Thursday, October 30, 2014

October 30, 2014

I'm writing about you again.  About how you make me want to write, and how every time I convince myself this can't be what it is, you pull me in just a little deeper. Hand in hand I might follow you anywhere unsafe or unknown.  I'm writing about how you inspire me to write, how somehow your existence makes me want to do better for myself and achieve all the things I've been pissing around and dreaming about for years.  You make me tired of waiting for things to happen, you make me do them. You make me want or make me do them. How does that work? Pulling me gingerly out of my comfort zone and into my own existence, you're the voice inside my head that says 'go DO it'.  And I want so badly to have that every day, every moment, to consume that feeling over and over until I'm shithoused on it.  How strange it is to be thankful that I can't, that I am forced to take you in small doses, forced to wait, forced to assess and understand each moment, and that there is only this moment, and to be so godforsakenly aware of everything all the time. The universe whispers to us in our lust, 'slow down'.  And so here I am. Writing.  And I'll keep writing and keep giving you my words, as long as you want to read them.

Sunday, October 26, 2014

October 26

Should I ever drag myself into the depths of success, find an outlet, an audience for my voice, I'll invite you along.  My handler and my muse. My unrequited light of day, my honesty and the downfall of my pride. You who makes me see, who makes me look when I don't want to. You who leaves the holes where you've bitten the pieces of me when I intended to take parts of you.  You can come along as long as you'd like.

October 26, 2014 (Assigned writing)


The windows are open, the air is comfortably cool, and at 4:30 am, I'm thinking of you instead of all the things I should be doing.  Namely sleeping.  I could be writing.  I should be doing anything but letting my mind fixate again on someone who is anything but possible. I should be focused on myself and what I'm capable of, the life I can make on my own, my twisted little offering to the world, rather than yet again giving so much of my soul to another fallible face in the crowd.  But the thing is, it's not possible to give parts of myself I can't see.  In finding a muse, I see a mirror. A reflection of the things I want to be seen as, the idea that I haven't completely made myself up out of bullshit and thin air.  So in so many ways, you're right. I'm writing to my ego, my love of self, my own narcissistic nature. Falling for someone else is how we validate, isn't it? Someone almost as enamored with ourselves as we are, someone who reflects all those qualities and quirks we so desire to be loved for. I just love to hear myself talk. It's likely that you're right about that. All of the faces and voices and hands that haven't understood me made me feel paper thin, transparent, not real.  And here you come from so far away, solidifying me, manifesting who I've known myself to be, telling me that even on my own I am worth my time. What a very dangerous drug you are to take, my self actualizing heroin. 

And even your faith gives me doubt. The further I go, and the more I become real to you, the more easily you'll see the holes in me, how it's not possible to be the idea you had, how I really don't know what to say, how I really don't know what words to choose. And how by letting you in on this, I inevitably speed along the process. 

So what is it that's so different about you? Why is it that I'm not only willing to, but eager, to destroy self-protections I've built so carefully and thoroughly?  Are you that magic, that toxic, that special, or have you simply appeared in my life at the right moment, with the right chemical reactions and attractions?  Is this another reflection of myself and what I'm ready for? Actually, are you involved in this at all? Is it possible that I am THIS MUCH of a narcissist? Do you exist to me only to play out the emotions I'm ready for or to test my boundaries and reactions?

 Your little quips and words make me wonder these things. But still, I…I like it. I like the way you make me wonder who I really am, what my intentions are. I like the way you get me inside my own head, and god I am loathe to admit, I like the way you're unafraid to pull me out of my own bullshit and slap me with a little reality.  I like that you're not in love with me and you're not afraid to say it to me.  Is that because that's what I'm ready for?  

And I let you in on all of these things. Which is dangerous because you don't reciprocate, and I'm always wondering, connecting points on my own,  I give you a full picture of where my mind is going and why my wiring is fucked. WIth you I'm often left to assumption, mainly because NOBODY talks as much as I do. 

But somehow I'm still aware of you.  That you carry your own protections, and while I'm still present to you, I'm not as penetrative because you're …more normal than me.  You do enjoy the depths I dive to, but in no way want them to possess either one of us. And I like that, too. I see more of your holes and vulnerabilities than you probably recognize, but I'm ok with letting them lie. I can only do with mine, you do with yours. 

