tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10750271367921341732024-03-13T13:32:46.723-07:00Ellipsis, etc.Breakfast, elephants and inevitable lessons in tight ropesUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger116125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-10162715816996405972010-12-05T17:39:00.000-08:002010-12-05T20:51:56.135-08:00<div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Post-War Clarity & The Terms and Conditions of Playing Pretend.</span></span><br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:85%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/TPxSR2zY46I/AAAAAAAAAtU/mmI407ycbGI/s1600/154500_1446154114593_1255350085_31002076_4985428_n.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/TPxSR2zY46I/AAAAAAAAAtU/mmI407ycbGI/s400/154500_1446154114593_1255350085_31002076_4985428_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547399307735917474" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:85%;" ><br />It was a Friday night. The weather reports promised snow.<br /><br />It was a snow-less, Friday night and I found myself kneeling in the aisles of various self-help sections. I handled almost every book that pertained to the problems at hand, and some that were blatantly off the subject. “How to Get Your Life Back!”, “I Love Me!” , “You Can Do it!: Eight Steps to Finding AND Loving Yourself!” All of the titles seemed to be screaming with their obligatory explanation marks and insistent, assuring positive declarations of self-worth and of a life worth living.<br /><br />At 22 years old, it’s hard to look back and not learn something along the way.<br />At 22 years old, it’s easy to forget who I was, who I am and who I want to be.<br /><br />To honor the changing of the seasons, hot to cold, light to dark, I am actively rediscovering the things that I once deemed important. This is the first of those things. As an uninsured, low income individual who considers herself to have a “screw loose” or to be, at times, a bit “off her rocker” writing has and will continue to act as a completely selfish, self-serving form of therapy for me. Even more than the words themselves, or the meanings behind them, it is the mere process of draining my perpetual inner floods that fulfills my interminable thirst for catharsis. I’ve neglected to put forth the effort in repairing the damage of aforementioned floods, nor have I mustered the energy to rebuild the poorly constructed system of levees that have forced these floods upon me.<br /><br />At any rate, this will be a very slow, very mundane reinvention (of sorts.) I don’t plan on cutting off all of my hair and I don’t plan on selling my life here for one in India or what have you. To put it simply, my goal is to free myself from unnecessary and harmful thoughts, feelings and actions that have knowingly taken control of what should be the most exciting juncture in my life. Now, this is not to say that any of this reinvention bullshit is going to be easy. It feels impossible and might very well be. And I guarantee you that I’m going to kick and scream the entire way through. This abundance of defiance could easily be compared to how a child must feel when their mother yanks them from the playground with the piss poor, ambiguous explanation of “It’s time to go.”<br /><br />The last time I wrote anything that wasn’t work related (yes, I am a published writer now. Hold your applause until the end, please.) snow covered the ground and I had killer, rockstar bangs (RIP, lovelies.)<br />Since then, my world has made an unfortunate habit of dipping in and out of its usual orbit, occasionally leaving me without gravity.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">It only seems fitting to start where I left off, or somewhere close to it. </span></span><br /></div><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br />A heaping portion of my summers favorite moments were spent floating down river, hazy eyed and laughing. Smelling of campfire is an underrated pleasure, as is letting damp skin dry in the summer sun. Dirt beneath our feet, mid-day hangovers, unzipping the morning; we celebrated the season to its fullest and embraced our unbarred youth.<br /><br />Other moments were more spontaneous. Laying on the beach at 2pm on a Tuesday afternoon is a perfect example of our freelance, freedom. We attend matinee movies and eat brunch, too. We did as we pleased; putting all control in the hands of time.<br /><br />A moment of weakness. A singular indiscretion. It took time but we started over and haven’t looked back; recovery is still in progress.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">One year.</span><br /><br />I remember our first kiss, awkward and unplanned. I remember the moment I realized that I loved him. I remember each surprise, each fight. I remember crying into his chest and when he promised to change my life.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">One year.</span> We traveled through the night only to find ourselves sleep deprived on the most beautiful beach cascading with the most breathtaking sunrise either of us had ever seen all while being viciously attacked by a plague of biting black flies. We slept in the rain, hiked through the forest, drank copious glasses of wine, indulged in plant-provided happiness, hunger and laughter all while weaving through the endless sea of tourists on our tandem bicycle. We marveled at waterfalls, cement statuettes, sweeping valleys and vineyards, old stories and new growth. But above all else, we celebrated all the hard work that brought us to this point; biting black flies, waterfalls and all.<br /><br />It’s a difficult transition to make. The once lively and exciting relationship that I shared with the camera is becoming more and more distant. I’m getting older and things have become comfortable. The hurt that comes with receiving a rejection letter and the consuming disgust that comes from not feeling desirable is, for me, heartbreaking. Compare, contrast, destruct; a daily cycle that can only be described as debilitating. The battle forges on. 120, 124.5, 118, 121.5. For someone who has strategically avoided a mathematical life, numbers hold the reigns and call the shots; unwillingly, unstoppable. Food makes me cry, hunger makes me smile and the scale makes me want to disappear. For anyone that knows me or thinks that they might have a slight grasp on who I am, I’m not exactly someone who has their shit together. My ducks are not in a row.<br /><br />Surprisingly enough, I'm not <span style="font-style: italic;">completely</span> delusional. Despite wanting to be everyone and everything and desperately wanting to change myself every morning upon waking, I realize that I cannot be anything than what I am. I realize that I will never be the most beautiful. I will never be the sexiest or the prettiest. I will never be perfect. I will never be entirely imperfect, either. I know that, I do. And I know that wishing I was different, or better or whatever, will not change anything…ever. So, what’s the problem? What is my problem? I can’t even hear that he thinks Katy Perry is hot, or that model so and so is pretty, blah, blah (you get the picture. ) Usually this is the point where I would try to write some pseudo-eloquent, elusive description of how I feel, using poetry and prose to paint me as a character worth sympathizing. I’ll cut the shit. I am a jealous person. So jealous, in fact, that my mind, body and speech shut down and I am reduced to a vegetative state using only “yes”, “no” and “I don’t care” as my main vessels of communication. I don’t need people telling me that “it’s okay.” and I certainly don’t need people telling me that I’m beautiful. All I want is to have someone convince me that I am not crazy. I need to really, truly believe it before I can get better.<br /><br />Finding out that you don’t have cancer feels, for the lack of better words, pretty fucking amazing. An exam lead to an ultrasound which lead to a biopsy which then lead to a surgery. We spent a month on edge, nurturing the possibility that something could be wrong with me. Thanks to an out pour of well wishes, I managed to survive one of the most difficult ordeals of my life. I firmly believe that if it weren’t for him, I would have lost my mind somewhere along the way.<br /><br />I heard a radio show once where the topic was about those living their “Plan A” versus those living their Plan B, C or D. “There's the thing you plan to do, and then there's the thing you end up doing. Most of us start off our lives with some Plan A which we abandon...switching to a Plan B, which becomes our life. “ explained Ira. Never did I think I would be living my Plan A with someone equally committed to living his Plan A, resulting in two people unwilling to compromise to the constraints of mediocrity and unhappiness. This isn’t to say we sometimes bite the proverbial bullet and do things we aren’t 100% excited to do, nor does that mean we are 100% happy 100% of the time. But how lucky we are to be able to at least say we are living our Plan A. I won’t go back. Ever.<br /><br />Written by Jerilyn Cook. Model: Jerilyn Jordan. Styled by Jerilyn Cook. Over the past 9 months, I have seen all of these bylines in print. Pictures and words; redefining myself with every page. It wasn’t easy, and each avenue of my passion continues to present it’s own list of seemingly impossible demands. I won’t go back. Ever.<br /><br />The well-worn wood floors squeak and moan with each step, and the bedroom windows are shrouded with ivy. There’s a fireplace, a garden window and a just enough space to hide all the things I want to keep hidden. All but one wall is painted a soft shade of Grey and sometimes our front door opens without an invitation to do so. Motherless children, unrelated; Two cat’s curled in laps, claws and paws making the most delicate sound upon the previously described, worn wood floors; they continually drape us in a supreme sense of joy. The warmth provided by this house and the life inside of it, is not comparable to anything I have ever felt before (despite the actual furnace failing to produce our desired amount of heat.) This was the real start of all things real.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">So, this is where I am now. </span></span><br /></div><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br />Snow has finally come, although has decided not to stay.<br /><br />Comforted by revved engine purrs and the still of my new home, I realize that this is all I’ve ever wanted; Filled with the excitement that can only come from not knowing what’s going to happen next, we have a place to call our own complete with tidy stacks of books upon the shelve, music flowing room to room, the smell of homemade food floating about and the undeniable and constant sensation of finally feeling at home. All of my mistakes, struggles and hardships have somehow, someway miraculously provided me with love, happiness and a life that holds great promise.<br /><br />I can’t be expected to recall, retell and rewrite the past ten months. I can only be reminded to look ahead.<br />This is all for the greater goal of living free from the restraints of self-loathing, jealousy and anxiety. I’ve always been this way. So to say that I want my life back doesn’t fully make sense. Instead, I am pleading with myself to do the impossible;<br /><br />I will befriend mirrors and other equally daunting reflective surfaces. I will realize that he has chosen me above all else. I will run to, not from. I will not be my mother or my father. I will fail with humility and grace. I will care about the things worth caring about and will dismiss all else. I will learn to adopt healthy selfishness and become more appropriately selfless. I will only say sorry when I am really, truly sorry. I will open up the closed corridors, gates and thresholds of my heart, etc. I will fall together, not apart.<br /><br /><br />…and then New Order: Age of Consent began to play.<br /><br />Here I am.<br /><br />The world in full motion blur as I stand still.<br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-68390360182014657822010-02-11T09:41:00.001-08:002010-02-16T15:14:52.639-08:00<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/S3RBZd7qlOI/AAAAAAAAAsY/HjgDfZwUMMI/s1600-h/JerilynFieldSnowWEB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 468px; height: 218px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/S3RBZd7qlOI/AAAAAAAAAsY/HjgDfZwUMMI/s400/JerilynFieldSnowWEB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437042555930449122" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">I'm the hero of the story</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Don't need to be saved</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> I'm the hero of the story</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Don't need to be saved</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> I'm the hero of the story</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Don't need to be saved</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/S3RBZd7qlOI/AAAAAAAAAsY/HjgDfZwUMMI/s1600-h/JerilynFieldSnowWEB.jpg"></a></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:78%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:78%;" >Expiration dates and escape routes.<br />Breathing into metaphorical brown paper bags.<br />Digging holes and falling in.<br />My good enough is never quite good enough for me.<br />Not being alone fills me with more panic than loneliness.<br /><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:78%;" >The first real snow where love played a part.<br />Glittering blankets and embankments of white.<br />This isn’t the first of winter, but it’s the one I’ll remember.<br />When it falls in heaping amounts as it did, clarity<br />and I become temporary bedfellows.<br />The temporary presence of clarity and the like<br />always precedes an onslaught of confusion and doubt.<br />That's where I am now.<br />This is where I've started<br />to dig myself out.<br /><br /><br /><br />I waited on the porch and let him in.<br />“So, this is it?” he said in a sideways manner.<br />He traced the maps with his fingers and shot disconcerting glances at<br />the cluttered coffee table,the kitchen sink stock piled with dirty dishes<br />and the empty liquor bottles lining the counter.<br />With knowing nothing of my life, I could see him painting careless<br />images of how I must be living and how neglected I must be.<br />We drove to where chickens walk the streets,<br />sipping water from puddles, darting under stationary tires.<br />The restaurant was still.<br />We did our best to keep our mouths full as to avoid the small talk<br />We hoped to never encounter.<br />Wild World by Cat Stevens<br />A song that has always successfully provoked<br />feelings of nostalgia and lament from within me, came onto the overhead stereo.<br />The sound of our forks scraping the bottom of our plates, the ice rattling in our glasses;<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:78%;" ><br />“Oh, baby, baby, it's a wild world</span><br /><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:78%;" >and I'll always remember you like a child, girl”</span><br /><br /></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:78%;" >I looked to the window for comfort. I knew that if we were to make eye contact,<br />the things I was beginning to fear would internalize with a single, damp glaze.<br />“Beautiful song.” he said.<br />I agreed, quietly.<br /><br />Handing me a wrinkled wad of money, walked me to the door and<br />with a biting tongue and coldness that burned,<br />he inadvertently showed me his feelings.<br />I cannot change his mind. I will not change my life.<br />But I can convince him that<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I am safe,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I am happy </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">and</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I am loved.</span><br />If he has even the slightest bit of faith and trust in me<br />then he will see that who I am is who I have built.<br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:78%;" >I'm not sure what the true definition of what a friend is,<br />but I most certainly know it has nothing<br />to do with ruining something great.<br />It's one thing to confront the situation.<br />It's the right thing.<br />It's another to confront the situation<br />in whispered tones and sneaky secrets.<br />I appreciate the willingness to help me realize what it is I deserve<br />but I can't justify the dishonest, malicious nature<br />of what is happening behind my back.<br />I never asked for help. I never asked to be saved.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:78%;" >I am not skilled in the art of feeling secure in myself.<br />However, I am fluent in the language of being inadequate.<br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:78%;" >Only recently have I come to see what a jealous,<br />easily overawed, sensitive person I am.<br />These unfortunate qualities that have made<br />themselves exponentially more apparent<br />over the past few months are tearing me apart,<br />threatening to dismantle the progress I've made.</span><br /><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:78%;" >His livelihood triggers nerves I never knew I had.<br />Looking for girls; girls that are easy to fix.<br />I don't fit into that category, or so I imagine.<br />There are things I can try to help control<br />the bitterness and the jealousy.<br />But these efforts barely numb the fact that I will<br />never love myself the way he does.