It Is What It Is

Results of a solo beach weekend part II

2010-05-02T21:38:00.000-07:00

We are what we love
and what we hate.
Life's narrative defined in soul black nights
played on blues riffs
before reggae dawns.

Oh to always live
in the holy tension
before a first kiss
before the damnation
of slammed doors
wasted tears
hitting the ground
on the twang
of steel guitars.

Oh to die a little
every night in lovers arms
like a long, slow trumpet note.
Rapturous suicide
martyrdom of self
in the worship of another
lying among the flowers
of Elysian Field
on a single bed.

Life is lived
in these realities
awareness of blood coursing
and heartbreaking.
The rest is dream time.
Dark mirrors of reality
when music colors nothing
only shades the lines of gray earth.

Results of a solo beach weekend...

2010-04-24T07:16:00.000-07:00

Winter is over
spring is here.
Time for new beginnings
found in old texts

Subvert the culture
sing to disquiet
stare down
the demons
they cannot destroy
for they are wraiths only
of our own imagining.

We are covered in mud
but we are made of star stuff
master rendering of the invisible
in decayed form
but waiting to be restored.

Now

2010-04-06T21:23:00.000-07:00

"Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the living room couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don't bother remembering
any of it. Let's stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by."

Antilamentation by Dorianne Laux.

New Creation

2010-04-04T06:35:00.000-07:00

Now we look inside and what we see is that anyone united with the Messiah gets a fresh start, is created new. The old life is gone; a new life burgeons. - 2 Corinthians 5:17 (The Message)

This Easter Sunday, more than any other time in my life, do I want to embrace these words and believe that they're true. Believe with my entire being and not just in my mind. Thank you God for your infinite grace and power.

Happy Easter.

2010-03-13T20:51:00.000-08:00

Sometimes life is one long blues riff and you just need to let it play itself out. - Me

Tangles

2010-02-16T15:06:00.000-08:00

God does not make your life easier. He will bring up every insecurity, every emotional weakness you have over and over again until you learn to rely solely on Him for your comfort... Christianity sucks. - Kate King

These last few weeks of my life have proven the words spoken above to be the truth. I've spent countless hours working to untangle the knots of emotions and thoughts swirling around inside of me only to find the knots becoming tighter and more intricate as I go along. Habits, fears and insecurities that I thought were buried have resurrected in new forms. Some I quickly recognize while others remain cloaked in disguise and I don't recognize them until it's too late. By that time, I've already invited them in, poured them a drink and made sure they're comfortable. Kicking them out again has proved exceedingly difficult.

Habits die hard and the habits of the mind are the hardest to kill. Thoughts slide silkily into worn grooves in the head and the downward spiral starts from there. Again. I know that it is frustrating to watch as an outsider, but know that those of us who are blessed (cursed) with a decent sense of self-awareness find it equally as frustrating. We are much harsher critics of ourselves than you are, trust me.

So I'm trying to learn (re-learn) what it means to lay all of this at God's feet, to run to Him before I run to all my old comforts which have now proved most unsatisfying and even hurtful. The things that I have thought would bring me the most joy and happiness have become more elusive than ever, though I've been chasing them for years. I'm beginning to slow down. I would like to say it's because I'm beginning to surrender these things to God, but mostly it's because I'm just tired. And maybe that's where it starts. I don't know.

So I do little things right now. I listen to sermons. I read My Utmost For His Highest everyday on my iPhone (there's an app for that. No really there is). I put Patty Griffin's gospel album on repeat, (especially track 6 ). I'm reading more. The writings coming back. None of these things will save me, but I'm hoping that if I take a few steps, then God might take few steps too and we can meet in the middle somewhere. I'm trusting that God will do this and I am a person who deep down, doesn't trust God that much. As I think I've written here before, when the mantra of your life is, "You can't count on anyone, but yourself," its very hard to completely trust anyone not to screw you over eventually, even a higher power.

So I do the little things and I hope the knots begin to untangle on their own.

2010-01-17T08:47:00.001-08:00

Red stains on wooden doors
leading to love
to friendship
to acceptance
from broken prophets and poets
from the God of my childhood.

Blood
shattered hands.
Testament of my life
reverse gospel
my soul poured out
like the Savior’s blood

But wood and stone
do not rip as a curtain
No salvation
does my blood bring
only damns me to the hell
of my own making.

Lines

2010-01-04T14:45:00.000-08:00

A couple of lines from something I'm working on...

But my blood does not bring salvation
only damns me to the hell of my own making.

Secrets

2009-12-05T07:23:00.000-08:00

I love the blog PostSecret. I read it religiously every Sunday. It is a blog where people send it postcards expressing their deepest secrets. Some are simple and some are works of art. The secrets told on these postcards are sometimes funny, sad and awkward. Some are knife-like reminders of the tragedy of the world we live in. There are some that could have been written by me.

Check out this video. Some of the secrets reflect those on the blog; Funny, awkward, sad and one that punched me in the gut. And check out the blog: http://postsecret.blogspot.com/

Currently obsessed with...

2009-11-30T17:40:00.001-08:00

These songs...

This book...

This man and his radio show...

These television shows...

These countries...

Remember

2009-11-17T17:36:00.000-08:00

*I wrote this awhile back and recently discovered it when I was reading back through my journal. I think I scribbled this out in a couple of minutes.

Don't forget first loves
The God who made you
His Son who saved you
The Spirit living in you.
Though we may despise
the Father for our weakness
and spurn the hand
that continually
pulls us up
from the abyss
and smother the voice
of the living Spirit
because it's too inconvenient
We forget so easily
like fish in a bowl
the lessons taught
until we see the healed scars
and remember once again.

Fear (Confession)

2009-11-08T20:46:00.000-08:00

I have a confession.

I do not love well.

I was listening to a sermon by Rob Bell on the Beatitude of blessed are the peacemakers. There were some wonderful truths and insights in that sermon, but one sentiment in particular pierced through the fog and heaviness that has wrapped around my mind like a blanket (or Snuggie) over the past few months. In talking about love he said, "The opposite of love is not hate, it's fear." The man who consistently spews vitriolic and spiteful words towards homosexuals may very well do so from the fear of his own sexuality and the desires he may keep buried deep in the recesses of his heart. We may denounce heretics to quiet the doubts within our own souls. What we fear we want to kill or bury or dismiss.

1 John 4:18 says, "There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment The one who fear is not made perfect in love." I love the way the Message version puts this verse; "there is no room in love for fear. Well-formed love banishes fear. Since fear is crippling, a fearful life - fear of death, fear of judgment - is one not fully formed in love."

"Fear leaves no room for love." I have always been under the impression that I am a loving person; that I love my friends and others well. It is only been recently that I have come to the realization that my motives in much of my interactions with my friends have been ultimately based on fear. Fear of rejection, fear of judgment, fear of abandonment. So I hold back parts of myself. I cling tightly to others for fear they may leave and never return. I make sure I am always around for fear I will be forgotten and dismissed without a second thought. Yet, it is these very actions which places wedges between myself and others. When the false fronts crumble as they inevitably do, there is hurt and anger over misrepresentations. The clinging drives others away. And in the end, the fear turns inward and manifests itself into self-hatred, drowning out the still, small voice of God telling me there is nothing to fear for His love is making me perfect.

So I say this to you my friends; I have not loved you well and I am sorry. I am sorry that I have held back, that I have masked so many parts of myself from you. I am sorry for the fear that if I let go, don't show up or miss out, that I will lose you. Forgive me for not loving you as I should. For fear and love cannot live together. One will drive the other out. I have let fear drive out love for far too long. I am working on letting love drive out the fear, which ironically enough, is a scary endeavor in and of itself. So forgive me and be patient with me because being made perfect in love is a long process.

I think it pretty much takes a lifetime.

Lament of a Vagabond Soul

2009-10-22T16:35:00.000-07:00

The pictures in my head
dreams of a vagabond soul
chained to comfort
Visions of gray, metal trees
of smiles and words
wrapped in funny speech.
Drums and children singing
haunt my sleep
but in the waking
songs drown
in drip coffee
drums silenced
by alarm clock banging

I see the dream
in snatches of the day
Glare of computer screens
gives way to crimson
interlaced gold skies.
Echoes of soul song
in headphones
in laughter
to soak in
and hide
for souls scratch easily
and the song becomes
a broken record
of lost chances
regret, decay, decline.

