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I’m a lo cation. Come sit with me, darlin', and please take off your coat. Tell me adventures of the sun and the moon and whatever else comes in pairs or attractions. Remember to give me those five stars before you go.
a lo tus, a lo cust persistent in the mud of a dried up ocean.
I’m a lo ading dock.
I’m a lo wering sun, and you don’t have to worry about me: consistency is my horizon, predictability my city. And remember those stories? I'm a pair with the moon and the stars and the absence of sound, and until I rise in the ash of proximity, I’ll always be.
I walk over dried worms, the day after rain, and wonder if their lives (defined by these last moments) were courageous or moronic. I wonder if I am the splinter or the lion—and who would be the splinter? Doesn't someone have to be?
I crawl on my hands and knees to find the river. Trees grow from its overflow. There has been too much rain this week. There has been too much rain this week. Where are the silver linings—the tree in front of me grows proudly as the water laps around its thighs. Ah, I muse, I think I understand the splinter.
Two trains come by. Two trains thunder through this railroad town, and they whisk the chocolate dirt. The earthquakes scare the geese. They blow by like dried leaves, and there, there is the sound of the river. Here [in the stillness] is the display of hope.
I cry in front of the river, longing to sing alongside chickadees—I do not know enough happy songs. I cough with the crows, instead: I do not know enough happy songs.
But I know train songs, leaving songs, lonely songs, wounds-bleeding-out songs, and maybe they will water the dirt and grow a happy tree. Maybe it will grow somewhere there isn’t supposed to be a tree, or a river will migrate somewhere there isn’t supposed to be a river—perhaps we are everything we are not—and someone will pass by it, take a breath, and feel like they can hold it for another year.
When I crawl to find the sun, I grab a broken bush end. My hands are cracked, hibernating with the dead grass, the dried leaves. I wonder if it is perhaps stillness before the flight—the growth. Oh, I smile, I think I understand the splinter.
I went out with some girlfriends, and we gave an intoxicated but enthusiastic rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody that had the small bar cheering and laughing - and the look on their faces when I hit that high note! I'm really fond of that night. Therapy has been ripping me open to leave me constructing a new skin, but I feel as if I am finally working towards a better version of myself. My therapist has been having me write letters, since I can't really get closure any other way. I've been writing a lot of letters. I stayed in bed for a week, was stupid and missed a quiz. I forced myself out to a murder mystery and actually solved the murder. I felt very Sherlock-y. I went running and cried under an overpass; I can't run from myself. I painted a canvas for the purpose of imperfection and found so much relief in it, after I could just sit with it. I am going to a psychology conference in Chicago, and my boss wants to see about maybe publishing a paper on my work, once we tweak my stats model a bit. I worked my butt off on this work project and forgot to prioritize a midterm, and I think I didn't do the best on it. I started to look at grad schools, and I'm terrified. But honestly, I feel alive, an electric current of ups and downs on a heart monitor which I can only observe in awe. This is living. Welcome. This is also dying. Welcome. Would life really be the beautiful, radiant thing it was if we weren't racing time to touch every corner of it?
I've actually, surprisingly, really been enjoying editing. I still suck at it, as a disclaimer. I've shifted from poetry to more prose. Documenting thoughts. Though poetry still finds its way in there. So maybe they will never be interesting enough to post. Sometimes, I miss posting. A lot of my pieces aren't top quality. They aren't mind-altering. Don't put much stock in them if they find their way into your notifications... please. I will tuck them into their own corner. I just feel like if I don't post something soon, I never will. Everything will always feel inferior to what I once wrote, because it's no longer easy. It no longer comes like magic. Many papers have been shredded and thrown in my new writing process. But it's healing, too, and maybe I need to get it out of me. As a sneak peak of the weirdness: I'm currently working on writing about snails as a metaphor for love, and it's in in the style of a children's book. Like, what? So... please just ignore me. I take inspiration from anything these days. You may never have to be subjected to that... we'll see how it turns out, and if I like it.
Matt released his new album. The week after he teased it I was already hoarding each song as the album slowly came out. The one below was the first one I stumbled across, and it's special to me. This new album has a mature shift, wrapped up in some blues, and his voice makes me want to put two hands around a warm coffee cup in my brisk, November valley. I'm thinking about buying some snowshoes and hiking when the snow comes. I love these mountains. I can recognize them immediately on the three hour bus ride home from the cheaper airport.
I guess the point is that I'm trying. I'm messing up, but I'm also succeeding, and still finding something to enjoy in the process. And maybe I'll never stop being a mess, but maybe no one does. I think that's okay. I think it's okay as long as we're still trying. There is no success without failure, no happiness without first knowing there is sorrow. Life is just a giant teeter totter. You might as well laugh with the ups and downs, where you can. Enjoy the moments you can, and when they're too sad then try and enjoy the process.
p.s. LadyLincoln is leading lung cancer awareness for November. It's not too late to show support and spread awareness, if you'd like to. It's also a nice show of support for those who have had personal losses due to this cancer. I am having the hardest time linking the thumb and the url, so I apologize, but it's over on her page.
21 years growing. Forest-dweller, friend of the moon, shy hermit crab... a pagan, seeking. I howl to coyotes at 1 in the morning and am a self-proclaimed music-swimmer (mostly, I drown). Admittedly, I'm not very interesting, but I am fairly friendly. Feel free to drop me a line. Or a poem. Or your favorite song.
my activity on this site can be compared to guerilla warfare:
I'm currently a junior on the path to pursuing my B.S. in psychology, where I will then aspire for my PhD. I'm a research assistant split between labs, studying sleep and the effects of concussions. (Why yes, I need to learn how to say "no" sometime. But it's bringing in the money.)
trees, racing rivers, singing poorly to the moon, Lord Huron, Dead Poets Society, Pride and Prejudice, ambiguity.
nullibicity: n. - the state of being nowhere; non-existence.
My favorite word-weaver (I'm biased and not sorry):
Favorite moviesdead poets society, pride & prejudice, wild, into the wildFavorite TV showsschitt's creekFavorite booksa walk in the woods, jane eyreTools of the Tradeshaking hands and a growing mindOther Interestsphilanthropy, becoming a tree, trees, and trees. oh, look: trees