11.09.2009
Such truth.
Wise men say only fools rush in. But I can't help falling in love with you. Shall I stay? Would it be a sin, if I can't help falling in love with you? Like a river flows surely to the sea, darling so it goes "Some things are meant to be." Take my hand, take my whole life too, for I can't help falling in love with you. Like a river flows surely to the sea, darling so it goes "Some things are meant to be." Take my hand, take my whole life too, for I can't help falling in love with you, for I can't help falling in love with you.
[i took this in thailand]
10.07.2009
Things I've Learned Living Alone
life cereal tastes just as good without milk.
the game show network is extremely fun to watch, and gives you interesting facts to blurt out during random elevator conversations.
finding mail in the mailbox is like finding five dollars in your underwear drawer.
the beer in the fridge shouldn't magically disappear as it did in the past. if it does - drink it faster.
you really are that messy because no, it's not one of your roommates.
these will grow, i promise.
the game show network is extremely fun to watch, and gives you interesting facts to blurt out during random elevator conversations.
finding mail in the mailbox is like finding five dollars in your underwear drawer.
the beer in the fridge shouldn't magically disappear as it did in the past. if it does - drink it faster.
you really are that messy because no, it's not one of your roommates.
these will grow, i promise.
9.30.2009
Oh, Hello October
I just got done working out at the rec. It seems like whenever I see people anymore, they always ask me "What are you doing here? Didn't you graduate already?" No, people. I am still in school, and I still belong here for another 73 days. Then I am OUT. Out, out, out. I'm sitting on the end of my bed, staring at the clean clothes mixed with the dirty ones on my floor. There's one drawer open on my dresser, and another drawer is broken. This ethernet wire is spiraled around my room and weaves in and out of undergarments. Dishes. Oh, the dishes. They have thrown up all over my kitchen, and even prevent me from eating sometimes. And when I say sometimes, I mean right now. My neighbor directly below me loves metal music, especially at midnight. And I can recognize the clomping of my neighbor to the left's foot steps because it sounds like he has fifty pound weights attached to his soles. I could really go for a snack, and somebody to watch Seinfeld with. Or a dog. I miss being in Spokane, with my family and Benny. And I take all the chances I get to go home. It's pathetic, really. But hey, what makes a girl happy, makes her happy. And I'll just do what makes me happy for right now.
So goodnight dishes in the sink. Broken drawers and internet wires. Sweet dreams neighbor to the left and neighbor below me. So long September. And oh, hello October.
So goodnight dishes in the sink. Broken drawers and internet wires. Sweet dreams neighbor to the left and neighbor below me. So long September. And oh, hello October.
7.30.2009
Yessss.
I think I've figured it out, people! I think I've found it!
But it's a small secret, and I'm keeping this one to myself.
Mmmmhmmm. :)
But it's a small secret, and I'm keeping this one to myself.
Mmmmhmmm. :)
5.13.2009
Reading Poetry: It's My New Thing
Kim Addonizio is my favorite thus far. My poetry prof would think I was naive to pick a favorite, too simple, too worldly. But I am possibly naive, most definitely simple, and I reside in a world that makes me worldly. I don't like poets who dream as they write. I like it to be said how it is - flat, dark, and blunt. Because that's what life is - flat, dark, and blunt - but its out of those things that comes beauty.
Quantum
You know how hard it is sometimes just to walk on the streets downtown, how everything enters you
the way the scientists describe it—photons streaming through bodies, caroming off the air, the impenetrable brick
of buildings an illusion—sometimes you can feel how porous you are, how permeable, and the man lurching in circles
on the sidewalk, cutting the space around him with a tin can and saying Uhh! Uhhhh! Uhh! over and over
is part of it, and the one in gold chains leaning against the glass of the luggage store is, and the one who steps toward you from his doorway, meaning to ask something apparently simple, like What’s the time, something you know
you can no longer answer; he’s part of it, the body of the world which is also yours and which keeps insisting
you recognize it. And the trouble is, you do, but it’s happening here, among the crowds and exhaust smells,
and you taste every greasy scrap of paper, the globbed spit you step over, your tongue is as thick with dirt
as though you’ve fallen on your hands and knees to lick the oil-scummed street, as sour as if you've been drinking
the piss of those men passing their bottle in the little park with its cement benches and broken fountain. And it’s no better when you descend the steps to the Metro and some girl’s wailing off-key about her heart—your heart—
over the awful buzzing of the strings, and you hurry through the turnstile, fumbling out the money that’s passed
from how many hands into yours, getting rid of all your change except one quarter you’re sure she sees
lying blind in your pocket as you get into a car and the doors seal themselves behind you. But still it isn’t over.
