When Words Fail

This case of writer’s block has been worse than the times before.

Words

Are

Not

Working

I

Feel

Broken

When I’m not able to form words- eloquent, beautiful words, I feel as if I’m lost. And alone.

And I start doing weird things.

And then I start taking far too many selfies.

And then I start eating more.

Sleeping more.

And then I somehow find the right words.

Yet not this time. This case has proved to be far more overwhelming, as well as distressing. A part of me is missing. My closest friends, my words, are gone.

And although I write this, and the words are coming slower, and my frustration is growing, I feel like I might not be far off from where I yearn to be. And I yearn for the little voices inside my head, whisking me away to faraway lands, and keeping me company in my solace. Yet now all I hear is silence. I hear silence, as well as worries. I hear silence swimming in an ocean of anxieties. I hear silence. Silence. Silence. And silence is deafening.

So to fill this silence I’ve found other words to fill my head. That of a man named Aaron Mahnke, and his historical podcast named LORE. Although history of any kind has filled me with wonder all my years, I am understandable that this isn’t always the case with many people. History class was a dreadful hour, and images are conjured up of those ancient teachers with their glasses perching precariously low on noses as they assign page after page of mundane reading material.

I had no such teacher. Rather I was my history teacher, as I was homeschooled from eighth grade onward. The material was given me, as well as assignments yet it my own choice as to what I extensively studied and which I furthered my learning over. I know of others that have taken this time for granted, yet I was never one of them. I furthered my learning hour with thorough research of strange and unusual topics. I wanted the history unfound in history textbooks.

I wanted the truth.

And so I read and I read, and I read some more until I was blue in the face with historical satires, numerous numbers I never remembered, and facts I strived to maintain through my years. Sadly, I lost much of the material I had stored in my brain, yet recently I was given the opportunity to get it back.

And there you have LORE.

The word “Lore” is of Germanic origin- ‘Lehre’, relating to the Dutch word “Leer”- meaning “Learn”.  It’s a word not often used in reference to typical learning today, as it has been assigned special meaning in society to the learning of mythical, or otherworldly study. And the LORE podcast delivers on both accounts.

LORE is a podcast created by the author Aaron Mahnke. And when you visit the LORE website*, the following words are used to describe this unique creation:

“Our fears have roots. Lore exposes the darker side of history, exploring the creatures, people, and places of our wildest nightmares.

Because sometime the truth is more frightening than fiction.”

Lore is a biweekly Podcast, with a theme centered around the unexplainable. Yet at times the root of the seemingly unexplainable can be easily explained, it’s man that complicates the very fabric of humanity. We strive for answers, and in this quest we are at times left with more questions and more confusion.

I fell in love with this Podcast right away. I was drawn to the dark premise, and the history I used to delve into as a youngster. Many of the myths we are so easy to accept as mere fiction, were based on actual lives and situations. Calling to mind the LORE tagline that “the truth is more frightening than fiction”. You start asking yourself questions: “How far do humans go until they lose all humanity?” And “how far would I go?”

I’m sure this isn’t the last I’ll be expressing my deep admiration, so take my word for it now. Yet also remember, Viewers Discretion Advised! Sometimes history and the mistakes of our ancestors can be hard to swallow, so make wise decisions as to what your listening to, and who also is listening with you.

It’s taken me two days to write this, and I’m finally at a satisfactory conclusion.

So why don’t I wrap this up until I start to ruin it with my incessant rambling.

Cheerio everyone!

This is the first time I’ve ever said ‘Cheerio’ in my life, and meant it! It felt good!

Okay, I promise I’m done.

Happy Reading

And Listening Everyone.

*You can find the link to LORE on the right hand side of this blog page. Enjoy!

Hooked on Books: "Fahrenheit 451"

It was a beautiful thing, as I was growing up, to learn I wasn't alone. I had terrible, dull feelings at times (which can only be pronounced as "unexplained") where I felt like I was isolated, and the world was moving in slow motion yet I was the only one it was affecting. Yet then, as soon as it came on, the feeling was gone and my Father is placing me on his shoulders, or my Mother is hugging me tight around the waist.
I can remember many of these moments, filed away under "Give More Thought To" or "Quit Thinking About So Much". It's lovely to think though, that I have found a remedy for these bouts of unexplained anxiety. And that remedy has turned into the most beautiful of friendships.

