A Note on Comic Book Conventions

Yesterday I went to my very first comic book convention, C2E2.  To be quite honest, I had a blast.  Sure, my feet were killing me by the end of the day, but that's what you get when you wear Converse with no arch support, hooray!  But it was fine, all my toes are still in tact and I don't think I wore out my soles.

Spending as much time on the Internet as I do, I was primed to look out for people in costumes.  Good costumes.  And there were some good costumes.  But the originality was lacking.  I saw A LOT of The Doctor from Doctor Who, and the same ones over and over again: Four, Ten, and Eleven.  I maybe saw one Nine and one of the First.  And then there were a lot of superheroes and super villains.  Of course.  Makes sense.  But typical.  Lots of Harley Quinn.  The Joker.  Superman.  Spiderman.  Yeah.  So a little disappointed in that respect.

But really excited about other things.  Like the Doctor Who postcards I got.  And the Kill Shakespeare comic I bought.  That's right, my very first comic that I bought all by myself instead of getting it from a friend. There was so much to look at, and a couple costumes to guess about.  And of course, hanging out with friends.  Because they're awesome.

Unfortunately, I wrote yesterday's poem today.  And today's poem is not appropriate for this blog.  So...here.

April 26, 2013

I'd like to apologize, my friend,
for my offenses.
When I turned in my chair
and asked you to leave,
that was rude.
Then allowing separation
as if breaking from the herd
and ignoring the
sheepdog yapping.
I lost sight
and wandered blindly deaf
to any pleas,
then ask you for more,
to be my cover story
accomplice
to late night affairs.

I apologize
for the shrunken sweater
discomfort bred
by my frivolity
skipping through aisles
on rubber-soled ecstasy.

"Because that's what a comic is, ultimately: a collection of pages.  It's not a flatpanel or a touchscreen, even though that's where it might eventually be displayed.  It's a page."

- John Heffernan

To Seduce a Whovian

I love Doctor Who.  I don't know if I say that enough on this blog, but I do.  This morning, I watched the most recent episode, and it made me smile, made me cry, and made me smile all over again.  It was beautiful.  I particularly enjoyed the reference to "The Walrus and the Carpenter."  Oh, and Clara.  Because she's adorable and I'm looking forward to getting to know her.

Anyway, I was driving on my way to pour my wallet into a gas-providing machine, and it suddenly struck me that today is the perfect day to write a nerd poem.  So here we go!

To Seduce a Whovian
(April 8, 2013)

Hand them a leaf,
crinkled around the edges
and scarlet middled,
tell them this leaf
is the most important leaf
in all of human history.
Pull them into a phone booth,
a red one will do
if blue is unavailable,
in the space remaining,
flying them to the moon.
Gift them with souvenirs
from your travels,
then take them along
for the next one.
Wear nothing
but a bow tie
and maybe a fez.
Whisper sweet nothings
surrounding the Shadow Proclamation
and be a Bad Wolf
when you use your sonic.

There was a time when I had a big long list of ideas for a series of nerd poems, and I did write a couple of them for my Stand Up Poetry class a couple years ago, but it's definitely a subject that I have a lot of fun writing about even though I haven't written a nerd poem in a very long time.  So on that note, I'm thinking that I may return to that list of ideas if I can find it.

Clara:  So we're moving through actual time?  So what's it made of?  Time.  If you can just rotor through it, it must be made of stuff, like jam's made of strawberries.  So what's it made of?

The Doctor:  Well.  Not strawberries.  No.  No, no, no.  That would be unacceptable.

-  Doctor Who, The Rings of Akhenaten

A Letter to/from My Valentine

Even though I technically asked and was accepted as a valentine for my mother, sometimes you just have to write some mushy stuff.  I know it's probably trite and I'm probably contradicting my post from last year, but you know...here goes nothing.

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Valentine I Wish I Would Get:

Dearest Brianna,

It feels as though it's been weeks since I heard your voice when in reality it hasn't even been one week.  And now it's Valentine's Day.  And I know how you feel about Valentine's Day, so for I'll count the cliches for you when they come up.

You mean the world to me (1).  No joke.  If it came down to whether I would want you or the world, well, you would be more portable.

I can't imagine myself with anyone else but you (2) although if Angelina Jolie came calling, I might have to go running.  We have to have our principles here and I figure if I tell you in advance, you won't be able to argue with me when it happens.

In short, love, let's go have adventures and make the most out of life (3).

I love you, happy Valentine's day.

Love,
Random Imaginary (preferably British) Gentleman

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Valentine I Wish I Would Send:

Dear love,

Yesterday I started writing thank you notes for the presents I got for Christmas, and because you know me so well, you're going to keep your mouth shut about thank you notes being most effective when they come right after the holiday they belong to...  Anyway, the point is that because I'm kind of in a more thankful mood than I usually am, this will probably end up being a thank you note rather than a love letter, so I apologize if you were getting your hopes up.

Thank you.

Thank you for understanding me enough to know that you have to let me ride the shopping cart in the parking lot, and if you don't I'll probably pout.  Thank you for letting me drag you down every single aisle in the grocery store because it amuses me.

