.
As a castaway on
A cold night at sea
Urinates
On himself,
Choosing
Momentary warmth
In spite of a
Burning, chafing
Future—
Whether in ignorance
Or
A lack of discipline—
So too do we choose
A luxurious today
Above
A fulfilling tomorrow.
.
I'd tell them, you know, if they wanted to know. I'd tell them all sorts of things.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Silly Little Girl
B.H. Fairchild wrote this poem called “Rave On”. It was about some teenage boys who fixed up these junky cars and sped them down the road and off the side, intentionally flipping the vehicles at maximum speed just to see if they’d come out alive.
I think I need to do something like that. Maybe not quite so dramatic—I’m not that mentally unstable (yet)—but something similar regarding broader concepts of life.
I used to think that I wanted to crash my metaphorical car without thinking; just do it on impulse. But I changed my mind. Now I think I want to fully understand the potential consequences—the possibility of shattered bones and twisted metal, of scorching flames and brassy blood and explosions spattering my shiny pinkish insides everywhere—and do it anyway.
Maybe it’s the way the summer air tastes, like mistakes and last year’s salt; maybe it’s how lately it seems the sun must run a gauntlet of clouds just to show its face to the day.
Still, I suppose it’s warmer than it was a few months ago and I’m glad of that. Of course, I knew this time would come again. I knew when the cold was so bitter as to draw tears from my eyes that someday I would walk with my face in the sun again. I knew spring would come, then summer. It was a secret, and I hardly believed it myself, but somewhere inside I just knew. It’s what made the cold bearable, knowing it would end.
Yes, things often end.
Sometimes to me, like the bones of birds, it feels so fragile.
That fact makes space for hope in the bad times.
As if, touched by anything except the air we share, it may fracture.
But it also makes space for fear when things are good.
Is it my fear or is it prophecy?
Maybe I’m too cynical.
Dear God, I pray it’s just me.
Silly little girl.
Could cynicism be sanity?
It’s not just me. It’s a dog-bite scar, it’s a bucket list; it’s blood on your guitar strings and a tin-bright day that puts spots in your eyes. It’s almost a year since my dog died; it’s dust gathering on things I had such big plans for. It’s time…it’s time for something.
It’s time to give my hands a break. They hurt, my hands do, and my wrists—they crackle when I move them—but I can’t stop twisting my hair. I just keep curling sections round and round my fingers until they’re wound tight up against my scalp. It’s time to give my hands a break but the second my hands have nothing else to do they’re up there again, tangled in the locks.
It’s time to cry a little, about anything at all, about the dead rat in my hands. Soft fur and brisk whiskers and eyes shut tight, as if fearfully resigned to its fate as snake-meal. Eerie stillness; poor little rat. Poor little nose that used to twitch at curious smells, poor little eyes that were bright once, poor little head that went bang bang bang on the edge of a pet store counter.
But poor little snake tummy, painfully empty; poor creature who didn’t choose to be carnivorous and cold. Poor little Gypsy who I love, Gypsy and her coiling hugs; her glass-smooth scales sliding against my skin; I love the way she hides her head beneath my chin when she’s frightened and tickles my ear with her flickering black tongue.
But to kill for her life; I don’t like that.
But what is one to do? How is one to choose? After all, Eve empathized with a snake. She made a choice, and then let nature take its course.
Did she cry a bit? Silly little girl.
.
I think I need to do something like that. Maybe not quite so dramatic—I’m not that mentally unstable (yet)—but something similar regarding broader concepts of life.
I used to think that I wanted to crash my metaphorical car without thinking; just do it on impulse. But I changed my mind. Now I think I want to fully understand the potential consequences—the possibility of shattered bones and twisted metal, of scorching flames and brassy blood and explosions spattering my shiny pinkish insides everywhere—and do it anyway.
Maybe it’s the way the summer air tastes, like mistakes and last year’s salt; maybe it’s how lately it seems the sun must run a gauntlet of clouds just to show its face to the day.