I found books at an early age, and from have never relinquished my hold on them. They grew to be my saviors in times of distress, and the listening ear to many of my childish secrets. I gained knowledge, and comfort between their pages. And the pages never ended. As soon as I closed one book, another fell open before me. I liked how the letter 'g' always looked so royal, and how the word 'upon' conjured up images of adventure. My love grew obsessive. And soon I wanted anything I could get my hands on; words are addictive.

"Fahrenheit 451" by Ray Bradbury is full of addictive words.
Ray Bradbury was certainly a man before his time. He predicted the future, many have claimed. And Fahrenheit is just one example of his intellectual hypotheses.

"My wife says books aren't 'real.'"
"Thank God for that."

The United States, as we know it, has significantly changed. No longer are fires stopped, but started. And no longer are people talking to one another, but listening. Listening to programs that foster numbness. No thought. No ideas. No bothers. And the one thing that really bothers people has been destroyed- books!
Guy Montag is a fireman, whose job is to burn books- forbidden books. He sets blaze to Bibles, Shakespeare, Wilde, Austen, etc. Then the world is as it should be- free from opposing ideas and philosophies that drove its ancestors to murder. And Guy is satisfied with his job, until he meets Clarisse, a seventeen-year-old girl who chases butterflies and fills Guy's head with questions. He is encouraged to observe life. No longer is he quite sure about lighting the match, setting aflame the many pages of questions he has accumulated. And when the setting fire of books turns deadly he's certain those many covers contain the answers.

"There must be something in books, something we can't imagine, to make a woman stay in a burning house; there must be something there. You don't stay for nothing."

Are the hypotheses coming true? Was Bradbury aware of the road many were taking? A look at the world gives us the answer. No longer are people talking to one another, the real kind of talking. The "tell me your hopes, dreams, fears" kind, that delves deeper. No longer are people observing, and asking questions. Is it because they've grown fearful of the answers?
And then, society has stopped reading. The ideas have stopped flowing, and soon the numbness will drown you. We turn on our TVs so we don't have to think. We plug our ears full of someone else's ideas. We plug up our minds with the same rubbish day in and day out.

"It's not books you need, it's some of the things that once were in books...there is nothing magical in them at all. The magic only in what books say, how they stitched the patches of the universe together into one garment for us."

There's something different about books. You serve as its master. You can cradle them for comfort, and throw them in anger. You can read them and love them, or read them and question them. You can rip out the pages you want to save, or rip out the ones you hate. They can lie on a bookshelf, for years- dead- and be brought back to life with two hands and an open mind.
And they bother you. And they question you. And you question them. Because that's what being alive means, it means feeling something. It means believing in something, saying something, yet listening to it too. It means ideas, and questions, and answers. Yet sometimes it means being bothered.

"We need not to be let alone. We need to be really bothered every once in a while."

Growing up with books has been my savior, and I've found myself between so many pages. I've asked questions, yet I've found answers, and I've asked more questions, and I'll continue to. And I'll read, and I'll read, and I'll read because they show cracks in the foundation of life and that's where I reside.
Books are honest to their readers, and I'm their most avid fan.

I recommend this book if you haven't read it. And if you have read it, read it again. You might find another jewel, or learn something new about yourself. Ray Bradbury has that affect on people, he makes them see life through new eyes.

So with fresh eyes, and even more questions I continue to live,
Always wishing you a
Happy Reading!

TheMysteryWriter: "The Fill-In Boyfriend"

We have a special treat today in store for all our readers, in this installment of "The Adventures of Scout and Curly". As is most common in many blogs, there are such things as Guest Writers. And I've taken advantage of this opportunity- as it means little work for myself. No longer do I need to ramble on about my thoughts and dreams, I have passed the baton off to another whimsical creature. And I'm sure you all will enjoy the break from me, as I'm ready for a break myself.
So without further adieu, I present TheMysteryWriter.