Thank you for letting me play.  It's taken me a really long time to find someone like you who is willing to let me play.  You once told me that you didn't see the point in becoming an adult if you couldn't be childish sometimes, and I'm pretty sure that that's when I fell for you.  And the best part is, you don't just let me play, you join in.  You pun with me, and I love that about you.  I was always afraid that I would end up with someone who would crush my soul and force me to write stuffy poetry, but you make me want to go on adventures with you and stay up all night eating candy.

Thank you for using British-isms and/or being British yourself.  You know that that's exactly what I love, and you use it to your advantage.  It's perfect.  Seriously.  Don't ever stop.  And thank you for understanding that if David Tennant comes into my life, I will leave you.  And even if you don't really understand, thank you for allowing that this is a reality.

Thank you for kissing me to shut me up when I'm on a rant.  Oh wait.  That's me.  Um.  Well, thank you for letting me kiss you to shut you up?  :^P

Thank you for writing to me.  I've always had a list of things that I would want my perfect man to be and do, and writing to me is up there.  I love the letters and the postcards and the e-mails, I love that we're in contact outside of text messages because I have to admit that I love reading the words that you physically wrote on a piece of paper for me.  It's kinda awesome.  You don't have to write me poetry, but I love that you do, it makes me melt.

Thank you for supporting me, especially when I'm being irrational.  Thank you for holding me and calming my panic especially when you don't understand what the big deal is anyway.  Because I know it's dumb.  And I know that I worry without reason, but sometimes it's just something I need to do.  Thank you for being there.

Thank you for not giving up on me.

Love,
Brianna

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!

To all the lovers, to all the romantics, to all those looking for love, or to those who have lost it, may you have a wonderful day full of sunshine and warmth.  And don't forget about discounted candy tomorrow!

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PROMPT:
Write your own valentine you wish you would send or receive!

"I'll love you, dear, I'll love you till China and Africa meet and the river jumps over the mountain and the salmon sing in the street."

- W.H. Auden

Stress

Let's face it, this post has been a long time coming.  We all knew this was coming, and now you people who actually read my blog can rest at ease because it's true, I'm stressed and I'm going to be writing about it.

After the end of the Disney College Program, I found my way back to my hometown, which means that I'm living with my parents.  This doesn't feel like it should be a really big deal, but with my brother returning to university, I'm (for all intents and purposes) an only child.  I mean this in the sense that my parents' attentions, concerns, aggression is all concentrated on me.  I've only begun to realize this now.

(BRIANNA sets about packing up a bag with her laptop and other things.  DAD comes down the stairs, just woken up.)

DAD:  Where are you going?

BRIANNA: The library.

I understand that it's a parent's job to know where their child is, and I understand that they're really just looking out for me and worrying because that's all part of their job description, but I've never given them reason to worry about me, and it really shouldn't matter where I'm going because it's broad daylight, I'm a responsible pseudo-adult, and I don't have any bad influence friends to meet up with.

That's another stress that I have.  Once again I've sunk into the feeling that if I contact the friends who are nearby, I'll be bothering them.  Only a couple of my friends have steady work right now, so I really shouldn't be worrying about this as much as I am, but there it is.  I need to see people every now and again though, because otherwise I get lethargic and sink into a funk.  Which I've been on the verge of doing multiple times right up until I go to the library for some sort of human interaction with the lady who checks out the movies I'm torturing myself with.

Because there it is, the broken heart that I'm nursing.  And the cliche of saying it makes me weep more than the actual thing, so I've been telling people that the reason I'm so cold all the time is because my soul is made of ice and I don't have a heart anymore.  Because frankly, that's what it feels like.  I'm quick to cry, and I sit there remembering good times on loop.  I feel like the epitome of a romantic comedy heroine who's stuck in the misery montage with no hope of pulling myself out.  So basically, I feel not a little bit pathetic.  Through some terrible coincidence, I keep pulling romantic films off the shelves at the libraries and insisting that they'll make me feel better...and they don't really.  Which shouldn't surprise me, really.  I'm just at a loss there because no matter what I do, it hurts.  Everything hurts.  Doing things, not doing things, listening to music, skipping the familiar songs, writing horrible break-up poetry, avoiding writing poetry at all, reading, watching movies, talking, not talking.  Everything hurts, and it feels like my insides are frozen and my outsides are burning up.  Like my skin'll just turn into steam and escape through the roof and the rest of me'll just freeze and connect with concrete.  I have no idea what to do to fix this.

Oh, and money.

(BRIANNA comes back through the back door, bright and excited from a lunch with a friend.  MOM is playing a Facebook game on the computer.)

BRIANNA:  So my friend and I are planning to go on adventures in the city and maybe take some day trips out of town--

MOM:  Brianna, I'm not going to fund your fun.  I can't.

BRIANNA:  I--what?

MOM:  I can't fund your day trips and your fun.

Once again.  I understand this.  I have no job.  I should be looking for a job.  Preferably one that will pay me money.  With that money, I can have fun.  But at the same time, I need to have fun and see my friends in order to remain sane or run the risk of becoming a hermit.  That's ignoring the fact that hermits can have friends.