Still, I suppose it’s warmer than it was a few months ago and I’m glad of that. Of course, I knew this time would come again. I knew when the cold was so bitter as to draw tears from my eyes that someday I would walk with my face in the sun again. I knew spring would come, then summer. It was a secret, and I hardly believed it myself, but somewhere inside I just knew. It’s what made the cold bearable, knowing it would end.
Yes, things often end.
Sometimes to me, like the bones of birds, it feels so fragile.
That fact makes space for hope in the bad times.
As if, touched by anything except the air we share, it may fracture.
But it also makes space for fear when things are good.
Is it my fear or is it prophecy?
Maybe I’m too cynical.
Dear God, I pray it’s just me.
Silly little girl.
Could cynicism be sanity?
It’s not just me. It’s a dog-bite scar, it’s a bucket list; it’s blood on your guitar strings and a tin-bright day that puts spots in your eyes. It’s almost a year since my dog died; it’s dust gathering on things I had such big plans for. It’s time…it’s time for something.
It’s time to give my hands a break. They hurt, my hands do, and my wrists—they crackle when I move them—but I can’t stop twisting my hair. I just keep curling sections round and round my fingers until they’re wound tight up against my scalp. It’s time to give my hands a break but the second my hands have nothing else to do they’re up there again, tangled in the locks.
It’s time to cry a little, about anything at all, about the dead rat in my hands. Soft fur and brisk whiskers and eyes shut tight, as if fearfully resigned to its fate as snake-meal. Eerie stillness; poor little rat. Poor little nose that used to twitch at curious smells, poor little eyes that were bright once, poor little head that went bang bang bang on the edge of a pet store counter.
But poor little snake tummy, painfully empty; poor creature who didn’t choose to be carnivorous and cold. Poor little Gypsy who I love, Gypsy and her coiling hugs; her glass-smooth scales sliding against my skin; I love the way she hides her head beneath my chin when she’s frightened and tickles my ear with her flickering black tongue.
But to kill for her life; I don’t like that.
But what is one to do? How is one to choose? After all, Eve empathized with a snake. She made a choice, and then let nature take its course.
Did she cry a bit? Silly little girl.
.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
C'est la Vie (Such is Life)
I wish it was as easy as ipecac syrup; that I could vomit it up from me, if it's there at all. I wish there was some effective way to purge myself—three times at least—just to make sure. Just in case. I’ve read some symptoms of your parasitic phenomenon and I'm watching for them in myself, praying that none present. The possibility of you—the very thought—left me curled up tight, freezing under layers and layers; I couldn’t stay on my feet from the shaking like withdrawal from I don’t know what. They’re like bad medicine, those thoughts; a steady drip of dread administered intravenously, slowly building until the knots in my stomach tear me apart.
I pray for a purge
And I must concede
That I hope you are not,
Or that you cease to be.
There are worse things.
But oh dear God, please not for me.
The bright baubles of easy solution dangle before me but it burns to look. It burns that they are there at all. I am like an ant under a magnifying glass, writhing in the light of their implications.
I realize now that I’m not as grown up as I thought I was. And that I don’t want to be. But I need to be.
It was stupid stupid stupid and I should have learned my lesson the first time, but no, this is me we're talking about here. Everyone who knows me well knows that I learn best from my own mistakes, but I thought I never made the same mistake twice. Apparently, I do. And I just cannot go through this same cycle all over again.
So I fall, skinning my knees on the ground before my God; I am Judas in the guise of a twenty-year-old girl. Because not one hour after a prayer for forgiveness was reverently dedicated, I took advantage of His precious grace. But unlike Judas, I’m praying praying praying that He will spare me the consequences, and that I will be able to go on without some kind of noose tight around my throat.
There is so much change happening now--or about to happen--change I didn’t expect, and yet the other day it was still so cold when the weather is supposed to be getting warmer. The things that are supposed to be changing aren’t, while chunks of my world’s crust begin to shift again in bittersweet earthquakes beneath my feet.
