Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Lilith Rises From the Deep

"From the crevice of the deep there came a certain evil female spirit whose name was Lilith.  She had been condemned to imprisonment deep beneath the waves.  But God's anger at the time of the Fall was so great that God decided to let Lilith go.  Lilith will attempt to seduce (a man).  She will slip in if the window is open a crack, slip beneath the door and beneath the sheets.  Her long hair is jet black.  Man a man has felt it hanging in his face as he lay asleep, dreaming lustful dreams..." 


“Wives, be subject to your husbands, as to the Lord.  For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church, his body, and is himself its Savior,” the iron-board stiff pastor spoke with conviction.    
I think it's time for the power of Lilith to return... :) 

Monday, November 7, 2011

Enamorado


A beautiful little blonde girl sprinted (or, well, excitedly wobbled) into Dunkin’ Donuts today.  I watched her a few feet from the door, untangling herself from her father’s big hand and sneakily glancing back to make sure he hadn’t disappeared while she ran ahead.  Her pink flower hat was lopsided and her eyes scrunched when she strained to looked at the pictures of coffee and sandwiches above my head.  None of the pictures showed anything appetizing; she had eyes for the pink sprinkle donut behind me.  The little girl pointed, turned her head sideways eagerly to her dad, looked back at the donut, pointed again, agonizingly looked back at her dad, and again to the donut. 
“Okaaaay, we’ll have the pink sprinkles—
“Yay Daddy! Yay Daddy! Yay!!!!”
“…ummm, a double chocolate and, well, oh, a medium coffee.”
With donut in hand, in a moment of blissful happiness, the girl toothily smiled at me and blew a kiss before being enveloped by her dad’s comforting arms. 

I almost wanted to cry.  Why can’t adults show this affection, this emotion, this pure desire for sweetness?

When I am next to you sometimes I do not want to stop kissing you.  I want to kiss your eyelids, your forehead, your ears, cheeks, temples, jawline, Adam’s apple, fingertips, wrists, palms, knees, toes.  I want to devour you in idyllic innocence.  But the adult in me warns to stay detached, display intense emotion only when provoked or received, for fear of losing the sweetness I so crave.  I excitedly wobble into your arms and just as quickly sidestep.  I set my intensity to simmer instead of boil.  I behave like an adult should (or would). 

The simple truth is, I am such a child and you are so sweet and I adore every part of you, Ian.

--Ashley  

Sunday, October 2, 2011

When I was a girl, my life was music that was always getting louder.

The smoke you exhale does not spiral or cloud or trail away above our heads like a fading gray steam engine on the horizon's edge; it's nothing beautiful like Bilbo's perfect rings floating toward the Shire or sexy like the thin wisps still caressing Sandy's lips as she pouts at grease-slicked Danny. Instead, it permeates the space between us and hangs sluggishly before dissipating. With each exhale the scene repeats. Like a man smelling a woman's perfume, I inhale deeply to feel close to you.

 I am ashamed of myself.

 "For such a sweet, intelligent woman you are full of shit."
 ...Words replay in my head.
 "Honesty is a virtue, Ashley." .

..You laugh, snippets of conversation run together into a surprisingly cohesive map of me.

"You tell me you can't trust anyone, but you're the untrustworthy one.
Your ego...
Did you mean anything you said?
That's what people with CONTRITION do.
Cause and effect.
Why do you pretend to be innocent and naive?
I'll make this easy on you.
 This is not about me. It's about you.
Passion is not fleeting.
You just move on to the better model. I do that with things...not people.
I know a liar when I see one."

 Fifteen-year-old me ran into the night, rain and tears and bare feet slapping the pavement as my mother screamed out the door, "You're a liar! You're being a little bitch!"

I fell asleep resting my head on a cold toilet seat. At that moment I remembered a quote from Catcher in the Rye: “Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.” It's amazing how disillusioned innocence can make a person.
"Trust, Shuff", you said. I would not.

 You throw the remains of cigarette into a cooking pot littered with ashes and butts, pull your knees down from your chest and look at me. You've won. Everything you've said is correct. Do you win a prize? Do you feel smug knowing that you've caught a liar, a heartless shell of a girl, a flake, a phony? When I like something, I love it. This is what I meant by passionate. It is not fleeting; it is exhausting, depressing, maddening. I feel too much, I run away, I feel too much, I run away.
Believe me or not, I care (but you probably won't believe that either, so what does it matter?)

Saturday, September 17, 2011

Prolonged Sunlight (for a future love)

A midafternoon sun blazes above me, spotlighting specks spiraling in slow motion. For a moment the particles combine to create a blanket of dust, not unlike that which covers my despondent desk when I’m in a socially impassioned mood (which is admittedly more often than I would like). I think that, if I could, I would myself materialize into a million specks of dust just so that I can drift into shadow when I want and become infinitesimal. Selfish, right? Maybe. If you sifted through the list of contacts in my phone at this very moment, you’d find sixty-five numbers. More specifically, you’d find nineteen numbers with whom I have broken ties in the name of “emotional freedom”. You may think nineteen is a high count of poor fools who tried to woo me into submission, but you’d be surprised. Like the specks of dust lazily drifting through steaks of sunlight, my love could be infinite. It could grow with time and still exist in the shadows and become a fundamental part of me. I see myself growing close to you and doing horribly cheesy couple things that I would appreciate as long as I could see you smile (equally cheesy statement). But that is the future. In truth, you make me want to be selflessly tethered to your heart. I want you to hold me like a kite, with ribbons wound around your insides tugging us toward the sky. I don’t want to slip into shadows anymore, materializing like dust.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

What You Are, Salesman.

e·go·tist (g-tst, g-)
n.
1. A conceited, boastful person.
2. A selfish, self-centered person.

