05 December 2011

Fairytale Ending

Fairytale endings are all they are cracked up to be, but not because anything ends. Or perhaps it is. Mostly it's that things begin. A life you imagined to be perfect, but isn't. It's something better, something real. There was a hidden room, behind that bookshelf, wasn't it? I was never really sure. Maybe I am still there.

The imagination is a funny thing. It makes everything better. And worse. Depending on the impending moment. Those are the people you might expect to be there, in your dreams. This is a fantasy fairytale. Or is it? Confusing is the least of my problems at this point. There was a beautiful crown. A tiara that sat upon my head. I gave it away, but only because it wouldn't burn like the rest of it. Who would have ever thought I could be a princess?

Growing from a glass jar, all I have ever needed is just a little water and sunlight. I survive quite well in this environment of cold frost and low fog. Or perhaps I don't. I can't seem to remember. There is something beautiful in the decomposition between the roots. It makes everything healthier, but it shouldn't. Then again.

Glass walls and streaming attentions, I feel a little more than whelmed. This is French vocabulary, I never learned any German. It wasn't really my thing. But then, did I ever really have a thing? I am waiting for the next adventure, but maybe I need to find it. There in a wardrobe perhaps or the Spine, a letter from a magical place or in a quest to dispose of a ring. There in Paris, in Netherfield, Avonlea, London, Seville, Rotterdam, the Black Forest, Heaven or Hell. Whichever is most real to me in the moment.

I close my eyes and reach my arms out in front of me. Fingers stretching, cold in the winter air. I can feel the mist settling around me as I take a step forward. A scarf finds itself wrapped around my eyes and I take another step. It isn't dark beneath the blindfold, I am not afraid. The grass is frost laden and my bare toes melt it blade by blade until they are as frozen as the ground beneath them. My hands are still out before me, but I am moving fast now. Running. Searching.

There are warm arms that always catch me. It doesn't matter where I am or where I am going. There are always there. And I know the chest that my head is cradled against. This is home. Not a house or a building. Not a bed or a sofa. Not material possessions, not things. This. This is where I belong. Always. This is my fairytale ending. Beginning.

25 November 2011

Never Nother

I'm dressed up on the sofa. Right over left, red high heels. With lashes that slay but nowhere to go. And I could belong to the night. My heart isn't made of muscle and I don't bleed red. Hands covered in black with only fingers showing. These are the finer things in life.

Do you remember the words you spoke to me? Because I don't. Never one for auditory, it's just a silent film ending in a cigarette burn. Dissolving the film with a quick lick of fire. Then the projector. And eventually the theatre. Everything up in flames.

This is the result of slight inebriation. Nothing more and nothing less than that absolute perfect honesty. Where do you live? Not where do you sleep, but where do you live? This is life unfiltered, tin barrels and all. Embarrassment was never a question, more of a statement. I deserve nothing and will refuse nothing. A cheap scapegoat for a real issue.

Television shows are shot from such an angle that everything seems beautiful. I've got this guilded life and excuses without truth or reality. I am broken against rocks in rivers running far and fast. There was a house with bamboo and it makes my heart feel safe. There was a house with rounded edges and it makes my heart feel safe. I am hidden away from all that's near.

This could compromise me forever. I am fighting the stock per volume and all I can muster is a head ache. This is where heroes are made. This is where normal people fall prey to those around them they deem to be special. I hate the word. I find it in the corner of the bedroom, beneath the edge of the bed, further than the sheet dare to creep beneath. It's quiet and lonely but surviving. Surviving so still.

There's nothing more to say except the heartbreak. That painful and confusing heartbreak. I have nothing to say to everyone surrounding me and the more people to join the fray the more alone I feel. There isn't anything and I can't seem to find the connection, rainbow or otherwise, it escapes me. Everything escapes. This is where my story ends.

But there is always another beginning.

03 November 2011

Time Passing

Charcoal dusting my hands, toffee colored rubber flakes covering a smudged page. We don't need erasers, not really. Just an imagination. It's slow, Italian. I miss that hillside. I am painted with pumpkin. That dark orange that only Autumn brings. Foolish, I am foolish. The color teal dissolved by stomach acid. Suddenly I am sharp again.

Shake and hustle. Small tremors at first, then it builds. Sip this slowly. Is this the only song I love or do we ever really change? The earth is just a circle with corners. I am in a vintage film strip. Breaking bread in my niche little house and the sheet is pulled tight across the bed. No time to fiddle, only violin and cello. The rosin smeared across her lips as well as her strings. I never had the talent.

Solid ivory sullied with finger prints. It's a clever sort of wood, harder than most, polished. The Captain's cap falls over his eyes as he slumps comfortably into the chair, feet upon the wheel. Complete control. You have only a moment to throw distain in his general direction as you lose you last meal into the ocean. What had been precious only a few short hours ago, now refuse among the waves. Fish food.

It's cold but the rain is nice. Plink lightly against the metal. It's beautifully painful. The light purple with white crayon over the edge. This is Hallelujah. Singe the edge of the paper and spread the ash. Red fire is anything but hot. Beams caved in over broken hearts. Defrost and pressurize. Standing in all blue, with white underneath. Is there another option?

Screening the scene with a quick glance. Permanent ink dripping through the skin. Chainlink and walls I don't recognize. I could wait forever, but that would be a lie. What time is it really. I'll tuck it away beneath the pillow and pray that that soft plushy surface is enough to protect my dreams. Pull another drag of that fresh air through that carrot treated filter. My truth is as real as I need it to be.

Open my eyes and witness broken limbs stretching further than they should. Hope never fails, but it can flail. I know absolutely nothing. A child, with never-ending curiosity and never-ending ignorance, sometimes arrogance. I am anything but deserving.

Mercy doesn't care who you've been. Grace doesn't care what you've done. Hope doesn't care where you've gone. Faith doesn't care when you lost it. Love doesn't care why you've let it go. Somethings are true, whether you believe them or not. And the more ridiculous the story? The more likely it is.

This is not a can of soup, this is a permanence beyond my comprehension of the word. Forever is an awfully long time. Today I am present. I couldn't tell you how or why, but I am here. Standing with both feet firmly on the group and both hands stretched open toward the sky. Today is! Today is.

18 October 2011

October Center

It is the middle of October. Literally. Autumn is more than just fall, it's a phoenix in bloom. Glorious, bright and vibrant bloom. I hold my hand out the car window, windows all the way down. The last warm day before the rain, maybe. But I am not concerned. I am full of warmth. From little toe to bouncy brunette curl. Perfection is not achievable, yet does exist. And we can only pray and strive for that goal. Not disappointed in our inability to achieve it, but terribly joyous that we have such a lovely prize to run toward.

I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I used to say I wanted nothing more than to be a housewife in pearls with a mohawk. Never typical, yet oh so practical. Did you know that you're loved? This is the smooth sound of contentment slipping over your eardrums. Did you recognize it? Or did it just slide past you. I've written a letter and it starts like this... well, let's not be vulgar. We'll always have Paris.

Now what do you do when all your dreams are coming true? Do you write a script Walt could place in the vault? Or do you already know? That dreams coming true just makes room for new ones. Oh dear, the love pouring out of these fingers every moment of every day. This is leather-bound, or maybe vinyl. Something secure, sweet, and new - yet so simple and old school. I read Home Economics for the 21st Century Household and sip a light glass of absinthe while I listen to Skrillex v Adele. Smyphonous.

This violent dichotomy of all that we know is what makes this life so precious. So much unstymied evil - yet - an unlimited amount of the purest good and loveliness. I can close my eyes and whisper words of prayer, but it is the moments I am silent that I hear. Anything, anything at all. I know there may be confusion. I'll tackle it head on. I know that I cannot possibly understand. And yet, I do. What a beautiful disaster this is.

This bright blessed day and dark sacred night. Life is so vital and yet inconsequential. I can smile and shake my head as I listen to the soft silence of sunset. Oh love divine. Delight. I am exhausted by the sheer wonder and amazement of all this surrounding beauty. A line in the sand is so easily washed away. But the lines on your heart stay. It speaks to who we are, who we will be. Each line so carefully etched. Planned.

