Sleepless Nights a song. (someday)

Sleepless nights, contain the chorus of my life.

How many things must i try to feel alive.
The old songs fading like a memory, to me, an echo of eternity.

I will find my way.
Someday.

In how many ways should i speak to you?

Should i lay my heart out on the floor, or beg of you?
To get you to say, you love me too? 

Make me more than a memory. Someday.

Sleepless nights, and wingless flights, the sympathies.

The crickets song, winded storm, the symphonies.

It takes it's shape and starts to shake inside of me,
I will let it go. 

Someday.

(music)

Someday i'll see my life belong to me.

it stretches out before me a winding path, an endless possibility

I'll let the dark one stand aside, the light will shine out. 

of everything, inside me.

I will become, who i'm supposed to be,
 Someday 

How many times, have i stood aside and watched you walk away?
You left me standing, wilting like a flower in the rain?
I cannot breathe you left me, drowning in the pain!
I will hear my heart beat once more.
Someday

Sleepless nights, and wingless flights, the sympathies.

The crickets song, winded storm, the symphonies.

It takes it's shape and starts to shake inside of me,
I will let it go. 

Someday.

It take it's shape and starts to shake inside of me.
I will let you go
Someday.
Someday.

More words, Emily's

Emily's words.

Cool beans yo. That means it is interesting, or "all good" ++
Whatevs. This means whatever or  "i am done with this and everything it entails.
scrumdoodleyumpshus -  if something is scrumdoodleyumpshus, this means it tastes terrific.++
Lovely- A sarcastic reference to something awful. ++
 Reese- The language invented and used by her and her sister.++


Ms. A's

Butter-Color++
Knackered- Complete and utter total physical and mental exhaustion++
Wonky- a bit off=++
Bubbles Surf bubbles between my toes++
Fungo- My philosophy of life- Do it myself/

My words
Morose- Sadness that touches your very soul
Epicosity- If it is filled with/covered in/ touching It's probably pretty great++
Fail- you dropped the ball++
Bejeezus- a manner or form of exclamation, "You scared the Bejeezus out of me.
Literally- The actual fact of existence within reality.++ 
 
Rachel
Grr, Expressing frustration+
How'reyou?- A question asked to anyone not her bestie+_+
There you go- statement used when nothing more to say++
Tuesday- everything happens on tuesday++
What up yo?-question when talking to bestie or sister.++

Seth
 laughter a neccessity of life++
 Nature as unblemished beatuty++
Pooped tired++
 Orange The sunset++
Jacked far too much excitement.++

Essay farming

              To me, no matter how "dressed-up" and pretty they make this sound, this is plagiarism. The site in question presents several valid arguments for the ethical standings of their business, which to reiterate. Is to provide essays, reports and other written assignments to students that struggle with writing. Now, as far as i can tell this almost states that they are indeed writing your schoolwork for you. I can dispel this with one or two sentences, their disclaimer notice, which reads. "Disclaimer:
Services provided by Custom-Writing.org are to be used for research purposes only. If you use an assignment written by Custom-Writing.org writers, it should be referenced accordingly."

            After reading that i began to question the actual goal of the website, whether it was a research and development tool. or a "farm" where students can go to buy their homework. I'll start with the first reason, in my book as to why this business is not good for the academia of most students. The first reason, i feel is a little less ethical, and a little more monetary. The prices I've noticed for college enrolled students is somewhere between fifteen and three-hundred dollars. Which is pretty absurd considering the cost of higher education, in this economy as is. Before the added cost of buying your homework. Now as for ethics, i had to use a dictionary to be certain, but the definition of plagiarism is (paraphrased) the close imitation, or copy of another author's work, without representation or citation, or, in layman's terms, without crediting the original author. That being said, the student that turns in the essay they purchased will undoubtedly not credit the original author, which, by this writer's opinion, makes the student guilty of plagiarism. . This is completely off the charts as far as ethics go.

