the years keep leaping

and I can still call you home, and you can still warm my heart.
[phrases like that seem so overused, but there aren't many other ways to describe that feeling.]

too much, too much

I don't like this anymore, sleeping at all the wrong times (is it really easier to keep going?) Well sometimes I do, but tonight is not one of them. It is frustrating, and I feel my brain cells deteriorating and I can't fall asleep and it's sort of that time when I wish you would sing me to sleep but I don't wish it enough to call or text; it's sort of that time when I wish I had friends over, but again, not enough to make it happen. Alone time is good, and I needed it, and sometimes being alone with my thoughts is so draining that I drag myself to malls and public places, just to recharge and reenergize and people watch, just long enough to remember that I am alive and well and things like that. Where did you go, anyway? What made you change? I will never know. Admittedly, I have not forgotten you yet, but—despite several commendable attempts to remember—I have forgotten what it was like to want you so badly it hurt, to ache and miss you more than I had ever felt before. Well, I guess this is a good thing, and I have nothing to complain about.

taylor

I guess the most important things come to us in silence, in a still, sidling sort of way.
I will miss this.

and stories and stories and stories...

Sing softly in the quiet of bokeh blurs,
My sweet and precious home.
Wrap me tangled,
wrap me mangled,
in the grey-grey of your floors
and I will dance and weave my arms
around and upside down
through fibers and fibers and fibers
in the most boisterous of fashions,
a Madonna, the new kind.
My eyes can't hold these stories
any more than coffee cup rims
can hold his kisses;
Awaken me, senses
with soft sauces and butters
that melt slowly
and leak,
let us dance again;
while the overcast stares menacingly
wrap me tangled,
wrap me mangled,
in the grey-grey of your floors
and I will sing a love song
for all my broken bones
for all the places my skull can't reach
for the thousand pieces of poetry that
play their way home,
I will sing.
Though my hands are cracked and battered,
I still pray for open skies
and the one day
when those sputtering
sax notes
will send me to Your arms,
a cowering fool,
in the arms of a King.

turpenoid

I have weird expectations.
I surprised myself today when I realized how much I cared about you.
I cried.
Then I stopped.
And here I am now, smelling oil paints, next to a pile of
graded math papers, coffee, my best friend
(They are not all in the same pile, if that is what you are thinking)
My eyes are sore.

Today is beautiful--
Ah, Northern California in December.
Light breeze, leaves dancing around and resting on the ground,
and warm friends.
"My own eyes are not enough for me."
Clearly, they are not. And sometimes (too often) too much.

I am not sure what I will do with free time when I have it.
I wish I had more music in me.

if it takes forever, forever it'll be

I just wanna

get to know everyone and tell them how
beautiful/handsome/pleasant/wonderful
they are without worrying about
dating/romance/awkwardness

so I guess I'm gonna try.

cinnamon sugar

I am fine, life is fine. There are better, more beautiful things to worry about.

Lately - The Helio Sequence

Lately, i don’t think you of you at all
Or wonder what you’re up to or how you’re getting on
I never think of calling you or how things could have been
Or wonder where you sleep at night or whose arms you wake in

I’m living alone living alone i don’t need you anymore
Living alone living alone i don’t need you anymore
Lately,

I don’t get lost in daydreams
I never lay awake at night staring in my bed
And i don’t think about your face or anything you’ve said
And i don’t think twice when someone says your name

Or twist my mind in circles wondering which of us to blame
I’m living alone living alone i don’t need you anymore
Living alone living alone i don’t need you anymore
I never walk alone and think of all the empty words

Or wonder when the day will break or when the tides will turn
And i don’t break down when someone says your name
Or twist my mind in circles wondering which of us to blame

I’m living alone living alone i don’t need you anymore
Living alone living alone i don’t need you anymore.
Lately, i don’t think you of you at all.
Lately, lately, oh lately.

I saw you. That was the least disturbing thing that happened tonight.

Eyes, and laughter, and nothing good, and my stomach feels sick thinking about how easy it is for some people to forget themselves (how easy it is for me to forget myself), and how some people don't make me feel good, at all, ever, and I still hang on and talk and cling in desperation of feeling warm around them, someday. I want to be back to my sunny place with my sunny friends, where we smile all the time, even when we don't feel good.

Your text is all that is getting me through the night, my dear:
"Today the leaves in my driveway were dancing in the wind, so I danced with them. Now I know a new kind of dance. Can't wait to teach you."

sliced papaya

Perhaps I was not meant to be in love. We are taught that this is a sad thing to say, a lonely, "giving up" sort of thing, but it doesn't feel that way, typed on the screen like that. I think it feels automatic to translate this to "Perhaps I don't deserve to be loved, I am not worth being loved" -- bah, humbug. That is not what I mean at all. I simply mean, Perhaps I was not meant to be in love.

Perhaps I will love one day, to the my heart's greatest ability, perhaps I will cherish another the way some people do, when they are happy just to be sitting next to someone. Perhaps one day I will be loved so fully and completely by another that his heart will feel bursty and light whenever he sees me. And perhaps these two things will never occur in the same instance, with the same person. Is it strange to be okay with that?

I am not giving up. I just don't know anymore. I used to be certain that there was someone, someday, somewhere. And maybe there is. I've had glimpses of that, I am sure. I've been holding all the wrong hands and batting my eyelashes at all the wrong people in the process. I know, I can see you now, shaking your head and aching for me to see my own worth! Settle down, I don't mean to devalue myself. I am just wondering. Maybe some are meant to be alone.

I will never lose my desire to be known, that painful aching from my stomach to my heart that wants to be loved and cherished and protected and adored. None of us ever do. But perhaps that desire is not meant to be fulfilled here. Not now.

[My friend told me the delete button is harsh. If it weren't for her saying that today, I may not have published this post. "Sometimes things get, whatever."]

---

Several half-thoughts have done more than cross my mind, but after two hours of sitting idly and forcing text into my brain, I am far from articulate, and all I want is to get this stuff out.

My two worlds are worlds apart. As much as I can imagine one loving the other, appreciating the other, being fascinated and captivated by the other, there will always be an undercurrent of difference, which, if exposed, will cause each world to back away gently, chuckling at the novelty of the other. Money makes a difference. We are all the same struggling being at our core, maybe, but our outer selves can't help but boast themselves through our language, through our attention to...things. I am most me, sitting cross-legged on an air mattress in a room lit by a single blacklight bulb, making animal sounds and playing card games, feeling warm in a cold place, catching light in friends' eyes. Then again, I am most me, surrounded by nice things and nice people in a nice place, with my best friend, being the only ones figuratively walking barefoot and dancing in a context that demands the strictest metaphorical footwear and literal body language. I hope to never forget house creaks and fast food, I hope to always appreciate stucco and shiny shoes.

I waste time compartmentalizing, and don't spend enough time being. I must not let my sometimes accurate perception of things cloud my often mistaken judgment. People are in my life for different reasons. Some of them actively pursue my soul, run wildly into the unknown with me, laugh and cry willingly at the tragic and beautiful state that all of us are in. These are my soulmates. Some of them laugh with me, endlessly, at the trivial (and most joyful!) things in life, and together, we cast away our soul problems all to be content and merry in the simple comfort of the moment. These are my best friends. Some of them will talk to me for hours in gardens, sometimes nodding in acknowledgement of my brief responses to their life-tales, but mostly, trusting and opening and willingly giving me their hearts. These are the ones I am drawn to (sometimes unwillingly), the ones I seek when I should (and still when I shouldn't). I am not sure what that means. (See? The organizing? Terrible.)

When does it end? I will die one day, hopefully roaring (roaring, roaring, roaring), and perhaps they are right. English and Philosophy are self-serving studies (maybe not, but that is how I feel at the moment). I will question, I will read, I will write, I will not contribute much that can be carried beyond me. No advances will be made, no formulas discovered, hell, no answers will ever be known (except perhaps, what words like "cacophony" and "iambic pentameter" mean). Then what? My flight home was more turbulent than usual, and there was a point, before we reached 3000 feet, where I contemplated my own death and was surprisingly okay——perhaps I wasn't meant to experience requited love, perhaps I wasn't meant to do anything more than just cry and smile for 19 years--and it was fine. The moment passed quickly, when a hum from my cell phone reminded me that there is a world I would be leaving behind, and there are people there. I do not think we should fear death as much as we do, but nevertheless, there is nothing more important in life than the people in it. And that should always be cherished.