Sweet spontaneity in the limelight, sharing it only with an unspeakable good. I am glad. This is my life and it is beautiful. No more than that of the next person, and yet... so much more in my mind. Love, love, love. Unfiltered and unkempt. Messy but complete. Whole and satisfying. I am still here.

21 September 2011

Standard of Beauty

The knowledge you gain as you grow, is far more useful in retrospect.There is so much to teach, but more to learn. I'm wistful for that which I lacked. Precious in the eyes of now, but not then. It's heartbreaking really, there is so much more than what you imagine there to be. I could never know it all, I'd never want to. I'm enjoying the growth, but it makes my heart hurt for the child I was. Why didn't anyone tell me this?

To go about this, I'm confused and concerned. Worried, I want to be worth your admiration. To live up to the standard and make you proud. To teach you and to learn from you. I want you to know and fully understand your value, your worth. I want you to comprehend who you are. I'll listen and I'm here, for advice and counsel and just an ear to listen. But your relationship with me is not the important thing. It's you, it's you.

I kiss the lips that call me "wife" and hold the hand that holds me safe. In those arms I rest and in that serenity I find my piece of mind. Mine only, belonging and true. There are words I forget to recognize. And my neurotic behaviour and simplicity is distracting from the light that shines from eyes unhindered. There is a love greater even still.

Here in my chest is occupied space. Not rented or leased but owned without a price. Permanently paperclipped to the covenant by which I live. A covenant sealed by blood and tears and death, in this I live. Joy burdening my poor heart to the point of collapse. Happy, content, beautiful, victorious collapse. And my heart burns for this, for this intense and fiery passion. I break for that which does not hit me and bleed for those who do not cut me. I am joyful! in the return of vibrant colour!

I can hear the voices. They whisper behind corners, sharp as they are. The words cut like fiberglass, you don't even know it's there until it's under your skin. When I could hear the gossip, I was disappointed. Now that I cannot, I understand. I am not hurt, I am heartbroken. Fiberglass buries itself into you, you see, as far deep as it can manage. Too young, too soon, too typical, too little, too much, too foolish, too rash, too. I disagree and I am ashamed of your building and all that it is meant to stand for.

I hold each moment precious and I bleed the color of my words - transparent. I seek truth and light. Laughing at the clouds because they bring the rain I will dance in. These are children's rain boots. I am unconcerned with proving anyone wrong because that isn't what this is about. The smiles I find are hidden deep in a life everyone had given up on. I will follow. This is my path, my joy to follow.

My desire is for you to fully understand who I am. No lies, no hidden secrets. I have messed up more than my fair share. I have been a bad example to those more impressionable, I have made mistakes, I have injured those I love. And I am sorry. While I would not wish my life on anyone, I do not regret it. Not because it was worth it, but because I would not be who I am without those things. Because I have found forgiveness in the calm and quiet of my own mind, by the grace of One who always knows better than I.

The hope would be that you read these letters and that they form more than words but meaning. Meaning that bleeds onto the page with every ink splatter I make. Did you know that I fall in love every day? It wasn't just once, but it isn't a decision either. And I imagine it will be harder some days, but it will never be impossible. Because I have practice falling in love everyday with Someone who never fails to love me back.


10 September 2011

Move Like

don't
just
stand
there
move like

printed on white paper
offwhite, really
no formalities here
the black is almost offsetting
pressed there against the white
offwhite
they are letters without form
deformed
not understood by any mind
but spoken by every tongue in every nation in all the earth
there is a gall
in all that black achieves
despite its circumstances
or perhaps because of
between the lines
and even over the top of them
told what to do only
by time without a clock and keys without doors
single, double, triple
free from the patterns of the mundane
demonstrating a command
a comprehension
creating anew
rest
effect affect

ingredients
marrow
bone
nerve and vein
organ
muscle tissue
greasy molecules reacting to uv radiation
blue and white woven
gene - jean
rayon and cotton
the percentage matters
color patterned
bounce sheets
rubber soul
ink
grey matter
gray
synaps and react
electric
no need for an outlet
the possibilities could break the scale
break
broken

vintage sunlight
8 minutes old
and today
that is far too long
sugar
sweetheart
dearling
by any other name
it just wouldn't be the same
does each word belong to you
or just disolve in your mouth
candy
ivy honey sweet
dripping onto the page
dark like ink
first learn the rules
so you can manipulate them to serve you
we live like this
the easy way out
stand up
marble statuesque
stoic
now move like

23 August 2011

And We'll Disappear

This. Won't. Make. Sense.


This is where the roses live.

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And if I had one sleeve, I'd be happier than I would with two.

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Photographs can document far more than you mean them to.

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Sugar sugar.

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Tell me, when did you know for sure?

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The bridge is across more than just the expanse.

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The outcome is obvious, it's the journey you have to consider.

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Cool like cream, smooth like ice.

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Which day would you like to know best, I've got one for each.

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I'll write code for my life and rattle it out like a machine. Machine.

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The breakdown of the breakdown - simple.

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Things fall, together.

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And here now.

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I'm done looking, the picture frame isn't empty here. I don't need a mirror when the reflection is apparent. There's nothing more to say besides, hm!

20 August 2011

Take What You Need

This should be interesting. You might be a bit surprised, but then you no what I know. So now what? Indifference is injustice and I am angry. We should be better. We should know to be better. And we are not. I am infuriated and my voice is too light which makes me as guilty as the next. The future is in front of us and we are abusing it. We are ignoring it. You need not grow up to be responsible and apparently you need not be responsible to grow up. I am disgusted. And this is a less than reputable venue to voice my opinion.

I have a new hair clip. Flower. Red. Gifted to me by someone who knows my heart better than even I do. To see the world from a child's perspective makes you a bit short, but not short of anything important. To live in a fairy house and receive joy from the little things. Pens all in a row, rainbow. Each moment more enthralling than the next, but knowing enough to know better. Oh excitement! Oh joy! Oh wonder and love! To be a child. This is how I want to see the world. This is the whole world available to you.

I'm lying beneath the stars and I am between your arms. There by your heart. I hear it and it comforts me. Two Six Eighteen. Tell me what the pattern might be. There's not much to be said for sitting alone, except to be brought a sandwich. I'd rather write with you next to me. Sweet dreams are made of these. Is this where the breakdown in communication happens? Because I don't see it. Self is the destroyer of unitedness, so say the wise. I can't claim to be wise, but I know this to be true. Seek out that which unifies, put value on something beside merit.

Blindsided by the maybe. Hold tight to all that's good, all that's real. But then, what is? One will make you big and one will make you small. Those are your options and the cakes both taste the same. This is beyond the edge of everything else, but before you reach the end. Day dreamy little girl, I burn feverish at night. Not hungry, not thirsy - there isn't anything you could offer me. I could never be bought, child. Keep yourself at attention or you might miss this next bit. Boom. This is the mashup, rap songs and screamo, operatic pop melodies. This is all you get, it won't sound like what you thought. Once you know this truth, you won't remember the noise you thought was your anthem.

I want it all - isn't that the truth, sweetheart? I've heard this whispered in dark corners behind dirty hands before. This is the theme of those who see without understanding, sing it loud. Brush the water off your shoulder, the drops should just glance off your skin. There's nothing soaking in the way you'd like. But that makes for a much more interesting stage. Unappreciated are your vain attempts to grasp the attentions of those around you. Was there something important that you wanted to share? Some things are better kept to yourself. For ever is the silence that is worthless words formed by needy lips.

Soft serve ice cream. White sprinkles are always the sweetest, something about the dye dies the taste. Piano forte, and yet isn't it still softly served? Animals behind bars and glass windows, aren't you just another creature caged. Looking out over the vast expanse of pavement and steel from your glistening tower tops. You don't really have control over the world you see. It's just motion that you feel like you've set into play, but it doesn't belong to you. Does anything belong to you? And if it does, what purpose does it serve? Where do you find solace - here in the middle space. Distracted by the caffeine and cold starlight against the window. Yellow only looks warm.

Painting the carpet with decent pastels. The way it looks is as important as you'd like. Choose. Write your list of priorities or it will write itself. And then where will you be? Courage and enthusiasm, maybe. Love and perserverence, definitely. Winners write history and I'm certainly not one of those, but I'll take the pen in my hand regardless. There is something to be said for perserverence. It's easy to be courageous when you can see Dragons. It's impossible to perservere when you can't see what you're fighting, still, it must be done. I've outrun much of what haunted me, only to turn and defend myself. It's been said a thousand times.

