Breathe out, and begin.

This, this is for you.

This is for the mousy brown haired girl who died it pink, hoping maybe her mother would notice. This is for the wedding planner who never got a wedding of her own. This is for the girl who walks out of the room during the slow dance and the boy who watches her go.

This is for the girl whose jeans are too loose. This is for the man who shot for the moon and fell into the dark abyss instead. This is for the little boy who is so, so sick of having his head under the pillow. So sick of hearing the fights.

It’s monotonous.

This is for the bullet that never wanted to hurt anybody and for the prima ballerina who never asked for the spotlight. This is for the adults that are scared of the dark. This is for the lunch ladies and the world-renowned surgeons who never lived up to their potential. This is for all the miscarriages.

This is for those trapped inside their heads. Stop analyzing.

This is for the pilot who’s afraid of heights and for all the insomniacs. This is for the underdogs- the boy with the brother who’s the star quarterback, the girl with the prettier twin sister.

This is for the unseen and the unheard and the unsaid.

This is for those with handkerchiefs over their mouths and nooses around their necks.

Speak.

This is for the criticizers. This is for those who ask, “God? Are you there?” This is for the weary and the dreamers and the weary dreamers. This is for the disillusioned and the brokenhearted. The failures and the inadequates. This is for the cast aways and the unfortunate and the overwhelmed and the fools and the shipwrecked and the ruined. This is for they who are grasping at last straws. This is for the future you, just around the bend, and this is for me.

Speak. Someone will hear you. You are not alone. Turn on the microphone, or maybe just stop the murmuring inside your head.

STOP WHISPERING. Stop talking to only yourself.

Come out from under the tides and grab the hand that’s being held out to you. It is for you, after all.

Wake up.    Take a deep breath.    And speak.

We’re all listening so let inspiration bleed out of your every word. Let the elation gather in the air around your face like frosty breath. Let us see it. Let us feel it. Let us wave our hands through it, just so we can be sure it’s real. Because we need fresh air.

We need unfamiliar air.

Philosophy Filled Boots

I need to refill the lead in my pencil. Refill the lead in my life.

I need to refill those things called emotions that are supposed to go in my heart.

Can I have an instruction booklet, please? Thanks.

I always wanted to be somebody’s last chance. I was hoping to be yours, but instead I burned the letters because everything I touch turns to ash, anyway.

Was our love worn in or worn out boots?

Your opinion was switching so fast towards the end that you about gave me whiplash. 

No, not boots. I think you compared our love to a coat, one that you grew out of a few years back. The kind that’s just a bit too short, a little too tight in the shoulders.

That sure made me feel good.

But I gave you false compliments and white lies! Isn’t that what you do when you care about someone? Sure, honey, that puke green goes really well with your eyes.

I was there for you, I really was.

And in my mind I was even giving you real compliments, the ones that always brought that uncomfortable expression to your face.

You never liked the truth, that’s a fact.

And now my emotions feel like shattered glass and a roll of tape that doesn’t work.

“When will we own ourselves completely?”

That was what you asked me. I didn’t understand- why would I have to own myself when I had you to take care of me?

Ah, now I see.

I keep forgetting that you left.

I feel like I’m getting swallowed up in the tides while I wait for you to come back.

Wait.

            Wait.

                        Wait.

I’m starting to feel uncomfortable in my own skin- like I should start looking for the fire escape because all I can see is the smoke I’m choking on and the absence of myself.

I should start coloring outside the lines and

wearing sunglasses that nobody thinks are my style.

I should start disregarding social cues and

stop slowing down at yellow lights.

I should stop giving up because, seriously, what a waste of time.

So pack up that awful coat and

those philosophies and

my feelings and

walk away.

Oh.

I keep forgetting that you left.

My Story

Ordinary World: Aria has grown up as a princess in her barbarian kingdom and is used to being downtrodden on by her father.
Call: A prince from another kingdom kidnaps her for reasons that are unknown to her. The call is for her to become a better person, gain confidence and the like.
Refusal: Her refusal is simply keeping her head down and not doing anything about it, not standing up for herself.
Mentor: One of the guards becomes her friend and is her mentor throughout the whole time that she is in the country.
Threshold: The threshold is when she crosses the border into the other country and goes into the capital where the palace is.
Tests, allies, enemies: Allies of hers are the guards that were with her when she traveled to the new country. Enemies are herself and her natural submissive personality and all of the people in the country that shun her because she is an outsider.
Approach: She finds out that people are going to try and kill the royalty and she has to decide what to do about it- stay loyal to her own country or to her kidnapper's?
Ordeal: Her ordeal is saving the royalty and facing her own father in the process.
Reward: Her and the prince declare their love and it is super duper romantic.
The Road Back: Everything is all fine and dandy, she is living in the new country.

