futile

Low-hanging clouds settle upon hills, white chocolate and ripe raspberry filling.  Frosting on grass.  Soft light coming in through a window.  Cups of warm liquid and feet bundled into thick socks.  Leaves losing chlorophyll.  A good story, the kind worth getting lost in.  Calico skies.  Early sunsets.  Fogged-up glass.  Wheels on a wet street.  Colors made richer in the gloom. 

This morning I woke up and the world was new.  And I would say that I'm happy.  That's what I would say if anyone asked me.  I'd say that I'm happy in the present, here and now, in that way I often find it difficult to be happy.  But that isn't always the point, is it?

Potential.  Growth.  All of these words I find exhausting and self-righteous and braggy, like the kind of people you might too often find at the gym.  Pain, but the kind that refines.  The kind that you feel after you've done anything worth doing.  Peace.  But the real kind.  That peace of God that "passeth all understanding."

These are the things my mind gravitates back to, between sessions of prime-time television and sleep.

And they all make happy sound futile.  Like a pop song after a summer storm.  Like refined sugar after biting into the season's most perfect nectarine.

stickittodemaneosis.

There are some struggles that I'm convinced will always be a struggle. Some parts of me that will always be a little bit broken.  And I've accepted this.

Because human beings were simply not meant to be happy every moment of the day.

Sometimes it is brave to be happy, but other times it's just impossible.
That's nobody's fault.

I don't think that I'll ever be someone who conversation or human interaction in general comes naturally to.  I lack the charisma and self-assurance.  And I don't mean that in a negative way, I'm just saying it.

I'm not charismatic.  I'm not generally confident.
These are the facts.

I'm neurotic and think in circles until I tangle up.  A select few find it endearing, and know how to unwind me from my own thoughts.
The rest are generally turned off.
Again, just facts.
But charismatic people have always made me nervous.  You know?

Probably not.

It's just that it always proved difficult for me to determine
whether they were being sincerely charming
or simply charming me out of their way.

Because their smiles look the same in either situation.
And I can't understand that.
I have enough trouble smiling for pictures when I don't feel like it.  It never works.  I just look like I'm in pain.

All I'm saying is, I know what you're thinking.
But you and I have a very different definition of fun.
I wish you'd stop acting as if happiness were the point, because it isn't.  It never has been.
The point is being able to face the reality - That things here aren't perfect, and never will be.  That, sometimes, really terrible things happen.

That I'm human and I'm broken, in some ways, and I'll probably never know how to make a room of people laugh.  That it isn't about what's fair, it's about what we were meant to learn.
The point is to be able to accept all of this without throwing your hands in the air and giving up.   

We moved to the valley,
We had a great view
Until the housing developments
Spread out and overgrew.

As far as our debts go,
We're a few dollars shy.
But we'll pay it off slowly
Until we eventually die.

I meant to call you 
Just the other night.
But I lost my
Electronic device
Don't have any numbers
Memorized. 

it's probably my fault.

It's coming on quick.  We're getting to it now.  The point that you've been pushing me toward.  The point where I'm going to have to tell you "No."  Where I'm sure you won't understand. 

And we'll always remember this as the moment where you and I were never the same.

circle of influence.

if you had a flavor,
it would be initial sweetness
with a lingering taste of melancholy.

I'm not chronically miserable.  
it's just never been so effortless 
for me to simply feel happy.

a hunger to understand myself, it dictated my every thought until I grew old.  and what for?  we aren't made to comprehend ourselves; we're strangers here.  unaccustomed to the ways of this world.

we're ill-equipped for lasting beauty.  we can get on without credit and fortune and applause.   we need only keep in mind, When we are in the service of our fellow beings, we are only in the service of our God.

excessive usage of the word "tired"

The funny thing about people today is that they're against the very ideas that give them the right to be against any idea in the first place.

This week, I'm tired of my words hitting the ground with an almost-audible "thump."

This week, I'm not talking much or really opening my mouth unless necessary.  Except for when this happens:

This is my husband, wearing my favorite hideous puppy thrift store find night gown.  He just came out in it last night.  And for snorts and giggles, let's just pretend that he's in the middle of saying, "Let me explain.."

But I'm open to caption submissions.

This week, I'm tired of wanting to be nice, only to end up feeling quite rude.  And it's only Tuesday.

this is temporary.

It is a rare occasion that I'm shiny, bright or bubbly.   My default face is far from a smile; on the contrary, it is often mistaken for anger or depression.  I get caught up in obscure ideas, and am often mentally absent, my thoughts having taken me somewhere else.  But, truly and honestly, I'm mostly always happy.  That is, happy in my own sense of the word.  In that deep-down-in-my-heart-and-bones kind of way.  

