Back Log

So, when I started this little blog, it was a challenge to myself to write something creative every day. And I kept up with it for some time. Then Kristin died, and I lost all enthusiasm for breathing, let alone writing.

But life keeps moving.

And the heart keeps beating, even if it's broken a little bit more than it was yesterday.

It's 2012 now; it's a new year, a chance to start over. I'm getting back to writing every day.

I know that I'm nine days late in this renewed venture, but I figure nine days late is better than not starting at all.

- M.

peace is only found when not even a breath can nestle between us

from the tips of the strands sprouting from your crown

to the far reaches of your toes

to every strategically placed hair on your body

to every skin cell that i can claim

to every millimeter between one feature and another

to every purpose of that which lies beneath

i have yet to find a piece of you,

my dear,

that does not cause my knees to tremble

and my pulse to race

and my breath to collapse,

and i have yet to find a second of every day

i have been blessed enough to share with you,

my darling,

where love is not the driving force behind

every flutter of lashes

and brushing of lips.

how did i survive without you?

and suddenly i am galvanized into fear

self-confidence offended,

reassurance dissolved.

your tongue, your eyes,

your hands,

chisels to the stone

upon which i've come to

rely.

hundreds of thousands

of minutes spent

building,

protecting,

guarding,

undone in a matter of

moments,

the contact of lips,

the brushing of skin.

you have undone

all that

i have worked so hard

to temper.

Hiatus

Due to the unforeseen passing of one of the most beautiful, amazing, lively, and magnificent people I know, I'm taking a small hiatus from writing this blog. It won't be for long, and it won't be forever. I know she would want me to keep writing. I just cannot find the energy, the mental ability, or the enthusiasm to write anything right now. Hopefully soon, she'll inspire me to start again.

I love you and miss you, KG.

- May.

Catch Up

I have returned from Missouri, with daily entries still written, posted below. The trip was wonderful and the flights, both to and from, were quick and painless (I passed out while still on the runway).

11 august 2010

if i lived here,

i'd be home by now.

how we fight and kill

and slaughter to defend our

tiny, infinitesimal section of this

hardened rock.

from a mile above,

it all seems pretty folly,

realizing that what we own

is not what we are,

and all of these things

are anything

but

permanent.

but we continue to kill

and we continue to fight,

unwilling to let go of one of the

only things that makes us

feel like we're bigger than

mortal and more residual

than gods.

but we'll cease to exist.

we'll leave it all behind,

with only the dwindling and idling

memories we have spent a lifetime

creating

remaining.

---------------------------------------------------------

11 august 2010 (post 2)

home is a state of mind,

not a place.

i realized this long ago,

feeling at home in hotel rooms

that smelled faintly of smoke

from twenty years prior,

because my family was with me.

the section of the living room

rug where i always fell asleep

felt more like home than

my bed.

this place doesn't feel like home.

because it is missing you.

and, my darling,

you are light

and you are warmth.

you are home.

---------------------------------------------------------

12 august 2010

i wonder how it'd feel to

be suspended - in time, in space,

in life.

there are moments when

it is more than enticing,

when there wouldn't even be

an ounce of hesitation if i

would but be offered this chance.

then a part of me realizes

the downfall to this idea,

to this state of existence.

peace would be abundant,

i'm sure of it,

but so would apathy.

after all, how can one feel

anything when there is

no reason to feel?

never moving forward

and never moving back.

never moving anywhere.

purpose would be just a memory,

the kind that always lingers

in the back of the mind,

until it becomes the vague outline

of what once was.

perhaps this state of suspension

would be no good after all.

perhaps we have no choice

but to continue to move and

to continue to breathe and

to continue to die and be born.

always destined for heartache,

always destined for loss and grief,

always destined for love and

joy and celebration,

always destined for something.

