the year of trips and tolstoy

I keep wanting to write 2013 or 2015, but for whatever reason this entire year I have struggled with remembering that the calendar reads 2014. Well, it won't for much longer. Thank heavens! Kidding. Isn't that what people are supposed to say on New Year's Eve? "Thank heavens this year is almost over! Good riddance! Cheers!" And a happy and healthy New Year to you, too.

But, so far, it has been a decent year. No colossal complaints. I spent most of my 8765.81 hours recovering and reading and riding on the Matterhorn. Okay, so I only rode on it once. I didn't even ride on It's a Small World because the damn ride was closed for the day. But I did ride in an Autopia car with one of Mitt Romney's many, many grandchildren. So somehow the Universe finds a way to balance itself out. Herself. The Universe HAS to be a womyn, right? I mean, she does have a black hole WINK WINK. Ugh. Apparently this was the year I made inappropriate and not-terribly-funny vagina jokes on a public blog.

This was also the year I had a torrid love affair. With Adderall. I am disinterested in discussing it right now. Just because. Just because I've exhausted the subject in my own personal journals and there are better things to discuss. Maybe one day I'll write a memoir about addiction, but for now I'll continue to write vag jokes and limericks.

This year I flew to Arizona to stay with a solid friend for a few days. We needed each other's company, although I'm afraid to say I wasn't the best company due to a certain prescribed pill which leaves me paranoid and kind of an asshole. A hungry, cold, jittery asshole. Anyway, Arizona was wonderful. The desert will always be wonderful. I visited one of the best museums I've ever been to and saw one of the best foreign films I've ever seen and ate some awesome fish. Yeah, fish in the desert. Maybe there's buried treasure out there in the sand underneath the unforgiving sun. Should we go find out in 2015?

This year I worked in a daycare for two months. I knew I'd only work there for two months. I just needed something to fill in part of my day so I would stay sane. Note to self: Sitting in a room for four hours with 14 infants and toddlers and Barney playing on the TV is not the best way to maintain one's sanity. Hey, at least I know now how to change a diaper. Sure, it takes me ten minutes and all of my willpower not to gag, but in the end the baby has a clean butt and I guess that's all that really matters.

This year I went to Disneyland. Like I mentioned above. And it was approximately a million degrees in the Magic Kingdom. And I got laryngitis, which was inconvenient to have while on Space Mountain. And I later drank wine and tequila and ate fish in Downtown Disney with my best friend. Fish in California? Now that makes more sense.

This year I bummed around during the summer. Of course. Somehow I always manage to bum around during the summer months. I can't imagine what it will be like when I grow up and have to actually, you know, work during June, July, and August. The horror. Seriously. Unless I am a park ranger. Then AWESOME.

This year I got a job as a teacher's aide at an elementary school. I thought my job was going to have a little bit more responsibility, but mostly I just untangle cords, staple papers, and occasionally tell 1st graders to shut up in my head. Well, it's the truth. Sometimes the truth is ugly and petty. At least I'm kinder out loud. The job, which I miraculously still have, is what it is. It is temporary, or at least that's what I keep telling myself on those hard days. I wouldn't still be there if it wasn't for the kids. They are actually quite wonderful and refreshing, as kids mostly are once you get past their obnoxious behaviors, and I love being around them. But I don't believe it's where I am needed the most.

Where am I needed the most? Anywhere? Will I continue to run after an ideal version of myself/my life until I collapse? I shall save these questions for the next post! Or the next one! Or the one after that one! Or whatever!

This year I went to San Francisco. It was the hardest and the greatest and most expensive. Did you know a plate of celery sticks at the Palace Hotel costs $17? And it doesn't even come with hummus. But aside from the astronomical prices on everything, San Francisco was a delight. Getting lost by myself in Chinatown was a delight. Wandering around a bizarre arcade and talking to nice Canadian tourists and finding myself again in a tea garden was a delight. Lost and found, lost and found. New beginnings and saying goodbye to old habits. Again, it was hard hard hard and oh-so-great.

