column

The affair I was having with your spine is over. Your vertebrae betrayed the trust I placed on your lower back. It cracked and so did I.

You were leaning against the column at the courthouse the day when I prayed to whomever above that I would not have to pay the thirty-three dollar fine. Each dollar counts and I had to eat that week. I saw you. Your neck was bent and you were looking away, but we still connected. Each bone counts and I had to meet the skin that housed those bones. I said hello.

Tap tap tap. You hit your finger on my forehead to prove that I had a third eye. You said I was wiser than I believed. You believed I could see what was ahead of us. I have a gift, you said. I wonder if I still have the receipt, I replied. Tap tap tap.

What protects us also separates us. We place ourselves in cages, the row of bars like bones in our back. We are trapped in each other. We are tapping on a third eye that will never open. The key is too close that we can't see it. The key is to keep closed so we don't have to worry about finding a key.

I never had to pay the fine. I kept the thirty-three dollars in my pocket with my car keys. I must have spent it on something that week, but what? Did I grow bold and take you out to dinner? Did I use it all on lotto tickets? You looked up. You said hello.

new year's drag

Aside from Arbor Day, New Year's Eve is my least favorite holiday. Pulling your chain(saw) about Arbor Day. Trees are so much cooler than humans. And maybe that's why I don't like NYE? Because of the humans? If I could just go to a damn NYE party surrounded by sugar maples and green ash drinking champagne out of recycled glasses, I would be content. I would converse with the leaves in the shade and perhaps even kiss the bark when the ball drops from the branches. But alas.

Fine fine fine, humans are not that bad. They aren't always that great, but the great ones give me hope for the rest. It makes sense that NYE isn't my favorite because of the whole "I'm an introvert and hate parties" thing. I think a lot of it has to do with the "I a professional at avoiding everything and I don't want to be reminded of all the shit that happened these past 12 months and be forced to make future-failed plans for the next 12 months" thing. Yeah, I think it's the latter. With the right amount of substances, I can stand any social situation. But reflect on the past and the future? No amount of Xanax will get me through that.

Soooooo... Maybe I have my unintended New Year's resolution? Maybe I should resolve to not make resolutions. Maybe I can stop tripping back into the past and stop tip toeing into the future and instead rest semi-comfortably in the usually uncomfortable present. And eventually with enough practice and gentle reminders, the present will just become the present without any adjectives. That sounds like a good commendable exceptional plan.

exchange

I am more than qualified for a few jobs. These include complainer of having to wear pants, hater of shopping malls, lover of desert bones and ice cream cones, observer, non-participant. So is there a job out there for the non-participant? I will submit my resume tonight.

I am not marketable and I doubt I ever will be. I am not a "readily available" person. I would rather be a curmudgeon living alone in a trailer in the middle of Red Rock Country than be sold to a life that is "lived" just so one doesn't die with any debts.

Let me be in debt for eternity if it means I get to watch the stars at night and say hello to trees in the morning.

Keep your cuff links and briefcases away from me, boys. I have a not-so-brief case of cabin fever and a million miles of trails ahead of me to wander. The moon is my silver dollar and the only banks I know of are by rivers rich with breath.

detonate

What is your day like when you become a minor character in your own life? Do you shuffle around the kitchen in socks too small while the main characters sit by the window deep in conversation and their third cup of coffee? You exit into the hallway while the spotlight's still on in the kitchen. You remembered your cues, good job. Now you can become the audience while the life around you continues. Sit. There's no need for a standing ovation.

And you feel like throwing a grenade. You feel like that's the only way you can gain control of the scene. The ghosts of who you might have been will disappear when they hear the pull of the pin. It's not like you meant to portray a soldier. That wasn't who you were cast to be. You were supposed to be in the kitchen with the conversation and coffee, not on a battlefield full of abandoned booby traps.

Still, the explosion is expected, so you shuffle out of the way. You aren't in any hurry. You have no place to be. The stage directions were left out of the script. All you have to do now is shield yourself from the fragments of what might have been.

pace/place

I bought legal pads in bulk. Nine hundred sheets. Each sheet held the promise of scribbles which held the promise of genius ideas which held the promise of words to express those ideas which would be published into a book which would make me millions or at least book me a few readings at your local Barnes & Noble.

But it's not that I exactly write. In fact, I tend to do the exact opposite of writing, which includes all activities that are not writing. Reading, pacing, reading while pacing, baking banana bread that I will binge eat at 3 o'clock in the morning, falling into debt from following a fleeting (and pricey) passion, and pacing. Did I already mention pacing? Writers pace. Writers pace a lot.

So I could write. I have the sheets for it. And I should write. I have the need for it. Something as simple as inking up a piece of paper saves me from insanity while simultaneously diving into it. Funny how that happens, right? I don't want to write. I really really really don't want to write. I want to feel compelled to do almost anything else. Can I get a paycheck for pacing? "Anything else" has no interest in me, though. Anything else is a pair of two left shoes. Anything else leaves me at the door and drives away. Writing follows me in. Writing walks into my room and sneaks into my sheets. Writing stays the night. Writing won't wake up until I give in and cook it breakfast. Writing wants to feast with me. When will I sit down and learn how to eat?

reform

I search for a religion, but not a god. I want community, not commandments. I want the seasoning, not the meat. I want just enough to whet my appetite without baptism. I want stimulation without submersion. Do I have your permission to prefer perpendicular lines over parallel? Your symbol synchronizes with my style. It makes for an interesting design. I wear it with an aesthetic eye.

But maybe we aren't right angles. Maybe we are crooked little souls with crooked little canes that we use to help us walk down a path that is not straight and narrow, but overgrown and nonsensical. It leads nowhere, but then again nowhere is a destination. We are always the ones who design our travel itinerary. The details breathe, not the relics.

I wash my face in a mountain stream. This is my rite of admission. This is my dedication. The vault of the sky opens up and I walk into the web.

opposes the wait

Even as a baby, I had tricks. I had tricks that took me out of the arms of others. I'd arch my back to escape an embrace. There was something about folding into another that made be uncomfortable. It still does.

I know this doesn't bode well for future relationships. I know hands should be held instead of made into shields. I know I have skills to learn before I can slide into society as a functioning member.

I know I am stumbling. I know I'd rather stumble than fall into a biography penned by a stranger.

I sink just enough to touch the bottom with my toes. Those depths make the oxygen above an obvious joke. Who could ever use up all of this air? It is abundant, it is enough. The heart is buoyant, the soul is not science.

Concrete sinks. Wine turns into water, which turns into ice. I touch the surface of you with my razor-sharp spine. You crack. Bone floats. I glide.

catalepsy

Sometimes I wake up into a dream. I wake up and I am dreaming. I dream that I am dreaming and then I shake things up and awake that I am awakening. If you can awaken to the fact that you are dreaming, then you can place a framed diploma on your wall. You are legit. You have no reason to quit your day job because your day job happens to be rare and magical. People want what you can sell. You can sell what you can see. And what you see is what others only perceive while deep in their rapid eye movement. Don't wake up yet. I haven't sealed the deal. Do you want to dream? Do you want to wake up? Do you want to materialize while you simultaneously fade away? It's difficult to do, but once you do recognize this transitory state, you will relapse into rapid eye ear nose mouth finger movement. It's all connected. It's all recycled. It's all vapid and apt to become blurry and slip through the cracks while you shield yourself with sheets and sheep and counting down from one hundred. You are one in a million. You will now wake up by the time I get to ten. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

cable

We run side by side, bonded and twisted to form a single assembly.

I couldn't catch up with you that day you took me to the lake with your friend's dog. You said he needed exercise. The dog or the friend? I asked, charmed with myself. You laughed in a distracted way and instead of answering you parked the truck. We got out and started throwing sticks. You lifted me up over a swampy part. Mud doesn't scare me, I said. But alligators might, you replied. You and the retriever ran together while I sat and watched with spotless shoes.

We laid clockwise alone. We laid anti-clockwise together. We needed both to produce a strong line. We needed the line to act as an anchor. These ships are apt to sink.

It started out as a cough. You caught me covering it up with my sleeve and said I was wrong. It's all in the shoulder, you said. You cough into your shoulder, you said twice. I smiled like I've been taught, but I disagreed. The cough probably isn't contagious. Plus, what I've got would be rejected. A fight would break out before another body accepts what I've got. I've got this under control, I smiled and coughed and said in an unintentional accent. When I get nervous I can't pronounce my Rs. You rolled your eyes. I swallowed my words.

We use our strength to lift, haul, tow, and to sometimes convey force through tension.

You kept expecting more joints to crack in your hand. I can't walk down the hallway without looking around at anything but your eyes. If you catch me staring at you it's only because the walls have already caved in.

We build up the potential for fire. We are a source of fuel. We insulate to protect.

Your jacket catches on to the nail that once held that funny picture of the dog. We took it down because the dog died and it was just too sad to see it anytime we took out the trash. Luckily your jacket didn't rip, but it did add one more thing to the growing list of things to do. Hammer in nail. Take out trash. Two things. We had just two things to do and there was nothing we could do but keep walking out the door. Don't forget to lock it. Three things.

We are easily cut during excavations. We are found on side roads. Being exposed is impractical and dangerous. We are buried.

coin-op

My life is not an assembly kit. I am not a printed circuit board. People purchase kits to have fun and see how things work. I've come to the conclusion that I am unable to offer others fun and insight. But I can provide a tornado or two. There are hurricanes weighing down my pockets, like tokens. I can play pinball with all of the cluttered life I've collected. Maybe you are more of a Space Invaders person? That machine is broken, but you should be able to invade next week when I'm fixed.