Moving pictures of dreams
of song and dance
and love
play out in sleep
Film reel of dream life
spliced with waking life
by untrained hands
intentions true
that may lead to hell
but purgatory comforts
are only a step above.

Vapor

2009-10-12T20:19:00.000-07:00

Tonight I feel as vapor
tremulous shape
swirling almost nothingness
Residing on edges
abysses and ditches
Those lonely places
haunting and haunted
No capture of memory
devices of remembrance
save few
and those poor replicas
Wisps flee from brilliance
of sun, of headlights
roll into near form
disperse faster still
Faint impression
chills and sorrow
dark beauty
Tonight I feel as vapor
In the morn
What will I be?

The Fight

2009-08-30T19:49:00.000-07:00

I sit amongst the remnants of a box, my prison and my own personal war. A container ripped apart with a knife, an axe and finally my bare hands. It was a box of my own making and the work of others, Fashioned in the beginning to keep me safe, to fit myself into the expectations of others. In the end, it became my own personal Shawshank, a way to avoid the slow torture of change. Another device used to deny who I really was to those I thought cared. But it came down to a choice; change and become something more, become my true self. Or let my true self die and live in the hell of being everything to everyone and nothing to no one. I chose change and the agonizing process of extracting myself from my self-made prison.

Now I sit with the remnants of the old. A wooden boxed, scrawled with the words of my poetry, some of it good, some of it just alright. There are the lyrics of songs that have made up my life soundtrack and the description that goes along with four little letters. All the things that I have let define me. Yet, the box still tries to repair itself around me. In new ways, in new shapes, but still the same box. So the fight goes on.

I look around me at those I love and those I just know. Some are still stuck in their self-made coffins. Beautiful coffins, works of art really, designed with art and music and philosophy, but coffins still the same. Some are trying to fight their way out, to change to grow. I look on, wanting to help them defeat the terrorists who want to kill their hearts, but knowing I must put down my axe for this is a battle they must fight on their own. All I can do is shout encouragements and psalms telling them the fight is worth it. Besides, my own demons are not gone, but grouping themselves for the next assault. So I sit and take a rest because the fight for becoming myself is never-ending at least in this life. And the battle goes on.

Psalms of Life

2009-08-03T19:48:00.000-07:00

This is life abundant
when the world is fixed.
Oriented
Ordered
Ordained
Laughter is a constant,
connection through water
thicker than blood.
Sea breeze
through open doors.
Whispers of lovers potential
Truthful answers
to redundant questions.
"Life is good."
and meaning it.

This is life in the starving times
when reality changes
one moment to another.
Law of variables rules.
Disorientation
Distress
Disconnection
Distrust
of former bonds.
Sound of slamming doors.
Trapped in freezing rooms.
Agony of love silent.
Truth only spoken
to wet pages in a full journal.
Ironic blessing
that words flow stronger
from broken hearts.

This is life before dawn breaks
in a different world.
True north is reoriented
somewhere new
existence is renewed
reloaded
daresay resurrected.
Gaping wounds close
though raised scars remain.
Grief of love lost
or never found
fades
when new love
or new distraction is found.
Doors that were once closed
open again
with the help of an axe.
Cycle begins again
but with the prayer
that remembrance will prevail
in the amnesia of abundance.

...

2009-07-13T19:58:00.000-07:00

I need to write. I need to process, but the words don't flow like they once did.

Windows, Light, and Red High Heels Version 2.0

2009-06-13T21:41:00.000-07:00

The markers of true life
on this journey of mine.
Red heels in hand
Resting
after dancing till dawn
Drinking life and joy
like pure water
and aged wine.
Breathing it in
as food
from a warm kitchen
as jasmine blooming
and lovers skin.
Ravishing
heart-breaking being.
Love as armor
encased in red shoes.
Reminder of friends
of home.
Clicking of heels
not required.

To live
trusting
in a shallow abyss
with a trampoline floor.
That when a door closes
there are windows open
to jump to the safety
of friends and hands below.
To cling to their words
beautiful in my face
exquisite behind my back.
That what is unseen
is more real
than what I
hold in my grasp
and as tangible as the shoes
on my feet.

To spend my days
hoping
that waylaid paths
lead to something greater
than the map I draw.
That the light I see
off in the darkness
is sunshine
and not a lamp
in the middle
of more dark.
To stride into the dark
wearing impractical
divine red high heels

To love
when I shouldn’t
and too much.
Embarrass myself
but not care.
To give
my broken heart
because
it is still
a masterpiece
though cracked
and trampled
and torn.
To see love
take the form
of vintage red high heels
size 10.

But I live
a half life
trusting nothing
not even a deity
losing hope
because the darkness
is too deep
loving no one
because heartbreak
is uninsured.

So I live
some days fully
some not.
Trusting
though I only hold air.
Hoping
even as I walk in shadow
Loving
while my heart thaws.
Living fully half.
but seeing proof
in something greater
in open windows
in the light ahead
and in red high heels
vintage, size 10.

Loving the Fool

2009-06-11T23:02:00.000-07:00

"I must learn to love the fool in me--the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries. It alone protects me against that utterly self-controlled, masterful tyrant whom I also harbor and who would rob me of human aliveness, humility, and dignity but for my fool." -Theodore I. Rubin, MD

I absolutely hate looking like a fool, but I seem to make a fool of myself quite often. I think it is a pride issue that ties into the desire to appear unflappable and not affected by the material, relational, and emotional forces that swirl around me. Yet, I more often than not am ruled by those forces and too often wear the strain on my face.

We do not value the Fool. We value the competent. We value the mask that keeps us from seeing the reflection of ourselves in others lest we see that we are all fools. In literature, the Fool is often the only character who speaks the truth of the situation; the only one who cuts through the pretense and bullshit to bring forth reality. Maybe that is why we dismiss fools; we are horrified by the light they shed. So we turn to the darkness of the adequate.

I want to embrace my foolishness. Actually, that is not exactly true. I want to want to embrace my foolishness. I am beginning to tire of the inner war within me where my inner fool wrestles my demon of appearances. Though it may appear that the fool wins, the demon always has a way of coming out on top. I want to love that which everyone says is crazy and too much. I want to speak up and be unafraid of the consequences. I want to gamble and be unconcerned with the outcome because win or lose, it somehow seems to end up the same. I want to put my heart on the line even though there is a good chance it will get trampled for the hundredth time. I want to have the courage to do all these things.

But for now, I hide behind this mask of competency, still hoping the fool in me does not have the strength to rip it off, yet praying he someday will.

Mom

2009-06-01T22:58:00.000-07:00

We celebrated the person who is my mother on Saturday night with a combined 60th birthday and retirement party. We celebrated a woman who has survived 37 years of teaching, the loss of both parents, two daughters who have made questionable choices in life, and being married to the same man for 36 years. The weekend was filled with family and friends that have known me since birth with stories of my parents and my mom’s childhood filling the spaces of time when we weren’t scrambling to prepare for the party.

My mom looked beautiful that night and the fact that she looks damn good for her age made me give thanks for the genetic blessings I’ve inherited from her. I looked at her standing next to her sisters and one brother, seeing the resemblance between all of them and seeing shades of my Memaw in all their faces. Standing together for a family photo, I stand out, given my resemblance to my dad’s side of the family, but it doesn’t matter. The ties of blood and kin run greater than physical resemblance and I felt the glow that only comes with being in the presence of people who will love you no matter what.

Sitting at a table in the front of the civic center, I held the hand of the woman who gave birth to me as we watched a slideshow chronicling my mom’s life. Pictures flashed of my mom in the ‘60s and ‘70s with long hair, blue jeans and flannel shirts surrounded by hippies and long-haired rednecks and I looked behind me to the people in those old pictures with gray hair and a lifetime of experience etched on their faces. I cringed at some very, very unfortunate pictures of me growing up. I squeezed my mom’s hand as pictures flashed of my Memaw and Papaw and felt tears welling up as a yellowed picture of a skinny little girl with brown eyes appeared sitting next to her grandmother who bears a striking resemblance to my mom.