Some things make my heart absolutely ache with how much I’ll miss them; the gaping cracks they’ll leave in my foundation.
Since I was born I stumbled clumsily after you, my stuffed tiger in my arms most of the way. We were lucky then, you and I: shouting gibberish from the swing set, chasing the dogs to get our shoes back and that time you taught me the difference between praying and accepting Jesus Christ into my heart when I was four.
How we got so bored by the lack of color after we sneaked downstairs to watch “grown-up” movies, hidden behind the couch where our parents sat. We went back upstairs instead, listening to our “Your Story Hour” cassette tapes and I slept on your floor that night because one of the stories scared me; the one where the man on the iceberg kills his dog.
When we had tea parties, we never had to fight over the last chocolate-chip scone because Mom would always make an even number, splitting them up so everything was “fair”. I would drown mine in chocolate syrup, and then feel so childish when you were satisfied with just a drizzle.
When you learned to play guitar, you played all my favorite songs and I’d sing along. I loved our duets, and I know you enjoyed them too but I think I loved them more. I would have sung with you every day. I would still sing with you, if we were now as we once were, when almost every night you’d sit on the foot of my bed and we’d talk into the wee hours.
You were always what I hoped I’d measure up to in some way; you were always who I wish I’d gotten to spend more quality time with.
I know you’ll be happy; after all, you’re right on the path I predicted over a year ago. I see where you’re going and it looks fulfilling for you, and I'm glad. The only problem there is the word “going”. “Going” is the opposite of “staying”, and frankly I’m not cool with that.
And then there's me, going instead of staying; there’s this place and all the people in it. I wish I’d known much earlier that I wouldn’t be coming back here. I wish I’d known a month ago, when there was still time to make sure little pieces of me were firmly planted in as many places as possible, and in as many people. I know they’ve taken root in me and I wish I’d gotten to spend so much more time with each of them. I’m paralyzed by the passage of time, and I don’t think I’m quite the hermit I used to be. At first I was glad but now I wish I hadn’t changed at all.
There are so many things I'll miss as these next couple of months pass. And "missing", to me, feels terribly similar to "regret".
I’m not sure how I’ll brave these alien horizons.
But…
C’est la vie.
.
I pray for a purge
And I must concede
That I hope you are not,
Or that you cease to be.
There are worse things.
But oh dear God, please not for me.
The bright baubles of easy solution dangle before me but it burns to look. It burns that they are there at all. I am like an ant under a magnifying glass, writhing in the light of their implications.
I realize now that I’m not as grown up as I thought I was. And that I don’t want to be. But I need to be.
It was stupid stupid stupid and I should have learned my lesson the first time, but no, this is me we're talking about here. Everyone who knows me well knows that I learn best from my own mistakes, but I thought I never made the same mistake twice. Apparently, I do. And I just cannot go through this same cycle all over again.
So I fall, skinning my knees on the ground before my God; I am Judas in the guise of a twenty-year-old girl. Because not one hour after a prayer for forgiveness was reverently dedicated, I took advantage of His precious grace. But unlike Judas, I’m praying praying praying that He will spare me the consequences, and that I will be able to go on without some kind of noose tight around my throat.
There is so much change happening now--or about to happen--change I didn’t expect, and yet the other day it was still so cold when the weather is supposed to be getting warmer. The things that are supposed to be changing aren’t, while chunks of my world’s crust begin to shift again in bittersweet earthquakes beneath my feet.
Some things make my heart absolutely ache with how much I’ll miss them; the gaping cracks they’ll leave in my foundation.
Since I was born I stumbled clumsily after you, my stuffed tiger in my arms most of the way. We were lucky then, you and I: shouting gibberish from the swing set, chasing the dogs to get our shoes back and that time you taught me the difference between praying and accepting Jesus Christ into my heart when I was four.
How we got so bored by the lack of color after we sneaked downstairs to watch “grown-up” movies, hidden behind the couch where our parents sat. We went back upstairs instead, listening to our “Your Story Hour” cassette tapes and I slept on your floor that night because one of the stories scared me; the one where the man on the iceberg kills his dog.
