Best I Ever Had

Good morning, lovers

My Dear Old Dad reminded me yesterday that I haven't blogged in awhile, and so, at his anxious, fatherly urging, I have taken some time this morning to reconnect with the blogger side of my writing identity.

A side which, I must admit, I have missed.

I'm not sure what it is, but something about the way I blog is decidedly different from the way I write everything else. It's more translucent, more honest.  I feel comfortable in the quiet clarity of allowing myself a space to share whatever comes to mind.  There are no rules.  No limitations. Just me.  Just my mind.  Just my heart.

I've been working on Tulips some more this morning, and I'm happy to report that I'm finally having one of those successful writing days.  The kind where my progress is substantial, and instead of ultimate frustration, the words are just controlling the flow in a most beautiful and affectionate manner. It's the kind of endeavor that will probably last all day long, and instead of leaving me feeling hollow, dissatisfied and unstable, I will feel fulfilled and proud and overwhelmingly full of love.

I'm in such a glorious mood that I've decided to share a tiny snippet of Tulips with you, here, against my better judgement.  I am far too protective over this story, and I am in living fear of having people read any part of it until it's completely finished.  However, this isn't logical.  I need feedback, and more than feedback, I, shamefully, need praise.  I'm especially proud of this fragment, and I just want to share it with you, because you've all been lovely and faithful and patient in listening to me rant about this project for two years now and I've never given you any sort of details about it or anything.

I'm still not going to tell you the story line, I am fearful of someone on this world wide web stealing my child from me, but I don't fear too much the possibility of someone stealing these particular words.

And so:  here they are.

"Everything has been covered in frost.  There is no life, no vibrancy.  There is no laughter, no love, and no peace. I am forced to live in this prison of fresh wounds where every bend and corner is a familiar remembrance.  Every familiar remembrance is tied to a happy memory.  Every happy memory has turned to sarcophagal dust, and I am plagued by nostalgic allergens aggravating and antagonizing my lungs, crawling beneath my skin, making nests and birthing cockroaches in my brain.
I am filth-ridden.  Lowly and alone as the Serpent, I creep from room to room, besmirching the picture frames and old toys with black smudges as I weigh them, heavy in my hands."  


There you go, dad. Now you can rest assured that your daughter is going to be the author of horridly depressing, psychosomatic books someday.  But at least I will be happy. :)  And if I make any money, I'll be sure to remember you and mom and send you to Italy, where you can forget about my awful book and tell people your daughter made her fortune off of a Creme Brulee competition in which she took first place because of her extensive qualifications achieved at culinary school.

Which won't make much of a difference, because Italians could care less about a good Creme Brulee, and I would never be able to make a successful Creme Brulee anyways.

What a funny world we live in.

No, honestly, I'm just kidding about all of that.  I know that if I ever do finish this silly project, my parents will do nothing but tell absolutely EVERYONE that their daughter wrote a book.  I'll probably have to beg them to stop bragging about it to the neighbors. Although I do love them to death for the pride they take in my writing. It does good things for your kids to be so proud and supportive of their endeavors.

All it does is instill in them a sense of motivation, and determination, and that is a beautiful thing.

So thanks mom and dad. You don't always have to 'get it' in order to nurture it, or encourage it to flourish. I'm thankful for you and I love you guys.


On that note, I really do need to get back to Tulips.

I hope you're all having beautiful, inspirational days.

Love much,

Hannah

Get Crazy With the Cheese Whiz

I'm not going to lie.

I'm just writing this for an excuse to use the title.

Sometimes, around 10 PM usually, after a really long day, I'll get random bursts of energy and end up dancing like a maniac in front of my bathroom mirror to a myriad of songs for about 25 whole minutes.

I'm just now coming off of one of those crazy highs.  Listening to Beck- Loser, and thinking, "Get crazy with the cheese whiz must be one of the greatest lyrics of all time."

