Cut-throat Provoke Gun Smoke Castle Moat < Telling a Story

I have told one hundred stories

But now I try to tell them well.

And I’ve lost my understanding

Of how a storyteller tells.

I worry that I’m not so clear

Or that my words are rather plain

Especially, I panic

That my words might cause distain

I want to have aa repetoir

Of which many approve

But always want to make my work

Cause audiences to be moved

This, I’ve becoming cetain

Is only achieved with raw charm

Of which to some will appeal

and to others will alarm

In truth, approval proves to be

A suffocating goal

Instead, I should tell my stories

The way I know they should be told.

Written By: Sarah C Louise

Language is Sick

She’s been up all night tossing and turning, twittering and tumbling around continents and over seas.

She oflies through the air, being launched by foes, and rotting in worried temples until a grave breath ends the concern.

She hides away in folio masterpieces, her secrets buried in open volumes, her stories cast off in cardboard boxes to needy children who don’t understand her yet.

She is whispered lovingly to coniving liars and whelped in the angry heads who carry bitter youth.

She is repeated to babies and celebrated in responses, but she is only celebrated, these days, for her appealing surface.

What of her history and the vastness of her being? She’s been stetched to a degree no single shelter could keep her. She divides her self, offering free will to her gifts.

Though timid creatures have not been taught to use that gift, and less and less and less, that simple connection of pen and page, hope made incarnate as a reflection to a moment, is known practice. Language loves the relationship of ink and intention. But she lives in a dated state..

Language has been ill always. And her purpose has been transfixed to tanks and wounds and fire and mist.

She should have been a garden: flowers begging to be wiffed and sung on the wind. She meant to be a song all along.

Between the madness of love and the weakness of hate, she begged for clarity to be her only end. But she cannot speak for herself, cannot tell of her condition, cannot compose the cure, cannot end the confusion.

She is mute in a forgotten room with a terrible window looking out at a wreckage yard, while a stream of idol advocates talk about her significance in a tone she cannot hear.

And the last time anyone wrote her a get well card it was returned as “unknown recipient”.

She wakes in fits and sleeps in rages

She, companionless, keeps her offering, hoping someone will hold her without a deadline and rock her as the ocean waves over old stones. And that someone will kiss her trembling brow and incant the medicinal words:

All is full of love.

By: Sarah C Louise

Ergo the Ego Makes Me Go Blank

In a coil-bound notepad I started to write.

A notepad I picked up as a prop for a play.

I needed somewhere, it didn’t need to look nice.

Every fine notebook I bought had me loftily drifting above reality.

This simple collection of lined paper didn’t outwardly inspire wit,

But something of a spell came over me quick.

To approve of the container’d been habit before

But in this notepad I dove to a watery world

Where ideas were substance

Imagined lands free to roam

And the freshness of my thoughts held new halls and new tomes

It felt necessary to record each odd poem and fragmented score

And once they’d been transposed, composed, I had 100 more

Safely stowed in an unassuming home

That no one would prize but myself, alone.

That coil-bound notepad looks mundane and stale,

But beneath the factory cover my world is unveiled

To me, it’s a romantic treasure I’ll savor

There’s no need for ornate leather or perfectly polished paper.

All I require is a place I can trust.

From there, it’s just time.

By Sarah C Louise.

Seeking Happy Nights Through Happy Days!

I found the most amazing pen.

It’s sharp and smooth, and reliable through any of my wild moods.

Sometimes it gets away on me, but I always find it when I need to say the important words.

It likes to be called “Velocity”. It’s got a special cushion for my working hands (how thoughtful!). And though it’s really just a one-time-thing, it will stick around until the ink dries up, I’m sure!

It has seen some strange words made in our brief time, yet it continually supports me, stating the words clearly.

We have stronger purpose together, you know?

If I find the right surface, we could really go all day, and well into the nights.

I’ll probably find one that’s more suitable eventually, but it feels really nice.

Unlike my barren sex-life.

By: Sarah C Louise

I Should Be Writing

I should be writing

But I need to figure out my banking stuff because things have been really tight lately and who can really be creative anyway when they are wondering whether they have enough in a week to pay off their debts and I really need to make a list of how much I can spend and stick to it because I’ve been a little crazy with dinners at the next act and beers and wunderbar and I better hold back a little bit if I’m going to be able to pay off my phone bill.

Now, I should be writing,

But I just went on facebook for a minute to see what was happening or if I had any notifications or, the so sought after!, special messages from someone I haven’t heard from in awhile or with an offer of some kind, cause you never know, but (ya let’s face it) then I saw this little video of a funny octopus, and I just love the way their flesh looks when their swimming and, how cute!, he stuffs himself in a little jar, and woah, he almost got that crab that was twice its size! Impressed, I decided to look up some more videos of them changing colours when they glide over the ocean floor, they’re little head wings flapping softly. Then I decide to look up how much an octopus is for a pet.

But really, I should be writing,

But then I thought about how I have been looking for more opportunities to sing and, oh my, it’s been months since I’ve looked at theatre alberta auditions, and who knows, even though I have four jobs and the art walk to prepare for, it could be that someone in the city is putting on Threepenny Opera and I would LOVE to play pirate Jenny, and though I’ve looked through all the current posts and most of the ones from the winter (and even some of last fall) there doesn’t appear to be anyone putting on a production of Threepenny Opera, and then I briefly consider messaging Marthe and saying “LET’S FUCKING DO A PRODUCTION OF THREEPENNY OPERA! IT WOULD BE AWESOME!!!!!” I decide again that I don’t have the time and that I should be writing things for future productions I already have plans for.

