Wet Filters

Comparative, cruel. Something in between all of these things. Doesn't it get lost in translation? Even when you know exactly how you feel and you're with someone you know isn't there to judge you and you're telling your best girl friend about how it is and how it goes and she's giving her two cents and she's right--- but at the same time nobody knows. Nobody is in the quiet with you. Even the people who know you best don't know you but through filters of your willingness to share. Remember how she told you how you can never actually see your face? It's exactly like that. Only you and God who is in you already will ever know. You are sharing and being yourself and it means nothing. At the end of the day, we will always, always be alone. Unless we are dancing in the same light and our "selves" dissipate into something more "meant to be" and we will be together divinely and we will tell people about how there is no cruelty and nobody will know what they mean because they don't know what we're doing. And even when I see you, I know you will never see me.

There's no way to be clear. We are using soggy filters.

In the bottom of the barrel of gunpowder, I hid my softness. There was nothing more than that, nothing simpler. There's not much to anything at all, is how I feel, in general. About all things, I've always been sure. I know where they come from. I see how they are made. I see how things go, and I know my way. When I see the trails being covered in pebbles and leaves, I still see that trail. I'm not trying to blaze my own--- I'm trying to go down that trail, trying to find you, trying to sweep the trail so you're not afraid to turn back around once you've let it all out, whatever 'it' is, whatever you need to have happen, and after it happens, i will walk you back through the trail but I swear it'll be different this time, look different: "your love will be, safe with me."

I will never get tired of you...

Since we're not talking right now, let me talk it here. And since I know you won't read this, let me be as honest as possible. I'm not sure what will happen if anything does and tomorrow might not come. But I know I can't handle not speaking to you even if it was my decision. So, hey.

I could fall in love with a rock if I knew it loved something deeply enough. That is how I am, with people, with God, with all things. With you, it was the first time I didn't know immediately. But I knew the second time. I knew that it would be you, maybe for the rest of forever. I remember the first time I met you, I felt like I'd finally met my match. I didn't know yet what that meant or where that would take me and I wasn't ready yet to know exactly what you would be. I just knew that I wanted to spend a lot more time figuring it out. I wanted to figure you out. But I was still sad. And that's okay. And I think that it was best this way. It, after all , is the only possibility. You know what I mean? There have been times throughout that I would still be sad but not about losing one romance to indifference or anything like that, but the awareness of my willingness to let patterns repeat. And knowing if I'd screwed up enough before, I had to make this okay this time. I guess I feel like I've never tried so hard before you.

Something not of the eyes but in them, yours were the first of your color that I've ever really loved. Deep brown like the coffee running through your Colombian blood, hot when you look at anything, but soft when you look to me. I don't know if that matters. It's just one of the things that stands out the most. That, and the lack of conflict, the ability to work out anything, the ability to just figure things out together without much fuss. "You're really easy to love." This is the mantra of us, or maybe just mine for you. Between all of the activities and brunches and car rides and music notes, my favorite thing is waking up slowly and hearing you snore, knowing between blankets, it's just you and me, peaceful in the quiet. But the trouble is, I grow tired of wanting something I know I may never see, a side of you I wouldn't know how to access if somebody gave me a map. There's something in me begging you for it. I guess I just figured that by now, I would at least be certain that it's really there, or really certain that it could be something you'll give me someday. I don't know...

But all I know is that when I said forever, for now, that is what I meant. I know nothing lasts forever. But I'm trying to love like it will with that awareness that all things as they were created are able to disintegrate back into other kinds of energy. And if you want forever to be longer than for now, I'm willing to be with you there, too.

It's hard to miss you and not say anything. I hope you had a nice day. I hope you're feeling okay. I love you.

I can't even figure out how to write this wrong.

I just feel sad.