That, or my other personal favorite line from the song, "Yeah, sprechen sie Deutches, bay-bee!"

Hi.

It's been awhile, I'm sorry, I'm bad at blogging.  You all knew this already. It's also Spring Break.  I've been home for two weeks now, and life has been insanely busy, as it tends to be once you find yourself returning to the place of your birth.

I'm going back to CB in four days.

My world is all sort of topsy-turvy right now, and I don't really know what to do with it.

There's just a lot.  Not a little of a lot, but a lot of a lot, and a lot more coming.  Yes.  I realize that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.  I told you. Topsy-freaking-turvy, man.

I think 93.754 % of it is just me being really inconceivably tired.

The other however-many-remaining-integers percentage is just growing up.

It's all fine and dandy, I mean, there's not anything stupendously unfortunate going on, but I (being the confrontational equivalent of a box turtle that I am) have had a hard time trying to adjust to life and it's fast-moving pace.

It's like suddenly everything hits you.  All. At. Once.

BOOM.

Life.

Thaaaar she blows, Cap'n!

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.

Except not.

Because I go to Bible School.  That would be, like, so against the rules.

Anyways.  I digress.

Mostly, like I said, I'm just tired, and I'm afraid, and there's a whole new world waiting for me this year; I've gotten so many glimpses of it from so many different angles over the past two weeks, and it's all very exciting and terrifying and nerve-wracking and heartbreaking and death-defying and positively impossible to ignore.

Which is something that I desperately want to do.  Also, I want to run as fast as possible in the opposite direction as I can. So fast, in fact, I'd like to sprint backwards all the way to the age of 6, when I was lying awake in my bed, and my biggest problem in the world was how I was afraid of R.O.U.S. and literally fell asleep dreaming about The Princess Bride every night.  Curses upon me and my godforsaken bubble of comfort.

But I can't do that, now, can I?

Onwards and upwards, friends.

Defying gravity, remember?

This is my life, now.  "This is the business that we're in," to quote The Godfather (as always) and I'm just trying to figure it all out while I still have time.

It's not bad, it's not wrong, it's just life.  It's just where I am right now.

It's all part of the process.

On a sidenote, I think things will really look much better after I see The Titanic on the big screen in 3D in a few weeks.

No, I'm not exaggerating, I honestly believe that will magically make my life less confusing.

It's amazing what a little Leonardo DiCaprio can do for a weary mind.

Especially this weary mind.

Speaking of weary, I need a hot shower and a skype date with The Best Friend, whom I get to see in 8 short days, and whom I'm extremely excited to hug, and dance lighthearted with on the beach, and whom will not-so-gently remind me that I just need to get out of my head, sometimes, for the skies to turn blue again and for everything to go back to normal.

Love you, Beck.

Love you, all.

Wishing you all the double stuffed oreos and crunchy peanut butter in the world,

Hannah

Poems- 2/17/09

Jimmy

I'm just wasting time wondering

About all the things that could go wrong

I'd like to fix this world somehow

Find someone to lead us now

So many problems in our lives

Causing us to split and break and fall

Away from days gone by
You walk this lonely road, well,
I'm calling it my home

The broken dreams make my pillow and

The empty sighs are the stars above my bed

I've been left behind far too many times

And I'm done wasting my life watching MTV all night

Nobody calls me anymore
My heart is learning to close the door

I don't need you
You say you don't need me

Then what causes you to listen to me while you fall asleep?
You're just a stupid kid and I'm a lifeless drone

Fueled by the hope to hear the ringing of the telephone
How did we get to this?
This world of great demise

I thought this was supposed to be the dawning of our lives?
I guess it's all too much, too little, too late
America's finally been resigned to her fate

So just sit down and ignore this please

Live your life like all the hopeless 9-5s

Give up your hopes and dreams

'Cause in the end we all turn out the same

And nobody's going to remember our names.