Enjoy the show for what it's worth. Expect nothing more than what you're shown, but hold hope in high esteem. Do you deserve anything? No. But you should demand it. And I will push you to that end. Sway in time and hope it is more than you think. Asleep. That half state between alive and dead. Dreams live here. We run from them or embrace them, but where do they belong really. Just belong. Don't try to wake me in the morning. Open to the world, love is hard. All kinds of love. There's more at play in this life than just romance. There is so much more. Sing to me.

17 August 2011

Something Small

It's the beginning of the end. The end of the beginning. Whichever, something is happening. It's a simple concept. Love is hard. I like it that way, between you and me. It's not always easy, but I wouldn't say it's a choice. I couldn't say it's a choice. I already have my one, I already have my two, I could keep counting but why bother? I'm in the sunshine. I am in the brook. My toes are between sparkling water and my hands are fiddling with blackberry bushes. A scratch here and there and purple all over my fingers.

I'm learning a lot about prayer. But more about listening. It has a little to do with patience, a little to do with love. A whole lot to do with ignoring myself, which sometimes means paying attention. It's backwards, but that's the way it should be. If it made sense, it couldn't be true. Isn't that the way of the world. We'll light a fire to keep us warm. Falling stars and all the rest I've forgotten to mention. I always make wishes for other people. I know not what I'd wish for myself.

They're all so precious, like stones or gems. But more so than even that, more so than any of that. What is in a human life that makes it worth so much. It breaks your heart and sooths your soul all at once, never seperate. Hold tight, this is the new knew. Love. Pour forth and never let it cease. Incontinuity ruins all that could be continuous. That should be. I want them to know, to absolutely and completely know. To be aware of the affection held for them, of the esteem. How can I make it more apparent! My eyes are already welled up and my heart spilling over. Over over.

Low expectations and a fiery imagination is how I break things down. I have a hunger for things that won't satisfy and a thirst for that which cannot be quenched. I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm not what you like to see on paper, and in person it's not much better. I know that I bring something no one else can offer, you'll have to see it for yourself. There is white linen and a chain of roses I made, just hanging on my way. I'm not worried, I'm excited! But it's quiet and calm.

Not typical, but I'm not sure anything else would be appropriate. I don't have any answers right now, nor do I have a direction for you. I have more than that, so much more that it weighs me down as I spin in circles beneath the sun and between the music notes. Joy! to all that is and will be. I don't have enough words, I don't have enough sentiment. Just hope that you feel my meaning. This is more. Or less. Perhaps I don't even know what I'd like to express. Only that I wish to express it.

Love love love.

06 August 2011

Go And Pack Your Bag

This is today. Gray skies and mild pain that I ignore. I'm on the edge of something great here and I can't wait to take that leap. I complete no one, but am complete. This is how riddles begin. If you shut the door with the music up, it acts only as a muffler of the muffled sound. I'm thrilled to tell you all about how much I don't actually know. My life is built with broken glass that has been melted back together, each piece mixing in with the next. Not unbreakable, by any means, but a beautiful medley of who I've become. Have no regrets, only experience. This is where the healing lives.

Sunburst. I'm glad to have a pen in my hand and scissors and a tank top. This is mine now and I'll make it my own. Soon I won't have a mine, I'll have an ours. I think I like that better. In fact, I'm sure I do. It seems inconsequential, those 45lbs of glossy paper. And I'm thankful, but not glad. I think this is the beginning of much of that. But none of this belongs to anyone else and so it shall remain. I'm low maintenance and I never intend on being anything else. That cabin by the river is just perfect. Not my future - ours.

Imagination is a funny thing, you can never quite live up to it. But you know reality is good when your imagination never came up with anything this amazing. Four letter words tend to be a cop out, and while this one isn't, it still isn't enough. But we'll have to make do with what we have. I'll write on the walls with my fingers and press flowers into the floor boards. I'm not the type of woman to just sit back and wait around. I want to be a 2:18 and I want to do it well - but only for two.

I'm dancing in my living room, not for long will it be. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and kiss my shoulders, first right then left. I never said I was anything less than odd. I'm happy. Not just in this but in everything. I'm full and it has nothing and everything to do with me. Braided into the perfect shape of joy. Cursive tends to be my motif. My hair is disheveled and flopped as it pleases, I couldn't care less. There's a beautiful word in a language I can't remember, it will explain everything now that I've forgotten it. This way, that way, anyway.

I love you, I love you, I love you. A million more times is it said. And I would be rich for every penny rained from Heaven if it rained on you and I. Our names next to one another is what I like best, it's what I love. And I don't want anything in the inbetween, you and me together we could do anything, baby. You and me together, yah, yah. Just resign to it and smile. I love you, I love you, I love you.

03 August 2011

Engage Me

I've been set up. Bamboozled. The wool was yanked over my eyes. I had a fast one pulled on me. I've been tricked, mislead, and swindled. I've been taken for a ride and hoodwinked. I'm befuddled and confused as to how I got here, but I'm sure I was hornswoggled. It all started when I was called home, when I felt drawn back here to the place that had previously filled me with fear and doubt. With hatred and anger and, quite frankly, disgust. But I returned to Maple Valley as I was called, and here I am.

First I met Jimmy Creek, a funny name for a funny young man. He stood awkwardly outside of the reception tent and I awkwardly approached him to make conversation because it's who I awkwardly am. We hit it off and now call one another soul maytes, you know, maytes in the way that Australians mean it. Then there was Lindsey Watson, the baby sister of boys I went to High School with, and her boyfriend Chris Bunn. Fun loving, easy going - they were all easy enough to befriend. The Scoop was reformed and we all started to meet. My favorite books are Ecclesiastes and Revelations, I hate Paul and I love the old testament - "Malia, do you know Mark Dullanty?"

I knew you in High School and I never much cared for you, you were always a bit of a douche. You knew me in High School and you never much cared for me, I was always a bit of the same. The constant insistance that we should hang out and all we could do was scoff. I came to Mars and you decided maybe I wasn't all that bad, I decided you were still a douche but I loved all your friends and I wasn't about to let them fall by the wayside because of it. Then Mexico came and I didn't mean to go, but God placed me there (yet again). And it was there in the dirt that we created a spark of friendship that would lead us places we never imagined.

It was San Diego that changed my mind about you, in the car after getting your nose repierced. You tried to keep a straight face and you couldn't manage it, I don't know that I had ever really seen you laugh like that before. I realized what an amazing friend you are, even if you pretend not to be. From that day forward, I'm not sure there were three days in a row that we didn't spend doing something. Whether it was cheese and wine night or comic movie marathons, gabbing about Pauly Shore or art or cooking, sustainable living and south of the border... and somewhere along the line I came to care for you. I remember the night, I fell asleep in your lap. I had a nightmare and I may have even shouted. It scared you, I remember you asking if there was something you could do. I didn't want you to touch me, because if you touched me it might comfort me and then our friendship would change. I didn't want that, I told myself a million times I didn't want that. And then, less than a week later we made the decision we were dating.

It was terrifying, really. I was so sure it was going to end up in tears and disappointment like so many other things. But you had become my best friend, and what is better than marrying your best friend. You were there for me in the best of times and the worst. You sent me sweet uplifting text messages or just called to tell me something funny. You were always upfront and honest with me, you challenged me and accepted me for who I am. You made sure that I was always comfortable and yet you were always pushing me to be the best version of me. I fell in love with you. It was slow, slower than you, I think. But it was always real, more real than I even dared to hope for.

We talked about getting engaged, I knew you were asking my parents permission. We talked about how we want to save and only buy a wedding ring. We emailed about a house and we signed our names "mark and malia" - all lower case, because only adults capitalize. But, all the same, I wasn't expecting it. I didn't see it coming. You started to tear up and asked if I would add another name to mine, I couldn't even say yes. I started to laugh and cry all at the same time and I felt ridiculous. You asked again if I would marry you and to my great suprise, I could finally manage a yes. A resounding and overpowering yes.

