Saturday, November 5, 2011


I think expectations, though important, can be one of the worst things to have. We often expect not only far more than what people can give, but usually something entirely different than what they were destined to be.
We see in them something they will never seek to be, something they will never reach out to become....we set the bar high, yes, but in the wrong place for them.
We often expect from others what we feel we would do if we lived their life or went through what they had been through, and we deduce from their experiences what should be their next goals. Thus, we are expecting a result from them that perhaps they were never meant to give.
So, we become disappointed when they don't live up to our expectations.
If I am friends with a tree and I expect that this tree will grow forever beside me, I would become disappointed when it is cut down to become a Hope Chest for a young woman longing for a husband. I had not foreseen such a thing, my expectation of the tree's life was different than its destiny, so I become hurt.
You see?
We can want the best for others, but it isn't up to us to decide where they go.

Saturday, October 29, 2011

Jack & Jill

Jill came home late that night. It had been the best of days for her. Jack's smile kept a giddy feeling in her heart as she sang while washing up. She'd never met such an amusing boy. His character was truly that of someone filled with joy.
After all her troubles and woes, she never knew she could smile so much being so near the graves.
Unknown to Jill, Jack went home where his mother blamed him for the missing firewood. She blamed him for the unswept floors and blamed him for his sister's cold. She threatened him with all sorts of punishments while he tirelessly worked through the night to catch up on his chores.
The following day began much as the previous, but by noon he went up the hill again, and sure enough, Jill was sitting there, parchment in hand, scribbling away furiously.
Jack was amazed that she could write.
Jill would tell him stories and he'd offer helpful adventures for her characters, and together they would laugh, and her laugh filled a place in him, and his laugh set her free.
Months went on like this and soon the nights grew cooler and the chill in the air made sitting on the hill hard to do, so Jack suggested they go down to the field and light a small fire.
Jill was elated at such an idea, for she wanted very much to sit with Jack by the fire. She wanted to warm her chilled hands and watch the flames dance for them. She wanted the feeling to seep all the way through into her soul.
Jack busied himself with making a small and efficient fire, for he was good at such things, and he and Jill sat around the flames and warmed their hands and feet.
She laughed often at his riddles and she shared stories of phantoms and boggarts and will o'the wisps.
That night, when Jill arrived home, she had the happiest of feelings in her breast. Her body could scarcely contain her glee. However, Jack got a good beating, no dinner, and another sleepless night. He'd been silently suffering for months, but didn't want to see the happiness fade from Jill's eyes. Poor Jill had lost her mother and siblings, and her father was away often hunting, so for her, there was little joy in her life aside from what he could provide for her. He loved her smile.
On the day of the first big snow, Jack took a long sliver of bark to the top of the hill and set it down with a look of mischief, "Want to ride this down the hill with me, Jill?"
     "Oh Jack, that looks dangerous!"
     "No, it will be fine. I have rope here, we can tie it on and hold on this way." He instructed her on what to do and she smiled with joy.
     Jill grabbed a small pointed piece of bark that's shape reminded her of a crown and held it up to his forehead, "Look Jack, you shall be the King, and I your Queen. We are the Winter King and Queen, and this shall be our sleigh. We shall ride off to feed the poor children and save the elderly from frost!"
     Jack laughed and agreed and with one hand held onto the ropes, and with the other held to his crown, and together he and Jill gave a push off, and down, down, down they went until the bark slid from beneath them. Their laughter followed them down the hill as they rolled into each other in a fit of giggles.
     "Oh Jack, your crown is broken! What shall we do, King Jack?" She asked.
     Jack rolled over and grabbed her hand, "I've no need of a crown as long as I have my Queen."
Many months would pass as these two played and learned and grew, but as they grew, Jill's stories called to her more and more, and her need to write them became overwhelming.
Jack often found her in the woods now, hidden near the rocks, writing away on any scrap of parchment she could find, until at length she began writing on the rocks themselves.
Jack became strong and many a girl fancied his attentions, and on Harvest Day the year he turned fifteen, he met Mary by the bales of hay. Her sunny eyes and alluring glances drew him closer. She taunted him in ways no one had ever done, and soon he learned the ways of love amongst the hay and her honey hair.
Mary went with Jack everywhere, and soon told all the town how she would marry him. Jack was still shy, but he sure did enjoy Mary.
The forest became the only solace for Jill when her father took ill. Her trees, her rocks, her words; this became her home. She came out for a town feast just before the weather turned dreadfully cold and saw Jack with his honey haired shadow. Miss Mary seemed rather pleased with her attentions and Jill looked down at her drab skirts and felt homely.
She turned to leave, but Billy stopped her with his hand on her shoulder, "Jill, I hear you're writing stories in the forest. Think you could show me sometime? My aunt is teaching me to read, see she's been in London, and wants me to learn such things. May I come and try?"
     Jill only nodded and quickly ran away from Billy and his kindness, but her running would only be for the night, for soon Billy would be coming every day to her woods, and soon every day would turn into all winter and spring, and by summer his kisses had filled her stories, too, and he read them back to her and would blush.
Together they made for a shy couple, but she no longer only spent her days in the forest, for now she spent them with him and his family, too.
On the Eve of the Festival of Fires, Jill came early to the fields to make hers and struggled with starting it. She sat dejectedly by the sad little pile of unlit sticks until a shadow appeared above her. She glanced up to find Jack, "Oh....Jack."
     "Jill, you're doing it wrong, here, let me show you." Jack helped her start a small efficient fire, and showed her the best way to place the logs.
     "Thank you, Jack."
     "Good to see you, Jill."
Soon, the field was full of couples lighting fires, and Mary called Jack away and Billy called Jill away, and the little fire burned still.
Jack and Mary made a large fire as Mary threw lovers herbs upon the flames and flowers and dried bushes and a whole barrel of things she had set aside to use for homage to the Goddess. Their fire burned scorching and tall and smoke rose clear up to the moon.
Billy made a brilliant fire and set the sticks standing tall so the flames would curl upward. Jill placed a few things here and there on the flames and Billy added hay and logs and all manner of things he'd been saving, until their fire burned bright and hot.
By dawn, the fires had burned themselves out, and Jill was tired, and wished to leave. Billy wished to make love in the forest to finish their celebrations, and Jill declined, wishing to save such things for their nuptial night. Billy was angry and hurt and stormed away kicking the remnants of their fire. He left Jill feeling worthless and unwanted and she knelt in the cold grass missing her mother.
Mary and Jack had long since escaped to the woods where Mary used her wiles and left him breathless, only to announce as the first rays of the sun were seen that she could not love him nor marry him after all. She told him she was to marry a merchant's son in a town closer to the coast, and therefore must leave him now. Jack's heart broke and he begged her to stay, but Mary left him where he cried bitterly until anger overcame him and he marched back to the field to throw dirt over their fire.
Then, he saw Jill.
She was hunched over near a small bit of smoke still rising steadily upward. He came closer and sat down and instinctively put his arm around her shoulders, "What happened, Jill?"
     She wiped her eyes, "Billy left. Said he wanted to have me, but I want to save myself, and he just left....left."
     "Don't cry, Jill. Mary left me, too. After she had me, that is. Left for another man."
     "Oh Jack, poor dear!" She threw her arms about his neck and his encircled her frame, and they stayed that way until she sat back and looked at him with a long look he didn't understand.
     "Jack, you see how everyone's fires have burnt out?"
     Jack looked around, "All but this one."
     "Do you know who's fire this is?"
     "Yours and Billy's?"
     Jill shook her head and warmed her hands by the warmth as she responded, "This is our fire. It's still burning."
     "That's because I know how to build a good fire, Jill."
     Jill just smiled, "That's right, Jack, you do. Would you like to learn how to read?"
     Jack smiled, "I'd like that a lot, you can teach me?"
     "I'm a good teacher."
     Jack gave a mischievous grin, "I can teach you a few things, too, Jill."
     She laughed, "Only if," she reached down and grabbed a blade of grass she began weaving with other blades, until at last, she had a wreath she placed on his head, "you wear this. We shan't teach each other anything unless we are King and Queen."
     He smiled and stood up, "OK, off to the woods then, my Queen. Oh, should we put the fire out?"
     "Of course not. It's burnt this long, why put it out?" She grabbed his hand and they ran towards the forest.

