If you only knew.

What do you do when you care so much that it hurts sometimes to think about?  So much that everything else in life seems small in comparison, or even hinges on the thing you care about?  Even if you know it's doesn't.  Even if you know life will go on no matter what.  And that those other things are equally if not more important.

If you only knew.
 
If you only could know how much I really do care.  How much I want you to care back.
I'd be there for you and never let you down.  Never let you go.
We would have adventures together and no moment would be dull.
We'd go places and see things.  Filled with wonder and awe.
And when we weren't together, we'd count the minutes until we were.
We would be fantastic.  Magnificent.  Amazing.  Grand.  
We would be "you and I".  We would be "us".
For the rest of our lives.
If you'd just take that leap of faith.  
I know you're scared.  I am too.  But we'd leap together.
If you only knew it would be alright.
If you only knew.

What's the hold up?

Too many times I use the excuse of oh well I don't have the time [to write], I don't know what to write, lah dee dah dee dah dee dah.
Rubbish.

But what to write about?  That's another roadblock I let stop me rather than just taking a running jump over the thing and landing where I may.  What to write about? When you can't think of something, look around you.  Any decent writer as at some level of observation skills, however minor they may be.  Some people have them and that's what makes them a good writer and then others develop them through writing.

Mine aren't impressive by any means, and I'm not claiming to be a "decent writer" but what I'm trying to say is, when you don't know what to write about look around you.  Take in your surroundings.

What's in the room?  A floor, a ceiling, walls? Sure.  Furniture? Yes.  But everything has character.  Everything has a story.  Sometimes you know it and sometimes you have to suppose what it might be.  Either way, there's always something to write about in anything and everything. 

I have a similar philosophy for photography, something I able to delve into in college.  It's in response to people that don't know what to take a picture of.  The philosophy is this: all that is on the planet: every person, every place, every thing; surely, every inch of of space is a potential picture.  You just need the right angle.

So then, in either case, there's no excuse to not do it, if that is indeed what you want to do; you have your motive.  The means, a pen or pencil and paper, a computer and word processor, or even a typewriter if you want to get crazy.  So, as long as you have the opportunity, DO IT!  Write.

Your's In Writing.

A Summer, Swift.

And just like that, the warm months of the year are over.  And what a summer it's been!  How much I've grown.  And yet, still so much growing to do.  The fact the I know that is evidence to said growing.

I want to write.  A book.  As I've stated elsewhere: they are works in progress.  And  I still want to move to Marquette.  But I'm realizing it may not be as practical at the moment as I once thought.  Even so, I still want it.  How much wanting is it going to take before I do.

But who's to say there aren't any reasons for me to stay here for a little while at least?

Your's In Writing.

The Fear of Loss

Doing the right thing, unequivocally, often means doing the hard thing.  Sometimes, the right thing prevents the wrong thing and sometimes it fixes it after the wrong thing has already happened. Or at least attempts to patch it up somewhat.  But the "right thing" always needs doing, no matter how unpopular it may be.

I want to write more...it feels like more wants to be written, but it's not presenting itself.  I could wait and write up a whole draft when I do have more, but I really wanted to at least post this much.

Yours In Writing

Well then...

It seems recently in my life that with one answered question , another one pops up.  I do the brave thing.  I pour my heart out.

Let me tell you.  It felt amazing.

Oh I didn't feel good for a couple of days. But. It was a good discomfort.  And if the parties concerned happen to read this, let it be known, I'd do it again.  I should have done it a long time ago.  But you know that already.

When I did begin to feel good again, an understanding settled upon me.  I can do this with everyone when applicable.  I could never tell people how I felt about them in high school; never had the ability, or rather the follow through. (Now having typed that, I realize I did, in fact, tell a few people.  The rejection scared me however, preventing me from continuing in that fashion, instead of giving me the wisdom and courage to carry on.)  I have that now.

But.  Here's the "but".  While it's true that gone is the fear of loosing a friendship through the confession of feelings (if the friendship is strong enough and if it was true, it will be resilient and strengthen), my concern now is that what if I share how I feel with too many people.  How to do I choose?  It sounds dumb but I'm at square one...I'm just looking at a different side of the square.

Your's In Writing

At the lake.

An excerpt from journaling on the 24th of august while at the cabin.