We haven't been together for long and we are young and we make mistakes all the time. But you know me and love me for exactly who I am. And I know and love you for exactly who you are. There is nothing I would love more than to be your two. There is nothing I would love more than having coffee every morning and falling asleep next to you every night. There is nothing I would love more than being broke with you because we refuse to buy cheapy food. There is nothing I would love more than to read the Bible and watch old cartoons. There is nothing I would love more than to flip through old comics and graphic novels and go grocery shopping with you for the rest of our lives. There is nothing I would love more than Pauly Shore marathons and laying in the sunshine. There is nothing I would love more than to be called your wife.

It wasn't romantic in a Hollywood sense, but I wouldn't have had it any other way. I love the $.25 ring that is on my finger until we actually get married. I love the white gold nose ring and that we want our ceremony to be like 15 minutes long- tops. I love that we want kids to come to our wedding and that we are planning it together. I love that we are more excited about the marriage after than the actual getting married part. I love all of it and I love you. I am so excited for our life together. I am so excited!

Cheers!

28 July 2011

Chemistry Major

It is said of pleasure, not to mix it with business. And why should the two ever even be tempted to fraternize? No reason at all, really, save for curiosity, which has already slain the cat. Merely busy bees and walnut trees have any interest in merging the pair. And so, the rest of those inclined to suppose that the two should intertwine? Should reconsider the thought in order to better their circumstances.

I have never been in danger of mixing pleasure and business, as pleasure is my business. I have no work, only play, and I refuse to ever consider giving into only one. I need no caution signs or admonition, for I have refused business since the beginning. Never have I like the pencil skirt, nor the pen. And I am afraid blazers have never much suited me in the bittersuite. The caveat is much appreciated, but rather unnecessary in light of the fact that I avoid the issue altogether.

However candid I may be about my lack of business, I must acquiesce that I do dabble in chemistry. And while I may not mix pleasure with business, I often infuse it with pain. I feel it a stronger dosage, and I can get it for half the price. I am not sure of what qualms come of such a coupling, and yet I am altogether too aware. But you should already know, dearling, the sunshine is best when it burns.

As a girl, so young a girl, I found myself often seeking out to self destruct. The bigger the explosion is always the better. There were so many ways to mix pleasure and pain and I found myself with an industrial blender, every morning trying a different cocktail, each stronger than the last. I was never much for continuity. After awhile, I lost the lid but never stopped creating new concoctions. And so I was left with a mess that seemed to coat every surface and seep into every pore. My amalgamations not only covered, but defined me.

It takes a breakdown to break down, and there were many. I would just sharpen the blade, to sharpen the taste, of every pleasure and pain filled drink. But, eventually, everything stops. And nothing you knew and nothing new works anymore. There is a point of no return and you decide. You can place the blame on anything, really, but it all comes down to responsibility, that silly seven syllable word. There are tears and much more that you cannot control, but in the end it's freeing. The honesty and transparency are worth far more than what you've been selling.

Sweet as the sentiment was cemented in my mind, I removed it. No longer needing to seek self destruction and the panic! button need no longer occupy so much of my thoughts. I need not worry for I believe in what is said and what is done around me. My emotional paroxysms and seizures have ceased and I can breathe without the assistance. This tube is obsolete. I'm not bleeding and I do not need aid of any kind. I'm not afraid, but I am terrified. Of what and where and who and why and how comes next. This sequence never seemed to have a pattern, only a constant. I've written my lab report and now class must come to an end. I have new things to begin. I am a new thing to begin.

19 July 2011

State of Absence

There is dirt on my clothing and a patter on my heart that I haven't felt in awhile. I pulled my laundry out of the wash and there was a scent I didn't want to recognize. It used to be that I would wake up not knowing where I was, now I know and I wish I didn't. My heart is in a different timezone, my mind is on a different continent, and it's sunny in Cusco. I'm tearing apart my closet searching for a something - what was it? My bag is packed and I have cash in my hand. I could get pretty far, but not far enough. Ride the wave out, clap in time. Every star is a wish I want to make, every flash of headlights is time passing me by, every morning is a moment I remember where I am. Thunder storms predicted tomorrow in San Jose.

Clouds blanket my Washington and I forget to speak in English. I smile and I can hear my voice, but it isn't mine and I am not sure what is being said. His response is cordial, polite. I can tell that he thinks I'm a day dreamer, but I'm not. I'm not dreaming and it's not day time. There is a swift wind blowing through Porto this evening, I love it when it gets like this. All the green leaps to life on the breeze and I can taste the ocean. The man I'm speaking to looks confused, and I realize I have answered him in Portuguese. I apologize and try to laugh it off, but I've never been a good liar. I'm not standing here with him, I am thousands of miles away. Up in the mountains, out on the coast, shaded between the trees, covered in salt water and sand.

Being choked up is a literal statement, it's not an exaggeration to make your point. You'll know the moment you feel it. The firm hand of emotion pressed against your windpipe and you gulp down as much oxygen as you can manage, but it doesn't really matter. Try drinking water, still nothing. It's not so much painful as just a constant state of discomfort. It's not so much debilitating as disheartening. Firenze is still warm from the summer sun. Warm rain is falling on Haleiwa, perfect day to head out on the surf. Perfect day to sail away.

I know you're speaking, but I can't hear you. To say the least? I am distracted, absent, missing. And I wish that I was more of the latter than the former. One girl, one bag, one love. Vagabond is hardly descriptive enough, and yet it is too much. It's green and black and white, I won't have more, I can't have less. I'm bleeding airplane tickets and train fare and I am not standing here. But there are people I need to be accountable for. There are people I need to protect from my flight plans, even as it break my sanity and holds me hostage. I can already feel the bamboo growing through me.

I am pouring out all the love that I have and still there is more. It's not that being here is difficult, as not being there is impossible. My nails are embedded deep into the Maple as I convince myself to remain, my muscles are exhausted from being tensed as my body breaks down from standing still. If you crack open this chest, you'll find maps and photographs where the heart should be. Instead of lungs, breathe a sail and a steam engine. My circulatory system is waves of salt water and mineral drenched amazon river. Each muscle is a deep green plant and my stomach is digesting three or four languages all at the same time. There are kidneys made from coconut twine and a liver in the shape of a plane, metal and fabric and all.

Raw flight and I'll have to file for state of absence if you'd like to continue speaking to me. I'm not here. I'm not even there. And I'm not sure where I'll be tomorrow. I'm not a planner, but I can't not know. I like surprises, but not being unsure. I don't know where I am, and I certainly do not know where you are. I'm on the carpet, I'm on the pavement, I'm on some mode of transportation. The motion is making me just ever so sick and I wish we would stop rocking for even a moment. But I can't, because I'm not really going anywhere. I'm still. Still still.

I close my eyes and talk to God, because I'm tired of not knowing. There is only one response to someone who can't stand still - and He knows it so well with me. He picks my off the chair I am clinging to and holds me. Not restraining me, but just holding me. Playing with my hair and whispering on my heart. There is no greater comfort. He peels my fists open and calms my worries. I'm lying in the hands of my Father and breathing hard as He opens my airway so I can breathe again. It's been so long since I've filled my lungs. Here in the arms of the One who will never let me down, I am reminded. Of what, I can't tell you. That's something you have to find for yourself. I am comforted and whole, until, of course, I let my running feet touch the ground once more. But for now, I am safe in the arms of Him who loves me, unrivaled and unconditionally.

12 July 2011

Wait

Eyes closed, pressed against the seat with salt on my face and my hands over my mouth. This is where the fear descends. Shaking, unable to remain still any longer. Houdini in a word, I cannot do this anymore. I feel the shadows closing around my sunshine, and that last ray of warmth is stolen from my tremoring soul. I've been here before. Shut down, break down, fall apart.

Quiet and still, there is a small whisper on the back of my mind. Gently tugging at the strings of my despair and easing them into peace and contentment. The book falls open somewhere near the middle and I sigh in relief. You have granted me a new heart. Once upon a time, I had asked for it. I remember now. It was a silent memory, but silence is not always indicative of nothing being said. Sometimes, silence is all the sound you could ever ask for. I beg for it now.

I'm on my knees in desperate agony of love. The kind of love the drains you until you're a small puddle at the dip in the porcelain. Not nearly enough to make anything of, not nearly enough to matter. The sort of love that takes you for everything that you are without giving anything in return. And yet, wait. Be patient. Be still. It has offered you everything in return. Everything you never knew that you needed. It's always in the small things, in the things you never knew you were important.

