Friday, May 29, 2009
My parents named me after my dead grandmother, who I have never met, because she's dead. She was dead long before my father met my mother and long before I was concieved.
My middle name is just there. It has no real significance, other than sounding sort of regal and very British. And British is good, since we come from the town of Scarborough in England. Yes, the Scarborough of Scarborough Fair. Whopee. No, I will not play it for you, thanks for asking.
They gave us flowers. Roses, actually. It was nice, except we had to hold them throughout the whole ceremony and had to shake and grab (diploma holder with no diploma in case we got "wild" and threw our mortorboards in the sanctuary. Something about reverencing God's temple. Jesus lives in my heart, not at Calvary Christian Temple) all while holding this flower. Cradling it, more acurately. They said "like a baby".
Heels are a terrible and wonderful thing. They are pointy and very aerodynamic, and they help me make the 5 foot mark . . . but they are horrors to actually wear. I took them off the second we were done with the ceremony.
Rachel took pictures of me while I stuck my tongue out. No conventional pictures for me, because I am a free spirit, and free spirits think for themselves and do what every other free spirit does. Squinty eyes, tongue out, eyes crossed, rock fist. Check, check, check.
Dr. Hinckley told me something when I was up there, right after he gave me the little red square. He said something about "hold on to it". What? The diploma holder? The unquenchable fire that burns in my bosom? Or the gum that was in my mouth that really was contraband because he told us "absolutely, positively NO gum after we cross this door"? I love Dr. Hinckley. I miss his Bible class immensely.
When we were driving home amongst the chicken alfredo from Olive Garden and the 100 dollar bills, we saw pink clouds. My dad said that formation was rare, but he was probably making it up. After looking for a while, I noticed the biggest one was shapped a little bit like a . . . . it couldn't be! A mortorboard? It was squareish. The bottom of the square part was just cloudy. . puffy and soft- like cotton candy, but the top was almost perfect.
The whole day was perfect, actually. It started with a caramel frap from Starbucks (always the best way to start a day) and it epitomated (word?) when I noticed the cottony trees had let their seeds fly. You know, those cotton looking white fluffy particles that float around the air for a couple of days during the spring time? They're magical. It made me smile.
Something was missing though. My best friend was there, taking pictures from the church balcony and my parents were smiling and chicken alfredo was in my belly and it was beautiful.
But you weren't there.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
The music was too vulgar, it pierced the night and it's stillness too eagerly, so I turned the dial to off.
Upstairs, my mother is snoring, or else I hope she is, because she doesn't like it when I am up this late writing.
I can't help it though. Sometimes sleep eludes me and forces me to do something about the thoughts that are keeping me awake.
So here I am.
When I was still debating sleep or creaky stairs, I had great thoughts of what I could write. Timeless, they were; shocking, radical, new, hopeful, full of something; anything.
But now it is just a brightly lit rectangle and words and the noises of typists. Clicking. Clicking away.
I wonder what famous people are doing right now, whether they're drunk or asleep, or laying in bed looking at the ceiling, like I was. I wonder if they think the same things I do, about the normal things, the ugly things even. Do they have as many secrets as people make it out to seem, or do they have the same number of secrets I do?
I hope they have less, because I have many.
I found a friend from elementary school on Facebook today. I called her my best friend, because I has desperately wanted to have one, but in reality she was just someone who would tolerate me. She was way into Hello Kitty, which was freaky, but I acted semi-interested in it to prove that we had something in common.
She is different now. Her information claims she is still Christian, in college, and loving C.S.Lewis, but there are pictures of her smoking a joint. Am I like that. . ? Full of contradictions? There is alcohol too. Not that I'm not guilty of that one, and I would have been guilty of weed too, if I had ever gotten the chance, but I like to think that I try.
She has many friends, and they go places, sometimes at night. Why am I not more adventurous.
No. I am. Opportunity just doesn't knock very often. I have few friends, but I love them. Maybe she loves hers too, but we are different kinds of people. Some people carry demons around, and others carry rainbows, even if they're artificially made.
I will message her, and I will say "Geez. I haven't talked to you in years. How are you doing? You are gorgeous!" How do you do it? Does it hurt to be so beautiful? Are you loved? Do you still like Hello Kitty, or was that a phase that you went through back in 5th grade? Remember Dion, and how he cussed out Mrs. McCammon? Remember her hair? It was so white and fluffy? Remember Andrew and the whoopee cushions? I'd always ask him to wait until I got back from the bathroom to do it. Remember Tony and how she cut his whoopee cushion in half with scissors, and how he fumed? Remember? Remember how I had a crush on Willy? I heard your sister was pregnant. Is she? If I ask too many questions- I always ask too many questions, tell me to stop. I stop well.
