That loosey goosey update of mine the other night was the most read post in a long time. I can take a hint, you guys! I know my floofy writing is a little too floofy and makes the eyes and brain go goo goo, but whatever. I'll never stop writing those posts. But maybe I should start writing more loosey goosey posts alongside my floofy ones? Yes. Yes, I should. Enough with the MAYBES and the PROBABLYS, Meg! Be more assertive and sure! But it's hard when the entire world is gray and I know that the maybes and the probablys are actually the most honest words in this imperfect language of ours. (Ours? So we claim the language? We are hilarious and territorial creatures.)
Update! Part 2! I plan on updating for infinity. I can't wait until I get to Update Part 348,662,145,998,037,001,782,221,155,831,520,404,001. That update will tell ALL of my secrets. And I'll make sure I include some cool cat photos. So stay tuned!
This update will be short. I'm too sleepy to be creative or insightful or long-winded. Lucky you!
*I want to get into football. And Christianity. Preferably progressive Christianity and dada football. You know, like the players just run around in circles and cut their hair with scissors made from the teeth of alligators and they also make touchdowns with urinals. I want to get into these things.
*My secret dream job? Broadway star.
*My secret football fantasy team? Duchamp, Höch, Man Ray, Schad, Stieglitz, Taeuber-Arp, and Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven.
*If I could be anything, I'd be a baroness who also happened to be a Broadway star.
*But seriously, though, I really want to get into Jesus. I wonder if this is possible? Am I just trying so desperately hard to find an identity and a community and a plan of salvation? Please answer these questions for me and then please be the sole person who will provide me with all three of these things. No pressure!
*I could never live in Hong Kong.
*Everything is so quiet right now. TOO quiet. Did the apocalypse just happen?
*I do not understand the word "update."
Friday, January 31, 2014
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
refuge
Refuge is not a choice. It is built into my bones. It might need to be excavated and discovered over and over again, but it lies within my very being. Do I believe this? I could be lying to myself.
I could be playing the part of architect, designing a haven above my heart with chambers placed where I need them the most. But it's just the design. I can't claim to be skilled in construction. (I hit my thumb, not the nail, with the hammer. I give up and leave the skeleton behind, without walls. Who will live in an unfinished house? Where will the framed pictures hang?)
People want to display their love and hide the side of them that's unrefined.
To live my life as if it's the opening night of a show at a pristine gallery is not a choice. I cannot define the avalanche of events that forced me here today. Might as well invest in a mop because the water from the melting snow will warp the wooden gallery floors.
Maybe no one will notice. Maybe everyone will be too occupied with observing the nonexistent art. They will discuss and critique and leave before it gets too late. Time to clean up the cocktail napkins and half-empty plastic cups. They will go home to warm sheets, not warped ground beneath their feet. (I have impeccable balance. I believe I can keep walking.)
My refuge is lost. I tried to follow it down halls and patterns and shades of amber that caught the light just right. I was distracted. I was lost in the thought of how odd it was that these pictures could hang so straight on what was wall-less. If nothing else, I have confidence in these cocktail napkins. They can be discarded without display and easily replaced. Am I envious of a square of paper?
Refuge will be found on the page. Refuge has already been found on the page. Refuge refuses walls because refuge is a harbor, a way out. All it takes is for me to forget about the uneven floor and remember to walk.
I could be playing the part of architect, designing a haven above my heart with chambers placed where I need them the most. But it's just the design. I can't claim to be skilled in construction. (I hit my thumb, not the nail, with the hammer. I give up and leave the skeleton behind, without walls. Who will live in an unfinished house? Where will the framed pictures hang?)
People want to display their love and hide the side of them that's unrefined.
To live my life as if it's the opening night of a show at a pristine gallery is not a choice. I cannot define the avalanche of events that forced me here today. Might as well invest in a mop because the water from the melting snow will warp the wooden gallery floors.
Maybe no one will notice. Maybe everyone will be too occupied with observing the nonexistent art. They will discuss and critique and leave before it gets too late. Time to clean up the cocktail napkins and half-empty plastic cups. They will go home to warm sheets, not warped ground beneath their feet. (I have impeccable balance. I believe I can keep walking.)