Death:She has to go back to her own country and everything is sad again. Wow. This post sucks.
Resurrection: Her father finally recognizes her as an individual and as a strong person.
Return with Elixir: She gets to go back to the other country and live happily ever after.

Archetypes

Hero: Aria is the hero, in that she grows throughout the story as a person and saves some people along the way, as a bonus.

Mentor: Her mentor is her friend that was originally one of the guards who helped with her kidnapping.
Threshold Guardian: The prince who kidnapped her is the threshold guardian but instead of guarding it, he kind of just shoves her through it.
Shapeshifter: This is one of the princesses that hates Aria.
Shadow: The shadow is really just her own self confidence, or lack thereof.

17 Again Film Analysis

The Journey 

Ordinary World: Mike O'Donnell has a dead end job and does the same thing every day. He doesn't have a good relationship with his kids and his marriage is rapidly coming to a close.
Call: Mike does not get the higher position at his job, which should cause him to take action. Not to mention the fact that his marriage has fallen apart.
Refusal: Instead of doing something to change his life, he merely goes back to his old high school and looks at pictures of what he used to be.
Mentor: Mike talks to his "spirit guide" who is disguised as the school janitor. The janitor is the one who decides to shove Mike in the right direction. Ned Gold, his long time best friend, is also Mike's mentor throughout the whole journey.
Threshold: Mike sees the janitor about to jump off of a bridge. Mike goes to help him but he is already gone, when Mike looks over the bridge he falls over, literally crossing the threshold and turning seventeen years old again.
Tests, allies, enemies: Mike's enemy throughout the story is his own blindness to what he did wrong and Maggie's boyfriend, Stan, who is the school bully and is preventing Mike from getting close to his daughter.
Approach: His approach is just as he gets closer to his kids. He gets Alex, his son, a girlfriend and gets Maggie to understand that Stan is not a good guy. He learns to care about Scarlet, his wife, again and they fall in love again.
Ordeal: The ordeal is similar to the approach, really just the same things. Also, after the basketball team's first game, Mike throws a party at his house that the whole school is invited to. When Scarlet comes to find Alex, Mike kisses Scarlet. Unfortunately, she slaps him, as he is 20 years younger than her, and the house is in shambles as Ned comes back from his own date.
Reward: Mike gets a kiss from Scarlet and gets closer to his kids.
The Road Back: Mike realizes that he screwed things up and tries to make things better by reading a fake letter to Scarlet at court for their divorce. He decides to really get into basketball to get a scholarship, as he doesn't believe that there is a "path" to follow anymore.

Death: At the final big game where the scouts are coming to watch him, the whole scene from 1989 replays right before Mike's eyes. Scarlet also realizes that the same thing is happening so she leaves the gym, just like she did before.
Resurrection: Mike knows that he cannot make the same mistake again so he drops the basketball in the middle of the game, just like before, and runs after Scarlet, just like before.
Return with Elixir: Mike is a changed person, realizes what he has done wrong and has vowed to make things right again. He has gotten Maggie and Alex back on the right path and his marriage is going swimmingly once again.

Archetypes

Hero: Mike is the hero because he is the one changing to try to get his family back together again and fix all of his mistakes. 

Mentor: Ned is Mike's mentor because he helps him through the whole journey, including help figure out what happened when Mike's age rewound back to seventeen years old. Also, Mike is the mentor to his children and Naomi is the mentor to Scarlet.
Threshold Guardian: The janitor, because he is the one who really shoves Mike through the threshold, knowing what Mike has to do to pull his life together once again.
Herald: Scarlet's friend Naomi because the comments that she makes to Scarlet really wake Mike up, making him understand that Scarlet is moving on with her life.
Shapeshifter: This is Mike when Mike is under the impression that he is just comforting Maggie and she really thinks that he likes her. It is also Maggie when she starts to hit on Mike, not knowing that he isn't actually interested in her.
Shadow: Stan is one of the shadows, as he is just not a nice kid and is what holding Maggie back from moving on with her life. It is also Mike's simple blindness to the fact of what he is doing wrong in his relationship with his family.