And it's a constant item on my to do list to remain viable. I have to offer redemption games and pizza. I will close if I cling; dedicated hobbyists just don't foot the bills. And neither do tokens. I have to find a way to pay for prizes no one will ever win. They collect dust behind the glass case and fall out of fashion. Who wants a boombox in 2013? But a yo-yo is classic. My fortune may soon fall from the palms of a kid with too much time on his hands. I have faith in the yo-yo.

To tell the truth, it's just Tetris. It's just assembling blocks and blocks until they break down and disappear.

purification

In order to revise, we divide. In total disorder can we ever hope to become whole. When you are already whole, you don't know it. You aren't thirsty enough. You haven't wanted water.

I've wanted water, but only so I can conquer it. I can't swim, but I am determined not to drown. Most of me is made up of what one day might be swallowed up by the sky and showered down upon your head. Where's your hood? Don't you want to protect the part of you that I once anointed, that I once blessed?

To be so bare invites isolation. We exist in abundance, but we die with a deficiency. I will lack whatever it is that you cannot -- will not -- give back. It is a choice. It is a way to weigh what matters most: water or blood?

So tonight I will fight the fact that from a biological standpoint we are made to dissolve. I will linger in the shadow of a hope that fire and water can coexist.

One can drown in one drop. Who would deny that? Who would deny Ophelia's thirst?

sink

I am too old to not know how to swim. Still, it's a handy excuse to give when someone invites me to go sailing the Dead Sea or, I don't know, enter into a delusional phase with them and believe that we are both Jesus, walking on water while the monsters saunter below. But I am too old. Maybe even older than the Savior, with his swimming skills and faith in His feet. My feet are full of bunions and crooked toes from years of youthful shoes. I haven't a clue how to stay afloat, but I do know how to drown in style. There is a high heel for every occasion.

frazzled

I think I am just tired. And my brain is frazzled. And I am upset that I just used the word "frazzled" and that I keep starting sentences with "and." And I guess it's useless to keep second-guessing myself. It's useless because all it does is keep me spinning in a circle until I get dizzy and give up. Maybe it would be wise to walk the perimeter of my brain. Let me see what's up there, inch by inch. I want to hide away in the right angles and lose myself in the obtuse triangles. Maybe most of my brain contains "maybes" and "ands," but there must be some space dedicated to the traces of light that leak out of the cracks of my half-closed eyes. If I only see what I perceive, then I will be blind to both beauty and despair; in other words, I will be bland. I want to give richness and flavor to whatever's cooking up there in my head before it fries. I want to try to taste the subtleties before they become casualties and have to be thrown out with yesterday's news.

block

I begin writing only to find that the sentence quickly becomes a death sentence. The exclamation mark, a decapitation. The question mark, a sickle. The cell I place myself in will never swell. Instead the walls get closer and the spikes grow sharper each hour that passes without a decent paragraph. The turn of a phrase would be a welcome relief, an appropriate idiom might be the spoon I need to dig myself out of here. But let's be clear that my muddied mess of words still serves some purpose, even if it's just material for the therapist to decipher.

fry

While in the kitchen killing
a fly, it occurs to me
that I may die having never
seen a pregnant seahorse
or a peacock flounder.
I'd be okay with missing
out on the flounder,
but please let heaven (or
hell) wait until I can
witness this sea monster
swim around a coral reef
with a brood pouch full
of fully developed darlings.
I see I've grown attached
to these juvenile fish
I have yet to meet.
Did you know biology calls
them "fry"? I can't help but laugh
and cry at the idea
of frying up a thousand seahorses,
right at the moment when they learn
to feed themselves.
Their knowledge is useless now,
as I dip them into tartar sauce
and chow down.
Adieu, little darlings.
You are so delicious
that I've forgotten about the dead
fly and the egg
I had meant to crack
and fry.

aurora

If I could announce the arrival of the sun
every morning like Aurora
I wouldn't worry so much
about taxes and health insurance and pensions and
funds and other words I don't really
understand.
If I could have a resume one line long
"Goddess of Dawn"
and have Sol and Luna
as my references available on request
I suspect I would not get
many interviews,
but that would just leave me time
to communicate with the shape
of mountains, with the rusted color
of the winter bark,
with the divine found only in the
body of a mother bear
sheltering her cub from
the oncoming storm.
If I could renew myself
after a night littered with loss
and lacking of light
I would know myself
and I would rise.

restoration

I worry about my teeth.
I worry about what's housed in my mouth,
these little calcified whitish ships
docked along a gummy bay.
I worry that one day they will suddenly decide to set sail
and fall down the waterfall
of my throat into an acidic pit.
I worry that the acid can't handle the vessels' demands.
My teeth insist on a high life.
Polished and bright and
cutting and crushing
whatever gets in their way.
Today they are crowned and sit upon their thrones,
tomorrow they are thrown into a cave
with only two sticks to light their way.
But there's a bridge.
And even though ships don't normally walk across bridges,
maybe just this once
they can grow legs and escape.
Maybe just this once
they can stumble their way upon a shore
stocked with sunken treasure now earthed.
It's full of gold and scrolls,
bones and skulls,
conversation and stars
and everything one needs
to replace the small spaces
lost inside.

staple

Sometimes the bread we buy is just dust in disguise. This also applies to apples and pudding and non-edibles, such as bandages and potted plants. I prefer my bread, apples, pudding, bandages, and potted plants to be upfront with me, but I know that for the time being they can't. We want the disguise and the lies, and these items aim to please. There is pleasure in the suffocation. Stamp out what can't coexist with the fantasy. They listen; we don't. Somewhere along the way we've forgotten that the feast is still figuring itself out. We consume what is unknowingly half-baked. We save room for dessert, but forget to leave a trail of breadcrumbs back home. We stumble. We somehow figure out the key and the lock and enter our empty living rooms half dead and full.

There are cells and volcanic ash in every bite we take. We are part of the universe, thriving inside burnt meteorite particles also present in the dust we partake. This will worsen our allergies unless we suppress.

An appetite for what is already gone is nothing new. But for the few who choose to chew and swallow their manna, they will want for nothing more than the stars at their feet and the ocean in their eyes.

Heaven is nothing more than what's placed on our plate.

file

Is my brain a sheep or a walnut or the classic cauliflower? Maybe it's playdough. Maybe it has fallen into a pool and can't remember how to swim. It has to be selective with memories. It is a filing cabinet. It is cold sheet metal, sterile office furniture. Depress the body of the lock and it will open. No key necessary. The drawers are full of whole walnuts.

And it's late at night when I try to rewind and begin again in my mind. I would take your suggestion and order the steak off the menu. I want to tell you that I like your funny idea of wearing those traffic cones as hats. And we can do it! It probably isn't a great idea, seeing as traffic cones are hard to come by, but at least I'm willing. And I'm willing to admit that I'm never going to love you as much as I do when I don't love you anymore. I file you away until I need to crack open some nuts to feed my words. You are a blog post. You are a convenience when I can't sleep and feel indulgent. You are alphabetically tucked away in the middle shelf. It's okay to say I'm a sheep.

I will suspend this until I remember how to swim.

peach

Words I overuse: maybe, probably, perhaps, also, and.

I doubt, I second guess, I can't settle. And I'm also always adding on, maybe as a way to insure and protect and soften the eventual blow.

But all of this makes me blow it. "It" being the opportunity, the game, the chance to live an afternoon free from worry and instead wrapped up in the warmth of the ripe peach straight off of the tree. The branches are arms that will either embrace or strangle; which type of branch will I choose to see? How far down the path will I go until I stop to take in the view? Nothing will offer a clue because there is no detective searching. We live the mystery and that's what makes everything worth living. The mystery is what makes the peach so sweet.

I want to sweat more while I work. I want to try, to care about the result. I don't want to protect or soften these hands. I want calluses. I want proof that the peach is worth it. And it is. Maybe, probably, perhaps one day I'll believe it for myself.

a non-floofy survey

I am filling this out at gunpoint. I swear.

26. idol(s)
Writers. Poets. Lovers of language, (wo)man! Is it a sin to have an idol? Or is it a sin to be afraid to let go and idolize away? (Those were not deep questions. Please do not think of or try to answer them.)

27. things i hate
I very much dislike being trapped inside on nice days. I also do not care for the clumps of hair in my shower drain.

28. i'll love you if...
you listen to me.

29. favourite film(s)
Lost in Translation, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, The Graduate, Annie Hall

30. favourite tv show(s)
Breaking Bad, British comedies, Girls

31. 3 random facts
In 4th grade I got into trouble for purposely kicking over a bucket of paste. In 3rd grade I pulled out the chair of a crush right before he sat down, making him fall on the floor and making everyone else laugh at his expense. In 2nd grade I must have done something and learned a few things, but I have no memory of any of it. I honestly can't remember a lick of 2nd grade. BUT! But in 1st grade I had a boyfriend named Trent and we played cars during recess, which just means that he pretended to be a car and I pretended to drive him and fill him up with petrol. Mind out of the gutter, folks.

32. are your friends mainly girls or guys?
They are mainly gender neutral, K?

33. something you want to learn
French, assertiveness, calculus.

34. most embarrassing moment
Probably something to do with farting in front of a crush. I dunno.

35. favourite subject
Cute! Okay, let's pretend like I'm in grade school again. Okay, so. SO. FavoUrite subject. English. English because all of my teachers were failed poets and I probably related to them or something. And books are pretty okay. And science! I like science. Science makes sense!

36. 3 dreams you want to fulfill?
I want to live simply along a coast, perhaps in a yurt. I want to allow my writing to develop and take me somewhere. Maybe having a PhD would be shit rad.