<br />And although he assures me of this<br />overwhelming affluence<br />of love every moment of every day,<br />the world will always win.<br />The compliments make it worse, sometimes.<br />The countless guarantees make it hurt, sometimes.<br />Above all, I feel guilty for not believing him.<br />Loving me is most certainly an exasperating juncture...<br />or so I imagine.<br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:78%;" ><br />Every morning, when my eyes peel themselves<br />awake and I am draped in his warmth,<br />I can’t believe how lucky I am to be in love.<br />It’s unfair of me to compare what I have to those around me.<br />If this were to end, I don’t know where I would begin.<br />I try and imagine other relationships I know and<br />how they could never satisfy me<br />after having been in a love like this.<br />Every morning, I’m scared to see where I am<br />when my eyes peel themselves awake<br />because there’s no reason as to why my wish<br />should constantly come true.<br /><br />It's frightening how love can change.<br />She was in love with someone<br />and now she's in love, but alone.<br />How to you pick yourself up?<br />How do you find the will to<br />try it all over again?<br />Her tale of heartbreak and strife<br />inspired me to do whatever it takes,<br />to make our love work.<br />I'm not strong enough to start over.<br />I just want to be in love forever.<br /><br />It’s the discouragement that comes from the success of others that<br />I use to justify why it is I don’t have a chance.<br />This attitude and personality flaw is completely destructive.<br />I am positive that it is this very attitude that will ruin the chances I <span style="font-style: italic;">do </span>have.<br /><br />I’m doing what I set out to do and<br />what I’ve said I would do since I held pen to paper.<br />But because I am writing and turning a<br />few mislaid words into sentences, into paragraphs,<br />I’m beginning to see how much further I have to go.<br />My imagery is repetitive.<br />My adjectives are elementary.<br />My sentences are too long.<br />I make everything sound epically important and special,<br />even though the mundane truth is just as much.<br />I'm searching between the lines to find<br />whether or not this is what I was want.<br /><br />If only I could write myself as a beautiful hyperbole.<br /><br />I'm coming back. Slowly, I'm coming back.<br />I promise.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><br />photo by:<br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:78%;" ><a href="http://www.christianog.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >www.christianog.com</span><br /></a><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-45479572075123937732010-01-25T19:00:00.000-08:002010-01-26T23:07:35.562-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/S19znxqxY-I/AAAAAAAAAsQ/hlpRrxZOTKk/s1600-h/JersFootNakedWEB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/S19znxqxY-I/AAAAAAAAAsQ/hlpRrxZOTKk/s320/JersFootNakedWEB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431186802816934882" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">"Don't lose your faith in me<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">And I will try not to lose faith in you<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Don't put your trust in walls<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">'Cause walls will only crush you when they fall<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Be here now, here now<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Be here now, here now"</span><br /></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div> </div><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">I will never be a woman.<br />I will never stand upright.<br />I will never see straight.</span><br /><br />There’s a point in every vacation where you realize that you sort of wish you were back to your normal life where you have responsibility and schedules. The kind of vacation where clocks are unnecessary, calendars are irrelevant and naps are primary devices for passing the time. Since my life has become a vacation, I’m beginning to feel as though the world and I have become distant acquaintances. I hope to be reunited soon; eased gently and welcomed with fervor.<br /><br /><br />Six months. Six months is one half of twelve months which is one year. I have waited approximately seven years (2,555 days, 61,320 hours) to be the person I have evolved into over the past six months. The person I have become can only be attributed to the love I have found and the supplier of the aforesaid love. It’s apparent that this relationship has taken a different road at a different speed than most relationships I’ve been privy to witness. Six months and we can already see the future; we already consider ourselves partners in all that we do. We care for and about each other as if we were one in the same. Looking back, it seems as though this is all I’ve ever known; as if this is where all of my fortunes and misfortunes alike have lead me to. I’ve been planted here, with him. My roots, for the first time feel solid and nurtured. I’ve forgotten what it is to be alone and have only retained the joy that comes with waking up in love.<br /><br />I wish that it didn’t come to mind as often as it does. And even if that wish could not be granted I would demand to not have these thoughts fill me with panic; doubting myself and what we’ve built. But I just can’t escape it. I’ve been told that first love is the sweetest. This I’ve learned to be true. To be someone’s second, third or fourth love…well, it doesn’t feel as poetic or as electric. It’s insecurity, yes. But more than that it is a constant, aching notion that you (I) will never be good enough. You (I) dwell on the beautiful qualities that you’re (I‘m) convinced managed to hold the others before you (me) in your lovers orbit and you (I) feel as though you (I) will never make them as happy as the formers. When smiles creep upon their faces without traces, you (I) assume that it’s because of a past life and a love that was shared there. Or when that one song finds it’s way and you know that the sadness or happiness is not caused by you (me) but instead, one who loved them (him) first. It is selfish, I know, to want to erase the world leaving only the two of us. It is selfish to want his past, present and future. I wish I was strong enough to be here now. Trying with all of my power, I am learning to let what we have take us to wherever we are meant to be. I can wish on stars, pennies and dead dandelions all I want. All I can really do is love and graciously accept the love I’ve been given.<br /><br />It fell through the cracks.<br />It was fiction.<br />I am just a pretty girl who had her picture taken once.<br />Period, no ellipsis.<br /><br />A byline. A tiny byline in smeared black newspaper print.<br />I couldn’t ask for more but I will work for it.<br /><br />I can’t imagine a violin sounding anything but sad.<br /><br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:85%;"> Dancing to songs that can only be appreciated when intoxicated, I had assumed that the climax of my night was the twenty minute search for a missing member of our three person party; darting through smoke and pulsating lights. Or perhaps it was that drunken confidence that convinced me that I was the only girl on the dance floor and everyone was there to stand in awe of my beauty and revolutionary dance moves (i.e.; simultaneously tossing my hair around, swaying my hips, catching myself from falling all while sipping my vodka cranberry.)As life was winding down, becoming one of those nights you look back on a week later and think, “I should have more nights like that.” Laughing, foggy eyed and minded, I was dropped off to a congregation of inebriated familiars gathered on the porch. From the moment I returned home, the night took a sharp turn. Shot for shot, missing undergarments, secret meetings in the shower, sneaking cigarettes, teasing our others…seemingly normal for a party of drunken friends. We ventured outside (me being the only one to go sans shoes.) to show the world (our neighbors) the flesh colored gifts attached to our chest. Our uproarious, mischievous behavior was that of thirteen year old girls; Yes it was shameful, but our careless actions embodied the free spirit of when we were children. With complete disregard for our usually sound judgment, we squealed with delight.</span><br /></div><span style="font-size:85%;"> <br />With one clumsy misstep backwards, a bottle shattered from under my foot. I saw blood. More blood than I knew I was capable of spilling from my body. My mind was much too clouded to fully understand that it was I who broke the bottle and the blood belonged to me. I don’t remember much, except for a hysterical car ride where, in between dramatic sobs, I verbally rejected the idea of going to a hospital. “I don’t have insurance, please take me home.” They drove anyway. A wheelchair, automatic doors, several nurses. Yes, I was a clearly intoxicated girl on a Saturday night who was frantically rushed to the emergency with a ‘cut” foot. This is a hard situation for nurses who see real trauma and real tragedy on a daily basis to take seriously. They brushed it off until they unwrapped the makeshift bandage (a roll of medical gauze and a men’s tank top.) blood poured from me, catching them off guard. According to my elephant, I was overly calm, underplaying the severity of my condition as I was rushed to where a doctor with a thick Indian accent would eventually prick my foot with more shots than I could count and would haphazardly sew the gaping laceration; my little, glass filled accident. When offered an I.V of pain medication that would prepare me for the shots and the needlework, I refused, restating my “I don’t have insurance” speech because I assumed that it would cost more if they would have given it to me. Another lapse of darkness. I held his arm and cried. It was the worst pain I had felt, or remember feeling. I cried for my father, who was nowhere to be found. “Mam, please calm down these are just shots.” the doctor kept saying. It took what seemed to be hours until I was able to lie still without being prodded with needles and thread. I slept. My love stayed by my side, holding my hand, stroking my hair. In one of my moments of alertness, I heard a doctor in the curtained room to my right discuss the patients miscarriage, the cause for her emergency visit. It felt nightmarish to hear those words in real life. One of, what I imagine to be, the greatest tragedies one can experience. Elephant, who was also listening, assured me that she wasn‘t far along. Kissing my hand, he assured me that it was okay. After another period of sleep, his parents came and I felt an immediate flood of love and warmth, the very kinds that only family can ensure.<br /> <br />At some point, the hospital said I could leave. It was somewhere around seven am. I hobbled into a wheel chair, nausea overcame me. It was then that my head tipped back, my skin turned a shade of green, my vitals dropped and I urinated all over myself. They pulled me from the chair, stripped me of my soiled clothes, hooked me up to wires and monitors. When I came to, I was overcome with bright lights. When I came to, they had shut the curtains, surrounding me with discontent. I couldn’t translated the whirs and beeps of the surrounding machines, but I hoped with all my might that my last moments alive would not be set to the soundtrack of such artificial, ugly noises. And I certainly hoped that I would not spend my last moments without hearing the familiar jingle jangle of my fathers keys, or without a kiss on the forehead from my Elephant. “This is the bed people die in.” the attending nurse said to me. So there was a moment where I thought I was both dying and with child. It wasn’t until typing this that I realize how very suiting that situation would be for a made for t.v movie. But I was neither dying (although I felt otherwise) or with child (for which I had no evidence to believe this to be true in the first place.)<br /></span> <div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"> <br />He thought I was going to die and I was more in love than ever. After hours of being pumped with hydrating fluids and hours of waiting, I was able to leave. My father never came, despite having talked to him. When I did get to hear his voice, he judged me. Instead of being comforted by his fatherly concern or his eagerness to see me, I was in shock that the one person I was conditioned to believe would always be there for me, not only failed to be by my side but showed complete disinterest in my well being.<br /></span> </div> <span style="font-size:85%;"><br />It felt great to be home. The one home that, for the past six months, has never faltered in his love for me. It feels great to know that I am taken care of.<br /><br /><br /><br />I can’t promise to deny myself of cynicism.<br />But I can promise to give all that I can<br />And love the best I know how.<br />Because I know in my heart that good does exist.<br />And as long as I believe that to be true, I think I’ll be okay.<br /><br />The candy colored flowers are falling,<br />defenselessly over the vase<br />I've been them.<br />But then I found the sun.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">photo by : <a href="http://www.christianog.com/">www.christianog.com</a></span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-67674107902933823792009-12-31T15:02:00.000-08:002010-01-02T18:41:01.780-08:00<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/Sz0ts8WebcI/AAAAAAAAAr4/-HRztzZb46I/s1600-h/GetAttachment.aspx.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/Sz0ts8WebcI/AAAAAAAAAr4/-HRztzZb46I/s400/GetAttachment.aspx.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421539776561835458" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"And I never thought this life was possible</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">You're the yellow bird that I've been waiting for"</span></span><br /><br />"Life was different in my cage." said Little Yellow Bird.<br />"Life is still different." said Elephant.<br />"Yes, Elephant. But my heart feels as though it might burst"<br />said Little Yellow Bird.<br />"That's love, I think." said Elephant.<br />"What is love?" asked Little Yellow Bird.<br />"I'm not sure, exactly, Little Yellow Bird." Elephant said.<br />"But I think it might be everything."<br /><br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">In a few short hours this year will be a distant and pleasant memory. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">In a few short hours, everything will be the same. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Looking back to the winding path that led me here,<br />I can finally say goodbye.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">If I squint my eyes hard enough and focus long enough, </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I can see blurred distortions of burdens and sadness,<br />with flecks of emotional martyrdom,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">All of which are fading into yesterday. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Some people find God.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I didn’t find God.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">You wouldn’t believe what I found, even if I told you.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">What I found is beyond imagination and secrets.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I hid it deep underneath my bed, next to dust and old magazines. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I traveled alone and took off my clothes. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Slept in a strange bed. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Rode on subways to sidewalks until my feet gave way.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I flew to where everything claims to be bigger.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I drove to where the wind gave the city its name. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But even in places where people travel in herds it </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">was impossible to feel anything other than isolated.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I guess it started in New York.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I suppose I can attribute this life to that day in New York. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Heartbreak paid a visit and outstayed its welcome. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I had lost all value.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The weakness of my own heart confounded me and the</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Carelessness of hearts belonging to others shattered me. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I wrote a love letter and fell into routine of endless cigarettes</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And making lists of things I wanted to do but would never make an effort to. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It was at the peak of this cyclical, seemingly never ending pattern </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">of self loathing and deprecation that a promise was made to me. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We met by chance. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">In the same way that a row of domino's can only fall if one falters,<br />that is how we came to be.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The inter connectivity of countless ostensibly<br />trivial occurrences somehow conceived this.