My refuge is lost. I tried to follow it down halls and patterns and shades of amber that caught the light just right. I was distracted. I was lost in the thought of how odd it was that these pictures could hang so straight on what was wall-less. If nothing else, I have confidence in these cocktail napkins. They can be discarded without display and easily replaced. Am I envious of a square of paper?
Refuge will be found on the page. Refuge has already been found on the page. Refuge refuses walls because refuge is a harbor, a way out. All it takes is for me to forget about the uneven floor and remember to walk.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
update part 1
An update on my life:
*I have a million crushes.
*The left side of my body has been mysteriously numb since Christmas.
*Meghan Wiemer: Discovered in 2014 that she is a huge fan of British literature.
*Meghan Wiemer: Future 5th grade teacher???
*Are you there, God? It's me, Meghan Wiemer.
*I'm cold. Constantly.
*I walk in circles. Literally. And constantly. And concentrically.
*I have recently -- very recently -- googled the word "concentrically" because I was unsure of what it meant. I am still unsure, but I am sure that I am fine with being unsure. I am NOT, however, fine with being uninsured. Please. Somebody. GIVE ME INSURANCE. Obama? Jesus? A rich, long lost uncle? An employer?
*Still unemployed.
*Still crazy after all these years.
*Still single.
*Not ready to mingle.
*Except for with some of my crushes. Hey, crushes, let's mingle and then read British lit together in the bathtub while simultaneously applying for Medicaid.
*Got a butt massage yesterday.
*I am super bummed out that the grocery store stopped carrying the popsicles I love. I would give my left nut for a box of those popsicles right now.
*Butts-n-nuts.
Night Night.
*I have a million crushes.
*The left side of my body has been mysteriously numb since Christmas.
*Meghan Wiemer: Discovered in 2014 that she is a huge fan of British literature.
*Meghan Wiemer: Future 5th grade teacher???
*Are you there, God? It's me, Meghan Wiemer.
*I'm cold. Constantly.
*I walk in circles. Literally. And constantly. And concentrically.
*I have recently -- very recently -- googled the word "concentrically" because I was unsure of what it meant. I am still unsure, but I am sure that I am fine with being unsure. I am NOT, however, fine with being uninsured. Please. Somebody. GIVE ME INSURANCE. Obama? Jesus? A rich, long lost uncle? An employer?
*Still unemployed.
*Still crazy after all these years.
*Still single.
*Not ready to mingle.
*Except for with some of my crushes. Hey, crushes, let's mingle and then read British lit together in the bathtub while simultaneously applying for Medicaid.
*Got a butt massage yesterday.
*I am super bummed out that the grocery store stopped carrying the popsicles I love. I would give my left nut for a box of those popsicles right now.
*Butts-n-nuts.
Night Night.
Friday, January 24, 2014
may
It took me nearly 30 years to realize that the Mayflower was an actual ship, not just a lie like Washington and the cherry tree. We were told "truths" in grade school that are now suspicious. In my defense, I call myself a victim of public education. Call me ignorant. Call me gullible. Call me a poor patriot. Just include a life vest with your words because I will undoubtedly swim like a stone when this ship goes down.
But 1620 was so long ago. It's so long ago that it's hard to imagine it being an actual year. Did the pilgrims look back on 1619 and lament? Did they kiss each other at midnight with their pilgrim lips and look forward to the new year with naive hope in their pilgrim eyes?
They set sail into a vastness which might have proven to be fiction. They held on to their visions and their anchors. They weren't even aware of someone almost 30-years-old existing centuries ahead of them. We both doubt each other's existence. We both embrace the vastness blindly. The only difference is they settled.
So there was a Mayflower. But maybe it doesn't matter. The pilgrims could have floated here on a chopped up cherry tree for all I care. What I care about is how many shoes and boots were on the ship. I care about the unidentified passenger who searched for lost pilgrims in the forest and then sailed back home. Why did he return after coming so far? I care about the waves and the storms and the days of boredom with nothing but emptiness and promise ahead.
