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.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, October 28, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, October 27, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, October 25, 2013
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?
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?
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
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?
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?
Monday, October 21, 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, October 19, 2013
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, October 14, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, October 13, 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, October 12, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, October 4, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
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.
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!
― 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!
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