Well, if I were a hermit and friends with The Doctor, things would be different.  Point being, if I don't leave the house and have human interaction, I feel less human, more stressed.

And then I'm looking for a job.  I don't even know where to start, so I'm making it up as I go.  I keep forgetting that I'm supposed to call to follow-up and make sure that places got my resume after all, and I constantly lose track of where I applied anyway no matter how many lists I keep.  I'm looking at positions in libraries, small publishing houses, and universities, anything that I might be vaguely interested in.  Once it starts warming up, I'm planning on knocking on doors all up and down the streets where the small businesses live nearby my home, but I'm really hoping that it doesn't come down to that.  And all I want to do is write.

What it all boils down to is: I'M STRESSED!  Living with my parents is a weird dance thing that I have to do so everyone retains some semblance of happiness, I have no friends, busy friends, or friends I'm afraid to bother, I'm looking for a job, dealing with a broken heart (or lack of a heart), and wanting to write.  And there it is.  So now I've spent 20 some odd minutes writing this post instead of searching for a job while I've been at the library, but you know...it kinda helped in a weird way?  Happy Tuesday!

"To achieve great things, two things are needed: a plan and not quite enough time."

- Leonard Bernstein

Challenge Day 2

Well, I started this post on January 2nd.  And then I realized that I should procrastinate as much as possible to prove how spectacularly bad I am at sticking to things.

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Here we go, the second day of my daily creative writing challenge!  I'm really excited for this month, actually, despite my anxieties about keeping up with it, but you know what?  It'll be alright.  Day 2: Write a fan fiction.  What's great about this is actually that I loathe fan fiction.  I went through a phase a while ago, probably around middle school, when I read Harry Potter fan fiction, all stories about the Marauders, specifically romance between James and Lily.  Because even back then I was a major sap.  I even wrote a story or two that were fan fiction in nature, and they were wretched, I can tell you that right now.  So here we go, here's a look at some of the worst seat-of-my-pants fan fiction I could be prevailed upon to write for today's challenge!

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The library was a quiet place, which was to be expected considering the number of vulture-like librarians staring down their long and hooked noses over the circulation desk at the tables lined up between the bookshelves.  No one would dare make a sound under the eyes of those creatures.  A young girl with golden blonde hair sat at one of the tables, running her hands through her curls and tugging at the locks.  She sat staring at a blank notebook and a Bic crystal pen lying next to it, uncapped.

When the TARDIS landed, it landed with a groaning whooshing noise characteristic to the police box, materializing bit by bit in the midst of the library's bookshelves.  The door faced one of the bookshelves, and when the occupant of the police box opened the door, he realized his error and scurried back inside to disappear and reappear once again.

"There now, that's better," the Doctor said as he flung open the door to the police box.  "Hello, good people!"

The Doctor, in his brown tweed, elbow patches, and maroon bow tie, was met by a disapproving "SH!" from the circulation desk as a line of hooked-nosed librarians looked up from their computer screens and scowled at him.  None of them approved of his volume, and only one approved of his manner of dress.  And somehow, he could just tell.

"What, bow ties are cool," the Doctor muttered, straightening the accessory as he mentioned it.  Shaking off the disapproving looks of the library vultures, the Doctor took a stroll out into the center of the room, following the aisles up and down between the tables and finally settling on the girl who seemed to be pulling her hair out.  He sidled up to her and placed his elbows on the table in front of her, propping his head up and blinking.  "Why the long face?"

Considering his entrance, the girl shouldn't have been as shocked as she was to see a strange looking man propping his head up on the table in front of her, and his appearance itself shouldn't have surprised her as much as it did, but as it goes with stories like these: the girl was shocked, and jumped half a foot out of her chair.

"Who are you?" she asked, green eyes blinking behind purple rimmed glasses.

"The Doctor, just The Doctor, of course, here to fix problems, and I'm not really quite sure what," the Doctor rattled off, swaying side to side and regarding the girl thoughtfully.  "And you are?"

"Oh, I'm just Anna," she said with a shrug, her fingers finally releasing her hair.  The Doctor could practically hear her scalp sigh with relief.

"And what seems to be the problem, 'Just Anna'?"

"Just plain old ordinary writer's block, as usual," Anna grumbled.  This seemed to be a constant problem for her, the writing and the failing to write, and the wanting to write, and the having writer's block problem.  And writer's block was an affliction for which there was no cure but time or copious amounts of alcohol, neither of which Anna had very much of or inclination to abuse.

"Ah.  Well, let's see then," the Doctor said, reaching into his jacket and pulling out his sonic screwdriver.  To Anna it just looked like a strange tool, and when he aimed it at her head and it made a strange buzzing noise, she wasn't quite certain how to react.

"What are you do--"

"Sh."

Anna obeyed, and when the Doctor ceased the buzzing sound and regarded the screwdriver thoughtfully, he screwed up his face in thought.

"You have a bad case of the nargles," he said, finally.

"The what?"

"Nargles.  You've read Harry Potter, right?  Well, Luna Lovegood had it right, nargles get into your head and make your thoughts all fuzzy.  They actually feed on good ideas, and so it feels like you don't have any ideas at all.  Makes it really difficult to pick out your clothes in the morning," the Doctor explained, nodding as he did.  He replaced the sonic screwdriver in his inner jacket pocket and began digging around in his other pockets for something.

