3/14/17

there's a nor'easter raging outside.  it's just past 5am, and i have been awake for several hours.  after a streak of not drinking and not consuming caffeine, i'm back on the grind.  i'm going to stop starting today, i think.  it doesn't make me feel good.  i feel bloated, though i'm not sure if that's from guilt or from not taking care of myself.  my belly, the last frontier of my insecurities, still protrudes.  no one else notices but me, but i am paranoid that people are noticing.

i'm not supposed to use this space to write in any sort of coherent sense.  i've always written weird poems here.  but i guess this isn't a time like that.  i guess i'm not able to think so poetically anymore.  don't hide behind words, huh?  yeah, it's something like that.

i've always been a person who has been anxious about every little thing.  i remember even as a child i would pick one thing to knead and poke and prod and pour endless amounts of time into one single subject that wasn't really worth getting upset about.  it was some weird sort of release for me.  i could channel every ounce of negative energy i had into something that i thought was at least a little worthwhile.  then again, i've always found that punishing myself was a worthwhile activity.  i don't know why.  i need to stop that.

[i wrote this 2/23/16.  i think i'm gonna start writing in this stupid thing again.  it's been too long since i had some kind of anonymous outlet.]

missing the point

my heart is broken i guess and i don't think i can relate to other people

it's amazing, i've been writing in this blog for nearly ten years and i haven't changed all that much

my writing has probably gotten worse in that time

i miss feeling like i'm part of something, but i'm just nothing, i'm just nothing aren't i

i wish someone still loved me like i was once a lovable person

i love so many people and yet i love no one

i love no one

i am no one

and that's okay i guess

"i want to buy a pack of cigarettes.
i want to kiss you on the mouth.
i want to slam my head against a wall."

and with that i begin a not haiku,
clacking computer keys at the speed of light,
miles ahead of my now pitiful longhand.
oh how i was quick with a bic ballpoint once upon a time.

and i was stupid to think i could sleep here without you

listening to love songs on the drive home
turn signal, right, stop light, left, keep going,
a tinny plea through my phone speaker
(i don't know how to hook it up to my radio)

i don't think i miss you.  i think i miss the idea of you.
but i'm not sure if i want that back either.

seventeenth.

when people ask why i stayed with him for so long, it was because i could.
the reason i fucked him on the first date, the reason i said i loved him, and ultimately the reason i broke it off with a five minute phone call just shy of a three year anniversary.

there is something to be said about monogamy.
...i certainly don't know what it is right now, but i'll get back to you when i figure it out.

and i'm not angry at him in the way that i'm not angry at the catholic church or people who cut me off in rush hour traffic -- there are certain disgusting inevitabilities in navigating your twenties on the postage stamp i call home, the collection plate preying on the poor or people who must have gotten their license on a technicality because JESUS CHRIST IT'S CALLED A BLINKER USE IT.

he was home.  i was gonna have his kids, picked out their names, was gonna inherit his house -- now he stands to do that alone.  and i'm happy about that.

so here's to pregnancy tests taken in mcdonald's bathrooms, here's to under the cover blowjobs in a DIY house surrounded by sleeping crustypunks, here's to canada and lying on the hood of a collective car watching meteor showers, here's to a night i cried because i thought he'd be angry i dyed my hair, and here's to the first notch on my bedpost.  long after i sell this bed frame, i will not forget him.

i must confess

i was thinking the other day

(or some form of thought, it's difficult to form sentences four PBRs in)

about love poetry.

about my own regurgitated passion,

and i thought about picking at my scabs as some sort of distant metaphor

reopening wounds.  

by trying to speed the process of healing, 

you are prolonging scarring.  

i thought about why i've gone back to hanging out with 

a person who once broke my heart.

it wasn't her fault, 

not really.

even though my mother tells me to not get burned again,

i've always been a masochist.

by trying to speed the process of healing

you are 

prolonging scarring

and i couldn't help but wonder why i want 

to have my cake and eat it too,

these disappearances and reappearances of need

craving a sign from anyone, anything 

that i am important. 

i picked at my lips, a game of removal with as little pain as possible

success (moderate).  bleeding (imminent).  ugliness (a permanence).