There are coy fish and funny buildings from Arizona, and I wonder how people can forget so easily. Or maybe they grow up, and I am still stuck in rewind.
It's only 2:25, I can wait longer.
Right now I wonder if God speaks to me through my writing. Maybe through writing down whatever may come into my head, maybe by that He is trying to communicate thoughts. Or something. That would be cool, and I know He's not to be underestimated. He may, though usually my writing is, as Simon would say "indulgent nonsense". He would be right.
There are moods and styles to my writing. Right now, it is more formal, more Jane Austin, and British accent than me. This is the mood where I would strut around and talk in an accent, any accent but probably British, for an hour or so. Maybe I would wear a hat, too, and tip it so it brims my eyes. Maybe. Maybe I would imagine I had a cane, and I would act like I was twirling it, and then act like it had hit me in the face, because that would be what it would do, if I were twirling it in real life. I am clumsy. It makes for a good conversation starter though, so I do not mind most of the time. Usually the only time I mind is when I am with someone I like undeniably, with my whole heart, and I am scared he will think me stupid or shake his head and frown. But if I don't have my weird little idiosyncrasies; my funny, stupid, random things I am boring. Actually, I am boring anyway, but it makes it a little more bearable. More entertaining. And I truly feel that it is me.
For years, especially my early teens, I had trouble being myself. I desperately wanted to go do something stupid and laugh at myself, but I was scared. My parents didn't like that sort of thing, so I just sat in a corner and stared at my shoes, or the floor and smiled when people asked me questions. Sometimes I still do that, when I am feeling insecure, which is often, but it's no fun.
No, I like being myself. I love asking random people how their day's went, and just doing things that aren't usually done. If everyone followed the folkways of our society, this place would be a dull place to live in. That's my opinion anyway.
It's also my sociology professor's opinion. I asked her if it was against a more of life to hug a professor, I told her I didn't know, because I hadn't been doing this long, and it's not like I obeyed mores and folkways in high school. She said it's no fun to be normal, and she gave me a hug. I would have given her one, but she hadn't given me a yes or no answer, and I was seized by this weird feeling. Hugging a professor? I want to, because she's pretty much the coolest thing since grilled cheese, but. . .
I also think I had forgotten deodorant that day. I hate when I do that. It makes me feel so dumb. It never stinks, but tell my mind that while it's in the state of paranoia. Yeah. No go. This is why I should get back on Lorazepam. Even the stupidest "little" things bother me so much that I can't face other humans. It's not like there hasn't been a time when someone else in my class, my professor even, has forgotten deodorant! Of course they have! My professor probably never wears deodorant because she's a hippie (she never smells bad though, I don't think).
Sometimes I spin, in my living room. Usually I do it until I can't stand up or until I feel like throwing up my lunch. It makes me feel like I am in preschool again, even though I don't remember preschool. I'm sure I spun though. All kids spin when they're that age, don't they?
The world goes so fast, and it all becomes one streaky blur, moving, moving, moving, moving. It doesn't stop until I do, and even for a while after that it keeps spinning, on it's own now, with a life of its own, breathing and living and laughing and most of all dancing.
There is magic in doing this. Somehow a spell is weaved and faeries somewhere are drawn to me; to me in my living room, but I collapse before they reach me.
I'm a dreamer. In my bucket list (things to do during my life before I kick the bucket) I've put "touch a faerie" and "ride a unicorn" and "ride a centaur" amongst other things like that. I do. I believe in those mystical creatures. No, really, I do. I'm not just saying it for shock factor or whatever. . . Sometimes when we're driving through the narrow roads down in Payson, I imagine, and almost see, centaurs stepping out of the bushes and heralding me. They usually bow. One winked once, funny man.
I'm not crazy, I just have an over-active imagination.
When I was younger I would stand in the shower and through the glass door and through all the little dropplets and riverlets of water and pray to Aslan to let me into Narnia. I figured if I tried enough ways, one would be the right one; the right words, or chant, or prayer and clouds would part, flutes would play, and suddenly I'd be standing infront of this huge and majestic lion. He would be soft, but I wouldn't touch him until later, when he bid me to touch his mane. . I would be too scared at first. He'd breathe on me. You know, the nice way, and I'd stand up. Soon I'd look into his eyes, and they'd be amber and kind. Oh, so kind.
I'm not sure what I'd do in Narnia. I'd definitely not be a Queen or any sort of thing like that. . . I think I was hoping for Aslan to heal me in some way. Maybe his breath would cleanse my heart and my mind and help me forget (I'm not sure what I'd forget, either, because I didn't have any terribly traumatic experiences as a child, but there was always a sense of something wrong). He would hug me and let me ride on his back to some place wonderful.