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Had my domino's remained still,<br />who knows what might have happened. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />After years and years of emulating that storybook duckling,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I, with great hesitance, shed my garish feathers for ones of white</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">As I found myself surrounded by flashbulbs. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It took a while, but I now can accept that<br />people see me differently than I see myself.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">There are moments when we are unified<br />in our perceptions, but very rarely does that occur.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I know who I am, I know who I see. But I nod my head and say<br />“Thank you” like I am supposed to.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">White feathers are harder to maintain. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I mended some patches, and burned a few holes. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Losing touch, gaining insight, growing up. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The little brick house under the sky where birds and<br />planes collide within reach is still there.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It’s still occupied by the people who<br />insist that the door is always open. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My room is undisturbed, although it<br />seems to be used to store spare chairs. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My visits never last more than an hour. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">They point out what food is where and<br />what cupboards hide what dishes. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">They say “Make yourself at home.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I wake up everyday above an octopus. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I never wake up alone. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Morning beams and street lamp shadows fill the room. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sometimes I can’t come to terms with the fact that others came before me.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The bed holds moments I will never know.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Memories I will never understand.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I am constantly reminded of how easy it is to be replaced.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It was just a t-shirt. But I’m just not there yet.<br />Regardless, that aforementioned promise stands true.<br />And within that promise, our love is constantly evolving.<br />We're happy.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Christmas trees, planted and sewn in perfect, linear rows. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Lovers calling out, darting in and out of branches. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Ice cream and cow kisses. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">People singing in the street. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Drunken lucidity.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Driving away; driving away and burying deep. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Weighing the cost.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">China. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Apparently I changed.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I let myself get taken away and I was reduced to childlike excitement.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We tried to move forward, but we can’t seem to escape it.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It was nice to think about. It was oddly comforting to feel like it was a possibility.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">China’s red enough, anyway.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It’s for the best. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We walked blindly into a church somewhere far from home. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Wind blown and tattered, we found a scrap of salvation.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Little girls ringing bells, fire burning blue. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A disjointed version of Silent Night by a girl no older than seven</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Accompanied me down the aisle while I imagined a candle lit life. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Hymnals, empty pews, illuminated idols, shadows belonging to storybook angels. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The roses were still in bloom. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I asked them why they were still alive<br />and how they managed to survive.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I’m still waiting for a reply. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The twelfth month was unlike any other of<br />my previous twelfth month experiences. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My family grew twice its normal size. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I was never alone, nor did I ever once feel alone.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I was able to give.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">This year was silver, not green, </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">despite the newness of this abounding flood of warmth. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Some days don’t go as we plan. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sometimes buildings are lost and the city is a tundra. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sometimes we get turned around and miss our turns. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sometimes we don’t want to leave the house</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And sometimes we don’t want to go home. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We can’t foresee what will come tomorrow.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We can only foresee that the love we have will continue</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">To be our saving grace…even when things don’t go as planned. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">At this moment, I am watching the sky turn from blue to gray,<br />snowflakes swirling about in disjointed dance.<br />I am warmed by all that I learned and all that I felt.<br />My heart has finally reached its capacity.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Overwhelmed with possibility, this is what I’ve waited for. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A few short hours ago, this year became a distant and pleasant memory.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One that will remain to be a dream; distant and pleasant.</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:78%;" >photo by Dan Lippitt</span><br /></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-54003607123791177662009-11-25T12:42:00.000-08:002009-11-25T18:13:04.786-08:00<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/Sw1gdA-Eb4I/AAAAAAAAArg/4R0-LmNegXw/s1600/GetAttachment.aspx.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/Sw1gdA-Eb4I/AAAAAAAAArg/4R0-LmNegXw/s400/GetAttachment.aspx.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408084779134644098" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >If you're still free, start running away</span><br /><br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Life for two.<br />Two plates, two servings. Two loads of laundry, two dryer sheets.<br />Two pillows for two heavy minds on one bed in the middle of one room in one house<br />underneath a solitary, shining streetlamp.<br /><br />I never really played house when I was a child. Partially because playing house by myself proved itself to be too difficult for my lonely, only child imagination. Now, at 21, I find myself playing house almost everyday. In this life the food is edible and eaten from dishes not made of plastic. Appliances are plugged into walls surging with electricity provided by hungry pocketbooks. In this life there are consequences for being right and for being wrong about things that are no longer pretend. In this life time exists beyond the confines of recess.<br /><br />The bruised sky obliged a disheveled flock of birds squawking boundlessly at the thought of escape. Feeling despondent within the barely noticeable breeze, I reconfirmed that I have settled for what I have been given. I’ve lost the will to fight for more. Not out of depression or sadness (both of which are usually responsible for such indifference.) This stems from pure contentment. This stems from feeling safe. Instead of letting myself remain immobilized by comfort, I know that I should trek forward in search of that place where happiness grows in grandiose amounts, so that I can ensure that these feelings will be a part of me for a while longer.<br /><br />I shouldn’t say anything. Listening to commentary from people who are untouched and uninvolved is unhealthy. It’s puzzling to know that people only want the best for me; it’s what I want, too. The pieces don’t fit because what’s best to them and what’s best to me are not the same. It’s not a matter of who’s right. It’s a matter of what’s right for me within the paradox of “us” within the microcosm of life, love and trial and error.<br /><br />It was bound to come to an end. I have been replaced by December.<br />And sooner than I would like, I will be at the bottom of some pile, somewhere.<br />At least I was at the top once. At least I’ll be able to look back.<br /><br />Duct taping my window shut, he avoided eye contact.<br />I stood by, a bag of clothes in tow, admiring this seemingly inconsequential act.<br />"I wish you would come back home." His eyes were tired and damp.<br />"I...I wish I could, but I can't. I've been home before."<br />"It's just...I miss you so much. You're my world."<br />"I miss you, too. You know how much I love you, right?"<br />"I love you, more than anything."<br />We hugged. I drove away.<br />This isn't a choice that I've made, it is a choice I've been given,<br />thanks to my necessary and exhausting evolution.<br />Part of me wants to reclaim my territory<br />but if I were to stay I know that I would never go.<br />And I just know that I couldn't live with myself if I<br />knowingly locked my own cage.<br /><br />The last Thursday of every November has always been the same.<br />I don’t have a significant memory from any of these Thursdays from my past.<br />Needless to say, approaching the holidays this time around is going to be different.<br />Because this time, I am different. The list of things I am thankful for reads too long<br />and if written on a scroll, it would surely wrap around the circumference<br />of the universe more than once. Within a years time, my life has become a<br />cornucopia full of all those things you wish for and never expect to receive.<br />Of course I am cursed with minor infractions of perfection,<br />all of which I am learning to paint as blessings.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />There has been a lot of conversation swirling around infinity.<br />More specifically the permanence of all that is infinite<br />embedded on our skin.<br />This is a scary commitment.<br />I've seen the marks of others left upon familiar skin<br />only to become a faithful flood of all those things<br />you do your best to forget.<br />I'm not giving out expiration dates.<br />As far as I can see, there's no end in sight.<br />I just chose to tread carefully<br />because I know that if the end comes<br />I won't find a love like this.<br />People lie. People cheat. People manipulate.<br />I won't recover...<br />even if infinity says otherwise. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" >(photo by: christianog.com)</span><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-25173046571114880372009-11-14T14:14:00.000-08:002009-11-15T10:11:13.883-08:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SwAavHrgsRI/AAAAAAAAApM/ePuDUexwTHc/s1600-h/Legs.jpg"></a><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SwAau59S3FI/AAAAAAAAApE/iPXycEWqnVQ/s1600-h/greek.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404348945978809426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 402px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 277px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SwAau59S3FI/AAAAAAAAApE/iPXycEWqnVQ/s400/greek.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><em></em></strong></span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong><em>“I never promised you a rose garden”</em></strong><br /></span><br /><em>“You weren’t listening. I was talking.<br />And then I traced your fingers and said ‘gobble, gobble."</em><br /><br /></div></span><br /><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">We went without jackets and we moved forward without intent. Squeezing through fences, tossing handfuls of autumns leftovers above our heads, posing as flesh colored statues. The crimson ivy climbing its way up the library walls housed flocks of playful sparrows, darting in and out of tangled vines and occasionally hiding behind the leaves. Eyes behind the lens, face to the sun; We were chained to ourselves and sheltered from what the day was supposed to be.<br /><br />I don’t mean to. Paradoxically, I do it almost entirely on purpose. Often times I speak cinematically. It’s as though I collect and unknowingly rehearse lines in my head, all of which are organically grown from my seeds of thought. I then take these impulsively crafted lines and use them in such a way that unsuspecting strangers and non strangers alike would assume that a film crew were near by, recording my every breath. Most of the time I simply enjoy the way certain things sound when said in a certain way. There is no script.<br /><br />I don’t know my place. Sometimes my words precede my sense of rationality and the sounds of “we” and “our” evade my mouth. But, to my defense, it’s very misleading to hear the same sounds from a different voice only to reiterate that I, in fact, do not live there. People express confusion when told of my current living situation. They usually all ask the same questions with the same baffled look on their face. I am constantly running back and forth between two houses both of which I am incapable of calling home. No matter where it is I chose to sleep, or where my belongings currently reside, I feel like an intruder. Everything I know has great potential to become impermenant. Perhaps it isn’t a matter of having a place to call home as much as it is to feel at home. I am thankful, however, that I have several beds that are forever inviting my dreams to rest.<br /><br />A beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other, teetering on sturdy heels, I tossed my head back to release a plum of smoke. That’s when I caught them. A group of girls all of which I could only remember first names and whether or not we shared a class together in high school. They stared. They pointed. They tossed their heads back out of mockery to let out muted laughs; the music was too loud. An oversized branch of girls extending from the gossiping tree of origin, walked past, spitting my name far enough for me to hear it. And in an instant I resorted to my high school defenses. I cowered. And then I entered phase two (which I attribute to my alcohol use); I began to huddle amongst those I could trust and I shot disapproving glances in every direction, curse words flying. It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized that perhaps I overreacted. It took me a cigarette and a quiet, solitary moment for me to feel sorry for those girls; Those girls who managed to have some sort of power over me in school and who will be 35 years old, going to the same bars, dressing the same way, drinking the same beer with the same crowd. I smiled at the thought of this because I don’t even have to try to avoid becoming them. Becoming them isn’t in this plan.<br /><br />The weather was unusually beautiful for November and in this rare moment of seasonal sunshine and warmth, I found myself feeling completely unbarred and free. Steering the wheel with my legs, I drove over a cement hill, eyes closed. Spreading my arms, the autumn breeze lifted me to a place where all of the mismatched, mislaid pieces fit together. This may be considered unsafe verging on reckless but it was in some way life affirming. Half way through my decent, I peeled my eyes half open. But only because I wanted to see if I was going to survive this glimpse of clarity. To my surprise and delight, I did. My hands returned to their respective places upon the wheel and I regained control of the road before me. My newly found freedom has given me the strength to take on anything and everything, because I know that I have the control to do whatever I please. Overwhelming? Yes, it may appear to be so. Nevertheless, I much rather be overwhelmed with possibility that to be riddled with oppression.<br /><br />We are innocently wired this way, but we are far from alone. It’s the instant where things show great promise of working out and going well that we habitually throw our progress to the wind, leaving us without words, without reason. It’s in my easily threatened nature to remain tight mouthed and walk away than to confront our wrongdoings and our missteps. If I don’t find a way to rewrite this character flaw, I might be granted my unconscious, unwanted wish. The life that has been treating me so preciously over the past few months could easily be taken from me. We would be foolish to not want to work towards patching holes and opening our mouths so that only the real truth can come out, all of the time.