And all of this pointless pontification, all of this wondering and questioning, all of my silly bullshit words and hearing myself talk, doesn't matter.  Because what I want most is to stop being afraid.  Afraid of being hurt, afraid of being misunderstood, afraid of being judged, afraid of being alone.  And from the moment I met you, I've offered every opportunity for you to hand me all of those things. And I don't know why, but so far, you haven't.  You've allowed me to free fall, you've allowed me to both embrace and run from my fears, you've known when to do one rather than the other.  You've seen me as I think I really am and you've reflected me accurately at myself.  

For now, my mirror and my muse. A thing that motivates and irritates, provokes and protects.  A monster and a shield. An absolute seduction of body and mind that acts like a hallucinogen, and a reality that makes no play of flattering shadows and light.  You seem to be the truth that I asked for. Brilliantly, deceptively honest. Mercilessy yourself as much I am myself.  And a staunch reminder that there is no moment but now. 


Attraction and love, scientifically speaking, are our chemical reactions to our own experience and an attempt to heal our own wounds. In the best case scenarios, we heal those wounds and move on. Worst case, we self actualize in the brutality of our flaws and wounded pasts, we further damage ourselves and each other.  Endgame: I won't be afraid to love you, if I love you-  to open my wounds and look at them, to be mindful of yours, to kindly lick at the sore places in your soul, a gentle dance of discovering where the soft places are, and when to move away from what isn't ready or willing to be known. 

Saturday, October 25, 2014

October 25th, 2014

I haven't written anything worth shit in 5 days. It's 5:30 in the morning and I've been awake since two, with about an hour of sleep before that. I should have stopped to write. I should have written in my free time at work, I should have written about the beer I drank when I got home.  I can't start the beer blog, because that means I have to write the first blog. The first blog is easy. It's getting past it that's a bitch.  I've started how many in the past? Uh…at least five.  And how many got past the first inspired, impassioned, full of promise and ambition post….?  This one only has legs because I'm consistently unrequited and I'm good at phrasing it. And it will most likely lag if I'm content, thrive if I'm miserable, and classify me right along the other pseudo-tortured-artist types who never follow through or get jack shit off the ground creatively. Fuck.   Fuck that.  Stream of consciousness is better than lack of consciousness, so I'll write, I'll write shit, and I'll post shit and try really goddamn hard not to go back and delete it once I re-read it and realize what utter shit it actually is.

Hey, that actually felt good.  This is why writers have writing exercises. Because we are a bunch of vain, self absorbed dicks that get our heads so far up our own asses that we're paralyzed against making the next move.  Also, that's the first time I've ever called myself a writer, I think. Maybe it's time to manifest the fuck out of that and turn my propensity for self fulfilling prophecies into something other than an absolute ass whip.

Sunday, October 19, 2014

Void

I was at the grocery store this morning and the sight of king crab legs suddenly and inexplicably had me in tears.  I just remembered all the times we made steak and crab legs and a mixed six pack of craft beer and followed up 'date night in' with shots and binge watching whatever our current tv series was at the time. I don't miss they way things went down and I don't miss what we did to each other. But I miss surf and turf at home and Dexter. That was home.

July 6, 2014

Days that wander in and out
Feeling little purpose
But getting by
Getting through
Unless I'm doing something
Reckless

Maybe I am addicted to it
And you bring all of it with you
Sex
Betrayal
Denial and acceptance

Fuck my mind
Fuck my body



Undated

I like it when you smile
And now it feels
Like I've only seen that smile
In pictures
Four hundred and thirteen days
Since the lights went out
Almost a year since the first time
We met and I
Put my arms around you
Like I'd already known you

Like what lay ahead wouldn't
Fuck us both

Compass

Goodbye from Ka'anapali.  In any affair, the beginning is paradise. The days stretch out endlessly, promising every touch, taste, and look might be the one to sate your infatuation.   In the middle, you struggle, you fear, and if you're lucky, you grow in unexpected ways. In the end, each look is a reminder that the heady, lusty feeling has come and gone.  Our biggest fight is not to keep from falling in love, with people, with places, with ideas...but to let them go with grace when needed. Take your trinkets, your memories, your bloody souvenirs. Brand them on your heart or on your skin.  Leave your bitterness and unmet desires. Enjoy the sunset, and travel again whenever you can.