Friday, July 15, 2011

Threads

The outline of your hat is visible before I can decipher the rest of your figure standing slumped against the night air, hands in your pockets. In the middle of a tornado I suspect you'd stand the same way-- looking defeated, waiting for the whirlwind around you to slow down to your speed. What did she do to you? I think to myself, and then realize how incredibly foolish I sound. You were in love, you still are. Her fingers linger on you still, pulling strings like a puppet master. I wonder if this is how Will stood after we broke up, looking hopefully but distantly at my figure as I walk.

A late night phone conversation comes to mind, my fingers shaking with anger as I try to spark some sort of movement in him.
"Do something! Stop standing around, waiting for life to move on, Will. It's moving on. You're not moving with it."
A pause, deep breath. I can feel the fatigue in his voice,
"I can't. I try and I can't. Every time I talk to a girl I think about you. None of them even compare to you, and none of them are what I want so why should I move on?"
"Because. Life keeps going. I'm over it. It's been too long, and I've changed with life. You have to do that also. You can't keep living in the past."

Your camouflage hat nods at me when I get close enough. Let's sit down, you say, and I oblige because I don't know what else I would do. I'd love to make you run a marathon at this moment just to liven you up. You told me she left you for a country boy from my hometown. I remember his babyface, stocky stature loping through the school halls, the big truck he drove to school every day, old cutoff shirts that exposed a farmer's tan during the right times of the year. The first time I rode in your car, you sang along to every song on a country music mixtape that's been replayed every time since. I saw the glaring sun in the window and that damn hat and knew this wasn't you.

"Ashley, I don't even know who I am anymore," Will says as we walk through Brownsburg on an especially dreary night.
"You'll figure it out. It takes a while, but you'll get there."
"You think so? I was so different before I met you, and then I changed myself entirely for you. I'm glad I changed, but I don't know whether to be the old me or the new me."

You are so good at talking. That's not a typical compliment, but you really are. I could sit with you for hours and talk about nothing and everything. I can practically see the fragmented pieces of your life, I wish I could help. But that's silly. Of course I can't help. It's early in the morning, and we've sat on the bench and laid on the playground and for a moment I got you to take the hat off. I can hear the alarms as soon as you reach to hug me:
"Ashley, I care about you."
I laugh, "No you don't! We've known each other what, two weeks? You hardly even know me. In the big picture, this will mean nothing to you."
"No. It's different. I feel a strong connection with you. I need someone to talk to about these things. Do I have anyone right now to talk to? Like, three people. I need you."
"No you don't. Here's how these things go. You need me, and in a couple of weeks when everything is better, you won't need me anymore."

And that's how all of these unnatural relationships end-- badly for me. I put my whole heart into something and come out with nothing except sacrifice. It's so common for me it's almost laughable. In fact, I can't even count on my fingers the number of times someone has said "I feel a strong connection with you". That's my cue to run away.

Here's what it is. I find a loose string and for whatever reason I try my hardest to thread it into my heart. Perhaps because I think it will be safe there, perhaps because I see things how they are and want to make them better, perhaps because I thrive on conflict, perhaps. And for a time, I am happy making this loose string happy. In the end, however, the string snakes its way out of my heart. Sometimes it's quick and painful, other times it's millimeter by millimeter. You might say, oh it's just a string. How painful can that be? But the pain adds up, really. It teaches me to never trust another, it builds a needlework of solitude.

I throw your hat off, laughing, knowing that you don't understand the significance.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Don't call my name

don't call my name, alejandro...:D I'm sorry. I simply couldn't resist.
Now, to serious matters.

Pulse pattering against my pale knees
tucked up to my chin,
pouting at the window as fields and interstate signs
fly by, I try to
hold myself together.
Veiny tendrils on your hand
snake toward me as you
solemnly slide your fingers
against my dress, try to ease my
armed fortress to rest.

A Freudian slip, perhaps?
A lapse of the past?
Don't call me that.
Or I won't let you call me anything

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Don't look back at this crumbling fool

“I’ve lost it,” I say to myself, the outlines of passersby disappearing as I see the redness of the sun under my closed eyelids.

The backyard was expansive -- a forest and a fortress. Sewage drained behind the swing set, and my brother and I would often jump across, pretending there were alligators lurking below the globs of brownish liquid. When I was younger, we played Cowboys and Indians and trekked the muddy terrain after it rained, exchanging fire with fake arrows and pistols, groaning as the orange sun grew big on the horizon and mosquitoes became the ultimate enemy. When I was older, I took a piece of Dad’s scrap wood still damp from sitting out next to the shed for several seasons, and ruined a giant sharpie marker writing “No Boys Allowed”. I clumsily nailed my sign to the playhouse and glared at my brother, who turned his cap backwards and shook his head at me in disgust. Most days, my pigtails bobbed up as I fiercely swung, determined to make it to outer space. I never jumped, but rather clung to the swing with as much energy as my young body could bring forth. I would close my eyes and feel the heat of the day, sticky sweat on my forehead and dirt under my fingernails, the breeze tickling my neck. I would lie in the grass and let ants crawl over me, a mountain. I saw the redness of the sun under my closed eyelids.

When did I turn into this?

I grew up. One afternoon I hastily plucked a rose from my mother’s garden in the front yard and peeled the petals away, chanting the familiar lines, ending at “he loves me not”. Another, I crushed a dandelion and mixed it with water from the hose in a little jar. Closing my eyes, I clutched the jar forcefully, wishing for true love, good luck, happiness. To me, happiness meant catching the eye of my elementary crush, a blonde boy who rode dirt bikes and squinted when he smiled. In middle school, I hid behind my long hair and my books, desperately hoping that any boy would notice me. In eighth grade, I held hands with a brunette skater. I still remember his soft fingers, the blush creeping onto my face as we walked to the buses together. I hadn’t even begun to understand.