I love the snow. I love being cold, then warm. I told my friend the other day that I liked my twin bed at school better than mine at home; my full-sized bed seems to unnecessarily emphasize my being alone (not to be confused with loneliness). I did not realize how true it was until I said it. Perhaps this is pathetic, but I have moved past caring about what "pathetic" means a long time ago, but I just let myself fall asleep to TV episodes now; I miss the sound of voices outside my door.

I love being home, I am uncomfortable at home, I am more warm and content than I could ever be. There is no conclusion for me to write; like I said, these thoughts, this writing, it's all self-serving and stupid, and I can't help but write them. Au revoir.

the day!

Thank you, beautiful day!
My only regret for the day is that I can't
sit among the palm branches, skin-drinking sun, eye-sipping the morning's grandeur
run wildly with the campus creatures, staring mischievously into the eyes of passerby
bury myself beneath sand and age, till the sea claims me his under-beach princess (what a fantastic wedding it will be)!

Thank you, beautiful day!
As the world wrinkles its brow, I will grin
with broken teeth and gnarled lip
with shaky hands and callused heels
and say,
"You are welcome to smile with me,
and hold my hand,
bending into the wind,
to run this fantastic race!"

Thank you, beautiful day!

thou art ridiculous sometimes

I want to be awake again, and not stumble over my words so often, and fall in love desperately and fully and completely, and well. Falling in love well...does that exist?

I want my skin to be thinner, now. Interesting, how when it was brittle and see-through, I hurt, but didn't complain, didn't want any of it to change, and...

after having to do away with all the delicacy, I am harder and thicker, and I just want to be dumb again, and innocent, and easily impressed.

Endless sleep, endless exhaustion

Accio, well-rested soul!

"lots of things are fun to me like...

sitting in the passenger seat
and drinking orange juice
and going to the gas station
and seeing Brian at the drive-thru
and putting a stopper in my coffee
and opening doors for people (unless they rush)
and pad thai from Maine
and making waiters(waitresses?) feel confident
and Frank Sinatra
and bedrooms with 70s decor
and pretty blonde friends that play tennis
and coming home to my roommate
and hearing my cool friend sing
and longboarding
and playing music
and hearing stories
and folding scarves
and somersaults
and being the only ones dancing in a room of 500
and cleaning up after assemblies
and staring blankly into spotlights
and laughing out loud (and in my brain)."
giggle, giggle, giggle.

almost complaints

I wish I felt the urgency to finish this draft. I wish I had the energy to read about Japan's rich and tragic and beautiful history for hours. I wish there were more hours in a day. I wish more girls saw their own beauty. I wish more men saw their own strength. I wish I had passion for all of this, I wish these stupid human needs would stop getting in the way.

a new love's in town

Agape.

I love my sweet and beautiful Jesus.
Thank you, for always saving me.

gold, and lots of it

Somewhere between the pulsing static of hallway noise creeping in between doors closing and opening I remembered how wonderful it is to be carefree, and not ignorant or naive, but just free.

Free like rolled up sleeves, rolled off crayon wrappers, rolled on red lipstick
and the words kept spilling out of my ears, but not my mouth or my hands--

For once, studying and memorizing something has made me fall in love with it even more,
and it's awkward.

My inadequacy as a "writer" or "poet" is in part due to my untrained expression, my impulsive vomiting of words, my tendency to regurgitate all-too-familiar imagery with a slightly more grotesque spin in hopes of it becoming tragically beautiful—

but it is also in part due to the life I was blessed with, and for that I am partially thankful, and partially [insert shameful human emotion here]. How sad, and sort of deranged, that I wish I had more to complain about.

I read old notes, old words, and although it is easier now to laugh at my sentiment than it was then, my words seemed harsher, more vibrant, more shocking and delicious...when I missed you.

How sadistic and selfish and strange, to be in this state— to only want you back in my life for the sole purpose of writing about you. 1:16am thoughts are not my favorite...

Don't get me wrong, I have been scratching and scraping to rid whatever of all that grime and gunk you left behind; I have no wish to speak wrongly of you, to write bitterly of who I thought you were,

Rather, I miss that salty, astringent hiss of realizing how much I cared/you didn't because it was easier to write then.

Ah, but I will read this in the morning and realize several things, that are already beginning to dawn on me.

I have never needed you to feel alive, nor have I needed any of 'yous'
I will shrug and move on
I am nearly positive that it will be so much more enjoyable to write about requited love! (Right?)

For now, sighing and grunting is what I've got.

I just re-read part of this and I don't think I believe half of what I've said.
Happy Monday night, Tuesday morning.

i just found this

I’d like to swallow you like a tablecloth
And string your words between my teeth
I’d like to captivate and correlate the blinking of your eyes with mine,
And roll your sleeves up my forearms
Like a five-year old magician.

notes to self

- Do not let pursuit of knowledge temper pursuit of wisdom
- Do not settle with moral decisions, ensure that actions follow
- Listen to the quieter voices
- Dance in the rain—literally and figuratively—as often as possible
- Do not settle for the conditional tense
- Get fed. In every healthy way.

staplegunned

I am so arrogant sometimes. I'm sorry.

pleasant surprise

At the suggestion of Jason Mraz, I've subscribed to the Google group "Cafe Gratitude's Question of the Day". Today's question:

¿Que en tu vida no estas escogiendo poderosamente?
What in your life are you not choosing powerfully?

Hmm...

saturday morning

Feels like I'm cheating, calling 18 minutes after midnight "morning", but I could not think of anything more appropriate to call my heart's new stretch-and-wake. Ah... my restless fingers needed to do something other than wander up and down the fretboard, guessing at jazz chords. I've got fresh strings and a good meal in my body; life is good and whole and peaceful.

This seems strange and perhaps disturbingly different from my last post, but yesterday this week's habits of severe sleep deprivation were finally taking a toll, and I couldn't help but be tired in all arenas. I woke up today, "in a very simple way", and realized I felt differently in the large scheme of things. By the way, I like Courier font.

My nails are painted black, my rings have sealed in a lifetime of tan lines, my hair is up, samurai style. I feel foolish sometimes—I am so easily moved, so easily overwhelmed with love for the beauty in this world. Tears come easily these days, but for reasons different than before. I will always have trouble understanding how some people think beauty is a waste of time.

That being said, I feel foolish sometimes—I am so easily upset, so easily angry with those who refuse to be reckless, those who cling greedily to structure like rafters and concrete could fill their empty heart-homes...Why can't we sing in public? Who said we can't?

Today they said, "You are disturbing people." Hmm. I think people are only disturbed when we sing in public/sit down in elevators/dance in the library/have imaginary conversations because they don't see it often and it scares them. Sigh [heart swell]. I love living and breathing and playing and being; I am not sure why this makes others uncomfortable. I am not sure why we are so afraid of things we don't know, I am not sure why more of us don't scream/dance/laugh/cry when we want to. I've found myself smiling as I type... maybe they just haven't tried it yet. I don't want to shock anyone anymore! I don't want people to stare when we sing loudly and laugh in the dining hall! I want them to join me! Is that so strange?

Ah, but I can't waste anymore time being upset with the world, because it is too amusing—look at how beautiful the world is, even with all its "sham, drudgery, and broken dreams," it sits there, His most beautiful creation, and it is completely blind. It does not know how beautiful its parts are, it does not see how beautiful it is, it does not even accept itself. The last is the most tragic of the truths, but that makes it, in part, all the more beautiful.

To the cynic, the pessimist, the sadist, forgive me. I don't mean to ignore the world's problems, or belittle them. But I do invite you, friend, to sit back and see how miraculous it is that the world still works. It's still alive and kicking. I think that is fantastic. I hope that one day, you'll agree. So, to those who are willing to slough off the ugly for a day, I think that it is our duty to hold up tiny mirrors to the world in all the ways we can, and help it see its true reflection.