Aslan never let me into Narnia though. Maybe he will someday. Never loose hope, fellow travelers. Don't be like Susan, who chose to forget.
Maybe someday. .
Eh. But at the same time, I'm such a damned realist. I believe most of all in pain, because it's what got me here.
This blog really is way too long, no one will read it! (Do any of you read them anyways, even if they're short?)
Thursday, May 21, 2009
There's this little device in front of me. It's called a flash drive or a thumb drive, depending on what region of the United States you live in (just kidding, it actually depends on your educational status).
This is a really special flash drive. It's really, really tiny. And it's got like this clear cover on the device itself that you can basically see through except for this part that says "Corner Office" which I'm guessing is the brand.
My dad and I bought it at Walgreen's for like 10 bucks a couple of months ago because we needed one and it was an emergency. It's just 1 gig, and it was cheap, and it definitely came in handy.
I love it. It's so tiny and perfect. I couldn't have designed a better flash drive. I think I've fallen in love with it's perfect clear coat cover, and it's petite frame.
I'm currently debating whether I should ask my dad for it in exchange for my flash drive, which was originally his flash drive, but somehow ended up in my stuff with all my stuff on it. That's partly why he had to buy this one. I'd trade him any day. Mine's all plastic, not soft clearish covered like this one, and sort of tacky looking.
I'd have to clear all the stuff off of it first of course, since basically all that's on it is tacky thinspo. Most of it was photoshoped anyway. I kind of dreamed that "Real Girl" thinspo was really of real girls. Not real computer-generated girls. Whatever. I liked looking at it though, and sure, okay, I still do. But it was like an obsession back about a year ago. That's all I did. That was also my lowest weight. Not sure what the numbers were, since my parents took my scale away.
They still haven't given it back, actually. . . Or maybe they broke it because there's this old crappy scale that highly resembles my past prized possession in the basement. Laundry room to be precise. I've stepped on it quite a few times, just to make sure it doesn't (just this time) give me a correct weight. It never has. But even if it had, how would I know it was a correct weight? Like when I went to the doctor's last. They told me I weighed 105. Huh? I haven't weighed 105 in years. Are you kidding me? Are you sure I don't weigh 112 or maybe even 117? I was so tempted to ask them that.
I'm sure I've gained weight since that doctor's visit though, because I went through like 2 weeks when my appetite was freaking doing somersaults. I felt like a teenage boy, and ate like one too. But then again, this last week or so I have had no appetite. Basically, I've been eating Jello, Bocca burgers and diet lime Coke. Whatever.
(Death Will Never Conquer now.)
My dad's gone. Five days or something at this conference where they charge him over a hundred bucks to tell him that Jesus needs his help to save all the international students in college campuses across the US. I wish he'd give me the money, and I'll even throw a motivational speech in the mix to sweeten the deal.
At least he's gone. Lately he's been totally freaking out about Internet history, checking it and rechecking it every time I go upstairs to grab a bite or get some water. That wouldn't be such a problem if I wasn't reading the Book of Mormon half the time. Needless to say, I have to retype my passwords to Facebook, Myspace and Hotmail every time I check them. Which is every couple of minutes. (Fix You now.)
He comes back Monday night, I think. Perfect timing, too.
Monday morning is some kind of Memorial Day breakfast thing that Curtis invited me to. I'll letcha know how that all goes.
Tomorrow it's Rachel and I day. We're going to the mall, to see a movie and to hang out. I love that girl. I'm noticing more and more though that our political/moral views are really, really different. It causes tention sometimes.
Phones are funny, funny things. We speak through them and lie through our teeth and disguise our voice to sound less sleepy or busy or tired or whatever. I wish I could just see the person's face and feel their breath when I'm talking to them- every time. How much more personal would that be compared to a piece of plastic shoved next to your ear. And then your ear gets hot and sweaty and red and you switch ears until the same thing happens. And "Hello? Hello, are you there?". Yes. I am. I'm just trying to imagine what your eyelashes look like when the moonlight glimmers on them. Sorry, go ahead. "Well, anyway, I was talking about this boy at school. So friggin hawwt." Oh. And does he love you? Do you love him? Would he cherish you? "And his hair is so perfect, just falling over his eyes in a swooshy thing. And he has the best abs. . " Where did you see his abs? Don't awaken love, baby, because once it's up, it can't go back to dreaming. "But he has this girlfriend who's such a whore. ." So is he looking for something more? Or just a warm body to play with? Will he brush the hair away from your face to get a better look at your eyes? Will he resist the temptation to kiss you because he thinks you're more valuable than that? Will he hold your haid gently and put you before him? Will he stir your vanilla milkshake before he hands it to you because that's the way you like it? ". .every day when he goes to his locker. I didn't even know those types of pictures on there were allowed in school!" Would he kiss you on the forehead? Would he tell you you are beautiful even if he didn't think he'd get something out of it? Would you be treasured far above rubbies or would you be replaceable?
