This song, like a strong handful, remind me of being lonely in Germany, remind me of holding on so desperately to something that wasn't even officially mine. I remember the bed being uncomfortable and needing to wear a sweatshirt even just sitting in my room in the middle of the day. I remember, where everyone else remembers joy and this amazing connectivity, really heavy sadness.
It's more than 3 years later...
Things are so different and my life is very different. I am much the same.
Blood Bank is playing on my favorite pandora station and I've never heard it on there before but I have heard this song at least one thousand full times. I am sad for other reasons. It's funny somehow too. It's the same thing with different people, the same pattern even when the outside looks so different. It's one in the morning and I'm crying to sad songs by my computer's light, listening to my kitten purr and hold her small paw to my arm. It's hard because it's so easy. It's hard because for me it's never hard. And it's hard because for me, I should have known better. How can it be so easy for a good thing to fall apart? How can it be so easy for things to melt this way? I am listening to all these familiar songs that I love because the hurt runs through them soft and delicate, like this is the way life is when you have a hard day, like this is how life is when you were born more sad, like this is how life is when you fall in love with boys who can't love you. I am building you things, I am thinking of you. I can't sleep. You are ignoring me. You are feeling annoyed. You are growing colder. I am remembering a you that does not exist. I am knowing better. The part that kills me the most is this: what kind of ironic tragedy is it that the toilet paper castle is going to outlast the relationship? Ouch.
Why didn't you just call....
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
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.
}}
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!
}}
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!
Sunday, August 18, 2013
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."
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."
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Tired of fighting and working in this way, needing to work it out my own way, needing to know my reaching is enough, needing to know I'm validated by something, needing to know somebody's got my back, needing to know I'm loved. Needing like a baby, desperate and crying when I feel like nobody understands me, falling apart for moments every day because that's just how it goes, how it goes like I have no control, how the wind is soft in the moment on the grass when my legs are crossed like a first grader and my eyes are closed to the sun: this is the moment I am drinking in God's peace.
I am a closed book. But my heart is open.
I am a closed book. But my heart is open.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
early stages
Tuning the radio between the tears to find you,
to hear you crying back for me, asking me to
(in the blackness of night) turn around, don't be
stupid- just turn around. You are not hip-hop
like he was, you are not loud noises, or even
crooning old country like I hear in my own
quiet. You are not the contemporary Jesus
tunes I will listen to on repeat without noticing.
And you most certainly are not a quiet drive
half past two or a quarter to the world ending.
You are a soft song, the peace between acoustic
waves. You are the quiet at the beginning of a slow
love song. You are the way slow dancing feels,
the way I can't remember being born, the way
love happens slowly and heartbreak turns into
a distant hum, hours away.
When I finally hear the right song, I am with you
again in a parking garage, fogging windows with
laughter. I am singing the words to the song of
you.
to hear you crying back for me, asking me to
(in the blackness of night) turn around, don't be
stupid- just turn around. You are not hip-hop
like he was, you are not loud noises, or even
crooning old country like I hear in my own
quiet. You are not the contemporary Jesus
tunes I will listen to on repeat without noticing.
And you most certainly are not a quiet drive
half past two or a quarter to the world ending.
You are a soft song, the peace between acoustic
waves. You are the quiet at the beginning of a slow
love song. You are the way slow dancing feels,
the way I can't remember being born, the way
love happens slowly and heartbreak turns into
a distant hum, hours away.
When I finally hear the right song, I am with you
again in a parking garage, fogging windows with
laughter. I am singing the words to the song of
you.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Having a hard time trying to say what I need to say without going too far, without losing it, without saying too much, without finding a hook caught to the inside of my cheek, without being up the creek without even a boat: something about the way things feel is killing me.
I've never had trouble doing things my way. Right now, I'm figuring out which way my way is.
I've never had trouble doing things my way. Right now, I'm figuring out which way my way is.
Friday, June 28, 2013
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."
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."
Monday, June 24, 2013
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 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.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Sunday, June 16, 2013
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.
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.
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