It's the smile when asked to get ice cream. It's the head on your shoulder and arms around your waist. It's your name being shouted from across a room. It's the funny compliments. It's the shameful look of being reprimanded. It's the excitement. It's the teasing. It's the laughter. It's the refusal to do what you say. It's the tears you wipe away. It's the hair you play with. It's the blessing that you are allowed to do any, all of these things. It's that you waited and waited and this is what you received. It's that you didn't recognize it at first. It's that it exhausts you. It's that it breaks your heart. It's that it breathes into your lungs. It's that it feeds the part of your soul you never even knew was starving.

I am starved. It's hard to face - when you know you've dropped the ball a thousand times before. It's difficult to be responsible when there are hundreds of eyes on you, each pair brighter than the last. Not because being responsible is hard, but because you might fail. You might fail without ever realizing it. You might let someone down, you might break a heart, you might disappoint - and that is too much to bear. You want to be all of the things those little eyes see you as. You want to live up to that standard so they might have that standard for themselves. You want to be good and honest and transparent. You want to be appropriate and loving and stern. You want to be upbeat and real and you don't want to be any of these things for yourself, but for them. Always for them.

I am heavy as I wander from responsibility to responsibility, and I remember God telling me that this Summer would be difficult. That it would be impossible. I remember Him gently loving me to this point. I am burdened and weighed down, and I find it so difficult to retain the joy Christ has placed on me. Oh grace, how you escape my grasp. How I forget to grasp for you... to be still in silence would be a beautiful thing. A beautiful thing.

And as I am here, I remember. I remember to wait, to wait, to wait. When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and their tongue is parched with thirst, I the LORD will answer them; I the God of Israel will not forsake them. These are the words of the God I know. These are the words of a God I love, who I strive to be like. My heart is soft, pliable. It has been beaten and bruised, and restored. I will wait on what I know to be true. Eyes tilted towards He who made me, in earnest and waiting. I will lead by example and love beyond my capability. Love like Christ has called me to love, love like I have been made to. I will live up to the expectations of who I was made to be and never question the possibility of it all. I will be enough. I will be more than enough.

Wait.

30 June 2011

Seven Syllables

Responsibility is a big word. Six syllables at least, you could make it Seven. You're a terrible liar, but you can talk yourself into anything. You are terrified of all the people staring at you, not because they are looking but because of what they might see. The rumourmill is running hard and fast. You've always been a fan of a scandal, especially when you're the last to know what you were involved in. You are not afraid of your reputation. You are afraid of how it will effect those you care about most. You've dropped the ball once. More than once. You can't stand to drop it again.

You're standing on a carpeted stage and there are so many earnest faces. They are eager and confused. They'll believe what you tell them, so you'd better get it right. You can't decide if it's a shame or a good thing that you lost my poker face years ago. Lady GaGa would be so ashamed of you, but Christ would be proud. At least of this. There was a time where you forgot how to spell. And you didn't realize responsibility could be a Seven syllable word.

One. Make good decisions. It's five-thirty in the morning. Typical. Count the hours of sleep. One one thousand, two one thousand, thre- "Hello?" You put on your cape and rush out the door. Windswept you show up on the scene. There are worse things than romantic heartbreak, we forget that. It's cold and you listen to the anger pour from the lips. You are angry with those lips, but squeeze the hand. Forgiveness. Grace. Sigh.

Two. Set the standard. Be on your best behaviour, now. This moment could change everything. Be courageous. This could be your only shot. Be transparent, but appropriate. Be strong when others can't be. Be a listener and give sound advice. Be honest. Be truthful. Be patient. Be kind. Be trustworthy, be trusting. Be calm. Be outgoing. Be hopeful. Be faithful. Be everything good. And do it well. The lives of others depend on it. No pressure.

Three. Recognize. You don't realize that you're on a carpeted stage, do you? But you are. You're standing there with eyes of every color looking at you, through you. The less you realize it, the more in danger you are. Scream at the top of your lungs and hope someone hears you. But even if they do, it's unlikely they'll come to your rescue. Be aware you're in a glass cage. You're held accountable for every action. Not just in theory this time, love, not just in theory.

Four. Carry the burdens. Being loved comes with strings, but not the kind you always think of. More dangerous, invisible strings. The kind that tie you to someone, maybe even permanently. You earn the privilege to be burdened with others issues. You earn that. Trust is not given freely, it does not flow from one human to another. It takes time and energy. And it comes with a burden.You are looked up to and with that privilege comes great responsibility. All Seven syllables.

Five. Take initiative. Go out of your way and make yourself uncomfortable. Struggle. Suffer. Don't ever fake it. Come honestly and openly before others and yourself and, most importantly, God. Maybe you can't do it on your own, but you must do it. There are lives that depend on this, on you. It's terrifying, isn't it? Red pill or blue pill? You decide. Take that first step. No one can make you do it. Seek out people. Seek out answers. Seek. This is where wisdom sleeps.

Six. Live Out Love. Actions speak louder than words. Show people. Live out the love that is shown to you on a day to day basis. Live it. We are called to this important decision every moment of every day. It's possibly the most crucial one you will ever make and it's happening all the time. You can always change your mind, but which will you choose? Live Out Love.

Seven.

Shhh, quiet now. Breathe. The Seventh syllable is to just breathe. The Responsibility is yours and you can choose to let it shape and define you. To chisel you out of stone and make you into something more solid. But you can also be still for awhile and know that you do not have to dwell on it. It does not have to make you anxious or worrisome. It may hurt. It may change you. It may make you exhausted. But these Seven syllables are a gift, a blessing in disguise. They are teaching things you never knew about yourself. Holding you accountable. Shhh...

04 June 2011

And Sons

Serve God, love me, and mend.
i believe in things most people do not
and while i am often unsure
about those things i am certain
this is the dichotomy
the beat hits
one and three
This is not the end.
you're the one i want to tell
all my nonsense to
you're the one i want to watch
the world change with
you're the one i want to hear
the truth from everytime
careful now
i might just trip over
Live unbruised we are friends.
glasses on the table
vibrating from the drums
i'm one for sand between my toes
it was the strangest moment of clarity
i'll laugh at just about anything
i'll only ever regret
the things that i can't ever smile about
so i try to make them few
if any
And I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
don't mistake my quiet for silence
oh silent mistake
i'd paint you with my words
if i wanted to
but i think i'll leave them
for a sunnier day and a brighter disposition
Sigh no more, no more.
oh i won't beg
but i will beseech
if i feel the tide is grazing my lips
pushing higher and higher
until the waves roll over upon my tongue
this is the moment
i remember
i'll always remember
One foot in sea, one on shore.
there was a man
on the street in barcelona
what a funny place for him to stand
just there in the median
without a sign or a hat
without a rhyme or a beat
yet there was a reason
unforseen in the mediocraty of his demeanor
My heart was never pure
it was that man
he knew me without a name
i was without words or hope
and he knew me better
than the closest friend i've ever known
this is that moment
of clarity
you'll know it when it hits you
And you know me and you know me.
i don't love you
so don't ask me to
maybe someday
when i can better see the stars
from where i'm standing
i am apparently not as transparent
as i think i am
And man is a giddy thing oh man is a giddy thing
it's dark outside
but i'm inside your warmth
despite the distance
without the knowledge of the future
rehab of desire
and we're back at square one
or something?
Oh man is a giddy thing oh man is a giddy thing.
trust is a bit of a grey area
and i don't speak well
it makes for a fun game of hideandseek
crop circles in the carpet
and everything meant in that
i have no idea what the future holds
but i think that's why i believe in God
i'll sing upper harmony with you
i'll sing upper harmony
Love, it will not betray you, dismay or enslave you
i won't ever say something for your benefit
being honest as i may
but i might not say it
and aren't those the same thing
hearts are easily cut out of paper
it's harder to give them dimensions
and once you do
it's hard to remember
each of the chambers you put things in
It will set you free.
lost
reward of unparalleled unconditonal if found
but then the question remains
is it something you actually want
my answer is yes
at least i think it is
but i don't worry nearly as much
as i most likely should
Be more like the man you were made to be.
i've got my head in the clouds
my feet in the water
and both hands clinging to the trees
i am always more than willing
to play in the dirt
just don't mistake me
for being grounded
i am still working on staying still
There is a design
i'll write it on your back
between the thread
i'll say "thank you
i am glad of you
and i hope you know
all you mean to me"
there is more i have to say
i'm sure
but i'm not ready yet
An alignment to cry
i can place the sunshine in my hair
and it makes my eyes so green
i'll never settle for less
than exactly what God has for me
i am standing
i'm just not sure if it's still
i am waiting
i'm just not sure if it's patiently
the music slows down
when life speeds up
dichotomy
Of my heart to see
there is a line
the question now
is whether it'll catch anything
i'm down by the river
rocky shores
and poor misunderstanding
under a bridge
over the water
this is where life happens
where are you in it
The beauty of love as it was made to be.
the truth is this
i don't know
i cannot know
but this is more than
well
more than i ever knew
i've never been one for expectations
but mayhaps
this will be the exception