"If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other."

[ ]

to be valiant,
to be brave,
to be...
i have been running
from i don't know what
(life? living?)
and walking around,
a ghost with no past,
wishing for something to feel;
i envy the jealous, the tortured, the ecstatic,
something sounds better than this
squishy 'ish' i've learned to embrace.

your blood ran thin, your skin felt thick
i had always wished it were the other way around.

now,
everything inside me feels thin,
like i could disappear under harsh lighting,
and i can't find the ganas i once did.
my heart swells and pulses for dead poets, dead artists,
i squeal in delight at imaginary countries and towns,
i laugh hollowly at everything uncertain.

is this how you felt?
crustaceous?
was your yelling at me, for you?
maybe you were sane, and the rest of us weren't—
maybe we wished we could cackle as loudly as you.

when ive dealt with whatever,
and all thats left is me.
it gets a little boring,
and i just want to feel my heart beat again.

there's probably something wrong here

"i'll say i've got everything i need, but the only thing i've got is the thrill of holding my breath"

where have i gone?

little things

It's all about the little things,

like crinkled corners on postcards,
and hot chai tea running down your throat on a Tuesday night;
like oversized armchairs;
and soft, wide grins on faces of strangers;

like greasy pastel smudges,

and bundles of brightly-colored scarves tossed in the air;

like Saturday night fundraisers,

and the sunny stretch of 280 with the wind on your face;

like poets in basements,
and the rosy warmth in a face well-slept;
like fudge brownies,
and tired hands folding gently into place.

lists

- Broken, beautiful
- Guarded, I think
- Hands and eyes
- Smiles
- (Where did my courage go?)
- Clock-glancing
- Soft
- Quiet
- (Where did you go?)
- "It's a long way down, when your hopes are high as mountains"
- Dreaming, always dreaming.

i wish i were...

More soft-spoken,
More eloquent,
More structured,
More fearless,
More tolerant,
More accepting,
More practical;

I am none of these things frequently,
and some of these things occasionally.

I wish I were brave,
I wish you were braver.
I wish, I hope, I dream—
that my hands could hold your weight.

at last

Time to myself, and writing at 3am. I haven't been awake at this time in awhile, having surrendered to that whole "8 hours a night" schpiel that everyone's been convincing me is best. Well, I am sorry, but I like this time of the night. (Morning? I have always wondered)

It's beautiful, okay? The perfect break between the last day and the next, the set and the rise, slowly fading night sounds and slowly rising morning noises, and everything in between. I like hearing air flow through the ceiling vents and seeing lights in windows disappear as the night wanes on. I like talking to the occasional insomniac. I like pretending we are the only ones alive. I like this time of the night.

I am me, in a grotesque, fabulous, broken way; a slightly dizzy superstar, on the edge of that stage...

I guess tonight won't be a poetic one. But I just wanted to say that. And know that. I like this time of the night.

don't let the sun go down on me

Woke up to John Mayer, decided that wasn't the best way to start my day.
Now, Elton John and an omelet.

sobe.... SoBe... So. Be.

A little loopy, a little crazed.
I feel good again.
Like I always have,
because I don't need to sleep
at times people tell me,
and I like the night,
in a good way
I like me at night,
alone with the world and the stars,
and together with all the other
night-lovers.
I am blessed to be surrounded
by people who feel,
who thrive on knowing,
empathizing, (loving),
exploring
the human condition,
and all its wonder and majesty.
People who know that we are nothing,
but also that we are more loved than we could ever imagine.
Freedom.

blindness

Find us a trap door, find us a plane 
Tell the survivors help is on the way 
I was a blindfold, never complained 
All the survivors singing in the rain 
I was the one with the world at my feet


Great song by Metric, reminded me of all the times I thought I had to carry my own burden, that I had to do it all on my own. 
"I was the one with the world at my feet."
We are not our own heroes. We are not our own. We fight for what we can, but in the end, grace is the only thing that can truly save us.
"Life is going to blow at times. Jesus is greater than it all. He is greater than it all. You know that means? We get to dance because we are free."  - Allyssa
I could not have put it any better than my best friend did. We get to dance because we are free!

these arms won't hold your swollen heart

these arms can't hold your swollen heart,
but how i wish they could.
our arms won't hold our swollen hearts,
but hands much stronger would.

i used to hope that my embrace
could calm each trembling bone,
but that was ne're my task to face;
my love is not my own.

we'll never mend with lids shut tight,
so please, unhinge your eyes.
and leave the darkness for the light,
to break those gnawing ties.

these arms can't hold your swollen heart,
so now, just hold it still.
our arms won't hold our swollen hearts,
but hands much stronger will.

peanut man

I went back to the old place, I found my heart again (not that I had lost it, but it had stay buried beneath efforts to stay content for awhile). Passion, heart, ganas, whatever you want to call it—is more reliable than you would think. (Gut, on the other hand, is not.) Instincts are not always impulses. We are not stalwart creatures, we were not built to last. But our hearts? Strong beyond measure.

I must remember to seek out discomfort, to throw myself into the fire, to be unafraid, to cry and laugh as often as possible. People are always telling us to "play it safe." To ensure survival of who we are, who we might be. I disagree. Simply surviving, my friends, is no way to live.

blurry stripes

This one's not about saying anything, but rather me writing in hopes of having something to say. I am a little frightened, a little frozen. I am almost settling into being stuck—which I know is not real, and certainly not eternal, but feels like it nonetheless. I want to be shaken back into sleep. Back, to where I was before.

wet streets and dizzy feet

Today my friend told me to spray perfume on the back of my neck instead of above my collarbone because then people can smell it when they hug me.

Pretty good idea.

Hugs are important, after all.

velvet

My days feel full, like they could burst at any second. This might also explain how I managed to completely lose track of time and forget (until now!) that I am leaving home in eleven short days. Eleven. One, one. Not enough time.

My bed isn't as cozy as I remembered it to be. My friends are ten times more wonderful than I remembered them to be (which means they're very, very wonderful). I don't care about much I can touch these days. Which is good, I know.

How long until our tummies stop turning and our nerves stop breaking? How long?

how say "I will remember?"

We are hosting two exchange students from Japan, and one exchange student from Korea. Today one of them asked me, "What is the meaning of the word 'miss,' like 'I miss you'?"

I tried to explain with hand gestures and what I'm sure came off as mentally disturbed facial expressions, and was shocked at how inadequate I was to explain its definition.

"Like, with your head (point) you remember, and your heart (clutch) you are hurting..."
"Err...like when you think, 'I wish he was here with me' or 'I wish I was home'"
---- "Joanne, what is the meaning of word 'wish'?"
(Crap).
"Like....dream. Hope. Uhh.. crap."
"Like...I want my home to be here. I want my love to be here."
---- "Oh, thank you Joanne. I think I understand. Now, what are you studying in college?"
"English and Philosophy."
---- "What is 'philosophy'?"

(to be continued.)

It's been quite the day. :)

goodnight moon

Some things are too beautiful to put into words.

I've found myself deleting the word "feel" and replacing it with "am", because that's what I usually mean, and am too scared to actually say.

I am free.

I am free.

I am free.

I am free.

I am free.

I am free.

breezes

It is refreshing and liberating to know that I am incapable of loving completely and truly.
The burden has been lifted.
We try so hard to know these things, to understand them,
when the only thing we can do is do them.
Love is not ours to give. So who are we to stand in its way?
Let Love do what it was always meant to do.

it's light outside

I know you want to stay in bed 
But it's light outside 
It's light outside 

So know I am going to stay right here 
Because you saved my life once 
You saved my life 


Thank goodness I didn't lose it forever. The theme of this week: MARVEL. (Not talking about the comic books here). Let's just marvel. At the beauty in the world, at the ugliness in the world, let us live fearlessly—dreams, hopes, ambitions and all, and if we come crashing down, let us embrace our pain and clench it tightly in our fists until there is nothing left to hold. Then, let us marvel more.


