I want to be one of those people who can talk to the sky and think that someone is listening. As much as I'll agree with those of you who do, and believe that you believe, I don't know that I do. Even if I did, I don't know that it would help.
Because for all the talking and looking for signs the facts remain:
There won't be any new pictures.
My hair was a stupid color the last time he saw me, though he said nothing, standard.
I feel like I didn't do enough in time.
I hope he was proud.
I hope we were friends.
The clouds parted for a minute and I want to blame it on something I can't see and don't feel, but instead I'll attribute it to the wind speeds and keep pulling myself back to Earth; steel myself against everyone's shaky voice, and hide my own under blankets of smoke.
Showing posts with label survival. Show all posts
Showing posts with label survival. Show all posts
Monday, April 25, 2016
Sunday, January 1, 2012
To Whom It May Concern:
The girl is disappearing and you have to let her go.
You should have let her quietly slip into the shadowy corners of your memory years ago when you started on this path it seems you will follow for as long as you both shall live. Perhaps it is not sadness you feel, or guilt, or loss. Perhaps you can't wrap the words around the tip if your tongue. Perhaps it's just that old habits die hard, but you don't want to watch her drowning anymore. No one does. Not even her, and she can't breathe properly while you hold on with the firmest fleeting grasp.
The calendar has replenished itself, as it does, with blank pages, filled with days and days of endless trial and error, and trial. And you will succeed, and she will exist beyond your comprehension as she has always been meant to do. And while you may try to search through the pages to find a note that will predict the next sideways glance or crooked smile you cannot find it now, though you must know it will come. And while the pit of your stomach burns with a longing you don't understand, for a glimpse of a memory that was unfairly dragged into the present, you will have created a present more overwhelmingly beautiful than you could have done trying to hang on to this girl.
So let her disappear. Let her breathe. And lastly, don't criticize how she treads water. Because if you truly let her go you must trust that she will make it to shore on her own, and that if you ever become concerned that she didn't, all you have to do is ask.
You should have let her quietly slip into the shadowy corners of your memory years ago when you started on this path it seems you will follow for as long as you both shall live. Perhaps it is not sadness you feel, or guilt, or loss. Perhaps you can't wrap the words around the tip if your tongue. Perhaps it's just that old habits die hard, but you don't want to watch her drowning anymore. No one does. Not even her, and she can't breathe properly while you hold on with the firmest fleeting grasp.
The calendar has replenished itself, as it does, with blank pages, filled with days and days of endless trial and error, and trial. And you will succeed, and she will exist beyond your comprehension as she has always been meant to do. And while you may try to search through the pages to find a note that will predict the next sideways glance or crooked smile you cannot find it now, though you must know it will come. And while the pit of your stomach burns with a longing you don't understand, for a glimpse of a memory that was unfairly dragged into the present, you will have created a present more overwhelmingly beautiful than you could have done trying to hang on to this girl.
So let her disappear. Let her breathe. And lastly, don't criticize how she treads water. Because if you truly let her go you must trust that she will make it to shore on her own, and that if you ever become concerned that she didn't, all you have to do is ask.
Monday, December 5, 2011
For Katie, but not about her.
It's funny because it's not really a scar. The only way myself or anyone else could tell that anything happened is because it dug deep enough to tear through the layer of ink on my skin. It's smooth to the touch like the rest, but when someone asks to see it I get nervous. I assume they'll see it and I'll want to explain what happened, but I don't get a chance.
It's the same with all the rest of the scars I guess. Most of mine don't show. Most of mine are only known if you've stayed quiet long enough to let me tell you how they got there. And while they still hurt so much, every day, every minute of waking and sleeping I wouldn't give them up.
I've grown to appreciate them, mostly because I've accumulated so many of my own. I think that's the only way to really understand what I'm trying to say. Because if you can't comprehend what I'm saying it's not any fault of my own. It's because you haven't been cut deep enough yet. You're time will come, and the thing that wounds you might not seem that sharp to me, but you'll bleed, you'll fall to the ground, your knees weak, that place between your heart and your stomach so hollow you forget you should breathe.
And maybe you'll talk to me about it because I promise I will listen like I always do, but I might not be able to give you all of me. Because I'm still looking for sutures to tie together the broken bits I carry around through all of these cities. And I will tell you that it's going to be ok because you're not really living if you're not hurting, I think. And if you haven't been suffocated with hopelessness, been afraid to tell your best friend your dad is in jail, had a parent abandon you, had a lover lie to your face, watched your family members fall apart when they think no one is watching, driven for hours without a destination, been afraid to wake up in the morning, then you might not believe the words I speak.
But I promise life will break you. And you'll start to notice those invisible scars in people, without the words to prove them. And you'll finally understand.
It's the same with all the rest of the scars I guess. Most of mine don't show. Most of mine are only known if you've stayed quiet long enough to let me tell you how they got there. And while they still hurt so much, every day, every minute of waking and sleeping I wouldn't give them up.