By Elizabeth Azpurua

Sunday, October 9, 2011

We Walk For Love a Road Called Hope

When we love people we give them the ability to hurt us. To come crashing over top us, burying us in them and what they are to us. We drop our shields and let down our walls and leave ourselves damageable. We can be broken, bruised, crushed and scarred. Our existence is as if we are a butterfly in their hands; frail, delicate, content to remain in the palm of that which can smother us. When we love we walk a road called Hope that may lead to nowhere and hold onto a lamp called Faith that barely lights our way. We struggle without any road signs, a map, or a sense of direction. We cry to the heavens for help, but sometimes what we love is not for us and so we curse the One who loves us most and stubbornly fight ourselves into the ground, where we lay in a ditch by this road called Hope. We wallow in the rotten leaves and nurse our wounded hearts and curse He who wishes for us to be happy. Then, we hate the road and it's winding ways and barren ground; we break the lamp and wish to remain in darkness and we feel we are undeserving of love. If we could only see the threads of our lives maybe we would trust the One who does see and wants for us the best that we can have. Maybe He wants more for us than a road of false hope and a dead end. Maybe He has a new path, new mode of travel and something truly worth the fight. If we're willing to be weak, to allow ourselves to understand the emotion of frail, then perhaps He wants hands that will understand this and hold us gently, safely and securely. If we are willing to tear our walls down and come out from our shells, maybe He wishes for us to be treasured. Yet, here we are in rotten leaves, choking in agony, fists raised to the sky, and swearing we will never walk a road called hope for love again.

Monday, August 29, 2011

Bound and Besotted by Nothing

 I am like a wounded albatross and you were the sky; you mocked my folly, mocked my fall and embraced the sun. I sit here amongst the rocks wishing for the ability to soar again and prove to you that you have no power to belittle me. Your sun will set each night, but me, if I could fly, am not held to any time of the day; I will soar beneath the moon and stars. This metaphor is a poor example of truth; sadness, broken, wounded - my soul is in error. It is faulted. It is hindered by the ability to see beyond what is in front of me. I feel bound and besotted by nothing. I am cut off from the freedoms I knew once upon a time. I am forced to adhere to this new sphere of broken hopes and wounded wings. I do not exist here as I did before and when you came, you changed it all. I yearn for you like none other. I need you. So, go ahead and mock me now and chase your setting sun - follow the edge of the horizon in vain. When you reach the edge of your lungs, gasping for air, feeling defeated, then turn to me and see my broken wings and know which of us is the fool. I will not be mocked by you. I may have been bound and besotted by nothing, but I'll be damned if you have the last laugh. I will rise above this. I will reclaim this metaphorical sky and when I do, I will be unstoppable. There is nothing left for you to do to me; once so broken, there is only repair. What else can you do? Your sun is gone now, fool. Try to reclaim the warmth from the moon and realize it will never come. I'll be fine. I'm no longer bound, or besotted, but simply recovering.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011


Do we hold onto people because we fear what they will do if we let them go? Do we love because we need? Do we hate because we see in them what we dislike in ourselves? Do we lie because the truth burns our tongues? Do we preach because we cannot take our own advice? Do we sing because our soul knows no other way to speak? Do we hope because without it we would perish? Do we cry because there are no words to explain? Do we ache because we are falling apart in slow portions? Do we laugh because our hearts crave joy?