When we had tea parties, we never had to fight over the last chocolate-chip scone because Mom would always make an even number, splitting them up so everything was “fair”. I would drown mine in chocolate syrup, and then feel so childish when you were satisfied with just a drizzle.
When you learned to play guitar, you played all my favorite songs and I’d sing along. I loved our duets, and I know you enjoyed them too but I think I loved them more. I would have sung with you every day. I would still sing with you, if we were now as we once were, when almost every night you’d sit on the foot of my bed and we’d talk into the wee hours.
You were always what I hoped I’d measure up to in some way; you were always who I wish I’d gotten to spend more quality time with.
I know you’ll be happy; after all, you’re right on the path I predicted over a year ago. I see where you’re going and it looks fulfilling for you, and I'm glad. The only problem there is the word “going”. “Going” is the opposite of “staying”, and frankly I’m not cool with that.
And then there's me, going instead of staying; there’s this place and all the people in it. I wish I’d known much earlier that I wouldn’t be coming back here. I wish I’d known a month ago, when there was still time to make sure little pieces of me were firmly planted in as many places as possible, and in as many people. I know they’ve taken root in me and I wish I’d gotten to spend so much more time with each of them. I’m paralyzed by the passage of time, and I don’t think I’m quite the hermit I used to be. At first I was glad but now I wish I hadn’t changed at all.
There are so many things I'll miss as these next couple of months pass. And "missing", to me, feels terribly similar to "regret".
I’m not sure how I’ll brave these alien horizons.
But…
C’est la vie.
.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Grace's Paradox
Time to confess
.
The sins of the day:
.
One two three or four,
.
Every second I waste.
.
He knows it all;
.
Why bother with lies?
.
After all, I had reasons;
.
Each one justified.
.
Now cavalier,
.
I cut myself loose,
.
As if admitting the truth
.
Makes it an excuse.
.
.
The sins of the day:
.
One two three or four,
.
Every second I waste.
.
He knows it all;
.
Why bother with lies?
.
After all, I had reasons;
.
Each one justified.
.
Now cavalier,
.
I cut myself loose,
.
As if admitting the truth
.
Makes it an excuse.
.
Friday, March 25, 2011
My Empire of Dirt
They say it’s the little things, and that is such a cliché, but maybe it’s true. It’s like how I don’t like the cold, hard, crunchy days of February. They’re abrasive, scraping up against my skin to leave burns. Like freezer burns or rug burns. But life is just better when the weather’s nice, or during a steady rain. It doesn’t really change anything, yet somehow it matters. Even when the weather’s cold and gray, there are little things that can make it alright.
I went on a walk a couple of weeks ago, when the drifts of snow were so high, and on my way back to my equally-cold dorm room I felt I had to do something about this freezing phenomenon. I’m not sure why; I guess because the day brought something uncommon for the state of Kansas, I felt I had to do something uncommon of my own. I like to match the days like that, the way most people match their clothes.
So I went on the little hill in the middle of campus to make a snow angel. I looked around quickly before I plopped on my back in the snow, a shy smile on my face like a child about to make a new friend. For a second I was afraid I’d forgotten how—being a child isn’t like riding a bike, you know—but back and forth, back and forth, arms and legs, legs and arms and I remembered. It made me so happy. I don’t know why. Just something about that solitary, messy, childish act of spontaneity cheered me up. I wanted to skip and laugh and tell the whole world that I made a snow angel. That I got snow down the back of my shirt and all in my hair and soaking through my jeans, but I made a snow angel, just cause I had the impulse. Just me, all alone in the muffled white; a random gesture executed in complete silence.
It’s something I would’ve done Before without a second thought. I guess it reminded me of who I was then; who I still am that’s been buried.