Family, friends, and colleagues stood up to say a couple of words. My dad stood up and if you have known anything about my life over the past few months, you know that my relationship with my dad can be a strained one. Despite it all, I love my father and I love that he loves my mom. I really had to hold back tears when he called my mom the love of his life and the woman who saved his life.

The rest of the night was filled with dancing to the music of my parent’s youth by a band that was actually pretty damn good and the gray haired people danced like they were still in their twenties. I danced with my mom to “Brown Eyed Girl” and with my dad and sister and aunts and godmother (though in all reality, I have about 3 sets of godparents). The grownups got into the Patron stashed in the kitchen and the dancing became more entertaining. I held my Aunt Pat’s hand during one song and it felt strangely similar to my mother’s. My mom’s teacher friends joined in the fun. I love how you can recognize a group of teachers by the way they dance and party. I stole out to smoke a couple of cigarettes with my sister and her boyfriend and was admonished for smoking from the adults who stood outside as they held their own cancer sticks in their hands. We joked about my parent’s marriage and how my sister’s boyfriend Drew is more scared of my mom than my dad. “I know what to expect from your dad. He will come at me with a shotgun. I can avoid that. There is no escaping the thousand yard stare.” I always liked Drew. Everyone told me how much they loved my mother and if your life is measured by the people who love you then, my mom has lived a blessed life.

Then it was clean up and goodbyes and I love yous and we headed back to the house with tons of leftover food and a surprising amount of leftover alcohol given the crowd. My mom looked very content, but a little sad. I asked her what was wrong and she wondered if her mother would have been proud of her. I responded with a hug and the reassurance that my memaw would have been so very proud of her and the life she’s lived. She went off to bed and I was left the hope that she was proud of me. I drifted off to sleep that night to the sounds of a house full of snorers and the profound gratefulness that with everything that may have gone wrong in my life in the past; in this way I am truly blessed.

2009-05-23T11:48:00.000-07:00

Because sometimes, someone else says it better.

Rudyard Kipling
If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man (Woman) my son (daughter)!

Words in parenthesis are mine

Windows, Light, and Red High Heels

2009-05-15T06:58:00.000-07:00

Trust God steadily, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly.

1 Corinthians 13: 13 (The Message)

The markers of true life
of life that is drunk
like pure water
and aged wine.
Breathed in
as food
from a warm kitchen
as jasmine blooming
and lovers skin.
Ravishing
heart-breaking being.

To live
trusting
in a shallow abyss
with a trampoline floor.
That when a door closes
there are windows open
to jump to the safety
of friends hands below.
To cling to my friends words
beautiful in my face
exquisite behind my back.
That what is unseen
is more real
than what I
hold in my grasp.

To spend my days
hoping
that waylaid paths
lead to something greater
than the map I draw.
That the light I see
off in the darkness
is sunshine
and not a lamp
in the middle
of more dark.

To love
when I shouldn’t
and too much.
Embarrass myself
but not care.
To give
my broken heart
because
it’s still
a masterpiece
though cracked
and trampled
and torn.
To see love
take the form
of vintage red high heels
size 10.

But I live
a half life
trusting nothing
not even a deity
losing hope
because the darkness
is too deep
loving no one
because heartbreak
is uninsured.

So I live
some days fully
some not.
Trusting
though I only hold air.
Hoping
even as I walk in shadow
Loving
while my heart thaws.
Living fully half.
but seeing proof
in something greater
in open windows
in the light ahead
and in red high heels
vintage, size 10.

Wake Up

2009-05-05T15:54:00.001-07:00

O sleeper wake up
you have not been dead
nor dying
though in your sleep
you cast a ghostly pallor

It is time to stir
though the muscles
of the heart
have atrophied
there is still a pulse
yet faint
it is still beating

Arise my child
like Aurora from
the witches curse
though there is no prince.
He is not needed
some battles
you must win
on your own strength

Pull yourself up
out of the bed you’ve made
you are not meant
to lie in it forever
for if you do
you will truly die

Wake up O sleeper
though the waking is hard
and the healing harder
at least you know
you are alive
not dead
just sleeping.
Wake up.

Art

2009-04-28T17:22:00.000-07:00

Sometimes art speaks more powerfully than words. These two images by the artist Banksy explain where I've been and where I want to be better than I can explain it.

Bryan and Jenna

2009-04-21T07:49:00.000-07:00

My friends Bryan and Jenna Hamel are moving to Spain for 3 years while Bryan finishes his stint with the Navy. Last night we threw them an epic going-away party. Each of us had to "sing" for our supper. We were required to sing a song, recite a poem that we wrote or tell a story about one or the both of them. I haven't laughed as hard as I laughed last night for a long time. We are talking good, soul cleansing laughter till your belly hurts. The Hamels will be sorely missed.

Here is the poem I wrote for the occasion.

So this is a fairy tale.
Sorta, kinda,
hmm not really
though it does involve
a Disney princess
or at least she played one
on T.V.

They met
through the pages
of Relevant.
You might call it
love at first sight
Online relationship
that strangely
wasn’t lame
letters, miles
finally a meeting
best friend approval
the Land Before Cock
became the Land After Cock.
We still haven’t recovered.

Then there were
nights on a porch
wine (preferably red)
cigarettes, music
laughter, craziness
almost setting
the ghetto on fire
and lying to firemen
A New Years party
for the ages.
Success measured
by how much
shit hit the fan.

Proposal of marriage
1st answer
“Does Kate know?”
Doubts put aside
Wedding throwdown
Though Jenna dreamed
of elopement.
New life
in an old city

Now to Spain
to the land of
Goya, Cervantes
flamenco dancers
and lets not forget
very good wine.
We will miss
these two crazy kids
but we send them
off with love.
And we hope
Spain is ready
for when we
all come calling.

Truth

2009-04-08T13:30:00.000-07:00

Companion to the "Lies" post below.

There is a hand
always outstretched
though I ignore
as my back is breaking
But it remains
still there.

Tears are caught
salt removed, turned
into new wine
refreshing to the soul

There are no
plans for ill.
No rug pulling.
No torture.
Doors that close
lead to death.
Jump from open windows
to new life.

You can trust God,
though I cannot see
touch, taste.
Hope in things
unseen.

Lies

2009-04-08T13:27:00.000-07:00

Lessons learned
from 30 odd years.
Proverbs drilled into my head
from family, friends
I thought I knew
and this bitch called life.

Pull yourself
up by your bootstraps
cause no one else will.
Daily struggle,
just to get by.

Never let them
see your tears.
Swallow them down
to the pit of your soul
before they drown you.

Keep on keeping on,
though you’d rather
just sit in the dust
because the next hill
may be something better,
though really,
it’s just more of the same.

The hard one,
the law I keep
written on my heart
though it be the one
I hope is a lie:

You can’t ever
count on anyone
but yourself.
People will hurt
maim, destroy you.

Cruel truth,
lifetime spent
proving it wrong
until its proven right
once again.

Asking God
To dispel this lie
with His light
only to find
the darkness
holds the truth

Read His Word,
to discount
my life
but even
divine words
seem to ring false
when I stare into
the mirror
called Hindsight.

Prove me wrong God.
I beg you,
Because all I see
are my own truths
pretty words
in contrast
to bold claims.

Foo Fighters Put It All in Perspective

2009-04-05T14:05:00.000-07:00

I think I've denied my heart for too long.
I think I'm finally figuring it out.
I think I'm learning to stop beating myself up.
I think I'm learning to forgive myself.
I think that I am my own worst enemy
I think I'm learning how to defeat that enemy
I know this may change tomorrow
I know this is only the first step
But for right now
this is enough.

What I Need To Start Doing....

2009-04-03T00:03:00.000-07:00

Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly.

No Bad News

2009-03-31T08:30:00.000-07:00

My inherent cynical nature see the disasters in life rather than the blessings. A product I guess of inherited nature and life's nurture. I tend to automatically find what is wrong in a situation instead of what is right; to look towards the darkness rather than the light.

But I've decided to try and give the cynical nature a rest for a bit. Honestly, I'm tired of it. I doubt I'll turn into a real-life version of a Disney princess (actually I guarantee you I won't), but for a little while I think I'll try and focus on blessings.

