Nika Harper's Blog, page 20

sarahdohertyy:Love this quote!The Song and The Song Fades...

sarahdohertyy:

Love this quote!

The Song and The Song Fades were the first moment that I really thought I had made something special. Like a frame around a piece of art. I tingled and remembered thinking, I will publish this, it will exist.

Memories - Wordplay #02

It started as a house
With some land to farm
And pastures for the animals.
Being self sufficient was important
In a house with a wife and two boys to feed.
Everyone did their part
And the house expanded
New rooms and hallways
Sprawled out from the single room
Where the boys used to sleep.

Mosaic tiles behind the stove
And patterned carpeting so erratic
That if you dropped a fork
From the dinner table to the floor
You might lose it entirely.

The pantry smelled like adventure
And sugar and crunchy uncooked pasta
That lingering smell of chocolate
From the well-stocked snack shelf
That was always a bit out of reach.

The lurid olive green carpeting
Felt great on bare feet
Rubbing your soles back and forth
In front of a fireplace so large and open
That it was made illegal years afterwards
And had to be curtained by chainmail drapes
Something my grandfather never stopped complaining about.

The dining room chandelier flickered
With fire bulbs that always appeared antique
Only on special occasions
When the great dishware would come out
And gravy tureens filled past their brim
Passing from person to person as we drenched our turkey
Wishing each other happy holidays.

In that room I unwrapped a gift
A giant plush rabbit nearly larger than myself.
In that room I sat quietly
Wishing I could read the voluminous pulp books
That stood under the side tables.
In that room I looked upwards once
And appreciated how tall the ceiling was
And the yellowing skylights that shone into the room
Whose light I’d always taken for granted.
In that room my sister and I watched
Out a window into a lush back yard
Where my mother sat crying on wooden stairs
Warping with age and rot
And argued with my father
On the very place they had exchanged vows of marriage.

I would run down the long hallway
With mottled carpet so deeply red
It looked like cartoon lava underfoot
And my imagination ran with it.
I would write stories
laying on the floor in the bathroom
My favorite bathroom in the world
For reasons I’ve still never found out.
The smell of yellow soap
The light green walls and
The cream, lacy towels that never seemed to age
No matter how many times
They dried my hands over years.

The bedroom, always made for guests
With antiques and beauty instruments
Set out politely but not really for use
And side tables which never got a coat of paint
Or handles on the drawers
Where I once hid a letter to myself
Asking if, in the future
I had a boyfriend
Or what happened to the family dog.

I used to steal Sunkist fruit jellies
And hide the wrappers under the bed
Until one year my grandma cleaned the room
And promptly bought me a large jar of the candy.
If I wanted them so badly
I just had to ask.

The second room had frightening curtains
All dark and obtusely patterned
Where monster eyes might peek out
If your imagination let them
But the couch was where we used to sleep
On a foldaway bed as children.
The little dark middle room
Never seemed to be any color
Other than brown and tan
And the beige color of old computers
That we plugged disks into
Hoping for a game or something colorful.
We went through caves of crystal and shrapnel cities
And punishing tombs of pharaohs
Undaunted and always ready
For the next DOS prompt.

The office had a bear on the wall
There was also a gun
And a few other intricate things
But in my mind
All I saw was the bear.
Great grandpa had shot it
And it was larger than I could ever be
Amidst the stacks of papers on my grandpa’s important desk
Always surveying the scratchy television
Which showed the security camera from the gate outside
And if you leaned closely
You could hear the tinny crunch of gravel
And occasional crow.


We drew on the chalkboard
Underneath the list of chores and shopping lists
Forever using the same eraser
Over years of written words
And drawn flowers.

The bedroom was often a mystery
Sunk into the house so quiet
Like a palace retreat
And the room beyond had a bath
Where I spent joyful hours
With little tub toys
Pretending I was a mermaid
Or a princess
Or an angry sea witch pirate
For no reason at all.
The closet smelled like cologne
And cedar.
It felt expensive in there.
I did not go in often.
There was a private fenced garden
That the shower overlooked.
It held a small dog once
And I recall nothing more.

