Friday, July 30, 2010

Fog and Pirates. Arrr.

When it’s foggy and windy, it feels like you’re in the ocean. You can smell the sea water, and you can feel the churning of the waves. You know that even after the fog goes away, there will probably be a storm, and it's exciting. You long to hear the wind howl, and those very howls bring you back to a time when you didn’t exist, when there were wooden ships and storms constantly meeting as they fought to cross the sea. You’re a sailor, or a pirate, or even just another passenger, trying to sooth your crying baby as everything, including you, is tossed around by the wind and waves. Or you’re a lighthouse keeper, squinting out at the viciousness of the saltwater with the help of the lighthouse’s slight glow. You wonder who it will grab this time.

Sometimes when I think of fog, I think of pirate ships, lost forever in the middle of the blurry whiteness of the churning.

I thought I saw a pirate ship when I was six. I was at the beach-- Cold Storage, I think, in Dennis-- and it was nighttime. It was clear and the sky was starry and dark. And far out, where the night sky met the water, there was a ship. It was big, but didn’t look like a ferry or anything like that. It didn’t look modern. I was sure that it must be the old and wooden kind pirates always captained. Squinting, I was sure that I could make out the knobby, freshly swabbed rails and steering wheel. I didn’t see a flag with a skull and cross bones, but I could explain that. I figured that pirates were probably simply less likely to fly it at night, when everything’s so much harder to see. No; they would fly it when everyone could see it, and wonder at it and be afraid. Either that, or it’s just the sort of thing the pirates don’t want you to see until it’s all too late.

I wondered if it was a ghost ship or the kind where everyone’s still alive. Both seemed pretty likely.

I squinted out to the sea, trying to see if I could make out any moving shapes or shadows. It seemed like a good way to see if the ships’ crew was living or not. Basically, my theory went that if the figures were sort of see-through and had long, floaty tails, then they were probably ghosts. If they were solid, without long, floaty tails, and really looked like people, then chances were that they were probably still alive. Both ideas were equally exciting.

The waves were tiny, but they still crashed against the shore with little white bubbles of surf. I imagined that they were much bigger the farther you get out to sea, and they jostled and threw the pirate ship around. The entire crew would have to be on deck, swabbing it and steering and climbing the tall yellowing ropes that blew in the wind. They would shout things about the, “starboard side!” and, “Iceberg at four o’clock!” even though this was Cape Cod in the summertime, so ice was an impossibility. And, of course, throughout it all there would be plenty of, “arrrs,” and, “ahoy maties,” mixed in, and they all would sing, “yo ho, yo ho; it’s a pirate’s life for me,” in the perfect pirate fashion. I decided that all pirates must love being pirates, because otherwise they wouldn’t sing that song.

I also decided that the fact that it was a clear night must have been an anomaly for the pirates. Pirates are supposed to love cloudy, foggy nights, because it makes it easier for them to sneak up on other ships and take their treasure.

Fog's different for everyone else. It mystifies the world. It makes everything new and makes you helpless. It’s beautifully thrilling, but to anyone who isn’t a pirate or playing hide-and-go-seek, the fog is not so much an ally. When the fog is so thick that you have only the slightest guess as to what’s in front of you, you have to rely on your deepest instincts to get you home*. You have to rely on your deepest instincts to get you anywhere at all.

It’s easy to imagine the fog as a giant body of spirits or ghosts. Fog is aimless and almost seems sad. It almost seems alive, too, as it flows on and blocks everything, but still not quite. It just goes through the motions, not really caring about the outcome. When fog comes, it doesn’t mean to hide everything. It doesn’t mean to create fun and laughter, either. Just as a ghost ship is forced to wonder forever, no matter what, the fog doesn’t stop. It just goes.

*Of course, when you have my sense of direction, it really doesn't make that much of a difference.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

I'm, like, a mad good artist.

So, you guys all know that I write. And whether or not you think I can write well is totally up to you. My amazingness* as an artist, however, is undeniable. I'm like Picasso, Monet, Manet, and all of the Ninja Turtles combined.

Le Proof:

"WTF Harry Potter," by Ashley DeFelice, rendered in Sharpie on notebook paper. 2010.

I mean, just look at that! Look his eyes! Doesn't his deep, wild despair just jump out at you? You can totally tell that he's upset for at least two reasons. One's that his parents are dead, and another's because he only has four fingers on each hand. Voldie's fault, I'm sure.

The only flaw is that Harry should have been saying, "mum," instead of, "mom." My bad.

*I almost wrote that as amazthingness, and then I almost wrote almost as alsomost. There are no explanations, really. Except that I can't spell.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Oh, Twilight

Me, freshman year of college. I don't remember why I took that picture. I think I was just really bored. Really, ridiculously, exceptionally bored.

Pretty much everything about Twilight amuses me. The fangirls (and, oh my God, Twilight Moms) can be hysterical. And then the people who absolutely despise Twilight and everything it stands for. You know, they're almost as bad.