It’s 7:44.  Early for me on vacation but actually, I’d like it to be the norm.  I set my alarm for 6.  It went off and my dad came and told me to shut it off.  I felt bad for waking him (and probably mom too) and part of me wanted to go back to sleep.  But somewhere inside of me, the will power to get up took over.  And I’m ever so glad it did.  The previous night, as I have done all nights that we have been here this summer, I pulled the new picture window’s blinds down.  They have this feature where after the shades are down you can pull the top down so that the bottom half (or whatever portion you desire) is shaded but the top is uncovered.  I have done this so that the sun, as it rises, can come in through the window and shine on the rock fireplace wall across the room without blinding me when I wake up.  Shade or not shade, the rising sun coming in through the window gives the room a sort of orange glow.  I believe that this illuminating color was also part of the reason for me being able to pull myself out of bed.  Dad was up already from telling me to turn my alarm off. Together, we looked out the window at the morning sun, slowly climbing up over the treetops about a half-mile across the lake.  And just as beautiful as the sun was rising in the sky, the lake itself was even more so.  The water was as it always is while the sun rises: glass.  I then threw on some shorts and a t-shirt, nearly jumped into my slippers, grabbed my camcorder, hit record and walked down to the lake.  Down the stairs.  Across the grass.  Down some more hill. This is a time of morning that’s so short and I wanted to capture it.  I had the desire the last time we were here earlier this summer but that “pull” of out of bed never occurred.  I had let sleep get the better of me.  I stepped out onto the dock and made my way toward the end.  I took some video with the camera and then decided the clip was too long so I took the same video with some short clips.  The water was moving a little now but they weren’t even ripples.  It’s amazing how much the lake changes in just a short amount of time.  In the 20 minutes it’s taken me to write this, the wind has picked up and waves have begun—nothing like the Great Lakes or certainly the oceans.  It’s certainly still quite calm but it’s bustling compared to before.   Time for coffee.

Floating

As she laid peacefully on her back in the water of that little lake, with the only disturbance being the ripples her body was making, she was mentally drowning in a sea of emotion.  She had donned a life jacket and was floating just past where she could no longer touch the bottom wither her feet.  She had had butterflies before but not these butterflies.  The last time she felt this way was five years ago.  The last time she had seen him.

Happy 50th Posting!

I always do this,  it's been a month again.  And SO MUCH has happened.  It's been a roller coaster.  I went to Minnesota to our cabin.  And to the MN state fair.  I was brave, I was sad, I reconnected with one of the best friends I've ever had (no rhyme intended) and I grew as a person.   And yes those are all grouped together for a reason.  Dad and I got swimmers itch or chiggers or something. Saw family I only see a couple times a year (and I think got closer to them as well).  More specific details of trip to come (I hope).  Or I'll be lame again and not post anything for a month.  Only time will tell.

Today, I write.

Clearly, I don't write often enough.  Not for my own satisfaction at least.  I want to tell stories of my day, my week, my month...you get the idea.

July shot by.  The 4th was...eventful.  I was in Marquette.  A parade.  The beach. Fireworks.  All interlaced with other things. New friends and old friends.  Drama.

And then I was off to Minnesota for a weekend.  I needed that SO much.  Back to the lake.  To the cabin.  To where I can forget everything else for a few days and just enjoy the water and the sun and my family (and a few friends when I can, when they are available).

Oh and I'm single now.  Actually, really, single.  I don't know what to feel yet. It's been a few months now - the summer - and I still don't know what to feel.  And we aren't really talking...not much.  I just don't know how to handle it.  My best friend has been ripped out of my life like a band-aid.  A particularly sticky band-aid at that.  One that leaves a residue that takes a few days to really go away.  Except it's been longer than days.  The only real way I can deal with it is to not think about it.  Prioritize other things.


But I'm healing.  Hanging out with friends. played Frisbee yesterday here at home and a few times throughout the summer in Marquette.  The other day, I went swimming in the river with two friends who are sisters.

It's funny how we use the term friends sometimes.  We do have friends, of course.  People we see all the time, or at least keep in contact with.  But then there are people we hardly talk to that we still label as friends.  They are more like people we acquire into our lives.  Sometimes we talk to them and sometimes we don't.  But these two - these sisters - are old friends.  We may not keep in touch as much as good friends do, but we go way back.  A friendship rooted in upbringing and beliefs and comradery.  I call them friends.

Your's In Writing

The Case of...

This is something I wrote back in high school.  I wanted to try my hand at writing something Sherlock-like.  I titled this "Chapter One with the intention to write a whole story but never could think out a whole plot.  This kind of works as a short though.  And perhaps, it could serve as a prompt for anyone out there who wants to take on the challenge.

*No copyright infringement intended!*
 

The Case of…

Chapter One

       It has been said that “Home is where the heart is.” I found that true for the mind also as well when one of my evening walks took me down Baker Street and to the address of my old quarters in apartment 221b. My friend had taught me well for as I climbed the stairs I counted them without a second thought; seventeen exactly.