There were always parts of the house
That were mysterious
In some way or another.

We brushed away spiders in the old stable
To feed the birds in a hanging trough.
We watched a small rodent disintegrate
Hanging on the fence of an animal pen
A slow, miraculous lesson in impermanence.

The garage filled with talk radio sounds
And benches with old tools clanked.
The long walk around the grounds were well worn paths
Between landscaping plants
Wherever there was a space to have it.
The world seemed shady and private
But walking along there
You were likely to find someone
Or something
In the dappled leaf sunlight.

I talked to myself
In my own private theatrics
Playing pretend in this lengthy stage.
The roses smelled like roses
And looked like paintings
Blossoming to the size of grapefruits.
A metal pedestal in a small grove of tall bushes
Reminded us of ancient secrets
When it was actually a place
Where they slaughtered rabbits for dinner.
It felt like something so much bigger.

I sat long days
In beautiful California sunlight
Hearing the rustling of the mulberry leaves
And the creak of patio chairs in the yard.
We would drink iced beverages or lemonade
And listen to music on the speakers
Pleasant, quiet big band songs
That tickled their way across the patio
On one of the few paved areas of the whole place.

I voraciously flipped through books
The german shepherd laying at my feet
As I read about dragons and wizards
And goblets of fire
And could smell the magic in the air
With every step I took in that house.
It was seeped into every crack
Every doorknob and swinging saloon door
Each mirror and blade of grass
And tinted window I saw.


Sometimes things change.
It was my home
It had been many a home
But always ours.
Always a constant.

Things become inconstant.
A house needs someone to live there
Not just memories and imagination.
It was built for four, and then held none.

I can see and smell and feel it.
I can hear the unique quiet of the yard and the world it created.
I can map the tables that sat in place for longer than I had been living.

It will change, but there’s family in the soil, laughter in the walls, secrets in the grass outside.
My dreams live with new tenants
And memories are all that’s left.

A free verse poem about “Memories” and “The Reason It Isn’t There” for the creative writing vlog, Wordplay #2.

wednesdaywolf:New Otherlings story out now - Ginger, by Nika...

wednesdaywolf:

New Otherlings story out now - Ginger, by Nika Harper

A collaboration project of fucked up fairy tales, now on story #2!

Manifesto, 08

In 2008, I graduated from trade school, and our last assignment was to give a speech about goals for the next few years. It was a hard time in my life, and a great accomplishment.

Creativity is working within the bounds that hold you back. It is often the open ended which cripples, not the endless possibility. The strict tightness of limitations just compresses me into different shapes and directions. There is no controlling what I intend to be.
Well, I guess that’s the basis of the speech, then.

It’s hard to look on a time a year from now and have anything to look forward to. I wrote my goals and vision back then, they still apply. I’d never have thought I’d be here.
Not graduating. There was always that certainty, never a question.
But with a heart thrice broken, a cracked foundation and a mind that’s a little battle weary. I’d never have expected to come out of this made simultaneously of brittle ceramic and titanium.

A year from now?
A year from now, I hope to be strong. I am not far enough away from my current experiences to be bolstered by them, they do not attribute to my will or sense of self satisfaction, not yet. Maybe a year from now, I can look back and consider it a trial by fire.
It takes many acquired abilities to give yourself to people, ceaselessly. When it becomes my profession, it will be all the more important.
What I truly mean is, in a year, maybe I will be stronger than myself. Maybe I can find that little fix, trigger that synapse that gets me out of my own head. We are only ever as strong as our selves are, and when you arm wrestle yourself…

Who wins?

My goal is to always win that battle. I’ve been a remarkable contender to this point, but I’d like to go undefeated. I owe it to myself, and against myself. I am not going to hold myself back.