Mirror

This compromise is killing me

The screaming of my mind makes my ears bleed

I see the look in your eyes
You're tired of living this lie

Long-shot dreams and faded memories

Stare back at me

Winding road after winding road

Endless night after endless night

You don't want to let it show

But deep inside you're growing tired

Of all your failed attempts 

At reviving anarchy

Your glory days are over, kid

And they haven't even begun

This is the life you've chosen for yourself

This is the lie I keep telling myself

To lull me back to sleep.

East 12th Street

My mind is a torrid scene

So many songs, thoughts and dreams

Tangled up into one hot mess

Of rebellion and failed attempts at pleasantness

Don't look directly into my eyes

Don't be fooled by all the compulsive lies
Stay away from the history of my victories and wins
Stand too close and you just might fall in

Run fast from the rhythmic beating of my heart

Remember that not all beautiful things are truly art

So keep walking, sweetheart, and do your very best

Not to end up just like all the rest. 

Home Again

I don't mean to sound redundant, lovers, but there is nothing on this earth quite like making breakfast in a sunny kitchen, surrounded by the playful glow of vintage French jazz, and sipping on a steamy cup of foamy, frothy espresso.

Breezy nightgown, oversized lengthy cardigan sweater, and winking Sock Monkey slippers.

Birds chirping, and I know this, because I have the sliding glass door open to let the fresh air and glorious sunshine in.

Julia style omelettes (Madame Child, I have you to thank for so much of my passion), I added a wee splash of milk this time, instead of water, and my egg sort of resembled a light, surprisingly yellow, puff pastry. I filled it with fresh tomatoes, fresh spinach, diced green onions, mozzarella cheese (we are currently lacking feta) and topped it with more butter and a small grating of parmesan.

God, I missed this.

Halfway through the omelette, I remembered the jar of pesto hiding in the back of my fridge.  Rats.  Next time, for certain.

I have nothing on my agenda for the rest of the day.

In the back of my mind, I am remembering my lifelong desire to make real Creme Fraiche from scratch.  24 hour process, or something like that, yes?

I have suddenly begun to dream of oven roasted pears, bathed in vanilla, cinnamon and red wine, and served with an airy dollop of Creme Fraiche.

And duck.  Roast Duck Confit.  Or Cornish hens.  Possibly a vegetable ratatouille.  Arugula salad.  Lemon Honey Vinaigrette?

Somebody take me to culinary school, quickly.

Remember the time I made Boeuf Bourguignon, and I blogged about it, proudly?

Out tumbles Mastering the Art of French Cooking voluminously from the bookshelf of cookery books in our kitchen.  Nimbly my fingers fly through the velvet pages.

I have all day long to play in this empty house, in this glorious kitchen, to create, to devour, to fantasize about Provence and old bicycles, Marseilles and the Mediterranean fish markets. To experiment with the white truffle oil I got for Christmas, allthewhile dreaming of the day when I can accompany a wizened, old Frenchman and his snouted, piggy companion on an exciting, adventurous hunt for the elusive black truffles.

Bon Appetit, lovers.

And Bon Voyage for me, because this wildly imaginative, wide-eyed dreamer has set foot on a vessel of succulent destination, and will not be coming home anytime soon.

Au Revoir.