"So what do I do about them?" Anna asked, alarmed that something like a fictional creature could be munching on her very real ideas.

"Here, eat this," the Doctor said, shoving a Hershey's bar into her frozen fingers.  "The sugars will deter them and they'll just fly out to get away from them."

Anna followed instructions without really thinking about them, biting off a bit of chocolate and swallowing before she thought to ask, "Fly out where?"

The Doctor opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment, Anna let out an explosive sneeze that caused all the librarians to look up at her and scowl, holding their fingers to their lips, "SHHHH!"  She looked apologetically up at them, but then her eyes widened and she grabbed her pen and started writing immediately.

"Thank you so much," she said, grinning at the Doctor as he flounced back to the TARDIS and pushed the door open.

"Any time you need a muse...just give me a call," he said, giving her a wink and setting off for another adventure.

Dreaming of a White Christmas

That's right, I'm in Orlando and I'm still dreaming of a white Christmas.  Because it's what I'm used to, and it's what I love.  When I hear about the snow back home, I feel super jealous, and then I get reminded by those people at home that "it's warmer where you are, be happy!"  And I'm here to tell you, my friends, that it's not so much warmer here, it's only about 51 degrees here, windy and humid.  Just sayin'.  This is a poem that I wrote ages ago, and I felt like posting a poem because I haven't recently.  It needs another draft, so...here we go.

August 31, 2012

On days like these
I would wish
for a light covering
of snow,
just powdered sugar
on top of this donut.
Or a blizzard.
Despite knowing
it would melt
within seconds
of reaching
this zip code.
But that never stopped
my wishing
for hot chocolate nights
when I could break out
my winter jacket
and Doctor Who scarf
because I forgot
to finish the arm-warmers.
Oh well.
I always figured
I could steal your pockets
anyway.

Poetry Friday -- Vogon Poetry

So because I'm making up blog posts today because I was a slacker before and because I'm not really held accountable for the legitimacy of any of my blog posts, I'm going to write about Vogon poetry.

Today is Douglas Adams' birthday.  If he were alive today, he would have been 60 years old.  Douglas Adams is the author of the series that starts out with The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.  Apparently it's called a trilogy even though it has five books because Douglas Adams was a wonderfully ridiculous man.  There's also a sixth book in the series written by Eoin Colfer (author of Artemis Fowl) fairly recently.

Fun fact: Douglas Adams wrote for Doctor Who.  Thereby further legitimizing my love for the British science fiction show.  (Even though Douglas Adams didn't write any of the episodes I've ever seen...)

Douglas Adams is one of the main reasons why I believe that the things I write might actually be considered popular one day.  If he can send a Chesterfield bouncing across an open field, then why can't I do whatever I want in my own writing?  Okay, maybe not whatever I want until I'm about as famous and well-known (because those are two different things, right?) as Douglas Adams.

So Vogon poetry.  According to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is the "third worst poetry in the Universe."  Listening to it read is something akin to torture.  Honestly, I think Vogon poetry is a little amusing, but it takes the form of nonsense verse.

I think there's something to be said about nonsense verse.  In some ways I feel like it can be used effectively when someone integrates nonsense with sensical things if only to give it some context.  I'm thinking of "Jabberwocky" and the idea that "the momeraths outgrabe" (I'm doing this from memory, so please don't punch me).  Also if there's a pleasing rhythm or sound to the nonsense verse, it's more likely to be appealing.  I get the distinct feeling that that's not the case with Vogon poetry, so I'm not holding my breath.

The description that the Guide gives it is (provided to me by Wikipedia):
"Vogon poetry is the third worst in the Universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent, of his poem, Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning, four of his audience members died of internal hemorrhaging, and the president of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council, survived by gnawing one of his own legs off... The very worst poetry in the universe died along with its creator, Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Sussex... in the destruction of the planet Earth."

So Vogon poetry probably wouldn't be that bad if it had a rhyme, rhythm, or reason.  But because Vogons enjoy watching you squirm in pain and agony from hearing their verses...I find it difficult to believe that they would try to make their poetry enjoyable.

I found a couple Vogon related links that you might want to check out:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/vogonpoetry/lettergen.shtml (I wrote one of these, and the first adjective should not have been "cheery."  Oops!)
http://www.whippersnapperpress.com/events (I'm really jealous that they have a Vogon poetry slam.  If I lived in the UK...I would be so there.)

"A common mistake that people make when trying to design something completely foolproof is to underestimate the ingenuity of complete fools." 

- Douglas Adams

Frozen Diners (I mean...dinners)

Q:  How do you like frozen food?

A:  Cooked.

Q:  Really?  That's all you're going to write?

A:  Yup.

Q:  This is supposed to be a blog post, not a three line question and answer session...

A:  It was actually---

Q:  Oh shut up and write.