So, bring on the puppies, kittens, babies, rainbows, unicorns, a pet pegasus, butterflies, and even a Disney movie. Hell, I might even want to hear all about nitty-gritty wedding plans like flowers and favors and first dance songs.

Disclaimer: This mood may only last a short time, but hey, I tried.

And if you have never listened to Patty Griffin, you need to get on that. Consider this my theme song for the day.

Somtimes...

2009-03-29T07:26:00.000-07:00

I love waking up to the rain. There's something cleansing about rain after a dry spell. It gives a hope for a new beginning. The old is washed away, the new has a chance to grow.

I look back over the last weeks, month, half a year, decade. I remember friends who are on the other side of the world. A quick turn of the globe in my house, but at a distance not easily breached. I remember two very different women and how their blood and lives shaped me. I remember more heartbreaks than I care to count. I remember blessings and disasters. I look at who I was and marvel about how I got here.

I'm ready for new beginnings, for a rainstorm in my soul. I hope it washes away the dirt and the muck to reveal something new. What that is, I don't know, but I think I'm ready to find out.

Trust Issues

2009-03-26T22:19:00.000-07:00

I don't trust God.

At least, not as much as I should.

I was sitting in church two Sundays ago, after Josh had given this amazing talk about God and money and living generously. He was open about the struggles he and his family were facing in terms of finances. Any talk within a church setting that deals with money is a land mine, given the Church's history of mismanaging money, blatant greed, or willful ignorance, but Josh walked that line brilliantly. After exhorting us to trust in God in this area and with the band playing a song all about trusting God, I was sitting in my seat, my soul unable to sing the words I was hearing, when I came upon a realization. It was the stereotypical lightening bolt that fried my synapses with it's impact.

I don't know if I trust you God.

Before everyone freaks out on me, let me say this...

I trust God intellectually or as the cliched version goes, I trust God in my head, but when I get down to the core of my being, my heart as it were, I have a hard time trusting Him. Man, I'm a walking cliche.

I have some good reasons to trust God. I've felt His hand guiding me during certain points in my life; closing doors and opening windows that have lead me to my life's passion and the vision that I desire for my life. He pulled me out of the darkest abyss when I was 20. You'd have think he'd have proven His trustworthiness.

Yet, there have been times in my life where I have felt no hand, heard no voice and those times far outnumber the others. The old family mottoes reinforced by both those standing in front of me and a God I can't see. These sayings drilled into my head by word and experience:

Pull yourself up by your boot straps cause no one else will.

In the end, you can't count on anyone, but yourself.

We are survivors in my family. No rich relations, everyone muddy poor. The blessings my family has had is the result of my dad's work and sacrifice, sometimes at the expense of his health. My dad heard these sayings from his mother, the ultimate survivor and I'm sure they had been passed down through the generations in one form or another. So, that's what we do in my family; get up, keep moving, trust no one. In a different world, we would have all made excellent CIA agents or horror movie survivors.

When you are hard wired like that from an early age and had the hard wiring cemented with life experience, it's difficult to adjust the way your mind works and sees life. You can sing all the songs, read all the books, and even pray some, but nothing short of a sledgehammer to the brain is going to change the way you view life. I think this is the point where Kate says that the Holy Spirit comes equipped standard with a sledgehammer. She would probably be right, but it's hard to trust in the ability of something you can't see when you're standing in front of the friend who betrayed you, the guy who broke your heart, and your grandmother in a wheelchair in a nursing home who doesn't remember you. It's a blues song stuck on repeat.

But...

I want to trust God, even when everything in my life says it's useless.

Because my back hurts like hell.

And I'm tired of doing this alone.

There's a song by the band The Fray, that pretty much sums up my prayers the last couple of weeks. (I know what you're thinking and I don't care). The first lines are of the narrator finding God on a street corner smoking a cigarette and the guy basically let's God have it, kind of like Job did back in the day. God responds with, "But you found me," which happens to be the title of the song. I wrote a piece several months back about looking for God and salvation. It's my favorite piece of anything I've ever written. I'm still looking for that grace, that faith. I still hope that I'm going to turn a corner one day and find God and the reasons for my distrust won't matter anymore. But I'll probably give Him a piece of my mind first.

He'll probably have a sledgehammer in His hand, but I think I'd be ok with that as long as I could bum a cigarette.

http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=20440274999&id=582825692&index=19

The Fray - You Found Me (official video)
Uploaded by thefray

The Wild Things

2009-03-25T13:45:00.000-07:00

One of the things you will eventually learn about me if you know me long enough, is that deep down, despite my cynical nature, I'm still about six years old. I get excited about the simplest things, and I wish it was socially acceptable for a 30 year old to climb trees or live in a tree house. However, when I heard they were about to make one of my favorite children's books, Where the Wild Things Are, into a movie, I got upset. How dare Hollywood mess with one of my cherished childhood favorites.

Well, I just watched the trailer and there is just a little glimmer of hope that this might be kind of awesome. I'm only hoping that the marketing machine doesn't wring every bit of joy out of the book/movie, but that may be too much to hope for.

I just hope that parents will still read the book to their kids instead of substituting it with only the movie.

The Other Side

2009-03-18T22:05:00.000-07:00

The Other Side by David Gray comes up on my iTunes shuffle. Usually when this song comes on I immediately go to the next; the memories and associations are too much for me most days. Today I listen, letting the words pull the images from the depths where I keep them buried.

Meet me on the other side
I'll see you on the other side

I remember you. I remember sitting in a wooden church pew in an itchy dress and the tights I would take off as soon as I got in the car. Church service was long and the sermon could not compete with my imagination. The only time I paid attention was during the singing. Just an organ and choir in those days. I could always pick out your voice from the dozen singing, your harmonies blending and yet ringing out like a cathedral bell. Sometimes during worship at Status, when we sing the old hymns you used to sing, I swear I hear your voice, that harmony again, though the organ is replaced by electric guitars and drums. It takes everything in me to keep from crying sometimes.

Honey now if I'm honest
I still don't know what love is
Another mirage folds
Into the haze of time recalled
And now the floodgates cannot hold
All my sorrow, all my rage
A tear drop falls on every page

I'm sorry I didn't visit you more when they put you in the nursing home. I couldn't bear to see you in that place. Sitting in your wheelchair among others whose minds were corrupted by age and disease; you no longer sang, you no longer spoke. It seemed criminal to take you away from your house, your kitchen; the place where you raised your children with the man that loved you. I blamed God for that. Your faith never wavered and you were re-paid with the lose of your mind, memories, soul. I could never love like you and you eventually couldn't even recognize the ones you raised, loved and prayed over. God and I were not on speaking terms after you were gone. If I'm honest, I'm still angry with Him about it.

Maybe I oughta mention

Was never my intention

To harm you or your kin

Are you so scared to look within?

The ghosts are crawling on our skin

We may race and we may run

We'll not undo what has been done

Or change the moment when it's gone

I remember you. I inherited your walk and yet when I try to picture you moving in my mind's eye, it's all black. I just recall you sitting at that old kitchen table in the wee hours of the morning. I saw you there at age 5, age 8, age 15. I hear the sound of coffee brewing and your cough and the smell of the cigarettes behind the cough. If you were here, you would probably yell at me for picking up your addiction, but I think you would be secretly pleased to have company outside as you smoked. You always warned me not to get up, to not interrupt your morning ritual of coffee and cigarettes, but I knew you loved it when I would stumble into the kitchen bleary eyed dragging my blanket behind me to protect my Florida blood from the Tennessee cold. You gave me milk with a little bit of coffee because I wanted to drink what you were drinking. Another addiction you introduced me to.

I know it would be outrageous

To come on all courageous

And offer you my hand

To pull you up onto dry land

When all I got is sinking sand

That trick ain't worth the time it buys

I'm sick of hearing my own lies

And love's a raven when it flies

I struggle with your legacy; being so much like you. I didn't know about the sadness that haunted you until years after your last breath. I seemed to have inherited your ghost. I didn't know about the men, the abuse, the loneliness. That speaks to your own sense of self-worth, something I've also inherited from you. It explains the harshness in your dealings with others, even your own family. A legacy of grudges passed down through the generations. I love you, but I refuse to follow you down your road. It ends with me. You never knew your worth, I'm beginning to discover mine. You have the peace now you never had on Earth. I'm hoping I find it here, on my own road. We'll compare notes when I see you again. I hope there is smoking in heaven.