June 20, 2014

Where would I even begin with today?  I woke with my stomach in knots. Ahead of me lay ten thousand and twenty three feet of upward mobility, the summit of the House of the Sun. The place where Maui lassoed the sun and fought for the longer days of summer in exchange for the darkness of winter. Old fears, new roads, and the slow turning in my guts that signaled that it was time to bury what held me back.   It wasn't a question. I gingerly poured two generous shots of rum into my guava nectar and swallowed just enough Benadryl to take the edge off of the impending adrenaline surge. Two hours later, I stood at the peak of Haleakala, breathless with altitude and accomplishment.  I ended the day with my neck ringed in the heady fragrance of my lei, belly distended with the traditions and flavors and sweet liqueurs of the islands.  History and fire danced before me, and I'm almost certain I fell in love with a hula dancing man in what you could only call a loincloth.  I watched my babies mimic the swing of the islands, all hips and hands and love. I drank coconut and history and yet another incredible sunset.  Tonight, I'm not sure if I'm the island or the boat, I'm only certain of the water.

No Discarded Moments

No, I can't.  I can't stop taking pictures, I can't stop writing about it, I can't stop sharing in on social media, because I am a social creature.  I need to remind myself every moment that this is real. I want to come back when I've been trapped in a hospital room for two weeks and I want to remember every scrap of this. No discarded moments. I need to remember what it feels like when stepping out of the shower is just as comfortable as being under the running water. I need to recall what it tasted like to eat a mango for the first time even though I've had many mangoes before.  I need to remember the scrape of sand between my toes and the way pink and orange and gold melt into one perfect gleam across the dark shapes of distant islands.






 

I want to remember the way we closed the same way we began. Potent flowers in rings around our necks. Surrounded by those we love. Drinks in hand, feet in paradise. We toasted to the beginning and we toast to the end. And in this, we are  free.

Maui, Day 2

Day 2
It's 5:30 am and jet lag means I've been up since 3 here. I wanted to see the sunrise and touch the water for the first time in solitude. Kona coffee is an art in itself, bringing a sweet buzz to the hours when everyone else is still asleep. The sun rises more subtly than it sets, washing the sea and sky and palms in pinks and blues as candy floss clouds roll their bellies lazily over the volcanic peaks on the horizon. There are a few times in a life- if you're lucky- that you can look in front of you, behind you, where you are, and where you've come from- and breathe in fully. In other places, the waves will crash you against the rocks and tear you to pieces.  Here, just for now, they cradle you upon the shore and make you whole. Wherever those moments come from, use them the rest of your life.

June 15, 2014


Maybe it ends badly.
Most things that end, do.
Loss is painful. Letting go is hard.
But none of that means it's not worth it to give and take what we can and wrench every delicious bit out of this very moment.
We do have right now.
I have learned not to expect forever, but to take each moment, each exchange, each person for what it is they have to give and whatever it is I can give them.
Poetry escapes me on this one.
But not being 'the one' doesn't mean we aren't *someone*.
Let's let it be what it is.

June 10, 2014

Art even escapes me. I wish I could paint the curve of your shoulder above the covers. Arcing into the sunlight in the sliding doors beyond you, carved out in darkness by a rising sun. Heaving slowly with your sleeping breath. Soft and in repose. A moment of comfort amid the madness and the pain of deciding what comes next. The inward curve of your neck dissipating into the twists and curves of your hair. Your sigh as the alarms sound in unison. Time stopped.  Take my hand and pull it around you and hold me where I am. Anchor this feeling for an instant. I wish I could carve this moment out in acrylic and oil and paste it on the wall to look at when you're not here. And every time I take that view, that slowly rising shoulder. That repose.  That moment of solitude and comfort that is all I have to offer... Every time is the last.

May 12, 2014

And sometimes I can't do it. My fists are balled in rage and impotence, pounding against  circumstance, railing against reality.  My words, my actions, my pathetic desperation- change nothing.  

More is needed of me than I can deliver.  Cheerleaders and supporters rally, but don't change my inability to affect.

I am failure. I am weakness. I am the product of love that was never enough.

Epicenter

Swelling and spreading
Stretching, yawning  chasm of isolation
I don't feel you
But I see the reflection in
Eyes that won't look at me
Thoughts always elsewhere
Anywhere
Desperately turning
Seeking escape
Digging fervently from the prison that I am
Not even the Flicker of a smile
Not even a trace of delight
Empty hollow bottomless loveless longing
Where is it you would rather be?
And there it is.
There's not a greener grass
Another woman
A better hand
There's just the longing for something
to elicit a feeling
A faint spark of love
Or hate
Or joy
Anything but this ghost eyed, eviscerated Romance
Sickly slowly silently through the mud

May 3, 2013

Momentarily I have power
To give away
Change
Power
To change power
Grant satisfaction
Illusions of satisfaction
Poetry of the physical
Melded
Escapist
Find me

October 6, 2014

What is it you want to know about me?  Would any of it help? If you knew whether I was a good person or a bad person or more than the few illicit words you've seen...  Would it bring you peace of mind? Would it help you close the door, close the book, close your heart, understand the concept of closure at all? Would it help you see that you, too, deserve more than a lifetime of 'close, but not quite'?  Or would it help to blame me? To give your pain a name and a face and a place to reside? Would it help you manage your children alone, would it help you sleep by yourself, would it erase the displaced memories, would it bring you the promise of a cleaner, brighter future?

