I hate naming things.

how can this be about YOU?

2011-03-31T19:53:00.000-07:00

i miss you and i can't get there and i'll not reach you and you'll not reach me but you don't realize it yet a fern in a forbidden jungle, green and flourishing under the correct conditions and yet you know nothing a wall, a cement or concrete wall is just a wall in those eyes that appeared to have such depth flowing and falling, fearing and crawling and i've missed a step somewhere in between head over heels hopeless and real so real the sins mean nothing so long as there is feeling in the touch and the taste and the caress soft lips or scraggly faces or lonely eyes that I.will.not satisfy because then the hunger would be gone and then i would truly and always be alone selfish, yes. playing the victim in 7 acts and missing the antagonist for the last six pages the lovers in distress aren't lovers if they are indifferent and scientific and too REALISTIC i can't feel in your heart. i can't reach in and scoop out and bleed on your shoes and then write about how the drops sounded when they splashed it's not me; it's every song i've ever heard or played and all the singers feeling every word means it's out there - somewhere. true love awaits.

2010-05-03T16:04:00.000-07:00

In the interest of sanity and all things holy in my life, I need to write more. Currently, other tasks are calling to my attention (not the least of which is a burner that just won't burn for some reason). But alas - sporting calls to me, with a friend. Never a bad idea.

pass

2010-04-24T17:08:00.000-07:00

I can feel it when I am removed from myself. Today, I purchased a ring; inscribed. It reads: 'nothing is impossible'. How terribly pagaen. Don't you think? Maybe this is what attracted me, somewhere in my subconscious. Discontent is the hoodie I never remove. I sleep in it. It rarely is machine-washed but constantly stained, tainted, and dampened by irrelevant fluids, flowing. I can tell my body is crumbling and there is not a thing I'm going to do about it. Not a thing.

How we Love

2010-01-19T21:49:00.000-08:00

I find some people in the quiet moments of my life. And in the proud moments - the times when in the flash of an instant, I see who I am becoming, who I want to be - and am reminded of certain individuals that inspired, pushed, loved me - toward those goals. (What goals? Claiming to have goals sounds like there is a purpose, which there isn't. I float.)

And I have a difficulty, differentiating between hero-worship, and love, and other kinds of bonds. Maybe this goes back to something in my childhood, I don't know. We overexplain things, trying to define ourselves and decide why. There's no need. Beautiful creations, we all are. For whatever reasons.

I needed to write for the memory of one particular person. He comes to mind often, and I wonder if I ever cross his mind. If I'll see him again. (and if I do, how each of us will react). What did he do to inspire? An interesting question, as we were both thrust into roles at a certain point, and not told any details. Looking on his situation from this older perspective, and about to be in the shoes he was in, I wonder if he was scared. I wonder what he saw, when he looked at me. What he thought. From what I saw, he embodied perfection. I was an idiot when I was around him, and he loved my writing. "you can go all the way to _______ and back, and not find someone like her". He said this quietly.

I remember being nervous, I don't remember what we were supposed to write about. But I know what I wrote was naked and true, and I shook as I walked to the front of the room, sat on the stool, faced my peers with a sheet of paper, and read. Truth used to make people stop ( I have two examples of this in my life). I remember after I was done reading, I looked up and was going to move, and then was terribly frightened when no one in the entire classroom was breathing. Then one of my classmates made a comment about how he didn't want to go after me, or something mundane, I don't remember. But I wowed him. I know I did.

Becoming what he is, maybe that's why he's been on my mind so much lately. His music, his words - I've wondered how he's altered his teaching style in the years since I saw him last. If he's still teaching. If he's married. (that shouldn't matter). If I would ever get to work with him, as a peer.

I always wondered what it would be like to look at him on that kind of level - if it would feel any different at all, removed a few years from where I had been.