This year I read what some might call "a fuck ton of books." My ONE New Year's resolution was to read all of War and Peace. And through the grace of God/Buddha/the ghost of Tolstoy, I finished it. I also knocked some other classics out of the park. Middlemarch! The Brothers Karamazov! The House of Mirth! And, like, so many others. Check my goodreads page if you want? If you are feeling weird? Are you feeling weird? I know some weird books that might help. They might also hurt! Books both close and open so many wounds.

I am so tired from writing about all of this. I know there's more to say. There is always more to say. Should this be part 1 of 2? Is anyone even interested in reading more of my life in 2014? I think I am. But that's just narcissism. Or healthy reflection. I'm not always a narcissist. I'm not always the best at spelling "narcissist" either because that took me at least four times to get it right.

I may be back with another 2014 post. Or not. Maybe it's time to say farewell to what was and begin looking forward to what will be. And 2015 will be the year I finally finish Ulysses. Maaaaybe. Maybe some resolutions are meant to be broken.

attach

It's hard for me to understand why I still write. For a long time I fell back on the old "I was born to be a writer, it's just what I do" excuse. Not that it's an excuse. It's an explanation. And it's what defined me. I could be struggling, but that's okay -- I'm a writer. Writers struggle. Writers also indulge, deny, fail, fail often, cry, get super moody at all the wrong times, feel nothing, feel everything. Being a writer was a way to explain away whatever I did or whatever I felt or whomever I hurt, including myself.

But now I don't know if I can keep relying on that excuse. Yes, excuse. I change my mind. I'm a writer, I can change my mind. It is both an explanation and an excuse.

And, I suppose, it's a lifeline. It's my lifeline. It is deeply personal and the act/art of writing has rescued me from deeply dark waters more than once. Even if it had only saved me once, I would still be in its debt. I owe it to the act/art of writing to continue writing. I can't turn my back on it when it for so long held my head above water. I just have to remember to breathe every once in awhile. Gotta do my part, too, you know?

So now I'm not sure what to do, which avenue to pursue. And that's okay. If all I ever do is bare my heart to the world wide web through an earnest mess of fog and pearls, then that should be enough. Not should -- will. I will be enough, I already am.

diver/time divider

This blank screen has been taunting me for too long. And by "too long" I mean five minutes max. I have only been sitting here for five minutes? I guess this is an example of five minutes feeling like twenty. Or an eternity. Or does it matter? Because like I previously mentioned, time is an abstraction, but our bones are not. So maybe I was sitting here, a bunch of bones encased in dry skin, feeling like time was holding me hostage when in fact it was my own thoughts and my own mind making me miserable. I am not miserable, though. Please do not worry! I am just drained a little, a little bit struggling with the wintertime blues, a little late to this whole game of life. Just joking. I don't even know what it means to be late to the game of life. It's a game? Since when? Games include timers and buzzers and colorful little pegs. Life gives us timers and buzzers and pegs, but it also gives us heartache and horror and hours spent hiding away from the aforementioned. Did I mention I am not sad? Not in the traditional sense. I am not currently crying my eyes out. I am not sitting in a dark room with my head pressed up against a wall. No, I am warming up my feet on the heater vent and practicing breathing techniques. Did you know that the world record for holding one's breath underwater is 20 minutes and 21 seconds? Don't tell me that you knew that because you didn't. But do tell me that you will practice the art of breath holding with me so that we will remain vibrant and alive when the dams break. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. I could force myself to reread this. I could make myself become an editor and revise the untidy, confusing, frustrating parts. I could clean up quite nicely if I tried. Tonight, however, I will let you wander through the labyrinth of these words. Feel free to sit down and rest whenever. There are no pools in this maze, so go ahead and exhale. We made it. We made it to the end.

Q and A: Queer and Asshole: JK: Question and Answer: JK again: Quick! an Asteroid!

Questions I ask to myself, to others, to no one in particular:

What does the poet know that we don't know?

How much iron is in your typical bison burger?