A:  So.  Frozen food.  I've eaten it.  Quite a bit, actually.  When I was little we used to have those soft pretzels that you could cook in the microwave.  Those were frozen.  And then there were frozen waffles and frozen French toast, and those little cinnamon toast things that Eggo came out with that were delicious and you could never have just one.  Frozen food's just easy, so I can see the appeal of it.  At the same time it's strange to me that you can freeze food and then warm it back up and it still tastes okay.  Or sometimes better than okay.

When I was little it was a really big deal when we got to eat TV dinners.  I remember seeing the commercials for Kid Cuisine and asking Mom if we could have it.  I thought it was really neat that it came with a dessert because dessert was never a sure thing with our dinners, it always depended on if we had cookies or ice cream or whatever families eat for dessert.  But with Kid Cuisine, you were promised a brownie, and you could even eat it first if you so chose...

Recently, while walking through the "frozen diner" section of our local world market place, Mom scoffed, "Haha, you silly kids thought TV dinners were a treat..."  And she really did laugh at that.  Because a TV dinner meant that Mom didn't have to cook that night.  Those nights were rare, but when they happened, it was when just me, Mom, and my brother were home, and it was usually accompanied by a movie.  Silly Mom, I just wanted the brownie...

One of my favorite frozen foods of all time are these tamales that my dad brings home from this special tamale place from his old district.  Yeah, I know, really specific, but they're delicious.  No joke, these little baby tamales are just about my favorite thing to eat when I'm not sure what to scrounge around for.  You can make them with chili or smother them with shredded cheese or throw them in a bowl with macaroni and cheese, the possibilities are truly endless.  You just put the little tamales on a place (still in the paper wrappings, mind you) and toss them in the microwave for 2:22 (yeah, that's a technical time) and out pops some deliciousness.  Oh tamales...

Most recent frozen food I've eaten?  If our school cafeteria doesn't serve us frozen food (which I'm not certain about, so I'm just not going to count that, only the things that I absolutely know were frozen at some point...maybe I'm optimistic?), then it was frozen pasta.  Or...most interestingly...frozen fish sticks.  Which doesn't sound interesting, but if we're talking about what was paired with these fish sticks, that's another thing entirely.  Fish sticks and custard.

It's a Doctor Who thing.  When the 10th Doctor (David Tennant) regenerates into the 11th Doctor (Matt Smith, who you see up above), he's hungry from his regeneration.  Nothing seems to satisfy him, and nothing seems to be not evil (like beans), so he finally settles on "fish custard."

I'm not generally a fan of fish sticks, or fish in general, so eating fish sticks wasn't all that appealing for me.  But I'd never had custard, so why not pair something that I'm not very fond of with something new and different?  Let me tell you right now, it was delicious.  Granted, I only got through four fish sticks before I got a little bored, but if I ever eat fish sticks again, it's going to be with custard.

"One morning, as I went to the freezer door, I asked my wife, 'What should I take out for dinner?'  Without a moment's hesitation, she replied, 'Me.'"

- Anonymous

February 1st

Today is February 1st.
I had to check my calendar to confirm that it is indeed the beginning of the second month of 2012, but Amy Pond assures me that it's true.  (I have a Doctor Who calendar that I'm still really excited that I own...)  February.

This means that I've survived a whole month of 2012.  We all have.  I was a little concerned for a bit there, but we made it through.  That also means that I've completed the 5th month of my Poem-a-Day project.  Which is astounding when I didn't even think I'd do a second month once I started.  September was so difficult, I didn't think I'd have the energy to go on.  But I'm really glad I did.  Once I'm done with February though, I hit a milestone.  6 months of poem writing.  6 months worth of poems.  That's roughly...180 poems.  (I say roughly because on some days I wrote more than one poem, and February only has 29 days this year.)  Good grief, when I hit 200 poems...how weird will that be?

Because I've gotten this far, it becomes a question of how long I'm going to continue this project.  Do I have the energy and the stamina to continue for an entire year?  Well.  I'm going to try.  Although I realize that when I get home I'm going to have to do more than just laze around and do nothing because when I did that over winter break, my poetry was so awful.  I kid you not.  It was bad.  Because I did absolutely nothing over break aside from go to the grocery store with my mother and read and watch movies.  I didn't even make bulletin boards like I should have.  Anyway.  One year.  I'm shooting for one whole year of poetry.  We'll see how this goes.

This month (or at least for the next two weeks) people will be talking about Valentine's Day.  Which I hate.  I hate Valentine's Day.  Okay, maybe not "hate," but I do dramatically dislike it because it's all pink and frilly and cliche and full of candy.  Okay, the candy's the best part.  But that's not the point.  It's the principle of the thing.  I don't understand why people need one specific day to communicate their affection for their loved ones.  Why can't they do that daily?  Wouldn't that make it mean more?  Anyway, this leads me to believe that I should try my hand at typical romantic poetry.  I'm horrid at writing love poems, and I know because I tried.  I once wrote a love sonnet to a book.  When I had to write a love poem in my Writing Poetry class...I wrote one to a book.  (Noticing a theme here?)  So.  Because this is my 5th month of writing poetry, I'm going to set myself a challenge to write one love poem a week out of all the poems I'll be writing this month.  We'll see how this goes.

"My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips' red..."

- William Shakespeare, Sonnet 130

How We Met...