Why does the world turn so quickly?


I’m afraid the sun has swallowed me up. Somewhere I’ve lost myself. I hold on to everything that has passed. People, objects, memories. I hoard them all, until I’m so full that I begin to burst and I lose me. And I’m afraid that my identity is actually composed of only the jagged parts of strangers, people I no longer know. I am a dysfunctional compilation of every person I have so selfishly seized.

I am afraid of who I am.
I am afraid of who people think I am.
I am afraid of finding myself again.

Monday, May 16, 2011

Because It's Been Over a Month

Jacob pointed out that I haven’t written anything in over a month. Funny, I always have periods of time where I simply don’t write anything. I mean, of course I’ll jot down some lines here or there. But I don’t sit down to write something from my heart. And I’ve always wondered why I am so writing-bipolar; one month I’ll be a writing nutcase and the next I’ll barely touch a pen. I’ve come to the realization that I write when I am most unhappy or conflicted. This is where my problems with contentedness lie, in that I’m afraid I’ll lose the deepest part of myself if I’m comfortable. Here’s the layout.

Discontent → writing a lot → thinking about things → questioning → forming conclusions → feeling independent and happy.

Content → never writing → thinking about things but bottling them up → trying to talk to people but failing → feeling too dependent and unhappy.

That probably won’t make sense to most people. But it’s how my mind works and I’m dealing with it. Am I content now? I certainly don’t feel that way, but my writing (or lack thereof) begs to differ.

People floor me, sometimes. Lately, I have been spending much of my time questioning. The motivations of other people scare me. I worry too much as it is, but I definitely worry most about the truthfulness of those around me.

Trust, Shuff.

Too bad I suck at trusting people. That’s downfall #1 of Ashley. I have hardly any trust, because I know those I’m closest to will end up hurting me the most. This is not to say that I don’t form close friendships with people. I only like to form close friendships, really, as the other sorts of friendships are usually petty. But typically I spend much of my time listening instead of talking, because it is only in myself that I trust my thoughts.

Downfall #2: When I am upset, I do not enjoy talking about it until I’ve fully understood what I’m thinking. Some might consider this a good thing, but it is extremely frustrating to others. If I stop talking for a long period of time, it’s probably because I’m really upset and don’t want to confront it.

Downfall #3: I seek revenge. I’m sure I don’t seem like the type. This is probably because my revenge is always subtle. I will make underhanded comments, will deliberately push buttons, will seek ways to make someone mad when I know that what I’m doing is wrong.

Downfall #4: I do not think someone is worth my time if they don’t consider me a best friend. Even though I don’t give back what others give to me in a friendship (until I am very comfortable), I expect my friends to consider me their closest. Typically, if I realize that I am not a priority, I will stop talking to a person altogether. I would much rather love another passionately and with intensity than with mediocrity. Perhaps that most hurtful thing someone could say to me in a relationship would be, “s/he is more important than you” or “my friends come first”. I am not to be taken advantage of.

Downfall #5: I do not let go of things that hurt me. I love conflict. I thrive on conflict. I don’t like arguing because I typically get very upset, but I love thinking about things and feeling that intense mix of emotions that so often comes with problems. I will spend days stewing over something so much that I become physically ill. This is an awful way to be, and I have tried to work on it, but unfortunately I haven’t made much progress. Most likely, this downfall is my least favorite.

I am who I am. Take me or leave me. But don’t ever make fun of me for things I can’t change, don’t try to change me, and don’t take me for granted. Don’t let your friends speak poorly of me, don’t keep things from me that I should know, don’t lead me on.
I am fully capable of leaving and finding exactly what I want/need. And I will, even if it means having my heart broken. But I would love to stay. I would always love to stay.

Well, that post took several paths I didn’t expect. Hope you enjoy learning a bit more about me (although I’m sure if you’re reading this you probably know a lot of this already).

Monday, April 11, 2011

Letter Writing

These are selections from a letter that I wrote to my good friend. We have actually begun to correspond regularly, which is really nice. I love the old-fashioned way of doing things. All of this technology really creeps me out sometimes (and once again I am not making any sense, because I'm writing this on my blog). I am not including the entire letter as that would just be silly, but here are several paragraphs:

I am always so bewildered by the fact that we set apart certain days to celebrate certain things-- why not just celebrate every day? And then today comes, my Uncle's birthday, and I remember that this is simply a reason to live "in memoriam" -- in memory. Usually when I'm home I visit his grave, and there's not a day when I don't think about him in some way, but today is special. Set aside. The day that I write and remember. And this ties in to the moving idea (talked about in a previous letter). I don't think we are always moving, no. We have to take time to reflect. So-- happy birthday to my uncle and I'm moving on.

...and here I talk about predestination, selflessness vs. selfishness, etc. Only the big world questions ;) ...

So if you haven't read the English Patient already, I suggest you do so, and immediately. I could foster a love of writing that you've never known before, it's that good. I would totally go into detail, but that would take forever and it's just too complex to overview. But one of the main themes of the story is identity, and it made me think-- what is my true identity? What is identity in general? According to Ondaatje (the author) we consist of several identities. We are vast deserts of constantly shifting sands, although we are still deserts. We are defined by national identity, those values instilled in us by culture. But perhaps our true identity is the one where we are happiest. The true, real-life Count Almasy (protagonist) was homosexual, had a love for motorized vehicles, and harbored a deep bond with the desert. He lived during WWII and aided the Germans, but also tried to aid the British and Italians. All of his missions were in the desert-- his area of expertise. He helped smuggle German agents to Egypt and performed countless other notorious acts. But did this man's interest lie in Nazism, or politics? I think not. His identity was in the deserts, where he found true happiness. Being a spy was simply an adventure, a series of expeditions in which he could explore those sands and that terrain. So this leads me to believe that identity is not what you do, but rather who you are. I write, but is my identity "a writer"? I sing, but am I "a singer"?
Some identities are inescapable.