---------------------------------------------------------

13 august 2010

every baby will grow up

someday.

everyone on this earth was once

microscopic, tucked away inside the

womb of some woman somewhere,

destined for what seemed an eternity

of captivity and hibernation(for what

could you really know of time?)

then, released into the world,

(hopefully with welcoming arms and

opened hearts)

breathed her first breath

of this newly discovered world.

then came a life summed up in a

series of moments:

the first day of school,

the first crush(that will break her heart;

it is inevitable),

the first failed test,

new schools,

new friends,

the first love(who, most likely, will be

suspiciously similar to that first crush

from so many years ago)

and so on, for what seems like forever,

until each moment becomes a memory,

until each memory becomes a story,

passed on and passed down,

until the cycle starts again.

---------------------------------------------------------

15 august 2010 (scribbled after a dream)

he stands in your front yard or when you least expect him. you shake your head and try to wake yourself because surely, this must be a dream. he tells you there is no point. he's real. he's there to stay, to guide you to all of the happiness that have you been seeking. but you must do what he says, this clairvoyant stranger. you tell him that you were going to see a friend and he politely responds that you are not. he explains that your friend is sleeping, having hurt his back, and you will see him tomorrow. instead, he sends you driving down long highways until you always crash, but manage to stay alive. he sends you to a film festival and tells you to buy a year-long membership (because apparently these things exist and you've got a lot to learn).

in the daylight, he looks old and frail. he carries an oxygen tank and his fine, white hair flutters with the lightest of breezes.

but he is still your sage. you must do as he tells you. he will make you a better person. a happier person. he will bring you to everything you want.

---------------------------------------------------------

16 august 2010

they say that distance

and abs(over-whelming)ence

makes the heart grow fonder.

i suppose that i must be extremely

fond of you(though i

did not need much encouragement

to be begin with).

this foreign bed

becomes vaster and more daunting

than the Sahara,

with even less inhabitants.

how i wander,

how i seek you out,

how every inch of me yearns for you.

but you are nowhere to be found

in this strange land.

you are eons away,

resting your head where mine should be,

curled amidst blankets and pillows

that should be my body.

but, my dear, my heart has grown

fonder(i thought it impossible),

suspending visions and memories of you

to keep it warm and keep it safe.

i do not worry, as i wander in

search of you.

i know i will find your arms again.

i know i will find you.

With My Head Against a Pillow, I Concoct the Strangest of Worlds

I had a dream the other night where I was in a strange house, though it seemed vaguely familiar, like there were pieces of it that made me think it was mine. All along this long, long hallway, there were ladders - and no ceilings. In order to progress down this hallway, and there was only one route, you had to climb up each ladder and then climb back down the other side. As I was waiting in line to do this, I was wondering what was taking people so long once they reached the top. After all, dream minutes are very important. Who knew how long it would be before I would wake up and leave this strange world?

My turn finally came. A well-placed foot was planted on each rung, up and up and up, until I reached the top of what seemed to be an impossibly tall ladder. Once I climbed the summit and went to maneuver over to the other side to begin my descent, I realized why people had stopped. Up at the top, you were faced with a wooden wall - like the bare panelling of a house without that insulation that looks suspiciously like cotton candy. Speckled on this wall were pictures - pictures of you, pictures of your loved ones, pictures of your friends.

Memories that you forgotten you had, buried deep in the lost abysses of your brain; memories that were your favorites from when you were small; memories that didn't seem much like memories at all at the time - you know, those moments when you are simply living your life, another day-to-day miracle, where nothing spectacular happens, but damn it, it's special because you're still breathing; memories of moments that had not happened yet. All of these things, captured in photographs of all sizes, some in black and white and some in color. And every time a new person climbed the ladder, these photos would change to reflect their memories.

I went to reach for one of these photographs, but it began to melt as soon as my skin made contact. Maybe I had gained some acidic skin? - after all, this was a dream. Anything was possible. But I realized that I hadn't undergone some nifty transformation and wouldn't become the next superhero (Venom Girl would have been my name, by the way).

I realized that I couldn't take these memories with me because I had to let them go.

This hallway would always be here, always here to house and protect the memories I had collected over time, but that's all they were. They were to stay, glued to this wall, for reminiscing purposes only. I couldn't live in them. I couldn't pretend I was at that moment in time again. They had happened, and what wonderful memories they were. But that's all they were: memories.