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Be True

If you want others to take you at your word, make your words match the actions you take; if you want them to believe in your craft, craft for yourself something they believe. If you fear they will see through the mask that you wear, wear only your face and leave it all bare. Don't show me with words what you claim that is true, show me in all that you accomplish and do and above all if you wish to say other than you feel you might as well match your proclaiming to what is real. If truth is what you preach, then only preach truth and act upon all that is leaving your mouth. If you can't muster up the ability to be what you say then say what it is that you are. If you wish to be pink but your color is grey, don't come to me saying you're some other way. If all that is in you is something named 'false' then don't speak to me of how things supposedly are. All that we are is the deeds that we do and all that we're not is what shall never be true; if you think in your costumes you are hiding behind that you'll gain a following, you're out of your mind. Actions speak louder than words and words carry weights; they carry confusions and they suddenly break. Become what you preach and be who you are for nothing is better than someone who knows who they're not. Inside all our doings we show what we mean, we show our true colors, whether yellow, or green, our words mean quite nothing to those listening ears if we parade about in false colors and cry out fake tears. There is nothing more lovely than someone who embodies truth in all that they say and all that they do.

Friday, June 24, 2011


Do people really get what they deserve?
I try to be a nice person, but sometimes, sometimes you just wish people will go through exactly what you did; sometimes you wish someone will do to them what they did to you; sometimes you wish they will receive their "just desserts" and get a good kick in the arse.
Does this make you a bad person?
I don't know, and frankly, don't care. I'm entitled to hoping that there is some great karmic leveler that comes to play in the backyards of those who have caused me pain, stress or heartache. I hope there is a rude awakening for those who have hurt my family and friends.
It's frustrating to give and give and give and wish that somewhere, somehow, you can actually feel better instead of feeling those familiar boot impressions of those walking all over you.
Maybe we're all a bit too nice. Make people stand on their own legs; make people be accountable for their own faults; if someone upsets you, TELL THEM...and move on.
If they have a problem with your words, so be it. If they still want to be horrible to you, just let it go...someday, I hope anyway, they will understand.
It's like people who cut down trees for no reason....I eenvision Mother Earth letting loose on them- huge roots and branches of trees swinging and swatting and whacking and thrashing...and somehow, it makes me feel better.
I suppose I'm not a very nice person.
I make no apologies.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

My Hope, My Faith, My Trust in God

There are times when no matter how hard we try, we just can't make things right. We can't right wrongs for others or wave magic wands; we can't change outcomes or the past, nor can we predict the future. We can't sway people's opinions or change their minds, we can't change their hearts or erase their beliefs; no matter how much we might want to make things different in our lives, we will never be able to control these things. It is through God that we are able to keep standing. It is to His music that we continue dancing. It is through His grace that we are able to feel at peace and it is with His love that our hope takes wing. No matter the advice the world gives, no matter the inspirational quotes you read, no matter the road maps or the helping hands, it is through Him and only Him that you can get through all things; without Him, you are nothing. I see too much destruction and sorrow; I see too many dashed hopes. I see too much heartache and failed dreams and broken homes. I want to help so badly, but I had to learn over and over these past few months that I cannot control ANYTHING. No matter what I may want or may think I need, no matter what I want for others or what I think they deserve, it is not in my hands and it never will be. It's in my Heavenly Father's hands, in His time according to His will. Faith is way more than just a verb. It is the essence of what surviving becomes. It is soil that hope will bloom from. Some days, all you have is faith. All you have is the hope that hope will come. All you have is a prayer. When that is ALL you have, and all you can muster and all that is left, then, and only then, do you understand what it means to be humble and then, and only then, do you suddenly realize what you really want.

Monday, June 6, 2011

One Tree Alone in a Forest, Does Not a Forest Make

I realized today we all have these massive trials. We all battle against our weaknesses. It's not enough to pretend we're strong and keep going; sometimes, we have to let someone know we just aren't handling things. We can't withdraw. We can't pull away from those we should stay connected to.
Our connections make us stronger.
One tree alone in a forest, does not a forest make.
We have to learn to ask for help, to lean on each other, to seek after one another. If not, when our battles are raging, and we fear we are losing, there is no one to aid us, and when we fall, we fall alone.
So many of us lately have faced the trials hardest on us.
Oh, to face normal trials, but alas, I get the difficult ones. The heart wrenching, spine bowing, blood pounding, never ending ones. Pain. Loss. Confusion. And worst of all, this state of limbo.
Am I on or off?
Have I a home or not?
Is it love or never to be?
Is there hope or foolish wishing?
Will this work or not?
I get stuck in-between the questions.
I falter around and then find myself needing to seek out solace within my own thoughts and further I get until I'm a lone tree in a forgotten place and no longer do I stand strong.
We should intertwine our roots together. We should learn to face our trials knowing those who love us are aware of what we are facing and have our backs.
Some trials are made to bring us together. Some are made to make us feel alone and we must try even harder to hold to those who know and love us most. Those who appreciate the state we are in now not the state we were in before the trial.
Find those who no matter what, will be there; no matter what you say, no matter what you do, no matter who you are; they are the ones who will be your forest.
They are the ones buffering the wind. They are the ones seeking out the sun. They are the ones enriching your soil. They are they who won't leave you alone.


Saturday, June 4, 2011

Time and Love and Summers Passed

It hit me today like a freight train. Love. They say, time heals all wounds...but I think, often, the people we loved change until we don't recognize them, so it isn't "time" that changed, but "them". It wasn't time offering the healing in length, but simply, the person changed from what the love was orginally founded upon.
I don't recognize someone I loved.
I don't recognize his smile anymore. His eyes, his face, his style.
We never speak anymore.
I have no inkling of an idea what is going on with him right now.
It wasn't time healing the broken heart, but the realization that he has changed. I don't know him.
I wonder, how could I ever have loved someone so different contained within the same body?
Then, I think back, and back, and back. It's always been the same, hasn't it? People change and evolve and then one day you suddenly "see" them as they currently are. When you do, you realize you loved who they used to be, not who they are. Then, you just long for who they were, but that doesn't come back.
People keep evolving and adapting and changing. A year from now, who he was, the innocence he had, it will all be gone. The laid back country boy will be swallowed in the big city life. My sunny summer boy will truly be but a memory. The positive outlook I confided in will be even more silence, and day and month and year will blend in until he is just a memory of a summer of dashed hopes.
He'll be like those before him.
Love. I loved him. I loved who he was. I still love who he was. I just don't like who he is anymore. I can't blame time for that. It's simply part of life.

