I fell in love with him a little bit that night. It was cooling down, but not so fast. It was breezy, but not windy. We were the only people sitting outside. I could hear the traffic, I watched people walking down the street. The wine was expensive and tasted good. And he was sweet. And he was funny. And I fell in love with him a little bit that night. But then we moved to another bar after we finished our wine and our dessert and our jokes and tipped the waitress too much. We clung to each other walking to that second bar. He was tall enough that I fit under his arm. He was soft and warm enough that it wasn't uncomfortable or awkward. We walked and clung to each other. I kissed his neck quickly, a soft peck while we were waiting for the crosswalk.
Then we got to the second bar. We wanted to sit at the bar but it was full. We sat outside. But the wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped lower and the drinks were unfamiliar and expensive and the music was jarring and our conversation fell flat. It wasn't like the other bar. It wasn't as magical. The light was different. It was dark. The server was like a character out of a comic book. There was a man to my left, eating alone, scrolling through an iPad. I couldn't decide if I pitied him or envied him.
I had been given another one of my perfect moments. I had been given a portion of happiness. I tasted a sliver of happiness. It's too bad it only lasted a few hours. I fell in love with him a little bit that night. But I'm smart enough now to know that it only lasted for that little bit, for that night, for that bottle of wine, for that walk when we clung to each other.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Sometimes the Quiet is Good
A fire is lit, the last glass of wine has been poured, and the air is chilling steadily around me. I appreciate the hollow feeling in the house, it is better sometimes, to simply be. When my head is foggy, and I'm feeling quiet and melancholy and old and so young it is good, it is good to be alone.
But what happens when you're tired of being alone? Where do you go when you're tired of entertaining yourself, texting the people "out there" that are doing things too, living their lives, and perhaps alone too, but are fine with it? The fire I "built" has already gone out, and the hour is creeping towards midnight. Probably for the best, as I would worry about the wood sparking and catching our house without renter's insurance on fire, just like the lawn. I really didn't know.
Thoughts of moving away again creep in, a fresh start, a new opportunity. It's the same thought that strikes when playing cards. Just one more hand. The next card has to turn my luck. It's waiting in there for me, my break, my chance. A life is waiting out there for me. Something out there will make me feel afraid of losing.
I have fallen in love with ghosts, with memories, with moments. But people - they're just dancers filling the space around me. I'm standing still.
But what happens when you're tired of being alone? Where do you go when you're tired of entertaining yourself, texting the people "out there" that are doing things too, living their lives, and perhaps alone too, but are fine with it? The fire I "built" has already gone out, and the hour is creeping towards midnight. Probably for the best, as I would worry about the wood sparking and catching our house without renter's insurance on fire, just like the lawn. I really didn't know.
Thoughts of moving away again creep in, a fresh start, a new opportunity. It's the same thought that strikes when playing cards. Just one more hand. The next card has to turn my luck. It's waiting in there for me, my break, my chance. A life is waiting out there for me. Something out there will make me feel afraid of losing.
I have fallen in love with ghosts, with memories, with moments. But people - they're just dancers filling the space around me. I'm standing still.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
A Sunday Poem
Poetry.
Poetry.
Just bullshit words on a bullshit blank page.
The clouds were grey today, the air both
cool and warm.
It reminded me of Seattle.
It reminded me
of wanting
to go there.
I think about going
going
going
all the time.
I'm asked
all
the
time
whatI'mdoingwhereI'mgoingwhoI'mseeingwhatI'mwritingtowhomIhavesubmitted
and I have
few
answers to give them.
But I do
know
that I am trying to figure
it
out.
I'm trying to
become
who I am supposed
to be.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Like Beating Wings, How Time Does Fly
I am home now, in this tiny town covered in snow and slush and rain and fog. I have returned, for the holidays, to spend nearly two weeks with family and friends, good food and longs naps, bookstore visits and trips to the movies.
At this time, a year ago, I was saying my goodbyes. Now that I am back, I am saying my hellos. I dance with delight every time I see a familiar face, I am eating too many meals out, and not caring that I haven't gone to the gym (it's the holidays after all). I am marveling at how much has changed, and how little. They have changed the streets - I found myself redirected from a path I once drove daily into a curvier, more logical route, but different and foreign. My dear friend's daughter, who was but a head-bobbling infant when I left, is now walking and talking and smiling at me melting my heart.
My mother is the same, the face, always grinning at me, the soft hug, always embracing and soaking up and draining out all confusion, fear, sadness, and doubt. The holiday traffic is the same - the temper-raising snail's pace of cars snaking their way into the mall to dump their savings and increase their credit card debt. There are still only a handful of bars and restaurants to visit. My grandfather is still tall and strong. My grandmother is still here, with her silver hair and eye-crinkle smile.