The other day I tried to be sad (I know, that sounds terrible—but sometimes I just need to feel. "Happy is the heart that still feels pain.") I struggled, a bit. Yes—that is exactly what you were: the unsettling comfort. I (we) are always reaching toward that familiar pain solely because it is familiar—never because it is what we want (let alone what we need). We want with our heads and not with our hearts.


Let me explain. I always thought it was the other way around; that our feelings were constantly in the way of what was right, what was sound in our heads. That our hearts were "getting in the way." I'm not so sure anymore. Looking back, I have realized that the things I "liked" were not the things I "wanted". I was so caught up in attraction—physically and emotionally—that I was ignoring my heart's truest desires, ignoring what I was really looking for. We too often mistake what we like for what we want. In some cases, we establish a mentality of rationale, something along the lines of "That is not what I want, but what I need." In some cases, we forget that what we need is exactly what we want. But we let what we "like" get in the way of what we really, truly want.


Live fearlessly. I spent this summer in a strange limbo, thinking in black and white for sanity's sake, thinking about my mistakes, my choices, the future, whatever else keeps all of us up at night. I spent so much time thinking that I wasn't feeling. I was standing perfectly still in a quicksand of thought, sinking deeper into contemplation until I lost sight of the surface. Then, I was brought back to life—I met someone who reminded me of what it meant to just marvel and let the world sweep you off your feet. Enough with the thinking, the plans, the worrying. Live fearlessly. And remember that fearless does not mean reckless, and cautious does not always mean in control.


Go. Go on. Marvel.

home

I forgot how much I loved this place! My orange walls and our glasses that are too tall!
The streets roar to life. Vibrance. Sun.
I forgot how much I loved this place.
It is so, so good to be home.

ah.

the electric slide

It's that time again—
when noises sound slower and my ears feel stuffed, like plane rides and being underwater;
when I remember you (all of you) and sit patiently, wincing in anticipation of that familiar sting of nostalgia—it won't come like it used to;
when I stare blankly at the other insomniacs around me, discarding social norms like the empty paper cups in my backseat.

I think I have made over twenty different beginnings of proofs for the same logic problem (could this be symbolic?) to no avail.

I know. You saying, "sleep on it" comes to mind. But when have I ever taken that advice?

My forearms felt a sudden chill, and for now I'll entertain thoughts of:
ghosts sidling out of my closet and sitting with me, like they always do at 2am;
a Seattle breeze, making its way south, missing me as much as I have missed it;
how someday I will be kept warm.

The smell of chlorine is gone, and I think:
the floors were thirsty—parched, in fact—and at the sight of water, lapped it up frantically;
somewhere out there someone is swimming in the ocean, fighting waves with eyes squinted shut and legs rippling furiously through the ocean;
I am sure someone is doing the same thing as me, in some 24 hour Starbucks somewhere, smelling chlorine and wondering. Hm.

My life is thrilling, no? Watching Starbucks employees mop the floors, procrastinating on my take-home final, and trying (pathetically) to feel something thrilling when my body is aching for rest.

But, whatever. I'll be fine. (See "warrior, warrior.")

warrior, warrior

I am tired of turning left.
The chill in my bones has finally subsided.
It is no longer a matter of head and heart,
but of my aching feet.
I will press my soles into the earth,
feel it crumble beneath me,
and wear my calluses like stories,
leaning forward into the fury of the wind,
until the throbbing in my heels no longer pains.
And when my heart is weary,
I will keep my eyes on the horizon,
and pound into the pavement.
I am a warrior,
and I will set the world on fire.

sleep spindles

I think I choose to stay awake most of the time in desperate attempts to avoid my dreams. That damn subconscious. I don't know whether it's timing, or me finally letting reality slap me in the face, but the older I get, the quicker my hope rises and falls, I don't know what that is, I don't know what it is. I guess it's just not supposed to happen this way. I think you are still stuck with ideas and ideal people, and maybe I wasn't enough mystery for you, enough silent allure. I wish you saw the sparks in my eyes for yourself. I'm ready to come home and leave the fog behind.

tummy grumblings

It's foggy here, and cold. Nonetheless,  today I woke up and vowed to chase sunbeams with all I've got, and rest peacefully in the shade when need be. I've declared a vow of patience with you, for you; you are worth it. And I couldn't be happier waiting.

"You'll shine like gold in the air of summer."

a red sleeping bag

How terrible—I've realized I'm much more eloquent when I'm unhappy.

I don't think there is anything you could say or do to make me not want to know you, which is terrifying and exciting and 100000 things at once. [You cradle sunsets in your arms, after all] After so many failed attempts to stop smiling and to instead be wary, guarded, cautious, etc. I can't help anything anymore, and I'm sorry for the clichés but half the time I think in clichés anyway—the world could stop here and now and I would be happy, not having done anything but stare into your irises and see all the beauty of Creation staring back. Is that too dramatic? Too stupid? Hopefully not, because I'm dead serious. [When you're you, I'm me at my best.]

You've changed my life. Thanks.

noah's hot coffee

several things:
1) nothing is automatic, i've got another 500 miles to go, let's hide postcards in the glove compartment
2) i don't think it's ever been in me, i do not know how to stay mad and sometimes need to
3) everything is in everyone and the more i write the more i hate it
4) i love your smile. i just love it.
5) here's to fires and chardonnay, and hoping for the best.

comets

I must learn to write outside of myself.

john cusack

Say Anything!

Say what you need to say.

I want you to want me!

If I fell...

Are you lonesome tonight?

Everybody wants to be loved.

Let's get together and feel alright.

this one will be a little rougher

I have ten million things on my mind, like why In-N-Out puts Bible verses in places no one will find them, like who the hell was robert frost and what makes a good poet, what makes a good haiku? i could write about snow in seventeen syllables and use clever adjectives does that make me an excellent haikuist? how are any of us famous anyway? like this: eating and sleeping. seems real simple when its not. see, you eat less you're liked more but there's a certain line where youre not, and youre just not. and sleepings alright, no one really cares about your dreams, only bout who youre dreaming next to. and then there's you, you weird, robotic soldier who never dreamed. i don't know. finding me has been such a journey, and i can say with real confidence that i'll be able to smile when i see you without crying an hour later. im a crier, so what. because i mean it and meaning it is better than not crying at all when you wanna, and not crying is good in certain places like courtrooms but not where i live, never where i live. its strange how often i think of you and i barely know you and i wonder if you like picnics or if you'd understand what i meant by 'the greatest thing you'll ever learn...' some famous sailor once said something like, 'be afraid if your dreams have come true because then you have dreamed too little.' babe, im terrified. because youre the dream that no one's supposed to have, but everyone does, and maybe youre too good for me [not in that self-pitying way, but in that you-know-how-to-be-alone-and-maybe-i-don't way] but all i want to do is hold your hand and talk. i want to chase the daylight with you and climb buildings and laugh, like how i do with them and not with that them but the good them, the kind that would like you, the kind that you would like. they say when youve found your soulmate you just know, but ive wasted too much time knowing and not enough time trusting—i think youve figured that one out though. like that one poet's piece about misspellings and bad handwriting, when v's become k's its alright because then all youre saying is 'i want to live you' and you know, right now that makes more sense than the alternative. because i do want to live You with you, because You's the only thing that's ever mattered and i've always known and never wanted to; thank you for showing me the world again. Thank you, and You.

if i could write you a song

You are always taking care of me. Just when I thought I would never feel this way again.
Thank You, Thank You, Thank You.

the rule of the excluded middle

It's hard to believe it's been seven whole months. A thousand things at once: gratitude, anger, humility, pride, reverence, joy, nostalgia—the list goes on.

After countless instances of word vomit and explanation after explanation (and "justification" after "justification"), I am finally beginning to understand what I want. What I really want.