         As I reached the top of the staircase Mrs. Hudson was just exiting the room.

“Hello Dr. Watson! It is so good to see you.”

“Hello Mrs. Hudson. How is he?” I asked motioning towards the door.

“Oh he’s fine but you know how he is when he has a case.”

I certainly did. For those years that we roomed together I was the audience to a great many eccentricities that my friend possessed. I entered the room with caution but despite Mrs. Hudson’s warning, Holmes was in a rather cheery mood and was delighted to see me.

“Watson old boy, how are you?”

“Splendid Holmes” I replied.

“And how’s the work around the house? Also, I expect your garden is coming along nicely.”

         I was astonished. I had indeed been doing some housework of late but I had neither seen Holmes nor told him about it by post.

“Yes but how…”

“Simple” chuckled Holmes. “Aside from the obvious fact that your face and hands are sunburned showing that you’ve been out in the sun for an extended period of time, your hands are calloused. With little exception, calloused hands suggest rigorous work. Being that I haven’t seen you for several weeks in this part of town I guessed you were doing just that but I dared not stop there for I had insufficient evidence.  Upon further inspection of your hands I was able to detect the collection of dirt underneath your fingernails. This strongly suggested to me that, going with the notion of housework, you were perhaps gardening or doing landscaping of some kind. Gardening seemed the more likely of the two seeing as the ideal harvest time is only a month away.

“Amazing Holmes, once you’ve explained the whole thing, it all seems so obvious.”

         “Quite so Wats…” he began to say but was interrupted by voices in the hallway.

         “I must see Sherlock Holmes!” screamed one voice.  It was a male’s; baritone in pitch yet noticeably older for it had a gargling quality to it.  “I must see him!” hollered the voice again.

         The owner of the voice bolted through the door panting.  He was a tower of a man with broad shoulders and a prominent chin wearing a well-tailored suit, a top hat and suede shoes; he was followed by Mrs. Hudson, the owner of the other voice.

         “I told him not to barge in like that”, said she.

         “That is quite alright Mrs. Hudson”, replied Holmes.  “Sir, what is the matter?”

         This was directed, of course, at our guest who tried to answer but before he could, collapsed on the floor.  Like lightning, my medical skills came though. 

         “Pulse…good.  He’s breathing.  All his vitals are good.” 

         Mrs. Hudson and Holmes joined me and together, wrestled his enormous build over to the couch. 

“Mrs. Hudson, the brandy”, said Holmes.  She was back in a flash from the armoire with just that and gave it to the man which brought him around instantly.  He coughed on the dryness of it.

         After our visitor had a chance to catch his breath, Holmes again inquired as to the nature of the problem.

         “He’s after me Mr. Holmes, he’s after me.”

         “Who’s after you?”  I asked.

         “Professor Moriarty.  He’s trying to kill me.”

         But he’s—“

         “Dead” finished Holmes.

Too Late

Yet another short short from one of my English classes.  As I post each of these, I keep wishing I had posted them sooner after they were created.  Oh, well.  What's important now is that I'm getting my writing out there and continuing to practice writing.

Too Late

-->

I panicked.  I was falling at an alarming rate.  Not a surprising rate mind you, there is a difference.  Surprising would imply that I was unaware of how fast I would be falling, on the contrary.  I was falling just as fast anyone else who had just been pushed out of an airplane would fall.  It was alarming because I had now been falling for a good two minutes and my parachute was malfunctioning…rather inconveniently I might add.

Pull yourself together Darin.  The ground isn’t that close, there’s plenty of time…suuuurrreee.  It was surprising, not alarming, that I could form coherent thoughts in this particular predicament that I was in, but I wasn’t going to complain.  The ground, in all reality, was coming up a little faster than I would have liked but gravity does it’s own thing and doesn’t exactly obey my command.  As handy as controlling gravity’s force on me would be, the laws of physics were never my strong suite and I don’t think that would work very well.

I pulled again at the cord that was designed to release the parachute from its pack, but to no avail.  Ok, I wasn’t panicking. I couldn’t afford to do that, but I also couldn’t ignore the fact that the ground wasn’t getting any farther away.  I tried the cord one more time and felt it finally give but while I was pulling at the cord the ground had snuck up on me.  It was too late.  My world went black.

I pulled off my goggles, turned off the simulator, and sighed.  Maybe next time.