The way the cello happens

And there are black and white parts of music, but music is not a color. It's all the colors. Is that white kind of? I guess, but mostly it is just there like how sometimes things just are there and you don't know why or what they mean and you don't care because sometimes knowing is just enough-- you know? It's important to remember those kinds of things so you don't get too upset thinking about them. The way her hands move and her brain can pay attention while her fingers are doing so many things while she has to be able to listen to all of her own sounds, listen to the way her and the cello and God are dancing all together to make something that is not just noise but the divine presence of and all of those things makes me feel, for a moment, inferior--- but when that moment passes, I remember my soft light and how it was once glowing inside of me next to you, lighting in a dim way to the instrumental version of George Harrison's solo "Something" and we are holding hands and not talking about anything in particular and I am missing people but that doesn't mean I never loved you the most. I'm still deciding, but I know that if I take a deep breath of air, I can still type and listen to her fast cello and even maybe repeat the beat back to you once the song and my words are done. This is not a miracle to almost anyone, but I know that if I were crying by a body of water on my day off and it would just be me and the earth noises, God would lay his hand on my shoulder and tell me that He's impressed. Softer lights, softer. All of it is something we belong here for. There is nothing that makes any of us matter less. We're here for different things. Some of us to play the cello, and some of us, born to listen, to reflect, to play her song soft back to you in a reflective and collective way --- this is how WE FEEL. It's not the same,  but it's still important.

And it's sunny out now and we're in a courtyard. I say I'm not impressive and you mean it when you tell me not to think like this. I know you mean it because I've heard the music. And it's still playing in me. And I'm typing these words listening to all the songs and remembering her cello and remembering the heat between bodies sharing secrets in nonseductive ways, remembering that true love is looking into another person and being able to tell them how their song sounds, not just how they wrote it, not just what somebody else heard, not just what it made me feel---- but the exact sound of you humming into life the way we all want to be.

All good things come to an end

is a stupid saying. Even if it's true,

why do we need to be reminded?

And who is to say the good things

began somewhere specific? How

can we pinpoint the beginning of

a good thing? What about that which comes

before, springs forth like hope,

what about those good things---

good because they make good?

What about those things? And what if

long after the good thing ends, that

good before the good thing is still long-

standing, crying out to be recalled

so you don't bury yourself in tubs

of cookie dough ice cream?

"Choose her a name she will answer to..."

Fighting my impulses or giving into them, finally---
I'm not sure. We're lost somewhere between figuring things out and figuring out if things are important, which things exactly to cry over and which to let our sockets dry like gumballs over or which to get over fast like a teenage eyeroll, unspoken and pointed, hurtful and deadly. This is something like fingernails on the window pane, tapping in goodness and badness, in sickness and in health.

Have you found something that looks like forever yet? I just wonder what your brain looks like when you know I am crying myself to sleep.

Because my Windows finally roll down....

Keep playing that sweet song on repeat.

Aww, yeah. Just like that.

I am riding in your car, I am riding in my own. I am sitting in the back of a car sharing secrets with a boy with blue eyes. I am sitting in a black car singing songs written by women. I am singing one of the only 80's song I like. I am filling up my gas tank just to listen to music while driving a blue car that now belongs to somebody who soon will have to get close to the way death looks. It's nobody's fault. I am alone in my own car for two hours there, two hours back each weekend working to "make money" but really just because I liked to go. I was driving drunk people home. I was sixteen. I was eleven in a red car and Kristyn's sister is also blonde and she is telling us about correct stereotypes and learning to drive. I am in a car with somebody I barely know. I am in a cab for the first time ever in the middle of Italy. I am falling asleep to the beating of bus tires. I am believing my mother's most famous lie about seatbelts. I am crying, probably. I am nowhere to be found, because I don't talk on the phone while I drive. I don't break laws. I am in the backseat of a black car and my boyfriend almost gets stabbed. I'm not with him but I remember him. I am talking to God because I like my church on four wheels and no bucket seats. I'm driving a minivan. I'm best friends with Austin MacKain and we're going to Carrollton. I'm listening to Cara sing about the blood all over the floor while a dog sings in the backseat. I am smelling the ocean with my favorite Innocent. I am crying, probably. I am trying to drive a stick shift but I'm not meant for this. I'm watching the way Katie taps her thumbs. We're listening to Grateful Dead, every single morning. We're alive to something good. I'm parking funny because I loved that last song. I'm okay. Jim's taking me to waffle house because he has a license now. I'm scared because my cat knows my car is about to explode. I'm screaming because I realized somebody farted in my car. I'm throwing up outside of this rental one. I'm throwing up again, for different reasons. I'm waiting in line and every boy in this car is really attractive. I'm asking Tom if we can listen to that Jimmy Eat World song again. I'm kissing that blue eyed boy, but sometimes we're both crying, too. I'm going to Tennessee. I'm not going anywhere. I'm parked and missing you. I'm watching the state lines change with the landscape and thanking God for your grace, and His. I'm loud. I'm doing my own thing. I'm changing the station because I'm, okay, maybe just a little embarrassed. My mom is even singing on the way home from Six Flags--- it's Sunday so this song is exactly the right one. I'm holding hands all over America. Eric is my cousin: he reads all the signs. We are making up stories about the moon following us. We're listening to a book on tape. We hate this station. We grew up. I listen to talk radio alone. I listen to static on accident. I cry hardest in my car. I'm not afraid to be alone. I like having something to cry about. I'm not emotional, just awkwardly designed for a world that wants to define me by my tears. I let him kiss me in a car. I don't know why. We fell in love somewhere between blanket forts and an airport parking deck. There is fog sometimes. I'm not sorry about it. I love the way we were in cars, dancing or singing, or making a mess of who we could be, in favor of who we are. Britta cleaned my car. She made me a photo album. We are remembering that this is enough - we, the me in all of it, is realizing you can pick just one--- and it's a life. And it's all of the things. Like how Forrest had shoes. Like how other people have other things. Like I have all of them. Like how I am a lucky one. Like how I might be the luckiest. Like how good people are to me. Like how bad that makes me feel. Like how good it is to know that no matter what, you are doing a great job, and you're exactly where you should be. And you're so good. And this song is so good. And the car is so comfortable. And we can talk all night. And you can cry, even if you're a boy, and they tell you not to. Because this is my car. And we like it this way. And we're going places, forever, and ever, and ever.