Xx,
Hannah

30 Things

1. I would rather sleep in guys' boxers than any sort of girls' pajamas.
2. I have an unhealthy addiction to collecting guitars.
3. Sometimes, when I'm all alone, I sing myself to sleep.
4. When I go to Thai restaurants, I never order anything besides Pad Thai.  I hate that about myself.
5. I am quite drawn to funny and awkward fridge quotation magnets.
6. I wish I knew more about Andy Warhol.
7. I am viably afraid of heights.
8. I only like to get dressed up if it means I get to go dancing. <3
9. Sometimes I want nothing more than to be embraced and held for a very, very, very long time.
10. I have the biggest, strangest, most glamorous sort of girl crush on Cher.
11. I name everything.  From my laptop, to my guitars, to my favorite pair of jeans to the imaginary poltergeist that lives in our house.
12. Yes, I did invent an imaginary poltergeist to live in my house.
13. Listening to Norah Jones makes me feel like a lady.
14. I love it when you call me by my nickname.
15. I am utterly convinced that candles, salty air, pancakes, writing and John Cusack each possess the ability to cure heartaches and heal insufferable wounds.
16. I am the biggest sort of grump when I'm working on my novel manuscript.
17. I believe that walking is the only way to successfully work through writers' block.
18. Sometimes I wish I could hole up in a cabin somewhere in the North Carolina mountains and not come out until I have truly finished something I'm writing.
19. I think compassion is one of the most important character qualities a person can ever possess.
20. Whenever I meet someone new, I automatically go through a mental list of whether or not this person is potentially ever going to become my stalker.
21. I don't really trust people.
22. I believe in mermaids, and fairies, and gremlins, and trolls and leprechauns and guardian angels.
23. I don't like to discuss cancer, because it reminds me of when my mom had it, and I'm afraid of those memories.
24. I respond well to unusually great conversationalists.
25. I'm extremely claustrophobic.
26. There is nothing more attractive to me than an avid reader.  Also, surfing helps.
27. I'm pretty sure that after living at the beach for awhile, I'll never be able to move far away from any ocean, ever again.
28. I would rather loose my sense of sight than any of the remaining four senses.
29. I am a total Disney whore.
30. When you make me laugh, I feel like my world, and my joy, expands twofold.

2.29.12.

Lovers,

2. 29.12.

The day that I finished our third, possibly fourth, (I really can't remember) and final revision of The Musical.

I'm not sure I ever told any of you the story of how Raelyn and I came to write a musical, and I don't intend to tell you the story now, either.

It is not the time for stories.

The time now is for celebration.

We celebrate because our three-year-old, all-consuming project has finally been finished.

It's over.

By the end of this month, it will be copyrighted.

Hopefully, soon, the rights will be acquired to the songs we've used, (The songs are not original. I can't tell you who they belong to just yet, but they're not ours.)

And if all goes according to dream, to chance, to divine gifting and ability, it'll be onstage within the next 2-4 years.

I've been working around the clock for the past 5 days to push through and get it completely revised, pulling several almost-all-nighters and inhaling countless cups of coffee, dodging classtimes, mealtimes and social engagements to click away furiously on my laptop, and it's all come to fruition, now.

It's overwhelming, and this blog post is not doing my excitement, fear, sadness, joy, disbelief, flabbergastion (it is a word, now, lovers) or discombobulation any sort of justice.  I am annoyed and also amused that I finally am lost for words.

It's taken me my entire life, but here I am.

I am tapped. I am a closed book.  One which, upon opening, is full of blank, unmarred pages.

3 years.  Three years of my life, and the chapter is finally closed.  But really, the story is only just beginning.

Look at that! I said this wasn't the time for stories.  Apparently I lied.

The only song I can think of right now to describe the amount of love and power that is currently radiating off of us is, funnily enough, an ABBA song.  Chiquitita.

Sad, but true.

Emotional and ridiculous but full of hope and excitement and knowledge and faith and determination and innocence.  Imagination.  Dreams.

I propose a toast to the next 2-4 years, and what God has in store for us, for this project, and for all the people who are connected to it in whatever way.

We're all on a journey, lovers.

We've all got our own stories.

Start travelling.  Start writing it all down.

Carpe Diem, babes.

I love you.

I love you.  I love you.  I love you.

Wishing you all the wonderful feelings and rainy late night walks in the universe,

Hannah.

P.S.
New tattoo idea? 2.29.12

Yes?  I think yes. Eventually.  Someday when I am brave enough to sit in a chair and let someone drill through my skin with a needle, creating colors and patterns of beautiful meaning.

Okay.

Goodnight.