gritted, I scanned the ground near his feet. A rock the size of my fist laid on the sun-baked ground a few feet behind my opponent. If I could trick him into stepping backwards onto it, I might have the advantage for a few crucial moments.

"Yah!" I shouted and swung my blade at his head.

A startled expression broke across his sun-tanned face, and he skipped backwards with surprising agility. His left heel came down on the rock, and he stumbled, shield swinging sideways.

With a grunt, I slashed sideways. I hated killing, but I would hate to be killed more.

Somehow, with some impossible maneuver, he twisted at the last moment, regaining his balance. The blade bit into his arm instead of plunging into his side. At the least his sword arm was injured, giving me a hope of survival. I pulled back a few paces, glancing at the top of my sword. The other metallic rings of swords faded in my ears, the thuds, shouts, wind in my ears died. I thought I would see crimson tipping my sword.

Over the bronze of my sword, golden liquid gleamed, flecks of silver glinting in the sun, droplets sliding toward the hilt.

It fell together. A man stronger than all the rest. An unnatural fighter. Golden blood.

Ichor. Blood of the gods.

It could not have been a breath later that I looked up, eyes wide. The word was a whisper. "Ares."

The edges of his lips curved up, smooth as a new archer's bow. No doubt he was pleased with my paralysis, my awe, my fear. With no warning change in his posture, he attacked.

Three strokes later my wrist snapped. A choked sound of pain split my lips as pain rushed through my right arm. My sword clanged against the ground. I bent for it, knowing I had no time.

A blur of glimmering, flashing bronze, and a wall of metal slammed into my chest, driving me backwards into the rock wall. A spur of jagged rock dug into my skull, and light flared in my eyes for an instant. The edge of his shield dug into the base of my neck. I prayed to Pallas Athena and to Artemis, to act in these last few moments, to perhaps spare my life.

The goddesses had other business than to interfere with this pitiful mortal's affairs, because Athena did not appear with her shield, nor did an arrow of Artemis the Huntress strike. A sharp edge pricked under my chin, and I forced my eyes open. I would not die as a coward.

"That would be Lord Ares to you, boy," said the god of war.

I repressed a last impudent comment. Dying quickly and cleanly appealed than some of the more grisly deaths Ares was famed for. All I wanted to know was why, why me, why an immortal deigned to meet swords with me.

I did not ask, because something slammed into my temple, and the dark mists of unconsciousness swirled over my eyes.

Insomniac?

Maybe not. The thing is, I'm tired, but I don't want to sleep. I do, in a way...am I just rambling here? Something in me doesn't want to surrender the day yet. *siiighs*. It's been a long week. Highs. Naps. Lows. Naps. Laundry. Study. The Iliad. A Presocratic reader.

Right, the Iliad. It's the next assignment for one of my classes. I wasn't sure what to expect - I've read Rick Riordan's modern-day take on the Greek gods/goddesses, so I do have a background, in a way :-) (If you haven't read the Percy Jackson books, get to a library. Or a bookstore. They aren't super-high reading level, but they are so fun.) The Iliad is interesting in that it's Greek poetry translated into English. It has a completely different feel to it; alien, almost, but beautiful. In sometimes a violent sort of way.

I am so sore. It hasn't been an easy week on the cross-country team. At least tomorrow is an easy run, but it's followed by weight lifting, which does something to nix the 'easy' part. Ugh. That's another 6 am wakeup. How about 9? or 10? What a lovely thought. As it is, I'll be squeezing in a 45 min nap between Spanish IV and Shakespeare (grooooan! Julius Caesar is a favorite play, but we're covering a play a week...) If I skip lunch, I could make it a bit over an hour nap, but food is just one of those things runners do poorly without. *passes out, nailing forehead against Norton's Shakespeare Anthology*

Hmm...tempting, except the book's already a headache.

My eyelids keep sinking, and I'm typing this sentence blind. Not too hard, actually. In a strange way, I can picture the screen and the words dancing across the page as I type them into existence.

Wow. I am tired. As I drifted toward sleep last night, I started playing with a vague concept I've had for a while, about music and instruments and the rainbow. If I get the time, and the sleep, there will be a forthcoming story. Maybe not even a short - probably a wee bit longer.

Buenas noches!