<br /><br />It isn’t that I’m not listening, I simply can’t hear you. I strain my ears to meet your voice but no matter the volume, I only hear muted whispers. Sometimes I forfeit and I say what I’m expected to say depending on your facial expressions and body language. This is valid for everyone I verbally encounter. I’m frustrated by my own disregard. I now appreciate the quiet side of life.<br /><br />Here I am, writing. Headphones muffing my ears providing a soundtrack to the poorly fused sentences in my head, rocking back and forth, side to side. I am, right now, a composer. Notes are evolving into scales and scales are developing into sentences and sentences are developing into paragraphs. This may not be music and I may not be a musician, but this fluidity of thought pressing itself against the tips of my fingers, spilling onto notebook pages and computer screens is the only time that I feel as though I am a creator. Very rarely do I feel worthy of having something to say and even less often do I feel as though I have the right words to speak with. Every once and a while it is crucial to remove yourself from your little white room; the one up the stairs, with two windows. Every once and a while the only push you need are the unassuming words of a stranger, convincing you that today, this day, is a beautiful one. That’s all it took, for me anyway. How can you be expected to inspired enough to create something from nothing when you can’t see the music?<br /><br />I am confident that I want nothing more than to be in love forever.</span></span></div><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong><em><span style="font-size:78%;">"I never promised you a rose garden. I never promised you perfect justice . . . </span></em></strong></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong><em><span style="font-size:78%;">and I never promised you peace of happiness. My help is so that you can </span></em></strong></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong><em><span style="font-size:78%;">be free to fight for all of those things. The only reality I offer is challenge, </span></em></strong></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong><em><span style="font-size:78%;">and being well is being free to accept it or not at whatever level you are capable.</span></em></strong></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong><em><span style="font-size:78%;">I never promise lies, and the rose-garden world of perfection is a lie . . . and a bore, too!"<br />-Joanne Greenberg </span></em></strong></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong><em><span style="font-size:78%;">From “I Never Promised You a Rose Garden”</span></em></strong></span> </div><div align="left"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span></em></div><div align="left"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span></em></div><div align="left"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span></em></div><div align="left"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span></em></div><div align="left"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span></em></div><div align="left"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span></em></div><div align="left"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span></em></div><div align="left"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span></em></div><div align="left"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span></em></div><div align="left"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span></em></div><div align="left"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>photo by christianog.com</strong></span></em></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-63800977282720236542009-11-01T18:11:00.000-08:002009-11-01T21:25:49.663-08:00<div align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/Su5ANZY525I/AAAAAAAAAoQ/n0zvxmT27Is/s1600-h/11042_186235590468_717245468_4502204_1020035_n.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399323602161621906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/Su5ANZY525I/AAAAAAAAAoQ/n0zvxmT27Is/s320/11042_186235590468_717245468_4502204_1020035_n.jpg" border="0" /></a><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"> The time changed</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">and the clocks hesitated.</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">You fell from a secret</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">and I whispered in the dark.</span></strong></div><p>
<br />
<br />
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>These thoughts belong to Wednesday.</em></span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br />A moment I had been waiting for; shrouded in rain and disbelief. The magazine shelves extended for what seemed to be miles, upon miles against the west end of the bookstore. My heels scraping against the floor, I paced slowly, scanning every glossy cover. Titles and painted faces swirling about, I eventually captured a glimpse of what I had been anticipating for two solid months. Holding it in my hands, my knees began to shake which made standing nearly impossible. So I sat. I turned each page as if they were made of some material that would dissolve if I didn’t handle them with care. Sooner than I expected, she appeared. Seven pages of someone I don’t fully recognize. After processing every element of the page, I ran my finger over her. I looked unlike anyone I had ever seen before. As discomforting as it may seem to see yourself in a new way, there is something to be said for feeling the way I did.
<br />
<br />Contrary to what one might think, it’s relatively difficult to breathe inside a greenhouse. The air reflecting back and forth from paw print covered panes was stifling and at times, oppressing. Regardless of my struggle to breathe smooth and effortless breaths, I felt completely new as I marched the aisles of green, dodging branches and leaves, chasing the tail of a cat through potted plants. </span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br />As you get older, wedding dresses evolve into an emotional trigger. A team of people lifted the bottom of the gown from the ground as she sauntered within the confines of flashbulbs and the sunlight that fell through the glass ceiling. This was all pretend, but her smile was much too convincing. In a moment of weakness (of which there were many) I managed to slip a $75,000 ring on my left hand. I held my hand in front of me as I imagine many girls with wedding rings must hold their hand. To ease the jealousy that flooded my mind, I wandered off in search of the cat, who I often found curled inside a flower pot.</span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br />It was more than just quitting. I’ve given up on many things, without thought or care. This was bigger than my default gesture of throwing my hands in the air, shrugging my shoulders, sighing a regretful “Oh well.” He pushed me to move on, which is exactly what I did. Over a year of my life, clocking in, clocking out, hanging on a thread of hope that things would change. I would have stayed there forever if it weren’t for him. I would have continued to make excuses. I realize that it is, for the most part, natural to dislike your job. And I realize that I have no warrant to complain. But there comes a time where you have to accept your self worth and do everything in your power to find what it is you deserve. This isn’t to say that I am in any way worthy of anything more than this, but I now know that I am worth far beyond $7.83 an hour. Once I leave I don’t think I’ll go back.
<br />
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Three months is merely a speck of dust. Yet, if you’ve learned to open your eyes, that same speck of dust can become an entire glistening universe upon entering the right moment; the right sliver of light. Within this dust we’ve created a life. A life where things don’t go as planned; where things aren’t always what they seem. But at the end of the day, in our secluded, dust filled universe, this life has meaning. I feel whole. That’s love, I think.
<br />
<br />The record player is spinning some discarded record downstairs, someone is whistling, another someone is drawing muscles and bones at the kitchen table. And here I am, sprawled across an unmade bed, writing, eagerly waiting for another someone to climb the stairs only to fall somewhere into my arms. To most, this may seem mundane. But to me, in this moment, it is exactly where I want to be.
<br /></span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Purple flowers are something to behold.
<br />
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Teenage school girls, in plaid skirts and white button up shirts are much too distracting so early in the morning. </span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /><em></em></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>These thoughts belong to Thursday.</em></span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br />Waking up before the sun, arriving home after dark, retaining enough energy to
<br />desire nothing more than sleep is not only exhausting but slightly disappointing.
<br />
<br />The things you think will make things easier often only complicates things more.
<br />By sacrificing your happiness to avoid inconveniencing someone you love, paradoxically inconveniences the relationship because one of you is unhappy, while the other one is frustrated by your martyrdom.
<br />This is just something I’ve learned to recognize in hopes of fixing this repetitive habit .
<br />
<br /><em>
<br />These thoughts belong to Friday.</em></span>
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><em></em>
<br />It’s best to end a week full of troubled and confounded feelings with a bloody Mary.
<br />It’ is truly the only way to forget everything and start over.
<br />
<br />Exhaustion has become enjoyable.
<br />
<br />I forgot to enjoy the fall.
<br />
<br /><em></em></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>These thoughts belong to Saturday.</em>
<br /><em></em>
<br />It was nice to be back, even if it was only temporary.
<br />I was laughing again. Making ridiculous jokes, smiling and singing.
<br />I don’t know where I went or why I left but it’s exciting to feel like the best version of myself again.
<br />
<br />Mauling a forgotten teddy bear, trimming and pinning ears, </span><span style="font-size:85%;">piles of white stuffing on the floor,
<br />pipe cleaner whiskers;He became a wolf. </span>
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Fake eyelashes, dirt colored blush, a red coat turned cape; </span><span style="font-size:85%;">I became a story book character.
<br /></span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Alcohol makes people needy.
<br />People who are unable to drink become passive aggressive. </span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Sitting on the steps, face to face, he was drunk.</span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Confessing all the things I've wanted to hear</span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">since I was old enough to know that love was</span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">of the magical variety. His words, almost song like in nature,</span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">were certainly nice to hear. Whether or not they</span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">helped reaffirm my feelings, I do not know or care</span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">because really I knew it all along. </span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The wolf got sick; red took care of it.
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">I'm not sure what prompted me to cut all ties, but I did. </span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I have found mothers in so many people far more worthy of the title than she. </span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I find no value in the fact that she gave birth to me.</span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Giving birth doesn't make you a mother. </span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">And being born doesn't mean you have a mother, either. </span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>This thought belongs to today.</em></span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em></em>
<br />This was the first day that life was real. </span>
<br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-47221546954377858822009-10-22T07:16:00.000-07:002009-10-22T08:21:03.192-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SuBq77a54SI/AAAAAAAAAoA/5akyxowXe08/s1600-h/9928_1236261833350_1433340093_660798_5417369_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SuBq77a54SI/AAAAAAAAAoA/5akyxowXe08/s320/9928_1236261833350_1433340093_660798_5417369_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395429931385217314" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Me, I'm fresh on your pages</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Secret thinker sometimes listening aloud.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Someone like you should not be allowed to start</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> any fires"</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">I don't remember making a wish. I doubt I even made the attempt to construct a wish silently in my head. Instead, I dug my face into the warmth of the flames and thought of how my life is almost all figured out, even though it's not. This isn't the world I imagined creating. But considering the aforesaid detail, gravity is pushing and pulling me, aligning the elements of my little, disconnected world in a dizzying array of change. Having said that, I have yet to figure out where it is I should go from here.<br /><br />My key ring is one key heavier and my clothes have found a new set of dresser drawers. These measures were, of course, intended to make everything easier. I am just now beginning to realize that this has the potential to over complicate even the simplest of things. I'm living between two houses. I've become a gypsy, even though I long for some sort of permanence.<br /><br />We were seated on the brim of a shopping mall fountain. I wanted to dream, he wanted reality. A car ride full of I'm sorry" and "I don't know." He pulled up to the house, dropping me off to gather my suitcase (a relic of my gypsy lifestyle.) My stomach fell and the urge to vomit was the only thing I could make sense of. I slammed the door and he drove off. I stood on the steps, new key in hand, watching tail lights disappear down the tree lined street. There was an instant where I believed that it was the end. We met an hour later on familiar ground and ate a forgiving lunch. This was just a taste of what would come a few days later...and a few days after that.<br /><br />Lying alone in the old bed, in the new house, I found myself alone and restlessly unmotivated. Feeling this way has been a persistent visitor the past few weeks. No matter when I am able to fall asleep or when I wake up, my body insists that I need more rest. Be it the shift in the weather or the shifting tide within, I don't enjoy this feeling of fatigue. I reap no satisfaction from this uninvited lethargy. By the time he came home, I hadn't accomplished anything. Not a single typewritten sentence, not a centimeter of progress. I saw nothing wrong with this, seeing that my body's desire to move at a sloth like pace overruled my fading inspiration. And then it came. I remember every word that was said, but even more than that I remember sitting on the edge of the bed, holding my stomach, actively instructing my body to keep breathing. "There's no future for us." Never in my life could I compare that aching, ruinous sensation of disappointment to anything I've ever felt before. It's hard to recover from.<br /><br />My personality is a hazard, or so I am convinced. When I was a child, while my parents were screaming obscenities, hitting one another, my defense mechanism was simple. I would duck into the safest corner, cover my ears with my hands and yell "I don't wanna hear it!" I would close my eyes as tight as I knew how, repeating those five words over and over, hoping desperately that when I opened my eyes it would be over; they they would respect my plea. But it never ended. My strategy never once worked, or promised to fix anything. This is where I am now. It was midnight. "I think you should leave." So, I left without leaving. I sat in my car for an hour, perhaps longer. I can't explain the disappointment of hearing a screen door open and shut, only to realize that the sound came from the neighbors front porch. I thought about sleeping in my car, but a friend convinced me not to. On the drive home my car stalled while going 85mph. I'm not sure how that pertains to the story, but I feel like it might have been a sign or something.<br /><br />You can't define love. Or at least I find it to be unfair to try and simplify something so vast. <span style="font-style: italic;">Yes, this is an overused, overstressed literary cliche, but it's currently 2am on a Thursday morning and I don't much care about cliches.