moving

Five years ago I packed up my life and left my parents house. Slept where i could kept stuff where i could. My friends were amazing that year. I finally stayed with my sister. collected all my stuff in a corner of her apartment.

Four years ago i packed it up again, when i got to school, i found that it all fit into half a tiny closet. I remember Standing there and thinking about how curious it was that one's life should fit into such a small place. But it was true. It was me. I was what i needed. clothes and bathroom stuff. that was all i needed. i was quiet and small and liked to hide in closets. There was no personality, but that was alright by me.

There were moves in between. every year. always acquiring more and more things. And books. so many books. And writing. so much writing.

Today i pack it all up again. make one more move. I remember all the things people have told me about it, packing. mostly they say how much they hate it. what a hassle it is, how much it feels like an ending, or like change and change is scary when you like the place where you are. But I am in a good mood. I remember every single item in my possesion, where and when i got it. Each one has a bit of life in it. And my closet is packed with things now. My life packed with life now. Memories of friends and laughter and love. lots of love. My books fill two boxes now. My writing fills three. There are playbills of the plays i was in. Pictures where i look younger each year. Gifts from past birthdays. A wide selection of blankets and pillows for all those times people stayed over at my place, where ever that happened to be at the time. The pottery I made in ceramics class freshman year. the moccasins i got when i started doing danza. my wall of quotes.

Packing it all up and moving again. a bigger apartment. 2 bedrooms, one bath, closets and pantries and a small office. Freshly painted walls. And empty.

I'm going to fill it. and the next time i move i'll need u-haul. and i'll give alot of stuff away and i'll need a whole other bedroom for my writing.

I wonder if there'll be more playbills to come. I wonder about the birthdays i'll celebrate there. The people I'll let sleep over. And the things i can't even imagine yet. It'll be pretty brilliant.

Falling in love

with myself. it's lovely. I'm such a sweet person, and so considerate.

i don't want to jinx this guys, but I really think I'm the one.
keep your fingers crossed.

I felt like writing

patters and light. light and paterns. this is what I see. when I see you.
I wanted to tell you you have a beautiful smile, I thought of her instead.
There was dancing tonight. dancing and blood like life. like life and fluid feelings water. and you. always you. always here. always.
and evry moment from now on is for you. Music

and then the call. always the call and a voice and shame and guilt and sad and pain. always the call and pain. screaming pain. but a wise philosopher once told me that feeings are fluid and it's ok. it's all going to be ok. One day child when things are brighter.

Today I felt like writing all today I felt like writing. putting words on paper anything on ones and zeros. just write I thought. hurry hurry write because we're all running out of time. all of us. I thought of you again. connections and people. I thought of her again. I remembered the poem I wrote for her once. I remembered the poetry he traced on my skin once. I remembered that one once so long ago I let a man come inside me. I remembered that once once so long ago I learned how to come inside me.

I thought that maybe I wanted your lips and your hand and your skin. most of all I wanted to want it. wanted to want again.

I am caught with where to start. a day that should not have existed. the reality I fight to escape. I am caught in a cage and do i start there. every new begining is another beginning's end. if i'm constantly beggining then I am constatntly ending. I feel constantly ending.

How I love the sounds of these keys under my fingertips. how i love this sound. i'm making love to it- i wonder if I'll ever make love to her that way. skin is like poetry I told her once so long ago. skin when you feel it is like poetry. fingertips are words and lips always rhyme. always fit. something beautiful. something true.

Like tales of maidens and ogres

Once upon a time there was this young maiden who had a beautiful garden, She loved her garden more than anything in the world, It had been given to her by her ancestors. What the maiden didn’t know was that The garden had magical powers that kept her alive. Her garden was so beautiful that an evil ogre walked by one day and decided to steal it. And he did. He cast a spell over the maiden, so she didn’t know what was going on and he came every night, sometimes more than once a day to steal from her garden, Every time he came, He left in it’s place giant weeds so nothing could ever grow there again. When he was done he left. For a while the maiden was still under his spell but eventually she awoke, and found that she was no longer alive. Her garden was gone and when she looked out at the weeds that grew she wondered if there had ever been a garden. So lost was she that For years she couldn’t move, or live. It took many winters for her to begin to look out. Over the years the villagers, who loved the maiden very much, would bring flowers to plant in her garden, and she was able to cling to existence in that way. But eventually the weeds would overpower any seed that was brought into the garden. Until the maiden learned a new way of life. Learned to hate these weeds and everything that they stood for. She could no longer remember her old life, The one where she had had a beautiful garden. She hated the ogre for a while, but the maiden couldn’t hold hate for another creature in her heart. She couldn’t justify that hate, and so she hated the weeds instead. Hated them more and more every day for being so everpresent that they erased her memory of her garden.