Better Early Than Never

 

Scarlett wakes up at 6:38 in the morning, like every morning, happy with her reliable lifestyle. After her shower, that lasts exactly ten minutes, she looks in her closet and picks out her favorite red pumps. She wears red shoes everyday. They make her feel classy- no matter that in retrospect, only about half of her shoes don't look like something a prostitute would wear. Regardless, she gets in the elevator of her apartment building at 7:18 and makes it out of the building, on the bus and off again by 7:33. She is running three minutes late, like usual, when she crosses the street towards the building she works at. In the recesses of her mind, she hears a screech of brakes and then everything goes black. Did someone turn out the lights? She slowly opens her eyes, as if waking from a long, dark sleep. For reasons she has a hard time comprehending, she is looking down at a mesh of metal- a taxi cab, it seems, has careened into a street lamp on the sidewalk. She is surprised that the lamp held up better than the car. Not as surprised, though, as she is at the sight of a familiar red shoe sitting very pristine, almost formally, next to the right, front tire of the taxi.

Questions:

When will Scarlett realize that she is, in fact, dead?

Will Scarlett be able to come to terms with the fact that she never lead a very fulfilling life?

Will Scarlett get another chance? Is it even possible to get another chance?

In Which Evangeline Blurbs

Masochist- Ingrid Michaelson

Forced to suppress childhood memories through blocking out emotion, Charlotte knows better than to let people into her life. Jack is the first person to touch her in nine and a half years but because of a lifetime of habit, she bars herself from feeling any emotions in reciprocation. Jack says that holding her hand is different somehow, but Charlotte doesn't understand- isn't a hand just a hand?

FM Radio- Joshua James

At only seven years old, Adelaide was the one who found her father dead after fighting cancer his whole life. Her mother made sure that the young girl understood that her only duty was to stay strong and not cry. Years down the road, all of the emotions bottled up in Adelaide are taking their toll. Heartache shows in every step she takes, anguish in every song she sings.

Trouble- Joe Purdy

Daniel has been completely without luck for his whole life. He has also been completely without April his whole life. But this summer, there is no way that he is letting April slip out of his grasp again. No, this time it will be him that she is with, not some other stupid guy. Things are about to change- and change for the better. Because now, trouble is on his side, not the world's.

Evangeline's Story

Dear Diary,

     I got into another fight with her again today. I feel like that's all school is now- dirty glances, mean comments, and offensive gestures- all from my best friend. Can you love someone and hate them at the same time? And am I still allowed to call her my best friend if the only time we talk is to accuse each other of being horrible people?

     I realize that some of it was my fault. I mean, nothing is ever one sided, right? I'm guilty, but she is too. You just don't do those things to someone that you love, you know?

     So here I am at home again, sitting on my bed and simply hoping that things will change. Or maybe even that things will just stop.

     Sometimes I'm just done.

     But I'll wait. Because I know that you can't be alone. You just can't live like that. So, I'll be patient. And I'll hope. Because sometimes that's all you can really do, isn't it?

                                                                         From,

                                                                            Evangeline

Key:

Plot

Characters

Setting

Conflict

Theme

Finding the Gallery

Original:

But when he passed through the museum’s metal detectors and entered the crowded gallery, he saw that the other people at the exhibit of “Marc Chagall’s Russian Years” were little more than walking ghosts: his mother, his father, preserved in other people’s skin. Glimpsing the side of a woman’s head—a younger woman, of course, but another remarkable thing about the dead is that they are all ages, preserved at every age you ever knew them, and at no age at all—he had to fight the impulse to glance at the profile again, unwilling to feel the sick relief that came with confirming an unfamiliar face. It was easier to look at art.

Found Poem:

When he entered the gallery of ghosts

he saw them.

It was little more than an impulse

to feel the easy relief

that came with walking

through the remarkable exhibit.

They are preserved at no age at all,

with unfamiliar faces

that look at him through the years.

A profile of a younger woman he knew

fought against his unwilling glance-

he remembered the remarkable

and passed on through,

for it was easier to look at art.

A Letter from Evangeline

Dear You,

Things are not the same.

I sit in the room that we always used to sit in. It looks the same- the old plaid couch with the tattered armrests. Your bright green galoshes beside the door. The faded yellow curtains hanging lifelessly from the rod that took you three hours to nail into the wall. 

Three hours.

It looks the same. But it’s not. I stand by the window and run my fingers along the edge of the right curtain, just like you used to. You called it your nervous habit. I called it your happy habit.

When you were here, rain was falling from the trees. I look outside now and leaves fall instead. I feel like those dead leaves, you know? After I fell I just laid there, no where else to go. Waited for someone to make me crumble with just a touch. What happens now? Do I disintegrate? Do I go back to the earth? 

And fall again.

Maybe by the time I fall we’ll have come full circle. I’ll be in the kitchen and the rain on the windows will disguise the sound of the door quietly closing. But I’ll know that you’re there, like I always do, and poke my head out from the kitchen to see you shaking your umbrella and slipping off the galoshes.

