May God's Love Be With You

And it's still just me and You, ain't it? Quiet in the dark with salt water and something not quite sadness but something equally soft, equally comforting... It's really the same thing, same as when I like a song and I just leave it on repeat for a few hours, sometimes a whole year at a time. For so long it was that one, the one that reminded me on a nightly basis that as much love as I was capable of giving, I had yet to learn how to love myself. All that bullshit about having to love you before you can love somebody else... well, I always saw it as I just had to be able to Love, maybe Love You, but I never have forgotten, there was nothing to remember. There is only this darkness in this moment that reminds me that I don't know what I'm doing, that even if I know what I want and even if I know how to get it, I might not be able to find a person to go after it with, that even when I think I do, like I always think I do, maybe I just don't know, maybe nobody I can meet will be ready for that something with me. You know, I heard this one on a tv show, some episode about a funeral and it made me cry then even though I wasn't watching the actual episode... all I know is when I hear somebody sing like this, I believe in something so much that I'm still not sure of. I ramble a lot because after 23 years, I still haven't figured out how to say what I mean, even after hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of words, miles, tears, books, photos, people. None of it is quite the same as what I see when other people talk. Is that light in your eye or just a splinter? I think part of it is that there's always this noise, and this silence that I am so desperate for, and this person that won't sit with me in the silence yet, and this need to make people sit in that with me, and this pain that comes with knowing how much I could hurt you with it.

We never talked about that again.

I don't know why, but it bothers me that you never asked...

Maybe it's you, not me, that isn't quite ready for this.

Sometimes, even when it feels good, I realize it doesn't quite feel like what I need it to.

I miss living with Cara... and I miss other things sometimes. I don't miss all the things, but there are things I miss. There are more things I love than things I miss, but right now my eyes are wet and I just wish I had somebody to eat dinner with.

The Wackness

Quiet music notes humming through cheap speakers and all I can speak is to her, about how it isn't her fault, how even if it's her, it's not her fault, fault lines and cheap cameras and bad whiskey and a million apologies from a boy with a pocket knife just too accessible for a healthy relationship, there's nothing sharper than words and cheddar, and I don't mean money: honestly, I don't mean anything. To write, to escape, to eliminate, to remind myself that just because a wound is healed does not mean people will not later ask of a scar- and I mean this literally, literally imprinted upon some part or all parts of a body and a story and even a spirit has a scar and I wonder if God has any of those. A lot of people manage to hate Him (or It) and I wonder what THAT feels like, even with all the love of the rest of the world and knowing that every time somebody celebrates the beauty of a horizon or reuniting with an old something or finding forgiveness in their heart after so much hurt, even knowing all of that gratitude is yours, how does He hold it together to make another day? The truth is, it's irrelevant, and probably irreverent, and probably I used spell check to spell a word so simple I should know how to spell things like that without looking when I can spell big ole fat words without even a second guess. There's something sick about me some days and I wonder what it is, how to fix it, how to be a big person when I'm so small, how to cry less, how to cry more, how to listen better. The truth is, I can only be this little girl with scars and a song in my head and a cliche to work out. I just have something big big big it's something inside me waiting to pour out so much so the floodgates themselves will cry. Do you know how hard it is just to say what you mean when you aren't even sure what that is only that it IS is the thing? I've grown to love her deeply for her pain without knowing how to forgive myself for my own. Is there such a thing as sin if God already forgave me? I just want to make it all better, wish these bandaids were just a little big bigger. I'm still limping with a bloody foot, even though I finally washed my hair. IF I have a daughter, I'll name her Amelie and build her a big wooden swing with daisies in the yard and I'll know how to do something right, I think. For the record, only some things are true... others are just what they are: words or actions or make happens or do betters or stop cryings. I know that you loved her big, but I want to love bigger, love so that her broken heart can maybe forget that. You know?

Xoxo

Just...

Complaining is an act which makes me feel guilty... and I try not to focus on the negative so much in my life so that those complainy feelings are usually very short lived anyway. Today was really rough on me in some aspects, but as I walked the street up to my white picket fence, smelling the insane scents of blooming California roses, I forgot why I wanted so badly ten minutes prior to burst into tears. 