I've grown to appreciate them, mostly because I've accumulated so many of my own. I think that's the only way to really understand what I'm trying to say. Because if you can't comprehend what I'm saying it's not any fault of my own. It's because you haven't been cut deep enough yet. You're time will come, and the thing that wounds you might not seem that sharp to me, but you'll bleed, you'll fall to the ground, your knees weak, that place between your heart and your stomach so hollow you forget you should breathe.
And maybe you'll talk to me about it because I promise I will listen like I always do, but I might not be able to give you all of me. Because I'm still looking for sutures to tie together the broken bits I carry around through all of these cities. And I will tell you that it's going to be ok because you're not really living if you're not hurting, I think. And if you haven't been suffocated with hopelessness, been afraid to tell your best friend your dad is in jail, had a parent abandon you, had a lover lie to your face, watched your family members fall apart when they think no one is watching, driven for hours without a destination, been afraid to wake up in the morning, then you might not believe the words I speak.
But I promise life will break you. And you'll start to notice those invisible scars in people, without the words to prove them. And you'll finally understand.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Update. I guess.
So, I have internet...
A guy about my age angrily came to my door to perform what would become a 2 and half hour service that would eventually consist of killing various bugs outside of my house, a sing along, story time, 3 cigarette breaks, and finally plugging in the right cable so that I can blog like a normal person.
This is Nashville.
I have seen fireflies and lightning bolts. Real ones.
Real nature.
Real beauty.
I've felt real fear.
I've lost and then found myself at least 5 times daily.
I've done more loads of laundry than I can count.
I've painted my nails 7 different colors.
I've wash the same glass every day for 2 weeks.
I have had some of the best conversations on a porch with people close to me,
and on the phone with those that are far away.
I want to be in two places at once all of the time.
But only so I can let the people I miss know that I miss them.
There are nights that should have lasted longer.
Beds I wish I'd never left.
Eyes whose gaze I wish I could hold. Because I would. I fucking would.
But this is distance.
And it's real.
A guy about my age angrily came to my door to perform what would become a 2 and half hour service that would eventually consist of killing various bugs outside of my house, a sing along, story time, 3 cigarette breaks, and finally plugging in the right cable so that I can blog like a normal person.
This is Nashville.
I have seen fireflies and lightning bolts. Real ones.
Real nature.
Real beauty.
I've felt real fear.
I've lost and then found myself at least 5 times daily.
I've done more loads of laundry than I can count.
I've painted my nails 7 different colors.
I've wash the same glass every day for 2 weeks.
I have had some of the best conversations on a porch with people close to me,
and on the phone with those that are far away.
I want to be in two places at once all of the time.
But only so I can let the people I miss know that I miss them.
There are nights that should have lasted longer.
Beds I wish I'd never left.
Eyes whose gaze I wish I could hold. Because I would. I fucking would.
But this is distance.
And it's real.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
I did this once before in 2008
I feel like I should write something. I think it's the weather. I should be sitting on the window seat, my head leaning against the rain spattered window, looking out into the gray, making broad statements about the state of things, or religion, or at least letting my eyes tear up listening to a man play an acoustic guitar, singing about the women he left or let leave.
That's not what's going on here.
The truth, if you'd like it to hear it, which no one ever really does, is that I have nothing to say.
I did.
I do, maybe, but no one's listening and I'm not one to let my voice compete with loud music in a bar, or that guy you fucked, didn't fuck, want to fuck, kissed on your birthday, lied to, fell in love with, thought you fell in love with, shit...do we ever listen to ourselves?
Most of all, I feel like the louder your voice is the less I care about what you have to say. So we have to break up, myself and language.
Don't call. I won't answer.
That's not what's going on here.
The truth, if you'd like it to hear it, which no one ever really does, is that I have nothing to say.
I did.
I do, maybe, but no one's listening and I'm not one to let my voice compete with loud music in a bar, or that guy you fucked, didn't fuck, want to fuck, kissed on your birthday, lied to, fell in love with, thought you fell in love with, shit...do we ever listen to ourselves?
Most of all, I feel like the louder your voice is the less I care about what you have to say. So we have to break up, myself and language.
Don't call. I won't answer.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Let's just get this over with...
There are footsteps outside. Some in a hurry. Some that don't really belong here anymore. They make too much noise. They never stop at my door. I blink. My eyes are dry. I have been laying here staring out the window at this tree behind a streetlight. It's wearing fall colors. But it's not beautiful like you'd read in a book or a poem. It's disgusting. It looks like illness, like suffering, like change. There isn't a cloud in the sky and the streetlight is modern and dirty. Nothing looks like it's in its right place. All these fucking houses look the same. I've got to get away from this view.
Years ago I wrote about this tree, this streetlight. It was a month when all the houses had their Christmas lights up, but mine. The sky was grey, and I wasn't sad, I remember. I wrote this piece about the tree from a man's perspective. It was shit. It was foolish of me. I still don't know how men think. They probably don't ponder over Christmas lights.
I can't look at the tree for much longer. I wish I could stay here until the sky turns black and the streetlight becomes useful, but my body aches and my brain needs a shower. I worry that the smell of smoke, and sex, and rum, and roses, and beer, and perfume, and vomit, and sweat, and pine, and toothpaste, and hairspray, and adolescence will never wash off completely. I'll always catch the smell when I least expect it. Everything now will remind of something then, and I will hold my breath until I know how things will pan out. I have been holding my breath, did you know?
