Friday, 9 September 2011

we're all just survivors of our own personalities.

This photo made me look far more tan than I actually am, so I tried editing it...
Didn't work that well.  Eh.  You all know I'm pale xD

Mama Mantis!

outfit details:
sequined dress - Kohl's
shirtdress (worn as a jacket-type-thing) - thrifted
socks - Kohl's
combat boots - Target
felt hat - Target
belt - Kohl's

(photos taken by my mum - we were waiting for my brother's gosh-darn baseball practice to end!)

Today is Friday, and also my mum and dad's 22nd wedding anniversary!  I think that's pretty impressive.  To celebrate, we went out to dinner at our favourite sushi restaurant (and I had all the avocado rolls to myself... mmm, the pluses of being the only vegetarian in my family!).  My dad gave my mum a gorgeous silver, turquoise, and coral necklace, and my mum bought him... chocolate.  Well, she does know the way to that man's heart, haha!

We also saw praying mantises laying eggs on the sign post you can see in some of the photos!  It was really neat to see praying mantis egg-laying, but also sad because they die soon after.  Poor mantises :(

I'm ridiculously exhausted right now - it's been go go go all day, with no time to rest!  But I did want to share with you a poem I wrote today at the writing group I attend every Friday.  Is that a something that's allowed?  I don't really know or care.  If you're interested, read on!  The poem can also be found at:

a failed exercise in stoicism.

her mind is a blur,
possibly because her hands
are unsteady, with their slight
shaking, and
her eyes don’t focus as well as they should
in the early morning.

she repeats the same sayings,
the same jokes, like mantras, so as to
give her body the rhythm it so
dreadfully lacks

she dresses
and faithfully turns down the sleeves
of her blouse
piecing herself together by
breaking herself apart –
is believing in something so
darkly insignificant a crime?

the promises she makes are hard
and shiny like tumbled stones
yet their jagged qualities can’t be
tumbled away.
they remain brittle.

she practices printing, then
script in fine red ink,
trailing her y’s and making the
sharpest of v’s
mostly she wishes her facial features were
so she could pronounce her emotions
instead of puncturing them.

she is a weaver, and with orchid-scented
palms she hooks and threads and
nimbly orchestrates the digits at the end
of her weakening arms.
these tapestries of elaborate
hope are nothing more than gossamer,
light and fleeting,
and she uses them in defense, allowing
them to settle over those who would rescue her
to comfort, and cover, and fool.

there are lies, which she
harmoniously practices at the jewelry
counter, or the river, or on those she loves.
for when she tells the truth,
it tastes like plastic.

and comfort is better than worry and truth;
they may have grown, but she can
still shield them
from the harsher aspects
of the world –
how no one ever really “gets
and we’re all just survivors
of our own personalities

she’ll continue surviving
unless she doesn’t
but the more they try to silence her ramblings
and still her unrelenting hands
the less they’ll remember of how
they thought they solved her
in the first place.

If you made it this far - fantastic!  Any comments or critiques?   Should I never ever post poetry on here again?  Should I... go to sleep, right now?  I think I really should, for that last one.



  1. I love the one where your hand is on your hip and you're standing next to the no turn sign :D (you know, the one you titled "f" for no apparent reason) hahaha You're gorgeous and I love your poem a thousand times over!

  2. Thank you muchliness! :) haha I label my photos in alphabetical order of when I edited them, which is strangely organize-y for me, but it makes uploading them a *lot* easier.

  3. You look gorgeous, and your poem is AMAZING! Really good. I would love it if you posted more!


  4. Thank you so much, Daly! That means a lot to me :)


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