Maybe I am a romantic. I don't know.
Maybe I want perfection. No, no.
I just want truth. And honesty.
I want more than the afore mentioned warm body.
I want a soul that goes a long with it.
Did you know that I love you? Yep: Aye. Lurve. Yaoo. Ferh. Evah.
Did you also know that on average a child uses 730 crayons by their 10th birthday? This, of course, doesn't count if the child hates drawing.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Did you know that summer's almost here? Did you know that I miss school because it's funny to watch all the people go crazy. No really. They totally freak out. It's like watching animals during mating season, man. . . There's something about spring and summer that starts some kind of chain reaction or something in these poor teens minds. I don't even think they want to do it! It's great.
I don't know what this blog's about yet, as you can tell. . . Spouting fake scientific data about chain reactions causing overt sexual behavior in adolescents is a sure sign that I'm grasping at straws. I just felt it was time to write again.
Sometimes I'm not sure if I'm doing the right thing, about anything. I wonder if what's happening would be classified as "doubt" or as "reality". That has yet to be determined.
I'm going to do a little stream-of-consciousness, so you can skip the next couple paragraphs, if you want.
Yes, the radio's playing again, this time a silly, stupid, awesome little ad about Meijer's. I don't even like Meijer's. . . It's too warehousy and all their donuts (doughnuts?) are stale. Which brings me to something else, which I've probably talked about before, ketchup or catsup? It's so definitely ketchup, (even the spell check didn't recognize it!) 'cause who says "Hey, cat. . Sup?" No. Cat's are not to be saluted or spoken to, but only telepathically. Cat. . . hey, cat! Yeah, you. Punk. Okay, fine. I'm sorry. You're really not a punk, but just a cute little furry creature that needs to be cuddled.
Eminem. Seriously? What was he thinking when he came up with his name? It makes me want to go to the store and buy some peanut M & M's. Whatever happened to the M & M's that had that white crunch stuff in them? Those were the freaking best.
'Member Lil Rounds from American Idol? Well, at one point, Rachel (my best friend) and her family were watching it, and her dad made a really good point. He said "Her lil' round wasn't lil' and round, it was big and round". And really, it was! I was like, dude. . is that thing from outer space, or what? But, she had a good voice, and she was one of my favorites.
Sometimes I want to feel the shock, if only to know I'm alive. Jumping into the Lake during February was one of my favorite ways to do it when I was still in Seattle, but I'm afraid jumping into any lake in February here in Illinois wouldn't give me a shock, but a concussion, if not worse. I used to think that that's why I cut sometimes, just to know that I was still alive; that my heart was still beating. Was it? Theoretically, yes.
Oh my gosh! Hinder's on the radio! I haven't heard this song in forever!
But, yeah. My heard was physically pumping but the stuff of consciousness was gone. Ghosts were probably more alive than me.
Now it's different though. Now I feel. Oh, sure, I still can't cry, and sometimes I'm more numb than usual, but I've improved. I love life. The air's so tangy and tears are so salty and even the bad times hold something good in them.
"It sounds so sweet, coming from the lips of an angel."
I love you guys. . I really do. Please don't doubt it, because sometimes I want to love more fiercely, but I can't. That isn't an excuse, it's a promise. I will love you fiercely soon, when I am free-er within myself, and when I don't have restrictions. You are more precious than anything, and I pray that more than anything, you'd come to understand that.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Here's a list, I'll try to think of more things that I haven't mentioned before:
- cold sheets.
- shaving my legs.
- thumb rings/toe rings.
- flip flops.
- digging my toes into the grass.
- nail polish.
- clicky pens.
- white out.
- etymological dictionaries.
- city lights.
- phones with full keypads.
- finger paints.
- huge headphones that drown out all noise.
- bulletin boards.
- blank pages of paper.
- thick carpet.
- hardwood floors (bonus if you can slide on them).
- the number 88.
- hearts & stars.
- the Goo Goo Dolls.
- nail clippers.
- lamp shades.
- college campuses.
- coffee shops.
- silk pajamas.
- ipod wheels.
- skirts that float in the air when you twirl.
- amusement parks.
- the Boss.
- being able to hear someone breathe.
- skinny jeans.
I do stupid things sometimes. Do you? Sometimes I wonder if it's just me that makes the whoppers (not Burger King). Yeah.
This is going to sound silly and childish, but I'm tired, so cut me some slack. . . I want to be perfect.