Because later, when you’re home, looking out your window at the ocean, at the calm of the horizon line,
and the apple in your hand glows in that golden light that happens in the afternoon, suffusing you with something
you’re sure is close to peace, you think of the boy bagging groceries at Safeway, of how his face was flattened
in a way that was familiar—bootheel of a botched chromosome—and you remember his canceled blue eyes,
and his hands, flaking, rash-reddened, that lifted each thing and caressed it before placing it carefully
in your sack, and the monotonous song he muttered, paper or plastic, paper or plastic, his mouth slack,
a teardrop of drool at the corner; and you know he’s a part of it too, raising the fruit to your lips you look out
at the immense and meaningless blue and know you’re inside it, you realize you’re eating him now.
You Don't Know What Love Is
You Don't Know What Love Is
but you know how to raise it in me
like a dead girl winched up from a river. How to
wash off the sludge, the stench of our past.
How to start clean. This love even sits up
and blinks; amazed, she takes a few shaky steps.
Any day now she'll try to eat solid food. She'll want
to get into a fast car, one low to the ground, and drive
to some cinderblock shithole in the desert
where she can drink and get sick and then
dance in nothing but her underwear. You know
where she's headed, you know she'll wake up
with an ache she can't locate and no money
and a terrible thirst. So to hell
with your warm hands sliding inside my shirt
and your tongue down my throat
like an oxygen tube. Cover me
in black plastic. Let the mourners through.
Just two for now. I know it doesn't fit in with the magic number of three, but it will have to do. I hope you liked them, because I like them.
Quantum
You know how hard it is sometimes just to walk on the streets downtown, how everything enters you
the way the scientists describe it—photons streaming through bodies, caroming off the air, the impenetrable brick
of buildings an illusion—sometimes you can feel how porous you are, how permeable, and the man lurching in circles
on the sidewalk, cutting the space around him with a tin can and saying Uhh! Uhhhh! Uhh! over and over
is part of it, and the one in gold chains leaning against the glass of the luggage store is, and the one who steps toward you from his doorway, meaning to ask something apparently simple, like What’s the time, something you know
you can no longer answer; he’s part of it, the body of the world which is also yours and which keeps insisting
you recognize it. And the trouble is, you do, but it’s happening here, among the crowds and exhaust smells,
and you taste every greasy scrap of paper, the globbed spit you step over, your tongue is as thick with dirt
as though you’ve fallen on your hands and knees to lick the oil-scummed street, as sour as if you've been drinking
the piss of those men passing their bottle in the little park with its cement benches and broken fountain. And it’s no better when you descend the steps to the Metro and some girl’s wailing off-key about her heart—your heart—
over the awful buzzing of the strings, and you hurry through the turnstile, fumbling out the money that’s passed
from how many hands into yours, getting rid of all your change except one quarter you’re sure she sees
lying blind in your pocket as you get into a car and the doors seal themselves behind you. But still it isn’t over.
Because later, when you’re home, looking out your window at the ocean, at the calm of the horizon line,
and the apple in your hand glows in that golden light that happens in the afternoon, suffusing you with something
you’re sure is close to peace, you think of the boy bagging groceries at Safeway, of how his face was flattened
in a way that was familiar—bootheel of a botched chromosome—and you remember his canceled blue eyes,
and his hands, flaking, rash-reddened, that lifted each thing and caressed it before placing it carefully
in your sack, and the monotonous song he muttered, paper or plastic, paper or plastic, his mouth slack,
a teardrop of drool at the corner; and you know he’s a part of it too, raising the fruit to your lips you look out
at the immense and meaningless blue and know you’re inside it, you realize you’re eating him now.
You Don't Know What Love Is
You Don't Know What Love Is
but you know how to raise it in me
like a dead girl winched up from a river. How to
wash off the sludge, the stench of our past.
How to start clean. This love even sits up
and blinks; amazed, she takes a few shaky steps.
Any day now she'll try to eat solid food. She'll want
to get into a fast car, one low to the ground, and drive
to some cinderblock shithole in the desert
where she can drink and get sick and then
dance in nothing but her underwear. You know
where she's headed, you know she'll wake up
with an ache she can't locate and no money
and a terrible thirst. So to hell
with your warm hands sliding inside my shirt
and your tongue down my throat
like an oxygen tube. Cover me
in black plastic. Let the mourners through.
Just two for now. I know it doesn't fit in with the magic number of three, but it will have to do. I hope you liked them, because I like them.