A great whoosh and a groaning of gears and they were off.  Brianna grabbed onto a rail attached to the center console, still not completely accustomed to the rocky take off.  As a result of her sudden lurch, the fedora on Brianna's head was knocked askew, covering up her eyes.

"...and we'll just coast in for a nice visit to the Prohibition era and see if we can shake things up a bit in Chicago and--you okay?" the Doctor paused in his cataloging of all the things they would do that day in Prohibition era Chicago, a grin playing across his face as he took in the sight of a disheveled Brianna with her hat over her face.  He raised a single eyebrow and tapped the fedora so it would fall back on Brianna's head.

"Oh, yeah, fine, what were you saying?" Brianna asked, releasing her death grip on the rail and playing it cool as she edged away from the center console.

The Doctor laughed and jiggled a knob on the center console, sending the TARDIS rocketing in the opposite direction.

"That wasn't supposed to happen..." the Doctor muttered.  The man in the bowtie took another circuit of the console and re-examined every fact and figure about their destination.  "Come on, old girl, what's wrong?  Where are you taking us?"

"Is everything alright?"

"Yes, fine, brilliant even," the Doctor assured his companion just as the TARDIS ground to a halt.  "We seem to be somewhere in the Horsehead Nebula.  And there's something about the TARDIS' wiring that's unhappy."  The Doctor dove under the console, shouting to Brianna that she should go ahead and explore ahead of him because he had to see what was wrong with the TARDIS.

Brianna would have sworn that she had heard the Doctor refer to the TARDIS as "sexy" just as she slipped out of the door, but it was completely possible that she was imagining things from the stress of an emergency landing.  Where they had landed in the Horsehead Nebula was a mystery to Brianna, but the sky was full of a purple mist, and you could actually see the wind picking up the dinner plate sized leaves of exotic trees.  It was like misty blue gray hands pulling the leaves up to dance.  Brianna took three steps from the TARDIS' front door and immediately fell into a ditch, once again dislodging her fedora.

"I really need to get a fedora that fits..." Brianna muttered, struggling to find some way to stand when it seemed she had fallen underneath something.  A pair of strong hands lifted her up under her armpits and brought her to a standing position.  "Thanks, Doctor, is everything--" Once Brianna's fedora was off her face, she turned around to see what had helped her to her feet and stopped short.  The creature that stood before her was clad in a scaly sort of armor.  Where she presumed its neck was was a ring of squid-like tentacles, but over its face was something that looked like a gigantic dirty white sock.  "DOCTOR!!!"

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"Observe, a footprint of the Callimadraga.  It is shaped somewhat like a humanoid footprint with one distinct difference that it has an extra toe located at the heel of the foot."  A bespectacled gentleman in a lab coat pointed out the footprint on the ground with a green laser pointer for the benefit of his students.  The group of students sketched out the footprint with surprising accuracy, but it would come down to their illustrator to record the footprint for posterity.

But the illustrator's mind was elsewhere.  While her colleagues could think of nothing but the fascinating Callimadraga, Lizzie Claire thought of the stars back home.  More specifically watching the stars trace their way across the sky from the perch on her family's boathouse.  She smiled.

"Lizzie Claire!  We need you!"  The lead scientist beckoned Lizzie Claire over to the footprint, indicating how much of the surrounding dirt he needed illustrated.  Taking up her old-fashioned pad of paper and sketching pencil, Lizzie Claire silently set to work as the scientists looked for another footprint to observe.  She was meticulous in her illustrating and could only focus on that while she was doing it, otherwise the drawing would be worthless.  "Look!  Look at that!  It appears we'll be able to observe a rare decapitation ceremony!"

Lizzie Claire's ears perked up and she looked around the group of scientists, taking a silent count of everyone and establishing that indeed everyone was present and accounted for, so there was no need to worry that Annabelle had gotten lost amongst the trees and was about to be decapitated.  Standing on tiptoe to see over the heads of the scientists, Lizzie Claire caught sight of a small platoon of Callimadraga carrying what looked like a young lady in a fedora.

"It appears to be a human sacrifice that the Callimadraga are about to decapitate!  Oh, this is a rare treat!" the lead scientist was saying just as Lizzie Claire took off at a run after the group of Callimadraga.  "Lizzie Claire! Where are you going?!  We need you to illustrate the Callimadraga scat!"

But Lizzie Claire heard none of this as she raced behind the Callimadraga, keeping them in sight but keeping out of sight herself.  She was a bit out of breath, but she managed to keep up with them, listening to their clicking language and watching them carefully.

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"But the head is deformed," a Callimadraga complained, indicating the fedora on Brianna's head.  "Should we not merely remove its intestines to skewer for earrings?"

Brianna raised her hand in the cage where she had been placed for the time being.  "I'm fully willing to donate my intestines for accessory purposes.  I'd love to keep my head."

"Silence, prisoner!" the Callimadraga said all at once.  There were at least five of them, all tall and imposing, and though they couldn't agree on whether to go through with the decapitation ceremony, they could all agree that Brianna talked far too much.

While the Callimadraga discussed the various pros and cons of actually decapitating their prisoner, Lizzie Claire managed to sneak up next to the cage near Brianna.

