Gentle Lady, Do Not Sing




Gentle lady, do not sing 
Sad songs about the end of love; 
Lay aside sadness and sing 
How love that passes is enough. 

Sing about the long deep sleep 
Of lovers that are dead, and how 
In the grave all love shall sleep: 
Love is aweary now.


-James Joyce




I love this poem and the message it gives to us. 
Love is not entirely over, but you can remember it, and be thankful that it happened. 
Even after the event of love, it still lingers in your air.

Hula.

¿Cuántos giros necesito para retroceder al mundo grandotote de mi niñez?

Elegí la soledad, esa tristeza masoquista en la melancolía de la música. Sobre mi cama llorando letras. Nadie me entendió.

No me dejaron salir y disfrutar escalofríos y adrenalina del aire libre con mis compas, probando la pinche amarga ebriedad.

Esa persona de mis sueños me ignoró, y me disfracé de chica perfecta solo para que su cara se volteara a mi dirección.

Hice una maravilla en mi salón para que mis papás fueran felices conmigo. Para mí, sería mucho.

Camine por la tienda con mis papis por esos pasillos enormes llenas de cosas. Llore, y me tire por ese juguete ¡que quería! ¡Yo lo quería! Pero mis papis me dijeron que no. Nunca me hacen caso de nada.

Erase una vez, no me dejaron jugar con esto. Pero, aquí en mis manos tengo la imaginación, libertad, testarudez. No hare berrinche.
Y ya no cargo sobre mí la fuerza oscura que me detenga de lo que siento.
Como niña de luz del sol.

Jugare.
Girare.


-Sam Visu

Dainty.

Waltz.

As the melody played through the cold summer air
wasps stopped to watch the swooning spectacle.
They looked abroad and encountered a pleasant dance.
The way that this animal moved, unlike any creature
they have laid eyes on formerly.
Lurching back and forth, flying, like when the tide pulls with the moon.
Silver and red ribbons continue of this waltz.
Frame so fragile,
Movement so graceful,
Character so innocent.

-Visu

Progress.

Today is a Monday.
And, well, I'm finally realizing how important these years are for me. There are so many writing projects due by the final days of October that I have yet to finish!

To remind you, older Sam (of course you are reading this to remember what you were like), you are writing the school play, Jerome, and those two projects for writing class, the hula hoop and the small house for the museum. Then of course you are trying to tie together an idea for Nanowrimo, which starts in November.

Today is a Monday, and it seems like you are always waiting to late to begin.
Begin now.

(Hi older me!)

Watercolors dance on these pages as I ponder rigidly upon these words.
They seem to levetate above white, a newfound telekinesis.
Voices dawn, searching my head, critics.
I try to listen, but distraction wins me over and pulls me into the lighter forest.

-Visu

Fake.

Me das asco.

I took this picture in my room about a month ago, 

but it got lost somewhere between my homework 

and music files. I put the dream catcher above my bed very traditional-like.

 I took this frame in respect of dream catchers and the hope that they implant in our heads.

A story failed to end fatal.

We witnessed stars dance ablaze,
glistening lights as we lay upon the sprinkle-struck barley.
My head rested atop your broad chest,
feeling your enduring beat, shady skies sailed above us.
None foolish enough to flee,
thoughts of the other paraded our touched minds.
Months flew by, and the feeling failed to depart.
Weeks linger on, and your beat has yet to halt.
Innocent eyes capture my tainted soul.
Beautiful gestures hold me to your presence.
Your love is the sun shining through my sullen shades.
Nothing is stopping us.

-Visu

The Crier.

Singer in the night,

The stars reached out to her

to bestow their beauty.

Such lyrics hypnotize our ears,

following to the underbelly of our souls.

She speaks of la llorona,

but no one can her her sorrow,

A soft growing melody behind her

guides her steady growth.

And suddenly the people heard.

La llorona.

Llora

Llora

Lloraria.

-Visu