37. favourite actor/actress
I will watch anything with the divine Tilda Swinton. Oh, and is that John john Malkovich? And could that be Bill Murray? What a flick! I'll pay for a ticket!

38. favourite comedian(s)
Looooooouis Cccccc K. And am I Maria Bamford? In my dreams.

39. favourite sport(s)
It will always be women's softball.

40. favourite memory
I block out every memory, even the favoUrite ones, because memories are vicious. They are the key ingredient to misery. But if I had to choose, I'd say I really dig the memory of writing this post. Such a great survey. Such a great time. Such remarkable memories.

41. relationship status
Single and ready to Munch-n-Mingle at the local singles ward!

42. favourite book(s
Let's get fuggin' serious, okay? Okay. So. Frannie and Zooey. The Brothers K. Something by Alan Watts. Anything by Lorrie Moore. And I'm sure there are more that I have yet to discover. Let me discover them, okay? Stop asking me to hang out! Let me read instead!

43. favourite song ever
Ugh. Probably "Two Step" by Mr. Dave Matthews and his band. Celebrate we will. Because life is short but sweet for certain.

44. age you get mistaken for
17. All of the time. (But what if it was 44? That would be super spooky because this is question number 44 and I forget what else I was going to say and I think it's for the best that I stop this super spooky survey.)

residual

I wonder sometimes if the little things I mindlessly do are somehow impacting the life of someone on the other side of the planet. Like, will this discarded plastic cup lead to the imminent demise of a kind shopkeeper in Kyoto? Maybe stepping on these cracks will throw a Chinese man onto the tracks just in time to get slammed by the 5 o'clock train. Simple actions could lead to devastating consequences, and often they do. It's the cancerous nature of existence.

But where is our sensitivity? Did it die out with the Dodo or fade away with the phonograph? If I knew the weight that this plastic cup holds, would I still choose to toss it due to convenience? I do everyday. I empty out what doesn't directly serve me in search of pure pleasure. A syrup. We have evolved into waffles, waiting to be suffocated under the warmth of thick sap. (Your mouth can't even say those words without getting momentarily stuck. Try it.)

So maybe our homemade wings which we think are so delicate desecrate the land that is lost on the map. But it's not our loss. So pass the butter, please. I'm polite and hungry and blind.

wander

Do I want to come home or do I want to wander? These two conflicting desires occupy most of the space in my brain. It has been a full-time job just trying to figure out which general direction I wish to walk. Or jog. Or run, except I run for the wrong reasons. I run to get away from things/people/places. I don't run to things. I never have and I doubt I ever will.

So walk. So walking it is. I will walk towards and on a path that I alone choose. So choice. It's my choice. That means the mistakes are on my already heavy shoulders. Should I even care? Wouldn't it be better to be reckless and daring? The moment I shy away from the spontaneous is the moment I shy away from the gunshot that signifies the race has begun.

But then again, I won't run. I will walk. I will dip my toes in and test the waters. I'll watch what others do before I decide to dive. This is simply the who and what I am and I don't think I need to change. Of course, the only thing one can count on is change. So will I change my mind on change? Or will I just ask for more spare change so I can continue my life of meandering through the thoughts that fill my head?

I figure both my dreams and nightmares serve a purpose. I figure I may not figure it out. I figure I'll get a decent night's sleep tonight. Let us give thanks for that.

unlearn

I've been trapped in a slow cooker for the past two and a half years. But am I really trapped? Or am I actually free to marinate, enhancing my eventual flavor for when the taste buds finally show up at the door?

I might be constantly cold and roasting in my own ruins at the same time. There is a pleasant balance to be found in there, I think. A perverted pleasant balance, but a balance nonetheless.

A large chunk of my life has been spent in school. That chunk was tied together with string, keeping my stuffing inside. Nothing is terribly rare about this background. In fact, it's just another traditional flavor and color added to life, like milestone birthdays and baptisms.

Now my challenge is to avoid evaporation. How do I retain what I gained for nearly three decades? It has become impossible for me to have hope in the possibility of overcoming the impossible.

I want to lay down my pens and plans and books and potential and just become. I want to become whatever I would have become without the string, without the low temperature learning. I want to unlearn. I want to dispose and start empty and whole. I want to look at a tree and see it as a thing struggling to reach the sky, no matter how twisted the branches.

I don't want it to have a name. I don't want it to be claimed.

lead

"Myself imprisons me. The lead shield of my habits, that heavy, soft bluish-grey dead defence." -Jeanette Winterson, Art & Lies

coco-nuts

Maybe I'm saner than I realize. Maybe I feel insane because everyone else in the world is insane and being the only sane person in an insane world will occasionally make one believe that they are insane. Know what I'm sayin'?

Belief. So what do I believe? I guess I believe in binges. I go on binges with different beliefs, be they religious or secular. I go on binges with people, be they dreamboats or dipshits. I binge on what I am denied and I also binge on denial. Only the sane binge, I promise.

Something's going to happen soon, I think. I fear. I hope. I am! I am everything I think, fear, and hope. And I am determined to abandon it all. I am determined to wake up on my own deserted island after being knocked out by a coconut of my own creation. Where there's a will, there's a way. Where there's a tropical tree, there is hanging fruit. (And he swore coconuts were nuts, not fruit. After some diligent research, it turns out coconuts are indeed a part of the fruit family. See? I'm not as insane as I claim.)

only

I'm living an invisible existence. I have been for almost a decade now. I don't know how to reappear. I don't know how to stop starting every sentence with "I." Are we deceiving ourselves? Are we blocking our departures from the Self? Maybe we are more fantastic than we realize and the "I" driven sentences are more than justified. I tried. I keep on trying.

People take holidays. They TAKE them and enjoy them and pay extra for extra and come home with some pretty pictures. How can I be that person? That seems so orderly and nice. Here, here is your vacation and here, here is your pill of relief and moment of escape. There! Now you are refreshed and ready to clock in again. When is your lunch break? Would you like to talk about the stock market with me for 30 minutes over a barbecue chicken sub? Then we can begin all over again tomorrow.

I don't know. I don't know if I am destined for anything other than a yurt in the Northwest. I'll place all my bets on that and hope for the best.

You are looking really good tonight. You are looking remarkable, in fact. Let me take you home. Let me plant you in the soil I have yet to buy. (And why do we have to buy the earth where we will retire to? Is this a sick joke or just a vacation from the norm? I want my bones to fade away for free. I want to leave no trace except for an escape.) But it's true. It's true that you look good tonight.

timber

I don't know how else to put this. We are so fragile, but we're as tough as nails. We soak in baths and listen to Icelandic music, but we drink our whiskey straight and like our coffee black. Here's to hoping when our hair gets pulled our scalp will tough it out. In the privacy of your own mind is where I want to spend some time. Not too much time. Just a few seconds, enough to glimpse the expanse of what you hope for, what you are willing to give up, what you can't let go. I want to see you as the geological wonder that I know you are. Or are you an onion?

From which part of the earth do you rise? And where will you plant your roots? I'd travel to find you if I could just find the door. Maybe you are the door. Maybe I need to walk through you instead of with you. They say that in an earthquake the safest place to stand is under a door frame. The house may collapse, but you'll be left as tall as a naked tree in the middle of the loneliest winter. (Do your hinges comply with fire codes? I have a match and I'm ready to strike.)

And the whole forest existed just to create your frame.

So do the roots even matter? What's the matter? Here. Let me hold you.

ursa minor

There is a beauty in the hunger, I said to myself at 9:09 at night. I thought I was being deep, but I was just lazy from lack of sleep and food. To fill up your insides leaves you with the patience to pause and look up when you are outside. There are stars and constellations and spaces between my fingers where I let the juice from the peach slip through. Where are you tonight? Are you looking at the Big Dipper through blurry eyes like I am? Leave the Little Dipper alone. We'll find him together.

Still I can't see. Still I can't see what I've stolen for myself. I thought I could trap the entire northern sky in a Mason jar. If it can preserve food, it can contain and save what we almost lost. Right? But then I'm still left with the leftovers of an entire galaxy. Does it save? Can we count on it for when the winter months hit us with a sheet of starvation? Let's wrap up in a stream of stars, dead but white hot.

We know no limit. We walk until we collapse. The oxen will carry us now. A home hides behind the shower of meteors tonight.

And you are a myth. And I am a handle. And we grasp on to each other in order to empty ourselves over and over.

vacant

Maybe the appropriate way to describe us would be "a lukewarm vacuum." We stay shy, we pick up what others have left behind. We sometimes suck. And we're teetering on the edge of drinkable and dumpable. Not too hot, not too cold, but we ain't just right, not yet.

We can't contain space because we are empty. But maybe emptiness takes up space. In fact, it takes up days and weeks and lifetimes. I've found a temperature in this room of mine that's just right. Not too hot, not too cold. Close the door when you leave.

abstain

It's strange to think of a 13-year-old me who a keychain that read "Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most." dangling off her purple Jansport backpack. I had no idea that I was about to fall into a dark abyss of depression, obsessive compulsiveness, and super wacky body image issues. Get ready, 13-year-old, Meg! Life is about to get a lot tougher.

I was put on medication when I was 17 and I was on and off various antidepressants for the next decade. Being an idiot (or at least careless), I didn't take my medicine regularly. I would get it in my head that the pills were making me dull or fat or both, so I'd quit cold turkey and wonder why a day later I was bawling alone in my car at school.

It's hard to say if it was the medication or the misuse of the medication that has left me feeling like that entire decade was a blur. So much happened in the world during that time and I don't even feel like I was alive to experience it. At most I was watching a movie, never participating, only observing -- and falling asleep in the middle of it. This disturbs me.