             That's my personal opinion, but that's what was asked of me. From an ethic, moral, monetary, and academic standpoint. I do not condone buying your essays online, get off your lazy bum and write it yourself. Yes, it's hard, writing is hard for everyone, math is hard for everyone, but to all the college students i say, "that's what you're here for." To challenge yourself, and push your limits, which in turn, will make you better at the task at hand.

The Blood Moon

The Blood Moon.



The first time i saw it, i was barely able to understand what it was, but i knew it was something to fear. Red and ominous, it floats high in the night sky, suspended by some magic. My family believes it's a face, watching us, judging. It wasn't until i was a man, at seventeen years that i was told the truth, why we cowered in the night, why, when, the moon seemed so far away did we shy away from it when the hue changed from opalescent white, to crimson.

           The year of our lord 1776, the Colonists across the sea continued to stir trouble, but those things rarely mattered to us. We were, like the noblemen said, just simple micks. Irishmen, farmers. Just a small community a days ride from Dublin. We sowed and tended our fields and sheep in the day, drank our malted beer in the evening. In all manners we were happy, except on those rare occasions, when the blood moon arrived. We hid ourselves, in basements, locked our children away in attic spaces. We cowered in fear until dawn. The next day someone was missing,  but we payed it no attention. Just carried on in our lives.
The day aft my seventeenth birthday, I was drinking' my first round with my Da' when the bell was rung. Amongst the normally happy faces, a melancholy settled over us. Each face, from jolly was swept deep into depression, almost visibly drooping.

The story of cooking.

The Story of Cooking. 

When you ask me the significance of a recipe, my response is likely to be, “What recipe?” The truth is, I rarely use them, even when I worked in a restaurant my recipes often varied from day to day. This is not due to a need for perfection; I am not trying to fix something, if it isn’t broken. For me, the relationship between the recipe and the food is a relationship that’s not completely solid. It’s a flowing, changing thing that creates and then re-creates itself every time it’s made. The process is simple, and to me, it’s a lot like writing. You start with a foundation, then you imagine what the flavor’s destination is to be. After that comes the complicated part, figuring out, just how it arrives there. How the ingredients transform from raw materials into the food you can’t wait to savor. 

 

  I’ll return to the metaphor in a minute, first let’s talk about the food. It begins with hunger. Soon the hunger gnawing at my belly over-powers my laziness. . I have to get up. A quick survey shows my ingredients. Choose them hastily, don't mess up. Salt, pepper, and additional spices are chosen. A fresh clove of garlic is recommended. The butter must be heated with the oil. It makes for a better texture. Drop in the garlic and watch carefully as it caramelizes. While it cooks prepare the sauce, Worcestershire red peppers, lime and mango into the blender, blend it up fine, and then mix in the vinegar. Now for the fish, three White Tilapia filets are chosen. Personally, I have to admit I am not a fan of fish, usually. This is a specified recipe. I created to make fish edible, and the flavors bearable. The fish is then tossed into a skillet, the sizzle to me, never gets old. On top of the softened buttery garlic cloves, add salt and pepper, onion powder, and lemon juice. Add it hastily and hope it doesn't mess up. You should then mix a buit of the sauce in and watch the colors change. Lower the temperature, and cover. Let the sauce and scented seasons mix with the fish. The smell is almost overpowering and extraordinary. Now the boiler, melt the butter into the basin and add flour until the thickness is between a dumpling and gravy. Currently you have a good Roux then add the sauce and a bit of cream. Stir and feel the resistance on your spoon grow as the sauce thickens from the roux. Heavy cream is recommended, but not too much. We don’t want to lose that thickness that separates a sauce from a soup. Then add mushrooms, green onion, and finally a bit more Worcestershire sauce, for color and flavor. The fish is removed gently from the skillet, now brown and tender. The sauce is thickened and the sweet and spicy aromas are strong, but not overwhelming. Swirl the pink and yellow colored sauce onto the white fish filets. Garnish with parsley as desired, and a slice of Roma tomato. (fFor a break in flavor.) One of the most important parts, and this I cannot stress enough. NEVER leave the caramelized garlic behind when plating. It’s a flavor you will cherish. 