Here are a few quotes I found interesting:
"Identity is theft of the self"
"I've grown certain that the root of all fear is that we've been forced to deny who we are"
"Memory is a way of holding to the things you love, the things you are, and the things you never want to lose"


...I love this idea of letter-writing. It makes me think. And it's also nice to break out the pen and paper :)

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Death of a Salesman

A great classic drama.
Willy Loman, salesman extraordinaire, lives a lie. He is grandiose, histrionic, deceptive to himself and to others. He has perfected the art of appearances, of seeming to be everything he is not.

A party. He looks at her, when the lights are off and the buzzing silence is more apparent than it should be. Words, soft, cautious words spoken in low tones. Faltering voice, sideways grin, is this real?

No. Of course it isn't. How could it be? That would mean contentedness, and she's already embraced the fact that she never wants to be content. But she was ready to be, at least for one night, perhaps forever.

The symbolic heart is such a delicate figure, fragile. She fully gives hers to a rare few.

"You are a really good salesperson". She wanted to hurt him.
"I just don't think we are at a place to be anything". He hurt her.

But she is resilient. She will get over it. It's the only thing she knows how to do anymore, as the light fades into her window. Warmth. Solitude.

Long ago, yesterday; the scene is the same. She feels like, somehow, she always ends up the most hurt.


...

I apologize if this post is unclear to some readers. It is not necessarily meant to be understood.

Happy Birthday to me :)
19, but I feel just like a child! Which reminds me...

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Edges

Triangular stretches of moonlight outline the precipice, ghost spotlights as she stands at the edge, bent at the waist, white fingers tracing stray hairs, surveying the contents of the earth below.

If the world were flat she could see her path. But as it is, crags and bends and redwoods and dips and her own distorted shadow disrupt the view even from this height.

Purple darkness. She is a fly on flypaper, gravitating toward the sticky sweet poison on wet evenings, hopelessly stuck. Limbs spasm in a vain attempt to be free.

The air is deep, like his eyes. A thousand moments can be smothered in a single breath. She inhales, exhales, inhales. Control.


...
Solitude. I love solitude. The mundanes of existence are both amplified and stifled with the stillness. I see that I am not falling apart. I am simultaneously enjoying the scenery from above and contemplating the blind plunge.

I will not be swept away. Forgive me in advance for distancing myself. This is the only way I know how to handle things.

Friday, March 25, 2011

Gentle

gen·tle  [jen-tl]
adjective, -tler, -tlest, verb, -tled, -tling
1.kindly; amiable: a gentle manner.
2.not severe, rough, or violent; mild: a gentle wind; a gentle tap on the shoulder.

Softly, sweetly twisted in the tangle of your hands.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Secret Creature


I would marry this man. Song I'm listening to at the moment: Say Goodbye.
"You and I rolled up into one secret creature"

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Veneer


Being an introvert sometimes has its downfalls. When I am in the company of friends, my thoughts tend to burrow deep into the folds of my brain and stay there, dormant, until I am once again alone. I've been nothing but happy for a couple of weeks. Sure, at times images of broken things flash behind my eyes but the pictures are always slightly transparent and I don't pay much attention. Today was the first day I was alone for an extended period of time. I feel refreshed, yes. But the broken parts of my life are incredibly apparent in the stillness.
My life is a veneer. This is not to say that I'm not true to myself or that I'm putting on a front. I wouldn't say that. When I'm happy, I'm truly happy; I can not fake emotions. But what is on the surface is not equal to what is below the surface. If I could articulate this phenomenon any more, I would. Unfortunately I can't find the words to describe it, so I will have to make due with stories, or more a collection of sentences that perhaps describe my brain's inner workings at the moment.

A family. Not happy, not discontent. Just a family.
Separation, never home, calling in bathrooms of restaurants and becoming defensive when I voice how much I worry about you.
A red fence, styrofoam bowls to eat cereal and plastic forks and knives. Whenever I come over, adjectives explode around me...happy, confident, stable, content. But in my head I hear whispers...melancholy, angry, stressed, worried.
Visit to the gravestone. It's habit now to blow you a kiss whenever I pass the cemetery. I sit on the grass and talk to you, knowing that you can't answer. But I do it anyway; I don't know why.
Smiling relatives in pain.
Hidden alcoholism.
Breaking hearts, intentionally. Trying to feel something that isn't there.
I'm a scared little girl, smiling when my eyes are closed.
Veneers. Chipped pieces show what is beneath.

I haven't been able to stop thinking about the feeling of hands on skin, of closeness...even thought that has nothing to do with my above words.

Those are my thoughts for tonight. I feel much more relieved now that I've written things out.
Goodnight:)

Thursday, March 10, 2011

War and Massacre

I titled this entry as such because it is the title of the philosophy text that I should be reading right now for class. But alas, I am writing this blog.

It's a relatively short one today, from my English 313 teacher. She was trying to tell us that one of our big papers is due next Tuesday, but here's what she said instead:

"For Tuesday...a week from next Tuesday (looking confused and then throwing her arms up in exasperation)...oh, whenever the hell it is!!!"