So, there’s no excuse now, nothing more, just to get writing,

But then I remember that I haven’t heard back from my new boss about hours for my first week and that I should really create a fully flushed out schedule so that I don’t miss anymore meetings or don’t mess up my hours, or miss someone’s birthday fire-pit party again or miss the date of a submission for grants, and really I should work on writing grants because once I have money for grants I will have time and space to write my actual stuff, but then grants always require samples of written work for submissions and I should make sure my pieces are developed so they think “woah woah woah, we should throw thousands of dollars at Sarah C Louise cause she is a BIG FUCKING DEAL!” but I really haven’t spent as much time on those pieces as I should, so really I should just write.

OK OK OK alright, yes, ok, no problem, here I go,

pulling up my documents right now, and just leafing through to find out where I left off,

and, look, there’s the last paragraph,

and I even have an idea of what to say, so I’m golden,

But first…….

I’m just going to make some coffee 🙂

By Sarah C Louise

Photo from: http://some-forgotten-things.tumblr.com/

Oh! What Fun! The Bizarre Overdone!

There are no virtues in the virtual world

But there are often crews who act cruely

There is no son of the sun itself

But the planets know the plans of the sea

The government is governed; The city is cited,

But the wind cannot control a standing tree.

And friends can be fiends when friday ends,

As the french hate fries and there’s good in goodbyes.

And the infidels aspire to spark absurd trends

But the Jocks will throw blocks at any one who tries.

And Elves delve in the charade of the shade

Hiding mouths with their hushing fingers

And the dog will lick clean the floor where cheese gleans

And the child will hover where chocolate lingers,

But I once saw a shadow beyond the shade of a tree

And a bird with more words than Socrates.

If you would ride with the still river tide

Then you’d fall in love with the mud and the weeds

And the fire was sparkling while I was Joan-of-Arc-ing

to the busy clouds swirling in the strawberry sky.

But the wave of the pavement procured a new statement;

There were radio waves flying by,

the spots on the Aloe made children feel shallow

For a spotted cure can’t cure the sick

And the knees of the bees burst to smithereens

when the cat smiled at the riled candlewick

Dogs have their toots and Queens have their poops

and the darsh-gonnet ministers will stay

And the churches have windows that are all filled in

You’ll get sweaty hands when you pray.

Old-hat uranium and last-week’s plutonium

spill over brand-new lunolium floors

And mothers will cry, they will weep! They will sigh!

When you dent up their acura doors.

You’ve got no candy in your little fancy jars

So buy some more quirky containers.

The mailman’s a woman, the fire chief’s a trans

and puritans are really the blamers.

The rocking chair is frozen and will crumble with a swing

The dish and the spoon have no legs.

Holiday vegetarians and homely vegans are tired,

they eat roast pork and buttered-up eggs.

The bushes were naked and so was your father

When the planes hit the towers that morn.

but when we searched for the graves of the ones who weren’t saved

The grass was ramped and the words were worn.

No one wants to be a capitalist’s whore

But the money can buy silk pajamas.

Even Shakespeare ate cake at morning, noon, and night

When he shared his bright golden stanzas.

No one likes papaya and nobody wants peas

But they’re stacking in dumpsters down the road.

You can’t kiss the boy you have stared at for months

So you gave up and made out with a toad.

 

Isn’t it queer? These words I have here?

Shouldn’t there be some air of reason?

Do you hate them? Despise them?

Wish to print and shred them?

Don’t hesitate, I implore you to burn them.

Or even learn from them

Or offer them to worms in your garden

But if you should touch them

Or hush them

Or spurn them,

Then my words have won you

For then you have read them!

And they are bizarre!

And they are ABSURD

And they aren’t professional

And they aren’t prefered

But you’ve have a dose

Or my silly medicine

And perhaps, if you liked it,

You might come again.

I hope they were strange, my phrases and puns!

For oh! What fun! The bizarre overdone!

By Sarah C Louise

 

 

 

 

Ode to Writing

I could be 100 years and still have much to say

My visions grow more tireless with more contact to the page

The simple act of spelling out the train of thought conducted

Illuminates awareness and tension; makes me less corrupted.

Out of my mind and into a book. Make the page weigh more than my head.

Sometimes it is the only place! Keeps the strange from remaining unsaid.

If I ever look back to scan the improvised pages.

Most should be at the bottom of a black hole, my uncalculated rages.

No, I’m not quite a “writer”, but the more that I put down

The more I invent curious stories unlike the ones I’ve found.

In the beginning it sure seems like a skill-less, rambling rant,

But overtime I’ve come to find the process is a plant.

Soon my vines will spread over oceans. My buds will sing a song

And in the end I’ll look back and know: t’was writing which made me strong.

By Sarah C Louise

Every day you miss playing or practicing is one day longer it takes to be good.

A comment made by Ben Hogan, a pro US golfer. I don’t take much from Golfer’s but I do believe Hogan is right. This new blog is a space for my to publish those little pieces of writing which constitute my efforts to “practice”. There’s no one form I like, no one subject, and I do love to experiment. They say it takes 10, 000 hours to master something. Well, I shall create 10, 000 posts in the next 10,000 days (Can I keep it up for so many years? Something like 27 years to be exact. We shall see…) on this blog (each post demands more than an hour, but how does one emmerse oneself creatively in their work while simulanteously trying to keep a log of their hours. It’s just not possible). All of the work which will be posted here is written by me, Sarah C Louise, and will exclusively consist of original works. As I am progressing I would love to read any sort of feedback, ideas for inspiration, or what-have-you. If you are simply here to enjoy, welcome, and do enjoy.