Normally I'm the one who reads murder mysteries and random novels I pick up at Goodwill or garage sales, because they look or sound interesting. I tend to find the more darker and deeper stories most entertaining, but every once in a while I surprise myself.
As of recent, I finished reading "The Fill-In Boyfriend". A teen love story, with immature minds, who find themselves as the book progresses; definitely not my genre but somehow this book captivated my attention and I ended up enjoying it.

I came upon "The Fill-In Boyfriend" by mere happenstance and decided I would at least give it a chance, then I found myself delving through the chapters in no time. The main character, Gia, is a high school senior, student council president, and all around most popular girl in school. She's pretty selfish, and always acts like she's perfectly put together. That is, until the lies start flowing freely and she's lost in the nonsense she's created. During this journey she finds she has never let anyone in to see the real her, she realizes she doesn't even know herself because she tucks her emotions away so tightly. Things start falling apart in her life but all the same are falling together, she finds someone to open up to and she learns how hard it can be to do so. Yet then once you do, how hard it can be to not do so.
Yes, it may have been a little cheesy at times, and you may be wondering why I enjoyed this book seeing as though it is not my genre. Well, you see, I found a lot of myself in Gia. No, I was never the popular one, nor did I care what everyone thought of me like she did, but I find myself closed up and always showing myself put together and "fine".
"'I'm fine.' Those two words are the most frequently told lie in the English language."
This is repeated several times throughout the book and oh how true it really is.
It's hard for me to open up to others and I could relate to Gia's struggle in doing so. And when she had no one to talk to, she realized that's what she needed the most- someone there for her to open up to.
And then there is Hayden, the boy who made her realize all these things about herself, and how badly she needed to open up and communicate her feelings.
Sometimes we just need that friend to see that we are not okay, to tell us to sit down, stop hiding, and communicate about our burdensome thoughts. We all need a friend like that, whether we are an open book, or closed up with walls up high. I myself know the struggle of trying to tear down those walls I've built up so high, but it's a relief to let go and not handle those trials, thoughts, and feelings on our own. It's a struggle but a relief all at once, to finally let go but to trust someone enough to do so.

Well, thanks Curly for the opportunity to write for you- I'm sure it won't be the last time we work with one another.

Certainly not the last, I can assure you! And for anyone who would like to read this wonderful book, the link can be found to the right. Thank you very much for your contribution MysteryWriter.

Of course, Curly. And if you don't mind, I'll sign us off-
This is TheMysteryWriter bidding you all farwell, and until next time,
Happy Reading,
and Happy Writing!

Destination: I'm Running Away

I get in these moods where I feel trapped. I feel like the walls are closing in on me, and if I don't do something, anything, then I will suffocate on my own air.
Anyone else feel the same?
Well, the way I cope with this is either
1. Nothing. Which leads to a dark depressed state of mind, where I frequently go just for the company, along with all my mistakes, disappointments, and hypothetical situations that like to talk too much. This usually lasts a short period of time- until I'm able to work through it.
or 2. I run. And I don't mean "I gonna go for a nice jog to clear my head". No! I mean run, as in run away. As in I pretend like I'm fleeing the country, and starting over in some magical land overrun by book characters I've created in my ever racing head.
Keep in mind though, that I never end up too far. I make it to the woods behind my neighborhood. And I call them 'woods' very lightly. It's basically a couple trees next to a water plant and some roads. Yet it's quiet, and if you try hard enough you kinda forget where you are. There's a special rock I like to sit on. Also, I'm using 'rock' very lightly because it's really a perfectly smooth slab of concrete. I've nicknamed it "The Crying Concrete"- it's seen many of my tears. 
But enough of this melodramatic monologue. In addition to it being my favorite hiding spot, Dad and I like to go down there and shoot our sling shots, because this is Kansas and there's not too much to do besides eat.