Stuff and Nonsense

I can't remember how the words fit inside the quotation marks, but it's something to the rhythm of -- What they say, 'write what you know' is silly. Write what you don't know. Write about the yous you have not been yet, or almost were, or could have been, or could still be. Write yourself born into another body, write yourself into the nos of you and the way you might be still if you are late to work, or late to marriage, or late to your whole life. Write you happy. Write you a way you do not know yourself. It's all within you anyway. Writing what you know is silly because you know all of it--- if you are aware of your essence, you can be aware of you in the midst of anything. It doesn't mean you make those choices. It just means know your character enough to throw them into anything- and know how they would respond.

Thinking of this as I am writing you into a book I have not written yet but am writing every day. I am thinking of you and eyes so bright and the world so dark but only because it was night time and we were speaking in circles. We knew what was going on. We still do. We do forever. I am just saying there is something beautiful in the possibility of what could have been when you know you never really wanted it. I can have it, in a different way, exactly how I want or picture. It's no matter. It's fine, even.

I am working on working it out. Working on making it better than I knew it might have been. I am working on a better me, buried inside of a me I have been desperately trying to shove down into the belly of my own definitions.

Something about all of this makes me want to buy a Roladex. 

I am already the person I was born to be. But what am I doing with that?

And in the silence comes the collision of all of the voices I tend to not listen to any or at least most of the time: it is usually easy--- when I am tired, it is hard.

The phrase "you should," and in terms of things people want me to do, people who "care about" me, people who have __MY__ best interest, when my best interest has nothing to do with me or things I do in general and I'm in the middle of a forest with a light shining only on my feet screaming for all the stares to just stop yelling at me. I want them to stop, like staring at a pair of purple panties in the middle of the classroom, they didn't understand, nobody knows. I can't even explain it to myself, how would anyone else be able to distinguish it from where I am shouting? Make it stop... make it stop.

I can't tell you what I mean, only that I feel something like a mess, but I don't want any help. It's not that I won't accept it. It's just that people are different. And it does matter. And I'm glad it's okay for some people but that's all the more reason I don't feel like it makes sense, like Weezy, like inhuman. Trying to be more like Jesus and less like you, do you know what I mean?

It's Jackson Browne playing piano, it's hot summer rain in Georgia, it's something like a crooked melody, it's the joyful sound, it's depression, it's the way an older man will look at you like he doesn't want you but like he already knows your kind, it's like the way we roll along like little spring floaties off of weeds, it's like how awkward it gets when your cat is throwing up, it's something like a loss and this concept that has nothing to do with you. It's a complete lack of understanding. It's the silence. It's okay. It just is. It's also not my fault. And that's okay, too.

I still feel like I am on the boat.