Posts (page 2)
for some unknown reason, ok, that's a lie....
take #2:
for a very known reason, i was reminded of an ex-boyfriend yesterday, and while i'm generally very fond of regaining lost correspondence with former bedfellows, this one in particular is a hard nut to crack, metaphorically speaking.
i was simply in my car, simply bored with the cd, and simply grabbed an old case from the glovebox to remedy the situation. i grabbed the first cd i came across which just so happened to be the first cd i made for him whilst we were an un-couple. meaningfully enough, we were an un-couple for the entire time we were indeed a couple. he just didn't use the word girlfriend (meaning between the letters is that he forever wanted a best friend and fuck buddy without the tie downs of having to invite me over or introducing me to his friends. the irony of which is that one of his old friends is still one of my best friends.) and then of course, new york city facilitated our break up which was amuzing in itself until he moved there and replaced me with some shoddy clone manufactured on the backseat of a buick. everyone dared to agree that he missed me and so hooked up with the first red-headed tattooed girl he could find. cute.
anyway, i digress. frequently.
yesterday, i was listening to "that which is not punk", the mix cd i had so delicately designed for his splendor, and beyond the fact that i am awesome at making mix cds (this pat on the back is asserted by many a happy customer), i realized that i had not spoken to him since i got engaged last year. since, i have gotten married and moved across the world.
get on with it! you say. well, there isn't much to get on with so to speak. it was merely an observation; one of those trifles that enters your mind when you hear a song like "summertime" by sam cooke, and you're transported instantly to a chain-smoking, whiskey laden life in a place where the heat alone can drive you all the way to horny, let alone the men with the drawls that could lift your skirt a mile away. and as i drove home in the chilly denver night, three years later and just yesterday, i wondered if that poet was still having story sex with his girlfriend.
then i got stuck in traffic and changed the cd, because there are just some things a girl doesn't need bouncing around her head.
thanksgiving brought my parents back and family home. it was good.
strange again to be in the middle of november and happy.
we're all trying to figure out something more or less to make it more fulfilling and more laughable and more redeeming. but we all sleep the same at night with different actions on our shoulders.
and my dad said, "i'm just trying to be a better person."
and that's admirable because at least he's fuckin' trying.
where are our poets and our indecents? where are the people that make you scream and mean it? where is our storyteller? where are our heroes?
we're flying home without lifting a finger.
none of us know what it means to live today.
if you want to buy me things, just click!
people who take themselves so goddamn seriously that they're impossible to have a conversation with without trying not to send them to a work camp in your head.
people who take themselves too seriously should be sent to volunteer in a cancer ward. they should not be allowed to adhere to any fashion craze/scene/trend that may inhibit their punishment/redemption/heart growth of spending time with people who are allowed to take themselves so seriously but by virtue of the fact that they're awesome... don't.
end scene.
it's an infectious time of year, and i'm not talking about the holiday spirit or thanksgiving graciousness. i've been battling through the emotional quicksand that is november, but my sleep pattern is delinquent and my productivity has reached a record ohnolow. but i keep thinking, if i stare at the screen long enough or if i choose a little bit better or if i throw on that pensive hand to chin grimace... well, maybe i'll get something done that doesn't depress me. maybe i'll understand why it is that the sea takes over the sky in my dreams and my cats speak in tongues. maybe, just maybe, i'll fucking comprehend the songs that are being sung to me when i can't think of any other words. the voices in my head are quiet and tasteful. the souls i left behind are restful and in their places. and yet, satisfaction is furthest from my mind because i had to leave anything at all.
it attacked me in the shower. a normal morning, otherwise, it prevented me from breathing or whimpering in any delicate way, or any way at all. i only had to stand there with my hand on the tile, my other palm on my foreheade, all of me breathing deeply until it stopped.
it beat the air from my lungs and turned my face into an unbelievable mess. i didn't have time to recuperate, move my neck, or brace myself. i didn't see it coming, on this day, for no palpable reason. my memory just kicked my fucking ass.
it's hard when i can only remember that there was a time in my life when i knew a boy who i loved very deeply as my best friend and my inspiration. i can't remember the things i said in conversation or what we talked about, but that we had fun and smart witticisms to cover the long days. i don't remember the t-shirts i wore to mardi gras or the bracelets i took off every night, but i remember i was a punker and i had this punk rock boy. i don't remember his jokes, but i remember how he looked when he smiled.
so have i suffered some great injustice, or have i made out like a bandit?
either way, today, at this time, four years ago, he left our world in pursuit of a new one. and he can't be defined or held down, but damn if he doesn't reek havoc with my memory.
i hope you're somewhere warm, bean.
the days are short, and time is abundant. i never pictured myself as the kind of chick to long for the nine to five, but you just get burned out. you get to feeling like you want to know what to expect.
the big surprises in your life, they hop on you from behind the half-closed doors and give you a fuckin' heart attack. you can't breathe. you stop short in some crooked, question mark pose while your heart skips a beat. eventually, your heart yearns for that even pace.
i used to write. really write.
but it was all when i had so much in my head and so many people to be angry with ... and then there was THEM. the expense on my system was beyond taxing; it was exhausting. i was a shell.
i don't have as much to say anymore, and maybe it's because that passion to fight has left my system; like all good grown-ups, i've learned it just doesn't help. but what i do say, i want it to really rock you. i want you to appreciate the letters within the words and savor every moment of time i spend writing this. i want to be appreciated and loved for the words that come out of my mouth. i want to be published from the mountain tops. i want to be translated into 43 different languages. i want libraries to tick 'yes' in the box next to my name. i want it all, for no fee whatsoever.
is it sad that i think i deserve it?
four years go by, and does anyone remember? has anyone followed me from here to now?
letting the bottom rot through, it eats your brain. when your feet are in the rising water, you just gotta cry out.
in my head, i lay down and rest. felt the wind on my cheeks as the grass spun around me, and i stopped the clouds just by staring at them for long enough.
real time kicked in, and i was raking leaves. traveling back and forth from 12 years old, awkward and alone. it's the last time i remember raking leaves. it's the last time i remember those big orange pumpkin bags (is that why i was so insistent upon buying them?).
12 years old was the most awkward and alone time that i recall. so frequently, we forget these times, especially when we grow up and are forced to make decisions. there's the stress of everyday looming over us, bills-responsibilities-pmsing-holidayplans-multivitamins-antacids-furniture-cancer.... it all just sits there, and we forget about those moments when we were merely twelve years old and the world was going to frikkin end because you just hadn't hit puberty like all the other girls. it's a vicious cycle really. between the highs and lows in our personal sagas, we just forget to remember when everything was ok, when we were focused on raking leaves.
i bundled all the leaves safe away into the bright orange bags with the pumpkin faces. and i was fairly proud of myself when my husband pulled into the driveway. it wasn't necessarily for raking the full yard of leaves, but for conquering at least some small part of being awkward and alone. i had spent many years of my life that way, but i had never felt such control over it.
i'm certainly still an awkward girl, and a lot of times, i choose to be alone. but neither are to my detriment anymore. neither make me less of a person. in fact, frequently, they contribute to the eccentric but loveable girl i'm proud to be.