</span> I don't know what it is, but I know that it is this. This feeling that, over the past four months, has made me laugh and brought me to my knees; confused me, comforted me, pushed me away and held me close. This indescribable notion of feeling completely safe within the embrace of only one person, is all I really know. The definition of love is almost entirely useless.<br /><br />This happens to us sometimes.<br /><br />It was a horrifying message. Her voice, shaking and breaking, told me of her loss. I arrived on her grandmothers doorstep an hour later, white lilies in tow. I held her as close as I knew how. Two days later I found myself in a black dress, a wad of damp tissue in my hand, kneeling beside her as visitors poured prayers over the casket. She took to the podium, her sister at her side. They did their best to speak, but tears prevailed. The room began to clear, leaving only immediate family in its wake. She was reduced to a childlike understanding of death as people began to clear away the flowers. " I don't want them to take him away. I just want him to wake up." I have a lot of words to describe an endless list of feelings, but no matter how deep I search I cannot begin to express what it is to watch someone you've spent your<br />entire life loving, suffer from such an immense loss. I wanted nothing more than to bring him back. I want to fix her.<br /><br />If all is quiet, I can hear the trains as I go to sleep. Even if they are merely freight trains, I am, at my core, a romantic. As silly as it may seem, it is such a simple pleasure to hear the train noises just before I am about to dream. No matter where it is I went or where it is I want to go, I can rely on the train to take me there. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">I'm older, now. I am different, now.<br />"It's getting better all the time"<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-63574373603491826902009-10-06T09:12:00.000-07:002009-10-09T16:28:43.962-07:00<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SsyiAXEbt_I/AAAAAAAAAnY/inhUiCedBVI/s1600-h/10322_166748394433_766554433_3570113_860687_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SsyiAXEbt_I/AAAAAAAAAnY/inhUiCedBVI/s400/10322_166748394433_766554433_3570113_860687_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389860981131950066" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Once I wanted to be the greatest"<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">They pitched a series of crisp, white tents </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span">in the center of where most of the caged animals call home.<br />We were untamed. We were without cages.<br />We were trusted by the ringleaders to put ourselves<br />on display for the cameras and for those who </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span">dare enter our fearless tent.<br />Behind the stage we were place and displaced,<br />dressed and undressed,poked and prodded.<br />They painted my face in a spectrum of disguise,<br />eyes magnified, lips bursting with color.<br />People pulling, tugging and curling each </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span">and every hair into a sculpted coif.<br />In the moments where I was free to roam the grounds,</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span">I attempted to catch a glimpse of myself. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span">But in every shiny surface I passed,<br />I never once saw a reflection of someone I recognized.<br />It is a truly lonely feeling.<br /><br />Before being pushed into the spotlight, we were instructed to place<br />one foot in front of the other, to hold our chins up and to move in<br />ways unnatural for most. We were, after all, freaks.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;">There was a moment, a fraction of a moment where I thought<br />to turn on my stilts and run. There was so much room for error<br />and vast room for judgment. Both of which I have never properly<br />prepared myself for. But there is yet another fraction of a moment<br />following the aforementioned fraction of doubt where I felt<br />as though the world was at my feet, mouths aghast, eyes wide open. </span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;">A forceful voice harshly instructing me to go</span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span">and a gentle push are all I remember before entering the spotlight.<br />I was blinded and all that surrounded me became shrouded in shadow.<br />My mind turned off. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span">I had to remind myself that underneath the tightrope<br />there is always a net to brace the possibility of my fall.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;">Although I never lost my footing, there were countless</span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;">opportunities for me to slip into character, never to return to </span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;">the girl with the unpainted face, who walks without grace</span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;">and smiles without rehearsal. </span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />Two days of playing a role; It's easy to forget who you are. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span">I tried. I really, truly tried to sleep soundly.<br />After waking up in a room that has quickly become<br />unfamiliar, with feelings that have since grown distant<br />I came to realize that even though everything I own<br />is under the roof I've always known,</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;">I trustfully consider a new place to be my home. </span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span">It is that space where I am embraced,<br />my head resting on the rise and fall of steady breathing<br />with one ear planted firmly over a restless beating heart<br />all while I am convinced by that singular voice<br />that I am beautiful; I am loved.<br /><br />As my birthday quickly approaches,<br />I find myself no longer faced with the aching<br />dissatisfaction that usually comes with this<br />annual celebration. I am no longer burdened<br />with knowing that the holes within me remain unfilled.<br />Everything was a blur until now.<br />Everything I ever attempted to wish for upon<br />the flames of birthday candles, I now have.<br />And for that, I am not only thankful but<br />certain that everything is getting better all the time.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /><br /><br /></span> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-88148925018398660622009-09-21T13:50:00.000-07:002009-09-25T08:02:39.560-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SrzX4cqaugI/AAAAAAAAAmQ/r5ln6tGjYmw/s1600-h/swing.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 224px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SrzX4cqaugI/AAAAAAAAAmQ/r5ln6tGjYmw/s400/swing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385416619195021826" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><span style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:130%;" >"We're not the same, dear, as we used to be.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:130%;" > The seasons have changed and so have we.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:130%;">"</span><br /></span></div><span style="font-weight: normal;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"You're not the same."</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"What do you mean? I am exactly the same."</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"No. No, you're not. You're completely different."</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"How so?"</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I can't describe it, really. You're just a different person."</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"A different person all together?"</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"No, no. You still curtsy and you still swear like a sailor.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">But everything else is different."</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I feel exactly the same."</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Do you?"</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Well, now I don't know."</span></span><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Within the past 48 hours, summer has peacefully bowed out,</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;font-size:85%;" >leaving a torrential storm of newly painted leaves and<br />the promise of an autumn breeze in her quiet path of departure.<br />This time was different.<br />I was sad to see her go; she left without waking me.<br />It was just before midnight.<br />The only sign of her stealthy exit<br />was a gray and humid kiss upon my cheek.<br />This time will be different.<br /><br />He was on the phone, settled into the arms of an orange chair,<br />speaking of times and dates that have yet to reveal themselves.<br />Lying on my stomach, sprawled across his bed wearing only<br />my undergarments, I began to scrawl mismatched words,<br />molding them into aimless sentences.<br />We were separate; engaged within ourselves,<br />tending to the delicate nature of our separate lives.<br />We were unified in our comfort.<br />This is what it feels like to be whole.<br />This is what life could be like.<br />We are trying to change;<br />Digging through the premature rubble, almost nightly,<br />hoping to find the fragments of what<br />we were before things threatened to crumble.<br />That singular moment of wholeness<br />reconfirmed how it is I want to feel. <span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><br />Just recently have I become aware of<br />how little I should trust people.<br />I am blatantly disobeying the way I've<br />always known by biting my tongue and holding back.<br />To be quite honest, I've become rather smug.<br />Saying nice things with a smirk and a contrived glint in my eye.<br />In my quest in trying with all my might<br />to avoid becoming like them, the best parts of myself<br />seem to melt away, leaving only the ugliest parts of human nature.<br /></span><span style="font-weight: normal;font-size:85%;" >This, of course, is a harsh assessment of my current<br />character, but it in no way desensitizes my fear<br />in replicating anyone but myself.<br /><br />I am thoroughly convinced that everything we have (or don't have),</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div></div><span style="font-size:85%;">everyone we know (or have yet to meet) and everything we are<br />(or will become), can be attributed to a solitary, inconsequential<br />ten minute moment. And, of course, each moment can be traced<br />back to another moment, so much so that I will gladly argue<br />that we can all go back to the very beginning, if we so chose.<br />I am currently engulfed in dark, silence bounding through my mind,<br />turning the pages, eagerly searching for where this moment began.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Summer had just bloomed, exploiting every color in bursts of sunshine.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >I sat perched on a lawn chair, a blushing technicolor drink in one hand,</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >the other holding a pink parasol over my head, my legs crossed and glistening</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >from a fresh coat of sunscreen; it was during this rare moment</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >of self assurance that he sat next to me. </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br />That's how this moment was born.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(photo by: christianog.com)</span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-22527620213427326832009-09-09T19:21:00.001-07:002009-09-17T23:41:42.414-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/Sq63zcxTdcI/AAAAAAAAAlw/XUXZAnnojP0/s1600-h/redfive.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/Sq63zcxTdcI/AAAAAAAAAlw/XUXZAnnojP0/s400/redfive.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381440699278521794" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="font-size:180%;">"The longer you think,<br />the less you know what<br />to do"<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">It's such a horrible way to be faced with a realization, </span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">but it seems to be relatively standard when it comes to love. </span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">It isn't until you're threatened with losing someone,</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">that you can properly understand how much you love them. </span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br />I responded to each "Why?" with "I don't know", </span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">digging my face so far into my palms that my self induced </span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">darkness has become a comfort. </span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">He stormed off, I grabbed my keys.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">I prefaced these actions by confessing</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"> my tendency<br />to wave my white flag</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"> without reason. </span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">Our distance grew and grew</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">until the space became immeasurable</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">and our silence allowed us to start again. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">I am lucky enough to have pinpointed this very moment</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">and I now know what I want to keep. </span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">We both wore black tights. We were the only ones.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">Even from across the room, I could see that each of our</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">breaths were labored and our chests </span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">rose and fell in a synchronous pattern.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">We were momentarily unified by all the things we did not know.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">Her voice was more delicate and sincere than I had imagined it to be;</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">her posture and demeanor, however, were accurate depictions</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">of the fiction I had created. </span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">This encounter fueled countless conversations</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">of doubt and insecurity. But he and I survived. </span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">It seems like we are always escaping inevitability</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">by a frayed thread of misunderstanding. </span><br /><br /></span> </div><div style="text-align: left; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Emergency rooms, despite their population, </span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">can make you think about the things you</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">told yourself you would never think about.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">Although I was not a patient, I convinced myself</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">that I was in fact dying. I have no real evidence</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">as to why this might be even close to truth.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">I can't feel safe in a place where reflections </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">don't exist. </span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">My entire life my inadequacies have been adequate.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">It is the most painful, yet loving feeling to be pushed</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">beyond what has always been expected of me</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">by someone who loves me more than I do. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">While driving home at 4am, staggering under the posted speed limit, I hummed in a desperate attempt to stay awake. With equal desperation, I tried to leave an emotionally challenging 24 hours behind me, forcing it to fade into the ever growing dusk of a new day. While approaching a familiar intersection, I saw movement to my left. As I stopped the car and paused my humming, 3 deer darted through my headlights. They bounded with a dreamlike inelegance across a stretch of road usually bustling with traffic, now desolate, to an forgiving patch of land behind a strip mall. Even after they had left my field of vision, I couldn't bring myself to release my foot from the break. I couldn't help but see hidden parts of myself through this one, seemingly insignificant encounter. Certainly my fears could not measure up against those that must surely belong to the deer. But like my four legged refugees, I startle easily, overcoming each struggle with a swift dash far from its origin. I eventually trekked forward, rhythmic yawns replaced my out of tune humming, my eyes blurred with exhaustion and by some miracle, my car found the way home. </span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">Down the street resides a tree that sets itself on fire long before the others.