Beginning to see how lonely (and not) the journey has been/is/will be. Blessed.

lemon pepper

I think there was a tiny bit of dishwashing soap in my Nalgene, but I was too lazy to go out and rinse it (gross, I know), so I kept gulping by the gallon, (as if I haven't ingested enough toxins this week). Late night Round Table pizza, late night logic problems, late night statistics homework, late night O.C. marathons, everything has been late night for me recently. I miss late night friends, those neon nights where all of us would sit on whatever we could find (carpet, couch, box?) and laugh about everything and cry about nothing. I need adventure. I'm thirsty.

a little bit of italy

Over affogato, I finally realized how unnecessary it is for me to figure anything out. One thing I haven't done in awhile? Just...trust. Without understanding, without reason, without being practical—trusting, that I won't be unfulfilled like this forever, that even a lifetime is a short time, and that love will find me before I find it. Just...trust.

For now, all there is for me is the vibrance and beauty of San Francisco, the glorious stretch of a queen-size bed, I-280 and my music, and that constant humming—that undeniable notion that happiness is not a privilege, but a right. I'm taking a few steps forward (and a couple steps back) in between hole-in-the-wall record stores and greasy fries, seeing nothing clearly, shivering in the cold, and (literally and figuratively) watching the fog part slowly.

a midsummer night

Blessed, and quiet, and waiting (almost patiently).
"Why are you still searching, as if I'm not enough?"
I have spent so much time gluing together brittle bones,
tearing at my hair and clawing at who I used to be,
when who I am is right in front of me.
And all You ever have to do is hold my hand.
Thank you.

cracked skin and tiny pulses

Gulped down a mug of black coffee for no real reason; my brain veins are screaming, my legs are jittery with exhaust. I'm impatient. My severe lack of thought over the past two days hasn't been head-clearing or heart-soothing at all but rather, felt like a furious clawing into more confusion and discomfort. What the hell is happening?

these wells

i am so much more scared now, so much more guarded.

i am hoping you are strong enough to tear down these barriers,

and carry me back to whatever i was before—

open-armed and full,

chin toward the sun—

now i sit, eyes shut and bloated,

wings folded under hallowed ground.

If you have a minute, why don't we go?

I forgot how much easier it is to choose you than the other, even when I don't want to. Thank you for today, thank you for you.

a dull, scratched silence

Grief is....something else. Look at us, reaching hungrily for the next moment, clinging desperately to the last, not once embracing the color of the invisible present. Talking logic, and numbers, and plans, and frantically fitting our mash of heartstrings and tears into boxes and charts. Immeasurable things. And in my selfishness, I'm watching, wondering which one of us will be next, and what it would be like if I were truly, truly alone. Tiptoeing and whispering. "Don't touch that, you'll break it." These things.

from earlier

I have to admit, I have spent the last thirteen days in some sort of sweltering rage that didn’t have the courage to reveal itself other than through sputtering, ugly bursts of tears that were tiring, and terrible.

It came to the point where I let you—who we’d all accepted as hopelessly arrogant—get to me, and for a moment there, I let myself think that I was the mindless, wandering, timid fool you think I am. I mean this exactly as I say it: Psshhh.

Pshhh to several men in my life who have let me down, one above all. I was a fool, chasing your love and protection like a nine-year old lost on the boardwalk. I was a fool, believing that you owed me filial affection, believing that you were the panacea to everything that may/may not have gone wrong in my life! Pshh, to you. We don’t need you, and we never had. The strongest woman I know raised me to be strong. Strong like crying when you mean it, unashamed, and with passion. Strong like several jobs and a heart bigger than her ribcage should house. We are better than fine. We’re strong. As for the other thirteen? I’m hoping they’re sane enough to stay far away. (That one verse comes to mind, and I guess for now…I’d be happy to “honor you” from afar. Far, far, away…)

I will listen to Aretha Franklin and Tina Turner and Billie Holiday, and know that I can love you and never see you again, all at once. The rage has passed; now, to indulge in this Thursday’s sunshine, just me, longboard II “Liz”, and our furious lust for life.

ok, so...

Maybe I've been fibbing a little. It has been about eight days since I've had five minutes to hear my own thoughts. Now, I have had about four hours and 35 minutes to myself, and I feel trapped in a sort of tumultuous silence. Maybe it's not all silence.

I realized sometime between a shower and my lunch—peanut butter on wheat—that I might say too much on here; that all six or seven people that may read this on occasion are likely to think I'm a less sane than I once was. "Don't worry, I'm fine."

It is 3:38pm in Boston. Does afternoon begin immediately after 12pm? Is 12:01 considered "the afternoon"? I'm pretty sure I would consider it noon. Perhaps I've been wrong all this time. Well, here's to the afternoon.

I will be broke in five days. I am jobless. My mom is generous, but not that generous. I wanted this time to be on my own, anyway. It's been rewarding. Sort of. My dreams are more vivid—I think it's the absence of street noise. My view? A sprawling landscape of California rooftops and South San Franciscan fog. A backyard home to overgrown grass, a broken lawn mower, a mossy wooden bench that once belonged to a quaint little set of lawn furniture (but now houses ants and spiders), and a broken fence. There is a cage on my window.

I put up a few posters and photographs to make the guest room feel like home. I spread my red blanket from school across the queen-size, and my sort-of ugly quilt-fabric pillows against the wall. It's alright, I think. I have my music and I just bought some cheap oil pastels. I needed to invest in things to do that won't necessitate leaving the house.

It feels colder here than it does during Seattle's winter, mostly because of wind chill. I should keep spare jackets and pairs of shorts in my trunk. Wind in the morning, sun in the afternoon.

I need to find a place to run. And somewhere warm to read. I need a job.

paz

Jobless, living on two gallons of gas at a time,
more content than I could ever be.
Alone, but not lonely.
Woke up; you haunted my dreams,
but I've decided that's not your fault,
and there are better things to worry about.
Empty houses,
no clocks ticking,
and I can see my breath indoors.
More content than I could ever be.

i miss home.

Here (which isn't that far away)
people laugh at all the wrong things,
and i am foolish,
and i lose that sparkle that you saw in me,
and i make more mistakes than i can count (or at least they say so)
here,
i do not belong—
among blood veins and past friends,
i am a stupid stranger,
a smothered, struggling failure,
swimming in defeat
Here (in a place that should be called my other home)
i am nothing—
and not in that woe-is-me sort of way,
but i am less than invisible,
i am the paragon of idiocy,
a stumbling, bumbling mess,
when with you,
i soared gracefully under the stars.
with you,
i embraced 'neon nights' and looked forward to the night's warm smiles,
now—
night is that horrible time, when we all sit around the table
and laugh at people that i love,
and mock the weary,
and judgejudgejudgejudgejudge.
But you love! (me?)
You do, I know you do—
but only when they live up to par.
I hate ones like this,
the ones that make me cringe and feel gutless.
I wish I was with you,
where I float and feel full—
not trapped here,
in this loud vacancy
i should call my other home.

a tribute to those "neon nights"

Ah, and this is where we find ourselves,
Me—the silly pretend poet
and You, who turns words to liquor
(yeah, i'm quotin you in my title)
And it's all over before it began,
a startling blink,
a hazy stare
at that sad, beautiful reach
for soulmates and lovers
and friends and foes
one night too many,
ain't never too many—
to my girls,
to Our Year,
to our "neon nights"

Raise them glasses, bear pack.

no more please

three out of twelve
nine left
i cant
do this
anymore

sprinklers

For the first time, I've been awake and sane enough to hear the sprinklers going off outside.
(Remember that one time, at the skate park, and the sprinklers?)
Everything is wrapping up nicely.
(If that sounds too blasé, forgive me)
I have an empty sun ahead of me, and hours to kill
(Except for that noon on Monday deadline, that I will deny until midnight)
I am at peace with myself, despite next week's impending doom
(Perhaps I could have put that pink shaker to use)
Not a drop of caffeine this week
(In exchange, many deep, sweaty sleeps)
Too much warmth for my own good
(This post worsens as I type)
I should sleep soon
(But sleeping is such a waste of time)
Missing you, all of you.

heinz

For a second,

I forgot myself,

and willingly dived back in,

to whatever that was, whatever you were

But like she said,

I think I ran out of tears for you awhile back.

Deep inhale, new day—

Today is breathtaking,

and I can't wait to reap its sunshine.

To all of you,

Thank you for letting me glimpse into your heart:

"when your hearts yearn, mine does too...

my body [erupts] in angry flames
at this abuse inflicted upon angels and throbbing wings..."