I want to have the flattest belly, the whitest teeth, the prettiest smile, the best hair. . everything. I really do. But you know what? Most of all, I want to be a hero.
Corny. Yes. I know.
But, seriously, how much better would the world be if everyone strived to be an example; a hero; an inspiration?
I don't have anything profound to say, so don't hold your breath.
Me? Geez, I'm just a simple city girl. I won't do anything big or great or momentous, but I can love somebody. Maybe you.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Lately, like, in the last couple of days, I've been reading the book of Mormon. Now, don't leave angry comments with the word "apostate" in them until you finish reading this blog. Deal? Good.
It's an interesting story, so far. I haven't gotten very far, but I like it a lot.
But I was like, "Dude, I can't become Mormon! Aside from reasons like it's not my religion, I was raised Christian, they're relatives to the Satanist (the impression I get from what I've heard about Mormonism) and stuff like that, aside from all of that- they can't drink coffee, and the girls always have to wear sleeves." I love my halter dresses, and I love tank tops and my bikini and I gosh freaking darn love coffee. That's not even debatable. Coffee is my drug of choice, and I am probably the sole largest supporter of Starbucks out there.
My mind started to wander, and I thought about always having to wear polo's and I could see myself dressing like a 40 year old woman at 20. How about my wedding? I've always dreamed of this beautiful creamish white strapless sparkly princess dress. . . how would sleeves ever fit into my faerie tale? Yeah.
I have freckles on my shoulders. People notice it alot. They usually say something really smart, like "Hey, you have freckles on your shoulders!" and I say something dripping with sarcasm, like "Really? Dude! I didn't know that!!". It's great.
Today I realized I don't want any boys to know I have freckles on my shoulders. No boys that is, other than the boy I marry, whether that's Curtis or you or whoever. I don't want everyone to see my freckles, and make stupid comments, I want him to see them. And hopefully, he won't say anything totally ridiculous.
I know that this sounds totally stupid, and not at all like the liberated feminist girl I am, but. . . I think it's something special, and you don't tell everyone a secret, do you?
Somewhere in the Bible it says that you don't throw your pearls to swine. Obviously, that's a little over the top, because pearls and freckles have nothing to do with each other, but. . . to me, it's similar.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
if we belong together or apart,
except that my soul lingers over the skin of you
and I wonder if I'm ruining all we had,
and had not. . . "
It is silent, everywhere. Outside it is getting dark, a bluish sort of dark; the calm before the storm, or tornado. On the radio, the Black Eyed Peas are telling me that they're 3,000 and 8 and I'm 2,000 and late, and even though I am swaying and spinning, I wonder what that even means.
We danced to this song, and it got stuck in our heads. He kept singing it. "I'm so 3,008, you're so 2,000 and eight" and I'd join in "boom, boom, pow". Maybe if we practised, we could actually sound good. Synchronized.
I've never waited before. It's always been moving as fast as it possibly could, untra-sonic speed.
It's different now, though, and I have this weird feeling, that I should wait for him, encourage him, and just be a friend. I've never felt this before.
I told him that Walking Alone, by Anne Sexton, the poem up there ^ fit. He said it did to, and asked what the title was.
There are pictures documenting our night, though they are terribly unoriginal. I think we felt weird, standing in front of a camera, me in my prom dress and v-neck t-shirt, and him in his suit and borrowed yellow tie. We just stood there and side hugged. The photographer lady said it was ok if we touched, so we did. I wondered, silently, how much touching.
I would wait for him till the end. Which scares me, because I have never said that, or thought anything remotely close to that, ever.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
There is a wooden spoon in the mashed potatoes, and also a smaller metal one.
Just a second ago I was staring at this screen, with the smaller metal spoon in front of my face. I was licking it, thinking I could star in a porno about mashed potatoes. I laughed at myself.
It was all about fun, and I really don't have any weird fetishes about mashed potatoes.
Viva la Vida was playing, and I turned it way up. I love Coldplay, and I especially love Viva la Vida.
I finished a book today. It is called "The Perks of being a Wallflower".
I was shocked at the ending, but as I thought about it, it all made sense.That's why he was scared to have sex with Sam. Yeah. Makes sense.
But he loved his Aunt Helen.
Just like I still love Joe. But Joe killed me.
I wasn't exactly scared of sex. (Pokerface, by Lady Ga Ga is on now. How do you wake Lady Ga Ga up? Poke her face.)
Maybe it would have been good if I had been scared of sex.
Then it maybe wouldn't have happened. Especially without a condom. Who does that?
That's not even that bad. But knowing the sperm donor for only 6 days before settling yourself down on the piano practise room floor. Wrong. Wrong. Me.