It was a hell day today :D

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Mortified

Yes, I know this is my third post in one night, but the other two don't count because they were re-blogged and not my own writing. Anyway, I recently bought a book titled Mortified. It's a compilation of old journal entries sent in by various people, for pure entertainment of the reader. One journal entry, however, resonated with me. It was written by an eighth grader to her "future self", and here is an excerpt:

"Are you scared of being a shadow? Is you heart not easily broken?
Are you still me?
When no one is home, do you sing your heart out till it hurts? Have you still the secret desire to dream alone?
When was the last time you defined yourself on a dreary day as a pebble furrowed in dark, hard clay?
Are you still me?
Are you who you want to be?
Just how much have we changed, myself? Are you quite sure you've grown up at all? Are you still me?"

I wonder if I am still me, sometimes. I am true to myself to a fault. But, especially now, I think I have compromised some of my morals (some of my essential self) in my search for something. And that is excessively vague, I know. :)

Re-Blogged (again)

"INFJ


INFJs focus on possibilities, think in terms of values and come easily to decisions. The small number of this type (1 percent) is regrettable, since INFJs have unusually strong drive to contribute to the welfare of others and genuinely enjoy helping their fellow men. This type has great depth of personality; they are themselves complicated, and can understand and deal with complex issues and people.

It is an INFJ who is likely to have visions of human events past, present, or future. If a person demonstrates an ability to understand psychic phenomena better than most others, this person is apt to be an INFJ. Characteristically, INFJs have strong empathic abilities and can be aware of another’s emotions or intents even before that person is conscious of these. This can take the form of feeling the distress of illnesses of others to an extent which is difficult for other types. INFJs can intuit good and evil in others, although they seldom can tell how they came to know. Subsequent events tend to bear them out, however.

INFJs have a strong love of learning, and they tend to do well academically. Through persistence, diligence, and conscientiousness, they complete their assignments on time. They are likely to enjoy research and will go great lengths to find answers. They enjoy investigating the possibilities and meanings beyond the actual facts and realities. Reading holds a particular fascination for them because it allows them to have quiet reflection time and engages their imagination. They also like the written word (and rely on it more than the spoken word) since it is usually better structured and more coherent with a ready-made framework. INFJs write and communicate well because they want to formulate their ideas clearly. They place high regard on their reader and audience. They seek to communicate their ideals to others. When their ideals need to be championed, they speak up in an enthusiastic and impassioned way. As students, INFJs prefer learning from teachers whom they both like and admire, and who give them personal attention. INFJs are often ‘model’ students. They are quiet and orderly, reflective and thoughtful, and sincerely want to please their teachers and learn the right thing. They learn best from others but want time to assimilate material by themselves. They generally will not be visible leaders, but will quietly exert influence behind the scenes.


INFJs are hard to get to know. They have an unusually rich inner life, but they are reserved and tend not to share their reactions except with those they trust. Because of their vulnerability, INFJs can be hurt rather easily by others, which, perhaps, is at least one reason they tend to be private people. People who have known an INFJ for years may find sides emerging which come as a surprise. Not that INFJs are inconsistent; they are very consistent and value integrity. But they have convoluted, complex personalities which sometimes puzzle even them.

INFJs like to please others and tend to contribute their own best efforts in all situations. They prefer and enjoy agreeing with others, and find conflict disagreeable and destructive. INFJs have vivid imaginations exercised both as memory and intuition, and this can amount to genius, resulting at times in an INFJs being seen as mystical. This unfettered imagination often will enable this person to compose complex and often aesthetic works of art such as music, mathematical systems, poems, plays, and novels. In a sense, the INFJ is the most poetic of all the types. Just as the ENTJ cannot not lead, so must an INFJ intuit; this capability extends to people, things, and often events, taking the form of visions, episodes of foreknowledge, premonitions, auditory and visual images of things to come. INFJs can have uncanny communications with certain individuals at a distance.


INFJs orient themselves toward their goals using a personal, values-based framework. They do not ‘advertise’ their values and priorities because they believe in harmony and positive relationships. However, one would do well not to underestimate the amount of perseverance, energy, and time INFJs give to their priorities. What they do, they do with an almost religious intensity. The INFJ external environment may be only partially organized. Their internal environment, by contrast, is anything but haphazard. Their ideas need to fit into a coherent whole that has the pieces in place. Organization of the internal world takes precedence over organization of external world. INFJs prefer occupations that focus on the big picture, involve conceptual awareness, and lead to a better understanding of the spiritual, emotional, or future needs of people. They want their work to have impact and meaning and for it to bring them admiration and respect. While INFJs can and do enter all occupations, some are more appealing to them than others. These include clergy, education consultant, English teacher, fine arts teacher, librarian, psychiatrist, psychologist, scientist, social worker, and other occupations that allow INFJs an opportunity to make their own creative contribution.


Leisure-time pursuits for INFJs are often solitary or involve the company of others who are particularly important to them. Sitting around with dear friends discussing feelings can be very special to INFJs. INFJs are likely to have friends of long standing rather than make many new acquaintances. They may meet with their friends fairly consistently to share what is happening in their lives. It is sometimes difficult for others to break into this circle. These deep friendships are important, even though INFJs may not share much directly about themselves.


For INFJs, ‘still waters run deep.’ They tend to become attracted to someone special and prefer this one deep relationship over many superficial ones. The depth of involvement and feeling that the INFJ has toward loved ones is only partially communicated outward. At times, when alone, INFJs become truly in touch with the depth of the love they have for their partner. They may not openly demonstrate or even verbalize their intense feelings. INFJs often have an ideal standard of what love is. They hold to their ideal and are disappointed when, inevitably, their relationship and/or mate reveals flaws. INFJs enjoy sharing activities like a regular ‘date,’ revisiting the place where they first met their mates, or doing other symbolic things that help to continue and confirm the existence of the bond that they feel for their partner. INFJs want to give love and to be loved. They enter into relationships just to be cared for, even when the person is not right for them and they suspect it. However, when they meet that special person, they are quick to get into the relationship and make it a serious one. They will end their other relationships in order to pursue their loved one. They become very focused, intense, and direct in that pursuit.