Beginning with the ingredients, we have a baseBeginning with the ingredients, we have a base for our tale, each one standing as a character in our story. Then, we move on to the plot. Our characters are tossed, thrown, and sautéed into each other’s path, until finally we meet our climax, the truth is told, the ending revealed. The meal is complete. If you’re cooking for yourself, you might even get to enjoy the epilogue. Eating the delicious story you just cooked up.   

 

Freewriote, i will never.

"I will never do this again"
I can remember the feeling of embarrassment in myself. It was almost like every eye burned a hole in my face tears rushed to my eyes and i was pretty sure i wouldn't make it out alive. I did, but for a time i felt i wouldn't. An hour prior to this feeling I was enjoying my Saturday. It was like any other summer day in southern Mississippi. Hot, humid and morose. It was in the midst of my fourteenth year, and that day, despite the morose atmosphere i was feeling pretty good. My grandfather had asked me to mow his grass, which i did without much issue. It took hours and afterward I was hot, and sweaty. With the new dollars crushed into my pocket i knew exactly where i wanted to go. R&B's Quik-Stop was just up the road, a quick walk and i would be there. Cold Gatorade sliding down my parched throat was all i could think of. But then temptation reared it's head. After arriving there i walked straight to the back of the store, where the tall drink coolers were standing. as i glanced up from my feet, i caught the eyes of the most beautiful girl i had seen. I wasn't usually popular with girls, but to my surprise, she smiled. Her blonde hair pulled into a nappy ponytail, bangs cascaded over her sparkling blue eyes. She was perfect. While my mind was focused on her, my feet kept walking. I craned my neck around to continue the eye contact that had my pulse racing. my pace quickened. The next thing i remember was the crash, the sound shook the store. I looked up just in time to see myself plummeting towards myself, or at least my reflection in the cooler's glass door. It crashed to it's side, shattering the door and spilling it's contents all over the store. My nose was bleeding. Everyone looked at me and in the shock i screamed a curse. That's the last time i don't watch where i'm going.


I completely forgot to use my vision. 

"She was Blonde"

I was filled with awe, golden rays of sunlight could only emphasize the Starshine-Hue of her draped and cascading locks. Brought out to stand in the moonlit summer night. The wind blew strands of divinity, and the sweet smell of temptation across my face, tickling the senses.  Then i woke up, in my freezing cold apartment, clutching a dirty, damp cloth. It took a few moments to realize it was the dress she was buried in.


"The toddler is angry"
I was not a bad boy! I am not breaking the rules! I am not doing anything wrong! I want to go home! I'm tired of being too little for anything! I can't even make my own drinks, or lunch, or snack! I can't cross the road without DADDY! I WANT TO WATCH DORA AND BOOTS! I don't care if you don't like it when i yell, or throw my toys. I HATE TIME OUT! I will never eat my vegetables!

It begins with hunger. And soon it over-powers my laziness. I have to get up, a quick survey shows my ingredients. Choose them hastily, don't mess up. Salt, pepper, and additional spices are chosen. A fresh clove of garlic is recommended. The butter must be heated with the oil, it makes for a better texture. Drop in the garlic and watch carefully as it caramelizes. While it cooks prepare the sauce, Worcestershire red peppers, lime and mango into the blender, blend it up fine, then mix in the vinegar.  Now for the fish, three White Tilapia filets are chosen, tossed into the skillet, on top of the softened buttery garlic cloves. add salt and pepper, onion powder, forgot the lemon juice. Add it hastily and hope it doesn't mess up. then a bit of the sauce. Mix it together and watch as the colors change and the aromas intensify.  Lower the temperature, and cover. Let the sauce and scented seasons mix with the fish. The smell is almost overpowering and extraordinary. Now the boiler, melt the butter into the basin and add flour, makes for a good Roux Then the sauce and a bit of cream. Stir and feel the resistance on your spoon grow as the sauce thickens from the roux. Add a few more seasonings, then add mushrooms, green onion, and finally a bit more Worcestershire sauce, for color and flavor. The fish is removed gently from the skillet, now brown and tender. The sauce is thickened and the sweet and spicy aroma are strong, but not overwhelming. Swirl the purple-and yellow colored sauce onto the white fish filets. Garnish with parsley as desired, and a slice of Roma tomato. For a break in flavor.