The Creature

This is an assignment from one of my writing classes at Northern Michigan University.  It was originally unnamed, I think out of haste for turning it in.  Upon going over it again, I think an apt title, as any, should have something to do with a key part of the story.  This isn't always the case but is probably a good rule of thumb to go by here.  I may change it later if I think of a better name but for now, enjoy the story as:

The Creature

by 

Teddy Izzo

10/26/10

It had now been two hours.  Everything he had slaved over up until this point was now going to pay off.  Allan peered down the mansion’s stairs in wait for the creature to ascend them.  Everything was in place.  The trap was set.  Somehow he had managed to construct the thing without the monster finding him but none of that mattered now.  Allan crouched down near the wall and waited and listened.  For twenty minutes he waited and listened.  After ten of them, he began to get nervous.

            The bait was nearly perfect, he thought.  Perhaps I didn’t use enough.  No, no.  I took careful precaution.  He assured himself that everything was in its proper place.  After all, it had to be.  He had made sure it was.   He wiped the sweat from his brow. The second ten minutes past.

            This can’t be!  Where is the horrible thing?  Just then, he felt something drip down his neck.  He spun around.  IT WAS BEHIND HIM!  The creature that he had been waiting and listening for, for over a half hour plus the hour on top of that, the very thing that he had been watching for, was watching HIM!

            How long, wondered Allan as his body quivered.  How long has it been watching me?  It must have been watching me construct the trap.  The whole time it must have been watching me.  Of course it was.  It always watches me.  It’s always there.

            He distanced himself from it for a moment, long enough to take in the full sight of the beast.  It was horrible to look at.  He could scarcely bare to glance at it and yet he couldn’t take his eyes away.  He hurriedly backed up to increase the distance between them but it followed.  And then, Allan’s world fell beneath him.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Red and blue lights flashed through the front doorway as they made their circles on top of the county sheriff’s car outside.  Just inside was the sheriff himself accompanied by a couple of uniforms and the county coroner.  The coroner was knelt down next to a body on the floor at the base of the stairs.

            “What’s the damage,” asked the sheriff.

            “A dozen broken ribs, his left shoulder is dislocated and he’s bleeding out of his ear.”

            “Well he took quite a tumble.  That’s a staircase and a half there.” 

            “It is but that’s not what he died from.  Fright was what killed him.  These are merely the injuries he sustained on the way down.

            “I wonder what scared him so much.”

            “Who knows?” As he said that, a fourth officer came down the stairs wearing a deputy’s badge and joined them.  The sheriff looked at him and asked, “Find anything of interest?”

            “Not much,” replied the deputy.  “There’s some rig up there.  Looks like a trap of some kind.”

            “Anything else?”

            “There’s nothing else up there but a leaky water pipe high on the wall.”  The deputy stuffed his fists in his jacket pockets in dramatic resolution.

 “Heck of a way to go,” said the coroner looking up the staircase.

“Agreed,” replied the sheriff.  “Come on boys, let’s go.”

At that, the two uniforms moved the body on a gurney and brought him out to an ambulance waiting outside, with the rest following behind.

Oops, I did it again.

Once again it has been too long since I've written last.  Let's see...

I graduated on the 5th of May, moved home on the 9th and am now looking for a job or two to save up some money to move back to Marquette.  I love it up there.  I love home too but for some reason I've just adopted Marquette.  I get all excited for my future when I'm up there.  Even if that's not where my future will be.  I don't know.  I hope it is.  At least part of it.  I know the last five years have gone by in a flash.

I'm going over some of my writings from all my writing classes.  I should have been uploading them all along but again, I get distracted and then out of the discipline of posting.  As always, it is my hope that I can get back into it again.

I DID get a job in Marquette.  Part time, but it's something.  I can't move up there yet because I won't be making enough to afford an apartment AND everything else I'll need to be spending money on.  But it's a step in the right direction.  Maybe if I can get another part-time job here at home and then commute, I can save up enough money to move up there in the fall.

I've been visiting.  About an average of once a week.  A day here, a few days there.  It's been nice.  I miss living there and I look forward to the potential of living there again in the near future.  For now though, I am enjoying my time here at home.

In other news, I'm writing more.  Not on here of course though I would like that to change!  But I've been writing here and there.  Now I just need to do that with videos.  Especially videos seeing as that's what my degree is in.

Anyway, that's all for now.  Off to Marquette in the morning for a visit/work training.  Going to watch Torchwood, fold laundry and go to bed.

It's been too long!

A significant amount has happened since I last wrote.  Suffice it (for now) to say that things are changing in my life and just when I think I know what's going to happen, something else does entirely.  But all I can do is "keep trucking".