</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Every year I rely on this tree to reintroduce me to<br />each color in the pallet of the harvest.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">The leaves turn to flames and make their annual descent to the ground, </span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">while all the other trees remain stubborn and green.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">Once the tree strips itself naked, the other trees eventually fall suit.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">I admire this tree and its willingness to set precedent for change.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">Every day, while driving underneath this brave and fearless Oak,</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">I am tempted to shed my leaves, baring all that I have in hopes</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">that everything will fall into place. This, of course, is just a temptation;</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">One that I force to the back of my mind as I admire Autumns fallen embers. </span><br /></span> <span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Summer knows nothing of permanence.<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >(photo: christianog.com) </span><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span></div> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-82486094528981475452009-09-03T11:33:00.000-07:002009-09-06T10:17:41.013-07:00<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SqANTmGcLhI/AAAAAAAAAlo/7ZIXZcsN-xM/s1600-h/5292_1210551950619_1433340093_586613_783976_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SqANTmGcLhI/AAAAAAAAAlo/7ZIXZcsN-xM/s400/5292_1210551950619_1433340093_586613_783976_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377312585376607762" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Simple little beauty-<br />heaven in your breath.</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />The simplest of pleasures-<br />the world at it's best."</span> </span></div><br />Sitting in the chair that refused to stay still,<br />I watched them gather around garment bags.<br />Unzipping each one with my eyes before they<br />could reach the zipper pull, I could see it all unravel;<br />it all came together. Their backs turned to me,<br />I thought it safe to let out an inaudible gasp,<br />and an accidental tear.<br /><br />The thought of having my face and name in<br />glossy printed pages is something I could never<br />believe to be obtainable.<br /><br />Flashbulbs and rose petals at my feet.<br />Roughly four months ago this all started.<br />There's no use in stopping now.<br /><br />While at work, a girl I went to college with stopped to chat.<br />We exchanged the usual questions.<br />When asked about what it is I've been up to,<br />I told her that I've been working and modeling, etc,etc.<br /><br />"But what happened to your dream of being a writer?"<br />"Oh, right. That."<br />"Did you change your mind?"<br />"No, no. Not at all. I'm just a little preoccupied, I guess."<br />"Oh."<br /><br />After we said goodbye, I stood paralyzed.<br />Since I can remember I've told everyone that<br />I'm going to be a writer someday.<br />And here I am, making excuses, finding reasons<br />to put off the one thing I've always wanted.<br />I think after a minor adjustment of priorities,<br />writing and I will fall in love again.<br />Not to say I ever fell out of love,<br />I just need to reignite the flame, is all.<br /><br />Not knowing what would happen<br />or what would resurface, I was scared<br />to accept the open line of communication<br />that was offered to me.<br />But I trusted myself.<br />I felt empowered by my ability to say no<br />and I felt awakened by realizing that<br />what I want and what I deserve are one in the same.<br />It turned out to be painful in ways I did not expect.<br />I anticipated doubt, but felt nothing but indifference.<br /><br />A Mexican dinner. I avoided eye contact. It felt new again.<br />I shied away from the lens and he got angry.<br />I threw myself against the booth seat, confessing<br />my discomfort with the conversation at hand,<br />hiding from his suggestion; the one where the focus was separation<br />because there's something from keeping me from<br />letting him in.<br /><br />I will never understand why I hide my face<br />or why I disappear time to time.<br />All I am adept to understand is that<br />I want to be free. No walls, no guards.<br />Free.<br /><br />Each night it seems as though I say something wrong.<br />We turn our backs to one another. We go to bed alone.<br />In the middle of our uneasy sleep cycle, we mutely forgive<br />whatever caused us to grow distant.<br />I am awakened every night by dream<br />induced kisses upon my back.<br /><br />All I am capable of doing is apologizing.<br />I feel safest when the words "I'm sorry" fall<br />from my mouth, usually breaking into a million pieces<br />upon impact. Each time, I silently pick up each<br />tiny, invisible shard and swallow them<br />so I can prepare to avert my<br />glance until the words decide to spill out again.<br /><br />It astounds me that someone can call me beautiful<br />and tell me they love me every single day.<br />It astounds me even more so that I can say I love you<br />and it is reciprocated in every way imaginable.<br /><br />If someone were to ask me what my favorite moment is,<br />I have prepared an honest answer.<br />It is when a glint or two of early morning sun cascades<br />through the space between the blinds; specks of dust<br />glimmering in dance, light weaving in and out of heavy<br />eyelashes, casting prismatic rainbows in my eyes.<br />Those moments, which are reoccurring, are the singular<br />moments where my world stops, holds its breath and<br />threatens to resume to a time where everything seems possible.<br /><br />The house has temporarily returned to my preferred state<br />of unoccupied. I will walk room to room, pretending that each one<br />belongs to me. I will tend to the garden as if I planted each seed.<br />I will make the noise that will surely shake the frames from the walls.<br />It will be me who decides to let the sun in.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br />(photo: christianog.com)</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-18130341023008888182009-08-26T09:51:00.000-07:002009-08-27T08:22:40.428-07:00<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SpVy8DGXUnI/AAAAAAAAAlg/jsHPpsF_7LY/s1600-h/nakedd.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 360px; height: 265px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SpVy8DGXUnI/AAAAAAAAAlg/jsHPpsF_7LY/s400/nakedd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374328106286273138" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"We're reeling through an endless fall.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> We are the ever-living ghost of what once was.</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />No one is ever gonna<br />love you more than I do."<br /></span></span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Involuntarily bound to this house surrounded by rain and uneasy thoughts,<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;font-family:arial;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I broke down. The rain is collecting and my heart is flooding.<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">If I don't start to swim, I fear everything I've ever known will quickly<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">become sunken treasure at the bottom of this impossible sea.<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Hopeless on the freeway, hazard lights ablaze.<br />Smoke billowing from underneath the hood, neon fluids escaping,<br />creating pulsing, narrow, neon rivers beneath my feet.<br />The action of having to pull over while cars sped past me<br />best simplified and metaphorically summarized my life.<br />Something has to change. I can't keep flashing my lights<br />hoping for someone to help me. Something has to change.<br /><br />Having come face to face with them before, I thought<br />I had finally built an immunity to being haunted by<br />likely and unexpected ghosts. But seeing that I've been in ill health<br />as of late, I am just as susceptible to old feelings as I was before.<br />My body just fights them in a new way.<br />We're happy for one another; the ghost and I.<br />We waltzed through a memory or two.<br />I filled in some long overdue gaps.<br />My "What if?" questions finally received answers.<br />I bit my virtual tongue as to avoid rehashing<br />what I've worked so hard to bury.<br />It doesn't matter, though.<br />I'm better now.<br />Ghosts come and go<br />but what I have is here to stay.<br /><br />The drunken conversation I brought to the foreground<br />was one of sympathy and compassion.<br />We cried. I felt invasive, but I had to tell him<br />and I had to know all there was to know.<br />Rain hesitated while all my words preceded question marks;<br />his answers proceeding silent pauses.<br />I held my chest as if to take my heart from its resting place,<br />giving it to him without precaution.<br />Barelegged, I sat on my knees by his side, convincing him that it was okay.<br />How a girl so beautiful, yet so completely tragic;<br />how such a tragically beautiful girl can love and be loved<br />so entirely and yet never see the love in herself.<br />She did everything to suppress the light within her,<br />while only one saw it bright enough to let it shine.<br />I realized how lucky I am to have the same one in my life;<br />with the same willingness to make me see my own light,<br />even on impossible and dark Tuesday nights.<br />Although we were slightly inebriated, I felt like we learned from things<br />we thought we would never even discuss.<br /><br />I am convinced that my body is incapable of properly processing pleasure.<br />It's much too accustomed to various forms of pain to<br />understand that pleasure is something I'm worthy of.<br /><br />It's been one month.<br />Most would say that one month is merely a speck of time.<br />Although that is true, it has felt like a lifetime.<br />What the future holds for this one month old, I am not sure.<br />All I know is that we've come a long way.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">He fell asleep between my legs.<br />Searching for my soul is a truly tiresome juncture.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center; font-family: arial;"> </div> </div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" ><br />I love breakfast.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-81706770914660909432009-08-24T10:39:00.000-07:002009-08-25T07:27:41.817-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SpLa3IVVwNI/AAAAAAAAAlY/PaJwRF1um9w/s1600-h/dfdfdffsfsd.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 298px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SpLa3IVVwNI/AAAAAAAAAlY/PaJwRF1um9w/s400/dfdfdffsfsd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373597946071072978" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:180%;">"Oh, my talking bird<br />Though you know so few words<br />They're on infinite repeat<br />Like your brain can't keep up with your beak"<br /></span></div><br />Flocks of planes intercepting the smoke trails they<br />carelessly left behind, interfering with the paths of the<br />black birds; playfully weaving in and out of<br />the mountainous sky. As I watched the slow,<br />intimate battle between steel, feathers and clouds,<br />all I could process was my hunger to fly amongst them.<br />I may not have wings, and I may not be designed to<br />brave the wind or the rain, but I promise you that I can fly.<br />And I promise that once I am given the chance, this cage<br />will be nothing but a mangled mess of wire, far, far behind me.<br /><br />Sooner than I thought, I find myself in this empty house once again.<br />This time, less satisfying.<br />I am doing my best to interrupt the quiet with<br />screaming and singing, but somehow the quiet always wins.<br />I can hear it even now; over my attempts to be in tune and on key,<br />over the music I insist on making louder and louder, over the<br /><span>interminable </span>beating of my imprudent heart.<br />Usually a comfort, the noiseless space between these four walls<br />is quickly leaving me yearning for voices; ones that are willing<br />to guide me to where discord and content collide.<br /><br />I've said these silly words to people less deserving.<br />No matter how much I open my mouth, no matter<br />how hard I try to expel these three, single syllable words<br />my throat closes up and my mouth sews itself shut.<br />I'm trying to defend myself. I'm not trying to protect myself.<br /><br />As if money and I were not the finest of bedfellows prior to today,<br />I received a letter stating that I owe roughly $1,200 to<br />the state of Michigan. I'm not sure how I'm going to sweet talk<br />my way out of this mess. I'm always talking my way<br />out of the things I've done wrong.<br /><br />I found a dead bee on the sidewalk.<br />I wonder what she did to deserve such an unforgiving death.<br />I've probably done worse and have been punished<br />with a lesser consequence.<br /><br />When he tells me that everything is going to be okay,<br />I believe him. Not because he is particularly convincing,<br />but because he always tells the truth;<br />something I am rarely accustomed to hearing...<br />or feeling, for that matter.<br /><br />While folding piles of mistreated, poorly constructed tshirts,<br />counting the minutes on my broken watches, black lines<br />from hangers lining my wrists, pop music pulsing in my ear,<br />children angrily tugging on the legs of their mothers,<br />I realized how unimportant most things are.<br />Life is so much bigger than this little world<br />I've regretfully created for myself.<br />I'm making it a goal to find the bigger things.<br />I want to feel it all.<br /><br />My imaginary wings are growing weak.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-35117099803834845852009-08-20T11:30:00.000-07:002009-08-21T09:58:36.736-07:00<div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><span style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:180%;">"You shouldn't think what<br />you're feeling<br />They don't tell you what<br />you know you should want"</span><br /><br /><br /></span></span></div><br />Once in a blue moon (or on certain occasions, a six pack of the former)<br />something happens, whether you're ready or not.<br />Stumbling through familiarity, tasting of cigarettes,<br />I said yes or some misinterpreted form thereof.<br />My twin bed, once accustomed to a solitary occupant, held two;<br />squeaking with each shift and each swift, inelegant movement.<br /><br />I'm not sure it was supposed to happen this way.<br />A damp bedroom, the only sound filling the air was<br />the incessant crying of my disgruntled cat.<br />Before I could bite my tongue, it happened.<br />And what I had held on to for so long flew out of my open window,<br />which provided very little relief to the unbearable heat.<br /><br />It followed a day of on and off conversations about painful,<br />yet good intentions;unrealistic decisions. I was forced to<br />revisit romantic defeatism.Flashbacks and flash forwards<br />threatened to erase the moments where I remember being happy.<br />Part of me wanted to walk away and forget the whole thing.<br />But instead, I apologized for something that was<br />most likely no fault of mine and came to terms with the fact<br />that perhaps they've been right all along.<br />After hearing those words fall so carelessly<br />and so rehearsed from his mouth my heart raced at a panicked pace.<br />It seems as though I'm always the one forced to patch up holes<br />and mend the patches.<br />My heart returned to<br />normal; we returned to us.<br /><br />The remaining evidence of my charm is a temporary,<br />milky white stain on my unwashed sheets.<br />People are looking at me differently<br />and I fear some people will think me to be a different person all together.<br />I'm no different, but I'm certainly not the same.<br /><br />I have to find the energy to wash this long overdue<br />transgression from my body.<br />It doesn't matter much.<br />There's no closing Pandora's box.<br />There's no going back.<br /><br />I purchased two used, malfunctioning watches,<br />both without batteries.<br />I have no intention of making them tell time,<br />but I'll wear them anyway.<br />If anyone should ask for the time,<br />I will simply tell them that it's infinite<br />and that there's no going back.<br /><br />My quiet little house will soon be washed away with sound.<br />A different set of keys will soon hang from the door;<br />footsteps other than mine ascending and descending.<br />I can no longer pretend it belongs to me; the quiet or the house.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-83429413128421929202009-08-17T07:07:00.000-07:002009-08-18T12:23:34.139-07:00<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SolkJdwuQ9I/AAAAAAAAAlA/VylPQ8n5PNY/s1600-h/6172_1199072663644_1433340093_549728_6032846_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SolkJdwuQ9I/AAAAAAAAAlA/VylPQ8n5PNY/s400/6172_1199072663644_1433340093_549728_6032846_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370934144386614226" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Don't question why she<br />needs to be so free.