An Hour or So at the Community College
So I went there today to do nothing else. And I didn’t do anything else, just like I had promised. The handicapped bathroom in the Art Building smelled of freshly smoked marijuana, and I hoped that the person going in after me thought that I was the one who violated the law. But it wasn’t. I walked out, and the gallery was locked. Closed at 3:30. It was nearing 5. I peered into the windows only to see my own reflection bouncing off of them. 70’s brown blinds blocked my view of what was inside. I left through the door I had come in. Library. I felt every eye glued to me as I walked through those “stolen book” detectors. I felt criminal. Weaving in and out of orderly shelves, I found a seemingly comfortable chair that sounded like it was stuffed with slightly crumpled newspaper, but it was soft enough. I read for an hour. The Almost Moon by Alice Sebold. It’s about a woman who murders her mother, and sleeps with her best friends’ son. The book reminds me that I could be worse off. The door keeps on opening and closing behind me. My stomach growls and I finish the chapter. I stood up and felt drunk. Back through those accusing doors again. I forget the concrete pathways and walk on the soft grass to the car. They did a nice job when picking which trees to put in the area. Pink blossoms were out. I saw the Photo Lab and decided to take a peek. The door is still awkwardly heavy. And they didn’t have any new photos up, which was such a shame. I was looking through a near empty frame that I’m sure has been there since before I was born. Its photos were yellowed, and the style was dated. I saw a woman walk behind me through the reflection. She stared at me the entire way. Then dropped her bag on the hard floor. I slinked out. I didn’t belong, and I didn’t blend. I used to belong. My car is a mess on the inside. Maybe it’s a metaphor for my life. I ran over the awkwardly large speed bump. I’d always hated that thing. No one had called me all day.
1.09.2009
Someone
Consider yourself forewarned, this isn't like what I usually post. There probably won't be frills or interesting words used, funny statements or confusing metaphors. No, this blog is one of my serious ones, and it indeed comes from this beating machine inside of my chest. (And not directed toward anyone, or about anyone.)
I remember Bible School on Sunday mornings. We would learn about the book and who did what when and what that was supposed to mean. As I got older, we discussed dating, and what important characteristics should be sought after. Now that I'm two decades old, and four failed relationships deep, I've learned things I need, and what things will make me sour.
I need a man (man, not boy) who knows who he is. He should understand himself to a point that he doesn't need to grow out of anything, or grow up anymore. He should be able to be one person around everyone, instead of changing how he acts in front of the guys. He should know what he wants out of life, and be taking steps to reach those things.
I need a man (man, not boy) who is not selfish. He needs to prove to me that I'm not some woman he plans to walk all over. I want a partnership, and an equal one at that. And he shouldn't think only of himself. If you say that I am part of your life, then make me part of your life. And make me a part of it when you are upset or busy too. Not just when it is convenient and works around your schedule.
I need a man (man, not boy) who is supportive. And I'm not just talking about being supporting towards me. I want him to support himself. He should believe that he can do something, and do it for Christ sakes. I would love to say nice things to you, and tell you how magnificent you are, and I will do those things. But don't wait around for me to convince you that you are something incredible, believe it for yourself. And be supportive of me for the things that I say, and do. Or the things that I am thinking about doing. But that should be a no-brainer.
I need a man (man, not boy) who listens. Please, please, please stop the 'uh-huhs' and the 'yeah, sures.' Cut the crap guys, I know you weren't listening. And telling me that you have a bad memory doesn't make up for anything either. All I ask is that you respect who I am, and listening to me is the biggest (and easiest) way to do that. He should focus a little attention on me so that I really feel like he cares about what I have to say, and likes how my mind works.
So that's the big four. I know that women and men are quite different in the way that they perceive the relationships that they are in, but being in one and giving noticeably less effort than your partner is putting up is just plain selfish. And damaging. I have done a lot of thinking these last few weeks about the relationships that I have been in, and what specific details about them have not worked. And in a lot of them, I see myself putting up so much effort that is not given back to me in return. I also see me building up my significant others. I tell them how great they are at the things they are interested in or do, and push them to achieve their goals with no support given to me for my own dreams.
And frankly, I am tired of broken hearts, and teary-eyed nights on the phone. I am sick of my love, effort and support going to waste. I want to meet someone that respects me, knows who they are, and knows how to give and take equally from a relationship. I am in no rush for relationships, and purely look for nice men who spark my interest and send butterflies into my stomach. Is this an impossible request?
I remember Bible School on Sunday mornings. We would learn about the book and who did what when and what that was supposed to mean. As I got older, we discussed dating, and what important characteristics should be sought after. Now that I'm two decades old, and four failed relationships deep, I've learned things I need, and what things will make me sour.
I need a man (man, not boy) who knows who he is. He should understand himself to a point that he doesn't need to grow out of anything, or grow up anymore. He should be able to be one person around everyone, instead of changing how he acts in front of the guys. He should know what he wants out of life, and be taking steps to reach those things.