You have changed my life.

I am spoiled,

surrounded by too much beauty and love,

like my heart's about to burst

like my bones can't hold you in.

but like the princess in her tower,

i can't help feeling like something's missing,

like my love's going to waste.

tumult

I feel sick, like Phaedra—
dizzy, unsettled, and nervous.
"I want you to want me."

It's really easy to laugh at myself when I write like this;
like an extended facebook status,
like anyone else would read this.
I just miss you.

so maybe i overdramatize.

But I think it makes life exciting,
and all that I really really really want to do is ask you how you're doing,
and how you're liking spanish wine,
and if you've ridden a horse yet,
and if you've taken any photographs (can i see them?)
but i want you to answer Yes or No, and leave it at that
so I can be sure that I'm playing it safe
But even a smile would probably kill me,
so maybe it's best we email?
but i wouldn't be able to stand that!
the anticipation, the sweaty palms
so maybe we should skype
but how to arrange?
what's the time in madrid anyway? (midnight)
i didn't google that. shut up, i didn't!


okay.
maybe somewhere down the road,
we will stretch smiles across our faces again.
we will place our wallets under coffee tables,
and squint into the sun,
fighting about music and lyrics.
maybe somewhere down the road,
you will tell me about the girl you love
(I hope you love someone someday)
and I will tell you about the boy I love.
(I hope someone someday loves me like I loved you)
and we will smile like true friends,
(or something)
(and stay away from movies and couches.)
maybe...

the pursuit of happiness

As the end of the quarter nears, it's only appropriate that I reflect on all the wonderful things I've learned. But I won't, because it is a sunny Friday and there are much better things to do. I just needed to write, needed to feel that sense of accomplishment that finishing a post gives me when finishing a paper doesn't.

How fantastic is our pursuit of knowledge? Whether you're an architect, teacher, engineer, or poet, in the end, all that any of us want to do is understand, discover, and relay to others what we believe to be the true nature of the human condition. In this sense, we are fabulously self-centered beings—but I don't care! I think this is where I find fulfillment—not in acquiring facts, but in pursuing them, and questioning, and settling into that bottomless groove of not-knowing. Nicholas of Cusa theorized that there was never an end to any subject matter, that with every answer to a question came an infinite number of more unanswered questions, and like Socrates, understood that the greatest, truest wisdom rested in understanding that we know NOTHING. How phenomenal! How amazing! How absolutely breathtaking is the idea of knowledge itself? The world is so beautiful, isn't it? Despite the cruel nature of politics, poverty, homelessness, and all the other problems in the world, there is some magnificence in how desperately we seek solutions, how hungrily we search for clarity. There may never be an end, but for now, let's raise our glasses in praise of our relentless pursuit!

Humans rock.

oh, how he loves us

i think it'll be okay.
basking in the love of my father;
crossing fingers with an upward glance.

ah, sinking in

i was building "castles of sand" in my heart and my head
but your dainty sea-shell hands could not shape the towers and buttresses
they told me about the tide,
they warned me about the storm,
and i smiled happily, trusting that you were that one,
the one that would keep me afloat
and like the rest,
you are a little disappointing,
(still precious to me)
and have a lot of growing to do.
i think i know why you're always sailin' alone.

if i were a scientist...

It's getting tiring—
this whole, fist-clenching thing.
I am trying to figure out why
(or when, or where) you stopped.
I am trying to believe the best without expecting
I'm trying to be patient,
and hope that you are the man you should be.
But it's getting tiring.
Some days I forget that I've met you,
Some days I sit quietly and smile,
pretending that porcelain cracks easily,
and apathy is easy (cowardly).
I'm acting like I don't know you,
and that I've forgotten,
but you are there,
a small, fragile chip
in my once-perfectly postured shoulder,
you are there.
And everyone will tell me I don't need you
Or that they will look with sympathetic eyes (pity)
at the sad "broken girl whose father forgot her"

Or there will be ones like you,
who think that love is the most ridiculous of human things
that we should all believe in proteins instead.

I wish that science could explain this gaping hole in my stomach, (heart)
that I could explain why you're not here,
why you are even more distant than you were when I did not know you,
I wish that I were a scientist.

Maybe you are a scientist.
Maybe you know more than me,
that we are social creatures,
that family is a social construct,
that everything is an institution
created by mankind
to control our natural (what?)

I want answers

I want you.

Even if it means waiting forever
even if it means scratchy throats and swollen lungs
Even if you never loved her
even if you are better at lying than me

There is part of me (is this natural? can you diagnose my problem?)
If only we were scientists.

is it dumb to blog about a midterm?

Absolutely floored—
and blank stares and margins
on white paper seem darker
than January, when I thought I would never see myself again.
wondering...
why we're so worried,
why we're so wary,
why we're so...
wide-open in the worst of times
and frightened, timid creatures in the best.
my brain is numb,
but my heart's still full,
and i am just looking forward to seeing you.
always villain until proven prince.

green lights

it's been awhile since i've driven home at five a.m., birds chirping in welcome and heat turned up so high i can't breathe.
it's been awhile since i've held a real hand and smiled like i meant it.
tonight was perfect.
perfect friends, perfect talking, perfection—
in that messy, bruised sort of way that makes everyone more comfortable,
and real.
tonight was home.

scizzors

seattle is beautiful and breathtaking, in all its grey-green wonder, and i can't believe i'm leaving so soon.
(pause here, i'm sorry if i didn't tell you about my secret weekend get-away; i was short on time!)
one day of coffee, laughter, (random road trip), and mysterious skies is all i needed to remember where my heart is
(pause again, i didn't mean to be so poetic in such a casual post)
i am just blessed, and i don't think there's a better way to put it—
today i met with several people who have changed my life radically in very small ways,
and my heart feels like it's about to burst!!!
i can't wait,
i can't wait,
i can't wait for the future
and following my heart!!
and loving what i do and doing what i love!
wow.

i can't wait!

i can't help but wonder if i'm doing anything worthwhile.

i think that's all i had to say.

glimpses and sweat

You are beautiful.
Like a soft twinkle in the blackness,
Like a rose petal in the mud,
Like a single flame in a snowy cave,

Oh my gosh, how you shine.

"But above all, I wish you love."
You taught me the meaning of an embrace,
The power of one deliberate glance,
and how to see beauty in the ugliest of places.

Your heart is so big sometimes.
I'm worried it will explode.
But if it did, it would be something like this:

A brilliant confetti of golds and reds,
Showering and shining
Like goldfish scales and pearls.

A sparkling myriad of color and light,
And beauty so great we'd all be blinded.

(We'd live better that way, anyway—"Why can't we just judge each other for our souls?")

You are not a doormat,
Or even a doorway,
But an ornate portico,
With sunshine searing through its columns
And thick marble floors,
And aged leather couches
Sitting next to tall stacks of books
On oak sidetables with coffee mug-rings.

You are wonderful, welcoming
You are my hero, my friend, my sister
You are a blessing.
Thank you for your love,
Thank you for your life.

observations

there is a man with a Mohawk, two rows ahead. A real Mohawk, with his head shaved on the sides. he’s two rows ahead, chugging pbr and letting the last bit drip down his throat. two rows ahead, he smacks his lips and I accidentally make eye contact with him. sharks jersey and squinty eyes, like he’s seen too much today. eye contact again. awkward. two rows ahead. the train stops for a bit, the announcer mumbling station names across the speakers. buzzing fluorescent lights, unflattering for everyone. we all look like zombies, washed out and tired. no one would guess that today was beautiful.

contrary

There is some quiet, secretive joy and peace that exists only on Saturday mornings. It's exciting to be awake before the rest of the world. There were only two of us in the library basement for the first two hours, tapping dragged-out words on our keyboards, fighting the morning drowse. I can't find the words for what I need to today, but this is enough for me, I think.

Today I want to run. I've never been good at running (short legs, awkward pacer, super susceptible to shin-splints), so it should be quite the endeavor. I don't think I really know where the Campus Loop is. Hm.

