Acknowledgements and Confessions

Those who know me best know I've been blue lately. Blue blue, deep blue. Sky blue. Just....varying shades of tremendously unhappy for nearly two months now. I want to thank those people who have been there for me, and I want to thank those same people for not making me talk about it unless I wanted to. The greatest thanks goes to my roommates who have been putting up with me when I'm cranky or quiet or unwilling to keep my mind on the tasks at hand (like grocery shopping at 2am...maybe that in itself is a problem, haha). Recently, it's taken a lot of concentration and work to think of reasons to...stay here. I'm not saying that I wanted to die, just that it's been hard lately not to check out of life in the mental sense. They became my reasons, and the reasons are growing in number all the time. The sky, the warm weather, music, God.
I want to thank the people back home for their patience with me as well, and the people who read this blog for making me feel like I'm important enough to be heard. I'm sorry if this has been a little too much information but I felt like it was important to fess up.
Lastly I'm thankful for crying. As down as I've been I haven't been able to cry. It's hard for me for some reason. I don't know why; I distinctly remember being a crier in middle school. Anyways, I did that today, not because I was sad but because I was so moved by a CD full of praise music someone made me. I was convicted, loved, in touch. I've got reasons to be here. So thank you to that person. I guess you could say you were the crucial last piece to this puzzle.

And then I remember to relax, and not try to hold on to it. And then it flows through me like rain. And I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life.

 -Lester Burnham, American Beauty

More than Half; Less than 3

This is something I had saved on my computer that I forgot about. I had it in my about me section for about 24 hours but then I decided it might be a little to dramatic for an about me. But for a blog? Nahhh. I can be a drama queen all I want on my own blog.

I am one of the blind masses, the ones who are acutely aware of how enough they aren't and little else besides that. I'd like to be well read, but I don't have time to read. I'd like to be musically inclined, but I can't sing. I'd like to be far reaching, but my arms aren't that long. I want to be the best of everyone and my ideals are ill defined; they are felt. And I'm no longer feeling it.

It's time for a change. So let’s erase ourselves together in a sea of radioactive green. We'll come out super human and so much better than before. Misunderstood with the gift of flight. We'll fly away; I don't feel obligated to be a hero. We can be each other's hero. It won't solve our problems but at least we'll glow, transcend. I think it's going to be alright in the end.

Like it Never Happened

I love watching,

The body heal.

Small cuts on hands

Growing less

Painful. Getting itchy. Until

It’s like red ridges

Have always been running

Across my knuckles;

A tiny mountain range.

Even that recedes

Quietly, Into the fabric of my skin.

Or the abrasions I get

From chewing on my cheeks

Hurting and hurting for days, and then,

I forget they were there at all..

I love,

Forgetting. I love knowing

These small pains cease.

It helps me believe

In other things.

First Day of Skirt!

I'll be honest; the only reason I'm writing a blog today is because I really, really wanted to name it "first day of skirt," but now I have a fabulous idea! From now on, each year, I will celebrate "First Day of Skirt."  First skirt-wearing days of the year have traditionally been very good days for me so I feel like this is a holiday I can get on board with. It will have to move around obviously...it's not always going to be this warm on Feburary 16th, and I'm not always going to live in Southeast Georgia. But I will celebrate it whenever it happens, wherever it happens. Traditions will include: buying myself something nice, shaving my legs, feeling pretty, and spinning around in circles a couple times at some point. It will be my own true marker of Spring's arrival. So basically, the rest of my life just got about twenty times the awesome points. Also, since we're on the subject, someone should buy me this.

Moving on. I have way too much to do for this week, Homecoming or no homecoming. Britta just posted the same thing on her blog which gives me a sense of solidarity. I'm currently trying to wean myself of so much sleep.  I simply cannot sleep seven hours on weekdays and ten hours on weekends and still get stuff done. It's just not going to happen. So five hours and two cups of coffee sounds like a good compromise. 5+2=7... that's how this works right? Maybe if I didn't spend so much time being silly on the internet I'd have time to sleep? No, that's ridiculous.