Is deodorant bad for you?

Time is an abstraction, but bones are not.

The last question wasn't a question.

Neither was the last one.

But this one is?

Where are our answers?

Is it going to snow, ever?

Are the trees as thirsty as we are?

Where are my pants?

How have I gone 30 years and 6 months without knowing how to change a light bulb?

Bright idea.

Do I have to put a bandage on my thumb if it is bleeding?
st
Bandages just get wet and fall off.

How do I keep my thumb dry?

There are more paths than there are destinations. Sage Meg!

Should I change my name to Sage?

Should we pull out of these personal wars we've started with ourselves?

Should we learn to love the landmines?

Should we raise our white flags and finally surrender?

(But seriously, get back to me on the iron content in that burger. I'm hungry and have always been hungry.)

cape

Screen screen scream screen. Ice cream? Just screens. Surrounded by screens and teens but not really teens. I am usually surrounded by preteens, though. I spend my days alone and then surrounded by preteens and then alone. Not always alone, though. Guess I'm not always truthful. Guess sometimes truth is stranger than fiction and most days I just want to be normal. Give me the dream package vacation and get rid of the screens. Maybe I'll take a screen door leading out to the back porch. One screen, that's my limit. I will open the door and the creak will speak for me. Dinner is served, come running back from the corners where you hide.

But alas, here I am. Hiding behind the screen, stifling a scream, wondering if I have enough peppermint ice cream to last me through Christmas.

When you don't know what to write, write about your insecurities.

That's what this whole blog is, though, correct? Various shades of insecurities posted for whomever wherever to read. This is not a criticism, just an observation. But this observation leads me to desire a cape. I want a cape to show the world how brave I am. Because I desire to be brave. I desire to be a hero, one of the super kind. I desire, most of all, to be super kind. A super kind superhero. Do I fly off of walls? I definitely don't build them. My cape might not lead to flight. My cape might serve as nothing more than a shield. The important thing is that my shield is behind me and I have nothing but my fist in front of me. Not to fight. To lift. To lift up a power I have yet to unearth inside of me.

(Learn how to use the Power button in the Start screen or in Settings to properly turn off your PC, make it sleep, or hibernate it.) <--- Great advice.

who what where when why how you doin'?

I'm not entirely sure how to rest within the messiness of life. I don't think any of us are. We are fundamentally human, not fundamentally imperfect. Dropping the idea of perfection might be the first step to learning how to rest. It is definitely a necessary step. (So what are the steps I take in order to drop the idea of perfection? There are so many steps. My only hope is that I don't trip up the steps. Or down. I'm not sure which direction these steps are going. I guess I'm the one going, not the steps. The steps are just there, being steps. I could learn a lot from steps.)

I'm not entirely sure what I am doing with my life. I don't think any of us Millennials. Why is it that my computer does not recognize the word "Millennials"? Aren't all of us born between 1980-2000 so g_ddamn important and special and unique that we should at least be recognized if not praised?! And why are we all still living at home with college degrees gathering dust in an envelope on the floor in our room? Ugh, whatevs. Hand me my phone so I can find an emoji for how I'm feeling.

I'm not entirely sure who I am attracted to. Some days I desire a partner who will wear matching Eddie Bauer polos and khakis with me while we relax on an Alaskan river cruise during our summer break. We are both teachers, did I mention that? Maybe professors, but probably "just" elementary school teachers. We live humbly, we attend some kind of local church mostly for the social aspects, and on occasion we eat at Sizzler. Then the next day I transform into a nudist anarchist mutant who lives in some dingy apartment in Paris with an androgynous Tilda Swinton lookalike. We smoke on roofs and cry in stairwells. We buy bread and cheese, but watch it rot while we paint the sheets with old brushes.

I'm not entirely sure where I will find the time to write the books that are trapped inside of me. This is a funny -- perhaps even hysterical, definitely absurd -- problem. The problem isn't even with finding the time, but with my wild idea that there is even a time to find. Anytime I try to catch time in my hand in order to observe and manipulate it, it winks at me and dissolves into dust. In fact, it was never in my hand to begin with. So the cage door is open and the words are free to escape, right? Come out come out wherever you are.