"Psst!"

"Who's that?!" Brianna demanded, whirling around and looking for the "psst"-er.

"Shhh..." Lizzie Claire bid Brianna, motioning Brianna to crouch down so they could speak at closer quarters.

"Who are you?" Brianna asked, lowering her voice to a level that she hoped the Callimadraga couldn't hear.  Though it wasn't quite a whisper, it was somewhat lower than her usual speaking volume.

"I'm Lizzie Claire, I'm here to rescue you!" Lizzie Claire declared, smiling as she did.  She gave no thought to the lock on the cage or the group of Callimadraga guarding the cage as she had all the confidence in the world that she would succeed.

"What about the lock on the cage and the group of squid things guarding the cage?"

"Don't worry, I've got it under control."

With that, Lizzie Claire straightened up and approached the Callimadraga.  She tapped one of them on the shoulder and grinned.

"A suitable sacrifice!" the Callimadraga rejoiced.

"I don't think so," said Lizzie Claire, not pausing to consider that she actually understood what they had said.  Taking a complicated ninja/yoga pose, Lizzie Claire began chanting a mixture of seashell, rabbit and Italian.  As she did, the Callimadraga swayed and softened their postures, crossing toward the cage and releasing Brianna.

"Come on!" Lizzie Claire said, pausing for only that second to beckon Brianna out of the Callimadraga base.  Continuing her chanting, Brianna led Lizzie Claire from the base.  Once they were out in the open air, Brianna took Lizzie Claire's hand and dashed off to the TARDIS.

"You saved my life!" Brianna exclaimed as she ran, tugging Lizzie Claire along behind.  "Your ninja skills are amazing!"

"It was nothing, really," Lizzie Claire said.

Finally, when the two reached the TARDIS safely, the Doctor popped out of the door and announced that all the wiring was perfect and that the TARDIS had never looked better.  After making quick introductions and explanations, Brianna asked if Lizzie Claire could join them on their adventures.

"Well...why not?" the Doctor said, grinning and welcoming Lizzie Claire into the TARDIS.  And with that, the three travelers took of for their next great adventure.

THE END

The Doctor

"Geronimo!"

- The Doctor

A Letter to Prince Charming

Dear Prince Charming,

My name is Brianna; I got your P.O. box address from a friend of mine (you might know her, then again you might not, she's the one sitting on the couch behind a book as big as her head) and I would like to take this chance to say a couple things.  For your convenience, I shall number them.

One.  I would like to compliment you on your perfection.  You really are spectacular.  It's alarming how charming...you are.  I would love to know who designs your wardrobe, because I'd like to talk to them about a wardrobe for myself.  Anyway.  You're perfect.  Not only are you devilishly attractive, but you're witty, intelligent, alluring, brave, adventurous, self-assured, and of course, highly desirable.  In fact, everyone's looking for you.  That brings me to my second comment.

Two.  Where are you?  I keep hearing about people looking for you, and I have to admit that I picked up a raggedy map that promised it would divulge your location, but I probably would have been better off using a GPS.  You seem to be lost in some unplottable location because I haven't seen on any Facebook statuses that someone's found you.  I would have thought I would hear by now.  If you've been lost for so long, it's only a matter of time that someone'll find you.  Maybe you should hold a press conference and give some clues as to where someone can find you.  Only the cleverest or most devious people need apply, unless you have clones that you can give to the less than worthy.

Three.  Where did you come from?  If you can't tell me where you are, the least you can do is tell me where you're from.  I'm guessing you're not from an alien planet or a different dimension (unless you're The Doctor), but you had to come from somewhere.  Who are your parents?  I get the feeling that you were raised by Optimism and Imagination with Disney as a close godfather who came over for dinner weekly.  Nurtured on the food of dreams, happy thoughts and pixie dust seasoning, you grew up to be your perfect self.  The most desired man in the world, right next to Mr. Right.  Unless of course you're the same person, but that's another question altogether.

Four.  What are you looking for?  Brains?  Brawn?  Beauty?  I know a couple people who would be prime candidates for your consideration, so if you're interested, you should really give me a call: ***/***-****.

Five.  What are you waiting for?  I find it really interesting that girls and women of all ages are looking for you, even though the majority of them wish to be pursued by you.  So are you waiting for them to find you so you can give chase?  But what if you're tired of the chase?  Where does that leave your ardent admirers?  I can tell you right now that if you just come out of hiding for a little while, you're bound to get laid almost immediately.  I say "almost" because it might take a little time for clothes to be torn off, but all the same, you'd be in pretty good shape considering you're in high demand.  If someone were selling you, they should hike up the price because there's only one of you, and everyone wants you.  Just think of the profit that people could make off of you...  (Cynical Brianna pipes up and points out that's how Godfather Disney did it.)