Fiction Fiction Fiction

I'm not to big on fantasy fiction. Writing or reading it. Life is already infinitely more strange than anything I could come up with. And it's already far more artificial than made up lands and monstrous creatures lurking in clock towers. At least, in those places, evil is evil. The princess is always good and pure. The woodland creatures are just trying to help.
Plus I think it's fair to say that we're making things up as we go along anyways. And if fiction is the art of creating a story, then I guess there really is no such thing as nonfiction. Destiny is something we shape, not the other way around. Fiction is everything. We are always participating in the act of creation, of deciding who we're going to be today. How we're going to respond to things. What we're going to say next, do next...

I'm not making much sense to myself these days. Please, what am I saying; I never really make much sense to myself. I think the problem is more I'm not sure I'm making much sense to anyone else lately either. This post for example.

I think it's about inauthenticity. But it's also about how weird my life is right now and how I'm trying to cope with that. And it's about how I have writer's block? It's about how I'm still trying to understand the punch line. But mostly, it's about how fiction is the closest thing to truth we're ever going to get.

My what a belly button you have.

Today is Valentine's Day. I'll spend this one the way I've spent all of them: with decided in-observance, like I've always done with Canada Day. February 14th just doesn't  really mean anything to me. Not that I don't believe in love (or Canada, I'm fairly confident it exists). Really, it's nothing so cynical as all that. But I'm not in it right now, just like I don't really care when Canada gained it's independence. But I guess it does make me think about what that love thing is anyways. And I've decided,

I think we're all just looking for someone to tell us we're fine the way we are. Which makes me wonder, shouldn't we be doing that anyways? I feel like people should know that they don't have to be anything, or do anything special to be worthy of someone's love or approval. Well if no one else will say it, I will.

You are absolutely fine the way you are. You are not too fat or too tall. Your nose looks exactly like a nose which is exactly what it's supposed to look like. Innies are just as good as outies and vice-versa. No one is looking as closely at the peach fuzz above your lip as you are and you are the only one who thinks your ears are crooked. As far as personality goes, well lets face it, we're all a little crazy.

Happy Valentine's Day. xoxo

The Walk Home

My patch of sky is

split wide open; an 

egg cracked, spilling 

its whites onto 

a hot 

iron pan. My 

finger tips 

are black 

spindle branches 

trying to dip 

into 

water above 

me. And 

everything is 

light and everything 

becomes 

more than 

anything 

I ever 

expected. 

My patch of sky is like

walking into blue. 

Like 

leaping headlong 

into 

it; like diving. Like 

dying. It 

makes me want to 

make 

strangers care. 

It makes 

me want to 

scream.

Open 

wide. Eat
blue.

I want to weep when 

I look out and up

and in-

to 

it. 

I don't know your name; I need you

to know.

I am not just living.  

You and I are not 

Ordinary. Our sky looks to us like

Something endless. Something

We can 

disappear into.

The egg yolk 

sunset of 

every

Cowboy's 

dreams.

Exploring the Visual Arts with Burton Wasserman

I've had this one particular journal since junior year of high school. That's right. I've had it for four years. To be fair I moved in and out of it. For a very long period of time I moved into a leather bound rose journal (which I also still have.) Anyways, I made it sometime junior year out of a book entitled Exploring the Visual Arts by Burton Wasserman. It has a black and white checkered pattern on the outside. I cut loose leaf paper down to size and glued into the binding. On the shelf, it just looks like a very poorly kept textbook. None of this is important. I just just felt like telling you. The important thing is, it only has two pages left in it. I have never finished a journal in my life, and this one has only got two pages left in it. Do you have any idea what that's like? The closer I get to the end of this thing, the more I lament the wasted the space. The pages I spent copying by hand things I had scattered between two computer hard drives, myspace, and facebook. The lists I made for school supplies. The pages with only a few words written on them because I always like to start a clean page when I write. There is so much wasted space, and only a random scattering of dates. It's a mess. I have two pages left; that's it and yet I still have no idea what to write. 