After this realization, I sadly climbed my way back down this first ladder, then began to wait in line for the next. After a few moments of thinking, however, I realized that I didn't need to see all these photographs again. I needed to get out of this hallway and into my life. I somehow wriggled my way between the walls of the hallway and these abnormally tall ladders and to the front door, after the last ladder. It was beautiful outside.

I awoke as I opened the door. I had returned back to my life, hoping to see a few added photographs the next time I visited that strange, strange house.

Home Sweet So Long

I had spent my entire life searching for it, and there, across the Atlantic and seemingly across the world, I had found it. Amidst the Mind-the-Gaps and District-and-Circle-Lines and proper pots of tea, I had found it.

Distinctly, I remember slipping in earbuds that were leashed to an iPod, sliding said iPod into my pocket, and strolling (at an acceptably hurried pace) down to the post, perhaps to buy some stamps and a souvenir trinket of sorts. Weaving through throngs of meandering people, past sidewalk cafes that boasted lots of prawn (terrible) and rocket, past hidden windows and doors built into an unobtrusive stone wall at the clashing of past and present, I found it.

I found it in first looking right instead of left when crossing a road; in needing to purchase an extra coin-carrying purse because, for God's sake, why was everything up to £3 in coin form?; in traversing a Waitrose (admittedly not as good as Sainsbury's) and picking up a package of chocolate biscuits for nothing more than 50p; in waiting for friends in front of a large, over-sized memorial to Victoria's late husband, thinking him golden and rather trapped from atop his black steeple; in asking where I could find the Ladies' and having someone understand that I didn't mean to find a group of polite, young women; in purchasing a packet of crisps in the most ridiculous of flavors while tossing back yet another pint of Strongbow (and/or Guinness, though not simultaneously); in staying past last call while in the company of newly-formed friends (and perhaps a fleeting romantic interest), drinking more than I really should, but not regretting a single moment when waking up only a few hours later; in grabbing a pasty on the way to class then later wondering why I had thought it a good idea when frantically trying to find a Ladies' around the East End; in every double-decker bus that I never really took; in every Underground and every Oyster Card and every "top off" station I needed to find; in every smell, every sound, every tiny fleck of air that lathered my skin on that beautiful, entrancing island.

I found it. It was there. Years of unanswered questions seemed all but trivial. The biggest concern I could manage to have was how much time I had before the local opened and if I could manage to scarf down a dinner consisting of oiled noodles, salad, and bread in a reasonably quick amount of time. Tomorrow didn't matter, really, for today was all I needed. It was all I wanted. Please, give me another heaping scoop of this here and now, barkeep. I could ask for no more.

And just as quickly as I had found it, I lost it.

From the wrong side of that tiny, fogged frame that forced me to watch this magnificent world get smaller and smaller, I said good-bye to the only place I've ever felt home. I said good-bye to the friends I made, to the memories created, to the adoration and ardor I felt in a place I'd not known for all of my life, yet could never, ever forget.

I had no choice but to say good-bye.

We Have Lost the Earth

As I drive down these populated roads, and as these colorful dwellings blur past the periphery of my vision, I imagine them gone. I imagine what it must have been like in this place, on this road, when it was nothing more than earth. I imagine what it was like for the first inhabitants to call that spot, and that spot, and that spot home. I imagine horses' hooves trotting down dirty paths, drowned out by the sound of wheels clunking over pebbles and rocks, buried in the terrain. I imagine lovers walking down this path, arm in arm, perhaps a parasol resting atop her delicately hidden shoulder. I imagine life before there was life and whether or not anyone could have imagined what it would be like now.

And then the horrendous sound of a car's outcry steals me back from these halcyon thoughts. I realize I am passing by another monstrosity of a "home," if one could even call it that; after all, how can it be a home when there is more dry wall and cement than people?; than love? I realize that I am passing by another temporal space in which another person will live out his life, having followed in the footsteps of who came before, and having laid down the path for who will come to follow. And then I realize that this is my street, and signaling to the cars around me, I continue my own journey home.

Circles Are Endless

Every time that I wake up, I always think about who in this world is going to sleep. And, conversely, when I go to sleep, I think about who is waking up. It's weird to me to think that, generally, there is an entire world that is busy going about its day while we are in our habitual, nightly comas.

