Dreams and things...

Let's face it.

I haven't been writing because I can't/don't want to deal with thinking about the things I need to really think about and maybe part of that is a lack of ability to do that on my own anymore. I can't deal with all of it on my own anymore. A word that comes up when I mention things I need to talk about is "strong," when really I feel like the strongest thing I've done the last few days is say "maybe this is not something I can handle on my own." I have been having crazy memorable dreams about deleting my livejournal, frying eggs in the living room, having some teenage boys stab silver polished knives through my front door, and most recently a dream about having a lucid dream about my teeth falling out. I am talking to myself all the time and it's exhausting me.

I feel as I write this that it lacks authenticity, like even now I am writing with a shield, hoping to keep myself safe from saying too much, from too much self judgment, too much of things I shouldn't worry about when I write but that I always do. I am not feeling 'poetic' lately... I just feel super human. Not like SUPER HUMAN. But like I am hyper aware of how human I am and I am working really hard to reconcile this.



Anywhere I Lay My Head...

Wish You Were Here.

Listening to a song that used to make me cry, a song I still can't hear around other people, a song that reminds me of a man before my time, a song that sings to me differently when I am sad and much differently since I stopped missing you years and years ago. We are in another world now: we are dinosaurs. We are listening to rock n roll on cold cement driveways. We are in love somewhere in memory, but not here. We have never been in love here. We have maybe never been in love really, but somewhere in the memory if you look at things like I will, you will see my face and yours in the soft moment before a first kiss. We will remember the slowness of things. I wish you were anywhere but here, but I am still floating in this moment remembering how love can make you cry. I am in the same place with somebody new, a million miles away from where it all began, from where the cosmos first flowed from our finger tips and wrote the original language of love. We are alive in that place eating spaghetti for breakfast.

[p]

Your tattoo sings this song when you are lonely, and others when you are glad. Your tattoo cries when it remembers losing to drug addiction or denying it, or denying pretty girls with big eyes, of all colors, girls with Canadian blood, girls with good taste in music, girls with no taste in music, girls with no lips, girls like grandmas, girls like the Beatles' "Here Comes the Sun," girls like me, girls like me, some girls like me. In the middle of things, we are metal hearts and logical. But when things are in the middle of us, we are lost in space, we are dying, we are hoping somebody finds us and shakes it out of us and lets us go before we need you. There are books about this. There are classes for this. But there is no problem with this, no matter what people tell you. I guess I thought you were trying to be different.

This is the loneliest moment so far. This is the longest without you. This is maybe the least wonderful thing. This is what people mean. This is why girls eat ice cream, this is why they never come back, because of this moment, because of this hurt, because who could forgive a boy who lets them feel this way?

Because they love you.

Because that's the most important.

WHERe.

In the middle of the night, I am alone with the sounds of ryan adams and cat rape. I am alone without you but I have these noises to comfort me, to remind me that if I do not want to become a Jahovah's witness, that's my choice---- that if there were a better way, I would take it, obviously. The sounds of my screen ripping from some feral creature trying to gain the juice of my kitten (no, like really, my kitten) just reminds me that sometimes we can have exactly what we want as long as we are willing to rip through window screens and conquer the kitten owners and know that you may die for what you want. the steve jobs Movie was just like that too. He ripped on so many kittens.

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 There's nothing secondary to being other than being in love or being caught up in somebody else's creation of a Big Fish. No-- growing up is something like the way your aunt always told you how much she liked your nose most of all and realizing that it wasn't just that you had a cute nose, but that you had a nose at all, that your nose was that of existence, that your very nose represented how glad she was to see you, just to know you, and just to know your nose was the nose of somebody she could love and be in the life of, etc, etc. Life is like that sometimes, but growing up is exactly that way, if you teach yourself to smile or laugh, or pray. Life, inherently, is more like when your best male friends are doing acid as teenagers and talking into the fuzzy tv station, understanding with one brain that the tv itself does not exist and that it is exclusively speaking to said best male friends, at the same exact time.