healing, speeding of, attempt

scarring, prolonging, only 

masochism

i think

contradictory

i wish i were less brittle than i am
"sensory overload, everything's turned up to 11, please don't bother me"
"get the fuck over yourself, this is why you have no friends"

and i think i'm sick of people depending on me for everything because i don't have all the answers
and i think i'm sick of myself depending on people for everything because they don't have the answers
and i think i'm just fucking sick

i'm freezing cold but too lazy to heat up my coffee
i'm never hungry
always tired
never wanting to do anything always wanting to drink always wanting to walk until i collapse
i don't want to see anyone but i can't stand being alone
that paradox always always always

fuck

You wish don't you

What if I liked it
The way our legs intertwined
Lover I love you

sestina

The crisp autumn air seeps into my skin as I zip through the park
I could never negotiate riding bicycles when I was young
As I ignore the pain shooting through barely used muscles in my legs,
I breathe in a faint scent of grass and dog, fresh, new
For once in my life I don't think to check the quickly passing time
My thoughts alternate between two concepts, one being keeping my balance

It is only when I can finally be alone that I have my life in balance
Wandering the city, hungry and alone, taking respite in any old park
Compact London quarters, I sweat and dread the passing of time
Only now do I understand what it is to feel both old and young
And only now do I feel like I have a chance to start off new
Not teetering between acceptable and wrong, standing on shaky legs

There are little things I miss about him -- his laugh, the sturdiness of his legs
He is his most confident on a bicycle, cutting through seats, a study in balance
Our conversations are disparate but friendly, hours spent forgetting what's new
I wonder how he'd take London's lack of leaves as autumn corrodes Hyde Park
I wonder about a lot of things, a future as murky as this new London, still young
A snag in my pedaling, I've lost my footing -- why does learning have to take time?

No, I haven't seen the Tower, nor the Changing of The Guards -- at least not this time
I don't know if I could keep up with the crowd, really, not with these short legs
Why am I so lethargic all the time? They say youth is wasted on the young
I am the biggest waste, delusions of grandeur between thoughts of my bank balance
Or the status of my course work, or lamenting on why I cannot parallel park
I fall into the same patterns -- no matter if the atmosphere is new

It's been a week since Eleanor arrived at work, making me no longer new
She fretted, knotted with nerves, but I told her she would learn with time
When we lunched she raved about her new home, how Bath has a riverside park
I envy how she can bike for miles without crying, the sculpted nature of her legs
And she is so much older than me life-wise, work and play keeping perfect balance
In America, university is the perfect way to stay and be considered young

Near head on collisions, the risk-junkie speed demons can tell I am young
The neon sign strung round my neck, "can't you tell I'm new?"
In sync with the hipsters and school children, protest pedals to regain balance
From Hyde to Green, no man's land, different rules when it comes to time
My skirt's too short. I don't own tights. Acutely aware of pale, flabby legs
I don't remember the last time I felt unguarded in public, in the park

The machine of London fails to balance the deficit of old with the influx of young
I find sanctuary in the theater, in the park, in the anonymity of what's new
As I long to slow down the passing of time, the dread of home I feel in my legs.

when you were sweet

when i didn't waste my time writing poetry about a boy man person who didn't care
i was an artist once
and i fancied myself the best one that existed
as i scribbled on cardboard and hot glue gunned bottle caps and was so creative
but really
i just wasn't very good
i'm not good at much

there was a time when i thought
that i would make a wonderful wife someday
perhaps not in a kitchen but beside him on a plane,
pinkies linked as arizona reaches for different borders,
"there's only one road and if you're stranded you're fucked"

i think i've missed something here

so what do i do really
with my love, so clumsy and rotund
when he turns away from my kiss and sweats palms up
i fancy myself the worst artist in the world,
for i draw and draw but cannot get the shape of his nose and i am not creative
i'm not very good
i'm not good at much

around a figure eight

how the fuck can i be
platonically in love with someone
i mean honestly what is wrong with me
never have i met someone so stupid as i
awake at night wondering what i did

the moments when:

you want to wrap yourself in who they are
lying staring at the sky on lawns, discarded coffee cups
and it's not about suggestion, that's out of the question
but they smile and laugh that awkward laugh
and you're alive for the first time in weeks and weeks

and i am:

staying up writing the most awful poetry
i should know better, i wrote decent shit today
in love with their words, so different from my own
and i try and try but the words fail me, fail to describe
at least the focus is shifted this time around, not elsewhere

and i know, i know what you're going through well
because i am so fucking in love with all my friends
and i want to wrap myself in who they are
when i am lying outside, inside, wide wide awake
and i feel the stupidest amount alive, just enough

king and queen seat. (final

the acute hurt of not knowing suffocates

(when it comes to you anyway)

because I always need to know, need the clench of control

baby boys in big boy clothes, running around, followed clouds of smoke

and punctured with septum rings ill suited for their ski slope noses

you're all bones and I worry about you only sometimes, peripheral exclusive,

only circumstantial thinking really

it reminds me of when she tried to kill herself when I was nine

and they locked her up with women who called me rosemary and touched my hair

old men swore in six languages but could not negotiate day and night

I never knew what motivated her to hate herself so

when she was everything I wanted to be

bone thin, ill and still graceful,

hollow cheeks and wise eyes so tired of the world,

like I was, too young for it

let's throw the pity party, hmm, dunce caps and creamsicle cocktails,

am I beautiful now, mother, father, classmates who skirted around invitations?