15 May 2011

If You Sing The Melody

If you sing the melody, I'll find a harmony. The only light I like to be on me is sunshine and I dream in black and white. Sometimes I may answer your questions in a language you do not speak. My life has been full of all that bĂȘte noire, but I believe the best of humanity. We are exactly what we put into this world. I enjoy conjugating verbs and kisses. It's not much, sugar, but it's all I know. This road began in Casablanca.

You're facetious while I'm capricious and between the two of us, it's a wonder the point is ever reached. I don't know what you do and I don't know where I am. But you can't also have every piece of information before making the leap. I was in a little white dress, fitting. And the past is not forgetable, oh this, graphic novel of stories. My ring had a finger, a piece of twine so delicately wrapped around. I burned it that December day.

Forever is a long time and it's what I'm searching for. I don't wish to sound vague or cryptic, but I'm really unsure of my voice in any other manner. Sarcasm is a tool of God himself. My fingers hit black and white keys, hoping to create sound after the noise and before the music. This is where I am standing and I can't explain why I won't move. I'm staring at the clouds, isn't there a verse for this? I think I've heard this tune.

My blankets are made of untrust and I prefer to be warm. My heart breaks each morning and is put carefully back together over the course of the day. I imagine this is what the world has always been and never was. Unused potential without the potential to be used. Where am I standing, where am I standing? This isn't what I thought it was and my heart is in my toes. Separated and fallen so far down myself. I am searching the skies for something I thought I see.

It's ironic, paradoxical? My English has worn thin and I need a new. This is the great divorce, the great divergence of all that I thought. Oh how false seems pretty in the sunlight as it glances off and makes the world shine for just a moment. But the temporary isn't what I'm looking for. It isn't what I thought it was, nothing ever is. But I was never promised truth, only contentment. This is my life, I think.

I'll read this page until it fades between my fingers. Worn thin by love and affection poured out into action. I'll never stop dreaming and my feet are anything but on the ground. There is something about the sky and the water and the wildlife that is far too appealing for anything of that nature. I'm hopeless and I like that and I am not sure if it'll change. So here is how I'll spin it, to the left to loosen the heartache. Pray for this moment, cause it's all you'll ever have.

03 May 2011

Four Funerals And One Hundred Engagements

"Bom dia, minha estrela." Every morning is the same and I can hear your smile. It sounds tired but determined, you don't want to let me down. I'm afraid of never hearing that voice again. Scared this might be the last time you make me laugh, the last time I hear your soft Portuguese kiss my ears. There are diamonds in these eyelashes, easily wiped away if I were strong enough to pick up my hand. I love you, I love you, te amo tanto. This is the moment.

You ask about my night, I tell you how happy I am. It's the greatest dichotomy ever handed to me, I always loved the beauty of contradiction. It's bittersweet now - how appropriate. I've never talked so much about God in one sitting and still felt the need to further discuss the issue. I tell you I'm working and it makes you laugh. You tell me that you think I've found the one, whatever that means. I don't know that you're right, but I won't disagree with you now. My heart is in so many pieces. There are worse things than romantic heartbreak.

"You are my church, estrela." I smile. And you are mine, most beautiful man whom I love, and you are mine. I have everything I need right here, on the other end of this phone. Your voice is the only thing I need now. I am so tired of counting funerals. Just another excuse for a pretty dress and so I won't let you have one. This is my celebration of life, your life. I demand it be celebrated. I'm determined to smile. "Always so full. Full of joy, full of light. You are the best person, estrela." Only, I'm not. You are.

There is something in the way you say my name, "Estrela," that makes me believe in tomorrow. You are so sure of who I am and I think it makes me into that person a little more each morning when I wake up to your voice. I love you, I love you, te amo. You're so kind, so sincere. You say what you mean and mean what you say. And with each morning of frenchpress, I feel myself holding you closer and closer to my heart. It's only half true, absence isn't the only thing that makes the heart grow fonder. I'm not sure of the other half, but you have it.

You were named for the Saint, Mateo. But I don't remember ever calling you that. I don't remember you once being that name. You have always been Maddyfeijao to me, Mads on affectionate occasion... Your name moves so smoothly off my lips. I know exactly how to form it, where to place the emphasis for every emotion I have with you. What will I do without it? It's hard to explain how names go out of use once you lose the one they belong to. I am afraid of it happening to yours. So soon, too soon. There is so much more and less to say. All of it begins with your name on my lips.

This morning you ask if I will do you a favor. I tell you anything because I mean it. I would do anything, anything at all. I can hear the strain in your voice, I can hear the discomfort. You're fading. I've heard this same malaise and I never wanted to again. But it's here in front of me and I'll do anything, anything you ask. There is a moment of silence. Only breathing. The clouds are so beautiful today. We used to watch them together. And then you ask, "Write this down, it's important."

"Please be happy. Please live your life. Please take advantage of every moment. Please fall in love and allow yourself to be loved. Please get married and have children. Please love God and humanity without regret. Please continue to be exactly who you are. Do none of these things because I tell you, but because you realize you deserve them." I can hear you smiling and I smile back. We're quiet for a moment and you tell me how much you love me. I've never believed anyone as much as I believe you in this moment.

"So many engagements this spring, I feel strange and out of the loop." You tell me not to. That it'll come soon enough, probably sooner than I imagine. And that mine will be just as, if not more full of love and joy. You think I've already found who God's created for me. "A perfect set," you say. And you have only one request, the same one he had of me. "I don't know that I'll be there, estrela. But I will be there with you. Write out our love. Small, just for you. A liberdade, unicamente liberdade, estrela." I know, I've made this promise before. It's my most precious promise, my most precious secret. And I'll keep it. Close to my heart, where I keep you.

"To this I search for,
a keeper of the heart
that does not fall before the wind falls.
My life, my love,
described as infinite,
without compromise my sacrifice knows no bounds."

02 May 2011

Empty Hands

i am afraid of the empty space in my hand
i'd rather it be full
and
if i'm being honest
i know what i'd like to be there
you have a good grip
just not on the situation
your smile is what lights the dim
of four in the morning
i would never like to read minds
especially not yours
but i would like to know
what is sitting upon yours
from your own lips
and not from my own thoughts
you ask me
sometimes
to tell you about things
that i am not ready to tell you
other times i ask you
but that smile graces your lips
i put it there
not always
but more often that not
i treasure the hours
and i like when you tell me things
that you haven't spoken of
in some time
the empty space in my hand
it makes me uncomfortable
i'd rather it be full
and i know what i'd like to be there
you are honest
too honest
it's good for me to know
that people can be too honest
the existence of what i thought imaginary
the last
the last one
well
wasn't honest like i thought
it made me want to keep empty hands
but i miss them being full
i am not sure about the past
i have no idea about the future
then you smile
and i don't have to know
either way

Conversating With The Ceiling

I'm wearing thin and you can see through me. It makes me uncomfortable, makes me squirm. But then you kiss me lightly on the forehead with your smile and Love. I feel you here beside me. I close my eyes to listen better to the sound of your voice. This is what straight jackets are for.

Skepticism keeps you safe, but safe is not the same as happy. So I am out on a tree branch and laughing at how it bends beneath my weight. Tomorrow I may not have a branch to stand upon and so I must play on it today. Lost in my thoughts and the Love of your gaze, I am content as it has been promised to me.