Something had broken in the maiden and seemed to break again and again every time the weeds overpowered the things she planted. The things the villagers planted with love. Every time life began to glimmer inside of her, the weeds grew bigger. The poor maiden tried everything to free herself. She would chop the weeds as soon as they’d pop up, would try to bury them deeper and deeper so they wouldn’t be able to come to the surface. And there were wnters they didn’t surface in which the maiden believed she was finally rid of them. But they would always come back.

One day she stumbled accross a wise seer who told her she had to dig the weeds up. That the only way to get rid of them, to allow something to grow in her garden again was to dig every single weed up.

And so the maiden tried. She began with a small one but as she dug, a strange energy came from the weed and invaded the maiden’s body and mind. she found herself breaking a little at the memories of the flowers that grew once long ago where these weeds now stubbornly stood. She cried and cried and couldn’t stop. She thought maybe to dig things up hurt too much. She wanted to stop. She knew she’d never be able to get them all, to clear her whole garden. She wanted very badly to stop. and she did stop.

I don’t know what happens next.

The Turtle and the wind (part 1)

Once Upon a Time, a long long ago there lived a tiny purple turtle. It was so small it moved with the wind, floating from place to place. never quite landing and never quite settled. For as soon as it felt it's tiny feet hit the ground a sudden gust of wind would swoop it up to another foreign land.

It found itself one day landing in what looked like an oasis in the middle of the dessert. It seemed to the turtle as though everyone spoke a foreign language no matter where the wind would drop it next. It wasn't that the turtle didn't understand what others said, for it had flown far and near and learned so many tongues that it understood everything everyone said. It was more that while he understood the literal meaning of the words, he couldn't quite understand the people, why they said and did things that seemed to contradicct each other.

Every once in a while, though, this turtle would come upon beings that were different. People who all seemed to speak the same language no matter what tongue they spoke in. People that would probably never meet int heir entire lives, or know of each other's existence. It was a kind of quiet pleasure for this turtle, a kind of constant, that it knew if it were ever to get all these people in the same room, they would understand each other.

What this turtle didn't know was that this place he had newly been dropped in, was a place that would be different than all the ones before. The wind had not intended to drop this tiny turtle in the oasis, but winds can be fickle children with ADD. This particular wind was on it's way to the biggest city in the world, but as it crossed the dessert, It suddenly became distracted by all the sand and emptiness and life that seemed to cover the desert. Without thinking, it dropped the tiny turtle on the oasis and flung itself full force into making the sand dance and move in the most amazing ways.

TBC (To be continued)

Somewhere in-between

somewhere along the way I dreamed us all up. Between the childhood songs and nightmares under the bed, on the bed I dreamed it all up. Each word had a note of music and I wanted to fill the world with as much song as I could. But they're not my songs to sing.

somewhere between the car rides with friends with me belting at the top of my lungs, them saying "who sings that song? let's keep it that way" and your voice coming out of the speakers. Somewhere there we found life, created life.

somewhere between the lies and lines we told each other. Somewhere between the truths and memories that seemed to change depending on who you asked.

I created it all. and now all I can think is I need a sleeping pill to help me close my eyes again. See I found a new addiction, and a new repulsion. Born between the nausea and your voice. We created. and the lines fall of my fingers until I can't seem to find enough blank space to fill. Enough ink in pens to bleed out those things we created. Somewhere between naps and insomnia.

so all I can think is how much I want a sleeping pill to help me close my eyes. Tomorrow came and I can't think any kind of straight. Your words falling through me like some bad joke that i'm the butt of. But I listen. am I listening?

somewhere between becoming addicted to what we created I stopped breathing. Take you in, life goes out. take you in, life goes out. extinguished like flames without oxygen somehwere, somewhere along the way I stopped giving stopped living stopped believing life could be anything but what you've made of me.

is this addiction or depression? caused by you and solved by you. See how quickly you erase me? see how quickly you create me? This is only a space in between but this is where it all takes place. somewhere between life and death we choose who we are and have to live with that decision. somewhere between life and death.