Meet me on the other side

I'll see you on the other side.

The song ends. The next one is about love. I hit the forward button.

Nymph II

2009-03-18T09:28:00.000-07:00

I am a child,
tree-climbing
barefoot running,
dancing through raindrops
nymph wild.

“Betcha can’t make it to the top,” said Chris, standing beside me beneath the magnolia tree in his backyard. I look at him through my tangled hair, becoming more knotted as the wind whips through the strands and branches above. I smell rain behind the wind. Chris knows that the easiest way to get me to do anything is to say I can’t do it. He stands there just waiting, looking back at me, smiling. I want to fling the words my mother doesn’t think I know at him, but I simply sigh and grab onto the lowest branch, pull myself up and hook my legs around the branch, using the momentum to throw my body upright. I start to climb; the fragrance of magnolias overwhelms me. I scrap my leg on twig. Another scar added. I reach the top, swaying with the treetop in the wind. It's blowing stronger. Rain will be coming soon. The treetop sways harder. I’m laughing.

I am the tease
both cool and hot
confusing, infuriating
cannot know
will not forget.

The party is already in full swing when I arrive with my friends. As we walk in, several guys turn towards us, each evaluating us, planning their strategy of how to approach us. I know I look good tonight. Tight black mini-dress, high heels, my hair is flat-ironed straight and smooth. I throw a smile at those guys, but I’m not interested in them tonight. I casually scan the party, looking for Chris. He’s visiting another friend of ours from high school, escaping the grasp of the Navy for the weekend. I spot him standing near the makeshift bar. I head over to the bar to fix myself a drink. I feel Chris staring at me. I look up briefly. Our eyes lock. I give him a sly smile and turn and walk back to my friends. I wait for him to come to me.

Except now,
my feet
turn left and trip
I lost the lure.
I so easily cast out

Three weeks after the party. I haven’t heard from Chris in a couple of days. No response from the last e-mail I sent him, telling him about my day; two days ago. There is my insane English professor whose antics we put up with because he is brilliant. I wonder if brilliance and madness go hand in hand? We’re studying Sylvia Plath right now. My mind begins to replay the events of the party and the aftermath. The flirtatious smiles, shyness replaced by boldness with the help of Jim Bean, the dancing, first apart and slowly coming together till there is no space left between us, and the heat in the backseat of Chris’ car. E-mails sent back and forth everyday for a week, then coming less frequently from him. I keep up my normal correspondence, making sure I keep things light. Re-read the e-mails and search for any sign, any hint of the raging insecurity inside me that is never evident in first meeting. I shut my laptop in frustration, the memory of Chris' body on top of mine blows into my mind. I've forgotten the steps in this dance. I wonder how I got it wrong.

No longer free
or tempting
chained to my tongue
quick wit turns slow,
the nymph, temptress

I walk into another house, another party with the same types of people. I’m wearing jeans this time. I didn’t bother to style my hair. No one seems to notice when I walk in. I head for the table filled with half-drunk bottles of liquor. I debate my poison. My friend is pouring herself a shot of tequila and pours me one without asking. She’s just broken up with her boyfriend for the fifth time and is looking to have fun. I’ve told her I’d act as her wing woman, but I’d rather be home with my books and movies. We toast each other and the Cuervo burns my throat on the way down. I think we hope it will burn away the sadness, at least for tonight. The guy pouring his drink next to me glances over and then quickly looks away. I haven’t bothered hiding my real feelings behind the mask tonight.

becomes human.

I wander into the backyard. My friend has found someone to take her mind off her ex and I’m left moving from room to room searching for anyone I know. I see a magnolia tree in the back corner of the yard and walk over in a not so straight line. Three shots on an empty stomach beginning catch up with me. Standing underneath, I reach up and hold onto the lowest branches. The smell of magnolias and memories hit me at once. I’m tempted to kick off my shoes and climb the branches to the top, to hide from the party in the branches.

or just a silly girl.

I let go of the branch. I haven’t climbed a tree in years. I head back to the house. It's about to rain.

Standstill

2009-03-13T14:19:00.000-07:00

My creative writing has been at a bit of a standstill because I've been working on my essay for NYU, so until I'm done and happy with it, I give you this..

Fleet Foxes - A Take Away Show from La Blogotheque on Vimeo.

Hello Mr. Dylan

2009-03-12T08:26:00.000-07:00

The only thing I knew how to do was to keep on keeping on...

Thank you Mr. Dylan.

Fight For Your Happiness

2009-03-11T07:05:00.000-07:00

I had a conversation with my friend Carolina yesterday. I had been telling her of my frustrations and the complications in my life over the past several months. If you asked me how I was feeling about life and I had decided to be honest with you I would have simply said, "Frustrated as all get out." Nothing in my life has been earth-shattering or tragic, but simply a series of events, some I have no control over and some that I've created myself that have left me feeling exhausted and drained emotionally.

Carolina, who is wise beyond her years (Sidenote: I feel it is greatly beneficial to surround yourself with wise people. Just a tip from me to you) said something very interesting to me. She said, "Sometimes you have to fight for your own happiness." It's an interesting idea given that many simply wait around for happiness, joy, and peace to find them and these things do find a way into our lives naturally. There are times we are blessed with a conglomeration of events or people or both that produce what we call, "good times." Of course these good times never last. Shit happens as they say and our first instinct, I think as humans, is to let the bad overwhelm the good that may have just been in our lives a few months ago, last week, yesterday. It's easy really; to let the bad, the hard, and the frustrating overwhelm us; to take what is given to us like a punch in the face. It's harder to fight, to not let what happens to us shape our life at that moment and harder I think, to not let our past mistakes, tragedies, and hardships overwhelm our present.

I realized after our conversation that my mother has been telling me something similar my entire life. Her motto is, "Sometimes you have to make your own happiness." Kind of like taking the memories of the good times and the small blessings you have in the midst of hardship and throw them into a blender and make some kind of happiness smoothie to drink down when you're dying of hunger. May not fill you completely, but it will do for now.

Like I said before: shit happens. Sometimes it's really bad shit and this fight is not an easy one, especially for me who tends to get overwhelmed by what is going on in my life. Some days I win the battle, other days I feel like the barbarians in my life are about to overtake me, but I think the important thing is that we fight on; because I think it's worth it.

Nymph

2009-03-08T22:49:00.000-07:00

I am a child,
tree-climbing
barefoot running,
dancing through raindrops
nymph wild.

I am the tease
both cool and hot
confusing, infuriating
cannot know
will not forget.

Except now,
my feet
turn left and trip
I've lost the lure.
I so easily cast out.

No longer free
or tempting
chained to my tongue
quick wit turned slow,
the nymph, temptress

becomes human

or just a silly girl.

2009-03-08T10:41:00.001-07:00

I have been tricked by flying too close
to what I thought I loved.

Now the candleflame is out, the wine spilled,
and the lovers have withdrawn
somewhere beyond my squinting.

The amount I thought I'd won, I've lost.
My prayers becomes bitter and all about blindness.

How wonderful it was to be for a while
with those who surrender.

Rumi

Don't Judge...

2009-03-08T07:31:00.000-07:00

This is not House of Heroes, but I've had two songs on repeat lately. For some reason, these two songs speak to where I am right now and a little bit of where I want to be.

The Fray - Over My Head Cable Car
Uploaded by misslupin

The Fray - You Found Me (official video)
Uploaded by thefray

I'm going to be so judged for this.

Breathe

2009-03-06T12:58:00.000-08:00

Today I was feeling overwhelmed. I've been getting that feeling quite a bit lately. I had just gotten out of a long job interview where I didn't do as well as I needed to. My week had been filled with brutal conversations, cruel self-realizations and a looming sense of blue. The mix of anxiety and cold medication made me want to cry. I sent a text message, a kind of personal Facebook update to my friends Kate and Megan. It said:

Breathe in Christ. Just breathe.

I've been finding it harder to breathe lately in a spiritual sense. Where I used to breathe in the Holy Spirit, I now inhale cigarettes and I've replaced living water with the cheapest of wine. I've filled my days with everything else except for Christ. This week has been a revelation on how that strained relationship has affected every aspect of my life. I look for validation everywhere except in my Savior. My prayers have grown dry and my Bible creaks from ill-use.