The next week I found the feeling again, in the vacant volleyball court on a day warm enough to go out in short sleeves. The sand crunched softly as I knelt down and I felt it’s roughness in the scrapes on my knuckles as I leaned forward to inspect its consistency. Dig a hole, wet-dry, pile it up, wet-dry, pat it here and there and lean back on dirty knees to admire my sandcastle. Honestly I made far better ones when I was eight, but back then I didn’t understand the luxury it was to grip such simplicity—the elusive pleasure in constructing one’s own Empire of Dirt.
There is such power in the context of a sandbox. Shall I knock down the fortress I built with my own bare hands—a tyrant exerting control by display of easy destruction—or let it stand and become the benevolent ruler of the ants? Either way it is mine, and just for me. I’m not sure why it was so satisfying. Maybe lingering wisps of childhood; maybe the pleasure I take in having innocent secrets.
Or maybe I just like to play in the mud.
.
I went on a walk a couple of weeks ago, when the drifts of snow were so high, and on my way back to my equally-cold dorm room I felt I had to do something about this freezing phenomenon. I’m not sure why; I guess because the day brought something uncommon for the state of Kansas, I felt I had to do something uncommon of my own. I like to match the days like that, the way most people match their clothes.
So I went on the little hill in the middle of campus to make a snow angel. I looked around quickly before I plopped on my back in the snow, a shy smile on my face like a child about to make a new friend. For a second I was afraid I’d forgotten how—being a child isn’t like riding a bike, you know—but back and forth, back and forth, arms and legs, legs and arms and I remembered. It made me so happy. I don’t know why. Just something about that solitary, messy, childish act of spontaneity cheered me up. I wanted to skip and laugh and tell the whole world that I made a snow angel. That I got snow down the back of my shirt and all in my hair and soaking through my jeans, but I made a snow angel, just cause I had the impulse. Just me, all alone in the muffled white; a random gesture executed in complete silence.
It’s something I would’ve done Before without a second thought. I guess it reminded me of who I was then; who I still am that’s been buried.
The next week I found the feeling again, in the vacant volleyball court on a day warm enough to go out in short sleeves. The sand crunched softly as I knelt down and I felt it’s roughness in the scrapes on my knuckles as I leaned forward to inspect its consistency. Dig a hole, wet-dry, pile it up, wet-dry, pat it here and there and lean back on dirty knees to admire my sandcastle. Honestly I made far better ones when I was eight, but back then I didn’t understand the luxury it was to grip such simplicity—the elusive pleasure in constructing one’s own Empire of Dirt.
There is such power in the context of a sandbox. Shall I knock down the fortress I built with my own bare hands—a tyrant exerting control by display of easy destruction—or let it stand and become the benevolent ruler of the ants? Either way it is mine, and just for me. I’m not sure why it was so satisfying. Maybe lingering wisps of childhood; maybe the pleasure I take in having innocent secrets.
Or maybe I just like to play in the mud.
.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Sandcastle
I pack each wall
Constructed by hand;
My own to destroy
Or let stand.
Back I lean
On dirty knees,
Benevolent ruler
Of the ants.
.
Constructed by hand;
My own to destroy
Or let stand.
Back I lean
On dirty knees,
Benevolent ruler
Of the ants.
.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Coping in Three Not-So-Easy Steps...
Hey, what if I changed everything? What if I shook my life like a snow globe and just hung around to watch where things might settle? Though, knowing me, shaking up my life might turn out more like shaking up a soda can: an explosion triggered by the slightest hint of release. Instead of watching where things settle down, I might be watching to see them hit the ceiling; to see what the hissing spray will stain. And how very, very sticky it would make things.
It might be worth it, though, because this isn’t working for me. I don’t like who I am here. Everything I say and do just seems to be wrong. Not wrong in the moral sense. Wrong in the sense of being an inaccurate representation of my nature. I think it’s because most of my soul is made up of things that really can’t be demonstrated behaviorally. Things that have to be heard in the pauses between the words I speak—the quiet ones, when my gaze wanders and rides on invisible currents of warm air towards the ceiling.