Friday, June 3, 2011

Doors to Happiness

They say whenever one door of happiness closes, another opens, and Helen Keller said that we are often too busy looking at the door that is closed to see the new one that is opened for us. I think life is often about actually turning your head around and watching where you're going. You can't move ahead while you're craning your neck around to see what you just left. We usually remember moments of the past better than they were and we view the present as worse than it is. Luckily, for some of us, we see our present as a much better situation than some of them from our past, however, there are those of us who look back and seem to view events, people and opportunities as better than they were. We long to live in the past. We need to just move forward and stay focused and pay attention. I'm learning little things can bring happiness, and the little things keep us going. If I dwell in the negative, everything begins to look hopeless. If I concentrate on small things that make me smile, then my day is a bit brighter because of it. It's a good day when you manage to not hit an animal while driving the back roads. It's a good day when you can help someone. It's a good day when you find a deal on an item you need and save a few dollars. It's a good day when you wake up before your alarm and can remember what you dreamed about. Little things console us. I think the "doors to happiness" are doors leading to doors leading to doors. You keep going through doors. Happiness is what you feel along the journey, it should be the vehicle you ride in, not the destination you seek after. So, open the door that's there in front of you and walk away from the closed one. Right "goodbye" on it and turn around and keep going.


Monday, May 16, 2011

Not Much Wisdom Here, but Hope

I've nothing smart or witty to say; no words to comfort or cheer.
I've rubbish on paper and letters in order, but nothing to amount to something to hold.
It's sentences, poorly structured, running on as if they never learned how to make an end to what they are saying, and besides, if they ended, you'd probably not notice anyway, would you?
I've nothing to add to my wisdom.
Nor have a quote to lift your aching soul. My words will not bring peace to you in such a time as this, really, there is nothing more I can do.
I cannot spill from my lips the meaning you seek nor carve out in stone any truth.
On paper, just paper, I write meaningless things; yet, you're reading them.
If I could make sense of things, perhaps, I'd tell you a road map in words so you would safely navigate to better times. I'd insure a safe journey for you. Yet, that is not how it was meant to be, so here I am, typing, and leaving cluttered thoughts behind.
I've nothing clever, or special, or life altering to add.
Just keep going, and breathing, and living.
Keep hope alive.

Saturday, May 7, 2011

Thoughtless Currently

i am staring at a blank page and need to write but nothing comes to me

i'm supposed to be getting ready for bed

There's too many things I want to say and yet the words just can't be said. It's like, if said, then perhaps everything would change.

Fear. Fear of the unknown. Why are we so held down by fear?
I'm convinced we're all stupid.
Love is stupid.
It makes us stupid.

...dancing around the subjects i wish to dance upon...

this was thoughtless enough.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011 pain like a nest....

.................................i needed room to breathe.

somewhere, somewhere inside me to escape.

when I finally found it I was able to settle there, like a bird, a bird inside of a nest

   .....................................peacefully.....................................and content

 but, it hurt others, hurt them when I withrdrew and their hurt became my


I never wanted to cause pain.

I wanted to feel embraced........................alive........

I needed inside to feel connected to who I am living on this planet I feel too disconnected with

....but it caused pain...

....and that pain makes me feel as though I shall wither away

                                          ... and die.

Monday, May 2, 2011

Lookin' Good There

When was the last time you looked in the mirror and said, "Wow, I look good"?
When was the last time you told someone you loved that they're really pretty, or they're the sexiest thing on the planet, or they have the most amazing eyes you will ever be privileged to behold?
I think too many of us have self esteem issues. I have them, too, don't get me wrong. We all do. It's important though to love ourselves. It's important to feel good about ourselves.
I think all women should feel like goddesses from time to time -or everyday - but they should feel wanted, pretty, amazing and most importantly: powerful.
I think guys should feel like sex gods; they should feel strong and capable yet possess a class to quietly carry their confidence - cocky is not cool.
You should be able to wear something pretty, something nice, something that makes you feel good - and for heaven's sakes, wear nice underwear from time to time. It does wonders.
Ever flirt, just to flirt? Try it! Ever compliment a stranger? Try it! I always compliment women with long, pretty hair. Why? Because to keep it that way takes work. It takes a certain love for long hair. If her hair is long, she has it down, and she looks amazing, tell her.
I like to randomly smile at guys. They light up. It's like "she smiled at me" - it's so simple, yet it makes someones day.
The one thing I rarely do is go up to mothers and go "you have the prettiest child in the world". It's kinda' creepy. Particularly if a guy tries it.
Embrace yourselves. Put on lipstick to brighten your day. Add cologne, seriously, a little goes a long way. Don't put white socks on with black pants......just don't.
And try from time to time to look in the mirror and tell yourself how great you look. I know you can't say it every day. But try, at least every few days to do so. And goshdarnit, smile.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

Myself is myself is me is I is simply, well, me.

Isn't it funny how we sometimes in order to re-connect with ourselves not only revisit memories, but we revisit old friendships, whether verbally or through memories of those people? We revisit our favorite songs and movies, our favorite books and past-times.
I like to sometimes recall vividly memories though.
I like to let them play out in my head. You see, I have a photographic memory. I recall things in vivid detail, right down to the words said. I think it is the writer in me.
I will recall your voice. Your smell. Your words.  Always, always your laugh. Ever notice that it is easier to remember someone's laugh than their voice? It's joy captured in sound. I always remember your laughter.
I remember often what I was wearing, what you were wearing...sometimes, I recall odd little details. I recall the things I noticed. I often notice odd things.
My past isn't always a pretty thing to recall. There are moments I wish to forget. Yet, there are brilliant times I'll never want erased.
I have for a very long time been the same inside.
I have liked much of the same things for years.
I have been drawn to certain things my whole life.
Trees, doves, harps, redheads, swords, dragons, the ocean, the beach, the stars, the moon, blue eyes, wind, willows, soft things.
I have hated many things my whole life.
Bees, wasps, buzzing, scratching, liars, nasty couches and carpet, evil dogs, mosquitoes, cole slaw, things too hot on my sensitve feet, rough fabrics.
It's funny how things don't change.
At least, inside me.
I've always been the rebel; some say I march to the beat of my own drum. I actually don't march to a drum, it's more of a melody, really. A melody of voices, memories, thoughts and feelings. It's a nice melody. Most days.