I never have any idea what to write. 

This is a poem I wrote in pen in a spiral off the top of my head filling the front cover of my journal. I think it pretty well describes the way I'm feeling right now. I left all errors. I'm sorry if that makes you crazy. Also please don't judge it too hard because it is pretty old at this point and is in a completely unedited form.

Oh you're a secret you're a liar, upside down and backwards you conceal all my desires. On the outside you are one thing on the inside you're another- I think we're soul mates you and I, will you be my lover. I'm not sure you have I choice, I make it up as I go. In pen that's a bold move, thats why this doesn't flow. Because you can't make one mistake or the whole thing is ruined. Shit! What rhymes with ruin? Can't turn back now I'll have to think of something...Glue-in! Moving on. Someone ripped out all your pages and with paper they did glue in. This is really much harder than it looks. How the hell do rappers do it? I guess in that respect they're poets. It's hard to make it fit. Although there's nothing great about "this is why im hot, this is why, this is why, this is why i'm hot." Not! I never meant for this to go on so long now Im obligated to fill. But that's what space is for (filling that is) I hope I haven't been a bore. My rhymes get lost along the way I don't know how to finish them. They start as couplets, maybe haikus and all end up as limericks. (Oh would you look at that it didn't rhyme at all.) This space is getting small, I need to make a call, take a walk down the hall, hope I don't fall. (This is getting ridiculous.) Nonsense words and made ravings make the world go round, to think its only gravity to this place got us bound. (Did you know that magnets are stronger?) Maybe that's the problem we aren't magnetic enough. Always makin out, breakin up, makin up, lovers leaving in a huff. We just can't seem to get it together.  Must be the weather. People dreaming, people scheming. Some are sighing some are screaming but if there's one thing I know, no one's listening. They're to busy filling the air with sound, feet firm on the ground. If only they knew that if we were magnets we'd have the time to fly, or at least we'd fall together, light as a feather. Too bad "I love you" is just something people say when they are sorry they are gonna hurt you. Now the space is gone so much left unsaid. All that space wasted on rappers. I hope you know that I love you.

Some much space wasted on rappers indeed. 

Bed Bugs

I hate how our nightmares follow us into our dreams. I spend most of my day trying to remain calm and not sweat the little things. And they are such little things usually. Having left over food...forgetting to cross days off my calendar. Leaving the water pitcher out all day. Waking up late for school. And then I go to bed and I just get saddled with all this displaced stress. I mean, I guess that's what it is. I've literally had a dream where the whole thing went like this. "Oh no I'm late for class! I need to get up...wait. I'm dreaming. I'm still asleep....Which means I'm late for class! I need to get up...wait. I'm dreaming. I'm still asleep...Which means I'm REALLY late for class!! I NEED TO GET UP! ...wait. shit. I'm still dreaming aren't I? But I bet now I'm late. No, my alarm would have gone off. But maybe I turned it off on accident. No it's fine. See? There it goes now... Except, well, my alarm doesn't beep it....sighhh. It sings." And then my alarm starts singing whatever song I set it too for real. This happens to me.
Then again, there are worse things. Like when I dreamed my best friend who ran away from home came back to Savannah...but with a big wooden shield bolted to her face through the eyeballs. Whenever I saw her in profile I could see her teeth stretching up in a mangled smile to her ear lobes.
Yes, there are definitely worse things than dreaming you are late for class.

I just wish I could learn to exercise as much control over my, for lack of better word, "subconscious" mind as I have over my emotional life. I spent all of middle school and some of high school getting acquainted with the idea of personal tragedy and the extremes of emotion in general. I'm not sure if "contented" or "apathetic" were words that were even on my radar. When you're young, feelings can be very polarizing. Since then, I've spent my time learning how to turn parts of myself off when they start spinning too fast or making too much noise. Maybe, I've not figured out how to fix the squeaky wheel...but I can sure as hell ignore it.
But when you dream something....when you dream the same thing over and over again, it's inescapable. And it makes you feel guilty even though you know it's not really your fault. But just because you know something isn't your fault doesn't mean you can't still feel like a spectacular failure.