The other day I was prayer journaling, a practice that has grown rusty as of late. I began with pouring out my frustrations to God in a somewhat accusatory manner, wondering how it was that I always ended up feeling alone, with my insecurities screaming out like a bullhorn. As I was writing I got two images in my head; just flashes really, but I knew it was God trying to speak with me. The first was an image of me running around a room frantically, going up to different people, looking through cabinets and drawers, searching for something, but I didn't know what exactly I was looking for. And then I saw a man I knew was Jesus sitting in a corner. Just waiting. I knew He wasn't impatient or angry with me as He watched me scurrying around the room like a madwoman. He was just waiting for me to exhaust myself, come over, and just BE with Him.. What I got from that brief flash is that I have spent so long looking for wholeness and fulfilment in others, in books, in my writing, and I keep running past the One who would provide all of that for me without cost.

The second image I got was a picture of me eating the most disgusting food possible. The contents of the bowl in front of me was filled with nastiness; like all of my least favorite foods had been thrown into a blender, pureed, and set in front of me. Then to my right, there was a table full of delicious food, like the kind you only get at Thanksgiving or Christmas. Yet, I still continued to eat the disgusting pile in front of me. I have filled so many of my days with the things that do not satisfy, that in fact can be detrimental to me instead of partaking in the feast that is right next to me.

I am profoundly grateful for the way God spoke to me that day, but I know this process of getting back to a relationship with God, to learn how to breathe again will not be easy. I've let these habits form for quite sometime and they will be an absolute bitch to unlearn, to break and to form again into new life. I expect many more days where it will be hard for me to breathe, but I've decided that my new mantra will be:

Breathe in Christ. Just breathe.

Missing These

2009-03-02T09:05:00.000-08:00

This is what I’ll miss,
these sweaty
dance-filled, sing-along mornings,
tripping out
to embrace the cool air.
Full-bellied pancake meals
captured on screen
memorial to times that were.
Sunny blanket laying days
delirious on single hours of sleep
with the super heroes of our time
disguised as writers, actors,
painters, poets all.
Witticisms thrown like bombs
leaving bodies scattered with laughter.
Thinking and Feeling clash,
make amends and explode again.
We paint our dreams,
our fears, our plans,
with words and images
for each other, for ourselves.
Binding ties, stretched, pulled
across oceans, zones of time.
Blessings of technology
instant connections
cannot duplicate
the Journey singing
warm winter day moments
or the people within.

Love is Blindness

2009-02-24T21:27:00.000-08:00

A little death
Without mourning
No call
And no warning
Baby, a dangerous idea
That almost makes sense

Love is Blindness- U2

The Things I've Lost...

2009-02-17T14:32:00.000-08:00

Inspired by Jeanne: http://www.facebook.com/home.php#/note.php?note_id=61990973209

-My favorite childhood book. "Days Are Where We Live." My mom read it every night to me when I was little. It was a book of children's poetry, which may explain my love of poetry today.

-Two amazing dogs and one cool feline. All former strays. Mega was pretty much the perfect dog. She slept under my crib when I was a baby and the day we had to put her down at the good old age of 14 is one of my most vivid childhood memories. I cried for hours. Little Bit was crazy, but you couldn't help but love her. I held her when we had to put her down at a good old age. Mitzy would sit on my lap and purr for hours. She curled up under her favorite tree and never woke up. Great pets are irreplaceable.

-Two grandmothers. I never knew my grandfathers, but my Memaw and Granny were two of the major influences of my life. We almost lost Granny a few times over the years, but that woman was a survivor in almost every sense of the word. When she went, she went quickly. That was her way. I lost Memaw little by little to Alzheimers. She disappeared inside her mind until she was just a shell. I got to say goodbye to her though and I think some part of her heard me when I told her it was ok to let go, go to heaven and be with Papaw. She died that night. They both took a piece of me with them.

-Some of my self-consciousness. I feel like I'm losing it more and more each year, but for some reason, it's the hardest thing to get rid of for me. I still care way too much about what people think of me.

-My ability to do the things I want because of debt. I'm not able to travel and may have to put off grad school because of stupid financial decisions. Use credit responsibly kids.

-Trust. I used to have a trusting nature and always believed the best in people. Now that's replaced with a cynical nature and believing that almost everyone has ulterior motives somewhere.

-Friends. I've bailed on many people in the past because things got awkward and I didn't want to deal. I also cut out people in my life for "religious" reasons. It's pretty much the shittiest thing you can do to someone and not righteous at all. I am also "losing" my friends Jeanne and Mel to an awesome adventure, but I have a feeling we'll be in each others lives for a while. :)

-The tension in my relationship with my sister. There was a period where I didn't know if Jess and I could ever have a close relationship because of jealousy and disagreements. That is no longer the case and there is no one I love more on this planet than her. We still piss each other off on a regular basis, but we always work it out.

-My ability for solitude. I used to be so comfortable being alone and not talking to anyone for days at a time. Now I get anxious after spending too much time alone and I have to find something to do. Trying to get that love of solitude back.

-My ability to concentrate. I feel like I've actually become more ADD in my old age. I have a hard time reading news articles and books all the way through.

-Several jobs. Only one because I was irresponsible. The others were unfortunate timings of the economic times. I have alot of great references.

-My fear of forming deep relationships. Letting people get too close used to scare me, but lately I've been letting others in more and more. It's sometimes awkward, uncomfortable, and painful, but I wouldn't trade it for anything.

-My belief in "the One." My Memaw and Papaw had the most amazing love story and that used to be my bar for any romantic relationship. Now I'm wondering if they make relationships like that anymore.

-Hopelessness. Somewhat. I've been through some pretty dark times and it's given me the belief that if I could make it through those periods, I can make it through anything. There is still some areas where I am working on having hope, but I'm getting there.

-Pride. I've made a fool of myself so many times you could make a comedy out of my life. Forces you to be humble.

Spanish Dancers

2009-02-15T22:00:00.000-08:00

We are Spanish dancers,
feet moving to flamenco beats.
Beautiful women wearing skirts of
red,
yellow,
white,
swirling in rhythm, lost
in the music
in time
with each other
flowers in our hair,
jasmine emanating from our skin
bullfighters on the dance floor.
But inside
black mantillas cover our hearts,
our spirit sings dirges
at our personal wailing walls.
We mourn
with gnashing teeth
rending our clothes
over you, for you.
The death of love
or the love never born.
Falling on our pens
like swords
inside.
but no hint we give
outside.
We sway on
masking pain in tango steps
We want to dance with you,
for you
but we each hear different beats
we are out of time.
But
one day,
some day
the outer will match
the inward
the music from us
will be reggae and salsa
not the blues and torch songs
and we will have partners
that can match us
step for step
beat for beat,
with men who can finally keep

Encounter

2009-02-12T10:16:00.000-08:00

For you and I
aren't ready
to find each other.
You ... as you well know.
I loved her(him) so much!
Follow the narrowest path.
I have
holes
in my hands
from the nails.
Can't you see how
I'm bleeding to death?
Don't look back,
go slowly,
and pray as I do
to San Cayetano,
for you and I
aren't ready
to find each other.

-Federico Garcia Lorca

Regina

2009-02-11T12:25:00.000-08:00

She carries a stone in her hand,
that was her heart.
Walking these city streets
through trees made of steel and glass
when inside her,
in her dreams
she sees green, warm brown,
mountains made of earth,
never-ending blue.
Soft not hard was her heart then,
made of flesh,
that she gave to her lover
as they lay
he tangled in her hair
her dress
she wrapped in his arms
his legs,
sharing warm breath.
Now she carries a stone in her hand,
and she feels herself becoming
this concrete
the grey snow melting into the sewers,
her light is the color of street lamps
shining down on her
and her new lovers
while she breathes cold wind
into their lungs.
Gifting them her stone
as they walk
through bitter city streets.
Separated by they know not what
hands intertwined around stone.