I desire, at times, to be hyperaware of what is going on. I have moments where I want to read every section of every newspaper, confidently debate those with whom I disagree, attend protests and demonstrations and rallies, and donate all of my time and money to really patching up this little planet. But these moments are fleeting.

More often than not I am still stranded in my head, consumed by an inner world. I fixate on thoughts that I either forget to share or hesitate to because I feel they might be too loony. I'm starting to make it sound like I've lost my grip on reality, but I don't believe that's the case. Maybe I've just gotten too comfortable turning away and not paying attention. This is devastating. I don't have the excuse of insanity on my side; I just have deliberate ignorance.

A fearful life sprinkled with apathy isn't exactly what I ordered, but that's what's been placed in front of me. Do I build up the courage to ask the waiter to take it back? And if he takes it back, will it just come back to me? Because I am the chef in this situation. I cook my own meal, minute by minute, day after day. It's time I learn to digest my own creation, even if it's simply empty calories, full of preservatives.

But I want sustenance. I want my ingredients fresh and my knives sharp. I want to tip generously and lick the plate when no one's looking. To have a satisfying feast, the senses must cooperate. I want my appetite to come back.

home

I now have two homes.

Well, two and a half.

On almost every "to do" list that I write for myself, I include "find a home." I think I can finally cross it off the list, or at least add a little check mark (two and half check marks) next to it. I don't think I can ever completely eliminate this task. I believe searching for a home will be my lifelong journey. A home and an identity. Same thing?

The two homes are Orem, bizarrely enough, and Salt Lake City. Hey, Orem, I don't dig your culture, but I like the quiet and the family and the mountains I can see so strikingly on my walks around your arboretum and empty baseball fields. And Salt Lake. Hey. It's a little awkward between us right now, isn't it? I feel like we just had a messy breakup. But we both still care about each other and know that it's no one's fault. We are most likely just taking a temporary break anyway. It simply wasn't the right time for me to be in a long-term relationship with your skyscrapers and nightlife. But you are still familiar, like an old jacket.

And then there's the half. My half home is Pleasant Grove. It's the town where I grew up, but it's such a foggy thing of the past that I can only claim it as a home through nostalgia. In reality, I go back there and I am displaced and confused. Memory is stagnant; places change. I no longer belong there physically, and that's okay. A home does not need to be defined as a physical location.

Okay, so maybe I have another half-home. That would be the Teton Range. The area is so quietly powerful that a mere seven days a year are all it takes for my heart to become greedy and claim it as a refuge.

Two and a half and another half (do the math: that's three) homes are a luxurious amount of homes. I am ready whenever the Universe is ready to add another home. I'll let you in on a secret: I'm hoping the next home has flesh and bones.

set on you

Hey, you! Do you read my blog? I think you might, sometimes. I wonder if you do because I wonder about you. I wonder if you wonder about me. I wonder if you wonder what it would be like if we met up again and started all over again and tried to hold hands this time and maybe make it a point to pack up and head up to the woods where you will cut down the necessary tree so we can stay warm while we fry our fish and watch the stars dance across an open sky. I wonder if you'll find a feather for me. Didn't we promise each other feathers? Didn't we figure we'd figure into each other's lives somehow? I want it to somehow happen so suddenly, but naturally. I am going to scare you away again. You've left.

And what's left is almost nothing that is right. We can't begin to explain why the horizon looks that way except to say it is flat and will return. Each night we hold our breaths as the death of the sun leaves us mourning. And then we awake, and then we wonder at the stretch of time before us, where we fill in what we can't kill.

You feel, you fill. I am here empty waiting for an eclipse.

EM EFF A and friends and lockets

It's been a few soul-searching hours. Here are a few things I'd most like to do:

1. I want to go to grad school. I'll go anywhere I am accepted. I will begin by researching schools/programs and working up the courage to ask old professors if a) they remember me and b) they are willing to write a letter of recommendation for me. I will also indulge in poets and poems and poetry terms and poetry readings and practically anything to do with poetry, except perhaps really sad open mic nights at local coffee shops. Okay, maybe I'll give them a shot. Oh yeeeeeah. And I also want/need to write my own poetry. You know, because if that's what I intend to do as a profession, then I might as well start practicing.

2. I want to strengthen my relationships with my family and female friends. Both groups are overwhelmingly supportive and nurturing to me. I want to be a better daughter/sister/friend. I am going to smother them with so much love that they will become overwhelmed and leave me! Perfect!

3. I want and desperately need to be kinder to myself. I am still figuring out how to do this. This might mean easing up on my "rules" and rituals. This might mean practicing loving-kindness meditation towards myself. This might mean wearing a sweet little locket around my neck that holds two Little Meggie pictures inside. When I am tempted to beat myself up in any way, all I have to do is look inside my locket. But will that work?! There's only 47 ways to find out. Or one. Yeah, there is only one way to find out. Unless you believe in prayer and/or fortune tellers. So there are about two and a half ways to find out. Well, I guess I could have a vision, too. There are ways to find this out. I think I'll go with the tried and true "try it and find out for yourself" method. Science! Experiments! Lockets!

That's it for now. Basically, in no particular order, I want to focus on grad school and poetry, family and female friends, and self-compassion and lockets. And maybe some science experiments on the side.

moods and tonys and diapers

I've been a tad moody in my recent posts. I am not going to apologize for having emotions, though! Nope. But I will apologize for not being as tactful as I could have been. I am still trying to figure out the fine line between being assertive and being an asshole. People just wanna be loved and accepted, (wo)man. Still, I don't "owe" anyone my attention. I do, however, owe them an explanation, even if it is brief. It's too tempting for me to ignore and run away from anything and anyone that makes me even remotely uncomfortable. It's a bad habit I should break. Breaking bad habits. Breaking bad. Breaking Bad: The Musical. Starring Meghan Wiemer as Heisenberg and Pinkman and Tuco and Badger and the blonde chick and the boy with the crutches. A one-woman show! Tony Award winning play! Suddenly closed due to Meghan being a tactless asshole to the audience.

Anyway, Sundays are awesome, huh?

I am going to work on a list of my goals/dreams/aspirations today. What is really important to me? What five things do I value the most? Where do I want to channel my energy and what can I discard? This is a vital thing for me to do/figure out. I feel swamped with demands and desires and diapers. Kidding about the diapers. But maybe one day when I am the mother to five beautiful adopted children from Africa and Asia, I will be swamped in diapers and delusions that I am Angelina Jolie. Until then I will just focus on finding which demands and desires to tackle and wrestle to the ground until we are making sweet love.

There is no way to end this post except for with a picture of two sickos eating a banana.

weeding

I wish I would have more faith in myself.

I wish I would quit letting narcissistic men into my life. No, we can't meet up while your girlfriend is on vacation. No, I am not charmed by your short, borderline offensive texts. No, I am not that girl that will run off to Paris with you and steal cars. Maybe you can ask me how my day was? Or what kind of books I like to read? Maybe I don't have to be a cutesy, compulsive character in your coming-of-age tale. I'm probably going to ignore you from now on. Besides, who said that I was ever interested? Being polite does not equal let's date.

I wish I was brave enough to live my truth.

I wish I knew what I meant by "truth." I wish I didn't have to start almost all of these sentences with "I wish." I wish I spent less time wishing and more time doing.

So maybe I will. I will drop off the face of the online planet for a bit and maybe never answer your texts and definitely not answer your calls. I will immerse myself into the reading and writing of poetry and essays and plays that will save. The amount of energy I've given up to peripheral people and activities that do not serve my personal truth is disheartening, but that doesn't mean it can't change. I'll start tonight.

Not everyone has to be a soulmate.

actualize

The thing that prevents me from writing blog posts (and poems and stories and plays and essays) is that I never know how to start. The beginning is the worst. The end is fine because you can just fall back on, "And then the alarm clock went off and it was all a dream!" But seriously, the first sentence and the first paragraph and the first page and the first chapter are painstaking. Don't ever become a writer. Don't ever subject yourself to such constant self-doubt and dissatisfaction.

Phew! Now that I've officially (not necessarily successfully) gotten the beginning of this post out of the way, I can dive into the MEAT of my post. I come to you today with no real agenda except to write whatever appears in my mind so that I can prove my existence by having you read my words. Funny thing is, though, is that I am the one that creates myself, which creates you, which means that I am creating everything surrounding me constantly. I am about to go disprove physics and walk on some water, okay? See you in a minute.

I'm back from my failed attempt at walking on water! And now for my brain vomit.

Mean/shock humor is never funny and never will be. I see too much of it online and for whatever reason, some of it has been aimed at me by crappy dudes I barely know. I pretty much have zero tolerance for that kind of "humor." I have no regrets ridding you from my life if you feel it necessary to constantly put people down. May you find a less boring way to fill your day.

Women. All of the time. You are wonderful in myriad ways.

I am becoming more and more "sure" of who I am. I mean, as I said earlier, I am constantly creating myself, so maybe there is no surety because it's all fluidity. As of this moment, I am a curious secular absurdist who likes the idea of top hats and the taste of cotton. Seriously, chewing on a washcloth that is straight out of the dryer is divine.

I'd rather be a candle than a match.

eight cold hard facts

I keep trying to get lost in a maze of my own words, so for this post I am just going to tell you some Meg Facts. Just gonna lay it all out there! This ain't no maze, darling. This is a disco. A disco of boring facts.

*When I was young I wanted to live in a trailer park with all of my friends and relatives. We'd each have our own trailer, but we'd get together each evening to have a large barbecue and play kick the can. We might even ride our bikes around the park, wearing funny hats made out of the pages from the morning's newspaper.