Back in high school, I adored Twilight. Really. I might have read the series (remember, this was back when there were only three books) twice in one week, I loved it so much. I would read them during school, when I knew I wouldn't get caught. I mostly did that in Latin, because compared to the other kids in that class (oh, we really had some good times), I was totally an angel and I could get away with anything. I mean, there was a reason I got the Latin award twice in a row, and seeing as my translation technique was, "look up the word in the latin dictionary and guess where it might possibly fit into the sentence," that reason had nothing to do with either talent or any particular effort.

But, yeah, I really really really really really liked Twilight. And I liked Edward even more.

Honestly, I think it must be wired in teenage girls' brains to totally obsess over things. Because there were a lot of us who wanted Edward Cullen.

Around the time that the fourth book came out, I started treating Twilight more like a ridiculous joke. I mean, if any of you have read Breaking Dawn, you'll know how beautifully terrible it is. And sketchy. And pedophile-y. And skeevy. But, you know, you can't stop reading it, because you just have to know what completely insane thing will happen next. Like that, it's perfect in its awfulness. But, really, Breaking Dawn is the only book out the four that I would definitely (unconditionally and irrevocably) call bad literature. Not that I actually see anything wrong with reading bad literature. Bad writing can be incredibly fun, and I think that's what people forget. Reading is supposed to be enjoyable, and if anyone finds Twilight enjoyable for any reason in the world, then there is nothing wrong with that.


Middle aged moms crushing on Taylor Lautner and Robert Pattinson? That's really almost unforgivably sketchy. (I'm thinking that maybe they're thinking that if it's okay for a seventeen year old werewolf to fall in love with a rapidly aging creepy demon baby thing, it's okay for them to fall in love with the actor playing said werewolf. It's the only explanation, and even it only works if the moms in question have absolutely no grip on anything nearing reality. Or if they're Stephenie Meyer.)

And I don't know how many of you have heard about "Cullenism," the religion of Twilight, but it's wicked weird. And cult-like. I mean, "Cullenites," don't live in a commune or anything, but I'm pretty sure that's mostly because eleven year olds are the only ones who literally worship Twilight, and they still have to live with their parents. I hope they're the only ones who do, at least. If you want to read more about it, its website is: And it's fantastic.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

It's my last day of being a teenager and I get to clean toilets. Fun.

At my work, a different employee everyday gets the amazingly amazing task of cleaning the bathrooms. So, naturally, I get to do it today, the day before I turn old. I'm totally stoked, in case you couldn't tell.

I mean, cleaning everything sucks on any day. It's awful, disgusting, and just torture, really. But the day before your 20th birthday is just mean. You're supposed to get to have fun, because it's pretty much your last day of being young.

My only hope is that Crazy Lady* will remember my birthday, but also realize that I'm (at least) not working on my birthday and bring me an awesome present. That would make today a little better, yeah?

*See that linky thing I just did? I figured it out in, like, a second. Maybe even less. Yeah, I can do technology. Once in a while. (Just 'once' would work, too, probably.)

Thursday, July 22, 2010

The Haunted House Mystery (or, I still couldn't write)

I have another terrible story from my childhood. This one's from third grade, when I was eight. I'm sure you guys are all wicked stoked.

Oh, and for some reason, I'm reading Emily as having a really masculine voice. Like, one of a forty year old man. Or Patrick from Sponge Bob. I really don't know.


"Once there was a little girl named Polly who was 5, and a little girl named Emily who was 8. One morning they went to an old haunted house. But they didn't know it was haunted. Then, they saw a ghost. They ran to their older sister, Lily, who was 15. She said it used to be a school house, but it had fallen down on the kids so it was haunted. Polly got really scared and cried. But Emily said "I will go to the haunted house."

Soon Emily came back and said "I think I found something. Will you come with me?" Polly said no, but Lily made her go. So Polly went with Lily and Emily. They looked and looked and while they were looking they saw some ghosts. Some were boys and some were girls. But all of the ghosts were bad. Emily and Polly screamed. It was a very scary sight.

Just then Polly yelled, "I found something." Emily and Polly found a secret passageway. All of a sudden there was a bump. Emily asked, "Did you feel that bump?" "Yes" replied Polly. "What made that bump?" asked Emily. All day they looked for clues. But then, suddenly, they knew. The ghosts had made that bump."

Friday, July 16, 2010

I was like a prodigy, but not.

I found something amazing. The first story I ever wrote. I'd have had to have been about six or so. It's fantastic. And terribly, terribly awful. It makes my life. It's called, "When the Shark Attacked," and as a special (in more ways than one) treat, I'm going to post it here.

Oh, and just so you know, I was a really really really really really bad speller. And I'm so not correcting any of it. Also, I thought that 12:00 PM was midnight. (I wasn't that smart, either.) Anyhoo, the story:

"It was a drak naith on The Ship. It was 12:00 PM. I saw a grav in The watter. I saw a whale. It was big. It was eating some fish. I was so homgre but I do not like fish. I did eat cookys. I love cookys. Then I saw a shak. The shark aet the ship. The End."