And being away, from family especially, you realize just how significant it is to a relationship to be near someone, to have daily communication, to see their face and read their bodies and hear their voices. And it's important for them to get the same from you. Because when you don't, when you're reduced to texts and a random phone call - things change, people change, sometimes without even noticing until it is too late, until you can't go back and find the path that led them there, that led you there supposing things about them that might not have ever been true and certainly are not true now. For my assumptions, I would like to extend my sincerest apology. You know who you are.
Everyday, I am asked how I have been, what have I done, who have I met, where have I gone. Most of my journey, if you have been reading, you already know this year has been a rocky one - full of growing pains, disappointment, change and a constant re-calibrating of expectations. But there have been the good days too. There have been small victories.
And as this year closes, as I return to my new southern home before the clock strikes midnight on December 31st, I will consider this year a good one. I will consider myself changed, not perfect, perhaps not even better, but more aware. I now know what has not worked, what I want to make work, and how to maneuver my way through rush hour traffic - by avoiding it at all costs. I have a great many resolutions, too many to list, and they should be saved for my New Year's post anyhow.
Homecomings are hard - they are joyous - but they are hard. They force you to look back, reexamine where you have been and what you have done with your time, and most importantly, who you have spent that time with. Next year, I hope to spend more time with better people - not only those that I hope to meet, but those that I hope to create and develop here, on this screen.
Farewell for now, and hello.
At this time, a year ago, I was saying my goodbyes. Now that I am back, I am saying my hellos. I dance with delight every time I see a familiar face, I am eating too many meals out, and not caring that I haven't gone to the gym (it's the holidays after all). I am marveling at how much has changed, and how little. They have changed the streets - I found myself redirected from a path I once drove daily into a curvier, more logical route, but different and foreign. My dear friend's daughter, who was but a head-bobbling infant when I left, is now walking and talking and smiling at me melting my heart.
My mother is the same, the face, always grinning at me, the soft hug, always embracing and soaking up and draining out all confusion, fear, sadness, and doubt. The holiday traffic is the same - the temper-raising snail's pace of cars snaking their way into the mall to dump their savings and increase their credit card debt. There are still only a handful of bars and restaurants to visit. My grandfather is still tall and strong. My grandmother is still here, with her silver hair and eye-crinkle smile.
And being away, from family especially, you realize just how significant it is to a relationship to be near someone, to have daily communication, to see their face and read their bodies and hear their voices. And it's important for them to get the same from you. Because when you don't, when you're reduced to texts and a random phone call - things change, people change, sometimes without even noticing until it is too late, until you can't go back and find the path that led them there, that led you there supposing things about them that might not have ever been true and certainly are not true now. For my assumptions, I would like to extend my sincerest apology. You know who you are.
Everyday, I am asked how I have been, what have I done, who have I met, where have I gone. Most of my journey, if you have been reading, you already know this year has been a rocky one - full of growing pains, disappointment, change and a constant re-calibrating of expectations. But there have been the good days too. There have been small victories.
And as this year closes, as I return to my new southern home before the clock strikes midnight on December 31st, I will consider this year a good one. I will consider myself changed, not perfect, perhaps not even better, but more aware. I now know what has not worked, what I want to make work, and how to maneuver my way through rush hour traffic - by avoiding it at all costs. I have a great many resolutions, too many to list, and they should be saved for my New Year's post anyhow.
Homecomings are hard - they are joyous - but they are hard. They force you to look back, reexamine where you have been and what you have done with your time, and most importantly, who you have spent that time with. Next year, I hope to spend more time with better people - not only those that I hope to meet, but those that I hope to create and develop here, on this screen.
Farewell for now, and hello.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
How Do You Do It?
Have you come to the realization that you have been living your life based on myths that were created for you, and sometimes by you?
Have you heard that crack in your skull?
Have you felt that tear in your chest?
Have you ever figured it all out and instantly hoped, prayed, wished and pleaded desperately that you hadn't?
How do you act around the people that played a part in that myth?
How do you treat those familiar strangers?
What do you do with a warehouse of memories, that catalog of experiences, those files of your life that feel suddenly irrelevant?
How do you do it?
Sunday, December 8, 2013
These Are The Stories That We Tell
These are the stories that we tell.
I used to worry about my sister. I used to worry that she would get lost or taken or hurt or die. I used to follow her everywhere she went. I used to annoy her. I used to keep an eye on her when she played on the playground. And I used to lose my breath and feel my heart beating through my chest when I couldn't see her.
These are the stories that we tell.
I used to look up lawyers in the phone book and call to ask how much divorces cost. Their secretaries never told me. I think they thought I was joking. Or they felt very very badly for me and because they didn't know what to say, they hung up. I would try the next one listed.
These are the stories that we tell.
I used to sleep on our porch when it rained. I used to make a bed out of the long pillows that only my mother used and wrapped myself up in spite of the heat and would rock, my too-short legs stretching down until my toes could hit the green-peeling-paint floor to push the swing enough to swing for a while.