Sesnse my favorite place, outline.

When i was young i had a place i used to go, to think to write to enjoy and relax. By it's creek it was always cooler and in the shade while in my favorite tree all i had to do was reach up and grab the blueberries as they ripened on the vine.

I can still remember the pattern of the trees to get to my favorite place on earth. The small nook in which rested three trees and a small sandbar. A stream passed cold clear water through around the bend in the bank. It sat low beneath the creek bank, out of sight until you were standing just on top of it.

Always the smello of the place can return to me. The tree that came to be known as my "Resting Tree" Was the Magnolia tree, many days the air was fragrant with the scent of magnolia and jesper, cape jesmine and honeysuckle. The creek brought it's own unique aroma of water, and algae. Mississippi always has a unique scent, like rain had just fallen and the grass, and trees were wet with the rain.

The small amount of sand was what i considered to be my first beach, i loved the way it squished through my toes. Muggy, and cold like the water rushing beside it. The Resting Tree itself may have been hard wood, but it always felt smooth, beneath my posterior and the branch folded into the trunk in the perfect curve. Allowing my back to rest easily. Some days i would stay so long i could feel the dew forming cold on my clothes. Sticking them fast to my skin, and plastering my hair to my face. I never seemed to mind. I spent many nights there, in the chilly summer nights, watching the stars behind the Magnolia branches.

In the early morning the roosters crow and donkey bray were audible over the wind passing through the trees. As the evening drew nearer i could hear the crickets begin to sing their sad song and the whippoorwill shouted it's endless tune. Sometimes in the darkest of nights i could swear i heard the cry of a panther, but my grandfather often said it was just my imagination. The coyotes were real, and at times frightening but never as frightening as hearing the sound of a timber Rattlesnake shaking it's tail, it spoke a warning everyone in the animal kingdom could recognize and even the fiercest of predators knew to stay away.  

In the right time of year, when the season was just right. The blueberries would ripen and the sweetness of memory still calls the taste to my lips. But the true sweetness was in the honeysuckle the work and effort put into retrieving such a tiny drop of nectar was always worth it, it's a taste i can never forget. But those things aside i can remember the wind, always seemed to taste a bit sweeter, floral and humid as all Mississippi air tended to be. But, there it seemed to be even more so. Perhaps it was the resting Tree, Perhaps the blueberries or the honeysuckle or all of the above.

I found it, in the Winter of my eleventh year, I happened across it chasing a squirrel which i have always loved to hunt. Unfortunately for myself i was a clumsy kid, my one track mind set on pursuing the furry little thing i completely forgot my footing. I had chased it  into an unknown part of my grandfathers land, which was adjacent to my families. Little did i know that this was going to be a place i would never forget, nor would i forget the next three days. The creek bank on one side was small and ran into a sand bar that connected directly to the water, on the other side it was a six or seven foot drop. This is the side i stepped off of. I was unlucky to have broken my left leg, but lucky that i didn't shoot myself in the fall.
as my body connected with the ground my head connected with an ironwood stump. It knocked me completely unconscious for almost twelve hours.  When i woke it was far past dark and nearly below freezing my leg was swollen, and stiff. faced with the challenge i used my upper body strength to drag myself out of the freezing water and onto the sand bar, that was the first time i found myself, leaning my wioght upon what came to be known as, The Resting Tree