Personally, I'm a big fan of the plot twists. It starts out all moody; it's wicked dark and probably stormy, and we'd just sailed over an underwater graveyard complete with headstones, which you'd be able to see had you the illustrations I do. Then, suddenly, the mood shifts with the idea of cookies. But just when you think I'm going to enjoy my chocolatey treat, the entire boat gets eaten by a shark. I mean, that's some intense shit. Even Jaws could only eat one person at a time, and she didn't eat actual boats.

I haven't been able to beat that plot since.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Twelve Days

I'm going to be twenty in twelve days.

No. I'm gonna be old in twelve days

(Not cool, World. I really don't appreciate how you're trying to snatch my childhood away like that. It's mean. And I thought we were friends.)

I'm going to be halfway to forty. A quarter to eighty. And I'm guessing I won't be ready to turn those ages, either, when the time comes.

I wish there were a way to go back and forth in your life. One day, you could choose to be eight years old and totally carefree. The next day, you could skip to being twenty-something with a baby. Then, you could go back to being nineteen and laughing. You could even visit the best days again and again. When you finally got tired of it all, you could choose to die, but not before you were ready. Not before you got hundreds of years of happiness in. And because you would know the future, you wouldn't have to worry about everything working out in the end. I mean, even if it happened that nothing worked out, that nothing was fine and you just end up miserable and wrinkled, you could choose to never become that. You could choose to never visit the awful ages. You could just hang out in the times when you were happy, over and over again.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

The Wall

Okay, guys, I actually need some help with this. I can't figure out what to do with the first stanza of this poem. Part of me just wants to get rid of it, but I'm worried that then the poem won't make any sense. Or maybe it would since its title is The Wall? So, basically, I want you to tell me what you think. But don't limit yourself to just talking about that. I want all the advice I can get.*


The bubblegum paint’s on top, pealed
away telephone wire lines-- remember, the same color as the ball--
(look how high it can go
up up up over the house
almost to the sun)

On the bottom, the scribbles
are almost gone.
Scraps of names and voices collect
ripped and faded waiting
to be puzzled back together before
they’re blown away. Hoping.
Floorboards are sad company.

The hydrangea wallpaper behind it all
is the one the most awake.
You can see it in the corner, by the bits of wrinkled
scratch marks. That tiny speck of yellow dimness splatter.
Soon, soon, it knows
it will be back to before.
Cerulean petals and glimmering in the flashes of
once again.


*Update: I got rid of the first stanza. I'll post it in the comment section, though, incase anyone else wants to see it or something.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

If Edward were a bug instead of a vampire, every twelve year old girl would want to be me.

And they'd start falling in love with flies. It would be strange.

Anyway, what I mean to say in this post is that I've been a really bad writer lately, but I do have an excuse. I always do. I'm never at fault, got that? Okay, good:

I do most of my thinking when I go on walks, but I haven't been able to go on many lately. It has just been so, so, so, so hot. Like, record breaking hot. Plus a gazillion percent humidity. And there are bugs.

Oh my God, there are bugs.

Ok, actually, I lied. Sort of. There aren't that many. They just all fucking want me. I can go on a walk, and there will be one, then two, then three, then four bugs following me, hanging out with my face and shoulders. And I'll be smacking at them, only I keep missing. Actually, I'm not trying to kill them at all because then I'll have bug guts all over me, and that's gross. And I'd feel bad. I'm just wanting them to leave me alone. So, I'm flailing my arms at them, and the cars passing are probably all staring at me, wondering why no one is helping that poor girl having that awful seizure.

One time, I tried running from them. I was walking in Indian Lands, and I was pretty much the only one there. Except for the bugs. They were positively stalking me. (Just like Edward). Honestly, it felt like there were bugs landing on my head from above. That could have just been me going crazy, but I can picture it-- these four or five bugs taking turns to have their way with me. Two or so hovering around my head to keep me busy, while another one jumps from a tree on to my hair and another flies up to the tree for his turn. Evil little bitches.

So, I decided that maybe I could outrun them. And that they'd forget all about me and go play in the water or (please) fly into a spider's web. Yeah. So, I was running along in my sun dress with no bugs around, and I was starting to feel pretty good about life. Actually, I was feeling so good that I decided it'd be safe to stop running. Well, you know, as soon as I started walking at a reasonable pace, the bugs flew at me again. Fucking shit. So, cursing them, I started running again. Any guesses as to what happened next?

Hint: I'm an exceptionally graceful person.

Okay. I tripped over a root and fell. And got an enormous bruise that's still there even though this was two weeks ago. And while I was helpless on the ground, the bugs were triumphantly buzzing around my face.

It was awful.


Do you like the title? Yeah, me too. (I'm ignoring you if you don't. So there.) (Yeah, I showed them.)

I was getting tired of my old layout, so I changed mine to something a teeny bit more original. I like it, but I'm not too sure about the color scheme. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but it doesn't really feel like me. Too... khaki. I'm so not a khaki person. The trouble is that other than the colors, the background in the background is definitely me. I love the pattern. I just can't figure out how to change its color scheme. You might have noticed in my other posts, but I tend to be just a tiny bit helpless with technology.

(My laptop is working, though. I didn't mention it earlier because I didn't want to jinx it. Actually, I probably just jinxed myself right now. Shiittttt.)

So, um, any help?