*I bite the inside of my mouth raw. Last week when I was driving on the freeway in a SNOW STORM, I was biting my cheeks so hard that they are still sore. I did not even realize I was doing it! My mouth is a disaster.

*When I do not know how to pronounce words, I almost want to cry out of embarrassment.

*I always always always wanted poofy bangs growing up, but my desire was never fulfilled. I did, however, have those thick megabangs that start from the middle of the head. And on the first day of 5th grade I thought it would be a great idea to have NO bangs, so I used almost an entire bottle of gel to slick back my hair. I went to school looking like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, but a John Travolta in a CAT t-shirt, so it somehow all worked out. Cat shirts fix everything.

*I can't stand lined paper. Okay, I can stand it. I just don't prefer it. Huh. Well, that was boring.

*Pink has always been my least favorite color. Green has always been my most favorite color. Some shade of orange is right there in the middle.

Two more facts. Okay. I can do this.

*I said "two more facts" because I wanted to end this post with EIGHT facts. Why eight? Because I might be slightly superstitious/obsessive/autistic. Eight in my mind is GOOD. Everyone in a group of eight people has a partner. And there can be teams! Four against four. Two against two (or one against one) is too much pressure. There is security and comfort and a bit of cushioning in eight. Eight is great!

*I've never really liked donuts, but I LOVE ice cream cake.

name

I went from wanting to see my name in lights to wanting to see it tucked away in a shelf.

I am always searching for a home. Maybe it's my curiosity that guarantees I'll never have a home.

For now, though, I am home. And home to me means a lady that is always excited to see me, clean towels, and enough space to hear the nameless birds.

Lights may never spell out my name and shelves may never house my name, but I hope they do. Oh, I do so hope they do.

these are the best, right?

So you may know that I am addicted to two things: Tumblr and PCP. Kidding, I am not addicted to PCP (yet), but I am hooked on Tumblr. I found this dumb/cool/pointless/full-of-points survey on that little tiny stupid site and was, like, "COPY/PASTE!" So now I am going to pretend like I am 14 and fill this out and believe that you are so excited to read this because who doesn't want to know about the last time I was hugged by someone of the opposite sex? This is worth reading. Ignore world news. Read this.

1. selfie



2. what would you name your future kids?
They will all be girls (cuz who wants to deal with penises) and they will all be named after my favorite characters in hip movies that will surely annoy some people who hate hipster and who the effity eff cares. Anyway, the names are: Clementine, Charlotte, and Margot. I also like Dorothy because she can be called "Dottie" for short.

3. do you miss anyone?
Everyone! Good lord who art in heaven, I miss every single person I've ever encountered. No, really. Also, I miss a few boys. YOU MIGHT BE ONE OF THEM. The thing is, I miss them in my warped mind, but then when I see them in person I'm, like, "Ohhhh... I remember why we didn't work out." That's harsh.

4. what are you looking forward to?
I am looking forward to sloooowing down and getting healthy (whatever that means). I am also looking forward to going to Disneyland (this may take some work). I am looking forward to Thanksgiving, truthfully. I am looking forward to when I will marry a super handsome black preacher and/or Tilda Swinton and have 3-4 girls with super hipster movie names. I am looking forward to when I can adopt a dog.


5. is there anyone who can always make you smile?
YOUR MOM. And also my mom. And also people like Louis CK and Sarah Silverman and the writers at The Onion and Laura.

6. is it hard for you to get over someone?
Depends on the person, yo. It also depends on how many defense mechanisms I'm putting up.

7. what was your life like last year?
Confusing. I believe I was unemployed (strange how history repeats itself) and wandering and wondering. I may have been on the verge of a total meltdown, but when am I not? I was drinking a lot of coffee at Harmons and writing and reading and wearing beanies. That's about it.

8. have you ever cried because you were so annoyed?
At this question? Yes.

9. who did you last see in person?
My mother! And right before that I saw every single obnoxious person at Smith's. Okay okay okay, so they aren't obnoxious. So they are all Buddhas and whatnot. But who says Buddha isn't obnoxious (aside from Buddha)? See.

10. are you good at hiding your feelings?
You bet your fucking sweet motherfucking ass I am.

11. are you listening to music right now?
No. Should I? I should, huh. Uggggghhhhhh, just tell me what to do.

12. what is something you want right now?
I want someone to tell me what to do. I also want to be inspired, but currently my brain is fried and I think it might stay that way.

13. how do you feel right now?
Dull and restless, but that's just RIGHT now. Earlier I was so so so so great! So happy and hopeful and productive! See, that's the thing with everything ever: It's fluid. Don't worry. Don't grasp. Just go.

14. when was the last time someone of the opposite sex hugged you?
This! THIS is the question you've all been waiting for!!!!!!!!! And I'm going to make you wait for it........ NO MORE!!! I guess the last person I side-hugged (because I rarely, for some reason, give a full body hug) was my papa this morning. The last person of the opposite sex that I awkwardly side-hugged who is not related to me was Michael at Juice 'n Java and then before him was Whit at Village Inn and then before him I had never come in contact with another human in my life. True story.

15. personality description
WELLLLLL, let's see hmmm okay well I like to have fun and I like fun things and I like to have fun with fun things and fun people in fun places. Also, I am the poster child for introvertism. It's a word. I have also perfected the art of avoidance. Some people find introverts who avoid everything and everyone fun, okay?!

16. have you ever wanted to tell someone something but you didn't?
These questions are frying my already fried brain, which I didn't think was possible, but totally is.

17. opinion on insecurities.
I'm too insecure to tell you my opinion.

18. do you miss how thing were a year ago?
No way, Jose.

19. have you ever been to New York?
No way, Jose. This answer would have been a "Yes way, Jose" if I had never gotten a tattoo in Austin on Halloween. Tattoos apparently equal NO NYC NEWSPAPER TRIP FOR YOU, LADY. Oh! I'm a lady wink wink.

20. what is your favourite song at the moment?
Oh, so you're British? That's fun. My favorite (ahem -- favourite) song (ahem -- soung) at the moment is probably "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down" by The Band solely because it is 3:33 long and I am spiritually connected to the number "333."

21. age and birthday?
Forever 21 and I was born on the night when the lights went out in Georgia. Trust me on this one.

22. description of crush.
I can't give you a description because by the time I finish this sentence I will have discarded that crush and will have found a new one. He/she has probably been married before, though. I tend to get lured into that trap.

23. fear(s)
Just my li'l old self. I have also come to hate balloons.

24. height
5'6" and not a foot too soon. Wait. 5'6" closer to god. Wait. I'm 5'6". That's it. Nothing to it except DNA and diet.

25. role model
I'm sad that I'm just sitting here trying to think of one role model. Family members, duh, but aside from them... Sigh. I'll get back to you.

And I will also get back to you with the answers to 35 more questions. THIRTY-FIVE. Gross.

path

Maybe I rush into things because I know that they will be over soon. I want to experience everything I can before everything disappears. Maybe I am just continuously ripping off the band-aid, so to speak. Let's get this over with.

There is an underlying discomfort I've felt for most of my life. I can't place it. I physically feel uncomfortable in my clothing. I feel like I am being strangled and suffocated. And my hair has never felt like an accurate reflection of who I am. What would an "accurate reflection" even be? A mohawk? Dreads? An out-of-control fuzz ball? Perhaps I place too much importance on outward appearance. Huh. THAT'S a thought.

People project instead of connect. I know I do. I can't wait to get over myself so I can start to get into someone else. I've decided that I will always be a dead end (in the best possible way), so I might as well discover other paths. You might be my path; I might walk all over you.

We imprison ourselves. It's time we introduce ourselves to the key.

space

The clarity I've needed is slowly starting to return. It feels incredible. The silence is what I have been missing. And the open spaces. Yes, Orem is "open spaces" to me. Of course, a fire lookout in the Washington woods would be terribly wonderful at fulfilling my open spaces need, but for now this is heaven. Or at least a huge effing sigh of relief. Heaven is a sigh.

I am happy.

shell

I live deficient when I should be living defiant. Instead of being definite, I am stuck in denial. Are you admiring my alliteration yet? Would it help if I sold seashells by the seashore?

And now I want to talk about drought. I want to write a screenplay for a new wave flick dealing with drought and cigarettes. I want to extrapolate your bones. No, wait. Wrong word. I want to excavate your bones. Maybe later I can extend the application of this method, but for now I want to systematically find you. The bones being bare share with me what you kept protected lest I find out you were a fraud. I was a fraud, too. A fake at best. We can't do anything about this anymore, honey, except polish our masks and caskets.

And we can hold the seashell we sold at the seashore up to our ears and hear whatever we failed to hear when we were swimming. And now we sink. And now we grasp onto our breath like it's the world's most prized possession. I want to encapsulate you. I want to find some way for you to insulate me from the inside out.

We are nothing but shells.

bridge

We build bridges out of doubt. We build bridges because we don't believe for a second we can walk on water. We aren't going to save one another, but we can connect.

I have to delicately distribute this tension or else I will collapse. I have to move from one place to another without looking down. It's too easy for me to be tempted to jump. The suspended self is stuck in eternity. The water is a hell that cleanses. I can get swept away unless I look ahead.

Moving breaks my heart. I want everything to stand still. But it has to sway, it has to sway or else it will break.

seam

We are nothing but layers held together by stitches.

Our internally consistent characteristics distinguish us.

