Wednesday, December 24, 2008
I really actually love not having internet access at home. It saves me from wasting countless hours online, doing exactly what I've done here at my parents house tonight -- you know, wasting countless hours online.
What I've done during these past hours, I couldn't tell you.
I honestly don't know.
But I've been sitting here, sort of surfing, through Facebook and twitter and blogs (and internet time warps, apparently) and all kinds of things that just don't really matter.
[No offense, A.C., since your blog is one of the ones I read. I do enjoy it. And happy belated blog birthday! I believe ours share that date. Or near about. :) ]
But when I'm at home, at my shitty little apartment on Chamberlain,
And I WRITE. For hours on end.
All those hours that I would have wasted here, on the intarwebs, otherwise.
So, score one for creativity and inspiration.
And on that note, I'm out.
I'm determined to finish Lolita and Doctor Zhivago over these next few days, so I can really focus on A History of God and the awesome awesome Neil Gaiman book Drew gave me, called Fragile Things.
I'm pretty sure it's a problem that I'm in the middle of about six different books right now.
GOD LITERATURE. I LOVE IT.
I really hope Santa just brings me a Barnes and Noble. :)
Monday, December 1, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Tomorrow is the third anniversary of my (failed) engagment.
So, one more year down, one more year behind us.
Nothing but more years to remind us.
Funny how that works.
This week is always hard to get through.
Like the holidays aren't hard enough.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
But I'll be back soon.
I just need to figure out some way to heat my drafty, FREEZING COLD apartment, and figure out how to make ends meet this month.
But I'll probably just do a lot of reading and decorating instead.
I'm a mess.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
From Insomnia Cantatas
by Elisavietta Ritchie
"Simply: I did not write
no, many days when barren pages
heap like futile clouds or arctic snows,
and wasted brilliance flows—
snowflakes melting into rain—and I must hide my rage
as unused hours swirl down the drain, away
Such nights I wake at four
or barely sleep at all."
But OHSOSOON I will be back in Raleigh, and I am so incredibly ecstatic about it!!!
Who cares if I have to have my entire apartment packed in two days?
I got this.
And on that note, I'm going to get back to it.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
OBAMA IS ROBIN HOOD.
So does that make McCain the Sheriff of Nottingham, or Prince John?
Because the mental image of McCain sucking his thumb and crying for his mommy while Palin slithers pathetically on the ground trying to cheer him up (Disney classic, come on people) is just too good.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Brian: i like all the "i'm moving to europe" messages
Brian: my mind is completely boggled
Just to get away, to think.
Surprisingly, it was beautiful.
I say surprisingly because it's one of the most notorious places in Greenville for drug busts and rapes and God knows what else.
And yes, I was there alone.
God, I'm such a bad ass.
But today, in that moment, it was beautiful. There is no questioning that.
The leaves reflecting in the water set it on fire, and the wind was rippling the surface just enough to force a steady flow, as though a huge, invisible hand was there, just lazily dipping it's fingers across the water's cool surface.
I love watching the current, I always have.
Today, I imagined where I would be if I just followed it, imagined where it would take me.
I would love to be anywhere but here.
I also love deciding what hides just beneath the surface --
I mean, this is Greenville.
And water is a fantastic silencer for all evils.
I guess that's what I was hoping for when I went down there today. I was hoping that the water could in some way silence all these terrible feelings inside of me.
Of course, it didn't work.
Besides, someone had thrown a dead deer carcass into the woods.
And all I really wanted to do was cry.
Because I'm that person who cries for roadkill.
Empathy is such a bitch.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Saturday, November 1, 2008
that clench into tiny fists
inside my belly,
flailing at the insides
that confine them.
I'll hold those hands soon
and gaze in awe
at you, little creature
But oh how I wish
you'd stop struggling,
just for tonight.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Thursday, October 9, 2008
what made you leave.
Searching for a construction
that leaves out me.
But no matter how hard I try,
I can't get the syntax straight.
Because these adjectives --
these penny words --
no matter how good,
aren't worth a god damn thing.
Headstrong. Independent. Scared.
Heartless. Broken. Found.
Oh wait, that's a verb,
And it isn't right anyhow.
So I'm back to the kernel,
the basic of basics,
no complex modifiers need apply;
our details were always blurry anyway.
And of course, my pronouns are all wrong.
He, She, You, Her, Me.
Would it be you verb word me prepositional phrase?
It was you who needed the change.
And what you didn't need
all keeps coming back to me,
regardless of what I do.
Because the subject of this sentence is still you.
because you were dying
a slow death,
a death that left time for the planning.
And more than anything --
more than the flowers
and the cake
and the white dress
that still hangs in my closet --
the detail that really mattered
was the matter of you being present.
So I'm working on getting most of my work up here ... eventually.
With that in mind, I apologize for all the random posts of poetry, and the snippets of lines that are sure to come in the future. And then the edits and re-edits I'll be posting thereafter.
Bear with me.
And please, give me your honest opinion on the things I'm posting.
Input is essential.
Monday, October 6, 2008
There is just the stark and sad reality that two people were not right for one another.
No matter how much they may have wanted to be.
I spent all day reading road signs --
green, like your eyes --
and telling myself I didn't miss you.