Saturday, April 30, 2011


forgetful, unwanted - tiptoe up and down and around and stop when you hear that beating sound; like a masterpeice in your ear, the sound of memories clear, but silly, you let them go; breaking the entry, move here and bury all the rest, and hide the rest - scarred, unwanted - dance bleeding on the ground, spin arpund and hear that sound; like a lullaby in your soul, the emptiness a hole, but darling, let it can't hold onto it all, you can't keep it all inside, like mountains are bound to collide - break the entry, break the soul, break the speech and the role, hide the rest, unwanted mess and breathe shallow; take the edge off in the words, find the way to heal the hurt and bear alone this curse - frightened, unwanted - die on the pavement in the darkness, the ache is taking over, leave it there and let it falter; to rise the next day, the day of awakening, and come forth new and whole and clean; prayer for the weary, for the weak - be strong, be brave, be great, but all you can be, silly, you can be.....anything.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

I realize how much some of us hurt for love; we hurt in love, we hurt to have it, hurt to keep it, hurt to bear and hurt to lose it. We hurt while loving and hurt when losing; we hurt before, during and after. We hurt. I realize there is too much pain in this emotion called love. Maybe our fragile bodies, shallow hearts and weak minds were never meant to feel so godlike an emotion. Maybe we were never supposed to understand the depths of love. To love someone so much that you would let them love another and silently die a little more each day in your agony and your loss for no one will compare to them or to their beauty or to the purity of their soul. That love was never meant for us mortals. To love completely, unerringly, relentlessly and never receive. To be choked by heart ache and drowned in grief. That love was not meant for us here below. Surely, it was meant for immortal beings whose time frame to heal is far vaster than ours.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

....i want to assume that i know what i need...

there's a place in-between "i know" and "i assume".
it's a fine line.
a gentle string.
and some days i am holding the string in my hands and it nearly breaks.
there's a place in-between "i want" and "i need".
it's a blurred line.
a confusing thing.
and some days i assume what i want is what i need but i don't know.
you see this pattern i am caught in makes it hard for me to know without assuming and need without wanting.
when i get there, if i get there, i will tell you all that i know of what i need.
until then, you must hear me assume what i want.
my apologies.

Why Did Pandora Open the Box?

There are days I am unable to keep my hands off the box. Days I cannot even contain my wanting, my restless fingers, my itching palms.
I feel feverish when I stare at it.
That box.

There are days when I hear what's inside. I want to know what they are saying. Just a bit. Just a listen.
I think, I think they talk about you.
About me.
About Us.

There are days when the silence makes me worry and I want to peek inside to see if they left or if they decided silence was best.
The lid isn't locked.
I want to open it.

Today, they mentioned something of death. What if they spoke of you? What if they wish to kill you? I know I was told not to open the box, but what if they are plotting?
Can't I ask?

I think....I think I might have to check. There was laughter. And your name....................

Friday, February 18, 2011


I watched a show tonight about someone with OCD, and it of course got me thinking. I mean, I am pretty sure I do have it - not sure how bad - but it’s there.
From an early age I had to do things a certain way and collected things in large amounts: Dalmatians, tuxedo cats, Sylvester, penguins, Sailor Moon, and now black faced sheep.
I organized things obsessively. My drawings were broken down to the completed, the needing to be completed, the ones to do over, and so on. The songs and poems and short stories were the same. Story notes were organized. I saved all the notes I would take in church. All the talks. The lessons. I filed them with folders and labels. Put the files in an order that pleased me.
I get on kicks for a time: I scrapbook, I cut clippings from magazines, I read, I research some topic, I write, I exercise, I organize, I clean, I memorize - - something. I do something obsessively for a time, and then, I move on to a new thing.
I suppose, walking into my room, it looks like controlled chaos. It is. My room has a certain “theme” and items are grouped together in a complimentary way. Pictures balance each other. In between, I toss clothes in a chair, leave papers in stacks, and over fill my bookshelves, so that it resembles a cluttered mess in my room. But things are the way I want them.
I hate disorganized kitchens. I fret over them.
Bees. They buzz. If I hear it, that’s all I hear, and I can’t tune it out. If it’s in the room, I won’t focus on much of anything else until it’s gone.

I febreez things obsessively after I clean.
If I had big enough bookshelves I would have my books alphabetized.
I used to put all thumb tacks into one little jar, and only that jar. Safety pins go in a little fancy pill box. I save buttons from items of clothing in case I need them. I save tags, too, sometimes. I save movie ticket stubs. Concert tickets, too. I saved the confetti from all the Enrique Iglesias concerts I attended. I also collected stuff about him and saved magazine clippings of him.

Before I turn off the car everything must be shut off, i.e. radio, air conditioner, windshield wipers, etc.
My earrings each have a special spot in the jewelry box. My hats are in boxes by color or texture or season.