Those who know me, know this.  Those who don't, I assume, most likely perceive me as rather melancholy and opaque.  But whoever has the time to worry about others' perceptions is most likely procrastinating many more important tasks.

a thought

Truth has a way of rediscovering itself.  It is linked together throughout various subjects and philosophies, always coming full-circle.  

Where you find truth, you will soon stumble upon another.  

Where you find a lie, you will only find questions with dead ends.

processing

I write to write, because I can't not.  I certainly don't mean that without writing, I would literally die.  That's rather dramatic.  And the dangerous type of drama.  The kind that got Romeo and Juliet into such trouble.  That story makes me crazy.

What I mean by not being able to not write is that, without writing, my life seems to lose its quality.  My mind doesn't work as well.  Writing is my way of keeping my thoughts in check.

In the not-so-rare case that a certain idea takes root in my head, and begins to expand into my every thought, I know it's time to write it down.  It's a way of taking the power back, so to speak, from my own brain.

The great thing about writing something down is that I get to explore it completely, and give it all of the attention it's been demanding from me.  At this point, I let go.  This idea that I've been restraining and trying for so long to keep from taking me over completely finally gets to to run free from my head into words.  I write and write and take all of the time that I need to do this idea justice.

Once that's over, I own it.  That idea is mine.  I get to put it away or take it back out on my own terms.  It's no longer swimming around in my head, incessantly distracting me from anything else.  And at this point, I feel relief.  My head is once again clear and able to process what it needs to.

truths.

-I like good, clean fun.

-Which means I'm pretty boring, in general.  But I'm comfortable with this.

-I'm particular.

-I get stuck on certain things.  Books, movies, bands, food.  I'm not too keen on "trying new things" because the things I've already tried and liked are already fulfilling enough for me. I find solace in sameness and consistency.

-I'm a very odd mixture of introvert and extrovert.

-I am pro-facial hair (on men).

-I always felt too tall until Drew showed up.

-I'm laid back about most things, excluding morals.  At that point, I get pretty prudish.

-Most days, I feel about 80 years old.

-I like lamp lighting or natural lighting.

-I hate overhead lights.

-I never wear high heels.  They are fundamentally wrong.

-I love cardigans, and wear them daily.  My collection will probably never stop growing. 

-I wish it would rain at least twice a week.  The only time that something we need actually does fall from the sky.

-I don't typically speak unless spoken to.   Except in the cases that I know someone well and have confidence that they're going to think what I have to say is interesting/worth listening to.

-One of the biggest blows to my system is when someone I'm talking to doesn't seem to be listening.  Ego I guess.

-I'd rather look decent for not trying very hard than not very good for trying really hard.

- I have trouble finding the motivation to start something if I don't feel like I'll do my best.

- I only feel like wearing make up about once every ten days, on average.  And it's usually only mascara.  This could subconsciously be because on the days I actually do wear it, I get quite a few comments on "how nice I look today."  Which could be them hinting that I look like death without it and should put it on more often.  But I choose to remain ignorant.

-I used to think my favorite season was Summer.  That was never true.  Deep down, it has always been Fall.

-Ever since I was young, I have been a Night Owl.  Night time is my favorite time for thinking, organizing, going on adventures, reading, being creative, etc.

-Ever since I got a full time job, I can't be a Night Owl anymore. 

-But I have never been and will never be a morning person...

-So now I'm not an any time of day person, and am just always tired.

-Credibility is not easily restored with me.  Once someone is rude, I see them as rude.  Usually for the rest of their general existence.  I realize that this is not particularly merciful.  But...

-I think being nice matters more than a lot of other things.

-My face, just my normal facial expression, either looks sad or angry.  Or so I'm told on a regular basis.

-My idea of a perfect moment typically includes chocolate, Diet Mt Dew or Coca-cola, and some good literature.

-I love that Drew's beard sometimes smells like old books.

-I feel like my life is made up of waiting for the weekend to come.  

-I'm a lot more like my mom than I ever thought.  But it's fine because if I'm ever confused about how I feel, I just call her and she explains it to me.

-I'm not as depressing or depressed as I seem.

-I do not believe in coincidence.  There is no room for it in the world.

-I love looking up words.

-I hate olives, tomatoes and raw onions.

my brain.

At what point do I decide that I'm giving in to doubt or just dismissing solid logic?  Up to this point I always took comfort in the fact that the life I lived was guided, that I could weather any storm under the shelter of my own agency. That I now can't seem to locate. 

Why can't I feel that approving push in the right direction?  Was it decided that I simply grew out of a need for direction?  Because I only think it right that I be involved in such a great adjustment.  At least some sort of notification in advance should be required.