{{

If i die before they release the soundtrack to my life, make Sure you remember what song I have been dying to. Remind me in my casket. Make sure it is a song I like. It doesn't have to be a good one, but God, if you find out I am dying, put on a song I like, make the radio play. If it's just the How I met yOur Mother theme song, that will suffice. I will let these songs sing me to sleep for the moment between life and my death, the dying, the part I am looking forward to (but not in a negative way). I hope with all my heart that somebody else is there when I am dying, so that if they don't know how to stop it, they will at least know I liked a certain song and it will play, and it's okay if it's Justin Bieber's Die in your Arms because wouldn't that be appropriate and I could sing myself to sleep and I wouldn't mind if that's just how it is. It's not a problem to love or be loved. It's a problem not to know what to do when you feel unloved. It's a problem when you are scared or uncertain in love, a problem that can be fixed with hearing the right song, accepting you are one who accepts music instead of plays it. Do you know what I mean? It's not a problem. It's just a small girl, humming and wondering how long you can do this, wondering if your college professor who gave you a B in poetry is doing what he is doing because he, like you, didn't know what else to do, or if because he feels it is his right, his mastery, the thing he is, the thing he wants you to become. I'm not sure if I care, but it helps me to think about things, to think about the way it goes, to watch the words pop up along the fake pages without fake lines or real ones and at the same time to see my fingers getting bony as they reach to mark letters that will eventually pop up along the pages. This is the ultimate form of magic. Isn't this a gift?


I'm not talking about writing. I am talking about fingers. I am talking about bones. I am talking about the way it all sounds and how it all goes and how we sleep at night and how snoring is like death but also like falling in love and how when I turned on the news today, I could not find news but I realized I had seen this anchorwoman somewhere before, maybe in a dream, maybe somewhere else, maybe deep within myself I saw her reflecting in the pool that leans against the inside rims of my eyeballs, maybe she was throwing coins into the well. Maybe in that place we were both beautiful.

I'm going to Hobby Lobby now, even if it takes me 45 minutes!

Things that move and things that are harder to move

Growing up is like a sore thumb, or forgetting, or taking out the trash, or like---
well, I guess it is like all things, like most things, how when things start to change
you are changing, like growing, like how your chest starts hurting and your mom
can't explain why something inside of you is allowed to grow bigger than the thing
holding onto it. My outsides never caught up, like for most people, and my insides
are still big but growing up makes me feel like they are dying, like how the fat in my
cheeks is dying too, like how people move away and it makes you cry even though
it's not the regular kind of sad, like how you can still get sad about somebody you
used to love when you hear a song but how you love somebody else a lot and it doesn't
change it just because you cry from a feeling, like how when you planted the seeds it
took more dirt to fill the pot than you had originally thought it might, like how I cry
regularly in front of people I don't know but how I have a hard time communicating
my actual feelings, like how I remember being in the kitchen with small hands, like
how I remember being great at college and not great at most other things, like how
I forget that I wasn't always good at things, like how people think I'm a writer even
though nobody has ever seen proof in my entire life of that, like how writing almost
always makes me cry but only sometimes I will actually do it, like how I can think
about things and feel sad and hear a sad story and get annoyed, like how my horoscope
makes my heart sound both big and cold and that sounds right and hurts my feelings,
like how people can do things when they have the means, like how I just want to
do things my way. Like how I think I'm the exception to the rule. Like how I am.
Like how I think you are. Like how I think music is. Like how it is reading a book
when you're standing in line for birth control refills and everyone around you is
really, really grumpy even though we're all getting exactly what we want--- and how,
no matter how much things work out, there are so very many things that do not-
and how we hold them next to our big, cold hearts and talk to God and cry about it.
Like how it's okay, but that's just how we feel. Like how making changes doesn't
always make the changes you thought it would. Like how you always ask me how
I feel and lately it's never good like I wish it were. Like how I hate the thought of
giving you my blues. But like how I don't know where to put them anymore.


Like how when I was young and my dad was drunk and talking about music with me,
I understood slurred words and sad smiles and I knew what he meant, even when
he didn't know what he meant, and we both shake our heads now and say "okay."