Speaking of seasons, I obsessively wear seasonal clothing, eat seasonal food, smell seasonal smells and listen to seasonal music. No Christmas music or green velvet any other month, except December. Black and orange is for October. White sundresses for Spring and Summer. Brown summer skirts for late summer. I can’t do it another way, that’s how I have always done things. I think partly why my memory is good, is because I remember things by seasons, which in turn helps me remember them by months.
With all this obsessing you would think I obsess over body images. I don’t. I rather like my body, aside from the poor eyesight and scarring, and my hip, over all, I don’t worry or fret over it the way one might assume. Nor, do I obsess over other people’s. Take guys for instance: he could be insanely gorgeous and I won’t notice, but if he is interesting, I see him for what he is.
If I actually find a guy attractive AND like him for being interesting it’s a rare thing.
The people close to me are people I listen to. In other words, when they talk, I’m not actually thinking of three other things. I often think of all sorts of things during conversations. My brain is in all sorts of places. If I recall the conversation, it means I gave it my full attention, and I’ll probably remember a lot of it.

I can't wash dishes in the same dirty soapy water, each dish must be washed separately and rinsed separately.
I obsessively fluff my pillows, smooth my sheets, and do the same nightly routine before bed. I do the same routine each morning. I race the clock to arrive on time each day.
People. Back to people. I obsess over people from time to time. Not in a creepy way. I worry. I worry so much that I think about how to help them constantly. Worse, is that usually once I do this, I can’t undo it, so it’s there in the back of my mind. I have a list of people. People I want to help.
Once I get an idea in my head, I have to try. I can’t let things go. Sometimes I hold grudges. I notice random things all over the place normal people wouldn’t. My writing might be obsessive, my listening to certain songs constantly could be, my diets, my food kicks, my fact collecting, all of these things I have mentioned could be a sign of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Or I’m crazy.
I know 18 species of penguins. I am full of random sexual facts. Health facts. History facts.
I collect tree species in my head. I name them every time I see them. One day, I will learn all the constellations, flowers, herbs, poisonous plants, and insect names.
I’ll learn many languages. I’ll collect antiques. I want lots of rugs and pillows. One day, I’ll fill a house with art, fabrics, and things I collect while traveling.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Thoughts on Life

Fitting In....

You can't just take an albatross and stick it in a room of geese and expect it to feel like it belongs. Who cares if they have feathers? Beaks? None of that matters.
You can't expect that albatross to get along with the eagles, or the condors, or the falcons, even when they all can fly for long distances.
You can't expect an albatross to feel comfortable with flamingos, or an emu, or even to feel comfortable with other sea birds. Pelicans? No.
You see, the albatross needs other albatrosses. It needs those capable of flying beside it for the long periods it has to fly, eating what it eats, and loving the sky the way it loves the sky.
Forget this whole, "birds can all get along because they have feathers" idea, and start viewing the individuals as their own.

Long Distance...

Distance. Does it matter? Does it matter how faraway someone has gotten from you when you really love them? No. No, it doesn't matter. But, over time, your life develops in ways that they no longer fit quite right into it.
You can't expect the painter to continue his painting when you decided to get up halfway through. His memory will try to recreate your presence, but as he adds layers, and colors, once you come to sit back down, I guarantee your shadow will be in the wrong place, and the colors have gone from sunrise to sunset.
Can you still be apart of his painting? Maybe. But it could ruin the masterpiece he created alone.


Dreams are for those who are brave; if you aren't brave, don't dream. Just exist. If you want to test the limits of what you can do, become, and create, you have to dream. You have to have a dream, hold the dream, and learn that sometimes having a dream is like trying to give birth to a lawn chair. Sometimes it's not only going to be painful, but the edges start looking impossible, and you start feeling like it no longer matters.
Ignore that.
If I gave up on my dreams I'd probably be married, have a kid and possibly a second child on the way, broke, and unhappy. Instead, I have a dream, and I'm going to fight until I see it's glorious birth into this place we call reality.


Suppose you are baking a cake, and it smells already so delicious, and you decide to take it out 15 minutes before time.
It's like warm cake pudding.
Sure, it probably tastes delightful.
But it's not a cake.
Patience must be one of the greatest virtues, for surely it's one of the hardest to attain and hold onto. We all love cake, and we all love eating, and we all love things that smell good; we're also usually impatient. We have to learn to take things as they come, give things time, and of course, once it resembles a cake we have to decide if we are going to eat it then, or let it cool and add icing.
Letting things develop in their own due time is a terrible feeling when we want it all "right now". I want so many things right now, but I learned, the oven door has to stay closed sometimes, and I just have to wait.
In the meantime, I'll set the table, get out the party napkins, and choose the icing color.
The cake is coming, the timer just hasn't stopped yet.

~Elizabeth Azpurua

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Depressing, isn't it?

A terribly depressing scenario for you here. Not sure where it came from. I was going to write a love story, sad, isn't it? Apparently, I wasn't feeling the bonbons and sugarplum fairies.

"Goldilocks Never Found What She Was Looking For"