My burdens have been placed elsewhere. I deserve to be burried beneath them and yet I lift my eyes and see stars. How blessed, how graced, how affected by mercy. I think so little of tomorrow as you have promised to care for it. And still, I seek after. I seek after.

You've given me each thing I've asked for, in a way I least expected. Or, perhaps, even wanted. So patient with the sound of my voice and the length of my questioning. I look to the ceiling where I imagine you to live and I can see you shaking your head at my perposterous notions of understanding.

Hoping in small joys. I am glad of it. The eternal optimist, I believe joy and Love can fix all that they come across. Broken dishes included. There is something in the way you whisper my name. "Malialani," it sings. Here I am, here I am. I respond so loudly into your silence and I can almost hear the laughter playing on the wind. "Silly child, whom I Love."

I am listening. I am meant to be listening. I am trying to be listening. How small I am in all of these moments. I could never understand Love. Not in the way that you are. I can only ever beg to be spared the full amount, for I am undeserving and could not ever hope to be strong enough to withstand it.

What I'll never understand is why. Not in all my attempt at comprehension will I know. For it was I who killed you. After thousands of years of disobedience and failure, and still you Love me. Always and unfailingly you Love me. Oh, how you Love me.

14 April 2011

Ramblings In A Wedding Dress

i don't believe in circumstance
and God exists for me
how could he not?
i've got the double beat in my chest
i'm standing right here
and there's nowhere i'd rather be
it's manna from heaven
no need for a future
no need for a past
i'm sure of the moment this changed
couldn't keep from smiling
it makes me nervous
but sunshine detracts from anxiety
life doesn't go as you plan
life plans you as it goes
i don't have a tomorrow or yesterday
all i have this is moment
and i want it to be spent doing the things i love
with those people i love
ask me anything
i'll ask you for one thing
i am not complicated
and i don't believe in games of the heart
with me it's never a guess
my heart is on my wrist
no sleeves to speak of
or shelter it from the harm it has befallen
but i'm always willing to try
mayhaps that's my downfall
i will always trust all over again
i love how i feel safe between all of you
a cocoon of friends
my heart is in fewer pieces these days
once it was in shards
but i've never let that stop me
i believe in you
whether you believe in me or not
i love you more than i could ever express
i don't have to know who you are
my drug of choice is given
not taken
and this world needs more users
my nose is in a book
while my heart is in a spray paint can
i trust God to know
all the things i don't
which could never mean i won't seek
but also means i might not find
this is what i want
i am almost who i want to be
but i'm not sure you can really reach
all your potential in this life
there's something greater waiting
i believe in miracles
i think you're one
yes, you
please don't argue
you can't see things from my perspective
so you could never really understand
exactly how enigmatic you really are
i am glad to have these people around me
i want to hold hands
to laugh and to whisper
to know secrets
to tell them
and you are the people i want
to do all these things with
how blessed have i been!
with all of these glorious people
i am jealous of myself in this
of those people who i believe
would look out for me
and i for them
i'm the kind of girl
who will never really grow up
just living in the inbetween
existing in the maybe
i like it there
it's my own
i want to marry my best friend
whoever he might be
to do the things we like to do
not because it's date night
just because we do
i wish not for the perfect lover
but for the perfect heart
because i'm looking for forever
and i don't much care for a taste
when what i wanted was the whole thing
i'm not sure i'll ever be so lucky
but i refuse to settle for less
i'll close my eyes
and count to a million
perfection is an illusion of perspective
what petty games we play
to invade eachothers hearts
when all we really had to do was ask
all you really have to do is ask

14 March 2011

Six Years Later

And so we meet again, oh you 15th of March,


Day of grief and ineffable sorrow.

You steal the days of my Spring

And the sweet of plum blossoms he once held so dear.

Lacking where my heart would be,

You further my injury year by year

No possibility for reclamation of delight,

No prospect of salvaged happiness,

On this, oh you of days.

And so we meet again, oh you 15th of March!

Oh day of impossible affliction!

Already have you come for my light,

Larcenous and rapacious in the blackberry winter!

Are you not shamed by your actions?

Are you not disgraced by the impetus of them?

I am for you, oh day,

As you have taken those precious to me,

On this, oh you of days.

And so we meet again, oh you 15th of March,

Oh you day, anguish of my soul.

Yet, I aver there will be a time when I reclaim you for myself.

No longer pusillanimous nor enigmatic,

But confident and sure in the power of my joy.

The flowers of plums will be mine to hold dear

Each bud bursting forth with greater vigor,

Greater vehemence than ever before,

On this, oh you of days.

And so we meet again, oh you 15th of March,

Day of soft violence against my soul.

What you have stolen, you may not keep

Each blossom I will countermand.

Restored my heart shall be,

My mourning melted from its chambers.

Joy trace evident amongst those restored,

Small light still on the horizon,

On this, oh you of days.

05 March 2011

Renewal of Understanding Nothing

Oh! am not I free to be that which I desire? Trapped here beneath moutain of opportunity to no avail. I am lost to wishing, but should that fail I know not what to do. I play piano amongst the noise, this world leaves nothing to the imagination. And so, how can we be expected to succeed when everything has been done before us? Nothing new to please the masses, nothing but whatever seems most scandalous. And even that has lost it's edge. We are on the brink of self destruction for the sole purpose of entertainment.

My mind plays pretty tricks upon the light that is lacking in this weather. I don't pretend to have any answers and I know better than to ask questions. Yet, I can't help but be anything less than impertinent. Searching for answers is my hearts greatest success. I must acknowledge the understanding that has taken place in my heart. I know what I must do, still it remains to be done. The future is uncertain and I loathe it as such, but must make the best of circumstance. Perfection is overated.

There is much that illudes me, but for hope. Silly little dreamer of a girl. Nose in a book, eyes on the sky. It doesn't make much for company. I'm letting go of what I thought was true. It's been quite the realization. I've made up my mind on the matters, praying only that this is finally the right path. Tomorrow seems so very far from now...

I'd rather not comment upon what is about to occur. I'm not sure of it, only that it is the direction I am headed. I hope to be as forthright as I can be without being dishonest. Because I have a tendency to try things and fail. I never know what the day will bring. There, a violin. Planted like a seed in the recesses of my mind. A soft composure of of all the winds and strings, my favourite. I like things quiet and loud all at once; simplistic and flowing but indepth and concentrated. Every thought waiting to be built upon.

I'll vacation from the moment and oblige you the best I can when I return. The sand on the walls is most grudging of how it was put there, you see. Although, I'm not at liberty to discuss the matter at present. Not that it matters much, as I will change the topic momentarily from boredom. Feet are meant to run bare and wild. Showing their teeth and grit on every occasion so as to make the others aware of their deserved freedoms.

Someone dripped a drop on the waters so as to make it disappear. Removing it would take more time and effort than we can afford. Instead we shall drip the rest of those drops in with the one and call it a day. One with sunshine and green grass beneath the blossoms of Springtime. To dance without ceasing is the only appropriate behaviour. Oh! spin in circles, dearling, for there is less time than you might hope.

Rays of sunlight sitting idly by the window sill, greeting it in such a pleasant manner that you can't but ask him indoors. "Why yes," he chants and enters swiftly, for he dearly love to play upon the rooms and faces of those who occupy the house. An offer of companionship is made and accepted, though no one is certain who spoke  first. It becomes irrelevant once such a friendship is in place. What a joy to be in this place where affection is so graciously shown.

Beyond the day and past the week, therein lies the confusion. For time is a thing of man and the sunlight cannot commit to such a rigid schedule. He comes and goes as he please, you see, and that is just not acceptable to the human mind. Kindly he will refuse the offer and hurry back to his place along the edge of the sky just as you bid him farwell. So far away it seems,  the horizon.

In the back of the symphony orchestra, back against the wall there is just enough room to sit upon the floor with your knees in towards your chest and feel the vibrartions of music flow through you. It is the way music was meant to be heard. Not only in your mind but physically as well. This is where the common courtesy ends and that of true appreciation begins.

It should be difficult, I think, to feel strongly about anything at all if there was not some love mixed into the paint. What an upsetting prospect, yet obvious in it's own sort of way. The buds begin to pop violently forth producing the sweet product of a laborious winter. Soft scented petals make their way into the world, brightening even the sunshine. Oh! for the world to be green again. SpringSummer is on it's way.