Because if I could give you that, I would. Because I have been you. Because I have been that woman, laying my tear stained eyes on a strangers face. With my children waiting outside in the car. I've walked across hardwood floors in a surreal flood of disbelief that everything I had invested had been burned in one act. When it was me, I took out my phone. I took her picture. I shamed her and I hated her and I told her what a whore she was. But when it came time to raise my hand to her, I didn't want to.  I couldn't. I walked back and I asked him her name. I asked how long. I asked why. I asked was it really over, I reminded him of vows and children and that we swore murder-suicide would come before divorce.  I asked every question that came screaming through my mind and none of them brought me any peace. And then I suffered.  And I let myself suffer. I grieved as if death had me by the collar of my shirt and was staring in my eyes, waiting for me to answer the question. I mourned like a widow. The future was dead. No Belize, no expatriation, no travel when the kids were grown. No favorite band shows, no favorite tv shows, no nights on the couch at home.  She had been in his bed. 'Our bed'.  I didn't go in our bedroom at home for four months.  I slept on the couch, when I could sleep. I awoke at 4 am every morning with my heart pounding so hard I feared it might simply give up.  I cried unpredictably - in public, in private, at work, and alone.

I have been you. And now because of you I can see myself as her. And I hate that. I want you to know that you get better. At least you can.  I want you to know that you can begin to see your worth and when you do it will be reflected in the eyes of every man who looks at you. I want you to know you deserve that. I want you to know that I have no lies for you. My privacy hasn't been to hide, but a weak and impotent attempt at respect.  You see, I know that I am fleeting. I am a concept. I am 1200 miles of impossible circumstance from your door and from being a part of his life. And whether I come and go or stick around, Nothing about me alters your story, your history, or the fact that you will be linked to him forever, and I will very likely not.  In the hierarchy, it's still you, and it always will be. Just not in the way you planned. Half of his soul inhabits the two bodies you made together.  Where you are now is broken and brand new. It won't always be. Hope says perhaps the future brings happier stories to you both as you pilot your boys through their lives together, but apart. Hope says maybe it starts to feel that way for you.

In the meantime...all I can offer you from myself is...I'm sorry.

September 25, 2014

The world is full of dark and ugly things. Things that break you and make you question your worth. They cannot be stopped.  But the world is also full of things like getting kicked by your kids in your sleep. Little feet in the hall on a Sunday morning. Really good beer with people you like to talk to. And the way you looked at me just before the first time you kissed me, the way you make me laugh, and the fact that we managed to find each other at all.  All those things, coexisting, swirling and blurring the lines of pain and peace. That's it. That's what we get. The same world that's full of rehab and broken families and broken people is also full of arriving flights and ridiculous grins and impossible circumstances.  When it comes to things that light me up and make me feel alive, I don't take any of it for granted. I don't. I love the way you're passionate about things and you don't realize how attractive that is,  and the way I can hear it in your voice when you're laughing at me. I hate that there's so obviously a shelf life on this thing we've gotten into. Today I'm looking for the balance between accepting that and not letting it ruin what time there is. I'm off work. I'm home. I'm crawling into bed and not leaving until it's time to pick up my little ball of piss and sunshine. I'm going to be sad today, but I'll wake up tomorrow ready to take it as it comes.  It's really not a terrible place to be.

September 1, 2014

We are what happens when an unstoppable force meets and immovable object.

This is the aftermath.

The void.

Things have continues to move. I'm not angry. I'm not looking over my shoulder. But how absolutely foreign is it that we are strangers? Sometimes I don't know where to put everything I was putting into you for all those years.

I'm so conscious now, of every step. Instead of rushing home to throw together a home cooked meal for my family, I venture to a taco stand and try tongue for the first time. I vow to date someone who cooks for me.  I do new things.

You can't resettle Chernobyl.

July 20, 2014

You're just as full of shit as anyone else
Which reminds me
So am I.
Maybe more so.
Neither one of us is
Special
So why was it so hard to walk away?