</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />She'll tell you its the<br />only way to be"<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Escaping the clutches of strip malls and deafening black and white noise,<br />we found a patch of earth to call our own.<br />Following 37 to 69. Breakfast in heaping amounts.<br />A little green tent and stubborn, unforgiving fires.<br />We traveled up river in a silly, little boat;<br />the sun swallowing the current.<br />The bottoms of my feet, blackened with dirt.<br />Mysterious bruises gracing every inch.<br />Lying on the edge/laying on the edge, underneath<br />the endless sky of burning dust, making choices without reason.<br />Shedding my clothes by the sea, running and jumping<br />spreading my arms like makeshift wings.<br /><br />I had forgotten how many stars are in the sky.<br />I was lucky enough to see them all. I lost count.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">It hit me while sitting Indian style on a basement floor,<br />listening to folk music, tapping my fingers steadily on a beer can,<br />clicking the shutter and shaking the lens.<br />Nestled into my human back rest, I thought to myself,<br />"I could be happy here."<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">There we were, reciting those three words in character.<br />But I had no idea I would be saying them off stage, when the curtain fell.<br />I'm not ready to say them or hear them, but I'm feeling them.<br />It's a tough distinction to make.<br /><br />The morning after will never be as much fun again.<br />Jumping on the bed, clothes and blankets strewn upon the floor,<br />inquisitive stares and shielded eyes.<br />"You two are perfect for each other" she said.<br />And in that moment, topless, Pat Benatar playing in the foreground,<br />he with a yo-yo in one hand, a beer in the other, I had to agree.<br /><br />Within the past few days some of the worst possible things one person<br /></span></div></div><span style="font-size:85%;">can say to another person have been said to me.<br />Within the past few days some of the most loving things one person<br />can say to another person have been said to me.<br />I am completely raw. I am completely guarded.<br />Who am I to believe?<br /><br />Seeing my face and my body plastered in newspaper print, scattered about<br />the town is truly a surreal feeling. And I realize calling something surreal<br />is often times considered cliche, but it's the only word that can skim the surface<br />of how it makes me feel. The fact the so many people are proud<br />of me and support me is truly overwhelming.<br />I don't see how I am in any way deserving of such love.<br /><br />The thing I hate the most is all I have to offer. Or so it seems.<br />It scares me to think that once people look past<br />my porcelain shell, they will be devastated to find nothing but emptiness.<br /><br />I wonder what people thought of it.<br />I wonder if people I knew back then,<br />saw it and thought about how they used to know me.<br />I wonder if they wish they still knew me.<br />I miss everyone that vanished.<br /><br />I wrote some letters.<br />When a conflict arises, my spoken words often fail me,<br />usually because of my relentless and biting tongue.<br />So, I write a letter. I feel safe within the lined margins.<br />She needs time.<br />I told her I will do anything to repair the damage I have done.<br />I don't think she'll let me back in. But I won't let her give up on me.<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Synchronicity is my most recent fascination.<br />The world isn't nearly as big as I thought.<br />The more people I meet, the more people I realize I've always known.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">I've come to realize, despite my past and my present problems, that I may<br />easily be one of the luckiest people ever to live. I say this only because<br />I am completely undeserving of the things I have and the people that love me.<br />But at least I understand that I've done nothing to deserve this life.<br />I promise that I am going to put forth exhausting efforts to earn this happiness.<br />I want to work for it. I want to fight against what I've come to expect.<br />I need this struggle, or I will surely disappear.<br /><br />For the first time in months, I am completely alone.<br />The house is still, with no promise of visitors.<br />The sound of the fan whirring, cats claws tapping against wood floor<br />and </span><span style="font-size:85%;">the delicate noises of my empty stomach<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:85%;">are orchestrating a symphony of restless distress.<br />This life is a stranger.</span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-85231846364088573952009-08-02T21:11:00.000-07:002009-08-04T18:46:14.617-07:00<div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:180%;">"All's quiet as she takes her aim.<br />But the weapons have changed"</span><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A dead dear. A dead deer. A misguided branch. A neglected notebook.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sore throats.Panic attacks. Sun kissed kisses. Mean spirited jokes.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Coming and going. Soft spoken doubts.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I'm slowly becoming more extremist in my disapproval of most things. I've been silently ranting to myself about obese children and abused farm animals and starving nations and outsourcing employment and prideful gluttony and exploited headlines and over commercialism and pointless consumerism. I am in no way saying I am not guilty of committing the very offenses I have decided to revolt against. But I'm starting to see the wrong in the world and no longer want to be a part of it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Having been actively avoiding that restaurant for months, I was finally forced to</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> face the three way door and the familiar patch of leather bench. After making a stealthy exit, I stopped for a moment. I stood with eyes closed and labored breath. I briefly revisited that day which eventually led to a downward spiral of self-doubt and confusion. I tried to feel something other than relief, but could not. Without giving it too much thought I skipped away like a child, eagerly anticipating the open arms of the one I have yet to scare away.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I received yellow flowers.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">This prevented me from choosing what would surly</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">be an emotionally self-destructive evening.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I opted against the possibility of being faced with an impossible feeling.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">In regards the the previously mentioned yellow flowers,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I still can't believe they are mine.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I've been given flowers twice that I can remember. Perhaps three times.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Once by my parents to congratulate my success in my ballet recital.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And once by my Grandmother for braving a terrifying surgery.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Pulled out from behind his back,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I thought about crying, but decided against it.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Instead I stained my nose and cheeks with pollen.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My hate for wearing shoes is growing</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">and my love of being barefoot is overwhelming.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I'm under a thousand microscopes.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Each magnification a prettier distortion of the last.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Please, don't pull away. There won't be anything beautiful left to see.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My expectations for happiness are no longer tangible.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">While trapped in traffic, I realized that I was at a complete stop beside an exit I once thought I would grow to love. One that I thought my car would drive to without me telling it to. I hesitated. I hate that I hesitated. I don't want to be that type of person. I blame the heat and my overall frustration with life in general for allowing my mind to wander and exit. Right, left, left. Despite my ill fated attempts, I still remember the way. I praise the heavens everyday that my car fights temptation and instead directs me to where I feel safe. Where I</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" > am</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> safe, I should say.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I am a firm believer in second chances</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">and find myself thankful for those given to me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A psychiatrist approached me while on my cigarette break and gave me his card. He was half hitting on me, half concerned for my well being. According to him, I looked like a girl with problems.<br />I can't say I blame him for thinking that.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He's right, for the most part.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-23225442656479510722009-07-27T16:07:00.000-07:002009-08-01T09:14:10.963-07:00<div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >"I'd offer my soul<br />if I thought it might help at all.<br />and I'd follow you down that road<br />If I thought it might help at all"</span><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I always expel a gasp of pain before I get hurt.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">And I'll make a barely audible noise even<br />if the pain was not that great.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I'm always getting hurt, or so it seems.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Bruises and cuts, scrapes and dings.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">My body is tarnished with lavish displays of accidents.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I pricked my finger. Blood surfaced. She brought to me a band aid and peroxide. With tenderness and sincerity, she gently dabbed my finger with a cotton ball. The next day, she made food for me. She's always telling me to take care of myself. She's always reminding me to breathe, a seemingly easy and natural task to most, but for someone like me, it's detrimental to have constant and loving reminders. Most of the time I feel unworthy of her, but she knows that I would give her the world if I were capable of doing so.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">My bed has become a perfect place to store<br />the things I no longer have the time to sort through.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">My car seems to know only one destination.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Their support is waning and their doubts<br />are growing at an exponential rate.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I can't prove to them that my<br />choices are in fact good ones, but</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I can't be bothered with what<br />people want me to be.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">It seems to make most people happy.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">But I'm afraid I'm just not wired that way.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">There is a slight chance</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">that there will be room for error.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">It has very little to do with loyalty or faithfulness,</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">but the truth of the matter is keeping<br />my head and my heart in sync</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">is something I've never been able to do.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">But I'm learning.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I can't wait until the bridge is rebuilt.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I went back to save the bird but it was too late.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I am the richest kind of poor.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-20569632392000214402009-07-24T09:44:00.000-07:002009-07-25T15:25:29.850-07:00<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SmnlUCS7k9I/AAAAAAAAAk4/XKID8nwlyQ8/s1600-h/Sexyy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SmnlUCS7k9I/AAAAAAAAAk4/XKID8nwlyQ8/s320/Sexyy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362068963737703378" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SmnlT4gvs4I/AAAAAAAAAkw/t0DzgRDQxbM/s1600-h/6092_1176017887289_1433340093_473114_1952956_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SmnlT4gvs4I/AAAAAAAAAkw/t0DzgRDQxbM/s320/6092_1176017887289_1433340093_473114_1952956_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362068961111290754" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:130%;" >"We once belonged to a bird </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:130%;" > We cast a shadow on this world" </span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></div><br />In addition to my poorly constructed inner clock I mentioned previously, I have come to learn and accept that I was born with an inaccurate inner compass rose. Even when I am following the most intricate and seemingly exact directions I always manage to take a wrong turn. And instead of realizing my mistake, I continue to follow the wrong turn with an aching sense of hope that I am in fact traveling in the right direction. The frustration that ensues when I realize that I have to turn around and start over is overwhelming and at times deafening. I eagerly await the day where I reach my destination without needing a map. I eagerly await the day where my destination is clear.<br /><br />While resting on what has become a familiar and loving shoulder, it hit me and I started to cry. I can't face another let down. I can't let myself down because I know what will end up happening. I will become a bore. My elusive, illustrious, visionary personality will evaporate into more of the same and this will fade before I'm ready. There is no proof, however, that this is the direction this venture is taking, but I know that I am almost entirely incapable of keeping the attention of someone I am learning to care very deeply about for more than five minutes. I don't see how I'm worthy of such patience. I am a troublesome juncture. I am an elaborate ruse.<br /><br />I will never let the simple act of having the car door opened for me become an unappreciated part of our routine. Nor will I allow myself to wander too far.<br /><br />I am officially now a part of the industry.An over sized black book and a signed contract with misleading agreements. It became real and I am someone new.<br /><br />There's something I want to know before I can keep going.<br />Okay. I lied. I <span style="font-style: italic;">need</span> to know <span style="font-style: italic;">everything.</span><br /><br />Would you mind leading the way? Knowing me, I'll just end up lost.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-7557765444637522522009-07-21T08:48:00.000-07:002009-07-23T08:08:54.576-07:00<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SmXklr472VI/AAAAAAAAAko/ed8QVMAVoFs/s1600-h/6532_1140875196183_1056512894_30453087_2545344_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SmXklr472VI/AAAAAAAAAko/ed8QVMAVoFs/s320/6532_1140875196183_1056512894_30453087_2545344_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360942267542264146" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">"When there's nothing left to burn,</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">you have to set yourself on fire."</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">There's something wonderful about<br />being cold during the summer months.<br />There's something wonderful about<br />knowing it will rain tomorrow.<br /><br />I have a stray kitten in my bed.<br />I named him Rhubarb. I think I have fleas now, but I don't care. I want to keep him, but I know that I can't. He fell asleep on my face. I forgot how beautiful it is to feel so enraptured by something as simple as a sandpaper kiss. It is a remarkable feeling to love and be loved by something so small and unassuming, so quickly. It reminded me of being a child which reminded me that perhaps I'm growing up too fast.<br /><br />When I said I have one kitten, I meant I have two.<br />It is a new feeling for me. It is nice to feel special.<br />Although this kitten and I have failed to define our relationship,<br />I am quite content with whatever it is we have.<br />That isn't to say I don't have my reservations.<br />That isn't to say I'm not being cautious.<br />But, regardless of what happens or doesn't happen<br />I'm happy as of right now. That's gotta count for something!<br /><br />Patching holes is a good feeling. I fear if I spring another, I will eventually become a living, breathing void. I want to avoid becoming my own black hole.