These are the stories that we tell.
My first boyfriend told me that I was the first person he could see himself marrying. We were sitting on the trunk of his car. It was a perfect night. But I couldn't understand the words he was saying. I think I said "Thank you."
These are the stories that we tell.
When people ask me how I'm doing, I respond with "You know, living the dream." But I'm not so sure.
These are the stories that we tell.
I used to have everything figured out. I used to know who I wanted to be, where I wanted to be, what I wanted to do, and who I wanted to do it with. I wanted to get my Ph.D. in English. I wanted to teach at a university. I wanted to have an office with four walls full of books. I wanted to get married. I wanted to live in the suburbs. I wanted to bake scones. I wanted to have children. I want none of that now. I don't think I do. I have no idea anymore.
These are the stories that we tell.
Most of the time, a lot of time, almost the entire time, I feel like I am right. I feel like I am good. I feel like I am the best possible version of myself (minus a few pounds).
These are the stories that we tell.
I never fought with any of my boyfriends. Not really.
These are the stories that we tell.
I am terrified of being a server/bartender/shift manager for the rest of my life. I tell people and tell myself that I would be fine supporting myself by serving food while I write during my time off. But again, I'm not so sure. But I keep doing it. I feel stuck. And inexperienced. And too experienced in the wrong kinds of things.
These are the stories that we tell.
I want to be supported creatively. I wish all the time that people like "patrons" still exist like they do in Little Women and Dorian Gray.
These are the stories that we tell.
I feel young every day.
These are the stories that we tell.
I feel old every day.
These are the stories that we tell.
I used to worry about my sister. I used to worry that she would get lost or taken or hurt or die. I used to follow her everywhere she went. I used to annoy her. I used to keep an eye on her when she played on the playground. And I used to lose my breath and feel my heart beating through my chest when I couldn't see her.
These are the stories that we tell.
I used to look up lawyers in the phone book and call to ask how much divorces cost. Their secretaries never told me. I think they thought I was joking. Or they felt very very badly for me and because they didn't know what to say, they hung up. I would try the next one listed.
These are the stories that we tell.
I used to sleep on our porch when it rained. I used to make a bed out of the long pillows that only my mother used and wrapped myself up in spite of the heat and would rock, my too-short legs stretching down until my toes could hit the green-peeling-paint floor to push the swing enough to swing for a while.
These are the stories that we tell.
My first boyfriend told me that I was the first person he could see himself marrying. We were sitting on the trunk of his car. It was a perfect night. But I couldn't understand the words he was saying. I think I said "Thank you."
These are the stories that we tell.
When people ask me how I'm doing, I respond with "You know, living the dream." But I'm not so sure.
These are the stories that we tell.
I used to have everything figured out. I used to know who I wanted to be, where I wanted to be, what I wanted to do, and who I wanted to do it with. I wanted to get my Ph.D. in English. I wanted to teach at a university. I wanted to have an office with four walls full of books. I wanted to get married. I wanted to live in the suburbs. I wanted to bake scones. I wanted to have children. I want none of that now. I don't think I do. I have no idea anymore.
These are the stories that we tell.
Most of the time, a lot of time, almost the entire time, I feel like I am right. I feel like I am good. I feel like I am the best possible version of myself (minus a few pounds).
These are the stories that we tell.
I never fought with any of my boyfriends. Not really.
These are the stories that we tell.
I am terrified of being a server/bartender/shift manager for the rest of my life. I tell people and tell myself that I would be fine supporting myself by serving food while I write during my time off. But again, I'm not so sure. But I keep doing it. I feel stuck. And inexperienced. And too experienced in the wrong kinds of things.
These are the stories that we tell.
I want to be supported creatively. I wish all the time that people like "patrons" still exist like they do in Little Women and Dorian Gray.
These are the stories that we tell.
I feel young every day.
These are the stories that we tell.
I feel old every day.
These are the stories that we tell.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Hello Again...
It's been a while since my last few posts - I was getting a bit sick of my own writing and my own voice and my own desperate whining. So I stopped for a little while. And then I moved, and picked up a ton of shifts, and have a new roommate which means I have three, ready made and brand new excuses for not having enough time to do the things that I should be doing - things that make me happy - things that will make me a better person - things that will nudge me further up on my own self-created ladder of success.
Anyway, here I am, blogging again, trying to look for the good, look for the hopeful, turn my face to the sun like so many other things with less cognition than us "superior" humans have.
As I mentioned, I moved earlier this week. And it's great, it's south, it's closer to work, it's bigger, it has a yard for Roxy, and I found an amazing 5 mile route for running late last night, the cold air whipping my face, not a soul around (stuff to make my mother worry for sure). And there is also a Panera Bread, 2 miles from my new house. Now, Panera and I have a very special relationship. I love Panera, it's always there for me when I need a quick breakfast or a long morning and afternoon visiting with my mom, studying with my friend for hours on end during finals, nestling in with my headphones in and typing up these thoughts (as I am now). It was where I completed my thesis.