I'd rather it be fiction. I'd rather tell the story myself and let the souls unfold on a page under the protection of my wing.
But 1620 was so long ago. It's so long ago that it's hard to imagine it being an actual year. Did the pilgrims look back on 1619 and lament? Did they kiss each other at midnight with their pilgrim lips and look forward to the new year with naive hope in their pilgrim eyes?
They set sail into a vastness which might have proven to be fiction. They held on to their visions and their anchors. They weren't even aware of someone almost 30-years-old existing centuries ahead of them. We both doubt each other's existence. We both embrace the vastness blindly. The only difference is they settled.
So there was a Mayflower. But maybe it doesn't matter. The pilgrims could have floated here on a chopped up cherry tree for all I care. What I care about is how many shoes and boots were on the ship. I care about the unidentified passenger who searched for lost pilgrims in the forest and then sailed back home. Why did he return after coming so far? I care about the waves and the storms and the days of boredom with nothing but emptiness and promise ahead.
I'd rather it be fiction. I'd rather tell the story myself and let the souls unfold on a page under the protection of my wing.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
amoebae
We are not amoebae. We are not shapeless. We are definite and defiant, even when we feel frail and fragile.
The left side of my body began to feel numb shortly after Christmas. Or was it after New Year's? Not sure. But I'm sure that it started with my toes and traveled up my calf and eventually into my fingers. It was as if the left side of my body ate a hearty holiday feast and was now napping off the overindulgence. My right side was awake. My right side was alert, taking on the weight left by the left. Where is my heart located? Somewhere in the middle, maybe? I hope. I hope that important muscle hasn't fallen into a frozen mess. Messes seem to be a fad these days, but fads crack. Fads crack and expose the bored current of water beneath. It's bored, but steady. It's at least reliable.
Amoeba move by using pseudopodia or "false feet". Pseudopodia are formed by the amoeba by throwing out the ectoplasm, followed by endoplasm flowing inward.
My frozen limbs forget how to function, so they retreat into fictional worlds found beneath covers, covers made of both cloth and board. I can move freely inside the flow of words where truth also withdraws. We paint each other out here. We paint and make the ice melt with each stroke of the brush. If there's such a thing as light, it is found within the shade.
Recently it was proposed that the majority of amoeboid lineages are, contrary to popular belief, at least anciently sexual, and that most current asexual groups have probably arisen recently and independently.
The way my feet fail me. The way my finger freezes in a curious curl. The way my heart is bitten by an unsuspecting frost. The way the thawing begins to take place in a foreign land. The way the skin is shaken awake by an unspoken language. The language was never dead, it was just never heard.
Speak. Speak and let the warmth of your lips pronounce every syllable.
The left side of my body began to feel numb shortly after Christmas. Or was it after New Year's? Not sure. But I'm sure that it started with my toes and traveled up my calf and eventually into my fingers. It was as if the left side of my body ate a hearty holiday feast and was now napping off the overindulgence. My right side was awake. My right side was alert, taking on the weight left by the left. Where is my heart located? Somewhere in the middle, maybe? I hope. I hope that important muscle hasn't fallen into a frozen mess. Messes seem to be a fad these days, but fads crack. Fads crack and expose the bored current of water beneath. It's bored, but steady. It's at least reliable.
Amoeba move by using pseudopodia or "false feet". Pseudopodia are formed by the amoeba by throwing out the ectoplasm, followed by endoplasm flowing inward.
My frozen limbs forget how to function, so they retreat into fictional worlds found beneath covers, covers made of both cloth and board. I can move freely inside the flow of words where truth also withdraws. We paint each other out here. We paint and make the ice melt with each stroke of the brush. If there's such a thing as light, it is found within the shade.
Recently it was proposed that the majority of amoeboid lineages are, contrary to popular belief, at least anciently sexual, and that most current asexual groups have probably arisen recently and independently.