(Let's face it. When it's come to size, there is one thing that really does matter. I'm talking about diamonds of course. Be Iced Jewelers.) What?
Oh yeah, and I thought I was pregnant. Because that would be convenient. And just my luck. I kind of wanted it though. Rachel and I went to Walmart, and I grabbed a liquor bottle. . and pretended to drink, and then I thought I couldn't, because it could cause birth defects.
Then I made her promise she'd never, ever let me wear sweats during the whole 9 months, that she'd make me dress cute, no matter how much I didn't feel like it.
That got me thinking about clothes, so I begged her to go to the maternity section with me. No go. I looked at it longingly though.
Pregnant, that is. I was so relieved, when I found out. Right before Art class, I went to the bathroom, and there it was. The woman's plague. I was like "Geez, I wish I was pregnant. This sucks." But I was only half-wishing. Half.
I don't know why I am saying all of this. I was actually going to talk about something way different. I was going to talk about Curtis, but I started talking about Charley in the book, and Aunt Helen.
So, here I go, talking about I was originally going to talk about.
I went to prom this Friday. I also went to after-prom on Saturday, with Rachel. We drank way too much coffee, and stayed up longer than Rachel had ever stayed up. We went to Denny's, which is my favorite restaurant place of all time, because they have the best Bocca burgers ever. I said that, and then started laughing. There was all these random girls I'd never seen, and we sat with them, and I couldn't stop laughing. I've never done that before. It was great. I felt so high. It was ridiculous. I got coffee. And mozzarella sticks. (Mozzarella is a really weird word.)
But, on Friday, at prom. . well, it wasn't actually prom. It was like, fake prom. Or. . Modest prom. Or Mormon Prom. Choose one, it works.
We had to wear sleeves, because Mormon's are OCD about all girls having sleeves on. I looked ridiculous. Curtis took me. He looked at me as I opened the door and told me I looked weird. And then he said he should say I look beautiful, but he's really tired. 44 hours of no sleep, because he was thinking about marijuana.
Well, he was writing about marijuana. For a research paper, he wasn't just randomly thinking about it.
But he was honest, and out of it, so I decided that that night was the perfect night to ask him what he thought of me. I mean, if he liked me.
He said: "Yeah, sort of."
For a poet, he sure knows how to not say things poetically. Maybe it was because he was tired, because he always says things perfect, except for then. He amazes me.
I told him that I liked him because his writing gave me shivers. I wanted to write like him, but I never could. I wished I could have ran my fingers through his hair.
He was scared he had hat hair. Because he wore a hat. A pin stripped one from Walmart. It cost $10. He told me.
I wore it alot of the night. At one point, we both wore the same hat, because someone else had the same one.
He twirled me.
And I was terrible.
At one point, he did this dance move that he really wasn't supposed to, because he was Mormon, and all these older Mormon psychiatrists and psychologists and presidents and business dudes were watching.
He twirled me so that I landed with my back right next to his chest. I said "I can see why this isn't allowed", but what I really meant was I could feel why this wasn't allowed.
I think Mormons aren't allowed to kiss.
Maybe some day, because I'm willing to wait. And wear sleeves. And not swear, and not kiss him. Or even, if I have to, not run my fingers through his hair, even if it's just to convince him that he doesn't have hat hair.
And I don't love him just because he's a nice guy, but because he's honest, and he has silky arm hair and funny fingers. But I love it. I love all of it.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Usually they are famous writers, like Don Miller.
I love Don Miller.
While I was reading "Searching for God Knows What" I wondered if he had a girlfriend right now, and then, during "Blue Like Jazz" I wanted to stalk him and get his phone number so I could woo him and marry him.
That was during a state of extreme tiredness and caffeine deprivation, though, so I'm really not that creepy.
Now, when I think about him, I wish there were less people in the world, so maybe he'd actually be interested if I wrote him an email and tried to have a conversation with him. Maybe if there were less people in the world people, even famous people, would listen.
Jon Foreman is another one.
And then there's you.
I'm sure we have alot in common. I'm sure you've stared as far as you could into the darkness straining to see what's at the other side. I'm sure you've done this, both literally and figuratively.
I'm sure you've cried so hard that after you were all done all that would come out of you was more snot and hiccups.
I'm sure you've wondered what the right spelling for the red condiment is. Is it catsup? Or ketchup?
I'm sure you've stood at the edge of a couch and closed your eyes and jumped- and repoened your eyes at the impact; the shock of hitting the ground, because you know you were meant to fly.
I'm sure you've sat listening to music and moving to the beat when you suddenly felt they were singing about you.
I know these things because I am you, and you are me.
We are members of the same planet; one of a million.