      I never understood what loss would feel like until I felt it. I assumed, that loss like other emotions, would eventually pass away with time; assumed it would become a memory in the corners of my mind.
      Then, I lost you.
      I had built up this world for you and I, complete with fairytale dreams of a home in the woods with a fence around the yard and three children perfectly spaced apart running through the trees. Little beds all done with matching quilts and perfectly spaced trinkets between the books on the shelves. There were shutters and a charming chimney in this imaginary future, and of course, there was you.
      I never expected to be in this cold apartment in this noisy city where the clouds hang low, grey, sad and clinging to the feeling of those below trudging along. I never expected to sit in the living room with one worn sofa, a thrown out coffe table, and a bookshelf with all of four books: an unused cookbook, your old favorite book of poems, my mother's copy of Gone with the Wind and a very worn Bible I almost chucked from my fourth story window the day before.
      I never expected the white walls would feel so bland, the floors so cold, the kitchen so abysmal, or that my bed would resemble a matress with a pile of bedding, like an angry giant rat disrupted the pile into a nesting place.
      The bottle in my hands is not enough to chase the pain away, and never strong enough to send me into oblivion as long as I'd like to remain there.
      I've thrown away the mirrors and hid the photos in a box under the sink with the cleaning supplies I never use.
      My mother calls still, twice a week to see how I am, to see if I'm eating, if I'm alive, if I haven't jumped.
      I only tried once.
      The bridge was too cliche, the apartment not quite high enough, but the warehouse down the corner was so welcoming, it seemed just right in my head; imagining leaping as the pidgeons took flight seemed like a macabre painting taking life; muted greys and browns, my golden hair the only pop of color against the old industrial background of a forgotten time. It's a shame they wouldn't let me climb to the roof.
      I suppose you would have thanked those men.
      You wouldn't have wanted me to go on like this, would you have?
      I guess you should have thought of this before you decided to take your life over something so trivial. We would have made it, could have made it, it would have been fine.
      I never blamed you.
      If that top step hadn't been so small and maybe if I weren't so clumsy, but none of it matters now. I really did love you more than her.
      I never liked that staircase, anyway. It was too many steps, too curved, and the the wood was too light a color. Not that it matters, really.
      I guess, in the end, you loved her more than you loved me.
      Sad, though, we could have tried again, you and I. I would have liked that.
      It never was your fault I fell, it never was your fault the ambulance couldn't get there in time, or save her. I never realized how hard it would be to convince you, but never, ever, ever, did I think you would end it all like that.
     I guess we all hate mirrors because they show us what we don't want to see.
     I wish they taught us in school how our actions leave such an impact on everyone, especially those we leave behind. I wish they prepared us for how we would come to hate the world. I wish we weren't raised on fairytales with "happily ever afters" and endings all tied neatly when the story comes to a close.
     I never understood what loss would do to me.
     Now I do.

By Elizabeth Azpurua

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

There's Was Something About Mountains Then

…it’s like a mountain of memories you’d have to climb through. You’d have to sort the good and bad, happy, sad, angry, feverish and focused, confused, dazed, torn and bridged, splattered and static, grateful and selfish and used, morose and forlorn, giddy, high, joyous, sinful and insane, forgotten, missing and longing; you’d never sort through it all. You’d never see the top. The fog. The mist. Those clouds. You’d have to pull me off the rocks, the ground, the dirt, soil, pebble - like rubble. I’m rubble. You’d have to remove me from that mountain. I’m inside like tree roots. I’m the leaves. I’m the cliffs. I’m the noise. I’m the moss, the bark, the grass, the subtle lights inside the trees; I’m in every place of that mountain. You’d never be rid of me. You’ll never climb through that mountain. Or fly over it. I’m the storm. The rain. The snow. I’m the avalance in winter and the ligntning strikes in summer. I’m never letting you scale this mountain. Never. Not the top. Not the middle. You won’t like the foot of the mountain. The roots, the shrubs, the rocks, the trees - they are the foundation. The meeting, the youthful fun, the learning, the growth - they are the beginning of the memories. The top? Who knows. You won’t. Sort the mess blown over, the mess grown over, the end of over is at the top and no, you’ll never know. You’ll never sort through it all. It’s mine. His. Ours. And you’re nowhere in this mountain. It’s all us. Moss, tree, root, cliff, rock, bark, grass, sky, storm, clouds, rain - fly; you can’t fly. Or climb. Walk away now. Farewell…and leave us be.

by: Elizabeth Azpurua (me)

Sunday, January 23, 2011


I don’t think we can fully understand joy without going through sorrow - it’s different from happiness because it’s deeper and more appreciated. With joy, we finally appreciate what matters the most; love cannot be found without first learning sorrow, the difference of joy and happiness and the strength that comes from experiencing both. Happiness is the flower coming forth from the seed; joy is when it blooms, and love is when someone picks that flower from the garden.  - Elizabeth Azpurua

Saturday, January 22, 2011

From Last Summer

Friday:   “And no, I’m not immovable; hard mayhap to move, but the carpet of my existance can be pulled from beneath me. Swift. Swiftly. So, there. Now you know.” She said. Silence the response, followed by the sound of the air conditioning kicking on, whirling, cool air filling the void of where a voice should have said “I’ll never move you, you know, I won’t. I’d never try” but there never came that reply. And so the void lives still.
Saturday:   “If I can’t hold onto the water in my hands I’m just gonna stay out of this well. I’ll stay away from the sea. I’ll move so it seperates you from me, and me from this, and who knows? Maybe I’ll cup sand.” She said. There was music filtering through another room, through the walls, but still the reply never came. The reply not even voiced by phantoms. “Don’t go so far. You never liked sand. I’ll bring a bucket for this water and it’ll all work out. It will. Keep my well…” never came from the void about the lonely room.
Sunday:   “I never knew. I knew, yes…but not really. I thought…I thought, but I wasn’t. No. And who is to say tomorrow won’t rain down eyelashes and this stupid clock will get stuck at one second after 11:10? It won’t of course.” She didn’t even bother waiting to hear a response. She turned the light off. Let cobwebs in the corners be her solace and crickets the music of her masquerade ball. There’s no train coming tonight and no voice saying goodbye.
Monday:   “Life is like a box of chocolates you find in the back of your closet. You know, the one from that ex boyfriend so and so, yeah, that one. And you open it and you think it’ll be pay day and discover that they’ve turned to powder. Taste like cardboard. The centers are all dried up. Did you know that? That’s kinda’ like you. Yeah, you. But you’re not listening are you?” She asked. It’s all cars speeding by and useless noise she hears. No replies. The sun will rise and set on endless voids until she hears “I always knew, but what was I supposed to do?” and she chokes back “I don’t know” and the dance starts all over again for life is really like a ferris wheel. One large repeating sphere.
by Elizabeth Azpurua


Thursday, January 20, 2011

If ever I could explain life....