Upon waking, especially now at an early hour, I think to myself that there are people on the other side of this beautiful globe who are winding down their days. They have spent the daylight hours in a concrete and steel building, as I will do while they are sleeping. I picture them coming home to their families, eating food of their respective country, and tucking themselves into bed. Perhaps they watch a movie while falling asleep or snuggle close to a lover. There are hormone-driven teenagers that are fighting the battle against day's darker counterpart, getting drunk and wasting time as if they had an endless supply of it. There are people falling in love for the first time, blushing as he grabs her hand and tells her that he's enjoyed her company. There are mothers singing quiet lullabies to newborn babies. There are lovers quarreling over silly, trivial things that won't matter come the morning.

And as that side of the earth awakes, I will be sliding in between the sheets of my bed, resting my head on the pillow that should have been replaced weeks ago, continuing this cycle of wake and sleep, armed to do it again tomorrow.

When the Metamorphosis Would Not Come, Acceptance Was the Only Answer

I am who I am.

There may be moments where I wish to be somebody else, but I cannot be anyone but me.

My hips crack if I bend over too far. Only one knuckle cracks when I attempt to release the trapped air inside of my joints. My belly bulges more than I would care for it to. My left foot is slightly bigger than my right, which makes finding comfortable shoes a little difficult. I cannot put eyeliner on the same way on each eye as my left one opens up a little wider. When I have cried and gone to sleep afterwards, I wake up with eyes that refuse to open all the way, covered with lids that fold three times instead of two. My right front tooth is chipped because the filling that was put there following a root canal broke away. My cuticles are ripped and tough and all-around unfeminine. The fingers on my left hand are calloused from my many attempts at playing the guitar.

But I am me. I am who I have come to be over these twenty-three years.

I am the girl who hid under the basement stairs, making up stories and games with imaginary friends. I am the girl who found solace in climbing every tree possible, perched in its branches, viewing the world from what seemed a wondrous height. I am the girl who saved earthworms from the dampened piles of leaves that collected at the curb as her father was raking. I am the girl who could be entertained on long car rides with a paper bag full of books, crayons, coloring books, and word games. I am the girl who needed her mother and grandmother to help her hit all of the arcade alligators as they came out of their hiding holes. I am the girl who made her father ride the log flume in Busch Gardens dozens of times, who laughed each and every time he pretended to be surprised when they suddenly plummeted to earth.

I am the girl who spent her time in the library with her friends in high school. I am the girl who had a radio show every Tuesday afternoon. I am the girl who played melancholy songs about love lost and love unrequited, followed by a song that made her dance around the room. I am the girl who went to a predominantly white-bred college located in the middle of the ghetto. I am the girl who struggled with herself and her identity for her entire life. I am the girl who cried herself to sleep because she did not know who she was or, more importantly, why she was. I am the girl who dreamed of a woman she cannot remember, but knew once. I am the girl who contemplated taking her own life because she could not reconcile all of these differences. I am the girl who found renewed hope in life and in people after staring Death in the face. I am the girl who found God through religion, only to lose Him again, then find a form of Him in another religion. I am the girl who still cannot decide what she wants to do with her life or where she wants to go. I am the girl with too many interests and too many hobbies and too short an attention span. I am the girl who cried over boys who broke her heart when she foolishly gave it to them, hoping that "this one" would be different. I am the girl who found love in a man who caught her by surprise. I am the girl who closes her eyes when she kisses this man, even though she could stare at him for days. I am the girl whose hand he takes and squeezes when they are walking. I am the girl who stares through these eyes and inhabits this body.

I am who I am.

You cannot ask me to be more. You cannot ask me to be less. You do not have to accept me for all of these things. You do not have to like me for any of these things.

But I can be no one else.

I can only be

Me.

When it Comes to Desert Islands, Your Brain is the Worst One of All

Cavernous is the only word I can think to describe it. It holds things. It stores them. Sometimes, when nature interferes, the things that are stored are lost or misplaced or forgotten. The more you pile things in, the further back the older things go into the abyss. It is only as big as it can be; you can't stretch rock, you know. It just doesn't work like that.