I'm fine.

That's nice to just acknowledge sometimes.

There was something insane about the carpet floor, about the way you said her name, about how softer the world seemed when we were able to look one another in the eyes, for the first time, as friends. And I'm just grateful for the grace of forgiveness. Not only toward you, but the way I felt as if I'd forgiven myself, something I could not know how to do without you. The world, even softer still, growing soft and soft and cotton and clouds. I'm happy. This is something I need to accept.

And there was something about the time of night, my new "you" pushing my back along the hardwood, our lips holding back stifled laughter, and the music playing, and the look in your eyes, and knowing I love you. The way you say my name and the way you ask me questions. Something about how you are Something, my George Harrison, about the way you move me, about the way I push back and you don't let me, about toast and chirping birds and a really well formed sentence and seeing and old friend and a perfect frame for an okay picture and the way my handwriting looks right after I wake up and the day you can finally just leave your window open. This is what you are for me.

My heart moves fast and with you even faster, and you gave this to me, this ability to open it. Because it's never been quite this way, I still am constantly fumbling to figure how to be this way, how to enjoy without question, just how to come up and meet you for air at a normal person's requirement. You are teaching me how to breathe... but I'm a stubborn student. Learning to "let go" is something that makes me very nervous. But, for you,  I'll try.

"I respect you for challenging me." ... Marilyn Manson said this in an interview I was randomly watching and I loved how he put this. Dita Von Teese was the featured guest on Love Line last night and I ended up just researching her all night and that inevitably lead to me looking into Marilyn Manson interviews... wacked out night, but in a good way. Interesting cats, no doubt.

Anyway, rando shoutout to this fantastic makeup artist, because of a completely non-makeup-related video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j8rVg3mT7Y8&feature=g-all-u&context=G2b9669fFAAAAAAAAVAA I loved this.

I will show ya

I'm not sure if it's just the time of year, that time when I can't produce because I'm too engulfed in the real world... I remember Paul in the living room saying "depressed people simply have more time," a great truth in this world I think. But also, my mentor once told me, you don't need a crutch, a disease, a grand problem, or a drink to be a great artist. In fact, if you do need those things, you're probably not. I don't know quite what I think of it all but this is my art: the way I move my arms when chasing seagulls, the way I'm so desperate to smell the sky.

The art I have is living, no way for me to stop and sit down most of the time. Truth is, great talent isn't the same thing as art. I want nothing to do with writing or sharing my stories, most of the time. I want to be able to have a real conversation about the heart of life with people, engage in how wild the little things really are, pet a kitten, cry over a not-even-that-sad thing. I just want to continue feeling something grander than how things are. Is that an art?

When I met you, I knew I had nothing left to be sad about. It wasn't that I knew right away that I needed you, but I knew right away upon meeting you that I wanted something to change, and I wanted you to be apart of whatever this was. And that's how it went. I keep saying the same things, because I'm still trying to find the words to say that I love that you are mine.

How things change so quickly... how all of the best things in my life have always come so quick, taken me by surprise. How from something that was always comes something that is, and how currently that something that is has taught me to just let go, and feel something so beautifully love.

Something from this newness is a gratitude for that which has always and ever been wonderful, being my two sisters, and my two best girly friends. Something about how tender my heart feels right now, in the matters of everything, from the color of the sky to the sound of music, is how I know that it is, really open. And as much as it scares me, it's the most magnificent feeling I could imagine.

Ya diggg?

Sometimes, the best thing to do, is just say yes.

Sometimes, just writing it out is prayer.

The last few days/weeks/months, feeling a return of people presenting these really strong emotions/expressions of self to me and it's something I love, exactly what I live for. But I worry I'm not currently equipped to deal with these feelings, unsure of myself a little. Trying to find that foundation outside of me once again. Have I mentioned that I may have buried myself alive? Point is, I love this. I'm just not sure I know how to do it, right now.

I hope that I do. And I want you to know that I'm doing the best I can to find the moments for everyone. It just gets to be so very much sometimes... and some days, I just have these moments of desperation for solitude.

Broken skin is only one aspect of a wound.

And more on that later.