To the future, I'm looking for an apartment and (possibly) a roommate.  And of course, a job.  I budgeted out what I would need.  If I worked 40 hours a week at at least minimum wage, I'd make enough after groceries and such to afford rent up to 400-500.  600 if I don't ever want to have any spending money, which of course, isn't the case.

But before all that, there's still a month left in this semester.  And a lot to get done at that.  And all I can do is take it one thing at a time.

Insomnia The Third

Chemically Induced insomnia.  The culprit?  A delicious, caffeine infused smoothie from Smoothie King. Watching How I Met Your Mother seems to be doing the trick.  Not that it puts me to sleep...It doesn't...it's an amazing show.  But watching the screen is making my eyes tired.  I know...not an incredibly ponderous blog post but I just wanted to make an update.

Thanks.

Friday, 1:59pm...The next day.

So to be fair, that was a fairly short post and rather an making another one, I thought I'd just edit the one I already created.  Besides it's really the same story.

The smoothie is still kicking.  I decided that though I could keep watching TV shows, I did need to sleep eventually so I finally went to bed around quarter to five and then woke up five hours later not feeling very rested.  I would have slept longer but I had work in a half hour, a shift which I had been late to once and too early to twice and I didn't want to mess it up again.  I was feeling groggy but when I got to work the caffeine that was still in my system picked up where it left off when I went to sleep.  I still feel groggy but I'm tired too.  It's similar to when you're really tired and you start getting punchy from a second wind?  It's sort of like that except I don't feel like I have that second wind.  I feel really sleepy but I'm acting like I'm energetic.  Alright so that sound the same, but I promise you it's different.

The good thing that I got from all of this is that I know what I can get when I'm going to need to stay up for long hours.  See, I consumed that smoothie between the hours of 3 and 5 (it was a medium).  And instead of feeling the effects from the caffeine and the sugar with in the following hour or so, it was as though the caffeine was slowly released into my blood stream continuously even now, nearly 22 hours later.

This smoothie has great power, to be used only in extreme circumstances. Because, in the words of Uncle Ben Parker with great power comes great responsibility.

Your's In Writing

Starting something I can't fini...

I think part of the problem with writing for me is I'm afraid of starting something I can't finish.  I'll get going on something, lit by some unseen fire, and then the fire dies out before I'm anywhere near the end of the story.  Maybe I should just write "To be continued" at the end of whatever it is was writing once the fuel for the fire runs out.  I'd get some doozy cliffhangers out it, let me tell you.

Maybe this is the case in life too - starting something I can't finish.  I could never tell a girl how I felt.  Maybe it was because I knew what to say, but I didn't know what to say after that.

"Hey, I like you..."

I know some people think that that's all you really need to say but there's so much more to it than that.  There's the response.  What will it be?  Hey, I like you to?  No, sorry.  I don't see you that way."  The worst is some variation of, "I value our friendship too much."  That's not really an appropriate response.  You value our friendship too much for me to like you?  Or for you to like me?  No.  It's one thing if the person saying it really means it.  I don't have a problem with that.  But to say it, make me think you mean it, and then not even make an attempt to be friends with me afterwards......come on now.

After the response, there's the awkward time figuring out what to do next.  I don't care if it's mutual interest or not.  You know it's awkward either way.  "So, should we date then?"  "So, can we still be friends?"  So, what should we do now?"  Capital AWKWARD.

Sorry.  Tangent.  Back to writing.

So anyways, I have two books with good starts, but that's all they are: starts.  And one of them all the credit and half the writing goes to a friend for that particular story even getting started.  I have all these ideas, but I never have any full ideas, only parts.  Or I'll have a great idea or maybe a conversation will play out in my head, and by the time a get somewhere where I can write it down, only half of it is left.  And only half of that gets written down.

I'm sure this is something every writer goes through at some point.  And I do have plenty that is finished.  But they're all assignments that I've done in the past.  Nothing that I've started on my own has ever gotten completion.  Even now, I'm having trouble finding an end for this rant of mine.  I guess this will do.

Two Zero One Two

My resolution last year and, incidentally, my default resolution when I can't think of any, was to not make any resolutions.  This year, I actually made one.  I resolved to start the morning out by doing pushups.  The wood floor in my room at home isn't too pushup friendly so I decided to wait on starting my resolution until a got back to school.  Then I didn't really feel like it when I got here so I told my self I'd start the first day of school.  And I did.  First day went well.  Ten pushups.  And now, six days later, I haven't done a single one.  Does that mean I should give up?  Toss the resolution in the circular file cabinet?  No!  I will keep trying at it.