Currently listening: (free on iTunes!) "Something Good Can Work" by Two Door Cinema Club.

horses

Today is fresh and windy, and I couldn't help but think (pray) that the breeze would carry my smile across the world, to you. I hope you're riding horses. I hope you're living your dream and loving your dream. Well, you've always loved your dreams. I can see you now, eyes sparkling and peering over moonlit Spanish rooftops. With that warm, lopsided grin. No, maybe that complacent frown. Either way, you are there! You're there. I wish the breeze could carry my love to you.

I hope you're riding horses. I hope you've felt the dirt on your feet, I hope you've bronzed your forehead and callused your fingertips, I hope you're happy. Ganas. That is what you've always had in most of you. So much, that you laughed at the thought of riding horses. (That's not what Spain's for.)

I will always believe that horses are Spain—but there you go again, with your functions and logic. Still. However you find happiness, whether it be in counting bricks and crumbled stucco or touching the thigh of some exotic Spanish coquette, I hope you find it.

I hope you're enchanted by the music and bustle, the conversations and food. I hope you will let yourself be enchanted. Somewhere across the world, you are sleeping soundly in a foreign home, or walking on stony sidewalks, or sitting next to a window, measuring the distances between stars and dreaming about her.

Today is fresh and windy, and I hope you're riding horses.

deliberate

Excuse me, sir—may I try on that pair?
Yes, over there.
They fit snugly behind my lids,
Blinking, squinting, squeaking.
I rub them a little—no grit, so smooth (hmm)
New eyes.
Excuse me, sir—how do You keep these on?
They are too good to be true!
They see too much good to be true!
Excuse me, sir—are You sure these are for me?
They've always been?
You would love for me to have them?
Sir, I don't think I deserve these.
Besides, they're a little strange.
Everything looks brighter,
everything looks better,
everyone looks so...lovely.
Are these real?
Blinking, squinting, You nod with a smile.
I'll be sure to take care of them.
Free of charge?
Like You said, they were always meant for me?
Okay. Okay, sir. Whatever you say.
Stepping out into blinding rays (no longer squinting)
I am finally seeing (or trying)
with Your eyes.

Thank you, sir.

Joy.

I woke up smiling today. You know those days when you decide you're going to be happy? Today was one of them. I'm seeing a tiny glimpse of what you've been throwing in front of me this entire time! Thank you. I barely have words—bliss? No, too superficial. Happy? Not enough! So...joy. Joy and all that comes with that. Agape, all around.

congested

virtue for the virtuous—
what good is the truth if it's not acted upon?
knowledge of justice does not indicate the just,
wisdom is not wisdom without action.
perhaps I am not who I thought I was.
I am squinting,
peering through the clamor of the valley,
catching glimpses of the greatness to come.
storing sunbeams behind my ears
and polishing,
so much polishing.
Glaze, glossy
The Unquenchable Thirst
for
what
i think
i knew all along.
Abandonment of one
and my pursuit of another
and hoping
trusting
that it was just the fog all along.......

little bits of metal

Four hours the night before last, four last night, and I managed to wake up at seven and hear the early commute and bustle. Crossing my fingers for sunshine and an excuse to wear my Mexican poncho.

Lower back pains still there, taking ibuprofen like an addict. Well, not really.

And is it terrible that I'm from Seattle and don't really like the Dave Matthews Band? Sorry guys.
Missin' all the right people.

sunny

You win. (Didn't know we were competing in the first place.) You win.
Relative pain. Relative loss. Relative love.
I guess mine is insignificant. My love, that is.
Irrelevant.
Not as real as yours.
Hm, okay then. If that makes you happy.
I think it does. Knowing that you see more darkness than others.
Hm. I never pretended to know more than I do.
Self-centered insensitivity.

You can win that one.

For now, I'll sit peacefully in the sunshine.

lower back pains

Feeling old, thinking about being old. I'm starting to feel passionate again—and I'm terrified. (Since when does that happen?) I'm starting to set goals, and dream big, and feeling that same hope and fear I felt when I was a junior in high school. Dangerous.

Studying for finals this quarter isn't as bad as I thought it would be. I cannot study around other people. It's actually impossible. My fault, not theirs. I wish I knew more about designing in Photoshop.

My heart feels like it's going to burst! There are so many things I want to do, so many things I want to see, and all at once! Ahh. Back to endless charts and illegible handwriting...

the invention of the highlighter

As of three hours ago, my back has been experiencing sharp, spontaneous pains that I can only attribute to my failed attempts at keeping up with Kerry's volleyball workout regimen. I've slipped comfortably into an unhealthy sleep schedule, exchanging shut-eye time for music and laughter. It's fine. I feel more "me" that way, anyway. A little loopy. A little disillusioned.

Squeezing highlighters or similar objects during exams has proven beneficial to test-takers. By gripping something, blood flow increases and one becomes more focused. I wonder who invented the highlighter. Pause. Here: http://inventors.about.com/library/inventors/blpen.htm . Okay.

Back to the textbook, back to the smell of new pages and brain sweat.

hollow

My eating habits are getting stranger and stranger.

"There was a time we lived in truth, let's bring it back."

Excited for the weekend.

dog-eared

I like crushing book spines and wrinkling pages.

I like highlighting and doodling in margins.

(Power in destruction)

(False knowledge)

Yum.

bumblebees

A buzz, a buzz, a small short buzz—I lost the shirt you gave me, and I'm sadder than I thought.
I thought I would have more to say, as a girl in a plaid vest and sunglasses, when the weather calls for a much less tragic clash of clothes. If I could write without inhibition I would, but even so, writing calls for carefully placed letters and words, that terrify me—who's reading? I check often, and you're never there. A few small numbers, you're never there.

But what is to be expected? You don't fall out of love with someone within a week. Well, some people do. But I am not one of them. I slept early last night, around 9pm—the earliest I've slept since I was ten years old, and I woke up at 11pm with a frightening jolt. You had crept into my head again, stealing happiness away like a magician. I thought of you, and how you ___ and how you ____ and how you ____, and couldn't stop smiling/laughing/crying; sometimes I forget about you, and that almost scares me more than remembering you.

I am slowly picking up pieces (could I have used anymore hackneyed of a metaphor?) of what we once were, and seeing how broken they had been in the first place. I'm remembering every small grimace, and scoff, and frown you'd cast me, and then, all over again, feel that suffocating, heavy remorse that I always felt when I decided to let you back into my life.

The voices I heard tonight were meaningless and empty, despite curious questions and lingering eyes, I still miss the way you looked at me, although it may have been just as vacant as theirs. I still miss it, but am trying to miss it less and less. I've been writing songs about you "letting me set myself free" but it's really not about that. You never held me long enough for me to fight, I had always willingly wrapped my arms around you and held onto you in fear of being alone. Love...

I love(d) you.

two twenty-one

Sitting in the basement in stifling silence. Midterm tomorrow, which I'm not prepared for (yet have every reason to be). Resorting to pictures and children's stories to study—I was foolish to think Sunday School prepared me for this one. Although everything is redundant and familiar, their condescending tones and smart-aleck answers keep ringing in my head, haunting me, and preventing me from actually studying the material. Dang.

The scars on my hand are healing. My back hurts, and I think I know why. Ridiculous. I went to Massage Envy today, and had a short Asian man give me a deep tissue massage; it was phenomenal! I recommend everyone go to a massage studio at one point in their life. Mhmm. I should put more lotion on my hands, and guitar is not a beautiful passion in the least...my fingertips are so, so callused.

Waiting for my camera to come back.
Blank brain.

footrest

I've grown accustomed to this sort of quiet—
The sporadic growl of a motorcycle,
The frightening scream of sirens,
City sounds in a suburban town.