Some people get into your soul, for whatever reason. Well, everyone does, actually. Every single person you've ever interacted with has affected you in some way. Changed you. I love that. I love how we are our own person, and at the same time - we are everyone else. We takes pieces of them with us, whatever they are so kind enough (or otherwise) to give in our short connections.

How can we not love, when we take and give pieces and we are whole but only because we have given and taken so many different parts?

Religion

2010-01-10T16:10:00.000-08:00

I wonder if blogging can truly take me away from other offensive manners of spending time? I should read more - it coats my thinking voice. For example, I just made myself step away from another website which does take more than 50% of my internet time, and is meaningless. There were two of these not less than 48 hours ago, and now there is one - a fact that I felt guilty of at first, but have come to accept. To enjoy, even. It was almost like throwing away a journal you kept in middle school, detailing all that engrossingly embarressing writing you'd rather no one see, yet you hate to part with "that part of yourself". Except in my example, this was more like a a scab that kept itching, so I kept scratching, so it kept bursting open and bleeding/pussing everywhere. Not pretty. Some things are better just left alone. I'm one of those people who forgets unpleasant things almost as immediately as they have happened and are over, thankfully (I see it as a gift from God). I don't need reminders of bad "relationships", whatever that means. I will be doing well enough to become something I am proud of, let alone remember the squabbling thing I once was. Maybe still am. But the thing of it is - remembering who I was will not help me in the future, and you cannot convince me otherwise.

I see my life as a journey, as most everyone does. I am changing and growing (cliche, cliche, move on) - but I do this without any conscious thought. That is my relationship with my Creator - I do not have to "do" anything to get where I am going. (No, this does not mean I sit at a computer typing nonsense and think that doing nothing is ok). I live, I move, I float and coast through whatever is going on (or, if I were having a more laborious day, I would use less dreamy verbs). In any case, I go about my own business and trust that life happens the way it's supposed to. I am a self-motivated individual, however, and understand that this may be abnormal. But to some degree, I do not have to force myself to get out of bed in the morning and go about my day, it just happens. Perhaps, in this way, I will not be affected and/or upset by life choices that may turn out to be "wrong" (whatever that means) - but just what was "supposed" to happen, beyond my control. (Enter cliche of "everything happens for a reason").

Or, you could say, I haven't knowingly been faced with any life-altering decisions yet. Strange, but I have. Maybe I just face them differently than I assumed I would.

Lists of things to write about

2010-01-09T08:40:00.000-08:00

My recent obsession with nails
reasons why I enjoy living where I do
What should we write about?
Puppies
My wedding
Where I should live
Sexual Preference
Concerts I have been / want to go to

This book I've been reading

2010-01-09T08:16:00.000-08:00

The Writing Class by Jincy Willett is lovely. I'm at the library, it's snowing gobs and I'm in a hurry to get home before "snowing on icy roads" becomes a terrible concern (which it already is, but as I have at least three free days left, I intend to do something semi-useful with them). A book caught my eye that I had previously checked out and never read, and still I have no touched it. Then I see "the writing class", and the title grabs me (as it would a small percent of the population who are strange enough to consider spending the majority of their adult lives in less than undergraduate school, teaching a "hated" subject, like English).

So anyway, it turns out that my whim and my "I probably won't read it" choice turns into what I'm reading in my seat by the big window.

It makes me consider things:

Why didn't I take any writing courses? I should have, even though it wouldn't have counted, if only to "expand my horizons". I used to write. I enjoy writing. Maybe I'll take one up this summer.

Which reminds me of an appointment I need to make.

Also, what is there to write about? When faced with the idea of the ominous "writing a book" - which is something I always thought I may enjoy doing (you know, should I 'get published' and therefore be rich and famous...), it seems so unlikely now. What hasn't already been written? Everything seems old, now. I have no new ideas, I think.

Of course, I am a fraud and a fake. Every new idea I've ever had was the result of an idea someone else had, which "inspired" me in some way. Nothing unique. Or, if it was, it hasn't been in quite some time.