I'm not entirely sure when I will stumble upon a hollowed out bible in a motel room buzzing with florescent lights, but I hope it's soon.

I'm not entirely sure why there is something rather than nothing. I'm not entirely sure why I crave hamburgers. I'm not entirely sure why free will exists and often I doubt that it does. I'm not entirely sure why we can't feel the planet spinning when we are walking around a park full of trees imported from various countries. It's a tree museum. I'm not entirely sure why we are in each other's lives, but here we are, fundamentally human and all.

interesting, sure sure

currently interested in

mysticism
eating more fat
embracing a fluid identity
patterns
finding the perfect pizza
creating the perfect sandwich
finding and creating
letting go of the idea of perfection
interpretation of dreams...
...specifically my dreams...
...specifically my dreams about exes...
...who are so holy and gentle that it breaks my...
...heart.
writing more poetry
remembering why I wrote poetry in the first place
(either remembering or discovering, not sure which one)
smelling shadows (do they have a scent?)
community
origins
roots and clouds
attempting to have an intimate relationship with another human
dogs
always dogs
dogs forever
dogs for president!
so many dogs ruling one country
all countries
dogs take over the world

engulf

I want to walk roads ancient and carless. There is an crescent-shaped harbor where I will sit at a cafe and wait. When waiting becomes almost unbearable, I will walk off the doubt up steep stone streets. I will lead myself away and maybe away from myself. Leading myself away from myself? I can at least try. Drop the I. Cast the eye up. See the sky. It's a mirror, that's all.

And then in the fall I will roam around somewhere indulgent, somewhere lush and with leaves waiting to die. But I catch them right before they do, I catch them with their breath held and the whole world on pause. I will stop. I will let them keep their oxygen for at least a moment longer. I won't be greedy. Then I will press play and resume wherever it is I walk to next.

It might not be anywhere, at least not anywhere physical. It may be a spiritual transformation that looks more like dirty palms and cracked fingertips kissed by the wind. There will be lines I read around my eyes as I try to read the lines on a map I do not know how to fold. I will inevitably become frustrated and stuff the map in a pocket or perhaps behind a rock. I don't need it anyway. I've got the sky and a determined I and eyes of the wildness in my bones which begin to open and let the light back in. I will return. I am home.

identify

Thing I identify with:

Things with which I identify. Ahem.

Buddhism.

Art.

The indie scene I CAN'T HELP IT OKAY.

Anything related to Southern Utah. Okay, not anything. I don't relate to the crowd that likes to go jeepin' or whatever the crap they do. Or anything extreme and extremely stupid. Or pushing over stones in Goblin Valley. Ohhhh that just makes my blood boil even thinking about it. Dumb dumb dumb scout leaders. Dumb dumb dumb mothereffers hope a stone lands on their crotch. Anyway, yeah, Southern Utah. I relate to the juniper tree, the sagebrush, the raven, the red rock. The bare and bleached bones in the desert sand, thirsty.

I used to identify with veganism, but not so much anymore. I kind of miss the days when I did. But I definitely identify with it more than I will ever ever ever identify with any kind of huntin' killin' eatin' deer jerky culture. But then again, if you live somewhere where that is your only means of survival and you are respectful and not wasteful, well, then, coonskin caps off to ya, sir/ma'am!

Well, duh -- books. The reading of them, the writing of them, the buying of them, the hoarding of them, the giving away of them, and so forth. And so let's go read! What am I doing here typing away about coonskin caps when I could be cracking open a classic? Hmmm? I ask you questions I can't even answer.

Introverted life. All of it. The cats and the cozy window seat with a good book and cup of jasmine green tea which you purchased at the Tea Garden in San Francisco when you were going out of your mind from shopping at malls all day and then suddenly you stumbled upon the garden and you wept because suddenly you felt your soul come alive and you knew you were home and you could breathe because there were trees and there was space and there was silence when everyone shut up for once so you could think. And be. And drink your jasmine green tea.