Not one bit.
Exercises in moving on
Thick smoke curls, you
whirl, and dance, and sing,
and breathe deeply,
Burn your fingertips,
burn your throat and your lungs.
Burn the pictures and the letters --
but the moments are burnt into your memory.
Now breathe faster, sharper, with
heavy pants and frantic whispers.
His hands are on you, desperate.
You're so desperate.
His grip slips with sweat,
sweat earned, sweat you've, wait.
You've got it.
Gasping, uttering phrases and lines.
He doesn't care that you think.
You don't know what you're thinking
But that never mattered at all.
And now you're here at 3 a.m.
Cold bricks. Dark night. Sloppy memories.
Be patient; thoughts whirl, and dance, and sing.
Time is waiting,
and you're moving on.
So simple in all its complexity,
and I'm dreaming in shades of green.
One is never enough,
let's do it in sets of three --
all eyes on us.
Four bags and a blanket
and our arms are loaded down
But I'm struggling with words,
And each visible gasp
for just the right ... everything
acts as a formidable barrier,
between all the things I'm thinking,
but would never dare to say,
and all the things you're seeing,
and staring back at me.
And jaded thoughts,
born of those same green eyes,
accompany a patience I've never portrayed.
A flutter of hope --
I'm so nervous, strange.
Then there's that smile.
And we part ways.
It isn't home when you're alone
I came back to an empty apartment tonight
and I've never needed you more...
but what's the point.
if I'm not afraid, you are.
On the bed, your t-shirt,
crumpled where you tossed it this morning
as we rushed to get ready for church;
we slept in way too late again.
The sheets are still piled at the foot of the bed
where you kicked them off
in your fevered sleep,
waking every few hours to cough into the sink.
Coughing as I held your hair back, out of your eyes,
while you threw up into the toilet last night.
I knew that meal was bad
before I even served it.
And on my night stand rests your glass of water,
beside a bottle of pills and the wrappers of Riccola.
The alarm clock I rarely use when you stay over is silent --
and it reminds me of our recent phone calls.
My pillow is still stuffed behind the head of the bed frame,
but it did nothing to stifle the sound of me screaming your name
all those nights that we sinned ourselves
into one another's hearts, one another's movements.
And there are no photos of you here.
But on my desk, a trinket box you gave me when I moved in --
You will always have my heart.
But not your body, or your trust. Not your future.
How would you even begin to describe us?
Simply, a mess.
But it's never so simple as that,
as your friends can attest.
Although now, I think you could only call us over.
Friday, October 3, 2008
I deciphered sentence structure, looked up a few words I didn't know, and muddled my way through a children's tale -- no biggie.
But it's a little overwhelming when you think about what that actually means.
I took a story that has been passed down from generation to generation for more generations than I care to count, a story that has been translated and re-translated, and I read it in it's original Greek form.
And I understood it.
This, this is why I work my ass off in these classes.
I'm becoming part of a much bigger picture.
A picture generations, centuries -- entire civilizations -- in the making.
And I mean, who doesn't love a good children's tale?
Thursday, October 2, 2008
So it's time to come home.
Lately my head has been a jumble of words and phrases and places and mistakes. Not a day goes by that I don't find myself frantically writing something down, be it 2 in the afternoon or 3 in the morning. I've got an ever-growing collection of tiny scraps of paper -- strips of tests and homework assignments and receipts and restaurant napkins -- folded and double folded with a few senseless sentences written within.
I can't wash clothes without finding more thoughts and feelings than I know what to do with.
My desktop is a maze of untitled TextEdit documents just waiting to be opened and sorted through and ripped apart to be reassembled into another document, only this time, titled.
I'll continue to edit and re-edit that piece too.
But is editing about perfection, or about censorship? Aren't the original mistakes within a work part of it's beauty? Those mistakes tell you more about the creator than any amount of afterthought can. But this, coming from a die-hard editor and over-analyzer. I've backspaced and rewritten more than half of this entry already. I guess the only people who can really appreciate the beauty of a work are the people who have seen it grow from a tangled mess to something sensible and tangible and real.
I wonder if that's how God sees us. These visible messes who have fully grasped our free will and continually progress from what we once were to whatever we have chosen to be.
That's one beautiful mess.
And what if that was God's big plan for us all along?
God doesn't have a grocery list of ingredients for each of our lives. He has an ultimate goal, happiness, reached through a single means, love. What if he doesn't care how we attain that happiness, as long as we do it with love at all times? Love for Him and for others and for ourselves. An honest, passionate and forgiving love.
Let love be sincere.
And I've spent the past two years of my life trying desperately to wring purpose from the words and intentions of the people around me. I've begged God for direction, and gotten full scale silence. Or at least, what I thought was silence.
But it was just me brushing off his response, and making things more complicated than they are.
Happiness. That's the bottom line.
Happiness at all times.
And now I'm ready for that.
So I'll begin by going back to where it started for me.
I'm going back to my love of language, both written and spoken.
Back to my love for people and their continuous, surprising ability to both break my heart and complete it.
I'm coming home to my love for words worth writing, and days worth living.
These days are always worth living.
And I love that, too.