Saturday, October 18, 2014

Teeth

When I see you again,
I'm going to bite out little pieces of your soul and wear them around my neck for the rest of my life.
That way I'll feel you every time I move and you brush across my chest, and every time you touch that empty space where they used to be, you'll remember me.

October 18, 2014

From the moment I met you,
You set me on fire
You, so familiar for a stranger
Like I've known your face forever
And been waiting my whole life
To set my eyes on it.
You saw immediately
All the parts of me that I love, and you showed them to me,
And refused to run from the
Parts that terrify me.
Rough enough for me to trust
So gentle I couldn't help myself
For you I am able to stop arguing
And say..."ok"
To stop begging and plainly accept
You make me more fully who I really am,
And I don't know why you do that.
And every time I see you is the last time

I will try to embrace every goodbye
Rather than fear the loss of something
So impossible
So perfectly, magnificently, impossible.

Restless

I've been home less than a week and I'm so god damned restless I am crawling out of my skin.  I want more than this. I want more than the day in and day out. I need to break the monotony. I need to be doing and going and not spinning my wheels. I'm burning inside to be traveling and living and loving and creating.  I'm sick with housework and unpaid bills and the crushing desperation to do more than survive. I'm obsessed with the spark of a fire I know damn well isn't going to start.  I'm filled with the images of teeth and blood and tongues and it's stuck inside me. Burning and pushing and festering. Where does it go?  The inspiration withers. How do I make a life that doesn't burn out? How do I keep from fading into the background? Stagnant frustration is blinding.  Eventually the rage tastes like whiskey and nothing gets done.  Freedom is airfare and brand new eyes and strange places.  Freedom is experience not material. I want it. I want out. Wanderlust is a motherfucker.

Friday, October 17, 2014

October 17

You may be allowed to wander
To take other lovers
To run your eyes and hands and lips upon their bodies
and  speak  to them as you have to me
The same words, sweet and empty
Heartless and heady

But your soul hangs from my neck
and you belong to me.

Your teeth at home in my flesh
My claws seek shelter inside your heart
bruised and torn, the two of us
Your blood runs down my throat
 and mine drips from your chin

Your soul hangs from my neck
and you belong to me

My visceral response
Your red cape
Your skin, the velvet lining in my coffin
My taste, the poison in your veins

Your soul hangs from my neck
and you belong to me


Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Written October 14, 2014

10/14
Take every piece of my soul that your heart will hold, keep them, number them, count them one by one. My hands graze the holes, I remember your eyes on mine, your skin, your smell. Tangled sheets, tortured hearts. The heaviness in my heart is the weight of you on me, absence is the burden. Tracing my fingers over sharp teeth, kept beside my bed, recalling every time your lips touch mine. Give me a place to keep the pieces of you so nothing can take them from me.

  Don't forget the way you push my boundaries. Don't forget the way you hold my face. Don't forget the way I taste. Don't forget the way I was afraid and held nothing but you. Don't forget that I keep going even when I'm afraid. Don't forget that I want no one else. Don't forget toasted coconut and midgets and lying street artists and absent freak shows and tiny roller coasters and all the things I've never...

2:23pm
I'm a basket case today. Returning to reality is a chore even when it doesn't kick you in the pants in every way possible! But it's such a reminder that my time with you is the opposite of everything I struggle with in 'real life'. You make me feel loved, seen, heard, protected, cared for, more real, less damaged, more passionate, less lost. I can never figure out how much of this is real and how much is what I only wish to see.  But I thank you for giving me all these things so that I know it's possible to move through the world and not feel alone all the time. It's enough for me to not give up, to keep going, improving myself, and reaching for the things I want the most. You make all the things I hope to do and to have for myself seem possible. I can never thank you enough for that.


Written October 13, 2014

Airport melancholy, departures are such sweet sorrow.
Bullshit. Wanting you is like cutting myself. Moments of release trickle down my wrists and throat, simply followed by scars. Bruises darken my skin for a moment and then you're gone. Little pieces of your soul, hanging from my neck, Little stars hanging in the sky and in my eyes. Little flashes of how my breath catches and how our eyes catch in that moment you become part of me.









The way you look at me makes me grin while digging my own grave.  How do you make me smile like that with your pistol in my mouth?  Your tongue tasting my teeth, your poison in my wounds, your infection in my mind, your pulse inside my heart.

Reclaiming October

A space to write for writings own sake. A place to speak without naming names, a place to say all the things that run through my head in any given day.  Poetry, prose, rants, and one-offs.