Kids. As much as I don't like certain kids (you assholes know who you are!!!), most kids can be absolutely weird and refreshing and reflective and far more insightful than many adults. I'd rather talk with the kids at work than the teachers any day. And I do. And I have far better conversations because of it.

Well, I want to dance to surf music now. Tired of sitting down, man! Gotta catch some waves!

basics

Who I am. The basics.

I grew up in Pleasant Grove, Utah. Below the canal. The rich lived above the canal. Our neighbors had a farm. I remember feeding horses the apples from our tree in the backyard. Our next door neighbors' house burned down when I was 13. When we sold my childhood home, the new owners painted the previously brown house a salmon color. It has been almost 8 years since we moved. I still dream about that home, but not as often these days.

I have a college degree. I'm proud of that. I forget that I'm proud of that.

I'm a generally anxious person. I'm not proud of that. But I'm not ashamed, either. I just wish all of the anxiety would go away.

I like to spend my time outside, usually alone, and with a book. Maybe a notebook. I don't write as much as I used to. I wish I did. I wish I wrote more, had less anxiety, and could actually use my college degree to pay the bills. I wish I had fewer bills and more willpower. I wish apples didn't come individually wrapped, like they do in some stores and in some schools. I wish schools, specifically universities, cost ZERO dollars because then I would go back and get TWENTY more degrees. I would get a degree in religious studies, art, art history, theater, environmental studies, geology, anthropology, psychology, all of the -ologies, and philosophy. And more. I like to have conversations, real ones, real heart-to-heart ones, with another soul. So yes, I like being alone, but if I can connect on a deeper level with a human? Well, goshdammit, that's the greatest feeling. I miss it.

I try on identities like some people try on shoes. It has always left me feeling a bit nutty and groundless. Where is my parachute, you know? And why do I keep jumping out of these planes?

I dyed my hair dark and impulsively cut bangs and I've been in a pissy mood because of it for weeks now. And that's stupid. And it goes deeper than hair color and baby bangs. Or does it? Am I just a mass of shallowness?

I've never had the desire to go to Hawaii. I mean, it looks gorgeous and if anyone offered me a free trip to Hawaii I wouldn't be upset. But it's never been on my list of top 20 places to visit. I actually don't have a list of top 20 places to visit, but if I did, Hawaii wouldn't be on it.

I also have never had the desire to get married, although I think I eventually will.

I have a lot of desire for other things, however, and it probably causes me to suffer. Riiiight, Mr. Buddha???

More. Later. Love you. Always.

pick

It has taken me about five minutes to begin this post. I had the window open and ready, my fingers poised to type out the most profound! the most insightful! the most shockingly honest and absurd and philosophically rich. the most! But then I got distracted by my right thumb. Specifically, I became distracted by the subtle lines in the skin of my thumb. I thought one of the lines was a cut, actually. I thought I was about the bleed all over the space key. I thought, "Well, here's another distraction." I thought, "Do I even have any bandages?" I thought, "Why hasn't it started to bleed?" Then I realized it was not a cut, but a line for some psychic in the future to read. Do they read thumbs? Probably just the palm, huh? I could grow up to be a thumb reader, I suppose, but that first means I must grow up.

And now I am really distracted. And maybe a little bored, as I'm sure you are after reading a paragraph all about my thumb. I guess I didn't come here with much of a story to tell or a flowery poem to breathe onto the screen. No, I just came here to say hello. HELLO! Is it me you're looking for? Well, you are in luck, sir/ma'am. Here I am. Oh! Tricked you! This is not really me. These are letters which form words which form fragmented sentences which form paragraphs about thumbs which make you fall asleep at you computer. And it's all in your head. I am all in your head, at least right now. And so are you. You are in your head, you are in my head, we've created each other. Who have you created me to be? Merely curious. I might be the funny girl from a few years ago or the one who makes happy thoughts happen on social media sites. I could be the cause of your frustration (ah, but remember -- I'm just words on a screen!) or the idea behind some dream.

