Chapter One: The new beginning

It was a dark and stormy night when she first arrived at the castle. She had never been to her father's home before. Heck, she had never been on a plane before but here she was in a small isolated town in Europe, on her way to a nearby castle high in the mountains.
She knew little of him, except that he had left when she was very small. She felt guilty about it, but she had always blamed her mother for his departure. She felt as though her mother hated him, though she had never given Sarah any specific reasons to suspect this. It was just a look when she mentioned his name.
No photographs existed of him. An odd family custom prevented it, but Sarah could remember his face perfectly, becuase it bore such striking resemblance to her own. "Hard to hate someone who looks just like you," she thought as she knocked on the door.
She had just graduated from college when he summoned her. Summoned was the right word for it. It came in the form of a telegram. She had never seen one before, and had no idea such things still existed. He told her in the message that he missed her and needed her to come quickly because he was sick and might not live much longer.
When she presented the telegram to her mother, the reaction was about what she had expected. "Go if you want, but I wouldn't."
"Why not?"
"I just wouldn't," she replied enigmatically and said no more about it.
Sarah couldn't let her father die without saying good-bye to him, even though he had not shown her the same courtesy when he left, so she packed a suitcase and a few foreign language dictionaries, boarded a plane and headed for the old country.

Sand Carvings

When the tourists are gone sand is carved by...

the crash of the waves

the gusts of the wind

the steps of the gull

the sideways tracks of the crab

the slowly growing blades of grass

the dying jellies

the weight of gravity

the strength of the storm

the melting and refreezing of ice

the weight of the wild mare's hoof

the beak of the plover

the discarded shell

When the tourists return the beach is carved by...

the weight of the cooler

the steps of the flip-flip

the spike of the umbrella

the kids' shovels

the kids' pails

the litters of food

the beaching boogie board

the discarded cigarette butt

the lost cell phone

the fresh porta-potty

the four wheel drive vehicle

the rented bike

When the tourists leave again:

the waves, the wind, the gull,

the crab, the grass, the jellies,

the gravity, the storm, the ice.

the mare, the plover, and the shell...

reclaim what is theirs.

Don't ask me why I'm alone

Don't ask me why I am alone
because I really don't know.
I look in the mirror
but the answers don't show.

Am I too ugly?
Am I too fat?
Am I too pretty?
Is my chest too flat?

Don't ask my why I don't date
I swear I don't hate men
I'm not very militant and
I'm not a lesbian.

Do I hold back to much?
Do I let too much go?
Am I too guarded in my feelings?
Or do I let too much show?

Don't ask me if I'll ever get married
Because I haven't got a clue.
As to whether I can be happy
Should marriage be an issue?

Can I find the right person?
Should I even look?
Is looking even the answer?
Maybe I should just go read a book.

The beginning...

A wise poet once said "creative expression is the need of my soul"
I seek only to express that for which I have no outlet and hope only that someone will deem it worth their time to read.

I was born with a mind full of questions into a world that often lacks logical answers:
Will I ever find love?
Will I ever be sucessful?
Will I ever get the laundry done?

And given the gift of creativity, without a way of using it other than:
stacking paintings in my closet
filing drawings under my bed
and storing scraps of writing in half used notebooks.

This is my first step towards pulling it all together.
maybe if I can discipline myself to do this
to post everyday
to write on a regular basis
then I can make a difference in how my work ends up, and who deems it worth viewing.