The Funhouse (or Hindsight is a Bitch)

2009-02-09T23:14:00.000-08:00

I navigate my way through this funhouse
all twisty turns and false doors.
Devices to throw you off balance
tilting walk-way
ready throw travelers into the abyss,
landing on comfortable concrete.
Stairways become slides,
progress seems nigh impossible,
halfway up and back to the bottom,
cursing all the way down.
Spinning tunnel
impossible to traverse
dizzy, maddening course
cannot go forward
yet impossible to turn around.
Maze of mirrors,
masters of distortion.
Emphasizing the false
gross exaggerations
of the true form.
Except one,
one that shows everything
in horrible clarity
crystal clear replay
of every move you’ve made
in this funhouse called life.
Showing every wrong turn,
and the right direction
not taken
with arrows pointing the exact way.
Playing an endless loop
like a video
of mis-steps
missed connections,
pictures of those you’ve journeyed with
and the audio of those words
said, unsaid
The exquisite painful,
might have beens.
This mirror called Hindsight,
teachs and mocks.
It is a gift
and curse.
Try as I might,
I cannot break it
with any rock or man-made thing.
Beautiful, terrible looking glass.
So I stare into this mirror for an eternity,
hating the lessons,
but knowing they are vital
I gaze on,
memorizing my route,
before I exit into the night,
circle back to the beginning
and go through this funhouse again
praying I remember the way this time.

Remedies

2009-01-22T08:28:00.001-08:00

The remedies no longer work
my drugs are not quick
the high is not enough
to break the crash
and soothe the burn.
Late nights
smoke filled clubs
sweaty bodies, fused as one
perfectly mixed margaritas
warm presence in my bed
wine-soaked nights on a porch
bonfires and s-mores
my life’s soundtrack
mashed with friend’s laughter
talks over coffee
and more wine
another cigarette
promises of prayer
divine language spoken by others
I am no longer bilingual
I’ve forgotten the rhythms
of that angelic speech.
Dark lyrics and pulsing beats
drown out the dove’s song.
Did I ever hear it at all?
I strain to hear
that cosmic symphony
on tinkling pianos
play it on a tuneless guitar
smell it’s sweetness
among these burning bridges.
Just looking for my next fix
the shot that will keep me alive.
cause these remedies no longer work.

The Ghost of Eleanor Rigby

2009-01-10T12:26:00.001-08:00

I am haunted by her shadow.
Dreading the day I look in the mirror
and her face has become my own.
Dreaming of love
like she did at her window
never moving,
always alone.
A life sentence
worse than any death.
So I spend my best years
drinking sex like cheap wine,
instead of savoring it like a fine scotch.
Quantity over quality.
Men are the knives I cut myself with
each one leaving scars
but the pain is better
than the steady ache
so I keep reaching for the blade,
hoping he’s the last cut
trying to exorcise
Eleanor’s spectre.
I never realized till now,
ghosts hold no real power
only what we allow.
I am not her
just as she is not me
It does not matter
if I leave this earth
having one true love
or many
or none.
In the end,
the real tragedy
is the fear to live,
to be fully, wholly
unapologetically
myself
whether covered in rice
or babies
or books.
Facing Rigby’s ghost
no longer frightened
of seeing my face
Telling her she can go
I have no need of her
and letting her rest in peace.

Untitled

2009-01-07T10:54:00.000-08:00

We feel our loneliness is a life sentence
but our addictions are a death sentence.
We spend our best years
drinking sex like cheap wine,
to the soundtrack of chick flicks
with a message as dirty as porn.
Men are the knives we cut ourselves with
each one leaving scars
but the pain is better
than the steady ache
so we keep reaching for the blade
as our Sirens sing us to sleep.

2009-01-04T10:48:00.000-08:00

I've been listening to sad songs lately. There are some that would argue that this isn't good for my emotional health and they are probably right, but sometimes the heart cannot take sunny music. Sometimes all you can do is lose yourself in the blues, in Buckley's heartache, in Adams' boozy longings, in Ella and Billie's crying, in Garland's tremulous voice about the man that got away. Play Kate Nash's "The Nicest Thing," Radiohead's "House of Cards," and Fiona Apple's "Paper Bag" on repeat. My playlist for heartache; for when I have let myself care for the umpteenth time only to have the door slammed in my face again.

I think I'll just deep freeze my heart. Easier that way. Since no one seems to want my warm beating organ, they can have a cold block of ice instead. I'm tossing in my hand and cashing whatever chips I have left and taking myself out of the game.

Lyrical Knife

2008-12-25T17:23:00.000-08:00

Note: I re-wrote the poem below. It was written on a night when I was sad and listening to too much Billie Holiday. It's mostly just raw emotional energy that needed to get out, but really rough. Here is the newer version.

This is not worth
the agony, the hours
trying to catch
a brief span
of your attention
no matter how blissful
your smile is
when I bring it out of you.
It has become a knife
twisting in my back..
The blade made of the words
you never write for me.
Removing it would kill,
remaining it breeds sickness

These beautiful lines
about one girl,
whilst you ignore the pantheon
of goddesses around you.
Each glorious,
each deserving of verses.
Yet, you
and all your friends
see only one.
Writing creative words,
for an uncreative obsession.

Fuck you,
when you tell me
I am amazing (I know)
How lucky the man
who makes me his wife
(Trust me, he will be)
Never realizing,
goddesses also
come in quiet form,
but are no less radiant
Even your words,
to your personal Aphrodite
cannot possibly contain her.
For we are all,
more than your lyrics.

So I write my poetry,
for my own obsession,
uncreative as yours.
Waiting for the surgeon,
to remove
this lyrical knife.

2008-12-24T06:11:00.000-08:00

Fuck this
Fuck love
This is not worth
the agony, the hours
for a brief span
of your attention
no matter how blissful
your smile is
when I bring it out of you.
It has become a knife
twisting in my back.

I never have been
never shall be
that girl
the one you write poems
and songs
about the way
you want to touch her.
hold her, kiss her
These beautiful verses
about this one girl
while your friends
are writing
their own verses
in praise of her.
Creative verses
for uncreative obsessions.

The worst
when you tell me
that I’m amazing
how any guy
will be so lucky
to have me
to make me his wife
as you chase a goddess.
Fuck you.
Fuck you for being
like all your friends
chasing the same girls
while I stand
on the outside
more goddess
than much of your prey
hidden in quiet form
Hating you
for not noticing
Wanting you anyway.
Fuck.

Soundtracks

2008-12-17T22:45:00.002-08:00

The playlist of my life.
Buckley singing for his lover
kingdoms for kisses.
Gray’s piano in the background
Dylan on harmonica
Ray loving Hannah
and wanting Jolene.
Patty’s voice is my heart’s cry.
Alison sings like angels
calming the blues of Billie
and Ella,
though sometimes, I prefer
my indigo demons.

Garland and Wainright
harmonize
about the one who got away.
Heartbreak in each perfect note.
Buckley comes in
reminding me to sing hallelujah
if brokenly, all the while
I sit with Ryan in the corner
bottle of whiskey
lying empty
crying for our savior.
Gifts fueled by destruction.

The witch of the west
whose not so wicked
and a girl named Kate
lament that they are not the girls,
these men write songs about,
while Sinead and Ani
scream their defiance of it all
and me humming along
with all of them.

I’m holding out
on the reggae music
till the hard night is over
and hoping I’ll see Jesus
in a bar somewhere
outside New Orleans
as we all sing, listen,
long for each other,
for Him.

Ruby

2008-12-17T22:38:00.000-08:00

The things I remember
the smell of cigarettes
mixed with coffee
mixed with the smell of biscuits baking
4 A.M. wake up calls
not your face
just the smells
and your voice stained with smoke

My inheritance
the good, the bad
the terrifying
my figure, my stance
my walk
twins at 29
the worried nature
and inward fears
the never letting go
you breathing six years
after they said you couldn’t

You who married
the man my father never knew
left with his legacy
of drunkenness
running in my veins
colliding
with your legacy
of sadness

You never realized
you were worth far more
than your name
you simply lived on
boot strap pulling
survival
by any means

I am your legacy
in ways frightening
and sad
and beautiful
your junior
looking for redemption
and chasing salvation

Victory/Defeat

2008-12-17T22:32:00.002-08:00

I just can’t shake this feeling, that I’m nothing in your eyes.
Neko Case

This is the struggle
the bruising, bloody fight,
to not walk into this heartbreak
Rejecting this comfortable pain,
avoiding the path well traveled.
that begins with whiskey-fueled courage
and ends with the empty tequila dawn,
cloaked in cigarette smoke perfume.
Fighting the self I see,
reflected in your eyes.
An image dark and fractured.
Resisting the temptation
to define myself by your gaze.
Whether you look
in love or pity
derision or lust
devotion and hatred.
Because even the good limits
and the bad destroys.
So I am left at this beginning
beaten and bloodied
scars as trophies
that tell this violent tale.
Refusing the path before me,
and the morphine anguish.
At least for today.