The curtains are a little more worn out than when you left.

Why did you like plaid that much, anyway? Was it really necessary that the curtains were plaid as well as the couch? 

But I mind less now that you’re not here. And the stripes criss-crossing each other. Repetitive. The edge of the curtain is soft now, and a little bit dirty from your hands, and then my own.

No, things are not the same. And I don’t like it.

Sincerely, Me

P.S.   I’m waiting for the rain.

The Damsel in Distress

 

You say I need help

You say I need you

You say I need this

You say I need anything

But myself

When I was still young

I knew my ABC's and my 123's

When I was still young

I could tie my shoes and braid my hair

But I'm older now and

I don't need a chair to reach the sink

And I'm older now and

I can clean my own messes

When I fall now

I don't need your hand

When I fall now

I can pick myself up

When I fall now

It won't be for you

No. It won't be for you.

'Cause I'm older now and

I can sign my own name

And I'm older now and

I live all by myself

When I fall now

I can get back up

When I fall now

I know how to pull the string

When I fall now

It won't be for you

No. It won't be for you.

'Cause I'm older now and

We aren't playing games

And I'm older now and

I'm not the damsel

And I'm older now and

You aren't the prince

And I'm older now and

I don't need you to save-

Because I've got me and

That's all I need.

Direct Orders

“Rock out?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Rock out like you just found your soul mate after a lifetime of looking.

Rock out like the red pumps in the window display are fifty percent off.

Rock out like everyone you’ve ever known, everyone you’ve ever loved, has left you and you’re all, all alone now but finally… there’s no one to impress.

Rock out like he’s finally kissing you. (Except maybe don’t rock out right at this exact moment.)

Rock out like your letting all the tears go after years of holding them in, like the rain is a symphony that you’ve been deaf to, or like you’ve just discovered you’re significant.

Or maybe, insignificant.

Rock out like you know for a fact that they love you.

Rock out like you sucked the whole sucker and didn’t even bite it once or like your mom made your bed for you and she doesn’t mind that you’re going to mess it up in like two seconds anyway.

Rock out like they are 99% sure that the cancer is not going away. Rock out like it’s all you have to live for, now.

Rock out like you just got your first paycheck and you are going to blow it on stuff that in no way do you actually need.

Rock out like you’ve got the universe to explore and only five minutes or like you’re avoiding your homework. Because you are, you always are.

Rock out like you walked in the door and it smells like fresh chocolate chip cookies or maybe mud pies in the rain, like it smells like your childhood.

Rock out like you just saved somebody’s life and when they asked how they could ever repay you, you don’t reply- you’re too busy doing the Electric Slide.

Rock out like he just told you that you are, in fact, beautiful and so it must, must be true.

Rock you like you just got it. Like you just got her. Like you just got him. Like you just got everything you’ve ever wanted and life is finally okay.

More than okay.”

And so she did. She rocked out like there was nothing else in the world to do besides rock out because there she was-- letting her life pass her by.

On the Death of Their Fidelity

As he walks away, his words echo in my head. Goodbye.

Goodbye.

I stand up from the cold park bench and run my hands through my hair. My fingers get lost in the ever-present tangles and I gingerly free my hand from my locks. I sigh and stare for a few moments at his back, slowly disappearing from my view and into the trees.

Deep breath, and I turn the opposite direction as him. He’s made it quite clear, after all, that it isn’t our life anymore. It’s his life and my life.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been alone. A long time, but somehow I just can’t bring myself to regret it, to cry, to get that heart broken feeling that all the songs talk about.

Why is that? I loved him, still do, but I’m not sad, not even a little bit. It wasn’t just a couple of weeks we spent together, not just a few months. It was years.

Years.

For as long as our my friends have known me, it’s been Me & Him, Him & Me. And now suddenly… it’s not. Oh, how suddenly.

“A walk today?”

“Why sure,” I say.

But this is not what I anticipated.

But it’s okay.

I’m okay.

Because, really, if he doesn’t want me anymore isn’t it better that we go our separate ways? That I carry on with my life and he carry on with his. Because they are separate now. He will achieve his dreams, like he always does, and I will attempt in my usual way to achieve mine. But I won’t give up. I never do.

And anyhow, why would I want to be with somebody that doesn’t want me back?

So here I go; to start a new life, an independent one, a different one. Perhaps, even a better one.

You're A Bit Too Late

I walk alone. I walk alone.

The city I tour is spotless. Nobody’s lived here. Ever. No friendships made, no relationships ended, no families grown.

The white sidewalks are sparkling clean. No one rushing, pushing other pedestrians by because they are late to their first day at the new company.  No one blushing in front of the latest crush after tripping on the uneven cracks in the sidewalk.