So I scrub until my skin turns red, and then breaks, and my eyes aren't so dry anymore. I scrub so that the list, the aforementioned list that sits atop my chest at night, is gone; becoming new scars that just trace the old ones.
I stand naked in front of the mirror. Reflected. Reflecting, constantly. I see messages I wrote myself, like post-it's on the fridge or notes in margins.
Things to Remember...
I'm better at disappearing.
Years ago I wrote about this tree, this streetlight. It was a month when all the houses had their Christmas lights up, but mine. The sky was grey, and I wasn't sad, I remember. I wrote this piece about the tree from a man's perspective. It was shit. It was foolish of me. I still don't know how men think. They probably don't ponder over Christmas lights.
I can't look at the tree for much longer. I wish I could stay here until the sky turns black and the streetlight becomes useful, but my body aches and my brain needs a shower. I worry that the smell of smoke, and sex, and rum, and roses, and beer, and perfume, and vomit, and sweat, and pine, and toothpaste, and hairspray, and adolescence will never wash off completely. I'll always catch the smell when I least expect it. Everything now will remind of something then, and I will hold my breath until I know how things will pan out. I have been holding my breath, did you know?
So I scrub until my skin turns red, and then breaks, and my eyes aren't so dry anymore. I scrub so that the list, the aforementioned list that sits atop my chest at night, is gone; becoming new scars that just trace the old ones.
I stand naked in front of the mirror. Reflected. Reflecting, constantly. I see messages I wrote myself, like post-it's on the fridge or notes in margins.
Things to Remember...
- Hope
- Balance
- Keep Growing
- Levity
- Build yourself back up when you've broken
- Heal from the inside, out.
- "Tomorrow I shall sing more sweetly."
- "Try and live."
I'm better at disappearing.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Laundry
Every time I put a clean pillow case on my pillow I see the bloodstain from the time my ex-boyfriend's nose bled in the middle of the night. I think about how much he apologized for it in the morning. Then I think about all the things he didn't apologize for. The things he never will apologize for. That bloodstain makes me instantly nostalgic; not for him, but for that time when things felt like they were working out. "Working out" meaning the way I thought things were supposed to happen.
I don't know what that way is anymore.
Lately I've been down. I'd like to be up. The shower drain is clogged with more hair than I remember having and I have to struggle daily wondering where all my cigarettes went. I've been prescribed pills by friends who aren't pharmacists. They help. The friends and the pills, but only until morning.
I need to write more stories. I need to climb out of this. I need to go to bed. I need a massage.
Bottom line: It's late (or early depending on how you tell time), I'm drunk, the sleeping pill is kicking in, I needed to put some words down tonight, and if they're all spelled correctly I will sleep soundly.
I don't know what that way is anymore.
Lately I've been down. I'd like to be up. The shower drain is clogged with more hair than I remember having and I have to struggle daily wondering where all my cigarettes went. I've been prescribed pills by friends who aren't pharmacists. They help. The friends and the pills, but only until morning.
I need to write more stories. I need to climb out of this. I need to go to bed. I need a massage.
Bottom line: It's late (or early depending on how you tell time), I'm drunk, the sleeping pill is kicking in, I needed to put some words down tonight, and if they're all spelled correctly I will sleep soundly.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Things I'm Not Good At...
Letting fires burn out.
There has been a fire in my life. I think it started the moment I finished the last story I wrote for a grade. This fire has burned deep and loud. I think it might have come close to dying a few times. Either way it scorched my skin.
It seems to be dying down. I long for the warmth it gave off in a hazy fit of recollection the few minutes before I finally fall asleep. I wake up and burn the same way.
I've had a consistent record of dowsing fires and running, as fast I could, away from the embers and what they all felt like once. I've tried to fan flames, wasting my breath, frantically breaking my lungs. I can't find enough water anywhere this time. I'm scared.
So I will change.
I will let this fire linger. Watch as the flames turn into a faint orange glow. The smoke it gives off is suffocating me. I will shift. I will get some air, let this fire breathe and change. I would pray to God if I believed that time, free time, and a strong gust of wind will spark the flames into the blaze I imagine it can be. I will stoke this fire will all the strength I can muster, but I will not inhale this smoke anymore. I will guard my lungs. I will not inhale you.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Mirrors
Today I met a man I’ve met at least ten times in the past.
Different seasons. Different circumstances. I remember his wet eyes. He is always polite. His words seem genuinely courteous and grateful.
He is not old, but the lines in his face tell me he feels each and every one of his years. He dresses his age. His pack is full, heavy with a responsibility I rarely see from where I sit each day. He radiates a melancholy I recognize like my own finger tips dragging across the bones of my hips. His gaze is like a familiar smell. I can see years, months, hours, and minutes of memory simultaneously. We have spoken few words to each other.
He overwhelms me. He knocks me over. I strain to hear him like whispers. He closes the door behind him. I don’t know when I will see him again. I don't know that I want to.
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