Type-Cast

2008-12-17T22:32:00.001-08:00

Here are my roles
as cast, (defined) by others
Friend, Sister
Girl Friday, Walk on extra
the weird one,
the quiet one
worse the crazy one
never, ever
flirt, dame
Jezebel, temptress
lover
forever best friend
watching the leading ladies
on your arms.

You who cast me as friend
you who were my shoulder
my rock, my sounding board
my conscious
bruised heart when you said
you don’t date the quiet ones
Wouldn’t listen
when I said she was wrong
she drowned me out
in all the ways I’m not
I was right
in the end.

And you, you
who sounded like warm nights
and Spanish music
making the unbearable hours
livable
talking music and places we’ve seen
and wanted
sharing cigarettes and beer
almost moments and missed opportunities
I would have played the role
of friend, pal
reduced to the extra,
one name,
in a long line of credits

Now there is one
with a big smile
bigger laugh
and me trying to draw it out
wondering which role
he will cast
in this movie
auditioning for something new
but being cast to type
when there are movie stars
circling around
and in the end
knowing I can be
no one else, but me
because I see me
as friend/lover
quiet temptress
and waiting
just waiting
because I am
more than a type.

I Went Looking For Salvation

2008-12-17T22:31:00.000-08:00

I went looking for Salvation. I’ve caught a glimpse of her in different places, in different forms. She was there in the laughter of a group of friends and in the way he smiled at me. She’s heard in a witty remark I am sometimes capable of making (Proof God exists) I found her in a glass of wine (and a second and a third). Definitely found her in a bottle of Cuervo. A band sang out her song onstage and it was sung back by thousands. I think she was dancing at Backbooth one night. I’ve almost caught her a few times, but she always slips through my grasp. I can’t keep her. So I buy another book hoping to find out where she is and I smoke another clove because I’m bored. I watch the same movie again and again to shut off my brain and wait for my phone to ring because I’m tired of pursuing.

People say she’s found in God and they’re right, but it’s easier to try in find her in things you can see, in concrete experiences and sounds. What good is a salvation you cannot touch, that doesn’t slide down your throat like good wine? Salvation came in the flesh where we could smell him, hear his voice, see him but we killed him. Now all that we have left is the faint siren song of something better and the hope that the spirit that is left us is enough to sustain our dreams, knowing full well that it can, but not having the guts to trust completely. So we keep looking to find her and the one who sent her out because without them, we are laid to waste. So we look for Salvation in the naked woman on stage and the girl on the computer screen, in the needle in the vein and the high of sex and the glimpses of her become as rare as rubies and cost more than pearls. And we fight the battle while losing the war. Yet, we may be losing, but we are not lost. We still hope in the craziness and absurdity of the gift she brings, even if we only see it darkly in it’s counterfeits. We are not lost. Not yet.

Leta

2008-12-17T22:30:00.002-08:00

I never realized how much
I would miss you.
Your voice, your calm,
the smells from your kitchen,
until you were no longer here.
Disappearing inside your mind
long before you took your last breath.

The things that I admired,
gentle hands, kind heart.
That voice that belonged
in an opera house given
a different birth and yet
you were happy to sing
praises to your God,
every Sunday. Year on year.
Always loving, always forgiving
except for one bastard priest.
Soft words, soft, weathered skin,
masking a core of steel.

For hidden in all
the grace of your manner
was the survivor I never knew
and wish I had met.
Married at 15.
The divorce papers reading
extreme cruelty from the first.
Single mom in an age
where they didn’t exist.
Not on paper.
Finding a love
that they don’t make anymore.
Ruining your descendents for life
with the tale of you and the boy from Hell’s Kitchen.

The legacy I long for…
Not your shimmering voice,
which I can still hear,
when we sing those old hymns.
Not your magical cooking,
where nothing will taste that good again.
Just the faith,
the never ceasing hope.
That one great love.
Because I drown in the puddle
of my own bitterness
created by events
far less than the one’s
that shaped you.
Finding it impossible
to believe in love stories anymore.
Praying my stone heart
won’t keep me from flying
to the heavens to see you.
Angelic voice singing with her kind,
where she always belonged.

Hang Out

2008-12-17T22:30:00.001-08:00

Purse, shoes, mask in place
keys, cigarettes, bottle of red,
cheap, drive, Top 40 radio unbearable,
not too late, not too early.
Hugs, bottle open, glass in hand,
calm the nerves, first smoke,
settle in, watching conversations,
catch up, waiting for someone,
music, personal DJ, guitars,
sing-alongs, poetry, saints,
sinners, we are all and in between,
jokes, laughter, awkward speech,
stumbling over words, need more wine,
save face, second smoke as cover,
work the room, looking for the lighter,
seeking something, negotiations,
relationship landmines, private conversations,
we are all looking, trying to fill that hole,
sleepy, slight boredom, third smoke,
something to do, more wine, more sleepy,
inside jokes, more laughter, another cigarette?
winding down, goodbye hugs, things unsaid,
drive home, replay events, walk in, shoes off,
bed or write or music, nicotine high,
Buckley at 1, Ella at 2, Billie at 3,
mask off, honest words, falling asleep,
wash face, brush teeth, bed,
forgetfulness of sleep.

Nope, Definitely Not

2008-12-17T22:28:00.000-08:00

Nope.
Definitely not.
No verses written about me.
No troubadour singing songs
about me on his darkened street corner.
I am no man’s muse.
I do not inspire great art.
Strong, funny, confident,
beautiful, sexy, mysterious.
These words
do not belong to me.
Not even close.
Nice, sweet, nerdy.
Me on a good day.
Weird, awkward,
too intense,
too smart.
Me on a bad day.
Bad days arrive
like clockwork
when you are near.
You talk shit with her,
I sit writing this shit.
Same, same
Everyday.

Subtext/Context

2008-12-17T22:27:00.002-08:00

These words
this moment in time
trying to remember
that there is nothing more
between us
no subtext within
just words
stringed together
grasping at hope
though it’s only
smoke from our cigarettes.
Context is everything
this means nothing
not to you.
You sleep in the depths
I’m up with the dawn
meeting it here.
Me wanting you,
you wanting nothing
or just not me.

Tales

2008-12-17T22:27:00.001-08:00

Who lied to you sweet girl?
Whispering these honeyed words,
laced with sedatives.
Hallucinogens.
Mothers, sisters,
best friends.
The boy next door.
How did they weave
this fairy tale for you?
Featuring the Prince
shining armor comes standard.
Happy endings guaranteed.
What is he saving you from?
Wicked stepmother, the troll,
this town, these people,
yourself?
Oh my child,
you would trade
the brilliance of your hands
for his touch.
Find your voice
in his song.
Quench the fire in your soul,
for the world outside
if he stayed in these four walls.
Goddess cloaking herself in rags
to not outshine his armor.
They never tell you,
the happy ending,
only looks good on paper
and the armor is tarnished anyway.
Dry your tears my darling
wipe the dust from your hands
Rip these pre-made endings
from this book of fantasy.
Your own musings
hold more adventure.
Save yourself,
for the princes have to slay
their own demons.
Waste no more time my love,
these tales have stolen enough.

Shattered Mirror

2008-12-17T22:26:00.001-08:00

Why do you hate me so?
I say to the mirror.
Cracked, broken.
Reflecting my soul.
Each shard showing
parts I keep hidden
even from me.
Mantras I recite
to my selves
ring falsely.
The lies spill out
far more eloquently.
Spending hours
piecing together
this broken spirit
though the shards
are to small and
the cracks
will always show.
Never fully whole.
Like this old
shattered mirror.