Tag Archives: regrets

30DC: 10 + 11

Have 11+ days already passed since I first starting blogging on this WordPress site? It’s amazing how time slips through your fingers when you’re not fully aware of day and night. Yes, I sleep and wake up at my usual time for work, but I don’t realize when the trickles of light enter the horizon or when they slowly fade away. I’m not sure if I’m not being observant, or because my mind if preoccupied with other matters, but, it just seems like summer (or my life in general) has been slipping away. But, I’ll be writing about that tomorrow.

Onto the 30 day challenge…

Day 10: Put your music player on shuffle and write down the 10 song that play

*Note: Since reformatting Winston (le computer), I haven’t downloaded any music back onto it, so I’ve been relying on various radio stations on Pandora…. and this is what it has given me (all liked music, by the way!)

  1. No light, No light by Florence + the Machine
  2. Hands all Over by Maroon 5
  3. Home by Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros
  4. Piggy bank by Never Shout Never
  5. She is Love  by Parachute
  6. Boston by Augustana
  7. Turn on Billi by The Pierces
  8. Make it Mine by Jason Mraz
  9. These Walls by Teddy Geiger
  10. Porcelain by Patrick Stump

After the 15th or so song that Pandora played the music tempo picked up considerably — I’ve recently gotten really into post-hardcore and punk music again. Some metal too… so please give me suggestions if you love those genres too!

11: Your Family

I’m the only girl in a family of boys. Three brothers, in fact, one older than me by two years, and two younger brothers 5 years and 7 years apart respectively. My parents are still together, going strong (maybe a little too strong sometimes, if you get my drift…), and I live with my grandparents and one of my aunts.

At one point, a decade or more so ago, in the tradition of a traditional Vietnamese family, I lived in a house with my grandparents, two aunts, three uncles, and my own immediate family. Yes. That’d be 12 people in a house. And it was great (for the most part). I miss having a big family, but at the same time, it’s nice to hear myself think.

———

This post hasn’t been particular interesting, I think, but in the spirit of a challenge, I felt the need to write on the prompts, however mundane my answers seem to be. I’ve been up to a lot lately – mainly broadening my experiences through the written word and contemplating. Tomorrow is a new day filled with events, however, so hopefully that’ll give me a well needed rest from my thoughts. Time will tell.

So, I’ll leave you with this, dear reader: how do you “stop” thinking?

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Shake the Dust

This is one of my favorite poems, I first heard in in High School and even years later, it still rings true in my ears and heart. Maybe I’m being a sentimental and overthinking my regrets too much, but I think I needed a dose of this. I hope you enjoy.

Oh – if you ever get the chance to see him perform live, it’s breath taking and chilling at the same time.

Shake the Dust – Anis Mojgani

This is for the fat girls.
This is for the little brothers.
This is for the school-yard wimps, this is for the childhood bullies who tormented them.
This is for the former prom queen, this is for the milk-crate ball players.
This is for the nighttime cereal eaters and for the retired, elderly Wal-Mart store front door greeters.
Shake the dust.
This is for the benches and the people sitting upon them,
for the bus drivers driving a million broken hymns,
for the men who have to hold down three jobs simply to hold up their children,
for the nighttime schoolers and the midnight bike riders who are trying to fly. Shake the dust.
This is for the two-year-olds who cannot be understood because they speak half-English and half-god.
Shake the dust.
For the girls with the brothers who are going crazy,
for those gym class wall flowers and the twelve-year-olds afraid of taking public showers,
for the kid who’s always late to class because he forgets the combination to his lockers,
for the girl who loves somebody else.
Shake the dust.
This is for the hard men, the hard men who want to love but know that is won’t come.
For the ones who are forgotten, the ones the amendments do not stand up for.
For the ones who are told to speak only when you are spoken to and then are never spoken to. Speak every time you stand so you do not forget yourself.
Do not let a moment go by that doesn’t remind you that your heart beats 900 times a day and that there are enough gallons of blood to make you an ocean.
Do not settle for letting these waves settle and the dust to collect in your veins.
This is for the celibate pedophile who keeps on struggling,
for the poetry teachers and for the people who go on vacations alone.
For the sweat that drips off of Mick Jaggers’ singing lips and for the shaking skirt on Tina Turner’s shaking hips, for the heavens and for the hells through which Tina has lived.
This is for the tired and for the dreamers and for those families who’ll never be like the Cleavers with perfectly made dinners and sons like Wally and the Beaver.
This is for the biggots,
this is for the sexists,
this is for the killers.
This is for the big house, jail-sentenced cats becoming redeemers and for the springtime that always shows up after the winters.
This? This is for you.
Make sure that by the time fisherman returns you are gone.
Because just like the days, I burn both ends and every time I write, every time I open my eyes I am cutting out a part of myself to give to you.
So shake the dust and take me with you when you do for none of this has never been for me.
All that pushes and pulls, pushes and pulls for you.
So grab this world by its clothespins and shake it out again and again and jump on top and take it for a spin and when you hop off shake it again for this is yours.
Make my words worth it, make this not just another poem that I write, not just another poem like just another night that sits heavy above us all.
Walk into it, breathe it in, let is crash through the halls of your arms at the millions of years of millions of poets coursing like blood pumping and pushing making you live, shaking the dust.
So when the world knocks at your front door, clutch the knob and open on up, running forward into its widespread greeting arms with your hands before you, fingertips trembling though they may be.

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