INFJs, when scorned, take it personally and retreat inward. They may obsess about the relationship and their role in its failure. One INFJ explained, ‘people can do the most outrageous things, yet I blame myself for triggering their behavior or not recognizing it. I see myself as responsible for relationships. Other people can dismiss them — I’m not able to.’ INFJs may blame themselves and experience a period of mourning. If they do not marshal their resources, externalize their feelings, and take risks to move on, they may experience a long periods of self-examination."

Re-Blogged

"Being an Introvert


All my life, I’ve struggled with the fact that I am an introvert. Wait…that’s not entirely true. I’m an extreme introvert – possibly the most extreme you’ll ever meet. And I’ve realized that I haven’t struggled with being an introvert as much as I’ve struggled with the world’s definition of an introvert. I was always taught that being an introvert is a bad thing. How could I possibly be happy unless I was an extrovert like the majority of the world? For most of my life, the introverted part of my personality was the thing I wanted most to change about myself. I felt like it isolated me, it made me different, and I didn’t want to be different. I wanted to fit in.

Over the last few years, I’ve started to understand what being an introvert is really all about. In the last few months, it’s something that I’ve not only understood, but something I’ve accepted – proudly. I love being an introvert. Yes, there are still times when I wonder what it would be like to be an extrovert, but the main thing that I’ve learned over the last few months is that the world misinterprets introverts, probably more than any other personality trait.

Most people lump the word ‘introvert’ in the same category as ‘shy’, ‘reserved’, ‘withdrawn’, ‘quiet’, and ‘antisocial’. None of those words have anything to do with being an introvert. Over the course of my life, I have known many introverts. For each of those words that the world considers synonymous with ‘introvert’, I can think of an introvert in my life that does not even remotely display that characteristic.

Shyness is ultimately based in fear. That is not to say that shyness is a bad thing. Shyness can be beautiful, especially in today’s world of ‘tell all’, attention grabbing, spotlight mentalities. But it is rooted in fear. Fear is not always bad. We steer away from danger because of the fear of what may happen. The little hairs that stand up on the back of our necks are triggered by fear. It can be a healthy thing. But it has nothing to do with being an introvert. Personally, I am also shy. Growing up, that was also labeled as a negative thing. Double whammy for me – though being shy and being an introvert were essentially the same thing.

Reservation is an act of caution. It can be rooted in fear as a defense mechanism, but it is most often being cautious about who we share information with. It’s about trust. Can I trust you with the information I share? As with anything, it can be taken to an extreme, making it unhealthy, but I personally see being reserved as a strength. The definition of ‘reserved’ is restrained in words and actions or not excessive or extravagant. I think it’s good to be restrained or to not be excessive or extravagant.

Introverts are not withdrawn. Most of us truly enjoy being around people. If I’ve had enough downtime to recharge, I would rather be around people – especially people I care about. I grew up in dance and theater. Most performers fall into one of two categories. They are either natural ‘hams’ who are always performing and entertaining no matter what they are doing. Or they are introverts who can flip a switch when they are ‘on stage’. I fall into the latter category. I am a great example of an introverted performer. I grew up on stage, and I spent years in front of classes, teaching dance. As hard as it is to believe for most people who know me, I don’t mind speaking in front of people when I’m talking about something I care about.

Introversion is a personality trait. It is a preference relating to how we focus our thoughts, and how we gain energy. Introverts are inwardly focused. We like to think and explore our own thoughts and feelings. Usually, being around people interferes with our desire to be introspective. Of course, that doesn’t mean that we don’t like conversation. We just tend to enjoy deeper conversations about thoughts and ideas instead of small talk. From a personal standpoint, I hate small talk. It bores me. I want to hear about your life, and I want to exchange ideas and connect on a deeper level.

Introverts like to reflect on new information – analyze it, process it – and only make decisions after some time. We very rarely like to tell you what we think if put on the spot unless it’s a topic that we’ve already analyzed, but we are capable of carrying on a conversation about almost anything. We just may not enjoy that conversation very much, and it will drain us of energy.

Introverts gain their energy from being alone. That is how we recharge. It doesn’t mean that we don’t like being around people. We are not ‘antisocial’. I love being around people. If it is someone I care about and enjoy being with, I can be invigorated by the exchange of thoughts, ideas, and emotions. It is the larger settings that drain us – not because we don’t enjoy them, but because they use our energy. I heard an analogy once about the difference between introverts and extroverts. Introverts are like a rechargeable battery. They need to stop expending energy and rest in order to recharge. Extroverts, on the other hand, are like solar panels. For them, being alone is like being under a heavy cloud cover. Solar panels need the sun to recharge, in the same way that extroverts need to be out and about, interacting with lots of people, to refuel. Introverts need time to restore their energy, and it flows out faster than an extrovert’s energy. In order to function to the best of their ability, they need to calculate how much energy something will take, how much they need to conserve, and plan accordingly. Speaking in front of a group of people will knock me out, and a one on one conversation can invigorate and challenge me, but I have to balance both of those with some alone time to recharge.

I love being an introvert. I love that I think before I speak. I love that I think before I act. I love to listen to other people without always having to add my voice to the conversation. I love that I share with a small group of trusted people. I love that being an introvert allows me to see the world from a different perspective than the majority of the population. It fits the rest of my ‘minority’ personality traits. It ties me together. It’s who I am, and there is nothing wrong with it. It is not a social disease. It is not something that should be changed. It is my preference, and I’m finally ok with that."

http://findinggeri.wordpress.com/2011/02/20/being-an-introvert/


Beautiful. This describes me so perfectly I almost had difficulty reading it.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

I Write the Songs

Barry Manilow, how I love thee.