"I can't stand my own mind."

Just listen to this. You don't have to finish it but highly recommend you do. It's better than anything I have to say.



And this is me writing an imitation poem of America:

I've had this poem stuck in my head all week.
Heck I've had Ginsberg's voice stuck in my head all week.
There is an amount of resignation you gain when Ginsberg is speaking your internal monologue back to you.
I smell like a bar right now I like it.
I bet Ginsberg smelled like a bar.
I've got this warm lazy feeling like everything is gonna be alright.
I know it's not and I still got the feeling it will be.
I want to yell at the stars for never being bright enough when I can't see.
I wish I understood myself.

When are you gonna understand that I don't owe you anything you owe me?
I've got you down for some cigarettes and a decent kiss to remember you by the rest I'm willing to forgive.
I still believe in God even though I make dirty jokes please don't judge me.
I'm sick of going to bed early and waking up late but I've got nothing taking up my time.
"I can't stand my own mind."
My favorite way to consume alcohol is before I think better of it.
My favorite type of people are the kind that see through my bullshit.
I'm not sure I believe in me anymore.
This is why I should let beat poets do the talking.

"A rainbow of colors may appear over the next 10 days."

I've got this little bruise on my arm right now. I've always liked to press on bruises..just a little you know? I like to apply light pressure to them, just to remind me that they are there. This one feels hollow to me....but it's probably just my imagination. It is from having a needle stuck in my arm after all. Giving blood is always so weird. I think it's the anticipation; you sit in that big comfy slung-back chair waiting for them to stick a needle in your arm. And any kind of anticipation feels like any other kind of anticipation to me. I feel the same way waiting for a roller-coaster to take off as I do waiting to have my blood siphoned off. This last time, I got to thinking, is this anything like waiting to be executed? You sit in the chair, a white coat wearing attendant by your side. And for a moment...or for the rest of forever I guess, they're in control of what happens next. Of whether the needle goes in easy, of whether you feel pain...
I called my dad after I gave blood yesterday. I told him that I almost passed out, as usual, and he went into one of his favorite stories. I didn't stop him. I guess I just like to hear what he as to say, even if I've already heard it before. Or maybe I just like him to feel like he can talk to me about things. Anyways, the story goes like this: he and one of his friends left school after giving blood to go to work. He went to school back when, if you had a job, you could leave at noon. So they stopped at a Krystal for lunch and he just passed out cold, right there in the Krystal. His friend got his order and went to the car to eat it until my dad came to. And then the two of them headed off to work like everything was normal, but my dad never got to eat that day. He went back to the Krystal a week later and told them he was the guy who passed out and asked if he could get his meal. This is where the story gets tricky. The first time he told it, they wouldn't give him his meal because he couldn't produce the receipt. But this time, the manager let him have it.
I wonder what that means? Did my dad lie to me this time...last time? And I'd have to say no. He didn't lie. People rewrite the ending to things all the time, and it has nothing to do with deceit. I think it has more to do with optimism. I think, this time, my dad needed to believe in a world where you could walk into a Krystal a week later and still get your meal. Or maybe he thought I needed to believe in one. Optimism, as I've learned, takes practice. You've got to really set your mind to looking on the bright side of things.
For example, I've got a bruise on my arm, but you know what? They tell me that over the next 10 days, it might present itself in a rainbow of colors! And I'm O+ which makes me a universal donor. Guess what else, one pint of blood? It can save up to three lives. And you never know who's life its going to be. It could be a gunshot victim in a gang....or a child with leukemia. It could just be someone after a routine surgery. It could be a teenage girl whose self harm habit got out of hand. It could be your momma or my momma. It could be just about anyone. I think that's pretty amazing. And Dad, for the record, I believe in world where a person can walk into a Krystal a week later and still get the meal they bought.