Who knows, really?

I feel like I've jipped everyone (including myself) out of a few days worth of writing. So here I am again, with a few things I wrote then/thought about writing then.

A Pitiful Answer

"Tell me . . . why is life worth living when you feel like this?"

I do not
can not
know how you feel.
So maybe I am disqualified from answering that query.

Then again...
I am in a different emotional room then you
(emotional plane, if you prefer)
and maybe that makes is so I CAN answer you back.

The Love of your parents
-since before you were born.

The Love of your sister
-more then an obligation.

My love, and the love of
all your friends.

There are people
I have not even met
that love you,
relatives,
neighbors.

The love of random strangers
passed on Love,
{re}gifted Love,
hand-me-down love
from your Lover.
And His Love
is the Reason
for everything.

Most certainly for your life.

And as someone said at MAW,
or maybe it was in a hymn
(and keep in mind, this is the loosest of paraphrases)
this life is a gift from God
it is not yours to take.

And as you said before:
He has a plan for you.
You must not leave before it's through.
(It's gonna be soooo cool.)

But most of all
I won't let you.

And that
is that.

The Best Thing About PE

Is
after playing sharks and minnow
or football
and standing still
with my hand to my chest
and feeling
my heart
beat.

The Dance

I am only just learning to dance.
For so long I have clinged to my mother's skirts
and my father's arm.

I am just learning to dance solo
mixing ballet
and Jewish circle dancing
with whatever the heck that is.

And here I am:
feeling beautiful as I twirl.

But there is so much improvisation:
how in the world do people do this in pairs?

Yet I long for a partner
as all must.

But I am really don't think I can handle
a waltz
just yet.


....But I still want too.

4 days left

R.S.V.P.

My reply to Shel Silverstein's Invitation

I am a dreamer.
I wish and I lie.

I have quite a few hopes
but thousands more prayers.

I buy
baked beans
pinto beans
navy beans
blue beans
garbanzo beans
and green beans.

But I never got a ladder stalk out of any of them.

I still might;
I have a tendency
to throw them out the window
when life is particularly boring.

I pretend I'm a poet.
I pretend I'm a friend.
I pretend God is my all.
I pretend to know what I'm doing.
Is that enough pretending for you?
I can list more.

My I warm my hands by your fire?
I'll watch you with the flax-
you with your golden-story fingers-
Will you give me spinning wheel lessons?

6 & 5 days left

Interrogating Indigo

"Create a situation in which a character must defend, explain, or justify his actions."
-Writer's Digest

For Janelle and Intisar

The room is dark. One bright light shines into the face of a seventeen year old boy: the Character. He sits at a desk and squints up at the Author. The Author paces in front of the desk, her trench coat flapping ominously.

"Please state your name for the record," the Author's voice growl's out. The Author's face is shadowed by her fedora.

"Indigo Zinzan," the character replies.

A typewriter clacks from behind a mirror.

"Mr. Zinzan," the Author has a bit of a cough in her voice. "Were you on your Grandmother's bus, sometime in November?"

"I was on my Grandmother's bus for most of November," the Character's distinct vowel sounds betray his country of origin- the United Kingdom of Great Britain.

"Don't get smart with me, young man," the Author said, dropping the proverbial hammer on his head.

"OW!" the Character cursed a bit, rubbing his head. "Was that really necessary?"

The Author swung to face Indigo, slamming her fists down onto the table in front of the Character. "Was it really necessary for you to choke the living daylights out of Willow Aloysia-Everglean?"

The Character gulped. "She was hurting my little sister."

"That doesn't mean that you have to torture her." The Author said, resuming her pacing. "Just protecting your sister would have been enough."

The Character seemed to be getting over his nervousness regarding the Author. "That doesn't mean you have to bring me into a clique noir setting and interrogate me! And stop calling me "the Character". I have a name. I just stated it for the record. Surely you remember it." The seventeen year old boy was standing up, fists clenched, shouting at the Author.

The Author stopped pacing. She took off her fedora and looked straight into the boy's face. It was difficult for Indigo to be mad while looking straight into the face of a girl younger then he. True, she had an awful lot of power, but ever since the Character's half sister had come into his life, he had become very protective of younger girls.

"All you have to do," the Author said gently, "is ask nicely."

The Character sighed. "Would you please call me Indigo instead of 'the Character'?"

"Of course," the Author said. "Now, why do you get so angry all the time?"

"I don't know," Indigo said. He smiled at the use of his first name. "I... um. Well. I get angry a lot. It always seems to have a reason, but I didn't use to be so angry."

"How did you get this way?" the Author asked, doffing her hat.

"Mmmrrphmmph, mmmrph, mmmmeruph!" Indigo said. "Why can't I tell you?"

"Because," the Author explained, still pacing. "I have to censor you. I can't let people knowing all the plot twists before they read the book."

"You don't know yet, do you?" Indigo asked accusingly. "You don't know why I get angry all the time, so you are making me mumble under the pretense of not giving away spoilers."

"Ummmm," the Author said evasively.

"WEELLLLL?!" Indigo demanded.

The Author pulled out her pen (gel number 2, fine, standard black) and scrawled a few words on his head. Indigo disappeared, sent back to the rambling first draft slammed out in November.

"Feww," the Author wiped some sweat off her upper lip. "That was close." She took off her trench coat and fedora, revealing jeans and an out-of season Christmas sweater. The sixteen year old girl skipped out of the dark room, and back into the messy, colorful room where she was, amung other things, writing a novel.