times you laugh about. days you number. people you scream at. flowers you pick. balloons you let go. stars you never can count. stuff you write about. books you love. books you hate. friends you adore. memories you collect. windows you breathe on to draw pictures. stamps you lick. cars you wash. roses you smell. mistakes you make. titles you get. names you give. signs you ignore. rules you break. girls you love. girls you hate. puddles you leap into. wishes you throw away. things you number. glances you get. roads you run down. maps you follow. maps you ignore. collections you collect. people you see. places you wish you could see. music you heard. life you shouted about. songs you learned. times you remember. places you photograph. little things you count. moments you let pass by. kisses you steal. phone calls you never return. bubblegum you swallow by accident. stairs you trip on. pages you color out of the lines. boys you love. boys you hate. hours you waste. speeding down streets. rain you danced in. tickle fights you lost. promises you break. promises you kept. living, laughing, loving, crying, wanting, needing, leaving, losing, letting go, treasuring, capturing life. days of asking when. staying up late. early mornings. days you hate work. times you forgot. family vacations. clouds you count. trees you climb. weekends you spend playing. magazines you cut picutres out of. cupcakes you only ate for the icing. lollipops that fell on the ground. races back home. sand in your toes. playing tag in the dark. hating the clock. wishes you keep forever. names you’ll never remember. letters you save. that woman you love. lies you told. shoes you borrow. slides you slid down. asking too much. asking too little. playing in mud. flowers you give. forgetting to call. remembering too late. jumping waves. staying up all night. catching fireflies. that man you love. crying during movies. saying goodbye. asking why. hurting someone. being hurt. laughing until you cry. crying until you laugh. jumping into the deep end. looking through the crack in the door. high fives. hand shakes. bear hugs. whispering too loud. answering too softly. learning, growing, praying, hoping, fighting, trying, winning, holding, seeking, breathing, living life.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Girl With the Pearl Earing

I was carrying the bucket of shells when I spotted you. Brazen. Golden. Your arms had the look to them that told me you could whisk me off my feet in a moment.
I hated that.
My chest hurt. It wasn't your fault you looked like him.
I knew the gulls were weary of the change in my mood; perhaps they sensed inside me a raging storm was building to drown out the hurt. Perhaps, perhaps they had feared what would come next.
But oh how I hated the waves and the salty smell. I especially hated your hair, how it moved in the breeze. Like his.
Pain is no friend of mine, but a shadow that follows me.
I could have been a mother.
A lover.
A wife.
Then the sea claimed him. I don't even know why I stayed so long by the sea.
That day, I remember it well, etched inside that place behind my eyes. I just walked up to you, all sunlit coated and fierce in your grace.
I walked up and told you to move.
You seemed surprised.
"Move?" You'd said all perplexed, and I told you again to move, to get off the beach, to leave here, and your voice was so unsure when you spoke the word, "Why?"
I had asked myself that moment why it was I hated you so. Why I needed you to get off my beach. I didn't have a good answer and I know I looked like a fool standing there with a bucket of shells.
You peered in and asked, "Searching for pearls?"
"No." I looked across the waves, "Just trying to hold onto something that means nothing anymore."
"I liked my suggestion better." You'd said. I think I glared at you then and the gulls swirled above us and the waves still rolled in.
I never liked someone who would disagree.
But he did.
And I hated you more.
But that day changed it all, didn't it? I'd walked off and thrown the bucket, shells and all into the waves where it rolled into the sand. I stomped as much as sand allowed and headed the opposite direction and never wanted to see you there again.
Funny, how you'd shown up at my door. I could have killed you then, I think. Could have stuck you with the poker from the fireplace. Nearly, did, too.
I often reflect on why you brought the bucket back filled with only clam shells that day. I reflect on why you shoved it into my arms and told me to find the pearls.
I had screamed that there are never pearls. And that the sea claims it all.
And then, then you took the air from my lungs.
"My brother was on the boat, too."
It all came back like a wet blanket on my shoulders. The light seeking the edge of the water, the boat never coming into sight, the lightening, the wind, the stinging rain and my hoarse voice begging the sea to bring him home.
I'd looked at you then. Really looked at you.
Your eyes were green, not blue.
And your lips had a pout that his never did.
I took the bucket and set it on the small table in the kitchen right by the dead flowers in the center. At the time I couldn't bear to throw them away, so they had sat there, dead, forlorn, and a horrible reminder.
The rusted bucket looked right next to the jar. But the giver of the gift was wrong.
You'd left then, of course.
And you stayed away.
I fretted about three days later when I still hadn't run into you.
I'll never know why I kept going back, not for him, but for you.
I finally emptied the bucket, and sure enough, I'd found one pearl in all the clams. It was such a sad little thing, but it was something.
I'll never forget that morning I took it into the jewelers and told them to make it into something beautiful. I didn't care what. They gave it a sad look, but I came back to one earring. Just one.
The jeweler said he'd make another if I brought one more. I remember walking into the cloudy afternoon with one pearl in my ear when I spotted you.
The bench you sat on was such an old thing, all faded, battered and worn, but you made it beautiful.
I'd walked right up to you and said the first word I could think of, "Sorry."
"For what?" You'd asked, and I told you for the way I acted and I'll never forget the look on your face when you spotted my earlobe and the earring.
"You found one."
"Just one."
You had smiled then, "Guess the sea gave you something back."
And I had replied, "The sea had help. Thank you."
I wonder at times what would have happened if you hadn't gone through all that trouble. I wonder where I'd be. I might have let the sea claim me.
The pain is still there at times, but I'm ok now, thanks to you.
Your arms still wrap around me each night, and when I see you standing on the beach, I think of a pearl.



I’m not much anymore. A memory. A Thought. Maybe just a concept now. Something vague. I was something important once. Something treasured, sought after, wanted, revered and desired. I was like a crown. A halo. Something clean, pure, unblemished. I was what they all wanted. Now, if they even recall my definition I shall be proud. If they have even heard of me I shall be surprised. Moreover, if they possess me I shall be astounded.  - Virtue

Extra Words Are Here

Post #1 Here..... Not sure that anyone will bother reading most of this, but I felt like sharing more than just poems. More than just songs. I wanted to share my random thoughts, feelings, short stories. Humor.
Take a peek at how I think.
Darting to and fro and back and forth and inbetween.
I'd rather like some hot cocoa now.