I know I should stay away - all those vicious carbs completely undoing that great run I took last night, more expensive than eating at home, blah blah blah. But I have found no other place where I get so much writing done. It has the perfect balance of distraction and quiet, free internet, breakfast rolling into lunch (and sometimes dinner if I'm really going strong) and did I mention coffee?
And the beauty of this new Panera, the charm of the place beyond its proximity to my new home, is it's staff it's layout it's feel it's charm. The Panera closest to me when I lived up north was not comfortable. Their staff was only sometimes friendly, and so, SO often got my order wrong. Having worked in the service industry for nearly 12 years now, I am not one to complain about the food and drink I receive. I cannot recall sending something back or asking for something for free. So at the Panera up north, it was almost like a game to see what it was I actually ended up with. I discovered new things that I had never ordered and had to ask about next time by describing the surprise of what ended up coming with me instead of what I actually ordered. Things were almost always forgotten and the coffee was almost always out. They were always training new staff and there was usually a long line.
None of that exists here, at least not yet. And it just feels better here.
I started the "NaNoWriMo" a week ago, National Novel Writing Month, and it's been great so far. The goal is to produce 1,666 words a day, 50,000 words in 30 days. Roughly 180-200 pages. It is a great and fantastic thing that is keeping me writing everyday because even one day, a thousand words missed can set you so far behind. My story so far is melancholy, fiction, but so infused with memories of my life. And those things, memories, are constructions anyway, fictionalized reproductions of what actually happened to us. I think we would think our lives much less interesting if we had perfect and accurate accounts of the people we used to be the things we did the things we said were said to us done to us for us by us through us.
Which is why I am here now, when I should be unpacking, when I should be going to the bank to the store to buy groceries to the gym to employment agencies. But I'm going to stay, I'm going to fill my coffee cup, loosen my mom-made scarf and settle in to write until I need to get ready for work.
I wish you all a safe and comfortable place to find productivity.
Anyway, here I am, blogging again, trying to look for the good, look for the hopeful, turn my face to the sun like so many other things with less cognition than us "superior" humans have.
As I mentioned, I moved earlier this week. And it's great, it's south, it's closer to work, it's bigger, it has a yard for Roxy, and I found an amazing 5 mile route for running late last night, the cold air whipping my face, not a soul around (stuff to make my mother worry for sure). And there is also a Panera Bread, 2 miles from my new house. Now, Panera and I have a very special relationship. I love Panera, it's always there for me when I need a quick breakfast or a long morning and afternoon visiting with my mom, studying with my friend for hours on end during finals, nestling in with my headphones in and typing up these thoughts (as I am now). It was where I completed my thesis.
I know I should stay away - all those vicious carbs completely undoing that great run I took last night, more expensive than eating at home, blah blah blah. But I have found no other place where I get so much writing done. It has the perfect balance of distraction and quiet, free internet, breakfast rolling into lunch (and sometimes dinner if I'm really going strong) and did I mention coffee?
And the beauty of this new Panera, the charm of the place beyond its proximity to my new home, is it's staff it's layout it's feel it's charm. The Panera closest to me when I lived up north was not comfortable. Their staff was only sometimes friendly, and so, SO often got my order wrong. Having worked in the service industry for nearly 12 years now, I am not one to complain about the food and drink I receive. I cannot recall sending something back or asking for something for free. So at the Panera up north, it was almost like a game to see what it was I actually ended up with. I discovered new things that I had never ordered and had to ask about next time by describing the surprise of what ended up coming with me instead of what I actually ordered. Things were almost always forgotten and the coffee was almost always out. They were always training new staff and there was usually a long line.
None of that exists here, at least not yet. And it just feels better here.
I started the "NaNoWriMo" a week ago, National Novel Writing Month, and it's been great so far. The goal is to produce 1,666 words a day, 50,000 words in 30 days. Roughly 180-200 pages. It is a great and fantastic thing that is keeping me writing everyday because even one day, a thousand words missed can set you so far behind. My story so far is melancholy, fiction, but so infused with memories of my life. And those things, memories, are constructions anyway, fictionalized reproductions of what actually happened to us. I think we would think our lives much less interesting if we had perfect and accurate accounts of the people we used to be the things we did the things we said were said to us done to us for us by us through us.
Which is why I am here now, when I should be unpacking, when I should be going to the bank to the store to buy groceries to the gym to employment agencies. But I'm going to stay, I'm going to fill my coffee cup, loosen my mom-made scarf and settle in to write until I need to get ready for work.
I wish you all a safe and comfortable place to find productivity.
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