Portrait

     She thought she'd carry his picture around, if people carried photographs anymore. The edges would be yellow from wear. She'd carry it in a pocket where she could rest her hand on it  from time to time, imagining it closed the distance between them.
     She'd lay in her old bed. She'd be afraid for it's much darker here. She'd wonder if the music she heard existed somewhere deep in the surrounding woods, or if it is just her imagination trying hard to save her from the solitude she was buried in. Eyes shut tight against the night, she'd press his picture to her chest, tracing his shape with her fingertips; imagining his blue eyes locked on hers. She'd never been so intrigued with blue. These eyes were new, these eyes felt easy, safe. 
     She'd long to tell him of her travels. Her "adventures." She'd make them sound that way. She'd try to make him meet her, somewhere in between. She knew through the thick darkness and the heat of the day she'd never see him again.  Never hear his distinct voice settle her shaky one. She knew she wasn't the traveling type. It was all just a pretty picture on someone else's wall, or a nice idea in a book she'd read, or a friend had read, or she always wanted to read. 
     The truth is she is lost. And not a map or a compass could lead her back home. 

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. 

Boys and Bug Bites.

I didn't think I had it in me. 


I thought I'd lost my capacity to daydream myself into complete oblivion. Hoping I'd see a familiar car pull up in my unfamiliar drive way. And there would be kisses through tears and a dog barking and we'd laugh and fall into bed like we never had before, because we never had a chance. 


I didn't think I would actually get here. To this coffee shop, or this state, or this city. 


Right now I don't think I can deal with the distance, and the bug bites, and the quiet. And all I left behind. And how what I left is probably leaving me as I write these words. 


I accidentally gave a bit of myself away. Left it in the golden state, and the freeways, and a bed, and a porch. 

It Was Never About Independence

I hate this holiday. The 4th of July. Independence Day. Whatever.

It's my least favorite. I'm not very patriotic. Fireworks make me feel sad, nostalgic, and lonely. It's been that way since I was 5, or earlier, but I can't remember too many emotions before I was 5 so that's a good estimation I guess. (I just thought "guess-timation" and how I fucking hate when people say that.)

The 4th of July is...

Sitting in the drive way of my grandparent's house that doubled as my aunt and uncle's house for a while. Watching the fireworks show across the desert at Palmdale High. I sat down right on the cement. My sister wasn't born yet and the other kids were little. The adults "Oh'ed" and "Awed" which made everything seem dramatic. The fireworks ended. I was sad. There were sparklers. There were always sparklers.

Another aunt's house. Different cousins. No firework show. Sparklers. Fireworks in the middle of the street my dad wouldn't let me get too close to. I got burned. I was wearing uncomfortable shoes. I wanted to look pretty. Those people always made me feel pressure to look pretty, and thin. More alcohol. Too much alcohol and strangers. My aunt was stumbling and it didn't seem like they used to get mad then, but they must have. I noticed that my mom and dad never hold hands.

Katie and I sat in my front yard. We had ditched the lamest party ever (because it was an adult party and they served tri-tip, not even hamburgers or hot dogs). We sat for hours. No sparklers. Alone. We laid in the grass with the cordless phone next to us hoping the guys we liked (I think I was dating one) would call like they said they would. They didn't. We waited, forever. We never got any hot dogs.

It's an ex-boyfriend's birthday. I don't hate it because of that, but it is and I feel like it should be counted. Because I think of him, yes, and it's all so much different now, but there were surprise parties, and a time when I thought the fireworks weren't so bad. But they're never that bad when you're in some one's arms. He'll be in Florida this year. With his new girl. And I don't belong there. And it's ok.

I met someone who hates this holiday as much as I do. But I think, I felt like it was a similar sort of uncomfortable memory thing that bound us. The sentiment felt familiar. But it breaks my heart to think about him and he does not think about me. And that should be ok, but I'm sentimental and fireworks still make me sad.

Someone went to jail. Someone set the desert on fire and went to jail. And it was weird that it never seemed like that big of a deal, until he brought it up tonight and we laughed about it.

So fuck it. No sparklers. No flags. No party.
I drove around the desert listening to get this, Explosions in the Sky, and accidentally caught a private fireworks show. The window was down, it was too hot, and it was sad, but it's familiar. I shouldn't complain. All I ever wanted was consistency.

Take it down. Gently take the posters off the walls, the doors, the walls of your brain. Be careful not to rip them. Bend the tape back, tuck them away somewhere they'll be safe. They'll be hung up in a new home. Or scattered on the highway during the drive. You choose. Drop those thoughts. The one's you called friends about too late at night. The thoughts they knew you'd have. The ones that are both rational and insane. The ones that comfort and ache. Drop them. Leave them here. In the desert, or in a box, or in storage, or in the trash. YOU CAN'T TAKE IT WITH YOU. There are miles between us. And you say they are good. And I say they are terrifying. And you inhale and agree. And I close my eyes and remember that night in the snow. I promise to write about it. I promise to write. I promise to go. I promise to stay, away.