I need a man (man, not boy) who is not selfish. He needs to prove to me that I'm not some woman he plans to walk all over. I want a partnership, and an equal one at that. And he shouldn't think only of himself. If you say that I am part of your life, then make me part of your life. And make me a part of it when you are upset or busy too. Not just when it is convenient and works around your schedule.
I need a man (man, not boy) who is supportive. And I'm not just talking about being supporting towards me. I want him to support himself. He should believe that he can do something, and do it for Christ sakes. I would love to say nice things to you, and tell you how magnificent you are, and I will do those things. But don't wait around for me to convince you that you are something incredible, believe it for yourself. And be supportive of me for the things that I say, and do. Or the things that I am thinking about doing. But that should be a no-brainer.
I need a man (man, not boy) who listens. Please, please, please stop the 'uh-huhs' and the 'yeah, sures.' Cut the crap guys, I know you weren't listening. And telling me that you have a bad memory doesn't make up for anything either. All I ask is that you respect who I am, and listening to me is the biggest (and easiest) way to do that. He should focus a little attention on me so that I really feel like he cares about what I have to say, and likes how my mind works.
So that's the big four. I know that women and men are quite different in the way that they perceive the relationships that they are in, but being in one and giving noticeably less effort than your partner is putting up is just plain selfish. And damaging. I have done a lot of thinking these last few weeks about the relationships that I have been in, and what specific details about them have not worked. And in a lot of them, I see myself putting up so much effort that is not given back to me in return. I also see me building up my significant others. I tell them how great they are at the things they are interested in or do, and push them to achieve their goals with no support given to me for my own dreams.
And frankly, I am tired of broken hearts, and teary-eyed nights on the phone. I am sick of my love, effort and support going to waste. I want to meet someone that respects me, knows who they are, and knows how to give and take equally from a relationship. I am in no rush for relationships, and purely look for nice men who spark my interest and send butterflies into my stomach. Is this an impossible request?
12.01.2008
1+2+3
I. "Dream a little dream" is how the saying goes. It limits all the people to little dreams. Big dreams, medium dreams, even enormous dreams are obviously out of the question. Little is all we get. I bet right here you would argue against the saying, defending your freedom for dreams of any caliber. Yeah, I would too. No body likes limits, in fact, most times limits create motivation. And I'm so glad the human race was created with this immediate default.
II. When I was little, I would dread rainy spring days. Those were the days of worms. I had to walk half a block uphill to the bus stop, and there would be worms all around me. I would close my eyes and imagine them fighting from within the soil, struggling to reach the asphalt just to be in my path. Sick creatures really. Slimy, and squirmy. And I'm not certain about their anatomy, but they seem to be lacking several important parts that I look for in a desirable being. I like fur, and eyes. Yeah, those are the two main ones, I suppose.
III. I think it's very funny that if you ask someone to tell you about themselves, they will search deeply to find things that are unique, and completely different to be separated from everyone else. Go on, try it. "Tell me about yourself." Everyone will tell you something that won't be true for your own life. We are all so afraid of being 'normal,' but anyone who isn't 'normal' is 'weird.' Maybe that's just our hateful society. Or maybe its our fear of being forgotten. We want to be special, and interesting, and some want to be shocking. No one wants to do the same thing that his neighbor is doing. Because then we would be 'boring.' And we would rather be normal, than boring. Humans are pretty pathetic if you really sit and think on it, but still we are remarkable, miraculous beings. We are so predictably spontaneous.
II. When I was little, I would dread rainy spring days. Those were the days of worms. I had to walk half a block uphill to the bus stop, and there would be worms all around me. I would close my eyes and imagine them fighting from within the soil, struggling to reach the asphalt just to be in my path. Sick creatures really. Slimy, and squirmy. And I'm not certain about their anatomy, but they seem to be lacking several important parts that I look for in a desirable being. I like fur, and eyes. Yeah, those are the two main ones, I suppose.
III. I think it's very funny that if you ask someone to tell you about themselves, they will search deeply to find things that are unique, and completely different to be separated from everyone else. Go on, try it. "Tell me about yourself." Everyone will tell you something that won't be true for your own life. We are all so afraid of being 'normal,' but anyone who isn't 'normal' is 'weird.' Maybe that's just our hateful society. Or maybe its our fear of being forgotten. We want to be special, and interesting, and some want to be shocking. No one wants to do the same thing that his neighbor is doing. Because then we would be 'boring.' And we would rather be normal, than boring. Humans are pretty pathetic if you really sit and think on it, but still we are remarkable, miraculous beings. We are so predictably spontaneous.
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