As for the quote, it is not direct. I read it somewhere and it made me think.

"I'm sure you have a strong friendship, but for him, it's not as new as it is for you."

We are all creatures of habit, we follow routines that are hard to break (why would we want to break them, anyway?). Is the same true of our choices in friends, in love interests?
The sad truth is that I follow a frightening routine in males. It's unconscious, I'm sure. But I act on some strange attractions. I am perhaps most enthralled with hair (which is not uncommon, I think), but also tend to be attracted to those who use illegal substances, who are of foreign descent, and who are as strange as myself (which means he must meditate/attend poetry slams/drink chai tea religiously/like philosophy/a number of other things). Unfortunately, I always find myself in the same situation with each of this type of person-- I end up broken hearted, which is a routine in itself. Others surely follow similar routines. One of my ex-boyfriends uses the same line with every girl he's with..."I'm not perfect". Well duh. I think we all knew that. He also ends up losing every girl he goes after. No coincidence there.
Perhaps what I'm wondering is, am I just another routine for someone? Another tally in the grand scheme of things? However much I would like to be the exception, I'm afraid that I'm not.
In friendships, I cherish every individual. The relationships we share are like nothing I've experienced before, and will not experience again. I will never know another Chelsea Terrell or Joe Lyon or Chelsea Beck in my life, even if I tried. I can not replace my friends with others. So when I heard this it made me think. Life is a cycle, a constant flux of birth and death and summer and winter and fall and spring and happiness and sadness. Could not the same be true of friends, of love? We lose something and try to regain it with another similar thing. This is not ill-intentioned or even deceptive...it simply is. Another example of the cyclical nature of humans.
So when I feel something that I think is "new" to me...what does that mean? It very obviously is not mutual, but does that really matter? I'm lucky enough to feel it once, and I may never feel it again. So I cling to it with everything I have, while simultaneously trying to act indifferent to it. What an interesting thought.

My mind is all jumbled at the moment (this probably has to do with the fact that it's 2:30 a.m. and I'm incredibly tired) and I don't think I'm making much sense.

But those are my thoughts for the moment. And NOW it is most certainly bedtime.
And by the way, the number is 8. I'm so incredibly curious to see what it would be like.

I lied

I didn't run out of words, thanks to Jacob Jones who reminded me of my favorite Dave quote.

“A guy and a girl can be just friends, but at one point or another, they will fall for each other...Maybe temporarily, maybe at the wrong time, maybe too late, or maybe forever"
-Dave Matthews.

Applicable.

The Birthday Song

Luckily I remember the quote from yesterday.

They can't sing happy birthday anymore since Michael Jackson died...

Apparently Michael Jackson owns the Birthday song. I was not aware.

I don't have much to say/write today, at all. It seems English Majors DO run out of words.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Birthdays

It's Ifedayo's birthday...finally eighteen!!! And my own birthday is in 27 days. That's more than creepy. I don't like the idea of being 19...a year away from 20. I would venture to say that I'm not ready for everything that growing up entails. I'm just rambling, mostly because I have no idea what to say since I forgot what my quote was for today.
Oh! I know!

"Out of words, Ms. English Major?"

I thought pretty deeply about this one. Am I ever out of words? Yes, constantly. But only when I'm talking. When I'm writing, I'm never out of words. It's like a well of verbiage, and it never runs dry (god, that's corny). Ever. Even when I have nothing important to say, at all. Take right now, for instance. I could probably sit here and write pages of useless information that you never wanted to know. I could talk about the education system in Indiana, my surrounding at the moment, several stories that I heard in class today, my current reading material. I could write about a universe of ideas that manifest themselves in my hard-working brain every few seconds. But I could never talk about all of that stuff...it simply doesn't work for me. I find myself tongue-tied whenever anyone asks questions of me, or tries to start conversation. I'm a listener; I store everything I hear and wait until I get home to write about it.

Okay, so that's my quote, those are my thoughts.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Literary Journalism

I always seem to have the most fun in my literary journalism class. The students consist of a hodge-podge of the eccentric; there are several heavily tattooed females, and the rest of us who look "normal" have the quirky personalities of creative writers (I recently overhead a conversation joking about the subjective case...which is beyond quirky, it's just plain nerdy). It makes for some interesting activities. On a typical day you'll either see us laughing in front of our computers, sitting on the floor with cut-out words trying to piece things together, or listening to the professor ramble about the art of literary journalism.
We were talking about our culture piece, which requires us to write about a specific culture that we've observed at least twice (and conducted interviews with, etc.). Professor Williams was trying to stress the importance of taking out "I" whenever possible. Here are two of her more laughable quotes:

“If you start narrating and philosophizing…that is bullshit!”
“Those powerpoint slides…are bullshit!”

She was in a bullshit mood today. Sometimes she's in a hell mood, sometimes a damn mood. But today, it was bullshit.

I love college.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Fruit Mood

Here is proof.

:)

Eating Peaches

I've been in a fruit kind of mood. It's almost a problem. I ate all of my applesauce the other day and now I've moved on to peaches. Peaches, god, I love peaches. They're the Dole kind, all bottled up with claims of "in 100% fruit juices" but I don't know if I believe that. Oh well. So I have my fork and this bottle of peaches and I've been carrying them around on campus, in class, peeking out of my purse. I'm sure people think I'm insane. But do I care? Not on your life! The peaches are worth it.