You are fundamental, you are a natural force. Let me name you. Let me lay upon you.

face/feather

I keep starting off this post with floofy writing, using words like "paresthesia" and "sensation." But I don't want to floof up my writing tonight. I don't wish to be poetic or abstract or even good. I want to be obnoxiously frank. Imagine if you had a friend named Frank who happened to be obnoxious. Then that sentence of mine would have been pretty funny because you'd be, like, "Yeah. Frank IS obnoxious. How does Meghan know Frank?"

There is a certain someone I super super super miss and I wonder if he even knows it (probably not). I have no idea how to tell him that I miss him aside from hunting him down and snuggling his face. Don't be mad that I said snuggle. Don't be mad that I once wrote an obnoxiously wonderful one-act play in college with Snuggle Bear being one of the main characters. Don't be mad if I hunt you down and snuggle your face. I regret letting you slip away.

Should I give a hint? Should I mention something about feathers and deserts?

Tonight I will forget. Tonight I will indulge in YouTube videos and mindless activity and the contents of the fridge and whatever else I want because leaving is too hard to think about tonight. Tonight I won't be wrapped up in what I am about to abandon. Tonight I will write a love letter to him and not sign it. And not mail it. But I'll write it.

I might want to work in Wendover someday. You know, just dealing cards and shopping at the Family Dollar on my days off. Hey, if I had a face to snuggle, those dry desert days wouldn't be half bad.

shadow

I've passively killed all of the people I could have been. I let them go so effortlessly without a proper burial. The blame is placed on timing or brain chemicals or fate when in fact it's nothing more than fear. Fear shuts me up and shuts me down. Fear is me sitting under the sky and worrying that it will fall instead of looking up and falling to my knees in praise.

Most of the light in the day sky is caused by scattering. I dream of a dusk when I can gather myself and come home. I sink into the Big Dipper and find myself cleansed.

So I set myself a schedule. There are hours and minutes and seconds that pass with pencil markings to fence in my life. I won't let you in because I'm not around to open the gate. What did I say earlier about fate? That I can place blame? Let me do that while you place your ear to the door to pick up on clues as to whether or not I am sane. Fences, gates, doors. I've created a maze.

Sometimes at night the sky is ripe for gazing. The sun has skipped town, leaving starlight to help me see the shadows. I am an obstruction, a silhouette of a person. I will wait for a filter to alleviate. I will wait for an eclipse. I will wait for the ghosts of me to quiet down so I can get some sleep.

pig island

We wait in fields for dinner bells, when everything turns yellow and crickets clock in. I think it's the crickets job to create chirps, wearing their suits and ties and waiting for the day when they can retire to an island in the Bahamas. I read an article online about an island in the Bahamas being inhabited by swimming pigs. The crickets will have neighbors. Pigs and crickets, getting together for block parties. This is the world in which I want to live, if only I was invited.

Do people still ring bells to gather us in? Maybe, if there are porches. But we don't have porches anymore. Porches are gathering places. We have islands. We sink or swim to our own private sub-continental land and starve. There's hope, though. We might be an archipelago. We are separate, yet somehow we are a chain. Are you having a feast over there? May I join you? I'll bring the bacon, you provide the music.

We can turn ourselves into Coney Island. We can become connected by landfill. Our attraction will peak during turmoil, but soon suffer years of neglect. Bring in something minor and we'll be fine for a while. And then we close off like a cyclone. Despite the destruction, the hot dog eating contest will resume as usual. These islands we've designed will always have open shores for pigs and crickets.

Welcome home.

trap

Nostalgia is a trap. Regret will paralyze. Desire is either fire or honey, I can't decide which.

We continue to decorate our interior walls in order to tolerate the isolation. Who dares to be lonely when you can instead have a staring contest with the Mona Lisa? Just don't have a smiling contest because she always wins.

My heart is for lending, from time-to-time. There's a due date, though. I want it back before anymore of it shows.

I want to mine my mind for whatever it has to offer. I can't do this with distraction. I can't do this with demands. You are a distraction that demands and keeps me from diving below the surface. You are a sweetheart so much so that it breaks my heart. How can something so sweet want to love something that's covered in coal?

I've decided. It's both fire and honey. The fire burns, the honey treats the burn. We are now back at square one. How do we begin again? Will we?

fluency

I used to be fluent in you. There was a code written on your spine that I memorized, line-by-line. I ask if you'd like ice in your drink. You turn to answer, your back cracks. What's past is now present and I'm stretching to remember how you like your eggs. Scrambled?

Comfort is just a parenthesis. Comfort is an explanation, an unorthodox apology. I'm sorry I can't be here to interpret the meaning behind the items I've left by the fire. Salt, wine, locust. Be your own interpreter.

Language for the blind requires a heightened sense of touch. It requires temperature, body position, pain. At its simplest, the system works when activity in a sensory neuron is triggered by a specific stimulus such as heat. There is a mapping of the body surfaces in the brain. It is essential, it is creation, it is ultimately extinction.

You are my Latin.

Who can measure the colossal loss of a language? What could we have done but listen?

nil

If I could get away with it, I'd live in the South with a preacher husband and a career as a mathematician. I'd create beautiful works of art using imaginary numbers and religious symbols. On my left ankle would be a tattoo of Zeus's lightning bolt. The preacher and I would vacation in Scotland and Tokyo. We'd take photos. We'd have slideshows.

I am seduced by emptiness, in both the Buddhist sense and the fasting sense. Emptiness is zero and zero fulfills a central role in mathematics. Zero is important. Zero is a placeholder. Zero makes sure I am both here and not here. Zero cancels me out.

If I can see myself succeeding as a "boring" person, then why not follow that path? Boring implies khakis. Boring implies structure, routine, religion. Boring implies a sensible haircut. Boring implies safety, security. Boring and emptiness are my money and fame.

Funny things start happening to your brain when you replace chemicals with creeds.

flat

I think I call it "floofy" writing because it is not true. There isn't much depth to what I've been writing. I have also been censoring myself because I know who reads my blog. Hey, everyone, stop reading my blog so I can actually write what I want. I joke. My jokes fall flat. My writing is floofy, but also flat.

What I really want to write about is place. A sense of home that I haven't known for a long time. I want to write about security and the lack of it. I want to write about my neighbor's house burning down and how I wished I could have witnessed it from the top of their maple tree I used to climb. I want to write about my surrogate family and the crush I had on the oldest child and how their toaster used to catch on fire. I want to write about the mechanics of a family. I want to write about hobbies being shields and shields being nothing more than decoration. I want my writing to take its clothes off.

To expose myself is to exhale. Should I stick a fork in whatever's been cooking in my soul to see if it's done? Except it's not a cake. It's a pizza. Pizza tastes good frozen, too. And leftover pizza might just be better than when it's fresh. My soul is a pizza.

Keep writing, Meghan. You aren't hopeless.

mush

Hey, everyone I know, I am purposely pushing you away because I am going to move soon and I don't want my heart to break every time I realize you are not close. So... I am sorry. The reason you never hear back from me is because you mean too much to me. Makes no/total sense.

I expend so much energy doing, well, everything, but specifically trying to make the people around me less pessimistic/cynical/sad. Maybe I should just say, "Screw it, you're on your own. I'm gonna spend this energy on myself instead."

Heartsick and homesick. Forever.

My writing has taken a nosedive. I don't know my own voice anymore. I feel like my writing is mushy, generic, and unsatisfying. My words contain no fiber! Psssh. Whatever. Here I am talking about fiber when it's a Saturday night. Let me live a little for once.

haunt

The light starts going out in the attic. There was never meant to be a light up there in the first place. The sun coming in through the window would suffice. Nevertheless, there is a single bulb and it is now flickering. Maybe the moon can come through so we won't need candles. I'm packing extra matches just in case.

The second floor is a collection of antique lamps passed down from dead relatives who were once alive and read scriptures and recipes by this light. Both are extinguished. What good is a lamp if it's merely dusty decoration?

The first floor is well-traveled. Hallways are hideaways, doorways are destinations. You've been a host here before, often a guest, occasionally a stranger. You don't even stop to think about the florescent lights because you are too panicked about whatever is overcooked in the oven. What a blessing the bulb burned out; you can't see the burnt, inedible mess.

Nobody goes down into the basement anymore. It's inhabited by dusty canned peaches and unused Christmas wrapping paper. Why even bother carrying a torch?

The bones of this home can finally sink into a sleep. We had dreams, we had dreams.

nest

Saying a goodbye leaves the ball in the Universe's court. Saying a goodbye means that it's up to the Universe/Fate/God to introduce you to a hello. Even if we can't vocally say the word, the hello will still be there. Language is limited; rebirths are eternal.

The space you occupy is not made up of walls. The space you occupy is made up of people who annoy and frustrate and perhaps even contemplate your demise. You can't escape the imperfection of humans, the way they cough the way they choose the most obnoxious shopping cart the way they block the aisle the way they procreate even though they shouldn't. You can't escape what triggers you the most, so maybe it's time to unload and put away the gun. Maybe it's time to resign your membership to the Everyone Sucks club. Maybe it's time to pay attention to the birds by the side of the on-ramp. Maybe it's really not about us.

I'll say goodbye, maybe even good luck, and then await the wall-less future. Take your time being my greatest teacher because I have a lot left to learn.

Birds begin to fly while still in the nest.

brains

Okay, floofy writing, you are not allowed to come out tonight. Tonight I'm just gonna give it to you real straight, sweethearts.

Meghan's Brain: A play in 4 acts. Kidding. It's not a play. It's a list. A list of what is on and in and around my mind right now. Around my mind in 80 days: A play in 80 acts.