Because it’s too late.

The lines on the street are newly painted, reflecting the streetlights that are forever frozen on green. Go. Go. Go. But there are no cars, no pedestrians looking left, then right, then left again. Just like their mother taught them twenty years earlier. No one getting pulled over for the first time, hands trembling as they reach into the glove compartment for the insurance card. No one whispering, “I don’t even know what that is.”

Because it’s too late.

A quiet breeze blows a newspaper across the new, dark asphalt. I pick it up and it’s blank. No news. No honors won. No car crashes because there was no mother driving, putting on make up, and giving the baby a pacifier, all at the same time. Nothing done on accident. Nothing done on purpose. Nothing done at all.

Because it’s too late.

Further and further I go, until I stand in front of a picket fence protected home. It’s cream, and spotless. It looks like a home that a young couple would move into, with their two and a half children. But there is nobody and there is nothing. There is no tricycle on the front lawn, despite the young owner being told three times to put it away. There is no car in the driveway with a dent in the rear bumper. That’s how they met each other, after all. Except they never did. They never met because they don’t exist.

Because it’s too late.

My time is up. I took a little too long to realize that those friendships won’t forge themselves. That relationships won’t happen on their own. That families don’t grow without effort.

So I walk alone.

I walk alone.

Musings of a Love-struck Girl

You asked me a question to which my reply was this:

No. I don’t think about you.

I don’t think about you like snowballs think about fights.

Not like windows think about cleaning,

Nor like grass dreads the lawnmower.

I’m thinking about dread.

I don’t think about you like computers think about crashing.

Not like nails think about chalkboards,

Nor like stilettos think about blisters.

I’m thinking about blisters.

I don’t think about you like poets think about life.

           Not like board games think about dice,

           Nor like rain thinks about kisses.

           I’m thinking about rain.

I don’t think about you like teachers think about weekends.

Not like books think about dust,

Nor like pens think about mistakes.

I’m thinking about mistakes.

Your response was this:

For once in your life, don’t be yourself.

For once in your life, be honest.

For once in your life, trust someone else.

So here you go:

I’m thinking about you. Honestly.

I’m thinking about you like a father thinks about forgiveness.

Like a mother thinks about the day they leave home.

Like I think about leaving home and this icky place behind.

Honestly.

I’m thinking about you like embarrassment thinks about a blush.

Like daisies think about “I love you nots.”

Like I think about being the target of too many “I love you nots.”

Honestly.

I’m thinking about you like a lover thinks about being betrayed.

Like a pillow thinks about dreams.

Like I think about dreams and how they fail too often.

Honestly.

I’m thinking about you like you think about her.

           Like she thinks about him.

           Like he used to think about me.

           Honestly.

I’m thinking about you. 

A Note On Love

Love is getting lost.

Love is becoming someone you've never known before.

Love is a math problem.

Love is grasping for yourself and only getting air.

Love is meeting the in-laws for the first time.

Love is suddenly not knowing the end of your story.

Love is becoming dependent, right as you were becoming independent.

Love is watching and waiting.

Love is being a fool, and not minding. Mostly.

Love is cleaning up messes.

Love is a longed-for trip to Paris.

Love is being put in a mental institution.

Love is getting over your pet peeves.

Love is hiding.

Love is confessing. Everything.

Love is spending more time on something than you intended.

Love is falling down and cutting your knee.

Love is a late night ice-cream run.

Love is being able to breath easier.

Love is being claustrophobic.

Love is falling down, getting that sinking feeling, and then, maybe, perhaps, someone catching you for the first time.

Love is getting found. Finally.

An Introduction

Evangeline is my name.

I think the color red is enchanting. I have a curious love of both umbrellas and red shoes. Mannequins frighten me. 

I want to be known when I grow up. Not necessarily by the world; not famous. Just known. By someone. Anyone, really. I want to help someone. I want to be known as the girl that everyone wants to be around. Because she's genuine. Because she's good. Because you can tell that she cares. 

I'm not there yet.

I mess up. Everyone does. I tell myself that I'll be better. That I'll make more of an effort. That I'll listen better and work harder and love deeper. It doesn't always work out. I forget and I get distracted. But some days, some days it does work out. Perhaps you can't see it on the outside but I know. I know when there's a difference. I know when I am listening. I know when I am trying my best to be good.

Hopefully, one day other people will know. 

But for now, I will satisfy myself with who I am currently. With dancing and with reading and with writing. Maybe I will discover myself in a dance. Maybe I will meet myself in a book. Maybe I will end up writing my own life. 

We'll see.