But in my world, in the world outside of your head, I am the person who picked up a violet red crayon that was left abandoned in the street. I put it in my purse and continued to walk while reading an essay about coyotes and ghosts. I went to the store. I bought Christmas lights and thought about God as I waited in line at the self-checkout. I went back outside and back into my head as I observed a solitary crow strut around a garbage can, determined. I hoped he would find a proper dinner or at least a lonely crayon companion. The mountains turned pink as the sun clocked out. I watched houses begin to light up as the scent of casseroles and chimney smoke crept out of their doors and into my hair. I stopped. I took the violet red crayon out of my purse and drew a circle on the sidewalk. Maybe the crow will notice if no one else does. Maybe it will keep him curious throughout the night.

This is who I am. Or rather, this is who I was two hours ago. Who am I right now? I am the words you read on the screen before you blink and look away.

a letter from a few days ago, sweethearts

It's 4:00 on a Sunday. Only 20 more minutes before I can light up and have my own sacrament, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. Ugh. Caps lock. So stressful. Ugh. Life. So stressful. I wish I did have some special sacrament all rolled up in a nice joint which I could smoke expertly out of my bathroom window. If only my bathroom had a window. If only I knew how to do anything expertly. "Hey! There's Expert Meg!" they'd say. "Hey! There's Expert Meg, who happens to have some really neat bathroom windows." they'd say. They'd say a lot of things and a lot of those things would be true. I'd be an expert and I would have windows and maybe the only false thing would be my name. It would no longer be Meg. It might be something like Sage or Raven or Willow Smith. Ouch ouch ouch -- brain freeze. I am chewing ice like a mad/horny woman/womyn right now because, I dunno. Because anxiety? Because anemia? Definitely not sexual frustration. I'm most likely asexual. Now I'm cold. Let me put away this cup of ice before my body temperature dips down into the negatives.

I have been doing quite well lately at not being so negative. That's not to say that I am a Sunshine Sally. Puh-lease! But maybe I kind of am. Like, I've been listening to and genuinely enjoying reggae music lately. And I'm into positive affirmations on occasion. I just figure that I've given my Sylvia Plath side enough attention and nurturing for the past decade or so. Now seems like a good time to experiment with being generally positive and lighthearted. Maybe it will snowball into me becoming a best-selling self-help guru? I'll hold seminars in Best Western ballrooms. I'll charge middle-aged housewives hundreds of dollars to let me tell them with compassion and conviction that they have been doing everything wrong so far. But wait! There's more! Turn your life around this weekend, sweet pea. Turn your life into a ray of freaking sunshine, sunshine. Your aura and your chakra and your astrological sign all say this and this and this and isn't this grand? Now pay me a grand and I'll be on my way. I have a book signing in Des Moines I need to be at in less than 24 hours. I have to be at the local Barnes and Noble at 4:20 on the dot. My followers expect me to be punctual! So outta my way. Good day!

Okay, so that's what I might do with the rest of my life. I might also tip toe up into the mountains and never return. That does sound a little Plath-ish, but I don't mean it to. I want it to be more Gary Snyder-ish. More monk-ish. More I-changed-my-name-to-Sage-Raven-Willow-and-now-I-make-reggae-music-and-smoke-out-of-yurt-windows-ish. That's still escaping, though, isn't it? Is it bad to escape? Do I really have to face absolutely everything? I don't know. I don't even know what I'm going to eat for dinner. I never know. I think I'll make a tinfoil dinner and sit on the back deck and pretend like I am around a campfire with a couple of lovers and loyal dogs. Old dogs. Old, arthritic dogs I adopted from some sanctuary in the desert. Look at me. Look at how good, good, good I can be. Oh, don't worry. I'll feed my vegan dinner scraps to some hungry crows and canyon ghosts. I will send smoke signals to lonely souls, keeping them warm for at least one night.