Tuesday, April 14, 2015

To Fix Broken Strings


Camp NaNoWriMo 2015 word count: 29,338

My poem yesterday, "The Greatest Man of My Life," is about my grandfather. He's been like a father to me. He moved abroad when I was very young. Here are explanations for certain parts of the poem:

The rescuing without ever being there

It wasn't exactly like this example I'm about to give, but imagine being held at gunpoint and about to get shot. Then some man comes and shoots your assailant. He says he was sent by your grandfather. It has always been like that. Like, Whew! That was close!

When Brian Mills of the "Taken" movie series saves his family from another side of the world, it reminds me of my grandfather.

The lullabies

I've been having a certain tune in my head, and I don't remember where I got it. I once hummed it, and my sister said my grandfather used to sing it to me.

His influence on my life

His life has always been reflected by everything I do, including what I write. I write a lot about war (he is a World War II Veteran).

My vengeance

I've always been aware that I'm not his responsibility. He had left behind certain people to look after me, but they ... well, they just didn't. I've always been frustrated with them, going, Look, I was dying there and you were just nearby. How come someone who's continents away managed to save me and you didn't?!

18-years-old was my darkest age. I was feeling obliged to prove that what my grandfather did was worth it, that he was right when he helped me out. I was also in a hurry to take responsibility for myself, so that he wouldn't have to keep looking after me. Still, deep inside, I was seething with rage about all of the people who did all sorts of atrocities just because he's away. It's just disgusting to watch them be turncoats when they think that the man who they fear is not looking.

Speaking with him

The only time I spoke to him was over the phone. We spoke about military units, but it was nice to talk to someone from my past. He's the kind of person who, when you listen to him, your mind suddenly clears. Everything is suddenly in perspective. I still haven't figured out what causes certain people to be like this, but there are very few of them. They  are usually people who speak quietly and carefully, and they say only what you need to know.

The person I should be

Ever since I was a child, I've been secretly observing people. I know many different types, especially the evil and useless ones. But he introduced me to a very unique kind of person. While other people complained about my attitude, he took every chance to fix it. While other people criticized me, he helped me out. I was just like, I need to be that kind of person to every person I meet. It's hard, and I'll never be as great as him, but it's worth trying to be as helpful.

On Bubblews this 5am, I reviewed "The Pianist." Watched it back in 2012.

Here's my response to the challenge for NaPoWriMo 2015 Day Thirteen. We are to write a poem that's like a riddle about a mystery object. We can make the title the object itself.

My poem is about a piano. It's inspired by a piano from my childhood. Some of its strings were broken. My sister said it was my fault. Even though I don't remember what I really did to it because I was so little, alright, maybe it was my fault. After all, I kept creating crazy tunes on it, pressing as many keys as I can at the same time. (Photo credit: me. It's a broken rainbow. Taken at sunrise sometime in 2014.)

Piano
Smooth and sleek to the touch,
Fragrance of polished wood.
Though the colors don't match.,
On keeping it I would
It glistens in the light,
Though it is never light.

There are strings inside it
And its cover has ledge,
So the tone I can meet
As I lean on the edge,
Reading its book all through.
The book that gives a clue.

The book without letters,
Not even a number.
To the mind it caters.

Using the air and strings
To create masterpiece,
And to create something
That can live through the years,
I hope I never miss,
Despite its missing keys.
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