All I can think is that I've done what's been asked of me.  I might have expected more out of it than what was realistic, but I can't say I blame myself for that.   A sense of peace, a lack of doubt, and a heart full of love.  So what happens when I've caught up to all of the plans laid out for me.  What happens now that I'm the one in control.

my brain.

Any and all actions requiring, demanding absolute acknowledgement.  Proving confidence.  Keep patting that forehead dry.  A lack of meaning is to be proven.  Wondering why.  It's a contradiction, isn't it?  Proving something to be nothing at all.  Breathe out romantic phrases.  Too much sweetness, just choke.  What actions were taken in the sight of God to deserve this?  Consider the possibility.  To deserve her?  You don't.

Just hanging here.  Let down.  We can't help but keep score.  Hope in these old wives tales.  Hope in these less-than truths.  The fate of a blided woman. No hope except in her own soul.  What could you offer.  What wouldn't you take. Body an empty vessel.  Bearing this filthiness.

 AND WHAT WON'T YOU TAKE AWAY. 

No man could comprehend.  Stomach turning.  The need for her.  Faceless. Her very self will be lost.  Hands on her mouth.  Stomp it out.  The need for her.  And just any.  Faceless.  Sightless.  Senseless. Touch purity.  Fulfilling bottomless greed.  What doesn't she give? Convince her.  She wanted to know better.  Hands over mouth.  Eyeless.  Deny.  Only way to survive.

none.

There's a good chance that what you mentioned is something I might have said or done, but I can't say I know myself all that well lately; we haven't had much time to talk.

And I'm not sure what I would take back even if I had the opportunity.

I know I said I loved the way you moved around, with such an absence of any ego.

But now this misinterpreted sense of self, he's someone I'm getting to know.
It's starting to show.

With the skin beneath my eyes getting thinner.
I'm starting to show.

The daytime has never treated me as well.
Weeks spent, putting in efforts to fit this comfortable position.

One chance, and I'm laying down just before the sun makes another appearance. 

So build yourself a cocoon of rage, and stay there.
Shout all of your threats and obscenities from the inside.

Such a distant, cowardice manner.

And avoid all of our faces from now on.
Because what difference could it make for you.

in your real world now.

The quickest way to lose your inhibitions.  Well, I've been working away at mine at an honest pace.  I'll be driving home the same way I came.

And you treat it as if it's some song I don't know the words to.  You and I both know you've been closing doors.  You're feeling more at home now, with nothing else here to remind you.  All of those things you knew before.

I can't say whether you regressed or grew.  My head heavy with the weight of winter, I give up trying to find my own mind written in someone else's words.  And you've left me no choice but to keep things on my own terms.

If I could write a letter to everyone I love, to anyone who's affected me, I would say that I'm sorry.  That tired old phrase.  I would apologize for keeping this ravine of distance, for acting like I knew when I didn't.  I would tell them that I should have made the effort, instead of leaving it in their hands.  But I've lost my ground, and I'm well out of the time needed to carry out this laundry list of plans.  My skin is weak, and this spirit unwilling.  Maybe my mind was capable once, but it's lost the ability to process what you're expecting of me.  I know I signed up for this, but you should have known I never had it in me.

When I run into that part of a song you had written on your notebook, I'll feel like I've found some part of you out. But I guess that's the main issue - I'm still rushing to catch up and see what you're all about.  You deliberately conceal it, while I'm showing you my insides.  And you know I should be embarrassed, but I just haven't quite caught on yet.  This only happens later, when my eyes get wide in the dark of my room and all of my blood rushes to my vitals.  I catch myself having the same hypothetical conversation, this pathetic recital of the insecurities you feed off of.  All I'm trying to do is participate in the dialogue while you go out of your way to make sure I understand the fact that the things I say hardly even compare to some inconsequential pop song.  And for whatever reason I keep tagging along.  

I would never give you any sort of blame.  You're the one who gave me life.  You deserve to attain all of your precious dreams, not spiral downward as more of his caretaker than wife.  It was never your fault, what he chose to be.  Though your choices weren't always wise, clearly.  Regardless, my heart still can't bear it, to see you both so alone - as I struggle to find the time to make it to that side of town, to simply pick up the phone.  

Now the sun is burning in my eyes, what is typically such welcome light.  But I found myself awake all night discussing the whole world around, it was just me and you.  The most lovely form of life, pleasing to my eyes just as well as my heart and mind.  You understood so fully that a girl like me takes time - like a work of art.  In your eyes, I always thought that that's what set me apart.  And I knew it was true when you said it, that we're never really as isolated as we think.  You went on to mention the times that you really were, and how it was always your own doing.  I tried to take you in completely then, putting forth such an effort not to blink.  

