Tuesday, September 15, 2009

they say i fall in love too easily

Hello, world.
If I had to describe the last few weeks in one word that word would be "new". There's such a sense of urgency and freedom, and brand-spankin' new "newness" about life.
I haven't handled it all too well, honestly. There was the whole three-beers-gets-me-drunk-who-would-have-known thing, and some other stuff I'd rather not discuss, but over all, I love college.
Oh, yeah. I got a tattoo. It's a trinity symbol (you know, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit) but it also represents earth, wind and fire. It's on my shoulder. Get on facebook, there's pictures.
What else? Well, Will and I broke up. Well, no. I let Will go. It was obvious he still liked his ex, and who can blame him because she is a really pretty girl and seems sweet, from what I heard.
Now, I'm talking to a boy named Casey. I'm not a whore, I swear. . . things with Will just didn't work out, and Casey is a gentleman, most of the time.
Life just blows by so fast though. One day it's Sunday and I have free time and I'm doing laundry and next thing I know it's Thursday and I only have one class. . . or it's Monday morning and for the life of me I can't get myself up and running.

Don't forget me, world, because I haven't forgotten you.


Thursday, September 3, 2009

i want to be 'i love you'

This place is perfect.
It has the dim, yellow lighting that reminds me of my grandparents livingroom and the smell.
Maybe it's because I'm a sensory person.
As if all people aren't sensory. .
But the smell of books, especially old, semi-moldy and water-dammaged books is home.

You know what else is home?
The ocean is home.
The sound of the "swoosh" as the waves hit the sand, the salty, tangy taste on the tip of your tongue and the crevices of your lips- that's home.

Poetry is home, as well.
Today I listened to a podcast that had been hiding in my iPhone. It was called "Caseworker" and was by a man named Bluz.
That poem has been ringing in my ears since I first played it, listening absent mindedly as I uploaded songs onto iTunes.
Then I heard a phrase that caught my ear, "I want to be 'I love you', Mr. Caseworker."
I want to be 'I love you'.
So, I listened again. And again. And for a few hours, actually.
That's home.

Home is a hug. I don't get many of those that often, especially now that I'm farther from my friends than I usually am, and I miss my home.
Willie's coming over on Saturday so we can go to a foam dance and slide down a 45 foot slip & slide.

Lately, home has been the little things too, like a cup of steaming hot rasberry zinger tea that reminds me of Federal Way, or the post-it's with witty sayings on them.

Love, man. Love.
Don't forget it. Don't take it for granted. It's what life's made of, at it's rawest state.

"I want to be 'I love you', Mr. Caseworker."


Tuesday, September 1, 2009

i write

Yeah, I write. I write America, I write Greece, I write anorexia nervosa and bulimia nervosa. I write sadness and blood and I write war. I write more than nation or city or face or fingers or genitalia. I write.
I write like art, art that can be paint on a canvas, arranged plaster, fecal matter in a can or edible furiniture.
I write like life.
Forget writing America, I want to write people.
I want to write stretch marks and rib cages. I want to write wrinkle lines and tweezed eyebrows and spider veins.

Forget rules.

Why does creativity have to be measured by rhyme, meter, grammar or process? Why can't the work bring the process, instead of the process birthing the result?

I want to write oceans with spraying foam.
Bright pink binders on a library cushion.
Two bodies on a piano room floor.
The leafy green of a fern tickling my cheek.
The foam off a beer.
The ecstacy of jumping on the bed.
Diet wild cherry soda.
Dust on the carpet.
The age rings of trees.
The ridges of my mouse-pad.

I want to write life, and even if no one will read my words about experience; about John Mayer and luke warm coffee mugs, I will still write life and America.
And Russia.
And Europe.
And penguins and explorers in Antarctica.
And love.

I will write stairs.

"Swim in a deep sea of blankets."

Love. Love. Love.


the story of a man named anonymous

It was my second psych ward. The cameras at every corner of the room got flipped off often, but mostly I was scared to be in this place. The locked doors boxed me in and farther than that there was the high metal fence that wouldn't move. Between it's bars I could see cancer patients walking around, all too young to be sick, and most looking closer to death than anything else I'd ever seen.
The reasons I was there are numerous. Every night I would wake up from nightmares in which a pair of deformed hands reached from the darkess to grab my nakedness. Every day I would ingest and uningest multiple times. It was these and the blood, the words, the constant blackness and the spinning of the room.
At the time I was living with a woman from my church who was a nurse. She was a kind soul, though sometimes we had our disagreements.
At that time the reasons and facts behind my second stay at a mental health ward bothered her greatly, to the point of it being obvious that something was wrong.
At work one day, a man walked up to her to do some work and noticed that she didn't look ok. When he asked her why, she told him about the girl that had been living with her but whom 7 days of an institution had not been enough to cure her of her problems.
The man listened and left, I assume.
He later returned holding a package from Build-a-Bear. Inside was a beautiful fawn brown bear with yellow ribbons around both its ears, a journal with a letter inside, and a gift card so the bear could get some clothes.
He said they were for the girl. He said they were for me.
I got them about a day later.
The fact that a total stranger would go out and spend money on me, me. . . was mind-blowing. It had happened though, and the bear, which was later named Wendy (because the ribbons on her ears and the yellow of a Wendy's cup in my room matched) was tangible proof of that.
The letter was writen in a beautiful script and in a pen that somehow changed colors within itself. . . I'm not sure how that works, but it does. It's green and purpleish and beautiful.
This man wrote that he had gone through hardships in his life, and that someone he respected had given him a teddy bear a long, long time ago. He kept it in his truck now, and everytime he needed a boost of hope or courage, he would rub his bears head. The bear had no fur left on it's head now.
He said that love was real. He said keep hoping. He said so much more, because even if he hadn't said anything; he had said everything.
Wendy is now sitting on my bed in my new home. College is a huge step for me, but Wendy is here watching, and her stuffing's already distributed wierd because instead of rubbing her head, I hug her as tight as I can, and she fits perfectly.
As for the time at Children's, she never left my side. I was a 15 year old carrying a teddy bear to my chest and writing sad poems and waking up crying. And it was right.
Honestly, I don't know if I could have made it through that time, and the time to follow without Wendy- no, not without Wendy (though she is amazing) but without the thought that people, even anonymous men who's names I don't know and who's stories I won't get to hear, care. Care enough to take time out of their day, money out of their pocket and love out of their heart.

Let's love like that- every day, all day, for everyone. You never know what kind of difference it'll make.