Three years from now.
I hope only to be uncomfortable.
Growth is not easy, calm, or cozy. It is met with nipped fingers, stumbled strides, and stinging needles of experience. My tentative steps will not be much to speak of anymore, I must run full speed at my life and see where the ill-footing is. We do not grow by remaining stationary, and each new path I uncover will be explored, each challenge met with the knowledge that I will progress,or I will have new scars, but either way I will learn.
I will always take solace in learning, because it is said, and quoted, that it “is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the thing for you."
Along with my strength, I would like it manifested in my experiences as I challenge myself to walk outside my fishtank life, with the hope of great reward.

Five years from now…
The year 2013.
Five years seems like a good amount of time… one I would be comfortable with saying that my goal for is Success.
It can be measured in as many ways as there are chairs in this room.
I have held myself to high standards and low expectations, it’s the best means of progress in my life, if everything can be broken down into tiny bits and completely rocked out at rapidfire pace.
I would consider myself successful if I live up to my potential of grandeur. If I learn archery, if I grow my website. If I grow orchids in my backyard, or make my own cologne. If I get all the tattoos I want or play the harp, my name is HARPER, why doesn’t ANYONE PLAY THE HARP?
So long as I am indulging my passions, and they are engaging others and making me smile, I am successful. So long as I am influencing, and able to do it in entirely my own way, I am successful.

I am successful right now.
I just want it on a grander scale.

In my future, the only thing I know is that I will do it all how I want to. I will proudly go my own way, and proudly make my own mistakes. My future is on my terms only, and I only have myself to answer to. The rest is not worth it.

If you peel your eyes someday, you’ll see me. You’ll see ripples of a world I am going to create. With very small hands.

-Nika Harper, http://thisisnika.com

Breakthrough: Wordplay #2

In the deepest linoleum night
Under fluorescent clouds and particle horizons
The silence and stillness is only broken
By the whispering flutter of wings
And occasional chirps
As legs rub against legs.
I am there to hear them.
The countertops are clean and wiped
Though covered with pages and notes
In scrawled handwriting
That even I can barely make out
After so many nights of microscope eyes
And fizzy beverages as friends.
Striated patterns on each thorax and feathery antennae pulse open and closed
In their artificial daylight glow
Dangerously close to enemies and friends
Prey and mates
But stuck behind invisible barriers
Confused and restless
Under magnifying glasses.
I adjust my focus one more time
and dive into another specimen
Noting mutation on each wiry limb
The hexagon patterned wings that flutter under my breath.

The serum is working.
The limbs are thicker and bristled.
The eyes bulge with liquid swell.
I note the changes in my personal log.
Clearer this time.
Closer to breakthrough.

…There is no reason why that noise should have happened.
I am alone.
Just winged things and I.
Perhaps it was a violent specimen
that shook the jar ‘til it broke to fragments
But that is none of my concern.
Accidents happen
Cleanup is inevitable
but for now my focus is
the deep metallic carapace
and overgrown pincers
of my first successful project.
Evolution can be helped along.

It sounds like someone spun a glass.
That low whirling reverberative sound
that signals—
An accident, a crash.
That’s two now.
Maybe a window blew open
and petri dishes are littering the floor
Because that was a third one.

Now it’s silent
But my notebook has closed
I should check on this so it won’t distract me again
I have all night
To double-check my findings
and perhaps open a bottle of something sweet
and fancier than low-calorie soda.
Something celebratory.
Like cham—

I’ve lost count.
There’s a rustling noise like many creatures loose.
I see one flit across my vision
A silky moth under my care
but how hadn’t I noticed
that this one is larger than when I last saw.

Perhaps I’m looking at the wrong specimen.

The light filters across the lab
Into a darker corner
Where the air sounds like fluttering
And there’s a shrill whistling
Just within range of hearing.
And it sounds big.
And it doesn’t sound right.

I can’t see into the darkness.
But I know this moth
that runs into the illuminated bulb above me
rocking the fixture with its newfound bulk
is not the largest thing
in this lab.

A free verse poem about “Beautiful World of Insects" “Triumph!" and “Broken Glass" for the creative writing vlog, Wordplay #2.