I delight to think friendship is withstanding of most grevious offenses, so I do hope not to somehow make this relationship uncomfortable. I have a tendency of that sort that never seems to fail me. If rejection were an art, I would be its master. On both sides of the canvas. Time and experience can never truly be substituted for, even by practise.

Your actions are a wonder to me, I cannot make them out. I try and see your vantage but it blurs outside of my own, I confess. Little to be said or done but hang upside down and allow others understanding whilst I pretend and dream. Easier that way, I imagine. I don't pretend to know you, but believe me when I tell you I care. Regardless of my understanding. I can't seem to help but care.

Awake from dreaming, dear self. For you have run away with yourself again and nothing exists quite as you saw it there in your subconscious. Reality is a poor substitute for ones imagination. I can't claim to know of much that rivals it, save for love and wonder. Two which conquer all else, all else which is conquered by two. This is my renewal of that sentiment. I understand nothing. Not truly.

28 February 2011

I Am Still Painting Flowers For You

Oil under my nails, french press on my tongue. This is the antithesis of normalcy. Sing songs, whilst in little white dresses, about a love revival. I'll over punctuate to get my point across. I'm sure I had one - a point I mean, of course.

I shouldn't like to distract from that which is meant to be important. But I can't seem to make my vocal chords cease from vibrating. My shoes weren't meant to be walked long in, so I may ask to borrow a pair. It will be good for me, you know, to walk awhile in yours. It's really beneficial for everyone involved, unless you have the gout.

All my shots are up to date. You simply have to load them, aim, and fire. At what, I can't be quite sure. I am not sure of anything much these days. No, I'm not wearing a belt, but even if I were I'm not sure there would be anything under it. Empty space is always good to have an excess of.

I feel flat. Abandoned soda bottle in the cup holder flat. Afraid to blink because I might miss something that matters. I'm finally standing still and I remember why I don't appreciate the feeling. It's cold and stagnant. Flat soda.

There is a very serious possibility that I've already missed what I'm waiting for. I don't like it here, it's terribly crowded. I want to be invisible. In a large open room where the walls are covered in memories. Flat on the floor, I can focus when I'm creating. It's the only time I seem to be able to muster up patience.

I can pour my heart onto canvas. Bleeding ink onto the page, smearing paint into the mix. Have you ever considered maybe the path your on isn't your own? That maybe you weren't meant for any kind of path that the feet can follow.

Raw milk and honey will fix any problem you might think you have. Snow will cover any imperfection you imagine is there. Ducttape will hold anything together again. But what will hide you from yourself? I've fallen down the rabbit hole and the only way back is painful self discovery. The strange psychological kind where you break mirrors to get away from yourself.

There's too much truth on the ground. I want to pick it all up and give it back to those people it has effected. Pity is altogther poisonous. This place is not where I live. This world is not what I was meant for, I cannot see how it plays a part. I'm exhausted and I can't seem to find my way out of the covers.

I shut my eyes tightly and when I do, I can see stars, galaxies, universes. The world is covered in white black and green, the only colors I really see when I'm dreaming. I'm spinning in circles and catching falling stars on my tongue. It's snowing stars and I'm not cold.

The garden is made up of teacup flowers and evaporating butterflies. This is my imagination and anything goes. The grass is made of sand and there are no shoes here. Instead of flying kites, we attach the wings to one another and take turns in the sky.

Nothing is flat here. Each tree plays whatever instrument is closest to it's heart, a constant orchestra on the wind with the birds creating a chorus. Sometimes things go dark and we fight back the clouds with bottled sunlight. Other times there is injustice, unkindness, mistreatment and we battle that with stronger things. Utopia does not exist for the sake of itself but by the courage of the people.

And as I dream of bigger and greater things, they become more real to me than anything waking. I prefer a world where life is of value and light is of worth. I believe in its possibility. Complicated simplicity. I believe.

If nothing is true, what more can I do? I am still painting flowers for you...

25 February 2011

Call Me When You Get This

If I were to pull off a heist, I'd rob an antique store. If I were to commit murder, I'd slay misunderstanding. If I were to write an autobiography, I'd scrawl it on the walls of a city. If I were to paint a masterpiece, I'd do it with my fingers. If I were to compose a symphony, it would be of wind and silence.

I'd like to walk on my hands so I could see the world from a different point of view. I code my library by shade of meaning. I'm not really interested in competition and I'm unconcerned with winning, but I'd fight you for the memory of it all.

I'll always blame you for growing me up. I abhor vacation time and I detest the work week. Empty walls are empty canvas that need to be covered in otherness. Paint by celcius or whatever you understand it to mean. I disapprove of boredom, it haunts my daytimes.

Fresh as the toothpaste in my drawer. Where are the leaves when you need them? I watch old films and read books that you can't see the title of. I have nothing at all to elaborate upon verbally, so I hope you get my meaning. I sent it to you by post.
The cup is French with Italian innards. I boil my water in a pot, unsure of where it might come from otherwise. Oil pastels are my gloves. Seemingly impossible to remove. I don't appear to have anything to say. But I'll shout silence from this soap box. I eat my own art, the calories few and far between.

I'll scribble on the back of someone elses photograph, making it mine. Demanding truth from the static. The radio plays only that which radiates from it's little speakers. I'm jumping on the ceiling trying to get to my bed. Sparatic ecstatic noise. Fifteen walls, one door, two windows, one curtain.

I've managed an entire post without writing a word. And yet I'm saying exactly what I mean. Most of all I'd like you to understand something. I'm just not sure what it is. But then, I don't suppose anyone is - sure, I mean. Or, maybe, somewhere, someone is.

01 February 2011

You Mustn't Be Afraid To Dream A Little Bigger, Darling

I was a little girl...

To have all the answers, would be a magnificent feat. But I think we seek it too often without wondering, perhaps, if we have all the questions.

Alone in my little world...

I am afraid of being looked up to. There is no greater power than that of influence and I am terrified of that power. As a teenager, I didn't think twice about it. I didn't realize the sway of my opinion, the consequences of my actions that had nothing to do with me. I couldn't see past myself. Now that I can? I am fearful of this power that resounds in me. It echos in the deepest parts of me and I want very much to shut it off. I want to change the world, but I am afraid to do so. I am afraid of the possibility of success and what that might mean for me. I am afraid that I might change the world in the wrong way, that I might use my influence poorly and hurt those around me. Those who I don't even realize I affect. Forgiveness removes guilt, not consequences. You live with those for the rest of your life

Who dreamed of a little home for me...

There are times I think intellect is the greatest fault of mankind. The more you know, the more you crave to know. But the more you know, the more responsible you become for that which you know. It's never ending. With every further ounce of knowledge gained, you lose the ability to sit idly by. Foolishness is knowing yet not doing, Wisdom is knowing and doing. Only those of intelligence can be fools. Are we foolish? In this time where information is an ongoing slur about the world, are we foolishly not doing what we already know to be true?

I played pretend between the trees...

You can hear words all your life, but until you take them onto yourself and give them meaning? You will not understand. There is so much left to learn, but if we haven't taken that which we have already been told upon ourselves, will we ever really know more? Sometimes I feel as if there is more than I could ever comprehend going on in my mind. An overload of information and use of that. I look beyond myself to try to apply that knowledge. And perhaps someday I'll acquire the wisdom I seek.

And fed my houseguests bark and leaves...

Dust of stars, where have you wandered? You have forgotten your first love, forgotten you true self. Come back to the start. This path is in place not to shelter you, nor even to protect you, but in case you desire to follow. It is not commanded of you, is not regulated, you must chose. What comes next, is nothing anyone can tell you of or convince you. You must discover for yourself what lies beyond, if anything at all. Creation dear, what have you done? You have forgotten yourself in your action, whether it is through pride or regret. And if you have forgotten yourself in it, are they not the same? There is nothing worth holding onto. That which is, already has hold of you, so worry not. There is nothing too great, nothing too terrible that cannot be overcome by Love. And real Love is tangible for all who chose to accept it, is it not? But you must feel it for yourself.

And laughed in my pretty bed of green...

Oh to know.