it's a foolish thing to dwell when I have grown past the confines of my clay pot, tropical and unruly

mother with her obvious femaleness,

father with his sturdy maleness,

bore a child somewhere in between

I'm sure every woman feels the echoes of maya angelou, even if they've grown tired of a preacher to the choir

yes, yes, you are a woman, as are they, though I'm not sure I will ever know what that feels like

what about audre lorde I wonder, tracy chapman, alice walker even

their voices maybe don’t waver with wisdom, but they are in the same vein

so with all this, I hope you can understand why I worry about you

and your idle thoughts as you ride your bike past my house at three in the morning

you are a vast unknown, the type that frightens and intrigues, a comfort somehow

a man (but are you really) in too plain clothes and not a mark or distinguishing alteration on his body

you were never bones, and I like that.

I like it.

I don't have to worry, or feel the weight of my own empathy on my back

like the pressure to be a woman.

i've learned not to say much.

when I dissolve in a crowd, it's just so I can feel alive some of the time.

eyes are closed, with the orange spot I never noticed until he took a picture of it

somewhere between Helsinki and Halifax, between Caerau and Donegal

and I drew a line in chalk from Trafalgar Square to the edges of Drury Lane,

where flowers grow in pots, overflowing, pink tendrils in my peripherals

my too-worn saddle shoes feeling all the rounded edges of brick roads,

made when the city was a fussy child, unyielding clay, consumed by fire often

these soles were not meant to walk the streets, when I am delirious from hunger

I cannot speak because of lockjaw, self-imposed, cunning but that's a given

so I let words love those I long to inform myself, never just the one

I want to write everyday, with chalk, with a keyboard, with pens stolen

I imagine you softening at the edges when you drink, glasses finally off

something pools inside me as I leave a suburban home and arrive in Antarctica

cracks in saddle shoes allowing snow to seep in, like a hard up for cash friend

and I am finally allowed to be quiet, to not say much, sound dampened anyway

so I find a street, and I walk, playing tic tac toe on glaciers, eyes closed

excerpt from something.

She stands in the doorway, amongst the rubble left by the rush of hipsters avoiding the cops. Dropping a deuce in the bathroom, I had avoided the sirens and masses of people leaving. The house is empty and smells like swiped V-cards and piss. I help myself to a jello shot and don't even notice her until I hear a kind of grunt.

I steal a second one and look up at her. She's about twice as drunk as I am. Deerhunter hat, white tank top I can see her nipples in, blue panties, bear claw slippers. She's drinking four dollar wine from the bottle. She looks at me. I look at her. We stare at each other for what's gotta be five solid minutes before she speaks.

"Party's over," she says.

"Guess so," I say. Silence.

"You know you have to leave, right?" she says, taking another gulp.

I take another jello shot.

"Look, I don't give a fuck if you go home or not. Hell, I don't care if you crash here. But my roommate is gonna raise hell if she finds some floater on the floor tomorrow," she says in one breath.

Silence.

"'Kay," I say, taking another shot for good measure. I try to go for the front door. She holds her hand up.

"Back door. What are you, a freshman?" she says, pointing.

I salute her and go into the night.

what happened was

yesterday you cut me out of your life

and I know that I deserved it, gave or took it like the statue I am
the impression of you gripping my soft spots captured for
fanny-packed tourists to gawk at before the call of an empty stomach

as I walked the streets, hungry and alone (not uncommon)
I came across the cracks in the sidewalk blooming weeds like
they were jewels -- I picked up the last wishflower of the summer

though highline and into the village I carried it with me

feeling asphalt seep through my sandals

and that's when I knew

your hands haven't learned much yet.

that crippling sensation that comes with knowing that you are wrong in every sense of the word

I can't breathe without the thought of failing creeping into my bones

and on and on I go, despite this wrongness

isn't it good to be alive, she said, and I agreed

king and queen seat.

the acute hurt of not knowing suffocates

because I always need to know, need the clench of control

baby boys in big boy clothes, running around, followed clouds of smoke and punctured with septum rings ill suited for their ski slope noses

you're all bones and I worry about you only sometimes, peripheral exclusive, only circumstantial thinking really

it reminds me of when my mother tried to kill herself when I was nine

and they locked her up with women who called me rosemary and touched my hair

old man swore in six languages but could not negotiate day and night

I never knew what motivated her to hate herself so, when she was everything I wanted to be

bone thin, ill and still graceful, hollow cheeks and wise eyes so tired of the world, like I was, too young for it

let's throw the pity party, hmm, dunce caps and creamsicle cocktails, the closest thing to dairy I'll touch nowadays

yes, I became a vegan to lose weight and it worked, didn't it? am I beautiful now, mother, father, classmates who skirted around my prom invitations?