<br /><br />I'm losing sight of what it is I've wanted to do my entire life. All thanks to pesky flashbulbs and filtered dreams. Of course they aren't entirely to blame. I think I may be too ambitious and too unfocused. Regardless of the source of error, I've let things get in the way and now there are words I have to learn all over again. Definitions and all.<br /><br />There was a moment. I was standing in the broken dusk, white feathers swirling beneath my feet, my hands blackened by soot. I spread my arms, as I often do, and it was then that<br />I silently revolted against <span style="font-style: italic;">everything. </span><br /><br />I have yet to meet someone who understands it. All I need is a 10 inch by 10 inch patch of ground to call my own. Enough room to lift a leg, sway my hips and cautiously toss my hair side to side. The satisfaction that comes with reaching that burst of cool air that awaits patiently above the crowd. The way the smoke dances around faces, making everyone beautiful. Pulsating drum beats in sync with stubborn heartbeats. It is the only time in my life where I feel unified and safe and free. Last night was no exception. Actually, it may have set a precedent for what happiness, true and unbridled happiness, should feel like.<br /><br />I am a lucky girl. My life is abundant in smiles and snorts and is filled to the brim with amazing people. This, however, makes my weak moments so much worse. I go from appreciating the ground I walk on, to cursing the world and all of its inhabitants. My weaknesses tend to prevail but I'm working on it.<br /><br />It is truly a strange comfort to see someone you haven't seen in a long time and there is still a thread of familiarity. I like that very much.<br /><br />My horoscope said something about freeing myself.<br />Freedom in what capacity, I am unsure.<br />But I would be a fool to not consider it.<br /><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-82409589551767002702009-07-16T09:28:00.000-07:002009-07-16T14:50:44.832-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/Sl-fa-5jUSI/AAAAAAAAAkg/MPCiI3-MQAc/s1600-h/Sexy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/Sl-fa-5jUSI/AAAAAAAAAkg/MPCiI3-MQAc/s320/Sexy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359177367503982882" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:180%;">"The sound of my heart,<br />it startled me."<br /></span></div><br />The songs I've spent the past few months listening to, usually on repeat, usually in between sobs and gasps, no longer apply to me. They are still great songs, but they fail to trigger that feeling I seem to have abandoned. I'm no stronger than I was before and I'm certainly in no better shape, but there is something magical about having to search for a more suitable soundtrack to new and unfamiliar feelings.<br /><br />I have an outstanding fear that I'm not going to make it. That my work will trail off into the sea of my past. I can't let it happen. Not now, anyway. It hit me yesterday. The sun was going down on the city of Pontiac. A cotton candy colored sky to my right, an empty stage to my left. I was wearing a black vintage Christian Dior shift, grass tickling my ankles, my friends playing in the patches of dusk, the sounds of shutter clicks and ambulances swirling around. It hit me. This is tangible if I allow it to be tangible. I can make this happen if I want it to happen. The only question I face now is, why?<br /><br />As much as I say I cannot stand children, nor do I want children of my own, I always am surprised to see the uninhibited nature and unbridled honesty of children and how refreshing it is to hear such free thought. I can't help but smile and wish that all the children of the world understand that there's no hurry to grow up. Everything they know and everything they don't know is completely beautiful. I actually tend to tell children I encounter to not grow up, to stay as they are. They usually tilt their head and ask why. But during yesterdays encounter, I bent down to tell the sparkly, wide-eyed seven year old to never grow up, she threw her arms up like two, stringy question marks and said, "But I have to grow up. My birthday is in October!" I told her that my birthday was in October, too. It was then that I came to the obvious, yet insightful conclusion that yes, my body and mind must mature with the natural progression of age, but I never have to forfeit the sweet, unassuming naivete of my inner child.<br /><br />I had a brief moment of weakness, which is not uncommon, let me assure you. I knew what I was doing when I made the choice to look. And when I did, the sparks reignited. So, I wrote it down again and set it on fire again. I awoke to nothing. Nothing had changed. It just didn't work. Maybe I don't need it to work, because it never will anyway.<br /><br />I need to purchase a calender or a planner. I have dates and times and locations and lists, all creating clutter and mess in my head. I've asked my inner child to clean up a bit, but she's stubborn and defiant. So, I'll have to do it myself. But it can wait until after I've run through my neighbors sprinklers, barefoot and giggling.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-31215239715768991172009-07-13T14:58:00.000-07:002009-07-14T13:45:08.720-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SluvDVwySsI/AAAAAAAAAkA/-evKQ51siqA/s1600-h/IMG_0102.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SluvDVwySsI/AAAAAAAAAkA/-evKQ51siqA/s320/IMG_0102.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358068653603572418" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SlznA9OcqQI/AAAAAAAAAkQ/NFnOc3yKpjo/s1600-h/5691_105844841551_777111551_2035308_2860230_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SlznA9OcqQI/AAAAAAAAAkQ/NFnOc3yKpjo/s320/5691_105844841551_777111551_2035308_2860230_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358411660285225218" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SluycMAi7_I/AAAAAAAAAkI/jk2GideKPO4/s1600-h/3704840272_4dde0bee5c_o.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LyuWI3NiPnc/SluycMAi7_I/AAAAAAAAAkI/jk2GideKPO4/s320/3704840272_4dde0bee5c_o.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358072379016933362" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" > "What you once were isn't what you<br />want to be anymore." </span><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I truly believe I was born with a poorly constructed, slightly damaged inner clock. Please don't ask me to give a specific example as to why I believe the previous statement to be true, just trust me. Too little, too late. Too much, too soon. These cliches are the bane of my existence, of which there are several.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">How is it that I am always the one leaving notes on peoples windows and doors? I try so hard to make people realize that I care about them. In regards to my most recent case, she won't respond. Not even a handwritten note could save this now.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I don't blend in anymore. When I was a child I wanted nothing more than to be normal. When I was a teenager I wanted nothing more than to be different. And now here I am. Standing out. I don't know what to think of it. I don't believe the nice things people say, not because I think everyone to be a liar but because I am most comfortable disliking myself. I'm being asked to carry myself differently and to change all the things I feel most comfortable doing. Perhaps this is a mid-mid-life crisis. Or more so a identity crisis. The point is, blending in </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;" >is</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> easier. </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;" >Was</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> easier, Jerilyn. </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;" >Was</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I can't bare to look at myself anymore, in any form. I'm exhausted by my various painted faces, curls and swirls, pigeon toes and blank stares. I'm a one trick pony, anyway. Everyone will see it soon enough and all of this will be merely a freckle. A freckle easily covered with some foundation and concealer.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I should have realized I wasn't love bound when I was in the fourth grade. You see, I fell in love with this Russian kid who moved to Michigan (to my fourth grade class) And when I say love, I mean </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;" >love</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">. He wasn't nice to me and when we passed notes back and forth his replies usually contained misspelled curse words. I wrote him poems and eventually forced him into being my boyfriend. To summarize my traumatic, elementary love affair, I was too much in love to see that perhaps love </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;" >wasn't</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> for me. </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;" >Isn't</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">, Jerilyn. Isn't.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I'm just now learning from past experiences, just one confirmation of my malfunctioning clock.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">It seems as though I am constantly tiptoeing around as to avoid upsetting anyone. But very few people show me the same graciousness.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I turn everyone I meet into my therapist.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">All I've got is the Ace of hearts.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I'm all in and I think I should fold.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-9021182830437802672009-07-09T07:39:00.000-07:002009-07-09T08:23:45.492-07:00<div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:130%;">"No one ever said it would<br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >be this hard.<br />I'm going back to the start."</span><br /></div><br />Clarity is a funny thing. We crave it and beg for it.<br />But somehow when we actually have it<br />we want to return to our familiar state of blurriness<br />because, after all, moving on is always more difficult<br />than standing still.<br /><br />For the first time in my <span style="font-style: italic;">entire</span> life,<br />I did not apologize for anything.<br />It felt electric.<br />I feel as though I've added a<br />new word to my vocabulary,<br />or perhaps I've removed a few.<br /><br />I'm the type of person who apologizes to a chair if<br />I happen to bump into it. And although I will still feel<br />awful for doing so, I will now at least acknowledge the<br />chairs wrong doing in the matter.<br />Instead of waiting to be forgiven,<br />I will open myself to forgive.<br /><br />In the spirit of funny things,<br />I would be foolish to not mention the funny nature of truth.<br />We hold honesty and truthfulness in such high regards.<br />Yet, sometimes we use truth as a last resort.<br />Like, it's our only option after we've done something we are sorry for.<br />Very rarely do we fall back on truth <span style="font-style: italic;">before</span> the road forks.<br />But in my very vague case, it's nice to hear. Even now.<br /><br />Someone special told me recently that they think I'm on the right path.<br />And for the first time in my <span style="font-style: italic;">entire</span> life,<br />I would have to agree.<br /><br />To put it simply, we are not perfect and it<span style="font-style: italic;">'s</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">okay</span>.<br />In regards to the aforementioned<br />clumsy, over apologetic girl,<br />she's going to be fine.<br />Trust me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-24737558685949031982009-07-07T06:14:00.000-07:002009-07-09T08:12:58.364-07:00<div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><span style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:130%;">"I </span><span style="font-size:130%;">chose to feel it and you couldn't choose"</span><br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I finally saw fireworks. The best kind. The ones that take you by surprise. Falling embers, falling stars. Taking cover from man made meteor showers. As fantastical as they were in the sky, it was their reflections on the water that I found to be most magical. Dreamlike, yet tangible.<br /><br />The past few days I've been forced to face music that I've been more than reluctant to listen to. But I'm taking it all to heart. Although the aforementioned heart is confounded and weak, it is feeding on the brutal honesty of this chorus; learning from these scattered instrumental interludes. I think I have become better suited to keep rhythm. Well, at least a beat or two.<br /><br />I initially traveled north to find peace and quiet. I would have settled for one or the other, really. But the noise found its way to me somehow. Paradoxically, the noise was <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> music.<br />It was steady and constant. It was foreign to me then, but now has become a vivid part of my presence. The fresh air, which usually inspires me, left me lethargic and heavy.<br /><br />I miss very much the land where feet are stained with earth and where people paint their houses whatever colors they like.<br /><br />I befriended a dog and smoked too many cigarettes. I told her the saddest story I knew. She told me even when I'm happy I'm sad. She wants me to find the missing piece. I asked her where I should look. She didn't know.<br /><br />I've been frequenting a different area with a new group of people. I'm surprised they let me in, seeing that I am much younger and have retained all those annoying, youthful qualities. But I enjoy the change of pace. I enjoy their company. With them, my laughter is never forced.<br /><br />While downtown, standing amongst a sea of the same, I felt my progress dissolve. Those lousy two steps that took me forever to take, faded to nothing as I quickly moved 10 miles back. So, I am back at square one. You have to start somewhere, right? Right. The car ride home was particularly painful. It was 4:30am. I was on empty in more ways than one. As I was coming undone, it all came together. I refused sleep, but sleep won.<br /><br />I wrote it down and put in the fire.<br /><br />People are most vulnerable when they're at their happiest.<br /><br />I've never feared ghosts until now.<br /><br />Yesterday, upon my return, things began to unravel as I knew they would. She wants to give up on us. Kind and unexpected inbox confusion. Police have too much power. The girl's moving out and moving on. There's not much I can do. I can fight, but what's the use?<br /><br />My mother called me fat.<br /><br />I better start looking for the missing piece.<br />But where do I start?<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1075027136792134173.post-52265657081861787562009-07-01T10:14:00.000-07:002009-07-04T07:44:21.574-07:00<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">I blame the change in weather.<br />I know it's unfair of me to blame the weather, a non cognitive entity,<br />but what's a girl to do? I'm sure weather will understand.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Coming home when the birds are stretching their wings awake and<br />sprinkler systems casually erupt is becoming something I am starting to enjoy. I could do without the endless paid programming on television, though.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >Part one:</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Excessive snorting fits, memorial dance party, harmless flirting, drunken clumsiness, misting rain, raccoon eyes, making people laugh,Kings and Aces, being snarky, misinterpreted winking, playful glances, turning around one last time and handmade unicorns.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >Part two:</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sun sans screen, midday sleep frustration, tuna sandwiches and Oreos, volleyball, friendly vulnerability, sunburned cigarettes, wanting shade, telling secrets</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >Part three:</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Matinees, playing dress up, vintage Jean Paul Gaultier, ancient sequins, cheese pizza, free haircuts, being adopted, being thankful, late starts, touching everything, overcast skies, broken bicycle chains, confident sheerness, wind blown hair, changing in cars (again), bare feet on city pavement, off brand cereal, cold cement and finding a wrinkled and weathered copy of myself.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >Part four:</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Name induced smiles, new car bitterness, revisiting an old infatuation, cheating on forgotten vices, pop its and sparklers, counting pennies, taking back empties on empty, spurts of creativity, enunciating my A's as Ah's, couple triple, sketchy drugs and lessons about hooking up, night to morning conversation, dinner for breakfast, waking in the afternoon and cursing the heavens.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I feel like I'm spying on hidden parts of myself.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I am a fake and a fraud.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I'm getting really sick of carrying this with me wherever I go.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I'll be clearing my head over the next few days, in a cabin by the lake.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I want to<span style="font-style: italic;"> feel</span> fireworks again.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0