Brain List

love rap music lately. Mostly 2pac. canibus. and, like, whatever else.

tired of not having a dollar $ign in my name.

deciding to not use capitals or correct punctuation tonight. deal with it.

scared about moving back because i'll be leaving a few certain loves and a few certain freedoms and a few certain opportunities, but overall really super jazzed about taking a break and seeing other certain loves and eating way more meals.

my eating disorder is super out of control lately. kiiiiind of to the point where my heart is doing weird things and i almost fall down stairs. i want to say don't worry, but maybe you should be worried. wait. maybe i should be worried.

i miss cereal.

at this point i have given up on searching for a significant other. i don't really care. it seems too stressful, too. maybe i need to eat bowls of cereal and nurture myself and get healthy once again before i can even entertain the idea of having a healthy relationship with another human being. or animal! kidding, i'm not into bestiality. by the way, that is how you spell "bestiality." i thought it was "beastiality," too. i mean, it makes sense, but apparently it's wrong. i mean, the spelling. and the act. the act of it is wrong as well. ugh. anyway.

i can't help but replay past decisions over and over and over and over and over and over and over again in my head. it keeps me up until 3am every single night.

aaaand i'm just gonna ignore him. easy as that. i want to get to the point where i want to wish him well, though. how will i achieve this? through the "grace of god"? what does that mean?

my brain is tired now. time to listen to a little "california love," thugs.

blank

Will a faith sustain me? I think a faith may save me. I need a belief to curl up with at night and I think that's okay. I need a god to give me a purpose to continue waking up and that's probably just fine. And maybe I want to study the mystics and saints in caves while crawling out of my own cave and seeing beyond the blank wall.

A faith can be a blanket; it does not have to be merely thorns.

I want to write my own fable. I want to bend my knees.

sunken

You are a tourist trap, a ghost town populated not by ghosts, but by folks from the Midwest and their sticky-fingered children. You aren't the mine disaster you claim to be. You are a scheme.

In dreams I dive right in. The sunken ship stuck in my subconscious is explored for either treasure, dinner, or both. Hopefully both. Diving builds up an appetite and I am hungry for what is lost. Jesus, walking above me, better be ready for when my oxygen tank fails. Can Jesus fry a fish? First things first; let me find a bait.

There are pearls around your neck that came from an aphrodisiac. The fact that you wore your best tonight didn't escape me. I tried gliding across your shoulders, but sank into your collarbone. What's the point in paddling when drowning will wake you up?

The real ghosts haven't been excavated yet. The real ghosts float to a surface I haven't seen. The dead cells on your skin are more waterproof than mine.

voice

As you may have noticed, I haven't done so well at abstaining from "floofy" writing. It's hard! It's hard to stay away when something is so indulgent.

Lately I feel as if I can only write in two ways. One is highly neurotic and goofy, the other is, well, highly abstract and floofy. It's disheartening. Where's the in between? Where can I find more stable ground? Should I begin writing scholarly essays again? God, no.

I've been searching for my voice for decades now. Two decades and nine years and a couple of days to be exact. I wonder, however, if my voice was never lost. I wonder if my voice has been shouting at me for two decades and nine years and a couple of days and I just haven't been paying attention. Why have I been turning away? What am I rejecting and why do I fear it? There is a truth that lies waiting to be acknowledged by me. It's going to require bravery and patience and abandonment. It's going to require eye contact.

What we look at looks back at us. We can't help but stare at train wrecks and sunsets.

lend

When you are lending, you are not giving. When you are bending, you are not breaking. To give of myself feels as if I am breaking or will break in the future. I'd rather bend and fit into a rubber mold where I am safe and protected and above all hidden.

I'm a sloppy socialist at best, for on my bad days I claim indisputable power over my heart and mind. My heart is a library book and my time will include a fine if you go over. Let's keep our record clean.

Walking this fine line undermines the delicate beauty of true connection. There is none. There is none when there is no one and I am colossally slow at figuring this out. How can I dive in to abandonment? Diving in implies one has already embraced the idea of abandonment. Diving in to what frightens us ultimately frees us. Abandon the fears, but also abandon the hope.

I talk and think and write in circles. I circle words I don't know in pages I haven't read yet.

We aren't supposed to take pen to the pages of library books. They are to remain spotless. I have an eraser, though. It bends as it makes the unknown disappear before I have the time to solve the mystery.

migrate

We seek sustenance, so we migrate.

I lost you when I said I might move. You said you wanted someone who would stick around; I said I wanted the same thing. No, I didn't say it. I meant to say it. I was stuck between wanting more and wanting more. Both parts of me were hungry, but one was going to have to starve in order for the other to survive. Starvation and survival mirror each other in many ways. There were a thousand ways to say goodbye to you. I remained silent.

Migration carries high costs in predation and mortality, including hunting by humans.

The idea of you that I still carry around with me along with my keys and ID is as faded as my dreams are upon waking. You die a little bit everyday, dissolving into thick air I must breathe in order to stay alive. In order to regain me, I must retire you.

Migrating birds navigate using celestial cues from the sun and stars, the earth's magnetic field, and probably also mental maps.

You are an unmarked grave in the corners of my mind. We simply had different patterns of timing and distance. Let us rest.

shadows

Playing with the shadows my hands create in the light that is just right only ten minutes each day might be my new favorite activity. Some people play golf. I dance with obscurity, briefly.

My room in my childhood home bathed in light so warm it reminded me of cake straight out of the oven. You could rest your hands on the surface while becoming intoxicated with what soon would be ingested. Not a night goes by when I fail to long for that warmth, that reassurance.

I remember the tents we were staying in when I was 12 flooded. It was a church camp, the first (but not last) one I attended. Christ couldn't dry out the down-filled sleeping bags fast enough, so some slept in cars. I was told to snuggle up with another 12-year-old for warmth. I was amazed that it actually worked. Still, I craved a concrete floor. Concrete was dry, solid.

My fingers make the bird fly. Each item crucial for flight, despite not having hollow bones. I want to cup the light in my hands and keep it for myself myself myself, but it escapes through my palms and I am released.

I sit here, cold but content.

floofy

My posts feel a weeeee bit too abstract and floofy (floofy!) these days. I enjoy writing like that, occasionally, but I also feel like it's a shield. I lead the reader into a maze of sorts so that I can lose myself in the process. Getting lost is an escape. Escaping is protecting. From what am I protecting myself? Or from whom?

Shields and mazes and escapes are not inherently "bad." Often they can be wonderful tools. I feel, however, that I am using these tools to distance myself from myself, when what I need most desperately is to return return return.

Right now I am tempted to write something poetic and, well, floofy about shields and mazes and maybe even tools. The hammer, perhaps? A screw? I'd sprinkle it with sawdust (aka METAPHORS) and maybe an illusion or two and a few quirky scenarios. Then poof! The floof would be published and I'd sit back in my IKEA chair and consider my work for the day done.

But I don't want to do that, not right now.

I want to admit things to myself and to you using plain language! I want to tell you how I am excited to move back to Utah County and how I thought I would never ever ever say that and how I do not look at it as a step backwards, but a huge leap into the world of faith. I want to confess that I am rediscovering (or discovering for the first time?) faith. I want to let you know that it terrifies me. I want to be safe within science, but I am finding it more and more difficult to deny a deity.

I guess I do tell myself and you these things. I share them with shields, amazed at the mazes I create. We can follow a path with our fingertip. We can find a route out.

syrup

Truth serum time.

I wish I could have a healthy relationship. Like, just ONE healthy relationship just so I would know what it would be like. I want to be a girlfriend to someone. I want to be pretend to be domestic while also bringing home bacon while also frying up that bacon while also pretending like I am a fully functioning, bacon frying adult.

Religion is syrup.

Last night the library smelled like syrup. Last night at the library I checked out some atheist books. Last night I syruped myself into a cry-a-thon in my bed. I was so mad at myself that I refused to use a pillow while I fitfully slept. I denied myself the comfort of a pillow because I didn't think I "deserved" it! That's kinda weird and pretty sad.

I want to be a big city gal. But I'm not.

I really do want to try chopping wood sometime. Bet I'd give up after four minutes!

I'm bored with truth serum. And that is the truthiest truth I could have ever told.

jeanette, simply the best

“She had made him possible. In that sense she was his god. Like God, she was neglected.”
― Jeanette Winterson, The Passion

I've been trying to respond to this, but I can't. It's fine as it is. No response necessary! Make your own responses in your head/on the page/on the canvas/on Twitter!

communion

We talk about being happy, about being loved, about being in love, about being "fully alive" because we currently are none of those things. When we are, we can't explain; words become worthless next to the experience.

To remember your body, to remember your blood, to partake of both with a sinner's mind is to rewind and relive what I once fiercely protected. I protected you within the cage of my chest. You knocked on my ribs, but you can't really expect me to welcome in unexpected visitors.

So maybe I don't have the best manners. So maybe I still say out loud at the table that the sundaes are crying caramel tears. At least I think it's funny. Maybe I crossed the line when I commented that it had strawberry syrup stigmata? You can't laugh with your mouth full because you might choke.

Being happily lovely happy and loved eludes me. You'll miss the point if you think I am merely miserable. In between the web of words lies a life about to be resurrected. Does it have eight legs or nine lives? I can't remember. There's something pleasant about the number seven, but which five apostles do I abandon in order to please? Or maybe I'm thinking of sins, not saints. The numbers float around like sprinkles in the soupy mess my sundae has become.

To be fully alive requires a death of sorts first. One doesn't seem to exist without the other.

Your blood is a salvation, a sacrament. Your sacredness lies in what has yet to be risen inside my ribs.

light

I long for a god, even if it's of my own creation.

It's always of our own creation; god creates us and in turn we create god. There is fluidity in infinity; hell is red-light-green-light... But then again, red lights might be the best reminder to look around, to escape the fantasies we memorize. Here we are. At this light. We aren't moving, finally finally.