Sipping coffee,
turning Pages,
falling in love with You,
I am content.

a very strange enchanted boy

Listening to songs with AMAZING lyrics, and unoriginal musicality, and happily proving you wrong.
Love Nat King Cole.
It feels abnormal to be this happy right now, but I am.
Hm. :)

degrees

Missed my morning class, thought it was going to be one of those
"woke up, and wished that i was dead" mornings,
but it wasn't and it isn't, and i'm looking forward to the sunshine.
If it rains this week I'm going to be very upset.

trouble sleeping, trouble waking

Like ripping off a Band-aid. I haven't listened to music in a real way since I saw you.
I was selfish for keeping it to myself, and now that it's yours, I've been floating around like a ghost.
I want this hollow feeling to subside, I want to be filled with joy and laughter and smile—!
(Like the way I smiled around you)
And I just want to feel like...me again.
I keep waiting for phone calls that shouldn't come,
and won't.
I keep wanting to relive that final moment,
or day, or whatever—
it was like you were dying, and only I knew.
and I had to love you with all of me before you left.
And I am tired of pseudo-Romeos—
I think part of me misses you and your...robotics.
You don't believe in dreams,
and dreams (nightmares) of you are all I have left.
Ironic.
I just. miss you.
—but don't want you! don't need you! (can't want you, can't need you)
threadbare heartstrings, and neck bruises
and remembering.
please make it stop, all of it.
I'm mourning something—someone—that was dead long before
either of us realized it,
and I can't. stop.

chai, and then some

Conditional kindness is a little tragic.
It's easy to tell with some people.

dazy gaze through the eyes of blue

I can't stop smiling! Dead Mickey Mouse is on Quin's back, head cocked at an inhuman angle, staring blankly at all of us like he wants to kill us. And the voice. Take the backpack out of the room. All I can think of is Danny from The Shining staring at blood-spattered mirrors—WHY!

So dorm life is a little strange, I guess. The five of us have been sitting here for at least three hours, trying to do homework—we even had a quiet time countdown!—and all we've done so far is reminisce about high school, giggle about boys, and try really hard to forget that it's only Monday.

I think the only enjoyment that anyone will get out of this post is Quin; it's the first time I've included someone's name in my blog! Quin's wearing that "So 2013" shirt, the one that all the freshman get, the one that I've lost.

I just promised my good friend breakfast at 9:30am, and am proud of myself. Mornings have always been a challenge, but look at me now! A bold adventurer in the face of wake-up time, saying "I WILL DEFEAT YOU!" Okay, it's probably been one energy drink too many... Goodbye, goodbye.

beginnings

I have a six page draft due on Wednesday, and am currently experiencing Writer's Block. In hopes of alleviating this, I drank a bottle and a half of water, chugged a 16 oz. Americano, and listened to Animal Collective, to no avail. As a result I have a headache...and have to pee. Awesome.

The coffee on campus has never tasted good. On the rare days this quarter that it has been up to par, I've been too busy huffing and sweating my way to the Arts and Sciences Building to experience it fully. I know grumbling this much should be a sin when our campus is the size of a large shopping mall, but I just...miss...Starbucks. Ha, I can see you now, you silly coffee connoisseur, turning your nose up and scoffing. (Starbucks isn't real coffee!) Maybe so, but I miss it nonetheless. Seattle stereotype #1 fulfilled.

And coffee is all I've been craving this entire week! With Santa Clara's recent bout of sporadic rainstorms, all that any of us have wanted to do is curl up with a nice cup of Joe, and watch Edward Norton films,  in the meanwhile, pretend we're disturbed by all the violence, when in reality...we're enjoying it. Perhaps I'm speaking for myself. Self-appointed crazy points...

I'm only blogging with the faint ambition that my brain and fingers will warm up, and I'll be able to write this silly paper that I was so excited about three days ago. Badabababa...I'm loving it.

the greatest thing you'll ever learn...

"...is just to love, and be loved in return."

he ate my heart (i love that girl)

Excuse the title. Recently I've developed an addiction to/fascination with Lady Gaga—lyrics:
"That boy is a monster/he ate my heart." Haha.

TGIF, especially with this week's weather. Rawh. And...Happy Birthday Kara & Rob!

I wrote a couple songs this week. (Yes! Two!) Feeling accomplished, but as expected, have abandoned my good sleeping habits (solely birthed from sort-of-strict New Year's Resolutions, and not actual choice)...

Ahh, I can't stop loving.

dissonant

On the last train of the night, trying to filter fresh air through that sometimes-clean train smell—dull and lifeless, like these compartments gave up a long, long time ago, just as the people did. Scars on my hand.........


I saw them yesterday. The cursed, the untouchables, the dirty, sniveling sort—wait. They were smiling and laughing, drunk out of their minds, and almost happy, I think. I was almost envious of their struggle. For hours we walked around, and spoiled as I am, I gawked at the district walls like a toddler, sipping air through my mouth and holding onto it, avoiding cigarette smoke and the smell of vomit like a poodle wading through a sewer. I am terrible. We walked through the “garden,” a poor imitation of sustainable life, a tiny patch of green in a city of gray. The art reached the skies—a teary-eyed Latina girl, a rap artist wearing struggle like bling, and faceless bodies reaching upward, grasping clouds, palms bared. We have always been ashamed of our hands in America.

Sympathy is necessary, no—sympathy is cruel, or beautiful, or something. People do this every week. People do this every day. And here I am, a sheltered, middle-class college kid, whose eyes were jerked open unwillingly—at a frightening rate—and I’m not sure what to think. (What I should think.)

The town is sandwiched between the three richest districts in San Francisco. We literally stood outside a convenience store, and stared across the street...at a Hilton. I don’t understand. You can take five steps and be in an entirely different world.

But they seemed happy, in a way. They were yelling across the street, and up at windows. People walked by each other, slapping each other on the back in greeting—brotherhood...Hmm...ten toothless smiles later, I realized how lame I was. In my head I was feeling bad, I was ridden with guilt, but why? ? ? They smiled more often than a lot of people I've met.

The town smelled like death—well, the town looked like death. People were curled up in stairwells, holey blankets hiding their faces...I don’t think they were happy. Why would they be? (Why wouldn’t they be?) I don’t know. Of course I’ve encountered poverty before! Of course I have seen homeless people. But not like this. Not where there’s no escape. I am terrible. The most I’ve experienced of poverty is walking through a small district in downtown San Francisco...is it strange to want to see more? I don’t know. I don’t know. ......i’m sorry.

dust on the stadium seats

crawling, slowly, to that golden promised land where writers sit, sipping coffee

spinning thoughts into lace

craving coherence and balance,

and losing inhibition without...losing...inhibition

"this is a right not a fight"

more nightmares again,

but more entertaining this time

and cleaner,

and i woke up feeling triumphant

(unsettled)

but victorious nonetheless.

hmmm.

"taken by a nursery rhyme"

i miss smiles on yellow shirts

and morning donuts......

steve from scotland

airports are strange places. everything—everyone—in transit, everyone rushing and waiting and wired and sleepy. airports remind me of romance, and that final scene in all those movies where the main character's lover shows up right before they board the plane, tells them how much they love them (cue the piano music), and blam! forgiveness for the win. (insert crescendo of brass instruments here). wonderful.

i have two luggages and a guitar, along with a huge bag and my camera gear; haven't exactly planned out how i'm going to manage everything, wish me luck avoiding awkwardness and tripping.

again, underslept and glad for it.

strategic

I didn't notice how small my luggages were until now. After two hours of folding, rolling, and shoving, my bags are packed and I have a headache (which is more likely due to my drowning in Americanos today).

One of my contact lenses is blurry, I'm not even halfway through The Shining (where did the time go?), but I'm okay and looking forward to old/new habits—I'm not sure which are which yet...

Crossing my fingers and hoping I don't have to pay for all the extra baggage weight.

Figuratively, too. Ha.

spice

I haven't slept yet. Like what happens every new year, that Death Cab for Cutie song has been replaying in my head over and over, and for once I can't relate to its nonchalance.

"So this is the New Year, and I don't feel any different."

Not that I changed when the clock struck twelve, or that anything spectacular has actually happened to me—but the past month I have learned more about myself than I have this entire quarter. I am learning how important it is to take time for myself, and how much I love waking up to a bright gray sky, and how the kiss of a coffee cup has always been more consoling than yours. Nonetheless, you are still very much...there, and I'm grateful for it. Only time can heal some things.

Happy New Year. Here's to twelve more months of love.