Dad and I are basically the same person, operating from the same brain so we understand each other very well. When he starts getting in these moods I can easily detect it- he gets antsy where I get broody. So, Sunday lent itself handsomely to a walk in the woods.
It's a mere right turn, right turn, left turn, left turn and you're in the woods- your ears filled with the sound of the Arkansas river. The river we all like to say 'doesn't smell' and 'doesn't look like a sewer'. We have to make the most of what we have, I suppose. It's a yearning of mine to live by water, I've always been drawn to it. Perhaps it's due to my isolation from it. As a child I would drag blanky, and Dog-Dog into the bathroom while my Mother took her shower. I would lie on the outside of the shower, stuffed dog underneath my head, and the sound of water trickling from the spout sending delightful chills up my back.
The water we have running behind Sunrise street is all we have, and all I've ever known- so I've learned to appreciate my travels down to the water's edge. And my father being apart of so many of those journeys, has had a tremendous impact on my life.

So on that bright Sunday afternoon, Dad and I set out on a journey of our own making. It's hard to go on an actual 'journey' in Wichita, Kansas, yet we have accepted the few walking paths, and even made a couple of our own. The clouds kept us company, and were a topic of intriguing interest in our dynamic dialogue. I found myself slowly talking more and more as we walked, each step I took I emphasized another word, and another discovery. Dad is now thoroughly up to date with my earthly findings.

The mangled trees, most commonly seen in the winter months, greeted our path with folklore and legends to occupy our imaginative thoughts. There's something spellbinding about the woods- fairy tales, musicals, and myths are all centered around the wonderfully dark and mysterious places. My Father and I have a special fondness for trees, gnarly ones with a history and a past we can only imagine, and imagine we do. We spin tales, which lead to hopes, which lead to dreams, which lead to some of the most comforting moments. My Father has always allowed me to talk, and talk, and talk, and he never grumbles. Rather he listens to each and every solitary word, and he replies to pondering questions, and complying silences. And so I continue until my voice is weak, and my mind is satisfied.

"If you truly love Nature, you will find beauty everywhere."
-Van Gogh

Dad and I continued our escape by collecting treasures. (I found a shell given to me by a River-Maid. And that was no ordinary leaf, but the last leaf of winter, to send to us good tidings of hope for an early spring.) As we skipped rocks we yelled at birds, and rejoiced over finding new flat rocks. And we kept the prettiest ones, yet gave the water back the others. Our pile of findings grew and grew and soon the backpack we took with us was full of shells, and rocks we would display around the house.
The sun continued to go down, so we found it best to walk back home before dark- it is the woods after all. While we walked to the river in chipper abandon with quick and witty dialogue, the walk back was full of companionable silence. It's a beautiful thing to share mutual silence with someone, no awkwardness involved, just the soft whisper of the wind in the trees and the fading sound of the river rushing downstream.
And it felt like we weren't home. And it felt good to get away. And it felt good to start missing my room, and my books, and my cat. And then everything was good again. And I can continue to appreciate where I am.
And the clouds continued to keep us company.

 When we returned home, Mom was waiting at the door, greeting us and relishing in our higher spirits. No longer was Dad antsy, and the water had broken my brood. I proceeded to walk throughout the house, like I was seeing it for the first time after a long time away. And it never looked more beautiful, and my books never looked so magnificent, and Scout had never been more happy.
It takes a lot of knowledge to live. You have to know what keeps you going, what keeps you from shutting down. It took me a long time to learn a routine, and I'm not embarrassed to admit it, nor ashamed. I've learned that a little water, and a couple clouds can keep me sane for a little while longer. That is, until the next time I'm ready to pack up and run- then it might be a cheap coffee, or a hug that holds me a little longer, maybe even someone will hold the door for me.
It's looking for the sun through the clouds. It's dancing in the rain. It's double chocolate chip cookies. And the smell of old books. It's life. It's life, and it's beautiful.
And if you don't take my word for it,
take Scout's!
She's proof enough that life is adorable, and cuddly, and has the cutest meow- or at least she does...

And that's the face I would like to end with.
Sleep well everyone! And until next time, keep running away and continue coming back,
Happy Reading!