 But it seems that it took the smallest amount of time, just enough for my eyes to shut and open again, for you to be gone from me completely.  Now I find this reality I see so unwelcoming.  Now I'm finding my body at times apparently unwilling to breathe.      

Most days my head feels so heavy, it's as if it wants to fall off my shoulders and roll away.  But now I'm experiencing a certain feeling that I just can't figure out.  It's my heart that carries the weight, and my head is as light as this early-summer breeze.   I try to suppress the fear that it just might float into the air; it seems so unreasonable, but I can't seem to be put at ease.  

So I consider turning a light on, but I've decided there is still enough to read by.  All I can really focus on are the various, however impossible ways that you might end up at my door.  Perhaps you could have vaporized.  I would overlap the past back onto where I currently reside.  We could talk a little more in-depth about these gray areas, and how they don't really exist.  Even the ones we spent all of our time together in.  And maybe you could help me understand how it felt to see all of your worst fears being realized.  I could specify, I mean that day you walked away from those fundamental truths.  In my mind, I imagined you with all of that conviction, begging to be spared.  

Except I saw you become the traitor from my balcony seating, and you never once looked scared.           

Rejection is rejection.  Regardless of what "they" say.  That's the thing about "they".  They need to shut their mouths.  

Too much of me is like a sugar OD.  Your stomach aches, your head throbs from the inside out, and your only choice, the only thing you want to do is sleep it off.  Carve little pieces of me out.  Here I am, and anything valid about this warped frame is what you left behind.  Breathe another fragment of my existence in each second, and I don't know how you live without it anymore.  So I'm working with this rough edge, and I'm smoothing out the corners.  I need to erase all of your complications.  Need to simplify all of these shadows and run through the echos until I reach that blank, blank space. I thought I'd cut you down to size before you leaped out of my heart again.  I'm diluting the substance that made you up. 

Grammar B.

So here I am, minding my own business sitting in my usual place: in the corner away from everyone - more specifically the murmuring, obnoxious high school girls - in my work office while my boss plays what is actually decent music from his iPhone.  At least I hope they're high school girls or their parents and public education did them a huge disservice.  I'm feeling pretty content and happy about life with enjoyable music and an empty queue, despite not being able to run wild outside in the celestial daylight.  Or at least just lay in it and hope for my first sunburn of 2011.  Regardless, I am here, doing better than usual.

My boss offers to let me choose a few songs, mentioning that he has my favorite artist within his playlist.  I jump up at the opportunity, while one of the murmuring high school girls with a piercing in her oversized upper lip professes her love for the artist as well.  I mention the main singer/writer of the group's name, explaining that I actually got a chance to meet him last year.  I wasn't trying to brag, I just figured she could share my appreciation.

She replies, "Who?"

Who?  

Clearly, she likes this band a lot.  

The selection of songs was more limited than my own collection, but decent.  I chose one that I figured most people would like or at least tolerate.  Sitting back down, still enjoying zero phone calls, I sing along pretty shamelessly.  I'm over it.  Guess who isn't singing along.  Yeah, the girl who "loves this band."  I give her the benefit of the doubt, assuming it's probably just this song and she'll know the next.  

Nothing.  

In the middle of the ultimate crescendo of what has to be one of my very favorites out of all my favorite songs by this artist, the little murmurer's murmuring friend pipes in, "um, can you turn off the music?"

There is an awkward moment of silence.  My right eyebrow is up high in annoyance.  The song stops mid-mind-blowing-climax.

She continues, "Or just, like, play something else?" 

My eyes turn to angry slits.

"Something with a beat?" she finishes.

My heart is stopping.  Now beating.  Now exploding.

"What do you want?" my boss asks.

Yeah, my brain exclaims, What do you want, you little tyrant?  

"Um, like, rap or something."

I'm at a loss.

So there we were, back to the arid, the hollow, the bland, the trite, the juvenile, the entertainment of the sheeple - that never-ending noise you hear so often you don't even hear it anymore.  But at least the next song was inspired by what originally came from Modest Mouse.  My T.L. has good sense.  

Oh, blessed clarity.

Let me praise this cloudless sky.

You know what one of my favorite things is?  Reading a book that I've read countless times, and finding chocolate stains on the pages.  It really makes me laugh.  In spite of myself?  I've never been sure how to properly use that phrase.  Another favorite thing is coming to work to find that the system is down.  So I get paid hourly to read 1984.  Tender mercies.  Chocolate and books go together like Obama and substituting words for "socialism."

"I've been sleeping so strange at night.."

"..When you hear music and poetry 

that's that truthful and spot on, 

you just don't feel as alone, you know? 

That's -- that's it. The highest form of art."  -C.O.