Well, that's an effective intro. It really has nothing to do with my quote, except for the fact that I'm feeling whimsical today. I'm even wearing a dress! It's fabulous. And of course, if I'm wearing a dress and having a whimsical day then obviously I'm listening to Dave (Matthews Band, for the lame people who don't know who I'm talking about). The song happens to be "Seven" which is from Grux (the newest album). It's such a sexual song. Sexually seductive. Just kidding. But really, it is sexual.
Here's are a couple of my favorite lines:

"Red is the color of the sun with my eyes closed/I can still taste you, and I will again"

I told you I was in a weird mood. Usually I'm all gung-ho about the deep, meaningful lyrics of Dave blah blah blah. But nope. Right there, those lyrics. Mmmhmmm.

Okay, Post complete.

Monday, February 28, 2011

What I Wanted to Say

I only really have goofy quotes for the day/night/whatever, and I'm in a serious mood anyway. So I'm taking poetic liberty here and killing the quote thing for a day in order to talk about what's on my mind.
We all have those instances in our daily lives where we wished we would have said something. If you couldn't already tell based on the fact that I love to write, I am not the most gifted in impromptu speech. Words come easier when I'm writing than when I'm speaking, so I'd venture to say I'm a professional at the art of wishing I would've said something when I didn't. I want to begin with a story.
Dad isn't the kind of guy to be rushed. He always takes his time (in fact, this used to frustrate me so much when I was little and wanted to get somewhere as quickly as possible)-- my dad the turtle :) I spent the day with him, my little sister, and my best friend Chelsea recently and wondered what lasting damage the "separation" had done to him. God, the separation. I spit it out of my mouth, don't like to say it. Don't even like to type it. He's living in a different house, seems tired a lot, and he's taken to saying "I love you" much more often now. Not life-changing, just changes. I didn't think that the separation would change how he's always been, though. "Two different people"...what's the whole point of this, again? My parents estrange themselves from one another because they're too different to get along? But wouldn't they stay the same? Apparently such is not the case. Dad seemed on edge when we came over, irritable, different. He kept moving around the house, painting this or that, opening and closing doors. We drove in the truck to get dinner and I thought it was funny that he told all three of the girls to get out of the vehicle to put our name in. O'Charley's. My dad and I love the potato soup there. We three girls walked inside and instantly saw that it was too crowded, so we started walking back to the truck. I saw the rough outline of my dad against the truck door, and something that didn't belong. A white cylinder held between the fingers, puffs of smoke in the air. We saw him, but he shoved the cigarette in his pocket and never mentioned anything about it.

This is not my dad. And it makes me wonder how much of my parents I truly know. When I was little, I thought parents never hugged or kissed or showed any signs of affection for that matter. I thought they argued all the time but they still loved each other.

I wish I would have confronted my dad about the cigarette. I wish I would have confronted my parents about a lot of things, but I didn't...I haven't...I won't.

There are a lot of things that I will get right because of the mistakes of my parents. Most importantly, I will build a relationship whose foundation is not argumentative. I don't want to get in arguments every day, even every week. I know that some people seem to think conflict creates stronger bonds, but for me those stronger bonds are created through experience and time spent together. I will always show affection in a relationship. I would not consider myself affectionate, really. I don't always like people to touch me, I don't always like to touch other people. But I will touch, kiss, hug someone I truly care about. And I refuse to be in a long-term relationship knowing that I am unhappy. It will only hurt in the end.

So those are my thoughts. This turned into a rather long non-quote post :)

Saturday, February 26, 2011

The secret is keeping busy...

Delightfully deceptive.
It's funny that emotions always come in opposing pairs, even if we don't realize at first. At this moment, I am a jumbled mixture of several thousand combatting emotions: confused, certain, comfortable, discomposed, free, bound, ecstatic, despairing. The list goes on. We humans are complicated creatures. But on to the quote, shall we?

JacobJoooones and I were conversing through text. I had just gotten back from Starbucks with Joe who is by far my best male friend. He will always be. It made me think about that type of guy...the infamous "best friend" type. Joe and I would never work in a relationship (and this is not meant to be harsh to him...it's just how things have always been with us), but we share a friendship that has lasted since seventh grade. I was explaining this to Jacob, and he asked whether he was the "best friend" type or the "boyfriend" type. I told him he seemed more like the best friend.

Jacob: "...And I would say that is a correct answer. I always feel like that works out much better in the long run...like there is more to being a best friend than being a boyfriend...I feel like it shows you care for the person more when you care...more than being his/her significant other."

Ashley: "I disagree. I think if you come about relationships the right way, you can be a best friend and a boyfriend. It just depends whether it's the right girl or not."

Jacob: "I'll say that's correct. How do you know/will you know when you've met the right person?"

Ashley: "I just think you know. But I'm not sure. It takes time, maybe?"

Jacob: "Time. The point in time where you realize...the significant other's well being is more important to you than yours? And the just knowing is one of the things that I feel...could be indescribable until felt?"


Perhaps this is why I had trouble answering your percentage question, Drew. You can't really put a percentage on something like couple/friends. The lines blur. And as far as the "just knowing"...I figured you would appreciate. But time, time, time. The real question may be-- how do we determine if we're running out?

"Meradge"

Today, I received the cutest email EVER. My mom's best friend Vicki lost her husband to suicide several years ago, and has been dating a man named David for about a year now. She has two kids who I babysit and hang out with quite often...they are definitely the coolest kids in the world:)
Anyway, little Ashley (who's 10 I think) sent me an email today entitled "Meradge". Here's all that it said:

"david perposed to my mom yesterday!!!!!!!!!!!"

I can only imagine the excitement in that house. I love love...it has the ability to make broken people so happy:)