We are fighters and followers. Hopeful and hopeless. Singers and dancers. Smart and dull. And sometimes duller. Maybe all at the same moment.
If there is one truth I want to hold in my hand, it is that I am loved, and you are too (because remember, we are one and the same).
I want to hold it in my hand, and wrap my fingers around it.
Maybe the light coming from it will slide between my closed fist and turn my fingers orangish red. Maybe the liquid from it's heart will seep through my closed hand and pour down my wrist. Maybe then I will understand.
If love was a song, I would sing it to you. I would scream it right into your ear, where I could see the follicles of hair and the tiny bits of earwax stuck to them.
If love was rain, I would dance in it, dragging you with me. The water would make our hair stick to our face, and I would brush it away from yours and kiss you on the forehead. I would let it drench us.
If love was a book, I would read it out loud to you while you laid your head in my lap and dreampt. I would do all the voices, and at all the exciting parts (there are many) I would jump out of my seat and act it out- like charades. Maybe then we would fully grasp it.
If love was a brick, I would build you a sky scraper so tall that it would scrape the sky, and tear at it, and all the lemon drops and gum balls and lollipops and cats and dogs that are hidden up there would pour all over us, and we would stand looking up at the sky with open mouths- breathless.
If love was a promise, I would say it but once, and then draw you a picture that will help you remember that I will not forget. It would be colorful, and it will have dandelion seeds floating in the sunlight.
If love was a tree, I would chain myself to it until the end, and they would have to cut me down to touch it. I would water it, and I would hug it.
If love was a kiss, it would be the most passionate lip lock in history. It would be lustless, but instead full of unspoken electricity traveling between the skin of our lips. It would be a promise.
What is love?
Love is all of the above, and more.
Love is you and me forging ahead, no matter what is in our path. Whether it's lions,
I love you. You are worth every single breath that has ever been breathed. Every drop in the ocean.
You are beautiful.
Remember that, and I promise, I won't forget to remember you.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
I hate this feeling.
That I need to do something, but I have no clue what.
So, I write.
Is this what being a teenager is? Or maybe being a poet?
This wanting to do everything at once, but not being able to?
Yesterday, my parents decided I was going to IC. In Jacksonville. 30 minutes away from here. This wasteland.
I love my friends here in Springpatch, but I miss the ocean. I miss the coffee shops, Pike Place, the rain, the evergreens and I guess I miss the memories.
Even though most of what I remember is the hurtful stuff. . . the beginning to the real madness.
I wanted to go to UW. I wanted to go there because there are cool little streets and funny people and all those random people playing their instruments on the sidewalk downtown.
Maybe that's why I wanted to go back "home".
Rachel said there was nothing there for me. No one. Not anymore.
I've been hoping she is wrong. That time will rewind, that I will unravel the past and things will be kittens and butterflies again.
Or maybe I just want to figure my brain out. I hate this feeling. . . I want to go back to the safety I felt during my last months in Seattle. It holds my best memories.
And my worst.
But now I can't figure out my past, not the way I wanted to. I will be living close to my parents.
I hate being me. I wish I could love myself the way I strive to love others.
I may be the TWLOHA Girl, but is it more than just cool t-shirts and my favorite story in the world? Does change really start with the individual, because I cannot love myself.
This is the dumbest blog in the world, and here I thought I was inspired.
Maybe I'll take a walk in the park tonight, after my parents have stopped stirring and have started snorring. Maybe I'll take a long walk and maybe I'll cry, if I can remember how. Maybe I'll even scream. I feel like screaming. . . but most of all I feel like melting into a puddle and letting Jesus hug me.
Which is pathetic.
Because He's a spirit now, or something like that, and His "hands and feet" (here goes the soap box again, geez, will I ever stop?) have dissipated into religiosity and judgementalism. If that's even a word, that is.
Will this totally childish longing ever cease? Seriously? Being held. . . having a father. . . I'm 17. I'm in college. I'm supposed to have myself half-way together, yet I'm crying over wanting someone to hold me. Pathetic.
But I can't stop.
It's like. . the cry of my heart, or whatever that cliche is.
Yes, I am taking a walk tonight, if I can escape. Maybe I will find Jesus sitting under a tree. Or maybe I'll just sit under the tree by myself and wonder what it's like to be loved.
I'm so sorry. So, so sorry. I wish I could take you in my arms and hold you but I can't. You are just pictures, right now, just ghastly images on a brightly lit screen, with white and brown and deep red intertwining; dancing together for a moment and then dropping off your arms.
I am you. Some days I fight it, others I cover it, but mostly I deny it, telling peope that "I used to self-injure." I know you so well, every single crevice and rise, everything. You smell and taste and drip the same way I do- yet we're so far apart. Coast to forever coast.