Sometimes I wish people knew me only from my writing. Then they would know my true essence instead of this character they are forced to create for themselves by patching together a few random patterns. What I write is really much more accurate—my pulsing, writhing, bleeding, laughing, crying, skipping, sinning, loving, doubting, living, breathing soul—and here it is, represented in a truer way than could ever be expressed in person. I don’t speak or act in ways that express the truth that my written words do.
I think I need to hang out with some artsy, slightly emo hipsters. We’d listen to The Decemberists or the latest Paste sampler, draw weird things depicting words that end with “ism”, discuss the autobiographies of Augusten Burroughs, wear serious expressions and experiment with beat-poetry. There would be a guitar in there somewhere, too. I would probably even wear plaid and skinny jeans, to be honest. Or a black turtleneck. I can’t help it; I just like that stuff.
Is it possible that it could really be all about location, location, location? Lately I’ve been feeling like where I am doesn’t cultivate my natural self very well. Like something about my environment is keeping me from thriving in the ways God intended me to. Do I need to find a new habitat? Or simply alter my current one?
I don’t know; I’m so tired and just the thought of change is exhausting. But then, so is the thought of things staying the same.
I don’t have the energy for much more than damage control. Damage caused by my lack of energy and the presence of pain. Do you see the vicious cycle here? It makes me dizzy; makes my heart nauseous and I suppose this is the emotional vomit. Maybe I’m choking on it.
Sometimes I want to try to explain it all—every physical, emotional, psychological, relational thing that it significantly, negatively affected by lupus. But then I remember how, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter. Being sick sucks, just like a lot of things that a lot of people go through in life. It sucks more than some things and less than others, just like everything else. I remember that a lot can be solved by following one or more of the instructions in the following sentence: Trust God, Grow Up, and Deal With It.
But gosh darn it, sometimes that can be hard to do.
It might be worth it, though, because this isn’t working for me. I don’t like who I am here. Everything I say and do just seems to be wrong. Not wrong in the moral sense. Wrong in the sense of being an inaccurate representation of my nature. I think it’s because most of my soul is made up of things that really can’t be demonstrated behaviorally. Things that have to be heard in the pauses between the words I speak—the quiet ones, when my gaze wanders and rides on invisible currents of warm air towards the ceiling.
Sometimes I wish people knew me only from my writing. Then they would know my true essence instead of this character they are forced to create for themselves by patching together a few random patterns. What I write is really much more accurate—my pulsing, writhing, bleeding, laughing, crying, skipping, sinning, loving, doubting, living, breathing soul—and here it is, represented in a truer way than could ever be expressed in person. I don’t speak or act in ways that express the truth that my written words do.
I think I need to hang out with some artsy, slightly emo hipsters. We’d listen to The Decemberists or the latest Paste sampler, draw weird things depicting words that end with “ism”, discuss the autobiographies of Augusten Burroughs, wear serious expressions and experiment with beat-poetry. There would be a guitar in there somewhere, too. I would probably even wear plaid and skinny jeans, to be honest. Or a black turtleneck. I can’t help it; I just like that stuff.
Is it possible that it could really be all about location, location, location? Lately I’ve been feeling like where I am doesn’t cultivate my natural self very well. Like something about my environment is keeping me from thriving in the ways God intended me to. Do I need to find a new habitat? Or simply alter my current one?
I don’t know; I’m so tired and just the thought of change is exhausting. But then, so is the thought of things staying the same.
I don’t have the energy for much more than damage control. Damage caused by my lack of energy and the presence of pain. Do you see the vicious cycle here? It makes me dizzy; makes my heart nauseous and I suppose this is the emotional vomit. Maybe I’m choking on it.
Sometimes I want to try to explain it all—every physical, emotional, psychological, relational thing that it significantly, negatively affected by lupus. But then I remember how, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter. Being sick sucks, just like a lot of things that a lot of people go through in life. It sucks more than some things and less than others, just like everything else. I remember that a lot can be solved by following one or more of the instructions in the following sentence: Trust God, Grow Up, and Deal With It.
But gosh darn it, sometimes that can be hard to do.
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