it's a foolish thing to dwell when I have grown past the confines of my clay pot, tropical and unruly

mother with her obvious femaleness, father with his sturdy maleness, bore a child somewhere in between

I'm sure every woman feels the echo and/or imprint of maya angelou in ears and on skin, even if they've grown tired of a preacher to the choir

yes, yes, you are a woman, as are they, though I'm not sure I will ever know what that feels like

what about audre lorde I wonder, this androgynous creature of intimate words referencing the curves of others similar to herself, years ahead of her time

and I hope you can understand why I worry about you and your idle thoughts as you ride your bike past my house at three in the morning

you are a vast unknown, the type that frightens and intrigues, a comfort somehow

a man in too plain clothes and not a mark or distinguishing alteration on his body

you were never bones, and I like that. I like it. I don't have to worry, or feel the weight of my own empathy on my back like the pressure to be a woman.

in some ways, it's a surprise

that I've grown accustomed to your rhythm, your edge
and I feel the thrum of my jealousy at the sight of draped bodies
how and what I want don't always intersect
this is no exception, when your smile makes me crazy
but I'm hesitant to even turn your way

am I crazy? likely.

send you my love on a wire.

what do you want from me?
it isn't as though this shit ends.
we are circular and ultimately directionless as we try to fathom a future without hatred
but it's always there
it's always going to be there
and you can't keep denying it, or we'll get nothing accomplished
as tides wash in
and fears wash out, leaving indifferent residue.

novel excerpt.

"Sometimes I want to punch him, but sometimes I want to kiss him too, and the kissing outweighs the punching in the end, you know?" Ingrid sighed.

"Yeah," Christopher said, even though he didn't.

"It was absurd how angry I was -- I didn't even think I was capable of it," she went on, laughing lightly.  "He just took off, vanished, you know?  I didn't know he was working for the Administration until it was too late to talk him out of it.  And I couldn't stop him, because I'm just a halfie and he's a fucking deerkint, for god's sake, do you know how powerful they are?  Ugh, it was terrible.  And I put poor Tallulah through such torture because all I did was roll up the windows and talk about how much I hated everything and how much I wasn't going to cry because fuck crying.  She kept on making all these pitiful noises, so one day I just gave her a break and pulled over on the side of the road and screamed."

"Yelling helps," Christopher agreed.  He missed the woods around his house for that reason.

"My life was getting worse by the day.  I mean, my fiance abandoned me.  My mother was -- is -- dying from something awful and unknown and the relatives that were supposed to help me are either dead or of no service.  And here I was, just screaming in a field more because of the guy than my own mother, who went through hell from the magic community because she loves my dad... sometimes I don't even feel like a Foundra."

Christopher hesitated before putting a hand on her arm.  "You're really strong for going through all that," he started, then everything tumbled out.  "You're one of the more brave people I've met, and you have so many good qualities, so put away the bat.  No one can be everything at once.  We all have limits before we snap.  Sometimes, it's good to snap." 

Ingrid stared at him for a moment before her face broke into a grin.  "You're a great kid, Chrissy," she said, ruffling his hair.

"Thanks, ma," he replied.  So he was a kid now.  Great.

"No, you know what I mean," Ingrid insisted.  He didn't.  "You're gonna make someone really happy one day, babe.  I just know it."  

A moment passed, a fraction of time in which something significant should have happened.  Had his life been a film, he would have brushed the stray bit of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear.  She would have blinked at him with those dark, endless eyes of hers, whispering something to herself in that tongue that she would have to teach him later.  They would lean in at once, two sets of eyes fluttering shut as two sets of lips met in an instant of accord.  His hand would rest on her cheek.  Her hand would settle on his knee.  Music would swell in the background, the theme of the film or some soaring indie epic -- or maybe there would be the silence that happened when everything else in the world went still but them in that moment.  But his life was not a film.  There was no director, no script, and no chance to do it over as she got up and brushed any dirt and debris off her rear.

"I'm going to check on him -- I'll see you later, yeah?" she said, smiling in that way that made his heart stutter, if that were even possible.

"Yeah, see you," was all that he could come up with.  She paused before giving a little wave and turning around. 

Christopher bit his tightened fist to keep from crying out in frustration.  The Darbys of the world once again got the upper hand, and all he could do was watch as she walked away.