Six.  This may be a radical idea, and you might not agree, or this paragraph might be the reason why you don't write back to me, but can I be my own Prince Charming?  Theoretically, all I have to do is transfer those complements I gave you to me, and then I could be devilishly attractive, witty, intelligent, etc.  I'm not talking narcissism here, I'm talking self-love, which is a milder and healthier form of narcissism.  Would that be cool?  Would you be okay with that?  I'm saying that if I become the type of person I would find desirable, would you come out of hiding and introduce yourself?  Then there's the whole thing that maybe I would be too much like you that we couldn't get along, but we could work it out, right?  But if I become my own Prince Charming, will I still need you?  I also wonder if there will be other people in the world that will be drawn to me and my Charming-ness and maybe then I could settle for the court jester or a traveling minstrel or the jack-of-all-trades I saw working on repairing the waterwheel in town.  At that point would it still be considered "settling" if I had the attributes I find desirable in Prince Charming and then love between myself and a serf?

Don't get me wrong, I'm still a huge fan of yours, you're still on my Christmas AND birthday wish lists since just about forever, but if there's only one of you, and there are how many me's?  I'm just trying to figure things out so everyone can win.

Anyway, if things don't work out with Cinderella/Snow White/Rapunzel/Sleeping Beauty, give me a call.

Yours ever,
Brianna

P.S.  I found this super cute poem that I thought you might enjoy: Prince Charming.

Prince Charming vs. Dragon

"Someday your Prince Charming will come.  Mine just took a wrong turn, got lost, and is too stubborn to ask for directions."

- Unknown

Monday Wishes

Wish I was here...

This is my Monday Wish. I wish I was here. Well, there.

Meet Doctor Who. Doctor Who is a British science fiction series that started back in the 1960s and ran until the mid-1980s, if I'm not mistaken. The reason the producers could run it for so long is because The Doctor (the main character) is a Time Lord (aka not human) and every time he "dies," he actually "regenerates," giving him a new face and allowing the producers to hire a new actor. Which is really clever, if you ask me. The Doctor you see above is the 10th Doctor as played by David Tennant. After the Doctor Who movie, the show went on a hiatus until about 2005 when it was brought back with the 9th Doctor played by Christopher Eccleston. Long story short, this is part of the new series, and a lot of younger folk whose parents might have watched the original series are getting into the show. It's run on BBC and BBC America, and if you don't have access to either of those, you can watch it instantly on your computer through Netflix. Thank you, Netflix!

But back to my wish. I wish I was there, right next to The Doctor. Or maybe off to the side and out of the camera's reach. You see, The Doctor has these companions who he takes on all these adventures through time and space, and I want to be his companion. Not just on the set, but in real life. I want to step inside that funny blue box and gasp, "It's bigger on the inside!" and really take off to some unknown planet. I can just imagine what my first meeting with The Doctor would be like:

(A college residence hall building in the United States. Midwest. If you looked out a window and squinted enough, you might be able to see corn fields. Inside, on a floor lined with doors, the TARDIS sits situated directly between the doors labelled 408 and 412. The Doctor is hanging half out of the door to the TARDIS, seemingly adjusting the door which doesn't seem to be cooperating. He's mumbling about the queen and how he had promised that he would be at the wedding, but the TARDIS has been unreliable of late.)

(The door that opens onto the floor squeaks open and slams shut behind a 20-something year old girl with golden blonde hair and black plastic rimmed glasses. She doesn't notice the TARDIS at first because she's digging in her backpack for her keys. By now the TARDIS door is completely open and The Doctor is puttering around behind it. The girl, seeing the light spilling from inside the TARDIS thinks it's her door that's already open, and turns to enter the TARDIS. Once inside, she looks around, takes in the control panel and the size of the place and shakes her head. She walks out and The Doctor pokes his head out from behind the door. The girl walks in again and her jaw drops.)

The Doctor: Excuse me, I hate to be rude and all, but people don't usually just walk into other people's police boxes...

Brianna: Sorry, you're parked in front of my room.

The Doctor: Am I? (crosses the center bit of the TARDIS and opens up a door on the other side that didn't previously exist, exposing a bland door covered in colorful labels heralding it to be "Brianna"'s room) So I am.

Brianna: Do you know how long you're going to be? Because I have class in half an hour.

The Doctor: Well, it could take a while. Well...maybe not. You might as well stay for lunch. And then...come with me?

Brianna: Go with you where?

The Doctor: Anywhere. Anywhen. You pick!

Brianna: Sure! Mind if I get my knitting?

The Doctor: Not at all! What are you knitting?

Brianna: A Doctor Who scarf.

Scene.

Okay, maybe it would be a little better than that. Because The Doctor might actually be a little more confused, and I wouldn't be nearly as bland. Well, in the second draft of my wish it'll be better, that's for certain.

Anyway, I would love to travel with The Doctor. Run around while being chased by strange looking aliens that really just want to be loved, meet The Master and find a way to defeat him...again, explore the endless corridors in the TARDIS and check out that swimming pool and library The Doctor's been talking about... I want to visit the Medieval era just for a little bit because I wouldn't want to stay some place that was so ridiculously patriarchal. And the 1920s in Chicago so I could dance like a flapper. He would take me to planets on the other side of the galaxy where the grass is purple and everything has a pink tint to it. I would be scared out of my wits and have a bucketful of fun. He'd call me clever, and I'd say he was crazy, and we'd zip off on another adventure.

"Not impossible, just...a bit unlikely!

- The Doctor