The way my feet fail me. The way my finger freezes in a curious curl. The way my heart is bitten by an unsuspecting frost. The way the thawing begins to take place in a foreign land. The way the skin is shaken awake by an unspoken language. The language was never dead, it was just never heard.
Speak. Speak and let the warmth of your lips pronounce every syllable.
Monday, January 20, 2014
bluff
I memorize lies because the truth speaks spontaneously. There are lines to learn and reasons to rehearse. No one wants to be caught speechless in the middle of the stage. The spotlight on the lies blinds and makes it so you can't sleep. Wear an eye mask maybe? Block out the light and have pleasant dreams. Problem solved. Or better yet, don't sleep. Use up those hours to hear who speaks while everyone else sleeps.
But I will sleep. We do sleep. You sleep. Someone here must sleep because all eyes can't stay open and all ears can't stay open and all beds can't stay closed to the inhabitants who wish to hide inside a subconscious dipped in the day's events. We are tenants of our mind. We pay for the utilities, but everything else is taken care of. We just have to remember the quarters for the laundromat. That's it.
It doesn't slip away when we slip away, though. It stands solid as ice, frozen to our hearts that listen for truth, but only hear lies. It stays and plays with the idea that we aren't quite right. There is the sinking feeling that our lives are lived on stage with directions and props and cues.
Inside of us rises the desire to seek a god or a star or a job to pay for our way back to health. With enough padding, we will heal. The blood will stop with enough cloth. We close the wounds and turn around to face the open window.
There is a mountain range ahead, lying. There are paths to walk, leading. There is a life out there, waiting.
But I will sleep. We do sleep. You sleep. Someone here must sleep because all eyes can't stay open and all ears can't stay open and all beds can't stay closed to the inhabitants who wish to hide inside a subconscious dipped in the day's events. We are tenants of our mind. We pay for the utilities, but everything else is taken care of. We just have to remember the quarters for the laundromat. That's it.
It doesn't slip away when we slip away, though. It stands solid as ice, frozen to our hearts that listen for truth, but only hear lies. It stays and plays with the idea that we aren't quite right. There is the sinking feeling that our lives are lived on stage with directions and props and cues.
Inside of us rises the desire to seek a god or a star or a job to pay for our way back to health. With enough padding, we will heal. The blood will stop with enough cloth. We close the wounds and turn around to face the open window.
There is a mountain range ahead, lying. There are paths to walk, leading. There is a life out there, waiting.
Saturday, January 18, 2014
inhabitant
The body as a house. The head, a roof. The skin, some siding (maybe some bricks). The feet, the foundation.
Your dreams, your betrayals, your hopes, your disappointments. They emerge from this house and wander into other homes, kicking off their shoes and making themselves comfortable. Maybe they open up other fridges and stand there, hungry. Maybe they bathe in foreign baths, watching the water rise as they sink deeper. Maybe they become careless and leave the doors unlocked when they sneak off into strange sheets and even stranger dreams. Maybe they'll come home if you leave the lights on.
But keep it dark. Don't chance it. Let the dreams, betrayals, hopes, and disappointments continue to wander and be lost in their own journey. They aren't yours. They were never yours.
They were occupants, merely tenants who were usually late with the rent. Be your own landlord. Be selective. Begin to house what will flower, not what will wilt on windowsills.
The body as a house. The house as a sanctuary. The sanctuary, a beginning.
Your dreams, your betrayals, your hopes, your disappointments. They emerge from this house and wander into other homes, kicking off their shoes and making themselves comfortable. Maybe they open up other fridges and stand there, hungry. Maybe they bathe in foreign baths, watching the water rise as they sink deeper. Maybe they become careless and leave the doors unlocked when they sneak off into strange sheets and even stranger dreams. Maybe they'll come home if you leave the lights on.
But keep it dark. Don't chance it. Let the dreams, betrayals, hopes, and disappointments continue to wander and be lost in their own journey. They aren't yours. They were never yours.
They were occupants, merely tenants who were usually late with the rent. Be your own landlord. Be selective. Begin to house what will flower, not what will wilt on windowsills.
The body as a house. The house as a sanctuary. The sanctuary, a beginning.
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