I thought I was the only one who was fascinated by the colors and the dew drops, the way blood looks on a tissue, but you are too. You take pictures of it, like I used to do before I grew older and was scared by it's connotations, you take pictures of it and wait for the responses, like a child waits to be fed.
You're hungry. Love is just a word, and you can't remember if it ever was reality.
Forgot. I forgot what it's really like. Mainly because it's been a long time since I needed to go back to it; like a security blanket, but also because I'm scared it won't work anymore, maybe I've outgrown it. You'd think 10 years would be long enough, but it's not, and I'm not, and it's not getting any better.
You draw pictures, which I was never really any good at. I drew a star once, and it was lop-sided, with some sides deeper than the rest, and I got discouraged and didn't draw much more. But you, you draw stars and rainbows and triangles and crosses.
Crosses. As if they can save you. Oh, I wish I could say you can come into a church and find peace and love, but don't. It's just a rumor. You will be shunned, and the hands and feet of Jesus walked off centuries ago (or maybe they died off). It's not the safe refuge, instead it's the storm.
Words are scattered all over your body; branding you; labeling you. You're not a freak, a slut, a whore or a loser.
Sometimes you sew yourself up, using your momma's needles and thread, carefully drawing the needle through your skin. It's a form of self-medication, just like the butterfly bandages we've so artfully labeled as our own, but really, don't you want someone else to do that? To patch you up and kiss you on the forehead and never, ever let you go?
You shock me, sometimes, with how deep your cuts are. Like some awful creature off of some alien movie from the 80's where the aliens take over the earth. They're hideous, and I can't believe you held your hand still to snap the picture. Has anyone told you they love you? Because I love you. And I love your cuts. Each and every hideous hole you've created in your body, I love them because they are honest, like you.
Raw emotion is what your eyes shine. The fear and loneliness and pain that you can't hide. And I can't give you hope. I don't know hope.
I spoke to her once, far away, while I lay on the tile floor of some bathroom in some psych ward. She told me to love you, and I screamed I didn't know how but she had drifted away by then, and I just cried.
It's such a burden to love you. You're messy and scary and I don't know if you're going to live or die, but it's necessary. One night doesn't pass when I don't see your frightened eyes and hear you crying for help. What do I do? How do I help you??
Oh, you know some scars heal. You know everything about scars. Some stay dark red and others turn white. . still others turn transparent and hurt like hell for forever. What about the ones on your heart? I think those are the transparent ones- the ones that get camouflaged in daily life and the hustle and bustle of school and work, but the ones that won't stop stinging; the ones that hurt like hell.
Darling, I wish I was someone who could help you, but I won't give up. I'll take what I wish someone had done to help me and do it to help you. I'll come over when you're crying and hold you through the night. That's a promise.
Never do I want you to feel the gnawing emptiness that comes when there's no one there to understand, so I'll be there to know. All I ask is for you to trust me, and let me see your scars.
Remember the stars, love. Remember.
So, I know I blog sporadically, but my non-new years resolution is to blog at least twice a day. . . or maybe once a week, because it takes deep emotions for me to get motivated to write, and deep emotion is usually blocked, if I can help it.
But, for now, I'll post some of my older blogs, both from Facebook and Myspace, that I like and that other people like.
Here's a mini one for what I'm feeling now (it may end up being longer, I dont know):
I sat outside in the dark today, trying to see the steaks I was grilling in the gas-lit flame, and wondering if I was really a vegeterian. I mean, I didn't really feel like eating that meat, and I was just grilling it for my parents, but. . I could eat it.
I was thinking about other things, too, like how I fall in love too easily.
Oh, not always with boys or anything, but mostly with ideas, and hope, and music, and the wind. I want to follow those things forever, no matter what, and then I wait for a while, and I become appathetic again.
And I wonder if love is all it's cracked up to be.
I hear it is.
But no one has ever shown it to me. . and I'm not whining. . . I'm not really pleading, just sort of, without really saying it.
I'm not even sure the love I give is 100%, or if it can be. I want it to be. I want to love without reservation or pre-concieved ideas or notions. . .
But is that possible?
Maybe in an environment other than mine.
But is that an excuse?
I want to fall in love with Jesus.
Not Jesus with the blue and white robe.
But Jesus who spit into the dirt to make mud and then rubbed it on the blind guy's eyes to give him back something considered irrepariable.
Or the Jesus that didn't mind loosing some of His power through the hem of His garment. He healed her.
Can He heal me?
The Jesus with dirty feet and dirty hands who hangs out with prostitutes and homeless and the "scum" of the earth who know the meaning of real love.
Maybe if I hang out there too, I can find out what that meaning is.