One may wander into this cavern, though it isn't something I would recommend. And if I did, there would be some kind of Surgeon General's Warning before it. Or a disclaimer of sorts. Just so I can make sure that, if one was to trip over clutter or seemingly useless things - which is almost guaranteed to happen - that person could not sue the owner of said cavern. Because there was a warning. Because that person should really look where she or he is walking so as to avoid tripping. And that extends to all parts of life, really. Watch one's feet.

Cavernous. Another -ous word to describe it would be dangerous. There are random projectiles that fly about without warning and without any kind of purpose. They may be originally attached to the point of focus, but then a piece will break off and roll to something completely different, and that something completely different will go off shooting to another part of the cavern, causing something else to move, and it will continue as such until one is merely clumped like kitty litter into a ball on the floor, covering one's neck from moving parts. You don't want to rip the jugular. I hear that's pretty much fatal.

Yes, I would call it cavernous. I would call it dangerous. I would also call it a prison.

I cannot escape it.

I cannot leave it.

I find that most of my time is spent here, even when on the brink of sleep. It somehow swallows me whole when I am not looking.

If only I could manage to turn out the light.

I Wonder if This is What Michaelangelo Thought As He Painted the Sistine Chapel

I am in the business of creation.

I create visuals using magazines, ink, glue, and sometimes words. I create alternate universes with the stroke of a brush. I create the remnants of a memory - now faded and most likely different from the reality that once existed - with the entertaining viscosity of rubber cement and a few newspaper clippings.

I create feelings that you've never felt before. I create feelings that you buried deep inside when you were small. I create moments of confusion in how I place objects around a blank canvas (I'll give you a hint: most of the time, it's haphazard. I've never been one for planning). I create disgust with the still-sticky spray adhesive that seeped out from underneath a photo that you accidentally get on your finger as you brush it against the canvas (you really shouldn't touch).

I create fantasy worlds with the vocabulary I've learned over time. Colors become fruit and black becomes green. Still, somehow, things seem to make sense - in one way or another. It is the only place in which the non-sensical can be logical. In fact, when things are too straight-forward, you complicate things with what must be hidden symbolism or a cleverly disguised metaphor.

I create a representation of myself, naked and exposed, for all of your eyes to penetrate. You see through me. You rip me apart and take pieces as your own. You criticize every inch of my goosebumped skin, telling me how I can be different and how I should be changed. This figurative body is not to your liking, and you demand that I should act accordingly.

Until I am no longer in the business of creation.

I am in the business of conformity.

Father's Day

Our relationship isn't anything special. We did what most have done in the past and most will continue to do in the future. We weren't the first to create our own kind of waltz, where he was the lead and my feet, too small to follow and understand his movements, perched on top of his. I certainly wasn't the first to cry to songs that talked about getting older, getting married, and being given away. We weren't the first to practice the best way to field a ground ball or catch a pop fly without dropping it (you use your other hand to guard the ball once it's in the mitt). He wasn't the first to co-coach my softball team and to always encourage me, even if I purposely ran slow after getting a hit so that I could eat my melting Italian Ice in the dugout. He wasn't the first to clumsily fumble with my hair when it was long (too long), trying to understand how exactly a braid came to form (this usually happened when my mom was out-of-state). He wasn't the first to concoct strange snacks for me after I got home from school, the most notable (and delicious) being saltines with butter and jelly and his english muffin pizzas. He wasn't the first to cry as he danced with me to "Butterfly Kisses" at my Sweet 16, when my feet were too big to sit on top of his.

No, he wasn't the first to do any of those things - and it'd be foolish to think that he'd be the last. But somehow, it feels as though these memories are ours and ours alone. We both know that there are thousands of other fathers and daughters who have had done the same things, only in their own particular flavor. Yet these are ours. They do not belong to anyone else.

I often wonder how many memories are buried deep in the cranial labyrinth of my brain that I've since forgotten. I wonder if I'll remember them as I get older, or if they're destined to collect cerebral dust as they fall to the wayside. Perhaps it doesn't matter whether I can recollect them all or not; perhaps the point is that they're there, they exist, and maybe that is enough.