So I want to offer a few prayers to myself. I want to treat my feet to a scrubbing. I want to partake of my wine to remind myself that I am nothing if not begging for mercies. I want to say thank you thank you thank you.

We can be our own saving grace. We can place our hands upon our head and bless. You have temples by your eyes, you have hallowed ground beneath your soles. Wake up to the dream that you are.

seven

PRETTY damn weird that I wrote this seven years ago today, especially when you read my previous post:

dripping down the side of my saddle

i really should have taken the opportunity last night to write in diaryland. i would have come up with some pretty heavy, emo, joe castor's political song type of stuff.

instead i let the fluids run out of me.

i wonder why i ache and nash and burn and cough and swear i'll get every last drop of fluid out of my body.

shall i just be a skeleton? will we ever recognize our friends by their bones? or will we just flash our teeth and gasp a collective "ah!" i know who you are now, friend. let me crawl inside your skin. (but the sad fact is that you can't because it's now a lampshade with freckles.)

12:07 a.m. - 2006-09-28

dry body

I used to fear the skeleton.

As a child I'd wander into my sister's bedroom and browse her books. Everything about my sister intrigued me and I believed what she believed to be truth. Her shelves contained numerous dream dictionaries. I devoured each one. She had a dream dictionary from the 1930s that was perfectly creepy -- dusty and mildewy and full of illustrations that bordered on the perverse.

The interpretation for "skeleton" stood out to me more than any other.

To dream of a skeleton is to dream of a future death.

But aren't we all future deaths? Isn't that what life's path leads to? My 8-year-old mind couldn't create or comprehend such philosophical musings quite yet.

And so I turned to fear.

I turned to fear and aversion and little obsessive compulsive acts that would protect me from what I really really really didn't want. Each night I'd pray to my god that I would have skeleton-free dreams. Each night I'd delicately dot my eyelids with purifying water. Each night I'd stumble into a skittish slumber.

Every morning I would awaken relieved. Nobody was going to die today. I had dreams of fences and ferris wheels and birds. But not skeletons. I was safe. I was protected.

Then it got to be too much. Then I got to be 22 and still felt compelled to purify my eyelids with water, to wash away thoughts of the dried (and eventual) body. Simply put, it was tiring to try to run away. A moving train will keep on moving, but the legs must give out at some point.

I decided to give it up. In fact, I decided to embrace the bones. I decided to come to understand and appreciate and maybe even worship the temporal. What is beneath is not below; what is beneath might be my beloved, my treasure.

The valley of dry bones is where I'll reside until I can figure out a way to attach the tendons and create the flesh.

Bones support and protect. I will embrace what I may become. I will embrace who I currently am. I will find my muscles and give them breath.

pure

The problem has always been purity.

It has contributed to my eating disorder, definitely. Being empty of food, whether through abstinence or purging, leaves a large place inside which feels clean because it is empty. An empty room can't be a cluttered room.

But why emptiness? What is the appeal?

Again, empty leads to pure and pure offers protection. The protection may be fictional, but there is protection in the belief of protection. Placebos are real, placebos work.

And fiction. Fiction will always seduce me.

Maybe the problem isn't purity. In fact, maybe purity can be my savior. Maybe the way I view purity is the "problem." I am beginning to think that purity is not a synonym for perfection. Purity can be full. Purity can contain clutter, just high quality clutter.

By letting go of my control to be pure in the narrow definition I've written for myself will be my doorway out of this empty room.

By handing over my low quality clutter to whomever I believe to be my higher power will introduce me to new rooms that contain no walls.

Or at least that's my belief.

It's a pill I'm willing -- perhaps even eager -- to swallow.

sight

Sometimes I wonder if I need to cut off my own ear.

Let me explain.

Never mind. I don't even know what I mean, so how can I explain the unknown?

Exactly.

Sometimes I need to have faith in what I can't see. Is faith okay or is it weak? I have bad enough eyesight as it is. I say give me faith or give me prescription glasses! Give whatever you choose to me soon, though, because while I think I am walking on stable ground I may just end up falling over an unseen cliff.

I suppose it's up to me. You can't choose for me. I have to choose. I have to choose whether I want to squander my limited days being gloom gloom Meg or if I want to believe in something (someone?) that may very well be absolutely fictional, but lifesaving. There is strength in fiction. I'm a goddamn (pun?) writer for heaven's (pun?) sake. I worship fiction.

I worship fiction.

And so it shall be. I want to see with whatever eyes I choose to place inside my skull. I choose to be obedient to whatever voice speaks the loudest in my heart. The soul may simply be a map to a treasure that is too buried to be unearthed. If that is the case, I shall whisper loudly to each blade of grass.

Grace. We just want grace.

awaken

Being a writer is a convenient (and sometimes valid) excuse for all sorts of lazy, half-assed, self-indulgent, and self-destructive behavior. "I can't have a job right now because I am working on my novel. My novel is my job. I'll worry about bills once I get published!" "Hemingway drank, too, right?" "Hemingway also shot himself in the head..." "Hemingway? Yeah, I don't care too much for him." "I'm depressed because I am a genius and I can't take medication because I am a genius and medication will totally screw with my genius mind. But yeah, alcohol is totally okay."

Enough.

My life, my spirituality, my general well-being is now going to take that metaphorical front seat. That's the phrase, right? "Take the front seat"? It's gonna be a crowded front seat. Hopefully there will be seat belts for all. I'll make sure to drive the speed limit, both hands on the wheel. But I'm gonna close my eyes! I joke. I'm not Helen Keller in this life, just in a past life (according to my manic pal, many summers ago).

Truthful question: Is my sudden interest in religion, specifically Christian religions, a sign that I might be having a meltdown? Are "awakenings" and "meltdowns" kinda sorta the same thing? Both are super emotional. Both make one shave their heads. Both see Jesus.

Meghan Meghan Meghan: You late bloomer, you. You are figuring out so much all at once, things that -- according to some textbook on human development -- you should have figured out about a decade ago. Maybe you'll never quite "figure it out," and maybe that will be a blessing. At the risk of sending your readers into a collective eye roll, you are blessed, Meghan. You are loved.

feast

For approximately 730 days I have been living in what might be called a dream-like state. It's not the same as dreamy, where one is almost giddy, surrounded by extravagance, eating perfect globe grapes off of a sensuous vine. No, it hasn't been dreamy. It has been foggy. It has been an out-of-body experience interrupted by the surreal and misplaced puzzle pieces, aching to be interpreted. The more I explain these hazy 730 days, the less it matters or makes sense. Is it fear or is it desire? I don't think they are two separate things. I fear what I desire and I desire what I fear. I believe this to be a universal truth.

The winds shift; a storm is approaching. I anxiously await storms because I find them fascinating. Storms simply find me. We can be chasers of storms or chasers of dreams. We can chase what we desire or let our fear chase us into a stupor. Whichever route we take, we'll end up meeting somewhere in between what is real and what is merely waiting for confirmation. The cusp of the real is where I have resided. To confirm my experience would be the equivalent of putting out a welcome mat.

I keep searching for a home. Do I know yet that the search is my home? Where can I place these dirty shoes?

It has been two years of tests and IVs and worried looks. It has been two years of chewing gum in order to trick my brain into thinking it's food. It's been two years of just making it through. And through this passage of time comes a feast. It has been marinating, bathing, immersing. It is now patiently waiting on the table underneath napkins and plates. Is there a place for me? Will I sit down?

whole

You are my rite of initiation. You will lay your hands upon me and offer a prayer upon my skin. There is the spirit and there is the flesh; who's to say the holy is devoid of meat and muscle? What is the weight of the sacred? Your purpose is a gift.

That night the space between your ear and shoulder smelled like campfire. Your connection to the elements was not lost on me. I want to get lost in the woods of your limbs. Revelations happen in woods where density is protection. The sky is an overlap of God's dream, seen through the trees.

Your campfire neck is a sign of grace. Lacing my fingers behind your back I have confronted what may never return. Each cloud above is a river in heaven, a river that can't be stepped in twice. There is a shore along your collarbone, deserted. What washes up will be seen by no one. Who must be baptized in these waters but everyone? Our spirit sinks only to rise.

I can't say whether my god has been found. I can't pick up the sticks of a salvation that may have never been lost. There is a path around your cells that will lock me in for an eternity. Can we be whole? Can we be whole?

portal

You are a doorway and I stand guard.

Let me leave my post. Let me wander through your vacant halls.

morrow

Imbalance creates static. The imbalance will remain until it is able to move away. I see you as an island. You see me as a bookshelf full of words you will never read. At least we have eternity. At least we have a god that wants us to read everthing ever. At least our god rewrites our history. Are you free tonight? We should catch up.

Morning allows me a moment to breathe. Morning steps away and offers me solitary existence. Morning sinks quietly into afternoon. Your sun hangs high above my head. I can't catch up with you. I will walk across a plain of plain sand only to sink into your sunset. It's not mine. It's not my storyline. Your fabrications make up the quilt of my timeline. You repeat what I never had the chance to produce. You are my trough. I drink from you.

Two surfaces will contact and separate. There is resistance. There is an effect. You neutralize my extremes. You are familiar. You are a home. There is a path that leads to you that will become overgrown. I've grown up and need to withdraw. I've grown up and have drowned what is no longer around. I've grown up and am searching for a trail back to the unpaved way that is your shoulders, your torso, your skin. You remind me of what I've lost. You remind me of what I have yet to find.

Give me your morning. Give me your time spent under the rising sun. You rise, you are my prize. You deplete when you complete. Give me your morrow. Give it today.